#and; seriously; here's to many more years. SO many more!!

[koimethehorizon]

DELTARUNE: A Masochistic Reading of Noelle Holiday and Trends of Masochistic Invalidation

(MASSIVE SPOILERS for all of Deltarune!)

To preface beforehand… everything I’m about to discuss is purely from my own reading, observations, research, and knowledge from friends within alternative communities (S&M and kink) while having very little personal experience with those communities myself. If this makes everything I’m about to discuss feel fraudulent, you are valid for assuming so. Frankly, I’ve been musing over whether I should even be the person writing this analysis. But as a fan of the Deltarune community and especially this character, I felt as if this topic has been disappointingly under-discussed, and I wanted to put any of my pennies into this bucket in hopes of finding those voices. If anyone with real knowledge and lives within these communities happens to read this and finds any of my observations off-base, please inform me in this post’s replies or tumblr asks. I yearn for more analysis on this topic and this character from your voices instead.

Art: @slugg-it-out

Last week... uh, wait 2 weeks ago (shit), I asked this kinda out of nowhere:

“Is Noelle Holiday a masochist?”

My answer? Yes!

… but I want to rephrase the question slightly. Noelle is a minor, so linking her to masochism, even when specifically talking about S&M relationship dynamics and psychosexual analysis is pretty touchy. 

Instead, let me rephrase it this way:

“What observations can we gather from Noelle’s arc under a masochistic reading?”

I don’t think I have to elaborate that Noelle, at the very least, has masochistic tendencies. All of her wiki pages say it, fan communities make constant jokes about it, and thanks to the voters last week, I know a decent majority also agree.

thanks everybody!

So why the heck am I talking about this like some big deal if this is mostly agreed upon?

I’ve combed across tons of Noelle analysis from psychological profiles, her metatextual relevance to Deltarune, the shipping wars, etc. I’ve scoured quite a bit ever since Ch 2… yes, for that long.

And to speak frankly… I think a lot of fans aren’t willing to take Noelle’s masochism seriously.

Not just in the “oh isn’t it funny that she wants to be stepped on” kinda way (though those memes are still very funny), but sometimes in a “Noelle’s masochism is a character-flaw” sort of way. 

And I have some concerns that I’ll get into later about that…

(btw, I’m only linking comments that are genuinely in good faith in this post, I’d rather not draw attention to the malicious ones.)

Here’s my piece: I don’t think Noelle is down bad just for the fun of making thirst jokes, I strongly believe that Noelle was explicitly written to be a repressed adolescent exploring her masochistic tendencies. 

Originally, when I finished Chapter 2, I had many thoughts on the Weird Route that I couldn’t quite put into a sensitive reading because I had no concept of masochism as both a real kink and especially not for artistic analysis.

But since those 4 years, I’ve gotten a bit more familiar with queer communities I’ve only started to see more and more things I hadn’t before.

Let’s check out two major introspective moments from Chapter 2 again:

Ferris Wheel dialogue:

Noelle and Kris below the City:

The reasons for where masochism comes from are varied, and I want to be very careful with making any oversimplifications… but man…

Noelle’s background and the specific way she words her introspective thoughts sound remarkably familiar. Let’s go over Noelle’s traits one by one and connect them to common sentiments shared about the appeal of S&M dynamics (not sexual activity but the more relationships between them) and the psychology of its participants:

"At first, I cried, but now… it’s like… watching them… makes me feel… comforted?" "It’s scary, but I can just turn it off, right? Now it’s mostly… people, that are scary. Haha."

Noelle seeks out extreme stimuli like being scared from horror movies, pranks, and deep diving disturbing video game secrets. Noelle expresses that the reason she loves these situations is because she knows that they aren’t real and that by the end of them, she’ll be ok.

S&M and kink participants create “scenes” in which people act out extreme, specific scenarios not simply to blindly experience pain or intensity, but to willingly engage in a fictitious version of their desires that in real cases would be dangerous to be in.

"I know we never found anything interesting back there… I mostly remember… crying because I was scared." "But for some reason I feel… nostalgic thinking about it... I guess I didn’t mind being scared if it meant… someone would comfort me."

Noelle also associates fear with a source of nostalgic comfort. This stems from long-gone days where she would frequently be scared, then comforted by someone she loves at the end of these experiences.

There are many cases of masochists seeking out scenes that are reminiscent of the punishment they had received in the past. Some even being re-enactments of deeply traumatic experiences, only this time, THEY CHOOSE to relive it with someone compassionate and will stop when they say so. (this is where safe words come from)

"(Sigh. Kris is the only one who knows how weird I am. It's not fair y'know?! Everyone knows how weird YOU are!)

Noelle lives with a lot of self-loathing and powerlessness in an emotionally neglectful household where she needs to hide her feelings and interests from her mother constantly.

Many masochists grew up in religious or puritanical households that forced them to bottle up their feelings. Some of these feelings transform into a sadism that is turned inward as a way to punish themselves for failing the expectations their environment placed on them.

"You’re the… good kind of scary. You aren’t afraid to… break the rules, y’know?" "… I wish I could do crazy stuff like you."

Noelle spends an exhaustive amount of time helping other people, despite the emotional baggage she already holds. In moments of introspection, Noelle tends to beat herself up internally about being incapable of rebelling and seeking adventure on her own.

While researching this topic, I came across a lot of beautifully written comments from people who expressed that masochism was a way to achieve freedom from themselves. By having someone else occupy their thoughts, they were free from their own intrusive thoughts, from controlling their own bodily sensations, and to have to stop worrying about themselves for a fleeting moment. 

While there are situations where Noelle will often confuse her boundaries and let people walk over her, she’s still at her happiest and most fulfilled when assisting people who genuinely appreciate her.

One of the biggest emotional appeals of masochists creating scenes for others, is a pride in serving as a conduit for other people to explore reactions that they weren’t allowed to share with anyone else beforehand.

And I haven’t even mentioned Susie yet!

Noelle fantasizes “scenes” with Susie, even to a degree that when she witnesses Susie’s bullying as an outsider, even to her childhood friend, she wishes she could be the one taking the humiliation instead.

Noelle is into people like Susie for a very specific quality. A person she considers “the good kind of scary”. Someone who is fiercely independent, who uses intimidation as an act, but comes out as emotional and kind-hearted when simply talked to.

And hell, for the Kriselle or the Krusielle crowd, Noelle seems to find these same qualities in Kris as well.

Art: @Kuroto_Draw

Their entire childhood relationship was based on similar foundations.

Kris used to scare Noelle through play-tearing out their heart, jumpscaring her from under her sheets, and covering themselves in blood like a zombie. A majority of these pranks were done innocently, and if any were to go too far, Kris would apologize or protect her from real danger.

Even if Noelle doesn’t have romantic feelings for Kris, they undeniably played a big role in forming experiences that Noelle now associates with companionship and desire.

Real practices of S&M or sadomasochism aren’t about inflicting/experiencing pain just for the sake of it. The point is to create a consensual relationship with the awareness that they ultimately have control over whatever is done to them.

All parties in an S&M dynamic MUST trust each other to only go as far as they need to.

It’s consent from all parties that makes the relationship legitimate.

This is the most important fact to keep in mind moving forward. Remember this.

If you’ve read up to this point, I imagine (hopefully) this all sounds plenty reasonable… except…

At the cost of undermining everything I typed up beforehand… again, it’s tricky to just label Noelle as a masochist and call it a day because she’s a teenager. 

Teenagers are famously incapable of understanding themselves, second-guessing their identities and orientations constantly. It’s still a developmental phase. Noelle is especially more emotionally stunted because her home life thrives on her masking through a jolly smile.

She’s barely had the chance to figure out or commit to her interests, so there’s no way to tell if she’ll still like these things or even still like Susie if they ever get into a serious relationship.

So… I just owned myself, right? Essay over?

Well… I have more evidence, but unfortunately, we’re going to have to get into the weird route. Where, unfortunately, these traits are far more obvious.

While this next part might be a tough read, I implore you to sit through as I think some of the MOST important messages of this reading are attained in this route.

(Content Warning: Topics of real-life abuse and toxic power dynamics.)

To me, the most disturbing aspect of the Weird Route isn’t the mass murder, it being the path to an alternative, darker ending, or even Noelle becoming a second player vessel or whatever.

Instead, it's the raw portrayal of an abusive romantic relationship.

When combined with the reading I’ve been using for Noelle so far…

In an extremely twisted way, the Weird Route acts as a sadomasochistic awakening for Noelle. And by selecting very specific options, the Player conditions her existing tendencies to make her unable to distinguish between consent and abuse.

Let’s look over the details:

While Noelle ABSOLUTELY DOES NOT ENJOY THE PLAYER’S ABUSE OF HER, she seems to increasingly become more and more willing to inflict harm on Darkners with the justification that doing so will make her more independent. All with a frozen smile on her face that only breaks when encountering Berdly.

While sadism and masochism are different in definition, a lot of masochism is defined to be sadism inflicted onto oneself. One reason for masochism I cited earlier is that some people desire pain and punishment because they feel like they deserve it. In this case, I feel as if Noelle is redirecting the sadism inflicted onto herself onto the Cyber City mobs once the Player has convinced her that this is all just a game.

Throughout Ch 2’s Weird Route, Noelle is subject to so much stress that she enters a trance-like state where she surrenders her mind, her memories, and even her physical sensations to our commands. In spite of everything, she interprets her predicament as freeing.

“To some, masochism was a way to achieve freedom from themselves. By having someone else control them, they were free from intrusive thoughts, from controlling their own bodily sensations, and to have to stop worrying about themselves for a fleeting moment.”

While freezing enemies on the way, you need to take Noelle to Spamton’s door, which she excitedly calls creepy… but also nostalgic. It’s very likely she is remembering the times she, Kris, Asriel, and Dess used to explore scary places together.

Again, some masochists seek out scenes that depict traumatic memories as a way of re-living them with a higher degree of control over those events. Noelle says that on each of these adventures, she would usually just cry and run away, but on the Weird Route, SHE is the one literally breaking the rules of the world and deciding the course of events.

Post Snowgrave, Kris returns to her to apologize. Then promises that none of it will happen again and to stay away. Instead, Noelle obsesses over Kris all day, even seeing her crush on Susie, as secondary. When they finally get to talk again, they both start at the end of a long couch, but as the conversation progresses, Noelle tenderly scoots all the way over to lean on Kris… despite them being the physical entity that she had just experienced a day of pain, trauma, and abuse from. 

…

Ok… let me cut off from the disturbing shit for just a second…

…And tangent onto something else I find very kinda disturbing.

Let’s talk about the weird ways anti-Suselle discussion incidentally or even purposely delegitimizes Noelle’s crush BECAUSE of her masochistic fantasies.

Art: @the_weaver

I’m not waging a shipping war here! It’s fine if Suselle isn’t your cup of tea, and strictly writing-related reasons are all valid. But I gotta go over some of the weirder sentiments I’ve run into during the agonizing post-Ch 2 era.

“How can Noelle still be into Susie knowing all the red flags? She even saw Kris get bullied badly and did nothing!” “Noelle barely knows Susie, what if she got into serious trouble by ending up with a rotten person?” “Noelle is unhealthily obsessed with Susie, it’s almost dehumanizing how so much of her attraction is based off of humiliation fantasies.” “Does Noelle even like Susie or just the idea of her?”

Here’s the thing… I actually don’t disagree with these comments in a broad sense.

It’s true that Noelle is already a very defenseless, self-sabotaging person who is seeking out a dangerous girl. A bully whom most of her classmates are terrified of being approached by.

It’s also true that Noelle knows so little about the real Susie that a lot of her expectations are definitely idealized. 

Susie’s bully persona was always a facade to keep other people away. And now that she’s become comfortable, no longer needing to use it… it’s reasonable to wonder if Noelle might have the wrong idea about Susie.

However, I feel like some of these sentiments, even if I’m certain 90% of are just out of goodwill and protectiveness for Noelle’s sake. The Deltarune community is dominated with queer support and I don’t mean to imply the community or these comments are bigoted.

However, I think a lack of sensitivity in addressing masochistic personality traits comes dangerously close to invalidating Noelle’s autonomy in a similar way to how femmes who participate in kink and identify with submission are often policed online.

Because of the misguided notions that masochists just LOVE pain and abuse for the sake of it, people are immediately discomforted whenever they hear of people engaging in S&M dynamics. Leading to shit like this:

“This is why bullies and abusers feel comfortable in their spaces.” “Victims are enabling these situations to occur more” “These helpless girls are going to end trapped in an abusive relationship or even dead” “Bad actors love that you let them take advantage of you” “Masochism is a mental illness, you need serious therapy”

Trust me, I relate heavily to being worried for other people and not wanting anyone to get seriously hurt… but these comments exist as a microcosm of people who are unwilling to see kinks and S&M as a valid experience.

The more comfortable people get invalidating masochism as an illness, the easier it is to distance yourself from them through jokes and shame.

And the real sad thing is: It’s easy to ignore victim blaming done by incoherent misogynists… but it’s polarizing to address victim blaming performed by overprotective online policing.

Oftentimes, hate speech and concern can seem indistinguishable.

…I’ve been struggling to write this part of the analysis for quite a while because one of the most upsetting realizations I made was that the Weird Route could be interpreted as fuel for victim blaming directed towards masochists and submissive femmes. 

After all, why should people like Noelle be trusted with her freedom when we have palpable proof that she will fail to assert herself when real danger shows up?

The fine line I’ve been trying to balance is that Noelle IS mentally unwell. Noelle’s masochistic tendencies ARE rooted from trauma.

And in a way, Queen and Rudy DO have a point that Noelle is deeply vulnerable to outside forces and needs watchful protection.

But I’ll repeat again, S&M is NOT a willing acceptance of violence and abuse. Legitimate S&M dynamics are found on consent!

The Weird Route is a cautionary tale on relationships that form when consent isn’t part of the equation.

Noelle becomes trapped into this abusive relationship NOT because of her masochistic tendencies, but because she has NEVER been able to explore a romantic relationship or her tendencies and hasn’t properly established her boundaries.

The moment Kris (the Player) returns to their commanding voice and physically endangers her, her longing for Kris is GONE.

I’m certain that Toby knew and predicted potential bad faith readings that could’ve been applied to Noelle’s behavior on this route. Which is why Noelle’s background is so absurdly detailed and specific.

Let’s go over the REAL necessary context that led to this:

Noelle lives in an unchanging, puritanical household trapped eternally in Christmas. Enforced by a very collectivist, matriarchal family dynamic that, as the next woman of the family, she must live up to. 

It’s almost to a comical degree with Carol preserving artifacts of the traumatic Dremurr/Holiday split scattered all over the house to remind her every day of what they’ve lost.

Carol is not just a strict mother but also the Mayor of Hometown.

She’s extremely neglectful of Noelle and is told to be “hard on her” whenever she’s around.

Despite being a valedictorian, a pillar of her community, giving gifts to her, and staying put, Carol never seems to show any open appreciation for her. To her, the success and safety of her daughter is more important than a loving relationship.

Perhaps to avoid ever having to relive what happened with Dess...

Noelle just seems scared of her. She won’t argue back or complain even when she is locked out of her house for hours. And throughout all her life, she’s had to hide her interests and relationships from her.

Rudy is at most a mediator of these domestic issues, but doesn’t fix them.

He even neglects serious matters by hiding behind smiles and jokes. And a lot of her inability to admit her emotions could be inspired by her father.

Noelle is also living with some PTSD or even guilt over her sister’s disappearance. Kris, Dess, and Asriel have vanished from her lives one way or another, and with Rudy bedridden, she’s running out of people to love.

Is it any surprise that Noelle, once The Player promises her some liberation, wearing the skin of a person she yearns to connect with again, and who also happens to know the ins and outs of Noelle’s psychology, easily folds to them?

The Weird Route is the consequence of restrictive parenting, emotional neglect, and most of all, invalidation. 

This is why talking about this is so important. And it’s why I’ve spent this ungodly amount of time researching this just to talk about a pixelated deer girl.

I didn't write this. But it is facts.

Even if I’m just completely bananas on Noelle’s tendencies being a serious plot point and even if it’s kind of ridiculous to diagnose fictional characters that we literally cannot question or talk properly to…

Fandoms read personality traits onto characters based both on their writing AND vibes. I mean look at the trans Noelle debate that popped up a few years back.

Brainrot Artistic analysis isn’t about scientifically dissecting the exact psychoanalysis bucket we can put a fictional character into, but the RELATABILITY of the struggles of fictional characters, where we can base entire readings off of.

If we can find valuable connections and lessons in fictional characters, even if we just hallucinated those intentions, those conversations can help us connect to ourselves and other people.

If even someone who only has a broad understanding of masochism can somehow see Noelle as a masochist, even if Toby never intended this (even though I think he did), it is still a valid reading.

And if I’m allowed to be slightly more inflammatory, popular characters like Noelle from a massively popular game, consequentially often have their less relatable qualities erased from discussion and headcanons. I’ve seen it time and time again with degrees of insensitivity.

It’s been done with Noelle, and you’ve definitely seen it with Kris.

46 citations! You didn't want to leave them a chance, huh?!! Did you feel anger? Hate? They were bleeding, begging for you to get out of their body. But you misgendered them! Again and again!

People should be allowed to explore their sexuality and seek relationships that they can grow from. That’s how a person finds their threshold for consent in the first place.

And just because Noelle has a weird, fetishistic love for someone, doesn’t mean it’s not real or worth delving into or questioning herself.

But here’s what I hope I’m trying to get across here is that, and hopefully for the FINAL time:

IT’S ALL ABOUT CONSENT!!! Consent is the difference between valid romantic experiences vs straight-up abuse.

That’s how marginalized people and people who have felt invalid their entire life FIND their communities. Through LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS of trial and error!

Maybe the relationship will shatter. Maybe these desires will be preyed on by an abuser. And for Noelle’s case, maybe by seeking this danger, she’ll experience another traumatic experience and shatter her already broken conscience further.

But here’s the thing. 

How often does Noelle ever show confidence about what she feels? How often does she act on anything for her own sake? 

If Noelle’s desires can be exploited, doesn’t the blame fall on the aggressor and not the person who had the right to seek them out?

And lo and behold, Susie’s actually pretty chill after all! 

And by Chapter 4, I think you’d be delusional to still assume Susie doesn’t reciprocate some feelings back.

She gets so distracted by finding out if Suselle is canon that Kris can go down a large hallway, undergo an entire art therapy session, and eat that sweet sweet moss without her noticing.

Knowing how little Noelle ever allows herself to express her own interests, I think it’s actually healthier to just let her find out herself and see what truly makes her happy.

And let’s be perfectly honest - teenage relationships almost never hold up anyways. Suselle, Kriselle, …….Berdelle? It doesn't matter.

Regardless of who she ends up with at the end of Deltarune, it’s not guaranteed to be positive or even last… but the learning experience absolutely will. 

AKA: Don’t be a Carol.

PS. Holy [$?%!] this took way too goddamn long.

Everything I’ve said here is honestly very surface-level and more a result of my distant fascination for all sorts of people across marginalized spaces. 

I don’t know these people well enough to truly connect to them, but the best I’d like to offer is to explain why they are so interesting. At the very least, this character gave me a great excuse to delve into this topic further.

But for now, I need to give irl serious topics like this a break, I’ll be back to more fun posts until then.

[gh0stvi0lets]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵,

──────── ♱ ─────────

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 1 𝘰𝘧: 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. teenage dirtbag dean winchester x high school sweetheart reader

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 1.3k

-> PART TWO

The first time you end up in detention, it’s not because you did anything wrong—not really.

You forgot to bring your English assignment, something about The Catcher in the Rye, which wouldn’t be a big deal for most people. But for Mr. Sandler, the washed-up football coach turned English teacher who never quite forgave you for dropping cheerleading junior year, it was a cardinal sin. He slammed your name down on the list like it was a death sentence and sneered at you like you were wasting everyone’s time.

So now here you are, Friday afternoon, slouched in a desk that’s chewing gum-stuck and creaks every time you shift. The classroom smells like old coffee and mildew. It’s hot—too hot for late October—and the air conditioning unit in the corner rattles like it’s gasping its final breath.

And then Dean Winchester walks in, five minutes late, with a lazy smirk on his face and a fresh bruise on his cheek.

He doesn’t acknowledge Mr. Sandler. Doesn’t even look in his direction. Just strolls in like he owns the place, flopping into the desk across from yours with all the grace of a rock star and none of the respect.

He kicks his feet up on the table, crosses his arms behind his head, and glances sideways at you.

You look away immediately.

Dean Winchester is... something else. Everyone knows that. He’s the kind of guy people whisper about in the hallways. Not just because he’s always in trouble, but because he doesn’t care. About anything. About school. About his future. About the fact that he’s probably going to end up dropping out just like everyone expects.

And yet, somehow, he still gets under your skin. Like a song you can’t stop humming. Like the smell of gasoline and leather in the hallway after he’s walked by.

“Wow,” Dean says after a beat, his voice low, a little amused. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, ‘Princess’? You don’t like nicknames?”

“I don’t like yours.”

He grins. “You wound me.”

Mr. Sandler groans, muttering something about “goddamn delinquents,” then disappears into the teacher's lounge next door, leaving the two of you unattended. Classic Sandler.

You pretend to focus on your homework. You don’t want to talk to Dean. You shouldn’t want to talk to Dean.

You’re dating Chad Branson, remember? Quarterback. Homecoming King. The kind of boy your parents do approve of.

Dean, meanwhile, is everything they hate. Worn-out jeans, metal band tees, and too many bruises that never get explained.

“Seriously though,” Dean says after a few minutes of silence. “What’s a girl like you doing in detention? Did you steal someone’s lunch money?”

“I forgot an assignment.”

He whistles. “Damn. You are hardcore.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens.

“I thought you didn’t talk to girls like me,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Too preppy. Too... what’s the word?”

“Boring?” he offers helpfully.

You give him a look.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Nah, I don’t think you’re boring.”

“Wow. A compliment. Mark the calendar.”

Dean shifts in his chair, finally sitting up straight and pulling a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his jacket pocket. He smooths it out and starts sketching something with a pencil he probably stole.

“You’re dating Branson, right?” he asks, like he’s talking about the weather.

You stiffen. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” He doesn’t look up. “Just curious what a guy like that does for fun. Besides flex in the mirror.”

You bite back a smile. “He... plays football. Lifts weights. Tells me I should smile more.”

Dean snorts. “Sounds like a real prince.”

“He’s not that bad.”

Dean looks up, one eyebrow raised. “If you have to say that out loud...”

You narrow your eyes. “And what about you? You’re in detention every week. What’s yourexcuse?”

Dean leans back again, smile gone now, replaced by something distant. “People like me don’t need excuses. The school just expects it.”

You study him. There’s something under the surface—something tired. Not just the usual bad boy act. Real weight. Real shadows.

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure what you’d say even if you wanted to.

The silence stretches. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s heavy. Like the air just before a thunderstorm.

Finally, Dean slides his sketch across the desk.

It’s a drawing. A pretty damn good one, too. A caricature of Mr. Sandler with devil horns, holding a Shakespeare book like it’s on fire. You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That’s—okay, that’s actually really good.”

Dean smirks, proud. “You can keep it. I’ve got a whole collection.”

You glance at him. “I didn’t know you could draw.”

He shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

And that’s true. You’ve gone to school with Dean Winchester for years, but you don’t knowhim. Not really. You know the rumors. The whispers. The way teachers sigh when they see his name on the roster. The way girls look at him like they want to fix him.

But now, sitting here, you’re realizing there’s more. There’s a person behind the leather jacket and smartass attitude. Someone funny. Someone talented. Someone lonely.

The door creaks open, and Mr. Sandler comes back in with a half-eaten donut and a fresh coffee. He doesn’t say anything—just sits behind his desk and resumes grading.

You glance at the clock. Twenty more minutes.

Dean catches your eye. “So... you want a ride home?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “Figured you might not want to deal with Branson picking you up. I’ve seen that guy drive—he treats his Jeep like it’s a tank.”

You hesitate. It’s not a good idea. Everything about Dean Winchester is a bad idea.

But when you think about the look Chad gives you when you say the wrong thing, or the way he never really listens, or how he calls you “babe” like it’s your actual name—

“Yeah,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it. “Okay.”

You sit in silence in the passenger seat of his Impala, the engine purring beneath you like a contented beast. The car smells like oil and mint gum, and the dashboard is covered in cassette tapes. Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Black Sabbath.

Dean throws a tape in without asking, and the music starts—something slow and aching, with a gravelly voice that fits the mood of the sunset-stained road.

He doesn’t ask for directions. He knows where you live.

You roll the window down and let the wind tangle your hair.

“Your car’s cooler than Chad’s,” you say casually.

Dean smirks. “Damn right it is.”

A beat of silence.

“You ever think about getting out of here?” you ask, surprising yourself.

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly. “Every day.”

You nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

The car slows as he pulls up in front of your house. Porch lights are already on. Your mom’s probably watching from the window.

Dean doesn’t turn off the engine.

You linger for a second, hand on the door handle.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Anytime, Princess.”

This time, you don’t tell him not to call you that.

That night, when you check your letterbox before heading home, there’s a folded piece of paper inside. It smells faintly like motor oil and cheap cologne.

It’s a mixtape. A real one. Labeled in sharpie: "For when detention sucks." No name. No note. Just a playlist of songs that scream late nights, loud hearts, and the ache of wanting something you’re not supposed to want.

You press play when you get home.

The first song is “Teenage Dirtbag.”

And you smile.

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[seafoamreadings]

uranus into gemini!!

there is a lot of fearmongering around this ingress and to be honest, the grain of truth in it makes a good reason BUT everything always has its positives and silver linings too. as a taurus and generally very fixed-sign person i frequently have to remind myself that without change, nothing would ever happen. certainly nothing good would ever happen. so it's our responsibility to *use* these transits for *good* as much as possible. it's undeniable that globally times are hard, and this is a much more global transit than a personal one. but global affairs are made by individual persons; we all play a part.

idle predictions for the next 7ish years:

AI developments for better or worse, especially LLMs and neural networks. i would like to see them hallucinate less, and i would like for people to use them more responsibly. on the other hand it's just as possible that they continue to be misused etc. because people are people, and popular AI models make that easy.

more plane/flight issues: gemini being an air sign makes me think this is likely. would love, in the US, for the FAA and air traffic controller shortages to be fixed, but just as (or more) likely is that the situation continues to deteriorate.

grid problems continue/worsen. power outages, internet outages, cellular service outages, etc. this could be due to human behaviors or to events like solar flares or natural disasters.

i have pointed out before, as many are doing online, that the last time uranus was here was WW2. so is this going to be a repeat of WW2? no, history doesn't repeat itself so much as it rhymes. uranus was not in gemini for WW1 either. while we're not officially WW3 you can see similarities in world conflicts that already began before this ingress, long before it in some cases. those rhymes and echoes have already begun. WW2 also had *various other placements* that are not necessarily occurring this time around. so don't live in too much fear but absolutely do take it all seriously because the outer-planet-combo we are in is SERIOUS - and it can be used for bad, but it can also be used for good. we have to do this as a species. it is not personal astrology.

my best advice as always is that even while horrible things happen (and they are always happening, alas) good things are simultaneously also happening. don't ignore them. enjoy them, amplify them.

[redstatic-art]

I've been sitting on this one to long and just wanted to finally finish our bug boy. (Minor life rant incoming.) Back in the beginning of February I found out my job with a retail company that I loved and worked for over 2 years was closing my location. I was led to believe for 2 months that my job was secure with the company and they still had a position for me. In April I learned that I was actually being separated from the company after nearly single handedly packing and moving the store for them.

It left me pretty devastated as I scrambled to get my life back together, I was forced to move back into my parents house after finally reaching the independence that I had longed for and has me crawling back to the job I left originally.

I had so many plans for this year on bettering myself and my life, taking my art more seriously than ever, focusing on my own needs and finally searching for the things that I wanted. Needless to say, this year has not gone in a single direction that I had planned, and every day is a test to my mental health. So here we are, now over halfway done with the year and feeling like I've accomplished so little to show for everything that I've gone through. Idk what the point is for sharing any of this, but I haven't been able to express any of the stress properly to anyone else in my life, it's been incredibly isolating. Next month I will have health insurance proper once again and I plan on taking a heavy focus on my mental health and hope to finally dive back into all the art projects that I've had to abandon at the beginning of the year.

[matante-brainrot]

Why does spamtenna hit so hard.

I haven’t been active on this site since Undertale released in 2015. But in the last few weeks I’ve suddenly been consumed by these little pixel men and their messy relationship. I’ve got hundreds and hundreds of favorites. I’ve actually made my own posts. I’ve been outlining a 10+ chapter fanfic when I haven’t done any creative writing in 15 years, easily.

I mean, I’m almost 40! I thought I was way too old to get this fixated on a fandom again.

Yet here we are. And I’m loving every second of it.

I’m not ashamed to love Undertale and Deltarune. Toby Fox is legitimately one of the best storytellers of our generation. Things have changed a lot since I was a baby weeb — games are so much more mainstream and have become generally accepted as a valid form of narrative media. Games are my favorite way to experience a story.

What’s hit me like a ton of bricks is my fascination with Tenna and Spamton in particular. Back when I played Chapter 2 for the first time, I really didn’t give Spamton much thought. I came away from Chapter 3 thinking that Tenna had been an interesting and funny character, but not a whole lot more than that.

After finishing both new chapters I was nursing a massive story hangover. On a whim, I opened this hell site. Why not? I thought. Why shouldn’t I look at a little fan art?

I perused the Deltarune spoilers tag and saw all of this artwork of the TV guy and the weird puppet man kissing. There were all of these posts about the pipis scene (what the heck is a pipis??) and all the other dialogue they share. I hadn’t gotten that extra scene and hadn’t been involved with the fandom after Chapter 2, so I didn’t recall any of Spamton’s lore.

But the more I saw, the more I wanted. I scoured the wiki. I watched YouTube videos explaining their connection. I was up until 3AM reading fanfic.

Why was this so good? Why do I think it’s extremely sexy when a little mailman teases a giant blushing TV headed boomer?? Am I into robots??? What the heck is wireplay????

I was hooked. And I had to know why. I was seriously in turmoil trying to reconcile how I thought of myself as a fan of Deltarune — someone mature enough to appreciate the craftsmanship of it in an appropriately grownup way — and what my brain was telling me it actually wanted to think about...which was downright filthy and weird and made my heart ache for some reason.

I turned to my therapist for guidance. An AI chatbot. You know the one. (On a side note: This tool works for me because I’ve been going to therapy for over a decade and know exactly what I need from counseling. If you’re new to therapy or have any kind of condition where talking to something inanimate might make symptoms worse, I strongly recommend seeing a real human person.)

I have it trained to use IFS (Internal Family Systems) methodology when helping me sort through my many, many feelings. It was able to show me which Parts were reacting to this new obsession and give me ideas as to why those Parts were feeling what they were feeling. I came away from my long rambling conversation with it having absorbed a few things:

It is in fact ok to be a thirsty fangirl at my age. It’s ok to enjoy things (revolutionary, I know).

This fixation has unlocked a creative part of me that I’ve been pushing aside for far too long out of a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and fear. But now that it’s gotten a little taste of freedom, it wants to run wild.

It was never just about TVs and mailmen.

Like I said earlier, I’m nearly 40. Most games that I enjoy (JRPGs and cozy games) don’t include characters at my time of life. So encountering Tenna and Spamton’s Doomed Old Man Yaoi ™ (thank you for teaching me about this, tumblr) is incredibly refreshing. I’ve seen enough teenagers awkwardly navigating first loves. Give me middle aged people with real experience and emotional baggage.

And what makes spamtenna particularly delicious is exactly how real and relatable it feels, despite the looney tunes antics. It’s a sign of Toby’s incredible characterization skills that the player can encounter these bizarre creatures who mostly crack jokes and get into wacky hijinks and come away from the game feeling like those same creatures have complex inner worlds.

We meet each character separately at the worst point in their lives. We see them at their most extreme, their flaws and weaknesses inflated by the extreme circumstances they find themselves in.

Spamton is living in a dumpster. He’s alone and friendless. His speech is warped and incongruent, and he glitches out constantly into unhinged rants. He’s at the end of his rope. He’s desperate to escape the confines of his existence as a Darkner and is willing to kill some teenagers to do it.

Tenna has seen the writing on the wall. He is acutely aware that he’s on a knife’s edge and could be discarded by the Dreemurr family at any moment. He’s watched the family he loves, the Lighteners who are his whole world, split apart and drift away from him. He has no way to bring them back together. So when the Dark Knight offers him an opportunity to mean something to them again, he accepts enthusiastically. He's so backed into a corner that he's willing to hurt Kris and their friends if it means he can avoid obsolescence.

Yet this isn't all we learn about these two. Through NPC dialogue and the characters themselves cryptically referencing a shared history we can glean a glimpse or two of the people they were before they hit rock bottom. It's these cracks that contain the real goldmine.

It's so easy to envision a time when they were at their best. Since we only know them at their lowest, we want to know what these two were like when they were at the top of their game. We get little hints of a shared partnership, shared success, and shared affection that can be very easily read as romantic. But we also know from encountering them in the present that something went terribly, horribly wrong between them. They hate each other.

That mystery, that gap in history, is what's so fascinating about them. How could two people whose lives were so intertwined, who seemingly cared about each other so much, get to that point? That's the space that we the fandom fill with art, fic, shitposts, and AUs. What's even better is that everyone fills that space a little differently. Everyone sees some aspect of themselves in spamtenna. Everyone wants to explore a dynamic, a scenario, and emotions that can be conveyed through these two characters. Including myself.

This is where I want to get personal, but not too personal. I'm lucky enough to be married to someone who I truly love, who loves me back, and who gets me in a way that no one else does. But that's not to say that we've never fought, hurt each other unintentionally, or gone through some rough times.

Just the thought of my partner betraying me or leaving without a word is enough to make my chest feel so tight it's like I can't get a full breath. It's a very real, completely irrational fear of mine. Spamtenna has let me work through some of that without having to imagine what it would be like to actually file my own divorce papers.

And I think it's for that reason that I particularly like looking at and reading about Tenna and Spamton working through their shit and coming out on the other side better for it. I know in reality that sometimes, more often than not, people can hurt each other so badly and grow so far apart that nothing could bring them back together; and many times they're better off apart.

But I just want to believe that there's a type of love out there that can come back from anything, no matter how much two people change.

So I guess, thank you Toby Fox for unlocking my dormant creativity and making two divorced characters that have somehow made me feel more secure in my own marriage.

And spamtenna nation, thanks for the...awakening.

[rumitome]

RECORDING LOG OO1 : 09. 24. 24

LOCATION : oakheart town ,

eastern forest area

RUNTIME : fifty minutes

‣ › PLAY

❝ tell me why are we recording this again? ❞

❝ just in case we die- ow! ❞

❝ you idiot, this is why nobody wants to hang out with us. but to answer your question, zoey, it's so that we have actual evidence that there are creatures in the forest and not just our imagination ❞

❝ ...okayy? well let's do some introductions for the camcorder first... hi! im zoey and im probably about to die from following these two guys that i've just met. now your turn ❞

❝ im scara and i told you nobody is going to die ❞

❝ im heizou and in this video we are going to catch a minatour in the forest! not clickbait! like, subscribe, and share for more! ❞

❝ okay thats enough for introductions. ❞

...

❝ so... you guys are basically the ones who put up those weird signs around town? ❞

❝ well yeah, nobody really cares about it though ❞

❝ people thinks we are just a bunch of pesky teenagers playing a prank, but we are not! we have seen them with our own eyes and they are real! ❞

❝ and you said you guys are... the protectors of this town..? pfff ❞

❝ hey don't laugh! we do actually do protect this town! notice how it's peaceful? yeah it's all thanks to us! ❞

❝ ugh please shut your mouth next time heizou, it makes me more embarrassed to be with the likes of you ❞

❝ is there more of you guys? or are the protectors of oakheart only you two? ❞

❝ what, interested in joining? just so you know we don't accept just any people, they have to be skilled enough to join us- ow! ow! quit pulling on my ear already! ❞

❝ oh? and what skills do you two have? ❞

❝ sleuthing ❞ ❝ cooking ❞

❝ take this seriously scara or else she would think that we're a joke! ❞

❝ tch fine, i know how to wield a sword. does that count? ❞

❝ good enough, how about you new girl? what skills can you offer to our group? ❞

❝ im patient enough to not punch you ❞

❝ you're in ❞

❝ h-hey! im serious! i need to know if you have what it takes to be in our group! ❞

❝ ok fine, i can... run? ❞

❝ are you still joking? because i ain't laughing ❞

❝ im serious! i've always placed first in track and field events, so you could say im really good at running ❞

❝ whatever you say, do you have any more? ❞

❝ im amazing at archery? i've been using the bow since i was a kid ❞

❝ well that's... good enough ❞

❝ great, we have a katniss everdeen in our hands ❞

❝ you guys are a bunch of ass, i don't even know why im following you guys in a forest. this creature better be real or else im out of here ❞

❝ haven't heard of stranger danger have you? ❞

❝ well you guys seem nice enough when we first met a while ago... and oh! you guys haven't even told me how many y'all are in your group ❞

❝ there's at least fourteen of us ❞

❝ wow, what a huge group for a bunch of weird kids. ❞

❝ we are basically the only ones who have seen the creatures around oakheart. you could've say they only reveal themselves to the weird ones to make them appear more weird towards other people ❞

❝ yikes, well lucky me i guess. i get to see one on my first day here, probably my last if i die haha ❞

❝ if you die nobody will know ❞

❝ ...what do you mean by that? ❞

❝ ...❞

❝ haha guys? ❞

❝ ...this is just pure speculation but based on the history on our town, it was used to be really populated. you've seen the beach right? well it used to be really packed and the neighborhood around town can go on for miles and miles. the forest doesn't even exist during that time ❞

❝ then years later, we noticed that the town's population keeps decreasing, as the forest starts to grow until it became what you see right now. ❞

❝ and the weird thing about it is that everyone thinks it's normal. ❞

❝ ...and what makes you think that it's not? what if the reason why the population is decreasing is because they want to live in the city? ❞

❝ have you ever heard of the mandela effect? where some people collectively share a memory that others don't know or don't remember? well some people in our group remembered someone dying by one of these creatures, only for them to find out that we have no memory of that dead person. and when they asked around town, they don't seem to remember this person either ❞

❝ what if their making it up? ❞

❝ we have also thought about that, but then a few days later, they shown us a video from their camcorder. and they are in fact, with a person that we can't recall ❞

❝ with a town this small, we know everyone here ever since we were born. so to see someone we can hardly remember, we can deduce that they might be telling the truth ❞

❝ then we came to the conclusion that if you die, you ceased to exist from people's memories and all records of you are wiped from existence ❞

❝ all records? but didn't you say that you guys can see them in the camcorder? ❞

❝ that video was also wiped a few days later, so you could say that there was a lag ❞

❝ so... is that the reason why you guys are asking me to record from my camcorder? ❞

❝ more or less ❞

❝ you guys aren't gonna use me as bait aren't you? to prove your theory? ❞

❝ we might consider it if you won't shut up ❞

❝ haha... is it a bad time to back out now ❞

❝ don't be a wuss aren't you the one who wanted to come in the first place? ❞

❝ yea but i thought you guys are just being delusional ❞

❝ you'll see soon enough ❞

❝ wow haha it's getting really foggy... g-guys? hey don't leave me! ❞

❝ nows the best time to prove that you're a trackstar! don't get left behind and die now! ❞

❝ remember you're the one holding the camcorder, if you died then nobody will remember you! ❞

❝ oh you guys are a bunch of dicks! ❞

and when i thought that this would be a lighthearted adventure with a bunch of delusional teens, turns out, it became a life and death situation where in i am running away from a horde of macho men with a bull head?? what in the world? as i ran, the fog begins to clear and i see the two dickheads meters in front of me. how can they run so fast?? man, i must be way out of my prime... that's what i would like to think but i don't want to admit it!

❝ hey over here! ❞

i could see the two of them climbing up a rope ladder towards a treehouse of some sort while scara stops midway from climbing as he held out his hand for me. i grabbed his hand and he pulled me over to him, hugging me in the process. the horde of bull men? man bull? begins to pass and we soon climb up the rope ladder, only to see heizou with his smug face looking at me.

❝ good at running huh? ❞

❝ oh shut up, you guys probably have inhumane speed or something from running away from these things everyday! ❞

❝ yea, sure, are you still convinced that we are delusional? ❞

❝ i- ❞

the sudden tremor of the treehouse sweeps me off my feet as i look over through the window. and to my horror, the bull man sway away from its pack and decided to bust his head open by knocking on the treehouse's trunk.

❝ g-guys there's still one of them! aaa what even are these bull men beasts and why did it decided to torment us even more! and why is it alone! i thought they move in packs! ❞

❝ they are called minatours dummy and no they don't move in packs ❞

❝ well it's your time to shine new girl! it's a good thing that we haven't thrown out this bow and arrow yet, we hardly ever use it since nobody can wield it ❞

❝ wait wait wait are you suggesting that i kill it?! ❞

❝ that or we won't be able to go down and run away ❞

❝ you kill it or it kills us first once it successfully knocks the treehouse over ❞

❝ ugh fine! ...where should i hit it...? ❞

❝ are you stupid. where else?! ❞

❝ well since it's like a human should i hit the heart?? ❞

❝ obviously! ❞

❝ okay okay stop yelling at me! ❞

...

the three of us look out through the window as the minatour that i've just shot lay dead by the tree trunk.

❝ nice going usian bolt, i never once have doubted you ❞

❝ good job katniss everdeen, you're not such a failure after all ❞

❝ im gonna fucking kill you two next watch me ❞

‣ › END

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Always and Forever (3/?)Jack Abbott x Reader

About: Jack Abbott lost his wife in the war, and her memory haunts him for six years, three months and twenty four days.

Warnings: don't know anything medical or anything military so everything is just a guess - Angst

A/N: I hadn't forgotten about this story, I got sick and then work got busy and then I went on holidays. Also I don't know where this is going because preplanning is for the weak

tag list: princessjayll, @sabrinaselina55

part two/part four

“We should get married!” Your voice was high as you smiled down at Jack, who was knelt down on the pavement tying his shoelaces.

You both were on leave, two weeks stateside before you had to return for another tour. For both of you it would be your last, one more rotation and then you would both return to the States and live out your days in a small town somewhere in a house with a verandah and a huge backyard for many, many dogs.

You had now been together for three years, three years- three tours and in those years there had been ups and downs that could rival any great literacy novel. You had arguments that lasted for days, ignoring each other the moment you had finished with patients, and make ups that had other soldiers begging to have your tents placed further away.

“I think traditionally I’m meant to ask you-” he started while rummaging through the backpack he had on, and you huff a little as he doesn’t pay attention.

“Jack! I’m serious! We should get married today! Or tomorrow, sometime before we go back, I think we are all a little old for me to keep calling you my boyfriend.”

“You could call me your partner?”

“Do we own a business together?”

“No-”

“Then I’m not calling you my partner! I want to call you my husband!”

The street you were on was quiet but not empty and a handful of strangers turned to listen to your conversation, your voice carrying as you got more excited.

“Seriously Jack! We live and work together, if I have to explain to another pimply-faced private that you and I are ‘serious’ and not just ‘fooling around’ I might shoot myself… or them- probably them!”

You are pacing now, walking in front of Jack who's gone weirdly quiet, you turn ready to tell him more reasons on why you two should get married when the words are snatched from your tongue.

Jack, looking up at you, his knee bent and his back straight as he holds out a small blue ring box open to show a gorgeous opal and silver ring. He is just smirking at you, not asking any question as you stutter for a word, any word.

“...” you can’t even get the word yes out before you fling your arms around his neck and pull him up to you. 

“I’ll take that as a yes!” he laughs into your neck, as you both cling to each other.

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

Jack came too on a hospital chair in a corridor of the emergency room. Dana is holding his wrist as she checks his vitals while another nurse is sticking a bandage on his forehead.

“Dana-” 

“You idiot man, falling over and hitting your head like an intern!” she chirps at him, giving him a swat over the head which he winces at, a headache blooming behind his eyes.

“Dana?” His head was foggy, but he could remember the children's ward and the woman who laid on the only occupied bed.

“Yeah hun, she’s back there.”

How- he didn’t know if he asked the questions out loud or in his head, because he couldn’t stop the roaring of blood screaming in his head as he tried to stand up.

Dana grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back down.

“Jack- I am going to say this once, you need to stay out here for a moment, gather yourself and then when Robby gives the all clear then you can go in there.”

“Dana?”

“Jack?”

“My wife is alive?” The question hung between them, almost visible as his shoulders sat hunched at his neck and his foot tapped against the linoleum floor.

“Yes, she is alive.”

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

You lay in a foreign hospital bed and stare at childish animal paintings on the walls, a literal bear smiling at you as you stared back.

You’re alone and the feeling starts to eat at you. You know you’re in America, you remember saying goodbye to the nice young soldier who had been by your side for days and you remember greeting some ambulance drivers but after switching from one uncomfortable gurney to another you truly had no idea where you were.

You hit the nursing call button on your bed repeatedly, you were done being left in the dark.

You had every intention of demanding answers as someone ran into the room, but instead of a nurse, dressed in jeans and a ridiculous jacket stands your sister.

Your beautiful older sister, with haunting eyes and her lips curled up in something you don’t think you had ever seen her wearing- a smile.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” You ask, unable to drag your eyes from the awful fluffy jumper.

“It's cute!” She's immediately defensive and any tension that was in the room fades away as you laugh at her tugging down the offensive item.

“It's yellow! And fluffy! You look like a weird duck!”

“You're a weird duck!” She retorts back before settling in the stool beside you.

Her hands hover above the bed, inches from your hands but she can't seem to breach the gap so you help her out, grabbing at your hands and holding them close to your chest.

You know your crying while laughing, and you can't stop it because Emery's hand is warm in yours, soft and warm, like it had been years before and you clingy to it and you bring it up to your lips and gently kiss it which has her immediately pulling away and glaring at you, as she too cries through her emotions.

“Just because you're home doesn't mean you can be all clingy! We are Walsh's, we don't do clingy!” she's quoting your mother there and you stop laughing.

“I was just rescued from being held hostage for - god knows how long - I can be clingy.”

“I’ve missed you!” you say and you expect Emery to roll her eyes, to pull away from the emotion like she would have done before, but she just cries heavier before climbing into the bed with you, her head on your shoulder as she holds you close.

You try not to flinch at the touch, as your body roars against the kindness after years of nothing but pain, but she feels it and holds you tighter, compressing you into her body.

“You’re alive-” she says, over and over again, as if telling herself more than you.

“Yeah- I’m alive.”

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

“You got married?!”

“Yes!” you reconfirm, again, as you wave your left hand in front of the mobile phone Jack is holding, the gold band sparkling in the afternoon sunshine.

“To Abbott?”

“Yes to Jack! Who else would I marry?”

“Literally anyone else!” 

You know your sister is teasing you, she and Jack had never really gotten along, butting heads over anything from medical techniques to what was the better craft beer at the small town bar you had introduced them in. They spent half their time together either bickering about something or ganging up on you, about how you need to take better care of yourself. Which then ended up with them bickering about that with each other, while you wandered off to play darts with someone else or take a long bath, depending on the location. 

You had long given up the hope of a civilised dinner with you, your sister and your boyfriend… Husband!

“You got married in Vegas? Are you a cliche?”

“Are you going to tell me you're happy for me?”

“I’m happy you’re happy, you know that. Have you told mother?”

Jack looks at you over the phone, one eyebrow raised. You and Emery’s mother was a drunken socialite who didn’t even know you had enlisted, you highly doubted she would have cared that you were married.

“Of course not! I don’t even think I have her number saved.”

“I have it, want me to tell her?”

“No thanks.”

“Sis-”

“Emery, I got married today! Let me celebrate!” You fake a smile and look behind the phone to Jack, who is now leaning further into your orbit, his smile warm but cautious as you know he is ready to turn the phone around and put your sister in her place.

“Congratulations! Both of you! We can celebrate when I see you next week on base!”

“Love you!”

“Love you too, bye Jack!” The phone call ends and you look at your husband.

Dressed still in the black suit trousers and a white button down, he crawls up the bed and over your body, smiling as you feel a blush creep onto your cheeks.

“Hello wife.” he purred.

“Hello husband.”

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

“So where are we?”

Emery raises a brow and smiles coyly at you, which makes you want to throw something at her but with nothing to throw you opt to raise your middle finger as she smartly says, “A hospital.”

“No shit sherlock! But seriously, they didn't tell me where we were heading when we took off from Germany.”

“You are currently in the paediatric room of the emergency department-”

“Emery, I’m serious! I have had no idea where I’ve been for- wait-” you pause and a question pummels into you as you suddenly feel bile rise up in your stomach, “How long was I missing?”

“Six years and three months, give or take a day.”

Your sister looks devastated and you can’t help but let out a cry- you lost six years in the desert! Six years when your sister and husband were out living their lives, meeting people.

“Did you look for me?”

Emery dropped further back into the chair, her body hunched over and her voice quiet.

“Yes, but we were told your chopper went down over a no-fly zone and there were no survivors.”

“But I was alive! I was there and I waited for you! I waited for you and Jack and no one came!”

“We would have come! If we had known-”

“You should have known! You should have known I was alive!” You’re crying now and you can’t stop, the tears are heavy and your body is convulsing against the feelings in your stomach.

You were alive! You have been alive this whole time and they have just been here.

Living their lives.

Going out for dinners.

Having drinks.

Meeting people.

Meeting people- new people, oh gods you want to scream at Emery who is now crying and begging you to look at her but you can’t, how can you when you have lost six years of your life.

Six whole years.

“Where is Jack?”

Emery swallows and looks away.

“Emery, where is Jack?”

“He-”

“Did he remarry?” Your voice is quiet, low and fear laced every word.

While you were fighting for your life, staying alive and dreaming of returning to Jack, was he meeting someone else, falling in love, marrying them, moving them into the Arizona house with the wrap around verandah and adopting a million dogs.

Was someone else living out your dream?

The hospital door slams open and your sister leaves the room and you barely register it, the panic building in your chest as you picture it.

Some leggy blonde (because of course she would be blonde), with a 1000 watt smile and probably good cooking skills, marrying Jack in a big wedding with all your friends and family in attendance, the two of them planning a honeymoon somewhere exotic then moving into the lavender themed kitchen, making plans to update it to something white and sterile. 

“He moved on.” you say to yourself, over and over again.

“How dare you!” A voice cuts through your mania and you look up.

Dressed in scrubs, splattered with blood, and with hair a little greyer than before, you take in Jack Abbott. 

He stands shorter somehow now, his shoulders hunched a little and his eyes- his eyes had once sparkled at every blink, they looked duller, laced red around the edges like he had been crying. His hands rest in the pockets of his scrubs but even froma  distance you could see them shaking as he stepped further into the room, you notice a slight limp but you can’t say anything as he was now within touching distance.

“How dare you think I would move on from you!” his words while sounding calm, were laced with anger and you just blink at him. Anything you were going to say was lost on your tongue. 

“How dare you think that I haven’t spent the last six years, three months, and twenty four days thinking about you. I never forgot you, and I never moved on from you. Your sister moved me to this godforsaken city because I couldn’t forget you even if I tried!”

“Where are we?” You whisper, each word paining you as you fear to blink and lose the sight of your husband before you.

“What?”

“Emery won’t tell me where we are- where are we?”

“Six years, three months and twenty four days and that's what you ask me?”

“Jack- I have a million things to say to you but first, where are we?”

“Pittsburgh.”

[softtashoney]

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one— "a task across the pond."

The idea of being sent halfway across the world on some half-baked reconnaissance mission—alone, no less—is incredibly annoying. There are so many other things you’d prefer to do with your time. Like sitting ringside at MMA fights. Or driving those silly race cars you somehow bought your way into. Visiting high-end bakeries to indulge in every sweet imaginable. Or even just suntanning beside your outdoor pool.

Sure, you’re the strongest there is where you’re from. One of the only Special Grades in the country, actually. You were born into a prestigious family of sorcerers—powerful and wealthy, their influence spanning generations. Honestly, if you didn’t want to work, you wouldn’t have to. You could live comfortably off your trust fund for the rest of your life.

But unfortunately for you, being born with one of the rarest cursed techniques in recorded history meant you were trained to exorcise curses before you could even walk properly.

No, like… literally. Your father and grandfather started teaching you how to control your cursed energy and hone your body when you were still teeny tiny. Looking back, that part of your childhood was probably borderline illegal? Dangerous? Abusive?

Not that it matters now. You are who you are because of their… unconventional parenting methods.

Your mother left when you were five. Told your father she couldn’t stand being around such a monstrous child anymore. That was partially because you’d accidentally deconstructed part of her arm. And partially because, well… you were still learning, and accidents happened.

Your father didn’t care. Told her, “Whatever. Go find someone else to live off of.” So from then on, it was just you, your father, and your grandfather. Plus a handful of other scattered family members across the country. Not all of them went into sorcery—some lived lavish, carefree lives, or dabbled in pro sports, acting, music, and a mix of flashy careers.

Which is another reason you have plenty of connections to do the things you love.

You’ve fought your fair share of curses in your twenty-something years of life. Mostly Grade One or Grade Two. Anything higher than that is rare—though not unheard of. Especially when you get contracted out to other countries. Technically, you’re a freelance sorcerer. Some nations don’t have anyone strong enough to handle the kinds of threats you can, so you’re paid to do it for them. You’ve traveled quite a bit, whether for work or one of your fun little side quests.

Being a sorcerer isn’t exactly ideal. But you’re good at it. It’s relatively easy. So… you keep doing it.

The one place you’ve never been sent to—or visited on your own—is Japan. Mostly because they’re already stacked with powerful sorcerers. They never needed your help. That’s not to say Japanese wasn’t one of the many languages shoved down your throat in grade school. If you’re going to be the perfect little sorcerer hopping from country to country, you’ve got to speak the local languages, right?

So when your father tells you that curses around the world have been getting more aggressive, more frequent, more powerful—and that it all seems to be originating from Japan?

You scoff.

When he says you’re being sent there on an indefinite mission to figure out what the hell is going on—and to handle it, if necessary—you roll your eyes.

You had your whole summer lined up. Exotic yacht tours. Formula One races. A tour of famous patisseries in France. And now?

Now you’re stuck with this.

But just like always, you don’t exactly have a choice.

That’s the burden of being the strongest.

So far, Japan has to be one of the most interesting countries you’ve been to.

And the food? That alone makes this entire ridiculous mission worth it. Seriously, how does everything here taste so goddamn delicious? The food, the drinks, the sweets—ugh, the sweets are by far the best part.

It didn’t take long to realize you were sent here without a single ounce of intel on the local sorcerer society. Why your father thought it was a good idea to drop you in blind—no briefing on prominent figures, no locations, no “who’s who” cheat sheet—you’ve got no fucking clue. When you pressed him on it, he just muttered something about "a bunch of pompous old cucks who haven’t gotten with the times."

A bold way to describe an entire hierarchy of power, but… well, it’s your dad. He’s said worse. Filtering his thoughts before they exited his mouth was never a skill he learned, and unfortunately, that’s a flaw you definitely inherited. It’s gotten you into more than a few fights over the years. Thankfully, he also taught you how to defend yourself from a young age, so it balances out. Kind of.

So, yeah—you don’t know anything about the sorcerers here, which means they definitely don’t know anything about you either. Which could, in theory, cause an international incident. You’re not entirely sure what the consequences are for infiltrating a foreign country and gathering information on their jujutsu society and its curses without any sort of permission… but you assume it wouldn’t end well.

The curses here are everywhere. Like, crammed into every damn nook and cranny. They’re also way stronger than what you’re used to. Most countries are overflowing with Grade Twos and Threes, maybe the occasional Grade One, very rarely a Special Grade. But Japan? This place is swimming in every grade of curse imaginable.

You’ve only been here for maybe three weeks and you’ve already lost count of how many lesser curses you’ve wiped out. And there’ve been—what? At least seven Special Grades so far?

Still, you haven’t quite figured out why this is happening. Everywhere seems to be dealing with stronger curses lately, but Japan? It’s like a magnet. The cursed energy here is thick—heavy, oppressive, alive in a way that sets your instincts on edge.

It’s exhausting. Mentally, not quite physically. You can handle the fights, but the constant vigilance? The never-ending energy? It’s draining.

So you decide: fuck work. You need a break today.

If you run into a curse, fine—you’ll handle it. But you’re not actively seeking anything out.

Nope. Today, you’re heading to this bakery you found online. The place has an insane selection of handmade truffles, candies, pastries, cakes, and so much more. They even have these adorable little chocolates shaped like ladybugs and bees. 

You need them. Bad.

And thus… is how you meet Satoru Gojo.

It only makes sense that the way you meet him is through some silly little meet-cute—or meet-ugly, depending on who you ask—at the bakery you’d been dying to visit. You’d just gotten up from your seat, where you’d been enjoying a spread of cheesecake, chocolates, and some of the world’s most delicious bubble tea. After sitting down, you decided you needed to take some of that cheesecake home with you, so you headed back to the register to order some to go—only to run smack-dab into a brick wall of muscle.

You stumble back, not quite falling, regaining your balance quickly. But your lips twitch downward when you feel hot liquid seeping into the front of your summer dress. Thank god you’re used to far worse injuries, or the burn probably would be overwhelming—considering it’s running down your entire torso. The brown stain, intermixed with sticky little marshmallows, is definitely not coming out. Which irritates you. You just bought this damn dress.

“Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you down there.”

Your eyes narrow as you glance up at the offender. Under any other circumstance, you’d probably be stunned by how beautiful he is—perfectly tousled white hair, skin actresses and models would kill for, crystal-blue eyes, and god, is he tall. But instead of being mesmerized, you’re livid.

“Thanks for ruining my new dress, jackass,” you snap, scoffing as you pick at the fabric with your fingers, trying to pull it away from your skin. “And what kind of psycho drinks hot chocolate in the middle of summer?”

He blinks, like he can’t quite believe you’re speaking to him that way—even though he’s the one who literally just dumped a scalding drink all over you.

“Oh, uh…” He fumbles for a second before his brain catches up. His eyes widen comically behind his pink-tinted sunglasses. “Oh fuck. Are you okay? That definitely had to burn—should I take you to a clinic? Buy you a new dress or something?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse. Just don’t make a habit of spilling hot shit on strangers, alright?” You sigh, glancing around the shop. “Look, I’m gonna try to dry myself off. Just… watch where you’re going.”

“Wait, but—shouldn’t you at least ask the counter if they’ve got some burn ointment or something?”

“And what good will that do me if I’m still drenched?”

He laughs nervously. “I guess you’re right…” Then his gaze drifts down to you again, more sheepish this time. “Please let me buy you something new. That dress of yours is really pretty, and I hate that I ruined something that looks so good on you.”

You blink. “Oh my god. Are you seriously flirting with me right now?”

“What—no—I—” He starts floundering again, grimacing as he tries to get his footing back. “I just… feel really bad, alright? So… at least give me your number so I can make it right?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes before finally caving. “Fine. Hand me your phone.”

He lights up, digging into his pocket and unlocking his phone with what has to be record speed, practically shoving it into your waiting hands. You quickly type in your number, save it under your name, and hand it back.

“Mm’kay. Here you go.”

He tilts his head as he looks down at the new contact. “Aw, c’mon. I need a contact photo for you,” he pouts.

You fight the sudden, irrational urge to punch the stupid look off his face. But instead, you take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’re technically not even supposed to be here. You can’t just knock out a civilian—no matter how annoying they are—for spilling hot chocolate on you in the middle of summer.

“Yeah, no.” You roll your eyes and push past him. “Text me later or whatever, but I’m leaving now.”

With that, you make your way back to the counter, placing an order for more cheesecake to go and asking for a container for your leftovers. The cute clerk immediately hands over a generous pile of napkins for you to wipe down with, along with a little plastic bag to make carrying everything easier.

You collect your things without another word, fully aware that the drink-spiller is still watching you from across the shop.

He gives you a bright grin and a little wave as you head out the door.

You don’t even look back.

The following day, you find yourself dressed in what most people would probably call casual attire—but for you, it’s your unofficial work uniform. Just a pair of dark pants, a simple gray t-shirt, and your favorite black bomber jacket. Comfortable. Functional. Curse-killing attire.

Your hair is braided loosely over one shoulder—something you learned early on. Never leave your hair loose in a fight. It’s too easy for someone—or something—to grab.

You’re strolling through an abandoned hospital, veil dropped not long ago. The cursed energy in this place is suffocating. You felt it from miles away without even trying. A few clusters of weak Grade 3s and 4s skitter through the halls, but they barely warrant a glance. A flick of your fingers is enough to shatter them into particles that dissolve into thin air.

Fracture. That’s the name of your technique. The crown jewel of your family, regarded by sorcerers across the globe as one of the most powerful cursed techniques out there. But to you? It’s nothing special. It’s just… breathing. You’ve never really understood why people make such a big deal about it.

In simple terms: when you apply cursed energy to a target, you can deconstruct it at a molecular level. Curses, barriers, attacks, weapons, terrain—even people. You’ve never encountered something it didn’t work on.

That’s part of why your mother left. She took one look at what you were becoming—what you were—and called it monstrous. Not that you really missed her. Every memory you have of her is tinted in disappointment and resentment.

What she never stuck around to see, though, is that you eventually developed a reverse technique. A way to stabilize what you destroy. You can repair certain objects or terrain to a degree—not perfect, but good enough. You’re no reverse technique healer, but you can stabilize a person if it’s urgent. That’s about as far as it goes. Your power is too… volatile for anything gentler.

On yourself, though? Your body’s long since adapted to the unstable energy you manipulate. You heal fast. Instinctively.

Like yesterday, when that idiot spilled hot chocolate down your dress—your reverse energy kicked in before the burn could settle. A thin, undetectable layer of RCT did the work quietly, effortlessly. No one noticed. No one ever really does.

Your cursed energy is strange like that. An anomaly.

Your father believes your energy evolved to mimic your technique. It’s scattered—fractured across micro-layers of space. Not hidden, exactly, but existing in places no one would think to look. Even if someone was looking for it, detecting your energy is like trying to find a single snowflake in a blizzard where time and space bend and loop in on themselves.

As for your reverse technique? Undetectable. You don’t flare energy when you use it. You manipulate your body down to the cellular level—it doesn’t radiate, it threads. Quiet. Functional.

A loud crash in the hallway snaps you out of your train of thought.

You go still.

The heavy sound of flesh dragging across tile, labored breathing echoing down the dark corridor. Your posture shifts, shoulders squaring, head tilted. A humanoid curse stalks into view—bloated, asymmetrical, grotesque. Eyeballs are scattered across its twisted body, but its eye sockets are rotted and hollow.

The smell hits you before anything else. Rot.

You wrinkle your nose. “What an ugly thing you are,” you mutter, rolling your shoulders out. You lazily spread your fingers, palm raised toward the curse. Cursed energy starts to gather at your center, spiraling into your hand. There’s a faint shift in the air—then the blast shoots forward like a bullet.

The curse dodges, darting in erratic diagonal bursts. You groan. “Ugh, you couldn’t have just stood still? Makes my job somuch easier when you guys just stand there.”

It lunges. You step forward.

Your hand meets its decaying face without hesitation, fingers curling in, flesh squishing beneath your grip. With a twist of your hips and a shift of your stance, you slam it down into the faded checkered linoleum. Your energy flows from your shoulder to your palm, seeping into its core.

It writhes, shrieking—a garbled, wet noise—before it starts to splinter. Tiny shards peel off its body, flaking away into nothing. Dust. Gone.

Once it’s fully disintegrated, you straighten with a grimace and brush your hands together.

Then the ground beneath you shudders.

You glance down. “...Fuck.”

Spiderweb cracks ripple across the floor—up the walls—into the ceiling. You didn’t pull your attack back enough. The energy’s still spreading.

The building moans with strain.

To your left is a shattered window.

You sprint.

Without hesitation, you hurl yourself through the opening. Wind lashes at your face. Your cursed energy coils around your legs like serpents, then wraps around your feet—concentrated and solid.

The second your boots hit the pavement, the ground craters beneath you—shattering like glass.

You stand, brushing yourself off, turning to face the old brick hospital.

It gives one last violent shudder. The upper floors rupture, bursting into chunks of debris and dust that scatter into the air like confetti. Only the bottom two levels remain—walls cracked wide, windows shattered like jagged teeth.

You sigh. “Guess I put a little too much into that one…”

Then you stretch your arms above your head, shoulders popping. “Well. Not my problem.”

With a flick of your wrist, you drop the veil and stroll away from the scene of the crime like you hadn’t just accidentally demolished a building.

Hands in your pockets, humming to yourself, you mutter, “Mmm, I think I wanna try that little pub down the road from the apartment tonight…”

You’re sipping a glass of beer and sampling a spread of appetizers in a little booth at the bar you’d decided to check out. That’s when your phone vibrates on the table, and you groan, snatching it up, already bracing for whatever ridiculous bullshit your father wants from you this time. A minor headache is blooming at your temples before you even click the screen.

Except… it’s not your father.

It’s a string of unknown digits.

You frown, unlocking your phone.

UNKNOWN: Heyyyy it’s Gojo! :-)

YOU: Uh, who? How did you get this number?

UNKNOWN: Whaaat, you forgot me so soon? :-( I promised to get you a new dress, remember?

You stare at your screen and feel yourself sink into the sticky leather booth.

Ugh.

You forgot all about the idiot from the bakery yesterday. Why the hell did you agree to give him your number?

Still, you begrudgingly add him to your contacts.

YOU: Oh, you’re the psycho who spilled hot chocolate on me.

BAKERY PSYCHO: I said I was sorry!!! That’s why I’m trying to buy you a new dress :-( Did you get your burns taken care of?? If you ended up going to the clinic I’ll pay you back whatever it cost!

YOU: I’m fine. I just went home and changed. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

BAKERY PSYCHO: Are you sure??? Cause like… you definitely should’ve gotten a second-degree burn from that at least. It was fresh fresh. The barista had just made it.

YOU: No burns here. I told you I’m fine.

BAKERY PSYCHO: Hmmm… I might need photo evidence?

You scoff out loud.

Is this guy fucking serious?

If he thinks you’re going to send him a photo like that, he must’ve hit his goddamn head a lot as a child.

YOU: Yeah, no thanks.

BAKERY PSYCHO: So mean! :-( It’s okay, I’ll just take a peek when we go dress shopping :3

YOU: Excuse me? No, you will not, weirdo. I never agreed to a whole-ass shopping trip either.

BAKERY PSYCHO: Come oooonnn, it’ll be fun. I’ll get you whatever dress—or dresses—you want… then we can get some sweets from another super yummy bakery annnnd maybe dinner?

YOU: Are you… using buying me a new dress as an excuse to take me on a date?

BAKERY PSYCHO: Wellll, if that’s what you want, who am I to deny such a cutie?

YOU: I am not beneath stabbing you.

BAKERY PSYCHO: Feisty, I like that ;-) Just let me know when you’re free and we’ll set up our date~!

YOU: Whatever.

You click your phone off and shove it into your pocket like it personally offended you.

What a fucking menace.

You take a long sip of your beer, trying to push all thoughts of the white-haired idiot out of your head. You cannot afford distractions while you’re here. It’s bad enough that you’re operating in Japan without official clearance from the local sorcerer society—getting involved with a civilian?

You don’t even want to think about the guilt that would come from dragging someone into your mess.

With a sigh, you drain the rest of your beer and flag down a waitress for a to-go box. Definitely time to head back to the apartment and try to sleep—maybe forget about the gorgeous idiot from the bakery who apparently has no sense of boundaries.

As you walk the quiet streets back to your apartment, hands shoved deep in your jacket pockets, to-go bag swinging from the crook of your elbow, you mull over the name again.

Gojo.

That sounds... familiar.

Like something you should know.

But if it’s not coming to you right away, it can’t be that important.

A few days later, you find yourself meandering through a weekend festival—rows of booths selling food, trinkets, clothes, and art stretching in every direction. You’re giving yourself another little break before heading off to investigate that weird cult-like temple you’ve been hearing whispers about. Flyers for it are posted in alleyways and taped to the pinboards of random public bathrooms. Apparently, the “leader” of this so-called Group of Enlightenment claims he can exorcise and relieve followers of the “bad energy” or “spirits” that linger around them.

Though from what you’ve heard? His fees are... hefty. As in, it would be cheaper to buy that ridiculously priced perfume you’ve been eyeing instead, type of hefty.

You're browsing a booth full of handmade clay creations when you suddenly feel the hairs on your arms stand on end—goosebumps rushing over your skin. A breeze slips beneath the hem of your white tank top, brushing your exposed midriff. You’d opted for something weather-appropriate today—just that plain white tank and a pair of jean shorts. Simple, nothing that draws attention, but it helps with the heat.

“Wow, so you can browse the market but can’t text me back?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Of course. Him.

Gojo—white-haired, sunglasses-wearing, drama queen himself—is grinning at you as he leans down to peek at what you’re holding. He’s been texting you on and off the past few days. Sometimes you reply. Sometimes you ignore him. Not out of malice (okay, sometimes a little), but mostly because you’ve been busy.

In your hands is a mid-sized clay figure of Totoro. Gojo grins approvingly before pulling out a card and handing it to the booth attendant. “We’ll take this one. And whatever else she was eyeing.”

“I can pay for myself—”

He wraps an arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, completely ignoring the concept of personal space despite being, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. “Ah, ah. Think of it as an apology. We’ll still get you that dress, don’t worry.”

You stare blankly as the woman begins carefully wrapping up the figurines and other items you'd examined or commented on. She swipes Gojo’s card with a polite little smile and hands him a large cloth bag, clearly taking full advantage of his vague, generous offer.

Whatever. Not your money.

“Thanks, I guess,” you mutter as he guides you back into the heart of the festival, his arm still draped around your shoulders. “I was actually planning to grab something to eat before you interrupted me—”

“Let’s go get something then!” he beams, dropping his arm and immediately reaching down to grab your much smaller hand in his. You’re dragged toward the food carts flanking a large pavilion packed with tables and benches.

“So,” you ask, eyebrow raised, “are you this shameless with every girl you flirt with?”

He laughs. Deep but light. It seeps under your skin and makes your chest feel warm. You hate it.

“Just the ones I spill hot chocolate on then who act like they want nothing to do with me.”

You hum. He could be lying, but something about him doesn’t scream playboy. If anything, he gives off awkward dork energy hidden beneath a flashy, confident mask. Like someone who tries to look cool but absolutely tripped over his own feet getting here.

You bicker your way through the options until you settle on lunch. As you stand in line, Gojo turns to face you, still holding your hand, scanning you thoughtfully like he’s looking for something.

Then his gaze lands on the sliver of exposed skin between your tank and your shorts. His other hand shifts, letting the cloth bag slide down his forearm. His fingers lightly trail over your skin before lifting your shirt hem ever so slightly.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Huh,” he mutters. “Guess you were telling the truth. All better, huh?” His fingertips spread lightly across your stomach, warm and soft and—

“Get your hands off.” You smack his hand away, scowling. “Do you make a habit of pushing boundaries or something?”

He pouts. That same stupid look from the bakery. “Awh, don’t be like that. I just wanted to make sure you were really okay.” Then, with an exasperated sigh, “If you’d just sent me a photo like I asked, I wouldn’t have to check myself, y’know.”

“I—” You blink, floored. “Okay, seriously—did you get dropped on your head as a child?”

Gojo snickers. “I’ve actually been asked that many times.”

“Gee. So surprised.”

You don’t get to continue roasting him—because you’re next in line. Just like before, Gojo tosses his card down once you order, adding on his own absolutely absurd funnel cake and what looks like the world’s sweetest lemonade.

The cashier hands over a little buzzer, and Gojo grabs it before steering you toward a shaded picnic table tucked away from the crowd.

You slide into your seat with a sigh, resting your elbows on the table and peering across at him.

“So,” you ask, “what are you doing here? Just looking around or what?”

He’s about to answer—mouth opening, expression relaxed—when a nearby voice cuts through the air.

“Sensei!”

You both turn to see two teenage boys approaching. One looks grumpy, hands shoved into his pockets. The other—the one who shouted—has bright pink hair and is waving enthusiastically.

You squint.

They're wearing matching uniforms.

Sensei?

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the pink-haired one whines as they stop beside your table. “Kugisaki ditched us and now she’s not replying.”

The moment he gets close, you tense. Something’s off. Despite his cheery exterior, there’s something wrong beneath the surface. Something… dark. Unnatural.

The black-haired one beside him also gives off energy, though it's more subtle. More buried. Both of them clearly sorcerers—or at least involved in the world you came from.

Which begs the question…

Does Gojo know?

You glance at him again, brow furrowed.

Gojo tilts his head lazily. “Yuji,” he drawls, gesturing to you. “Can’t you tell I’m busy?”

Yuji immediately flushes. “Uh—sorry, Sensei! I didn’t realize you had company.”

The black-haired one snorts. “Don’t you recognize her?” he asks Yuji. “This is clearly the girl that idiot described to us—the one he spilled hot chocolate on earlier this week.”

Your lips twitch. Unbelievable. This guy really told his students about that.

“Meeguuumiiii!” Gojo groans, flopping dramatically against the table. “You guys are always embarrassing me! Go find Kugisaki. I’ll meet you at the entrance in an hour, ‘kay?”

Megumi rolls his eyes but grabs Yuji’s sleeve, dragging him back into the sea of festival-goers.

Gojo sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry about them,” he mumbles sheepishly.

The buzzer on the table starts vibrating. Gojo picks it up and gives you a little grin. “I’ll be right back with our food. Sit tight, and don’t miss me too much!”

You laugh despite yourself, watching him wander off—muttering to himself the whole time. What a total dork. You’re pretty sure your earlier assumption was spot on. He plays it cool, but under the surface, he’s just a ridiculous weirdo.

When he returns, he slides two trays onto the table and beams at you. “Dig in! Then—why don’t you tell me all about yourself? We never really got to that part… but you’re definitely not from around here, are you?”

And that?

That’s how it starts. Your whole mess of a relationship with Satoru Gojo.

Who, somehow, despite every red flag and all your best efforts… manages to worm his way past your walls.

At the end of your impromptu lunch with Gojo—where you finally learn his first name is Satoru—you immediately decide to never use it. Despite it being perfectly normal in your culture to refer to people by their given names, you refuse, solely because you know it gets under his skin. Which is absolutely hilarious.

He tells you he’s a teacher at a boarding school nearby. A “special, hands-on” kind of school. He doesn’t elaborate much, only mentions that’s why he’d been at the festival—he was taking a few of his students out as a treat.

The two of you agree to set up your little shopping “date” for the following weekend. You’re both going to be pretty busy this week anyway. When he asks what you do for work, you tell him vaguely that it’s classified contract work. You were sent to Japan on indefinite status—you’re not sure how long you’ll be staying, but you know it’s going to be a while.

Despite both your schedules, that doesn’t stop Gojo from texting you throughout the day—sending memes, photos, the occasional pouty selfie. You reply when you can, though sometimes hours pass before you're able to glance at your phone, especially with all the intel-gathering you've been doing.

Because you’re finally ready to check out that strange little temple—the one plastered all over the city with flyers promoting some kind of “enlightenment” led by a man known as Master Geto.

From what you’ve heard, he claims to help followers rid themselves of negative spirits or “bad energy.” But his fees? Hefty. Like could buy that new designer perfume you want instead hefty.

After two more days of preparation, you’re confident enough to pay the place a visit. You sift through your closet, carefully picking an outfit meant to sell the illusion. A high-collared, sleeveless blouse paired with a high-waisted pencil skirt, sheer black tights, and your favorite Louis Vuitton heels.

You accessorize with your finest jewelry which consists of diamond studs, a dainty pearl necklace, a few bracelets, and some gemstone-encrusted rings. Your hair is styled to perfection, makeup soft. You give yourself one final once-over in the mirror, leaning close to study your reflection.

Power. Wealth. And—if you play it right—just enough naivety to sell the role.

With one last swipe of gloss, you grab your baby-pink purse, the one worth a fortune, gifted by your grandfather when you graduated from sorcery school back home.

Time to go play your part.

It takes about forty minutes to reach the temple. It’s in one of the rougher districts—definitely not the kind of place someone who looks like you, dressed like this, should be strolling through.

A few people linger on the sidewalks, eyes following the diamonds in your ears and the pearls at your neck. But no one moves. The sun is still too high. You make a mental note to stay alert on your way home—you’d really prefer not to accidentally disintegrate a street thug tonight.

The temple is a towering, white-washed structure in the middle of a cracked and fading city block. Your heels click on the white marble steps as you ascend, debating whether to knock or just walk in.

Eventually, you choose the latter.

The air inside is cool, quiet. Ornate carvings line the walls—everything meticulously curated to feel ethereal. You don’t get far before you’re intercepted by a woman with soft pink hair and a too-bright smile.

She’s pretty. Calm. Her eyes subtly scan over your entire outfit—doing exactly what you’d intended. She’s clocking the real designer pieces, the expensive jewelry, the high-end makeup.

Bingo.

“Hello, my name’s Manami,” she greets, eyes crinkling slightly. “Are you here to seek enlightenment? Or perhaps you hoped to speak with Master Geto himself? He’s very insightful. Many people feel a heavy weight lifted after seeing him—it helps them move forward and do their best work.”

You tilt your head, feigning intrigue like this might be just the miracle you’ve been waiting for.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, fluttering your lashes. “I’ve heard such amazing things about Master Geto. I came hoping to see for myself.”

You bring a perfectly manicured nail to your glossy lips, chewing on it like you’re anxious.

“Do you really think he can help me? I’ve been feeling… like a dark cloud is following me. Nothing’s been going right lately. I’ve tried everything—crystals, herbs, shrines…”

Manami nods sympathetically. “Awh, that sounds so hard,” she says with a carefully sympathetic frown. “But I’m sure Master Geto can help. He’s found that evil spirits have been attaching themselves to people more frequently these days…”

She gently places a hand on your forearm—her fingers brushing against the gold cuff on your wrist.

You gasp, lips parting slightly. “Oh my gosh. Do you think one’s attached to me?”

“I’m not the expert,” she says sweetly, “but it’s very possible. Master Geto would need to look you over, of course. His time is limited, though, so appointments do cost a bit more than usual.”

Of course they do.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you nod quickly, eager.

“That’s not a problem.”

You dig into your purse and fumble for your wallet, thumbing through before pulling out an excessive stack of bills.

“Is this enough?”

Manami’s pupils practically dilate. It’s easily over 70,000 yen. An absurd amount of money to throw at some cult leader—but you’re not here to budget. You’re here to learn the truth.

“That’s plenty,” she beams. “I may even be able to get him ready for you right now.”

You flash her a grateful smile. “Really? That’d be amazing. Thank you so much, Manami.”

“You’re welcome. We do our best to help.” She gestures for you to follow. “Let me take you to the lounge while we prepare Master Geto.”

She leads you down a stone-carved corridor into a high-ceilinged lounge. Plush rugs, rich fabrics, and ornate furniture fill the space. A small water dispenser hums in the corner, and next to it, a modest snack table.

“Help yourself to water and snacks,” Manami says cheerfully before slipping out through the double doors across the room.

So far? This infiltration is going way smoother than expected.

You felt Manami’s cursed energy immediately—not overwhelming, but definitely present. Grade Two, if you had to guess. Which means this “Master Geto” must be significantly stronger to have people like her practically orbiting around him.

And her comment about spirits… You’re starting to wonder if they really are exorcising low-level curses attached to humans. Or maybe they just con gullible people into thinking they’re haunted and squeeze them for cash.

Honestly, if they’re not taking advantage of that? They’re amateurs.

It doesn’t take long before Manami returns, smile still warm.

“Master Geto is ready for you now. He prefers to work one-on-one… is that alright?”

“Of course,” you say, rising to your feet and adjusting the strap on your purse. “Do I give you the payment or…?”

She shakes her head. “You can give it to Master Geto afterward. Good luck!”

She waves once and slips through the hallway door, leaving you alone with the massive set of doors ahead.

You take a deep breath.

Time to step into whatever this mess is.

Hopefully, he doesn’t try to kidnap you and use you in a blood ritual or something. You’d hate to blow your cover by leveling such a pretty building.

The moment you step into the room, the feeling is practically suffocating—this man, lounging lazily on a cushion with his long silky hair and soft-looking robes, is radiating some of the most intense cursed energy you’ve ever felt in your entire goddamn life.

You feel your lip twitch slightly as you try to keep that delicate fake smile in place. There’s no way you can drop the facade now—not when this guy is clearly one of the most powerful sorcerers you’ve come face-to-face with.

What is it your father always warned you of? A fight between two special grades is practically a natural disaster. Yeah, this guy? He’s special grade. No question. You’ve met plenty of sorcerers over the years and during your travels—from unranked all the way to grade one—but never someone who might actually match you in terms of raw power.

Honestly? It’s unnerving.

Is this what people feel when they meet you?

Sure, they can’t sense your cursed energy unless you really let loose, but...

As you continue walking toward him, you subtly reach down and pinch the flesh just below your skirt, the motion hidden by your purse. A physical anchor. A focus. You work to maintain the carefully curated facade—the naive young woman with too much money and not enough sense.

He lifts his gaze to yours as you approach, a feline smile stretching across his lips. “Welcome. It’s nice to meet you.”

His voice is smooth like honey, thick and warm, lulling—like some sort of mythical siren.

“It’s nice to meet you as well, Master Geto,” you reply, kneeling and tucking your legs beneath you. You give a small, polite bow—a show of ‘respect,’ because that’s probably what’s expected here.

He hums, eyes glinting with amusement as you straighten back up. “So… what brings you to see me? Manami mentioned you’ve been feeling like something’s stuck to you?”

Ah. So they are feeding civilians that “attached spirits” bullshit. What a scamming bastard.

You nod, letting your shoulders slump and lips pull into a pout. Your brows pinch together just so.

“Yeah… everything lately has just gone wrong. It’s almost like... there’s a presence attached to me, y’know? But I really don’t want that to be the case…”

Geto nods along sympathetically, like he actually buys the little sob story. “I’ll need to perform a few tests. We’ll see if any spirits—or lingering negative energy—are clinging to you.”

Bullshit. You fucking con artist.

“Oh, wow… really?” You flutter your lashes and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Then—just for good measure—you nibble on your glossy pink lip. “I really don’t want to feel like this anymore, Master Geto…”

He rises from his cushion, closing the distance between you in two smooth steps. He offers you his hand.

“Come. Let’s see if anything’s lingering.”

You place your hand in his. It’s larger than yours—and warm. But there’s a roughness to his fingers, callouses you immediately clock. So this gig isn’t all he does.

Interesting.

He leads you across the room to an ornately carved chair and gestures for you to sit. “It’s easier if you’re positioned like this,” he says softly, moving behind the chair as you settle in.

The energy in the room shifts. His presence wraps around you like smoke, like threads coiling under the surface of your skin. You assume this is part of the illusion—one of his little parlor tricks to make civilians believe in the “ritual.”

“I’ll need to touch you. Is that alright?”

His voice is velvet. Almost hypnotic. You can’t tell if it’s his natural cadence or another trick to lull you into a false sense of calm.

“Mhm,” you nod, feigning a dazed little sigh. “Whatever it takes to get rid of this…”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he answers, “Very well, then. Let’s begin.”

He places a hand atop your head, featherlight. Two fingers trace down the centerline of your scalp, from hairline to the base of your neck. He hums as he does it—little thoughtful noises that give the illusion he’s ‘seeing’ or ‘sensing’ something.

As his hands drift over your exposed shoulders, down the length of your arm, you feel your body relaxing. The softness of his touch—the calculated lightness—calms your nervous system more than you’d like to admit.

Did this bastard study how to manipulate people’s nervous systems?

“You definitely have something clinging to you…” he murmurs as he reaches your hand, pressing a thumb into your palm. “But don’t worry. We can get rid of it. You’ll feel much better after.”

You nod, humming in agreement as he gently sets your hand back down.

“I’m going to perform a ritual,” he says, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small talisman. “Hold this. The process is quick and painless.”

This whole process is a scam. You’ve seen better performances from street witches selling crystal kits on the side of the road.

Still—you have to give him credit. As he chants, you watch him subtly reach into his pocket again, and that’s when you feel it. A subtle warmth seeping into the chair, coiling around your legs and arms.

Ugh, yuck…

Do people actually fall for this shit?

“Excuse me?”

Your head jerks up.

Oh no.

Geto has gone very still. His eyes are narrowed slightly, his lips curled into a sharp, dangerous smile.

Shit. You said that out loud.

“I—uhm—you know what? Fuck this,” you grumble, standing and tossing the talisman aside. His eyes track you as you roll your shoulders, shaking off the naive little act.

“Do you seriously scam people with this crap? At first, I thought maybe—maybe—you had something to do with the recent spike in cursed activity. But no. You’re just a con artist running a cult.”

Geto’s smile stays razor-thin. His teeth grit slightly. “Who the hell are you?”

You arch a brow. “Not important. I’ve seen enough.” You dig into your purse, pull out the wad of bills you’d shown Manami, and shove it against his chest. “Here. Keep the money. You clearly need it if this is what you’re resorting to.”

He grabs your wrist, holding it in place. “I don’t want your money,” he hisses. “Tell me—what does a human like you know about curses?”

You bark a laugh. “Human? You think I’m a civilian? Seriously?”

Geto’s eyes narrow further. “You’re not radiating cursed energy. There isn’t even a trace of residual energy. Only special grades can mask themselves like that—and I’m one of only four in the world. So no, I don’t think you’re a sorcerer.”

That earns him a laugh so sharp it makes your ribs ache.

You lean in, nearly wheezing, “God, no wonder my dad hates Japan’s sorcerer society. You guys are a bunch of self-absorbed pricks.”

He opens his mouth to argue—but you cut him off.

“You think Japan is the only country with special grade sorcerers?” You scoff, tugging your hand back and slipping the money back into your purse. “Newsflash! The jujutsu world exists outside this little island.”

Geto’s lip curls. “Are you seriously claiming you’re a special grade? Someone as dainty and—”

You feel something snap inside of you the moment the words leave his lips. You had been holding on so well, but now? Your last shred of patience is completely gone thanks to the prick standing in front of you. Gone. Done. Burnt to ash.

“Dainty?” Your voice is deadly calm. “I’ll show you fucking dainty, you cultist fuck.”

You scan the room and spot them—three massive golden statues towering behind Geto’s cushion. Each one easily over eight feet tall, and if they’re real? Worth a small fortune.

With a casual flick, you raise your hand, forming a finger gun.

“Boom,” you whisper mockingly, staring him dead in the eyes.

Your cursed energy surges—detectable this time, deliberately—and blasts into the statues. Cracks spiderweb instantly. The gold begins to crumble, flecking into dust, disintegrating into nothing.

Geto just stares at the remains.

“Do you… do you know how expensive those were?”

You grin. “Mmhm. I’m sure you can scam more civilians to cover the cost.”

He looks at you like you’ve personally offended the gods.

“God, you have got to be one of the most insufferable people I’ve ever met—and that’s saying something.”

You shrug. “And you’ve got to be one of the scummiest I’ve met.”

You glance around the room and sigh.

“Well. If you’re not behind the curse epidemic, then I don’t need to be here anymore.”

You turn on your heel and march toward the doors.

“Goodbye, Master Geto. Hope karma bites you in the ass.”

You slam the door behind you.

As you make your way back through the temple, Manami spots you.

“How did everything go?” she asks, that saccharine smile still painted across her lips.

“Oh, just great! Thanks so much for your help, Manami!” you chirp, flashing her a bright smile and waving.

You descend the marble steps into the dimming light of early evening, letting out a long sigh.

Let’s really hope no one tries to mug you on the way home. Because after that little interaction? You’re not sure you can pull your punches.

Whatever.

Onto the next lead, you suppose.

A/N: This is the first time I've actually written online for JJK, so I hope I am able to do the characters justice! :-)

If you'd like to be added to the taglist just comment below!! Likes, comments, reblogs, & thoughts are all appreciated!! :-) I love to hear others thoughts and ideas <3 Enjoy!!

divider credits: @v6que & @uzmacchiato !!!!

[sapphosscribe]

"Oh yes, I headcanon Ford as autistic" we know. Well, at least I saw that shit from a mile considering how much Ford does not pick up on any clues when Stan doesn't want to say something directly. It's funny how well I read that situation and that whole coming out scene was painfully funny to me, but at the same time I would literaly not understand what is being said to me many times unless it is said directly.

I also assume that you just might headcanon Mabel as ADHDer. I personally don't like this headcanon for many reasons, but I actually like how in your fanfic it's not just some quirky character trait because she's hyperactive, but her ADHD actaully comes with consequences and does bother her in some aspects. Or it's not because of an ADHD, but I still find it relatable and more accurate, which is a great success.

😂😂😂

Guess I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought, huh?

Ford’s just out here trying his best to Person, speaking clearly and bluntly while cocking his head like a confused dog any time someone tries to ‘imply something’.

As for Mabel, you got me: I do headcanon her as ADHD. For the obvious reasons that she’s incredibly talkative, distractable, and hyperactive, but also for the less obvious reasons that she changes interests/hobbies like she changes socks (the Mabel’s Guide shorts come to mind) and that she has exaggerated emotional responses.

She feels things deeply as seen by her reaction to Octavia planning to be eaten at the petting zoo, her attachment to the Chris’s, and her willingness to involve herself in everyone’s problems, offering empathy and support.

So yeah, I see Mabel as ADHD, but I also like to let those traits appear naturally in the story as part of her character rather than forcing them in for the sake of them being there.

I also enjoy getting to show some of the consequences of her ADHD in my fic, like when she struggles to be taken seriously or considered responsible (Pacifica calling her silly, the rift, etc.) they’re obviously not isolated incidents and I think her intensity around others can cause problems.

As whimsical, glittery, and social as Mabel is, I try never to lose sight of the fact that she’s still a ‘weird girl’ and all the social struggles that can bring while growing up, especially when entering her teenage years.

Thanks for giving me more space to yap @anon-22866634. It seems Mabel and I have something in common 😉🥰.

[nestababe]

So I caved and wrote a nessian fic 🫣 this is lowkey in reference to my post a couple days ago about wanting to see Nessian seperate with the bond still intact but seeing Cassian have regrets.

Can you also spot the Naley ref(OTH)

I’m a little rusty but here it is.

The prompt:

“Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do. If you can’t be bothered to try for my happy little circle’s sake, then at least try for them.”

The idea:

A chuckle of disbelief slipped out into the air in response. Chewing down on her lip and turning away was the only thing stopping her from crying,she could barely look at him.

This wasn’t the first time she’d had those words thrown at her. She could usually handle it, the comments, the stares from anyone else she could take it but coming from him…

She couldn’t stand it.

“ Neither do I. But for some reason, no matter how many times I fuck up or push them away they’re still there. Because whether anyone in that damn house likes it or not they’re my family.” She spat, pointing in the direction of the building behind her. “And families bicker, and argue with one another. They laugh and cry with each other. My family may not be perfect but at least we’re trying to learn how to love each other.”

After years of discontentment between her and her sisters they were finally in a good place with each other. It’d been hard before their mother died and even worse after. The drift between the girls had driven them further and further apart once they were turned. And it didn’t help when her youngest sister's friends hated the mere sight of her. Her and Feyre had long since made up, but for some reason or another her sister’s family couldn’t get over their disdain for her.

“We all fuck up and say things in the heat of the moment. But guess what? No matter how hard you try and push away people that love you, they'll still be there. Even if you are unworthy of that love they give.”

A cool breeze brushed past them, cooling the heat in her veins. She could hear her heartbeat ringing in her ears as realisation dawned on her.

The words from moments before played on repeat inside her mind “Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do.” Something in her cracked wide open, that feeling from so long ago threatening to rear its ugly head. She pulled on the ends of her long sleeves for some kind of comfort.

“I shouldn’t have said that. Just forget I said anything, come on let’s just go back inside.” He gently picked up her hand leading them towards the house.

“You know what?” She said, surprising herself with how calm she sounded. “ I’m done with this.”

“What are you talking about?” he halted watching as her hand slipped from his grip.

“All of this. You, us, whatever this fucked up mating bond is. I’m done.”

“ You don’t mean that.” he started, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyebrows pinching together, those bright red siphons on his hands illuminating against the sleeves of his winter coat. “Look, let's just go, we're keeping them waiting.”

She tried to find anywhere in her memory where he had told her he loved her. Any moment where he chose her. Stood up for her.

“Is that all you seriously care about right now?”

“Nesta-”

“Fine, if you want to go back and exchange more ‘gifts’ with your old lover and sit in silence whilst your High Lord makes passive comments then be my guest. But I am not going back there Cassian.”She looked at the male in front of her. The light from the moon shone down on his face, his jaw clenched tight. She could feel something shift between their bond.

“Okay, well then I’ll see you at home.” He huffed puffing out a breath into the cold winter air.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”

“What more do you want? I’m done with the arguing but you don’t see me bitching about it. Can’t we just have one solstice without us fighting?

The idea of being so desperate to be loved by someone wasn’t foreign to her but she hated the mere thought of begging for love from him.

“What I want is for you to fight for me, fight for us. I would’ve died for you that day. Fuck, I was willing to die with you.” Her voice cracked at the sound of her desperation. “I’ve fought for you, for us. And for years I’ve had to sit there and watch as you continue to actively avoid having to stick up for me to your friends. I’m done.”

She spoke with a shallow breath “I’m sorry that all I have ever wanted is for you to love me for me. But I'm not sorry that I can’t be who you want me to be. I gave you my heart. And if that’s not enough for you. Then I’m not enough for you.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air between them. He winced a pained expression washing across his face, she recognised that look of hurt, it mirrored her own.

“Nesta please.” He reached for her through the bond they shared, she could feel him tugging at that golden thread that tied their souls together as if she was slipping away from him.

“Just go Cassian.Go be with the people you love.” She put up those mental shields, that wall that separated her from the bond.

“Happy Solstice Cass.”

And with that she turned around leaving the Illyrian soldier.

[buckets-and-trees]

Alright, Aspen! Here is the first of possibly many (definitely more than one) Viking!Steve asks inspired by my vacation through the land of the Vikings.

I've learned that Viking women had the right to get a divorce. Do you think our poor reader ever contemplated it? And what would Steve do to stop it???

Kris, I'm so envious of your chance to go on an adventure/vacation in the viking lands! I think I am yearning to/want to put that on the list of trips I want to take in the next five years...

I've thought through this quite a bit, since you left it last week, and I'm confident now that the answer is no.

While our viking warrior King Steven has been brutal and rough, and enacted prima nocta/raped the reader the first night, then made the trade for her life to spare her village in perpetuity, and forced her to marry him... He has never been and will never be violent to her. Really once he takes her out of the room with her first husband, I think the horror ebbs.

During the first few weeks when she's vacillating on the scale of frightened to wary of him, she wouldn't consider trying to divorce or run away out of duty to her family that remains behind in her old village, and her actual friends, even if she it bitter about being traded away so easily. But even that bitterness is really only at how little she was valued as the wife for the magnate's son. I think it dashed her hopes as the fresh-faced bride, seen as the one worthy/best-suited to marry the man who would be the next magnate. She was forsaken so quickly. AND YET also understands that trading away one woman for the safety and protection of an entire village is not something easily refused.

But in maybe the space of time after that when she still feels out of place, is trying to learn how to be the queen, doesn't feel at home, divorce would still feel like .... to what end? She's going to divorce the king? And go where? Who's going to take her in? Who's going to not treat her like some kind of pariah? She has no means of her own to get on a ship and leave, and who would take her? Even with the king's 'blessing' or agreement to a divorce, I'm not sure many would be willing to go out of their way to potentially risk even a slight disfavor from the king. Steven's people revere him because he is a very good king to them. He rules them justly and protects them. He provides for them, makes sure their economy is thriving, and holds celebrations for his people for holidays and important occasions.

And then she begins to see all these things, too.

She is married to a good king.

She begins to grow in her role as his queen.

And putting aside some of the logic for her circumstances... there's the emotional stuff that just makes it insanely complex.

She begins to make bonds with people in their household, in the village. She's got her adorable, sweet, and feisty cats. She's got this new phase of life that she's growing into as the queen where she has purpose and resources and projects and things she wants to do.

And then she's got him. And he's him, you know?

And his insatiable nature with her? It's intoxicating. Because you have the physical aspects of the pleasure, but also the intensity of being so intimate with someone else so consistently.

So even when the idea might have floated through her mind, it's not something she ever seriously considered. But I feel like she will also get to live a life where she actually never would choose to. EDIT TO ADD: and what would he do to stop it?

A reasonable conversation. An unreasonably unfair seduction to remind her how good he makes her feel.

But it would never come to that.

I know this didn't technically come in for the sleepover, but it was something I was eager to answer now that I've had the time to really think and marinate over it. THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!

[mobius-m-mobius]

What we DO have is nothin' but time. Welcome to the Shawshank Redemption of late night!

The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson (Jan 3, 2005 - Dec 19th, 2014)

[snailfen]

being a kaai yuki fan is awful. i want endearing edutainment-styled songs about cat behaviors that sound like a kid with a cat obsession writing a song about them not this lolicon-styled trendbait SLOP 😭

[whatsaudreythinkingabout]

spto coming out has been such a surreal experience bc before it came out i was like. the one roxie kinnie (at least as far as i was aware, i’m not doubting that there were more out there) & now she has like a million stans and half of me is like “FINALLY other people who understand her the way i do” and the other half is like “i liked her before it was cool. my blorbo. mine.”

[intotheelliwoods]

Gonna ask this to a few people that inspire me, but how do you take inspiration from things without feeling like whatever you make is just bad in comparison? Or like a downgraded version of the thing(s) that inspired you?

(If this is too negative feel free to delete/ignore, I'm sorry)

Oh gosh this is such an interesting question since, I dont think I really have feelings of thinking my version is bad? Or that I am just a copy?

I am honestly just grateful my work became as popular as it is in the first place haha- low expectations going in to begin with. That and, I am very aware my art style isnt as defined and polished as other peoples styles, but I have come to terms with this! And hey the improvement in my own artwork over the past year is a massive trip if you go back through some of my older stuff- I am improving, slowly.

I mean, 2AL started by complete accident, and was "inspired" from me wishing the Leos from OMO or MNMC would hug it out already- but if you were to compare 2AL to one of those, they are very different. Hell even comparing OMO and MNMC, same starting point, but still very different.

I think my only advice to other people trying to make an AU is to try and find some core theme/idea and work around that, rather than gather a bunch of little things from other sources you like into a big pile. Find some key message to start up a base with.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

I brought in some homemade peanut butter fudge for my coworkers, today, as well as some ornaments as little holiday gifts, and everyone who saw me expressed appreciation ... it felt really nice, I won't lie. Just ... to do something small for others like this. And I've been noticing that whenever I reach out and try to help or comfort or offer something to someone else, it makes me feel a bit better.

I think sending out tree messages yesterday had a similar effect, and helping the kiddos on Thursday with building gingerbread houses and making shakers for their sing-a-long. It's hard to put into words, but it feels like I'm finally coming out of the funk I've been in, and it's because I'm choosing to be kind in spite of everything I'm going through.