#but god can you imagine the story that this would be

[creamflix]

toji fushiguro x female reader; heavy, heart-crushing angst, not a lot of comfort. reader is toji's second wife, megumi's step-mom. concept inspired by @/yunymphs nsfw fic, off your shoulders — masterlist here ☆

marriage is supposed to be a blessing, a bond that seals two lives into one, a promise of belonging.

you’d always dreamed of it.

sharing every first moment with someone — the first kiss as newlyweds, the first lazy morning dance in the kitchen, the first time lying side by side, tangled in each other. you’d imagined a life full of firsts, a life that would feel like you’re writing a story together, each page a piece of both of you.

but with toji, the man you love and who loves you, it feels like stepping into the middle of a book already written.

he’s had his firsts, some so precious that traces of them linger like shadows in your home. and you try — god, you try — to let that be enough, to love him and his son, megumi, with all the warmth and devotion you can muster. yet some days, you feel like you’re just outside their world, looking in.

it’s in the everyday moments, these small interactions that remind you of everything they had before you came along. moments like this morning, when you’re up early making breakfast, hoping to surprise toji with something special. you’re chopping vegetables, humming softly to yourself, trying to imagine the look on his face when he comes in, maybe pulls you close and says you don’t have to go through the trouble. you’ve seen couples do that — little gestures to remind each other they’re together.

you want that, too.

but as you start to crack an egg into the pan, you hear megumi calling from down the hall. “dad, where are my soccer cleats?”

your heart clenches. before you can even move to help, toji’s already calling back, voice easy, like it’s a scene they’ve played out a hundred times. “try under the stairs, where your mom used to keep ‘em.”

his mom. megumi’s mom.

the woman who came before you, whose shoes you will never be able to fill.

the words hang in the air, chilling. you place the egg down and pause, the silence settling heavy on your shoulders. you don’t hate her, not in the slightest — you’ve only ever heard lovely things about her. if anything, you’re grateful to her for the habits, routines, the sense of belonging she built with them, for raising megumi to be as kind as he is.

but still, there’s a sting every time she’s mentioned, a reminder that no matter how much you love toji, a part of him will always belong to her.

maybe that’s normal, you tell yourself, shaking off the thought. you grab the spatula, focusing on the way the eggs sizzle in the pan, trying to calm the knot that’s forming in your stomach.

“i’m… making breakfast, by the way,” you call out, trying to keep your voice light. maybe this will be the moment toji notices, realizes you’re trying to make him smile in your own way.

“yeah, thanks, babe,” he says from the hall. he’s already moved on, ruffling megumi’s hair as they laugh about something you can’t quite hear.

right, you think, fighting the wave of hurt that sweeps over you.

maybe that’s just the way it is.

you stare down at the breakfast you prepared, feeling a pang of something deeper than you’d care to admit. you’re doing your best to fit in, to add to the life he’s built, but sometimes, it feels like nothing more than an afterthought. it’s silly, really — you know they care about you, know toji chose you because he loves you.

but love doesn’t always erase what came before.

and it’s not his fault that his past is so deeply woven into their present, into your present.

by the time they wander into the kitchen, you’ve already set out the plates, adding a smile to mask the ache twisting inside you. megumi gives you a small nod, a muttered “thanks,” while toji walks over, planting a quick kiss on your cheek. “looks good,” he says with that lazy smirk, and you feel the flutter of warmth, the one that always ignites when he shows even the smallest affection. but it quickly fades as he moves back to his son, launching into an old joke that you don’t understand.

you sit down across from them, feeling the laughter spill around you, each chuckle a reminder of the bond they share. you know it’s unreasonable to feel left out; after all, you’ve only been a part of their lives for a fraction of the time.

and they are good to you. they include you in most things, make an effort to make you feel like part of the family.

but there are these subtle moments, these glances, these familiar gestures, that you can never quite touch.

you watch as toji reaches over, ruffling megumi’s hair, that same fond smile lighting his face. and it’s like watching them dance to a song you can’t hear. a piece of you aches to ask, where do i fit into this?

“you two are adorable,” you say, almost to yourself, hoping they hear the love in your voice despite the sadness resting there.

you can’t say the words that sit heavy in your chest, the longing to belong to them in a way that feels real and whole. instead, you keep your gaze on your plate, focusing on the small bite of eggs you’ve managed to lift to your lips, the only sound in your head the quiet plea that maybe one day, this feeling will pass.

maybe one day, watching them from afar will stop hurting so much.

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[dark-dragon-8]

A Supernatural × Batman crossover where the Batfam are actual cryptids and the brothers are sent to hunt them, only to find out that these guys are pretty much immortal, god like beings whose only weaknesses are each other, the sun and some weird sentient manifestation of their home city that they seem to care about, and most of them already grew out of the second one, since, apparently, the sun only affects them when they're newborns/newly transformed/changed.

The whole reason they ended up in Gotham in the first place was because of some online rumors saying that there is a demon cult in the city, as well as Blüdhaven [it's true, partially, the Bat clan has had several cults and/or religions painting them as godly beings/saviours of Gotham throughout the years, still do (imagine the colonies from F'ing Demon Bats, only this time the cryptid part of them is actually real)] along with shrines for human sacrifices.

At first they thought the locals sold themselves to a Pagan God in exchange for their safety, that the shrines and "holy grounds" spread throughout the city were for blood and human sacrifices and the creatures were feeding on the souls of their followers or something.

Turns out, that couldn't be further from the truth. Yes there were bloody sacrifices at the shrines, but most of the time those were just grieving kids bringing their dead pets to silence's holy grounds for them to be healed, or taken care of, by the spirit and have their souls at peace. But, again, that was rare, and only occurred at the holy grounds themselves rather than the shrines people attended to daily.

Majority of those shrines were filled with books, art supplies, music boxes with ballerinas and, sometimes, you could even find a few trinkets and computer parts, as well as the occasional plates and plastic boxes filled with home cooked meals, sometimes they even put pots and kettles filled to the brim with savory goods and nice tea. Nobody ever touched the food, not even the poor and desperate, when asked why all the brothers received were looks of horror and hushed whispers about how "The bats don't like thieves" and "They'll stop coming by the shrine, maybe even destroy it if we do that"

Dean didn't like it, neither did Sam, they didn't like how the locals, people who barely even bat an eye when they see a dead body on their way to work, get so scared and terrified as soon as they hear of something that might displease the Bats. They tried asking around, trying to figure out what is it that makes them so scared of their dearly beloved deities, after all, they talk about them like such a wonder, like they're the best thing that ever happened to them. Hell, one of them is named Mercy and was revered for its compassion and understanding of those around them.

They only got their answer when investigating a place called Crime Alley. They locals were all the same, if not even more reserved than their city's counterparts, but there was one person, a young girl who couldn't be older than ten that said she'll be willing to answer their questions in return for some money and stories from their time as hunters. They were reluctant at first, but seeing as they haven't had much of an option, they agreed.

"So, Masey" Dean started

"Missy" she corrected

"Right, sorry, Missy, you said that you could tell us what's up regarding those demons"

"Deities" she said sternly, the man simply nodded "And yes, I can do that, but you'll have to do something for me first"

"And what would that be?"

"You said you were a hunter, right?" He nodded "And you also said you have some money. So I want you to give me two hundred dollars, cash, and a written story containing at least three of your adventures with your partner. You can't use big fonts, lie or omit any details from the story, it needs to be one hundred percent real and legible and needs to be at least fifty pages, understood?"

Dean was confused, confused and worried. Why would this child need a story about them hunting monsters? And why did she need it to be so long and accurate? Was she trying to sell them out to the Bats or something? Why was this so important?

A million questions flooded his head and looking at Sammy, he could tell the feeling was very much mutual.

"Um Missy" it was Sam talking to her this time "Why would you want a story of us hunting like that? We could tell you about our time together on the field, if you want, but why do you need that written so meticulously?"

The little girl shook her head before he even finished speaking "No, no, I need it written"

"How so?"

"For Passion, of course"

"Passion?"

"Yeah, Passion, the component watching over Crime Alley, it loves reading stories but only when they're worth it. It doesn't like when people give them stories only to please it or for it to give them undeserved attention. It needs to be good and interesting, a story about two hunters will definitely do that"

The two hunters met each other's eyes, both their expressions filled with worry, apprehension and suspicion.

"And why all the other rules? Why does have to be so long and accurate?"

The girl tilted her head, looking at them as though they've said something stupid "Because you're introducing yourself, maybe"

"I can't just tell you guys all there is to know about the Bat without at least one of the components acknowledging you guys and giving me permission to share that information with outsiders"

"And what makes you think it won't just kill us as soon as it realizes what we do for a living?" They might've been desperate, but that doesn't mean they're going to give an essay about their weaknesses and hunting methods to a freaky, probably homicidal spirit on a silver platter

"Because they like people like you, people who put their lives on the line in order to help those around them. Also" she leveled her gaze with Dean's, which was pretty impressive considering she barely reached his hip "Had it wanted you dead, you wouldn't have been able to take two steps inside Crime Alley without having a heart attack, or your head magically disappearing"

The two brothers tensed, the taller's eyes rapidly scanning their surroundings, hands fishing out a weird cellular device, probably an EMF reader or maybe a bottle of holy water, as the shorter failed to keep up his confident facade in front of the (probably) ten year old (because Dean isn't going to be spooked by a kid that hasn't even reached the double digits yet, he's 𝘯𝘰𝘵)

The little girl laughed, completely ignoring their - very justified!!! - panic "Relax, would ya? Passion doesn't kill people unless they feel like it's necessary"

They didn't seem to be very relaxed, she didn't care, she just told them to meet her again on the border of Crime Alley and its neighbor city in a week, before leaving.

Two hours later, Carrie Kelley was skipping into the main living room of Wayne Manor, where several of her siblings played video games and with their father reading the newspaper on the side, the perfect illusion of a normal, happy, completely human family.

She walked up to Bruce, sitting on the arm of his sofa as the last of her illusion magic slipped away

"Did you do it?"

"I offered them the deal, still not sure if they'll end up actually agreeing to it"

"Mn. You did well"

The young teen preened under the praise, thanking her father before going off to boast and scheme with the rest of her siblings, they were up planning contingencies and devising plans until Sundown.

[thewalrusespublicist]

omg can you speak more to your latest post about the reverse happening in 1980, I’ve never about the coherence of the narrative actually :O

Yeah an alternate universe would be crazzyy because our main narrator and star witness of the Beatles would be resident shit stirrer … John Lennon.

John

Fucking

Lennon.

The thing with Paul is that he’s kept to a pretty consistent narrative for the past 40 years or so: John broke up the Beatles cause he wanted to move on, army buddies, they loved each other etc. You can criticise it (I certainly do), but it’s coherent. It’s also one that has allowed John grace and promoted love and community as a core message, something that the other last surviving Beatle Ringo is more than happy to support. It works, we get it, it's a good message in many ways.

Whereas John … wooo boy. The only idea we have of what John would have been like is the 70s where he couldn’t even make a narratively coherent sentence.

If you take his comments and put them together, the Beatles break up was because the guys were blokes he got bored of but also the temple he loved too much but also a marriage that had to end but also a mistake in many ways. Simple, right?

And who was Paul again? Oh, well he was his closest friend ever but also someone he was never very close to and a genius but also artistically dead and yeah, he talks to him often but hasn’t spoken to him in a decade and could talk about him for days but also never thinks about him and is his dear one but also a straight and his ex-coworker who he didnt really work with much … wait no fiance/brother that he would do anything for. Whatever emotion John felt at that moment was his new forever truth/cope and that was the shit he was sticking to on record for those five minutes.

 And that’s John in normal factory mode. Now imagine the nuke that would be losing Paul, his Paul. Imagine every extreme feeling and every defense mechanism under the sun all going off at once and right in the interviewer's face like a deranged grief firework show. Then the added mess of Paul being seen as a saint and Paul the person not being there to reality check John’s view of him … chaos. On top of all that, if Yoko is right and John did contemplate an affair with Paul, you think he wouldn’t have spouted that at some point AMONGST OTHER THINGS WE DON’T KNOW ABOUT? 

Trying to work out the whole Beatles saga would be like trying to find Bigfoot but the compass is pointing in every direction and through several detours through an inexplicable amount of orgies, scandals and psychosexual drama.

 Who were the Beatles? God knows, apparently only the best band ever of bffs/coworkers who were so overrated and boring that John couldn’t wait to leave/never wanted to quit. Who the fuck was Paul McCartney? Duh, the most beautiful perfect wonderful genius man who had ever lived, one of the great loves of John’s life whose memory will stalk his dreams and waking hours until his dying day and has seances for on the reg. Oh he's also a sheep fucking devil who was hated and who intentionally and maliciously slept with half of London and wrote 'nogoodsongsshutup' in an evil plot to trick John to make music with him until Yoko freed him from his spell. What was their relationship? ????????? (okay maybe not everything would have changed lol but we would have so many more details on John’s side). There’d be no message from the Beatles tale, no story, no cohesion. Just a free-for-all pile of disparate tales of love, hate, treepanning and heartache to sift through.

In any case, I would love to see the madness that would be their version of Beatles tumblr.

[rainytomorrows]

Deadpool / Wolverine x reader | Domestic headcanons

I am legitimately moments from collapse so I will cope. Again. Domestic headcanons!!

Can't lie to y'all I'm a big fan of the poolverine x reader poly trope so. This is all made with that in mind.

Words: 950

♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡

Wade > Will make you food sometimes to cheer you up, but it's just straight childish. Hot chocolate with a mountain of whipped cream and chocolate shavings, a stack of pancakes (a full foot taller than it needs to be) with yet another mountain of whipped cream and syrup, the type of stuff you only expect in some old cartoon > Comes home with the DUMBEST socks. You have to physically pull him away from those stores that specialize in funky socks. He came home with 5 different hero themed socks once (One was him, obviously. He had a wolverine one, Spiderman, Thor, and one pair of Jesus socks whom he claimed was also a superhero) > Butterfly kiss bandit. One kiss is NEVER enough for this asshole. At the least, if you dare try to give him one (1) kiss on the lips before going somewhere, he follows you when you pull away. Does that make sense? Like, you kiss him and as you're pulling away he'll follow to press another kiss, and however many he can get in before you're actually pushing him away. > Or Logan has to punch him to get his own kiss in > So annoying. If you spend too long without giving him attention, you can't expect to work on ANYTHING alone > Laying on your lap when you sit to work, draping himself over you if you stand up to work on something, practically a blanket if you're laying down to work on something > Very thoughtful gift giver though. Maybe he can't always afford some expensive gift, but, he always comes back from cheap stores (Dollar tree, Salvation Army, that strange family owned second hand store that Logan swears smells like blood somewhere) with something strangely catered to you. Funny trinket weirdly related to a story you told about one you'd seen in a store back on a trip out of state when you didn't have enough money and was heartbroken to come home without. A shirt that would fit perfect with those pants you just bought (he adores everything you wear and can only hope to cheer you up with more) > For SURE replaced your underwear with the dumbest merchandise you've ever seen once. I'm fully convinced. At least put it in with the rest. I can't imagine he wouldn't find some corny ass Deadpool thong and beg you to try it on. No one is sure if he just finds it funny or actually thinks it's cool.

Logan > Much more sensible when it comes to making you food. Knows how to make a good home cooked meal, some recipes he gained along the way like some grandma with a box of old stained recipe sheets > Makes tea for sure. Gruff as hell but, when he's really needed, he shows up with a hot cup. Tries to make himself all tough, like if it's been a long week. "Chamomile. Helps you calm down, or some shit." > He has pride. He might act like he's constantly annoyed by the two of you, but god forbid he seems like a bad boyfriend. Ever. > "I can hold my own bags?" "Fucking give them to me." > Like aggressively gentlemanly. Has the spirit just not the vocab > Lets Wade know if he thinks he's doing a terrible job as a boyfriend. Don't get me wrong, they love each other. They're each other's boyfriends too. But sometimes Logan feels like a glorified coach. > Wade will be particularly annoying one day, you had a LONG ass shift, and he's attention starved. You're clearly not having it, when Wade's draping himself over your shoulder while you're cooking and Jesus Christ this guy is heavy. You barely have time to react when Logan is throwing him over his shoulder lumberjack style. "Get the hell off" (He's already off, thanks to Logan) > Wade convinced him to wear a cop outfit once as a joke because of how he acts on dates and the such ('policing' wade and his behavior), but, ended up being too into it. Both of them. While still a little embarrassed, Logan could fit the role and Wade couldn't fit in his pants anymore. > Definitely tries to get you to the gym with him, however hard that is > If you like going: He just kinda tries to join you, almost lost puppy esque. If you don't, he's nearly bribing you to come along with him. I feel like he's the type to just have a little home gym though. Doesn't strike me as a public workout guy. I wouldn't know. > I'm unsure how to word this- I think he's a demanding cuddler. You are NOT in charge. He's holding you like a teddy bear, not as in like hugging- like you're his stuffy or something. You're almost unsure it counts so much as cuddling, so much as him just holding you. Does that make sense? You're near rag dolling when he cuddles with you because he just refuses to let someone else have control while cuddling, not as an insecurity thing that's just how he likes to cuddle > He will let you have control on occasion if it's clearly been a hard day. You may hold him if someone was a jerk to you today (Wade doesn't count. "you chose to let him live here instead of sleeping outside." "Hey!") > Don't try and excuse it with "I have to make breakfast" he'll just get up still holding you. Like the stubborn ass he and Wade always are. He's awkwardly holding you under your armpits (hugging you like a kid in the hallway holds their stuffy) as if that's supposed to be the optimal way to cook. Still has that gruff look the whole time btw ♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡

Hope you guys enjoyed, as always! I live to fill the heart and soothe the soul. Let me know if you guys want a part two- I may be able to crank some more out. Have a good day/night, and a great life!!

[honorhearted]

"I don't think there is a single thing in the world you could do to disappoint me, Benjamin Tallmadge."

He snorted. "Well, I certainly hope you'll remember this moment when you are, in fact, disappointed in me in the future. I'm quite the over-achiever, after all."

Penelope spoke of a son following in his footsteps, and despite the leap in his chest at such a thought, it was soon soured as Benjamin drifted to thinking of war, of destruction and pain and death, and his shoulders curled inward. "I should hope not," he murmured. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not share my stories with our children... I fought so they could be free, so they could be happy, and I don't wish for them to know any of the pain I've endured. Not even a moment."

Penelope, thankfully, seemed quite content to continue teasing him, so Benjamin latched on to the much lighter fare of conversation. With a snort, he asked, "How can I not compliment you? That seems like a double-edged sword, and I'm not about to risk displeasing my betrothed. Unless, of course, it leads to more untoward requests."

Penelope giggled, leaning into his touch with a gentle incline of her neck. "If leaving you now is so difficult, I can't imagine how hard it will be once we are properly wed."

"We'll never leave the house," Benjamin agreed, chuckling. "And if anyone trespasses during our honeymoon, I'll be certain to greet them with a musket. I think I've earned the right to be possessive of my wife. If they wish to hold an audience with you, they can wait in line." Grazing his lips along her shoulder, he muttered, "Unfortunately for them, I am the only one granted permission to enter that coveted queue."

Penelope hummed. "Do you really think anyone would even notice if I just stayed here forever? Surely, Mama is far too enraptured in planning the wedding to notice and its not as though anyone would miss me otherwise."

Benjamin fought back a groan. "Don't go giving me any ideas... I'm serious, Pen, I'm at the point where I'd rather just kidnap you for a week, and then claim a loss of sanity." He shrugged. "We're already engaged, but that at least would ensure that you have to marry me."

Penelope followed his glance toward the clock. "I suppose I cannot delay for much longer, so this is where we must part. The weeks ahead are sure to be long and arduous."

Benjamin grimaced. "You don't know the half of it...I'm afraid men are the far weaker of the two sexes, so I'll be in the direst of straits."

Turning to face him, Penelope smoothed her palms along his chest with a pout. "Promise you won't forget about me in the time we're apart?"

"Impossible," he vowed. "I'll be thinking of you each and every waking moment, slowly being driven to madness." Dropping a kiss onto her forehead, he lowly added, "I hope it isn't too much to hope for the same?"

--

Within a week's time, Benjamin found himself in Penelope's presence again. Her mother was distracted with God only knew what -- it seemed that marriages of the ton were quite the affair -- and despite his good cheer, he kept pacing around the room.

"I'm so bloody nervous," he confessed. "If my assumptions are correct, Father will be arriving sometime today, and I just... I'm unsure of what to expect." He halted in his restless trek, turned, and then glanced toward Penelope with a low breath. "I never told you this, but I essentially ran away from home... Not because of anything I did, but rather, because I couldn't face the pain of losing my brother. So I did the cowardly thing, and I left my father all alone."

Shoulders hunkering, Benjamin looked down at his boots in shame. "I've written to Father, of course -- I'm not that cold-blooded -- but I imagine he must still be hurt. And I want him to love you so very much, but...what if I've already ruined everything before it's even had a chance to begin?"

If I'd known from the start how we would've ended up, I'm not so certain I would have ever been a gentleman.

"I find that hard to believe. Even in the throes of passion, you're a perfect gentleman." Pen quirked her lips into a sweet smile, a renewed flush creeping onto her cheeks. She knew she was lucky to have found someone like Ben, and that such a someone loved her as intensely as she loved them. Pen had nearly accepted the fact that her life would most likely be devoid of love. She might learn to love a husband, if she had been fortunate enough to find a man willing to marry her, but she had never expected to find a love match. And yet she had been proved wrong time and time again.

"Yes, actually." She teased, arching her brows in defiance. "I would like you to reenact the story of the handsome, charming foreign soldier who seduces the insipid wallflower with his smile and devilishly sharp wit. Are you familiar with that one?" Perching her hands on her hips, she tried to maintain a neutral expression but she found it hard when her body was still thrumming with electricity. "I don't think there is a single thing in the world you could do to disappoint me, Benjamin Tallmadge."

You know I love it when you give commands. Pen bit at the inside of her cheek to suppress a grin. She'd been told on multiple ocassions that she had a tendency to be too bossy. She liked to be in charge of things, especially when so much of her life seemed to be entirely out of her control. Whistledown had afforded her the luxury of controlling the narrative of scandals in the ton, but there were often times her pride spilled over.

"Is that so? I do enjoy giving commands every once in a while. I think it runs in the family. Perhaps, one day, a son of ours will follow in their father's footsteps. Though, I wouldn't mind if they decided to become little poets and authors instead."

Although she knew she would support her children in whatever endeavors they found themselves thrown into, Pen wasn't entirely eager to imagine her sons off to war. Even so, she refused to dwell on such a thing. Those were matters for the future, problems to be dealt with when they arose. For now, Pen was satisfied with living in the moment and planning for the near future instead.

"You must not give me so many compliments this soon. I'll hardly have any motivation to do better if you spoil me too much. Lucky for you, I'm a dutiful student."

Pen let out a soft giggle, reaching up to rest her hands on his arms. The idea of going a single day without him was tortuous, even though she knew it would be worth the wait. If they were to behave properly, it could be weeks until she felt his arms around her again. She was sure she would go insane in that much time, but at least she would be able to relish in the memory of him until then. The idea of a special marriage license was terribly tempting, but Pen knew that it would be near impossible to get. A lady of the ton marrying a foreigner was not likely to earn a favorable compliance by Her Majesty. Instead, she resigned herself to her fate. If nothing else, it would prove to be a good practice of patience.

"If leaving you now is so difficult, I can't imagine how hard it will be once we are properly wed." She sighed, nuzzling into his touch. Although Pen was determined to not be an overly needy or nagging wife, she had a feeling she would be following him around like a puppy for most of the honeymoon--and long after, as well. She had spent her entire life searching for a place to belong and now that she'd finally found it in Ben's arms, she wasn't in a rush to part with the feeling.

"Do you really think anyone would even notice if I just stayed here forever? Surely, Mama is far too enraptured in planning the wedding to notice and its not as though anyone would miss me otherwise." Even as she teased, Pen knew there was some truth behind her words. Her mother was enjoying the party planning aspect of the wedding and Pen didn't mind handing over the reigns since such a thing was far too overwhelming to handle. All she wanted was to hide away from the world and be with her fiancé.

"I suppose I cannot delay for much longer, so this is where we must part. The weeks ahead are sure to be long and arduous." Turning around to face him, Pen whined, lips puffed out into a pout. "Promise you won't forget about me in the time we're apart?"

[hiraethwa]

how to kill a god

one from <the collection — how to kill a god>

pairing. gojo satoru x reader

cw. abusive treatment (from the clan), toxic, taken away from family, non-canon compliant, special grade sorcerer!reader, non-canon lore!

wc. 2.5k

you are a weapon, and weapons do not weep.

gojo satoru, heir to the gojo clan, was born on a snowy day in december. his bright cries ringing clear as his mother faints from the thirty-two long hours of labor. the small bundle of power kicking furiously within the embrace of his father’s arms for all of thirty seconds before he blinked his curious cerulean eyes open—and was immediately whisked away to safety and protection. 

gojo satoru, blessed with the six eyes, destined to be the strongest sorcerer of the modern age, was adopted into the main branch of the gojo clan minutes later, ink on the papers barely dry before the clan leader announces its heir. 

the seismic shift of power balance in the jujutsu world culminated by his very birth spread rapidly through the world like a special grade earthquake, resounding tremors rearranging the jujutsu hierarchy.

in stark comparison, your birth was nothing close to the chaos that was gojo satoru. born to a mundane family outside the jujutsu sphere, you were the eldest of two siblings—a sister who was three years younger—in a quiet village located in northern japan where your family lived peacefully for the first ten years of your life. 

before the commissioned sorcerer knocked on your front door, took one look at your eyes—golden like the rising sun—and stole you away from your loved ones. 

at least, that’s the version of your story that you prefer, since all you have is a hazy and unreliable memory of that day. a blur of confusion and tears as the sorcerer coaxed an almost ten year old you away from your family, your parents waving goodbye to their sweet daughter—were those tears on their face? 

you stare at the scene playing out before you, an outsider looking into a piece of her own memory. 

you are never quite sure which piece of detail is real and which piece of detail is imagined, all but a tangled web of pieces that lives on in your memory, unable to differentiate what they fed you from the truth. 

what is the truth? you were born for young master gojo, exactly six lunar cycles apart, precise to the exact second you came into the world, quiet and peaceful, golden eyes watching with care and intention. you know the latter to be true, having heard the proud recount from your parents to neighbors, friends, family. 

they had scoured the entire island nation to find you, the promised one with golden eyes, who would save their precious heir from death’s door. so they took you, fed and clothed you, taught you everything there is to know in the jujutsu world, trained you so that you may rival the very best. put their hopes in you that you can one day become who their history records says. 

if only so you could die for gojo satoru. 

you had refused to believe that your parents willingly sold you off to the gojo clan, managing to escape the watchful eyes of your sensei, kaito-san and a few others on more than one occasion, finding your way home. the small slivers of images of a happy family pushing you onwards even as your feet fail. 

each time, they had found you and dragged you back to the sprawling estate, kicking and screaming, that one snow haired and blue eyed young master nowhere to be seen. 

each time but one, when you found your way through overnight trains and dingy buses, only to find your home abandoned. the painted walls peeling from the onslaught of elements, the front door creaking open with a light push to reveal empty rooms and dusty stale air, signs of mildew creeping along the edges of the structure. 

not a hint of its former inhabitants. 

as if they never existed. as if you never existed in this place.

the scene before you shifts into the neglected house that is imprinted in your mind. 

to the memory where kaito-sensei finds you there hours later, hugging your knees to your chest against the rotting floorboards. you had not bothered to try to return—where? your home is long gone with its occupants—knowing that they would find you without fail each time. 

everyone you loved was gone. vanished without a single trace. did your parents really sell you off like chattel like they claimed?

and so you allowed them to escort you into the car and back to the estate, and had not tried to run away again. your purpose taken, and a new one installed in its place by your puppeteers—the same one they had tried to force down your throat for years suddenly taking hold with the recent vacancy.

everything you once poured into reuniting with your family, every focus, every thought, every effort now poured towards the sapphire eyes that haunt you in your dreams. the one that everyone calls the strongest, even at your age.

perhaps—perhaps if you became good enough they would claim you as their daughter again. if you caught up to the one they proclaim the strongest, would they want you back? perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

foolish. you were so foolish to trust kaito-san with your desire to be better, stronger. your mistake is evident the moment you learn that he is also the sensei to the young master, the one with those icy blue eyes, hard like glittering gems. 

he started to push you harder past your physical limits, testing the boundaries of your mental strength. no matter that before, your training was already grueling enough, leaving you at the brink of exhaustion every day, nothing left in your flesh and bones but to eat and sleep. and plot and dream of a way home.

another scene plays before you, one that had been collecting dust in the forgotten corners of your mind. 

tatami mats that were once saturated with your sweat and tears are stained dark with your blood before you. you cry out for your sparring partner to stop, his fist pummeling into the side of your torso, as you curl into yourself. he does not. 

then stop him yourself, kaito-sensei tells you, grim determination set into the lines of his face, aged with experience. 

it did not matter that you were a natural, learning the punches and kicks, dodges and twists in no time. you did not have the experience nor the resolve to see it through to the end. to be the last one standing. 

you pass out from the pain—your body’s futile attempts at protecting your fragile mind from further distress, only to wake up in the dark, unable to move without pain enveloping you. new splotches of blue and purple blooming on top of older patches of yellow and green, a testament of your weakness. 

you lay unmoving in the futon, not caring who moved you there, who undressed you from the bloody clothes, and stuffed you back into a yukata, an endless prison for both your mind and your body. the gojo clan does not bother to sheathe its claws even in your sleep. 

your body pushing itself to mend and make that was broken anew, while your mind drowns in the making of its despair, darkness welcoming you home, black as the void that stirs within you.

as though your body wants to live, but your mind wants nothing but release, for death to claim you and return you home—a home that no longer is. 

—you flinch, the rawness of the memory so consuming it feels like you are living through it again, having to remind yourself that it is not real.

until one day, you wake up burning, unsteady gaze landing on a figure seated next to you—kaito-sensei. a cool towel sits atop your boiling forehead, a small comfort against the pain wracking your body and the fever coursing through it.  

he wrings another towel dry, airing it out to chill before dabbing at your feverish skin. “you told me you wanted to become stronger. this is the price.”

“and there’s no way out.” not a question, but a statement. time and time again, the clan has refused to let you go, sparing nothing at retrieving you when they lost you, as if your escapes were nothing but a clan sanctioned activity. 

“contrary to your beliefs, i do not wish you dead. i only wanted you to be strong.” there is nothing soft in his eyes, not an inch of empathy. “i told them they shouldn’t have let you go north to your ancestral lands. they couldn’t beat the submission into you, but it seems like you did it yourself.”

you watch yourself blink. they let you go? so that you would break your own stubbornness. of course. you would not put it past them to conceive such a plan so that you would break what they could not. 

“you have an immense amount of talent, you feel it too, do you not? why are you so hellbent on withering away? they told me that you have a role to play, a fate bestowed upon you, but destiny is what you make of it.”

“i didn’t ask for any of this.” 

“death is easy, living is hard. you are at a crossroads within yourself. which one will you choose? will you let them dictate your life, or will you own up to it?”

“and what if i choose the easy way out?”

“then at least die for something.” he shakes his head. “you know i only want you to be the best version of yourself, elders be damned. i am here to guide the next generation of elite jujutsu sorcerers, not serve the gojo clan.”

chills skitter down your exposed skin as you struggle to sit up, groaning from the fever aches and the bruises. “and you would not serve me up like a lamb for slaughter for the young master? isn’t that my purpose? to always have one foot in the other realm, ready to take his place at any moment?”

“of course not. he can fend for himself, but i do not speak on their behalf. they have their own plans and schemes that i am not privy to.” his hand stops you from further movement, cursed energy coursing down the length of his arm and disappearing where his skin touches yours. 

he stares at the contact point, as if he could see the flow of cursed energy—the one who could is probably sleeping soundly somewhere in the large estate. “we haven’t seen powers like yours in a very long time. if the stories are true, then your powers would only grow from here to rival the young master’s. you would be one of the greatest sorcerers of your generation.”

“then what do you want from me?” 

“i want you to own your potential, and show the world exactly what you are capable of.”

you lay back down on the futon, watching your sensei intently as he draws the blankets over your shoulders, looking up at the ceiling as though he could see all the way through to the zashiki, the sitting room where the clan elders meet. “they are getting impatient, and this may be the end of all i can do to hold them at bay. so rest, my child, and rise up stronger.”

your eyelids droop involuntarily as silence stretches, sleep pulling your fever addled mind under, dragging you into the depth of its clutches, buying time for you to heal. and then right on the brink of stepping into the dark waters of your dreams comes the words—“he needs you.”

his words plague your dreams, nightmares, whatever this suspension of your existence between the dead and the living is, where pain does not follow. show the world exactly what you are capable of. 

what exactly are you capable of? your strength could not rival those of your older sparring partners, your cursed energy generation average at best. 

your tutors, even kaito-sensei, are unable to accurately determine your cursed technique, only that cursed energy does not seem to affect you in the slightest. as though you are a cursed energy sink, the grounded forest to the young master’s limitless skies. 

what you could do with that, no one knows. if your innate absorption of cursed energy is the prized technique that they sought after to guard their precious young master, then it’s a gods-damned shit one. 

you would literally need to be by his side at all times to shield him from his enemies when he does not have his technique activated, and he could not hold his technique active at all times, so what—they want you to eat, sleep, shit next to him?

you sigh. this is utterly hopeless. 

the pain you have gotten used to. the road ahead unknown, if you decide to continue onwards. 

what would it be? if there was nothing left to live for, what do you even have to lose?

if death claims you tonight… an image of the ten year old sapphire-eyed young master barges into view, the pride, the judgment, the arrogance in his intense stare fixed upon you, as if daring you to go. 

the isolation and the loneliness carefully tucked away in the depths of his blues. 

do you want me to go? they say i am your shadow. if you tell me to go, i will. 

his lips are set into a thin line, eyes hardening at your question, disappearing from the eye of your mind. his reply resonates in the void—coward. 

the void that lives deep within you, awakened when you stumbled through his infinity.       

the void that keeps expanding in every direction, infinitely, swallowing cursed energy that touches you. the second time it happened after arriving here it made you throw up and hallucinate for days. cursed energy sickness, they called it. 

the first time had been the young master’s infinity—that had felt like a warm embrace, your first free fall into the void softened and slowed down by it. though you never breathed a word of it to a single soul. 

oh, those cursed blue eyes. he was the reason you were hunted, no better than a bloodhound. the reason they took you from your family, living a life on borrowed time. 

and still, every hope, every dream was given to the promised one. every love, every breath of yours given to the prophesied future. 

to the fabled stories passed down through the generations, whispering of a goddess who loved a limitless sorcerer with the prized six eyes so much that she gave up her immortality for him, that when he died, the skies poured for days and she swore, with the heavens as her witness, to imbue her powers into her line of descendants through the sacrifice of her divine life to do what she could not do for the man she loved most—defend his life at any cost and die on his behalf.

the faceless woman appears next to you, urging you on. not yet, it’s not your time yet, she seems to say. 

you look back at the image of your teenage self next to satoru—heaven and earth, two sides of the same coin, one blue and one golden—certain that this in itself is nothing but another dream.

the two figures fade away, and your mind continues its freefall through the memories it holds—forgotten and not, as your promise echoes through space. 

if there was nothing left for you to live for, then at least something for you to die for. 

a/n. a bit of a foray into the lore~~ satoru's pov next, im so excited!!! also made a satoru moodboard, enjoy!!!

awaiting updates? browse the library while waiting

if you liked this, please consider leaving a like, comment, rb or ask <3 (perhaps i enjoy breaking hearts a little too much)

taglist.

@inlove-maze @regalillegal @danielmarie @lvrellie @suniix @madaqueue @celloccino @sharkiethrts @corvid007 @reactwithjan @cookielovesbook-akie @itsdragonius @hiraethwrote @nyahctrl @starlightanyaaa @just-pure-trash @ladygojooo @box-of-roses @fushitoru @mintgrumpy @hatsukeii @bakery-anon @daisy-room @scamsz @gojoed @itsmeaudrieee @neptlovesu @Mariah @aerareads @jfk-inflation @nightxshade1 @juneslove21 @diorzs @aloserprobably @spindyl @theclassbookworm @its-simply-fanfiction @shi-toshi @becca388510 @thegreatandlvable

apologies if you got multiple tags, i had to go in and edit something and then they got messed up :((

(open! add yourself here)

[ryololart]

Tex Losing Her Legs

Tw: childhood trauma, gore, trauma in general, angst

My head is woozy, I can feel the blood draining from my forehead. It falls like rivers of red making paths down my cheeks to my chin where it drips off like a waterfall. Stars explode in front of my face. They cry and sing out for me, but their words are sharp and prick my ears. The sparks shine, coating my face in ash and dust making my eye itch and water. I try to stretch out my arms but they are limp to my sides. I am a phoenix rising from embers but forever cursed to wallow in her grave. It is sort of  beautiful to be stuck in such a state, unable to do a thing but watch as the world swallows me whole. 

“Up! Up! Texas let’s go,” the star's sorrowful plea is strained and exhausted. My mouth opens to say ‘I can’t’ but I have lost the ability to, instead a groan escapes. The sound does not appear as it has come from me, the pitch not familiar. The normal rasp is not equipped, instead it is wet and desperate. The dark around the stars becomes shaky. The once opaque landscape is translucent, colors shifting and changing behind a curtain. I can see time passing me by as I sit, unable to perceive the change. 

I heard a story once, about a man who lost connection to the International Space Station. He was on shift to repair something on the outside and his tether was not attached correctly. He floated out into space for three hours before someone was able to rescue him. He describes the incident as one of those life changing moments, where you realize everything is finite. One day you are at the top of your physics program, and worried about the upcoming test, the next you are with your family cheering that you got into the NASA Astronaut program, and then you are floating off into space, alone, in silence, where nothing matters. You look back at Earth now, from way above, no one knows that there is a man just floating above the atmosphere. Is that what God feels like? To just watch from above as patterns shift and change? This is what I imagine he felt like, time running away, no way to calculate how long it has been. No way to tell the people in your life how much you love them, no way to look back at all the things you have done in pride, no, you just drift away, empty, watching forever. God must be lonely.

I hoped that death would be like falling asleep after a long car ride and your parents carrying you to bed. You try to hide the smile that shows you did it on purpose to be carried, to feel the love that comes from that unspoken devotion a parent has to their child. The warm hands that could not be mistaken for another embrace your skin, unbuckling you from the seat. The being is so careful to climb up the stairs and to not let your creaky bed door ring out. Those same hands tuck you into bed as the body they belong to whispers a soft good night like a lullaby. 

“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” the stars scream again, this time in the form of people. Their hands grip my shoulders as lights shine in my face. Not like the beautiful show from before, now like bombs going off overhead. The stars explode and shriek, bursts of color here and there. It overloads my senses and I feel myself sinking further into my grave. All the sudden you are not floating in space anymore, you are running with everything you have left to give.

Death is like a march to the finish line, not the gentleness of a parent’s love. Not the soft warmth of being carried home. No. It is the  pop of the gun that goes off before you are ready to run. The heart starts racing, the mind is on overdrive, the fight to survive flowing through your blood in the form of adrenaline. The lungs gasp for air, trying to climb out your throat to reach the oxygen, no amount that you gulp down makes a difference. There is a sitch in the side that is unwelcome telling you time is up, give in. Just give in. Yet the body keeps going, the perfect machine, determined to win against nature. 

“Evangeline,” the glaze that was once over my eyes evaporates into the air and I see the first familiar thing, a pair of dark gray iris’s pouring into mine. “Do not look down.” 

A pair of gloves that appear to be bleeding before me tilts my head up, completely disorienting me once again. I want to close my eyes and go back into the comfort of my dark escape, but my body is running the race, forcing myself to acknowledge the world. I try to let my lungs expand to open to the world but I choke on something thick and boiled. I try to spit, pushing my lips together but the muscles scream at me to stop moving. I give an involuntary cough at the uncomfort in my throat and my body lights up like a christmas tree. Every single nerve explodes into fireworks, expanding and contracting, trying to connect with the sky by reaching up into the atmosphere. Yet they stay trapped in my body, paralyzing me.

There is someone else there, I can feel his movements in the sensory receptors that is making up for my lack of awareness. He keeps my face tilted up towards his and I can hear sounds coming out his mouth but they do not mean anything. The gibberish is not familiar but his voice, so rough and brutal as I am used to,  is instead sorrowful and desperate. Something is wrong, I know this, but I crave the comfort of being unknowing. I choose that it is okay in this moment to accept that I will never see that starry night my brain made for me, I will only ever see the smoke clouding the ceiling like a mirror reminding me of my state. 

The pain fades for a second as I take my first breath and what must have been hours. I can feel the shakiness of my chest as it expands. My skin is hot and wet and I can’t grip onto anything. As my conscience awakens I frantically try to take in my surroundings. Gray cement floors. White walls now painted in abstract red. Black-covered bodies run in the room. As the relief floods the pain returns and I gasp loudly. The cough comes again, harder this time and blood follows out my mouth. It is sticky and warm, coating my chin and the hand holding up my face. 

“How much longer, Roach?” He exclaims, using his thumb to wipe the blood away.

“I need another minute, we gotta set what we can or we may lose half of her.” Roach yells back. That is when I realize I can’t feel below my waist, all the pain that is shooting through me is only from there up. I managed to look as far down as a can, only to be met with Roach’s body crouched over my legs. Or what seemingly remains of them. 

My hand flies up to grip Simon’s vest and he catches it reflexly. I look at him in shock trying to remember how to breathe, my legs, they are just masses of blood. My boot is twisted backwards on the right side, my left is bent at the femur. 

“No, Evan, stay with me. You are in shock, we are going to get out of here.” He holds my hand bringing it to his masked face. All my thoughts scream however, you are stuck, you are stuck, you are stuck. Suddenly I am no longer in the Karoknoze Mountains, I am in Sanderson, Texas.

 My childhood bedroom was characterized by lead paint and mold. The walls were a pale pink that was chosen by my mother. She was so excited to have a daughter, finally, after a boy who caused her so much trouble. Mason got in so much trouble, whether in school with other kids and teachers, or with our father. All my mother wanted was to raise a baby girl, a child that was one of her kind. One that would have her back and be on her side no matter what. The love between a mother and daughter is like no other, they are intertwined from birth. A daughter is the soul captured when it left her mother, the soul that is fighting over and over to remain innocent, however, all souls only exist to be corrupted.  It is the deer in headlights, trying to move, but stuck, in ever revolving hell. The car keeps coming and coming, yet you watch in awe, the lights are so beautiful. Let them come and take me, I’d rather bathe in this unforgiving light than live this light of fight. Women fight every single day to just exist peacefully, and every day it gets harder. Every single mother and daughter suffer the cycle, bending time in hopes that the original sin will be forgiven. However God is considered a Man. Men are not friends of women. The daughter carries her mother’s sins to try to become anew, to only suffer the same fate with the best of intentions. They are doomed. The door knob that has been broken off so many times twists and makes a horrible sound. 

“Mason, you are in the wrong room,” My 14 year old body sits up as I watch from the back of my mind. My thin, thread-bare, white tank top starts to fall off my shoulder as a small hand, worn and torn, pushes it back up. I can smell the drink on him, the alcohol writing over the damp smell that always sits in this room. I call him again as he opens  the door fully.“Mason.”

“Hola, Princessa,” He takes a swig from the bottle that swishes in his hand. His wife beater stained brown from the excess he indulges in. He tries to go for a Spanish accent but fails miserably, I’m not sure if it is the drink or the fundamental lack of ability. It is ultimately impressive that he cannot speak Spanish when he spends more time in Mexico and dealing with the Mexicans than in Texas.

“Mason, go back to your room.” My body sits up against the wall pulling the covers up with me. Fear is stricken in every joint as they creak and groan with the movements. I feel frozen physically, my bones molded together with metal. His heavy footsteps made the floorboards scream as he entered my room, the light from the window forcing a shadow behind him.

“I have missed you sister, you are always gone when I’m home,” His words slur as he approaches the bed. A hand gripping the covers, pulling against my own strength. My face quivers like a doe, his body just one big light. “You owe me little girl.” 

His bottle falls onto my bed as a knee breaches the soft blanket. I swing my legs over the side and my feet touch the floor as his hand lurches out, grabbing me by the face, my mouth covered in its wake. I scream but no one is here as he pulls me back. I am stuck. I am stuck. I am stuck. 

Then the door opens again but this time it is another beast with its own lights, however they are worn and dim. The lights speak to each other as I raise my hooves to his hand and let my teeth bite down as hard a possible. Blood sprays my face and he jumps back. I hit the floor and get to the window, pushing it up, and make my escape. Just as I get outside a bottle hits the window and the glass sprays everywhere. I gasp and hit the hard floor of the desert before limping out into the darkness, not bothering to check behind me.

Before  I can realize I am being pulled across the cement, the gentle hand that is holding my face has left me. Instead I can feel someone else’s reach under my back and pull me up. I try to rip myself away with the little strength I can muster but only a fool tries to run on broken legs. I am a horse to be shot for sure. I am no longer useful. 

Then I see the glint of the sunglasses in an already dark room, the shine of a gun being forced into my hand, a tap on the side of my face that only means one thing. Get home. When Roach realizes I am no longer fighting him he wretches me up and over his shoulder. I lay limply there, just my torso making contact with his strong body. My fingers squeeze my gun as I keep my eyes on the back of his heels. He pats the side of my thigh and he moves quickly and precisely. The hallways zigzagged like a maze. It’s all shaky, hard to perceive. Colors and lights dancing in front of my eyes as we make our escape. 

[vapolis]

I really want to meet merc's partner in the story and learn more about them. so many opportunities for angst... but also I can't see merc leaving anybody for them at this point. and I can't imagine this meeting not being a huge pile of misery for both parties. merc is all fucked up and broken and so so different, they have a new life with new people in it and leaving this life behind is not really an option right now. if they meet it will probably hurt this person a lot. like a lot. meeting merc already hurts enough, but seeing what they are rn makes it worse. and merc doesn't even know shit. they don't remember anything. and then it hurts them in turn. and I don't even know if remembering would make it all better or worse.

I really like merc. and I'd like them to remember at least something from their past. at least some bits. to remember what and who they were. I don't know if it would help them, but I think they deserve it. and as much as I am a sucker for orla, I really want merc to be respected more. to be more than a tool. to be a person, whose opinion matters, whose life matters, whose feeling matter. I want them to be loved and wanted, I want someone to care for them, to listen to them, to actually listen to them. merc deserves so fucking much and I would give them the world I swear, I love them so much, none of these people deserve them. most of them wouldn't really care if merc went and died and I hate them for it deeply.

also I really need merc to cry, that's a carnal desire of mine. sex is good but my god this bitch (affectionate) needs to let it all out. too bad there's no one willing to listen to them and crying on the bathroom floor is a mood but not when you have to go and kill someone for orla right after. I don't know if there will be a happy ending for this game but oh god I need it. I would kill for a happier and more mentally stable merc I swear. I know I'm not treating them good either by making them romance jax and orla (and that's with their dog x mistress dynamic going on. god have mercy) but still. I have hopes. I don't know if I am a fool for having them but god. I need things to be good. at some point.

I'm so so sorry for this wall of text but I swear I can't make it better and neither can I express my thoughts coherently. but I just love merc. yeah. thanks.

the meeting/reveal of their former partner will certainly be interesting! I don't want to spoil anything but I think it'll be as confusing and angst inducing as possible.

them remembering stuff however... I'm not sure if that would be good or bad for them but how things are rn I'd say merc remembering more would send them spiraling. more than they already are.

orla and merc are complicated as fuck but probably my fave dynamic and the scenes I'm writing for chapter 5 are already soooo. a little further going into the direction of orla acknowledging merc as someone beyond a tool to wield.

and I think I've answered an ask about whether the ROs would care if merc dies and vaguely rmr saying yes... they're not as indifferent to merc as it feels and we're also only on chapter 5. so lots of moments that bring ros and merc closer are still to happen!

I'm personally excited for things to pick up a little more now and one or two of the things you describe are yet to happen :)

[jennycalendar]

every episode of season three thus far has really been hammering home this motif of buffy as uniquely isolated by her trauma in a way that only angel can fully understand! which is understandable, but it does make me long for the imaginary timeline in my head where jenny was the one who was brought back, in large part because something about a world where jenny and drusilla were treated as buffy's season three kindred spirits instead of angel would hit really hard, i think.

[astriiformes]

Some of this is an expansion of a thesis that I was prodding at in my speech and debate piece ten years ago in high school (which was an admittedly somewhat naïve exploration of the relationship between science fiction, optimism about the future, and scientific progress, though I stand by elements of it), but there really is something fascinating about the way Back to the Future, as a piece of science fiction media, engages with its own genre.

In the "better" timeline, George McFly, an avid sci-fi fan, goes on to become a science fiction writer. Doc Brown was inspired to become a scientist by the works of Jules Verne (and in the video game, has another Eureka moment when he sees the 1931 Frankenstein film for the first time); in the musical, he describes his time machine as "A car for the stars / Like Captain Kirk's." As a sickly girl, isolated from her peers, Clara Clayton fell in love with amateur astronomy and stories about traveling from the Earth to the Moon.

I'm just so enamored with the fact that, unlike some other media, Back to the Future loves being sci-fi so much. There's a consistent throughline in every piece of BttF media--even the newer ones--that science fiction is something good, and inspirational, that makes people feel less alone, and forges connections, and encourages people to learn and invent. And that throughline is absolutely in conversation with the fact that the 2015 segment of the second film presented a decidedly aspirational vision of the future, even though other contemporary portrayals on the new millennium were starting to skew bleaker and more cyberpunk. It would come across as a little self-aggrandizing if it didn't feel so genuine--and it also helps that some of the positive impacts shown are smaller, and more personal. George finds a fulfilling career. Doc and Clara fall in love. It's more like watching a work of fiction earnestly believe it has something to say than it is watching it be self-important.

"You can accomplish anything if you put your mind to it," "Your future hasn't been written yet. No one's has. Your future is whatever you make it, so make it a good one." Do you see. Do you see it.

[amayikes]

Then and now.

[nurm-says-hurm]

Reblogging to say I enjoy MCSM life way more when I don't pour negative energy into seeing a ship I don't like (Petra x Lukas, Axel x Olivia, anyone in that little OG treehouse trio really, they give solely platonic for me because that's my headcanon and my opinion. Just because I see Petra and Lukas as siblings/cousins dynamic, it doesn't mean everyone else will.)

When I see it on my feed I go "hm" and move on and my world looks like this when I do:

I know i said I wouldnt say anymore more of the matter but this was in my drafts and i thought i posted it

(Rambling below)

I think Romesse is a very interesting ship and can be explored in several dynamics and that's fun especially the fact that Romeo is fucking pathetic /lovingly

I like Axden, Aiden is a wide eyed wet cat and Axel is large dog that enjoyed the swim like you feel?

I'm also a multi shipper. I like Jesstra, I like Petra×Maya. Stella×Binta, Stella×Olivia, Stella×Jesse

I love Xaragaard, Xara×Binta, Xara×Romeo in the right circumstances, (XARA×ME/MY OC BC SHES MY WIFE AND I LOVE HER but that's besides the point.)

I like thinking about how they would play out. I like the stories, the scenes, the communication, the fights that either do or don't get worked through, everything that goes into a ship to make it special.

Other people might see a ship a certain way like how some people see Xara �� Romeo dynamic as like "Im romeo im big boy pants grrr" and personally not my cup of tea for that ship (I also like exploring the idea of all 3 admins being a throuple just as much as I like exploring their friendship)

Also imagining Jesstra/Jetra starting out really rocky for a while but them working through it for a healthier relationship. The complexity makes daydreaming so much more fun and more personal. Some relationships can be near effortless but a lot of relationships can be rocky

Like Romesse is definitely A LOT of adjusting and communicating and working after all thats happened. A lot of Romeo making up and trying to get ahold of his feelings and mortality like ITS A LOT

It doesn't boil down to

Jesse: Haha boyfriend :)

Romeo: Eat shit im better than you, love me *spits*

Jesse: Haha okay :')

Ship is short for relationship. It doesn't = OTP (god i havent used that word in ages)

Anyway, I'm done now. Ships are complex and I just ignore the ones I don't like and if I feel so strongly about it I'll block the tag/the account. Like OP said MCSM doesn't really have proships. Age isn't a huge part of their reality like ours (they don't spawn as babies, they spawn as a person -a noob- and nobody is related. Nobody has parents or siblings or cousins)

THIS IS NOT TARGETTED!!! THIS IS A COMMON PROBLEM!!!

There are quite literally no proships in MCSM[except obvious ones like animal x human ajd arguably old order/builders x new order/blaze rods and competitors x old builders]

Yes... even Romesse

Why?: Because depending on context, ALL SHIPS CAN BE TOXIC!!!

JESSKAS CAN BE TOXIC BECAUSE IF WRRE GETTING CRITICAL, JESSE CAN LITERALLY BE A DICK TO LUKAS IN ALL THE CHOICES!!!

JESSTRA CAN BE TOXIC BECAUSE YOU CAN BE A DICK TO PETRA, IF WERE BEIBG CRITICAL!!!!!

ALMOST EVERY SHIP IN SOME SORT OF CONTEXT CAN BE TOXIC!!!

BESIDES; SOME CHOICES YOU CAN REDEEM CHARACTERS!!!! IT'S NOT HARD TO UNDERSTAND!!!! I DONT EVEN LIKE ROMESSE YET I STILL KNOW IT'S NOT A PROSHIP!!!

ALL SHIPS NEED CONTEXT. IF THE CONTEXT IS ONE CHARACTER IS REDEEMED, AND TGE CHARACTERS ARE FINE WITH EACH OTHER, AND IS LEGAL, ITS FINE!!!! SO MANY SHIP FALL INTO THIS CATAGORY, AND THAT'S OKAY!!!

LUKXEL, AXDEN, ROMESSE, JESSKAS, JESSTRA, AND IVORREN ARE REALLY GOOD EXAMPLES!!!

THE BEST PART IS: THEY CAN BE EXES TOO, AND IT WON’T MATTER!!!

IT'S YOUR AU!!!! THERE'S NO CANON CHOICES, THERE'S NO CANON SHIPS, IT'S ALL UP TO YOU!!!!

IT'S ALL UP TO INTERPERTATION!!!!

But remember; JUST BECAUSE YOU HEADCANON OR THINK IT DOESN'T MEAN IT'S CANON!!!!

I USE TO BE THOSE PEOPLE WHO WOULD BE HYPOCRITICAL ABOUT PEOPLE'S SHIPS, I'LL ADMIT!!! AND IT SUCKS!!!!

BUT; PEOPLE CAN CHANGE!!! And I hope it's what some people in this community do♡

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

clara voice: is that what i look like from the back?

[syl-stormblessed]

just read this week’s chapters and i’m one HUNDRED percent hopping on the “Adolin is going to be Odium’s champion” train

[potatobugz]

ok. hear me out. bear with me. ive been struck with an idea for a kny au in which basically genya and kanao become main characters.

keeping in line with the whole "5 senses" theme, genya would have a heightened sense of taste and kanao would have good eyesight. :)

[beastsovrevelation]

I recently found out people ship Cassandra with Apollo.

My initial reaction was...

Just tan their hides. You know what happened to her because the the bastard, don't you?..

Then, I was overwhelmed by morbid curiosity, and checked AO3. People are writing rape fics about them. ...Why?..

Could I ever see Cassandra x Apollo?.. I don't know, maybe. But, definitely not the nonsense I mentioned. Dubcon at most. I guess, he might somehow coerce her into sleeping with him, and later rescue her from the fall of Troy, because she's pregnant with his child, or something (Zeus would be pissed, I'm fine with that).

Sounds like an intriguing story, with a lot of morally questionable elements. I can imagine Apollo confiding in Artemis, wondering why his wife is so upset. She'd just go "are you serious rn?.. -_-".

...What, you're surprised I'm among those I wish to hide with a broom? Don't be. It happens quite often, actually.