#but that’s a hard no from me personally either way

[n0tamused]

Could I request Dr Ratio's s/o defending him when people insult him (calling him a boring lover and a man of loose morals)?

A/n: This request was long coming, but I hope you enjoy this nonetheless! Dr. Ratio defense squad, assemble! I feel a little rusty writing this, so I hope it's all good :,)

Contents: Veritas Ratio x GN!Reader, fluff, headcanon format

Words: 1163

-It is well known that Dr. Veritas Ratio is well known throughout the entire cosmos for his feats, but however good or grand those accomplishments may be, not everyone looks at them fondly

-Not to mention that one particular hater he has noticed posting about him for 10 years, without a stop? He honestly admires their persistence. It takes a lot to be a hater too y’know

-There was a time where even Veritas wasn’t made of tougher skin, when the comments really did get to him; thankfully, he had the patience and pride to get him through without publicly reacting in a way that would only fan those flames further. Still, some words have left their mark on him - even diamonds can suffer scratches and cracks

-You, as his partner, naturally knew of these things. You’ve picked up on them from the things he has told you and from his body language when put in certain situations. And when you did openly ask him about it, although he appears stiff, he did not lie to you in private

-Knowing his innermost opinions and his background was, probably, what drew you to be particularly defensive over your the plaster-head-donning professor. They were all so quick to judge, yet none of them took a moment to think how much hard work it actually took for Ratio to reach the position he was in now. Knowledge does not fall into your hands, you have to work for it.

-And one day, this inner justice seeker had gone short of patience. The academy was always filled with wandering students and professors alike, all chattering among each other during breaks. And you just happened to pass by a couple conversing about him. 

-Ears perked and focused on the little group, you heard them speak rather unsavory words about a professor. Words ‘hard exam, unpassable, books that were too thick and chalk being thrown’ were all mentioned in their conversation, and it truly didn’t take a genius to figure out who the person in question was. Then they began to throw out insults they wouldn’t dare speak in front of another professor, let alone Veritas. But worst of all, they touched upon the subject of his relationship, your relationship, making such wild claims you had to wonder whether they were really talking about Veritas or someone else. Even worse - since it can always get worse - an assistant professor joined in on this gossip, spilling a “fact” that he even had other lovers than you and that he had loose morals.

-WHAT?

-Feeling your blood boiling and teeth grinding together, you couldn’t hold it within yourself. It was wrong! Ratio worked for his place and knowledge and pay, and sure - his exams and classes were tough, but he was neither a bully or an unjust professor! 

-That little group heard you loud and clear, and one did try to argue back but was quickly silenced. And one tried to walk away - you didn’t let that happen either. The people close around stopped and gaped, and perhaps they saw similar or shared characteristics between you and Veritas, maybe that’s why they also didn’t feel brave enough to keep talking or leave before you’re done. Who is to say? But what’s true is that they listened to you. 

-As you were getting to the end of your speech of defense, a familiar figure walked out of one of the classrooms close by. Clearing his throat he sent you a look, ‘enough’ he said without a word, but he was not angry. The students were dismissed after he feigned ignorance to the situation, as if he hadn’t heard a peep outside of those four walls of the classroom. 

-”I am done for today, have you wanted something of me? Anything you need?” 

-He spoke calmly, but his eyes showed some softness you barely ever saw. It was a rare sight, a look reserved for when he looked at you in bed, having you in his arms or when you held him, when he told you he wasn’t staring or being ‘too sappy’, but he was just looking at you, perhaps even admiring ‘if he may be so bold as to say that’.

-”A walk would be nice, I even got us a spot at that restaurant for lunch”

-And so it was. The walk towards the location was unusually quiet, and somewhere along the way he uttered “You shouldn’t have caused such a scene in the hallway”, his tone once more lacking the anger many expected of him. 

-”I should have, and I did. They were being rude and such behaviour is not fit for any student” You have been a student once, and there were terrible professors and your own opinions of them had been sour at some points in time, sure, but to openly spit venom? That was ridiculous. Or were you perhaps being stubborn, hypocritical? You wouldn’t say so. They were being rude, period.

-”They are students, they are also young. Gossip, however much unsavory, and however much I do not like it, is natural for them. It is not something that needs to be challenged, especially in a situation like this”

-You gave him an unsatisfied look, and he returned it in equal measure. It would take a while to convince him.

-”It doesn’t matter.. I did what I did, because I had enough of hearing people spread lies about you.. Disagree with me as much as you wish, but I’d do it again”

-He sighed and shook his head. He wanted to say something more, but for once he chose to keep quiet. It was better to leave it be as you were still not cooled off from the encounter 

-The rest of the evening went well, and you touched upon the subject briefly, not going too in depth. Ratio told you about his day, the upcoming events and plans, and you told him about yours. It was enjoyable, and it certainly helped to calm you both down

-But once you both came home and changed into more leisure wear, you told him of the thorn you felt whenever people spoke badly about him. He only looked at you, told you he understand, but “My name has been through a lot, I can take it”

-You weren’t sure if you wanted to slap some sense into him or kiss your reasons into his skin. He may be used to it, but you weren’t and you didn’t plan on getting used to it. And even as you took his face firmly between the two of your hands and brought him closer so he could hear your crystal clear, even as you saw the defiance melting from his eyes, he looked more vulnerable than ever; not angry, not sad or shocked or disappointed - vulnerable.

-So with conviction you kiss his face more times than you care to count and tell him he is someone worth defending, no matter what

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[revelboo]

Hey Revel, would it be okay to request an one shot fluff of Fort Max comforting reader after a really bad night?

Sure! He’s on my request list, just haven’t gotten to him yet

Fort Max Scenario- Nightmares

Fortress Maximus x Reader

• Again. Can hear you tossing and turning in your little nest. Spark constricting when you make a soft, pained sound. Hurting and this isn’t an enemy he can fend off. And it’s almost every night now, your sleep haunted by something you refuse to share with him. Running a hand over his face, he slides off his berth and crosses the room. You’re curled into a tight little ball, trembling and you gasp when he carefully picks you up blankets and all. “It’s me. Max, remember?” He soothes when you thrash in his grip, his voice making you settle even though he can still feel your heart racing against his servos.

• Shivering, you can’t look him in his red optics as he carries you back to his berth and lays down, settling you and your blankets on his chassis. “I woke you again.” Embarrassed, you curl on your side so your back is to him, because you can’t meet those worried optics right now. “Sorry.” Can still feel the vestiges of the nightmare, the fear so visceral you can’t breathe even now. Wanting to curl up and just cry, but knowing that will upset him more. The urge only increasing when he cautiously runs a servo over your head. The big guy trying so hard to take care of you. To fix what was already broken.

• Uncomfortable with handling you, afraid you might think that he thinks you’re a pet, not a person, it’s the only way either of you will get any rest. Any time you have those dreams, you’ll just toss and whimper all night long unless he intervenes. “My friend, Red, has trouble recharging,” he murmurs. Red Alert’s paranoia disturbs his recharge. He has no idea what bothers yours. You refuse to tell him. “Told me he has this little ambient noise loop going and it calms him right down.” Tiredly telling you stories about Red Alert and rubbing his servo between your shoulder blades until your heart calms. Until you relax against him.

• “Thank you,” you mumble, cheek on your arm as you listen to his deep voice and the hum of his spark. Letting your big protector banish the fear. Because nothing can touch you while he has you, even if there’s guilt for accidentally waking him. For not being strong enough to lie to him that you’re fine. Not that he ever complains about you annoying him, just patiently dealing with your issues without prying. Without telling you that you’re the problem.

• “Of course.” Rumbling softly to you when you yawn and close your eyes. Knows you’ll sleep peacefully now. You always do. Hadn’t wanted to presume or pressure you, but maybe you should just sleep on him from now on if it calms you. Doubts you’d ever ask him to let you, but you might feel better about it if he asks you. Besides, he’s getting used to your warmth, the feel of your heartbeat and the sound of your breathing. “I have you.” Misses them when you try to sleep alone. Getting to where he needs to be able to feel you there to rest just like you need him.

[lilbabypanda-blog2]

Phainon x (fem) reader (6)

Part5 Part6

The ruins stretched endlessly before them, bathed in an eerie glow from the bioluminescent moss creeping along the stone walls. It would have been an awe-inspiring sight—if not for the fact that Y/N and Phainon were too busy laughing like idiots while Mydei trudged behind them, radiating pure done-with-this-energy.

“You should’ve seen your face earlier, Mydei!” Y/N snickered, nudging Phainon with her elbow. “When we fell through that hole, you looked like you were questioning all of your life choices!”

“I was questioning all of my life choices,” Mydei grumbled, crossing his arms. “Specifically the ones that led to me being here with you two.”

“Oh, come on,” Phainon said with a wide grin. “Admit it—you love our company!”

“Yeah, love it so much I’m considering retirement,” Mydei muttered.

Phainon and Y/N burst into laughter again, their amusement echoing through the ruins. The uneven stone path ran parallel to a flowing underground river, the water glowing faintly under the ruins’ mysterious light. It was beautiful—serene, even.

And then, disaster struck.

In her fit of laughter, Y/N took a step forward—and the moment her foot hit the slick stone, she knew she was doomed.

“Uh-oh.”

The ground betrayed her.

She slipped. Hard.

In a blind panic, she grabbed the closest thing she could—Phainon.

“Whoa—Y/N?! Wait—!”

Phainon, caught off guard, tried to steady himself, but instead, his instincts betrayed him in the stupidest way possible—he latched onto Mydei.

“Don’t you dare—!”

Too late.

Like a perfect, synchronized disaster, all three of them tumbled off the ledge, limbs flailing in every direction.

SPLASH.

The river swallowed them whole.

The first one to resurface was Y/N, coughing out water and pushing her soaked hair from her face. The water was freezing, but she barely had time to register it before—

SPLASH!

Phainon shot up next, looking far too excited for someone who had just involuntarily plunged into an underground river. “That. Was. Amazing!” He flipped his drenched white hair back like he was starring in some dramatic movie scene, completely missing the way Y/N was giving him a look that said, Seriously?

Then, much less gracefully—

SPLUTTER—COUGH—SPIT

Mydei emerged, looking like a man who had just been personally wronged by fate itself. His blonde-red hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes narrowed into pure betrayal.

“I hate both of you,” he wheezed, wiping water from his face.

Y/N, still trying not to laugh, paddled in place. “Okay, but technically that was my fault.”

“Oh, really? Really?! I wouldn’t have noticed!” Mydei snapped, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because here I was, thinking Phainon just randomly decided to drag me into the freezing abyss for fun!”

“To be fair,” Phainon piped up, flashing an easygoing smile, “I do think this is kinda fun.”

Mydei turned slowly, glaring daggers at him. “I am this close to dunking you underwater.”

Phainon just beamed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

Before Mydei could act on his very real threat, Y/N clapped her hands together. “Alright, alright, enough drowning each other—let’s find a way out before we turn into icicles.”

Still grumbling, Mydei swam toward the riverbank while Phainon and Y/N followed, their soaked clothes clinging uncomfortably. The second Y/N reached the shore, she shivered, rubbing her arms. “Okay. That was not my best moment.”

Phainon, ever the sunshine of the group, turned to her with his usual bright grin. “Are you kidding? That was fantastic! You even managed to take both of us down with you! I’d call that an achievement.”

Y/N let out a snort, shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah, so impressive.”

Mydei, standing a few feet away, wrung out the edge of his coat with a deep scowl. “If either of you ever grab me like that again, I’m throwing you into a pit on purpose.”

Phainon leaned over to Y/N, whispering, “He totally loves us.”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, absolutely.”

Mydei groaned. “I heard that.”

Still smiling, Y/N stretched, trying to shake off the cold. “Well, let’s see where this riverbank leads. Who knows? Maybe we just accidentally discovered something important.”

Phainon nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! See, Mydei? This wasn’t a complete disaster!”

Mydei rubbed his temples. “If I pretend you don’t exist, will you stop talking?”

“Nope!” Phainon chirped.

As they continued along the riverbank, Phainon nudged Y/N, his smile softer now. “Hey,” he said casually, though his voice held a hint of something more. “For what it’s worth… that was pretty impressive.”

Y/N tilted her head at him. “What was?”

“The way you reacted,” Phainon said, rubbing the back of his neck blushing a little. “I mean, yeah, we all fell, but you managed to keep hold of me and Mydei while thinking on your feet. That’s… pretty cool.”

Y/N gave him a lopsided smile. “Huh. Didn’t think nearly drowning was something to be proud of.”

Phainon chuckled, his face a little pink. “Well, when you do it, it somehow seems heroic.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me right now?”

Phainon’s entire brain short-circuited. “I—uh—no! I mean, yes—I mean—WAIT, NO, THAT'S NOT—”

Y/N just smirked. “Relax, Phainon, I’m messing with you.”

“Oh. Right. Haha. Yeah.” Phainon let out a nervous laugh, his face now fully red.

Mydei, watching this entire interaction with an expression of pure pain, sighed deeply. “I swear, I am never getting dry at this rate.”

And with that, the three of them continued onward, one of them very flustered, one very amused, and one desperately wishing for peace and quiet.

After trudging along the riverbank, soaked to the bone, the trio finally stumbled upon a dry clearing nestled between the ruins. The stone walls around them provided decent shelter, and the soft glow of bioluminescent moss gave the place an eerie but peaceful ambiance.

Y/N shivered slightly as she rubbed her arms. “Alright, we desperately need a fire before we all turn into ice sculptures.”

Phainon clapped his hands together. “On it!”

Mydei gave him a flat look. “Do you even know how to make a fire?”

Phainon gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? Do I look like someone who can’t start a fire?”

“Yes,” Mydei said without hesitation.

Ignoring him, Phainon crouched down and started striking flint together. Against all odds, sparks flickered to life, catching onto the dry twigs. Within moments, a warm fire crackled before them.

Y/N sighed in relief, holding her hands up to the flames. “Nice work, Phainon.”

Phainon beamed, golden-retriever energy practically radiating off of him. “You see? I am so much more capable than you guys give me credit for!”

“Still debatable,” Mydei muttered as he unstrapped a piece of his armor and set it on a nearby rock to dry. “Ugh, this thing is soaked.”

Y/N glanced over at Phainon, noting the way his elegant coat was still dripping. “Phainon, take that off before you get sick.”

“Oh, I’m fine—”

“Nope,” Y/N cut him off, standing up. “Come on, give it here. You’re already shivering.”

Phainon opened his mouth to argue, but the moment Y/N reached for him, his brain short-circuited.

Oh no.

Oh no, she's close—

Oh no, she’s touching me.

Y/N tugged his soaked coat off his shoulders, completely unaware of how Phainon had gone completely stiff. His brain was looping at high speed.

Y/N, meanwhile, casually found a place to hang the coat up to dry, giving Phainon a satisfied nod. “There. Now you won’t freeze to death.”

Phainon just stood there, blinking rapidly.

Mydei, watching this unfold, exhaled sharply. “Unbelievable.”

Y/N turned back to Phainon, only to frown when she noticed his face had turned a suspicious shade of red.

“…Phainon, are you feeling okay?”

Phainon jolted. “Wha—? Me? Yes! Totally fine! Perfectly healthy! Never better!”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You look feverish.”

“What? Pfft. No way. Not at all—”

Y/N suddenly placed a hand on his forehead.

Phainon died instantly.

Okay, no, he didn’t actually die, but he might as well have. His entire body locked up, face burning, because—oh stars—Y/N’s hand was warm and soft and he was definitely going to combust.

Y/N frowned. “You are warm. See? I told you to take that coat off earlier!”

“It’s—It’s probably just the fire!” Phainon squeaked. “Very warm fire! Extremely toasty!”

Y/N didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure you’re not getting sick?”

Phainon nodded so fast he probably gave himself whiplash.

Y/N hummed, unconvinced. “Hmm. Alright. But if you do start feeling dizzy, tell me.”

Phainon nodded again, but in reality, he was already dizzy. Just for entirely different reasons.

Y/N sighed, finally removing her hand. “Alright, let me check on your wound while we’re at it.”

Phainon paled. “My what?”

Y/N shot him a look. “Your arm? From earlier? The wound you brushed off like it was nothing?”

“Oh! That wound. Uh—It’s fine! Totally fine! You don’t have to—”

Too late. Y/N was already gently rolling up his sleeve to inspect the cut.

Phainon immediately forgot how to breathe.

Stars help him. He was never going to survive this mission.

Y/N carefully examined the wound. It wasn’t too deep, but it was still red and irritated from the earlier fights.

“You need to be more careful,” she chided, grabbing a fresh bandage from her pack. “Seriously, just tell me when you’re hurt next time.”

Phainon barely heard her because all his brain could focus on was:

• Y/N is touching my arm.

• Y/N is really close.

• Her hands are so soft.

• I am about to explode.

Y/N worked quickly, wrapping the bandage snugly around his arm before tying it off. “There. All patched up.”

Then, without thinking, she reached up and ruffled his damp hair.

“You did so good today, Phainon.”

Critical hit.

Phainon.exe has stopped functioning.

His face went bright red as he sat there, absolutely paralyzed by the casual affection. Meanwhile, Y/N simply dusted her hands off, oblivious to the absolute devastation she just caused.

Mydei, watching all of this from the sidelines, dragged a hand down his face. “I cannot do this anymore.”

Y/N turned to him. “Do what?”

“Witness this pathetic excuse for a crush.”

Phainon made a strangled noise. “I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH.”

Y/N blinked. “Who has a crush?”

“NO ONE!” Phainon practically yelled, face still burning.

Y/N looked confused, but before she could question anything, something moved.

swish.

At first, none of them reacted. The movement was too fast, too quiet.

Then—

swish.

Y/N sat up, suddenly alert. “Did you see that?”

Phainon, still recovering from his near-death experience, blinked in confusion. “See what?”

CLINK.

They all turned toward the rock where Mydei had placed his armor.

It was gone.

Mydei’s eye twitched. “Where. Is. My. Armor?”

Silence.

Then—

SWOOSH.

Phainon jumped up. “THERE! Something just moved!”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at the darkness. “Okay, what is that?”

A moment later—

“My food is gone,” Mydei said darkly.

Phainon clutched his remaining rations. “Oh, this is personal now.”

Then, before they could react—

Something snatched Phainon’s coat from where it was drying.

Phainon let out a gasp of pure horror. “MY COAT.”

Phainon looked personally offended. "What is it even doing with it?!”

"Probably trying to rid the world of your terrible fashion choices," Mydei muttered.

Phainon pointed dramatically. "You know what? This is war."

“Alright, alright—let’s track this thing before Phainon actually starts crying over his coat.”

Phainon sniffed dramatically. "Too late. I’m already suffering."

As they prepared to investigate, the ruins around them remained eerily silent—too silent.

Whatever was lurking nearby… was still watching them.

And it was far from done.

The ruins were eerily silent except for the faint dripping of water and the occasional whisper of wind through the cracks in the stone. The air was thick with moisture, carrying the scent of moss and damp earth. Shadows stretched unnaturally against the ancient walls, distorting the carvings that time had nearly erased.

Something was here. Watching. Waiting.

Phainon shifted uncomfortably, his usually carefree demeanor dimmed by the unsettling stillness. His white coat—gone. Mydei’s armor—vanished. And now, as they walked along the overgrown pathways, tracking whatever had taken their things, he clutched onto the one thing he had left.

His sandwich.

Y/N led the way, her sharp eyes scanning for more signs of disturbance. There were traces, subtle but present—something had moved through here recently. But it wasn’t leaving the kind of tracks a person or even an animal might. Instead, there were disturbed patches of moss, faint imprints in the damp soil, like something too light to leave proper footprints.

It was almost like chasing a ghost.

Mydei walked a few paces behind, arms crossed, his perpetual state of irritation increasing by the second. “We’re wasting time,” he muttered. “Whatever this is, it’s too fast. We should focus on finding a way back up, not chasing after—”

A rustling sound.

The three of them froze.

The leaves of a thick bush trembled, though there was no breeze.

Y/N subtly signaled for them to stay alert. Her fingers curled around her weapon, waiting, watching.

Phainon barely breathed.

Then—

SWOOSH.

A blur shot out from the bush, impossibly fast, nothing more than a streak of movement—

And then it was gone.

Silence.

The three of them remained motionless, waiting for another sign of movement.

Then, finally, Phainon exhaled. “Okay. That was weird, but—” He paused, looking down at his now empty hands.

His eyes widened in horror.

“…It stole my sandwich.”

Silence.

Y/N blinked. “Wait. Did that thing just—”

Phainon turned to her, looking absolutely betrayed.

“It stole. My sandwich.”

Mydei, to no one's surprise, was unamused. “Really? That’s what you’re concerned about right now?”

Phainon looked back at his empty hands, as if still processing the loss. “I—yes! That was my last sandwich!”

Y/N’s expression remained serious, her gaze still fixed on where the blur had vanished. “This isn’t random.”

Phainon gasped dramatically. “It feels pretty random.”

“No,” she corrected. “Think about it. It took your coat. Mydei’s armor. And now food. It’s not just stealing—it’s collecting.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “Collecting what?”

Y/N gestured around them. “Things it considers useful.”

Mydei frowned, crossing his arms. “So what, it’s some kind of invisible hoarder?”

Phainon suddenly gasped. “What if it’s building something?”

Y/N and Mydei turned to look at him.

“…Building what, exactly?” Mydei asked dryly.

Phainon’s eyes narrowed in deep, philosophical thought. “A… sandwich shrine?”

Mydei groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Y/N snickered at the nonsense, while still focused on their surroundings. “We need to track it. Now that we know it’s still nearby, we might be able to corner it.”

Phainon clenched his fists dramatically. “Yes. I will retrieve my stolen food—”

“It’s not about the sandwich, Phainon.”

“It’s a little about the sandwich.”

Y/N sighed, already moving forward. Mydei, rubbing his temples, followed.

The ruins suddenly felt much more ominous.

Whatever was lurking here wasn’t just playing with them—it had a purpose.

And soon, they were going to find out exactly what it was.

[abiatackerman]

Could I request something? My birthday is on January 28th and I would really love it if you could make a story with Levi x emotionless reader where she has a hard time expressing her feelings and is super insecure about her weight and thinks shes fat so she doesn't eat so she's actually thin (she has trauma which is why she thinks she's fat) and Levi hurts her really badly one day like with his words about her appearance/weight. So she stops talking to him and her friends and goes back to her emotionless ways and he feels really bad because he didn't mean to insult her about her weight and he has a huge crush on her. Angst and fluff please! Please make it long it would mean the world to me 😖❤️❤️ (could you tag me once the story is finished?)

Happy late birthday, sweetie!!! I hope you had a great time! And thanks for asking! Hope you'll love the story!

Where words cut deep

⚔️Levi Ackerman x Female Reader⚔️

⚠️Warning: Mentions of self hatred, mental abuse and slight angst⚠️

Canon universe! Captain Levi Ackerman x reader! Angst! Fluff! Angsty fluff! Angsty romance! 1.3k words!

Summary: Not that Levi ever wanted to hurt you, but his worries got the best of him. You were almost traumatised by his words and he is definitely not going to let everything stay that way....

Tags: @theremainsof @levisbrat25 @itsnathateasy @violentvaleska @anti-cupid @meowmewow7 @mikabella7 @satorella @sugacor3 @darkstarlight82 @hotcheetogirlluver

🩷If you wanna be tagged let me know🩷

✨Masterlist✨

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

The morning has started like any other. Training, cleaning, reports. You have gone through the motions as you always do—silent and existing rather than living. You barely speak unless necessary, and even then it is direct and devoid of any personal weight.

Levi has always been the one person who doesn't seem to mind. If anything, he prefers it that way. You aren't noisy. You aren't exhausting. And that's why he always liked you.... And that's why you liked him too.... But this morning, something feels off.

You look paler than usual, slower. Levi has even caught you rubbing your temple when you thought no one was looking, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

You weren't eating. Again.

And for some reason, it pissed him off. It always pisses him off. But since it's your life, your choice, he never actually interfered with your decisions and that's the reason why you liked him anyway. But he can't stop himself from interfering now, not when this sick insecurity of yours has started to become dangerous for you.

So when the squad gathered in the dining hall, Levi sits across from you, arms crossed watching as you quietly pick at the food on your plate without taking a single bite.

"Tch. Eat," he orders.

You barely look up. "I'm not hungry."

"You weren't hungry yesterday either," he talks immediately back, narrowing his eyes.

Petra, sitting beside you, glances between the two of you nervously. "Captain, maybe she's just not feeling well—"

"She'll feel a hell of a lot better if she actually eats something," Levi snaps. His voice is sharp, and the room grows tense. He can see the way you tense, your grip tightening around your fork.

Still, you say nothing.

Levi clicks his tongue, his frustration bubbling over. He doesn't understand. Why are you doing this to yourself? You aren't eating, you aren't sleeping properly even when you're a lot prettier than you think you are.

It is like you were fading in front of him, and he hates it.

"Stop being so damn stubborn," he mutters. And then... then.... he says it.

"What, you think skipping meals is gonna make you look better or something?"

The world tilts. The noise around you fades.For a second, you stop breathing.

You think of every time you've looked in the mirror and hated what you saw. Every time you've felt like too much, too heavy, too disgusting. Every time you've convinced yourself it was all in your head.

It wasn't just the insult... It was him. Levi. The one person you thought would never say something like that. Even when you knew he was bad with his words, you believed he wouldn't say anything this hurtful to anyone just to raise their insecurities more. He was the one person you always trusted, even when you didn't trust yourself.

That's why it hurts more.... Even when it was just a little insult.

Your heart clenches so painfully that it feels like it might collapse in on itself. Your breath catches in your throat, but you force yourself to stay still, to not react. You have spent years perfecting this, mastering the art of swallowing pain before it could betray you.

So you pick up your fork even when your fingers tremble.

And you eat.

Slowly. Deliberately. Without a word.......

The first bite is agony. It tastes like nothing, but it sits in your throat like a stone. The second is worse. The third barely makes it past your lips, but you force yourself to chew, to swallow, to keep going.

Levi says nothing. No one does.

Your hands shake. Tears cover your eyes but you force them not to fall and bite after bite, swallow after swallow, you keep eating.

By the time your plate is empty, your chest feels hollow. Your fingers ache from gripping your fork too tightly. You place it down carefully, your movements eerily calm.

"I hope I've managed to meet your expectations, captain" you manage to say somehow as you stand up and walk away.

Not running. Not storming out. Just leaving.

Empty.

"Captain," Petra whispers, disbelief in her voice. "Why would you say that…?"

Levi couldn't answer. He couldn't even move. His chest feels tight as realization slams into him.

He haven't just hurt you. He has destroyed your trust in him.

And the worst part? He didn't even mean it.

But you didn't know that and........

As expected you never spoke to him after that.

Levi has seen a lot of things in his life. Blood. Corpses. Destruction. But the way you have looked at him before walking away... like he had confirmed your worst fears, like he had been the final push over the edge... That was something he can't bear.

He had a bad feeling that just because of a misunderstanding he's gonna lose you and in the worst way possible. And....

It is driving him insane.

So after a week he finally decides to make a move....

It is late. The barracks are quiet, most of the squad are already asleep. Levi has been waiting for you to return from patrol, standing just outside the entrance. When you finally arrived, he steps in front of you, blocking your path.

"What's wrong with you?"

Your expression is blank, emotionless, as you stare at him. "Nothing, Captain."

Captain.... You haven't called him that in so long, it has always just been 'Levi' except for that day. Hearing it now feels like a knife to the gut.

"Don't pull that shit," he says with annoyance. "You know I'm not good with my words but I only want what is good for you." He exhales, trying to steady himself.

Apologies aren't his thing, but for you, he'll try.

"I fucked up and I regret what I said so stop giving me that damn stare. And stop ignoring me."

You look away from him, this is the best you can do for now.

"It's not your fault though," you say as you hug yourself, trying to warm yourself up in the cold night. "I always overreact, I'm always being dramatic-"

"Everyone has their own insecurities and you have yours." Levi says, stopping you. "I'm the shitty person for using the wrong words. I know I'm a horrible person when it comes to showing my feelings but I was worried. And that got the best of me."

"Worried?" You look back at him with disbelief. "For me? Why?"

"Are you shitting on me right now?" Levi asks you with pure annoyance. "You weren't sleeping brat! You weren't eating! You were turning pale and weak... It's like you were disappearing in front of me... Just like.... Her..."

Levi pauses and clicks his tongue as he moves away from you. You bite your lower lip as you realise about who he was talking about.....

His mother.

"I'm so sorry, Levi...." Your eyes tears up, "I-- didn't realise...."

"It's ok..." Levi mutters, sighing. "Just stop torturing yourself for god's sake. You're pretty just the way you are. And you'll be more healthy and strong if you eat... Maybe curvy too... I mean that's what women care about, right?"

"Yeah" Your face softens as you speak. "And I promise, I'll try to love myself a bit more, and this body... And will try to eat... Slowly."

Levi's face softens and suddenly without any warning he pats your head, ruffling your hair.

"Now you're behaving like a proper brat, woman! Also, let's go inside if you don't want to freeze."

You smile. "Yeah let's go...."

As you two walk together in the hallway of the survey corps hq you smile softly as you look up at Levi.

"Thank you. For pushing them away. The insecurities...."

He smiles back, a rare one, holding your cold hand, in an attempt to warm them up.

"Yeah... Anytime brat."

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: The city is quiet, but your thoughts are louder than ever, pulling you under a deep haze, blurring the world around you. Somewhere between the ruins and the wild, between what was and what’s left, you start to wonder if you’ll ever find your way back.

warnings: some dark thoughts, little bit of ptsd mentioned

Joel

Joel has been calling your name for a few minutes now, but you’re staring at that graffiti-covered wall, your gaze a thousand miles away. He can see the way your breath is shallow, like you’re not fully present, like you’re somewhere else entirely. Maybe back there. Maybe trapped in it still.

He looks over at Ellie, who only shrugs, her brows pinched together in concern. He sighs, dragging a hand down his face before stepping forward. His hand finds the small of your back, touch meant to ground you, to pull you from wherever your mind has taken you.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You flinch and it breaks his damn heart.

Your shoulders tighten, body recoiling before you catch yourself, forcing out a breath. “Hey,” you whisper, like you’re not sure if you're still deep in thought or back in reality. Then you blink, like waking up. “Sorry—what?”

He swallows hard. “Saw a sign for the hospital. We’re gettin’ off the highway here.”

His eyes trace your face. The new cut along your cheek, small but deep, stands out against the rest of the dirt and dried blood. Maybe from the fight. Maybe from the woods after. Either way, it’s another mark on you, another wound he hadn’t been able to stop from happening.

The urge hits him like it always does, strong and unwavering—to kiss it, to kiss you. He always has that instinct, really. For the longest time. But this isn’t about him. This is about you, and you’re not okay.

He hates that. Hates that he doesn’t know how to fix it.

So he does what little he can. He keeps his voice steady, gentle, even when everything in him aches with the need to pull you close. “We’re gonna stop soon,” he says, watching for any flicker of recognition in your face. “Get our bearin’s.”

You nod, but your gaze has already drifted again, shoulders falling. He isn’t sure you’ve even heard him.

Ellie shifts behind him. “I’ll—uh, I’ll go check ahead,” she says, her voice forced casual, but he knows she’s giving him a moment.

He doesn’t waste it.

Joel shifts closer, his voice lower now as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You with me, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitches, eyes flickering to his. And for just a second, he thinks he sees it—something behind all the exhaustion, all the walls. Just a second.

Then you look away again. “Yeah,” you say, but it sounds like a lie.

Joel exhales slowly, resisting the overwhelming need to pull you in, to hold you tight until whatever has its claws in you lets go. But you’re not ready for that. He knows it, even if it hurts like hell.

So he just nods. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “Let’s go.”

And even as he turns away, leading you off the highway, he stays close. Closer than before. Because if you ever need him—when you need him—he’ll be right there.

You

Walking through the abandoned Quarantine Zone of Salt Lake City feels like nothing short of walking through a haze. Your mind is everywhere else but the road in front of you, and yet it also feels like you hardly thought of anything at all. You catch yourself staring off into the distance, staring at your feet, no real thoughts in your head except that you know you were affecting Joel and Ellie. You needed to get it together, because every time you caught one of them looking at you, their expressions said it all. This was hurting them.

You try to shake it, you really do. The thoughts of being back there, of being stuck in that cage, of the man looking at you with a predatory glint in his eyes. But it’s impossible. It clings to you, burrowed into your chest. The hardest to shake of all is the reality of killing him. Not with a gun—guns and bows and arrows didn’t feel as personal, didn’t feel as brutal. But you’d butchered him, watching his face cave in with every blow from his own knife. You felt like an animal, like a murderer. Like a bad person.

Your breath shudders as you try to keep pace with Joel. The ground feels far beneath you, the walls of crumbling buildings pressing in tighter and tighter, and you force yourself to inhale, to keep moving. You need to be okay. You need to keep it together. For them.

Joel notices. Of course he does. His eyes flick toward you more often now, his hand hovering like he wants to reach for you but knows better. You don’t know what’s worse—that he sees what you’re going through or that even though you want his touch more than anything else, you can’t help the way you flinch every time. 

Ellie walks a little closer too, glancing up at you with something fragile in her expression. You wish you could tell her not to worry. That it’s fine. That you’re fine.

But you’re not sure you ever will be.

“That breeze feels nice,” Joel murmurs, his voice a low rumble, carried by the wind. The air smells like spring—earthy, damp, alive. “Ya know, before the outbreak, on days like this, I’d sit on my porch and play my six-string.”

Your lips tug up at the thought, letting the image take shape in your mind. Joel, younger, sun warming his skin, guitar balanced on his lap. It tugs at something deep inside you, almost comforting. Maybe he sees that.

“Tell you what,” he says, casting a glance in your direction as he walks beside you. “When this is all over, I’m gonna teach you and Ellie how to play guitar. How’s that sound?”

Ellie brightens immediately, spinning on her heel to look at him. “Hell yeah!”

Joel chuckles, his gaze lingering on you. “What about you, hon?”

You squint against the sun, meeting his eyes for a second before looking away. “Yeah… yeah, that sounds nice.”

Silence settles between you all again. A few minutes pass before you work up the courage to speak, to try.

“I had a dream the other night,” you say, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the ground.

Joel tilts his head slightly. “Yeah?” His voice is soft, coaxing. “Go on, tell me about it.”

It felt like he was pleading for you to speak, to say more than the clipped, one-word answers you’d been giving him for days.

You hesitate, but then the words just spill out. “I was driving,” you start. “Back at home. The streets were empty, but everything looked the same. It was quiet, like any other day.”

Joel hums in acknowledgment, waiting.

“I remember feeling okay at first. I knew where I was going—I don’t remember where exactly. Probably to fix that stupid fence again,” Your fingers twitch slightly as you scoff, something that nearly sounds like a laugh, “Then, out of nowhere, the brakes stopped working. The wheel locked up. The truck just… kept going, faster and faster, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

Joel’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

“I tried everything. Slamming the brakes, yanking the wheel, even jumping out—but it was like I was stuck there, strapped in. And right before I crashed, I woke up.” You shake your head. “Felt so damn real.”

“Dreams are weird,” he says quietly, but there’s something thoughtful in his tone, like he knows there’s more to it than that.

You glance at him, waiting for him to say something else, but he just keeps walking, hands resting on his pack straps, his gaze fixed ahead. He’s giving you space, letting you sit with it, letting you decide if you want to say more.

“What do you dream about?” you ask quietly, suddenly feeling a little better, just talking. Talking to him.

Joel exhales through his nose, glancing at you briefly before looking ahead again. “Most times, I don’t remember.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s something guarded beneath it.

You watch him for a second. “And the times you do?”

His jaw shifts, like he’s thinking about whether he wants to answer. Then, finally, he says, “Just weird ones, about life before. About life now.”

You don’t push. Maybe he’s just like you—waking up with the lingering weight of something he can’t shake, but not wanting to put it into words.

Still, for the first time in days, you don’t feel entirely alone in it.

Eventually, you make it into the heart of the city, slipping past the fences. An old bus station stands before you, tanks and cars rusting outside, years of overgrowth swallowing what’s left of the world before. Or maybe even what came after—it’s hard to tell in cities like this.

Inside, Joel moves through the station, scavenging supplies while you settle onto a bench next to Ellie.

“Hey,” you sigh. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, glancing at you. A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “You?”

“Yeah,” you say, but your voice is small, and she hears it.

Ellie looks down at her hands. “You know… if you ever wanna talk about it, I was there. I saw… everything. And it’s okay. What you did—you were defending yourself.”

For some reason, those are the words you feared most. Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them, and you wipe them away hastily, turning your head. Your gaze lands on Joel, his back turned as he searches for a way through.

Ellie’s hand lands on yours, hesitant but firm. You do your best not to flinch, to let her comfort you. You nod, swallowing hard.

“Thanks, El.”

She smiles softly, her brows pinching, and nods.

“Hey,” Joel’s voice cuts across the space, echoing off the high ceiling.

You lift your head. He’s crouched near the far side of the station, his hands cupped. “Come on,” he calls.

You exchange a glance with Ellie before standing. When you reach him, his eyes are on you, narrowed in his usual scowl, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something you hadn’t noticed in the months of travel.

“You go on up,” you tell Ellie, nudging her forward.

“Bring that ladder down for us, yeah?” Joel grunts as he boosts her up onto the tiled ledge above.

Ellie gets to work, grabbing the metal ladder—but before she can lower it, her head jerks sharply to the right.

Then the ladder clatters to the floor, the sound splitting through the empty station like a gunshot.

“What the—Ellie!” Joel shouts, but she’s already gone, bolting into the next room.

Your eyes meet Joel’s, panic flashing between you. Without another word, he grabs the ladder and slams it against the wall, pushing you up first.

When you reach the top, he’s right behind you.

“Ellie?!” you both call.

“You gotta see this!” she yells from somewhere ahead, her voice high with excitement.

You and Joel exchange another look before breaking into a run. The station’s corridors blur past—overturned chairs, shattered windows, vines creeping through cracks in the walls. Your heart hammers, caught between fear and confusion.

You catch glimpses of Ellie as she sprints ahead, ducking through doorways, pausing only to wave you forward before disappearing again.

Then, finally, you find her—standing in front of a massive opening in the side of the building.

Your steps slow.

There’s something there. Something big.

Patches of orange and white climb up its long, slender neck. Its face is pale, with dark, gentle eyes and small horn-like barbs on its head.

“Wait, is that—?” you murmur, stepping closer.

“A giraffe,” Ellie whispers, her voice hushed with awe.

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight up to it, slow and steady.

“Don’t scare it,” Ellie warns.

“I won’t, I won’t,” Joel assures her, voice soft. He reaches out, brushing his fingers along its cheek, and turns back to you both. “Come here. Hurry up.”

You let Ellie go first. She moves carefully, extending her hand, and the giraffe lets her pet its head.

“Hey there,” she whispers, grinning.

The giraffe eventually loses interest, turning back toward the open sky.

“Oh, where’s it going?” Ellie asks, disappointed. Then her face lights up. “C’mon! Let’s follow it!”

She dashes off, trailing after the creature. Joel glances at you, amusement flickering in his eyes, and you can’t help but smile.

This time, you follow without hesitation.

Eventually, you step onto a rooftop terrace, vines spilling over the stone railing. Below, a small herd of giraffes gathers around a watering hole, their graceful movements peaceful against the ruins of the city.

“Wow,” you whisper, leaning against the ledge.

“So,” Joel says after a moment, “is it everything you were hopin’ for?”

Ellie tilts her head. “It’s got its ups and downs,” she says, then grins. “But, man, you can’t deny the view.”

You don’t respond right away. Your gaze stays on the giraffes, something in your chest loosening just a little.

And when you finally look back, Joel has moved to the door of the staircase nearby, but his eyes are still on you. There’s something different in them now—a sadness, worn deep into the lines of his face. It’s in the way his brow furrows, in the way his shoulders sit just a little heavier than before.

You’re not sure how to tell him that everything is okay, that he doesn’t need to carry this sadness, this guilt. That you’ll be okay one day, even if you’re not there yet. That he is doing everything you need—that he is everything you need.

So for now, you walk over to him and lift your hand, resting it on the side of his face. Carefully, like you’re learning how. Like you’re figuring out how to show him what you can’t find the words for. Joel leans into it immediately, his beard rough against your palm. His hand comes up to cover yours, his fingers warm and calloused as he presses his lips softly into the center of your hand. Then he brings it down into both of his hands, grounding you both in the quiet moment.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker to Ellie as she walks toward you, curiosity written in her features.

He still holds your hand between both of his.

“You know that, right?” he asks. You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or Ellie now.

Ellie shakes her head with a little scoff, but there’s no real humor in it. “What’s the other option?”

“We go back to Tommy’s,” Joel says, gaze drifting out over the city, to the giraffes below. “Just… be done with this whole damn thing.”

“After everything we’ve been through?” you ask quietly. “Everything I’ve… done?”

Ellie’s face falls. “We’ve all had to do things,” she says, then sighs, looking at Joel. “She's right. It can’t be for nothing.”

And then, without another word, she pushes open the door to the stairwell and steps inside.

Joel exhales heavily, his shoulders dropping as he looks back down at your hand in his.

“We gotta see it through,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his thumb mirroring yours in slow, steady circles. “Just… promise me somethin’.”

“Anything,” you say, brows knitting together.

“After all this… we go home. We just… be normal for a while.”

A small, tired smile tugs at your lips. “Normal sounds nice.”

“Sure does,” he murmurs, his accent thick, his voice lower now, softer. But then the smile fades, and he lifts one of his hands to cup your face. His thumb strokes your cheek gently. “You’re okay, though? Really?”

You study him—the lines of his face, the weight he carries, the years of sorrow, loss, and hardship carved into every inch of him. The gray in his beard and hair catches the sunlight, and for a moment, you just admire him. Admire all he’s done, all he’s carried, all he’s gotten you through.

The fight in Jackson feels so far away now, the weight of it nothing but a distant memory compared to this moment.

You don’t stop yourself this time. You lean into him, a feeling you weren’t sure how to embrace before, not with everything heavy on your chest, not with the fog you’d been walking through for weeks.

But right now, you need to feel him—to remind yourself he’s real, that he’s solid, that he’s here.

Joel lets you lean in, still cradling your jaw, and when you kiss him, it’s soft at first, cautious. A quiet question. But then your lips linger, your fingers tightening against his shirt, and his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

His other hand finds your waist, rough fingers splaying across your ribs as the kiss deepens, no longer careful—just needed. It’s warmth and desperation, relief and something unspoken. Something you both wanted but were too afraid to admit.

When you finally break apart, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is steady but heavy, his hands still on you, like he’s afraid to let go.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His thumb traces your cheek again as he pulls back and searches your eyes again, “Yeah?”

You nod, fingers still curled into his shirt. “Yeah.”

His lips brush your forehead before he finally releases you, his fingers lingering for just a second longer. Then he steps back, clearing his throat.

“We should go,” he mutters.

You nod, stealing one last glance at the giraffes before following him inside.

Ellie waits at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, trying very hard not to look like she’d been listening. She raises a brow.

“Took you long enough,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. Just something knowing in her smirk.

Joel just grunts, adjusting his pack as he walks past her.

Ellie falls into step beside you, nudging your arm. “Everything okay?”

You glance at Joel’s retreating form, then back at her.

“Yeah,” you say, exhaling. “I think it will be.”

And with that, you follow them both into whatever comes next.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: 5 Times Marshall Made You Jealous (+1 Time You Made Him Jealous)

1. The Time with the Interviewer

Marshall had always been charming in interviews, but this one? This one was testing your patience.

The interviewer—a stunning woman with legs for days—was laughing a little too hard at his jokes, touching his arm a little too often. And Marshall? He wasn’t exactly pushing her away.

You sat off to the side, arms crossed, tapping your foot. When he finally wrapped up and walked over, grinning like he hadn’t just been flirting on live TV, you gave him a pointed look.

“What?” he asked, smirking.

You rolled your eyes. “Nothing.”

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist. “You jealous?”

“No,” you lied.

“You so are,” he teased, kissing your temple. And, damn it, you let him win.

2. The Time He Took a Fan Pic a Little Too Close

You loved how much he appreciated his fans. But when a gorgeous woman wrapped her arms around him, leaning into him like she belonged there while he smiled like he wasn’t even thinking about it? Yeah, that stung a little.

The worst part? You saw the picture on Twitter before he even mentioned it.

“So, anything you wanna tell me?” you asked later, holding up your phone.

He glanced at the screen, then at you, before sighing. “It was just a picture.”

“She was all over you, Marshall.”

He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you. “I didn’t even notice. The only person I care about is you.”

Damn it. He always knew exactly what to say.

3. The Time with Rihanna

You trusted Marshall. You did. But watching him perform with Rihanna? Watching them vibe on stage, their chemistry so effortless? That messed with your head a little.

You didn’t say anything at first. But later that night, he caught you staring at your drink, jaw tight.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

He raised a brow. “This isn’t about the performance, is it?”

You scoffed. “No.”

He grinned. “You sure?”

“…Shut up.”

Marshall just laughed, pulling you into him. “You’re the only one I want, you know that?”

You did. But it still felt good to hear.

4. The Time His Ex Called

Marshall rarely talked about his exes, which was fine by you. But when one of them called out of nowhere, your stomach twisted.

He answered, his voice neutral, but you couldn’t help but listen in. She was laughing, reminiscing, and while he wasn’t exactly feeding into it, he wasn’t shutting it down either.

When he hung up, you raised an eyebrow. “So, we’re taking calls from exes now?”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “It was nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

He stepped closer, tilting your chin up. “You seriously think I’d ever go back to that?”

You sighed. “No.”

“Then c’mere,” he murmured, pulling you into a slow, lingering kiss.

Fine. You’d let it slide. This time.

5. The Time He Got a Little Too Cozy with a Music Video Model

Marshall had warned you about the video shoot. Said it was all acting, that you had nothing to worry about. But watching him with his hands on some model’s waist, his lips way too close to hers? Yeah, that was pushing it.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just went quiet.

He noticed.

“You mad?” he asked later, sliding onto the couch beside you.

“No.”

“Liar.”

You shot him a glare. “I know it’s just work, but did you have to look at her like that?”

He smirked. “What, like this?” He gave you the same sultry look from the video, and you groaned, shoving his face away.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, kissing your cheek. “C’mon, baby. You know it’s only you.”

Damn it. He was way too good at this.

+1. The Time You Made Him Jealous

It happened completely by accident.

You were out with some mutual friends, and one of the guys—a friend of a friend—was making you laugh. You weren’t even flirting, but Marshall? He was glowering from across the room, his jaw tight, his grip on his drink almost painful.

When you caught his stare, you smirked.

He narrowed his eyes. Two could play this game.

Later, as soon as you were alone, he caged you against the wall, his hands gripping your waist. “You think that’s funny?”

You bit your lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes darkened. “Oh, you know.”

Then he kissed you—hard, possessive, like he had something to prove.

Not that you were complaining.

[midnightsun-if]

In the new update will we still get some family content too?

You absolutely will! On the plane ride specifically, the very first series of scenes in the upcoming update, you'll get a variety of chances to talk about your family (or to them directly). One of said options will be a few emails that you can decide to check that I had a lot of fun writing; especially as it'll give you a full overlook at the siblings' personalities compared to each other.

Christian's email, for instance, is titled: WHY YOU SUCK -- A Comprehensive Analysis (NOT a Pun)

Dear Most Annoying Sibling,

Congratulations! You have once again outdone yourself in the grand tradition of being a nuisance. I am writing to formally lodge a complaint; Cienna has already taken the official 'intimidating older sibling' role, and I feel my efforts in this regard are unappreciated. Especially since I do not have a glare that could make Antarctica seem like a nice location for a summer vacation.

First of all, why did you let Blake "borrow" my leather jacket? You're aware that the half-incubus you call a best friend has absolutely no control when it comes to his appetite, right? He returned it smelling like garlic. GARLIC! Do you know how hard it is to get that smell out? DO YOU? It lingers. It haunts me. I swear I can still smell it on my pillow, in my socks, and in my dreams. I have tried everything. Febreze? Laughable. Vinegar? Now it just smells like pickled garlic. Sunshine? Now I have a warmed garlic stench following me everywhere. I'm like a walking breadstick and not in a fun way.

People are staring. Not in the way I typically enjoy either. A guy at the café this morning sniffed the air, like some sort of bloodhound, and whispered, "Do you smell that?" like I was some kind of culinary cryptid.

Secondly, and this is the most egregious offense, I know you stole the last blood bag from the private stash in the lounge. That was mine. I licked it. It had my name on it. I hope it tasted like guilt.

Please fix your life choices immediately.

With begrudging affection,

Christian

P.S. I hope you have a nice time at Aurelian Academy and that everyone treats you well. Even if you are a bloody thief.

Compared to Cienna's email simply titled: Checking In.

Or Persephone's titled: A Little Joy to Share.

[your-unfriendlyghost]

No Class

 Aka making Stevepop fight

this fic comes from the h/c I have that Steve’s not really close to anyone at school except Soda and Evie, so when Soda drops out, Steve gets frustrated. I’ll cross post this to Ao3 later I think.

All the Stevepop here is platonic technically but they’ve definitely got…something goin on idk- any way you slice it they’re each other’s person ok? (This is also pre-meeting Evie, that’s why she’s not mentioned lol.)

(edit- wait no i did mention her apparently?? Idk I guess it isn’t pre-Evie??)

There’s also a little inspo here from this post by @dallasgallant - they posted it ages ago but yk I think abt it still lol. I dunno that I really did the concept justice here, as I don’t go….deep into it or anything, but it’s definitely present

-

“You can’t drop outta high school, man,” Steve says weakly. “You…you can’t.”

  Soda sighs, tilting his DX cap down over his face. “Stevie…” he murmurs, voice soft and pleading. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  Steve shakes his head. He can’t wrap his mind around this. Soda can’t- he can’t just leave!

  “God, I dunno, take some of my shifts? Or make Ponyboy get a job?!” Steve says, running a hand down his face. “He’s thirteen, don’t shelter him like that-”

  “Jesus,” Soda mutters, as if there’s something obviously wrong with that that Steve isn't getting.

  “What?!” Steve snaps.

  Soda gives him a dull-eyed stare. “C’mon, he ain’t sheltered.”

  Steve scoffs. “Yeah, right- I’ve seen him cryin’ like a girl, and y’all just let him be a wimp. He's sheltered as hell. But Soda that ain’t the point-”

  Soda’s jaw clenches. “Aw, watch it, man.”

  “No! No, you can’t just leave, I won’t- you can’t- Oh, c’mon, we just have a year left- I mean, believe it or not, Ponyboy can pick up some slack ‘round here too-”

  Now Soda’s eyes flash, and he audibly snorts. “Shut it, you ain’t really one to accuse anyone of bein’ sheltered, Randle.”

  Steve freezes. “The hell does that mean?!”

  Soda shakes his head. “Nup- I shouldn’ta said that. Never mind,” he sighs. 

  “No! No, you tell me what ya mean!” Steve says, painfully aware of how shrill he sounds.

  “Naw. I shouldn’ta opened my damn mouth’. Just…just forget it, Stevie,” Soda insists.

  “Tell me what you mean, man, you said it, you gotta explain it!” Steve argues.

  “No! I don’t wanna talk about this right now, man!”

  “Spell it out for me, why don’t ya?!” Steve says, getting up in Soda’s face now. “‘Cos as far as I know, gettin’ kicked outta my own house all the time sure ain’t sheltered!”

  Soda shoves him back a bit, gently. “Jesus, I never said you was sheltered, I just said that Pony ain’t!”

  “No, no, I heard ya, don’t you go lyin’ to me now, Curtis,” Steve hisses.

  “Fine, ya really wanna know?!” Soda growls. “All I’m sayin’ is that you’re the only grease I know who’s got a three-story house, whose papa still makes good money, and who always has a wallet fulla cash! Yeah your ol’ man ain’t so great, but ya always have new clothes an’ shit-”

  “AIN’T SO GREAT?!” Steve yells, voice booming. “I SLEEP AT YOU AND DAL’S PLACES HALF THE TIME!”

  Soda flinches. “I know! That’s why I took it back! All I’m sayin’ is that you got opportunities that me or Pony’d kill for, and I dunno if ya even know it- but I know you ain’t sheltered, shit, man, I know it, okay?”

  Steve can barely hear him over the angry hot buzzing in his head. Opportunities?! Yeah right, what opportunities?! And the third floor ain't even a third floor, it’s just a damn attic room that Steve moved into for space! Ponyboy’s never been struck by his papa- and sure, Steve hasn’t either, least not after the age of five, but he’s been shoved hard which ain’t so different! Mr. Curtis never looked at Pony with a look burning in his eyes like he hated him. Mr. Curtis never looked at Pony with horror, realizing he’d hurt his son- Mr. Curtis never said GET OUT, because he couldn’t resist hurting him and needed him gone- 

  “Soda-” Steve says, voice high and loud, louder than he means it to be, “fuck-” 

  Soda looks at him, eyes wide, and Steve realizes he’s grabbed the front of Soda’s shirt.

  He huffs and lets go, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “I’m goin’ to Dally’s,” he grunts, slinging on his leather jacket. “Don’t wait up.”

  Soda, now tired again, says “Didn’t plan on it.”

  “...Good,” says Steve as he shoves the door open, because he can’t think of anything tougher to say. 

  “Steve?” Soda says, flatly.

  For a second, Steve thinks he’s gonna apologize, because Soda always caves first. He glances over his shoulder at him. “What?”

  “Don’t talk about my brother like that,” Soda says, voice low.

  “Yeah? Well maybe you shouldn’t be so sensitive,” Steve bites back. He slams the door.

  Boy, he wishes Soda had just apologized.

-

  On the drive to Dally’s, Steve feels sick. His stomach twists as he replays the conversation in his head.

  Who is he to call Soda sensitive? Steve’s as sensitive as they come. Well, not sensitive, he’s no Ponyboy. Reactive, maybe. 

  But then again- what was Soda on about?! Dropping outta school?! Just to coddle the damn kid?! Steve swallows feverishly at the thought of school without Soda. 

  What about him?! Doesn’t Soda care? It ain’t hard to work at thirteen, Steve started at sixteen but he knows plenty of guys who started younger- Why should Soda bear the burden of leaving school? Why does Ponyboy get to stay?! Sure he’s leavin’ junior high a year early, but he can do school and work at the same time, can’t he?!

  Why’s Soda always gotta sacrifice himself for a spoiled little kid?

  Steve turns a corner too fast and gets honked at. Dammit. He rolls his eyes.

  Doesn’t Soda care about the fact that Steve’s gotta stay in school, and he can’t do that without Soda?!

  And yeah, the Curtises are low on funds, and yeah, Steve isn’t, but he ain’t a Soc either! He doesn’t- he doesn’t buy new clothes all the time- well, sure he has three leather jackets, but he got those for cheap at the charity store! 

  Plus, it was with money I earned from sleepin’ in the lot- Pony’s never had to sleep in the lot, Steve thinks madly. Neither has Soda- he just don’t get it…

  Steve’s not even sure who he’s fixin to complain to about it now. After all, if Soda don’t get it, no one else will.

  But Dal works. Two-Bit too, probably.

-

  Sometimes at night Soda paces. Back and forth, back and forth, in awkward dizzying figure eights. He flicks on the stove and walks to the icebox, turns around and walks back to the threshold where the kitchen meets the living room, and walks to the icebox again. It’s been a day since his argument with Steve.

  Two-Bit’s watching some show on the TV, maybe the Twilight Zone, although Soda’s not rightly sure. Two glances at Soda’s pacing, but doesn’t question it- maybe he would have, normally, but he’s half asleep as is, and besides, he’s probably seen this display plenty before anyhow.

  “Did you just turn the stove in with nothing on it?” Two-Bit asks instead, blinking.

  “Huh? Oh,” Soda says. He puts the kettle on the fire. “Oops.”

  “You gon’ remember to turn it off, ya airhead?” Two-Bit grins.

  Soda grins back, a little sheepishly. If the comment had been from anyone else, it woulda stung. But Two-Bit gets it. He knows the score. After all, he’s a month away from eighteen, yet he’s in the same grade as Soda.

  “You gon’ remind me?” Soda replies, cocking his eyebrow.

  Two snorts. “Naw- leave that to me, an’ you’ll end up with your whole damn house burned down.”

  “Aw, well, that’s just as likely if it’s left to me- I mean, I’m the dumb one, ain’t I?” Soda laughs, but he must’ve done a pretty lousy job at hiding the hollowness in it, ‘cos Two-Bit’s eyes soften.

  “No you ain’t,” Two-Bit sighs, tilting his head back.

  “Sure I am,” Soda spits. “Y’know, sometimes I gotta ask Ponyboy for help on my goddamn homework- you know that, right?” he says, whirling around and walking back to the sink, and then the icebox.

  Two-Bit’s shoulders slump. “Stevie was sayin’ to me and Dally the other night that you was fixin’ to dropout.”

  Soda stiffens. “He did?!”

  “Sorta thought he was just bein’ dramatic at the time, you know how he is…but I reckon he wasn’t after all, huh?” Two says pointedly. Two knows he’s right- when it comes to real knowledge, Two-Bit’s only wrong when it’s funny. He just wants to hear Soda admit it.

  Soda clamps his jaw shut. “That ain’t fair. Ain’t none of his goddamn business. Ain’t yours, neither.”

  “Okay, sure, I reckon that’s a fair assessment,” Two-Bit says easily. “You ain’t gotta tell me nothin’. …You will though, won’tcha.” He says it like a statement, and cocks his eyebrow.

  Soda scowls and opens the cupboard, getting out a box of cereal. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” he says, shoving a handful of cocoa pebbles into his mouth to prove he really doesn’t.

  “Right, you don’t,” Two-Bit says sarcastically.

  “I just don’t get what Sth-teve is so hung up ‘bout!” Soda lisps through the mouthful of cereal.

  Two-Bit smirks, like ah there it is.

  “Sthut up,” Soda groans.

  “Hey hey, my lips are locked, bub,” Two-Bit says innocently.

  “I mean Chrisht-” Soda pauses and swallows the last of the cereal- “he knows I ain't bright, what’s goin’ to school even doin’ for me?! It’s just a waste of time that I oughta spend makin’ money, makin’ myself useful! It ain’t like it’s some damn tragedy, I ain’t Darry!”

  “Hey, no one is,” Two-Bit says, patting Soda’s shoulder.

  “You know what I mean- I mean, I ain’t…I ain’t got no…what’s the word? For when ya could be somethin’...polenta?”

  “Potential, I reckon,” Two-Bit says. “I only know that ‘cause of how often Ma says I’m wastin’ it,” he adds hastily.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t got none to waste,” Soda sighs. “I ain’t a sport, I ain’t a brain, and the only classes I’m passin’ are gym and shop. What the hell is the point? Steve oughta know that!”

  “Steve oughta know a lotta things he don’t know,” Two-Bit says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Y’know?”

  Soda blinks. “...Maybe I’m slow, but…ya lost me.”

  Two shrugs. “Well, Stevie-boy ain’t got the same problems as you and me, that’s all.”

  “Right, ‘cos he has more money.”

  “Well, kinda, but I mean he ain’t got no one he’s…lookin’ out for the way we do. He’s just got himself and his folks.”   “Just his dad, really. His mama ain’t been home from the hospital since we were like…fourteen,” Soda corrects on instinct.

  “See?”

  “So? He still can use his heart a bit, can’t he?” Soda protests. 

  “Sure. But when have we ever known him to?”

  Soda wants to protest, ‘cos that isn’t true, not exactly. When Mom and Dad died, it was Steve who held him, who didn’t need him to keep it together. It was Steve who signed up with him for double shifts on the weekends, because Soda needed the money but hated working alone. Steve watches out for Evie, too- when she needs a place to stay, to get away from her stepfather and her mom, she hides out at his place. 

  But Steve’s always disliked Ponyboy. Maybe Two’s right. Maybe Steve just can’t get it.

  But it isn’t like Steve hates the kid, either, right? He just cares more for Soda’s company than he cares about Pony’s grades.

  Soda chews his lip. It isn’t like he’s not sad to be missing out on time with Steve, either. Sitting in class, tossing notes at Steve, sneaking off campus with Steve, wrestling Steve in PE… They’re like the highlight of his school experience. 

  But he’s sixteen now. And unless he plans on getting back into riding rodeos any time soon, his future’s just gas stations, and maybe the army if he gets bored of gas stations. There’s just no point in putting it off if it’s coming either way.

  So yeah, he’ll miss Steve, but Steve’ll just have to deal…right?

  “He just keeps sayin’ it isn’t fair, ‘cos I reckon he’ll miss me,” Soda mutters.

  “Well it ain’t like you’re abandonin’ him,” Two-Bit shrugs. “He’s bein’ dramatic.”

  “He is dramatic,” Soda sighs. Steve’s always been dramatic. 

  But Soda…kinda gets it.

  Steve’s a pretty lonely guy. He’s got Soda, sometimes Two-Bit, sometimes Dally. And he’s got his old man, and his ma, but only when she’s conscious enough to talk.

  Soda puts the cereal box away. “Hey Two, tell Darry I’m at Steve’s place, yeah?”

  Two-Bit smiles faintly. “What’re ya gonna say?”

  “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

-

  “Hey Steve, come on a walk with me?” Soda says. He’s breathless and red-faced, like he ran here, and is cupping his hands ‘round his mouth to yell up from the backyard.

  He’s gotta do that, ‘cos my room’s on the third floor, Steve notes miserably. He really is the only greaser he knows who lives in a house with three stories. 

  He wants to fly out the window and throw his arms around Soda. Sure, Soda’s wrong, but still…

  He resists that urge though, and instead, he leans out the window and says “I’ll meet ya downstairs.”

  “Tuff.”

  Outside, Soda gives him a little smile. “The uh…weather’s nice, huh?”

  “It’s May,” Steve says. He cringes. He didn’t mean to sound smart-mouthed.

  “Yeah,” Soda says, scrunching his nose. “I guess.”

  “I ain’t…I ain’t a Soc, Soda,” Steve mutters. Sure his old man has a good job and a college degree. They still live on the East Side. Steve’s still never gonna get outta Tulsa.

  Soda nods. “I know that, Stevie. I shouldn’t have said that to ya. I’m not sorry for it though.”

  Steve scowls. “Then what’re ya here for?”

  “To take a walk with my best buddy,” Soda answers, tossing an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “C’mon.”

  He leads them down the street, out towards the empty lot. 

  “I don’t like school, Steve,” Soda says, running his hand along a chain link fence. “You know that.”

  “No one does,” Steve mumbles. “That’s why they gotta force ya.”

  “Pony does,” Soda says, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “Pony digs school pretty okay.”

  “…I guess.”

  “And y’know, he’s pretty damn good at it, too. Gets all As n’ all.”

  “Except in math,” Steve corrects. Ponyboy definitely got a B- in math last semester.

  “Except in math,” Soda says, smiling. “But the point is, he’s got somethin’ special. He’s got a brain. And he’s gonna get outta this town someday.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real Einstein, huh,” Steve grunts, a stab of irritation in his gut. All hail Ponyboy, child genius, better than downtown hoods like Steve and Soda. “We get it.”

  “C’mon, I gotta be able to support that, y’know?” Soda says, ruffling Steve’s hair. 

  Steve swallows. Fine. Sure. He gets it. He does.

  “But that don’t mean I don’t wanna be ‘round you, you dig?” Soda says.

  Steve’s breath hitches. “Oh- Soda, ‘course I know that,” he says, although he’s not rightly sure he did a second ago.

  “Okay. Fine,” Soda says, amusedly. “But you get it, right? I mean, you’re the only thing I’m gonna miss about that damn school building, savvy?”

  Steve smiles. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Just ‘cos we ain’t gonna have class together don’t mean we’re gonna not…stick together, okay?”

  “It’ll be different,” Steve says, maybe just to be stubborn.

  “Yeah, but not really. You’ll have Two and Dal and Johnny.”

  “Not really. They got other buddies. And it ain’t the same.”

  “Of course it ain’t. Ain’t no one in the world who I like the way I like ya, Stevie. You’re special, and I reckon I’m special to you in the same way, huh?”

  Steve nods, looking at the cracks in the cement under his shoes. 

  “You’re my best friend, Sodapop,” he murmurs. He’s also Steve’s only real friend.

  “You remember how when Dal showed up, how you got all angry?” Soda says, squeezing Steve’s shoulder.

  Steve shrugs, even though he remembers it perfectly. 

  “Yeah, you acted like I was replacin’ ya or something,” Soda grins.

  “You both liked horses. I felt all left out and whatever. Sue me, I was eleven,” Steve says, flushing a bit. 

  “Well I stuck by ya anyhow, even though you’re scared of horses and we all know it.”

  “I’m cautious ‘round horses, not scared,” Steve protests, smiling a little.

  “Sure ya are,” Soda humors him. “The point I’m gettin’ at though is that it was different after Dal met us. Things were different. But I was still me, and you were still you, y’know?”

  Steve nods. “Yeah. I guess,” he says, leaning his head into Soda’s shoulder.

  “So you ain’t mad that I’m droppin’ out then, yeah?” Soda says softly.

  Steve sighs. He is. It’s illogical and unfair, but he’s a little mad still. He lets that throb and die though, in the back of his mind. 

  “I just…I’m gonna miss ya,” Steve says.

  “I’m gonna miss ya too. But we’ve always got work, and the weekends, and hell Stevie, it’s nearly summer, so you ain’t gonna have to worry ‘til September. And then after that, you’ll graduate and we can be free to hang whenever we want for the rest of time.”

  “I wanna hang with ya for the rest of time,” Steve says, so quietly he almost can’t hear himself.

  “Good,” Soda grins. “Me too.”

[epiphainie]

Prof Tommy x student buck please 🙏

adding the asks from the previous game as well bc i've been sooo bad at responding to my asks. please take this humble offering:

A minute left to the end of class, Tommy set them free. A pair of girls flocked to the front of the auditorium to introduce themselves with wide-eyed enthusiasm, and a guy who had a smirk that no one but a legacy kid would wear approached him for a strong handshake. The rest poured out of the hall in a restless rush, either eager to make it to their next class or to just get out of there, with the commotion filling the space as a stark contrast to the quiet of the morning. Tommy tried to block out the conversations. But it was hard to ignore all the eager ‘Buck!’s, the laughter, the joking around, and the invitations to the next thing and the next and the next. None of those nexts were immediate as it seemed, as when the last of the students left with the double doors closing behind him, Tommy knew he hadn't. He could still feel those eyes boring into his face, from the front row the boy had spread out across in the last fifty minutes. Shuffling his papers, Tommy said, “Did you need something, Mr. Buckley?” In his peripheral view, the boy got up. He closed the few steps to the front of the hall. “Just wanted to apologize again, sir,” he said, sincere if you hadn't been doing this job for as long as Tommy had. “Or doctor? Professor?” Tommy looked up; the boy gave him a bashful head tilt. ���Sorry, I think I missed the part where you mentioned what you'd like to be called.” There was a candidness to him, to that coy pull of his mouth, to the sheepish way he held his head, to his hands in his pockets as he rocked on his heels. The perfect image of a humble slacker, the campus pretty boy that no one could hate. It was the perfectness of it that raised the hair on Tommy's neck. “Happens when you're eleven minutes late on the first day,” he said, trying not to look at the birthmark the boy had, not to compare it to the wine red of his lips, to not look at his lips at all. He failed when the boy grinned wider. The bashful curve of his smile twisted into something secretive, something that lit up in his eyes.  “Personally, I like first names,” he said, ignoring Tommy's comment. His eyes were blue, maybe too bright of a blue as they flicked down at Tommy's ring finger and back. “So, why don't you just call me Evan?”

[prying-pandora666]

This topic is one that troubles me because there is merit to either side of this debate.

Does fantasy always need to be historically accurate? Of course not. And being a mixed race POC myself (and a woman at that, and we know history hasn’t exactly been kind there either), it’s frustrating to see fantasy eschew physics and logic in favor of whimsy and wish fulfillment in other areas, and yet never when it comes to the suffering of minorities. Why can we never escape the injustices of history, even in fantasy?

On the other hand, should fantasy not be allowed to explore these topics? Because here is the other side of it: history IS unjust and has often been cruel and targeted towards specific groups of people. Fiction always reflects what’s real, even if it’s unrealistic. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t resonate. No art exists in a vacuum. It’s why LGBT themes are often found in horror. The exploration of minority struggles and anxieties through what we label “monster”, regardless of whether that label is deserving and especially when it isn’t, is a valuable part of storytelling.

So I suppose the problem I have is, when I see people saying “they could’ve chosen to write Isaac’s arc without the slavery and suffering”, I agree of course this is true. They could’ve. And I empathize with the frustration that POC so rarely are allowed to stray from this set up.

On the other hand, no they couldn’t have written this specific arc. Because to remove the backstory given to Issac is to produce an entirely different person. You can no more extract his past from his person than we can remove the shameful chapters of history and the effects they still have on modern society. To pretend it didn’t happen will only exacerbate the problem.

So I’m left without a clear answer.

I do believe writers should be allowed to depict the uncomfortable and the taboo, as it does serve a purpose. It can be cathartic for the writer, and it can help make a connection with the audience affected by similar struggles, and engender empathy in those that haven’t.

But I also believe that we all deserve a space in fiction that allows us to see ourselves free of the burden of history and real life oppression. Because fiction is the only place we can ever exist without it.

I enjoy Isaac a lot. He was my favorite character of the original series. His story hit hard and I don’t know if it would’ve gone the same way if Isaac hadn’t been shaped by those experiences. Likewise, Hector’s own experience with slavery and coercion and exploitation is quite different from Issac’s, and the way his character grows and overcomes reflects this. At the same time, I feel the fatigue and wish for escapism and relief too.

Maybe there is no correct answer here. Maybe there isn’t supposed to be. Maybe the fact that the show made us feel so strongly that we are still discussing and debating it is a show of art doing its job. Either way, I appreciate everyone for bringing this topic to attention so that more people can weigh this in their minds when they set out to write fantasy.

regardless of how well Isaac’s arc was written, please don’t let it detract from existing racism within the narrative! While I loved Isaac’s arc, this is a trap I feel a lot of people falling into.

Yes, we got an amazing arc for a black character whose previous arc was questionable. But there are still other characters of color regulated to slaves and villains. 

The show still has a lot to make up for in terms of racism.

[ivyblossom]

Lessons in Story

I love writing. Fanfiction has been fun for me for 25 years. I'm not very good at producing original stories, I have skill deficits. I've read the great advice books, I've been gifted amazing advice in person over the years from amazing people who have told exactly what I needed to know, and they were 100% right in every case. As with most things in my life, there are obstacles I don't completely understand that have made it hard for me to do those right things. All advice I get in life is like that. I'm either really obstinate, thick as a post, or wired funny, probably all three. For reasons I don't understand, I always choose to do things the hardest possible way.

I've been working on it again with the goal of observing the rules and the process and trying to analyze and document my own obstacles so I can break through them. I'm trying to be as deliberate as I can about everything I'm doing, thinking, and feeling, and then observing the results and consequences.

I would like to document some of my learning about constructing a story. Partly just for myself, because it's been a journey, and partly in the hopes that someone else will recognize my challenges and point me in better directions.

Also, before I start sharing my learning, I want to acknowledge that I am a person who matured extremely late in life. I say that not being fully certain I have reached a level anyone would consider "mature" even now, and I'm getting to be an old lady. If you've known me for a long time, you've known me to be an immature dickhead who has no fucking clue many, many times. That might make my lessons extremely pedestrian and ridiculous to most people. That's okay. I accept my fate.

More to come.

[anniebeckcalla]

※。.:*: temporary cessation [mark x reader]

style: coffee shop au, non-idol au wc:861 cw: fluff

calla's note: sorry if there are any inaccuracies, i haven't written a coffee shop au before.

Mark's eyes darted between the clock and the door of the coffee shop as he sprayed the worktop with disinfectant. It was eleven o'clock, almost time for his first break of the day, but that's not what he was excited for. No, eleven was when you, y/n would come into the shop for your daily refreshment. The feelings that arose when he thought about you were somewhat bittersweet. You were extremely pretty, you dressed well, and you were very polite, leading to Mark catching feelings (though he was too embarrassed to admit it to himself); however, your order was a constant reminder to Mark that he was out of your league- a hot chocolate with a crema topper and syrup in the shape of a heart.

Every day, you had the same order. It would have been cute if it was for you, but yesterday, Mark had been bold enough to make a remark on it. He shuddered as he recalled the memory.

“It's not for me,” you had smiled, looking down at the counter. “It's for someone special.” “Who might that special person be?” Mark had said in reply. You had avoided the question, tapping your card on the reader to pay and leaving the shop immediately. Mark felt humiliated with himself for being overfamliar with you, but he still wondered who the mystery individual was.

If the syrup was in the shape of a heart, he thought, wiping down the worktops, then it was for a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Definitely a romantic relationship, either way. Some men were douchebags, and would keep on pestering even if there was romance on the scene. It was possible that you'd assumed that he was one of those types of people. He wrung out the cloth in the sink. Did he really give off the air of an obsessed alpha wannabe?

Mark looked up at the clock again. It was five past eleven. You were always in at eleven on the dot. Maybe you had decided to go to another coffee shop, intimidated by yesterday's question. Mark shook his head as he threw the cloth in the laundry box. He wished that he hadn't been so keen on you. Now he'd managed to chase you away.

The door to the coffee shop opened and two people shuffled in- an elderly lady with a long coat and scarf holding tight onto the arm of a younger lady with nice clothes…

Y/n.

“Hi, Mark,” you giggled nervously, cheeks pink as you and the elder approached the counter. “Sorry it took us so long to come in today. My grandmother really wanted to see you.” The elderly lady peered at Mark, and a grin brightened her lined face. “So this is the one who's been making my daily hot chocolates! What a handsome young man!” You nodded in agreement. “I suppose that this was the perfect time to introduce you guys to each other. Mark, this is my grandmother. She's…she's been ill for a long time, so I buy her a hot chocolate from here every morning to make her day. Gran, this is Mark. He's the nice man who makes your hot chocolate for you.”

Your grandmother winked at you. “The one you talk about every time you get the chance? How he smiles at you, how he takes extra time making the drink, how you think you might be in-”

“GRAN! Please don't!” You put your finger to your lips to silence her, but she wasn't fazed. “Our y/n is obsessed with you, Mark,” she said. “Thank you for making a positive change for both of us. I love your hot chocolate, and y/n loves talking to you.”

Mark breathed a sigh of relief. So it was just a misunderstanding, on his part, simple as. And there was the added joy of you feeling the same way as he did towards you. “Obsessed” was the word that your grandmother had used. “The drinks are on me today,” he smiled. “We only came in for my grandmother's drink,” you piped up. Your grandmother budged you hard in the ribs. “Y/n! Take a hint!”

Once the drinks were done, Mark slid them towards you. “Don't tell anyone about this,” he whispered, looking over his back quickly at the other staff and then whipping out his own card to pay for the beverages. To his delight, you and your grandmother stayed inside to drink that day. Mark continued to work, but every time he looked at you, he was delighted to find you staring right back at him, eyes sparkling with reverence.

At last, it was quarter past eleven- time for his break. Mark paused, but then grabbed the business card from the holder on the counter. His cheeks reddened as he scribbled his phone number on the back of it, and he wasn't able to look you in the eyes as he passed it to you, mumbling, “just in case you forget the name of the coffee shop.” As he left the shop, he saw you and your grandmother gushing over the business card excitedly.

Some risks were worth taking.

masterlist

taglist: @pl4netx1a @jeonghansshitester @jenoleeaesthetic @cigsaftersuh @mejaemin @pl4netx1a @t-102 @mmjhh1998

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[wisteria-lodge]

Speaking of Tom's parents why does Tom hate his father when it's his mother who tainted his blood by being with Tom Sr? The reason he became a halfblood was because of her, her bloodline was even among the best, although the Gaunts have fallen they are still part of the sacred 28 and Slytherin's bloodline. But why not blame his mother? (Ignoring the if Merope didn't do that to Tom Sr Tom Jr won't exist anyway) or is this because of JKR's mother's can't do wrong and are the best bs?

I mean, Tom does also hate his mother. Back when he's an orphan who doesn't know anything about his parents, he primarily hates his mother, because he resents her for dying, and has convinced himself that she must be a muggle because she died?

“Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me. (...) My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,” said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore.

Tom does some research, and tracks down both the Gaunts and the Riddles, and I have to imagine that in both cases he is... kinda disappointed? But he also steals the Gaunt ring and makes it into a Horcrux. So it's like he's *claiming* this family heirloom. It's his now, not theirs. He is the REAL gaunt heir.

(Tom has a FASCINATION with heirlooms, and enjoys low-key stealing them away from their original families. We see him go to a LOT of trouble to get his hands on Hepzibah Smith's Hufflepuff heirloom, the Slytherin locket, and Ravenclaw's diadem. I also think that if he was planning on making his sixth and final horcrux with Harry's death, the object he was planning to turn into a soul-container was almost certainly Gryffindor's sword.)

We see Tom's pattern of kill the relative, keep the legacy when he murders his father and paternal grandparents... but keeps the house. Other families move in, but quickly move out. It's very possible he cursed it like he cursed the Defense position - this thing SHOULD have been his, but isn't, and if he can't have it no one else can. Circa Book 4 the house stands empty, and the official story is it's kept vacant by a wealthy man for "tax reasons." Honestly I think it would be hilarious if Lucius technically owns it, but either way, Tom clearly has control of and USES the Riddle house. He finds his family and absorbs anything about them that he finds cool or impressive. Then, deletes all the aspects he doesn't like (his father's name, his father's looks, the family members themselves...)

This is the point where he makes the diary, and frames the situation like this:

You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch?

Which is definitely... a way to interpret what actually happed, Tom.

What this says to me is that he's locked onto Merope pretty much by default. She's the only family member he's never met, and so he can't be as viscerally repelled by her as he is by his father, grandparents, and uncle. But I imagine he probably does think she was weak for dying, weak for having her head turned by a handsome muggle, and for loving him enough even after he left to name her son after him. Tom is not a terribly well-adjusted person.

I actually think it's harder to find people who he DOESN'T hate. Even when he plays the charmer during his Borgin and Burkes' era, he doesn't LIKE any of these people. Slughorn he might respect a little... but probably mostly sees him as pathetic and easily manipulated. Dumbledore scares him. (Dumbledore also gives Tom a hard time for calling his Death Eaters "friends.") And when it comes to his "slippery friend" Lucius, and even Bellatrix... Tom thinks they're stupid and careless:

"It would be prudent to alert Snape to the fact that the boy might try to reenter the castle . . . To tell Snape why the boy might return would be foolish, of course; it had been a grave mistake to trust Bellatrix and Malfoy: Didn’t their stupidity and carelessness prove how unwise it was ever to trust?"

I am sure there are some fantastic Bellatrix/Voldemort fics out there, but I do think as a *canon ship,* it's really hard to make it work. He doesn't respect her, and bullies her for fun. That might be why she's just absent from the Cursed Child, even though she's MASSIVELY important to the plot. It was just too hard to do an on-screen canon Bellatrix/Voldemort interaction.

Barty Crouch Jr. seems to be the only person who Voldemort actually LIKES, and actually TRUSTS (even snape, he only like... half-likes, and half-trusts.) It is baffling there are only 47 Barty Crouch jr./Voldemort works on AO3. This is how he talks about Barty when he's plotting his return:

"By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us — (...) I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered"

And this is how he talks about him to the assembled Death Eaters:

"one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service (...) it was though his efforts that our young friend [Harry] arrived here tonight...

and this is how BARTY talks about HIM

“My master came for me (...) My master had found out that I was still alive (...) my master knew that I was still his faithful servant — perhaps the most faithful of all (...) He needed me. He arrived at our house near midnight. My father answered the door.” The smile spread wider over Crouch’s face, as though recalling the sweetest memory of his life. (...) “It was very quick. My father was placed under the Imperius Curse by my master. (...) And I was released. I awoke. I was myself again, alive as I hadn’t been in years.” (...) “He asked me whether I was ready to risk everything for him. I was ready. It was my dream, my greatest ambition, to serve him, to prove myself to him."

like... I'm just saying. Barty calls him "Master" every other sentence.. And the DADDY issues here? off the chart! Barty was mind controlled by his cold, abusive neglectful father and then RESCUED by Voldemort?

"I will be honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I will be his dearest, his closest supporter . . . closer than a son. . . . The Dark Lord and I (...) have much in common. Both of us, for instance, had very disappointing fathers . . . very disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And both of us had the pleasure . . . the very great pleasure . . . of killing our fathers to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!”

There's just so much here!!! why are there 6,676 works shipping Barty Jr./Evan Rosier, and 1,618 shipping Barty Jr./Regulus Black, but everyone is sleeping on toxic daddy issues D/s Barty Jr./Tom Jr.???

(this post... may have gotten away from me a little, I apologize.)

[crimsonxe]

I didn't bring it back, disphit McGee over there was the one that dragged it back up. Like you'll note that what I said was aimed at the one that reblogged. Nah, profanity isn't going anywhere and never will; that's just part of me & where I grew up. Maybe grow up a bit to not take issue with just words.

Oh I've seen the far right incel sexist chud bigots; I've seen women that disgustingly parrot the exact same sexist & queerphobic bullshit that they do as well as double standards nonstop; I've seen far left types that bitch that the show isn't some leftist propaganda story as well as entitled/spoiled ass types that'd rather have a rushed fucking LGBT+ pair than a properly cared for slowburn; I've seen the ones that simp for Ironwood, Adam, or even Sun; I've seen the ones salty over Clover/Qrow; etc. All that either comes down to it not fitting their headcanons or fanon; or going w/ a ship that isn't their preference. Ones that fail at knowing the story, characters, relationships, or themes of the show.

No, they actually didn't. Pyrrha had to go in order to have a threat to the main crew, because of how strong she was; which would become even more had she gained half-maiden powers. On top of that her death and Penny's both hit Ruby JUST AS FUCKING HARD as Jaune. Pyrrha died being a badass self-sacrificing (cause I'm 99% sure she went into the fight with Cinder thinking she had no damn chance) fucking heroic warrior trying to stop the big bad. That wasn't for Jaune, it was her doing it for her school and everyone. The way your ass frames it she died while mentoring him, when that's completely not the case. Oh and just to cover the bases, she's also fucking allowed to fall for the guy too and that isn't bad writing because its not to your preference. If that's where that tone was tapping into.

Adam served exactly the amount he should and was tied more into Blake's story than the WF, the only ones bitching about that side of things are incels and simps that had come up with headcanons for him. Your ass doing a "I can understand where they're coming from" is just more showing how you don't have a clue on character & story.

Yeah, I'll laugh my fucking ass off at the notion that Weiss and Ruby have more goddamn chemistry; because WHAT? No, they fucking don't at all. But that does show a bias.

Once again blame dipshit McGee who drug this back up with a reblog. The PoC characters are just fine, could've been earlier but still just damn fine as they are given the inspiration for the show.

Dumbass I'm not in the camp of trying to get your dipshit asses onboard with the show, that's for other people to do. I'm more in FAFO camp, where people that talk shit fuck around and find out via having their shit torn apart. Your shit actually holds weight? It'll hold and not be touched, if its biased or just flatout bullshit it'll be shredded apart. Not a fucking soul is obligated to roll over and let your asses spread misinformation.

YOUR BITCH FUCKING ASS LITTLE BUDDY REBLOGGED ME SHITHEAD. I said my goddamn piece and let it lie for however long, then someone decided to drag it back up where I tore into THEM as the reblogging person. But do keep trying to play your broken ass pity violin and once again go fuck your damn self. I'll go back to my Fallout 4 game

Say you never watched RWBY without actually saying you never watched RWBY.

Aromancy: "Wasted potential"

And thus you speak the same as Hbomb...meaningless lies with misinformation. Poor soul, who spreads lies happily to hate.

I watched up to about halfway through Season 4. Season 3 ended on a high point that had me excited for more, but basically nothing happened afterwards and I got bored and dropped it. I say the same thing as Hbomberguy because I agree with him; the show is an attempt at anime made by people who enjoy the superficial aspects of anime but fail to look beneath the surface to examine the themes.

Monty's fight scenes were excellent (and even after he died -rest in peace -the fights continued to be excellent; Pyrrha vs. Mercury is probably my favorite of the whole series), but his unwillingness to work hand-in-hand with the writers in charge of providing context let the whole show down.

I haven't seen past season 4 personally, but I've heard many RWBY fans disparaging the series since, especially Season 8, and I have no reason to doubt their testimony.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Ok for the au stories fullmetal alchemist/ Harry Potter… Ed adopting a female Harry and teaching her to be a badass

Female Harry loves her grandma Izumi

Harriet Potter was an odd girl. She looked normal. Long black hair always in a braid, a fondness for red that occupied her wardrobe, big green eyes. But the fact was she was odd. She wore red yes but also the strangest sort of jewelry. Huge skull rings, tacky necklaces and clothing that one Muggleborn commented looked like it came right from Hot Topic, whatever that was.

She was ridiculously smart, and fond of debating with her teachers about everything. Her reaction to Transfiguration as a loud ‘what the actual fuck’ lived on in Hogwarts history but she also excelled in it. She even did well in potions despite Snape being… himself.

She was foul mouthed but incredibly polite to McGonagall, Pomphrey and Sprout. She always was writing in her notebook and loved to study but also tossed the books to the side to have fun.

Ron liked it. Hermione, other then disliking the cursing alongside the lack of respect for the male teachers, liked Harriet to. Or Harry as she told them to call her.

“Wait what?” Harry said as she flipped through a rather large book. “What the… fucking hell!” She jumped up and took off. “Gotta Owl my dad!”

“Who did take her in?” Hermione wondered out loud. “According to everyone she lived with her aunt and uncle but she said she was taken from them by the authorities.”

“Huh?” Ron hadn’t heard that. Hermione nodded.

“I asked her some stuff about London and she told me she’d lived in Amestris since she was six because a Military Officer took her from her relatives when they were being arrested,” Hermione said.

“Amestris?” Percy asked, having been walking by. “The only All Magical country?”

“Harry says it does have Muggles they just don’t hold with keeping magic a secret because they’re under a military dictatorship and most magical people have to register,” Hermione said. “She did say the laws are loosening after a revolt about fifteen years back…”

“Seventeen,” Harry was back with her owl on her shoulder. The girl sat down to begin to write. “Can’t believe a Philospher’s Stone…” she muttered.

“Oh! Nicholas Flamel! Yeah he’s right famous for being the one person-“ Percy began but Harry snorted.

“Amestris has a few people who made one. My dad even figured it out.” She told Percy bluntly. “And it’s foul.”

“Wait, really?” Hermione asked in surprise. Percy didn’t look like he believed it as Ron simply watched Harry.

“Yeah. Also, turn lead into gold?” Harry stopped writing to grab a new piece of paper she drew a circle on and then wrote what looked like runes down. She grabbed a pencil lead Hermione had (she used something called mechanical pencils which were kinda cool) and placed it in the circle.

Harry clapped her hands and touched the circle, causing a blue glow to envelope the lead. When it was done, a golden rod lay where the lead was. Percy stared in open mouth shock.

“Gold isn’t hard for any alchemist to do. It’s just illegal in Amestris and England actually. The only good thing Flamel did was claim the Stone was the only way,” Harry said. “I have to turn it back, but you can scan it to prove it.”

“Why is it illegal?” Ron asked, staring at the lead hungrily.

“Economics. To much gold added to the economy causes prices to rise,” Harry explained. “Things get more expensive and money becomes useless.” She let Percy verify what the thing was before she turned it back to lead.

“What else is wrong with the Stone?” Hermione asked.

“How it’s made. My dad and Uncle figured out how and were so disgusted they backed out of their goals,” Harry said grimly. “Alchemy is equivalent exchange. I can’t make things out of nothing. Conjured items here don’t last either,” Harry sounded relieved when she said that, “as you’re offering energy. But Alchemy is a science. Not magic. My other Uncle, Roy, he’s a Muggle but he can use Alchemy. All you need is what goes in.”

“Whoa!” Ron was impressed but then a thought struck him. He felt his face go pale as Hermione asked about what kind of Alchemy Roy did. “Wait… what’s Equivalent for a long life?”

Harry looked at him grimly. “A few hundred years ago Xerxes was destroyed in a single night. No one knew who had done it, not until seventeen years ago when Amestris nearly met the same fate. A man, no a monster had done it. Created a Philosopher’s Stone. He used Xerxes.”

“No…” Ron said as Hermione huffed.

“What does that mean?” The girl asked.

“A life for a life,” Percy said, his voice shaking. Harry nodded.

“So if Flamel is over six hundred years old… who did he kill for his Stone?” Harry asked quietly.

[sugary-daydreams3]

Grief trapped in blue sunglass lens [Gojo's funeral fanfiction]

Summary: Now that the students and Jujutsu associates healed their physical wounds, they have no choice but to face the elephant in the room. Satoru Gojo is gone and everyone deals with the void in their own way before the funeral begins.

Word count: 6.4k

Series: Lost chapters I wish Gege wrote about

A/N: Made this because me and many other people didn't get to see a Gojo funeral nor the character's feelings on him being gone. This is one of my biggest gripes with the ending of JJK. I had no problems with Gojo dying but I feel that how he was handled physically post Yujo fight left much to be desired.

So I decided to write about (mostly) everyone's coping with Gojo's death and a funeral service for him. Forgive me if the funeral may seem culturally inaccurate. Hopefully, no characters come across as too OOC, but some of these characters are hard to get right when they don't have much room to shine their personality in canon.

Glossy nails trail the white engraved letters and numbers above the matte black. She forgot to give back his credit card.  The last time she used it was Hallo-- 

Hall-- 

October 31st. 

October 31st. 

October. 

That fucking month with that fucking day. Like an alarm that keeps ringing and a clock that won’t move forward fused together. 

The month of horror, trick or treating, and bloody exploding eyeballs. The month were kids face real horror, not those stupid dumb skeletons, werewolves, and vampires. The kind of horror that will make someone either sample death or have it as their final meal. 

31st should have ended with her rocking the clothes she picked up eight hours before that fight. Gojo should have been eating endless candy and telling them “Job well done!” in that stupid annoying comforting voice of his. Not boxed away and expecting his students to come out on top in the chilly wild. 

She didn’t even see him die. She didn’t get to say her final words to him that just would have amounted to... 

“If you die your card is mine forever. So die, okay?” 

She couldn’t even say her fucked up, dark, cruel joke that was a mask of “Please don’t fucking die”. 

Why couldn’t I move? 

Why wasn’t I awake? 

Why wasn’t I present? 

Who wants to hear recollections of what happened between October 31st and December 24th? She wanted to help out with the Culling Games. She wanted to see the great battle of Sukuna vs. Gojo. She wanted to finally meet this Yuta kid and see everyone’s reaction to him coming back. She wanted to save Megumi when Yuji couldn’t. Picking up the pieces of Yuji’s mistakes. Being that deciding factor that could have prevented so much bullshit. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Why wasn’t I here? 

Her only eye stings, blinking two tears to fall on the muted black card. The heartache trails down to the 2754 of the four-part row of digits. Nobara quivers her lips as she tries to swallow down pills of regrets, exclusion, and despondency. 

Residing dust forces a couple of coughs out of Inumaki. He waves off the floating particles and goes for the next book off Gojo sensei’s shelve. He grabs the spine of the book and slowly pulls it out.  

He gave up being curious on the subject matter of these books once he cleared the first row. Just of bunch of thick, mind-numbing pieces on Jujutsu, Cursed Energy, or Autobiographies on retired sorcerers.  

Turning from the back cover, in red bold letters his purple eyes reads: Learning Sign Language for your students. Written by... sounds like a random Japanese woman with some fancy doctor degree. 

Narrow eyes widen as confusing experiences lingering in his memory begin to click and warp into sense.  

On the third day of his first year, he remembers cringing at Gojo’s attempt to speak random rice ball ingredients to him. That was his “way” of trying to connect with him. Offended, Inumaki wrote him off and ignored any potential conversation to have with him at that point. 

Around early June, he walked up to see Gojo silently greeting him with fluid movements of his hands and fingers. As fluent as someone who been signing JSL for several years. Was that the reason he stopped trying to conversate with him three weeks prior? 

Taken back, Inumaki slowly signed back, leading to having their first full conversation ever. It ended with Gojo patting him on the shoulder and Inumaki turning to watch his goofy sensei walk off in a cheerful mood.  

Inumaki caresses the book and notices the personal sticky notes poking out of many pages. He looks behind him to see Panda pre-occupied. Inumaki sets the book in his bag, setting it aside to read through later. He shakes his head and stares at the half empty shelve for a long moment before continuing his duty.  

Panda was busy distracting himself with Satoru’s doodads instead of effectively cleaning out his office. Throw in the fact that it was a journey to simply carry things that would have taken him a few seconds to put away had he been in his original big body. But the funeral starts in a few hours so he has to stop monkeying around soon.  

Panda frowned. There was barely any time to “monkey around” ever since Satoru died. It seems like when he died, he took the fun and security with him. Did most of his friends grow to be so powerful from the battle on Shinjuku? Sure, they’re practically monsters at this point.  

But for a long time, Satoru’s level of strength gave them breathing room to take off the sorcerer mask sometimes. Now that he’s gone, there was no room to be a kid anymore. His friends are teenagers cursed with adult responsibilities; the rest of their adolescence stripped away like a bloody band aid.  

He’s a panda so he doesn’t really understand that feeling. However, he sees it with the forced smiles he’s greeted one second with frowns pulling them down moments after. Desensitized responses they all show in public contrasted with the quiet weeping he hears going on late night campus walks. It will always give him emotional whiplash. 

Life after Satoru was a canvas board of still grey with overwhelming dark blue surrounding it.  

Panda opens a brown box to see a bunch of stuffing peeking out. Dropping down, he turns the box around to see in black marker: Spare stuffing for Panda. 

Panda releases a deep sigh. He feels his stitches ache all over. 

Loose blue strains spills over the wholesome photo of her and Gojo that day. A day where her biggest concern was not looking stupid in front of the cute, strong, funny teacher at the Tokyo campus of Jujutsu High. A day where her classmates bickered with coal still in their eyes. A day when Mai was cranky and alive. When Mechamaru... 

Miwa shuts her eyes as her tears soaks her eyelashes. Blurry eyes open to take in the photo that seem like centuries ago, when it was only since September. Gojo’s peace sign and shared chipper smiles fill the holes in Miwa’s heart for a moment. Her thumbs zoom in on Gojo and lingers over his tall figure dominating most of the selfie. 

A small smile forms behind the isolated blues. “Gojo...” 

Kusakabe groans, rubbing the back of his head whenever his mind wanders to that blue eyed trouble maker. There were days he enjoyed the consistent stillness without that loudmouth breaking it. Then there were others where the silence was drowning; his cheery, obnoxious voice completely void to lift up everyone’s spirits when needed. Today was one of those days. 

Twirling his toothpick, he remembers the countless times Gojo annoyed the hell out of him with his comments and pranks. There wasn't a day where he wouldn’t drag one of the Jujutsu faculty and staff in his shenanigans. So bad that one-time Gojo went too far and it ended with Kusakabe wishing he was dead. 

Be careful what you wish for, I guess. 

Kusakabe looks up at the passing clouds trailing through the blue. For such a day for Jujutsu High, the sky didn’t reflect the collective feeling. The man bats his eyes as the ambient nature lures him into a still mind. 

“Kusakabe!? Are we serious right now!?” One of the higher ups barked. 

Gojo shakes his head, “Is there ever a day you guys don’t bitch about--” 

“I agree that sending me would be a horrible idea.” Kusakabe interrupted. Gojo turns to see Kusakabe wearing a “Yes sir. No sir.” attitude. He knew he was lying.  

Kusakabe has been looking forward to a sorcerer mission like this ever since he met him. A mission where all you do is investigate and gather information, no risking your life, no fighting at all really. More like a trip out on Japan’s quiet grassy countryside with a side quest of being an undercover sorcerer representing Jujutsu High.  

Gojo steps forward. “Kusakabe is our best grade 1 sorcerer. He’s no fighter and a nice guy for the most part. He would be better to talk to lame country folk than I am...” 

The elders remain silent. Kusakabe can feel the tension rising. “Gojo, you don’t have to--” 

“I got too much other shit going on to do some boring mission in the countryside. If you send me instead of him then you guys are more senile than I thought.” 

“Gojo!” Kusakabe quickly turned to the many shoji screens hiding the higher up’s bodies. The fact that he had no idea how they were reacting put his worry in overdrive. 

One of the elders sighs, “We don’t feel like arguing with you on this. If you truly think Kusakabe of all people would fit this mission then so be it. But if he fails this, he will suffer the consequences. His mistakes are not on us.” 

“When is it ever on you?” Gojo bounced back. 

“Dismissed.” The other elder said. 

Once they left the room, Gojo wraps his arms around Kusakabe shoulders and bellowed out his carefree laugh. “Don’t forget to bring me back some gifts. You owe me afterall.” 

Kusakabe lowers his head away from the blue and moving white to face the cracked, washed solid grey.  

His heart didn’t ache for Gojo. Tears didn’t trail down for him either. But the crumbs of memories made him appreciate the little explosive highlights he gave his boring, uneventful life. Like those popping candies that felt like fireworks in your mouth.  

Yeah, Gojo was those popping rock candies. 

Hakari holds the stack of yen as the various fights go on the multiple T.V. screens. Licking his thumb, he counts through the overwhelming amounts of money from his lucky bets. Although he’s been hanging around Jujutsu High more as of recent, lately everything has been about Gojo, his death and preparing for his funeral. All of the mope and serious mumbo jumbo was getting to Hakari, so he retreated to his fight club. 

“When does it start?” Kirara asked, her pink french tips gently caressing his ashy blonde thick hair.  

Hakari shrugs, “Donno. Seems like everyone is too depressed to talk n’ shit.” 

Banding up the yen, Hakari montages the times Gojo left him feeling the fever he often seeks out of many.  

Training him so hard he puked the rest of that day. Pushing him to go after Kirara and teasing him about his crush. Giving him shitty relationship advice. That one time they did that silly pose where they flashed their teeth then flexed their muscles for the camera. Cheating Gojo out of thousands of yen over a wrong move during Blackjack. 

Hakari traces the numbers of the yen, smirking over the fun times that crazy man with the blindfold gave him. 

Two streaks of damp wet are noticed when the wind sway past Ijichi’s jawline. Another dam of woe threatens to burst until he quickly wipes his sore undereye. He doesn’t even know why he’s getting so emotional over someone who and still-- 

Not sill. Damnit brain, get with the program. 

Someone who used to bully him relentlessly ever since they were kids up until just a few weeks ago. To him, Gojo was nothing but... 

Why are you still here? Need me to punch you to get the message? 

You failed you’re driving test again? You can’t even do that? Go join a local circus at this point. 

Shoko is out of your league, man. You don’t even have the balls to talk to her. How can you expect her to like you. 

Ijichi, don’t piss me off.  

A guy like that doesn’t deserve his tears. Nope, not at all... 

The only person I trust to catch me if I fall is me and, um, Ijichi I think. 

Wanna go out for some hot cocoa? It’s freezing today. 

Well, well, well. You finally took Shoko out for dinner, huh? I guess the world is ending soon. So, how did it go? 

Look, Ijichi may be a wet doormat but he’ll get things done for us and the students. C’mon guys, give him more credit than that. 

Ijichi huffs a stuttered breath. Nope. Nope. No. No. No-- 

You’re the man I trust the most. That’s the only reason I need. 

Ijichi breaks down. A new coat of tears staining his dry skin. His wrung heart soaked again with a grief too complex to explain. 

Cigarette smoke brush past Shoko’s dry, dull brown hair. No tears had nor will shed for her childhood friend. She wasn’t a crier, even when she was little. When her father died a long time ago, not one tear dropped.  

Instead, there was heavy rocks that magically weighed in her chest. A weight too heavy for her slim body to carry. A weight she dismisses publicly but can’t ignore in private. So, in true Shoko fashion, she grabs a pack of ciggies and breaks her 11th vow to never smoke again. Looking out on the campus field, her eyes strain with stress and lack of sleep. Her heavy heart was to blame this time. 

“Can’t believe I’m being peer pressured right now.” Gojo says in a jokingly nervous tone. 

Shoko lifts up the cigarette, unlit and waiting. “I’m tired of being “The Smoker Chick” of our school. It’s always so lonely smoking by myself.” 

“Regardless if I smoke this or not, you’ll always be “The Smoker Chick”.” 

“Gojo please.”  

Gojo sighs and contemplates the nicotine stick itching to ruin someone’s lungs. He was far from being a goody too shoes but smoking wasn’t his thing. 

“You’ll look so cool doing it. It’ll just be between us.” Shoko persisted. 

Gojo rolled his eyes and snatched the cig from her. He placed it between his perfect, straight whites and waited a moment before turning to Shoko. Shoko stood in disbelief until Gojo snapped his fingers in front of her. 

“Well hurry up and light it!” Shoko quickly digs in her pocket and lights the white end. It takes a few seconds for the cigarette to burn before smoke waves out of the tip. Gojo inhales then blows out a line of smoke effortlessly. Shoko gasps, “How did you not cough?” 

“Duh! Look who you’re talking to.” 

“Oh...yeah. Right.”  

The juxtaposition of Gojo’s divine-like aura and angelic appearance partaking in the trashy, commoner act of smoking was a sight to behold. Almost like he gave a middle finger to his reputation as the strongest sorcerer and decided to be a normal dude for once. Shoko remembers judging Gojo’s bougie attitude during freshman year. She saw his snobbish nature a mile away before he even introduced himself to the class. One thing about Gojo though, he never failed to surprise her with his willingness to bring himself down from heaven. 

Shoko is dazed by Gojo puffing out a few quick smokes before she is presented a hit. 

“This shit tastes awful. How do you smoke these every thirty minutes?” Gojo barfed his tongue out. 

Shoko giggles and breathes in the loud smoke that always hugs her brain. “Helps me stay numb to the bad stuff in the world.” 

Although that was Gojo’s first and last time ever smoking, their budding friendship springs tenfold. 

Shoko was back at that same spot they wasted their youth a decade and so ago. Only there was no arrogant, annoying but funny classmate to secretly cast her judgement on anymore. What only remains is a cigarette and a woman who had an uneventful life outside of being a sidekick to Gojo’s adventures. 

She takes another hit, her tongue recoils at the cigarette taste. Now she gets what he meant back then. 

The drizzling rain show no signs of giving nature a break from the drab, cold atmosphere. Megumi lays against his cushioned but firm mattress, his brain refusing to move his body. Tears quietly drip down to damp the grey sheets, adding to the collection of wet dots on his bed. The air condition overpowered the pitter-patter behind the window. The dull sound clearing his head to reflect his whirlwind called life these past couple months. 

Countless memories punched his mind. There was so many foggy, forgettable memories of Gojo growing up. His attempt to give them meaning and higher resolution gave him a slight headache. 

First his sister then-- 

Gojo.  

He saw it while being a few feet away; Gojo’s blood forming small puddles, leaving his body with his life tagging along. The tired whisper of “My bad, Megumi.” a few moments before his eyes went still. He couldn’t even respond due to that curse going on about some dumb speech after almost getting both of them killed. 

Sukuna.  

Heat overwhelmed his body as soon as the name rung. He hates him. He hates him. He hates him. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Red and blue hatred evolves into purple flames the longer it sits, burns, and melds. Never has he felt so much rage off a name alone. 

Blood on his hands without the purpose and maliciousness to back it up. Sukuna was gone but the damage will never fade away. It’s here to overstay it’s welcome and haunt him forever.  

“Good riddance.” Maki lets the intrusive thoughts travel to whispers.  

Alone in the tidy bathroom, she struggles to create grief over someone that just annoyed her most of the time. The only one she believes deserved her grief was her sister, Mai. 

Don’t get her wrong, she respected the hell out of Gojo’s strength. But the only solid memories she has of him is sending her favorite junky snacks whenever it was her time of the month and excused her from class that week.  

Other than that, he was like a gnat that wouldn’t get out of your face. Loud for no reason. Failed to read the room. Teased her about Yuta, even during the time he went to Africa. Pestering her about dumb school shit. Yeah, that’s the Gojo she knows. Not this revisionist history almost everyone on campus is crafting for him now that the bastard is gone gone.  

Yuta and Gojo had a closer relationship than others students, which unfortunately, makes him stricken with the depressing “Gojo is gone” epidemic too. But compared to him and the Jujutsu High students and staff, he actually has good reason to grieve.  

It’s just too overwhelming to deal with for more than an hour. She had to get a breather from seeing someone she cares about so defeated emotionally. She seen Yuta cry before but not to this extent, not this long either. 

Another round of sobs scolds her indifference to Gojo as they breakthrough the thick bathroom door. Maki looks down and moves her toes against the maroon bathroom rug to build back her patience and tolerance. Letting out a short breath, she pushes herself off the sink and keeps her stoic disposition.  

A blank, emotionally collected expression that means well beneath the surface.  

Yuta cries drag out as he lays on the floor. Maki shifts when she places a palm against his back, not sure how to handle his anguish and piercing sobs. 

Thankfully, Yuta’s dorm was positioned to be isolated at the end of the hall. The other male student's dorms are spaced out from each other so he didn’t have any direct neighbors. But still, his mourning was loud enough to hear muffles across his front door. 

“Yuta.” Maki said.  

She didn’t know what to say exactly. She, like many other Zenins, weren’t the best when it came to nurturing. Even though she feels nothing about Gojo dying, she feels everything seeing her best friend so ...devastated. 

Yuta looks up at her for a long moment, tears trailing by the second, lips quivering, throat tight with words he can no longer say to his sensei. He hugs her waist and cries into her chest.  

“I used him, Maki. He’s gone and the first thing I did was use him. It should have been--” 

“Stop. Don’t finish that. It shouldn’t have been anyone else instead. He did what he had to do for us to win.” Maki comforted. Yuta shakes his head, unable to accept logical reasoning. 

“I-I-I...” He sucks in his breath after every attempt to speak. "I didn’t even get to say--”  

Yuta hurls, his mouth seconds away from bursting open. Maki quickly goes for the bucket and puts it under his head. He pukes for the third time today, projecting out yesterday's lunch and dinner that he ate too little of. Maki sighs and pats his back to get him to vomit it all out. Ever since he returned back to his original body, Yuta has been puking whenever he thinks about the most fucked-up stunt he ever pulled. 

Once Yuta was done, he sobs tamed down to a string of lingering cries. He didn’t bother to change his shirt or wipe the corners of his mouth. Maki grabbed a tissue and cleaned up the small bits of vomit around his mouth. She heads back into the bathroom to clean out the half-filled blue bucket yet again. 

Looking up, he sees a framed picture of him and Gojo during his time in Africa. Gojo had him in a headlock whilst making him laugh about something he hates that he can’t remember. Yuta heart swells, the picture clearly being taken off guard by Miguel. Another wave of sorrow drowns him the longer he stares at Gojo in his white dress shirt, sunglasses, alive and well... 

Yuta face scrunches, a fresh sting of tears falling down. He lays down on the cold floor, allowing the grief to lure him to sleep. 

Yuji rubs over his face, a stubborn migraine pinching his thoughts. Snot leaking to tease the tip of his tongue. Eyes in desperate need of a bottle of eyedrops to make up for the tiny streams it released the past few hours. His mind was active but his body was lazy, lying on his bed through the whole morning. But he had to get this eulogy done, if nothing else. 

“He was unserious when things were tense. He trolled...whether you were a man, woman, or child. He’d... He’d... He-- dammit!” 

He turns on his stomach and picks up the paper again. He reads over the line again, then two more times to write it on his memory. 

“Hell, he’d even walk in your dorm to check on you only to leave with your house slippers moments later.”  

Again. 

“Hell, he’d even walk in your dorm to check on you only to leave with your house slippers moments later.” Yuji groans. 

“Don’t say hell, that might not fly well.” He scolded himself. 

Yuji sets the paper on his nightstand so his brain can have a break. He read over his eulogy so many times that his mind is starting to slip with the constructed presentation he went over since last night. It doesn’t help that throughout this practicing, he’s been crying whenever he gets lost in thought about Gojo-sensei. Maybe he needs to cool down a bit. 

On the edge of his window sits one of Gojo’s many blindfolds. Yuji reaches over with minimal effort and caress the fabric. Black cotton comforts his fingertips while Yuji gives this simple thing a soft gaze. The very first thing he noticed about that strange looking man on that life changing night. 

Scenes of warm and fun premiere from his memory bank, each starring Gojo sensei. Smiles to laughter with jokes, ease, and good food in between. 

Sensei steals a fry from Nobara’s-- 

Sliced open. Blood dripping down white baggy pants and black combat slippers. Torso on the ground. Harsh ice blue still yet soft. Live and unskippable. Live with no rewinds. Sukuna’s joy celebrated in the wrong body. No more rough ruffles on the head. No more boring lessons elevated by high-energy humor and multiple tangents of his glory days. 

Yuji winces and attempts to rub out the migraine and horrible memories intruding the good. There is a knock on the door. “You’re not naked are you?” Nobara voice is heard from behind the door. 

Yuji shakes his head as if Nobara could see. “No.”  

Nobara walks in, remnants of rain dripping from her raincoat. She had a blank face, her usual energy turned down a few notches. “Hey.” 

Yuji barely lifts up a wave, still smoothing out his nerves. “Hi.”  

“So everyone is either busy or depressed so you’re my last hope around here.” Nobara confessed. Yuji lifted up the eulogy, “Can’t. Too busy.” 

Nobara sucks her teeth then observes Yuji’s face. “You look like you’re more in the too depressed camp than the too busy one.” 

“Yeah, that too.” 

Nobara walks over and grabs the eulogy. Yuji lays back down, “Since you’re here, I need to clarify one last thing for my speech. Did sensei buy you those tampon things or those purple diapers?” 

Nobara stops reading and shoots him a look. “Why are you broadcasting my period for the whole Jujutsu High to hear?” 

“It’s supposed to be one of the many things Gojo did for us as students. I couldn’t think of anything else, cut me some slack.” 

Nobara sighs, “He used to get me pain meds and a bunch of tampons whenever my cramps would go into overdrive. And it’s called pads, not purple diapers.” 

Yuji nodded and formed a curve of a smile. “Thanks, Kugisaki.” 

“I could go and hang out with some girls I know from other schools but it looks like the rain is getting worse. What time is the funeral anyway?” 

“It’s in four hours, around two I think.” 

Nobara nodded, “Guess I’ll just go back to my dorm and sulk like everyone else. See you later.” She gets off to leave. “Oh, save me a seat too.” 

Yuji nodded with a frown, not having enough optimism left to give fake smiles. “Sure, see you.” 

Alone again, Yuji picks up the worn white sheet with creases and wrinkles. Headache tamed, he decides to recite again. You can never be too polished. 

“Gojo-sensei was a...” 

Todo sheds single strings of tears while many games of ping pong against Gojo replays in his mind. Besides Mei Mei, Gojo was his common partner in his favorite sport. Now that he’s gone, he had no one to slam “cheating” allegations to in an intense game during the humid, long summer afternoons. 

Ui Ui sniffles as he looks down, avoiding the blunt reality of the casket up ahead. He wasn’t the biggest acquaintance of Gojo but a few moments of the past built a friendly nature between them. His briberies of fried bananas to get direct access to Mei Mei. Being a one-man audience (he slept through his blindfold) for spoken word poetry he wrote about his sister when no one else bothered to hear. Gojo never failed to match his childish energy when other adults or big kids were “too busy” to entertain him. The boy’s quiet sniffles prompted a head rub from his older sibling. 

The pointy ends of Mei Mei’s red nails pierce through her left palm. Her right palm comforts the juvenile emotions of her baby brother. Her face remains calm but blue fire bursts in her heart.  

1.5 Million yen. All that rich fuck had to do is pay me 1.5 million yen back and what does he do? Fuck around and die. Hmph! He probably died to cheap his way out of his debt. Damn you Satoru Gojo. Damn him. 

Ino stood with his ski-mask firm against his chest, looking forward with respect. Gojo was more like an older brother than a co-worker. Despite the pain he feels, he refuses to look away from the body. 

Momo stands next to Miwa, people watching the many guests standing in line to pay their personal respects to the body. As soon as she came, she made sure to grab the nearest seat and keep her head down. Dead bodies always freaked her out. People always assumed she be fine with that kind of stuff since she gives “witchy” vibes but no way. It was the way the body just sat there, all sense of spark or fire vanished. Also, that silly fear that a dead body will raise and walk towards her. God, she hopes they close the casket soon.  

Kirara hugs on to Hakari’s arm as she quietly weeps to herself. Hakari wasn’t the “comforting” type but all she needs from him was his arm and shoulder for support. During the time it was her vs. the conservative Jujutsu World when she decided to transition, Gojo was one of the few who had her back. She has his support from the moment she began dressing feminine all the way to the moment she began going by Kirara. It wasn’t a problem for Gojo to call her by her true name right away since he thought her dead name was forgettable as hell. 

Sure, Gojo wasn’t perfect and had his moments where his views were a bit dated, but he was willing to own up to his mistakes and learn for the better. She’ll never forget the stereotypical girly shit he would buy her because he didn’t know her personal taste that well, not that she even knew at the time either. Corny gifts and unconditional support are why her mascara and eyeliner were messy all around her under eye.  

Most attendees dressed in purple while others sulked in black. Ages from teen to end of the road mingled together within a pot of grief, visible respect, and reservation. Some felt internal relief that the bastard was gone. Some cried harder than they would if their actual father died.  

Gojo lied still in a polished classic black casket, wearing a blank emotion that he would hate everyone to see. His cut, pieced back by Shoko, was barely noticeable. If you weren’t given the details of his death, you’d probably would question how he died. The line to view his body was beginning to reach its end, preparing everyone to mentally checkout for an hour and a half. 

A collected Megumi stared at Gojo in a distracted haze. It was stupid, but he felt like Gojo was playing some sick prank and he’s going to pop out and yell some stupid shit any second now. The longer he stares at the body’s lack of movement, the confirmation rings hollow in his mind. Thankfully Nobara and Yuji kept to themselves, because he’s not in the mood to make idle small talk to take their mind off the obvious.  

Yuta’s sorrow could be heard faintly throughout the large quiet space but not loud enough to distract from the ceremony. His tears took all of the moisture from his face, leaving him paler than usual. Messy black hair clashed with his neat tux that took forever to fit him in. It was a miracle for Maki to get him in that, let alone bring him here. 

 It was a tough sight to see as Yuta was now regarded as the strongest sorcerer of the upcoming generation. Yuta usually had a friendly, shy demeanor around his peers while being focused and stoic during battle. It was rare to see such a rock morph into glass, his pieces laid for the whole institution to see.  

Yuta could care less, the repercussions of his public image being in an awkward, pitiful state wasn’t even a thought in the thick of his pain. He could repair that with time and his rapid growing reputation. This is the last time he’ll ever see Gojo-sensei and his heart can’t take it. 

Throughout most of the service, Yuji idly stares at Gojo-sensei’s memorial card. A portrait of him wearing a bright, goofy smile placed above the December 7th, 1989 - December 25th, 2018 felt like visual whiplash. Yet, he kept staring at it until a microphoned call of his name lifts his head up. 

“Itadori-kun, are you still going to read your eulogy for us today?” Ijichi directs, slightly confused of Yuji’s zoned out state. 

“Oh, yeah, for sure. Just...” Yuji grabs the piece of paper from Nobara’s lap and scoots through the aisle. He walks up to the podium, feeling stares and invisible opinions hover over his back. He gently grabs the mic from Ijichi and sets his eulogy across his face.  

Looking up, the stares feel more intense as the rows and rows of straight-faces set social anxiety in his stomach. It was weird, he usually had no problem speaking publicly to an audience, he was a social butterfly after all. Funerals love throwing everyone’s vibe off, even a generally confident one like his, he assumes. 

“Um, hi guys—hi everyone.” 

He quickly goes over the first line to trigger his trained memory to make the speech sound fluent and genuine. He prays to whoever is listening to not let his mind go blank at a time like this. 

“Gojo sensei was a goofball.”  

The silence screams for a moment as the opening line registers in everyone’s minds. A few chuckle, most keep their solemn unimpressed looks, while others are not even on this planet. Yuji clears his throat. 

“He was unserious when things were tense. He trolled you whether you were a man, woman, or child. Hell, he’d even walk in your dorm to check on you, only to leave with your house slippers moments later.” Many students laughed at the last comment. Yuji looks up and chuckles along, a confidence block stacked. 

“He wasn’t a teacher who sugar-coated things, his words were more salt-coated. It stings from being so blunt, but it was needed in order for you to have more flavor.” Yuji takes a quick scan and sees that more people are in tuned with his words. Second block stacked. 

“Growing up, I only had my grandfather for family. So while I kinda knew what it was like to have a dad, I spent a good portion of my life taking care of him during his last years so I forgot what it felt like. Gojo reminded me of that feeling.” 

“He gave life advice outside of teaching. He would take us out for ice cream after missions. One time, he bought those weird tampon things and sea salt caramel ice cream for Nobara during her...y’know.” Nobara gives him a look after he shoots a nervous chuckle her way. 

“He would walk Megumi’s dogs on Saturday mornings. He’d crack a joke in sign that only Inumaki-senpai would understand. He was tough on me, Hakari-senpai, and Okkotsu-senpai during training because he wanted us to take advantage of the potential we couldn’t see. He was...” 

Yuji looks up to see Yuta staring at him with teary but curious eyes, desperate to know what he’s about to lay on the crowd next. Yuji directs a small, sympathetic smile at him then looks down. 

“He was our constant entertainment during the long, boring hours of our jobs. He unlocked the laughter and ease that we often hid to condition ourselves so we could endure the next mission. He made hell feel like home. He was our Gojo-sensei when the world just saw him as Gojo Satoru.” 

Tears don’t hold back on some folks faces. What they expected to be a generic but appropriate eulogy turned out to be an off-beat, heartfelt, kinda corny eulogy written by a dude who loved his teacher. A rare case of a dude who isn’t clever with words evoking more emotions out of a crowd more than any writer ever could. 

“I’m sure some of you struggle to move forward with this loss. Some of you may simply be here to pay respects and move on with their lives preferably without sensei. Or you may be like me, someone just going through the motions and may not know what to do, say, think, or feel. But Gojo-sensei is gone and all we can do is reflect on the echos of his existence.” 

Yuji lets out a deep breath, satisfied to have gotten through his eulogy, the weight off his shoulders. His eyes flickers to see many nodding at his last statement. He scans through his last sentence and nods to himself to bring it home. 

“Thank you, Gojo-sensei, for being the goofball with the blindfold and thank you all for listening.” Everyone except the elders clapped for Yuji, moved by his honest words and pure approach. Yuji didn’t register the applause nor Ijichi’s transition to the next segment since his heart was pounding against his left chest. 

There was another wrinkle added to the eulogy when he goes to sits back down. He stares at his knees to contemplate his social triumph. Nobara looks at him and pats his upper back while Megumi simply gives him a blank look, jailing his “Good job.”. Yuji breathes deep through his nose and gives himself little nods, back in his own world to process those past few minutes. 

The rest of the service goes smoothly, time moving quicker due to Yuji black flashing through the seemingly unbreakable ice. After the main service, many students and staff agreed to meet at the school yard where the funeral bonfire repast will be held. 

While Gojo was being cremated, the bonfire turned out to be a lively celebration of life after so much grief wrung at the service. Snow trinkled down amongst the light conversations, coping dark humor, taste bud-rising food and drinks, and tear stains. Taking a break entertaining his peers, Yuji looked up to admire the floating ice. His irises went up and down, low right and high left, no different from when he saw snow as a kid. Laughter and smiles were behind Yuji, but all he can feel was the snow nurturing the child he locked away. 

Ashes leave out of the hands of many, gliding above the flowers revived by spring. Cherry blossom petals dance with Gojo in the gentle wind. The early days of April was always Gojo’s favorite time of the year, it was only fitting that his departure was during its peak.  

The new year of Jujutsu High begins without the blindfolded goofball to kick it off with overwhelming enthusiasm and junior high-level jokes. Second years, third years, and even the students that graduated are moving forward after months of mental detours. Now, there was a fresh set of first years oblivious to the horrors and traumas that awaits them. It’s a pity they won’t have that funny man in the sunglasses to help them endure their next twelve months of hell.