#how come he always has the worst day out of everyone

[aplacefordreaming24]

WAAAAA HELLO HELLO HELLO

I have so many f/o's but I'll always happily take the chance to gush about my main. His name is Ted, and he's just- sigh. He's so perfect to me. I love him so much. He's the light of my life and I always feel better just thinking about him hehehe

My irl bf was the one who introduced me to him actually ;0 and it took *years* irl for me to really think about him the way I do now!!! Because originally I watched a playthrough of the game he comes from, and,,, ngl the light he's shown in that is kinda awful? Not the worst, but certainly not the best. But then, years later, I finally got around to reading the original story he comes from (It was a short story first called "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream," and then it got turned into a game). And just. God. Idk. Something about him, just- clicked!

And like, you wouldn't think it would, because ngl he's kinda, worse in the story? But it was more just- why he is the way he is that clicked. The reasons behind how he behaves that you don't learn in the game. And so much of himself, his core character, was changed in the game. (Same with everyone, besides like, the villain). And for the first time, I saw someone who was very similar to me. I felt seen and understood by his true character, and it made me grow really sympathetic for him.

After the initial shock wore down, it all just kinda came crashing into "Omg I love him so much I just wanna make him so happy" ykyk?? The way his story ends is so tragic but I wanna believe that it isn't the end. That he'll end up happy, eventually, no matter how long it takes. And I wanna be the one waiting for him with open arms to bring him that happiness and support and love that he deserves and never got.

It's silly. It's dumb. A lot of the fandom is split on his character; some really love him like me, and others kinda hate the hell out of him. And it always kinda gets me down but yk, he's still my love. My prince. My one and only. I just try to think about comforting him and block people who hate him cause like. I get it. I get why you would. But that doesn't mean I have to, feel the same? At least I think so.

He has a lot of paranoia about people hating him. I do too, but I'm always there to remind him it's not true. I'll never hate him. He has my heart, and even if he chose someone else, I'd still love him. His happiness means more to me than some silly conditional thing.

Maybe that's a little unhealthy to say. But yk, I feel this way for all my relationships, friendships, etc. I'd rather you be happy without me than miserable around me. No point in sticking around; it does neither of us any good.

Idk. I could go on and on about my s/i and his relationship (If you've ever heard of Orpheus and Eurydice, they're very much like that, including the doomed aspect). How they're two sides of the same coin and such. But like- man. If I sit here and talk all day about him I'm not gonna get anything I need to do today done.

Sorry if this is long fnjdfjk really if you don't wanna respond you don't have to!! But ty for giving me a place to gush about him ;0

AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO GUSH ABOUT YOU AND VERGIL TO ME TOO I'D LOVE TO HEAR IT!!! I LOVE LISTENING TO PEOPLE TALK ABOUT THEIR LOVES!!!

GUSH ABOUT YOUR F/O IN THE REBLOGS TO ME AND I WILL ACTUALLY LISTEN AND RESPOND TO THEM ACCORDINGLY BECAUSE YOU 🫵 DEAR READER DESERVE TO HAVE YOUR INTERESTS TREATED WITH RESPECT AND NOT JUST GET A "wow that's neat"

doubles and proshippers dni! Doubles you also deserve respect I'm just not very good at sharing I'm so sorry!

[enderlovez]

On Thin Ice

Spencer Reid x Chubby Reader WORD COUNT: 1300+

Summary: After a particularly grueling case, the weight of your insecurities catches up with you. Despite years of toughening yourself against judgment, an unexpected moment of self-doubt has you questioning everything—until Spencer reminds you of your worth.

Content Warning: body image issues, insecurity and self doubt, emotional vulnerability, mentions of childhood bullying, Spencer is a sweetheart, metaphors about falling through ice

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You've always been the fat kid.

The one picked last for teams in gym class. The one who endured sidelong glances at lunch when you grabbed a second slice of pizza, even though everyone else was already on their third. The one people were dared to ask out during games of truth or dare.

The one whose confidence had to be built like a fortress over the years of relentless judgement, brick by painstaking brick. You'd grown used to the torment over the years—or so you thought.

The things you've seen in this job are enough to shatter most people—dead bodies and grieving familiar and the kind of darkness that crawls under your skin and refuses to leave.

You've stood on the edge of danger more times than you care to count, facing down killers without so much as flinching, literally been stabbed and shot. None of it breaks you. But tonight, staring at your reflection in the BAU bathroom mirror, you feel like you're crumbling.

Your blouse, which you'd liked when you put it on this morning, now feels all wrong. The fabric stretches across your chest and stomach in ways that make your skin crawl.

It fits—technically—but your brain won't let you believe it. The logical part of you knows it's fine—it fits and it looks good, no one cares. But the voice in your head, the one you've spent years trying to quiet, whispers, Isn't it a little snug?

You press your palms flat against the sink, trying to steady your breathing. Why does this matter? you ask yourself. Why do I care?

You see the worst humanity has to offer every day. You quite literally deal with life and death and unimaginable grief. Your body—how it looks, how it fits into societal expectations—should be the least of your concerns.

And yet, here you are.

Maybe part of the reason everything feels to terrible tonight is because of him—Spencer. He's been talking to you heaps more lately, and though it really should make you feel better, it only deepens whatever this insecure feeling inside you is.

The way he moves, the way he talks, the way his beautiful mind works—everything about him fascinates you, and you've been harboring this ridiculous, all-consuming crush for months.

But no matter how much you try to push it down, it always creeps back in, and with it comes the certainty that you're not his type. How could you be? He's brilliant and kind and effortlessly charming in his own unique way, and you're... you. Soft in all the undesirable places, sometimes a little too loud for even yourself.

It's not that you don't think you're worth something, but when you're next to him, it's hard not to feel like you fade into the background. And you've been next to him a lot more than usual.

The mirror reflects your frown back at you, the tightness in your chest growing until it feels like you might snap. You splash cold water on your face, hoping the shock will pull you out of your spiral.

It doesn't, but you can pretend it does.

The bullpen is quiet when you step back into it, the hum of computers and the rustle of papers the only sounds. Most of the team has gone home for the night, except for Spencer.

You find him in the kitchenette, his tall frame bent awkwardly as he wrestles with the ancient coffee maker.

He glances up as you walk in, his expression softening when he sees you. "Couldn't sleep?"

Right—you were going to nap somewhere before getting back to work before you detoured to the bathroom.

You shrug, leaning against the counter. "Something like that."

Spencer nods, his focus shifting back to the coffee pot. "I think this machine predates the invention of modern technology," he mutters, earning a faint smile from you. He pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to you, his finger brushing your briefly.

"Thanks," you say, your voice quieter than you intended.

For a while, the two of you drink in silence, no words shared. None are needed. It's comforting, standing next to him in the soft glow of the kitchenette light. For a moment, you almost almost feel normal in your own skin. Like everyone else.

Except Spencer has always been too perceptive (especially when it comes to you, but you don't need to know that), and you can feel his gaze periodically flicking toward you, studying your face.

"You know," he says eventually, "it's okay to feel overwhelmed. You don't have to hold it together all the time, not when you're... in this particular profession."

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply. His expression is calm, his tone heartbreakingly gentle, but the words hit a nerve. You force a laugh, trying to deflect. "I'm fine, Spencer. Just tired is all."

He doesn't buy it. Of course, he doesn't. This is Spencer Reid, profiler extraordinaire, the man who can read you like an open book even when you think you're being subtle.

"Are you?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. His voice is soft, but there's an unfamiliar firmness to it that makes you pause.

You want to brush him off, to keep the walls you've built around yourself firmly in place. But the words slip out before you can stop them—apparently your subconscious is desperate to get it out.

"I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's just that sometimes I feel like... I don't know, like I don't belong here. Like I'm walking on thin ice, and any second it's going to crack, and I'm going to fall through."

Spencer's brows knit together, and he sets his mug down on the counter. "Why would you feel like that?"

You hesitate, the familiar shame and embarrassment bubbling up in your chest. "Because I've always been the... the fat one, okay? The one people look at and judge before they even know my name. I should be used to it by now. I am used to it, but sometimes..."

You trail off, swallowing hard.

"Sometimes it just gets to me, and I hate that it does, because it's so stupid. There are so many bigger things to worry about than how I look. People are actually dying out there, and I'm sitting here worried about my stupid blouse being too tight..."

Spencer step closer, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you wonder if you've said too much, if he thinks you're being ridiculous. But then he speaks, and his voice is steady, full of quiet conviction.

"It's not stupid. What you're feeling is valid," he says. "And you're not 'the fat one.' You're you—intelligent and compassionate and one of the strongest people I've ever met. The way you connect with people and make them feel seen, even in the darkest moments of their life—that's not something everyone can do. That's you."

The words hit you like a wave, the sincerity in his tone making your throat tighten. You look down at your coffee, unable to meet his eyes.

"You don't have to say that just to make me feel better," you mumble.

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better," he replies. "I mean it."

He hesitates for a moment before reaching out, his hand hovering near yours. When you don't pull away—you don't think you could ever make yourself pull away from Spencer—he rests it gently on top of yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel like you can breathe again.

"Thin ice can hold more weight than you think," he says quietly. "And even if it does crack, you won't fall. I'll make sure of it."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you think them away quickly. "Thank you, Spencer," you say, your voice thick with emotion.

"Anytime." He smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "And for the record, I think you're beautiful."

Your heart does a little flip, your face warming. Maybe one day you can tell him how you feel, how desperately in love you are with him.

Baby steps.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Hey can you do cullens x reader when its readers first time sleeping over at there house and the reader kicks and sleep talks in there sleep? x

Pairing: Jasper Hale x human!reader

A/n: I don't do requests as much anymore, but since I'm in the hospital, waiting for surgery, unable to sleep 😅 anyway, it's not some masterpiece, but enjoy

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

"Does she always do that?" Emmett raised his eyebrows, a horrified look in his eyes.

"I've never stuck around long enough to notice", Edward notes with a slight frown, looking to Carlisle. "Their thoughts are too...graphic for my taste. And her dream makes her thoughts seem... saintly."

Chuckling, Jasper appears before them. "Are you badmouthing my mate?"

"She's moaning your name", Emmett grimaces. "I'm scarred for eternity."

Jasper smirks. "Imagine what sounds she makes when I'm actually touching her."

"If this is your tactic to chase us out of the house so you can get your dirty hands on Y/N....it's working." Edward admits before disappearing from sight.

"Carlisle, tell him to stop letting mortal women sleep over." Emmett insists, his eyebrows furrowing as he hears Y/N mumble about Jasper's lips.

"I won't forbid his mate from staying here....but we might soundproof his room."

"You know what's the worst part?" Rosalie storms in. "They have barely kissed and we are all listening to her nasty little fantasies."

"Rosalie", Carlisle warns as he sees Jasper's lips press in a thin line.

"I'm that good of a kisser", Jasper boasts proudly. "And if you don't want to listen to her fantasies come to life, you might wanna get out of earshot really, really fast."

"Someone has to stick around in case you decide her blood is sweeter than her moans", Rosalie remarks begrudgingly.

Jasper's smile is replaced with a scowl. "I'd never!" He swallows thickly, "I would rather die than harm a single hair on her head."

"Edward said that and now we have Bella."

Rosalie is right, Jasper realizes. Despite what he believes and wishes, he might never be able to bring Y/N's fantasies to life without him risking her life. And as long as she's not asking to become a vampire, he wouldn't dare. For his sanity, as well as everyone else's.

His human mate is too fragile for all the ways he wants to love her. Every move he makes around her has to be carefully thought out, even the slightest mistake could leave him devastated.

So, when he returns to her side, he lets out a gentle sigh. It's surprising how many human mannerisms he's adopted since she waltzed into his life, every bit of her mirrored in him.

Laying beside her, she kicks his chest and yelps. Waking up, hair disheveled, her eyes meet his golden hues and her lips spread in a warm smile.

"You're here", she mumbles, still half asleep.

"I promised, didn't I?" Jasper pulls her closer. "I'll be here until you say otherwise. Always."

Nuzzling her face in his neck, she relaxes and her breathing evens out.

Pressing a cool kiss to her forehead, Jasper closes his eyes. He might be unable to sleep, but he can still fantasize of a day where he will be able to do more than just peck her lips.

[namelessprayers]

ekko has never looked for silver linings; he's made them himself, crafted them for the children of the undercity, for the future to shine brightly upon if only to shut out half the looming darkness that encroaches on his fragile haven.

it is not delusion, nor a savior complex, because ekko has come to terms with the impossibility of silver linings in some unfortunate cases. this, first and foremost, in the wreckage of early youth.

what is the silver lining of benzo's death? what good had come from vander's end and vi's subsequent disappearance?

there's nothing there to shed light on, and the shadow the events left, a different person suddenly apparent in the changed gaze of powder's eyes. it's all connected in a way. a single stubborn track record of things that cannot be reimagined in a better way.

but by far the most egregiously worst of everything, is the day ekko comes face to face with the immutable fact of jinx, perpetuating as the name goes, an obstinate and fulfilling jinx.

yet, when ekko gets to the universe where powder is powder and things are better the way he'd often imagined it could be, there's still no silver lining to be made.

how does ekko craft a silver lining when there is no lining to be had?

this world is entirely made of silver. this universe is unyielding to any rust. he is out of place, out of time, and the light here continues to blind him even as his eyes adjust. he thinks of the changes that got him here. a contrast of hex tech, a contrast of what ifs and countless possibilities, a contrast of his own making.

on return, the silver linings are dimming. ekko saves everyone, but he saves jinx first. then he loses powder a second, no, a third time.

there are no additional chances, no trying again, but there are also no silver linings. benzo, vander, heimerdinger, powder... jinx.

he doesn't even know what to make of the unlived dimensions on the ranking of losses scale. ekko wonders about them, thinks of visiting just once to know how it is to be somewhere he never had to make silver linings for, but ultimately decides that it's not right.

ekko has always made the good himself. it's not delusional and he's no savior or sacrifice; he only resolves to make the good with his own two hands, having hope that it'll find him first if he never seeks it out. he has to have faith in that, that the light will prevail.

[jenanigans1207]

1/5/25: Reputation

If there’s one thing Dean Winchester knows, it’s that he has a reputation.

Whether he’s known as the Righteous Man, the Michael Sword, the man who both started and ended the apocalypse, the man who, for all intents and purposes, killed God— he couldn’t go damn near anywhere where people hadn’t heard of him. He was the perfect killer, he was ruthless, bloodthirsty, unforgivable. He was determined, stubborn, reckless. Everywhere he went, his name was whispered in shadows, stories of things he did and did not do circulating around him.

Even Sam thought of Dean as his Big Brother— role model, protector, unwavering supporter. And while Sam’s opinion of him was wholly good, it still came with a sort of mold that Dean felt like he had to fit into.

The only person who didn’t put any expectation on him, the only one who didn’t have any sort of preconceived notion of who he was or what he was supposed to be or do was Cas. To Cas, Dean was just.. Dean. He wasn’t anything more spectacular or more despicable than that— he was just his completely unguarded self, whether he wanted to be or not.

If someone were to ask another hunter about Dean, they would probably tell some dramatic story of something he did. If they were to ask some monster about Dean, they’d talk about how he probably murdered everyone they ever loved. If they were to ask Sam about Dean, Sam would gush about what a great brother he was, how reliable he was, how he always came through when it mattered. But if someone were to ask Cas about Dean, well.

Cas would probably talk about how Dean’s favorite shade of blue is the sky at exactly 5:37 in the morning when the sun is just barely starting to rise, the black fading away to bring in the start of a new day. Cas would talk about how everyone thinks Dean’s favorite food is pie, but his consumption of burgers would certainly suggest otherwise. Cas would talk about Dean’s music choices and his movie choices and how you wouldn’t expect one if you only knew the other. He wouldn’t think to say a goddamn thing about Dean’s anger issues, trust issues— issues. Just, issues.

Even though they met strictly because of the fact that Dean was both the Righteous Man and the Michael Sword, Cas never thought of him as those things. And sometimes Dean likes to sit there and blame it on the fact that Cas not only saw but cradled his literal soul— that Cas found him when he was at his worst and his weakest and literally put him back together piece by piece. He likes to think that Cas looks past all his bluster and bullshit because he has seen the real color of Dean’s soul.

And while Dean knows that’s at least partly true, he also knows that isn’t the only thing. Because the rest of the truth comes from the fact that Cas simply cares. And that’s not to say that Sam doesn’t care— of course he does— but Sam has Dean put firmly in this box in his head and so when he looks at Dean, that’s what he sees. But Cas always wants to know more, wants to keep learning about Dean. It’s almost like he purposefully doesn’t box Dean into some category in his head because he wants to be able to expand it at will, to shift and alter the perception as he learns more about Dean. Cas wants so badly to know everything about Dean that he spends all his time pretending that he knows nothing, so he pays attention to every detail.

“Hey,” Dean turns his head to the side, glancing over to where Cas is perched on the bed next to him, reading some encyclopedia that is equally giant and boring, trying to gain information for the case they’re about to head out on.

True to everything Dean has known about Cas from the moment they met, Cas immediately and without hesitation abandons what he had been doing to look up. “Yes, Dean?”

Dean meets his blue eyes and then glances away because it’s too much, somehow, even though it never feels like enough. He glances over Cas’s shoulder to stare at one of the guns he has hung on his wall. He briefly considers turning back to stare at the same water stain on his ceiling that he’d been looking at while mulling over these thoughts, but he doesn’t want to turn away from Cas. “I just—” He pauses for a moment, takes in a deep breath, and then forces himself to meet Cas’s gaze directly. “I don’t know if I’ve ever said thanks, And you deserve to hear that.”

Cas looks equal parts touched and confused with a hint of confusion there, too. “For what?”

And Dean knows there isn’t really a way to encompass everything he’s thankful for. He knows there aren’t words to truly express the depth of the impact Cas has had both on Dean’s life and on Dean himself. Dean doesn’t know how to tell him that Cas is the only place he feels like he can be himself, the only place where he feels like the bare bones of who he is matters and is enough. So instead, he lets out a shaky exhale and murmurs, “Everything.”

And in that way Cas always does, he seems to understand exactly what Dean means. It’s as if he can hear the multitudes of feelings and unspoken words hidden in those syllables, like he can feel the weight of what Dean’s feeling. And maybe that’s their profound bond, connecting them in a way that isn’t physical. Or maybe that’s just because Cas sees Dean and understands Dean at his most fundamental level. Maybe it’s because Cas loves him in a way that is as fierce as Dean loves him in return.

Cas just smiles and kisses him.

[coyotecrumb]

i just remembered that i had a tokyo ghoul au fic i was writing and it was kakuja!gojo x human!reader but there was a big focus on gojo's backstory and how he started cannibalizing other ghouls

basically reader winds up finding out about the ghouls at anteiku but you don't report them bc you have a vivid memory of being saved from a binge-eating ghoul by a second ghoul wearing a mask that looked like a white wolf. you never thanked them for getting you home safe that night so it's something that's always in the back of your mind.

the one thing that you find a little odd is that one of the residents of anteiku is a human child. megumi's sweet, if a little skittish, and you're curious about how he ended up being raised by a group of ghouls. that's where gojo comes in.

(way more material under the cut)

he tells you "oh yea i killed his dad and then i found megumi in his apartment so i just brought him here lol" and you're like ??!?!?!? but he explains more later once you've grown closer.

in the past, there was a ghoul named getou who was gojo's closest friend. getou was really passionate about humans and ghouls coexisting, but gojo never particularly cared about the topic. after an encounter with megumi's father, both of them were left traumatized and getou crashed out, started insisting that humans all needed to die, etc. the two of them fought.

“I had a best friend. But we fought.”  You count the stars in the sky, the few you can see; the rest blotted out by light pollution from the city’s lights. Gojo wants you to ask, so you ask. “What happened?”  He is silent for several moments. When you look over at him, he’s staring back, wearing that flat, impassive expression that he wears when the jokester’s mask falls. Except—you’re not so sure if it is impassiveness, anymore. There’s something else there, something you can only see now that you’ve known him for all these months. It might be something close to sadness.  Electric blue, his eyes burn brighter than anything in the night sky above you. His words come out calm, even, as if practiced and committed to memory.  “I killed him,” Gojo says. “And then I ate him.” 

so basically the two of them had a tacit understanding that the only way either of them would concede to die was through being devoured by the other. which is cute and fun. ummmmm and gojo's mask was modeled after a raven. and getou's was modeled after a white wolf !

here are some more snippets from the archives:

what would have been the opening scene.

There’s a strange sort of shroud that hangs around you, these days: a blurring of the senses, putting distance between you and yourself and the world, erasing the boundaries between flesh and earth until you don’t know where you end and dirt begins.  You are half-real. Mostly wanting. You spend your hours saying things to people that you can’t recall ten minutes later. It is not the worst way to live. And then—in some moments—you reenter your body all at once, the world crystallizing into furious, brilliant color. You become something real: another speck in the teeming anthill that is Tokyo, visible yet invisible to passersby. You can feel your own breath.  Your therapist gives you words for these things. Dissociation. Anxiety. When you experience a traumatic event, your mind and body can get stuck there even if you’re not in danger anymore.  Inertia. You walked out of that night—made it home—and with you came the memory of a silvery voice, clinging to your clothes, tinging your dreams.  You don’t fear it. The voice is something that pulls you towards it like it has you on the end of a string: coaxing, kind. But there’s no way to explain that to your doctors, who believe, like everyone else, that pure luck was what saved you from death’s jaws those few years ago.  Luck, you think now, taking the stench of blood into your lungs. It’s always luck. Gray skies stretch out overhead. The wind, on the cusp of autumn, carries the slightest chill. The alleyway behind your workplace might have been clean, once, but now it’s riddled with piles of trash that sully the air with their odor. You smell nothing but filth. Filth—and blood. The ghoul, hunched over and gasping, keels into a row of trash cans. An explosion of crashes hits your eardrums, loud enough to remind you that— Ah, right. You blink, your vision sharpening. This is real. More clatters. What little you can see of the ghoul's face is taut with stress, but undeniably young: the look of someone forced to grow up too fast. He can’t be any older than you. Blonde hair caked with gore falls across his forehead, nearly obscuring the black sclera of his eyes.  A young ghoul, kakugan activated in broad daylight, without any hint of a mask to hide his face. This, you realize, something twisting in your gut, is the look of prey, hunted. In his agony, he has not noticed you. Heart heavy like a sinking stone in your chest, you press against the brick wall behind you, nails digging into your palms. Blood continues to fall. Most of it comes from his shoulder, which— You bite back a gag. His arm is nearly entirely severed, dangling at an odd angle, bone and torn sinew visible where his wound meets rank air.  His kagune wraps around his other arm, spiraling into a shape reminiscent of a conch shell, colored an iridescent ocean blue. It glints in what little sunlight reaches it, keen like the blade of a dagger. Deadly; designed to kill. But it’s beautiful in a way that makes your heart ache, pain shooting through it like you’ve jarred an old wound.  You haven’t seen a kagune up close since— Yellow light, blotting out the stars. Asphalt against your palms.  A white mask. “You’re going to be alright. I promise.” 

shoko's the one to bring you to anteiku after you save nanami.

“Yaga,” Shoko says breezily, “I found them!”  The man glances up, then back down. Does a double take. “What—“  “I caught them up on Nanami and everything.” Shoko slips behind the counter, humming cheerily. “They're cool.”  He splutters. “What—you—Nanami? Shoko, when I tell you to look into someone, that doesn’t mean to tell them things and bring them here!”  “Ehh? But they helped Nanami, so I figured it was fine…” Shoko goes for a sip of his coffee—“Ach, Yaga-san, this has sooo much blood in it!”  If the man’s hair was long enough to grab, he’d be tearing it out in clumps. “You—I can’t even—You know what? No more investigating for you. And no smoking indoors!” 

megumi's introduction.

A faint rustle sounds from the hallway. You barely register it, eyes snagged on the way the snowy-white of Gojo’s hair glows under the overhead lights—but Gojo locks in on the noise like a hawk, head snapping in the direction of the door. His shoulders draw up, his eyes widening in something like anticipation—then he’s darting out into the hallway before you can even think to ask what’s wrong, disappearing silently into the dark.  At first, there’s nothing. Just some rustling; quiet footsteps. But then there’s a thud, Gojo’s triumphant cry, and a child—a child?—is squalling in a high, plaintive voice, “No!”  Gojo tromps back in with the glowing smile of a cat presenting its owner with a dead mouse as a gift. Attached to his outstretched arm is his hand, which wraps around a diminutive ankle; attached to which is a little boy, arms dangling to the floor in defeat, scowl dark enough to rival a thundercloud. [hypothetical material] As soon as his feet touch the floor, the little boy is off. His socked feet patter across the room with determined speed; within seconds, he’s out the door and gone.  Gojo brandishes a hand in the direction of the empty doorway, and says in a proud, indulgent voice, “Megumi!” 

more megumi and gojo's initial explanation.

Megumi, the third child residing at Anteiku (Gojo promises you with what you hope is a genuine expression that he is not hoarding any more children to shock you with) is different from what you’re used to from Nanako and Mimiko.  Like them, he is shy—but even around those he knows, there is no furtive giggling, no brightly-colored toys, no games of tag or pretend. Megumi is a reclusive shadow, spends most of his time observing the patrons of Anteiku in such isolated corners that you have no idea where he is half the time. When he emerges into the light, it’s with great reluctance, face preemptively sullen like he just knows he’s not going to like what’s about to happen.  He does not speak except to answer questions wherein Yaga gives him no choice but to do so: to select one of two choices for dinner without pointing, to reveal to you the name of the little stuffed wolf he keeps with him at all hours of the day. And, of course, to protest Gojo’s affections, which he showers upon Megumi with the grandeur of a philanthropist giving meals to the starving and which Megumi rejects with the fervor of a cat trying to avoid a bath.  He’s tense, skittish, wary of adults with the sort of reactive viciousness that reminds you of a spitting feral kitten.  And he is human.  “I killed his dad,” Gojo tells you gaily, slurping up blood through a straw. He ignores your wheeze as you choke on your cake and the look of abject disdain that Shoko turns on him from where she works behind the counter. “He deserved to die, total asshole, but his kid lived with him, and I couldn’t really leave him there, so, like—“ He shrugs. “I brought him here.”  You recover enough to squint at him. “You kidnapped a toddler?”  “You’re catastrophizing,” Gojo says.

some nanako and mimiko.

In the spring, Megumi is enrolled in a nearby primary school. Mimiko and Nanako are not. What follows is mutiny.  “How come Megumi gets to go and we don’t?” Nanako howls, stomping her foot. “I want to go to school, too!”  Mimiko, standing behind her sister with her doll hugged to her chest, does not yell but does something much worse: lower lip jutting out, she stares up with her enormous brown eyes, glinting with tears that threaten to spill over.  Yaga has taken his sunglasses off and is massaging his temples, wilting with exhaustion. Shoko and Gojo watch from behind the counter, visibly brimming with delight and offering absolutely no help.  “It’s not safe for you,” Yaga says for the nth time, pleading. “Megumi is human. He won’t be hurt there. But you two are ghouls, and you’re too young to have total control over your kagune or kakugan yet. I don’t have to tell you what happens if people discover you’re a ghoul, right? It’s too great of a risk.”   Nanako’s face is red with rage. “But that’s not fair!”  “I know, and I wish you two could go with him, I do. But this is about your safety.” 

maybe i'll write out a full version of this idea someday, but it's been set aside for now. i'm still very fond of the idea of ghoul babies nanako/mimiko and human baby megumi all running around together though

[theflopwonder]

He definitely is, but I think it takes him a second to get there.

What I’ve always found really fascinating about him is that, his suits have always been so stylish, but he’s always dressed sooooooo plain out of suit. Like the 00s really stripped everyone of cool fashion, but even in the 90s when Bart was on faucet failure levels of drippy and Tim always had on a funky little varsity jacket or a band T-shirt, the most fashionable thing Kon would be dressed in is an opened button up with like palm trees on it or some shit.

I think his civilian fits are a little plain, especially in Hawaii, for 2 main reasons

1. Fashion, at least back then for him, is more of what’s cool rather than a means of personal expression. He’s Superboy, he’s the kid! Girls love him, guys wanna be him, all things that are dependent on how cool and fly (hah!) he is. If goes out to a club or something he kinda feels like doesn’t need to dress cool, cuz he is cool and that’s his entire point!

2. He funnels everything that’s cool into Superboy (cuz DUH somebody has to be stylish wearing the S they can’t all just be out here looking like identical nesting dolls that’s lame! and when he becomes Superman for realsies he’ll probably have to wear the uniform this time so he might as well make shit fun while he can) but obviously he can’t wear the suit all day every day cuz that’s disgusting so his civvies are more so just a matter of convenience. They’re gonna get destroyed anyway when a villain crashes his coffee date n it’s expensive enough to replace his leather jacket all the time so like … what’s the point?

And when it comes to TT03 … honestly after his time in Suicide Slum falls apart, I think he’s is in such a long-term (but high functioning) depressive state (which would explain the very intense swandive into irrational self hatred after the Luthor thing) that he falls into the T-Shirt and jeans out of convenience. He doesn’t care about what’s cool, he doesn’t care that he’s a shell of himself, he is just so disillusioned in his identity, and frustrated and hurt and mad at the world but he doesn’t know what to do with any of these feelings besides internalize them. So a costume honestly becomes the last thing he’s worried about. He’s a hero, what they do often isn’t cool and isnt a game, so the only thing he should be worried about is helping people and he can do that just as well in a t-shirt and jeans as he can spandex.

When he comes back from the dead, and the worst of the depression lifts enough that he can get a little more clarity, fashion becomes one of the first things he uses to explore his identity. He stops looking at his Conner Kent persona as something to keep up in service to other people, or something meant to save him from himself, and begins to appreciate it as something that’s uniquely his to create from the ground up. It starts simple, he wears his leather jacket again, and despite his assumption, he doesn’t feel like a poser, it something that just like … feels right. And so then he begins to funnel more and more things from Superboy to Conner Kent and vice versa. Some of it works, some of it doesn’t, but it gives him the courage to try new things, things that neither Superboy, Kon-El, OR Conner Kent have tried.

Okay he likes leather jackets, what if he tried guyliner? Oh that look fucking awesome what if he tried doing graphic liner designs? It wouldn’t be guyliner anymore technically (he has … well … very genderly feelings abt this, predictably launching him into another identity crisis [plot twist: it’s all the same, he just hasn’t realized it yet])but it would be cool TTK precision practice? Oh wow that looks fucking BALLER okay okay what if he added glitter to it….. oh hey that duo chrome glitter on top of the black kinda looks like a galaxy … hey it would look pretty cool if his suit kinda had that same effect … maybe he should design another one?

Instead of thinking of coolness as a thing he steps into, he realizes that coolness is something that comes from him, and is based in personal expression. Like damn he might draw some stares in Kansas wearing this DIY crop top but if he pairs it with this funky flannel half buttoned and these high waisted but ripped to hell jeans BAM he fits in AND still looks fucking hot, AND still wearing the clothes that he wants to wear bc he thinks they look fucking cool! All of those things are allowed to coexist!

i’m writing another Big Fic (for me at least) so yk what time it is

[tsarjozinzbazin]

hey so like was anyone going to tell me that Ed literally goes completely blind for 5 days in the book or what

[cuteniaarts]

Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

Who's the fairest of them all?

[girl-bateman]

Gaslighting, my old friend, I'll fall for you every single time <3

[cervinelich]

"Everyone always leaves/abandons/rejects me =C" is such a huge red flag for me. Saw someone saying this on social media the other day and knee-jerk instinct was "blockblockblock"

[trianglegoddess]

I'm Still Standing

The League felt like they had a strong sense of Phantom’s power. After all, they wouldn’t have asked him to join the team, otherwise. He’s strong, he can fly, and due to his supernatural nature, he’s amazing on recon and stealth missions. He’s also incredibly reliable, and smarter than most people give him credit for. He’s a natural hero, a more snarky Captain Marvel, some news outlets have been saying. Always saving people with just the right words to say, with a humble smile on his face. 

Phantom, with all of his power, seemed untouchable in every definition of the word. 

And then they got invaded by Darkseid. 

It wasn’t the first time Darkseid had invaded Earth, but it was the first time bringing armies so large, the first time he’s attacked all over the world to spread the League thin. It is single handedly the worst alien invasion Earth has ever had. 

Batman, bleeding out on the sidewalk, Wonder Woman knocked unconscious and restrained by a nearly egregious amount of henchmen, Superman, weak from the kryptonite Darkseid had shot him with. Thankfully it had missed all the important bits, but with that bullet inside of him, Superman was also down for the count, as well as dozens of other League members. 

If it hadn’t been for Phantom, they would have lost. 

Phantom, who’s never been seen without a smile on his face until now. Phantom, who’s never had so much as a scratch on him, until now. Phantom, who has only ever been known to be kind and compassionate, even to his villains, until now. 

Usually there’s this sort of warm, comforting feeling that radiates from Phantom. It feels like a nice breeze on a warm summer’s day, a nice cup of hot cocoa, your favorite song. It’s a feeling of safety, as if everything will be alright just because he’s there. 

Here, though, something else, something much stronger, is radiating from him. It practically rolls off of him in huge waves, making those conscious around him more aggravated, more on edge.

Phantom pulls himself off of the ground. His suit is torn, and his green blood splattered on himself and the ground. He spits a glob of it out, along with a tooth. 

“Still, you stand,” Darkseid says, as if tired. “Do you not tire in the face of your own demise?”

“As long as I’m still standing, you won’t ever win,” Phantom says. His voice is low and threatening, reverberating eerily off of the broken infrastructure that surrounds them. It sends a chill down everybody’s spines, though if Darkseid is affected, he doesn’t show it. 

“Your comrades have fallen, your militaries have failed, and you have no other help arriving. Pray tell how one singular human will be able to take me down!” 

Phantom doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks forward so that his friends are behind him, and braces himself. Darkseid, unable to contain his own hubris, lets Phantom come closer. 

Phantom takes in a deep breath, as if he’s about to speak.  

Instead he wails. 

Any remaining glass shatters, raining down upon them as green sound waves push back the offending forces. 

And it’s loud, of course. The ears of Darkseid’s minions are bleeding, and many of them are either dying because it’s too much for them to bear, or they’re killing themselves to give themselves some modicum of relief. But it’s also more than that, more than noise. 

It’s mourning. 

The first feeling that overwhelms everyone is anger. Phantom’s anger at Darkseid, at the destruction, at the fact that he just can’t catch a fucking break and it’s not fair. The second, is the sadness. It weighs down upon their shoulders, suffocating them like smog. It invades every part of their being-their lungs, their joints, their very hearts-and it presses and presses and presses until there’s very nearly nothing left. 

Phantom still pushes on. He is nothing if not persistent, driven to fight, driven to protect his people, his team, his friends, his family. No mortal being could ever hope to have a lung capacity like this, but Phantom is no normal mortal, and Darkseid is finally starting to come to terms with that. 

The last wave of overwhelming emotion is more of an idea than it is an actual feeling. It’s not a threat, per se, but a promise. A promise to do everything in his power to destroy Darkseid and his forces permanently and with prejudice. A promise that no matter how hard Darkseid fights, he will not win. 

A promise that, if knocked down, Phantom will stand back up, and he will not lose. 

Eventually, after what feels like eternity, the wail dies down. There isn’t a single member of Darkseid’s army that’s still on their feet or in the air. Phantom collapses down to one knee, and bright, white rings flicker around his person for just a moment, before he wills them away and stands back up. 

It’s less walking towards Darkseid, and more stalking. They are not on equal footing. Phantom is the predator in every sense of the word, his anger and grief still radiating off of his body in ways that Darkseid is unable to comprehend. 

“Do you yield?” Phantom asks. His eyes are blazing green, burning into Darkseid’s very soul. It is a sort of animalistic, primal instinct deep within him that tells him, run, run as fast as you can. Darkseid’s hubris, however, remains unmatched. 

Even as he stares Death in the eye. 

“I do not,” Darkseid says. He tries to get to his feet, but his body won’t listen, still weighed down by the effects of Phantom’s wail. 

“Then as Phantom, King of the Dead, I hereby condemn you for the rest of your afterlife.”

“Don’t count your eggs yet, boy,” Darkseid spits. “I’m still alive.”

“No,” Phantom says, in a tone adjacent to someone who’s giving their condolences, “You’re not.”

Phantom gestures beside them, and Darkseid spares a glance and sees…Himself. 

His corpse is splayed on the ground, blood spurting out of his ears, nose, and eyes. He stares lifelessly up at the sky. The blood is still leaking down the sides of his face. 

“You’re dead now, Darkseid, and therefore under my jurisdiction. Due to your extensive list of crimes you will not receive a hearing, just your eternal damnation for the sins you’ve committed.”

Phantom waves his hand, and green chains and manacles appear on Darkseid’s wrists and ankles before he’s dusted out of existence, sent to his eternal punishment in another dimension. 

As soon as he’s gone, Phantom collapses to his knees. 

He’s not sure how long he’s there, sitting in the blood of those he’s killed, before Wonder Woman comes over. She’s covered in gashes and bruises and blood that isn’t hers, but she still stands tall and proud. A battle won is a reason for celebration, after all. 

He glances behind her, sees Superman taking Batman into his arms and flying off. 

Diana doesn’t ask him questions about how he’s feeling. A victory is a victory, sure, but not without its price. 

Instead, she holds out her hand. Danny grasps it, and allows her to help him to his feet. 

“As long as you can stand, you can win,” Diana says. “I think I’ll have to use that for my next big speech.”

“By all means,” Phantom tells her. “Just be sure to credit me.”

“Deal.”

[shotmrmiller]

your superior finding out about the secret praise kink you didn't know had a name because you'd always been called an over achiever, a goody two shoes. never gave anyone any trouble, nose burrowed in a book since you had knobby knees and a library card.

you'd thought it normal that the apples of your cheeks burned when praised after giving your teacher the drawing you'd made for them the night before. that heat spread from the center of your chest up when your first boyfriend/girlfriend whistled at the sight of you outside of uniform. that warmth settles in your belly when you get a pat on the back from your platoon leader firm enough to force the air out of your lungs because you'd disassembled and cleaned a glock with the ease of a professional.

apparently it wasn't.

after weeks of training with the fabled task force, weeks of sharing elbow room with the team, weeks of soaking up the dizzying praise from the captain ("did real good out there, eh? can always count on you." you didn't question the throb betwixt your thighs, taking care of it with a cute little bullet like you've always done since joining the military)

you're confronted by the worst of the lot. ghost catches you in a break room, your back to him, hands clutching a cup of coffee that's more sludge than liquid, its warmth barely seeping through the styrofoam.

his figure fills the doorway, shoulders nearly brushing the frame. your first thought is that his brows aren't twisted together and he lacks that cold, blank look in his eyes so your death isn't in the nearest of futures. the second is that when he's not fully covering his face, the outline of his jaw is quite visible, looking sharp enough to cut.

then he crosses his sculpted arms over his chest, seams straining against the expanse of his muscles, head tipped to the side.

he moves with the keen curiosity of a predator sniffing around a newborn fawn, gaze intense yet inquisitive, assessing your every detail with a menacing interest.

"you ever gonna tell me you've a praise kink, bird?" the question sends a chill through your veins before turning into a fiery rush as it races at twice the normal speed.

praise kink? no. surely not. doesn't everyone like to receive compliments?

"sure. i don't mind gettin' told i've an impressive cock but that's bed talk. you look ready to bend over 'nd show us how slick tha' pretty cunt can get over a rufflin' of hair and a couple of empty words."

that has you positively reeling, fingertips cracking the cup in your hands, pulse on your neck fluttering. you feel a cornered, skittish animal, ready to flee lest your life come to an end in his maws.

but as usual, the cruel man more creature than person, twists the knife he's dug into you with a certain ruthlessness only he can muster.

"so be good for me, eh? love your praise? earn it."

you've always been an over achiever, proven once again by the way you take him to the root in one long, broad stroke with any complaints at the sheer size of him resting firmly behind your clenched teeth.

"tight little thing, spread open over me like you were meant for it. for me." he runs a gloved thumb over your swollen bottom lip. "there's tha' look. drivin' me bloody insane when you gave kyle tha' molten gaze. none o' tha' now, yeah?"

he creeps his ungloved hand down to circle your pearl with the spit-slick pads of his fingers, drawing in a sharp breath when your walls flutter and constrict around his cock at the feel of something other than your toy giving you the relief you need after a hard day's work.

"bloody fuckin' 'ell."

ghost claims a fistful of hair, pulling you closer to him, his breath warming the stinging, throbbing mark he bit onto the delicate skin of your neck. the shuffling of feet right outside the door snap you out of your daze, fingernails sinking into the bulging muscle of his chest but he has none of it.

he uses your hair to direct your focus back onto him and even though he'd only given you a leading tug you felt some strands of your hair come off with a pop.

"easy. can't see your pretty face when i'm fuckin' ya if your lookin' away."

your expression twists into what you hope is bliss when he bucks his hips, your whimper drowning out his groan when he hits on something new.

something you want him to keep hitting.

"exactly like i'd thought."

everything else blurs together after that, and only when you're back in your room using a warm cloth to clean yourself up do you remember the other things he'd rumbled.

(inside o' ya, make you mine-)

(-get 'bout bein' with anyone else-)

(-ll to myself-)

you touch your tender pussy with gentle fingers at what he'd said in the end.

(leave tha' f'me, he swipes your hand away, i'll get ya there, pet.)

if price's compliments take a nose dive off a cliff you don't notice because you're getting your daily fill of them and ghost after dinner every night. kyle keeps them to one word and soap likes to tempt fate as always.

[flwrkid14]

Love and Obsession: The Tim Drake Way

part 2

Everyone in the Batfamily knows Tim Drake has… issues with boundaries. They’ve spent years trying to teach him what’s appropriate and what’s—well—deeply unsettling and completely invasive. To be fair, he’s learned. Mostly. He doesn’t stalk his family anymore (much), and he no longer pulls up files on every single person they talk to (okay, maybe just sometimes). But it’s progress.

But then Tim starts dating Danny Fenton. And, oh boy, a few screws come loose.

It starts small, as always. Just little things. Tim’s a detective, after all—background checks are second nature. Danny’s living in Gotham, and Gotham isn’t safe. So, really, what’s the harm in knowing a little more about Danny’s friends? And his professors? And maybe also his classmates? It’s just standard protocol. Okay?

“Tim, you’ve run a full dossier on my entire biology class?” Danny asks one day, laughing as he flips through a file on the coffee table. Tim shrugs. “What if one of them is dangerous?” “Pretty sure the most dangerous thing in that class is the midterm.”

Danny doesn’t think much of it. He’s a little flattered, even. Tim’s protective. It’s sweet.

But Tim’s mind doesn’t stop there. Danny’s too handsome. Too charming. What if someone tries to hurt him? What if someone tries to take him away? It’s not obsessive—it’s just concern. So, a tracker on Danny’s phone? Necessary. Cameras in his apartment? Standard. Monitoring his sleeping patterns and hangout spots? Logical.

Tim tells himself it’s love. And maybe a little insecurity.

“You have a tracker on his phone?” Dick asks, trying not to sound alarmed. Tim nods, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Of course. What if something happens to him?” “And the cameras?” “Safety.” “The background checks on his professors?” “Gotham U isn’t exactly known for its stellar staff, Dick.”

It doesn’t stop there. Tim knows everything. Danny’s eating habits, his favorite places to go when he’s stressed, his childhood allergies. Tim’s mapped out Danny’s entire life. He knows about Danny’s ghost powers too—of course he does. He’s Tim Drake. The moment he realized Danny was Phantom, it just… clicked.

Danny being half-ghost? That’s just one more reason to worry. Tim’s up late at night, watching for any signs of ectoplasmic interference. He tracks the energy spikes. He monitors Danny’s fights.

He doesn’t think Danny knows. He’s terrified of what will happen if he finds out.

But then he does.

One evening, Danny walks into Tim’s apartment and casually drops a folder on the table. Tim’s heart stops.

“What’s this?” Danny asks, raising an eyebrow. Tim swallows hard. “I… it’s just…” “You’ve been tracking me?” Danny opens the file, glancing through pages of surveillance reports, background checks, even analysis of his ectoplasmic energy. Tim feels like his world is about to shatter.

“I… I can explain,” Tim says, his voice tight. “I’m just… worried about you. You’re in danger all the time, and I—” Danny walks over, cupping Tim’s face in his hands. Tim braces for the worst.

But Danny just smiles. “Can I put a tracker on you too?”

Tim blinks. “What?” Danny kisses his cheek. “If you’re watching my back, it’s only fair I watch yours. I need to make sure you’re safe too.”

Tim stares at him, speechless. Danny doesn’t look scared. Or angry. He looks… fond. Like Tim’s obsessive tendencies aren’t a problem at all.

“I’ve never had someone care about me this much,” Danny says softly. “I trust you with my life, Tim. This? This just proves how serious you are.”

Tim thinks he’s just fallen deeper in love.

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

The Batfamily? They’re worried.

Jason corners Tim in the cave. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’ve got cameras in his apartment. You’ve mapped out his entire life. You’ve got a tracker on him and a heartbeat monitor. And he’s… fine with it?” Tim nods, a dreamy smile on his face. “Yeah. He even wants to put a tracker on me.” “That’s not… healthy, Tim,” Dick says carefully. “That’s—” “It’s mutual,” Tim interrupts. “We’re protecting each other.”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tim, this isn’t how relationships are supposed to work.” Tim shrugs. “It’s how ours works.”

Damian watches the whole thing with narrowed eyes. “This is deeply unsettling,” he mutters.

They try to talk to Danny. Intervention style. They invite him over, sit him down, and gently (or not so gently) try to explain that Tim’s behavior isn’t normal.

Danny just laughs. “You guys do know I’m half-ghost, right?” “That doesn’t mean—” Dick starts. “I spent my entire life being hunted by ghost hunters. I’ve had worse invasions of privacy.” Danny smiles. “Tim cares. He keeps me safe. That’s all I need.”

The bats don't quite know what to say.

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

Tim and Danny, two slightly unhinged souls who think mutual surveillance is the ultimate act of love.

The bats? They’re just trying to keep up.

(“At least they’re happy?” Barbara offers weakly. Bruce sighs. “For now.”)

Gotham’s version of love was never going to be normal. But this? This is a whole new level.

[luveline]

Shy!reader and post prison Spence - the first time he calls her a pet name? I love that your Spencers always use “honey” or “dove” or “love” and we know she’d be a mess.

P.S. completely agree with how much I love the gentleness of your characters. The way you write Spencer in love is literally my favorite

ty for requesting <3 fem

“Are you sure it’s okay?” 

Spencer holds a hanging strap. You hold your own, core tense with the movement of the train. “I think I would’ve mentioned it before you got on the train if it weren’t.” 

You nod, glancing around the traincar at the other passengers. There's a stout lady wearing a large fluffy sweater, turquoise with two white kittens at her chest nuzzling one another in knit. A man with three bags of groceries sits just beside her. Further down, a teenage girl listens to music through leaking headphones, her phone reflecting blue light on her cheeks. 

“But are you sure I won’t be an imposition?” 

“You aren’t usually. I guess we won’t know until we get there.” 

“Maybe I should just find a hotel for the night.” 

“Y/N, I’m kidding. You’re not an imposition, it won’t be a problem. There’s enough room at my apartment for you to stay however long you want. Between all the books, that is.” 

It’s just not something you pictured asking him for. Your kitchen flooded in your apartment and the landlord had to put you up in a hotel until he could get someone in to make sure the stove wasn’t about to explode or catch light. But the idea of a hotel is rough torture —somewhere unfamiliar, living out of a suitcase, surrounded by people you don’t know without a door that locks properly. Spencer caught you sweating over it at your desk, pulling the story from you in reluctant drags with a hand on your shoulder. 

It’ll be okay, he said, you can just stay with me. 

Which is relieving and somehow a new can of worms to deal with. At least at a hotel there was no chance of seeing Spencer in a towel. Spencer seeing you in a towel, in your pyjamas, without your formal office protections. 

The worst part is the excitement. 

Terrified he’ll see it on your face, you stare at your shoes next to his. Spencer… Everyone told you he was a dork. When you joined the team in his absence, not once did you get the impression that the man who’d be coming back was like this. You feel like he’d been infantilised. Which isn’t to say he isn’t a dork, he is, he tells you the strangest things, facts or statistics to accompany each topic of the day, and he has all the manners and chivalry of someone who knows what it’s like to be as painfully shy as you are. But he isn’t shy. 

Autistic, he’d confided once. Probably. I’m better at dealing with it now. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“Nervous.” 

“I know.” He grasps your arm as the train screeches on tracks, turning a tight bend. You’re grateful, but immediately flushed with heat. 

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.” 

“You couldn’t. I think I know you too well already.”

“You’ve known me for less time than the rest of the team, but you were the first person to offer me a place to stay.” You clench the rickety handle of your suitcase. “Thank you.” 

“That’s okay, angel.” He says it simply and softly, like you really are an angel. Something breathless to wait with. 

Angel, you think, heart skipping a beat, pulse slow and then suddenly ramped. 

His arm slips behind your back. “I don’t want you to stay in a hotel if it’s going to scare you. Besides, it’ll be fun. Like a sleepover.” He laughs. And you, despite your flush, heat sinking across your chest like a bruise, manage to laugh back. “I’ve never had one before.” 

“What?” 

“Never had a sleepover. I didn’t have any friends in school, and I haven’t had a girlfriend stay the night before.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, expecting a retraction. Not that you’re my girlfriend, not that you’re anything like that at all. 

He smiles at you. “Should we get takeout?”

“What were you thinking?” 

“There’s an Indian restaurant between the station and my apartment? We can stop in. Or we can order something to come. Or I can cook, if you want home cooked.” 

“No, it’s fine, you don’t have to cook–”

His lips turn to a quizzical pout. “I don’t mind.”

You want him to call you angel again. You want him to take you home, make you dinner, and you want to sleepover. Like a girlfriend, you want to wake up in his bed. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, “I think I’m just tired.” 

“Are you sure?” You nod. “Alright. I was worried you didn’t like the pet name, but your pupils dilated when I said it–”

You can’t escape him. One hand in the hanging strap above, the over on your suitcase handle, you have no choice but to stand there with his arm around you to keep you from falling, face so hot with it that you’re sure you’d be feverish to the touch. “It’s fine,” you say, too afraid to look at his face that you end up staring at the nice shape of his throat, his black and purple tie. “Call me what you want. Um, I think we should get Indian.” 

“Good choice, angel.” 

[riaki]

i literally cant stop thinkin’ about highschoolbully!gojo who used to be your ride or die ‘til he started getting attention from those popular jock type guys who are always assholes to everyone. and him being.. well, him means he preens under attention no matter who it’s from, so naturally he started to gravitate towards that group and their little troop of cheerleading fangirls. and then he started distancing from you and without either of you really realizing it, you’ve slipped between the other’s fingers. but the way he acts towards you makes you think he let you fall without moving a muscle to slow you down.

soon enough, a year swings by and by the end of it he’s gone from your life, save as just another face in the gaggle of boys who make crude jokes and laugh at smart kids and pop milk cartoons during lunch just for the hell of it. but you’re minding your own business, ‘cause you’re mature enough to realize that people come and go, no matter how close you might’ve been and you think it’s unfortunate that so many memories could be thrown aside in a blink of an eye, but it makes a lot of sense when you walk past satoru and his friends bullying some random kid. you don’t know him, but you’ve heard enough to realize it’s his girlfriend satoru’s flirting with while his ‘gang’ kick at the kid. and it’s sickening, but you don’t say anything when you walk by.

and when you don’t ever see the kid afterward and catch the dark eyebags under his girlfriend’s eyes, you come to the cruel realization that satoru isn’t the boy who’d bandage the scrape on your knee you got from tripping in the playground or buy you a soda because he’s noticed your sweat when you were walking home and you don’t have any money left on you.

it’s a glass half empty, half full type of situation. on the one hand, you don’t have him anymore. on the other hand, you don’t have him anymore. that is, you lost your best friend, but you’ve also lost someone who has the potential to absolutely ruin your life. and you don’t know whether to be glad or not, so you just mind your own business even if it hurts a little when he ignores you, stops tossing paper at your head in class (unless it’s to embarrass you) and stops walking you to and from school.

but the cherry on top of the shit cake is that he doesn't get it. so when he approaches you in the library one day after satiating the need to tear pages from books and make them into paper airplanes to throw at people, he doesn't seem to understand why you try to ignore him, or put off his attempts to hold a convo. but the worst part is that he's just sleazy and clueless about it. it's like he took an eraser and wiped every single year of your friendship off the chalkboard with one fell swipe, and you wish he'd done that too to the less-than-appropriate messages he and his friends had written towards one of your classmates.

he doesn't understand why you're hesitant to talk, and that's what makes it the worst. he always thinks he's in the right, and he keeps setting you off and it sucks that he knows exactly what sets you off. "i'm an asshole? what're you talking about? really, you're in over your head. you never change." he laughs, and you ignore him, and he gets bored, and he's about to leave when he spots your wallet open next to your book, on the table. there's a polaroid peeking out, and he recognizes the tufts of white hair to be him. but there's a weird feeling in his chest, and he thinks he gets it from you, so he leaves because he thinks you're weird.

and it goes on; you practically become a nobody in satoru's eyes, because of that weird, weird feeling you give him. it's unfamiliar and he's never gotten it before and he doesn't like it. but it's unavoidable when your professor pairs you two for the end-of-term project. and of course, you're ready to do all the work, because that's how it always was between you when you were kids. but sometimes he'd surprise you by helping, and he'd show you that he was actually intelligent just to earn your praise because he liked it. but he ignored you, and you did everything, and it would've been okay if not for his friends egging him on to present your entire project when the day came and leave you with no content for a grade.

that's the first time it hits him: does he really want to do that? but it's not like it'll be the first time; you've always taken the hits for him, because you're naturally smart and you'll pick yourself back up in no time, and you get why he does it, so it'll be okay. so he agrees, and he enjoys the time he gets to spend with you through it, but the nagging weird feeling that blooms in his chest like a pesky weed only grows stronger. that's all his feelings ever seem to do around you.

but before you know it, presentation day swings around. you had coffee this morning (on his card), and you're ready enough to shoot him a small smile that sends his heart a-flutter. so you go up, feeling up to the task and ready until— he starts talking, and talking, and talking, and people don't think that he's taking your words out of your mouth because he's intelligent when he wants to make you praise him and you don't get the chance to get a word in and you notice the guys are laughing and hitting each other's shoulders to themselves in the upper rows and before you know it it's over. people are clapping but moreso they're looking at you and they're whispering— but it's terribly loud and they don't bother to hide it. they call you things that shouldn't bother you but they do anyway, because it's satoru's fault, and you're such a fool for thinking you could have it your way again.

so you leave class early, excusing yourself and ignoring the way your professor gives you a distasteful look and scribbles something next to your name. you're out the door in a second, neglecting your bags and satoru's a little lost because— didn't he just do good? people were clapping, and laughing with him and not at him, but it's attention either way so he doesn't mind. so why do you? why did you look at him like he stabbed you in the back? and his friends are calling his name, and he wishes he could chase after you and do something but he doesn't.

and it's a little sickening what they do next; one of their girls grabbed your bags and tossed it to them, and they've started rifling through it as if they own it, tearing up your shit and dumping everything onto the ground and he's kind of just... glued to the chair by his feelings. his heart feels like it's been patched together and the weird fuzzy feeling he had in his chest that's been cultivating has extinguished to be replaced with something he realizes he's only ever felt when it comes to you— guilt.

he's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't realize his friend is silently offering him something— nudging his side to get his attention. he takes it without really realizing he moved his hand, and his silent friend with the gauges in his ears and the dark hair gets up and leaves without another word. when satoru looks down, he realizes he's been given your wallet. "the reward for betraying your baby," they call it. like all you're worth is the money in your account.

he's a little curious. that's how he's always been; asking you questions, rummaging through your stuff, laughing sheepishly and shaking it off when you caught him red-handed. so he opens it up, ignoring your sad little cards and the funny look on your license. he's looking for something, subconsciously; but he doesn't find it. there's no white tuft of hair to suggest his presence in your life; just empty black leather. nothing else.

and he doesn't see you after. or the following day. or the following weeks; weeks that turn into months that turn into the end of school and he's graduating but you're not by his side. and neither are his so called 'friends'; the only thing he has to their name is your own ruined friendship. it's a shame; he feels alone. very alone. no fuzzy weird feeling, not even that thing people call guilt. no attention to chase, and connections are ever harder to make. it shouldn'tve mattered that much, right? it was just a presentation. why wouldn't you just come back to him like you always did? were you not still friends...?

but the blood is still on his hands, and he doesn't manage to ever wash it off. guilt has a way of festering; of weighing on the heart 'till there's nothing left to feel or think but unfortunate circumstance and what could've been done differently. it just sucks that he never tried hard enough to keep you from slipping between his grasp. and now, he doesn't even have a polaroid to your friendship's name.

pt.2