#i couldn't help thinking about it so

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (page 82-85)

THAT LAZYBONES!!

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[carlyraejepsans]

sometimes i think about toriel in that first run when flowey finds her in the RUINs, having her dead son return to her for comfort, broken and helpless, and being unable to provide for him in the one impossible way he desperately needed, "fixing him" "making it okay" the way only his mom should've been able to do.

flowey kills himself after she fails. you ever think about that? cause i think about that. you're gonna tell me she didn't notice? that she was cheerfully oblivious as things failed to get better and he grew more desperate and more hurt and more hopeless, as she failed him like she once did and always will fail him? you're gonna tell me that didn't eat her alive? didn't keep her up at night? didn't break her back into all those tiny little shards of herself she'd glued back together and swept under the carpet by sheer force of will?

do you think she gets nightmares about it, still?

[daily-beau]

Day 16: My saviour

[bbuzz28]

Memories

Old man Fiddlestan, my beloved-and what's this? It could be semi-canon compliant :O ?!?! Woof- this is one of the saddest things I have ever written. I know some of you gremlins (affectionate) love that sort of thing, but I don't. I like really really don't. This is my comfort ship, so I don't even know where this came from other than trying to figure out how they *could* work in canon. Truthfully though, I prefer my Fiddlestan heavy on the comfort when it comes to the "hurt/comfort" genre. This is my only “angsty” (i.e. no immediate happy ending) Notes-app fics, so don't get used to this level of sad from me lol.

“Stan?” an oddly familiar voice called. Mr. Mystery, Stan Pines, glanced up from the flyers he was organizing and found that Old Man McGucket stood in the doorway of his front door. The last tour of the day had just left, it was dinnertime, and he was exhausted. Stan rolled his eyes as he unfurled his tie, wishing Soos was still there to escort the crazy old man off his property. No matter what he did, the old hillbilly always managed to find his way back to the Shack. “Sweet Moses McSuckit, what are you doing in here? Shoo, scat, or whateva will get rid of ya.” Hearing no movement, he looked at the man again and found he was standing erect. His blue eyes were the clearest he had seen them in no less than a decade.

          Wait, what did he call- oh. Oh no.

“Stan…ley? Did I…did I do somethin’ wrong?” the other man asked, his hands twisted in knots in front of him. Memories flashed through Stan’s mind; Ford falling through the portal, Fiddleford finding him passed out in the lab, working together to bring Ford home again…being together. Being happy. They had been happy, if just for a little while, hadn’t they?

Then there was the cult, and his discovery of the damn memory gun that had finally ruined everything they ever built. He took a hesitant step forward, a thousand thoughts roaring in his mind at once. “Fidds? Wha-what do you remember?” A bandaged hand snaked up and rubbed over the faded scar on the side of his head “I…don’t rightly know. Did we…I think we had a fight? I just woke up in the…in the dump. N’ I don’t have any shoes. Do ya know why my arm is in a cast?” Fiddleford looked so lost.

Stan knew in his heart that all of this was fleeting- “clarity” would hit Fiddleford every few years after he had finally wiped his mind of himself. Almost like his brain was trying to jumpstart itself back together. The first time they thought it was a miracle but…it didn’t last. It just started a trend that would follow them both for the next almost thirty years. Fiddleford would seemingly “wake up” and be lucid for a few weeks in the beginning, then eventually only a matter of days. It had been so long since the last time that Stan would wager, they only had maybe a few hours together if he was lucky.

The last time Fiddleford was himself…they had fought. Stanley thought he had figured the only way Fiddleford could stay; he needed to remember. Remember everything he had ever forgotten. At the time, Fiddleford had been unwilling to try. He didn’t think he could handle it; he knew he had forgotten what he had for a reason.

Stanley had gotten as close to begging as he ever had in his life since surviving Tijuanna, and when it had no effect…Stanley had told Fiddleford to leave and never come back. He had left that night, and by the next day he had faded away again. After a while, Stan thought his last words had been the final nail in the coffin that was Fiddleford’s mind. He carried that weight along with every other mistake he had ever made. But here he was. Fiddleford. His Fiddleford.

He took a deep breath before he opened his arms up. “Hey, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I’m right here.” Fiddleford rushed through the doorway, melting into Stanley’s open arms. “I went away again, didn’t I?” Stan could feel Fiddleford’s tears soaking into his chest, his own whispering at the edges of his eyes. Yes, and you will leave again. You will leave me and I will be alone all over again, you fucking asshole. “Hey cowboy, didn’t I just say not t’ worry about any a’ that? You’re here now, n' that’s what matters. You’re…you’re home.” A haggard laugh vibrated through the smaller man’s chest into Stanley’s own. “I know I keep tellin’ ya, tellin’ me not t’ worry is like” “…tellin’ a fish t’ stop swimmin’; I know Fidds, I know.” Fuck was really the only conscious thought that went through his head as he held his one-time lover. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, again.

Fiddleford looked up, eyes wide and searching Stan’s face. “How long do ya think we have?” Stan shook his head, unwilling to lie even if it eventually wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t remember. You’ve always been the only person I couldn’t lie to. “I dunno, it’s been…a while. Probably not very long.” Fiddleford closed his eyes before he said “I need ya t’ know somethin’, Stanley.” Stan started to shake his head. “Fidds, you don’t have t-” The look on the other man’s face shut Stan right up-he had always had that ability. Stan wished he didn’t miss it as much as he did. “I need ya to know that even when I’m not here…I miss you. The part of me that’s somewhere in here-” A weathered hand tapped the side of his head to emphasize his point “ misses you. I’m just so sorry, Stanley. Sorry that I’m a coward. I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to be here all the time…but I’ll never stop tryin’. I’ll always try n’ come home to ya.”

Stan thought of the thousands of times he had chased Old Man McGucket, the neat little character that Stan had to compartmentalize his Fiddleford into when he wasn’t himself, out of the Shack. How many times he had found him curled up like a cat on the back porch. How every time they “met”, McGucket would say how nice Stan was or how good he felt to be around him “for some reason.” How many odds and ends McGucket would gift Stan from the dump for exhibits at the Mystery Shack with a large smile and nothing substantial behind his eyes.

It would be so much easier if he would stop trying to come back. Maybe the hole in Stan’s heart the size of the sweet, certifiably insane man would scab over. How many times had Stanley mourned him? How many times was he willing to hurt himself? They were now nearing their sixties, how long was he really willing to do this song and dance?

What’s one more time? he softly thought, his hand coming up to tenderly cup the grizzled face of Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Mad scientist, friend, and unfortunately for them both…the love of his life.

“I miss you too, Fidds.”

[slutforpringles]

http://xhslink.com/a/hrF2gaFbixIW

A translator of redbull/vcarb posted their tributes to Daniel on Chinese social media xiaohongshu and their words are just so touching and had me cry again 😭 he imprints on so many people and he will always be Danny ric to them

🥹😭🥹 Thank you so much for sharing!!!

[somegrumpynerd]

A bunch of doodles inspired by @wickjump saying Cross has an eternal kicked puppy look (and steadily devolving into dadmare because y'know. My Brand)

[my-name-is-apollo]

So, Apollo and jewellery!!

I want to start off by saying that Apollo (or any male god, really) wearing jewellery is not a common occurrence in the ancient greco-roman art forms. So there's not a lot you can get, but I've put together whatever I've found so far.

On the vase paintings, you'll find body chains across his chest and there's bracelets too:

^ He also has a leg bracelet in this one

In this painting, along with a body chain and a bracelet, there's a thigh band and a finger ring as well.

Then we have waist belts. I did entertain the possibility of this being an embroidered belt. However in the first image, the belt is gilded with gold, so imo it's meant to be a belt with gilded gold, if not made entirely of gold.

In this Etruscan painting representing Apollo going to/coming back from Hyperborea on a swan, he's wearing necklaces.

Apollo wearing a necklace and an arm band seems to be a fairly common sight in the Etruscan art (so Aplu, technically ig), as seen in these two statuettes:

and some Etruscan mirror arts:

Now moving onto the diadems! A diadem referred to something you could tie your hair with - it could be a ribbon, a wreath of fresh leaves, or a jewelled wreath/head piece - it's the last one that I'm counting as jewellery. Diadems like the one Apollo is wearing below were usually worn by noblewomen.

You can also find depictions of Apollo with a jewelled wreath on his head. They resemble a laurel wreath, but they're made of gold, and have gems embedded. Here's a statue for example:

There are also Roman frescos and mosaics that show you what it actually looks like in color.

And here, you can see not just a gold diadem, but also bracelets on both his hands as well as anklets on his legs:

And there's what seems to be earrings as well? But honestly I'm not that sure, it could just be a damage on the fresco (even if that's the case, we can still appreciate the winged eyeliner amirite)

There's also this fresco of Apollo judging a beauty contest between Venus and Hesperus. Here he is not wearing a gold wreath, but there is a gold band upon his head:

And unlike other pieces of jewellery, you'll find literary references as well for Apollo's diadem:

"When Apollo was born, Zeus equipped him with golden headband and lyre and gave him also a chariot of swans to drive" – Alcaeus, Hymn to Apollo (trans. David A. Campbell)

"Apollo puts his hair in order by shaping his flowing locks with soft foliage and braiding it with a golden diadem." – Virgil, Aeneid 4 (trans. Ingo Gildenhard)

"...he fastens bay about his lyre and the woven brilliance of his coronet, and ungirds his breast of the pictured girdle..." – Statius, Thebaid 6 (trans. J. H. Mozley)

"But you will say, Phoibos has a goldgleaming diadem." – Nonnus, Dionysiaca 4 (trans. William Henry Denham Rouse)

[Inscription]: "Apollo the mighty, Lord incomparable of the Diadem, who hath set up statues of the Gods in this kingdom" – Ammianus Marcellinus, History 17 (trans. John Carew Rolfe)

[Inscription]: "Mighty Apollo, seated upon truth, Lord of the Diadem, who hath gloriously honoured Egypt as his peculiar possession" – Ammianus Marcellinus, History 17 (trans. John Carew Rolfe)

And that's pretty much everything I've come across so far. I was a bit surprised at the lack of literary references for the effeminate gods. Not just Apollo, even Dionysus' effeminacy is described by his fair face and long hair and perfumed garments, and there are no mentions of jewellery afaik. But of course, just like with Apollo, you can find jewellery on Dionysus in the visual arts.

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[scoriarose]

She came up with a new activity

[xlettex]

Wandered, now home || yuu nishinoya Surfer AU - Oneshot

Yuu Nishinoya, a free-spirited traveler and surfer, settles down in Hawaii, where his journey takes a new turn. There, he meets a marine biology student, a connection forms between them. As their relationship deepens, they bond over shared experiences and unspoken vulnerabilities, finding something real in each other’s presence.

pairing - yuu nishinoya x reader genre - romance word count - 3.8k rating - 13+

Authors Note - This fanfic is inspired by the phenomenal and breathtaking fanart of timeskip Nishinoya. Artist is @freaka_loonyz on tiktok, pinterest, twitter, and instagram!

Yuu Nishinoya had always considered the ocean a part of himself. It wasn’t just the adrenaline of the waves that called to him—it was the rhythm, the pulse of the sea. The highs and lows, the unpredictable swells that could take him soaring or pull him under. It was life in its most raw and honest form. And Hawaii? Hawaii was where he found his sanctuary, his place where the surf, the breeze, and the sun embraced him like an old friend.

He wasn’t born here. No, he’d come to the islands after traveling through half the world. He left behind his hometown, driven by the pull of something far greater. From Australia’s sunburnt beaches to the bustling, neon-lit streets of Thailand, Nishinoya collected memories and tattoos from each place—tokens of the adventures that shaped him. Each tattoo on his body was a story, etched into his skin like a living map of his life.

A giant wave engulfed his left arm, curling with intricate detail. Its crest is a jarring contrast of deep blues and whites. It was the first wave he had ever surfed in Australia making him realize he was born for this life. 

Below it, a shark outline, bold and simple, a reminder of his time diving off the coast of Thailand—an encounter with a creature that had both terrified and mesmerized him. 

Across his ribs, just below his heart, a small compass, its needle pointing north, symbolizing how he had always been drawn forward, seeking, never staying in one place for too long.

A phoenix rested on his right shoulder, its wings unfurled in a blaze of red and orange, rising as if reborn from the flames. It was a tribute to the day he nearly drowned in a particularly violent wave, only to emerge from the ocean stronger, with a deeper respect for its power. It was a reminder that even in the most brutal of challenges, there was always rebirth.

And then, there was the small, delicate dragon on his wrist, hidden from most eyes but always present—a symbol of protection and a quiet nod to his roots. He had gotten it inked during a return trip to Japan, not as a visitor, but as someone searching for a piece of himself he hadn’t realized he’d lost. Amidst the chaos of his wandering life, he had found an unexpected sense of peace there—a reminder that no matter how far he traveled, some parts of him would always belong to where he came from.

He was a man without borders, with a soul as vast as the ocean he adored. Each tattoo was a part of him, a piece of his story, and a reminder of the countless lives he had touched and the ones that had touched him in return.

For years, he’d been bouncing from place to place, finding solace in the rhythm of the waves, but it was only after he arrived in Hawaii that he finally felt like he could breathe again. The ocean here was different—warm, vast, endless. It felt like the last piece of the puzzle he'd been searching for, a sense of home amidst the ever-shifting world around him.

He had explored many countries, but no place had ever felt like home the way Hawaii did.

The University of Hawaii was just another stop along his journey, not a destination. It wasn’t where his heart was—it was just where he happened to be when the surf wasn’t calling. He’d enrolled in a few courses, something to fill the gaps when the waves weren’t up and he had time to kill. But truthfully, he never cared much about academics. The ocean was his true focus, his only real obsession was the thrill of the ride. Relationships had come and gone, fleeting as the waves themselves. No one had ever made him pause—no one.

That was until he met you.

It wasn’t dramatic or earth-shattering—nothing like the way movies depicted love at first sight. No, it was casual, a small moment that set something into motion deep inside him. It happened at a café on the edge of campus, a place that served overpriced coffee and cheap pastries, the kind of place you went to because you didn’t know where else to study.

“Yo, Noya! Come on, we’re getting coffee!” Tanaka’s voice boomed as he clapped a hand on Nishinoya’s shoulder, snapping him out of his daydreams. The two were practically inseparable, always together like a pair of magnets, always the loudest duo in any room.

“Alright, alright,” Nishinoya replied, ruffling his hair as he grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He followed Tanaka, both of them weaving through the bustling campus, the sound of their voices and laughter drawing the attention of everyone they passed.

The moment they stepped into the café, the usual hum of background noise dimmed in Nishinoya’s mind. He noticed you sitting at one of the tables, hunched over a notebook, scribbling furiously in it. The sunlight coming through the window framed you perfectly—your wild hair bouncing lightly with every movement, your face lit by the soft glow as you chewed the tip of your pencil in thought. It was the kind of sight that made Nishinoya pause, something about it grounded him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Tanaka’s voice broke through the moment. “Yachi!” He waved, and the girl sitting across from you at the table looked up. Her expression was a mixture of surprise and recognition, and Nishinoya followed Tanaka to the table.

“Hey Yachi!” Tanaka greeted, plopping down by her without waiting for an invitation. Yachi smiled warmly but seemed slightly frazzled like she’d been in the middle of something important.

Nishinoya stood by the table awkwardly for a second before Tanaka gestured for him to sit. And that’s when he saw you more clearly.

Your eyes met his for a fleeting second, a moment of quiet recognition. The kind of gaze that made him feel like you saw him, not just the loud, goofy guy everyone else saw. He flashed you a grin, the same boisterous one he gave to everyone else, but this time it felt different.

“This is Nishinoya. He’s a bit of a legend around here,” Tanaka said with a grin, proud of his friend’s reputation.

You looked at him curiously, clearly skeptical. “A legend?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nishinoya laughed and tossed his hair back. “Yup, that’s me! Surfer, traveler, all-around amazing guy,” he said with a wink.

You smiled at his energy, but there was something more restrained about your response, a subtle flicker behind your eyes—like you knew more than you were letting on. “Nice to meet you,” you said, your voice soft yet confident but with an undertone of something unspoken. You had your notebook open in front of you, the pages filled with carefully scribbled notes and diagrams of coral reefs and aquatic life.

Nishinoya, always perceptive to detail, couldn’t help but glance at your work, the complex sketches of marine life standing out on the page. He felt a flicker of curiosity. “Whoa, that’s some serious homework.” He leaned in a bit closer, his interest piqued. “What’s all this?”

You followed his gaze, then chuckled softly, a hint of embarrassment coloring your cheeks. “Oh, just some of my work. I’m studying… well, stuff about the oceans. Marine ecosystems. Not exactly the most exciting topic for a lot of people, but it’s my thing.”

Nishinoya’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. There was something about the way you said it that made him stop and reconsider. It didn’t sound like a typical academic subject—it sounded like something deeper, something you genuinely cared about. 

He straightened up, his grin widening as the realization hit him. “Marine ecosystems? That’s amazing! I’ve seen some of the most incredible reefs while traveling. I mean, I’ve surfed in Australia, Thailand, Bali... but there’s so much more to see, right? There’s something about the ocean that just calls to you.”

Your eyes widened, and you seemed to soften at his words. There was a quiet shift in your gaze, as though you were seeing him anew—not just as the surfer, but as someone who might understand the ocean pull in the way you did.  “What got you into traveling so much?” you asked, the curiosity in your voice unmistakable.

Nishinoya scratched the back of his head, his expression thoughtful. “I guess it started with the waves. It’s like… the ocean pulls you in, no matter where you are. Once I felt that, I just had to keep chasing it, you know? Every place has a unique beauty. Its own rhythm. I’ve always felt like there’s more out there waiting for me to experience.”

Your eyes softened as you listened, and for a moment, he thought he could see something in you—an understanding, something deeper than what you let on. “That’s... beautiful,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

A surge of pride rose in his chest, but it wasn’t the boastful kind. It was the quiet, personal pride of someone who had found something that resonated deeply with them. “Yeah, I’ve seen a lot. Surfed places most people only dream about. But there’s nothing like being in the water—watching the reef come alive beneath you. The coral, the fish, the way the ocean shifts... It’s breathtaking.”

Your eyes lit up at his words. It felt like you were on the same wavelength, sharing that same awe of the ocean. Your gaze held something—something warm, something that matched his excitement. “That sounds incredible,” you said softly. “I’ve only seen a fraction of the world—mostly just what I’ve read about in books or researched for school. But I dream of seeing those places. I want to experience the reefs like you have. To understand them.”

Nishinoya smiled, his tone softening, a little less boisterous than usual. “You’ve got time. And when you’re ready, I’ll show you a reef or two. No rush. When the day comes... I’ll be your guide.”

His words hung in the air; it wasn’t just what he said—it was how you responded. There was something in your eyes, something unspoken. A promise. An invitation not just to explore the ocean, but to share it. That feeling stirred something inside him, something warm and unexpected. For the first time in a while, it felt like he was seeing the ocean through someone else’s eyes—eyes that weren’t just searching the surface, but diving deep into its soul.

The spark of interest that had ignited in him earlier only grew stronger, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he suddenly found himself wanting to know everything about you—not just your studies, but the way you thought about the world. The way you saw the vastness of the oceans, the creatures within them, and how it all connected to your heart.

A Week Later

The afternoon stretched lazily, the golden sun casting a shimmering glow across the water. The ocean waves were primed for surfing, curling perfectly as they rushed toward the shore, eager and full of promise.

But today, Nishinoya's mind wasn’t focused on surfing. In the back of his mind, you lingered—a quiet thought, persistent and constant.

When he’d asked you to join him today, it wasn’t about trying to impress you with his skill or boast about his adventures. He wanted to share something with you, something beyond the usual laughter and loudness. He wanted to show you a side of himself that no one else saw.

And so, when the moment came, he didn’t take you straight into the surf.

Instead, he led you to a different kind of adventure.

The sand was cool beneath your feet, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of salt and ocean as you walked beside him. The sun hung low in the sky, painting everything in amber light. Nishinoya led you away from the busy beach, down a quiet path toward a secluded cove, a place where the world seemed to pause, quieter, more private.

“Most people don’t know about this spot,” he said, his voice softer than usual, carrying a quiet reverence. “It’s where I come when I need to think.”

As the distance between you and the crowd grew, he reached over, his fingers brushing lightly against yours before he gently grasped your hand. The touch was unexpected, warm, and somehow more intimate than anything you’d ever felt before. It felt like a promise, something unspoken, a silent invitation to step further into this quiet world he was showing you.

When his hand grasped yours, it was like a spark—a soft, deliberate touch, but one that made something inside you stir. The heat of his palm against yours lingered, and you felt it in the way your heartbeat quickened, a small ripple in the quiet tension between you.

Without thinking, your fingers curled into his, and for a fleeting moment, everything around you seemed to disappear. The ocean, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore—it all felt distant, as though you were in a world of your own, held together by the connection between your hands.

When you arrived at the cove, you could feel it immediately—the peaceful rhythm of this place. The waves here kissed the shore gently, not crashing with force like in the more crowded spots. Everything felt still and natural, a perfect reflection of who he was underneath the boisterous exterior. He sat down on a large rock and patted the space beside him, his grin still there, but it was softer now, like a side of him he rarely showed.

You sat next to him, the warmth of his presence next to you making the silence feel more like an invitation than a void. It wasn’t uncomfortable—it was the kind of silence that allowed you to just be, no expectations, no need for words. In that quiet, it felt like you understood each other more than you ever could through conversation.

“Thanks for coming out here with me,” Nishinoya said, his voice unusually serious, almost like he was letting down a wall. “Most people don’t get to see this side of me.”

You glanced at him, studying the sincerity in his gaze. “Because of your persona?” you asked softly. “The surfer, the adventurer?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his eyes drifting out toward the horizon. “People see the loud guy, the guy always up for the next thrill. But there’s more to me than that. Sometimes... I just want to be alone with my thoughts. Not be the guy everyone expects me to be.”

His honesty struck a chord with you. For a moment, you found yourself wondering if he saw something in you that you didn’t always show others.

The breeze shifted, and for a heartbeat, everything seemed to slow. You turned toward him, the words rising in your chest before you could stop them. “I’ve... been watching you for a while now,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “I spend a lot of time near the water for class, studying the marine life. But, sometimes, I’d find myself just sitting there, watching you. There was something about the way you moved with the waves... like you were part of it. I couldn’t help but be drawn to that.”

There was a pause, a shift in the air between you both. His gaze softened, and in that moment, you realized you’d let something slip that had been hidden in the quiet corners of your mind for so long.

Nishinoya’s eyes flickered with surprise, his brow furrowing slightly. “Watching me?”

You felt a rush of heat flood your face. You hadn’t meant to say it so bluntly, but now that it was out, it was impossible to take back. “I—I’d sketch you sometimes,” you admitted quietly, your voice catching just slightly. “When I saw you out there on the waves, you looked... different. Like you were in your own world. I never really told anyone this, but... I’ve always thought there was more to you than what people see.”

Nishinoya’s expression softened, and there was a pause, an unspoken understanding passing between you. He gave a small, almost bashful smile. “I didn’t know you were an artist.” he said, his voice warmer than usual.“It’s... a side of you I didn’t expect. “I guess there’s a lot about me I’ve never let people see either.”

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “Like what?”

He hesitated, his eyes drifting out toward the horizon. He was gathering the courage to share something he’d kept locked away. “I’ve never really told anyone this, but... I get tired sometimes,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Tired of always being the loud one, the guy people expect me to be. It’s hard letting people see me, you know? To let them see past the bravado. I’ve always felt like if they did, they wouldn’t like what they saw.”

The vulnerability in his voice hit you like a wave, deeper than you’d anticipated. You had always seen him as this fearless, larger-than-life figure, but now, hearing this part of him, you were seeing him in a way you never had before—like the ocean was finally revealing its depths.

Without thinking, you leaned in a little closer, drawn in by the rawness of his confession. The air between you thickened, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. And in that moment, you felt the pulse of something that had been quietly building since you first met.

Nishinoya shifted slightly, his fingers brushing his sleeve. As he did, you caught sight of the tattoos on his arm again, and he followed your gaze. “These... they’re not just for the pain," he said quietly, his voice almost reflective. "Each one... tells a story. One I needed to remember, even when I tried to forget." He traced the dragon on his arm with his finger, the edges still sharp despite the years. "I used to think they were just about surviving. But now... they remind me that I’m more than just the guy who keeps everyone’s spirits up." He paused, giving you a small, vulnerable smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve been hiding parts of myself, for too long.”

You leaned in just a little more, the raw honesty between you both pulling you closer. “I don’t know if I could ever show people all of me, either,” you murmured, your voice softer now, mirroring the weight of his confession. “But maybe... that’s the part we’re meant to let out. The parts we’re afraid to show.”

Nishinoya’s gaze met yours, and in his eyes, you saw that same quiet understanding, the kind that didn’t need words. It was the kind of connection that spoke louder than anything you’d said out loud.

Then, his lips curved into something more familiar—a mischievous smirk creeping back in. “So... about these sketches,” he said, tilting his head at you. “Are they, like, super serious? Or do I look stupid in them?”

The shift in tone made you huff a quiet laugh, the heaviness between you both lifting just a little. “You don’t look stupid,” you admitted, shaking your head.

“That wasn’t a no,” he teased, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “I gotta see them now. I need to know if you made me look cool or if I’ve been unknowingly starring in a collection of dumb surfer doodles.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “They’re not dumb,” you muttered.

“So, they’re good?”

You groaned, and he laughed, the sound bright and easy. But when he looked at you again, there was something softer in his gaze. “I mean it, though. I wanna see them,” he said, voice quieter now. “I like the idea of seeing myself through your eyes.”

Something about the way he said it sent warmth flooding through your chest.

Nishinoya’s lips hovered near yours, the quiet between you two now charged with something unspoken. He’d just laid bare the weight of his past, his tattoos, and the silent battles they represented. His usual confident air faltered for a split second, and the briefest flicker of doubt passed through his eyes. He wasn’t used to being so exposed, so raw. His heart pounded just a little harder, but the moment was fleeting. Before he could mask it with his usual bravado, you met his gaze.

Your eyes held his, steady and unwavering. No judgment. No fear. Just an understanding that spoke louder than words. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his breath steadied, his shoulders relaxing. The weight he’d been carrying, even if just for a moment, seemed to lighten. The vulnerability didn’t vanish—it was still there, just tucked away behind that soft, lingering connection between you.

With a deep exhale, he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was gentle and slow, like the ocean itself—building gradually, yet overwhelming in its quiet intensity. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, but one of connection—a silent exchange that spoke volumes, letting everything that had been left unspoken rise to the surface. The world around you faded, the noise and chaos slipping away as the kiss deepened, each movement a slow wave of reassurance. The weight of the moment lingered, soft but undeniable, like the rhythm of the sea—a constant presence that spoke more than words ever could.

When you pulled away, your foreheads rested together, and for a short moment, the outside world felt distant. Neither of you spoke. The quiet wrapped around you like a soft blanket, the only sound was the steady rhythm of your breath and the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore.

Then, Nishinoya broke the silence with a soft chuckle, his lips brushing lightly against yours again—a kiss that was teasing, full of warmth, and something unspoken. “You know,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and sincere, “you’ve got this way of making me feel like I’m not just the guy on the board.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the sun. “I think that’s the best part about you,” you replied, your voice as soft as the breeze. “That you’re more than meets the eye.”

He grinned, his fingers brushing playfully against your wrist. “Still wanna see those sketches, though.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small part of you knew you’d let him. Because, maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to see himself the way you did—just a little more than the guy on the board.

And in that moment, with the world fading around you, everything felt right. The ocean, vast and timeless, was your only witness, the waves were endless and unknowable—just like whatever came next. But for now, this moment was enough.

[daynascullys]

CASTLE 1x02 "Nanny McDead" / 7x06 "The Time of Our Lives"

[eyrieofsynapses]

hey, Leverage peeps, I've got a thought. I've seen a lot of posts and memes joking about Nate's inability to understand that his clients do not want money, they want revenge. I also find this funny. but I was thinking about it and I realized something: there's a personal reason behind it. there is a very, very good reason why Nate doesn't get that.

Nate's drive to lead Leverage, outside of the crew, originated from his son's death due to his insurance company's refusal to cover the bill for the required treatment. we all know this. if his company had paid for Sam's treatment, everything would've been fine.

…or, if Nate had been a little wealthier, had a little more change to spend… maybe he could've paid for it. maybe Blackpool never would've had a say in any of it. maybe Nate would've had everything under control from the start.

we've discussed at length in the fandom how money equals safety for some of the others in the crew (Parker and Hardison grew up with little to none and know its importance to survival, Eliot needs it to stay ahead of his old enemies, etc.), but I don't know that I've seen any discussion on how it's relevant to Nate. for him, however, money equals security in healthcare and in housing (he lost the house, remember?). Nate's older than the others. he remained in the same place for much longer, and he had a stable life for a while. the others haven't been in that position before. many of their clients, however, are at that place in life.

yes, for the others, money keeps them ahead of the game and it keeps them secure. but none of them ever lost a kid because they couldn't pay for healthcare. none of them risk losing the life of someone who is completely dependent on them when they don't have enough.

(Hardison, perhaps, has the closest understanding, considering he hacked a bank to pay for his Nana's healthcare. but he never lost her.)

Nate thinks ahead, you know? he has a long-term view of things. I imagine that for him, when clients refuse the money, they're not just refusing a month's worth of groceries, or a place to stay the night, or the ability to keep running. for him, they're refusing control over their hard-earned, stable, long-term living situation. they're refusing the potential to save a family member's life.

I dunno, guys. I think that's a pretty good reason to not understand why people don't want the money.

[rainofthetwilight]

strength

[seiwas]

for writing game, iwaizumi + assistance <3

hope this sparks some inspo and thank you in advancee

hi there!! thanks for sending in a prompt 🫶

contains: friends to lovers (ish), halloween parties, reader is dressed as catwoman, expletives, iwaizumi is thiiiiis 🤏 close to murdering seijoh4 (jk)

iwaizumi + assistance

this is a set-up.

iwaizumi knows he shouldn't have fucking believed anything the boys "promised" him back when they assigned him this costume.

the suit is fucking tight, spandex digging into his groins and all other crevices that definitely should be aired out after after a few hours. he's had to constantly readjust his stance almost every few minutes, the black fabric compressing his thighs and torso, significantly constricting the range of motion his shoulders and arms are typically used to. if anything else, it could double up as a back brace from how rigidly straight it's kept his posture all night.

he'll give it to makki though; he did outdo himself sourcing this year's costumes―this batman set looks pretty damn legit.

except for one tiny problem.

there's no fucking pee hole. it's a zip-up, zip-down one-piece situation. and that normally wouldn't be a problem, except that oikawa "accidentally" knocked over a cocktail straight into his pants, the sickeningly sweet liquid now seeping straight into the fabric and past his boxers―cold and sticky as it touches his skin.

and so, the problem: his pants are wet, it makes him want to fucking pee, and coincidentally, the only vacant bathroom is across the hall, at your apartment.

this is why he believes this is a set up. that, and the fact that you're dressed in an outfit strikingly similar―just with cat ears.

he's been asked five times in this party if you're in matching couple outfits.

it catches him off guard, flusters him because of how badly he wants to say yes. but, you're just friends, and he doesn't even think you like him that way (despite mattsun and oikawa practically begging him to confess. makki tells him he thinks you're going to do it first).

so he politely smiles and says no, but you look good, your costume clinging to you in all the right places. thank fucking god he has a cape because he's pretty sure he spent the first 30 minutes in the party hiding his boner.

"hajime, it's fine, i swear," you stand beside him in front of the conveniently locked bathroom in oikawa's apartment. from the other side of the door, he's pretty sure he hears mattsun and his girlfriend mumbling. maybe fucking? who knows. "you can just use the bathroom in my apartment."

he glances at you before closing his eyes, contemplating, before finally agreeing to you.

"okay."

if he's being honest with himself, friends is definitely an incomplete label to what you are. as oikawa's neighbor, you are conveniently around all the time; and oikawa being oikawa, the ever-social butterfly, he's somehow managed to carve a space for you in the friend group.

(never mind the fact that oikawa's sniffed him out from the moment he first introduced you.)

you were a crush, then a friend, and now you're someone he picks up from work and drives back home three times a week, because he "has to train oikawa." you don't question it, even when you both know he stays over for dinner way past the gym's open hours.

"you know where it is," you open your apartment and urge him in.

"sorry again," he turns to face you.

"yeah, yeah, just pee!" you laugh, shoving him towards the bathroom door.

getting out of the suit is manageable, and he's able to wipe off a bit of the cocktail that's leaked to the suit and his boxers just to make sure it isn't gross and sticky when he gets home later. peeing is a big relief once he gets it over with, but it's when he has to suit up again that things become difficult.

stretching out the spandex one body part at a time is a workout in itself―the hardest task being when he has to pull it over his shoulders, adjusting it to fit properly over his arms and chest.

but then the zipper breaks.

and he truly thinks makki has fucked him over.

iwaizumi contemplates what to do next for a good, good while. he tries calling oikawa, only to no success every time; no way in hell is he calling mattsun in the middle of having sex. and calling makki isn't even an option; he'd never hear the end of it.

then you knock on the door, your voice soft and concerned as you ask, "hajime? you good in there?" you hit it spot on, too, "do you need help with your suit?"

iwaizumi presses his palms to his eyes. he's a rational man, straightforward and logical in thinking. there is literally no other option for him right now but to ask help from you. again.

fuck.

.

it's 30 minutes later when oikawa barges in your door, and the sight that greets him is iwaizumi in nothing but a hoodie (the hoodie you borrowed some time ago) and his boxers, with his hands on your waist as you hover your hairdryer over the crotch of his batman costume―cat headpiece off and all.

"you finally got together?!"

[tsunael]

wolcred week |  1. 'the first.'

They all knew it was coming. Either their brightest star would claim the last of the Light, or the Light would claim her.

What were they to do but careen to their inevitable deaths? He had sacrificed one lamb for another, and now a third was to be laid upon the butcher's block. How many must die so that another might live?

He would not forget the sight of the woman before him, holding her outstretched hands aloft as the curtain of Light parted one last time to reveal the night sky in all her glory. Menphina smiled down in a smirk of a crescent for their efforts, and just as she had appeared, was the curtain drawn once again.

He didn’t need an aetherometer to see that Tsuna was suffused– the aether was thick, cloying enough to be seen. The ewer of her body failed to contain it, finally splitting at the seams for a means of escape.

Their ascian friend dealt the final blow. The Exarch, in his well-meaning duplicity, left for dead. And then Tsuna slumped to the ground, just as lifeless.

He ought to be angry– furious– for Urianger’s joint deception, for his own empty hands, or for the cards Sister Fate had dealt them time and time again, but the queer feeling roiling within him was not one of anger, but of fear. He stood there, powerless, shaking to his core whilst the twins rushed to Tsuna’s aid alongside Ryne.

Even Minfilia could not wholly extinguish the Light– she could only freeze it in time– and as Ryne sank to her knees beside the supine woman in hopes of doing the same, he could only watch in abject horror.

“Give her room,” he barked, though the twins were undeserving of his ire as he approached. They still took a collective step back.

Brilliant white blood readily trickled from Tsuna’s nose, and by way of her laboured breathing it was evident that she was being torn apart by a force of which a layman could not hope to see. Something within Tsuna was stirring, whether it was brought about by her own will, or by Ryne’s suppression, he couldn’t know.

It began first in her hands as they twitched and grasped for purchase, then her spine as it coiled. Her eyes snapped open, hungry and searching, as she lunged for the Oracle’s throat in hopes of supping upon the wellspring.

Thancred fell to his knees, wrestling the woman onto her back as an inhuman screech tore from her throat. “Don't stop!”  he cried out, harsh with concerted effort. There was an unnatural strength burgeoning within her tiny frame that even as a man grown he struggled to contend with, and if Ryne did not finish the ritual, it would swallow them whole.

Ryne was shaken, but nothing if not determined. The power flowed through her once more, and Tsuna’s struggles came to a head. She thrashed upon the ground against his weight, spitting blood, and gnashing teeth. She would bite her tongue if it kept up-- he could barely hold her steady long enough for Ryne to work in her magicks. 

“In our lifetime, please!” 

"I'm trying!" "Ryne made a frustrated growl of effort as a bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. The very aether about them seemed to compress, tangible enough that even he could feel it become leaden as it coalesced.

Tsuna cried out one last time, waning to a whine as she pushed wildly against his arms, seizing. Her legs writhed as if a sudden, great pain knifed through her. And then all was silent. 

Ryne immediately flagged, catching herself on the marble. Her power had all but been exhausted whilst he held the aftermath limp in his arms. Y’shtola and Urianger had begun to crowd about, to inquire, to plan, to move, but all he could do was hold the small woman in his arms, and pray to the Twelve, unseen, that the Light did not break through once again whilst their last bastion was too weak to hold.

“Ryne,” he called, softly, intently. Apology was writ together in his tone. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, though he knew she waned, looking close to tears from it all.

He swallowed thickly, realising he shared in the sentiment. 

Adjusting Tsuna’s body in his arms, he felt just how cold she had grown. They needed a chirurgeon's assistance, and to get off this Godsforsaken rock, but more than that they needed a miracle. His hands would not stop trembling.

“Ryne, you know that I would not deign to ask a favour of you.” He breathed for a long moment, hanging his head low in penance. “Gods–” He swore. “You have to help her. I– We can’t lose her to this.”

Ryne stared back at him, having caught her breath, eyes wide, and glassy. She was searching him for something he couldn't know.

She opened her mouth, before aborting the question. Finally, she pursed her lips, looking uneasy in a way that only managed to make him feel worse. 

“I’ll do what I can,” she whispered, and he had no choice but to believe.