#it’s been a year I can be bitter now right

[eshehdafah]

Coming back to this over a month later after a 20m scroll back through my blog specifically to find it. I said I would talk about this, and I will.

I created my first proper OC, Stella, at age 17, in Jan or Feb of 2016. Xenoblade X was *the* game for me at the time, and I spent a few hours messing around with the character creator. I'd made a different 'character' to actually do the story on, but he didn't feel...right. So I did my work and moved on.

Stella was heavily inspired by Black Rock Shooter, one of the first anime I watched. I took my bitterness at my school experiences, all the bullying and exclusion and boundary-invasions (the last of which being by adults too), and gave it all to her. She had a very barebones backstory of her time on Earth, and her friend group, that she had trained up herself to be adequate combatants, all perished in an incident she blamed herself for. Given how specific this version of her backstory is to the world of Xenoblade X, I don't feel that this is an appropriate place to expand upon it.

She was hurting. An open wound. She fought viciously, ran headlong into danger heedless of her own life, and was at times very jaded and pessimistic. There was an AU going around the fandom at one point that I threw her into, turning her into a wrongfully-assigned criminal on the run in a world where the rules said she had to be erased from existence, even though everyone knew she had done nothing wrong.

How appropriate that I came out as trans a few years later.

Stella has been with me as a character for 8 years now. She's grown into a compassionate soul, ready to defend those she cares about and those who need that help. She still fights viciously, but it's now less because of a desensitisation towards violence, and more because she knows she *has* to fight her hardest no matter what.

One thing she won't do is lay down her life for someone else. She has a drive to not just survive, but to *live*, for herself and for others, to see what tomorrow will bring. That's more than I can say for my current state, and for most of the 26 years of my life so far. But it's what she deserves.

I sometimes think back to that time in early 2016, creating her as a character. Did I know I was choosing the path my life would take? Of course not. I was just making a character that felt more comfortable for me to play. But I took her name as my own, and her ambitions and goals as my own. I put her in situations, not ones made to harm her, but ones where she can do me proud.

I've sent her back in time to do it all over again, armed with the power and knowledge to save everyone (within narrative constraints of course, Fhail Ahm Lohs Daih is a story I pride myself on with regards to respecting and understanding the source material). I've played her in multiple TTRPG campaigns, and in each one she's an absolute min-maxed powerhouse, a force of nature, my GM and I working together to make her fit into the worlds.

When I ran my own campaign set in Bleach, I let that older side of her out, her power and traumas manifesting as a Bankai that forced her to (harmlessly, but symbolically) self-harm in order to release it. It was incredibly cathartic to me to be able to explore that side of her character, the side that did not value her own life and would sacrifice it for others in a heartbeat. I laid that portion of her to rest with that campaign, and both me and her feel all the better for it.

She continues to get development to this day. Her main home now is in FFXIV, but with Xenoblade X Switch on the horizon, I plan to make her again there. I wonder how her interactions with that world will change nearly a decade later.

I have other OCs too, of course. Arven, Candice, Ashe/Camelia. Arven is more confident and flirtatious, and specialises in fire magic. Candice, a character created for a 3-year-long campaign and never used outside of it, began as a teenager who was unsure of her place in the world, and grew to become something more. And Ashe/Camelia, a character I originally created as a result of trauma I went through in 2020 with both family and former friends, is now the one who holds much of the bitterness and edge that Stella used to carry. Kiriya, the lifeless shell that Stella took over and repurposed the body of to her own ends, will never return to this world, and thus I do not count him among my OCs, even if I owe him a life debt for helping me take those first steps of self-discovery.

But Arven is not who I want to be, she's an idealised partner for Stella with little development in regards to any flaws or shortcomings. Candice is the childhood I never had. Ashe, an identity assumed, is but a false name for Camelia, the scared little girl at the core who wants to scream at the world and ask it why life is suffering and cruelty. They all help me shoulder my burdens in different ways.

And Stella has been here since the start. She means more to me than I could ever put into words.

actually creating an oc at 16 and not really thinking much of it at the time but then having no choice but to carry her with you in your soul as you experience the next 10 years of your life and your first foray into adulthood and you return to her again and again in moments where you need comfort and familiarity and you wait to hear what happens to her next meanwhile everything is happening to you at once and next thing you know you're 26 and she's outgrown you by a decade but she's wiser and softer and less angry and so are you and there are lines at the corners of her eyes and you have them now too and you hear her voice again and it makes you feel like you're 16 sitting at your dad's computer desk again and its sad because you're not sitting there anymore and you never will again but its okay because she got the happy ending she wanted and you know that you will too. anyway.

[fuk3d]

A Moment In Time

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff

Warning(s): Mentions of neglect, verbal abuse, and self-doubt.

Word Count: 1,074

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my first time getting back into writing fanfic since 2016 LMAOOO. Anyway, I'm pretty sure this is pure shit so pls feel free to give me constructive criticism. AND PLEASE TELL ME IF THERE'S MISTAKES CUZ THATS EMBARRASSING HAHA. Also writings cringe as hell so soz.

The Wayne resident felt empty, soulless, cold, and you couldn't bare the stillness of it all. So you step out onto the balcony, coffee in hand with the chilling air biting at your fingers harshly. You absentmindedly sipped on your coffee, the warm sensation from your cup steadily combating the freezing cold. The garden's atmosphere was filled with tranquility, the sun's rays slowly touching everything in its path. 

If only it could be like this forever.

You breathe in a shaky sigh and flutter your eyes to a gentle close, small puffs of air exit your mouth as you exhale out slowly. This would be the last time you’ll be gazing down at the alluring range of flowers scattered across the garden, its colours radiating brightly from the warm sunrise as it gently caressed the horizon. You can’t help but think back to all of your greatest achievements, your not so finest moments, and the bitter reminder of lonely memories that are left dormant inside your mind.

What more could I have done? Why didn’t I try harder? Why? Why, why, why, wh-

“Young (Name)? Are you alright? It’s cold out there, you should come back inside, where it’s warm.” Your eyes snap back open and you turn your body to face your family butler, Alfred. You blink, then you blink again, until you sputter out your reply with a wobbly smile. “Alfred! I’m- I’m fine, I just wanted to have my coffee out on the balcony.” ‘one last time’.

You turn to breathe in the fresh air for the final time before leaving the balcony area in silence. Today is your 18th birthday, and yet it doesn’t feel like it. A birthday is supposed to be a milestone, something to be celebrated with friends and family, with loved ones.

You shake yourself out of your stupor, a shudder leaves your lips, the icy temperature sending chills throughout your body. You find yourself sitting down near the kitchen table, your lukewarm coffee still in hand. And Alfred all but quietly makes your favourite breakfast, just how you’ve liked it for the last 18 years of your life. It’s been hard, you think to yourself. The unwarranted isolation from Bruce, the hurtful, cut-throat words thrown towards you from Damian as if you were a burden, the excuses from Dick, claiming he already had plans made so “Maybe next time! Yeah?”. And you remember so vividly of Jason pushing you away, as if the bond you two shared didn’t matter anymore. The fond memories, the time spent together, gone, just like that after he had died.

And how could you forget about Tim? Or about Cass, Barbara, Stephanie, and Duke? None of them rarely ever put in the effort to spend even a fraction of their time with you. But it doesn’t matter to you, right? No, not even a single bit, you don’t care anymore; of course you don’t care! Because you’re done, you’re done being in the shadows, done being stuck within those four tiny walls that had been called ‘your room’, and done with not being anyone's choice, especially not even your fathers. 

Even so, that's not true is it? You can lie to everyone else, but you can’t lie to yourself. You do care, and it stings because you’ve been caring up until you forced yourself not to anymore.

With your heart held heavy in your chest, an indescribable ache creeps up your throat as you recount the gut-wrenching memories that you struggle to desperately shake from your head, your now empty cup sits cold on the table in front of you. 

“Breakfast served.” Alfred slides a plate of your favourite in front of you. Your lips are stretched into a light smile, yet it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thank you Alfred..” You say before the both of you are engulfed in comfortable silence. You eat your breakfast at a comfortable pace, savouring the delectable taste that fills your mouth before inevitably finishing your breakfast. Your family's butler busies himself by cleaning the kitchen counter, wiping it down with careful precision before moving down to wipe down the very kitchen table you sit at. “Hey, uhm Alfred?” You speak up before you can even stop yourself, the words stumbling out in a fervent storm. 

“Will you miss me when I move out?” Alfred can only stop and look at you, really look at you. And from the looks of it, you appear collected, indifferent even, but to your butler he notices nearly everything about you. The way you play with your hair when you’re nervous, or how you fiddle with your fingers when you’re uncomfortable and the slight furrow of your eyebrows as you concentrate. So you can’t help but shrink just a little at his expression, his features showing no emotion for you to understand what he’s feeling. 

“I know you’re busy assisting the families business with… their nightly duties and... and I realise I’ve been such a burden to you and the family, but I know I’ll miss you the most out of everyone so-” 

you’re abruptly cut off by the shuffling of Alfred’s feet walking towards you, his arms enveloping you into a hug. A hug that was desperately needed and long overdue. You reciprocate Afred’s action’s and tightly wrap your arms around him, your hands scrunching up Alfred’s uniform because of how hard your hands are balled up into fists. You’re stunned, too puzzled to speak as Afred’s begins to speak. 

“You will be missed dearly Young [Name]. You’re smile, you’re creativity, you’re ideas, our time together; I’ll miss all of these things, those moments that we have.” a pleasant warmth settles within you, Alfred’s hand makes its way to the back of your head, bringing you to his chest as he pats gently. It’s barely audible but it's there, a small sniffle once, twice, then a series of them start to fill the empty rooms' quietness. Tears start to well up within your tear ducts except you refuse to let them fall despite a few already running down your face. You cry, you just feel so scattered and a bit of a mess right now as your tears and snot stain Alfred's clothes.

You let yourself be in the moment, you let down your walls and stripped away the hard exterior around your heart. You’re vulnerable and…  it feels great. 

For once you feel relieved. Happy.

Credit to @adornedwithlight!

End Note: Just to rephrase, this is my first time getting back into writing fan-fiction so I'm rusty asf lol. And any writers that have been doing this for way longer than me, please give me some tips or advice on how I can improve my own writing LMAOO.

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 4- Forced Proximity

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic.

CW: medical stuff, use of weapons, cannon typical violence, death.

AN: 2 parts in under 24 hours? I have to focus on my main projects I can't focus with this part sitting in my drafts.

Previous parts - masterlist - next

AO3

“You’re really going to make me go into Al Qatala territory with nothing?” You ask as Ghost prepares his weapon. 

“What do you mean you’re going in with the best of us.” Soap says winking at you. You frown at him looking back over at Ghost. 

“Just give me my pistol back. What? You think I'm going to shoot him?” You scoff. There’s silence in the room, you look around. Yes, yes they do think that. You sigh, zipping your jacket up and going over to the door. 

You wait in silence as Ghost comes to stand next to you. He’s dressed in full gear and you’re in basic clothes, not even anything camouflaged. 

“Here.” Gaz comes over to you handing you a radio and an earpiece. You frown at him. 

“I don’t know how to use this.” You say. 

“You’ll figure it out.” He says walking back over to the sofa with Price who’s been watching you the whole time. You clip the radio onto your belt and put the earpiece in fiddling with what you think is the volume tuner. 

“Ready?” Ghost asks. You look up at him and nod. “How far is this place again?” 

“A few kilometres east.” You respond. He reaches over, handing you a knife hilt first. You almost want to laugh at him. 

“Can’t do much with a knife.” You say, it’s spitfull, you want your gun back. You take the knife regardless.

“You can do alot with a knife.” He says and reaches down opening the door and walking out into the night. 

“Good luck.” Price calls. You look back at him and nod. 

You tuck the knife into your belt and follow Ghost into the darkness. 

…

“How did you know about this place?” Ghost asks as you make it to the entrance of the town.

“It was taken over by Al Qatala about a year ago. Been pretty much abandoned since then.” You say, the wind has picked up and you can see thick clouds in the sky blocking out the light from the moon.

“The ULF don’t come this far north, it’s a good way point for smugglers.” You say. You’ve passed through here many times. 

“You really seem to hate the ULF.” He says as a matter of fact.

“They’re both as bad as each other. If anything Konni have been the best, at least for work.” 

“Doesn’t bother you, they're helping terrorists.” He says, there's a bitterness in his voice. 

“The ULF killed my father in a hospital.” You say, anger rises in you. “I never got to say goodbye, I never got to see his body.” 

“You said your mum worked for them.” 

“She did, she was killed by Al Qatala, she was working for Farah.” You say, he doesn’t say anything. You make it to the top of the street. 

“Right.” You say pointing down the road. You walk down in silence, there are some streetlights working rigged up by whoever is using this town for now. 

“What about you? You’re British living a comfy life. What are you doing here?” You ask. 

“We’re after someone.” 

“In Al Qatala? It’s pretty clear you’re friendly with the queen bee.” He shakes his head.

“No.” He says stopping. You hum looking over at him. His eyes are darting around. You look into the darkness of the town, you can’t see or hear anything. 

“Ever killed anyone?” He asks suddenly and keeps walking. 

“Maybe.” You say trying to sound confident. “Why should it matter, you’re a soldier, you took an oath before you killed people. At least I’m doing it to keep innocent people alive.” 

“You smuggle people for Konni, Makarov.”

“I’ve smuggled people for the ULF too, like I said, I work for whoever pays.” He scoffs. You’re surprised, he usually seems so reserved. There’s a reason for the mask. 

“Proper opportunist aren't you?” You can hear the sarcasm in his voice. 

“Fuck you.” You snap, shaking your head. You go turn the corner ignoring his remarks. Suddenly he grabs your arm and pulls you between some buildings. 

“Get the fuck off-” he slams his hand over your mouth pulling you against his chest. You start to fight him then you hear voices. You stop struggling as they get closer.

“The place is empty, why are we back here?” You hear one of them say in arabic. 

“Khaled wants to take this place over. Use it to cut off the ULF movements.” Someone else replies. Does Ghost understand arabic? You assume he doesn’t. 

“I thought I would be home with my family before the end of the month.” 

“When was the last time you saw them?” The other asks as you watch them pass past you. 

“10 months ago.” 

“You’ll see them soon, mashallah.” They walk out your view, their lights fading, leaving you back in darkness. Ghost’s hand leaves your mouth, your heart is hammering in your chest. He lets you stand up, releasing his grip round you. You want to thank him, they would have killed you if they’d seen you. How did he even hear them coming?

“Let's move.” he whispers, pushing past you out towards the street. You follow him close as you walk out into the street, sticking close to the buildings and following the shadows. 

“Up there to the left.” You say pointing at a building ahead of you both. The place is surrounded by a chain link fence. The building looks more rundown than you remember.

“Round the back there's a smashed in door, I doubt it’s been repaired.” You say behind Ghost, still trying to keep your voice low. 

“Copy.” He says. You let him lead, following him close to the building. He pulls something off his vest cutting the links in the fence. He holds it open, nodding at you to sneak through. You go through first heading over to the door. It’s open, you can see from here. You just hope the place hasn’t been raided too hard. 

The place is dark, there are no lights, no electricity. Ghost comes in behind you clicking on a torch. He hands you another one, you take it out his hands turning it on and shining it over the signs. 

“Who taught you English?” He asks. 

“My parents said if I wanted to go anywhere in life I should learn English. I was brought up speaking both.” You keep the fact you can speak Russian silent. Don’t ask, don’t tell. The more advantages you have over them the better. 

“Here.” You say shining the torch over a room that says surgery. The room looks like it’s just been closed up for the night. Cupboards are still full of sterile supplies. That's good, you should be able to find everything you need.

“I’m going to check for other supplies. Are you good here?”  You look over at him nodding and pick up a bag off the counter, you watch him leave the doorway and head into another room down the hall.

You’re not going to be able to find drugs. Price could use local anaesthesia and antibiotics, you don’t even know where to start with human medicine, never mind dog medicine. You recognise tools though, sealed sterile gloves and tweezers, scalpels and plenty of different bandages and gauze. 

You turn in the room walking round the table and over to the other side looking for wraps, something you can use to make a somewhat sterile field. You try to remember what you’ve seen from interning at the hospital for the last few years. You smile as you fill the bag, your parents were right, in the end the education was useful. 

Suddenly you hear a crash, grunting. Someone's in the building. There's an audible grunt, the sound punches, scraping of furniture. There’s no gunfire, you rush over to the hallway following the noise. You can see lights flashing in a room, you burst through the door.

It’s hand to hand contact, they’re fighting on the floor, the stranger is on top of Ghost. You’re not thinking, if Ghost dies they’ll kill you. No matter what you say they’ll kill you. Your hand feels for the knife in your belt.

The man on top of Ghost looks bigger, he's not wearing any body armor, Ghost's weapon flung to the side. You don’t have time to think you take the knife off your waist and jump at the guy on Ghost, plunging it into the man's neck. Blood spurts out covering you all. There’s no noise, you hit the carotid. 

His body goes limp after a few seconds and you stand up. Ghost pushes the body off him. You reach out offering him your hand. He hesitates for a second before accepting it and you pull him up. 

“Hurry up, we need to go.” He says reaching down to pull the knife out his neck. He wipes it on his leg before handing it back to you.

“Fuck me, not even a thank you.” You scoff putting the knife back on your hip. You leave the room going back into the surgery. You pack the last of the gauze and whatever sterile supplies you can find. An opened scalpel falls on the floor making you jump. 

It still has the cover over the blade. You’ll have to give the knife back to Ghost but the scalpel, it’s small, no one would know you have it. 

“Let’s go.” Ghost calls sticking his head in the room before leaving back towards the back door. You look at the scalpel on the floor. 

If you take it and they find it they could kill you. If you leave it you have no way to defend yourself either way. You sigh looking over at the door. 

How easy it would be to betray them.

..

It’s raining when you make it back to the safe house. They’ve piled the bodies up in the shed. They probably won’t get any kind of funeral until Farah’s troops get here, even then if she learns who they are they’ll most likely be dumped somewhere. Or buried in a mass grave, not like the commander in Chief of the ULF has time for Russian Al Qatala operatives. 

“What happened!?” Soap asks, rushing up to Ghost. The rain washed most of the blood off you both, but not all. 

“Nothing. Just a slight complication.” You shake your head going over to the sofa and putting the bags down. Price looks up at you, you smile at him. 

“Can I get cleaned up?” You ask the room. 

“Yeah.” Price says. You walk over to Ghost being fussed over by Soap. You tap him on the shoulder and he turns to look at you. You hold the knife out for him. 

“Here.” You say. He takes it out of your hand but doesn’t say anything. You huff pressing your lips together, you didn’t expect anything. You turn to head up to the bathroom. 

“Thanks.” He calls. It stops you in your tracks. You turn back and nod at him. The scalpel you hid in your waistband suddenly feels like a lead weight. 

Banners by plum98

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (duty)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the price

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis

Jaime approached Cersei’s chambers. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one a reminder of the conversation he’d been avoiding for days. Confronting his father about leaving the Kingsguard and marrying you had been difficult, but this… this was something else entirely.

He reached her door, the ornate lion carving glaring back at him like a silent judge. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open without knocking.

Cersei was standing by the window, her hair catching the last rays of the sun as it spilled into the room. She turned at the sound of the door, her face immediately hardening when she saw him.

"Jaime," she said, her voice low and cold. "You dare to come here?"

Before he could respond, she crossed the room in three quick strides and slapped him hard across the face. The loud crack echoed in the stillness, but Jaime didn’t flinch. He stood there, his cheek stinging, as she glared up at him with eyes blazing.

"You promised me," she hissed, her voice trembling with fury. "You swore you’d always stay by my side. That nothing would come between us. And now? Now you throw it all away—for her?"

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, letting her words wash over him.

"For a Stark," she spat, the word dripping with venom. "For that girl you barely know, with her pretty face and her noble airs. Don’t think I didn’t see the way you’ve changed since Winterfell. Even then, you were weak for her."

"It’s not like that," Jaime said finally, his voice calm but strained. "This isn’t about her—"

"Don’t lie to me!" Cersei shouted, cutting him off. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her chest heaving as she struggled to contain her rage. "You think I don’t know you? You think I can’t see what’s happening? You’ve convinced yourself that there’s some… bond between you. That she’s different. Better. That you can save her, and somehow, that will make you whole again."

Jaime looked away, his lips pressing into a thin line. Cersei’s words were cruel, but they struck dangerously close to the truth.

"You’re pathetic," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "You think this will make Father proud? That throwing away everything we’ve built—everything we are—for her will somehow redeem you? You’re fooling yourself, Jaime."

"It’s not about redemption," Jaime said quietly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. He turned to face her fully, his gaze meeting hers. "It’s about doing what’s right."

Cersei let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Right? You? Since when do you care about what’s right? You killed the king you swore to protect. You pushed a child out of a window to protect us. Don’t pretend you’re some noble hero now, Jaime. It doesn’t suit you."

"I’m not pretending," Jaime said firmly. "I’m trying to be better. And maybe it’s too late for that, but I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep living for you."

The silence that followed was deafening. For the first time, Cersei seemed genuinely stunned. Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the anger gave way to something else—hurt, perhaps, or disbelief.

"You don’t mean that," she said softly, her voice trembling. "You can’t mean that."

Jaime exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of his words had drained him. "I do," he said quietly. "Cersei… we’ve been lying to ourselves for years. This—us—it’s not what it used to be. And maybe it never was."

Her expression hardened again, her eyes narrowing as tears glistened unshed. "So, this is it?" she asked bitterly. "You’re walking away? For her?"

"This isn’t about her," Jaime said, though he wasn’t sure if that was entirely true. "This is about me. About what I want. And what I want… isn’t this."

Cersei stared at him for a long moment, her face a mask of fury and heartbreak. Then she turned away, her voice low and venomous. "Get out."

Jaime hesitated, his good hand clenching at his side. He had loved her once—had lived for her. But now, standing here, he realized that love had become something twisted, something that no longer felt like love at all.

Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

As he walked back through the dim corridors of the Red Keep, Jaime felt an unexpected sense of liberation. The weight that had hung over him for so long, the chains that had bound him to Cersei, seemed to loosen with every step. It wasn’t a clean break—nothing ever was—but it was a start.

Jaime Lannister felt like he was finally free.

The training yard in the Red Keep was quiet in the early morning, the sun still low in the sky. The usual bustle of squires and guards was absent, leaving the space empty save for Jaime and Bronn. The loud clang of steel against steel echoed across the yard, followed by the grunts of effort and muttered curses.

“Keep your wrist steady,” Bronn said, stepping back to observe Jaime’s stance. He twirled his own blade lazily, the smirk on his face widening as Jaime adjusted his grip on the practice sword.

“I am keeping it steady,” Jaime snapped, his tone sharper than his strikes.

“Doesn’t look like it from here,” Bronn replied, dodging Jaime’s next swing with infuriating ease. “You’re too stiff. Relax a bit, will you? Or do you want me to carve you up like one of those roasted pigs in the kitchens?”

Jaime huffed, his left arm trembling slightly from the strain of holding the sword. Every move felt wrong—awkward and unbalanced, as if his body had yet to accept that this was his only option now.

Bronn stepped closer, rapping Jaime’s blade with his own. “Again,” he ordered. “And this time, don’t hold the damn thing like it’s about to bite you.”

Jaime adjusted his grip, narrowing his eyes as he swung again. Bronn blocked effortlessly, his smirk never faltering.

“You’re improving,” Bronn said casually, sidestepping another strike. “Still terrible, but less terrible than last time.”

“Glad to know I’m meeting your high standards,” Jaime muttered, his tone dry.

Bronn grinned, lowering his blade momentarily. “So, word around the Keep is you’re leaving the Kingsguard. Trading white cloak for lordly robes, huh?”

Jaime stiffened, lowering his sword. “Let me guess—Tyrion told you.”

“He might’ve mentioned it,” Bronn admitted, his grin widening. “Said something about you giving up the sword for a girl. Didn’t think you were the type, Kingslayer.”

Jaime glared at him, raising his sword again. “Tyrion talks too much.”

“Maybe,” Bronn said with a shrug. “But he’s not wrong, is he? Leaving all that glory behind for… what, exactly? A pretty face?”

Jaime lunged, his swing harder this time, though Bronn blocked it easily.

“It’s not about that,” Jaime snapped, his irritation bleeding into his movements.

“No?” Bronn asked, dodging another strike. “So, it’s not about the Stark girl? Not about making sure she doesn’t end up flayed alive by Bolton? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like she’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, his swings growing more forceful. Bronn danced around him, letting the blows glance off his blade with practiced ease.

“Careful now,” Bronn said with a chuckle. “You’ll wear yourself out before you’ve even started. And I’d hate to see you keel over before you’ve convinced her to stop hating your guts.”

Jaime froze for a split second, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “She doesn’t hate me,” he said, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.

“Doesn’t she?” Bronn countered, stepping closer. “From what I hear, she’s not exactly thrilled about this whole arrangement. Can’t blame her, really. A Stark marrying a Lannister? That’s the kind of thing that makes bards weep.”

Jaime swung again, the force behind his strike making Bronn take a step back.

“And how’s Cersei taking it?” Bronn asked, his tone deliberately casual. “Bet she didn’t like hearing you’re shacking up with someone else. Especially not a Stark.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He feinted left before swinging right, his strike glancing off Bronn’s blade.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” Bronn asked, grinning. “Let me guess—she slapped you, screamed a bit, told you you’d regret it. Am I close?”

Jaime lowered his sword slightly, his chest heaving from the effort. “Cersei’s reaction doesn’t matter,” he said curtly.

Bronn tilted his head, his grin fading slightly as he studied Jaime. “Doesn’t it? Funny, I’d have thought you’d care more about her opinion.”

Jaime’s silence spoke volumes, and Bronn’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “Ah,” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “It’s not Cersei you’re worried about, is it? You’re more concerned about what Y/N thinks.”

Jaime didn’t respond, his gaze hardening as he raised his sword again.

“Careful, Jaime,” Bronn said, his voice lower now, almost serious. “You keep thinking about her like that, and you’ll end up doing something stupid. Like falling in love.”

Jaime lunged again, but this time, Bronn disarmed him with a swift twist of his wrist. Jaime’s practice sword clattered to the ground, and Bronn stepped back, grinning.

“Not bad,” Bronn said, nodding approvingly. “Still need work, though. Lots of work.”

Jaime glared at him, retrieving his sword. “We’re done for today.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Bronn said with a mock bow, his grin never fading.

Jaime turned and walked away, his thoughts a whirlwind of frustration and confusion. Bronn’s words lingered in his mind, poking at something he wasn’t ready to confront.

But as much as he tried to push it aside, the truth was undeniable: you had taken up residence in his thoughts, and there was no escaping it.

The solar was warm, the golden light of the afternoon spilling through the tall windows, glinting off the polished wood and gilded ornaments that adorned Tywin Lannister’s private chambers. Jaime sat in a high-backed chair near his father’s desk, his gaze fixed on the servant kneeling before him, carefully securing the golden prosthetic Tywin had commissioned to replace his hand.

The weight of the metal was heavier than Jaime had expected, its surface smooth and cold against the sensitive skin of his stump. The fingers were articulated, though they served no practical purpose. It was a symbol, more than anything else—a statement of wealth and power, a reminder to anyone who saw it that Jaime Lannister, even diminished, was still a lion.

Tywin sat across from him, his pale green eyes watching the process with an air of detached satisfaction. He looked every inch the lord of Casterly Rock, his posture straight, his hands folded neatly on the desk in front of him.

“It suits you,” Tywin said finally, breaking the silence.

Jaime glanced down at the golden hand, flexing the wrist experimentally. “It’s flashy,” he remarked, his tone dry. “Almost garish. I suppose that’s the point.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change. “It’s a reminder of who you are. A Lannister. Even in loss, you project strength.”

Jaime let out a faint scoff, though he didn’t argue. The servants stepped back, bowing as they left the room, leaving father and son alone.

“You’ve adjusted well,” Tywin said, his tone even but firm. “That’s good. There’s much to be done.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “I assume this is the part where you outline my duties as the prodigal heir?”

Tywin ignored the sarcasm, reaching for a stack of documents on the desk. “Your position will require careful management. I expect you to oversee the transition of power at Casterly Rock. Your presence there will reinforce our authority, particularly with the unrest in the Westerlands.”

Jaime nodded slowly, though his gaze remained distant. The idea of returning to Casterly Rock, to the place he had left behind so long ago, felt strange. Foreign.

“And,” Tywin continued, “there’s the matter of the upcoming wedding.”

“Joffrey’s and Margaery’s,” Jaime said, his tone growing sharper. “Yes, I’m well aware.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver. “After the wedding, there will be another announcement.”

Jaime stiffened, his jaw tightening. “The betrothal.”

“Yes,” Tywin said, his tone calm but final. “Yours and Y/N Stark’s. The timing is ideal. With all the noble houses gathered for the king’s wedding, the news of your union will send a clear message: the North may be fractured, but it is still under Lannister control.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, his golden hand resting heavily in his lap. “And what does Y/N think of this grand anoucment?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Her opinion, while noted, is irrelevant. She is a Stark. Her value lies in her name, her bloodline. She will understand her role in time.”

Jaime clenched his teeth, his gaze darkening. “She’s not a pawn, Father.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his voice hardening. “She is whatever I need her to be. You may have developed a misguided sense of sentimentality, but I do not share your weakness. This union is about strategy, not affection.”

The words stung more than Jaime cared to admit, but he forced himself to remain calm. “And what exactly do you intend to say to her?”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his gaze cold and calculating. “I will speak with her personally. She needs to understand the importance of this alliance, the role she is to play. I expect you to keep your emotions in check, Jaime. This is not a negotiation.”

Jaime’s hand tightened into a fist, his golden prosthetic gleaming in the sunlight. “She’s not going to agree easily,” he said quietly.

“She doesn’t have to,” Tywin replied, his tone final.

The room fell into silence, the weight of Tywin’s words settling heavily between them. Jaime’s thoughts churned, a mixture of frustration, guilt, and an unwelcome sense of helplessness.

Finally, Tywin stood, his movements precise as he gathered the documents on his desk. “The wedding is in three days,” he said. “You will attend, you will conduct yourself with dignity, and you will ensure that this house remains united.”

Jaime nodded stiffly, rising from his chair. “Anything else, Father?”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he spoke. “Yes. Remember who you are, Jaime. And what you represent.”

Jaime turned and left the room, the golden hand heavy at his side. As he walked down the corridor, his mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He had always thought he understood his father—his cold pragmatism, his relentless pursuit of power. But now, standing on the precipice of a life he chose to save you, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder if there was still a way to claim something for himself.

And if there wasn’t, he wondered if he could live with the man he was becoming.

You sat by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the distant horizon. The door creaked open behind you, and you turned sharply, your features hardening when you saw who had entered.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, strode into the room with the air of a man who owned everything he set his eyes upon. His lion brooch gleamed against his crimson doublet, and his gaze, as sharp and cold as ever, settled on you.

"You seem comfortable," Tywin said, his tone devoid of warmth as he gestured to the sparse chamber. "I trust your accommodations are adequate."

You stood, your expression icy. "They’re a cell, no matter how you dress it up. But I doubt you came here to discuss my comfort."

Tywin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging your sharpness without reacting to it. "Indeed, I did not. I came to speak to you about the future."

You crossed your arms, refusing to be intimidated. "Jaime already informed me of your so-called plans for my future. My answer hasn’t changed. I’d rather die than marry him."

Tywin didn’t flinch, his face as impassive as stone. He stepped closer, clasping his hands behind his back. "You may find that choice taken out of your hands, Lady Stark. This union is not about your personal desires. It is about strategy, stability, and the survival of your family’s name."

"My family’s name?" you scoffed, anger flaring in your voice. "You destroyed my family! You orchestrated the death of my father, you allowed the Boltons to betray my brother, and now you dare to speak of my family’s survival?"

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, his voice calm and measured. "The war destroyed your family, not I. I merely ensured that House Lannister would emerge stronger from the ashes. And now, I am offering you a chance to secure what remains of your legacy."

"My legacy doesn’t need securing by you," you snapped. "And certainly not through marriage to Jaime Lannister. He may have convinced himself he’s doing this to protect me, but I see the truth. This is about your power, your games. I won’t be your tool."

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression growing colder. "You misunderstand, my lady. This is not a negotiation. Your marriage to Jaime is a necessity, and it will happen. Your consent, while preferable, is not required."

You clenched your fists, your chest heaving with frustration. "You’re no better than Bolton," you said, your voice trembling with anger. "You speak of honor and stability, but all you care about is control. You think you can break me the way you’ve broken others, but you won’t."

Tywin stepped closer, his towering presence filling the room. "This is not about breaking you, Lady Stark. It is about ensuring your survival. You may not see it now, but this marriage is the best option for you. For your sister. For whatever remnants of your house remain."

"I don’t want your protection," you spat.

"That much is clear," Tywin said evenly. "But your wants are irrelevant. You are a Stark of Winterfell, and your name carries weight—weight that must be used wisely. Refusing this union would be foolish. And I do not tolerate foolishness."

You turned away, your shoulders trembling as you fought to keep your composure. The room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in as Tywin’s words loomed over you like a shadow.

"I won’t forgive this," you said finally, your voice low but firm. "Not you. Not Jaime. Not any of you."

Tywin inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging a fact that held no consequence to him. "Forgiveness is not required," he said. "Only compliance."

The room fell into a heavy silence as his words lingered in the air. Tywin stepped back toward the door, pausing briefly before he left.

"You have three days to prepare yourself," he said. "After the king’s wedding, your betrothal will be announced. I suggest you consider your position carefully. Good day, Lady Stark."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving you alone in the quiet, your chest burning with a mixture of fury and helplessness.

Three days.

You stared at the window again, the world beyond seeming farther away than ever. But despite the storm raging inside you, one thought burned brighter than the rest.

You would find a way out of this. No matter the cost.

The midday sun poured through the windows of your chambers the next day. You sat by the window, staring out at the distant horizon, your thoughts a swirling storm of anger and despair. The faint sound of footsteps approached, and you stiffened as the door creaked open behind you.

Turning your head slightly, you weren’t surprised to see Jaime standing there, his golden hand catching the sunlight and gleaming like a trophy. He leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.

“Lady Stark,” he greeted, his tone light but cautious. “I come bearing news.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” you said flatly, turning your gaze back to the window.

Jaime stepped further into the room, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. “It seems my father has granted you some leniency. You’re allowed to leave your chambers.”

You looked at him sharply, suspicion flickering in your eyes. “Under what conditions?”

Jaime smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “An escort, of course. You didn’t think Tywin would simply let you wander the Red Keep freely, did you?”

“I suppose I didn’t,” you replied, your voice tight. “And I assume you’ve graciously volunteered to be my shadow.”

“Graciously, no,” Jaime admitted. “But I thought you might appreciate some fresh air. The gardens are quiet this time of day, and we could... talk.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, your suspicion deepening. “Talk? About what, exactly? My upcoming forced marriage? Or perhaps you’d like to reminisce about Winterfell and the time you pushed my brother from a tower?”

Jaime flinched slightly, the smirk falling from his face. “I deserve that,” he said quietly. “But I thought you might prefer to have this conversation somewhere other than here. Unless, of course, you’d rather stay cooped up in this charming little cell.”

You glared at him, the temptation to refuse clear in your expression. But the thought of stepping outside, even briefly, was too enticing to ignore. With a sharp exhale, you stood, brushing past him without a word.

Jaime followed you into the corridor, his steps measured and deliberate. The silence stretched between you as you walked, the distant hum of activity in the Red Keep filling the void. Finally, Jaime broke the silence.

“You’ve been here for days,” he said, his tone softer now. “I thought you’d want the chance to breathe.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips pressing into a thin line. “And I’m sure your father approved of this... gesture.”

“Not exactly,” Jaime admitted, his smirk returning faintly. “But he didn’t object, which is as close to approval as Tywin Lannister gets.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze fixed ahead as you descended a flight of stairs. Jaime studied you from the corner of his eye, noting the tension in your posture, the way your hands clenched at your sides. He wanted to say something, to ease the burden he could see weighing on you, but every word he thought of felt inadequate.

As you neared the doors leading to the gardens, Jaime hesitated briefly before speaking again. “Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of sincerity that caught you off guard.

You stopped, turning to face him, your expression guarded. “What?”

Jaime met your gaze, his own softened by something you couldn’t quite place. “I know you don’t trust me,” he said, his tone steady. “And I don’t blame you. But for what it’s worth, I meant what I said. I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

Your eyes narrowed, your voice sharp. “Protect me? From what? From your family? From the man you’re forcing me to marry? Oh, wait, that’s you.”

Jaime winced, the barb hitting its mark. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But... I’m trying, Y/N. For whatever that’s worth.”

You stared at him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. But all you saw was a man weighed down by guilt and something that almost resembled regret.

Without a word, you turned and continued walking, leaving Jaime to follow in silence.

The gardens were a riot of color, their vibrant blooms softened by the afternoon light. The air was thick with the scent of roses, lavender, and freshly turned earth. You walked a few paces ahead of Jaime, your shoulders stiff and your hands clenched tightly at your sides. The gravel path crunched underfoot, and the faint chirping of birds filled the silence between you.

Jaime, keeping pace just behind you, broke the quiet. “It’s strange,” he said, his voice softer than you were used to.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your expression guarded. “What’s strange?”

He gestured vaguely to the gardens around him. “Walking through here without a duty hanging over my head. No orders to follow, no kings to protect.” He paused, flexing his golden hand absently. “I can’t remember the last time I walked through these gardens simply… to walk.”

You raised an eyebrow, your tone sharp. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, Jaime? That your life as a Kingslayer and Lannister golden boy hasn’t been a constant stroll through roses?”

Jaime stopped, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t expect your sympathy. I just… thought I’d share.”

Your eyes narrowed, but you turned back to the path, continuing onward. “Well, don’t,” you said curtly.

Jaime followed, the faintest chuckle escaping him. “You have a sharp tongue, Y/N. I think it might be sharper than your brother’s sword.”

“That sharpness has served me well,” you replied coolly. “Especially when dealing with Lannisters.”

The hostility between you eased slightly as you walked further, the path winding through rose-laden trellises and carefully pruned hedges. But the moment was short-lived. As you turned a corner, your gaze landed on a small group gathered around a table beneath a shaded pavilion.

At the center of the group was Lady Olenna Tyrell, her distinctive headdress unmistakable, flanked by Margaery and Sansa. Servants flitted around them, pouring wine and arranging plates of fruit and sweets. Several of Margaery’s ladies-in-waiting sat nearby, chatting and laughing softly.

It was Sansa who saw you first. Her face lit up, her blue eyes wide with surprise and joy. She pushed her chair back abruptly, nearly knocking over a goblet in her haste. “Y/N!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the garden.

Lady Olenna’s keen eyes flicked toward you, her lips curling into a faintly amused smile. “Well, well,” she said, her voice dry but not unkind. “It seems we have unexpected visitors. Come closer, dear, and bring Ser Jaime with you. Don’t linger in the shadows like conspirators.”

You hesitated, glancing at Jaime, who looked equally uncertain. He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, it seems we’ve been summoned,” he said lightly.

You sighed, bracing yourself as you stepped forward. Jaime followed close behind.

As you approached, Sansa moved toward you, her hands reaching out to clasp yours. “Y/N,” she said again, her voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t know you were allowed out of your chambers.”

“Only under escort,” you replied, your tone clipped as you glanced at Jaime.

Lady Olenna watched the exchange with obvious interest, her shrewd gaze flicking between you and Jaime. “Quite the escort,” she remarked, her tone laced with dry amusement. “Ser Jaime, it’s rare to see you outside the Red Keep without your sister at your side.”

Jaime inclined his head slightly, his smirk faint. “A pleasure to see you as always, Lady Olenna.”

“Is it?” Olenna replied, her tone cutting but not cruel. “I suppose even Lannisters can appreciate good company now and then.” She turned her gaze back to you, her expression softening slightly. “And you, my dear. You look well for someone who’s been hidden away like a prized relic. Sit. Both of you.”

You hesitated, but Sansa’s pleading expression was enough to sway you. Reluctantly, you took a seat beside her, Jaime settling into a chair opposite you.

Margaery offered you a warm smile, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “It’s wonderful to see you, Y/N,” she said graciously. “Sansa has spoken of you often.”

You returned her smile with a faint nod, though your focus remained on Sansa. “Are you well?” you asked her quietly.

Sansa nodded, her voice soft. “I am, for now.”

Jaime remained quiet, his gaze flicking between you and the Tyrells as the conversation continued. Despite the tension that lingered in the air, he found himself strangely at ease.

The servants poured more wine into the goblets on the table as you settled into your seat, the scent of fresh roses mingling with the sweetness of ripe fruit arranged artfully on silver platters. Lady Olenna studied you and Jaime, her lips quirking in faint amusement as Margaery leaned in to speak with you and Sansa.

“You’re fortunate to be out of those dreary chambers, Y/N,” Margaery said warmly, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. “The Red Keep can feel so suffocating, don’t you think?”

You nodded slightly, your tone clipped. “More like a gilded cage. I wouldn’t call it fortunate.”

Margaery’s smile faltered slightly, but Lady Olenna’s laugh cut through the air. “Spoken like a true Stark,” she said. “Blunt as a hammer and just as subtle.”

Jaime smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “She’s certainly mastered the art of subtlety. Why use a knife when a sledgehammer will do?”

You shot him a glare, your fingers curling around the stem of your goblet. “And why speak at all when silence is an option, Ser Jaime?”

Lady Olenna chuckled, her gaze darting between the two of you. “Oh, this is delightful. I can see why you’re escorting her, Jaime. It’s not every day you find someone who can keep up with your wit.”

Jaime tilted his head, his golden hand resting lightly on the table. “I’d say it’s more a matter of survival than wit. She’s had plenty of practice hating Lannisters.”

“And for good reason,” you snapped. “It seems you lot make it your life’s work to ruin everything you touch.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered, and for a moment, his gaze softened. “Not everything,” he said quietly.

Lady Olenna raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the exchange. “I must say, the two of you make quite the spectacle. It’s been some time since I’ve seen a proper sparring match outside a tournament.”

Margaery glanced at her grandmother, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Perhaps we should give them swords, Grandmother. It might make things more interesting.”

Jaime chuckled lightly, his eyes flicking to Margaery. “That wouldn’t be fair to Y/N. I’d hate to embarrass her.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to resist the bait. “Embarrass me? I’ve seen your swordsmanship, Ser Jaime. Perhaps you should focus on keeping that golden hand attached before you worry about embarrassing anyone else.”

Sansa stifled a giggle beside you, her expression brightening at the familiar bickering. “You haven’t changed at all, Y/N,” she said softly, a touch of relief in her voice.

Jaime’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting with amusement. “And here I thought we were making progress.”

“Progress?” you scoffed, setting your goblet down with a clink. “You mistake tolerance for progress. The only reason I’m sitting here is because your father hasn’t given me much choice.”

Lady Olenna leaned forward slightly, her sharp eyes glinting with mischief. “Ah, Tywin. Always so practical. But tell me, Y/N, how do you find his golden son? Has he been insufferable as ever?”

You met Olenna’s gaze with a faint smile, your tone dry. “If anything, he’s more insufferable now. The golden hand’s only made his ego worse.”

Jaime placed his hand over his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, my lady. And here I thought we were bonding.”

“Bonding?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call this?”

Lady Olenna chuckled, her laughter cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, I do enjoy you, Y/N. You’re exactly the sort of entertainment this dull court needs. If only we could bottle your wit and sell it to the Tyrells.”

Margaery smiled, though her gaze lingered on Jaime for a moment. “And you, Ser Jaime? How do you find Lady Stark? She seems to have quite the talent for keeping you on your toes.”

Jaime hesitated, his smirk softening as his gaze flicked toward you. “She’s… spirited,” he said finally. “A rare trait in the Red Keep.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment or an insult. Before you could respond, Lady Olenna clapped her hands together, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Well, I must say, this has been thoroughly entertaining,” she said. “But don’t let us keep you from your walk, Jaime. Do try to keep her out of trouble, won’t you?”

Jaime rose from his chair, offering a faint bow. “I’ll do my best, Lady Olenna. Though I make no promises.”

As you stood to follow him, Sansa reached out to squeeze your hand, her eyes shining with unspoken gratitude. You offered her a faint smile before turning to leave, Jaime falling into step beside you as you exited the pavilion.

The faint sound of Olenna’s laughter followed you down the path, her sharp wit lingering in the air like a pleasant sting. For the first time in days, you felt a flicker of warmth, even if it was fleeting.

Jaime walked in silence beside you, his smirk faint but genuine. Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but feel that something between you had shifted, though you couldn’t quite name what it was.

[aceduchessdragoness]

[Front donation page]

Currently €22,271 / €40,000 as of January 21, 2025

LINK to post with all Updates as of January 21, 2025

I am physiotherapist Ahmed Khalil Al-Habil

from palestine _Gaza

I have been displaced from my home since the first day of the war,and I have been displaced more than 20 times since the beginning of the war.

With:

My father Khalil Al-Habil (68year)

My mother naima Al-Habil(64 year)

My wife maha Al-Habil(30/year)

My kid jowan Al-Habil(6year)

My Kid khalil Al-Habil (4year)

I lost my job, I lost my home, and we are living the worst days of our lives in displacement

We took refuge in Al-Shifa Hospital and were forcibly displaced to the south, claiming that we would go to the safe area and then to Al-Anwara schools to escape the barbaric bombing, but we were not spared.

My father was injured as a result of a nearby bombing, and his pelvis was broken. He has not had an operation to this day, and as a result of lying down continuously, ulcers appeared on his back and feet, and his right foot is threatened with amputation because he is a diabetic.

Now we are living the worst days of our lives in the tents, where the bitter cold that we experienced in the winter and now the summer heat that almost melts our bodies. After all this, there is no clean water to drink and there is no sufficient food, so we are threatened with starvation. Also, there are no appropriate medicines, so skin diseases have spread on my children’s bodies, and so my father’s foot has become inflamed and is threatened with amputation.

My eldest child, Joan, was sick and suffering from an esophageal reflux. Thank God, half a year before the war began, she began to recover and return to her health, and now her condition has begun to worsen Due to lack of good water and food.

We need this funding so that we can live on a daily basis and I can provide water, food, and medicine for my family of 6 people (me, my wife, my father, my mother, and two children). Also,

Im using this Fund to help me and family to evacuate to Eygpt. By travel agency called (Ya Hala) arabic name is (يا هلا) . And its cost Five thousand dollars per person and Half the amount is for the children just to cross the border to Eygpt

.I will be receiving the fund of my gofundme from my cousin from belgium via western union and banking transfer

later after the crossings open.

We have nothing left...we have lost everything

My hope to you is to help me and my family Our relief and help my children to obtain their right to play, learn and have a safe environment without destruction and killing.

I will be waiting for your support and help !

[Updates will be in a reblog]

6-year-old Joan Al-Habil is has been repeatedly hospitalized due to severe gastrointestinal problems and overwhelming fatigue. This poor girl has been to multiple facilities and seen multiple doctors, undergone extensive testing (as extensive as is possible in Gaza's collapsed medical system), even having to endure an unsedated endoscopy.

She has now been diagnosed with severe gastritis due to starvation and hazardous living conditions. Remember, she and her family are living on the streets, which are cold and wet due to winter rain. Homelessness, stress, exposure to the elements, her previous injury when the lOF firebombed her tent, and malnutrition all conspire to sap little Joan of her strength.

Her condition is so serious that she even had to undergo surgery. Gastritis very rarely requires surgery to treat, so this is an indication of how dire her condition is. The surgery was successful to a degree, but she is going to need ongoing treatment to manage her symptoms.

The treatments are administered weekly and cost $500 USD (just under €500 EUR). Her family has no income and cannot afford this. If Joan goes more than a few days without treatment, her symptoms worsen rapidly, and she sometimes has to be hospitalized. It is vital that we help her family procure her treatments so that her condition does not worsen!

You can help Joan get her surgery and treatment by

reblogging this post

copy-pasting this link (https:// gofund.me/85a1b400) in your own Tumblr posts and all across your social media accounts to share her family’s story

boosting posts from her parents @mahafamily1 and @ahmed-family-1

donating to her family’s GFM campaign below

Current: €22,271 EUR

New temporary goal: €22,771 EUR

Need to raise: about €500 EUR ($500 USD)

[sai-int]

HOW TO DISAPPEAR | Sour - 2

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"How’ve you been?"

His words hang in the air, heavy and uncertain. You don’t respond—your gaze locked on your glass, the drink familiar in its color and weight. You take a sip, the sweet burn sharper than you remember, filling a bitter void you hadn’t noticed until now.

His hand covers yours at the center of the table, breaking your trance. The warmth is painfully familiar, a sting that cuts deeper than you’d like to admit. When your gaze lifts, John’s eyes are already on you, steady and unflinching, as though he hasn’t looked away since he sat down.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, time seems to slow. You glance at his hand—the same one that used to hold you, steadying you through the chaos of your lives, moments that were long behind you.

His face is more weathered now, something in his eyes harder, colder. You can see the years in him just as clearly as you feel them in yourself. Time hasn't been kind to either of you, but it’s the space it’s created between you that cuts the deepest.

You pull your hand away, instinctively trying to reclaim some distance. You steel yourself, but your voice comes out hoarse. "What are you doing here, John?"

He doesn’t flinch. Never does. It's almost unnerving how little he's changed. He leans back in his seat, his eyes never leaving you. "Came to check in," he says casually, downing his whiskey like it’s nothing, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You can’t suppress the laugh that bubbles up, bitter and sharp. "You're four years too late for a 'check-in,' John."

His jaw tightens, something flickering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a drag from his cigar, the smoke curling lazily in the dim bar light, and exhales slowly. "Things got... complicated," he mutters, his voice rough, like he’s still unsure how to say it.

You want to argue, to throw everything you’ve been holding back for years right at him, but something keeps you quiet. You take a generous gulp of your drink before setting it down with a soft clink. The tension between you thickens, oppressive.

"You left me, John," you say, voice low but sharp, "You walked away. And now you think you can just walk back in?"

His gaze softens, memories of that day flooding back unbidden. The moment he stepped into your hospital room, met your warm eyes and soft smile—only to be the one to shatter it all. He forced himself to watch as the light in your eyes dimmed, the warmth replaced with pain. He owed you that much, at least. For a fleeting moment, regret flickers across his face before vanishing beneath the stoic resolve he’s mastered for so long.

"I didn’t know how to stay and protect you," he admits, the words rougher than you expected, like they’ve been sitting in his chest for a while. His fingers twitch around his glass, betraying his calm façade, but it’s the slight tightening of his jaw that betrays his true emotions. You catch his moment of vulnerability, and you realize how much you’ve missed studying those little, subtle signs. "And I sure as hell don't know how to fix this."

The weight of his words lingers in the air. You didn’t expect him to say that, but it doesn’t change anything. Not really, after all this time.

Your hand brushes his as you reach for your drink. It's quick, almost accidental, but it sends a ripple through you. The faintest shiver runs down your spine—a brief flash of something familiar, something you thought you’d left behind. You hold your breath, fighting the pull to reach for him again, to find some kind of solace in the warmth of a touch you know all too well, yet fear all the same.

His gaze drifts to the booth you once claimed as your own, where laughter still seems to echo like a ghost. For a moment, he’s lost in it, he's sure a part of you both still haunts the seats. His focus snaps back to you, but not before you catch him looking, and feel the weight of why you’ve been avoiding that booth, too.

"Yeah," you mutter, shifting your gaze to avoid his eyes. The ice in your glass rattles with a quiet shake as you try to steady your hands. "Maybe it's your fault for thinking I needed you to protect me."

John’s expression tightens at your words. He takes another drag from his cigar, the ember glowing faintly in the low light. The smoke hangs between you.

His eyes search yours, measuring how far he can push, how much you’ll let him in. You shift in your seat, the weight of the pain dragging you down like a leaking hull.

"Maybe you’re right," he finally says, his gaze falters from your own. "Thought I needed to protect you... I was wrong." His words are slow as if he's testing the waters, trying to see if there's any chance that you’ll let him in again.

A part of you wants to believe him, to believe that he didn’t leave because he wanted to, but the years of silence weigh too heavy. You wonder if it’s too late for any of this.

You aren't sure how to respond. The anger still simmers beneath your skin, but there's something else you can't shake. He’s not the same man who left you all those years ago. Or maybe he is, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes now that wasn’t there before. You see it. You sense it. He's changed, and so have you.

Swallowing hard, you try to keep your emotions in check.. The years of being alone, of picking up the pieces... You won’t let him see that. Not yet, at least.

Tears well up, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall.

"I don’t think I can ever forgive you for what you did," you manage, the words scraping like gravel in your throat.

John looks down at his glass, his shoulders heavy as he swirls the whiskey, staring into it like it holds answers he’ll never find. When he finally takes a sip, the light in his eyes has dimmed, replaced with something harder, something resigned. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t offer excuses.

The silence stretches between you, broken only by the soft hum of the bar. You glance at the booth again, the ghost of a memory flickering there—a quiet laugh, his hand brushing yours, the fleeting hope you’d felt back then.

"But," you say, voice trembling despite your best efforts. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself, clenching your fists as if the words themselves weigh more than you can bear. "I... I’d like to try."

For the first time tonight, you meet his gaze fully, no longer avoiding his eyes, no longer pretending that none of this matters.

You see it then—the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Not hope, exactly, but something close to it. Nostalgia. A question he doesn’t yet dare to ask.

The tension lingers, heavier now, while the soft blues and whines of an electric guitar drift back into focus. Neither of you moves, neither of you speaks. It feels as though the past itself is watching, waiting to see if its grip on you both can finally loosen.

John leans forward slightly, pressing the stub of his cigar into the ashtray with deliberate care before setting it aside. His shoulders sag just enough to betray the weight he’s been carrying. He lingers there, the silence palpable, before letting out a breath he’s been holding for years.

"I’d like that," he says, his voice almost a whisper.

tags | @fruitymoonbeams-blog

[heartiella]

INSTINCT-RIDDEN ⟢ GOJO SATORU

╭┈─ Pairing ⺌ ፧ Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader

╰╮⺌ Synopsis: As a teacher at Tokyo Jujutsu High you’ve built a life among curses, students, and the chaos of Gojo Satoru’s presence. Your bond with him has always been a balance of teasing banter and unspoken feelings, but as tensions rise in the world of jujutsu sorcery, the lines between duty, friendship, and something deeper begin to blur.

─── ⌕𓈒 Genre , Word count: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, 3.2k.

Tokyo Jujustu High wasn’t quiet. It never was. But as the sun dipped low, steadily casting amber streaks across the sky, there was a rare stillness in the air, a brief quiet before the storm. You had just finished your lesson with the second-years, a session full of curses, strategy drills, and no shortage of snarky remarks from Maki.

Sweat clung to your skin as you leaned against the training hall’s doorway, sipping water from your bottle. The heat of summer, though mild compared to the usual sweltering streets, seemed to cling stubbornly to the mountains. Your cursed technique, one of illusions and improved reflexes, left your body in a perpetual state of tension after prolonged use. Even after years of practice, the strain was still there.

“Still showing off to the kids, huh?”

The familiar voice pulled you from your thoughts. Without turning around, you recognized the lazy, self-satisfied drawl of Satoru Gojo. He leaned casually against the frame of the doorway, his blindfold pushed slightly up to reveal an amused smirk and a faint glint in his crystalline blue eyes.

You raised your eyebrows, wiping your forehead with a towel. “Unlike you, some of us actually teach during our lessons.”

“Oh, is that what you call it? From what I saw, it looked more like showing off,” he teased, sauntering closer. “Very flashy, by the way. The illusion you created during Maki’s sparring round? Chef’s kiss. Delectable, even.” He punctuated his words with an exaggerated hand gesture.

“It’s called effective teaching, Gojo,” you said, turning to face him. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You’re too busy ‘improvising’ during your lessons.”

“Hey now, I’m great with the kids,” he shot back, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara adore me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Megumi tolerates you. Yuji’s too nice to say anything. And Nobara? She’d probably bury you alive if given the chance.”

Gojo let out a laugh, the sound light and unbothered. “What can I say? I’m an acquired taste.”

“More like a bitter one,” you muttered under your breath, but the corner of your lips twitched upward despite yourself.

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping even closer, his tone dropping just slightly. “You love having me around.”

“Is that right?” you asked, crossing your arms as you met his gaze head-on. The air between you seemed to shift, the playful banter giving way to something heavier.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The distant chatter of students and the rustling of leaves filled the space, but it all felt muted, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you. Gojo’s smirk softened, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I think you do.”

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling between you. But before you could respond, a loud crash echoed from the other end of the training hall, followed by a string of colorful curses from Panda. The spell was broken, and you stepped back, clearing your throat.

“Sounds like your kids need you,” you said, gesturing toward the noise.

Gojo tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Nice deflection. But fine, I’ll let you off the hook. For now.”

With a wink, he turned and strolled away, his hands in his pockets as if he didn’t have a care in the world. You watched him go, your pulse still racing.

Damn him and his stupid charm.

Later that evening, the campus had settled into a peaceful quiet, save for the occasional murmurs and laughter from the dormitories. You found yourself in the courtyard, seated on a low stone bench beneath a canopy of wisteria. A book rested in your lap, though you hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes.

“Not like you to space out.”

Once again, Gojo’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up to find him standing a few feet away. He carried two cups of something steaming, which he offered.

“Tea,” he said. “Not poisoned, I promise.”

You took the cup cautiously, the warmth seeping into your hands. “What’s the occasion?”

He shrugged, sitting down beside you—albeit closer than necessary. “Do I need an occasion to be nice?”

You shot him a look. “I would say yes. Yes, you do.”

He laughed, a soft, genuine sound that caught you off guard. For a while, the two of you sat in companionable silence, the distant chirping of crickets filling the gaps. It was… nice. Unexpectedly so.

They stood there for a moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. The wisteria swayed gently above, the soft purple hues illuminated by the dim glow of lantern light. Gojo tilted his head slightly, as if studying her, though the blindfold made it impossible to tell where his gaze truly rested.

“You know,” he began, his tone lighter now, teasing even, “most people would be flattered to spend time with me. You, though? You act like it’s some kind of chore.”

“Maybe because it is,” Y/N shot back with a smirk, crossing her arms. “If you’re looking for gratitude, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Gojo.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and almost disarming. “It’s refreshing, really. Most people can’t seem to see past how amazing I am.”

“Hmm,” she hummed skeptically while sipping tea, though her lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “Maybe it’s because I know your tricks.”

“Tricks?” he echoed, mock-offended. “Y/N, please. You make it sound like I’m not a dream”

“More like an oversized teenager with bad jokes.”

Gojo grinned, leaning slightly closer. “Admit it. You’d miss me if I were gone.”

The sudden shift in tone made her pause.

Gojo… gone?

There was something beneath his playful words—something that hinted at a vulnerability he rarely showed. She opened her mouth to respond, but he straightened, as if sensing the tension he’d created and deciding to brush it off.

Before she could reply, his phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the quiet. He sighed dramatically as he fished it out and glanced at the screen. “Ah, duty calls,” he said, his tone flippant, though there was a flicker of something more serious in his expression. “Looks like I have to play the hero somewhere else tonight.”

Y/N raised a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Careful,” he teased, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “You might miss me too much.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in her chest she wasn’t willing to acknowledge. “Goodnight, Gojo.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, his voice softening just slightly as he turned away.

As he walked off, the scent of wisteria lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of his cursed energy. She stood there for a moment longer, watching him disappear into the shadows before letting out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Her heart was still racing.

You stood in the courtyard, watching Megumi Fushiguro spar with one of the second-years. His technique was improving, but there was a stiffness in his movements, a hesitance you couldn’t quite ignore.

“Megumi, stop for a second,” you called, stepping forward. The second-year dropped their stance gratefully, retreating to the shade of a nearby tree. Megumi, however, didn’t move—his gaze sharp and steady on you.

“Your stance is too rigid,” you said, motioning for him to approach. “It’s fine for defense, but it leaves you vulnerable in close combat. Try this instead.”

You demonstrated, shifting your weight slightly and holding your hands at a more flexible angle. Megumi mirrored you, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“Better,” you said, stepping back. “But don’t overthink it. Let it flow.”

“Easy for you to say,” Megumi muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Despite his grumbling, there was a flicker of respect in his eyes—a rare concession from someone as guarded as him.

“You’ll get there,” you said, offering a small smile. “Just don’t let Gojo fill your head with nonsense.”

Megumi snorted at that, but before he could reply, a familiar voice cut through the courtyard.

“Talking about me behind my back, Y/N? I’m hurt.”

Gojo Satoru strode into view, his usual grin plastered across his face. He was dressed casually—white shirt untucked, blindfold pushed up to reveal those impossibly blue eyes. He looked every bit the world’s strongest sorcerer and every bit the man who knew it.

Oh how you disliked when men who knew their importance.

“Hardly behind your back,” you retorted, crossing your arms. “You’re impossible to ignore.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, flashing a grin that was equal parts charming and infuriating. “Megumi, taking notes from the best, I see.”

Megumi rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, retreating to the sidelines with a muttered, “I’m done for today.”

As he left, Gojo turned his attention to you, his grin softening into something more genuine. “Teaching suits you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you insinuating I wasn’t useful in the field?”

“Not at all,” he said quickly, though there was a teasing tone to his voice. “But you’ve got a knack for this—mentoring, I mean. You’re good with them.”

“Someone has to be,” you replied, your tone lighter now. “Not everyone can survive on charm and theatrics alone.”

Gojo laughed at that, the sound echoing through the courtyard. It was disarming, really, how easily he could shift the mood, how effortlessly he could make you forget the weight you carried.

“Speaking of theatrics,” he said, leaning casually against the nearest tree, “there’s a mission tonight. Thought you might want in.”

You tilted your head, intrigued despite yourself. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said, though his smirk suggested otherwise. “Just thought it might be nice to work together again. For old times’ sake.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him—not entirely, at least—but missions with Gojo had a tendency to spiral into chaos. Nevertheless, there was a spark of something, curiosity, maybe, or the lingering thrill of a challenge, a trait you could never truly lose—which made you nod.

“Fine,” you said. “But if this turns into one of your spectacles, I’m leaving you to deal with the mess.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, straightening up. “Meet me at the gates in an hour.”

The streets were a blur of neon and shadow as you followed Gojo through the narrow alleyways. The cursed energy in the air was thick, clinging to your skin like a second layer. You could feel the pull of it, the way it twisted and coiled, beckoning you to come closer.

“What are we dealing with?” you asked, voice low.

“A mid-grade curse,” Gojo replied, his tone almost bored. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“And you needed me for this because...?”

He glanced at you, his grin flashing in the dim light. “Because I missed you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the words lingered, settling in a place you couldn’t quite name.

The curse revealed itself in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city. It was grotesque—its form a writhing mass of limbs and faces, its presence warping the air around it. You and Gojo moved in a relaxed manner, years of experience making the dance of battle almost effortless.

Your cursed technique of illusions came in handy, disorienting the curse long enough for Gojo to strike the final blow. As the curse disintegrated, the air seemed to clear, the oppressive weight lifting.

“Not bad,” Gojo said, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. “You’ve still got it.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” You replied, sheathing your weapon.

“Never,” he said, his tone softer now. “You’re one of the best.”

There was something about the edge of sincerity in his voice that caught you off guard. You met his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed smaller, the city quieting down.

“Gojo—” you started, but he cut you off with a wave of his hand.

“Come on,” he said, his usual grin returning. “Let’s get out of here.”

The walk back to the school was quieter than you expected. Gojo walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, his usual chatter replaced by a thoughtful silence. You found yourself glancing at him, wondering what was going on behind those impossibly blue eyes.

“You’ve changed,” you said finally.

He looked at you, surprised. “Have I?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling, your tone softer. “You’re... less obnoxious.”

He laughed at that, the sound was warm and genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” you said, surprising even yourself.

The school gates came into view, but neither of you made a move to cross them. Instead, you found yourself slowing down, the weight of the atmosphere settling over you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Do you ever think about leaving all this behind?”

You frowned, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... this life. The danger, the responsibility. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to just... be?”

His words struck a chord you didn’t realize existed. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the cracks in his armor—the things he carried, the loneliness he tried so hard to hide.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But it’s not that simple.”

“No,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. For the first time, you felt like you were seeing the real Gojo Satoru, not the strongest sorcerer, not the arrogant showman, but the man beneath it all.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, the words you wanted to say caught in your throat. Instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“Goodnight, Gojo,” you said, turning away before he could see the emotions flickering across your face.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replied, his voice carrying a softness that lingered long after you were gone.

The quiet of the evening wrapped around the two of you as the faint sound of the city hummed in the background. Gojo’s hands rested in his pockets, his usual smirk playing on his lips, though there was something unspoken in the way he looked at you now. The air between you crackled with the tension that had been simmering all night.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “you’ve got this way of pretending you’re indifferent to me. But I don’t think you are.”

You rolled your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you. “And you have a way of overestimating your charm. Not everyone’s falling at your feet, Gojo.”

He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking. “Not everyone. Just you.”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to back down, meeting his gaze, or rather, the space where his eyes were hidden beneath his blindfold. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are.” His voice dipped lower, teasing but edged with something genuine. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You didn’t. Instead, you tilted your chin up, closing the gap between you. His hand reached out, fingertips brushing against your cheek before he pulled you in. The kiss was slow at first, testing boundaries, but quickly deepened, as though all the unspoken words and tension had been building to this moment. He tasted like mint and something saccharine, something so intoxicating that it made your knees threaten to give out.

When you finally pulled away, his smirk returned, softer this time. “You’re full of surprises, Y/N.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Too late.” He leaned in close again, his breath warm against your ear. “We could stay out here, or...”

The implication hung in the air, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here we are,” he echoed, pulling you back toward him.

The next morning, the sun filtered through the windows of the Tokyo Jujutsu High staff room. You sat at your desk, attempting to grade papers while sipping coffee, though the distraction of the night before lingered in your thoughts. Across the room, Gojo leaned against the doorframe, his signature blindfold replaced with dark sunglasses. He seemed unnervingly casual, but the faint grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

You didn’t look up as he spoke. “You’re awfully quiet today. No witty remarks? No banter?”

“I’m busy,” you replied, scribbling notes on a student’s assignment. “Some of us actually have work to do.”

“Busy, huh?” He strolled over, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “You didn’t seem too busy last night.”

Your pen froze midsentence, and you shot him a warning glare. “Not here, Gojo.”

Before he could respond, the door burst open, and Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara walked in, their voices filling the room.

“Good morning, sensei!” Yuji greeted cheerfully, waving at you.

“Morning,” you replied, forcing yourself to sound casual.

Megumi raised an eyebrow as his gaze flicked between you and Gojo. “Why are you two acting…weird?”

Nobara, always the sharp one, narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, you’re definitely acting weird. You’re way too quiet, Y/N-sensei, and Gojo-sensei looks…smugger than usual.”

“Smugger? Me?” Gojo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “I’m always this charming.”

“You’re always this annoying,” Megumi muttered.

Yuji plopped onto the couch, grinning. “Wait, did something happen? Are we missing something?”

“Nothing happened,” you said quickly, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Gojo’s just being Gojo.”

But Nobara wasn’t convinced. She crossed her arms, her gaze piercing. “Uh-huh. Sure. And why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing,” you lied, turning back to your papers.

Megumi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just focus on training? Some of us actually want to improve.”

“Training can wait,” Gojo said, his grin widening. “I think we should take a moment to appreciate how observant my students are. It’s impressive, really.”

You shot him a glare that could have frozen fire. “Gojo—”

Before you could finish, Nobara let out a gasp, her eyes widening in realization. “Wait a second. Did you two—”

“Don’t say it,” you interrupted, your voice firm.

But it was too late. Yuji’s jaw dropped, and Megumi looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Oh my god,” Nobara said, pointing between you and Gojo. “You totally did!”

“We didn’t—” you started, but Gojo cut you off.

“Y/N, it’s okay,” he said, his tone mockingly serious. “They’re old enough to handle the truth.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as the students burst into a mix of laughter and groans. Nobara looked equal parts delighted and horrified, Yuji seemed more impressed than anything, and Megumi looked like he regretted every life choice that had led him to this moment.

Later, as the students filed out for their training session, you lingered by the doorway. Gojo stood beside you, his usual smirk firmly in place.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, glancing up at him.

“And yet, here we are,” he replied, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “See you later, Y/N.”

From down the hall, Nobara’s voice rang out. “I knew it!”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

Gojo just laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. “Probably not. But you love it.”

And, annoyingly, you couldn’t argue with that.

End note: Why did nobody tell me that writing a fan fiction would feel like going to war… traitors.

[nickgurl4life]

ᢉ𐭩Shattered Chainsᢉ𐭩

Pairings: Ex Boyfriend! + Ex Girlfriend!Reader

Warnings: abuse, child endangerment, manipulation (none of this is Chris), and other angst things, If I missed any let me know!

Summary: reader is in a toxic relationship and Chris is trying to save her and her baby.

w/c: 4,931

a/n: I thought of this idea, if you do NOT like reading about domestic violence or any type of threatening with women/children, do not read! If you read and end up being uncomfortable do not blame me! This is your warning.

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Chris stood in front of the familiar house, his heart pounding in his chest. He had played this moment over and over in his head, imagining how it might go. Would she smile when she saw him? Would they talk about the good times, maybe even laugh about how foolish they’d been to let each other go? After three years apart and a fresh breakup of his own, he couldn’t shake the idea that maybe, just maybe, they were meant to find their way back to each other. Taking a deep breath, he rang the doorbell. The door swung open, but instead of her, a man stood in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a smug expression, the stranger looked Chris up and down like he was sizing him up. "Can I help you?" the man asked, his tone sharp. Chris cleared his throat. "Uh, hi. I’m Chris. I was hoping to see her—" he started, but the man cut him off. "Yeah, I know who you are," the man said, leaning against the doorframe. "She’s mentioned you." His tone made it clear that whatever she’d said wasn’t flattering. "What do you want?" Chris faltered, already regretting his decision to come. "I just... I wanted to talk to her. Is she home?" "She’s busy," the man said, crossing his arms. "Look, I get it. You’re the ex, right? Thought you’d swoop in here after three years and win her back or something? Hate to break it to you, man, but she’s moved on." He glanced back into the house and smirked. "We’ve got a good thing going here."

Just as Chris opened his mouth to respond, she appeared behind the man, holding a small baby in her arms. Her eyes widened when she saw Chris. "Chris?" she said, her voice soft with surprise. She shifted the baby in her arms, her expression unreadable. "Hey," Chris said, his voice cracking. "I... I didn’t know you had a baby." he man turned, glancing at her and the baby, then back at Chris with a mocking grin. "Yeah, this is Ellie. She’s ours." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "You’re a little late, buddy." "Adam," she said sharply, stepping away from him. She looked at Chris, her expression now tinged with guilt. "Can we talk? Just us?" Adam raised his hands in mock surrender. "Sure, go ahead. But don’t take too long. Some of us actually have responsibilities." He gave Chris one last condescending look before disappearing into the house. She sighed, stepping out onto the porch with Ellie still in her arms. "I’m sorry about that," she said quietly. "Adam... he can be protective." "Protective?" Chris echoed, his voice laced with bitterness. "He’s a jerk." She winced but didn’t argue. "Chris, why are you here?" Chris looked at her, his chest tightening. "I don’t know," he admitted. "I guess... I thought maybe there was still something between us. After my breakup, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us." His voice broke, and he ran a hand through his hair. "But I see now that you’ve got a life—a family."

Her eyes softened, but she shook her head. "Chris, what we had was real, and I’ll always care about you. But things are different now. I’m with Adam, and Ellie... she’s my whole world." She looked down at the baby, her expression tender. Chris swallowed hard, nodding even though his heart was breaking. "I just... I needed to see for myself. To know for sure." She reached out, touching his arm gently. "I hope you find someone who makes you happy, Chris. You deserve that." Before he could respond, the door opened, and Adam leaned out, his smirk firmly back in place. "Everything good out here?" he asked, his tone dripping with false concern. Chris forced a tight smile, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yeah. Everything’s fine." He turned to her one last time, his voice soft. "Take care of yourself." As he walked away, Adam’s smug laughter echoed behind him, but Chris didn’t look back. He knew he couldn’t change the past, and now, it was clear there was no going back. Two weeks later, Chris found himself driving past her house again, unable to resist the pull that had taken hold of him since that fateful day. He told himself he was being stupid, that he should leave well enough alone, but the sight of the driveway—empty of Adam’s car—ignited a reckless kind of hope. Maybe they could talk without Adam looming over them, making everything tense. Maybe he could finally say what he hadn’t had the courage to before.

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Two weeks later, Chris found himself driving past her house again, unable to resist the pull that had taken hold of him since that fateful day. He told himself he was being stupid, that he should leave well enough alone, but the sight of the driveway—empty of Adam’s car—ignited a reckless kind of hope. Maybe they could talk without Adam looming over them, making everything tense. Maybe he could finally say what he hadn’t had the courage to before. He parked a block away, his palms slick with nervous sweat as he approached the front door. The memory of Adam’s smug smirk and sharp words haunted him, but this time, it didn’t matter. He rang the bell, and when she answered, the baby perched on her hip, she looked surprised but not angry. “Chris,” she said, her tone cautious. “What are you doing here?” “I saw Adam wasn’t home,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I swear, I’m not here to cause trouble. I just… I wanted to talk. Please.” She hesitated, glancing down at Ellie, who cooed softly, then back at him. “Alright. Just for a few minutes.” She stepped aside, letting him in, and they sat in the living room, the baby in her lap. Chris couldn’t help but smile at the way Ellie’s tiny hands reached for her mother’s face, the love between them so evident it almost hurt to see. “I wanted to apologize,” Chris began, his voice low. “For showing up out of nowhere last time. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I didn’t mean to make things awkward for you.” She softened slightly, giving him a small nod. “I appreciate that. It was… unexpected, but I understand.

Breakups mess with your head.” Chris swallowed hard, his hands gripping his knees. “I just can’t stop thinking about you. About what we had. I know it’s been years, and I know things are different now, but I can’t shake the feeling that I messed up the best thing I ever had.” She looked down at Ellie, her expression conflicted. “Chris… I won’t lie and say I don’t think about us sometimes. You were important to me. But my life now… it’s complicated. Adam—” Before she could finish, the front door swung open with a loud bang, and Adam’s voice boomed through the house. “I’m home!” Chris froze as Adam appeared in the doorway, his eyes narrowing the moment he saw him. “What the hell is this?” Adam snapped, his face darkening. “It’s not what you think,” she said quickly, standing and bouncing Ellie on her hip in an effort to diffuse the tension. “Chris just came to talk. That’s all.” “To talk?” Adam spat, glaring at Chris. “You don’t belong here. I told you to stay away.” “Adam, stop,” she said firmly, her tone sharp enough to make him hesitate. “I let him in. He’s not causing any trouble.” Adam’s jaw tightened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This guy thinks he can just waltz in here and play the hero? What, you think you’re gonna swoop in and take her away from me? From us?” Chris stood, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s not what this is about,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm brewing in his chest.

“I just needed to say my piece. I’m not trying to ruin anything.” "Yeah, well, you being here is enough to ruin things,” Adam snapped. “You don’t get to come in here and act like you still have a claim on her. She’s with me now. We’re a family.” “Adam, that’s enough!” she shouted, her voice trembling but firm. Ellie began to cry, the tension in the room too much for the baby. She turned her back on both of them, trying to soothe her daughter. “This isn’t about you or him. It’s about what’s best for me and Ellie. And right now, what I need is for both of you to stop acting like children.” Adam’s face softened slightly at her words, though his glare at Chris remained. Chris took a step back, his heart heavy but his mind clear. “She’s right,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.” Without another word, he turned and walked out the door, the sound of Ellie’s cries echoing in his ears. This time, he knew it was really over. No matter how much he wished things could be different, her life was no longer his to be part of.

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The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the baby monitor on the kitchen counter. Ellie had finally fallen asleep after the tension-filled evening, her tiny breaths audible through the monitor. She leaned against the sink, her hands gripping the edge tightly as she tried to calm the storm brewing inside her. Adam stood across the room, pacing, his footsteps heavy against the floor. His jaw was tight, and his eyes burned with barely contained anger. “I can’t believe you let him in here,” Adam finally snapped, his voice low but cutting. “What were you thinking? After everything I’ve done for you—for us—you let him walk back into your life like it’s nothing?” She turned to face him, her own patience wearing thin. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Adam. He showed up, and I didn’t want to make a scene. He just wanted to talk, and I thought it would be better to let him say whatever he needed to say so he’d leave for good.” Adam scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “So what, you’re just inviting your exes over now? Letting them sit in my house, around my family? What’s next, you’re going to let him hold Ellie?” “Stop it!” she hissed, her voice sharp but quiet to avoid waking Ellie. “This isn’t about you or Chris. It’s about me trying to handle something from my past so it doesn’t keep coming back. He’s gone now, Adam. You don’t need to keep blowing this out of proportion.”

“Blowing it out of proportion?” he repeated, his voice rising despite her warning. “How do you think this looks? He’s still in love with you—it’s obvious! And you just let him walk in here like nothing’s changed. Do you even respect me? Us?” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she fought to keep her composure. “Don’t you dare question my respect for you, Adam. I’ve been nothing but honest and committed to you since the beginning. But that doesn’t mean I owe you control over how I handle my past. Chris is not a threat to us, and the fact that you’re turning this into something it isn’t says more about your insecurities than it does about me.” His face darkened at her words, but he didn’t respond immediately. The silence between them stretched, heavy and tense. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but still laced with bitterness. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not just mad because he showed up—I’m mad because you let him make me feel like I’m not enough. Like he still has a place in your life.” She shook her head, exhaustion settling over her. “He doesn’t have a place in my life, Adam. I told him that tonight. You’re the one I chose. You’re the one I’m building a life with. But if you keep letting your jealousy and pride get in the way, you’re going to ruin this yourself.” Adam stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, without another word, he turned and stormed off toward the bedroom, leaving her standing alone in the kitchen. The baby monitor hummed softly, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside her. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself. It wasn’t Chris who was threatening her future—it was Adam. And as she stood there in the quiet of the night, she couldn’t help but wonder how much more of this she could take.

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A week later, she sat on the edge of the bed, the baby monitor humming beside her. Ellie was asleep, and the house was quiet, but her mind was anything but. For days, Adam had been acting colder, more controlling, monitoring her every move. She felt trapped, suffocated by his paranoia and manipulations. She needed help, someone to remind her of the person she used to be before all of this. Against her better judgment, she dialed Chris’s number, her hands trembling as she held the phone to her ear. “Hello?” Chris’s voice came through the line, warm but cautious. “Is everything okay?” She let out a shaky breath, her voice barely above a whisper. “Chris, I—I don’t know what to do. Things with Adam… they’re worse than ever. I think—” “What the hell are you doing?” Adam’s voice boomed from the doorway, making her jump. Before she could react, he stormed over and snatched the phone from her hand, glaring at the screen before pressing it to his ear.

“Listen here, you piece of crap,” Adam growled, his voice venomous. “Stay out of my family’s life. You’ve got no business talking to her, and if I ever catch you calling her again, I’ll make sure you regret it.” "Put her back on the phone, Adam,” Chris demanded, his tone steady but firm. “I’m not going to let you treat her like this.” Adam laughed bitterly, pacing the room with the phone in his grip. “You’re not going to let me? Last I checked, I’m the one here, not you. She doesn’t need your help. She doesn’t need you. Stay out of it before you make things worse for her.” She stood frozen, her heart pounding as she watched the scene unfold, tears welling in her eyes. Adam ended the call abruptly, throwing the phone onto the bed before turning to her, his face twisted with fury. “You think running to him is going to fix anything? You think he’s going to save you?” She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as Adam loomed over her. She knew she couldn’t stay silent much longer—something had to change before it was too late.

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Chris hadn’t been able to get her call out of his mind. Her voice had been shaky, scared—nothing like the woman he’d known years ago. Something was wrong, and no matter what Adam had threatened, he couldn’t ignore it. He drove to the house late that evening, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, determination coursing through him. The driveway was empty, and the lights inside were dim, but he didn’t let that deter him. When he reached the door and knocked, there was no response. He hesitated for a moment, debating whether to leave, but a gut feeling told him not to. The thought of her and the baby in danger gnawed at him. He tested the doorknob, and to his surprise, it turned. Quietly, he let himself in, his footsteps cautious as he moved toward the muffled voices coming from the living room. As he got closer, the voices became clearer—her voice, trembling and pleading, and Adam’s, sharp and venomous. Chris froze when he stepped into the doorway and saw the scene before him. Adam was standing over her, holding Ellie in one arm while his free hand was raised, hovering over her as though he were about to strike. “You’re so ungrateful!” Adam barked, his face twisted with rage. “I’ve done everything for you, and this is how you repay me? Sneaking around and calling him?”

She cowered slightly, her hands raised in a futile attempt to protect herself. “Adam, please,” she said, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean—just calm down. You’re scaring Ellie.” Chris couldn’t stay silent any longer. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, stepping into the room. Adam spun around, his eyes narrowing dangerously at the sight of Chris. “What are you doing in my house?” he growled, clutching Ellie tighter. The baby whimpered, sensing the tension, and Adam barely seemed to notice. “I came to check on her,” Chris said, his voice steady despite the anger bubbling beneath the surface. “And it looks like I got here just in time. Put the baby down, Adam. Now.” Adam smirked, shifting Ellie slightly in his arms. “Oh, you think you’re going to play the hero? Walk in here and save her? You’ve got no idea what you’re messing with.” Chris took a step closer, his eyes locked on Adam. “I said put her down. You’re scaring her, and you’re scaring her mother. This ends now.”

Adam’s smirk faltered, his grip on Ellie tightening for a moment before he finally relented, setting the baby down in her playpen with a roughness that made Chris’s stomach turn. As soon as Ellie was safe, Chris stepped between Adam and her, positioning himself as a barrier. “She’s done with this,” Chris said firmly, his voice low but filled with conviction. “You don’t get to treat her like this. You don’t get to threaten her and the baby.” Adam glared at him, his fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t get to decide what happens in my house,” he spat. “She’s mine. Not yours. She doesn’t need you.” “She’s not yours,” Chris shot back, his voice rising. “She’s her own person, and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. You can’t keep her trapped here.” He turned to her, his expression softening. “You don’t have to stay, you know. You and Ellie can come with me. You don’t have to do this alone.” Tears filled her eyes as she looked at Chris, her body trembling. For the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of hope—an escape from the nightmare she’d been living. But before she could respond, Adam lunged forward, shoving Chris hard.

“Get out of my house!” Adam roared. “You don’t belong here!” Chris steadied himself, standing his ground. “I’m not leaving without her,” he said firmly. “You’ve lost the right to call this your family.” Adam looked like he was ready to explode, but the sound of Ellie crying from the playpen cut through the tension. The baby’s wails filled the room, and for a moment, no one moved. Then she stepped forward, her voice trembling but strong. “I’m going with Chris,” she said, her eyes locked on Adam. “And if you try to stop me, I’ll call the police.” Adam’s face twisted in fury, but he didn’t say a word. Chris placed a protective hand on her back, guiding her toward Ellie. Chris gently picked up Ellie from the playpen, her cries beginning to subside as he held her close. His touch was calm and steady, his voice a soft murmur of reassurance as he cradled her. “It’s okay, little one. You’re safe now.” He turned to her, nodding toward the door. “Let’s get her to the car.” She followed him, her legs shaky but determined. As they neared the door, Adam’s voice cut through the tense silence. “You think this is over?” he spat, his tone dripping with venom. “You think you can just leave and everything will be fine? You’re making the biggest mistake of your life.”

She stopped in the doorway, turning to face him, her body trembling but her resolve firm. “No, Adam. The biggest mistake of my life was staying with you as long as I did,” she said, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. “I’m done. You don’t get to control me, manipulate me, or scare me anymore. It’s over.” Adam’s face twisted with rage, but she held her ground, her voice unwavering. “You can say whatever you want, but I’m leaving with my daughter, and I’m not coming back. You don’t love me, Adam. You just love having power over me, and I’m done giving you that.” Chris, who had stepped outside with Ellie, reappeared in the doorway, his presence a silent reassurance. “She said it’s over, Adam,” he said firmly. “You need to accept that and let her go.” Adam glared at him, but there was something different in his eyes now—frustration, defeat, maybe even fear. For the first time, it seemed like he realized he wasn’t in control anymore. She didn’t wait for him to respond. Without another word, she turned and walked out the door, her steps growing stronger with each one. When she reached the car, Chris was already securing Ellie into the car seat, his movements careful and practiced. He looked up as she approached, his expression soft but filled with determination.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he said gently. “You’re stronger than you think.” She nodded, a single tear sliding down her cheek. “I just want to keep her safe. I want her to have the life she deserves.” Chris placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re giving her that now. And you’re not alone in this anymore.” She looked back at the house one last time, then climbed into the car, leaving Adam—and the life she thought she had to endure—behind. For the first time in years, she felt the promise of a new beginning.

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Authors Note: here's something that's not super angsty but it's sad, writing about abuse/domestic violence is a bit out of comfort but I had an anon ask for it (I think I accidentally deleted their ask whoops) but ENJOY BABES~

who wants a part two!?

Taglist: @mattsplaything @emely9274 @pvssychicken @mattsslutt @chrislilcumslvt @cupiidk1lls @loud-sturniolos @p14th0mps0n @3xclus1vel0v3r @bilssturns @nateismybf @chrissweetheart @jassturn @kaybug88 @kennastromboli @goingtojohnkramershouseee @matthewsroses @whore4chris @trevorsgodmother @sweetshuga @chrissdiorstar

[rongzhi]

(Apologies in advance for typos.)

^ My original tags on this, but actually, I wanted to expand on my views about this a little bit based on some other collected musings I had about the XHS move (which—now that the dust has settled a bit, is it still going on? I don't even know). I'll preface this by saying that my own XHS has been pretty much spared of the wave of American signups, since my feed is mostly art/tattoos and not so much lifestyle/vlogs.

Mainly, I wanted to dig into that feeling of being "over it", a sentiment I've seen circulated on Tumblr by other Chinese diaspora. I think it's a IYKYK situation in some ways but I wonder if non-Chinese diaspora are precisely aware of why there is a underlying sense of caution and this side-eyeing toward everything going on. (To an extent, I think non-Americans who have to deal with us Americans dominating internet spaces probably also have some insight into this.)

Essentially, after that initial cute "haha" feeling of seeing people jump into a new space and meeting all the new people, for me personally, just from having run this blog for 4 years now, I feel distinctly aware that things could go wrong.

Others have said it better, be it pointing out the infantilising or inherent sinophobia, but there is a slant to that attitude of jumping on a new app and discovering that Chinese people can be funny, that they can be kind, that they are sociable and, in basic terms, "just like you", that leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. Oh, you just realised that? People can argue that it was never possible to connect with Chinese netizens before all they want, but in fact, clearly, it was as easy as downloading an app that's free on U.S app stores. Next, you could say, well, there's cultural exchange happening now, which is better than nothing, so what are you so pissy about! I agree, I'm not saying it's a bad thing that some Americans are finally making some attempt to converse with someone outside of their Western, Anglo internet bubble (even if they did so as in the comfort of what is essentially another bubble, as part of a trend). Obviously there is a net good to a person joining XHS, and my wariness mostly comes down to this sense of "discovery" coming with a feeling that Chinese people are still getting lumped into a monolith. Maybe now the monolith is nice and friendly; now the monolith is cute and funny and helpful.

What happens if the Tiktokers realise that some Chinese people also are more socially conservative, or that there are societal issues that Chinese people still have to work through, which aren't ideal or progressive enough for the Enlightened Americans—then what? I've already seen the answer in smaller doses over the years, so I don't know about others, but this is something that I—maybe—hopefully just cynically—can't help but keep my ears tuned towards: the other shoe dropping. Again, for Chinese diaspora (and no doubt, diaspora of any culture in a similar situation), it's "if you know, you know"; we've seen the fickleness of attitudes. The xenophobia and sinophobia that run rampant in U.S society (and I'm sure other western countries, but I speak as a USian) is well known to us in a way that mainlanders often don't take heed toward. Even if there is a sinophobic backlash over anything that arises online, the brunt of it won't be felt by Chinese netizens but us Chinese diaspora who spend the most time in Anglo internet spaces. So, I'm a bit over it all. I've seen how interest in China can play out—for example, how learning Mandarin or being a fan of cdramas or hanfu hardly frees a person of their sinophobia or from regurgitating xenophobic talking points.

It's nice but naive to think that the majority of the tiktokers playing around on XHS right now, trading memes and basking in the numbers of Chinese social media, will truly self-interrogate all too deeply. If some of them seem to have only just realised that Chinese people are ~so nice~, how Other have they been seeing Chinese diaspora? Is that still the case? Will they necessarily make the same effort to know and listen to Chinese diaspora? (People in cfandom will know the answer).

Again, I think there's an overall positive to all this, especially in this ~political climate~ (altho I doubt the people who need positive interaction with Chinese people the most downloaded XHS lol). I guess I just wanted to add all this because because I feel like my first response was quite vague and on second thought, I figured I might as well try to unravel some of my thoughts and impart them to anyone who maybe had no idea there was this perspective to things. Call me jaded or no fun at parties all you like, but that's literally just how it is.

Lastly, I'll just say that from me scrolling douyin, I've also seen how people in China have reacted to the influx of Americans on XHS, so I can tell you a little bit of the other side. It also corresponds a little with what I'm trying (but maybe failing) to say about Chinese diaspora: the people who have been having as much/equal fun with the convergence of internet spaces have been mainlanders with no general dealings with Americans. In the past week, the bloggers I've seen who've been vocal/warning about Chinese people not bending over backwards to start speaking English all the time, or just following/kissing up to Americans because they're white*, have been Chinese netizens—mainly students—who live/study abroad.

* Yes, obviously there are non-White Americans, but white people are, as ever, uplifted the most by society on the basis of being white. We know this.

how do you feel about so many americans getting on 小红书?

[frutigerfischl]

Oh my goood, your headcanons for CaitVi x Wanted Criminal! Reader were sooo accurate and awesome, can you, PLEASE, write a one-shot with this idea?

⌗ TITLE┆BLOOD WILL RUN┆song: my own piece of hell ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ TAGS┆gn!reader, poly relationship, caitvi/reader, wantedcriminal!reader ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ NOTE┆im glad you thought the hcs were accurate!! My friend helped me with them so I can't take all the credit :3, short oneshot because writers block is getting to me ★ ₊ ˚⟡

There’s blood under your nails again.

Not your blood, at least not this time. Someone else’s. A little too much of it, if the stiff, drying patches on your gloves are anything to go by. You peel them off, shoving them deep into the bag slung over your shoulder, before the dripping from your wrist can leave a trail on Caitlyn’s spotless floorboards. She’d have a fit if she saw the mess you were dragging into her home again—no, not home, safehouse. That’s what she called it when she shoved the key into your hand a few months ago. “For emergencies,” she’d said.

Caitlyn had known better than to ask how long you’d been running by then. Long enough that you stopped counting.

You’re halfway through shrugging out of your coat when the front door clicks open.

The instinct to bolt hits you hard, years of surviving on quick reflexes tightening your muscles. But the sharp edge of the voice that follows pulls you back from the brink.

“Relax. Just us.”

Vi.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. You’d know that voice anywhere—the gruff rasp of it, like she’s always a little winded, as if her fights haven’t quite let her go yet. It’s comforting, in a way.

You glance over your shoulder anyway, long enough to catch her stepping through the doorway, Caitlyn right on her heels.

They’re still wearing their uniforms. The sight of Caitlyn in hers—crisp, formal, perfect—makes you flinch, even now. The cuffs hooked at her belt glint under the low light of the chandelier, a sharp reminder of how close this whole thing comes to falling apart every single time you see them.

They are falling apart, you think. All three of you.

Caitlyn shuts the door behind them, her eyes already scanning the room. “You’re hurt,” she says, her voice dipping into that soft, precise tone she saves for when she’s trying not to sound concerned. It doesn’t work.

“Not my blood,” you mutter.

That earns you a sharp look from Vi. “You shouldn’t even be here. You know what they’re saying about you up in Piltover, right? Enforcers are pulling double shifts trying to track you down.”

“As if I didn’t notice,” you shoot back, your mouth twitching with something too bitter to be called a smile. “You think I want to be here? I don’t exactly have a lot of options right now.”

It’s a weak excuse, and all three of you know it.

You hadn’t had to come here at all. You could’ve run further. Stayed in Zaun, burrowed into some forgotten hole until things cooled off. But you didn’t. You came here—their apartment, in Piltover of all places—and Vi’s scowl makes it obvious what she thinks of that decision.

But Caitlyn, true to form, softens before Vi does. She crosses the room, her long legs eating up the distance between you in a few steps. Her hand brushes your arm, light as a whisper, before moving up to tilt your chin so she can look at you properly.

Your mouth opens—some weak protest forming on your lips—but it dies when she meets your eyes.

“You’re lucky,” Caitlyn murmurs, her gaze trailing over your face like she’s cataloging every bruise, every scrape, every wrong thing she can’t fix. Her lips purse just slightly, a soft, worried quirk. “There’s a warrant with your name on it and your face sketched right at the top. If anyone else had caught you tonight—”

“They didn’t,” you interrupt. You force yourself to hold her stare. “And they won’t.”

It’s bold. Reckless, even. You know better than to make promises like that.

Behind Caitlyn, Vi scoffs. “Bold talk, coming from someone hiding in our apartment right now.”

Caitlyn’s fingers twitch on your chin, her thumb brushing just under your jaw. You see it in her face—the conflict, the silent battle between her sense of duty and something deeper, something softer. You wonder if she knows you see it, if she realizes how much you hate yourself for putting her through this.

“You can’t stay here,” Caitlyn says finally, stepping back. Her voice is gentler now, but firm. “Not long-term.”

“Like I don’t already know that,” you mutter.

Vi moves closer, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. Her presence is a weighty thing, solid and grounding. Where Caitlyn is cool precision, Vi is something rawer, something that cuts sharper and bleeds deeper. “They’ll find you eventually, Y/N. If you keep coming back here, we’re all screwed.”

“And what do you want me to do, huh?” you snap, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Keep running? Go to Zaun? You think I’ll last a week down there with Silco’s people crawling all over the place?”

Silence. Thick and suffocating.

Vi doesn’t answer, and Caitlyn doesn’t meet your eyes.

For a long moment, it feels like all of you are drowning.

Then, finally, Caitlyn sighs. The sound is soft, but it carries the weight of a decision she doesn’t want to make. She looks at Vi, and something unspoken passes between them.

“Fine,” Caitlyn says, her voice tight. “You can stay. But just for the night.”

You swallow, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Thanks.”

Vi’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue. She just pushes off the wall, coming to stand next to Caitlyn. “You better not make us regret this.”

For the first time tonight, you feel something almost like relief. It’s fragile and fleeting, but it’s there.

Caitlyn moves first, gently tugging you toward the couch. “Sit. Let me clean you up.”

You don’t argue.

[muwapsturniolo]

But notice how everything actually been cool on tumblr until now…right ok. People love to start issues when the rest of us are trynna vibe. I truly don’t have the time for it this year, the bitches with beans for brains and jealousy issues can continue being bitter cuz that’s exactly what it is.

This isn’t me making rose out to be a celebrity or glazing her, it’s the truth. You don’t have to like her, not everyone should like you. But making side blogs and expose accts to hate on people does nothing but prove how jealous and insecure you are with your own blog and interactions.

Focus on writing and maybe your interactions will go up. Yap to your followers and maybe your inbox will be jumpin. Literally just stop dedicating your time into making accts to hate.

And call me a glazer or a sidekick if you want. I’m just being a real ass bitch and a real ass friend. I’d do this for anyone in and out of my circle, not just rose.

[youvebeengalindafied]

This is all @polyarmy and @fiyeroba ‘s fault for making me sad about Glinda again so now I’m posting my whole Glinda Meta here (originally an obnoxiously long dm sent to @gamorahww who is a patient saint)

You’ve asked for it, and now you get……The Glinda Meta™

First: I have been obsessed w/ Glinda's character for like 15 years. She is my roman empire. But I also really LIKE her as a flawed character - something that the fandom has always seemed to be a little uncomfortable with.

She is, to me, what Jane Austen once wrote about Emma:

“I am going to write a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.”

Full meta character analysis under the cut. Uh. Strap in.

(This gets a lil long sorry, but PLEASE HEAR ME OUT -)

To me, the interesting thing is what actually - ACTUALLY - motivates Glinda to act the way she does is so much greater and deeper than a simple desire for success/fame/popularity.

Like obviously in literature/critique of narrative, we have this idea of protagonists vs supporting characters. Supporting characters might have philosophies or goals that drive them (think Nessa and Boq) but those philosophies and goals are usually not developed into self-contradictory nuance the way a protagonist's motivations are. They’re just facts about the character.

And in my option, a big problem in the wicked fandom is that everybody seems to treat Glinda as a supporting character whose motivations are easy to digest. To most fans, she's either the girlfriend who is there to support Elphaba's story by being "loving but conflicted." Or to critics she's entirely selfish and cruel (even as she's fun and interesting), and therefore a semi-antagonist

But if you step back and treat Glinda as a true antihero protagonist of Wicked (for the sake of the mental character study), you see that she's not actually motivated by love or popularity or even success....what drives her is desperation.

Glinda sees her world as a place that cannot be changed and will only work to destroy those who cannot correctly operate in it. And she is SO DESPERATE to avoid that. Elphaba's fate is actually her worst fear - she cannot break away from society and leap to a new fate, because she is the ultimate cynic who thinks there is no way that could possibly work. In fact, it's an enormous testament to her love (however you want to intepret that) of Elphaba that she's even willing to consider leaving during Defying Gravity. For a brief moment, her immense, incredible faith in Elphaba is almost enough to overcome her complete desperation to survive the horrible world she thinks she's in.

And that obviously means that she's not as noble as Elphaba or as brave as Fiyero as a character - she cannot make the choice to leave when both of them do at different points - but that's because she's the most "human" character in the story. Most people are not brave enough to become international terrorists, even in the face of great evil. We might join in a developed cause, but to knowingly walk towards what is likely one's death to change a system you know you’ll actually have very little effect on...that takes a very special kind of person. And while Glinda is a GOOD person, she is too much a cynic and too desperate to survive her crazy world to become that impossible standard of the Rebel or the Hero. She's just a flawed, scared girl, in circumstances she never dreamed she’d be in.

And then the craziest thing happens:

Rather than showing Glinda that she should have been brave and done what E and F did, the narrative instead goes and basically confirms all her darkest fears: Elphaba rebels...and her revolution fails, and Glinda loses her best friend to bitter hatred and insanity for most of Act 2. Fiyero decides to leave and do the right thing by going with Elphaba....and he is almost immediately murdered in a horrible, violent way as punishment for it. This can only reinforce for Glinda that the State/the System/the World is all-powerful, and she must bow to it.

But that's the most fascinating moment for her character, because the very moment she realizes the absolute overwhelming power of the system (March of the Witch Hunters) is also the very moment that chooses to die rather than perpetuating it. She leaves the City to approach Elphaba - whom Glinda thinks POSSIBLY WANTS TO KILL HER - and BEGS Elphaba to not die. Begs Elphaba to stop her self-sacrificial madness. Begs Elphaba to allow Glinda to sacrifice herself instead ("Then I'll go, I'll tell everybody the truth!" "No! They'll just turn against you!" "I DON'T CARE!" - this girl who is entirely motivated by survival is straight up throwing it all on the line ready to walk to her death at the hands of a mob with wide open, unblinking eyes)

And obviously, in doing so, she is making the same choice that Fiyero did earlier in the story, But the huge difference is that Fiyero is a classic case of a "dead from the beginning" character, and he does not have the same motivations as her. He starts as a nhilist already embracing death in Dancing Through Life and his character is not somebody who is desprate to survive - his character is driven by a desperation for a faith. And Elphaba (and her cause) is his faith that he happily martyrs himself for.

By contrast, Glinda is terrified of the system that is trying to kill her, and she is desperate to survive it. She sees the way it takes everything form her, again and again, destroying everything she loves - Elphaba, Fiyero, her own sense of goodness…

(And she is extremely genre-aware that she is in a tragedy: her world isn't fair, and she knows that Elphaba will fail. She knows this will all go wrong.)

But Glinda still has such strength of character that she - in the end - overcomes all of her fear, all of her weaknesses, and humbles herself at the pyre to join the people she loves so much in their fate. She both offers to die for Elphaba and she takes up Elphaba's work and dedicates her entire life to it, consequences be damned. And that comes from a place of ultimate love and goodness, despite all of her flaws and all the temptations dissuading her.

Because Glinda is not Elphaba or Fiyero - she isn't a starry-eyed optimistic rebel or a man with a obsessive, loving faith. She is just a girl. Just Emma. And she is extremely flawed, and has so many fears that push and pull at her in a way the other main characters do not experience. But despite being so painfully, humanly defective, her goodness allows her to do the right thing in the end.

tl;dr - the greatest thing about Glinda’s character is that she is flawed, and she is weak and makes all the wrong choices. But in the end, she humbles herself completely - to the point of offering her own life for Elphaba and taking the whole weight of the world on her shoulders despite all her fear - because she is ultimately good.

And thus in the end, she becomes the person that Elphaba so clearly sees her as throughout the story: good, caring, and able to make real change in the world. She will now try desperately to fully live up to Elphaba's incredible faith in her. And it's so heartbreaking and tragic, but also one of the best character arcs ever.

So I guess it's less "wants to stay safe in her bubble" and more "she sees no option other than to stay safe. The State/System is all-powerful and there is nothing she thinks she can do to change that. But the beauty of the character lies in her decision to step out of that bubble anyways."

—

BONUS: Glinda’s flaws in relation to her relationship with Elphaba

(Or why Gelphie is a devastating ship (romantically or not) but not in the way you think)

This section dedicated to the SJB/AA performance that just BREAKS ME.

Elphaba basically sees Glinda through some WILDLY rose-tinted glasses (which is just. such a fascinating insight into elphaba’s character). Which is why a good chunk of the fandom accepts it as fact that Glinda is ~not actually all that flawed~ or is somehow being forced to make the decisions she is (she is not. the narrative point of Fiyero’s character is to prove that lol)

Glinda is very much complicated and does make some truly terrible decisions. Elphaba just sees and believes the good in her, despite everything she does (because it’s also a fact of the story that - either platonically or romantically - she’s clearly a little in love with Glinda. (The passes she gives that girl…)). I don’t think her weird thing about Glinda is particularly rational, but it is undeniably all-consuming.

And that makes their relationship feel VERY human. Their flaws don't make them unworthy of each other’s love and respect and friendship. Elphaba's love of Glinda is pretty crazy in light of how much Glinda’s morals and choices differ from her own, but that’s the kind of love that real, sometimes illogical people have. Anybody trying to prove the logic or compatibility of the characters is kinda missing the point - it doesn’t make sense, and THAT’S how you know it’s love.

(Brief aside: similar to Elphaba’s obsession with Glinda, Fiyero is also irrationally obsessed with Elphaba. I mean, she kinda sucks at the whole revolution thing (she's trying!!) and he's clearly starry-eyed ignoring a LOT of her flaws lol. In contrast - for better or worse, Glinda does see Elphaba's flaws and calls them out, just as Elphaba sees Fiyero's flaws and calls him out. It’s a nice little circular relationship)

But…but….is it gay???

Sure. I think so - but I’m a lesbian who has shipped it since I was a preteen lol. But that’s also NOT THE POINT, and focusing on only the romantic angle of their relationship REALLY ignores just how layered and complex it is.

Taking off my squee shipping glasses for a minute: they’re fundamentally just two people in some version of an EXTREMELY intense relationship. I honestly think Glinda reads as a little terrified of how insanely intense her relationship is with Elphaba. She fears walking down that road and fully falling down the path of that intense, all-consuming love. (And we literally learn why later through Fiyero’s ‘death’ and Elphaba’s insanity. Love makes you do some crazy things.)

Regardless of whether you interpret them romantically or not - it’s clear they’re very intense about each other and Glinda is very afraid that Elphaba is her weakness. Unfortunately, Elphaba is also her soulmate and the love of her life, and she’ll come back to her always. That will ruin Glinda’s life in the end, but it will have been worth it for all the love that was there

[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

a little ficlet on my little ford au because im officially extremely obsessed w it rn and i neeeeed you guys to see just how much angst potential this has

@shmisky because you asked to see the dialogue hope you enjoy it ebdhrdudh <3

~~

Ford shifts in his make shift shelter. The gusts of salt water air blowing on his face is predictably stronger with the size he is now, but it's far more tolerable than when he was on deck. Right here, he can hear Stan's steady heartbeat behind him. Slow. Rhythmic.

Serene.

Then Stan sighs, and Ford feels his chest rise and fall against his back, the expansion and deflation. Ford looks up curiously, eyes landing on the unhappy downward twitch of Stan's lips.

"Stanley?" He calls out, hoping his voice reaches his brother's ears. Of course when indoors, Stan can hear him clearly, but with the rippling waves, the occassional creaks of the old boat and the few squaking seagulls that fly ahead freely, who knows if Stan could hear him now? He raises his voice to call out again. "Stanley, what's wrong?"

He's greeted with a long beat of silence, so much so he almost concluded that Stan hasn't heard him. He cups his hands over his mouth, ready to speak again when Stan finally clicks his tongue.

"Guess I'm responsible for you again, huh?" Stan remarks, bitterness in every word. "The portal, then with you livin' in the shack before that whole weird-ma-somethin', now this."

He gestures to his breast pocket, where Ford is currently tucked away in. The said small man feels his face heat, an anchor dropping from his chest and lodging deep to the depths of his stomach. Ford swallows, his tongue in his throat, because, well, ouch.

"I suppose you could say I'm your little problem, eh?" He croaks out weakly with a nervous smile, looking up at his brother. Stan is looking ahead at the waves, attention nowhere near Ford, and Ford feels even smaller to be talked to without having Stan's eyes on him. But knowing if Stan looks down, he'd feel as microscopic as the germs that stick to the soles of Stan's feet.

"I guess," Stan says, not refuting or denying anything, and the pit grows deeper. "Sure as hell isn't fun, you know?"

"I... I know," Stanford says, sighing too. He tucks himself in the pocket even deeper.

"Stanley... are you, upset with me? For doing this?"

"Pfft, no." Stan responds quickly and Ford almost breaks his neck with how quick he whips his head to look up at him.

"Wait, you're not?"

"No, I'm not, Sixer."

"Then, um," Ford scratches the back of his neck, feeling the drying air on his skin. "What exactly is wrong...?"

Stan's arm moves, and he leans onto the railing, precariously leaning just a little so that Ford wouldn't threaten to fall into the deep, inky blue depths of the rippling sea. Trying to appear casual, despite his precision and carefulness. He's always been like that with Ford, and once upon a time even Stanford himself mistook that careless facade to be something more than just a faux cover up of his brother's big heart. The one that always bled too much for Ford.

"I'm not pissed you wanted to tag along, Ford," Stan says, finally looking down at Ford and Ford feels his heart jump. Stan's own heartbeat quickens a bit with rising frustration that Ford is almost tempted to call his bluff out. But he keeps his mouth shut, because assuming too much about Stan's intentions is how he got himself here in the first place. From Thirty years ago. Forty years ago.

"I'm pissed you did this after I told you I wanted to experience stuff for myself for once."

"I just—"

"I thought about coming back for you, you know? And really give it a chance, and you—" Stan sighs, clutching the railing with a hard grip. "Of course you just gotta take me wanting to ask you myself away from me, huh?"

The argument Ford was about to hastily spit out to defend himself dies, and he sinks lower in Stan's breast pocket. His heartbeats sound a little less serene now. More like an all encompassing timebomb of when all of this will eventually blow up in Ford's face, the only one Ford can't defuse.

"I'm sorry, Stanley."

"Yeah, well," Stan straightens up, looks out on sea again. "Little too late for that, huh?"

[kikyoupdates]

For Tomorrow's Sake ⭑˚💫⭑ 𝑎 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦-𝑘𝑛𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑜

various!jjk x f!reader

reverse harem, isekai, jujutsu kaisen x fem!reader, slowburn

You never believed reincarnation was possible, least of all in the fictional world of Jujutsu Kaisen. However, from the moment you meet Gojo Satoru, it’s impossible to deny. Whether it’s a miracle or some kind of curse, you find yourself growing up alongside the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. Unfortunately, you know what the future holds in store. You know exactly what kind of tragedies await. Perhaps that’s why you were brought into this world. If it means saving people from a gruesome fate, you’ll gladly suffer in their place. You’ll do whatever it takes.All for the sake of a better tomorrow.

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It seems like Naoya is in the middle of an existential crisis, and you honestly don’t even feel guilty about it.   

He keeps looking down at his hand with a look of sheer disbelief, as if the injury might magically reappear if he stares at it long enough. You suppose, in his mind, your existence alone contradicts everything his clan has instilled in him. He’s only six years old, but a certain worldview has already been pushed onto him. And now, you’re watching it unravel in real time.   

Much to Naoya’s regret, he still isn’t able to come up with what to say, and by that point, it’s already too late.   

Zen’in Naobito steps into the room.   

Toji’s face immediately twists into a scowl. Well, not that he wasn’t scowling before, but it’s suddenly way more pronounced. Naobito is strong, of course, but if Toji were to let loose and fight him without holding anything back… he’d definitely kick his ass.   

Naobito is younger than when he appears in the canon series, but other than that, his appearance is largely unchanged. He’s even carrying a flask with him, the goddamn drunkard. The first thing he does upon plopping down on the cushion seat in front of you is throw his head back and take a big swig of god knows what alcoholic concoction he’s got in there.   

“So,” he eventually says, glancing from Toji, to Satoru, then to you . “What’s this nonsense I hear about training someone from the Gojo Clan?”   

“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Toji replies with an icy gaze. “This girl asked me to train her, and I agreed.”   

“Why?”   

“Just because I felt like it.” 

“Ha,” Naobito scoffs. “Being an embarrassment to our clan wasn’t enough for you, it seems. You’re determined to make fools out of us all. To go as far as to sell yourself out to the Gojo Clan… how distasteful.”   

He proceeds to take another large gulp from his flask, and you wonder how he manages to stay somewhat sober with all the drinking he does. Well, that’s beside the point. You can practically feel the hatred radiating off Toji right now. This whole meeting wasn’t supposed to even happen canonically, and you actually wonder if Toji might lose control and start some shit. There’s really no guarantee how this will go.   

Still, you’d rather not create even more strife between clans, so you offer a reassuring smile as you gently squeeze Toji’s hand. Perhaps you’re reading into things too much, but the gesture seems to pacify him, at least for a little bit.   

“And you ,” Naobito says, looking even more repulsed all of a sudden. He’s staring pointedly in Satoru’s direction now. “I don’t recall inviting the esteemed Gojo Satoru for a visit. You just waltzed right in without permission, did you?”   

He really hates Satoru’s guts. Asshole leaders like him only care about one thing, and it’s elevating their own status. He can’t stand how much power and influence Satoru has, despite his young age. Jealousy, hatred, and bitterness seems to run rampant in the world of jujutsu sorcerers. Why can’t everyone just be chill?   

“I came here to protect [Name],” Satoru states, visibly unfazed.   

“Why would the girl need your protection? What exactly are you accusing the Zen’in Clan of?”   

“Nothing, really. I’m not sure why you’re getting so defensive. Unless you really did have something unpleasant in mind.”   

…ugh. The tension is so thick you wouldn’t even be able to cut it with a knife. You’ll need a goddamn chainsaw at this rate. As much as you trust in Satoru, he unfortunately has a tendency to pick fights left and right. Both as a child and an adult.  

You can see Naobito’s expression taking a slow and steady turn for the worse, but before he can respond, someone else cuts in.  

“That girl, [Name]... she knows how to use reverse cursed technique,” Naoya mumbles.   

You blink. Huh. Honestly, you thought you’d rendered him mute for the rest of this visit. He looked like he’d gone into shock. Actually, you forgot that he was still here at all, because Naobito’s presence just about takes up the whole room.   

“What?” Naobito frowns, casting his son a glance. “ She does? Don’t be ridiculous. Her cursed energy is incredibly scarce. She clearly doesn’t have any skill or talent. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have chosen someone as inept as Toji to train her.”   

“I-It’s true,” Naoya insists. He pauses for a moment, clearly hesitant, but he eventually works up the nerve to point to the broken plate lying on the table. “I… accidentally broke that plate and cut myself on it. And then she healed me. I still can’t really believe it, but… it definitely happened.”   

It’s rather satisfying, you have to admit. Being able to render someone like Naobito speechless. Then again, you seem to do that to pretty much everyone. Maybe you secretly do have an innate technique. The ability to confuse the absolute shit out of people.  

“Impossible,” Naobito glares. “You must have played some sort of trick on Naoya. He’s still young and foolish, so he doesn’t know any better.”   

“It’s not nice to say that your own son is foolish,” you frown. “I mean, I kind of called him stupid earlier myself, but that was for a different reason.”   

“You called my son stupid ?”   

“...nevermind.”   

Toji barely manages to stifle a chuckle, and Naobito takes yet another swig of his drink— angrily , this time.   

“I don’t mean to cause any trouble,” you say. “But I need Toji to train me. He fights with cursed tools, and I’m trying to learn to do the same. I have to do this. In order to gain the ability to use reverse cursed technique, I made a Binding Vow. I’m not allowed to use my own cursed energy to inflict harm upon anyone, or I’ll instantly die. Toji is an expert at using weapons. No one else even comes close to being as good as he is. So… please let him continue training me. I really need his help.”   

“Whether he supports it or not, I’m going to keep training you regardless,” Toji scoffs.  

You know he will, but that being said, you’re not trying to start an all-out clan war. You’re supposed to be the peacekeeper in this world. That would be a little, um, counterproductive .   

“A Binding Vow,” Naobito mumbles. He crosses his arms and laughs, crudely. “Ha! I knew there had to be a catch. You’re far too weak to have learned such an advanced technique through normal means. So, you’ve staked your life on it, huh? I suppose I should applaud your determination, if nothing else.”   

You grin. “I’ll take the applause, thank you very much. Go on. You can start clapping now. Don’t be shy.”   

Much to your dismay, he doesn’t start clapping. Talk about weak-ass applause. It’s like he’s not even trying.   

You don’t notice it since you’re so focused on Naobito, but all the while, Naoya’s eyes are widening more and more. He seriously doesn’t know what to make of you. He thought you were all out of surprises, but apparently, he was wrong.   

A Binding Vow where you’ll instantly die if you break the terms of your contract? He’s never heard of such a thing. Jujutsu sorcerers actively risk their lives by fighting cursed spirits, yes, but no one has ever gone that far. What if you hurt someone with your cursed energy by accident? One tiny misstep, a single moment of negligence�� and just like that, you’re dead ?   

“Why would you make a vow like that?” Naoya suddenly asks, his voice wavering as he utters the words.   

It’s not the first time someone’s asked you that question, and you doubt it’ll be the last. But it’s fine. You’ll explain yourself time and time again if that’s what it takes. There’s no shame in the choice you made. You believe in it wholeheartedly, and you will never, ever regret it.   

“So that I can help people,” you say simply. “I’m learning to fight with weapons so that I can hold my own against cursed spirits, but the most important thing is keeping everyone alive, right? That’s what I want to prioritize. Making sure that no one has to suffer.”  

Naoya’s cheeks redden, and suddenly, it’s as if a wave has crashed into him, drowning him in shame.  

He was so quick to ridicule you. To dismiss you as helpless and weak. He always thought that being strong meant the ability to fight and overcome opponents. At least, that’s what the Zen’in Clan has always taught him. But maybe… there are different kinds of strength.  

Maybe kindness is a strength of its own.   

The room goes silent for a while. You stare right into Naobito’s eyes, refusing to look away for even a moment. You may appear to him as a child, but he needs to see how serious you are about this. It doesn’t matter if he dislikes you. You don’t crave his approval. But at the very least, he better not stand in your way.   

“...fine.”   

You blink, somewhat taken aback. Naobito throws his head back and downs the remnants of his drink, then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.  

“Do as you please,” he says, already standing up. “I won’t involve myself with this farce anymore. It’s a waste of time. As far as I’m concerned… neither you nor Toji are proper jujutsu sorcerers.”   

He leaves without another word. It figures that he made sure to sneak in one last insult before disappearing, but you don’t really care. At least he’s not going out of his way to persecute you, and for that, you’re thankful.  

“Phew, what a relief,” you sigh. “That went a lot better than I was expecting, to be honest. Probably because I’m so charming and charismatic. People find it difficult to say no to me.”  

Toji chuckles, and Satoru does the same. Naoya is still in the room, unable to overcome his disbelief, and you glance over at him, grinning widely.   

“Right, Naoya?” you muse. “Don’t you agree that I’m super charismatic? And charming? And pretty?”   

“I see you added something else at the end,” Satoru snorts.   

“Well, I only said it because it’s true.”  

The longer Naoya stares at you, the more twisted up and funny his stomach feels. Also, his chest is awfully tight. And warm. Does he have a fever? Is he getting sick?   

“Y-You’re weird,” is all Naoya can think to reply, and without warning, he books it out of the room.  

He hates that he secretly agrees with everything you just said.  

Especially the part about you being pretty.

You could train for all eternity, but even then, you doubt you'd ever be able to keep up with Toji.   

His Heavenly Restriction is something else. For a human to be able to move the way he does, without even an ounce of cursed energy… it's honestly kind of broken. No wonder the author had to kill him off so quickly. He was way too powerful for his own good.  

“I’m so tired ,” you half-sob, and rather than looking sympathetic, Toji merely chuckles.   

“I thought you were the one who said you'd never complain, no matter how hard it gets,” he teases. “Or did I just imagine that?”  

“I-I’m not complaining. I was just stating a fact. I'm tired, but I never asked for a break or anything! So technically I've stayed true to my word.”  

“If [Name] needs a break, let her take one,” Satoru scowls. “I'll seriously fight you, old man.”  

Toji arches a brow. “Is that a challenge?”  

“Why don't you test your luck and find out?”  

You swear you can see sparks flying between them—and not the good kind. As reassuring as it is to have two of the strongest people on your side, it feels like they're always just shy of clawing each other's throats out.  

Toji rolls his eyes. “Alright, well, since the brat is throwing a fit like always, I guess we can take a small break.”  

“I wasn't throwing a fit, asshole!”  

“This kid’s got a real mouth on him. [Name], are you sure you wouldn't rather pick a better friend? He's kind of annoying.”  

Satoru grits his teeth, just shy of popping a blood vessel, so you hurry to step in before the situation can escalate any further.   

“Toji said I’m allowed to have a break, so let’s all sit down and relax for a bit,” you suggest. “I packed bento boxes for all of us. I’m really proud of how they turned out!”   

You plop down on the grass and start unpacking the provisions you brought along with you for the day. Satoru and Toji both sit down beside you. Other than the fact that they’re still glaring at each other, it kind of looks like you’re all having a picnic together. You still can’t really believe this is actually real life.  

“Here you go, Toji,” you say, passing him a bento box with a bright smile. “You may already be super strong, but even you need your nutrients.”   

“If you say so,” he chuckles. He opens the box up, and you watch as his eyes widen. “Did you really make all of this yourself? Or did someone from the Gojo Clan help you put it together?”  

“I made it all by myself! I like cooking. It’s a talent of mine.”   

You proudly puff out your chest, and Toji can’t help but smile. It’s strange how your boasting comes across as endearing, rather than arrogant or insufferable. Your most impressive talent of all is clearly the fact that you’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger.   

Toji separates his chopsticks, and for some reason, Satoru is staring at him rather intently. He’s not glaring anymore, though. Rather, he looks like he’s determined not to look away, even for a second.   

Toji shrugs before lifting an egg roll to his lips and taking a big bite of it.   

“...”   

It takes a few seconds for him to process everything. At first, he’s just so confused that he doesn’t even understand what he’s tasting right now. The flavors are clashing with each other so forcefully, so violently , that before he even realizes it, he’s spat his food right onto the ground.   

When he looks up, he finds Satoru grinning ear-to-ear.   

“Haha! You really ate it, you stupid old man!” The boy hugs his sides as he throws his head back and lets out another howl of laughter. “Man, your expression is to die for! How is it? It must taste awful, right? Is it so awful that you feel like crying? Hahahahaha!”   

Toji’s expression darkens. He clenches his fists while glaring at Satoru, and he ends up gripping down on his chopsticks so hard that they snap right in half.   

You frown. “Hey, that’s no good, Toji. If you break your chopsticks, you won’t be able to finish your food. Thankfully, I brought spares. Here you go!”   

“No, I’m fine,” Toji insists. His face is several shades paler all of a sudden. “I think… you might be trying to poison me or something.”   

“What are you talking about? My bento box has the same stuff as yours. I just split up the food I cooked into three different boxes.”   

Toji watches, horrified, as you proceed to eat the same egg roll that nearly ended his life just a few moments ago. Unlike him, however, you do it without so much as flinching. In fact, you look like you’re enjoying it.  

“Is she insane?” Toji asks.   

“Probably,” Satoru reluctantly nods. “It was funny watching you eat that, but if you value your life, you’ll stay away from [Name]’s cooking from now on.”  

“Both of you are big babies,” you scoff. “I’ve said it before, but the food I make is ahead of my time. I’m an innovator. Culinary experts would definitely acknowledge my talent. Just ask Gordon Ramsay.”  

“If Gordon Ramsay ever tried your food, I think he’d retire from cooking altogether. That’s just how bad it is.”   

You shrug, unbothered. It’s sad that genius so often goes overlooked, but whatever. You’re not here to be the next MasterChef. You’re here to keep everyone happy and safe, and so far, you’d say you’re off to a good start.   

Eventually, you finish eating, which means your break is over. You let out a faint groan as you stand up. Your muscles are unbelievably sore. Setting aside your weak cursed energy, physically-speaking, you’re stuck in the body of a seven-year-old. Being a badass doesn’t exactly come easily at this age.  

“You’re not getting discouraged, are you?” Toji asks, likely remarking upon your downcast expression. “I hope you didn’t expect to get stronger overnight. It’s going to take more time than that. And it’s up to you not to give up.”   

“I know. I’m not giving up, don’t worry. I wish fighting and stuff came naturally to me… but it’s alright. I’ve got more than enough to be thankful for already. Like the fact that I’m lucky enough to have both of you as my friends.”   

“Huh?” Satoru gapes. “No way! Did you seriously just put me and this old man on the same level? I thought I was your friend, not him!”   

“There’s no rule that you can’t both be my friends. But I guess Toji is more like an older brother,” you acknowledge. “Either way, no matter how many new friends I make, you’ll always be my best friend, Satoru.”  

He crosses his arms and grumbles something under his breath. It’s always a treat to see him act so pouty and adorable. To think that Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, likes you so much that he wants to keep you all to himself.  

“Silly Satoru,” you muse, and without warning, you lean in and kiss him on the cheek.   

“ W-What? !”   

He practically leaps away from you, and his face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. He’s like a little tomato. You can’t help but giggle at his innocence. In spite of the heavy responsibility he’s been burdened with, he’s still just a kid, underneath it all.   

Of course, Toji just watched the whole thing unfold, and he looks less than impressed.   

“Let me know when you two are done kissing each other,” he sighs. “So that we can get back to training.”  

It’s safe to say that Satoru will remember that kiss for the rest of his life.

“...okay, [Name]. You said this machine is the one you had a good feeling about, right? Time to find out.”   

You nod, expression stern, as Toji balances you on his lap, both of you facing towards the machine in question. Toji pushes a few of the buttons to get started, and after a moment’s delay, he reaches out and pulls the lever on the side.   

Toji stares at the machine’s screen, which is shining with bright, fluorescent lights, as he barely even dares to blink.   

One, two, three, four of the same symbol, and… can we get a fifth?   

“Yes!” Toji suddenly exclaims. Echoing his outcry is a message that appears across the machine’s screen—which states that he hasn’t just doubled, or tripled, but rather, quadrupled the money he put in.   

It’s safe to say that your good feeling paid off.   

“Attagirl,” Toji praises, grinning widely as he pats you on the head. You beam up at him, and he scans his card to redeem the rewards he just earned. It’s nice to see him so happy. From what you know, in the canon timeline, there was little to nothing that he actually had to look forward to in life. He was always bitter, jaded, and resentful. Seeing that he’s able to genuinely smile around you makes you happier than you can put into words.  

Unfortunately, not everyone seems to share in your enthusiasm.   

“Excuse me, um, sir…? Th-This is a casino. Children aren’t allowed in here, so I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave…”   

You turn around, locking eyes with a very nervous employee. He’s outright trembling, the poor thing. Probably because Toji is a walking mountain of a man, and it doesn’t help that his eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.   

Toji pockets his casino card and picks you up in his arms. “I’m not leaving yet,” he says. “I’ll be on a win streak today, I can feel it. If I walk out now, it’ll kill my momentum. Also, [Name]’s my good luck charm. Don’t worry about her. She’s a respectful kid. And she’s extremely smart for her age.”   

“It’s true,” you nod eagerly. “I’m way more mature than I look.”   

“Even supposing that’s the case, we simply cannot allow anyone inside the casino unless they’re of legal age,” the employee insists, and you know you aren’t imagining the way he takes a hurried step back when Toji gets out of his seat.   

Toji stares at him for a few moments, which must be increasing the employee’s heart rate exponentially , but after a little while, he just shrugs.   

“Don’t worry about it. Anyways, [Name], where to next? Should I try my hand at blackjack today?”   

“S-Sir!” the employee calls out. He nearly trips over his feet as he (reluctantly) chases Toji through the casino. “Excuse me, sir ! If you don’t leave right now, I’m seriously going to have to call security—”  

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”   

The employee freezes in place, and you watch, somewhat amused, as he glances all around him, trying to locate where the new voice is coming from.   

Eventually, he looks down, only to immediately jump.  

“Ack! There’s another kid? Where the hell are all of you coming from?!”   

“Don’t call security,” the kid—who, of course, is none other than Satoru —repeats. “I’m warning you. Just let the old man redeem his money and then we’ll leave. We’re getting out of here, but if you stir up a fuss, I promise you won’t like what happens.”   

Gojo Satoru is renowned in the world of jujutsu sorcerers. There’s practically no one who hasn’t heard of him. However, in the regular world, filled with regular people, he’s just a kid. He’s not supposed to be particularly remarkable.   

And yet, the longer the employee stares into Satoru’s bright, piercing blue eyes, the more he gets this strange feeling. As if maybe, just maybe, this kid might not just be making empty threats. Maybe getting on his bad side is the wrong move.   

The employee would rather not fuck around and find out.   

“H-He’s just going to redeem his rewards,” the employee swallows, backing away from Satoru in a hurry, the same way he did with Toji a few minutes ago. “After that, he really does have to leave. O-Okay?”   

“But I don’t want to leave,” Toji frowns.   

“It’s okay, Toji,” you reassure, gently cupping his cheek. “We’ll come back another day and sneak in properly. By the time we’re gone, they won’t even know what hit them.”   

“Um, I heard that.”   

“No, you didn’t!”   

Toji lets out a heavy sigh. Regretfully, the fun has already come to an end, but at least he won. You never really thought of yourself as the lucky type, but you suppose you kind of are . After all, you met both Satoru and Toji before the main plot of the story was set to begin. You were fortunate enough to have been born in this world at the ideal time. You could have been isekai’d during the Shibuya Incident. Or worse yet, in the middle of the Culling Game.   

So, yeah. Maybe you really are a good luck charm. Not just Toji’s, though. Satoru’s, too. And hopefully, whoever else you meet from now on.  

You’ll be everyone’s good luck charm.   

It’s hilarious, because you swear the employee’s hair has turned gray in the few minutes since this interaction began. He watches, biting his nails from anxiety and dread, as Toji cashes out for the day, and finally, your mischievous little trio bids farewell to the casino.  

“Do you think we’ve been blacklisted?” you frown.   

“I doubt it,” Satoru says. “I warned that guy not to make a fuss. But even if we are blacklisted, we can just go to another casino. Although I’m not really sure why we have to babysit this old man in the first place…”   

Toji flips through the bills in his hand with a bright expression. He’s not even correcting Satoru for calling him ‘old man’ again. That’s how good of a mood he’s in right now.   

“You did good, [Name],” he praises yet again. “As a reward, how about I get you a treat? What about ice cream? Kids like ice cream, right?”   

“Ice cream sounds perfect,” you grin.   

You proceed to cling onto Toji’s arm while he affectionately ruffles your hair. Satoru watches with a slight pout, as jealous as ever, but as long as you’re happy, he supposes he’s happy too. As long as you’re happy, healthy, and safe. That’s all that matters.   

It’s rather ironic that he’s having these thoughts, because right then and there, he feels not one, but two unfamiliar presences.   

The bastards must think they’re hiding from him. They must think they’re tucked away, out of sight, not at all at risk of being found.   

How dare they underestimate him.   

You and Toji continue walking ahead, but meanwhile, Satoru stops in place, and ever-so-slowly, he turns around. His eyes are gleaming brighter than ever, filled with a hatred so deep, so fierce, that even from this distance, the two assassins can’t help but cower in fear.   

“Weaklings like you would never stand a chance against me,” he mutters. He continues staring, gaze growing darker by the second. “And if you ever dare to lay a hand on [Name]... I’ll kill you faster than you can even blink.”   

They can’t possibly hear what he said from so far away. But it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one glare from Gojo Satoru; one cold, chilling display of strength, and the assassins decide that very second that they’ll never go near him ever again.   

Satoru waits for a few moments, but sure enough, it doesn’t look like they’re going to try anything. Good. They may be weaklings, but at least they’re not entirely stupid. Anyone who would even think of attacking while you’re nearby is either missing a brain, or they have some sort of death wish.   

“Satoru, what’s taking so long?” you call out to him from up ahead. “Didn’t you hear? Toji said he’s buying us ice cream! Come on!”   

It’s amazing just how quickly the darkness in his eyes clears, and instead, a smile rises to his lips. You’re like the sun, shining straight through the clouds, even on the murkiest of days. He swears he’ll never get tired of seeing that pretty smile of yours.   

Satoru pauses for a moment, chuckles inwardly, then runs up to you and grabs you by the hand.

More chapters are available on Quotev and Ao3!

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@storm-ismyusername

I think I'm leaning toward "The Lost Signal Ending" if we're gonna be fancy about it.

Definitely. Alastor can't stand not being able to communicate, and writing takes too long given how much he likes to talk, so sign language would be his best option. It's infuriating for him when someone doesn't know it and they're stuck at an impasse though.

Oh, he loathes them. This is one incident that Vox is never going to forget. He wants revenge, but right now his priority is helping Alastor recover. He struggles to retain details about the Vees themselves due to the directive that bans him from remembering them, but the fact that they hurt Alastor is burned into his mind. They aren't really individuals in his mind, just two halves of the same entity: the enemy.

The Vees definitely aren't satisfied (maybe if they finish the job and kill him, they'll feel better! Right? Right??), but they don't really have time to grapple with the morality of their actions. A full-on war has broken out amongst all the different overlords due to this development, and that's taking up most of their brain space. Their "plan" for this scenario has also gone screwy because whenever they pictured themselves successfully capturing Alastor, they assumed Vox would be safely in their care. They might've taken him too when they snatched Alastor (Vox would not react well to waking up in his old "prison" and hearing the sound of Alastor in pain over their shared frequency), but Charlie sure as hell wasn't going to leave him behind when she came to rescue Al. Knowing that Vox is out there, tending to Alastor's wounds, with his loyalty to him increased ten-fold... it's worrying, to say the least.

Husk doesn't know what to do. He isn't 100% sure whether Alastor still has the power to keep him here, but his gut's telling him to run while he can. He doesn't want to end up dying for Alastor of all people, but he can't abandon the rest of the hotel crew in good conscience. Husk knows he's not going to be able to convince Charlie to just throw Alastor to the wolves, so it feels "abandon your friends" and "possibly die for the person who's kept you enslaved for the past twenty years" are his only options. In terms of how he feels about Alastor as an individual though... I'm can't decide if Husk is mature enough to pity him or bitter enough to think Al got what was coming to him. Maybe both.

Vaggie's just disoriented at first. The truth about Vox and Niffty hadn't come out yet, so she had no idea why Angel's boss and his business partner abducted Alastor to torture him live on the air (or how they'd even accomplished such a thing since Alastor had been hiding the injury from his fight with Adam for the past several weeks/months). She was actually scared for him and felt real empathy when she saw the state he was in, as well as the effect it had on Vox and Niffty. And then she found out why this all happened. Vaggie feels like a fool for ever letting herself care about Alastor's wellbeing and is grappling with all the same stuff she has to deal with under normal circumstances when the truth is revealed. There might be a conflict between her and Charlie where the shock of the situation makes Charlie double-down and refuse to believe that this was all in retaliation for something Alastor did to Vox, while Vaggie struggles to make her accept reality. Could probably do something interesting with Vaggie and the whole "eye for an eye" thing, given how this is all taking place after she chose not to take revenge on Lute...

Um... this whole situation is... a lot, to say the least. They're relieved to have their dad back, but that relief doesn't last long. No matter what they do, they can't get Vox to calm down– he's beside himself with panic and grief and fury– and he flees back to the hotel with Alastor at the first opportunity. He might not even recognize them when he sees them, they've been apart for so long.

Fineas was 100% on board with the Vees revenge plan from the start. He didn't take part in it, but there's no doubt in his mind that it was deserved. Ondine went in when the Vees first captured Alastor and tried to get him to explain why he did all this. He may or may not have given her a truthful answer. Either way, she was so disgusted that she walked off and left him to his fate. She genuinely thought the Vees were going to kill him and might start having second thoughts when he escapes, though. The kid versions are basically the same, just slightly less involved.

The Vees don’t truly believe they’ll ever be able to accomplish this, but they’ve agreed that if they ever manage to capture Alastor (and are confident they can keep him from escaping), they want to put him through exactly what he did to Vox, and more. Days of torture, broadcasted live on television+livestream for all of Hell to see, until he completely snaps. They don’t know what he did to Vox to rewire his brain, but if they can, they’ll do their best to use their own methods of mental manipulation to humiliate him in the same way before finally killing him.

They’ve also promised each other that if they’re ever able to do this, no matter what Vox says or does, they won’t relent until the job is done. He can hate them all he wants; they’re taking revenge on his behalf whether he wants them to or not.

[petrichorium]

Happy anniversary of the time I wrote 20k words in a week and got ghosted by the artist who was supposed to make art for the fic lol