#melodrama world tour

[forestfeeling]

No bc nobody talked about this enough

There is hardly a peep from the audience at times

Captivatingly done

[crossarrowarts]

🌠 Let's Go to Perfect Places 🌠

[creamflix]

PHD IN LOVING YOU! — gojo satoru x (south asian) female reader [oneshot]

summary: you’ve perfected the art of running your classroom with all the intensity of a courtroom drama, leaving most of your students sweating bullets. enter gojo satoru — chaos incarnate, immune to your terrifying presence and oddly persistent in his antics. when his usual charm fails in the lecture hall, he decides to take up a part-time gig at a restaurant you frequent, just to catch you off guard. falling for someone? totally against his rules. but for you? maybe he’s willing to rewrite the script. after all, what’s love without a little melodrama?

content warnings: fluff & crack. sunshine gojo x grumpy reader. slightly “tsundere” reader. age gap of barely a few years [gojo is in his last year of college, reader has recently finished college]. mentions of alchohol, drunken confessions, frat party. food as a metaphor for love. he fell first, s/he fell harder trope. oblivious idiots in love. mentioned characters: nanami and suguru. many south asian and desi vocabulary/references, non-english words have been italicized - can be read with poc reader if you’d like. 

read on ao3!

“you know, around here, they call me the strongest.”

you didn’t even bother looking up from your notes. the voice — a mix of arrogance and charm that seemed to be dripping in its own self-confidence — was impossible to ignore. you clicked your pen shut, deliberately slow, and turned your head just enough to give him the most unimpressed look you could muster.

“wow,” you said, voice flatter than a pancake in a hydraulic press. “should i clap or…?”

he grinned, and lord help you, it was the kind of grin that made people weak in the knees. unfortunately for him, you were built different. built on hard work, resilience, and the occasional well-timed tea break.

“clapping’s optional. fainting’s encouraged,” he quipped, leaning against the desk like he had all the time in the world and none of it was for anything remotely productive. his hair was somehow whiter than freshly washed bedsheets in an ad, and his sunglasses — indoors, mind you — screamed “i’m better than you” energy. he radiated main character syndrome. 

you hated it already.

“yeah, no thanks,” you replied, finally closing your notebook and looking him over. he was tall — ridiculously so — and gave the impression of someone who breezed through life. his uniform was slightly undone, tie askew, and his energy screamed chaos. how was this guy even a student? better yet, why was he bothering you?

“what’s your name?” he asked, tilting his head like a curious puppy.

“assistant professor,” you deadpanned. “yours?”

he chuckled, and you immediately hated how smooth it sounded. “gojo satoru,” he said, sticking out a hand. when you didn’t take it, he dramatically clutched his chest. “ouch. is this how you treat everyone? or am i just special?”

“special, alright,” you muttered, gathering your notes. “special cases need special patience.”

he laughed again, entirely too amused for your liking. “oh, i like you. you’ve got bite. most of the other assistants here just nod and take notes.”

“maybe they’re smarter than me,” you said, shoving your notebook into your bag. “because clearly, engaging with you is a waste of time.”

his hand shot to his chest again, like he was physically wounded. “harsh. let me guess — you’re not from around here?”

“nope. just an exchange student,” you said, trying to sidestep him, but he moved to block your path with the kind of speed that made you pause. his grin widened.

“ohhh, so you’re fresh meat. perfect.”

“i’m what now?” you asked, tone incredulous.

“fresh meat. new blood. the newbie. means you need someone to show you around — and lucky for you, i happen to be the best tour guide on this campus.” he said it like it was a fact, like the sky being blue or tea being superior to coffee. “and by best, i mean me. obviously.”

“oh, obviously,” you said dryly, finally losing your patience. “listen, gojo-san —”

“just call me satoru,” he interrupted, and you could swear the man was physically incapable of shutting up.

“fine, satoru.” you narrowed your eyes. “i don’t need a tour guide. i’ve been here two weeks, and i’m doing just fine without whatever… circus act you’re trying to sell me.”

“two weeks?” he repeated, looking genuinely surprised. “and i’m just meeting you now? tragedy. an absolute tragedy. who’s been hogging all your time?”

you pinched the bridge of your nose. “my job, satoru. you know, work? responsibilities? ever heard of those?”

“vaguely,” he said, waving his hand like the concept was beneath him. “but they don’t sound nearly as fun as whatever we could be doing. come ooonnnn, i’ll even buy you lunch. do they have the food you like here? no? okay, we’ll work with what we’ve got.”

you stared at him, wondering what karmic sin you committed to end up here. but as much as you hated to admit it, he was…kind of funny. infuriating, sure, but funny. 

not that you’d tell him that.

“why are you so determined to bother me?” you finally asked.

“because,” he said simply, leaning down until he was eye level with you. “you look like the only person here who won’t bore me to death. and i’m the strongest, remember? you should be honored.”

your eyes twitched. “the only thing i’m honored by is how incredibly patient i’m being right now. do you ever stop talking?”

“not when i’m around someone interesting,” he shot back, straightening up and casually stuffing his hands in his pockets. “so, assistant professor — what’s your name?”

you debated lying, but something about the way he looked at you — like you were a puzzle he was determined to solve — made you relent. “it’s y/n.”

“y/n,” he repeated, like he was trying it out. then, with another blinding grin, he pointed finger guns at you. finger guns. 

“well, y/n, you’re stuck with me now.”

you sighed. “this is gonna be the longest exchange program of my life.”

⟡ ₊ . ༄

gojo wasn’t the type to waste his time on newbies. fresh faces didn’t interest him, and assistant professor types were even lower on his list of people to bother. but you? you were something else. and not in the way where people threw around the word "exotic" like it was a compliment when really it made your blood boil. no, what made you different was your no-nonsense, whip-cracking, grade-A work ethic that had the entire campus buzzing.

rumor had it you’d leave the university with a teaching badge instead of your certificate, and honestly? no one would be surprised. you were that good. the kind of good that made nanami — notoriously stoic nanami — actually praise you. it wasn’t swooning, obviously; nanami would never swoon. but if he was capable of admiration beyond his rigid work-life balance philosophy, you had earned it. the rest of the student body? 

terrified.

genuinely, pant-shitting levels of fear. because for the first time in, well, forever, students were completing assignments on time. early, even.

fear, respect, or some chaotic cocktail of the two, no one dared question it. the unspoken rule? just do your work before you end up on the wrong side of assistant professor y/n.

gojo? oh, he saw all of it. the storm you stirred up, the iron grip you had on a campus that thrived on chaos. he knew you wouldn’t let him get away with his usual antics. not the skipping class, not the snarky comments, and definitely not his self-declared celebrity status. you were a buzzsaw of accountability, and gojo loved it. not in the way you think, though — don’t get ahead of yourself.

because gojoism — yes, that’s a thing; yes, he coined it — has a very clear rule: don’t get attached. people, places, things — they’re all just pit stops in the grand marathon of gojo satoru versus the world. getting attached? getting sentimental? that’s for suckers who don’t know how this game works. and catching feelings for an assistant professor? please. that would be career suicide.

but here’s the thing about gojo: he thrives in contradiction. so while he’d never admit it, he couldn’t get enough of the way you refused to be impressed by him. not his titles, not his abilities, not even his very charming face (his words, obviously). the way you rolled your eyes at his jokes instead of laughing? addicting. the way you’d cut him off mid-sentence with a pointed look? chef’s kiss.

he’d push your buttons — because of course he would — and you’d push back harder. sometimes literally, if he got too close.

“gojo,” you’d say, voice clipped as you slammed a stack of papers onto the desk he was currently lounging on, “do you even know what deadlines are?”

“do you even know how cute you look when you’re mad?” he’d shoot back with a smirk, only for you to grab the stack of papers and smack him on the head with it.

“i’m docking points for that,” you’d reply.

“good thing i’m not in that class,” he’d say, rubbing the back of his head but grinning all the same.

you weren’t like anyone else here. and while gojo would never admit it — never — you made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, attachment wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

not that he’d act on it. he had a reputation to maintain, after all.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

your hometown wasn’t kind to its students, and for women? the hurdles were sky-high. if you made it past the expectations of marriage by twenty-five, you were already considered lucky. but leaving the country? going all the way to japan to work as an assistant professor? it was practically unheard of. you fought tooth and nail for this opportunity, and everyone in your life — your parents, your friends, and especially your sleep-deprived self — knew it.

your parents bore the brunt of it back home, of course. aunties with too much time on their hands whispered about how you’d “slipped away from their hands” and speculated with relish about what a young woman like you must be doing all alone in another country. you heard about the comments in their phone calls, the carefully worded complaints disguised as updates. but you? you silently flipped every single one of those people off and worked harder.

and when you got to japan? well, you expected the students here to match the academic rigor you were used to. surely, you thought, at a prestigious institution like this one, students would treat education with the respect it deserved. but what you found instead was chaos. procrastination, laziness, and a classroom full of students who had clearly never experienced the kind of academic discipline you grew up with.

so you showed them. you brought the fire and brimstone that only years of being forged in the relentless grind of your own education could provide. your methods were strict, your expectations sky-high. deadlines weren’t suggestions; they were law. a harsh approach? maybe. but you weren’t here to make friends — you were here to do your job. and, to your satisfaction, it worked.

assignments started coming in on time. some students even began submitting them early. the whispers in the hallways stopped being about how scary you were and turned into grudging admiration. you weren’t just another assistant professor anymore; you were the assistant professor. the one who could whip an entire class into shape.

but there was one exception to your reign of order. one glaring, white-haired exception.

gojo satoru.

no amount of stern talking, rule-enforcing, or pointed glares seemed to get through to him. while the rest of his peers buckled down and locked in, gojo remained steadfastly, infuriatingly gojo. he treated your class like a casual hangout session, his assignments as optional suggestions, and your authority as a particularly amusing joke.

you tried everything. you talked to him one-on-one (he just grinned and offered you candy). you imposed stricter penalties (he seemed genuinely delighted to rack up a record number of deductions). finally, in frustration, you tried reverse psychology: ignoring him altogether.

if you thought that would deter him, though, you clearly underestimated how much gojo thrived on attention — especially yours.

at first, he made a game of it. raising his hand obnoxiously in class, only to say something irrelevant when called on. loudly announcing how much he missed being scolded by you. once, he even showed up early, leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin as if daring you to acknowledge his punctuality.

“oh, wow, professor y/n,” he said with mock sincerity, “do i finally have your attention, or should i try harder?”

you didn’t even glance up from your notes. “if this is you trying, then maybe you should quit while you’re ahead, gojo-san.”

he pouted. actually pouted. “cold as ever. don’t you think this is a little mean? ignoring one of your best students?”

you finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “best at what? wasting time?”

the class laughed. gojo didn’t. instead, he grinned, a slow, deliberate grin that made you feel like you’d walked right into a trap.

“oh, you’re good,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering over to his seat. “but i’m better.”

and that was the thing about gojo: he wasn’t just a student. he was a problem. an unshakable, incorrigible problem. and as much as you hated to admit it, ignoring him was harder than it should’ve been. not because you cared what he thought, obviously. but because he was just so damn annoying.

and, if you were being honest with yourself, a tiny part of you begrudgingly respected his ability to get under your skin. not that you’d ever let him know that.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

gojo knew what you were doing the second you started doing it. reverse psychology? seriously? please, he’d been playing that game for years, mostly with girls trying to “tame” him, and he always came out on top. so when you turned that tactic on him in the most mundane, academic context possible, he thought he’d laugh it off.

except, he wasn’t laughing.

it stung. not in the obvious way, like a slap or a scolding — those he could handle with ease. no, this was a slow, persistent sting that gnawed at him. he told himself it was just the principle of the thing. after all, he was gojo satoru. he didn’t get ignored. not by students, not by professors, and definitely not by some assistant professor whose job was to notice him.

so, naturally, he did what he did best: he tried to annoy you back into paying attention to him.

he showed up late with the loudest excuse he could think of, dumped his belongings on the desk noisily, and waved like he hadn’t just interrupted the lecture. “don’t mind me!” he’d said with a grin, as if the entire class wasn’t already staring.

you didn’t flinch. didn’t even pause. just kept writing on the board like he didn’t exist.

then he started asking the most absurd questions in class, his hand shooting up every five minutes. “uh, do you think math could ever, like, save the world? or is it just numbers pretending to be important?”

without missing a beat, you replied, “math can’t save the world, but it might save your grade. if you pay attention, gojo-san.”

still, you didn’t really look at him.

and that’s what got him. no matter what he did — no matter how big his antics got — he felt like you were slipping further away. it was maddening. why was he so perturbed by your lack of attention? it wasn’t like he was starved for it. hell, there were at least three girls giggling at him from the back row, clearly waiting for him to flash a grin their way.

but he didn’t. he couldn’t.

because all he wanted, all he needed, was for you to look at him. just once.

and when you finally did — fleeting, barely a second — he swore it knocked the air clean out of his lungs. it wasn’t a soft, affectionate gaze. it was clinical, assessing, like you were deciding if he was worth wasting your energy on. and yet, it made his heart race like he’d just run a marathon.

he coughed, choking on his own spit like an idiot, and the giggling girls behind him burst into laughter. he barely noticed. his entire brain was short-circuiting because of one tiny glance from you.

oh no, he thought, panic creeping into the edges of his mind.

because if this meant what he thought it meant — if the flutter in his chest and the heat rising to his cheeks were any indication — then he was cooked.

and not in the cool, suave, gojo-satoru-untouchable way. no, he was the other kind of cooked. the pathetic kind. the “i might have it bad for you” kind.

and that? that was unacceptable. because the rules of gojo-ism were clear: no attachments. no crushes. no letting someone get under his skin.

but as he caught himself sneaking another glance your way, only to find you resolutely ignoring him, he realized something even worse.

it was already too late.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

the exhaustion from the week was creeping up on you, and all you wanted was the comfort of home — specifically, a plate of steaming hot rice served just the way you like it: with spices, gravy, and soul. you had a list of places to try, but tonight, your craving led you to a cozy little restaurant tucked into the corner of the town, its windows fogged from the heat of its bustling kitchen.

the moment you stepped in, it was like being transported back home. the air was thick with the scent of turmeric, cumin, and garlic sizzling in oil. old 90’s hits blared from the bose speakers, their crackly charm only adding to the vibe. the tables were covered in laminated menus adorned with bright pictures of curries and rice dishes, and the faint clinking of plates and laughter of families made the place feel alive.

you inhaled deeply, a small smile tugging at your lips as you muttered, “finally, some real food.”

but just as the nostalgia began to settle, so did the chaos.

“auntie, i swear, if you add me on instagram, i’ll give you an extra drink on the house!”

you froze. that voice was unmistakable.

slowly, you turned your head toward the noise, and there he was — gojo satoru, in all his obnoxiously white-haired glory, standing at a table of middle-aged aunties who were giggling like schoolgirls. he was holding a menu in one hand, the other gesturing wildly as he leaned in with his megawatt grin.

your first instinct was to turn around and walk out, but it was too late. his stupid sixth sense or whatever it was must’ve pinged because his gaze snapped to yours.

for a moment, he froze, his grin faltering slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. then, like the human embodiment of chaos he was, he lit up.

“well, well, well,” he said, straightening up and strolling toward you, the menu still clutched in his hand. “if it isn’t assistant professor y/n. what brings you to my establishment?”

you blinked. “your establishment?”

“yepppp,” he said, popping the “p” with a smirk. “i work here now. part-time, of course. y’know, givin’ back to the community and alla that.”

“giving back?” you repeated, skepticism dripping from your tone as you glanced at the aunties still swooning over him.

“what can i say?” he shrugged dramatically. “the people love me. i’m a man of the masses.”

you narrowed your eyes. “last i heard, you said part-time jobs were, and i quote, ‘too lame.’”

“ah, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck, the smirk slipping for just a moment before snapping back into place. “turns out, this place has… sentimental value.”

you raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but before you could press him further, the manager — an older man with a sharp mustache and a no-nonsense attitude — poked his head out from the kitchen.

“boy! less talking, more working!”

“right, right,” gojo called back, waving him off. then, turning to you, he added with an exaggerated bow, “your server for tonight, at your service.”

“oh, god,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“don’t worry,” he said, grinning as he led you to a table near the window. “i’ll make sure your dining experience is unforgettable. five-star service, guaranteed.”

you sat down, glancing around at the restaurant. the energy was warm and lively, the kind of place where families lingered over their meals, and you couldn’t help but relax a little despite gojo’s antics.

but as soon as he returned with the menu, you realized relaxing wasn’t on the agenda tonight.

“so, what’ll it be?” he asked, placing the menu on the table with a flourish.

you reached for it, but he held on, his hand lingering just long enough to make it awkward.

“gojo,” you said flatly.

“right, right,” he said, quickly letting go and stepping back. “just thought i’d help you decide. you know, spice levels, portion sizes, all that jazz.”

“i think i can handle it,” you said, scanning the menu.

he nodded, rocking back on his heels like he had too much energy and no idea what to do with it. “cool, cool, cool. uh, so… how’s the food situation at the dorms? still… uh, bad?”

you looked up, startled by the shift in his tone. was he… making small talk?

“it’s fine,” you said cautiously. “why do you ask?”

“no reason,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck again. “just, you know, wondering. totally normal thing to ask. not weird at all.”

you stared at him, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked… nervous.

“gojo,” you said slowly, “did you…get this job just so you could talk to me outside of class?”

his eyes widened, and for a second, you thought he might actually deny it. but then, to your utter disbelief, he groaned, running a hand through his hair.

“okay, fine,” he admitted, throwing his hands up. “yes, i might’ve suggested to the manager that hiring me would be a strategic move. but can you blame me? you’ve been ignoring me for weeks!”

“oh my god,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands.

“but hey, look,” he said, leaning on the table with that infuriating grin, “it worked, didn’t it? you’re here, we’re talking, and you’re not ignoring me anymore.”

you peeked at him through your fingers. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he said, winking, “you’re still here. coincidence? i think not.”

you couldn’t help it. despite yourself, a laugh escaped you. maybe it was the smell of the spices or the familiar music or the sheer ridiculousness of gojo trying to be suave while fumbling a menu, but for the first time in weeks, you felt… lighter.

“fine,” you said, sitting back with a sigh. “just get me some biryani, and maybe — maybe — i’ll stop ignoring you.”

“coming right up!” he said, snapping his fingers and spinning toward the kitchen.

and as he walked away, practically bouncing with energy, you realized something unsettling.

you didn’t hate this. not as much as you thought you would.

for all his loud boasts and infuriating antics, gojo somehow managed to deliver on his promise of five-star service. you weren't sure whether to be impressed or mildly alarmed by how committed he was to the bit. the complimentary lassi arrived first, its frothy top sprinkled with crushed pistachios and saffron strands.

“on the house,” gojo said, placing it in front of you with a flourish, his grin as bright as ever.

you raised an eyebrow. “on the house? or on your paycheck?”

he clutched his chest in mock offense. “you wound me. can’t a guy just be generous without being interrogated?”

you took a cautious sip, the cool, sweet tang of the lassi immediately soothing your tired soul. okay, maybe he wasn’t completely useless. but you weren’t about to let him know that.

“it’s good,” you said grudgingly, setting the glass down.

“good?” he repeated, looking almost scandalized. “it’s amaaazzing. i personally quality-checked the batch this morning. and by quality-check, i mean stole a glass when no one was looking.”

“why am i not surprised?”

he laughed, loud and carefree, before turning back toward the kitchen. “don’t go anywhere. the main course is coming up, and trust me, it’s gonna blow your mind.”

“i’ve had biryani before, gojo,” you called after him.

he paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder with a wink. “yeah, but you’ve never had biryani here.”

you rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips.

when the biryani finally arrived, it was accompanied by a plate of papad so stacked you thought it might topple over at any moment. gojo set the dishes down with exaggerated care, his expression comically serious.

“i present to you: the finest biryani in town,” he announced, stepping back like a magician revealing his latest trick. “and, of course, an appropriate amount of papad.”

“appropriate?” you said, staring at the pile. “are you trying to feed me or an army?”

“details, details,” he said, waving a hand dismissively.

you took a bite of the biryani, the warm, spiced flavors instantly transporting you back home. for a moment, you forgot where you were, lost in the sheer comfort of the food. gojo, who had been watching you like a hawk, grinned triumphantly.

“knew it,” he said, crossing his arms. “you love it.”

you looked up, your expression neutral. “it’s okay.”

“okay?!” he exclaimed, clutching his head in mock despair. “this is a masterpiece! an edible work of art! you should be weeping tears of joy right now.”

“maybe if you’d actually cooked it, i would,” you shot back.

his grin faltered for the briefest second, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. “give me time,” he said softly, almost to himself.

“what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“nothing!” he said quickly, the grin snapping back into place. “anyway, don’t fill up too much. dessert’s coming.”

“dessert?” you repeated. “i didn’t order dessert.”

“i did,” he said, smirking.

you groaned. “gojo, i —”

“truuuust me,” he interrupted, leaning on the table. “you’ll thank me later.”

and sure enough, minutes later, he returned with not one but four different desserts, ranging from gulab jamun to kulfi.

“are you trying to kill me?” you asked, staring at the spread.

“what? no,” he said, feigning innocence. “just making sure you have options.”

“i grew up eating this stuff, you know,” you said, picking up a spoon.

“yeah, but now you’re eating it here, with me,” he said, his tone oddly earnest.

you looked at him, surprised by the sudden shift. he was still grinning, but there was a softness in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before.

“you’re really going all out, huh?” you said, trying to keep your tone light.

he shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “what can i say? you’re worth it.”

your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he straightened up, the grin back in full force.

“now, hurry up and eat,” he said, waving at the desserts. “i’ve got a reputation to uphold as the best server this place has ever seen.”

you shook your head, laughing despite yourself.

and as you dug into the desserts, gojo lingered nearby, shooing away any other server who dared approach your table.

“she’s got me,” he said to one particularly annoyed coworker. “go help table six.”

you rolled your eyes, but deep down, you couldn’t deny that you appreciated the effort.

because for all his theatrics and ridiculousness, gojo was trying. and maybe — just maybe — that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

the air in the restaurant was thick with the aroma of spices, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. it felt like a piece of home transplanted into a foreign land, and you couldn’t help but soak it all in. across the room, families leaned into each other, sharing plates and stories, while a gaggle of aunties erupted into loud laughter.

you glanced at them and caught gojo in the middle of an animated retelling of what looked suspiciously like a made-up story. he gestured wildly, miming what might have been a tiger fight or possibly a dramatic fall into a ditch.

“and then,” he said, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “just as i thought it was all over for me, i —”

“slipped on a banana peel,” one of the aunties interjected, to the uproarious laughter of her companions.

gojo clutched his chest. “how dare you ruin my heroic tale! i was going to say i wrestled the tiger with my bare hands!”

the aunties waved him off, and one of them, a silver-haired woman with a cheeky grin, called out to you. “dear, you need to keep this one in check. he’s too much.”

you snorted, raising your glass in mock salute. “believe me, auntie, i’m trying.”

gojo turned to you with an exaggerated pout. “i thought you were on my side!”

“i’ll be on your side when you stop embellishing your life stories,” you shot back, smirking.

“ouch,” he said, clutching his chest again, this time as if you’d shot him. “right in the heart.”

shaking your head, you turned your attention back to the rest of the room. a group of kids at a nearby table was sneaking curious glances at you. when you caught their eye and made a funny face, they shrieked with laughter, their giggles cutting through the hum of the restaurant.

one of the little girls tugged on her mother’s sleeve and whispered something, and the next thing you knew, she was waving shyly at you. you waved back, smiling, and the shy wave quickly turned into an enthusiastic flurry of hands.

“look at you,” gojo said, leaning against the edge of your table, watching the interaction. “miss popular already.”

“it’s not that hard,” you said, shrugging. “kids are easy. you just have to know how to talk to them.”

“oh yeah?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “and what about me? am i easy to talk to?”

“no,” you said flatly.

he burst out laughing, tilting his head back dramatically. “you wound me again! how many times is that tonight? three? four?”

you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound surprising you. it wasn’t one of those polite, measured laughs you reserved for acquaintances. it was genuine, a sound that seemed to echo somewhere deep inside you, loosening a knot you hadn’t even realized was there.

gojo must have noticed because his expression softened, just for a moment. “you should laugh more,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

you looked at him, startled by the sudden change in tone. “what?”

“you,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “you’re always so serious. it’s nice to see you, you know…relax.”

you opened your mouth to retort, but the words caught in your throat. instead, you looked down at your plate, suddenly feeling exposed.

“anyway,” he said, his usual grin slipping back into place. “don’t forget to leave me a glowing review. something like, ‘best server ever, would definitely recommend.’”

you rolled your eyes, the moment broken. “sure, i’ll write that right after ‘most annoying person in the world.’”

“i’ll take it,” he said, laughing as he straightened up.

as you lingered a little longer, watching the bustle of the restaurant and sharing quiet smiles with strangers who felt like kindred spirits, you let out a sigh you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in. maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let yourself enjoy this moment. and maybe a little bit of that had to do with gojo.

the restaurant door jingled shut behind you as you adjusted the strap of your jute satchel on your shoulder, the warm scent of spices still lingering on your clothes. the streets were quiet now, a soft breeze carrying the distant hum of city life. you were about to start your walk back to campus when the sound of a dramatic skid on the wooden floor made you pause.

“hey, wait up!” gojo’s voice rang out, followed by the thundering clatter of his sneakers against the floor. you turned just in time to see him stumble slightly as he reached you, grinning like a fool.

“what now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as he bent over, hands on his knees, panting dramatically.

“shift’s over,” he wheezed, straightening up with an exaggerated flourish.

“is it?” you asked skeptically, glancing over his shoulder to see the restaurant manager yelling furiously in a mix of japanese and some choice words that sounded suspiciously similar to the ones your dad and uncles would yell when things went sideways back home.

“absolutely,” gojo said, completely ignoring the manager’s tirade. “and besides, it’s unsafe for you to walk back alone. what kind of guy would i be if i let that happen?”

you rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, twitching into a small smile. “oh, please. like anyone would dare mess with me.”

“you’re scary, sure,” gojo said, falling into step beside you. “but even the scariest people need someone to walk them home. it’s, like, basic chivalry.”

“is it basic chivalry to leave your bike at the restaurant?” you asked pointedly, watching as his confident stride faltered for a split second.

“details, details,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “i’ll get it later. this is more important.”

you snorted, clutching your bag tighter as you walked. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet, you’re letting me walk with you,” he shot back, grinning. “what does that say about you?”

“it says i’m too tired to argue,” you replied, though your tone lacked any real bite.

gojo stuffed his hands into his pockets, occasionally stumbling over uneven pavement as he talked — no, rambled — about anything and everything. from the latest anime episode he watched to a bizarre dream where he was somehow the ruler of a pancake kingdom.

“and get this,” he said, nearly tripping over his own feet. “the pancakes? they talked. like, actual conversations. one of them was trying to unionize —”

“how do you even come up with this stuff?” you interrupted, shaking your head in disbelief.

“it’s a gift,” he said, flashing you a grin. “i’m a man of many talents.”

“like tripping over your own feet?” you teased as he stumbled yet again.

“it’s called multitasking,” he said, puffing out his chest. “walking and being charming at the same time is no easy feat.”

“you’re definitely failing at one of those,” you muttered, though the warmth in your voice betrayed your amusement.

as you reached the dormitory gates, you stopped, turning to face him. “well, thanks for walking me back. now you can go fetch your bike and actually get home.”

“right, right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. but he didn’t move, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long.

you tilted your head. “what?”

“nothing!” he said quickly, holding his hands up. “just…y’know. goodnight.”

you rolled your eyes and turned to walk away, only to pause as the realization hit you. “wait a second.”

gojo blinked, confused. “what?”

“you don’t even stay on campus, do you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. “your bike’s still at the restaurant, and you just walked me all the way here. now you have to walk back.”

his grin faltered, replaced by a sheepish expression. “uh…surprise?”

you stared at him, torn between annoyance and something softer that you didn’t want to acknowledge. before you could stop yourself, your hand shot out, delivering a solid whack to his chest.

“idiot,” you muttered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you turned away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

gojo, however, was too busy clutching his chest dramatically, a mix of mock pain and genuine delight lighting up his face. “owwww! was that necessary?”

“completely,” you called over your shoulder, refusing to look back.

“ya know,” he said, his voice carrying through the quiet night, “if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you’re warming up to me!”

“don’t push your luck,” you shot back, your pace quickening.

as you disappeared into the dorm, gojo stood there, a stupidly wide grin plastered on his face. he pressed a hand to his chest where you’d hit him, feeling the faint ache beneath his palm.

“totally worth it,” he muttered to himself, practically skipping as he turned to start his long walk back.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

gojo satoru had many things in his arsenal — charm, wit, absurd confidence — but subtlety was not one of them. so when he started showing up to campus hours earlier than necessary, or when steaming boxes of samosas began appearing on your desk, the culprit was obvious.

the first time it happened, you’d barely set your bag down before spotting the box, the smell of spiced potatoes and crispy dough wafting up to greet you. your eyes flicked to the door, just in time to catch a streak of white hair and the sound of hurried footsteps retreating down the hall.

inside the box was a sticky note. the handwriting was atrocious, barely legible, and at the bottom was a crude drawing of a tiger that looked more like a cat with a mohawk.

“thought you’d like these. you’re grrr-eat!  – g.s. :3”

you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly fell out of your head, but your lips betrayed you, curving into a reluctant smile.

by the end of the week, you had a growing collection of these notes in your desk drawer. one had a lopsided peacock that looked like it had been attacked with a blue highlighter. another had a flower that could generously be called a lotus if you squinted and tilted your head.

the students noticed the change in you almost immediately. your usual stern demeanor softened ever so slightly, and while you were still a stickler for deadlines, you now nodded understandingly at genuine excuses.

“did you hear? professor assistant’s in a mood lately,” a student whispered loudly to their desk mate.

“yeah, but why though?”

“maybe she’s —” the student leaned in dramatically, eyes wide —“dating someone.”

gojo, who had been lounging in the back row pretending to nap, shot upright. “dating? her? no way!” he said, loudly enough for the entire class to hear.

all heads swiveled toward him.

“i mean,” he said, backtracking with an exaggerated wave of his hands, “it’d have to be someone really cool. maybe, like…an alien prince? yeah, that’s it. she’s totally in an intergalactic love affair.”

the class burst into laughter, and while the gossip shifted to debating the plausibility of alien romances, gojo stole a glance at you. you were shaking your head, lips pressed together in what he hoped was an attempt to hide a smile.

it wasn’t just the little gestures, though. gojo had also started reigning in his usual chaos. sure, he still submitted assignments late, but only by a day now, and the answers — stolen from nanami or not — were at least complete. he even started hushing other students when they got too rowdy, shooing them with a dramatic, “respect the queen, peasants,” before earning a chalk stick to the head from you.

“owwwww! abuse!” he’d whine, rubbing his head as the class laughed.

“then stop acting like a child,” you’d retort, though there was no real venom in your words.

one day, after a particularly chaotic lecture, you caught him lingering outside the classroom.

“something you need, satoru?” you asked, crossing your arms.

he froze, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “uh, no! just, um, making sure you’re not, y’know…kidnapped by aliens or something. it’s a dangerous world out there.”

“right.” you raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “and the real reason?”

he hesitated, shoving his hands in his pockets. “just…wanted to see if you liked the samosas.”

you softened, just a fraction. “they were fine. but you don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

“doing what?”

“whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “i don’t need bribes to do my job.”

“it’s not a bribe,” he said quickly. “it’s just…you work hard. too hard, maybe. figured you could use a little something to remind you of home.”

your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“besides,” he added, his grin returning, “i’d never bribe you. i’m saving my bribery skills for the day you actually give me detention.”

you snorted, shaking your head. “get out of here before i reconsider.”

as he walked away, practically skipping, you found yourself clutching your satchel a little tighter, feeling the faint weight of all the silly notes tucked inside.

and gojo? as he left campus that day, he was grinning like an idiot, hand pressed to his chest like he’d just won the lottery. sure, he was falling for you, and yeah, maybe it was a little terrifying. but if falling meant more moments like these, he figured it was worth the risk.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

exam season turned the already bustling campus into a pressure cooker, and you found yourself at the center of it all. drafting question papers, aligning marking schemes, coordinating with the examination department — your plate was not just full; it was overflowing.

amid this chaos came the final straw in the saga of gojo satoru: his ban from the staff room.

it started innocently enough — if delivering steaming boxes of samosas to a restricted area could be called innocent. but when the coordinator raised an eyebrow too many and rumors of "the assistant professor's favorite student" began making rounds, the decision was swift and final.

"satoru, this is the last time. you’re banned from the staff room,” you’d told him sternly, pointing a finger for emphasis.

his response? a dramatic gasp and a hand clutching his chest. “you’re banning me? your number-one supporter? your — your cheerleader?”

“yes. cheer me on from a distance,” you said, turning away before he could see the twitch of your lips.

what followed was a week of gojo-level theatrics. he’d pout like a scolded puppy when you walked by, groaning loudly to anyone who’d listen. “my heart’s been broken,” he’d lament to his classmates, sprawling across desks like a tragic hero. “she cast me out. me!”

by day four, you were done.

you found him loitering by the library, feet propped on a bench like he owned the place, a pair of obnoxiously bright sunglasses perched on his nose.

“gojo,” you said, arms crossed.

he sat up straight at your tone, glasses sliding down his nose. “yes, teach?”

“why are you making such a big deal out of this?” you demanded, exasperation lacing your voice.

“because it is a big deal,” he shot back, standing now, his height making you tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. “do you know how stupid i feel? sneaking into staff rooms, drawing peacocks that look like roadkill, trying to get you to notice me — just for you to shut me out? it sucks, okay?”

his words hung in the air, leaving you momentarily speechless.

you weren’t good with emotions — back home, vulnerability was a luxury few could afford. confrontation wasn’t much better. and yet, here you were, faced with both.

“satoru, it’s not —” you started, faltering as his gaze bore into yours, uncharacteristically earnest.

you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “look, i… i appreciate what you’ve done. the effort, the —” you gestured vaguely, “ — everything. but this is a professional setting, and you make it really hard to keep things, well, professional.”

his lips quirked up at that, a hint of his usual cockiness returning. “so, you’re saying i’m distracting?”

“don’t push it,” you warned, though your tone lacked heat.

he took a step closer, his grin softening. “i get it. i do. but, y’know… you could’ve just said ‘thank you.’”

you rolled your eyes. “thank you, gojo. for the samosas. and the terrible art.”

“you’re welcome,” he said, stepping back with a mock bow, the tension between you easing ever so slightly.

as you turned to leave, he called after you, “but, hey, just so you know… i’m not giving up. banned or not.”

you didn’t look back, but the small smile tugging at your lips gave you away entirely.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

you stared at the stack of papers on your desk, each one a potential pandora’s box of missed grammar, nonsensical arguments, and uninspired prose. english papers were always a minefield, and you had somehow drawn the short straw for grading them this term. but it wasn’t just the sheer volume of work that made your stomach churn.

it was gojo’s essay.

his name glared at you from the corner of the page like a taunt.

you sighed, running your thumb along the edges of the papers, already bracing yourself for the absurdity to come. he wasn’t exactly known for his academic prowess, and his past submissions had ranged from thinly veiled comedy skits to outright gibberish disguised as poetry.

but as you started reading, your brow furrowed.

"yearning," it began, in unusually elegant script.

his handwriting was still a little messy, but there was care behind each stroke, like he had taken extra time to make it legible.

the essay itself, though…

at first, you thought it was a joke. some elaborate prank he’d written to make you second-guess your sanity.

“yearning is the ache of a soul reaching for something it knows it shouldn’t want but can’t bear to let go of.”

you paused, scanning the words again, waiting for the punchline. it didn’t come. instead, the essay unfolded into something — god help you — poignant.

gojo described yearning as a quiet, persistent tug. an itch in the chest that worsened in silence and swelled in proximity. he wrote about the way it demanded attention, yet he danced around the specifics, cloaking his examples in poetic vagueness.

“it’s the way someone’s voice lingers in your mind even when they’re scolding you. it’s noticing the shape of their smile, even if it’s not meant for you. it’s knowing they’d call you a fool for feeling this way and somehow wanting to hear it anyway.”

you blinked at the page, heart stuttering as the words sunk in. this wasn’t just any essay.

it was about you.

you fought the urge to throw the paper aside, suddenly hyper aware of the way your pulse quickened.

“yearning is seeing someone’s dedication to the world and wanting, selfishly, to be a part of it. to have them look at you with the same seriousness they reserve for their passions. but it’s also knowing that some things are too good to reach for — that trying might ruin the very thing you admire.”

you sat back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as a wave of emotions rolled through you.

was this… sincere?

was it some convoluted joke? a test to see how far he could push you?

but the writing was too raw, too heartfelt to be a simple prank. you could feel him in the words, the way he stumbled through emotions he probably didn’t fully understand.

and yet, there was still that hint of gojo: the irreverence, the humor.

“yearning is stupid, really. because no one wins. either you tell them, and it’s weird, or you don’t, and you’re stuck writing essays about it like some tragic hero in a bad movie.”

you snorted despite yourself, rubbing a hand over your face.

what were you supposed to do with this?

your instincts screamed at you to fail him. this was wildly off-topic, an indulgence of personal feelings instead of academic analysis.

but another part of you — the part that softened at his ridiculous peacock drawings and earnest (if misplaced) attempts to make you smile — couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

you picked up your pen and, after a long moment of deliberation, scribbled a tentative B- in red ink. it wasn’t an outright failure, but it wasn’t exactly encouragement either.

as you set the paper aside, your thoughts swirled, torn between exasperation and something you didn’t want to name.

because even if you didn’t want to admit it, his words had reached you in ways you weren’t prepared to confront.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

when gojo walked into class that day, his usual swagger was amplified tenfold. he was practically glowing, strutting past his peers with his essay held aloft like a trophy. the grin plastered on his face was so wide, it threatened to split his face in half.

“behold, ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, tapping his paper against nanami’s head for good measure, “the masterpiece that is my essay. highest grade i’ve ever gotten. third highest in the entire grade.” he puffed his chest out dramatically, looking at you as if expecting a standing ovation.

nanami rolled his eyes, snatching the paper from gojo’s hands to inspect it. “an a-minus isn’t exactly groundbreaking, satoru.”

gojo gasped, clutching his chest as if wounded. “it is when it’s me, nanami! you don’t understand the emotional labor that went into this! the blood, the sweat, the tears —”

“the copied half of my notes, you mean,” nanami muttered, handing the paper back.

you tried to focus on setting up the lesson, suppressing the urge to smirk. his antics were nothing new, but this time, you couldn’t help but feel a faint tug of pride, even if it was mingled with irritation.

when it was finally time to hand back the essays, you made your way down the rows, handing out graded papers with your usual neutral expression. but when you reached gojo, his bright, expectant eyes locked on yours, you hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

you handed him the paper, your fingers brushing his momentarily, and he took it with both hands, holding it up like it was a sacred artifact.

“a b-minus bumped up to an a-minus,” he said with a faux gasp, loud enough for the entire class to hear. “why, teach, you playing favorites?”

you shot him a warning look, but it only made his grin grow wider.

“don’t push it, gojo,” you said evenly, though your tone lacked its usual edge.

he leaned back in his chair, still gloating as he turned the paper over and over in his hands. but behind the theatrics, you caught the flicker of something genuine in his expression — a quiet kind of satisfaction that spoke louder than his words ever could.

to everyone else, his boasting was just another act. but to you, it felt like something more, like he was seeking validation in the only way he knew how.

and for some reason, that thought lingered long after class ended.

when the bell rang, gojo didn’t rush out like the others. instead, he waited until the room was nearly empty, shuffling awkwardly near your desk.

“soooo, uh,” he started, scratching the back of his neck, “you read it, huh? like… really read it?”

you didn’t look up from the stack of papers you were organizing. “i wouldn’t have graded it if i hadn’t.”

he let out a dramatic sigh, slumping against the desk. “not what i meant. did you get it? like… the deeper meaning?”

you finally glanced up, meeting his gaze. his usual bravado was still there, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost nervous.

“i got it,” you said quietly, and for once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback.

his grin softened, and he straightened up, spinning the paper in his hands again. “cool. just… cool.”

and with that, he left, his usual bounce in his step. but as he reached the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, giving you a look that said more than words ever could.

you shook your head, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. whatever this was between you and gojo, it was unspoken and strange, but maybe, for now, it didn’t need to be anything else.

and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

it was a rare sunny day on campus, and most students were sprawled out on the grassy fields, reveling in the freedom of post-exam bliss. the air buzzed with chatter and laughter, a stark contrast to the usually tense corridors filled with murmurs of last-minute cramming. and yet, instead of being the ringleader of some over-the-top celebration, gojo was trailing behind you like a shadow, a paper box of samosas balanced precariously in one hand and a bottle of mango lassi in the other.

“seriously, gojo,” you said, glancing back at him. “don’t you have somewhere else to be? like, i don’t know, with your friends?”

“what, and miss the chance to see you enjoy my samosas?” he quipped, flashing that obnoxiously bright grin. “besides, i’m everyone’s favorite. they’ll be fine without me for a bit.”

you rolled your eyes but didn’t shoo him away. in truth, the quiet after exams was unnerving, and his chatter filled the void in a way that was oddly comforting.

at some point, he insisted on feeding you. the first few times, you outright refused, giving him a look that could curdle milk. but then, for reasons you couldn’t quite fathom — maybe the post-exam haze, maybe the sheer persistence in his puppy-dog eyes — you caved.

“fine,” you relented, leaning slightly forward. “but if you drop even one crumb —”

“relaaax,” he said, his voice dipping into something annoyingly smooth. “you’re in good hands.”

and to his credit, he was careful, holding the samosa with an exaggerated delicacy as if it were made of glass. you bit into it, the crunch loud in the quiet that had suddenly fallen between you two.

he beamed like he’d just won a nobel prize. “seeee? told you i’d make the experience unforgettable.”

“unforgettable, my ass,” you said, brushing crumbs from your lips.

gojo laughed, the sound loud and unrestrained, drawing a few glances from passersby. “you just admitted i’m unforgettable. it’s okay, teach, you don’t have to hide your feelings anymore.”

you smacked his arm lightly, and he let out a mock yelp, clutching it as if you’d injured him.

the box was gone faster than you expected, mostly thanks to gojo’s bottomless pit of a stomach. he flashed you a sheepish grin, crumbs still clinging to the corners of his mouth.

“uhhh… i think i ate more than half,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“think?” you snorted, shaking your head.

the two of you started walking aimlessly around campus, the kind of companionable silence that only came after shared food and banter settling between you.

at one point, gojo said something so utterly ridiculous — something about how samosas were the perfect metaphor for love, with layers of spice and warmth. you snorted so hard, you nearly tripped, your laughter ringing out clear and unfiltered.

“god, you’re such an idiot,” you said, whacking his chest lightly, only to immediately regret it.

why was his chest that solid? it was like hitting a brick wall wrapped in a hoodie.

“owww,” he said dramatically, rubbing the spot as if you’d actually hurt him. then, before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist.

“hey,” he said softly, his voice losing its usual playful lilt.

you froze. his hand was warm around your wrist, his touch firm but gentle, and when you looked up, his eyes were — god, they were so blue, it was like staring into a summer sky.

the world around you seemed to blur, the distant hum of campus life fading into nothing as he took a half-step closer.

“you ever notice how weird this feels?” he murmured, his tone uncharacteristically quiet. “like… i’m standing here, and you’re right here, but it still doesn’t feel close enough.”

his forehead brushed against yours, and suddenly, you forgot how to breathe. the space between you was practically nonexistent, and yet, it felt like he was somehow closing a gap you didn’t even realize was there.

“gojo…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but the rest of the words died in your throat.

“satoru,” he corrected softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

the proximity was overwhelming, every detail amplified — the faint scent of whatever cologne he wore, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“don’t worry,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “i’m not gonna kiss you. not unless you want me to, of course. i’m not that forward.”

the laugh that bubbled out of you was equal parts disbelief and nervousness. “you’re literally the most forward person i’ve ever met.”

“yeah, but not with you,” he admitted, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart stutter.

you pulled back slightly, breaking the moment before it could swallow you whole. “you’re such a drama queen.”

“and yet, you still stick around,” he teased, his grin returning, but this time, it felt softer, less of a mask and more of a truth.

as you walked back to your dorm, his hand brushed against yours, and though neither of you said anything, the warmth lingered long after he’d waved goodbye.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

it was a friday night, the campus buzzing with whispers of the party of the semester. gojo’s name was on every other tongue, along with exaggerated promises of free drinks, loud music, and the type of chaos only he could orchestrate. you tried to brush it off as you walked past clusters of students gossiping on the quad.

“you comin’, miss?” one of your more confident students called out, giving you a cheeky grin.

“unlikely,” you replied, raising an eyebrow but offering a small smile. “don’t think i’d blend in at a college party.”

“oh, trust me,” another chimed in, “you’d be the star of the night. even gojo would agree.”

you waved them off, feigning nonchalance, but the comment lingered.

it wasn’t like you wanted to go to his stupid party. you were a teacher, not some college kid with zero inhibitions. and yet, there was something about the idea of gojo hosting this wild bash, completely in his element, that gnawed at you.

you sighed, staring at your reflection in the mirror. the bindi perched perfectly on your forehead, your jhumkas catching the light as you moved. why not? you were in japan — far from home, far from prying eyes, and definitely far from anyone who’d lecture you about propriety.

dressed in a fusion of your traditional style and something a bit more casual, you hailed a cab, heart racing as you approached the house blaring music loud enough to rattle the street.

the party was exactly what you expected — students spilling out onto the porch, laughter and music mixing with the smell of cheap alcohol. heads turned as you walked in, your attire catching more than a few curious glances.

you ignored the whispers, stepping further into the house. the atmosphere was electric — lights flashing, bodies swaying, drinks being passed around.

and then you spotted him.

gojo was in the middle of it all, a drink in hand and a stupidly wide grin on his face. his glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed, the telltale signs of someone thoroughly drunk.

you were about to turn and leave — because clearly, this was a terrible idea — when his voice rang out.

“oh. my. god,” he said, pointing vaguely in your direction. “you look… so familiar!”

you froze. surely, he wasn’t —

“no, seriously!” he stumbled closer, squinting at you. “you remind me of someone. someone important.”

he was too close now, his breath smelling faintly of vodka and whatever sweet mixer he’d drowned it in.

“you’re drunk, satoru,” you said, your voice steady despite the laughter bubbling up inside.

“i’m not that drunk!” he protested, swaying slightly. “okay, maybe a little. but listen! you look just like — like her!”

“her?” you prompted, folding your arms and trying not to smirk.

“yes, her!” he exclaimed, his voice dipping into something uncharacteristically soft. “she’s… she’s amazing. drives me insane, but in a good way, ya know? like, i wanna punch a wall and write poetry at the same time.”

“sounds intense,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“it isss! she’s so smart, and — and kind, but also terrifying,” he continued, his words slurring slightly. “she doesn’t take my shit, which is honestly hot as hell. and her laugh — oh my god, her laugh! s’like… like a warm hug, but for your ears.”

you bit your lip, trying to hold back your laughter. “sounds like you’ve got it bad.”

“i doooooo!” he groaned dramatically, leaning against the wall for support. “but she doesn’t even like me! well, maybe she does? sometimes? she whacked me the other day, and i think that’s a good sign.”

at that, you couldn’t help it — you burst out laughing, the sound lost in the thrum of the party. gojo blinked at you, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning realization.

“wait a second…” he said, leaning closer, squinting as if trying to piece together a puzzle. “no way.”

“yes, way,” you said, your laughter subsiding into a soft chuckle.

his jaw dropped, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“oh my god,” he finally managed. “you’re her! you’re you!”

“brilliant observation,” you teased.

he groaned, covering his face with one hand. “this is so embarrassing. please tell me you didn’t hear all of that.”

“every word,” you said, grinning.

“kill me now,” he muttered, sliding down the wall dramatically.

“don’t worry,” you said, crouching down to his level. “i’ll keep your little rant our secret.”

he peeked through his fingers, his cheeks somehow even redder. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“maybe,” you admitted, standing up and offering him a hand. “come on, let’s get you some water before you embarrass yourself further.”

he took your hand, his grip surprisingly steady despite his inebriated state. “thanks… for not, like, running away or something. you’re cool, you know that?”

“yeah, yeah,” you said, rolling your eyes but smiling nonetheless.

as you led him toward the kitchen, you couldn’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — this ridiculously charming idiot was starting to grow on you.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

gojo wanted to be anywhere but here. 

okay, scratch that — he wanted to be here, with you, but also wanted to dig a hole in his living room floor and yeet himself into it. his brain, muddled with alcohol, was doing its best to keep things together, but with you suddenly here — looking like that — his chances were rapidly dwindling.

he adjusted his arm around your waist, a loose but deliberate gesture that made his heart stutter. it was a casual hold, or at least he hoped it looked casual, but the warmth of your body pressed lightly against his side was sending his brain into overdrive.

“and this,” he said, gesturing grandly with his free hand to what was very clearly the kitchen, “is where the magic happens.”

“the kitchen?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, your lips quirked into a smile that had his knees dangerously close to giving out.

“obviously?!” he said, leaning into the theatrics to keep himself from spiraling. “you see that microwave? legendary. best instant ramen in town. and that fridge? it’s seen things. horrors, really. we don’t talk about it.”

you laughed, and he swore it was the best sound he’d ever heard.

“right, sure,” you said, shaking your head. “what about actual food? do you ever cook anything that’s not from a packet?”

he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “are you accusing me — me — of being a heathen who doesn’t know his way around a kitchen? i’ll have you know, i make a mean lassi.”

“oh, do you now?” you teased, clearly enjoying his antics.

“absolutely,” he said, grinning. “one day, i’ll prove it to you. you’ll be begging me to cook for you every day.”

“we’ll see,” you said, but there was a softness in your voice that made him wonder if you actually meant it.

his heart was racing now, the alcohol loosening his tongue in dangerous ways. he should probably stop talking. any second now.

“you know,” he said, his voice dropping slightly as he glanced down at you, “i can’t believe you came.”

“why wouldn’t i?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him, your expression curious but open.

he wanted to say because i thought you’d never want to be in the same space as me outside of class, but that felt too raw, too real. so instead, he shrugged, trying to play it off.

“i dunno,” he said, looking ahead. “you just… don’t seem like the house party type.”

“i’m not, usually,” you admitted. “but… i figured, why not? life’s too short to say no to everything.”

“huh,” he said, his voice softer now. “that’s… cool. you’re cool.”

“am i?” you asked, laughing lightly.

“so cool,” he said earnestly, and then immediately wanted to slap himself. shut up, satoru. shut. up.

but then you smiled at him, and he thought maybe he didn’t mind sounding like an idiot if it meant he got to see that look on your face.

as the two of you tried to navigate the packed living room, someone bumped into him, and instinctively, his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. you didn’t pull away, and he was pretty sure his heart was about to explode.

he tried not to think about how you fit so perfectly against his side, or how your scent — something faintly floral and familiar — was making him dizzy. he definitely tried not to think about how easy it would be to lean down and —

nope nope nope. bad idea. terrible idea. the worst idea.

“you okay?” you asked, looking up at him with a hint of concern.

“y-yeah!” he said, his voice a little too high-pitched. he cleared his throat, forcing a grin. “totally fine. just, uh, making sure you don’t get trampled.”

“how chivalrous,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching as if you were holding back a laugh.

“always,” he said, his grin widening despite himself.

but inside, he was panicking. this was too much. you were too close, too warm, too everything. he needed to get his shit together before he did something stupid, like —

confess to you.

kiss you.

pass out.

or, god forbid, all three.

oh shit.

the bass thudded in your chest, a constant pulse that seemed to sync with the frenetic energy of the house. people were dancing, shouting, laughing, and the chaos around you was almost comforting in its anonymity. that is until satoru — flushed, swaying slightly, and clearly far more drunk than you’d initially realized — gripped your arm like it was a lifeline.

“i need to tell you something,” he blurted, his words loud but barely cutting through the music.

you blinked at him, trying to read his expression in the flickering multicolored lights. “what?” you shouted back, leaning closer to hear him.

he leaned in too, his mouth near your ear. “i said, i need to tell you something!”

“okay! so tell me!” you yelled back, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“i…” he trailed off, his face scrunching up in frustration as he tried to string his thoughts together. he took a deep breath and then, to your utter horror, yelled at the top of his lungs, “I LIKE YOU!”

you froze, sure you’d misheard him. the bass was too loud, the room too crowded, and his words had gotten lost somewhere in the noise.

“what?!” you shouted, your voice rising in disbelief.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, his cheeks flushed red�� n ot just from the alcohol, you suspected. “I SAID —”

but even in his drunken state, he realized the futility of trying to out-shout the music. with a sound of pure exasperation, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you through the crowd. your protests fell on deaf ears as he led you to a slightly quieter corner, away from the worst of the noise.

“what are you doing, gojo?!” you hissed, but he didn’t answer.

instead, he pressed you gently against the wall, his palms flat against the surface on either side of your head, caging you in. his head dipped low, his nose brushing against yours, and your breath caught as his blue eyes, even hazy with alcohol, locked onto yours.

“i said,” he murmured, his voice lower now but no less intense, “i like you.”

your brain barely had time to register the words before he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. it was desperate, clumsy, and so full of unspoken emotion that it stole the air from your lungs.

you gasped against him, your hands instinctively coming up to grip his shoulders. the solid warmth of him under your fingers was grounding, but the way his body pressed against yours, shielding you from the world, sent your heart into a frenzy.

his lips moved against yours with an urgency that bordered on possessive, and when he tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss, a small sound escaped you — something between a gasp and a moan.

that was when he pulled back, just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“don’t… don’t pull away,” he whispered, and the vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache.

“gojo —”

“call me satoru,” he cut in, his eyes fluttering shut as if even saying the words was too much. “please.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, his body seemed to sway, his weight leaning more heavily against you.

“satoru, are you okay?” you asked, your hands sliding to his chest to steady him.

“huh?” he mumbled, his voice distant. then, with a slight slur, he muttered, “oh, no. no, no, no —”

and just like that, the man crumpled.

“satoru!” you yelped, barely managing to catch his ridiculously lanky frame before he hit the floor completely.

someone nearby shouted, “man down!” and the phrase seemed to echo through the room, followed by a ripple of concerned and amused voices.

“oh my god,” you muttered, crouching down beside him. his head lolled slightly, and his mouth was parted as he let out a faint snore.

he was out cold.

you pressed a hand to your face, your cheeks still burning from the kiss. the memory of his lips on yours was vivid enough to make your knees weak, but the reality of the situation — of this ridiculously tall, ridiculously dramatic man passing out at your feet — brought you crashing back down to earth.

“can someone help me with this idiot?” you called out, your voice tinged with equal parts exasperation and concern.

a couple of guys came over, one of them laughing as he said, “dude’s got no tolerance, huh?”

“none,” you muttered, sighing as you tried to get a grip on yourself — and satoru. his confession and the kiss replayed in your mind, and you knew you were in for a long night of trying to sort out your feelings.

for now, though, you had to deal with the immediate problem of hauling his ridiculously heavy frame to a couch. the emotional fallout could wait until tomorrow.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

the room had descended into a chaotic mess of unsolicited advice, mostly coming from half-drunk college students who thought they were experts on everything, including reviving a passed-out satoru.

“try shaking him harder!” someone shouted.

“just pour water on his face!” another chimed in.

“give him coffee. wait, do we even have coffee?”

you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. amidst all this nonsense, nanami stood off to the side, arms crossed, his expression screaming this is beneath me.

“he’s not dead. just let him sleep it off,” kento said flatly, his voice cutting through the chatter.

“oh, thanks for the revolutionary advice, nanami,” you snapped, the sarcasm lacing your words.

then there was geto, leaning against the wall with an air of detached amusement. “honestly, i knew this would happen. saw it coming a mile away,” he said, flipping his hair dramatically.

“yeah? well, maybe next time warn the rest of us,” you shot back before turning your attention back to satoru’s unconscious form.

you knelt beside him, sighing deeply. “alright, everyone back off. i know how to handle this.”

“what are you gonna do?” someone asked, curious.

“something tried and tested.” you raised your hand high and delivered a firm slap across satoru’s cheek.

the sound was loud. so loud, in fact, that the room collectively gasped.

satoru bolted upright, clutching his face as if you’d just smacked the soul out of him. “what the hell was that?!” he screamed, his voice loud enough to rival the bass music that was still pounding in the background.

“welcome back to the land of the living, drama queen,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

“did you just slap me?!” he exclaimed, his wide, watery eyes staring at you like you’d betrayed him.

“oh, i’m sorry, was that not enough? i can do it again,” you said, raising your hand threateningly.

“no, no! i’m good! fully awake!” he yelped, scooting back like a scared puppy.

“good. now drink this,” you said, handing him a bottle of water.

satoru grabbed it, but instead of drinking, he sniffed it suspiciously. “this isn’t vodka, right?”

“no, genius,” nanmi said, stepping forward and plucking the actual vodka bottle from the floor. “this is vodka, and you’re done with it.”

“oh, c’mon, nanaminnnn, don’t be such a killjooyyyy!” satoru whined, though his pout faltered when you shot him a glare.

“shut up and drink the water, satoru,” you snapped.

he obeyed, gulping it down dramatically before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “ugh, water’s so boring.”

“you want excitement? i’ll slap you again,” you threatened, and a few people in the room snickered.

“you’re so mean,” satoru muttered, but then his gaze softened. “wait… you stayed.”

you blinked. “what?”

“you stayed,” he repeated, his voice quieter now. “even after… you know.”

“oh, you mean the part where you screamed out a love confession, kissed me like your life depended on it, and then passed out in front of half the student body?” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“don’t remind me,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “i wanna die. nanamin, can you just — i don’t know — throw me out a window or something?”

“tempting,” kento muttered.

“look, dork,” you said, kneeling back down in front of him. “you’re not getting out of this one. you did all that, and now you have to deal with the consequences.”

“oh god,” satoru mumbled, peeking at you through his fingers. “what are the consequences?”

you tilted your head, pretending to think. “well, for starters, you owe me samosas for the rest of the semester.”

“done,” he said immediately.

“and,” you added, leaning in slightly, “you have to stop being such a dramatic idiot.”

“that one’s harder,” he said, flashing you a sheepish grin. “but for you? i’ll try.”

“good.” you stood up, brushing off your knees. “now, get your act together. and maybe next time, don’t drink yourself into oblivion before confessing to someone.”

“wait, does that mean —” he started, his eyes lighting up.

“i didn’t say anything!” you cut him off, walking away as the room erupted into laughter at his bewildered expression.

“she likes me,” satoru whispered to himself, a goofy grin spreading across his face.

“oh, shut up, satoru,” nanami said, but even he couldn’t entirely hide his smirk.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

it was almost miraculous, really, how none of these college kids managed to piece together the details of what actually went down at gojo’s house party. you’d think with all the drunken chaos, someone would’ve remembered you storming in like a heroine, slapping satoru awake, and then, well, the incident. but no. all they seemed to retain was that the super cool, smoking-hot assistant professor had swooped in to save satoru from... something.

the specifics? conveniently erased from their collective memory, thanks to cheap vodka and loud bass.

but you? you weren’t so lucky. gojo’s confession — or whatever that messy string of drunken words and one life-altering kiss could be categorized as — played on a loop in your head. not that you wanted it to, but come on, how were you supposed to forget the feel of his lips against yours, the way he’d pressed you against the wall like he couldn’t get close enough? and then, the audacity of the man to crumple to the floor like a marionette whose strings were cut? you still couldn’t decide if you wanted to slap him again or — ugh, no, you weren’t finishing that thought.

“stop,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing your temples as you sat at your desk, the pile of papers you were supposed to grade staring back at you accusingly. “focus. you’re an adult, not a hormonal teenager.”

and yet, that little voice in your head — your grandma’s voice, no less — crooned in your mind, “what kind of boy is he? does he play cricket? is he an engineer?”

“no,” you grumbled under your breath, “he’s an overgrown man-child who flirts through samosas and makes me question my entire existence.”

the reality of it all was... you weren’t equipped for someone like gojo. back home, dating was simple. boring, but simple. you liked someone because they played cricket well or because their math grades could rival einstein’s. the bar was low, and your teenage self still barely scraped over it.

but satoru? he wasn’t just attractive in that this-is-gonna-get-me-into-trouble kind of way. no, he was ridiculously charming, stupidly funny, and utterly chaotic — so much so that he somehow managed to bulldoze his way past every defense you’d painstakingly built.

and that left you here, with a pile of grading untouched, your thoughts veering dangerously off-course.

what do i even do with him? you thought. he’s not even the type i should go for. he’s immature, irresponsible, a complete disaster of a human being…

... and yet, all you could picture was his stupidly lopsided grin when you’d handed back his essay. that grin that said, you gave me a B-, but i’m taking this as an A+ in your heart.

and then your mind went straight to climbing him. like a tree. a tall, stupid tree with an even stupider face.

“oh my god,” you muttered, dropping your head onto the desk. “get it together, girl.”

you groaned into the wood grain, mentally kicking yourself. this was getting out of hand. you needed to lock it in. focus. channel your inner no-nonsense professor and figure out how to deal with gojo without losing what little composure you had left.

and maybe — just maybe — figure out how the hell you were supposed to climb a man-child and maintain your dignity in the process.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

gojo had been avoiding you — not intentionally, of course. he would never do that on purpose. it was just… he was terrified. 

gojo satoru, the guy who could ace a test he barely studied for, host the best parties on campus, and make a joke out of literally any situation, was absolutely crumbling under the weight of his own feelings. gojoism did not account for feelings like this. and yesterday? he’d completely fallen — literally and emotionally. now, there wasn’t a subreddit or thread in existence that could save him from the mess he’d created.

his shift was dragging, a mix of customers and yelling from his half-indian, half-japanese manager filling the air. his coworkers kept glancing at him like he was a stray dog caught in the rain, but he didn’t care. he was in the middle of wiping down tables when he caught sight of you through the window.

you. walking by. not even glancing toward the restaurant.

his heart sank. did you hate him now? was this how it was going to end?

without thinking, gojo bolted out the door, ignoring the string of colorful curses his manager hurled at him. “oi, boy! you’re paying for this if you don’t get your ass back here!”

he didn’t stop. the second he caught up to you, he practically tackled you from behind, arms wrapping around you so tightly you almost dropped your satchel.

“what the hell, gojo —”

“please don’t move!” he blurted, his face buried in your shoulder and neck, his lanky limbs curling around you like some desperate octopus. you froze, unsure whether to be annoyed, amused, or alarmed.

“are you serious right now?”

“yes! extremely!” his voice was muffled against the fabric of your shirt. “listen, i’m an idiot. the biggest idiot ever. i shouldn’t have kissed you like that while i was drunk. or passed out. or confessed. or all three. god, that was so stupid. i’m so stupid.”

you sighed, your heart racing at how tightly he held you. “satoru, what are you doing?”

“i’m fixing this. please, just — lemme say this. properly this time.” he tightened his hold even more, as if letting go wasn’t an option. “i like you. a lot. like, so much it’s actually pathetic. and i know i’m a dumbass most of the time, and i mess things up, but i promise i’m serious about you. so, like… if you don’t feel the same way, you can say no. just don’t hate me, okay? i can’t deal with you hating me.”

you felt his breath against your neck, his voice wavering just enough to make your chest ache.

“satoru…” you started, turning your head slightly to glance at him, his stupidly handsome face now fully pressed against you.

“say something,” he mumbled, the weight of his confession sinking deeper into the air.

you turned in his arms, making him loosen his grip just enough for you to face him. his blue eyes were wide and unsure, a rare sight from the usually cocky gojo satoru.

“you done?” you asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“uh… yeah?” he said, unsure.

without another word, you grabbed his collar, pulling him down to meet you as your lips pressed against his. the world seemed to fade away — his coworkers, the restaurant, the yelling manager. all of it dissolved as he melted into the kiss, his hands sliding down to hold your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

when you finally broke apart, his lips parted in shock, his cheeks flushed. “wait, does this mean —”

“yes, you absolute idiot,” you huffed, shoving at his chest lightly, though you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

he grinned, wide and stupid. “i knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“oh, shut up before i change my mind.”

“never,” he said, leaning down to kiss you again, completely ignoring the cheers of his coworkers from the restaurant door.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

did you expect to be leaving japan with a full-grown manchild trailing behind you? absolutely not. but here you were. did you expect to cheer for said manchild when he finally got his degree? obviously. the man deserved it — barely, but he did.

you’d both agreed to keep things under wraps, citing the whole student-teacher dynamic as a big no-no. so, of course, when the graduation ceremony rolled around, satoru had to make things dramatic. he dropped to one knee — mid-stage — held his degree out like a trophy, and loudly declared, “this is my phd in loving you!”

“that’s not a phd, satoru,” you muttered, face buried in your hands as the crowd chuckled.

“close enough!” he beamed, earning a mix of applause and groans from his peers.

graduation break was spent in the usual push and pull — you pushing him away from his over-the-top antics, him pulling you right back into his orbit with that ridiculous grin. every time his pout got too exaggerated, you’d give him a quick kiss just to shut him up, which only made things worse because he’d cheer. cheer. in public. like a child who just got a gold star.

“you’re the worst,” you mumbled after one particularly dramatic cheer, covering your face as passersby laughed at his antics.

“and yet, here you are, willingly in my presence,” he shot back, smug as ever.

“god help me,” you groaned.

satoru, of course, wasn’t just sunshine and chaos with you — he had this annoying charm that endeared him to literally everyone. the aunties who came by the restaurant giggled like teenagers when he served them, and the little kids gathered around him like he was a walking anime character. “white-haired older brother” became his unofficial nickname, and satoru leaned into it hard, regaling them with wildly exaggerated tales of his life.

“and then, i fought off a gang of ninjas to save her,” he’d say, winking in your direction.

“satoru, stop lying to children!”

he’d just shrug, grinning wider. “it’s not lying if it’s entertaining.”

it was funny how he’d originally gotten the part-time job just to talk to you, but now he genuinely liked it. still, some habits died hard — he continued to bring you samosas daily, despite your protests.

“satoru, if you don’t stop, i’m going to develop a permanent aversion to these,” you warned, eyeing the familiar paper bag he held out to you.

“blasphemy!” he gasped, clutching the bag to his chest like you’d insulted his firstborn.

eventually, he started pestering you about meeting your parents.

“so, when can i meet them?” he asked one afternoon, grinning like he’d already been invited.

“never,” you deadpanned, whacking him on the chest for good measure.

unbeknownst to him, you’d already told your parents about him. they were eager to meet the man who’d apparently stolen your heart and managed to survive your stubbornness.

all in due time, though. for now, satoru could continue proudly showing off his “phd in loving you.” and maybe, just maybe, you were okay with letting him.

⟡ ₊ . ༄

[epilogue]

it felt almost surreal how gojo transitioned from serving at the restaurant to outright owning it. the previous manager had retired with teary eyes, handing the keys over to satoru with a heartfelt, “please, i beg you, don’t ruin this place. my wife and kids will haunt you if you do.”

gojo, in true fashion, had laughed, draping an arm around the man. “don’t worry! i’ll make this place legendary. maybe even name it after me.”

“over my dead body!” the manager had shot back.

and, of course, satoru didn’t miss the chance to ask you, “so, when’s it gonna be us? two kids, a little restaurant legacy — what do you say?”

you smacked him on the back of his head, rolling your eyes. “focus on not burning the place down first, romeo.”

under gojo’s ownership, the restaurant thrived — though not without his signature flair. he introduced a new “special offer,” one that quickly turned into a local superstition: if two people shared a plate of samosas, they’d fall in love, and their love life would prosper.

“just like us,” gojo would tease every chance he got, holding up a plate dramatically.

“you’re insufferable,” you’d reply, trying not to laugh.

but you couldn’t argue with results, especially after dragging this white-haired menace home to meet your parents. they’d absolutely adored him, of course, stuffing him with so much food you swore he left glowing.

“your mom’s cooking? divine. i’d marry you just for the biryani,” he joked, leaning back against the car seat as you drove to the airport.

“good to know your priorities,” you shot back, though your smile betrayed your words.

and as much as satoru joked about weddings and kids, the two of you agreed there was no rush. after all, between the restaurant, his endless antics, and your job, life was already chaotic enough. not that gojo made your work any easier — especially during exam season.

“paper checking is ruining us,” he’d complain dramatically, sprawled across the couch as you ignored him in favor of a particularly stubborn essay.

“us?” you raised an eyebrow, not looking up.

“yes, us,” he insisted, standing up to scoop you into his lap without warning.

“satoru!”

“what? if you’re gonna ignore me, at least let me help,” he said, plopping a spoonful of biryani in your mouth.

you glared at him, but he just grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. and as much as you hated to admit it, moments like this were when you realized just how good life was.

chaotic? absolutely. ridiculous? always. but trading it for anything else? not a chance.

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[legobiwan]

Gravity Falls fic rec list...Part 2.

I should be grading writing right now, but in the spirit of procrastination, I'm going to instead post about my favorite new fics that have emerged in the post-Book of Bill era.

~~~~~~

Gen Fics

A Mariner’s Guide to the Unexplained by mariezies

Another fic that tackles the idea of Stan's criminal past coming back to haunt him as the elder Pines twins take to the sea. What I really like about this fic are Ford's inner monologues and in particular, the way he overthinks his interactions with his brother post-Weirdmaggedon due to the crushing level of guilt he feels. Bonus points for the incredibly adorable cat OC who joins the twins on the Stan o'War II. Incomplete.

We're Still Here by Simplistic_Apricity

What if Stan hadn't knocked Ford through the portal in 1982 and stuck around Gravity Falls instead? A bajillion fics have been written about this concept, but this one takes a slightly different approach as to the fallout from a Bill-possessed Ford attacking his brother as Ford slowly (slowly) comes to terms with what exactly he has wrought in that basement. The characterization and interactions of the twins and Fiddleford are incredibly grounded, avoiding melodrama while still being wildly effective. Incomplete. TWs for violence and medical trauma.

~~~~~~

Billford Fics

Not to sound like a 2013 hipster, but I do want to state that I hopped on this seafaring vessel pre-BoB and am delighted to witness the explosion of works exploring the demented, tortured relationship between these two absolute disasters. I've decided to let my cringe flag fly high and free here, with the caveat that I only indulge in triangle!Bill stories (accept no substitutions), as, let's face it, Ford is a freak (affectionate) and he loves his geometry.

Statement Abnegation by Anonymous

This one probably needs no introduction, but I'd be wholly remiss if I didn't include it on my list. A+ characterization of both Ford and Bill and it fucking nails the landing. Ford is taken prisoner during Weirdmaggedon, but this time Bill's playing for keeps. Complete. TWs for torture, death (temporary), Stockholm syndrome, and explicit sexual content.

apology tour by dolorous

There's something downright wistful about this story, which presents as "crack taken seriously" when Bill chooses Ford to be his keeper/chaperone as part of a Theraprism-mandated apology tour to those he has wronged post-BoB. Ford hates Bill. Ford sometimes doesn't hate Bill. Ford definitely hates Bill. And now they're stuck on the road trip from hell. Complete. Implied past (current/future?) relationship, no sexual content.

Then it becomes, it becomes, it becomes a problem by tempusedaxrerum

Takes place post-Betrayal but (so far) pre-Stanley arriving in Gravity Falls. Bill is determined to drag Ford into opening the Portal, kicking and screaming (limbs optional). Features an incredibly well-developed OC who is battling demons of her own when she has the misfortune of crossing paths with both Bill and Ford on a snowy evening in Oregon. Incomplete. TWs for violence, attempted sexual assault via possession, substance abuse.

Live, Laugh, Lather, Rinse, Repeat by ShibaIntuit

The conceit of this story is absolutely wild. Essentially, Ford eats a cursed piece of pizza and suffers from existential indigestion. The world-building once Ford is in the multiverse is delightful as an older Ford tries to renegotiate his past with a Bill Cipher of thirty years previous. Incomplete. TWs for violence.

as falls gravity so falls gravity falls by underwater_owl

A series of three stories that take a deep dive into Ford's subconscious while exploring the idea of the Axolotl placing Bill under Ford's mental power due to shenanigans you are better off reading about than me explaining here. Bait & Switch is the main narrative, which is a gen work featuring the whole extended Pines family plus Mabel and Dipper's mother, while Because & Despite and Cause & Effect explore the intense psychosexual relationship between Ford and Bill before and during the events of Bait & Switch. These last two stories really dig into the nature of Ford's deepest and darkest desires and the utterly twisted relationship between Ford and Bill. Incomplete. TWs for explicit sexual content (read the tags on those two last stories, folks! This author isn't, or is, I suppose, fucking around).

Snakes in the Garden by Miss_Ginger_Bread

Another Jimmy Snakes story! Because both Pines twins have terrible taste in men/demonic entities. A ghost from Stan's past shows up in Norway, prompting Ford to take matters into his own hands. Lovely interactions between the Pines twins, including a murderous, protective Ford and a Ford who is harboring a gigantic, triangle-shaped secret from his brother. Incomplete. TWs for abusive relationships.

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with the Los Angeles Times (2024)

“This is where all the cruising happened.”

Jonathan Bailey and I are standing in Pershing Square on a bright, blustery spring afternoon, nearing the end of a homemade queer history tour of downtown L.A.: One Magazine, Cooper Do-Nuts/Nancy Valverde Square, the Dover bathhouse, the Biltmore Hotel and this, the city’s former Central Park, a haven, since before World War I, for “fairies” and “sissy boys,” servicemen on leave and beatniks on the road.

“Is it still happening now?” he asks.

“Probably not as much,” I venture.

“Well, you let me know if it’s happening,” he teases, a mischievous smile lighting up his face.

Bailey understands the uses of the charm offensive. As Sam, the handsome Lothario of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s delightful pre-”Fleabag” curio, “Crashing”; Anthony, the romantic hero of “Bridgerton’s” second season; and John, the jerk of a protagonist in Mike Bartlett’s love triangle play “Cock,” the English actor, 36, has swaggered up to the precipice of superstardom. With roles in such studio tentpoles as “Wicked” and “Jurassic World” on the horizon, he may just break through. Yet he delivers career-best work in Showtime’s queer melodrama “Fellow Travelers,” as anti-Communist crusader-turned-gay rights activist Tim Laughlin, by leaving behind the self-assured rakes and tapping a new wellspring: soft power.

Tim may be, as Bailey puts it, “an open nerve,” but as it turns out, the devout Catholic and political naïf — who falls for suave State Department operative Hawkins “Hawk” Fuller (Matt Bomer) just as Sen. Joseph McCarthy tries to purge the federal government of LGBTQ people — is formidable indeed.

Stretching from the Lavender Scare to the depths of the AIDS crisis, in scenes of tenderness, cruelty and toe-curling sex, Bailey’s performance communicates that little-spoken truth of relationships: It takes more strength to submit than it does to control. The former demands discipline, courage, trust; the latter requires only force.

“In ‘Bridgerton,’ [Bailey] is like a Hawkins Fuller character — he is very sexy and has lots of power, has that kind of confident charisma that absolutely is not Tim at all,” says “Fellow Travelers” creator Ron Nyswaner.

But any doubt about Bailey’s ability to mesh with Bomer, who boarded the project early in development, was put to bed with the actors’ virtual rehearsal of a meeting on a park bench in the pilot. “‘Well, that’s a first,’” Nyswaner recalls an executive texting him. “I cried in a chemistry read.”

‘Am I inviting people in?’

Bailey grew up in a musical family in the Oxfordshire countryside outside London, and this, coupled with an appreciation for the morning prayers, choir practice and Mass he attended as a scholarship student at the local Catholic school, fed his precocious talents. (“I loved the performance of it,” he laughs. “Not to diminish the celebration of religious process, but I did love the idea of wearing a gown.”) By age 10, he’d appeared in the West End, playing Gavroche in a production of “Les Misérables,” an experience he now recognizes as an encounter with a queer found family — albeit one shadowed by the toll of the AIDS crisis, which peaked in the U.K. in the mid-1990s.

“When I’m asked about my childhood, there’s so much I don’t remember, and I think that’s true of anyone who’s been in fight or flight for 20 years,” he says. “I would have been in a cast of people whose friends would have died in the last seven years. I think of where I was seven years ago. I had all my gay friends then. It’s only retrospectively that I can retrofit a real gay community around me [in the theater], that I just wasn’t aware of [then].”

During the late 1990s and early 2000s, American and British culture presented queer adolescents with a bewildering array of mixed signals. As beloved celebrities came out in growing numbers, and the battle for marriage equality became a central locus of LGBTQ political organizing, the media continued to propagate harmful stereotypes of gay men as miserable, lonely, perverted or worse — and, Bailey remembers, callously turned George Michael, arrested on suspicion of cruising in a Beverly Hills restroom in 1998, and Irish pop star Stephen Gately, who revealed his sexuality in 1999, fearful he was about to be outed, into tabloid spectacles.

No wonder Bailey, like many LGBTQ people of his generation, should feel the “chemical” thrill of “validation and acceptance” during London Pride at age 18, then embark on a two-year relationship with a woman in his 20s.

“Dangerously, if you’re not exposed to people who can show you other examples of happiness, you think that’s the easiest way to live,” Bailey says. “It’s funny. You look back and you can tell the story in one way, which is that I always knew who I was and my sexuality and my identity within that. But obviously at times, it was really tough. I compromised my own happiness, for sure. And compromised other people’s happiness.”

Disclosures about his personal life have become particularly thorny for the actor since the premiere of “Bridgerton,” the blockbuster bodice-ripper from executive producer Shonda Rhimes.

“The Netflix effect does knock you off center completely,” he says, recalling the experience of finding a paparazzo waiting outside his new flat before he’d even moved in. “Suddenly, you do start having nightmares about people climbing in your windows... Even now, talking about it makes me feel like, ‘Am I inviting people in?’”

He is also critical of the media for churning out headlines about the smallest details of celebrities’ private lives, often detached from their original context. In an interview with the London Evening Standard published in December, Bailey described a harrowing encounter in a Washington, D.C., coffee shop in which a man threatened his life for being queer — and, in recounting the experience, offhandedly mentioned the “lovely man” he’d called, shaken, after it happened. Although Bailey acknowledges that the original story handled the subject with aplomb, he felt dismayed that more attention wasn’t paid to the intended warning about rising anti-LGBTQ sentiment: “The only thing that got syndicated from that story was that I had a boyfriend, and it wasn’t true,” he sighs. “It was kind of depressing, if I’m honest.”

Still, Bailey, who once turned down a role in a queer-themed TV series because it would have required him to speed along revelations about his personal life he wasn’t ready to make, is prepared to embrace the power of vulnerability when it feeds the work. Although a member of his inner circle expressed doubts about “Fellow Travelers’” steamy sex scenes, for instance, the actor intuited that they were what made the project worth doing: “I was like, ‘I’m telling you, they are the reason why this is going to be brilliant.’”

‘He’s changed my trajectory in my own life’

To those who would complain about the state of sex in film and TV, “Fellow Travelers” is the perfect riposte. All of it matters, from Tim’s first flirtation with Hawk to the finale’s closing minutes, because the series, at its core, is about the importance of soft power: the strength required to bend, but not break; to adapt, but not abandon oneself; to survive without shrinking to nothing in the process.And depicting that through sex, specifically gay sex, makes “Fellow Travelers” radical indeed.

Bailey understands that baring so much comes with certain risks. When I tell him that research for the story has filled my algorithmic “For You” feed on X (formerly Twitter) with speculation that his onscreen relationship with Bomer has a real-life element, he notes that “shipping” fictional couples and costars alike has long been part of Hollywood fantasy. But he bristles at the implication that he and Bomer are anything but skilled actors at work.

“I would love for people to know that the success of our chemistry isn’t based on us f—. It’s actually about us leaning into the craft,” he says. “It’s a vulnerable situation to be in, talking about it on record. I don’t want to rob people of their thoughts. But I do have a set of values, and as an artist, you don’t need to be f— to tell that love story.”

Underlying that craft, Bailey adds, is the confidence to speak up, as with one scene in “Fellow Travelers” that was adjusted because he said, “I don’t want to be naked today.” He learned to use his voice the hard way: In his early 20s, he recalls, he was once “bullied” on set when “someone was threatened” by him and vowed to himself, “I’m never going to do that to someone. I’m never going to allow that to happen.”

This impulse to direct his influence in support of others has blossomed further with “Fellow Travelers.” On the day of our interview, Bailey enthuses about an upcoming meeting with legendary gay rights activist Cleve Jones and shares his idea for a docuseries recording the stories of elders in the LGBTQ+ community while they are still here to tell them. He describes lying in a hospital bed on set on World AIDS Day, in character as Tim, surrounded by gay men who had lost friends and lovers during the crisis, and finding himself thinking, “What do I want to leave behind?”

“I think he’s changed my trajectory in my own life,” Bailey says.

This is, perhaps, the most common reaction I know to diving deep into queer history — the understanding that we, like our forerunners, are responsible for shaping the queer future, whether in politics, society or art. No one is going to do it on our behalf.

As we stand on the nondescript corner now named for her, I relate the story of the late queer activist Nancy Valverde, who was arrested repeatedly while a barber school student in the 1950s on suspicion of “masquerading” because of her preference for short hair and men’s clothing, and later successfully challenged her harassment by the police in court.

“What a hero!” Bailey exclaims, wondering at Valverde’s bravery. “The thing that’s so interesting with power battles is, ultimately, identity is the thing that gives you the most strength and power in your life, isn’t it?

“Because that’s one thing people can’t take away from you: who you are and how you express yourself.”

Source

[justforbooks]

In the childhood memories of more than one generation, Glynis Johns, who has died aged 100, will be best remembered as the Edwardian materfamilias of the hugely popular Walt Disney musical Mary Poppins (1964). Winifred Banks, married to David Tomlinson’s George W Banks, is the mother of Jane and Michael, the children in the care of the magical nanny played by Julie Andrews. A protester for the right to vote, Winifred delivers a spirited rendition of the song Sister Suffragette – “Our daughters’ daughters will adore us. And they’ll sing in grateful chorus: ‘Well done, Sister Suffragette!’” – as the children’s previous nanny tries to quit.

But the husky-voiced actor had other claims to fame from her more than 60 films and 30 stage productions. In 1973, Stephen Sondheim composed the song Send in the Clowns for Johns when she was cast in the leading role of the premiere production of his musical A Little Night Music, on Broadway. And she had won initial stardom in the British cinema as a mermaid.

In the title role of the film comedy Miranda (1948), she travels from Cornwall to London and causes romantic complications among the Chelsea set. Although the film’s whimsy may now seem strained, it was a great commercial success in its day, making Johns a top-liner in British movies. Miranda returned in a rather belated sequel, Mad About Men (1954).

By that time, Johns had moved almost completely from stage to films, where she was associated chiefly with lightweight roles, alternately fluffy and feisty. One of her most appealing opportunities came in the thriller State Secret (1950, released as The Great Manhunt in the US), playing a cabaret artiste in a fictitious Balkan country, and gamely singing Paper Doll in a wholly invented language.

It says something for her properties of youthfulness that at the age of 30 she could play a teenage schoolgirl in the melodrama Personal Affair (1953). The same year she played in two fanciful Walt Disney British productions, as Mary Tudor in The Sword and the Rose, and as the heroine wife of Rob Roy, and she went on to make her first Hollywood picture, the Danny Kaye comedy The Court Jester, in 1955. The following year she played a cameo role in the star-studded Around the World in 80 Days.

At the time Johns alternated between American and British films, generally in subordinate roles, but a rewarding one came in The Sundowners (1960), set in Australia, as a jolly barmaid who takes a shine to a visiting Englishman played by Peter Ustinov. It brought her an Oscar nomination as best supporting actress. Top billing came in a stylish horror movie, The Cabinet of Caligari (1962). She was well enough known to American audiences by this time to star in 1963 in Glynis, a TV sitcom series that ran for just one season.

In 1966 Johns returned to the London stage in The King’s Mare, as Anne of Cleves to Keith Michell’s Henry VIII. Her Welsh heritage came into play when she took the role of Myfanwy Price in a screen version of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood (1971) starring Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor and Peter O’Toole, and two years later came her great Broadway success as Desiree Armfeldt in A Little Night Music, which brought her a Tony award.

Glynis came from a show business background: her mother, Alice Steele (nee Wareham), was a concert pianist who performed under the name Alys Steele-Payne, and her father was the prolific character actor Mervyn Johns. He was a stalwart in particular of Ealing Studios films: father and daughter appeared together in an Ealing drama, The Halfway House (1944).

Though her vocal intonations pointed to her Welshness, Glynis was born in Pretoria, South Africa, where her parents were on tour. She was reportedly carried on to the stage at the age of three weeks, and it was not too much longer before she was appearing there in a professional capacity, making her performing debut at the Garrick theatre, London, as a dancer in a revue called Buckie’s Bears (1935).

Educated at Clifton high school, Bristol, and South Hampstead high school and the Cone School of Dancing in London, she rapidly graduated to juvenile acting roles in both theatre and cinema. Her first screen appearance came at the age of 14, as politician Ralph Richardson’s troublesome daughter in South Riding (1938), and on stage she was the young sister, another Miranda, in Esther McCracken’s comedies Quiet Wedding (1938) and Quiet Weekend (1941).

That year brought the opportunity to appear in the film 49th Parallel, starring Leslie Howard and Laurence Olivier in a spy thriller intended to bolster second world war support in the US. When the prospect of playing a mermaid came after the war, she was able to draw on her theatrical versatility: “I was quite an athlete, my muscles were strong from dancing, so the tail was just fine. I swam like a porpoise.”

Johns returned to the London stage in 1977, as Terence Rattigan’s choice to play the murderer Alma Rattenbury in his well-received dramatisation of the Rattenbury case, Cause Célèbre. Her acting appearances became sporadic, though in 1989 she starred with Rex Harrison and Stewart Granger on Broadway in Somerset Maugham’s The Circle.

She was occasionally a guest star in US television series such as Murder She Wrote and The Love Boat, and played Diane’s rich mother, Helen Chambers, in the first series of Cheers (1983) and Trudie Pepper in the sitcom Coming of Age (1988-89). By the time of her final films, While You Were Sleeping (1995) and Superstar (1999), she was a characterful grandmother.

Johns was married and divorced four times. Her first husband, from 1942 to 1948, was the actor Anthony Forwood. Their son, Gareth, also an actor, died in 2007. Marriages to two businessmen followed: David Foster, from 1952 to 1956, and Cecil Henderson, from 1960 to 1962. She was married to Elliott Arnold, a novelist, from 1964 to 1973, and is survived by a grandson and three great-grandchildren.

🔔 Glynis Margaret Payne Johns, actor, born 5 October 1923; died 4 January 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[theswordwrites]

(the alchemy) PREVIEW + PLAYLIST

As Election Day approached, the polls were clear: Aemond Targaryen was too cold, too untouchable and seemingly heartless. Juniper Greyson seems to be the exact opposite and might just be the perfect solution to his problems.

(Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, just a blurb!)

authors note: here is a blurb to immerse you into modern!westeros. part one is written, with the rest loosely planned in my head and my notes app. i'm excited to indulge in some romance tropes and just have fun with it. most likely very out of character aemond, but its my world and we're living in it! part one will be up tomorrow <3

HAS THE DRAGON BEEN TAMED JUST IN TIME? kingslandingnews.com / politics / pop culture

Aemond Targaryen, Green Party candidate and son of Viserys Targaryen, was spotted with his new paramour yet again. A source close to the dragon-blooded politician said, “… she’s a normal girl, really grounds him and softens his demeanor in a way we haven’t seen before.”

Who could this woman be? Our sources say it’s Juniper Greyson. A student, waitress and museum employee— and possible newest addition to the Targaryen dynasty. Greyson, 24, moved from Winterfell to attend Kings Landing University to study in their art history department. The university declined to comment on her standing.

Her social media accounts show no trace of her new beau, but pictures of her cat, friends and writings. Some might wonder what a girl like her could offer someone primed for political office, a large inheritance and a legacy to fulfill. If our sources are correct, perhaps she will give Targaryen the down-to-earth edge he needs to win his upcoming election.

At 27, he would be the youngest member of the Westerosi parliament in history. Although Targaryen’s policies are much more progressive than his fathers, he hasn’t polled as well with middle class and young voters as his campaign had hoped. With his recent tours of Flea Bottom, labor policy roll outs and promises to raise wages for tipped workers, those numbers have improved greatly.

Polls open three months from now, plenty of time for this relationship to bloom and push Targaryen one step closer to power, or drag him back down to being the second son of a disgraced Prime Minister.

PLAYLIST million dollar man lana del rey nothings gonna hurt you baby cigarettes after sex nude radiohead guilty as sin? taylor swift falling florence + the machine sober II (melodrama) lorde my boy only breaks his favorite toys taylor swift right side of my neck faye webster

yes this is heavily inspired by ttpd. but also deep achingly yearning love songs. but also songs about complicated relationships and two love interests having serious fucking issues. more to come xoxo

[topazadine]

Eternal Night of the Northern Sky - Truly Astounding!

Eternal Night of the Northern Sky by @physalian - what can't I say about this?!

Here's my review from Amazon:

Truly, I can't gush enough about 'Eternal Night of the Northern Sky.' It is one of the best books I have read this year, and if I could forcibly download this onto every Kindle user's device, I would. I have always been a fan of stories with a strong sense of environment, and god does 'Eternal Night of the Northern Sky' deliver. You truly feel as if you are there in the Great White Waste with the characters, feeling the snowflakes on your face from the guard wall, or sinking into a warm geothermal pool. Every word is alive with such vivid descriptions that hours passed before I realized I needed to get to sleep. I binged half of the book in one sitting; I was just too captivated to put it down. The prose grips you by the throat. There's an immediacy due to the present tense, and the powerful descriptions make you feel as if you're watching a movie, yet it never veers into melodrama. Every word is placed for perfect impact, neither too strong nor too soft. Bellows crafts such an evocative world but doesn't infodump; information is revealed exactly when it needs to be and in the exact right proportion. I never felt lost, but I also didn't feel lectured to, as often happens in fantasy novels. The worldbuilding is a background hum, with a rich interplay between vampire covens and human clans that is hinted at just enough to intrigue but not bore. What I also loved is how complicated the plot is, yet it doesn't feel contrived. All the pieces fit together perfectly, and we never feel any plot strictures that force Elias into different circumstances. He's simply a young man who happens to be in all the wrong places at the wrong time, pushed by forces beyond his control. This is so refreshing in a literary sea of protagonists who one can tell have been forced into narrative blind alleys for no greater purpose than drama. I especially appreciated that Bellows makes it clear how naive and inexperienced Elias is. He is, as Dorian calls him, a coward, yet he plays such a significant role in these long-brewing battles between vampire covens. Elias demonstrates a perfect balance between seeking agency and going along with the narrative; he feels deeply, achingly human. Not everything Elias does is admirable, brave, or clever, but I love that about him. Like a real human, he has his flashes of brilliance and his moments of stupidity, which makes him all the more enjoyable. And oh the ending, the last two chapters … everything comes together in a beautiful, neat bow. I cried, I really did. Bellows has gained a lifelong fan in me, and I am so happy that I found this book in the vast mire of the internet. I cannot wait to see what marvelous worlds she takes us to in her next tour de force, and I'll be first in line to purchase it.

Go buy it omg you will NOT regret it!!

[susandsnell]

For the musical ask game: Carrie or Phantom of the Opera (whichever you’d rather do)? 😁

Send me a musical in my ask box:

Hey anon! Just for you, I'll do both! Beneath the cut it goes, as it's a little long.

Phantom of the Opera

Listened to It | wtf is that | LOVE IT | meh | um…hate it | heard of it | yes!!

Rate 1-10: Solid 10. Sorry. I have not progressed since the age of twelve and I never will.

Favorite Lyric: Angel, oh speak / What endless longings / echo in this whisper? I mean, you don't get much more gothic romance perfection from this (though the entirety of Wandering Child is perfect.)

Favorite Song: Oooh, tough one. Favourite to listen to is probably Masquerade, favourite to watch is probably either Down Once More/Final Lair for the sheer high octane melodrama of it all (and some truly phenomenal performances at its best), or Angel of Music for the Megstine goodness.

Favorite Character: Christine Daae!

Best Moment: When Meg takes her top off while congratulating Christine in the restaged tour When Christine gives her "tears of hate" speech to Erik and defies him at every turn in the Final Lair. When Erik comes diva-ing down the stairs in the Red Death muppet mask during masquerade.

Something that makes me angry: Carlotta did nothing wrong!!!! She's an aging woman in the entertainment industry whose career is being threatened by a skinny girl half her age and a fucking serial killer, of course she's mad!! She has every right to be a diva! And Piangi just supported his wife!

Gives me the chills: The entirety of Raoul I've Been There, especially the gorgeous high notes Christine hits, but I'll also hand it to the Don Juan Triumphant rehearsal scene because the self-playing piano into the terrifying Transition to the Graveyard is so endlessly iconic.

Overall opinions: One of the all-time greats. Perfect costumes, perfect plot, perfect ending. Christine and Meg are in lesbians and there's nothing you can do about it.

Carrie the Musical

Listened to It | wtf is that | LOVE IT | meh | um…hate it | heard of it | yes!!

Rate 1-10: 7, but the best moments really do stand out. Unfortunately the original is kind of unwatchable outside those moments and the redux got bogged down in ballad hell and spent wayyyyyy too much time humanizing Margaret. Kudos for the Sue's interrogation framing device and devolving into pure lesbianism between her and Carrie!

Favorite Lyric: I felt/As though/This girl revealed herself to me/And now/I know/That once you see/You can't unsee... For a cult classic that keeps pendulum swinging between camp and boredom (especially in the 2010s retooling), this lyric proves to me that Gore, Pitchford and Cohen completely and totally understood the character of Sue Snell, her trauma, and her relationship to Carrie. Honourable mention to God has seen your sinning/just beginning/pray for your salvation/from damnation/pray or/He will burn you, but only when it's Carrie's reprise in versions of the Destruction that keep Eve Was Weak.

Favorite Song: The World According To Chris is an absolute bop and campy fun, but A Night We'll Never Forget is such a fantastic full-cast counterpoint song before the storm, and musically hits the sweet spot the 76 film nailed so perfectly balancing a teen coming of age Cinderella comedy vibe and a deep, eerie sense of foreboding for characters we've been told from the beginning are all, in one sense or another, doomed. The build, the swell, the way it evokes the rays of sunlight in the last weeks of the school year with a horror movie twist...I love it I love it I love it.

Favorite Character: oh gee i wonder who it could possibly be could the favourite character of tumblr user susandsnell be Susan D. Snell herself

Best Moment: The Destruction!!!! Even though they kind of nerfed it orchestrally in the retool, I am a staunch believer in the horror musical, and I love watching various productions go wild with effects and acting as Carrie takes bloody vengeance in the unforgettable prom sequence. Honourable mention to the musical getting the closest of any adaptation to the book's ending with Sue being by Carrie's side as she dies, and, unable to quite adapt their telepathic final communication, they settle for the sapphic A Little Fall of Rain because these two are soulmates.

Something that makes me angry: At the risk of sounding like those cringe Steven Universe "all conflict in media is problematic" type of posters, I really think it does the story a disservice to overly sympathize with Margaret and give her so many songs. Don't get me wrong, I have no moral qualms with stories that humanize abusers in an effort to meaningfully explore and understand familial violence, cyclical or otherwise -- obviously, given I've been hyperfixated on IWTV this year, and Hereditary is one of my other favourite works of horror.

The problem here is that it's not executed particularly well. Margaret White is, whether played more human or more monstrously, a force of nature, and part of the sympathy we have for Carrie is that we share in her terror of this figure that looms so large that this sweet girl has to become a monster herself to overcome her, and even then can't quite. Rather than having us understand yet still fear and hate Margaret, the musical goes so far in her humanization as to almost afford her tritagonist status to Carrie and Sue, which utterly defangs her. We do not need to know her interiority that well, and in fact seeing that much of it and that she's "trying to help" Carrie from her perspective feels somewhat icky and more importantly, unnecessary. To be clear, I'm someone who thinks the Johanna (Mea Culpa) bit from Sweeney Todd is superfluous despite musical beauty and the sheer chutzpah of Sondheim trying to write the first instance of a man self-flagellating to orgasm in a broadway show. With villains, less is often more so they have more impact and menace.

Also, while I understand that it's usually a big star that plays Margaret (Betty Buckley and Marin Mazzie to name a few) and you obviously want to showcase her talent, her songs, with the exception of Eve Was Weak, are among the dullest and most skippable of the show. Like maybe in the show called Carrie we could spend more time with Carrie? Maybe more Sue? I'd even take giving Chris more character development than her being kind of sad at the end of The World According to Chris. I don't know, but all in all, where the show absolutely got Sue, they really whiffed it with Margaret.

Gives me the chills: "Doesn't anybody ever get it right? Doesn't anybody think that I hear?" Hits painfully close to home, especially with those stunning high notes; this followed by versions that keep the Eve Was Weak reprise with Carrie spitting her abuser's words back at her bullies, declaring herself the only God she trusts in, is incredibly powerful.

As well, stagings where Carrie's spirit during the epilogue pauses and gives Sue a last, lingering look on those ending lyrics I quoted above are heartrendingly beautiful.

Honorary mention to Carrie scaring Margaret slamming the windows the first time, but that's more an awesome moment than chilling!

Overall opinions: The sheer insanity of the original version is wildly entertaining, but once you get past the whole delightful mess of the legendary flop, what you have his a very uneven, meh show as far as horror musicals go, especially with the retooling taking out some of the best stuff or softening it questionably. With this being said, it absolutely has its moments, both musically and otherwise. The show adapts certain parts of the book other versions haven't that I was so delighted to see, and recognizes that the story is in fact about Carrie and Sue (I mean, Sue's final song to Carrie is a reprise of the melody of her love song with Tommy, come on!), so I can't help but love it for that.

[film-classics]

Myrna Loy - The Queen of Hollywood

Myrna Loy (born Myrna Adele Williams in Helena, Montana on August 2, 1905 ) was an American actress who reigned as one of America’s leading movie stars in the 1930s and the 1940s. Millions of fans idolized her as ‘the perfect wife,’ a paragon of charm, sophistication and intelligence, earning her the title as "The Queen of Hollywood."

Of Welsh, Scottish, and Swedish ancestry, Loy moved to Culver City in her early teens. She first attended the exclusive Westlake School for Girls. When her teachers objected to her extracurricular participation in theater, her mother enrolled her in Venice High School.

To help the family, she wroked at Grauman's Egyptian Theatre, where she performed in prologues, musical sequences that served as preliminary entertainment before the feature film. This led to work as an extra in Hollywood productions in 1925 and then a contract with Warner Bros. in 1926.

With the advent of sound films, she then became associated with musicals, and when they began to lose popularity, her career slumped. In 1934, after Loy's move to MGM, John Dillinger was shot to death after leaving a screening of her film Manhattan Melodrama (1934). She received widespread publicity, with some newspapers reporting that she had been Dillinger's favorite actress.

Loy gained further fame from the box office hit, The Thin Man (1934), which spawned five sequels. This marked a turning point in her career, and she was cast in more important pictures and became one of Hollywood's busiest and highest-paid actresses,

With the outbreak of World War II, Loy focused on the war effort, becoming an active member of the Hollywood Chapter of 'Bundles for Bluejackets,' helping run a Naval Auxiliary Canteen, going on fundraising tours, and volunteering for the Red Cross.

In the coming decades, she continued acting alongside her activism work. She organized opposition to the House Unamerican Activities Committee in Hollywood through radio broadcasts and petitions, worked with the federal government, and served in UNESCO.

In 1975, Loy was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent two mastectomies. She kept her diagnosis and subsequent treatment from the public. This resulted in her progressive retirement from acting; her last film performance was in 1980 and her last acting role on TV in 1982.

In failing health, Loy died at age 88 in a Manhattan hospital during surgery following a long, unspecified illness.

Legacy:

Received an Honorary Academy Award in 1991 in recognition of her life's work both onscreen and off

Bears the likeness of the 7-foot statue outside Venice High School, titled 'Inspiration," created in 1922 and has since become a symbol of the school and the community

Has a building named after her at Sony Pictures Studios, formerly MGM Studios, built in 1935

Named Queen of the Movies in a 1936 national poll by New York Daily News

Honored with a block in the forecourt of Grauman's Chinese Theatre in 1936

Listed by the Motion Picture Herald as one of America’s top-10 box office draws in 1937 and 1938

Served as the full-time assistant to the director of military and naval welfare for the Red Cross from 1941 to 1945

Became a member-at-large of the U.S. National Commission for UNESCO from 1949 to 1954, the first Hollywood celebrity to do so

Has been the namesake of Venice High School's annual speech and drama awards, the 'Myrnas' since 1953

Served as Co-Chair of the Advisory Council of the National Committee against Discrimination in Housing from 1961 to 1962

Became a founding board member of The American Place Theatre in 1963

Commemorated with a cast of her handprint and her signature in front of Theatre 80, on St. Mark's Place in New York City in 1971

Appeared in John Springer's "Legendary Ladies" series at The Town Hall in 1973

Presented with the 1979 Career Achievement Award by the National Board Review

Honored by the Los Angeles Film Critics Association Awards in 1983 with the Career Achievement Award

Published an autobiography, Myrna Loy: Being and Becoming, in 1987

Was the winner of the 1988 Kennedy Center Honors

Honored by the Steel Pole Bath Tub with a song on their 1991 album Tulip that is both named after Loy and samples dialogue from one her film, The Thin Man Goes Home (1945).

Named by The Guardian named her one of the best actors never to have received an Academy Award nomination in 1991

Has been the namesake for The Myrna Loy Center for the Performing and Media Arts in downtown Helena since 1991

Honored as Turner Classic Movies Star of the Month for December 2016

Has a song named after her in Josh Ritter's 2017 album Gathering

Has a star on the  Hollywood Walk of Fame at 6685 Hollywood Boulevard for motion picture

[dreamergirlatpaddock]

FAVS 16 CHARLES LECLERC 6.0

Some of my favorite stories, writers you are amazing

𝐀 𝐋𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 pt 2 𝐏𝐭3 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 heart eyes in a different timezone written on the books 𝐄𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 safe with me 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬..𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭? 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 the ways in which Charles shows you he loves you this is me trying it's called love Charles Leclerc x horse rider reader Under the Influence 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐮) 𝐋𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞 stuff it vogue Not His Type my girl can ride "new years eve with the boys" all’s well that ends well Christmas will really be Christmas new man piano prince Ocean eyes couple back home angel baby, devil child miss americana and the heartbreak prince ferrari boys not a secret Domestic Bliss cruel joke melodrama maybe she's just a fan PR manager SPARKS FLY pt2 pt3 pt4 All because I like a boy Call it what you want "He Can't Know" "He Does Know" in my lover era! (social media au) GRADUATION + HATE + LOVE Protective girl summer love not hiding happy ever after drama queen god is a woman no way screw soft launching best moments sunshine into you world tour ferrari true temptation it's time to go is it cool that i said all that?

[mangle-my-mind]

Todd Haynes on the Visual Style of Velvet Goldmine

OM: In writing the script, were you afraid that the strong visual style of the film would overwhelm the characters to the point of pushing them to the background and having the film be about its film-making?

TH: I think the film succeeds in exploring the way stylistic tropes and conventions of expression can be taken to an extreme point of self-conscious, ironic, highly theatrical, highly worked presentation without losing emotion - but I'm still not really sure how it works. And yet it's been the thing that I've been drawn to in all my films; Superstar is the best, cleanest example of that. And I completely agree with you that the doll scene in Velvet Goldmine - which is definitely a homage to myself (somebody's got to do it) - does represent the film as a whole, and maybe in the most complete way. A lot of it has to do with the game of laughing and feeling aware of the construct - in a fun way, not in a Brechtian, didactic way. There's humor in glam rock, there's irony and wit, and it's often about its own point of address; it's often about the presentation, the inherent artificiality of our so-called natural world. And yet it ends up being very moving with its rhythm, its meter, its color. And that's something I was going to try to do with this film.

What is so hard about narrative, and our current traditions - which don't even include the musical any longer - or the codified, highly stylized pop culture of the past, is how to avoid the Hollywood gloss - which only gets glossier as budgets soar - as well as the indie gritty "realism" we accept today. So directing this film was all about taking it to a new stylized, self-conscious, artificial extreme, without losing the good old-fashioned emotional connection to the characters. It was the hardest thing about the project, but it was the one thing I demanded from myself throughout the process.

What I really found dangerous about the many aesthetic styles and stylistic choices was the risk of alienating the characters by removing a naturalistic definition from scenes. And yet I find the "Press Soiree" - the scene where everyone's in the gold costumes, which culminates in some strange circus/opera house - is rooted in a more "real" space. And the irony is that this artifice, this scene, comes from something that really happened, that was pushed about as far into the surreal as you could possibly imagine. The scene came from the time when the MainMan management company assembled itself in London, flying over a handful of US critics to introduce the Ziggy Stardust tour. I think it was at the Dorchester Hotel in London where Bowie, Lou Reed and Iggy Pop posed all day long. Bowie changed costumes maybe four times, they served champagne and caviar and fresh strawberries, and everyone literally performed themselves: Iggy played the junky on the floor; Lou Reed played the snide American who is smitten with Bowie; and Bowie played the duchess of the entire event. It was a completely constructed theatrical performance that took place in real life, and so it didn't take that much more imagination on my part to push it to the extremes I did in the film. I kept defining the characters all the time so they wouldn't get lost in the grandeur of it all.

OM: That grandeur, the visual language of the film, is incredibly rich and textured. You use what seems to be a huge arsenal of visual tools. Your cinematic vocabulary (zoom-ins and outs, swish pans, fades, dissolves, superimposition, rack focus, etc.), your use of color (saturated, glittering, bleached, faded, etc.), the use of different genre conventions (the biopic, promo film, documentary, melodrama, musical, period piece, mystery, etc.), and your many choices of lighting styles and camera angles, among other things, create a wonderful sense of serious fun.

TH: A lot of those stylistic decisions came out of a focus on the way film-making styles have changed over the last thirty years. I looked at how so many of the visual motifs in those youth experience movies I mentioned before [like 2001, Clockwork Orange, and Nicolas Roeg's Performance] as well as in some of the best movies of the early seventies - Robert Altman's work, Coppola's and others - have disappeared from our canvases. At that time there was a climate of experimentation with lenses and zooms: they preferred long lenses as opposed to wide lenses. It literally led to an appreciation of the grain of cinema - what isn't completely clear and completely available to an objective assessment. So I wanted to get back to that. I also had a nasty desire to break rules that were deemed tacky, to reintroduce all the potentially hokey devices that have gone out of style. I wanted all that fun stuff to become commonplace in the overall style of the film and then for it to be highly sutured with music, voice-over, and fractions of narrative.

OM: I know you put together a big scrapbook to define the look of Safe. Did you do the same with Velvet Goldmine?

TH: Yes. Three scrapbooks, actually. Big ones. It really is part of my way of working as a film-maker. Because glam was such a visual application of rock, the clothes, the hair, the make-up - both on and off stage - were going to be an essential part of how to imagine the collage of looks for this film. The scrapbooks helped inform me how the film would be shot, how it would be designed, costumed, color-coded, etc. I put together pure images of the bands and album covers, from the most throw-away backstage snap shots to the most theatrical Roxy Music cover. I wanted to have it all in one place, to have a great source of information for everybody. We pulled out those books at every stage, from casting to costume design to make-up and hair. They were really an essential part of the process from the script stage on.*

OM: Each scene is very specific, and I remember when you came back from London the first thing you told me was that you shot the script, which is quite an accomplishment.

TH: It's funny because I never write the script just for myself, even though it may read like it sometimes. I try to explain with the script as meticulously as possible - and it does sometimes verge on the insanely meticulous - exactly what I am seeing in my head and hearing in my ears - which includes every minute description of the score in the very first draft of the script, and all the fades and optical effects. To me, film is about all of its elements together; it's not about some piece of truth that I'm immortalizing on celluloid and which later I can finesse with clever little tools. It's all constructed! It's all working together to present to you, the reader, something that is an experience as well as a blueprint. That's where my scripts go overboard. And they often require more technical discussion than other scripts because I am paying attention to such specific details at an early stage. I don't really know how to write a screenplay without acknowledging all the elements of film-making I want to use... In a way it's impractical; I admire the simplicity of directors who can say, "At this stage, we just need to know the dialogue and the location." In most films that's enough; it gives you enough sense of the rhythm, pace, the overall body of it. But my scripts are always loaded with excessive descriptions of music and subtleties that you may never even perceive when you're watching the film but that I choose to put in the writing. I have to go completely sensory in my descriptions, as if I'm describing, in semi-technical language, a film I am watching.

OM: It probably has something to do with your need to control the medium when you direct. You also storyboard every film you make from beginning to end, which is completely unusual. Why do you insist on sketching every shot?

TH: What can I tell you? I'm a control freak. But I have my reasons. I think most people who work in film - technicians and directors alike - agree that the clearest way to describe what you're seeing in your head is to have a sketch of it... If you have something very specific in mind, which I usually do, you have to be able to show it... [If] I don't feel I see the scene, I feel like it hasn't been written. And if I do see the scene in my head - which ultimately I must in order to direct it - I'm going to show it on the storyboard. I have to make it visual.

Velvet Goldmine has so many scenes that are indescribable in terms of visual reality. Take the scene where the character of Devine is introduced, with that line of executives sitting at a long table. Both Maryse [Alberti], the DP, and Christopher Hobbes, the designer, were very patient with me as I got closer and closer to being able to make this imaginary space concrete. It was supposed to be an empty, strange space - possibly a big studio room - but, for the most part, I wanted it to be defined by the lighting and by this absurdly large conference table that would be tilted and floating in space. That's a scene I'm particularly proud of because all of the angles, the lighting, the costumes work so well together that there is this assumption that we know exactly where we are. All the elements come together but it starts with a clear understanding among the crew of what every shot is going to look like.

Source - "Superstardust: Talking Glam with Todd Haynes", Oren Moverman

Edits and highlights my own :)

*Bonus: For anyone in/near New York City, there will be a Todd Haynes retrospective and exhibit at the Museum of the Moving Image starting this November. It'll include his production archive, which means there might be a chance to see the Velvet Goldmine scrapbooks in person!

[maytheoddshq]

Cress Meadowforge (she/her). Trainer. District One. Twenty-five. Anya Taylor-Joy. UPDATED BIO.

TWs: sexual assault, drugs/addiction, forced medical procedures, burn mentions, violence

Cress is a Queen of the Night. More aptly, a night-blooming cereus: a cacti flower that only blooms once a year, for a single night. For most of the year, she remains tightly coiled, spikes bristled for any who might venture too close. No amount of tending to can coax her from her shell, from the armor she has built to protect herself from the world outside. And then, in the most unlikely moment, when all the world lets down its guard, she blossoms.

A rare few will see this - see her - but that is all it takes.

Born to wealthy jewelers Fleur and Myron Meadowforge in the heart of District One, Cressida understood that certain heirlooms held invaluable merit, regardless of their beauty. It was the artistry and craftsmanship that mattered. She viewed the Games in much the same way: a wretched masterpiece without compare. She watched each one in horrid appreciation, the way someone admires the truly macabre, knowing that one day, she would have the honor of bearing this beautiful burden too.

  And when she did, she realized there was nothing beautiful about it. 

  Cressida volunteered for the 120th Hunger Games, her eyes bright and hungry. She had trained for this for years beside the other Careers, all sharpening their teeth against the others, smiling cruelly the way an animal warned its prey the end was near. Her skills were her charm, her air of innocence, and her beauty – at least, that’s what her mentors instructed her to portray. They painted her as something desirable and riveting to sponsors and a sincere ally and advocate to the other tributes, and it was a spotless, hollow facade. 

  They’d called it Clima Cladis – the climate of disaster – and Cressida remembered thinking that she wouldn’t have to kill anyone, that doing so would actually be a mercy compared to what the environment was doing to them. It’s the seasons, the commenters had gasped, and they had been close. It had been the seasons, but not like she’d ever known: summer so hot it seared and melted flesh from the bone; winter so cold that, had they survived, it would have been without noses, or fingers, or toes; and spring, with its torrential downpour that flooded the arena and mutts that emerged from hibernation ravenous and cruel. Only the fall had been a reprieve, and they craved it each rapid cycle – emerging from their hiding places in search of supplies, and sustenance, and sponsorships.

  She won by killing the entirety of the Career pack first, framing another district for the slaughter before positioning herself as a helpless fawn in need of companionship – a sheep who had been forced along with the wolves. One by one, Cressida won the others’ favor – their trust and affection – until they lost their lives to her hand in turn. The pair from Eight. They took her poison willingly, thinking it was medicine. The boy from Six, who held her down in the burning sun. She broke his legs, let him fry in the summer heat, listened to his screams from the mouth of a cave. In the end, Cressida didn’t even have to kill the last tribute: Lila. She – under the impression that they were in love – killed herself to let Cressida win, throwing herself from the top of the mountain that they had been forced up in the finale. She secured her place in arena history as having one of the highest kill counts out of any victors. Cressida’s Games were heralded not as one of startling might or breath-taking violence, but of operatic melodrama – of unparalleled manipulation and cunning. 

  Cressida had dazzled Panem in the arena, but she found the price of victorhood immeasurably steep. The Head Gamemaker, Eugene Pharmakos, found her astonishing, a cunning creature of unparalleled beauty. She was invited to meet him the night before her victory tour – an encounter that irreparably altered her life. Despite the efforts of her mentors, Domitia and Dahlia, Cressida was commodified for Capitolite consumption. Drugged with morphling and sleeping syrup, she spent her victory tour in a stupor, given uppers to keep her cognizant enough to perform at each designated stop. Exploited for the amusement and entertainment of the elite, Cressida realized that she was now District One’s finest luxury export. She was eighteen.

  The life of a victor further dehumanized her, stripping her of agency she had fought – and won – to reclaim. Had she not done as they asked? Was she not entitled now to a life of spoils – of peace, at least? Scarred on nearly a fourth of her body, Cressida begged the Capitol to heal her, to graft her skin and remove the burn marks. They agreed, put her under, sent her into surgery. But the Capitol saw the scars as salacious, desirable in their morbidity – the price of victorhood. One Cressida couldn’t afford to override. Instead, she was given cosmetic surgery. Her buccal fat removed, her facial symmetry increased, her lips injected with fillers, her body altered. When she awoke, Cressida wept for a week. 

  Still, it was easy to feign contentedness under such a continued stupor, still weaning her way off of the sleeping syrup and morphling. She knew already how to behave, so much so that she began to exist as though automated: to angle the right way, to recite her words carefully, to enrapture and entice. Nothing about Cressida felt real anymore, and while she’d never been angrier or more miserable, she’d also never been more popular.

  When given the chance, Cressida returned to the Tower as quickly as possible, eager for a task that allowed her to channel her rage. She took up training, committed to giving tributes a chance beyond their perceived or initial physical capabilities. She held no allegiance to a particular district; her politics defied regional boundary-lines, and her willingness to sidestep ethical boundaries made her an ideal saboteur with intimate access to tributes, mentors, and sponsors alike. Another Gamemaker, Lex Sterling, saw promise in this, and Cressida once again had a purpose.

  Shedding her expensive skin, she left her old self behind – that angry girl from One, so vulnerable – and crafted Cress instead. Cress was composed. Cress was unshakeable. Cress did whatever she wanted. Cress existed only to indulge: to have, and to command, and to destroy. She began spying for Lex, and in turn, he offered his protection and his assistance in her pursuit of revenge against all those that had harmed her, including Head Gamemaker Pharmakos. Cress made things happen, or made things go away – it didn’t matter. It was all the same. She was biding her time. Building connections. Indebting. For years, it carried on this way, and Cress distanced herself from the before. Now and then were lifetimes away. 

  At times, she became so far removed from the past that Cress considered herself less a victor of One and more a victor of District Zero, a secret society and social club run in the catacombs beneath the Capitol, fueled by the same hyper-advanced technology and medicine that was used in the arenas. Here, she could operate within a familiar landscape, only now, with greater agency. Here, she could chase a high on her own accord, partial to the shimmering purple of ether. Here, she could explore the macabre in peace. Cress was a starlet of the upper-class elite, an heiress to the diamond mines owned by her family, and now the patron saint of the Capitol's underground social scene. At last, she had everything she ever wanted. 

  Until Cress met Slate Skylar during the 132nd Games and realized that – perhaps – there was more in the world than she ever bargained for. The pair began as sparring partners, training together in the Tower each night during the Games cycle. However, one evening, after Slate failed to show, Cress found him on the Twelfth Floor, surrounded by anti-Capitol propaganda: his rebel zine, TH3 T0MMYKN0CK3R. But Cress, despite her pro-Games perspective and her societal standing, was intrigued, drawn to the truth of Panem, desperate to understand the world beyond what they were shown on TV screens. With a shifting perspective, Cress found herself at Slate’s side: training, bantering, working on the zine. Perhaps it was inevitable. Only a boy raised in ashes could love something burnt. But Cress and Slate – two feral creatures, afraid of being trapped, suspicious of the world – found each other, and for once, the world did not hurt. 

  It was too good to be true. Too good to last. And a year later, during the off-cycle following the 133rd Victor’s Ball, Cress received a tip from Lex: Peacekeepers were coming to raid the apartment she and Slate shared. They were coming to arrest him. Cress and Slate attempted to burn the evidence, turning the complex into an inferno. But as Cress slipped through the window onto the fire escape, Slate locked it behind her. She watched as he turned back, continuing to shovel items into the blaze. She watched as the Peacekeepers arrested him, dragging him away. Cress was transported to a safe house on the outskirts of the city, where she was treated for smoke inhalation and her burn wounds while she and Lex worked to clear her name. 

  It was also where she took a test, alone, sitting on the floor of the bathroom. One that came back positive. Cress was pregnant. Her whole world had changed overnight.

  Eventually, when Slate resurfaced in a Capitol prison, she was able to leverage her connections to curate a brief goodbye. During the visit, grasping each other between metal bars, Cress broke the news. He told her to choose for herself, to keep it or not. Slate was to be executed. It was no longer his to help decide. He would never know the child, never be more than a story Cress and Hestia told. The Peacekeeper said time was up. Cress wanted to die.

  She went to Twelve, where she stayed with Hestia Ember. Under her protection and guidance, Cress learned how to care for the child she would bring into this world alone. They waited for months for word on Slate’s execution, his fate left undecided, dragging on – painfully – further and further. When it was time for Reaping Day, Cress returned home to One. She was still a victor, still eligible. It was her duty to stand on stage and look strong, proud. But as she walked to the Reaping stage, Cress’ phone buzzed with a news notification: Slate, the infamous rebel also known as Meta Morphic, had been Reaped as a tribute from Twelve. She stumbled out onto the stage, stunned, only to hear a familiar voice ring out. Her youngest sister, Callisto, with her hand held high in the crowd. I volunteer. Once again, in an instant, Cress’ world came crashing down.

Strengths: charming, eloquent, strategic, clever, warm

Weaknesses: manipulative, vengeful, materialistic, hedonistic

PENNED BY: LENA

[sethsings]

“This is Rube Waddell, an American baseball player (from the early 1900s) whose life story bewilders me to no end.

“In the middle of a game, Waddell would disappear to chase fire trucks. He was easily distracted, so opposing fans would bring puppies to the game which would have Waddell running over to play with them.

“American sportswriter and baseball historian Lee Allen wrote that in 1903, Waddell was ‘sleeping in a firehouse at Camden, New Jersey, and ended it tending bar in a saloon in Wheeling, West Virginia. In between those events, he won 22 games for the Philadelphia Athletics, [...] toured the nation in a melodrama called The Stain of Guilt, courted, married, and became separated from May Wynne Skinner of Lynn, Massachusetts, saved a woman from drowning, accidentally shot a friend through the hand, and was bitten by a lion.’

“It should be noted that Waddell was incapable of memorizing his lines for his part in The Stain of Guilt, so he was allowed to improvise his lines in every show. The play went on to critical acclaim.

“In 1905, Waddell shared a room with baseball catcher Ossee Schreckengost who refused to continue sharing the room unless there was a clause in Waddell’s contract that forbade him from eating crackers in bed. It should be noted that it was common for players to share the same bed in hotel rooms while on the road. That same year, he missed the World Series after injuring his shoulder while trying to destroy a straw hat.

“He did however, went on to win a Triple Crown in pitching. If the Cy Young award had existed during this time, Waddell would have won it over Cy Young himself.

“Waddell never used the locker rooms and would come to the stadium in street clothes and strip down naked and change into his uniform for everyone to see. He then would proceed to grab drinks and hot dogs from spectators and down them before getting to the pitcher’s mound. He was so confident that he would occasionally tell his outfielders to vacate their positions and then proceed to strike out his opponents one by one. He would then cartwheel or somersault back to the dugout.

“He died of tuberculosis at the age of 37 on April Fool’s Day, 1914.”

h/t History Cool Kids

Wadell was also a big-time strikeout pitcher at a time when strikeouts were rare. If any pitcher from his era would have a shot at surviving in the big leagues today, even as a low-leverage reliever, it would be him.

[animatronicbutters]

Oh guys btw I'm back writing my bad fnaf fanfiction. If you like plots that are super convoluted with soap opera levels of melodrama and one running gag that gets less funny every time it's shown, you'll like Fnaf World Tour.

It currently has 40+ chapters and I update it sporadically, in bursts of several at a time with long hiatus in between. As far as how long it has until it's done... well, I have an arc for nearly every character I've shown and I plan to keep playing with them until everyone has gotten through their issues and either lives happily ever after or dies in a fire, so... this thing may be eternal. If that's your cup of tea, give it a read lol.

[the-type-a]

I need your help deciding what Duncney fanfiction I'm gonna write

-AU in which World Tour was scripted and there's a whole lot of melodrama where technically Courtney and Duncan are together the whole time but they get increasingly possessive.

-Fanfiction in which Duncan reads a ton of stuff psychoanalyzing his relationships and (poorly) tries to fix things with Courtney according to what stupid internet users think is correct.

-AU in which Duncan does a crime, and Courtney is the lawyer of the person trying to sue him. They fall in love, and Courtney has to decide whether or not to sabotage her own client.

-My own personal viewing of Courtney's life and backstory up to and during the show that makes everything SO MUCH WORSE and adds all of my trauma to her. (Would be really heavy.)

Why not all of them? 👀

These would all be extremely interesting to read! I am gravitating towards the lawyer one. The reality of that situation would be so bad but in fanfiction it’s fun! I think it’d be really funny too.