#nothing to remember them by just those memories

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Four

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: Was gonna make chapter 4 like 5k words but I decided to put it into two separate chapters.

Masterlist: Here

The weight of Sarah and John B.’s loss still felt like an open wound, raw and fresh, no matter how many days had passed since the funeral. Some nights, you could still hear Sarah’s laughter echoing in your head, still feel the warmth of her presence, as though she were just a room away. And John B., with his reckless optimism and that undeniable spark of life that had kept everyone around him grounded, seemed like a ghost that haunted your every moment.

But the hardest part was seeing Willa—tiny and innocent, too young to understand the gravity of it all. Her parents were gone, and she didn’t even know why she cried sometimes, why her little heart was breaking, why her world was changing so fast. And yet, it was you and Rafe who had to bear the weight of their absence, both trying to figure out how to hold Willa together while you were both falling apart.

The days were long and filled with small, seemingly insignificant tasks: feeding Willa, changing diapers, trying to soothe her when she cried. But underneath all of that, it was hard not to remember Sarah’s voice calling out to you, her bright smile in the mornings, the late-night talks about everything and nothing. Those moments were gone, and you felt like part of yourself had been ripped away with them.

And then there was John B. The spontaneous adventures, the way he could make you laugh even on the worst days, the way he’d always come through when you needed him most. Those memories, too, were bittersweet now—something you cherished but also something that threatened to suffocate you.

You tried to stay strong for Willa, to focus on the here and now, but there were days when it felt impossible. There were times when you’d find yourself staring at the little girl in your arms and wondering if you were doing enough. Wondering if she would ever remember the love her parents had for her or if she would only know the sorrow of their absence.

Rafe, for his part, seemed to bury his grief deep down. He rarely spoke about Sarah or John B., and when he did, it was as if the words hurt him too much to say aloud. He was always trying to maintain control—over Willa, over the situation with Ward, over himself—but you could see it in the way his eyes flickered with pain whenever something reminded him of his sister or her fiancé.

It wasn’t just the memories of Sarah and John B. that gnawed at him; it was the guilt. The unspoken weight of knowing that his family—his toxic, emotionally abusive father—was now trying to take Willa from him, from them.

Rafe had never talked much about his dad, not even to Sarah. But in the quiet moments, when the house felt too still and too silent, you could see the rage simmering behind his eyes. Ward Cameron had done unspeakable things to Rafe and Sarah growing up, and the idea of him having any claim to Willa, of him trying to step in as her guardian, cut deeper than either of them cared to admit.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It was late one evening when the dam finally broke. Willa was asleep, her tiny body tucked beneath the blankets, and the house was finally quiet. You and Rafe were sitting on the couch, the exhaustion of the day heavy on your shoulders. The wine bottle from a few nights ago sat untouched on the coffee table. Neither of you had much appetite for anything anymore—food, conversation, anything other than the silence that seemed to speak louder than words.

Rafe was the first to speak, his voice low and uncertain. "I hate that they're gone. I hate that I can't fix it. I hate that Willa won't ever know how good they were. How good they could have been."

His words hit you like a tidal wave, and for the first time in weeks, you saw the cracks in his tough exterior. He wasn’t the cold, distant person you’d been living with; he was just a man—broken, grieving, unsure of how to move forward.

"I hate it too," you whispered, turning to face him. "I hate that Willa will grow up never knowing how special they were. How good they were. Sarah was... everything. She made everything brighter. And John B. He had this way of making you feel like things were always gonna be okay. Even when everything was falling apart."

Rafe's eyes were distant, his gaze turned to the floor as if trying to bury the memories. "I should’ve been there more. I should’ve been a better brother. I should’ve been there for Sarah. I—I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t protect her from him." His voice cracked at the end, a rawness creeping into the words.

You could feel the pain in his voice, the regret, the anger that swirled with everything else. It was too much for him to hold, and maybe it had always been. Maybe Rafe had been carrying this weight for years, too afraid to talk about it, too scared to let anyone see him broken.

You didn’t know what to say at first. You wanted to comfort him, to tell him that he wasn’t to blame, but how could you? There were no right words, no magic phrases that could undo the past.

Instead, you simply moved closer, sitting beside him on the couch, the space between you closing.

"You didn’t fail her," you said softly. "Rafe, you didn’t fail any of us. You loved her. You loved John B. You’re still here. You’re still fighting for Willa. And that means everything."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. But in that silence, something passed between you both. The raw honesty of the words, the shared pain, the understanding that grief didn’t need fixing—it just needed time.

Finally, Rafe turned to face you, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and something deeper, something more vulnerable. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be a good dad to her—how to keep it together when it feels like everything is falling apart."

You swallowed, feeling the sting of your own grief in his words. "I don’t know how to do it either," you admitted. "But we’re doing it together. We have to. For her. And for them."

Rafe’s eyes softened, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for yours. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was everything. "I’m scared, [Y/N]. I’m scared of what Ward might do. I’m scared of failing her."

You squeezed his hand, your voice barely above a whisper. "We’re not alone in this. We have each other."

And in that moment, as the weight of the past few months hung heavy in the air, you both allowed yourselves to be vulnerable. For the first time since you’d become Willa’s guardians, it wasn’t just about fighting for her—it was about acknowledging that the fight was bigger than both of you, that the grief you shared had no easy solution. And that maybe, just maybe, you could survive it together.

But even as you held on to each other, even as the weight of the past few months began to lift just a little, a new storm was brewing.

The next morning, a letter arrived from Ward Cameron’s attorney.

The legal battle for Willa had officially begun.

And this time, you weren’t sure if you could win.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The tension in the house had been building for weeks. The constant phone calls, the late-night meetings with lawyers, the nervous energy that permeated every room. It felt like a storm was brewing, and no one knew when or where it would strike.

Ward Cameron was relentless. He wasn’t going to let go of Willa without a fight. The custody battle was a war neither you nor Rafe were prepared for, and with each passing day, it became more and more clear that Ward had no interest in doing what was best for Willa. He was driven by control, by pride, and by a need to take back what he saw as his.

You could feel the weight of it all pressing down on you as you prepared for the court hearing. It wasn’t just a matter of legal paperwork anymore; it was about Willa’s future. About whether or not she would be able to stay with the people who loved her most—or whether she would be taken away by the very man who had terrorized Rafe and Sarah their entire lives.

The morning of the hearing arrived, and as you walked into the courthouse, a cold shiver ran down your spine. Ward was there, sitting smugly at his lawyer’s side, his presence already like a shadow over the room. You glanced at Rafe, who looked tense but composed. He hadn’t spoken much in the last few days, but you could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface.

“We’re gonna win this,” you whispered, more to reassure yourself than him.

Rafe didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched, his eyes fixed on the door as though he was bracing for what was to come.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It happened before the hearing even began.

Ward spotted Rafe as he entered the building, and in an instant, the calm atmosphere of the courthouse was shattered.

“Rafe,” Ward’s voice was like acid, dripping with disdain. “Still playing pretend, are we? Acting like you’re fit to raise her?” His gaze flickered to you, then back to Rafe. “You’re nothing. You always were. Just like your mother. You’re not good enough for her.”

You could see Rafe’s fists clenching at his sides, his entire body rigid with tension. He was trying to keep it together, trying to stay calm, but you knew Ward’s words were cutting through him like knives.

“Don’t talk about her,” Rafe spat through gritted teeth, his voice dangerously low.

Ward smirked, then took a step closer. “Or what? You gonna threaten me, Rafe? You gonna get violent like you always do?”

Before anyone could react, Ward’s hand shot out, slapping Rafe across the face with a sickening crack. The sound of the slap echoed through the hallway, sending a chill down your spine.

Rafe stumbled back, his hand instinctively reaching for his cheek where the bruise was already beginning to form. You could see the pain in his eyes, but the rage was sharper—cutting through him like a blade.

“Ward, you don’t get to touch him,” you snapped, stepping forward, but Rafe raised a hand to stop you.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice tight with anger. But you could see the bruise already swelling, darkening the side of his face.

Ward laughed coldly, his eyes glinting with malicious satisfaction. “This is the man you’re trusting with her?” He gestured toward Rafe, a mocking sneer on his lips. “Pathetic. This is all a joke to you, isn’t it?”

Before you could say anything else, security had already stepped in, and Ward was ushered away by his lawyer. Rafe stood there, silent, his face hard as stone.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, turning on his heel and heading toward the courtroom.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The courtroom was packed, tension thick in the air. The judge, a woman with a stern expression, motioned for everyone to sit down, but you could still feel the heaviness of the moment.

Rafe sat beside you, his posture stiff, his hand gripping the armrest of the chair so tightly his knuckles were white. You could see the bruise on his cheek, the darkening mark a stark reminder of the physical and emotional battle he was facing.

Ward sat across the room, his face set in a smug grin. He didn’t look at Rafe. He didn’t need to. He was confident he had already won.

As the hearing began, the tension grew. Both sides presented their arguments—Ward with his usual smugness, his words dripping with false sincerity, and you and Rafe, doing your best to argue that Willa belonged with the people who had been raising her, the people who loved her.

But as the court session continued, it became clear that Ward wasn’t playing fair. His lawyer had found every loophole, every flaw in your case, and used it against you. And with the bruise on Rafe’s face, there was no way around the implications it carried. The scene in the hallway, though quickly dealt with, was impossible to ignore.

Rafe’s history, his past with Ward—everything was being dragged out into the open, and no matter how hard Rafe tried to stay composed, no matter how much you fought back, the weight of their father’s influence was undeniable.

You watched, helpless, as the case swung in Ward’s favor. Every argument Rafe made, every truth he tried to speak, was countered with a lie, with an accusation. And in the end, it wasn’t about what was best for Willa. It was about who had the power, who had the money, who could manipulate the system.

And in that moment, it was clear who was winning.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The judge finally spoke, her voice cold and impartial. “Based on the evidence presented, and in consideration of the child’s well-being, I am ruling in favor of Mr. Ward Cameron for the temporary custody of Willa Routledge.”

The words were like a slap in the face. Your heart stopped, the world spinning in slow motion as you processed the finality of her decision. Rafe’s face fell, his entire body going rigid beside you. His hand, which had been gripping the armrest, was now shaking.

Willa was going to Ward. And there was nothing either of you could do about it.

“What?” Rafe’s voice was barely a whisper, but it held so much anger, so much disbelief, that it made your chest ache.

The judge didn’t respond, and Ward’s smirk only deepened, satisfaction radiating from every inch of him.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t believe it.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Rafe stood up, the pain in his eyes more evident than ever before. He didn’t speak, didn’t argue. He just left. He stormed out of the courtroom, his movements sharp, angry, broken.

You stayed behind, your own heart sinking, as Ward’s lawyer turned to you with a cold, dismissive smile.

“This isn’t over,” you whispered to yourself, but deep down, you knew it was. The battle for Willa had just taken an unimaginable turn. And you couldn’t help but wonder if you and Rafe would ever recover from the blow.

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[velvet4510]

Agatha All Along has made Wanda’s last words to Tommy so much more powerful. Tommy has woken up in the body of an unloved and abused boy who has nobody and nothing. But at the end of his previous life, his mother looked directly at him when she said “We could never truly leave each other, even if we tried. You know that, right?” Even though Tommy’s lack of witchcraft makes amnesia even more likely for him than for Billy, there are also several facts that make it just as likely that he does remember Westview. One is simply his lack of love and support as Tommy Shepherd. In his lonesome new life, his mind will grasp desperately for any signs that he is loved, or that he has ever been loved … and it is inevitable that Wanda’s words will return to him, likely in a dream. Reaching out for love, he will remember his Mom and Dad who adored him, who fought witches and murderous AIs to protect him. He also will sense Billy, just as Billy senses him, his name likely being his first word when he emerges from the pool.

There are some other possible factors. Though not a witch like his brother, Tommy is a product of Chaos Magic. There must be some magic contained within his powers that make him a far more mystical being than his similarly-powered uncle ever was. Also, the fact that Billy was reliving their last moments together at the moment their souls reconnected and Tommy was guided back to life. Highly likely those memories were shared between them. Perhaps it was Tommy himself who gave those memories back to Billy as they made contact.

This could be a result of Tommy and Billy’s balance as twins, as two halves of one whole - one half remembers Westview and the other does not. For the past three years, Billy has breathed for them, and Tommy has carried the memories with him in the incorporeal plane for them. The core elements of their existence - the memory and the here-and-now - were shared, split between them. Now, Billy has given Tommy his life back, and Tommy has begun giving Billy the memories back.

[moghedien]

this isn’t meant to be judgement on what other people choose or their opinions and there are reasons why there is no actual ideal solution, but if I’m playing the game in which I want every character to get what I feel is the best outcome for them personally, Shadowheart is always ending the game with her parents alive

There are a couple of reasons for this. I’ve done both endings with the Selûnite path for her, and I literally just let her pick what she wanted the first time (which ended in her parents dead) and seeing both, I do think she’s happier with her parents alive in general. I think, as with other characters (specifically Lae’zel comes to mind in her romance) you have to kinda challenge them on what their first immediate response is when giving them an option in order to get to what actually makes them happiest and what they’re afraid to admit

But if we’re not even taking like the arbitrary measure of happiness into account, I do think that thematically, keeping her parents alive is the only real option if you don’t want Shar to win.

The options here are either let her parents die and Shadowheart is free of the pain in her wound, or save her parents and Shadowheart spends the rest of her life with the threat of the wound hurting her at any moment. Basically no parents and no pain or parent and chronic pain for the rest of her life.

Harsh options either way, and especially when you phrase it as “chronic pain forever” being the thematically correct path, but look at it from the angle of rejecting Shar and what those options really signify form a Sharran angle.

If her parents die, she has no pain, which is good, but she also has no parents. She has no way of learning about her past other than random scraps she might find or maybe eventually remember somehow. She also has no attachment to her Sharran cloister anymore and no attachment to any Selûnite community either. She’s void of everything, including the physical pain. Now there’s obviously like emotional turmoil she’s feeling, and you do get a scene where she expresses that, but it’s from her loss. She only has loss now. The Lady of Loss gave up her physical hold on Shadowheart and in doing so, made Shadowheart embrace loss. Shar might not win completely, but she doesn’t really care about her individual followers and communities as much as they want her to. This is still a win for Shar because she still got Shadowheart to make Sharran choices in the end and embrace losing everything: the pain, her parents, her community, her past.

Hell, the desire to free oneself from pain entirely is a very Sharran pursuit. It’s why we see people turn to Shar. Ketheric turned to Shar as a way to get Isobel back and free himself from grief. One of the people that can lead you to the Sharran cloister is a man who remembers nothing about himself except that the House of Grief helped him because he was very sad and now he isn’t. Nevermind the fact that he doesn’t even know where he lives now or that Ketheric didn’t get what he wanted, it’s the motivation of freeing oneself from some kind of pain that drives people to Shar.

That is why Shadowheart received the injury in the first place.

I jokingly call it a shock collar sometimes, but that is basically what it literally is. You can get Shadowheart’s dad to reveal more about it if you control her and go talk to him in camp. The wound is because Shadowheart was constantly misbehaving and her parents weren’t converting, and they needed something to keep her in line and also motivate her parents. Shadowheart’s pain was supposed be negative reinforcement for her not to act on her kinder inclinations and for her parents to finally fall in line and reject Selûne so that they would stop seeing Shadowheart in pain. The desire for no more pain was supposed to drive Shadowheart and her family closer to Shar.

And all of this on top of the fact that Shadowheart’s memory was wiped repeatedly to an extreme degree, even by standards of the evil memory wiping cult. She was supposed to be a blank slate that only desired to feel nothing by the end. The perfect Sharran.

So if she keeps her family alive, what does she get? A life time of guaranteed pain from Shar, but also her family. Guilt over learning all she’s done to her parents over the 40 years they were held captive, but also answers about her life before Shar and kinder memories with them after Shar. She doesn’t get to not know all that she’s done and all that’s been taken from her, and she’s forced to feel all the negative emotions that come with that, but she gets comfort and positive feelings too.

The moment I keep going back to is the scene you get after she saves her parents where she’s clearly distressed. You get a similar version of this if her parents are dead, but if her parents are alive, they show up at the end of the scene when she’s crying because of the guilt she’s feeling toward all that happened to them. The specific moment in that which I obsess over a bit is when Shadowheart apologizes to them and says that they shouldn’t have to see her like this (because they just walked in on her crying). And it’s her mom’s response to that which makes me a little insane

It’s the emphasis on feeling that really gets me, and I think is the most important part here.

Because Shadowheart was apologizing specifically for them seeing her feeling. She was in this moment apologizing for them having to see her crying and in a very vulnerable emotional state over her own personal struggles and the immense amount of guilt she feels over seeing the extent of what was done to her parents, some of which she did. She’s not supposed to feel anything about that, as a Sharran. She’s not supposed to feel at all as a Sharran, good or bad.

But it’s her very visibly feeling something that her mom points out wanting to see. it’s the one word she puts emphasis on, because that alone is proof that Shar doesn’t have a hold on her. If she’s feeling something, even if it’s bad, then Shar isn’t winning and isn’t controlling her. Shar literally had to resort to trying to coax her into wanting nothing more than to be free of feeling in order to get her to behave, after all.

If Shadowheart accepts that she’ll have pain for the rest of her life in order to save her family, Shar doesn’t get anything but the shock collar she already had. And the point of the shock collar was to eventually never use it. Hurting Shadowheart wasn’t what Shar wanted. Shar wanted to eventually stop hurting Shadowheart because that meant she was a good perfect little Selûnite-turned-Sharran who had been properly corrupted. Pain wasn’t the point and was supposed to have an ending if Shar got what she wanted.

So when Shadowheart rejects the loss of the pain, that’s about as close as she can get to telling Shar to go fuck herself. Her plans didn’t work, not even a little. Shadowheart isn’t wiping her slate clean (again) and rejecting feeling things just because they’re painful. She’s reconnecting with the past that they spent 40 years trying to erase and she’s doing it even though it’ll be hurt.

Basically by keeping her parents alive, she’s doing every single thing Shar has spent four decades trying to stop her from doing and giving Shar absolutely nothing in return. Shar gets nothing besides the ability to hurt Shadowheart, which isn’t even something she wanted in the first place.

And proof of this is shown in the epilogue, where if you romance Shadowheart and kept her parents alive, you both point out what Shar hasn’t been triggering the wound much lately. She triggers it a lot and randomly in the end of the game, and it’s clear she’s pissed off, but by the time six months have passed, it’s apparently barely happening. Because pain wasn’t the point and it wasn’t what Shar wanted. The pain was Shar throwing a tantrum because she didn’t get what she wanted. Shadowheart calls it petty in the game and that’s literally what it is. Just pettiness from a god. And it’ll probably happen to some extent for the rest of Shadowheart’s life, yes, but it’s clear that Shar is bored and realizes it’s not going to work. She might try some other ways to get at Shadowheart eventually, but in making that choice, Shadowheart denied her any ounce of power that Shar actually cares about. Even if the pain is there, the fact that it’s there is proof that Shar failed.

[tsartistry]

So there is a character in Niobe Fic that I have not really mentioned at all, and I don't think any of you care, but I care and I wanna talk about Elmer. I think he's neat. I will be honest upfront, this is me indulging in one of my favorite friendship tropes:

Small Precocious Child and the Big Beefy Bodyguards who will protect them at all costs.

More than anything, Niobe needs to make sure no demigods get anywhere near Lester, so she hires monsters as security around her home/business. After all, monsters can smell demigods from miles away. She pays them handsomely, and includes very delicious and filling meals as part of their compensation so they won't be compelled to wander away and hunt for food.

Periodically throughout the Riordanverse we get glimpses of the monsters having an entire underground society (Monster Donut, the serpent on the train in TON, etc.) It seems like the majority of them want nothing to do with Demigod Bullshit and just want to live normal lives. So I think Niobe had no shortage of Monster Applicants wanting a Normal(ish) Job that pays Actual Wages instead of whatever Kronos was paying them (if he was paying them at all.)

Elmer is a Manticore that Niobe hired to be Lester's personal bodyguard. He has one job: If he smells any demigods, get Lester out of there.

Of course, Elmer has no means of sniffing out any other kinds of special children. So when Lester starts hanging out with Carter and Sadie, Elmer is just like "Well, the kid does look pretty lonely. He should have some normal human friends. As a treat."

Lester, being a mortal who doesn't remember anything about Greco-Roman myths being real, doesn't see Elmer for what he is. Which makes things very awkward for Sadie, who can see his true form almost immediately.

But Elmer seems pretty fond of Lester, and pretty chill in general so... maybe he's not dangerous? But there's definitely something WEIRD about Lester's life that she wants to figure out.

(and for those just joining us, Lester has a service dog because the process Niobe used to erase his memories gave him literal brain damage, so now he has a seizure alert dog)

[brightlight-dazzlingeyes]

caught in the middle | charles leclerc

🎸 synopsis: After a rainy concert in London, you end up sharing burgers backstage with Charles Leclerc, of all people. tags: rockstar life, talks about fame & pressure (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) | (around 2.4k words)

It’s one of those nights. You can feel the rain before you even hear it, the weight of it pressing down from the clouds, and you just know it’s going to pour. And it does. Hard. The London sky opens up as if it’s got something personal against you, and you’re huddled under a canopy behind the venue, watching as water cascades down. Everything’s soaked – the equipment, the crew, you – and the mood is tense, all nerves and curses muttered under breath because, of course, this is how the night’s going to go.

It’s not your first time here. You’ve played this venue before, two or three times over the years, and every time it feels a little different. A little bigger, like the walls have expanded to swallow more people, like the stage gets higher and the lights hotter. And tonight, it’s not just the rain; it’s a mess of last-minute technical problems. Something about the lighting rig not syncing up, and the sound checks running late because of a blown amp, and the stage crew rushing around to patch things together while you pace the green room, wondering if it’s all going to fall apart before it even begins.

Your tour manager’s in your ear, reassuring you that everything’s fine, but you’ve heard that line before, and it does nothing to stop the nervous twist in your gut. You’re too old for this kind of anxiety, you think. 25 isn’t even that old, but then why does it feel like you’re walking a tightrope every time you hit the stage? Like you’re one wrong move away from everything crashing down. You watch the rain from the window, and it reminds you of all the other times you’ve felt this way, every tour and every city bleeding together in your memory.

Something shifts. It’s hard to say when exactly it happens – maybe it’s when the crew finally gives you the thumbs-up, or when the rain lets up just enough for you to see the crowd gathering through the fogged-up glass. Maybe it’s the hum of the bass vibrating through the walls or the way the adrenaline suddenly kicks in, hot and electric. Either way, you hear them out there, the crowd – muffled cheers and a murmur that swells and dips, building anticipation, wrapping itself around your chest and squeezing until you can barely breathe. 

You don’t let yourself think about it too much. You go through the motions, pulling on your jacket, checking the setlist one more time even though you’ve memorized it, cracking jokes with the band like it’s any other night, and then it’s time. The stage manager is waving you over, and you take one last deep breath – just one – before you step out into the hallway that leads to the stage. Your footsteps echo, and the noise from the crowd grows louder. You can feel the heat of the lights before you even see them, hear the opening notes of the intro track rumbling through the speakers. You don’t look back. You can’t. 

Then the crowd sees you, and the roar that goes up is like nothing else. It’s everything, like you’re not standing on a stage but flying, unstoppable, and the rain outside doesn’t matter, the equipment issues don’t matter. Nothing matters except the music, the energy.

You start singing. You don’t even remember starting, but your fingers are on the strings of your guitar and the music’s pouring out of you, and the band’s right there with you. You can feel the floor vibrating beneath your feet, the beat pounding in your chest. It’s perfect, even in its imperfections – the missed cues, the notes you almost fumble but catch at the last second, the feedback that whines for half a beat before it’s smothered. The adrenaline burns through you until you can’t tell where you end and the music begins.

When you look out at the crowd, you wonder if they know what it costs, if they can see how hard you’re fighting to hold onto this, to keep the dream alive even when it feels like it’s slipping away.

You hit the chorus and they’re all singing with you, the sound so loud it’s almost deafening, and it’s like the world stops. You’re not thinking about the rain or the mistakes or the way your fingers ache from playing the same chords over and over. You’re just feeling it, the connection, the rush, the way it all comes together for just a few minutes.

You stumble off stage, still feeling the echo of the last note ringing in your ears, your chest heaving with each breath. The heat’s oppressive, and your shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to your back in a way that makes you want to peel it off. You’re half-drunk on adrenaline, on the sound of the crowd still buzzing through the walls, and you don’t even realize you’re smiling until someone hands you a water bottle and you chug it down in three desperate gulps, nearly doubling over from the effort.

The band’s all around you, slapping your back, bumping shoulders, shouting half-coherent things like “Killed it tonight!” and “Best show yet!” But you’re only half-listening, already thinking about the part that comes next. The part that’s always a little awkward, a little forced, where you shake the hands of strangers who got lucky or know the right people or just happened to win some contest. You try to give them a moment to remember, even when you’re exhausted, even when all you really want is a quiet corner to catch your breath. You take a second to steady yourself, push your damp hair out of your eyes, and head toward the meet-and-greet area, already pasting on that familiar, practiced smile.

They’re waiting for you when you get there, clustered in small groups, some with wide-eyed grins, some pretending they’re not as excited as they are. You go through the motions – handshakes, hugs, quick photos with flashing phones that make your vision blur. You ask them how they liked the show, where they came from, if they’ve seen you play before. You keep the rhythm going until your attention snags on someone standing a little apart from the crowd, someone you haven’t seen around before.

He’s got the kind of beauty that makes him stand out, even though he’s just standing there, hands in the pockets of a jacket. And you know him. Of course, you do – how could you not? It’s Charles Leclerc, the one and only. But you’re the rock star here, and you know how to play it cool.

You step forward, hand outstretched, because if you think too much about it, you’ll probably lose your nerve. “Hey,” you say, your voice a little rough from the show, from the yelling and the singing and the way the night’s adrenaline still hasn’t quite worn off. “Nice to meet you.”

His handshake is firm, warm, and he’s got this smile that’s just a little shy, like he’s not used to being on this side of the spotlight, which makes you feel weirdly better. Less alone. “Nice to meet you,” he echoes, his accent softer than you expected, “I’m a big fan.”

You almost choke. Me too, you want to say, because you’ve followed his career, but you don’t. You just nod, feeling your own grin stretching wider than it should, because it’s not every day you meet someone who’s famous in their world, too, and suddenly you’re a little self-conscious, wondering if you’re as cool as you think you are.

“Glad you liked the show,” you say, keeping it light, like he’s just another fan, even though he’s not. Not really. 

He laughs, easy and low, and you notice the way he shifts his weight, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say but doesn’t want to come off too eager. “It was incredible,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “I’ve been listening to your music for years. This… this was something else.”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see it in the low backstage lighting. “Means a lot, coming from you.” It slips out before you can stop it, and you watch his eyebrows lift, surprise passing over his face like he wasn’t expecting you to know who he was. 

The rest of the band finally notices him and they’re quick to be all over him. They’re his fans and unlike you, they’re not afraid to show it. They start asking about the car and which race is the hardest, and you just hang back, watching the way Charles lights up, giving them all the attention they’re craving.

The chaos dies down. The gear’s mostly packed up, the roadies are winding down, and you can finally breathe. The routine kicks in – the same one you always follow after a show because you need the familiarity to settle the adrenaline that’s still coursing through you. 

There’s a table in the corner of the greenroom piled high with burgers, fries, and the kind of greasy comfort food that’s become your go-to post-show ritual. Always enough for everyone – staff, guests, even the hangers-on who just happened to have a backstage pass.

It’s your thing, the one you look forward to when the crowd’s roar has faded and the lights have gone down. You grab a burger – double patty, extra cheese, because you’ve earned it – and motion to Charles, who’s still lingering near the door. “Hey,” you say, nodding toward the food. “You hungry? There’s more than enough.”

He hesitates, just for a second, then nods. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

By the time you’ve both got food in your hands and the staff’s scattered around the room in little groups, you find yourselves at the same worn-out couch in the far corner, away from the noise and the half-empty beer bottles littering the floor. He sits beside you, and you try not to think too hard about the way the couch dips slightly under his weight, the way the space between you feels strangely intimate now that you’re not surrounded by people.

You don’t talk for a while, just eat. He’s halfway through his burger when he speaks first, voice low and casual like he’s picking up a conversation you weren’t sure you’d started. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

You pause mid-bite, looking at him, surprised by the question. He’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he’s crossed a line. And maybe he has, but in a good way.

“Sometimes,” you admit, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on the night. Some shows, it’s like I’m not even really there, just... going through the motions. Others, it’s everything I wanted since I was a kid, you know?”

He nods, his eyes dropping to the burger in his hands. “Yeah, I get that. Racing’s the same. Some days, it’s all instinct and adrenaline. Other times, it’s like you’re fighting just to stay in the car, like you’re not even sure why you’re doing it.”

You nod back. “Guess it’s hard to keep loving something when it feels more like a job than... whatever it was in the beginning.”

Charles looks up, and there’s something almost wistful in his eyes. “Yeah. But it’s harder to imagine doing anything else. Even when it’s rough.”

You get that. You’ve lived that – the way the music’s a part of you, the way you keep coming back even when you think you’re done. You take another bite, chewing slowly, letting the words sink in before you say, “Sometimes I wonder if I missed my chance to be something else. Like, what if I’d taken a different path, you know?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back against the couch. “Yeah,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “But then I think about the people I’ve met, the places I’ve been... and I don’t know if I’d trade any of it, even the bad parts.”

It hits you harder than you expect, because that’s exactly it – the good, the bad, the stuff in between that keeps you tethered even when you’re not sure why. You swallow, feeling a lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you say softly, staring at the half-eaten burger in your hand. “I think I get that.”

He shifts beside you, turning a little, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now,” he admits, and there’s a vulnerability there that makes your chest ache. “Like, when I was younger, I thought there’d be this moment where everything would make sense. But it never really does.”

You let out a breath, nodding slowly. “Me too,” you say. “I mean, when I was a kid, I thought I’d be this – ” you wave your hand vaguely, gesturing to the greenroom, the music, the life you’re living “ – and it’s great. Don’t get me wrong, but... I still don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

He laughs, a quiet, almost sad sound, and shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone knows if they’re doing it right. Maybe that’s the point. Just... keep going, even when you don’t know what’s next.”

There’s a silence that stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. You take another bite, and he does too, and for a moment, it’s enough just to sit there, side by side, caught between what you were and what you might be, both of you knowing you’re not alone in the uncertainty.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the quiet, “at least we get good burgers out of it, right?”

He laughs, and this time it’s real, bright, and warm, and you can’t help but join in. “Yeah,” he agrees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Guess that’s something.”

And it is.

[writerfromshikahr]

A pre-relationship piece. TW for some discussion of abuse, but nothing detailed.

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

Pebbles - Lucanis X Rook Fanfic

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

"I can see why this is your favourite spot," Rook said, gazing out at the bustling city below. "Treviso looks stunning from up here. I never got to explore this part of the city as a child."

Lucanis smiled as they sat together on the rooftop. "Illario and I would come up here and throw pebbles at the people below—until Caterina caught us," he said, smirking. "It was his idea, of course."

Rook laughed softly. "Yes, that does seem like something he would do," she said, turning to him with a knowing smile. "But you should have known better."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the distant hum of the city below filling the air. Then Rook spoke again. "Must have been hard, growing up with Caterina. She seems like a formidable woman. If your training was anything like mine…" Rook trailed off, her voice softening as she caught herself.

Lucanis regarded her for a moment, his gaze steady but unreadable. "She’s my grandmother, but yes, it was difficult. At the time, I hated her. She was impossible to please, and like most Crows, I suffered. But what made it worse," he said, his tone lowering, "was when she’d turn around and tell me it was because she cared for me. It was… confusing."

"I understand," she said quietly, though her voice carried the weight of her memories.

"And you?" Lucanis asked, his gaze lingering on her. "I learned a little from Viago. He may have called you 'his idiot,' but don’t take it personally. If he ever stops using that word, then you should start worrying." His smirk softened as he added, "You were eight when you joined House de Riva?"

"My parents were killed while they were trading here," Rook said, her gaze fixed on the city below. "We were walking back to our accommodations when some mercenaries jumped them. I don’t remember much of that evening." She hesitated, "But I do remember using my magic for the first time—trying to help my mother."

Her hand drifted to her lap, her fingers fidgeting as she spoke. "I would have been killed too if it hadn’t been for a Crow that… intervened." The word lingered, heavy with meaning. "House de Riva took me in—gave me a home, a place to sleep. But they never addressed what I’d witnessed. Instead, they used it, reminded me of that night, to push me harder in training." She glanced at Lucanis, her expression conflicted. "I’m grateful, but like you said, it’s strange to feel grateful to people who also hurt you."

"We have things in common, it seems," his voice thoughtful. "I lost my parents young, but unlike you, I had family." He glanced at her, his expression softening. "You were alone in a city that wasn’t your own, surrounded by strangers you had no choice but to rely on." He paused, his dark eyes lingering on hers. "Admirable resilience for someone so young, Rook."

"I get a compliment Dellamorte? I’ll take it—Viago doesn’t hand those out too often."

"Oh, you’re his favourite; that’s why he’s harder on you," Lucanis leaned back on his hands. "Besides, you have me by your side now. That’d terrify him more—he and I, we have a history."

"By my side? Is this just Crow loyalty, or… something else?" she mused, glancing down at the city. Her heart fluttered as the question lingered, unspoken feelings stirring beneath her curiosity.

He regarded her quietly for a moment before replying, his tone unreadable. "As I said, there are plenty of reasons to work with you. Some, I admit, might be more out of self-interest than others."

"Self-interest? I can work with that," she said, smiling at him.

Lucanis didn’t respond, and she hadn’t expected him to. Silence fell again, broken only by the faint hum of the city. She noticed him digging into his pocket.

"I almost forgot," he said, pulling out a small handful of pebbles and offering them to her.

"I wondered why you were picking those up when we walked here."

He smiled playfully. "Whoever can hit that merchant’s stall three times in a row buys the coffee later. Bonus points if you can land one in the bowl of mackerel."

Rook raised a brow, taking a pebble. "The fish? Now you’re just trying to show off."

Lucanis rolled a pebble between his fingers. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want to see if you're up for the challenge." He tossed the pebble lightly in the air and caught it, his gaze darting to the stall below. "Your move."

Rook narrowed her eyes, "Oh, I’m more than up for it."

She aimed, letting the pebble fly. It bounced off the corner of the merchant's stall, missing her mark by inches. "Damn it," she muttered, biting back a laugh.

He chuckled, leaning forward. "Close, but not quite. Watch and learn." With an almost lazy flick of his wrist, his pebble sailed down, landing with a soft plunk in the bowl. He tossed another pebble in the air looking decidedly smug.

"My coffee’s going to taste even better knowing you’re paying for it."

[willowed-wisp]

Home - one-shot [ghost]

MASTERLIST

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader/you

WARNINGS: smut. angst, mentions of death

It would take more than steam to calm you down. Or scalding water… or the bubbles…

You wondered if it would ever get old- the worrying…

The unknown.

It should have taken all but six months of being with him to realise how overcome with grief you were when he was sent overseas on classified, top secret missions.

But as the months- years- go by of him nestled against you in bed before being ripped away at the flip of a switch, it became apparent that you would never know the true nature of his K.I.A.

Hopefully that never happened.

You think maybe the bath wasn’t the best choice to release your nerves- a barrel of worst case scenarios…

The only reason why you hadn’t walked out the door of your shared house was just him. The man who you’d met in hospital- him the unwilling patient and you the nurse who had to put up with his bullshit. Truly the worst patient you had ever had, Simon Riley was never the type to accept help- something you’d learn swiftly.

Despite that, you still accepted the advances of this tall, hulking man.

The next day you were in a pub with him, learning he indeed knew how to perform stitches but a Scotsman had abandoned him at the hospital to get medical treatment.

On that first ‘date’, he kissed you. Nothing more nothing less.

After that you didn’t hear from the broad accented man for over a month. ‘Another time getting ghosted’, you thought.

Until he appeared outside your apartment door one day, a skull printed balaclava covering his face. But you knew those big puppy dog eyes, you saw them in your dreams. His lips…

Oh god, you missed his lips. Their heat, how they fitted and curved just how you needed them.

Over that half decade of knowing Simon you had grown accustomed to them being used for more than kissing. That’s why your middle finger grafted circles.

You would be sweating from the molten memories, but the sauna of a bathroom had that covered.

Remembering his taste, his roughness… that intensity of having his whole undivided affection.

Big brown eyes watching you come undone on his tongue, fingers or cock… time and time again. Countless amounts of times.

You didn’t know you were crying or that another hand had replaced yours, rubbing the bundle of nerves, “You couldn’t wait for me t’ get back…” Low, sensual and you slipped lower into the water. Mostly in shock, a tad by being a klutz.

Your heart hammered slow, breath quicker as his body… that perfect, damaged body slipped in behind you. Large hands at either side of your hips, head feeling fuzzy you rested against his broad shoulders as he lifted you onto his bare lap.

How long had he been watching? Clearly enough to strip down, even his mask on the floor.

You attempted to get words out but his thumb over powered you. Teasing your wet core, lapping over that sensitive bud; reading your moans. His cock begging to release its tension. But no thoughts mustered in your head, his fingers- long and thick and scarred- scissoring open that tightness, “You’ve got t’ relax, luvie… so fucking tight…” How could you relax with this soldier behind you?

Your silence spoke as much- you were furious at him. He keeps leaving you for weeks on end and you never know if he’s coming back with his bags or in a body bag… “I didn’t know if you were dead, Si,” that cut through the built up tension with a knife. His actions stopped, his chin leaning on your shoulder. Thumbs patterning the skin of your thighs- numb murmurs of tickles along your flesh. “You didn’t contact me, to let me know you were alright…” The water grew cold, so you stood. His eyes glued to your back, maybe other parts of your body.

Though, you felt colder than the ice. You loved him, would die for him… sometimes you just hated his job, not him.

The night terrors he had when off-duty, holding him for hours on end… knowing you would fall asleep but he never would.

Scars, beautiful as they were, he came home with a new set of them. She turned to him, and it looked like he got caught up in an explosion.

He towered over you, you swore he would make anyone feel tiny but knowing what he can do to you first hand… you were slick again. Even with the new brandish on his V-line, “Grenade? Molotov?” You grabbed for a towel, facing away deliberately. Venom on your tongue.

Warmth spread over your shoulders, tension kneaded away, “Calm down… an’ how’d ya know it was a Molotov?” It was difficult to ignore his intoxicating smile in the mirror. Shoulders swamped by his wider frame, his tattoos brandishing his sleeve. It was impossible to remain fuming at Simon. “‘t was only first degree, no hard shit…”

“You’ve been hanging out with MacTavish too much…”

“Ever try mind readin��?”

“Must’ve to put up with you,” his hand dragged down, back to between your thighs. “Si, I’m-,” you became hoisted up, cradled in his arms. Like he did the day you moved into your house two years ago. “Try eating me out and you’ll lose your neck…”

There you were, mewling his name with your thighs draped over his shoulders. Back flush against the duvet fabric, he looked delicious on his knees. “Tastes like fuckin’ honey,” Barely able to hear him over the drumming in your ears but you always would… like this you were at his mercy- and you both craved it.

He flicked that spot, over and over. Suckling patches of purple onto your apex. Pain that had your nails scraping at his shoulders, up to the shaven underside. Gripping onto the blonde, earning a moan from your soldier. “I fucking need you, Si!” Head thrown back, teeth gritted as you toppled over the edge. His tongue lacing you through the orgasm. Legs akimbo, enough to see those puppy dog eyes glazed over. Caged in lust.

Tongue in a stripped lick, up to your breasts. Distracting from him lining up, “Let me return the favour-,” your efforts strangled. A high pitch moan followed, tears fizzled the corners of your eyes. A straight thrust and you were clinging onto the scars and the muscles at your disposal.

Foreheads joined- maybe for support on his end. Definitely on yours. “I fuckin’ love you…” he hummed against your lips. “I’m finally home…”

[solavelyan]

yet more "mythal was andraste" (and related flemeth) thoughts (and a readmore to save your dashboards from my rambling)

our lady of (perpetual) victory is a name for andraste, so obviously the eluvian you find in veilguard's opener is underneath an andraste monument. and what more appropriate place for solas's hideout to be than hidden under a statue of one of mythal's lives (whether he realizes it or not)

with how much matching symbolism and how many hints there are in veilguard that mythal was andraste despite andrastianism/the chantry itself being so downplayed in this specific game, i feel almost completely comfortable saying that andraste-was-a-mythal-vessel is functionally canon -- but also that i don't think it will ever be bluntly stated in a game. it might show up in an artbook or if they do another world of thedas? maybe? but it seems that the choice was made a long time ago to never confirm the true nature of the maker/andraste in maintext and they've stuck to that. maybe that will change if they get a DA5 or they get DLC and do something whacky with it, but i wouldn't expect it at all

but also, like... i was mostly right about the evanuris/old tevinter gods situation 10 years ago and this all has the same vibes and more evidence, so

however, i don't think that solas knows that andraste had a mythal shard. i think he would have been much much much less amiable to the idea of the (distinctly andrastian) version of the maker and less generally neutral about the andraste of it all in inquisition if he knew. i'm not given to the impression that he sat down and had a long chit-chat with flemeth at any point in time; avoiding mythal seems to be his preference in the modern era, out of shame if nothing else, so i don't see flemeth really having the time with him to have gotten around to mentioning it, if we even assume it's the same piece of her

which i do, btw. i do think flemeth has the same chunk of mythal that andraste did, and i would even venture to say that flemeth is a blood relative of andraste. both of them are explicitly stated to have only ever had daughters, and andraste's biological children only had daughters themselves. it's one of those details that's kind of a fun fact if you do it once, but clearly a trend if you do it twice. i don't think mythal was hopping from one andraste descendant to the next, necessarily, but i can see her having enough of a soft spot to show up for flemeth when original recipe flemeth called out for help from the spirits

with all of this, given DAO and silent grove lore... i'm inclined to think that flemeth - who we know is capable of and willing to section off parts of herself to survive her potential death - is probably the first of mythal's vessels to decide to "follow" her. we know that morrigan remembers flemeth as young once, and that she body-hops when she gets very old, but it's also clearly still the same person in the modern era as it was in 3:00-something

morrigan in veilguard also claims flemeth's titles. so i'm inclined to believe that "flemeth" is both an actual person's name and kind of functionally a title for whatever a daughter becomes when they accept the mix of godhood and memories that gets passed down. morrigan just might be the first one to still call herself by her old name instead of adopting "flemeth" as a moniker

[cthulhum]

the most insane and unrealistic thing about the finale of supernatural is how sam just had a normal life after all that like i know that was his dream for the longest time and he deserved it but imagine spending decades hunting literal monsters with ur brother and angel best friend and uve stopped multiple apocalypses and saved the world countless times and then u just. move on ??? nah

[sea-jello]

hong kong miku,,,

[byanyan]

me remembering that i used to write the two supernatural muses is like uncovering trauma i forgot about i stg

[sunflowersandcherryblossoms]

Be ready for disagreement...

The Shinigami absolutely belonged in the finale of this Arc!

As with 100% of plot holes and missing lore, we have no information on why the Shinigami didn't visit Ichigo in their gigai.

At best with have fanon meta about a direct order from Central 46, forbidding them to contact Ichigo in order to flush out Ginjo (who wouldn't have approached him if during those 17 months he'd seen people like the Kuchiki Siblings, Renji et all dropping by for a visit.

As for the theme of the Lost Agent Arc, it is Bonds.

And we see that the humans have really weak bonds. Mostly from miscommunication, yes, but also because they weren't exactly close friends at the beginning of the series. They're people that had to come together for a common objective.

In this point of the story, one of the people I hate the most for keeping secrets from Ichigo is his supposed buddy, Chad...

Dude had been training with the Fullbringers and didn't remember to mention that? So much for friendship.

I expect nothing from Isshin, therefore I'm not surprised that the dude didn't come forward with the truth about his origins throughout that time.

Urahara also cut contact with Ichigo and yet everyone (almost everyone) praises him for coming up with the Reishi sword.

(There was still a law in place about transferring powers to a human. And I don't think Mayuri cared the least about Ichigo. And I don't like the dude...)

When Tsukishima unleashes Book Of The End, we see exactly how frail those bonds are.

Even his sister's, who undoubtedly loved him, but siblings are siblings... And there was a layer of mistrust towards him, again because of all the secret he himself kept... And they weren't like against, against him. They just wanted him to "stop being rude to cousin Tsukishima" (And let's be honest... Ichigo has a past of being a little shit. A punk. A rude person...)

Chad, — his supposed best friend — stands against him in battle to protect Tsukishima.

Inoue — the girl who thinks what she feels is love — heals his enemy and can't put Ichigo first.

Remember:

Tsukishima didn't ERASE Ichigo. He included himself in the memories. That's what he does.

In the "flashbacks" we see Ichigo too... It's just that Tsukishima is also there.

Which means all the actions he took were still in those two's memories. And yet they chose Tsukishima...

Now the Shinigami...

Of course they're not the Heroes of the series!

But they're also not the villains. They're in the grey area...

No one who followed the previous arcs with their full span of attention would believe for one second any of those people would so much harm one hair in Ichigo's head...

Either people want it or not, the one who represents the change in the Soul Society and their relationship to Ichigo, is Byakuya.

The one who had the most drastic change of heart. The one who threw the fight so he could keep his honour while allowing Ichigo to save Rukia.

The one who, after bringing Rukia and Renji back to Soul Society, ended up sending them to Hueco Mundo to fight alongside Ichigo.

The one who actually appeared to help Ichigo against Yammy, — with Kenpachi in tow!— and the one who pushed Ichigo to go to Karakura to protect his hometown and fight Aizen.

Now, in this Arc, he's the one who's tasked with fighting Ichigo's tormentor.

He fights Tsukishima in Ichigo's name!

He gets cut, and yet, Shinigami that he is, Head of the Kuchiki Clan that he is, Stoic that he shows to others he is, still goes against the fake memories of the mentor figure and takes him down.

For Ichigo. Because of Ichigo. In his stead.

And comes TYBW, the Karakura Team still can't communicate and still don't trust each other!

Uryu goes on a rogue mission that could have gone awfully wrong.

Inoue and Chad are left in Hueco Mundo, because Ichigo is worried first and foremost about the Shinigami.

Ichigo arrives there and the first actions he undertakes his getting Akon to safety, fly over Rukia and Renji to check if they're alive (doesn't stop apparently, but I digress...) and goes straight to Byakuya from whom he receives this banner of protecting the Soul Society. A tearful plea he goes above and beyond to fulfil.

There's also this weird moment of Chad and Inoue believing Ichigo would run away from the fight... Which... Excuse me?!?

Why would they say that?

Chad? The one who had been protected by Ichigo all that time ago?

Inoue? Who went along with Ulquiorra (that was the weirdest kidnapping ever, btw...), causing all of those people to go and try to save her? Ichigo at the head of the rescue team?

So no...

The Karakura Team aren't best friends and they learned nothing throughout the series.

And the Shinigami, — at least some of them — deserve better than being considered as the bad guys, since they have always fought for Ichigo since the Soul Society Arc.

You're such a fucking idiot, Uryu...

Yeah, you should have fucking told him from the get go! You're supposed to be a part of the Karakura Team! You know the supposed "real friends" group?

Oh, right... Sorry...

You're actually just acquaintances with a shared goal.

[sunflowersunite]

~ 🌻 ~

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Still haven't messaged my mom back. And I don't think I'm going to.

[nexus-nebulae]

love watching weather science videos but like. why am i 1000x more interested in tornadoes over hurricanes. they're both spinning air

[jvzebel-x]

🦋