#rip to me after writing this

[bonnetfulloflowers]

Final words (morning glory)

Bury me with morning glory dotting my headstone.

Let them creep through the grass,

Hope they bloom throughout the cemetery

With their trumpet spread petals and tones of color like the night.

As they catch water and fall from the weight,

Let them hydrate small animals and the fairies I believe exist.

Bury me with morning glory if only to appease final words,

To make yourself feel better,

To know you have done something,

So the dead may not weigh heavy on your soul.

[choccy-milky]

modern seb as rodrick bc i still havent gotten over my crush😩💖

[prythianpages]

thinking about the New Year’s Eve trend where you go under the table (also I always grew up hearing that going under the table will bring you a luck in finding a partner but now I see the trend is to go under the table and eat 12 grapes so now idk what the actual tradition is lol, anyways back to my little thought):

You made sure to have the grapes ready at this year’s NYE, talking excitedly about the man you want to manifest with Nesta…who knows what she’s doing and suggesting traits that tease at Azriel. Cassian thinks it’s hilarious and he is also excited to see if you’ll actually be able to devour all 12 grapes so fast, already placing bets with Feyre.

Meanwhile, Azriel, who is madly crushing on you, watches from his corner of the room. He thinks it’s just all fun and games…this can’t really work, right? I mean, why would it work? There’s no real magic behind this…

But then Mor casually brings up that she had done this one NYE and it brought her, her most memorable fling and she sighs wistfully…panic begins to stir in Azriel.

The clock is ticking…

Azriel’s shadows begin to dance frantically around him, mirroring his inner turmoil as the inner circle prepares to cheer you on.

His eyes widen when you scoop a couple of grapes into your hand because Mother above, you’re actually going to do this and what if it actually works and he never gets a chance to confess…

10…9…8…

Azriel suddenly appears at your side, wings knocking awkwardly against the table, his shoulder bumping yours as he makes himself fit in that small space.

“Az, what are you—“

“I have to tell you something.”

“Right now??”

7…6…

Azriel reaches for your hand, the one that is holding onto a handful of grapes, and lowers it. A confused frown settles on your features and he coaxes your gaze to his with his other hand, eyes searching yours.

“Az—“

5…4…

The hand clutching the handful of grapes twitches in his grip, still determined to complete the tradition.

3…2…

But Azriel tightens his hold and wastes no more time. He leans in, crashing his lips against yours and pulling you into a frantic but sweet kiss.

“Happy new year!”

When he pulls away, your cheeks are flushed and eyes are wide but there’s a smile on your face. “What else do you have to tell me?”

Azriel only grins and says “so much more,” before kissing you again.

[tangirlisfangirl]

going fucking. INSANE with thoughts of taking care of curly post-crash.

like on one hand idk bout y’all but i would immediately put him in the cryostasis pod so he doesn’t develop any infections and doesn’t perceive any pain???

but also. imagine the tender moments.

insisting on helping anya take care of him so she never even has to ask jimmy.

little by little you take up all the duties with pure concern and selflessness to the point where she only comes in to help with diagnoses and wound dressing.

you spend almost all your free time there, just you and him alone.

sitting and resting by the cot. even falling asleep by it just so he’s not lonely.

rambling to him or playing music so he can focus on something, anything other than the pain.

making a way for him to answer simple yes’s and no’s so he can communicate somehow, have some form of free will.

fashioning him an eyepatch so his eye isn’t constantly strained.

tearing up spare bedsheets to give him new bandages.

halving the painkillers to make them last longer— yes it’s only dulled instead of fully numbed now, but it’s better than falling off a cliff into unending agony.

stroking his covered cheeks and jaw and kissing his forehead with ghostly gentle touches. you doubt he can feel it at all.

insisting he’s still in there even when everyone can’t see him the same.

joking through tears about missing his handsome face and hair and hands.

sobbing through a confession and hearing his choked cries in return.

“it’s all your fault but you still don’t deserve this.”

outside of the medbay you’re ruthless and deadly serious, spurred by a desperate need to avoid stupid mistakes and increase your chances of survival. whatever’s left of who you were before this tragedy only peeks through when you’re with him.

caring for him is representative of your own hope, that there’s a life after all this is over. once you stop trying the crew is all but doomed.

[a-loose-collection-of-ants]

Okay so I was doing something for work and sifting through some old things on my computer.... and I found this???

[skitskatdacat63]

Happy birthday to my forty three shades of Fernando 🥳🎉

Let me know which is your fav variant!

Top from left to right: Matador, Nnadopoleon, Aston(obv), Boy King AU, Bond AU

Bottom from left to right: Ferrari, Post Retirement Vegas Magician Fernando, Renault

[arget-star]

By Any Other Name

Sakura Haruka x F!Reader

A/N: Alright SO. I know I am primarily a Fire Emblem blog. however, Wind Breaker took over my life in the span of like a week and I could not get this thought out of my head and well. here we are. Not beta read, this is my first xreader fic i've ever posted. i hope you enjoy!

tags: fluff, a tiny bit of blood, feelings

wc: 2k

about: You met Sakura about six months ago, and have essentially wormed your way into his little walled off heart. He comes home to your now (mostly) shared little apartment, battered and bloody after saving a girl who looked like you

You’re not living together.

That’s what Sakura says, despite the fact you stay over four nights out of the week, and somewhere in the six months you’ve been dating, half your stuff has ended up in his ramshackle little apartment. “You deserve better than a leaky faucet”, he’d said, cheeks red and nose scrunched in a scowl. You’d merely laughed, kissing his forehead before replying, “It adds to the charm.” And that was that.

You’re not living together. So why does he hope you’ll be there, curled up on that cheap little couch you’d insisted on bringing over, that lovely smile on your face as you greet him?

Those assholes must’ve hit his head harder than he realized. Sakura grits his teeth, an arm banded around his throbbing torso as he wobbles along the sidewalk. Weaklings, all of them. Acting tough solely because they have nothing better to do with their time. Seriously, it’s just plain pathetic.

He spits out a glob of blood into the nearby bushes. He doesn’t remember biting his cheek; maybe he’d ground his teeth against it after taking a particularly nasty kick while dodging someone else’s punch. Wasn’t he past his body locking up, his muscles moving with all the speed of a turtle?

The girl had been clutching the long strap of her purse with all her meager might while surrounded by leering thugs. The type of guys who coast by on looks rather than action. Intimidation instead of respect. At least now he’s able to articulate—better yet, understand—what pisses him off so badly about guys like that. Sakura would’ve leapt in regardless, but then he caught sight of her underneath the lamplight, and her shade of hair matched yours. The purse even had a keychain dangling from it, the charms jingling in faint alarm.

She wasn’t you, obviously. You were already home, had probably cooked something simple yet delicious and were keeping it warm until he arrived.

So he froze, mismatched eyes wide as a new type of fear unfurled within his chest, and then all hell broke loose. He knew how to protect someone in a fight, finally, and while the poor girl flattened herself against the side of a nearby building as he sent the idiots flying, his attention still kept flicking to her. He kept thinking what he’d do if it was you, and on one such slip of his concentration, that bastard’s boot came out of nowhere.

He’ll have to report this to Umemiya in the morning, and tell you all about it tonight, and—

Sakura looks up. He’s nearly there; the derelict building doesn’t seem so foreboding, especially once he catches sight of the warm yellow light on in his apartment. Maybe, just maybe, things won’t be so bad after all.

The doorknob wiggles. You carefully place your bookmark inside your book,  sitting up properly in your seat. Sakura’s home a bit later than usual—he probably got stuck eating at Café Pothos with everyone else. Good. You’re grateful he has so many friends, even if he acts like a cat who fell into a puddle of water about it.

“Welco—Sakura!” Your book tumbles from your hands in your haste to stand up. He stands in the doorway while you catalogue his injuries as if in slow motion. Blood drips down the left side of his face from a cut above his eyebrow. His nose is bleeding, too, running down his chin and staining his white shirt red. His knuckles are raw. It’s subtle; yet he sways, quickly placing his right hand against the wall to brace himself. The motion is enough to jolt you from your surprise.

You’re at his side in a blink. His reaction is sluggish; lips parting in belated surprise when you loop his right arm around your shoulders. Normally, he reads your movements almost before you make them, bracing himself for whatever contact you’re about to subject him to so he’s never caught off guard. But slowly, like water eroding rock, he’d learned that he can let his guard down around you, even at his most vulnerable.

Especially then.

“‘M fine,” he mutters out of reflex. You only scoff, walking him over to the couch with a small huff of effort. “Just a small fight.”

Carefully, you help ease him down onto the cushions, releasing your hold only once he’s settled. “A small fight?” You echo, disbelief in your tone. There’s no reprimand or ridicule, just a healthy doubt. He doesn’t know exactly when he stopped looking for the irritation he’s so used to hearing. Leaning his head back, he sighs. “Some guys were causin’ trouble. A new gang, I think. Trying to rob a girl—” he cuts off abruptly, and you watch his cheeks turn a brilliant shade of red, nearly blending in with the dried blood caking his skin. Sakura immediately looks away; he misses the knowing glint entering your expression.

Spinning on your heel, you head for the kitchen. The faucet doesn’t leak as badly now, after you’d finagled a temporary fix with determination and a healthy amount of internet research. He deserves more than a crappy sink, even if he won’t admit it. “You were by yourself?” You ask, opening the drawer and removing a towel. (Yet another item that had miraculously wound up in his space one day. When Sakura confronted you, you’d shrugged, then asked what he wanted for dinner.)

Sakura watches you for a moment, ignoring how something deep within his chest settles as you run the towel under cool water. It’s a familiar scene, enough that he no longer feels the urge to yell and raise his fists in defense. “Yeah. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle on my own.”

Strange. Suo-chan and Nirei-chan always shadow Sakura. Unless Sakura is going home—they haven’t invaded his space since the day they’d discovered him sick on the floor. Now, especially, Sakura would rip their heads off if they came snooping around while you were home. The faucet shuts off. You wring out the towel once, twice, then pad back over to the couch.

“I never doubted that, Grade Captain,” you tease, arranging yourself so you’re sitting on your knees. Drops of water drip down your wrist and onto the cushions below. His blush deepens, and you don’t bother hiding your smile. “Now hold still.”

“Shaddup,” he mumbles without heat. Instinct makes him shift back an inch; he’s always taken care of himself, alone. Sick, bruised, bloodied—he proved time and again he didn’t need anyone else. Then you breezed into his life, upending his entire world with your musical laughter and patient touch.

This is far from the first time you’ve patched him up. He no longer hisses and rages and scowls, a teenage version of a toddler’s temper tantrum, yet neither can he completely disregard a lifetime of gut reactions to others extending a hand in his direction.

You never minded when his hackles rose. You understood him, remaining endlessly understanding while he let his fear run its course. The damp rag hovers in the space between you and him. Sakura zeros in on the blue material instead of your face.

“Ready?”

That’s another thing. You ask him about things. Wait for his brain to catch up with non-dangerous situations. It’s weird, and scary, and wonderful.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“You always are.”

The smile you give him is radiant. Your free hand cups his less bloody cheek, keeping him steady, while you tenderly press the rag to his chin. He hisses out a breath through clenched teeth.

It’s quiet, as you slowly clean him up, beyond the soft scrap of material against skin. There’s a rhythm to your movements. Sakura finds it soothing, despite the circumstances. You both study each other; Sakura, like you’re a puzzle he’s still trying to solve, and you, like he’s something precious.

His golden eye truly is beautiful. He told you others have compared it to twilight, but you think it’s more akin to burnished gold. Rare, and infinitely treasured. He closes it, keeping it safe from harm as you run the now pink-tinged cloth over his browbone. A shame, you think, he keeps himself so locked away.

The slight pressure leaves his face. You move back, giving him room to breathe, holding the rag loosely in your hand. His eye opens again, a coin glinting in a riverbank.

“There,” you say, unfolding yourself from the couch, brushing your thumb across his cheek before you release him completely. “I’ll be back with the first aid supplies.”

Sakura just nods. He never says the words thank you; but you hear it in the way he lets you take care of him, how he takes your hands so reverently in his once your all finished, cradling you like he’s afraid you’ll snap in half if he squeezes too hard.

You’re opening the cabinet underneath the sink when he speaks again. “She looked like you.”

He says it so quietly, you nearly miss it. You freeze, half-bent down to reach for the ridiculous amounts of bandages and antiseptic bottles stashed neatly in their respective baskets. (Another thing you’d changed one day, much to Sakura’s initial chagrin, until he’d stumbled home covered in half a dozen cuts on the rare day you weren’t waiting for him, and found everything he needed without cursing his lack of organization.)

Mechanically, you grab the necessary materials. You’d assumed as much, based on his reaction when you told you the cause of his current state. A shudder runs down your spine as you imagine what the other guys must look like, lying defeated in the street. Sakura doesn’t fight just on behalf of someone else—at least, that what helps him sleep at night, though you know his tune has changed after all his experiences with Bofurin. For him to fight on your behalf, however tangentially related, makes your heart flutter.

Kotoha will practically jump for joy when you tell her.

For now, you let this newfound knowledge settle into your skin, your fluttering heart, smiling to yourself as you exit the bathroom, arms loaded with supplies. “Did she, now?”

Sakura’s sitting upright, head down, once again avoiding your gaze. His fingernails dig into the fabric of his school pants. Beneath the curtain of two-toned hair, you can see the blush sitting high on his cheeks. It’s a miracle they’re not permanently stained pink.

“Y-yeah. I knew she wasn’t you, but for a moment…I need to teach you how to defend yourself. I can’t patrol everywhere, and I’m not the strongest yet. Anyone from Furin will keep you safe, but if we’re not around—”

This is new. You swallow, setting the first aid supplies down on the tatami, sitting down with your legs crisscrossed. (One day, you’ll convince him to buy a table, but there’s only so much furniture you can squeeze in such a tiny place.)

“Sakura,” you say, but he doesn’t hear you.

“—I need to know you can take care of yourself until I get there—”

“Sakura.”

“—and send them all flyin’—”

“Haruka.”

That shocks him into silence. He inhales, then looks up sharply, lips curling into the angry snarl you know so well. It’s his only defense mechanism, beyond his fists, and he’d never raise those at you. (That thing lodged within his chest stirs again. No one’s called him by his given name in years. It feels right, that here, in this space you two have created together, you should use it.)

He’s quite the sight, half patched-up and spluttering mad. One eye darkens like a storm at sea; the other kindles into molten gold, ready to burn any who get in his way.

You’re surprised, too. But you didn’t know what else to do. He’s never spiraled like this before, and it hits you that for perhaps the first time, he was genuinely scared for someone else. You shake your head, breaking eye contact, and reach for the gauze. “I’m sorry, Sakura. I should have asked before using your first name.”

Your fingers shake only a little when you grab the nearest antiseptic, flipping open the cap with your thumb. He watches it all, struck dumb. He doesn’t want an apology. He wants you to say it again, but he doesn’t know how to ask.

All of the fight leaks out of him. His shoulders slump forward. Haruka. Haruka. You hadn’t said it in disgust, or fear, or hatred. If he had to guess, you sounded concerned. Haruka. “I liked hearin’ you say it,” he replies.

A laugh bubbles out of you, born from nervous relief. You nearly spill antiseptic all over you instead of the gauze. “Really? May I call you Haruka, then? Not all the time…just here.” Rising to your knees, you crawl over to him, taking one battered hand in your soft one.

His throat tightens. An odd pressure builds behind his eyes. “Fine.”

“This’ll sting,” you murmur in warning, almost like an afterthought. “You can use mine, too. If you want.”

Sakura’s about to respond, tell you he’ll do it if it’ll make you happy (and make his own heart beat a little faster), but then the gauze descends onto his split knuckles. It’s not like eating a kick to the face; it barely registers in comparison.

Maybe it’s the emotions he’s kept bottled up since the fight. Maybe it’s the fact you called him Haruka and the world didn’t explode. Both things, he assumes, and that’s why your healing touch hurts worse than a dozen roundhouse kicks.

It fades, after that first bright burst.

Neither of you say anything again while you continue your ministrations. Once his knuckles are taken care of, you move on to his face, tenderly smoothing his bi-colored bangs off his forehead to ensure no strands get caught underneath the small bandage you apply to the cut above his eyebrow.

The entire time, he replays this strange evening over and over again in his head. It all leads back to you, caring for him, using his first name like it’s nothing when it in fact means everything. He hates himself, a little bit, for not being better at this.

For your part, your focus on him turns clinical. You can deal with the emotional part of it later. When you’ve finished with the last bandage, you stare at him a moment. Take in this boy who pushed away the entire world when it wrote him off, the very same boy who harbors no malice in his heart, just kindness hidden by anger.

You press a soft kiss to his lips, then slide away before he can reciprocate. He splutters again, blush back in place, and it’s such a Sak—Haruka thing to do, you bite back a laugh.

“Are you ready to eat, Haruka? You get hungry after a good fight.”

He offers you a rare smile in return.

[raineandsky]

#134

The scene the hero arrives to is nothing to brag about—a dumpster set alight, some of its flaming rubbish fluttering about harmlessly. The superhero sent them here on the basis of a villain, though, so they’re going to figure out who set fire to this thing if it’s the last thing they do.

No one seems to be around. Maybe this is one of those startup villains, the ones who want a taste of the criminal life but are too afraid to plunge in the deep end. An easy catch, the hero thinks. Simply wait for a slip-up and throw the sucker in jail.

The hero approaches the literal dumpster fire with the intention of looking for clues. What they don’t expect is for the criminal to leap out at them. They grapple for the hero with a vicious snarl and the hero reacts instinctively, whipping their arm out to dislodge them before throwing them down to the ground.

The criminal rolls away, making an attempt at what is probably a bound back to their feet and failing. A heartfelt, “ow,” leaks out as they carefully pick themself off the pavement.

They’re young, the hero can see that. Black clothes—something of a homemade villain’s outfit. A child who’s gotten a flare for rebellion and wanted to live a little. The hero was never one for inspirational talks, but if they can stop a villain in the making, they might as well try.

“I get the impression you’ve a taste for the low life,” they start carefully, “but this isn’t the way to go. Believe me, I’ve seen my fair share of the villainous lifestyle and it isn’t the a good—”

The hero’s words trail off as the kid looks up at them with a scowl. She nudges long hair out of her face, brushing dirt off the shirt the hero has almost definitely seen before. The superhero sent them out for a villain, not for this. Is this a test? Is the superhero mad?

The hero isn’t good with kids as it is, let alone their boss’s daughter.

“What on earth are you doing out here?” the hero snaps. There’s a villain around—it’s dangerous.”

“Damn right it is.” The kid wipes her nose on her sleeve, putting her fists up like she’s genuinely considering a fight. “Wanna guess who the villain is?”

She tries to rush the hero, and it’s here that they realise, ah, she is considering a fight. They sidestep her swing and, as carefully as an attack will allow, toss her on the ground again.

“Does your dad know you’re doing this?” the hero asks sharply.

“He will soon enough,” she spits.

She moves in for another strike. Where she’s aiming for the hero will never guess, but they bat her hand away easily and push her back. “Stop,” they demand bluntly. “You’re going to hurt yourself or, god forbid, someone else.”

“Isn’t that what being a villain is?” The kid laughs, and the hero hates how much it sounds like her father. “Being evil and ruining everything? I thought I was already good at that!”

She leaps in for another punch. The hero, already distracted, doesn’t dodge in time and her fist smashes into their chest.

The hero doesn’t move. The kid’s start of a victorious laugh dies down and she pulls her hand away.

“I hit you,” she points out coldly. “You’re meant to on the floor or something now.”

“You’re good at being evil and ruining everything?”

The kid’s annoyance gets replaced by what the hero can see from a mile away is carefully crafted indifference. “Sure,” she says shortly. “That’s why I thought maybe I’d fit in better here. And I do.”

The hero stares at her for a moment. She raises her fist, but the hero holds a hand up to her and she miraculously listens.

“I’m sorry,” the hero says, although they’re not sure what they’re apologising for. “I’m not fighting you. Go home.”

“You’re a hero!” the kid cries as the hero starts looking for a way to dampen the fire now devouring the poor dumpster. “Act like it!”

“Go home,” they repeat a little sharper, “and stay there. I’ll speak to your dad.”

“He’s meant to find out about this himself,” she snaps.

The hero finds a fire extinguisher, mysteriously tucked under one of the other dumpsters. The kid is pointedly not looking at them when they pull it out. “Don't you worry. I’m not telling him about this. I think he and I need a little chat, that’s all.”

The kid has nothing to say to that. She stamps her foot and huffs momentarily, and then she’s off, abandoning the hero with the physical and metaphorical fire.

[qprpbj]

ponyboy who does landscape drawing and portraiture vs paul who does comic book drawings and doodles on everything all the time bonding together… ponyboy thinks paul’s the coolest fuckin guy on planet earth bc he makes pony little drawing sheets and pony hangs them up with tacks on his wall ugh

[svtskneecaps]

lukewarm take of the evening: y'all care too much about being ""outdated"". fellas this smp moves inhumanly fast. it is ok to CHILL holy shit CHILL. y'all are like "(posts BANGER ART) super late guys sorry" friend i am hitting you with a blanket i am snapping you with my metaphorical towel WHAT DO YOU MEAN SORRY. "(posts BANGER FIC) rip this is outdated now" WHO CARES???? I LOVE YOU, OK. ohhhh woe is us as the fandom at large for having MORE HAPPY PILLS ARC CONTENT oh no how outdated!! how could you be writing speculative fiction about how forever felt during happy pills :( slash SARCASM!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BANGER ARCS, WHAT, YOU THINK WE'RE COMPLAINING????? FOR GETTING MORE OF THE CONTENT WE LOVED????? oh no we're past the period where everyone thought green gay ninjas were like Dead Dead, my work is now outdated and noncanon :( WDYM. GIMME. A BANGER IS A BANGER IDC IF IT TAKES THREE MONTHS. you think rome was built in a day?? fuck you, baltimore, GIMME. my ass has been cooking a goddamn backflipo family fic since july when it was ALREADY outdated do you think i fear god??? "oh no, you're making an edit of slime's (attempted) egg murdering spree?? how could you, that was months ago it's irrelevant" SAID NO ONE EVER.

save your wrists kidlings ok carpal tunnel is no joke. CHILL!!!!! CHILL!!!!!!!! TAKE YOUR TIME SHEEEEEESH OK LOVE YOU <3

[lokh]

mom avoids dead anime mom curse because he transitions. he’s always had a complicated relationship with pregnancy because of how woefully little people are told about potential complications and aftercare, and also because of how gendered it is, so after the birth of his second child he’s finally had it and decides to transition

he joins a local community group for mothers and at first it’s played for laughs how often they fall to the dead mom curse, but soon we find out more about how society has failed mothers and people who give birth, from information being withheld, procedures being carried out without consent, lack of accommodations and maternal and paternal leave, racism…

it also turns out that becoming a man doesn’t help with this, not really, because being a pregnant trans man brings its own problems. follow along as he learns more about being a parent and a mother, and maybe even… finding love???

coming to you never because I can’t write!

[sukirichi]

PLEASE STOP COPYING FICS ‼️

I am by no means gatekeeping concepts or tropes. We all know that it’s normal to see the same tropes or AUs be used differently, and that is not plagiarism. However, I recently found a fic that was oddly similar to my old (and discontinued) Gojo x Reader series, Reckless. The CEO! Gojo is nothing new, and neither is an accidental pregnancy trope. The only reason I am concerned is because this Gojo series I found has the exact same themes as Reckless that consists of: a playboy CEO Gojo with a very notorious reputation, a poor reader who is an employee and asset to the company (someone who works closely with Gojo), reader getting knocked up from a one night stand with Gojo, reader with a seemingly dead/absent mother yet still in contact with her father, Gojo with a very traditional family who does not like reader, and Gojo with an ex he struggles to let go of - which are all elements of Reckless.

The first chapter of that Gojo fic is also eerily similar to my first chapter with the same flow of: YN finding out she’s pregnant and her friend being there for her, Gojo saying he’ll take responsibility because ‘they both made the baby’, YN having to move in with Gojo to take care of the baby, and both of them coming to a mutual agreement that their ‘relationship’ will be purely for the baby’s benefit. The flow of events and specific details about the characters’ backgrounds are too similar to mine.

Again, I am not gatekeeping concepts, just as how I’ve had other writers ask me if they could write their own stories or takes based off of the NAOYA’S TROPHY WIFE COLLECTION or the BONTEN HUSBANDS EXCLUSIVE, and I’m fine with that. I’m even happy people are inspired by what I write. But being inspired is completely different from taking someone’s story and posting it as yours. Please trust your own creativity and skills in writing. You can write amazing stories and have people love them without having to steal from others.

It’s sad to say this is not the first time I, and other writers, have been plagiarized. It’s even more upsetting to know that a friend of mine who has also written a Gojo series (that I’m sure you all know and dearly love) experiences the same issues with the same person. The fact that this is happening to many writers out there is disheartening. We work hard and pour a lot of love in the stories we create. None of us are getting paid for this, and we simply want to share our passions with others. So please, let us be kinder with one another and show love and support the right way. If you love a fic, you give feedback and rb/comment + show support to the writer. You don’t steal their ideas and play it off as your own because you liked it.

[serenescribe]

This is a silly little fic that sparked from a conversation I had with @hanafubukki, and so I wrote it! What started as a discussion about Lilia eating teabags quickly shifted into the very sweet idea of a young Silver bringing his papa some tea leaves.

I hope you enjoy!

Lilia smiles as he hears the front door open, the sound of the creaking hinges reaching his ears. “You’re finally back, Silver,” he greets, turning from where he’s been preparing something at the kitchen counter — mixing plenty of flour and berries and a little bit of sauce together for quite the splendid treat! — to face the door.

He watches as Silver, nearly five years old and dressed in a shirt and some patchwork overalls, stumbles through, a small little pouch clutched in his hands. Tilting his head, Lilia asks, “What have you there, hm?”

Silver doesn’t speak, not until he totters over to the little kitchen area where Lilia crouches in. It’s only then that he raises the pouch, a resolute expression on his face — and how amusing it is, Lilia snickers silently to himself, to see such seriousness on that chubby-cheeked face! “This is… for Toto,” Silver insists, pushing the pouch into Lilia’s hands.

Lilia blinks. “Well now,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Silver’s hair, his other hand holding the mystery pouch. “What a kind boy you are, thinking about me while you’re out in the woods!” And this isn’t abnormal by any means, because Silver always comes home with a gift for him, be it berries — poisonous and otherwise; the poor child doesn’t know any better just yet — or a wilting bouquet of wildflowers, but Lilia relishes in it anyways. Affirmative remarks are helpful for raising a boy as young as Silver — or so he’s been told by the Zigvolts.

Silver giggles as Lilia runs a hand through his hair, mussing up those light strands. “Open it, open it!”

So Lilia does, pulling on the string and loosening the pouch. And as soon as he does, he finds…

A handful of shredded leaves, some wet moss, a couple of berries — the non-poisonous ones, and Lilia sighs with relief at the knowledge that Silver has caught on — and, to top it all off, a pinecone.

Lilia blinks. “This is lovely, Silver,” he says, and he’s not lying, because anything this sweet human boy he’s growing fonder of, day after day, brings to him sparks a bit of warmth in his heart. “But… what is it?”

And imagine Lilia’s surprise when Silver grins at him brightly, and says, “Tea!”

It clicks for him after a moment’s pause, mind caught on that one word before everything falls into place. Oh, Lilia realises, eyeing the pouch, at the way the leaves have been shredded, the small size of the pinecone, everything clumped together. It looks much like the contents of the little canister of tea leaves he has, a gift from Baul’s daughter along with a teasing note about drinking it if he finds it a bit hard to sleep.

Silver has brought him tea leaves. Silver had watched him scoop them out and steep them in water, perched on tiptoes on a stool pushed up against the counter as Lilia prepared breakfast, and thought to himself that he would go out in the woods and get Lilia some tea.

Warmth swells forth within his heart in one big burst, engulfing his chest until it reaches his cheeks.

Whisking the pouch to the counter with his magic, Lilia sweeps up Silver in his arms, spinning around as the boy yelps before he giggles. “How darling of you,” Lilia coos, happiness thrumming through him. “To think of me, and to bring me such a sweet gift!”

“I hope you like it, Toto!”

“Well let’s find out, shall we?”

And though Lilia enjoys the cup of tea he brews very much, relishing in it as Silver watches, the young boy still too sensitive to enjoy a scalding drink that’s too hot for his tongue, he realises, halfway through, that there’s definitely something poisonous in this.

Oh well, he thinks, as he feels his throat beginning to itch relentlessly from the inside-out, his eyes beginning to swell slightly. That’s another thing to teach Silver in the future, I suppose.

Perhaps he’ll avoid eating the leftover tea leaves for once. He’ll have to scrape them into the bin. What a waste, Lilia sighs to himself, though there’s no real disappointment in any of it. How could there be, when he’s basking in the thoughtfulness of Silver’s actions?

[starcatchingsnake]

…thinking about the impact being shown someone else’s life and death, dying yourself, being violently brought back to life, and then inheriting that person’s aura and powers would have on a person.

Specifically Aira Shiratori, how would witnessing someone destroy their whole being for their child, only for it to amount to nothing, change a person, how would the trauma that she experienced continue to live on through Aira?

Would she begin to hate the smell of Seiko’s cigarettes because the heavy cloud of smoke makes her forearms itch, and her eye burn with phantom pains? Would the ash invade her lungs and would a child’s scream pierce her ears?

As she breathes in the scent would she even realize why her body has tensed, as in preparation for a battle? Or why her heart rate has skyrocketed, why she’s now clutching at her chest, eyes darting around frantically for the source of her unease?

Is that part of why she’s distanced herself from the Ayase household? Why she holds Momo at an arms length when she’s grown closer to the rest of their friends? Is the smell of burning which clings to Momo’s clothing why Aira remains reluctant to grow close? Because no matter how hard she tries, that pain and indescribable panic always surfaces whenever Momo’s near?

How long would it take before all of these new sensations and constant anxiety over the simplest of things broke her? How long until she’s begging to be let go of all of this?

[skyloftian-nutcase]

The Great Boopathon

Twilight

It had honestly been an accident, a truly sincere miscalculation. Sky tried to remember that Wolfie was Twilight. But sometimes, when the fluffy animal trotted into town, panting from exertion or cheer, Sky just immediately knelt in front of him with a sweet greeting and a gentle boop on the nose.

He didn't think it was possible for an animal to look so offended, but somehow Twilight managed it.

Sky

This was war.

Twilight huffed as he watched Sky sleep. The teenager was out cold, as per usual, curled into himself and covered in blankets. It was a little more unusual than his usual sleep position, in which literally anything was possible because he could fall asleep literally anywhere, but the boy's head cold had him shivering.

That didn't stop Twilight, though. He still remembered the boop. The completely humiliating and degrading gesture, the cute noise Sky made with it as he bapped Twilight's wolf nose gently with a smile on his face and a flush to his cheeks.

Sky moaned miserably, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Twilight swallowed, grabbing his resolve. He walked forward stealthily before laying on the ground, his canine nose stretching forward until it met Sky's own congested one. Then his tail swished back and forth, dusting leaves off the earth.

Sky scrunched his nose in response, tickled by the wetness of it, before he opened his eyes to see a snout. He yelped, trapped in his blankets, and Twilight pounced on him, bapping him with a paw and pinning him in place as he laughed and tried to fight.

Abel

"There's no way you can do it!"

Link glared defiantly in response. He would do this, and there was no stopping him. He would always rise to a challenge. He couldn't afford to fail, he couldn't afford to lose the faith of those who believed in him.

He was stealthier than he'd ever been in his entire life. He could pass for a Sheikah, he was certain. His heart pounded in his chest, anxiety trying but failing to whittle away at his resolve. His naysayer watched with bated breath.

The greatest challenge, of course, were the floorboards. There were some that creaked. It would be absolutely catastrophic if his foe heard his approach. Carefully, Link tried to remember which boards creaked the most, settling his bare feet with such care to distribute his weight properly.

When he finally reached the bed, he nearly failed in his mission. His enemy stirred, almost awakening, but he managed to avoid disaster. Finally, his objective in sight, the Hero of Hyrule leapt, landing on his prey with a mighty hyah.

Abel nearly jumped out of his skin as he was startled awake before getting slammed in the face with a pillow.

"I told you I could do it!" Link yelled at the stairway where his sister, Lyra, was hiding.

Daruk

The leader of the Gorons had many precious memories to make him smile when he was more contemplative in the evenings. Perhaps his favorite, though, was when the Champions met his child, who had been so delighted to meet them that he'd rolled over Revali's toes and crashed into Link's knees, knocking the Hylian over. It had been a fun day in general, but the little boop his boy had given him when he picked him up had been the most delightful part.

It was usually what Daruk would do for the child before bedtime; to have such a simple gesture reciprocated brought him more joy than he could ever articulate.

Shadow Link

He had nearly succeeded in getting away from the damn gloom hands, but his stamina had run out. When they'd caught up to him, he could practically sense the displeasure radiating off them, and his insides froze at the sight of them.

Then one of the hands leaned over and booped him on the nose, making him yelp, before the others grabbed him and teleported him through the gloom back to Ganondorf's location.

"Was that really necessary?" Link grumbled, holding his nose as if it had been burned.

"Yes," the demon king replied without hesitation as he snatched him by his tunic and plopped him beside him. "Now rest."

Mystery Link

Link wasn't sure how it happened, but being completely smothered by his dog was not how he wanted to start his mornings. Nevertheless, it was how Friend decided to be his new morning alarm, slapping his face with a paw as a warning before laying her whole head over him and asphyxiating him.

By the fifth morning, he started wrestling her in response, and she always got so excited about it that she would spend the next few minutes zooming all over the forest, tail tucked and legs flailing in all directions.

Wind

Twilight was acting weird.

Wind was a little worried. After all, he'd only just recovered from his injury recently. Although the sailor had the utmost faith in the elder Hero's abilities, he couldn't help but watch him and see what was up. This was a matter of great importance, and only Wind could truly understand as the others seemed completely oblivious.

He made several observations while the others were pointlessly distracted. Twilight's eyes were wary, looking everywhere as if he were expecting an attack. Wind knew for certain that the rancher hadn't been patrolling because Time and Wild wouldn't allow for it quite yet. But no one else was on edge. It was possible Twilight just felt inadequate or useless, as he was typically the one who tried to shoulder a great deal of responsibility.

Wind moved closer to his dear friend, curious. He was going to ask him outright if he kept this behavior up, but--

Twilight gasped, grabbing Wind around the ribs and holding him like a shield in front of his body, and Wind yelped as Sky poked his nose.

"Hey!" Sky snapped. "No cheating!"

"There are no rules in this war!" Twilight huffed back. Then he gave Wind a squeeze against his torso as a compensatory hug. "Sorry about that, little pirate."

"Ha! Sorry? Let me go, I'll avenge you!" Wind happily offered, already wiggling out of his grip as Sky fled.

Time

"This is getting out of hand," Time said severely, hands on his hips. "And is unbefitting of a Hero."

Twilight looked extremely schooled. If he were in his wolf form, he probably would have his tail between his legs, ears peeled back. Time did not feel guilty in the slightest about it. The camp was in utter disarray, supplies strewn everywhere as Twi's wolf form had utterly destroyed the place and barreled over most of the heroes while he'd tried to escape Sky's little winged mechanical booping machine and Wind's exuberant screams.

Unlike Twilight, Sky looked nearly indifferent, but somehow he managed to convert his expression to apologetic when Time glared at him. Wind, however, was unrepentant.

And giggling.

Time was going to lecture him further when the reason for Wind's laughter dropped out of the nearest tree, landing on Time's shoulders and booping him on the nose.

Sky and Wind cheered as Wild scrambled off Time and fled into the forest, giggling all the way.

[jessicas-pi]

For the au ask game! Sabezra in a *flips through my au ideas list* private detectives au

so. yeah. this. this is egregiously late. But it's HERE! At long last!

....to be entirely honest I don't even know what this is. it's sabezra. they're private detectives. let's just leave it at that.

---

"Ezra, what are you doing?"

Her partner in preventing crime (and occasional partner in actual crime---they may or may not have broken into a house once; no one could prove anything) had stopped in the middle of the grim alleyway, staring at nothing in particular.

"Sabine..." he said slowly. "I think this is where I met you."

Sabine did a double-take, looking around with keen eyes. The place didn't seem familiar, but she'd been so distracted on that day, she probably wouldn't know it if she was there.

"Is it?" she asked, strolling back to him, hiking up her long skirt and stepping cautiously around the filth on the ground. "You think so?"

"Mm-hm." A nostalgic smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "You know, I've still got the handkerchief you gave me."

Sabine grinned at him. "Of course you do. You were in the throes of violent yearning. You couldn't bear to part with it."

"And my nose was still bleeding."

"That too."

"And if you recall, I did try to give it back to you---later." His smile grew proud. "Tracked you down with just your monogram and a glimpse at your face. First bit of detecting I ever did."

Sabine slipped her arm through his, hopping lightly over something that could have been a filthy rag or maybe the carcass of a large rat, as they continued on their trek towards home. The streets cleared up when they got to the main roads, but there was still the inevitable splash of mud.

Mud was everywhere in London.

"I thought you might have been a princess when I saw you on the stairs then," he blurted out, and she tilted her head up to look at him from beneath the brim of her large flowered hat. He gave her a sweetly bashful smile and a shrug. "With those big white puffs in your hair---"

"Ostrich feathers," she filled in automatically, turning her attention back to the pavement and nodding politely to a gentleman and lady who passed by them.

"---and that white dress, too." Ezra laughed to himself. "Golly, you're lucky you kept it. Your old lady wasn't gonna give you a nickel for another one."

Sabine squeezed his arm affectionately. "I could have worn any dress."

"Well, no one would have thought it was a proper wedding if we hadn't got you in white."

"No one thought it was a proper wedding when we did," she retorted. "They thought I was degrading myself."

"Then the joke is on them, because I hit the big time pretty well, didn't I?"

Sabine arched an eyebrow. "You wouldn't have amounted to anything if I hadn't got us into the illustrated papers."

Ezra paused on the pavement as they reached the steps of their lodgings, looking thoughtful.

"You're right. I wouldn't have."

"Then it seems you're lucky you've got me."

He looked right into her eyes and grinned boyishly, slipping into his most intolerably trans-Atlantic accent. "We do make a pretty bang-up team, don't we?"

"A jolly good one," she nodded in prim agreement, adopting an obnoxiously posh tone, and they both giggled, smiling at each other for a moment more before a distant clock chimed the quarter of the hour, reminding them that they were on a schedule.

"Well, I suppose we had best go on in. Our client will be here any minute now."

"I guess so."

And with that, the unstoppable team of Bridger and Bridger ascended the steps of their home at 221b Spectre Street, arm-in-arm.