#these eight students are a fucking doozy

[cindol]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 ᧔♡᧓ !

gender neutral reader

cw— geto calls reader dear, drinking multiple alcoholic drinks, reader gets called hun and dear, crack and fluff(?),

a/n: UHHH DONT GIVE YOURSELF ALCOHOL POISONING! This is pure fictional crack and fluff 🫶🏾!!

SATORU GOJO

a lightweight drinker with surprisingly low alcohol tolerance so he was bound to lose even if he swears he can last long. It's surprising he decided to even do this challenge with someone like you with a higher alcohol tolerance and a professional alcohol taste tester but he loves to challenge himself. On his first drink he’s already slurring his speech tapping his big glass and looking at you from across the table.“did you like.. put one of them pills that make ya really drowsy and happy? Because this is just making me really happppy!”

On the second and third drinks he’s more whiney with his body slouched.“you can quit anytime you want satoru, this is just a game for money after all.” he just scoffs snorting.“I’m the strongestttt! Can handle anything ya give, shoot me three more while we’re at this drinkin’ game!”

His fourth drink has him getting snappy and thinking about his morning today.“Pfft… stupid fuckin’ yaga lecturing me on my students? I’m a good teach..”

His fifth drink makes him wanna fight and it doesn’t help that he hears commotion out the front door.“fuck this.. strongest has duties to attend to.” he finishes on his fifth drink going outside to pick a fight.

SUGURU GETOU

a man with moderate alcohol intolerance, isn’t a lightweight like gojo but definitely goes overboard. He’s a wanted criminal cult leader who shouldn’t even be playing this drinking game with you but you love some fun characters right?

On his first three drinks he can handle it. His face slightly flustered but with still that friendly closed smile while staring at you.“If this is all you throw at me you’re truly doubting me dear really, my daughters have seen me worse than this.”

giving him more of a challenge like he said he was given 4 more drinks getting him more flustered and his hands brushing through his hair nervously with a slight crooked smile.“my… I see you truly threw me a challenge here haven't you? It’s fun to see you upped the pace with this burning taste.” There was a slight slur and quiver in his voice.

On his last drink he started to mutter things that just don’t make sense. Barely paying attention to the challenge at hand and mumbling words like monkeys and cursed energy till he headed out, he lasted eight drinks.

KENTO NANAMI

a man with a high tolerance for alcohol being a workaholic always being on a time crunch, he came here thinking it would be a nice game for a workaholic like himself.

His first four drinks were like a piece cake for him, no complaints or whines, just a bashful look every time he drinked. It was a change from your two contestants making you raise a brow.“how’s about i up the pace?”

His next four drinks were a doozy, his face more flustered and blonde hair a mess with his eyes nearly closing.“ if you're feeling tired you can easily drop out of this nanami, no pressure.” He did a small frown.“rest assured… I can handle this just like the other two, I’m not some ah, child..”

He was proven wrong when he fell asleep after his last two.

SHOKO IERI

Her alcohol tolerance is high for someone’s whose job it is to preach health and taking care of your body. She’s truly only here for the free unlimited drinks not caring for the money it brings.“Just hit me with ‘em, need it after the day I’ve had y’know?” And you of course abliged.

Her first three drinks had her in a better mood than she entered with her just vibing in the area.“and you and this uh whole crew here say this is supposed to test alcohol tolerance? Gotta try better than this Cmon! I’m a tough girl.”

Hitting her with five stronger drinks just got her giggling and more talkative to you.“I’m not ol’ satoru out there who needs his precious pink Whitney cute drinks, hit me harder hun.”

Her drinking time was unfortunately interrupted by satoru calling for her outside in an emergency. She would’ve lasted for 10 drinks

TOJI FUSHIGURO

almost like a demon for alcohol so his tolerance is higher than shoko’s, being a poor man always in need of money came in for him here kinda.

His first five drinks were easy ones, he was acting like himself just flustered and manspreading like a fool just happy to be drinking something free.“this like some kinda rich vodka or sake? Tastes like it.”

The next six drinks had him being a blabbermouth.“this is so so cheap tasting, I can see how everyone else is getting by easily, your alcohol is fucking terrible I’ve had better from half a bottle of beer..”

He finished on his last three, eventually snoring away.

[travelling-on-the-octopath]

All I'm saying. Is that Sylvain and Ashe bonding over the fact that they got their shittiest family drama aired out for the WHOLE SCHOOL TO SEE is peak fucking content. And for this reason I will be picking it apart extensively in my fic.

At first it's like "Oh, damn, Ashe had to merc his dad :/" then it's "Oh, word?? Sylvain had to thrash his morphed brother??” And people start a bet on which Lion is next up for the drama, yet none of them will ever know that Mercedes' brother was the dude in the mask that yeeted when Flayn got nabbed, or that stoic ginger with a cardboard box for a jaw is Annette's DAD, and oh yeah Dimitri is having a meltdown because his stepsister is somehow connected to the death of this family.

Like imagine being a non-Lions student...watching this shitshow of a house unfold

[derekmsheen]

The Death Of Michael Sheen PT.1

"Hi Derek, it's your Uncle Bob. I'm at the hospital and I wanted to let you know that your father finally passed away about twenty minutes ago. I'm so sorry. We're all here now, do you think you can meet us in the next hour?"

I closed my voicemail and hit "redial". The phone only made it past half of the first ring before he answered.

I told him I was just leaving a club and would rush over immediately. My stomach began to ache and my throat went dry as I thought about having to share this moment with my family. How was I supposed to react? I was suddenly overcome with a wave of confusion and mixed emotion as I tried quickly to reconcile the absolute finality of it all. This was the end.

I remember listening to "Crazy", by Gnarls Barkley, on repeat all the way to the hospital as the numbness washed over me.

I pulled up to the ticket machine at the entrance of the underground parking garage and immediately started to panic at the thought of having to take two separate elevators up to ICU. I took a deep breath, took my ticket and drove down two ramps until I found an empty spot. I walked to the first elevator, made sure I had my phone to keep me focused on something other than the thought of the doors never opening again and trapping me between floors.

The main floor lift was in much better shape than the one that went from the garage to the lobby: the doors were bigger and opened from both directions. There was room to move around and I even spotted a visible ceiling hatch, in case my nightmares came true. "Always know your exits" is a constantly playing mantra in my head, in any situation where I have little control over the space.

As the elevator doors opened to reveal the cream walls of the ICU floor, I could already see the cluster of family huddled near the end of the longish hallways. I took a breath and stepped out of the kill-box.

My Uncle saw me first and broke from the group, which included my Grandmother, my older sister, younger sister, my aunt and my cousin Lisa (who would pass away, unexpectedly two years later. I loved her so much. Very funny).

His face was pale and exhausted. He'd been at the hospital most of his free time, while my father lay in a coma.

I feel like I should explain the events leading up to my father’s fall down the rabbit hole: it's a real doozy.

The week of our wedding (August 12th, 2005) my dad called and wanted to get together beforehand. He said he had our wedding gifts and wanted to catch up: we hadn't really talked or seen much of each other since, what we both came to term as, "the thing that happened".

THE THING THAT HAPPENED:

Sometime around 1998 I was living in a small two bedroom house, close to the airport. I was working at a tiny percussion shop and teaching music in my spare time. It was about this time that my sister called to tell me that she had been diagnosed with the AIDS virus.

She cried into the phone as she told me that dad and grandpa had hung up on her after calling it a "fag disease".

I angrily called my father and I'll never forget the fight we had. I screamed at my grandfather and dad over the phone: how could they be so cruel? How could they leave her out in the cold at a time like this?

“She was your CHILD!”

I broke the handset of my phone, slamming it against a wall and the last contact I had with any of them, for a while anyway, was when my father pulled into my driveway with a pickup truck full of refrigerator sized cardboard boxes.

"You wanna be her friend? Here, you can take care of all of the shit she left behind!" as he unloaded the contents in my driveway and drove away, out of my life again. We wouldn't speak again for almost two years.

As I dragged the giant boxes into the back of my house, I realized it was mostly clothes. So many clothes.

She was a working model and had a lot of designer labels and runway pieces. I spent days trying to organize it. My sister would call me from Florida, twice a week, and tell me how her treatments were progressing. I'd started sending her money to help pay for some experimental treatments and eventually took on some extra students to help out with rent and food. I was wiring her around $300 or more a week and I was happy to get the calls where she had good news on her T-Cell count. Sometimes I got the opposite calls, where her energy was so low she could barely muster words.

Those were the nights I would weep into my hands after hanging up the phone.

After a few months, her roommate would start calling me with updates as my sister was too weak to talk. I wanted to fly out and spend some time with her, but she insisted I stay in Seattle because she didn't want me to see her at her most vulnerable. I understood and continued helping take care of the bills. She eventually wanted me to send her some of her clothes and I was able to send a few small boxes, but with Summer coming, my student load was getting cut in half and I was on a much tighter budget. A 30lb box of clothes to Florida was roughly $140 and I easily had eight monolithic boxes filled with heavy cotton, boiled wool, silk and rayon. Between the money for treatment and shipping I was starting to feel the squeeze, so I took on another job to help ease the burden.

Then I got the call.

She had passed away from complications due to the AIDS virus.

Her roommate spent an hour on the phone with me, while I cried and shared some stories. She let me know they had already planned for a small service but still could use some money for burial costs and arrangements.

I made a couple calls to my grandparents and other family to let them know what happened and to ask if they could help with the funeral costs. It was a resounding no. By this time I wasn't surprised.

The next day I cleaned out my savings and sent her a check for $2500.

I received a call the day of services, from my sister's roommate, that it was a small but lovely wake and several of her friends made it by and there were beautiful things said about her and we both cried. She thanked me for all of my help and wondered if I could send the rest of her belongings to Florida? She would need help with the rent, now that my sister was gone and she could sell a lot of the designer stuff to help cover costs. I wasn't sure how to tell her that I literally had no money left? I couldn't buy a stamp or an envelope to stick it on.

I could hear the disappointment in her voice as I calmly tried to explain just how strapped I was, but she eventually let me go and said she'd check back in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, I got a call from my cousin Lisa who wondered if she and my older sister, Tammy, could come over and look through some of the clothes. Since my sister had officially passed between worlds, it made sense to start getting rid of the five refrigerator boxes full of clothes. I told them to ABSOLUTELY come over, take whatever fit and I began the process of separating the higher end designer labels into a pile to send to Florida.

When they came over it was a relief: the last few days had been a real downer and I was so angry that no one else in my family seemed to even give a shit.

When Lisa and Tammy arrived, the dark clouds instantly lifted and laughter filled my little house for the first time in weeks. We shared stories as they went through the boxes, holding things up to see if they fit or just making fun of some of the crazy stuff she had in her collection. They eventually helped clear a quarter of the room and the cigarette I enjoyed, when they left, was an almost religious experience.

The shock had the same effect as deep heating rub: at first it covered my whole body in an icy chill that felt almost pleasant before a stinging, inescapable hotness blistered every nerve in searing pain. I set the phone back into the cradle, calmly walked into my bedroom and punched through two sheets of drywall.

Directly preceding my drywall attack , my grandmother had called out of the blue (since the embargo, we hadn't talked in months) to let me know, calmly and with a touch of mean-spirited glee, that they were just so glad that my sister was back from Florida, safe and sound. In fact, they were so happy she was alive that they were going to help her get on her feet and co-sign a home loan for her and wasn't that just marvelous that she wasn't dead and isn't it funny that you thought she was dead and we all had a feeling she was faking it?

I managed to barely squeak out a weak protest "...but I helped pay for her funeral?" before I heard my grandfather laughing about it in the background. Then she told me that my sister was very angry at me for giving her clothes away and she thought I should reimburse her for whatever was missing.

They were almost proud of how wounded I was.

What.

The.

Fuck.

...was wrong with these people?

Needless to say, we didn't speak much after that. Until my dad reached out to me, a few days before my wedding, my contact with all of them had been limited to uncomfortable holiday visits or brief birthday calls, but my trust in them had been destroyed.

He walked up to the front door of my work with great effort and once inside he fought to catch his breath leaning on his cane. It was almost surreal to see him like this: his once hulking and powerful body had been reduced to a weakened, skeletal frame and his face was a sallow mask that appeared to be sliding from his skull. His hands were covered in inky bruises, from multiple IV lines and there was a dark purple sore under his right eye.

I hadn't realized just how much time had passed since we'd seen each other, or just how sick he really was.

"Hi son".

His voice was a gravelly, hoarse cough.

"Hey Michael" I returned. I'd started calling him by his name around this time. I knew it hurt him, but seeing him in this state, it didn't bring me that same private joy. His face registered a slight wince and he asked if I was ready to get lunch. I told my boss I'd be back in a couple of hours and I walked him out to the parking lot.

"Hey, before we go, I have something for you and Alanya. It's in the trunk. Can you help me get it out?"

"Yeah...dad" I replied with some confusion.

He pushed a button on the key fob and the Cadillac’s trunk popped open. He painfully lurched towards the car and I could see two paper bags in the otherwise empty trunk.

"I thought I'd bring your wedding presents now, because...well, I don't think I'm going to make it on Saturday?"

"Dad, if this is about Mom, she's fine. Don't let that stop you from coming" I countered. I'd had a feeling he was going to back out, if for no other reason than having to face my mother, who was still full of bitter, outright rage towards him. That thirty four year old grudge hadn't weakened one single bit, if anything, it had become more firmament, like when lava cools and hardens into rock.

He swallowed hard and spoke slowly.

"No, son, that's not it. Look, I'm going in for this surgery tomorrow and I really don't think I'm going to be out by the weekend. My doctor said I'd be ready, but I have a real bad feeling about this and I wanted to make sure I got you guys your presents in case I'm right."

Suddenly and for the first time, I saw something in my father's face that I'd never seen before: regret.

He attempted a weak smile and said “it’s towels and a coffee maker. I know it’s not exciting, but I thought it was stuff you could use.”

(Footnote: as of this writing I still have one of the towels left. I cried the day we threw the other towels away and insisted on holding onto one, just for the memory of it. The coffee maker didn’t make it.)

“Thanks dad, it’s actually exactly what we needed. Grandma must have told you what was on the registry.”

“She did. I just couldn’t afford some of the other stuff, but I wanted to make sure I got you guys something” he countered.

I took the two bags and moved them to the trunk of my car, while he backed the Caddy out and then I jumped into the front seat.

He could barely turn his head, “You wanna go to the burger place up the street?”, he asked.

“Yeah, dad. That sounds great.”

We didn’t speak much, but it was a pleasant lunch.

It was the last time I would ever see him walk again.

The day before my wedding my Uncle called to tell me my dad had complications after his surgery, which I’d just discovered was a routine angioplasty. The complications in question didn’t occur during the surgery, but after when he was being wheeled to ICU. Apparently the nurse decided to take a shortcut through an area under construction. As my father groggily protested, demanding he be secured in the chair, she accidentally hit an obstacle and sent him

Headfirst down two very long flights of stairs. He suffered spinal injuries and required microsurgery to repair the intense fracture of his skull. The prognosis at the time was not good: paralysis from the neck down, speech and vision problems, memory loss. The works.

This would only be the beginning of a nearly unbelievable series of events.

Mere days after my wife and I returned from our honeymoon, I received a call from my Uncle (by this point he would be the only one to call me anymore if there was an emergency. Of which there would be several more) informing me that there had been another accident that had sent my dad back into emergency surgery. Apparently one of the orderlies neglected to secure the side rails and he rolled directly out of bed and his head hit the corner of a side table, before landing on his back. His neck snapped when he hit the table, with the added bonus of re-fracturing his skull, not to mention undoing the delicate spinal fusion surgery when he hit the floor.

In other words: he was officially a fucking mess.

Alanya and I immediately raced down to the hospital, where the rest of the family was. She could visibly see just how agitated I suddenly became when the prospect of having to share space with them was presented. She kept reminding me to focus on my uncle and my dad.

“Remember, it’s not about them. It’s about him” she would keep chanting, over and over like a mantra. Somehow the universe heard her and decided it would be super cool if we all showed up at the exact same time so we could cram into the same series of elevators together.

She secretly grabbed my hand and let me squeeze most of the blood out of her’s. My neck and back were soaked with perspiration by the time the final elevator door opened and I nearly, cartoonishly lunged past my family in order to kiss the floor.

Have I mentioned that I don’t do well in hospitals? Hospitals and elevators.

The entire clan made their way, loudly, down the otherwise serene hallways. Past the rooms of the sleeping, the dying, the infirm, and the attending physician stopped to give us a heads up. Michael had massive spinal and neck injuries and his speech was going to be slow, but he was already making a faster recovery than any of them expected. There were sure to be long term effects as a result of this last round of injuries.

One of those was that he would most certainly be a quadriplegic.

When we made our way to his room I thought I was prepared, but nothing could be further from the truth. His head was covered with stitches and rested inside a metal halo, to keep his spine straight and his head from moving. He looked even thinner than the last time I’d seen him, especially his arms and legs. Christ, it hadn’t even been that long since I’d seen him and he looked like a completely different person and to see him so helpless was hard for me reconcile. He had survived so many times and with an unmitigated streak of luck usually only reserved for fictional movie characters, whose salvation is only written as a plot device to make the hero seem invulnerable. Yet, here he was, broken and handicapped by a flight of stairs and a lapse of judgement.

I suddenly realized the depth of what true comedy really meant:

Life is a series of random circumstances delegated by nothing and with no design, and although there seems to be a pattern, it’s really just our mind’s way of protecting us from the fabric of pure chaos.

Or something like that.

He tried to smile and shared a few platitudes about how the Lord has a plan for him and no matter what the outcome was, he’d just trust in him no matter what his will was. Then, when everyone left the room, he asked me to take him outside and sneak him a cigarette. I had an orderly help him into a wheelchair and Alanya and I wheeled him down the hall, into an elevator and out to the smoking terrace. I had to hold the cigarette in his mouth for him and it seemed so surreal to again help my father break the rules, simply because he asked me and I still desperately seeked that approval from him. When I wheeled him back, his nurse could smell the smoke on him. She took me into the hall to dress me down: his lung capacity was weak, his immune system was lowered and he’d just had minor heart surgery. I tried to appear sincere and apologetic, but underneath, I felt like it was one of the last cigarettes we would smoke together.

I quit a month later, a week before they found him in a coma.

At some point during his convalescence, the hospital administrators (I’m assuming this) felt he was becoming a liability and decided a sound course of action was to move him to a full time nursing facility. His condition had been slowly deteriorating during his stay in ICU and so it was decided, without contacting the family, to move him to a state run home.

This predates Yelp, however. Had they had that handy application to research the quality of the place they’d decided to ship him to, they may have reconsidered. Especially since the Attorney General was already investigating the staff for patient abuse and insurance fraud.

Once they started questioning the why and where of what they had done with my father, the hospital decided to obfuscate Instead of volunteer, which caused a weeks long delay in tracking him down.

Here’s where it all goes off the rails...

Eventually, my grandmother finally succeeded in finding his location and with a sheriff’s deputy present, they found his room bolted shut with a padlock from the outside. Once removed, they opened the door and the smell of rot immediately washed through the hallway in waves of sickness and nausea, followed by flies. Lots of flies.

The curtains were drawn and daylight struggled to punch through the holes in the ratted fabric, as they made their way to the hospital bed where Michael lay on his back on a hospital sheet, now yellowed with sweat and blackened with dried human waste. He was unresponsive and when the ambulance arrived, the paramedics noted that his diaper appeared to have been last changed a couple of weeks prior. The decay was so bad that parts of the sheet and diaper had fused to his skin and the flies had been feeding and laying eggs on and in him. The final prognosis, once he was returned to ICU, was that the necrosis caused by the lack of care had created a staph infection that was now in his bone marrow.

It was very unlikely that he would recover, but they kept him on life support for a few weeks in the hopes that his condition might improve.

I only visited him once during this period. I read a copy of Time magazine to him, as suggested by his attending nurse. She told me that coma patients were sometimes very aware of their surroundings and that any positive stimulus might help them recover.

About ten minutes into an article about Guantanamo, my dad opened his eyes and looked at me. He swallowed and licked his lips, trying to bring moisture back to his mouth in an attempt to communicate. I just sat, stunned, as he struggled to speak.