#underutilized in fics

[holy-mother-of-whumpers]

Achilles being a three-bachelor kinda guy is not the take I was looking for but it's the take I'll leave with!

Chiron -> Classical Heroism.

Peleus -> Politic Economics and Managment.

Skyros -> Gender studies.

Excuse you, it's Doctor Achilles.

Thinking about how Achilles received three different educations, if we consider the version of Achilles hidden in Skyros. He had a great education with Chiron, he had an high-status education as a prince in Phithia, and he had an education as a girl in Skyros. And in Chiron's case, this is even emphasized as a differentiator, as is typical of heroes who trained with Chiron (for example, in Iphigenia at Aulis).

He knows how to fight (obviously), heal (Homer says that Patroclus learned to heal with Achilles), play the lyre (with Chiron, a skill already present in The Iliad), weave (in Skyros, it's in Imagines) and has even been written as admiral (Pseudo-Apollodorus Library). But somehow I still see people reducing him to a brainless brute. Like okay, if you think so…but that's certainly not what the sources say! This guy, if anything, was overly educated lol

[crookedghosts]

nobody wants to hear me out on this but this is how both the Leo return in ToA AND the Percabeth reunion in MoA should have gone... 🫣🫣

[squatch-and-stretch]

Do You Remember?

Fiddleford McGucket/Ford Pines | 2,916 words | Memory Lapse, Hurt/Comfort

An old man wakes up in an unknown room with a handsome stranger and no memory of who he is.

Fic under the cut.

He wakes up tucked into a comfortable bed with a pounding headache and a pervasive sense that something is wrong. When he opens his eyes and sees the opulent room around him, that feeling only intensifies. He can’t quite recall where he’s supposed to be, but it’s certainly nowhere quite so fancy-shmancy. He’s not quite sure who he is, but he’s not the fancy-shmancy sort.

He should probably know who he is, right? That seems sensible. He should figure that out.

He sits up, shrugging off a thick duvet. His head swims, vision spotting for a moment before it clears. The air is a little cold, but it’s tolerable. He’s wearing a large sweatshirt, and as he looks down at his hands, he realizes he’s old. His fingers, blurry even at this distance, are nearly skeletal, swollen around the joints, skin pale and paper-thin, spotted with a hundred small scars and age spots. He pushes the sleeve up, admiring the body he seems to occupy. There’s a thick scar along one arm, and as he runs his fingers over it, he feels something strange beneath the skin. He checks it against his other arm, and yes, there’s something wrong with that one that isn’t wrong with the other.

Or maybe it’s the other way around…? No, he’s fairly certain the unscarred arm is the normal one.

He runs a hand down his face curiously. There’s only a few stubborn wisps of hair still on his head, but he’s got a pretty impressive beard underneath one heck of a big nose.

He rolls his sleeves back down. The room is a little cold. The window across the room is cracked just slightly, letting in chilly morning air. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but when it does, it’ll shine right through that window. He usually wakes up before it does.

So he’s an early riser, and his room is on the east side of whatever building he’s in. He’s old and he broke his arm at one point. He’s also pretty darn sure he’s a he, now that he thinks about it, and that’s something.

“Fiddleford?” a voice says gently, accompanied by a light knock on the doorframe.

He— Fiddleford, is he Fiddleford? What a ridiculous name— freezes like a deer in headlights. Without waiting for a response, the person at the door opens it.

He’s tall, somewhere around 60, and very handsome. Fiddleford— yes, that’s him, he’s Fiddleford— does not recognize this man, but a strange flurry of emotion is stirred at the sight of him.

Anger, betrayal, terror, concern, affection, all at once, suffocating in their strength. It’s all so confusing, but he focuses on the fear. It’s not the most powerful, but it is the most understandable reaction to having a stranger in his (his? is it Fiddleford’s?) bedroom. He does not know this man and he does not know why he’s evoking such a powerful emotional response from him and he does not know where he is and why this man is here.

“Who’re you?” Fiddleford demands shakily, and there’s a southern twang to his voice that this stranger does not possess. He draws the blankets back up to his chest like a shield, backing himself up against the headboard. “Where am I?”

The man, who had moved to enter the room, freezes. The gentle expression on his face gives way to confusion, then alarm, then concern.

“Fiddleford, it’s me, Stanford,” he says, stepping closer. Fiddleford flinches, pressing himself tighter against the headboard. The name sends a shiver down his spine.

“I… I don’t reckon I know you,” Fiddleford says, nearly a whine. Does his voice really sound like that? It’s terrible.

“No, I don’t suppose you would, at the moment,” ‘Stanford’ says, soft and heartbroken, “but please, believe me when I say that I mean you no harm.”

“I… I dunno that I do,” Fiddleford mumbles, watching him like a hawk.

Standing there looking like a wet dog, this man does not cut a particularly intimidating figure. There’s a bulk to his shoulders and chest that implies strength, but he’s hunched over, hands fluttering awkwardly. They’re big hands, wide, with one more finger than Fiddleford’s. His own hands tingle, a phantom sensation of warm, thick fingers between his own. He clenches his hand into a fist to squash the feeling.

“If you really don’t wanna hurt me none, how ‘bout you stay over there and answer my questions?” Fiddleford says sharply. As sharply as he can with his voice shaking, anyway.

“Of course,” Stanford agrees, keeping his hands in view as he steps out of the doorway.

His eyes flick towards the open door, looking away from Fiddleford for the first time since he’s entered. He looks like he wants to close the door, but he doesn’t.

The door opens out into a long hallway, and even if he can’t see the entrance from where he’s sitting, he knows it’s that way.

He glances at Stanford. Stanford stares back, brows furrowed, eyes wide.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Stanford asks, gesturing with one hand toward a cushioned wooden rocking chair in one corner, the wall behind it lined with bookshelves. A well-loved quilt is thrown over the back of it, and a banjo leans against it.

Part of Fiddleford prickles possessively. He doesn’t recognize anything in this room, not really, but they’re his. He doesn’t have much, what he does have he needs to protect.

But that doesn’t make much sense, does it? Isn’t this his fancy house?

No, it can’t be. Whoever he is, he doesn’t belong in a place like this. This must be Stanford’s house. He doesn’t know why or when or how, but Stanford must have dragged him here himself.

What does he want from him? He’s a frail and confused old man. If he has— had— any skills, he doesn’t remember them now.

He was smart once, wasn’t he? Was he? He certainly isn’t now, not when he’s taking advice from the small, scared animal burrowed in his chest.

It’s telling him to run.

The man, Stanford, he said something, didn’t he?

“Huh?” Fiddleford breathes.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Stanford repeats, patiently.

“… go ahead,” Fiddleford allows. “Careful with that there banjo.”

Don’t provoke him! the scared animal squeals, but Stanford just smiles at him. The concern— fake, he’s tricking you!— remains in his eyes, but there’s a soft, kind curl to his lips. He looks fond.

“Of course,” Stanford agrees, gently repositioning the banjo so it’s leaning against the wall instead of the chair. “Now what did you want to ask me?”

Fiddleford watches him. He’s leaning forward, templing his hands, and his eyes do not leave Fiddleford.

“Well, uh…” Fiddleford glances around. “First things first, just what is that?”

Fiddleford points away from the door. Stanford, that gullible son of a gun, falls for it, following his finger to frown at the bookcase.

Go, go, go, hurry, he’ll hurt you if he catches you, the scared animal says, and Fiddleford agrees.

He scrambles out of bed, and his balance tilts, vision going dark for a moment. He comes back to himself on his hands and knees, and he doesn’t know how long he was out but he needs to get out. Stanford isn’t blocking the way to the door yet, so Fiddleford scampers on four legs towards the opening.

“Fiddleford!” Stanford gasps, and he steps in front of him, hands extended.

He can’t stop himself before he’s crashing into Stanford’s legs, and a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t think, just reacts, and he twists his head to bite at Stanford’s wrist. His teeth— of which he has very few, he’s realizing— catch on the sleeve of his sweater. Stanford doesn’t back off though, he just secures him with his other hand.

“No!” Fiddleford yelps. “No, no, lemme go!”

“Fiddleford, please,” Stanford nearly begs, but his firm grip doesn’t falter, “I don’t want to do this but we’re on the second floor, you’ll hurt yourself on the stairs!”

“No! No no no, stop!” Fiddleford sobs. He hears the words, but he doesn’t register them. “Lemme go, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Something familiar scratches at the back of his head. Yellow eyes, skin so pale it was nearly transparent, large clawed hands, men in uniform and scowling townsfolk.

A crowded room that always smelled like coffee and tobacco and damp, a couch beneath a stained glass window, caves and campfires and constellations.

His head throbs painfully, and the thoughts leave his head as quickly as they came. Stanford’s grip shifts, tightens, and Fiddleford struggles until he feels his wide palm on the back of his head, pulling his head into the crook of his neck.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m sorry,” Stanford says. His neck is right there. Even through his sweater, he could hurt him. The scared animal demands that he do so, but he knows this man. He doesn’t know why, but he does, and his tired old body aches.

“Stanford…” he whines, and the name tastes familiar in his mouth. He buries his nose in his shoulder as he goes limp against the larger man. He smells like sweat and coffee. “What… what’s goin’ on?”

He sighs. Fiddleford can feel it against the top of his head.

“You’re having a memory lapse. It’s a side effect of a device you invented,” he explains, stroking the thin hairs clinging stubbornly to the back of his head. “I have yet to help you through one, but I have plenty of experience with my brother’s. I… I could get him, if you’d prefer.”

“Brother…” Fiddleford echoes. He knows the meaning of the word, understands its importance to this man in particular, but he doesn’t know why.

“Stanley, my twin brother. He was… affected by the same device, so he has direct personal experiences with its consequences,” Stanford elaborates, voice strained. “Besides, your relationship with him is less… complicated than our own. It may be best—“

“No!” Fiddleford fists his hands into the back of Stanford’s sweater. “Please, I don’t…”

I don’t want you to leave, I don’t want to see anyone else, I don’t want to bother anyone, I don’t… Fiddleford doesn’t know what he means, but Stanford hushes him with a gentle noise and lets it go.

“Let’s get you off the floor, m— Fiddleford,” Stanford says.

What had he been about to say? Fiddleford has bigger concerns, but the curiosity claws at him.

“Mm-hm,” Fiddleford agrees, and for some reason, instead of moving away to stand up, his body curls closer to Stanford’s.

Stanford takes this in stride, carefully repositioning Fiddleford in his arms. With an ease that’s a bit irritating given his apparent age, he stands up with Fiddleford held against him. His stomach swoops with nausea, and he squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face further into Stanford’s neck as he lets out a soft whine.

Stanford replies with a soothing, wordless noise from deep in his throat. Carefully, he sits down on the bed and releases Fiddleford, keeping himself between him and the door. Fiddleford wiggles out of his lap, but stays close beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He still doesn’t know this man, doesn’t know if he can trust him, but his body seems to think he should. Or maybe he’s just that lonely, so lonely that he’ll seek comfort in some home invader or kidnapper that possibly gave him brain damage.

“So,” Stanford began, clearing his throat, “what is the last thing you remember?”

Fiddleford tried to think back, but everything beyond this morning was a blur. Thinking about any of it too hard sent a painful pulse through his already aching brain.

“Um… well, I reckon I remember wakin’ up this mornin’.”

“You… you don’t remember anything?” Stanford says, voice tight. Fiddleford looks down at his lap, twisting his hands together anxiously as he nods.

“Okay… okay. I don’t— this has never happened with Stanley, but that’s fine! That’s… that’s fine.”

“Your name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and you were born the second of five siblings on a hog farm in Eastern Tennessee. You have an older sister, two younger sisters, and a younger brother, as well as countless cousins, I swear you changed the number every time we talked.”

“I didn’t change the number just for the heck of it, my aunts and uncles just kept havin’ kids,” Fiddleford argues. “That’s what happens when you’ve got seven uncles and nine aunts of varying ages.”

“You remember?” Stanford says, delighted.

Fiddleford blinks.

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose I do.”

“Fantastic! It’s working then! What else do you remember?”

“My siblings, we used to be real close, loved ‘em to death and I reckon I still do, but after I got married—“ Fiddleford stops, heart stuttering in his chest. All the comfort his mind had tricked him into taking in the other man drains away in an instant, and he scrambles away from him. He hits his back hard on the headboard. “My wife! Emma-May, where’s my wife!? My son!?”

“They’re okay! They’re fine, I promise I haven’t done anything to harm them!” Stanford holds his hands up placatingly, but his expression falters slightly. “At least, not directly, and not in the last thirty years…”

“Then where are they? What are you talking about!?”

“Emma-May still lives in California, I believe, but…” Stanford sighs, “the two of you got divorced approximately thirty-one years ago.”

“… oh,” Fiddleford says. It really isn’t a surprise. Emma-May, the poor darling, was bound to catch onto him eventually.

… catch onto him? About what? What was he hiding from her? He looks at the man sitting in bed with him and knows that he is related.

“Why? What happened?”

Stanford winces.

“It’s not really my place to say, but… I took you from them. We met in college, do you remember?”

“… the McGucket/Pines Hologram Conjecture Theory,” Fiddleford says. He remembers it, remembers the heat on his face from embarrassment and tears, remembers the taste of coffee and cola, the equations scribbled on paper and sticky notes and windows, the weight of this man’s arm around his shoulder, their wide grins. He remembers the excitement, the joy, the affection. At some point, he had loved this man.

So that’s what it was.

“Exactly right!” Ford agrees, and his smile now is so much more restrained, but twice as affectionate. “After we graduated…”

“You moved to Oregon, I went back to Tennessee. Reconnected with Emma-May, and we got married, but…” Fiddleford frowns. He knows Emma-May, knew that he loved her in some sort of way, but… but he didn’t do it right. Always too reserved, too awkward, too distant. He couldn’t love her how he was supposed to.

“I called you up to Oregon, to Gravity Falls, to work on a project.”

“A polydimensional meta-vortex,” Fiddleford agrees, heart twisting at the words, “and I did it. I left them both, easy as that.”

Ford remains silent for a long moment, watching Fiddleford with palpable guilt.

“I don’t think it was easy. You visited when you could,” Ford says eventually, and his hand flutters as if he wants to reach out to comfort him, before it falls in his lap.

“It wasn’t enough,” Fiddleford sighs. “I left her, and she made sure it stayed that way.”

Ford nods, ashamed.

“And we did it, didn’t we? We made… we made the vortex,” Fiddleford continues, voice shaking. He remembers breathless terror, even if he can’t quite recall what made him feel that way, can’t recall what he saw beyond a single massive eye. “That’s why I’m like this.”

“Yes,” Ford agrees, voice thick. For all his bulk, he looks like a scolded child. How was he ever afraid of this darling man? “Though you were its inventor, I was the one to drive you to create the memory gun.”

“None of that, darlin’,” Fiddleford soothes, and even though his head throbs with every thought and memory that flows through it, reaching out to him is easy as breathing. He takes Ford’s hand, threading their fingers together. Ford flinches, but Fiddleford holds tight, squeezes his hand gently. “I made it, I decided to use it on myself, I got addicted to it. Now you aren’t one to take credit for other people’s work, are ya?”

Ford smiles, even as his eyes remain pained.

“We’ve done this before,” Fiddleford muses.

“We’ve been doing it a lot, ever since I came back to you,” Ford agrees. “I still struggle to believe I’ve earned your forgiveness.”

“Ain’t something you really had to earn, hun,” Fiddleford soothes, and he wiggles closer to Ford now that he knows who he is, now that he knows that his body’s instincts to trust him were right. “I had enough of being angry and scared, and I certainly had enough of forgettin’.”

Things still don’t make a whole lot of sense, and his head hurts like no tomorrow, but he knows he’s safe here, with this man in this house. Ford pulls him closer and presses a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

“Are you alright, my love?” Ford asks, soft and sweet.

“Hurts,” he says vaguely, curling into the man.

“I know,” he soothes. “I should get you some water and painkillers.”

He tenses as if to move away, but Fiddleford shakes his head, burying it in his chest.

“Later,” he mumbles. “Just stay with me?”

“Of course.”

[heroesriseandfall]

I know the Tim fandom trope of the Batfam not finding out about his missing spleen until later is mostly for angst and humor so it’s not necessarily worried about the technicalities—but just to be more serious for a moment, I think it’s unlikely Alfred wouldn’t notice a fresh surgery scar when he was wrapping Tim’s injuries from the fight with Ra’s, right after they reunited.

Given it was a recent emergency surgery, it would be pretty obvious I think? Especially since Tim kept clutching that area when he woke up, either from that injury or another one from this issue:

Red Robin #12

And Alfred had just spent the past few months having not seen Tim since the day he opened a grieving Tim’s bedroom door to find him gone (unless he saw Tim briefly during Blackest Night, but even still). Then Dick finally brings Tim back to Alfred unconscious and bloody…I just think Alfred would be giving Tim a very thorough checkup and would NOT miss a recent splenectomy scar.

All this to say this doesn’t mean people can’t ignore these details for fun but I think we could always be milking a lot more angst out of Red Robin #12.

[electricalhuzzah]

Okay so my theory/pretty sure this isn’t really gonna happen in the fic but it would be funny for the relationship reveal is: someone catches them Going At It, Ford’s immediate excuse is “no I’m just using him for sex like he’s here anyway why shouldn’t I?” and whoever caught them shockes them both by defending Bill.

THIS WOULD BE CRAZYYY I LOVE IT

heres some ideas i originally had for the relationship reveal but decided to scrap / crack one-off funnies

- ford and bill are caught kissin in the gift shop (prolly by soos) and bill, immediately upon realizing, shoves ford away and pulls the “that’s called WORKPLACE SEXUAL HARASSMENT, Sixer!” or “no i will NOT sleep with you for higher pay, stanford!” and everyones like “alright pack it up bill ‘cast-this-man-in-gold’ cipher”

- ford and bill start running out of ideas for fake arguments and steal dramatic dialogue from ducktective. the twins notice IMMEDIATELY.

- stan accidentally checks the bank statements referenced in chapter 8.

- dipper, looking for a science book in the lab basement, accidentally opens the wrong book and finds the polaroids referenced in chapter 8

- mabel asks bill about “bjorn” later and bills all like “you wanna know his real name?” and mabel’s like :0 “but i thought that would summon him??” and bill’s like “aw, c’mon shooting star, you’ve handled worse.” mabel’s panicking and trying to convince bill not to “summon” his ex. cue bill taunting her and just egging on her panic until he just yells out “STANFORD PINES” and ford shows up with narrowed eyes and a cup of coffee like “the hell do you want cipher” and mabels like “oh”

rest assured that the actual relationship reveal will be not quite so silly :,)

[transingthoseformers]

I like to mentally play around with the concept of MECH like we saw in tfp, I feel like they were underutilized and they have a very interesting pov when it comes to the war

[todayisafridaynight]

[tomwambsgans]

i wanna see a fic where greg mistakenly takes one of those gas station dick pills that really just makes it so if you don't immediately have marathon sex then you feel like you're gonna die for the next few hours. and of course he goes to tom for help. and tom yknow uhhhh. helps him

[sukibenders]

Lowkey, but some in the fandom kind of downplays or ignore the impact Gabe had on Percy (and Sally) and that's kind of sad, especially given that Rick himself also does this but that's for another time. I kind of hoped the show would highlight it a bit better, but it really doesn't as much as it could. Personally, I think the flashback scenes would have been a perfect opportunity to do so, especially with the context as Gabe, not only, would have injected himself into an intimate moment between Percy and Sally, but also made it more difficult at the same time because he sucks like that. Like, there are reasons that Percy has such low confidence in himself or has anger issues, among other things. He's more complex than just being reduced to the himbo stereotype (which he isn't even remotely close to), and Gabe plays a large part in that.

[anna-scribbles]

I dreamed that the next chapter of call it even was out and was so so confused and sad when I woke up and realized that wasn’t true. Anyways I’m loving call it even summer, it’s always so much fun getting my brain chemistry rewritten <3

CRYING that is tragic and also kind of hilarious to me. you were dreaming of a beautiful scenario which is call it even ch 6 day (tomorrow)(!!!) I can't make up for the confusion and sadness but I can offer you some of abby's comments on the google doc of this chapter. as a gift

[rizaposting]

I love seeing people comment on my 03 royai work (or about fma03 in general) along the lines of "roy literally had a hot live-in girlfriend why did he decide to go be emo in the mountains" well GOOD NEWS FOR YOU I'm working on a project that not only addresses this, but also takes CoS and goes "haha okay. ANYWAYS" and gives them a meaningful resolution

[dark-fics-4-you]

Does anyone have any good dark dealer!Rafe fic recs??? 👀 preferably something w Rafe expecting more than money in exchange for drugs or just forcing reader into an unwanted situation bc she’s addicted and desperate?

[un-pearable]

i still stand by my cole has anxiety hc. dudes just been sublimating it by force in order to tolerate a life on stage and the moment he got the chance he moved to the top of a mountain. not normal behavior. learning to wield a kickass scythe was just a bonus of finally not having to be stressed about being Perceived all the time

[rist-ix]

at this point I’m not above begging the old gods for a tbhtbh update and I’m sure as hell not above begging you so please please-

(At least a snippet???)

okay so there’s a whole bunch of asks in my inbox asking for a snippet and I keep putting it off to answer them, because surely I should answer them when I actually have written on? And surely that’s gonna be soon, right?? Right????? But now it’s been months and I’m haunted by all the nice words and funny jokes and cool asks that I never answered because UGH my brain hAS NOT DELIVERED and I didn’t want to show up empty handed, u know? my anxiety is building and my time to write is shrinking and I am A Mess, BUT!!! I’ve also decided to say fuck it and just throw out the stuff I’ve ignored for a good few weeks. So at everyone whose asks I’ve ignored, please know that I am tormented by shame and adhd in equal measures, a never-ending cycle of horror and procrastination.

Anyway. Magix City my beloved!!!

His roar of fury follows her into the hallway, but she doesn’t slow down. Her one chance, her final chance, is now. She knows from Darcy herself that the witch isn’t scrying for her when she’s with Valtor, and she knows from Stormy that the handcuffs’ lifetime is dependent on how strong the captive is. Right now, Valtor is much, much more powerful than her.

She’s paced these corridors for days, weeks. She has gotten lost, confused, and distracted in these hallways, but she has also grown familiar. And now, tonight, it all pays off.

She finds the way. Finds the portal. Far behind her she can hear Valtor call her name, can feel the bond surging with regained magic as he gives chase, and she knows that her window is closing.

Those last few meters feel like eternity. Any moment his hand will close around her shirt, her arm, her neck; any moment she will be torn back and everything will be over. She thinks of Stella, of Flora, of all her friends and how they’d laughed at Alfea, strolled through the city. I’m coming, she thinks. I promise.

She can feel the building heat of a spell behind her.

But it’s too late.

She sets foot into the thin, glowing circle of the portal, and then there’s the blinding light of teleportation.

Just like that, she’s through. She’s out.

The brilliant magic of the portal plucks her from the cold, pale sphere that is Domino, catapults her through thousands of lightyears of space, and spits her out on black asphalt.

She fails to catch her fall, her momentum causing her to roll over her shoulder and bruise her knees on the rough ground. When she comes to a stop, her palms are scratched open and there’s a little bit of blood running down her shins. She hisses in pain and tears her hair back, looking around, preparing to fight off whoever comes through after her.

But he doesn’t appear.

There’s only the dark, rain-wet street before her. Reflecting the colourful lights of the skyscrapers lining it, the streetlamps, the tail-lights of hovering cars zooming by. A rainbow of vibrant blues and purples and yellows, of red and pink and so, so many others. Neon signs and brightened windows cutting through the cloudy night sky, still roiling with the promise of rain.

Magix City. She’s in Magix City.

She’s home.

A wave of sound crashes down on her and she falls right back onto her scraped knees, too stunned to cover her ears. After the long, unnatural silence of Domino, everything is so loud. Angry, beeping horns of cars in the distance, engines whining and roaring, the pitter-patter of a million steps as people mill about on the sidewalks, heeled shoes against wet stone. A prism full of colors in just their clothes, their hair, their faces as they stream by.

Even at night Magix is a bustling metropolis, full of life and noise and light.

She’s assaulted by so many impressions all at once she feels like she might go blind and deaf from it, and still she can’t look away. Three years she hasn’t been here. Almost four, now.

It’s so, so beautiful. In that shrill, dazzling, vibrant way only Magix can be. She feels just like she did then, when she’d first set foot into its labyrinthine, multilayered streets. Like she is on the cusp of something new, something chaotic and magical. Limitless and never-ending, never-resting.

Freedom. She’s free.

A blaring horn snaps her back to the present, and she whirls around only to shield her eyes from the blinding headlights of a car. Someone’s yelling for her to get up, get off the street, are you insane? She jumps to her feet and realizes that she’s in the middle of the road, in her pajamas, and cars have had to hit the brakes or they would have run her over.

Adrenaline hot in her veins, she stumbles back towards the sidewalk, looking around. People have stopped walking and are pointing at her, some talking to each other behind raised hands. Some look worried, some are snickering, and some look alarmed. Shocked.

She remembers that her picture had been plastered across screens and billboards for years, combined with a shady excuse and a bounty that no sane person could have spent in their entire lifetime.

And that Magix is crawling with Valtor’s marks.

No sooner had she finished the thought than she feels the gaze of dozens of eyes snap to her, all at once. Faces in the crowd turning towards her as if magnetized, their eerie synchrony sending goosebumps down her spine.

There’s no life in their stare. Because they’re not the ones looking.

She doesn’t wait for them to come any closer. She ducks her head and starts sprinting, slipping through the gaps in the crowd like a fish against the current. From the corners of her eyes she can see them start to move, to follow her, and her thundering heartbeat seems to choke her in her throat. She hasn’t thought this through at all, there’s a reason she never returned here with Stella. But the only thing on her mind when she’d stepped through that portal had been her friends, how happy they’d been, and the magical gateway had dropped her at the closest match to that nebulous feeling it could find. In the middle of a street, at the heart of this city they had loved.

And now Valtor knows she’s here.

A hand snatches her wrist, and another grabs her hair, marks swarming towards her from all corners of the city. She cries out in pain and hears people start to shout in confusion, but even if they wanted to risk helping her, they wouldn’t have the power to get through the mind-controlled puppets.

But she does, she remembers as the marks try to pull her back, push her down.

A blaze of light and she is bursting free, fluttering wings carrying her up above them and the crowd. Glittering cyan settling on her skin, golden tiara flashing in her hair, and if there had been any doubts in anyone as to who she is, they are now shown irrefutable proof.

[tejoxys]

Mu Qingfang & Liu Qingge have such an underrated dynamic. we don’t see much of their relationship in canon, but what we do see is like,

LQG: [dragging several howling, struggling grown men behind him like a cat with oversize prey] I brought you some unethically-sourced test subjects

MQF: splendid :D might I trouble you for more?

[seoafin]

omfg

i just remembered shoko's "i was there too" in the manga and then i thought about the way you write shoko in the rip verse and now my heart is too full (╥﹏╥)

like!! she was there!! and she saw what the whole star plasma vessel incident to all of them!! and she was there

i don't know if i can articulate how much i appreciate you making sure that she was a major character in rip verse

it took akutami too long to give us shoko introspection like way too long and it was like 2 measly panels too 😭😭😭 criminal behavior fr

I LOVE SHOKO SOOOOOO MUCH! i remember when the gojo x reader ao3 tag had like 40 fics and there was even LESS shoko content so i promised myself if i was going to write jjk shoko was going to be a main character too!!!!!! that's my girl!!!!!