#who's projecting on fictional characters?

[anhesacardia]

Forbidden Promises

Chapter 8 (Series Masterlist)

Pairing: Modernau!Sukuna x Mother!Reader

Genre: Hidden Baby Trope

Summary: Reader opens up a bakery after running away from her three year relationship with Sukuna, effectively ghosting him and hiding away in the middle of the countryside. Unknown to Sukuna, reader also had a baby, and now is living peacefully until an unfateful meeting starts to pull her back into the life she so desperately escaped from.

Tw: Also I love women and the depiction of women gushing over sukuna is purely for the plot point of reader realizing she’s not okay with Sukuna being with someone else and she still loves him. I don’t agree with the demonizing of other women jut because they flirt with someone who’s not taken and I think it perpetuates misogynistic standards. At the same time I would like everyone to remember this a fictional story and these are these are fictional characters, jealousy, Hana finally gets to know Sukuna is her dad!! That’s it for now, if anything else is there please message me and I’ll add it!!

Wc: 2.1k

The layout of your house was confusing for anyone who was visiting for the first time. At first glance, it would seem like the only way in was through the backdoor of the bakery, but what most people didn’t know was that the  main door situated between the bakery and the building to the right opened to a longer pathway which led to the entrance of the house. Not that it mattered, since you rarely invited anyone over to begin with. 

That’s why you didn’t register the doorbell the first time you heard it, years since someone had used the chime you chose half a decade ago. Your head snapped to the door, the ringing becoming incessant after a few vexing minutes..

A frown framed your face and Sukuna’s gaze darted towards the door, pissed that some asshole dared to interrupt his time with you. You looked at Sukuna for a second, murmuring some excuse as you ran down the stairs, quickly opening the door before you got a headache from all the ringing. 

Uraume was standing before you, worry painted across their features as they peeked over your shoulder, frown deepening further,

“Sukuna-sama, there is something urgent you need to attend to right now, it seems as though one of the investors have pulled out of the newest project,”

Sukuna walks down the stairs, hand skimming over the railing as he pushed his hair backwards,

“What the fuck happened now, Uraume?”

The man scowled, standing behind you with a hand on your back, resting the other one on the railing of the door as he looked down on Uraume. 

You felt worry claw up your spine as you watched the two converse about topics that you quite literally didn’t care about, only wanting to sooth the crease that had formed in between Sukunas forehead with your thumb. 

A few minutes passed by while your attention wavered between Uraume and Sukuna, the man’s hand on your back stopping you from leaving when you tried to slip away. You gave in and let yourself indulge in his touch even though you knew better.. 

Sukuna finally shut the door in Uraumes face after a flurry of curses, pushing your back to the cold wood and bending down to rest his head on your shoulder. Your arms wrapped around him reflexively, threading your fingers through his soft pink hair as he groaned. His arms encased your body, effectively caging you in, chest an inch away from brushing against yours,

“...What’s wrong?”

Sukuna didn’t respond, just sighing heavily,trying to bury his head further into your body. You took a peek at him, the tattoos on his face had faded a bit, more blurry around the edges compared to when he had them freshly done out of highschool, a sort of rebellion towards his parents when they refused to accept you. 

You were shocked when he first got them, mouth open as you stared at him for a good ten minutes before he barked at you to stop. You let him hold you a bit tighter that night, tracing the healed outlines with your finger as he leaned into your touch. 

Sukuna turned to look at you when he felt your gaze on him, smirking when you flustered at getting caught,

“Somethings come up, looks like I’ll have to go now. Uraume’s waiting outside,”

His breath tickled the hair on your neck, sending shivers down your spine as he moves his lips closer to your cheek, hesitating,

“What were you going to tell me, pet?”

You feigned innocence, pushing at Sukuna’s broad shoulders as you turned your head away, avoiding the dreaded question,

“Sukuna we should talk later, I need some time to think about everything, it’s just a lot to take in now and I-,”

Sukuna sighed, the sound making you pause as you looked at him, he untangled himself from you, hands itching to hold you again. 

“Got it, sweets. don’t have to worry your pretty little head over it,”

He punctuated his words with a flick to your forehead and you yelped, hands coming to soothe the ache. He smirked at the gesture, hand floating over your head for a second before he patted it once, pushing you out of the way and opening the door.

“See you later, pet.”

He raised a hand, waving, before the door shut close behind him, leaving only the scent of his cologne behind. 

The bakery was unusually packed, couples and families lining every table and filling the shop up with bustling chatter, warm smiles and carefree laughter. Fumiko was helping you out at the cashier, the waiting line reaching the end of the shop,as one by one, the pastries you worked hard on were starting to disappear with each satisfied customer.

The herd of customers had come to a slow stop around midday and combined with the lunch rush  earlier, it was getting far too overwhelming for you to deal with by yourself. Fumiko had even started to send customers away as per your request. 

You were a few minutes late to the pick up time, Aoi told you that her son had come down with a cold and was pulled out of school early. What you didn’t expect, by the time you reached the kindergarden, was Sukuna being surrounded by a dozen single mothers, manicured nails raking over his arms as they batted their lashes up at him. 

Your stomach churned with unease, feeling underdressed compared to them. You were still wearing work clothes, apron dusted with flour and other unknown powders, sweaty from half running to the kindergarten. You clenched your hands at your sides, mind rushing to think about how many women Sukuna had been with since after you. 

Even during college, Sukuna’s popularity had just skyrocketed, rumours about him being violent or cruel did nothing to deter the women that tried to hang off of his arms, no matter how many times he said he was uninterested. 

The dark feeling just multiplied in your gut as you saw Sukuna politely push them away, heart beating uncomfortably fast as you tried to gouge out every reaction from his face. 

Why wasn’t he pushing these women away, was he really going to entertain them after kissing you like that just a few hours ago? 

Your skin pricked with goose flesh, stuck in daze as you watched the scene unfold in front of you. Only snapping out when you heard a man calling out your name, 

“Ah it’s good to see you again!”

You turned your head around and he grasped your wrist in his, curling his fingers around the skin and making you want to pull him off.He was one of Hana’s friends' fathers, another single parent like you. His wife had passed away in childbirth and sometimes you would look after his daughter when he came home late after work.

He had found out about your situation when he trespassed your home to get his daughter one evening, noticing the lack of photos of a husband in your living room and questioning you about it until you eventually came clean and he promised to keep it a secret. You never trusted him though, always walking on eggshells for the slight chance he used the information against you. 

A practiced smile came over your features as you greeted him, he was getting far too comfortable with you, calling out your name like that in public and touching you without your consent. People could misunderstand this and you did not want Hana to be hearing things from her classmates or their mothers, god knows the last thing you need on your hand is rumours about you being promiscuous. 

“It’s good to see you too Mr.Takumi,”

You pulled your wrist back, cradling it behind your back as you tried to not let your displeasure show. 

It was then when the bell rang and the kids came running out, the teachers behind them chiding them not to run lest they fall.

Hana saw you and her face lit up, a similar smile dancing on your features as you crouched to catch her in your arms. Her tiny arms wrapped around your neck as she giggled into your neck,

“Mumma! You came!”

You smiled, getting back up as you patted her back. It wasn’t often that you came up to pick up Hana, only when the goods ran out early, which was rare or on special occasions- like birthdays or holidays or the one day you take off every year to go explore places with her.

Takumi had his daughter in his arms too, the little girls talking together as they leaned forward for a hug while still being in their parents’ arms. You leaned forward, shoulders brushing against Takumis as you held the same tight lipped smile. 

That’s when you felt Hana being pulled out of your grasp and you gasped, Sukuna was standing next to you, balancing Hana on one arm as the other wrapped around your shoulder and pulled you closer to him.

He had been watching ever since he heard your name being called, pushing away from the crowd of women as he strided over to you. Takumi sputtered for a second as he saw Sukuna, the six foot man was a good head taller than Takumi and was currently glaring at him, looking down at him through his nose. 

Sukuna bent down to nose your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips as heat rose up your cheeks at the action, eyes widening as you stared back at him. The man just smirked before turning his attention back to Takumi,

“Hope you don’t mind me cutting the conversation short, been a while since my wife got off of work early ,”

The shorter male fumbled over his words and Sukuna held in his grin as he waved goodbye, glancing back with amusement glinting in his eye. 

Hana looked at Sukuna and then at you, a suspicious expression on her face as she furrowed her eyebrows and pointed at Sukuna,

“Mumma, is the mean mister your boyfriend?”

You stopped on the sidewalk, turning to look at Hana in her fathers arms as you took her in yours, letting Sukuna hold her bag. 

Sukuna felt uncomfortably warm as he awaited your answer, huge body almost shaking in anticipation. His eyes trailed down to yours and held eye contact for a while before you brushed a stray hair from Hana’s forehead,

“Hana… why don’t we go home and have a talk hmm baby?”

Hana just nodded, ever the understanding child when it came to you, lying her head down on your shoulder as she hummed. 

Sukuna on the other hand looked like someone had just informed him that he had to spend thirty more days in the burning pits of hell while being forced to clean Satan's shit at the same time. He quickly plastered on a fake expression, hiding his true feelings once again.

“So how did it go?”

Sukuna was once again sitting at your dining table, this time playing with the utensils as he stared at Hana sitting at her own table and patiently waiting for her food. 

“How did what go?”

He turned his attention to you, brow cocking up in question as he looked confused. You stopped plating the food and made eye contact with him again.

“Your work? Uraume said something went wrong?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking like a petulant child in the comfort of your own home. 

“Got that dealt with as soon as I could to see the kid again,”

Hana perked up at the mention of a kid, eyes gleaming in excitement as you finally put down the plates in front of Sukuna and Hana, dusting off your hands as they held the same hungry expression,

“Mister you have a kid? How old are they? Where are they? Are they a boy or girl?”

Hana’s endless curiosity had stopped phasing you long ago, you ruffled her soft pink hair with hand, pinching her cheek as you sat down in the dining table,

“Baby, mumma and mister have something to tell you before you eat your food okay?”

Sukuna glanced at you, then back down at your trembling hand under the table. He reached out, enveloping your own hand in his as he squeezed softly, calming you down with his warmth as you let out a shaky sigh.

Hana sensed your anxiety and immediately ditched her food, running up next to you and climbing into your lap with a scared expression,

“Hana, this is your father,”

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[olderthannetfic]

Unofficial poll time!

People who read fanfic for fandoms they're not in, what's your primary reason/most common reason? (For argument's sake, by "fandom you're not in" i mean a source material you know little to nothing about, rather than something you're a fan of but you're just in any fan communities for it.)

has a kink/trope i like and i am reading exclusively for that, plot be damned

was written by an author who i'm a fan of from other fandoms, and who i know is great. The author in question is someone who i DONT know personally, I just want to support them.

was written by a friend or mutual who I'm already close to. The author in question is somehow who i DO know personally, thus why i want to support them.

the plot just seems interesting and i'm genuinely reading for the plot itself i.e. not just a kink or trope, those are just bonuses along the way.

i want to get into the fandom, and i am using the fanfic as a vessel to motivate myself to do so

it's adjacent to a fandom that i AM in (whether due to fandom overlap, was written by the same screenwriter etc, has a similar plot, etc)

something else?

mine is primarily 1 or 4, though i've been known to do all of the above and more (hey i sorta rhymed)! Occasionally I do 5, but usually as an "add-on" to the other reasons. Meaning if I really want to get into a fandom and I choose to start with fic rather than the source material, I'll start off reading a fic with an interesting plot/kink/tags, and/or a fic by someone who I know from other fandoms.

This is so #edgy but when I was like 12, 13, I was SUPER in to whump, primarily through the vessel of Star Wars characters. My main fixation was mostly stigmatized mental illness stuff - SH, eating disorders, suicide, addiction, etc. This somehow led to me reading pretty much ANY fiction - fan or otherwise - involving that topic, and that's actually how I got into what is still my main fandom today! It's crazy to think that I wouldn't have all these friends, memories, and projects had I not decided to pull up a InuYasha psych ward fic on fanfiction.net lol.

--

[thelighthouse-server]

Happy Birthday, Gareth!

This zine is a small token of appreciation from a group of fans who have been very emotionally compromised by Gareth David Lloyd's portrayal of Solas and his ever-compelling relationship with Rook. Through his performance, he made us feel everything—from admiration to frustration, from awe to existential dread (sometimes all at once), and for that, we are incredibly grateful, and we want to offer at least a little bit back to him as well as the community as a whole.

Since Veilguard launched, we've been through some of the best times of our lives, and our community has only grown bigger and more productive. We were once just a handful of fans trying to find each other and talk about Rook and Solas, but now we can create our own events and zines, which is something that never ceases to amaze us.

Maybe it was the verbal jabs between Solas and Rook, or the intense looks these two shared, or perhaps it had something to do with the hand touches the devs hid from us so well that we needed a free cam mod to get a glimpse of. In any case, we’ve poured our hearts into this collection of art and fiction. Every piece is a reflection of the inspiration Gareth gave us, the depth he brought to the character, and the way Solas continues to haunt our thoughts.

Each of us has different stories and tragedies we put our Rook through, and this little booklet will give you a little glimpse of that. The full picture is too big and complex, but this is the first of the many projects we have planned.

We hope this zine reflects the joy Gareth's work has brought us and inspires others to join our growing community.

With excitement and a touch of dramatic creativity,

[The Lighthouse dwellers]

[lsd-astronaut]

Books the LoTR characters would read:

First of all, a disclaimer: this is my own opinion and I will not care if you think otherwise. Second of all, I always gift books to my friends and family, and I've never got a complaint, so that has to count for something. I'm also putting some of my favourite books but that's just me of course ♡

Frodo:

Sloggiest classical high fantasy books you can find. Yknow these '90s fantasy books with like eleven books in a series, and each book is at least 500 pages long? He would love that.

I'm currently reading the first book of Crown of Stars (seven books baby), which is like an alternate fantasy medieval Europe, with lots of details and research done and it's super gritty and entertaining. Frodo would inhale that. The rest of the Fellowship are worried for him, they haven't seen him in days.

Sam:

Fantasy and poetry because he's cool like that.

Something not to complicated like Uprooted by Naomi Novik, and then he will surprise you by reading something super dark like Blood Over Bright Haven by M.L. Wang.

Also really likes literary fiction. Idk he strikes me as someone who would like reading about people's lives, and a plot where the action is less important than the characters evolution. Tried to read weird lit but didn't like that the main themes were rot and body fluids, it reminds him of Frodo during the Quest.

Merry:

I'm basing this on personal experience; but every time I see a cute guy either on the bus or on the Friday train, they'll be reading something like Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, or something by Hemingway, which does not strike trust, and it's a bit pretentious and on the nose. Like are you really reading Marcel Proust for fun? Be honest with me, my guy, you looked gay (for legal reasons this is a joke).

He likes non-fiction. Some of the books he has are Tristes Tropiques by Claude Lévi-Strauss; Folie et déraison by Michel Foucault; and he once even started talking about how he didn't really agree with Freud's Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis. The glare that the rest of the Fellowship gave him could have killed Sauron on the spot.

Pippin:

I doubt his AuDHD allows him to read anything really dense (or maybe he hyperfixates so badly that he reads one book in less than 12 hours who knows)

Graphic novels and comics are a must in his bookshelf! Eventually becomes a Marvel brainrot fan, to the dismay of everyone else, especially Aragorn who has to pay for the merch.

YA fantasy bc I'm taking into account his age. Percy Jackson hyperfixation and that's why he's gay now (again a joke)

Aragorn:

Romantasy but not of his own volition, he is just a really good partner, and Arwen seems to me like a romantasy girlie. Poor guy has been forced to read A Court of Thorns and Roses, and Fourth Wing, and Powerless. Put the limit at Colleen Hoover (not saying that Arwen likes her either, she just likes to make Aragorn suffer like a good gf). Will deny again and again to the rest of the Fellowship that he likes any of these books, and once even drew his sword at Boromir.

Legolas:

These random ass raunchy period romance books you find on your mother's bookcase just lying there and you read them out of curiosity and end up learning about things you should not be aware of yet, and they're not even written well but you can't stop reading. Chick lit, if you want.

Has read the Bridgerton books multiple times.

Gimli:

Science fiction. Gets really nerdy about alien invasions, but it's not like he believes in any conspiracy theory of course. Legolas barely understands what he's talking about half of the time but who cares when your boyfriend is that cute.

He loves and actually understands pretty well space operas. The Final Architecture trilogy by Adrian Tchaikovsky, and Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir are favourites of his.

Boromir:

Sports romance. HOCKEY. He just likes the whole "turn off your brain to enjoy this" honestly, he needs a break sometimes of course!

Read Vampire Academy out of curiosity and really liked it, though he does admit it and Faramir will act like he doesn't know him (it's actually a good saga I'm sorry okay)

Faramir:

This guy right here owns the entire Realm of the Elderlings book saga. It pains me to admit that he would relate a lot with Fitz.

Heartstopper by Alice Oseman because he's not dead inside, okay?

Éowyn:

Really basic sorry but she is a Hunger Games girlie through and through.

Actually, I feel she would like dystopian fiction a lot. Has watched Divergent (only the first movie, the rest are trash) with Faramir more times than she can count. Faramir gets cold sweats whenever he hears something that reminds him of the movie (he knows the dialogues by heart)

Éomer:

Yes, yes, I know Rohirrim don't read or write, BUT he would own all the Valdemar books by Mercedes Lackey. Why, do you ask? Well, purely because it's a fantasy series of mages that are Chosen by their Companions, which are white horses. And Éomer is a good ol' horse girl so what more could he ask for.

[inkedinfusions]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲 | eren jaeger chapter 16

⊱𖣂⊰ | In which you fall into a fictional world with the key to Pandora's box.

── ★ ˙ ̟ . 🗝 .ᐟ.ᐟ masterlist

⊰– prev   next–⊱

𝟏𝟔 | 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

chapter word count: 3.7k

content warnings: blanket warnings

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY EREN!!!!! He doesn't even appear in this one but what are you going to do. Shameless plug: I just published the first chapter of yet another Eren fic, but this time its a The Batman au so!!!Go read it!!! Anyway uhhhh they were supposed to go to Trost and like,, walk around and shit but then Mikasa and Armin hijacked the chapter so here we are. Not in Trost. This one goes out to that one reader who wanted more Mikasa interactions.

Thanks for reading!

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐒 quickly as orders are given, and you get to witness the slow but constant assembly of Paradis’ first harbor in recent history. Tents are replaced by more permanent structures, ones made of stone and wood rather than cloth and string. 

You aren’t there when Hange and Armin convince the Marleyans—particularly the engineers—to add their experience and labor to the project, but you have no doubt they will be able to persuade their opinions with their earnestness and genuine curiosity. 

After all, you weren’t here the first time and still they succeeded. In that sense at least. A small win, but one you need in order to continue with the plans that bubble up in your head. You have considered writing down the information you remember about the series in written English, but that was not a possibility in your first year, when you lived under the same roof as Zeke. 

Back in Liberio, your pencil was already gliding through the pages when you remembered that the man had a codex of your alphabet and his, so you did what any other sane person would do. 

You immediately stopped writing and set the incriminating pages on fire in the stove. If Zeke noticed the faint smell of charred paper in the kitchen, well, he didn’t say anything about it. 

And now, with the Scouts, you don’t want them to get any wrong ideas, so once again writing down the information is not an option. You huff in your makeshift room located in the belly of the beast—the Survey Corps headquarters. 

While you had never seen this location in the series, it is logical to assume the soldiers would need a place to live, and so you were taken right to it and assigned a room in the girls’ side of the building. The room is simple, bare, and with your little personal objects it is nothing more than a space you crash in when night falls. 

There is commotion right outside your window that has been going on for a while now, and so you rise from where you were slumped on your bed to check out what the ruckus is about, although you have a general idea about what it might be. 

With a few key characters accepting Hange’s and Armin’s requests, more and more have been committing their persons to the cause, if only to have something to do in the so-called Island of the Devils. A job is a job, even when instead of the Marleyan superiors they are used to shift to that of a commander with bright eyes and honest disposition. 

And lo and behold, you are right in your deductions. There, underneath your window, stand a few wooden carts attached to horses, all filled with Marleyans of varying demeanors. You know trust is not an easy thing to give, much less receive, but it is the only thing that will keep this world together. 

If trust is broken (trust in Eren, trust in Paradis, trust in Marley, trust in Zeke—) then the world is doomed to follow the path you were unintentionally warned about. And when you leave, you don’t want to walk away from the rubble you failed to safeguard.

You’d let this circle round and round in your mind as you’ve had nothing to do apart from helping Hange and Armin brush up on their presentation before they went to show it to the foreigners, and besides helping with the maintenance of the building—what the series displayed is true, captain Levi is very scary with all matters cleaning—there is nothing much you do in the passing days. 

The door of your room creaks open when you step into the hallway, your boots striking the stairs as you make your way down to the ground level, determined to at least get a glance at some of the Marleyans that had signed up to help with the harbor—and later with the rails and consequent train. 

“What’s all the noise for?” you hear a voice ask behind you. Connie walks up to you from the opposite side of the hallway just as you make your way outside, and you hold the door open for him to pass through. 

“The Marleyans are stopping here for something,” you answer, shrugging. “Maybe provisions before they make their way back out the Walls, I don’t know.”

Connie nods his head in agreement as you both approach the people lugging around boxes and bags, and you both draw close to a guy who just seems to be waiting around, standing to the side of one of the carts. 

Your hand comes up to fiddle with the button around your neck, not really knowing where the impulse to talk to this random guy came from. Geez, maybe you should just go back inside and find something else to do, rather than bother someone who clearly labels you all as devils. Yes, you should turn back now before he notices you—

“Hey man!” Connie calls out, drawing the attention of the guy. “Need help with something?”

Well, there goes your plan to go back inside. 

Still, you keep it tucked in the back of your mind when the object of Connie’s question looks at you with something akin to contempt. Or maybe it's just pure, undiluted disdain, but you choose to ignore it. 

He proves you right with his answer. “I don’t need any help from you Eldians,” he says, voice rough with apathy. Connie’s eyebrows furrow as they rightfully should, but before he can retort back with something that will only escalate the situation, you speak. 

“What’s your name?” you ask, ready to catalogue him in the filing cabinets that litter your brain. He looks at you funny, like that is the last question he had expected you to inquire about. Still, he responds after a beat, when the awkward silence begs someone to break it. 

“Niccolo Wald,” he says, and then, just the animosity he harbors is clear, “what’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” you say, adding the last name to the file with his name already on it. Cook, restaurant, wine—all words that are highlighted in the nonexistent document. “Are you an engineer too?” you continue, just so that the information you know matches more with the one you are given.

Niccolo’s eyes dart between you and Connie, his apprehension condensing into a much more stable confusion. “...I am a chef,” he says with slightly squinted eyes, surely trying to figure out your intentions. 

“That’s nice,” you add. “My name is Y/n, and this here is Connie,” you say, gesturing to the boy who stands beside you. “Is there anything you need help with?”

“...No.”

Niccolo elongates his answer as if that would give him more time to see exactly what you are playing at, but both yours and Connie’s offers were genuine, so you doubt he will find more than Connie’s offence to his rude disposition. 

“Alright,” you say, shrugging. “Safe travels.”

You don’t let the stilted silence envelop you once more, lest the incriminating beat of your heart betray your nerves. Niccolo and Connie both seem equally stunted by the seemingly contrived conversation, awkward and short, but Niccolo stays put while Connie follows you back inside. 

In the depths of your mind—deep enough so that you don’t blurt it out mid conversation but not sufficiently far in so that it touches the couple of topics you have zipped right up instead of stewing with them—your thoughts run circles against each other, all contriving to create a way that will mellow Niccolo out, and maybe speed up the process of his acceptance of Eldians. 

You don’t want to take Sasha’s place—no, that was, is and will be rightfully hers, and you have no desire to take it for yourself. If anything, their bond makes your job easier, but you think that you can improve upon their meeting. Yes, you’d act like a stepping stone; a temporary help for all the others to strive towards a better future. 

“Hey, Connie,” you start. “Is there any chance we can go to Trost today?”

In the end, a sudden day trip to the district of Trost is shelved until a week or so later, when it coincides with a routine check up on the district’s branch. You stick to the Levi Squad like tree sap on fingers when they don’t seem to mind your presence, and eventually you manage to rope Sasha and Connie into nagging the captain for permission to go to Trost. Even Jean mutters something about visiting the district. 

It is hard not to be excited. For days you’ve been cooped up with nothing new to do, no one new to meet—well, that is not exactly true, but truth be told, you aren’t keen on chatting up the members of the Scouts you know virtually nothing about. So you spend the following days mingling around the others, hovering when they train and repeat drills or helping with tasks that are better suited for your abilities. 

One afternoon, you find yourself standing outside Armin’s door, knocking until the blond boy opens it with a creak. Surprise flashes in his eyes for just a moment, before it smooths out with a curious smile. 

“Hello,” he says. “Can I help you with something?”

You return the smile, albeit yours is a lot smaller, your eyes less bright than the dreamer who opened the door. “I wanted to know if you had any books I could borrow?” you ask. “It’s been kinda boring around here lately.”

“Of course,” he says, opening the door a little wider and inviting you inside. “I don’t have that many, but maybe you’ll see something you like.”

You follow behind him into his room, identical to yours in furniture, but decorated with small knick knacks and trinkets where yours has nothing but the bare essentials. “Anything is fine, really,” you say as you walk up to where he stands, next to a small pile of books. “Maybe fantasy?”

Armin hums, tracing his fingers across the spines. “This one is a folk’s tale,” he says, picking out one with green accents. “About…a lake I think?” He laughs sheepishly. “It's been a while since I’ve read it.”

You take the book into your hands when he offers it to you, admiring the craftsmanship that is not present in the books from your world. “This ones okay,” you say. “Thanks Armin.”

He nods, his smile getting impossibly wider but somehow never tethering on creepy territory. There is something about his calm demeanor and the way titan lightning flows below his skin, at hand but never wielded mindlessly, that puts you at ease. And this is all without even talking about the sparkles that seem to permanently live in his pupils. 

“Anytime!” he says. “I could lend you another later, when you finish it. It's been a while since I've shared those with anyone.”

You tilt your head, amused. “I take it there aren’t many reading fans in the Scouts?”

“Not really,” he chuckles. “But they let me ramble about it when I do, so it's a good compromise.”

“You’ll have to lend me an ear later then,” you say. “What are the others about?” you ask, pointing at the pile.

“Well, there is a—” Armin fumbles with the books, refreshing his memory of the titles and contents, “—book about history somewhere, and this one is about the world outside the walls.”

And there it is, in Armin’s hands. The book. The one with the depiction of lands of ice, of fiery waters. Not the catalyst, but definitely an influence in the mentality of your peers. 

“Not that you need it,” he continues, blissfully unaware of the meaning hidden in between the pages, “but it's beautifully illustrated.”

“...I’m sure,” you answer after a moment. “I think I’ll just take this one now. Maybe later?”

Armin puts the book back in its original place, now fully highlighted in your vision. “Maybe later,” he agrees. “You can come by anytime and grab another if you’d like. They don’t get used as much now so…it's nice to see someone else read them.”

“I can imagine,” you say. “Thanks again.”

“Course!” he says, walking you to his door. “See you later!”

“Bye.”

You wave your hand at him as you walk away, turning your head forward when he shuts his door close. The hallway floor goes on and on until you reach the stairs, which you walk down to the ground level. 

When you arrive at the hallway that leads to your own room you hesitate, days where you used to retreat into your world’s version of it long gone. Outside there is too much of a chance you will be in the way of someone, but locking yourself in your room fills you with more lethargy than it does peace. 

There is, however, a third option; the common area that sometimes doubles as a mess hall. With its wooden tables it is an optimal place to read, and today, because of the cool air and clouds that danced amongst the sky, many Scouts have chosen to do their tasks outside, or simply bask in the calm of it all. 

Which is another reason you are a little adverse to leaving the building—so instead you reroute towards the hall, and to your happy surprise, there is only another person occupying space there. 

You walk up to Mikasa, who seems to be entirely concentrated on a disassembled piece of machinery. She glances at you as you approach her, the curiosity in her gaze far more subdued than in Armin’s.

“Hi,” you start. “Can I sit here? I won’t make too much noise or anything.”

She nods, which you take as a cue to sit in the chair across the table from her, and goes back to her cleaning. With a little more scrutiny, you can now see that it is her Scout equipment she is polishing. You have to bite your tongue in order to avoid firing up questions about it and instead open your book and begin to read. 

You did tell her you would keep noise as low as possible, after all. 

Mikasa sits quietly in front of you, her ODM gear reflecting stray sunlight beams that enter through the window, the soft clinic of metal accompanied by the turning pages of the book you are reading, courteously loaned by Armin. 

Few words are exchanged between you two, with Mikasa concentrated on the stains that are wiped away by the rag she moves across it, and with you, who tries to make sense of the story you are reading. It's a fairytale, not so different from the ones back home, but some of the Paradis-specific terms have you doing double takes to comprehend their meaning. 

You turn another page, coming face to face with the depiction of a monster—similar to a troll but not quite—being slayed by a medieval knight, complete with  chainmail armor and a feathered helmet. Your fingers scratch the lines that make up the drawing, aged ink running deep through the fibers of the paper. If only everything was as simple as simply slaying the beast and living happily ever after. 

But no. There is never a happily ever after. There is just an after that goes on and on and on, with new challenges at every turn, new foes and friends to meet with each step. 

The book closes with a thud when your hands bring both covers together, the leather spine finally resting from being stretched on the table. “Hey, Mikasa,” you start, continuing when she hums in response, “is there anything you want to do when… I mean—when this is all over?”

Mikasa pauses her repetitive motions, the dark pools of her pupils looking straight at you. “When what is over?” she asks, tilting her head slightly as her brows crease ever so faintly. 

You shrug, tracing the divots in the cover that make up the title of the book, not really knowing where your question came from. “I don’t know,” you say. “The fight? There are no more titans, and if—when Paradis gains recognition from the outside world… what would you like to do?”

Mikasa doesn’t speak up immediately, and her eyes dart from you to the table, silently contemplating her answer. You wait patiently, ready for her to refuse your question or change the topic in its entirety.

“I want a peaceful life,” she says, softly but no less assertively. “With the people I care about.”

There are many things that go unsaid with her statement, and when she meets your eyes again you realize that both you and her know that which she has left unspoken. The two people she cares most about���her childhood friends, those who have been with her for a little less than half her life have had theirs cut short. 

Even if the Rumbling does not come to pass, even if all the other nations suddenly changed their minds and welcomed the island of Paradis with open arms, there would still be a sacrifice to pay to Ymir. Armin has little under thirteen years to live, Eren will just have a taste of adulthood before it's ripped away by the timer placed on him by his father. 

The Warriors—people you interacted regularly for a year—will all die when their clock strikes thirteen. And the cycle would continue, either by the people chosen to lay upon the altar and consume the forbidden fruit or by letting the years pass by and pre ordaining an arbitrary life who will reach only the cusp of their childhood before dying at the start of their adolescence. 

You shift in place, looking down at the title. The Lake and the Stone Heart, it reads. The story is plain, ordinary. It uses the formula so many often do, one that has proven to be a failsafe for fictional stories. One that, in theory, should work here too. 

But the girl sitting in front of you is as real as the blood that rushes through your veins, as true as the air you breathe into your lungs. Her dreams, hopes and fears are not a fabrication of someone's mind—at least not anymore. 

“I don’t know how helpful I’ll be at the end,” you say, your voice subdued, tethering on whispering. “But I meant what I said.”

Mikasa leans forward, not enough to get closer to you, but more so to make her point. “You say that a lot,” she says. “Is there a reason you need to repeat yourself so often?”

You don’t answer right away, instead delaying your statement as much as you can, stunned by what has just been revealed to you. Every so often, you would assure whoever you are conversing with of your intent to help, not going overboard but sprinkling it in your discussions wherever you could. 

And you never thought to ask yourself why. 

“Oh,” you finally say, if anything to break the silence that gathered around you like dust on a forgotten jacket at the end of the wardrobe. “I never realized I did that.” 

Mikasa nods, letting you simmer in your epiphany while she goes back to putting together the polished pieces of her ODM gear. The metal latches onto one another while your neurons connect the pieces of your introspection, ever growing when you watch past interactions with new lenses. 

You swallow dry saliva, your fingers still for the first time as you try to make sense of your subconscious. “Maybe…” you begin, faltering when her eyes turn to you again, “maybe it’s because I’m…scared? Of not being useful.”

“But you are,” she says, straightforward like always. “You made that clear back at Mitras. Do you not believe what you say?”

“It's not that, I think. It’s like…like reinforcing it? For myself, maybe. Or for others.” 

You let your fingers come up to massage the bridge of your nose, smoothing out lines and tethering you to the world when your vision goes black behind your closed eyelids. “I don’t think I’m making any sense,” you mumble, a note of apology in your voice. 

 “You think a lot,” she hums. “Eren does too now. After everything.”

She pauses, more words coming out now than in any previous occasion, where only few were exchanged in the course of days. If you had to pick who is more likely to have a heart to heart with, Mikasa would not be at the top, simply because you thought long conversations weren’t her thing.

“But there are things not even him—or you—can see,” she continues. “That’s what the Scouts are for. To fill in the blanks.”

You open your eyes, meeting hers under the roof of the Scouts headquarters, with a book in your hands and gear in hers. 

“Thanks Mikasa,” you say softly. 

She nods. Then, after a beat, she speaks again. 

“What do you want?” she asks you. “When it's over.”

You let your gaze fall once again to the table, pondering on her words. 

There are many things you want—some since childhood, some since you appeared in the ruins. You want to go home, you want for the world to not be trampled, you want to survive. To live. 

You want a garden with flowers, and you want tomorrow's meal to be warm. You want your headaches to stop, and you want to read in your native tongue again. You want love and hope and the crushing weight of arms around you instead of the weight of the world on your shoulders. 

You want to be safe. You want this to be over. 

“...I don’t know,” you whisper, too many possibilities fleeting through your mind like the grains of rice you used to thread your hands through when it was time to go to the market back home. “I just want it to be over.”

Mikasa contemplates you for a few seconds after your confession, understanding gleaming in the black ink of her eyes. And truly, you are grateful when she doesn’t push, recognizing that your answer is what little you are willing to admit to now—either to her or to yourself.

You go back to your book, rereading a story that has already finished. She goes back to putting her ODM together once more, expert hands handling the motions with familiarity. It's silent. 

taglist:

@dressycobra7 @xngelsau @bloodchapell @i-think-im-adorable13 @luna4mnoon

@yuuuumii @kermittears @binluvsu @luvsymai @faerie-soirxx

@bambam1sa

ask or comment to be added!

[kookygobbledygook]

Kind of... the serve slightly different purposes

Fanfiction writers resorted to this because back in the late ninties, early 2000 some fanfiction writers received "cease and desist" letters from authors like Anne McCaffery and Anne Rice for supposed infringement of their copyright. It was a big concern that fanfic writers could possibly be sued for writing fanfic, so that disclaimer was an attempt to show that they had no intention of profiteering off the work. Whether it would have actually protected them if they went to court is dubious.

That Anime disclaimer is similar to ones you find at the end of many movies. It goes something like:

"This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this story are either the product of the creators imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental."

The reason for this is to hopefully stop people who looked like one of the characters or who went through a similar situation, from suing the creators for profiteering on their life, or depicting them negatively. Sometimes those creators are just protecting themselves from a crazy person who is projecting. Sometimes it's a company being sneaking and seeing if they can hide behind the "it's just a coincidence!" claim to get out of paying people for their life's story. Once again how much that would hold up in court is debatable depending on circumstances.

But the fanfiction one is usually one person pleading with any potential lawyers and saying "This is just for fun, please don't take my house" whereas the anime one is usually the biproduct of a professional company saying "look, we know heaps of people are going to see this and odds are this is going to be similar in someways to at least one person's life, so we're telling you here that we made this all up. So don't think about suing us. We've pre-emptively covered our ass."

Ok so you know how some Fanfic authors will put “Disclamer, this is fanfiction. The characters and source material aren’t mine, just this story.” At the beginning of their fics?

I just found the Anime equivalent.

At the beginning of some episodes (or all, I’m not always paying attention) for the show I started watching it says:

“This story is a work of fiction. All names of the characters, organizations, and so are imaginary.”

I just think it’s neat

[youchangedmedestiel]

Dean is sitting next to Cas on the dinner bench they picked up to eat after wrapping up their case with Sam.

He doesn't know what is happening to him tonight, but it's like his body wants to melt with Cas's. He wants to lean against him, he wants to touch him. He also wants Cas to touch him, and melt under that soft and comforting touch.

It's like every cell of his body is calling for Cas's. And when their elbows touch because Cas leans his back against the bench backrest and Dean shifts a little, Dean feels the serotonine spreading in his whole body.

That brush is barely perceptible, though Dean thinks Cas is sending him some signs to cuddle up against him. And Dean wants it. Oh yes, he wants it so bad that he needs it. He'd like to take Cas's hand in his. He'd like to cup his jaw and kiss him softly. He'd like Cas to hold him tight. He'd like to pet Cas's hair or have Cas pet his. Cas could be so submissive under Dean's stroke. Or Cas could be so dominant that Dean would do whatever he wants, he could even sink down on his knees under the table and take him in his mouth while Cas's firm hand would grab his hair.

Dean would moan at that and Cas would come in his mouth, groaning and holding him tighter.

Dean needs this so bad, but instead a brush of his arm against Cas's will have to be enough.

[satsuha]

one of the reasons i like what aa6 did for apollo so much is because i feel like he's accidentally a really nice example of a third culture kid and i......... never really thought i'd see that kind of experience in the kind of media i like. apollo returning to khura'in and all his conflicting feelings regarding dhurke and khura'in just make me Feel something

it's a lot of projecting from my part but i don't think apollo fully views either khura'in nor japan/US as home, there's just something about viewing a place as your childhood home and even if it is the place you imagine yourself returning to, things are just... different now. he's different now, and the literal home (dhurke's mountain hut) he'd wanted to return to just isn't there anymore... khura'in might've been his entire childhood, but the experience he got was so different from the other locals that he really doesn't know much about the average khura'inese lifestyle at all... khura'inese is probably his mother tongue, but he's so out of practice that he has to relearn it from scratch

i think again, i prefer apollo being japanese because i can just imagine that it was so difficult to fit in when you're so different and you're just so unfamiliar with the same experiences that everyone else had growing up... it's the kind of environment where i can't blame him for growing up not wanting to ever talk about his past, not when he's finally managed to fit in and seem Normal for the first time in his life...

i just feel like it's... easy to say that apollo is returning home to khura'in but there are so many loaded feelings that came with that and the idea of home is such a subjective one that i don't like the answer being so clear-cut. it's more like, on a good day apollo probably considers both khura'in and japan/US his home but on a bad day he thinks about how he'll never really belong in either place. it's another thing when i wonder if apollo ever resented dhurke for the decision to send him away even when he knows it was good for him... or even his real parents for taking him to khura'in in the first place? just imagining, or wishing even, that he could have been fully khura'inese like nahyuta or japanese/american like clay then maybe his life wouldn't have turned out this way.....

i don't know LMAO apollo eventually settling back in khura'in is so cathartic yet so tragic to me at the same time. it's a really weird feeling to not have a citizenship or to speak the language in the place you consider home... heck he doesn't even have a physical home in khura'in when he decides to stay?? it's just. i have a lot of thoughts about this. third culture kid apollo is important to me...

[redinthesea]

Here's this year's annual birthday illustration!!! I think this one is my favorite one so far, happy shared birthday Miss Crown Prince! Spare me some of your long lifespan... 🥂🎂🎉

(+stupid silly discord interaction doodle featuring improvised funny touhousonas under the cut)

[potatobugz]

eek! scary!

[stolenviolet]

how tall do you think harry is? 🥹

Three apples tall.

But like really big apples, y'know? Think fuji picked at peak season. Yeah, three of those bad boys stacked on top of each other and that's how tall I think he is.

[charrfie]

[shakingparadigm]

okay but seriously all jokes aside I really do understand ivan. like having a schedule so packed and busy is so insanely draining no matter how long you've conditioned yourself to endure it. sacrificing certain things like lunch or sleep just to gain the slightest bit more time for yourself is something that feels almost essential to keeping yourself together and not feeling like you're losing yourself in the cycle completely. it's like its own little act of rebellion in a way, something along the lines of you can drown me in work and monotony but I'll keep carving these little spaces of time for what little I have for myself, even if I have to carve them out of my own chest. I will sacrifice parts of myself to ensure that I don't fully succumb to whatever you're trying to make me into. I am human, this is the proof, I will make time even if it ruins me. you know?? yeah. you get it

[formosusiniquis]

have your cake

So way back in August 2023 the steddiemicrofic challenge was Cake and 311 words, my head empty brain came up with one thought and it was Steve Munson having a bakery called Mun's Buns and so many months later I finally got around to finishing my vision

Ships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson; Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins; implied/past Tommy Hagan/Steve Harrington/Carol Perkins WC: 6408 | T | tags: Future Fic, the lightest of post homoerotic friendship breakup angst, fluff, Tommy POV AO3

The bakery has a stupid name, is the first thing Tommy thinks when Carol tells him where he's supposed to meet her on his lunch break. He’s still thinking that, when he sees the place for the first time through his rain speckled windshield. It's a modest storefront, small for what Carol says is a booming business, tucked in next to a used bookstore and a music shop. There's a baby yellow awning hanging from the front just underneath a sign lettered in soft blue that reads Mun's Buns.

He's late, is the second thing he thinks after pulling up. Caught up in some stupid bullshit for his dad he hadn't managed to slip away until 12:30. Even then it had only been because Tommy had told him he was going to be late for their cake tasting. He'd rolled his eyes when his father and Greg, a guy that Tommy only considers a co-worker in the sense that they are technically on the same payroll since Greg in every other aspect is incompetent and an idiot, had winced. Shooing him away like a kid who'd just admitted that he's already twenty minutes past curfew. But catching sight of the way Carol has her arms crossed, tapping her foot fast enough to kickstart a motor, while her hair hangs limp in a way that it hadn’t this morning a third thought crosses his mind: maybe he should have been a little more worried.

Waiting isn’t going to make things any better. So he steps out of the car, let’s the misty damp cling to him in a way that makes his dress pants and button down feel like a poorly tailored second skin, and takes his licks like a man. "Late, thirty minutes late. Christ, it's the only thing I've asked from you Tommy." Her right hook stings just as badly as it did sophomore year when she punched him for asking out Erin Murphy instead of her.

Shit like that is probably why no one expected them to make it this long or this far.

When they went away to college; different schools, hours apart. His parents had been gleeful as they'd warned him that high school relationships didn't always last. That he should keep his options open, he didn't want to miss out on the love of his life just because of comfort. He didn't get offered the family ring when he decided to propose right after graduation. Carol has always been particular. Wanted the house to come back to before the wedding could happen, wanted a long honeymoon. That meant saving, a lot of it. Tommy knew and Carol did too, they'd overheard his mother and aunt gossiping in too loud voices after too much wine that they hoped the long engagement meant they were both trying to figure out a good way to break it off with one another. 

Still, over the course of their now five year engagement no one's asked once if they wanted to trade for it.

Carol thought it was horrendous anyway. She’d had her ring picked out since ‘85, styled her class ring so it would look like the oval cut diamond she wanted. Had him slide it on her finger the second it came in.

Cause in the politest of terms, Carol could be a raging bitch. She was Tommy's favorite person in the entire world.

There’s going to be a bruise on his shoulder tomorrow, even if she’s guiltily smoothing a hand down his arm now. Thrust toward the door first in offering, Carol is sorry she hit him but she’s not apologetic. “I’m serious, Tom, if we lose this appointment and have to go with Sweet Treats for our cake I'll- I'll-"

Whatever threat she was preparing is drowned out and then cut off by the echoing TONG of the door chime. A light in the back shifts color for a second, out of place enough that he wonders if he even really saw it. Head tilting toward Carol, his question catches in his throat when he notices her pinched off appraising. Better not to add to the ammunition she might already be building.

And if Carol is looking he better do it too. She'll want to debrief when they're having dinner tonight, just like they did with the florist, the caterer, the three wedding planners they'd met with, and each of the venues that they'd visited. And it wasnt because she was demanding, fuck you Greg. It wasn't because she was being nitpick-y, alright it was a little bit because she was but he liked being particular with her. He liked being involved in his wedding.

So he looked around.

The way they utilized their space -- a building that big and there's barely enough room to stand, we want someone who knows how to work with limited space for the venues we're looking at -- was the reason their first wedding planner hadn't gotten hired. Small, but not cramped. There are a handful of tables scattered in the open space in front of the counter. It’s the kind of small town cozy that Hawkins had tried for and he doesn’t see very often anymore now that they’ve moved out to Indianapolis.

It’s lunchtime, still too early for people to be seeking out the rows of deserts in their neat glass counter and too late for the breakfast crowd. But one of the tables is occupied by a teenager with long, black braids scribbling in a notebook while a slice of ice cream cake melts on a plate by her elbow. 

Everything was neat, organized, and compliant with health code regulations -- they hadn’t even made it in the door of the first caterer’s when she noticed a trail of ants and roaches marching into the open kitchen door.

Carol had always been quick when she was making up her mind about something. Like those Sherlock Holmes stories they’d had to read in school, in a couple of seconds she could spot everything she needed to make a decision. After a decade Tommy still couldn’t keep up; but he was always best at following someone else’s lead.

The smile she’s got frosted across her face is as sugary and fake as the roses on the cupcakes he can see behind the low topped counters as she approaches the only visible staff member. A girl, young in the way that nebulous way anyone younger than him was now, with thick squared glasses that magnified two distressingly blue eyes. The counters looked like they were designed to sit low enough that she could easily see over the top while in her wheelchair.

“Welcome to,” her customer service tone borders on bored. Two words into a clear script and she sighs, as if saying the name physically pains her, “Mun’s Buns. We’ve got a special series of summer flavors: Strawberry Lemonade, Lavender Mint, Chocolate Fudgsicle, and,” she sighs again, “for the grownups a boozy Blue Moon with orange zest.”

“How about a wedding cake.” He’s impressed. Carol made it through the speech without interrupting.

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl raises her voice, enough to make them both flinch back. Customer service isn’t a requirement for this part of the job necessarily, but Carol had bailed on two venues because the staff hadn’t been polite enough.

Her smile doesn’t crack though, “Yes.”

Even though he’s pretty sure this girl has to be basically blind with the inch thick frames, she levels Carol with a lethal stare. “Not you.”

From the open entryway behind her Tommy had been able to make out what sounded like the highlights of yesterday’s game. He assumed that space had to be the kitchen where these rows of deserts were made. He’s still surprised when a guy’s voice is shouting back, “I don't know, Max, do I? Why don't you check?”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Max shouts back, glowering at then in stand in for her mystery boss.

“With your finger, asshole. It's in braille. When I gave you this job you said you were actually gonna work.”

“Douchebag." Her eyes never leave them, while her hands rummage around in a space beneath the counter where the cash register sits. Max offers no explanation or apology for her shouting or for her boss. A large red appointment book gets slammed down on the nearest counter, making Carol jump but the neat two by twos of chocolate frosted cupcakes don't budge. He watches, a little fascinated by the way her finger scans the page before slowing. "Did you write this or did Dustin?"

Carol has always valued gossip over professionalism, he thinks that’s why she’s done so well as a hairdresser even though she was always awful at chemistry. It’s also why he’s held off from pointing out that they could solve this a lot faster if this guy would come out from the back. "Why?" 

“Cause one of you can't spell and one of you is trying to invent braille shorthand. So I'm not really sure what to do with TomGan Wed.”

“It might be Thomas and Wedding.” Carol leans over the appointment book as she says it, using a tone of voice he has never once heard her use in the entire time he’s known her. He thinks it’s supposed to be helpful.

“Wedding sampler.” The girl calls toward the back, “It's getting late.”

“I’ve got it,” the voice from the back shouts back.There’s an effortless assurance Tommy can hear from where he’s standing. It hits him with a wave of nostalgia so strong he grabs Carol’s arm on instinct.

“Really,” she says, cutting her gaze over to him. He’s not sure what she sees. “If we could hurry this along, it's just we've only got an hour.”

“You're late.” The glare she gets shuts Carol down faster than he’s ever seen.

“Right.”

“Okay I've got it.” The voice from the back is now the voice in the doorway. Hidden for a second by a serving tray loaded with samples of rich looking cake, it’s the first time since arriving that Tommy has actually wanted to be here. Not just because he can make out strong shoulders and a body of a man that’s still very fit but clearly enjoys his work too; the hint of love handles above strong thighs. Only then that tray dips, and for the first time since 1985 Tommy finds himself looking at the shocked hazel eyes of Steve Harrington. “Oh.”

Carol reacts for him, taking in a breath sharp enough she might puncture a lung. They’ll both wind up suffocated on the floor of this stupid bakery with an awful name, because Tommy can’t manage to breathe at all looking at Steve. Still unfairly handsome, faintly pink at the shock of seeing them too he imagined.

His hair is long, is the first real thought his half fried brain manages to put together. Soft looking even where it’s damp at the temples where sweat has pooled. He has it pulled back with a couple of the same butterfly clips that Carol likes to use.

His second, somehow more hysterical thought: this wasn’t how Steve Harrington was supposed to be included in his wedding.

Tommy was six years old and knew he wanted to marry Steve. When he’d told his mom -- to ask for her ring, Steve thought it was romantic like princes and princesses that they had a special ring that they got married with -- she’d grabbed by his arm so hard it’d left finger shaped bruises. So he’d held that certainty quiet in his heart until he was ten, and suddenly it was okay to want to play with girls on the playground -- he thinks it’s because Steve got tired of there never being an even number when they tried to play kickball, he had a way of making everyone want to do the thing he was. Carol wasn’t afraid to tell Tommy C. that he was dumb or to tell Mark L. that he hadn’t actually made it to the base, Steve liked her fast. Too fast, and Tommy had to tell her that one day he was going to be able to keep Steve all to himself. But he knew that it wasn’t right to say that now, even if he wasn’t all the way sure why it wasn’t. He was ten, but he would be eleven soon, and he took this part of him that he’d kept secret for so long and he whispered it to Carol under the slide while Steve tried to convince Brad P. that he could too pick two people for his kickball team first.

He was ten and Carol said they could share. Boys can’t marry boys, but girls can. So they could both marry her and live together forever.

It became a joke when they finally shared it with Steve, thirteen and boys going out with girls wasn’t funny the way it used to be. Sarah Jane asked Carol if she had a chance at going steady with Steve. She told Tommy about it later and they both told Steve that he was too good to date any of the girls in their grade. “Well I’ve got you guys,” his voice cracked when he said it, throwing an arm around both of them. Carol didn’t care as much, but even she’d noticed the way Steve was changing from boyish to handsome.

They were sixteen and disaster was just around the corner, not that he knew that. Steve dated around but he always came back to them. The head, the heart, the body. They don’t feel complete without each other -- at least Tommy doesn’t. Mr. Kripke, who was hungover more often than he wasn't, passed out ten minutes into study hall. Carol didn’t even wait to see if he’d wake back up before she left her assigned table for theirs. She smoothed out a lined piece of notebook paper for them, and Tommy scoffed like he was supposed to. “Aren’t we a little old to be playing MASH?”

“It’s dirty MASH, and I thought you’d think it was funny.”

“I think it’s funny,” Steve had said, “that you’re getting eiffel towered on your wedding night. Who else is joining in, Carrie?”

“We couldn’t agree on who got you for their side of the aisle. So we’re taking you to bed instead.”

He was sixteen and the way that the two of them looked when they shared a joke was the hottest thing in the world. The way their smiles mirror when they turned to him, sharp and ready to flay open the softest parts of him.

Tommy’s two days older when Steve lets him kiss the taste of Carol out of his mouth.

It was three days after he turned seventeen and he had to pretend he didn't want to die when he saw how Steve looked at Nancy Wheeler. Like he didn’t want to rip his hair out because Steve was fucking infatuated with this mousy little teacher’s pet and wouldn’t even look at him anymore.

He still doesn’t like to think about the breakup. He pokes it like a fresh bruise. Less often now, but when he does he digs his fingers in. Baits Carol into fights he doesn’t mean just so he can pretend like he hasn’t lost something that hurts like a limb.

Steve Harrington turns twenty-eight next week, and he’s standing in front of them both holding pieces of what might turn into their wedding cake.

“Wow I can’t believe you’re in Indy!” False excitement grates, but at least Carol has gotten herself together enough to speak. He thought he’d have at least another few months to prepare for the thought of seeing Steve, by their ten year reunion he was going to be married and happy and over it.

“Yeah, this is- Married, wow! I kinda can’t believe you haven’t already.” He says it to Carol, his platitudes had always been for Carol, but his eyes find Tommy. 

While Carol chatters at them and for them both, nervous, he knows she’s nervous. The situation is sudden and strange and fraught. But Tommy just looks at Steve, who looks at him. He’s getting married in three months, one week, and two days from now and for the first time in eleven years Steve is looking at him.

"Takes a while to save up for when you want the best of everything. Dad's still the skinflint he always was, I think he'd pay me less than minimum wage if he could get away with it."

And those soft brown eyes look so sad, looking at him. Sometimes he thinks no one will ever understand him the way that Steve did.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting the best, or having a long engagement." Carol defends. It's the same line she's been giving everyone. Defensive of him and herself and the choices they've been making. He can't believe Steve is someone she thinks they have to defend against.

“I really hope you're happy, man," he says, and the sincerity is a balm on the sting of this conversation. He pushes his hair back from his face, the way he always has when he's uncomfortable and trying not to make it obvious. And there's a fresh new hurt when Tommy catches sight of a plain gold band on Steve's finger, shining bright between the golden highlights of his hair.

“I’m happy about this,” he can say honestly. Carol is one of the only things he’s ever been sure about. She held him steady as she could when his other sure thing left him with a cracked foundation in a convenience store parking lot. “What about you? How long after meeting the future Mrs. Harrington did you wait to put a ring on her finger?”

“Tommy,” Carol chides as the teen in the corner snorts. To anyone else it would sound like a reprimand for being nosy, he, and he suspects Steve, knows she’s telling him to stop worrying a scab that has no hope of healing right.

Married and they didn’t know. Wouldn’t have found out until the reunion. It’s not like he expected an invitation, maybe an engagement announcement sent to their parents’ houses. They’d sent one to Loch Nora when the real ring had finally made it to Carrie’s finger. It was equal parts olive branch and offering. They’d gotten it back return to sender with no forwarding address.

The bell above the door tongs again, loud enough to make Carol jump. The platter of cakes doesn't shift at all in Steve’s hand. His arm shows no sign of fatigue. It’s almost distracting enough that he misses the obvious. The bell signals someone is coming into the store.

“Sorry, Sweetheart. I know I said I wasn't gonna be late but Mike…” There just inside the door is the Freak. Undeniable even with his head down as he digs through his shoulder bag. From the riot of poorly maintained tangles that still hang around his shoulders to the expanded mess of tacky ink on his arms. The only thing that’s changed is the age in his face and the band on his shirt.

“Munson?” Carol has the reflexes and the personal grace to address him first. Shock more than the disgust it might have been when they were still kids.

Tommy feels like a kid still. Looks to Steve in an instinct he’d thought he’d stamped out years ago, only to be met with wide eyes and teeth grit tight enough to draw out the square line of his jaw.

“Christ, I still get nightmares that start like this.” Munson says, eye darting between the three of them. “Max, am I naked?”

“Don't know, don't wanna know.”

“I thought you'd be able to tell by the energy in the room.” He wiggles his fingers, still bedecked in silver, like they can divine the vibrations or some witchy shit.

That’s enough to make Steve break just a little. A soft, exhaling scoff before he finally starts to move out from the counter. Tommy catches, and he doubts Carol misses it either, how Steve passes the closer tables to set his tray down between them and Munson.

“I can tell I don't want to be here for this.” Their redheaded audience member says, “I'm taking my 15.”

“Don't go harass Mike, he's finally working,” Munson says.

“Will and El are on shift on the other side,” Steve calls out, not looking at any of them as he moves cakes from his tray to the table. A deliberate selection he seems to be making.

“Whatever, I’m gonna call Lucas and break up with him so he can play better or whatever.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Munson calls out, “I’ve only got him on a five point spread.”

If Carol’s nails break from how hard they’re digging into his arm, somehow it’ll be Tommy’s fault. Not the fact that they’ve advanced the worst part of their ten year reunion by months, and also Munson is here and knows shit about basketball.

“Sorry, think my hearing’s going, sounded like you said you want him to lose and he’s getting kicked from the next one shot. I’ll let him know.”

“She gets that from you,” Steve and Munson say in sync. Glaring playfully at one another the way Steve used to with Carol.

“I’ll tell Robin you were-”

“Do not sick Buckley on me, Max made the deaf joke not me.”

“Weird, that’s not what I heard.” Steve has always claimed his hair as his best feature. It isn’t -- Carrie liked his eyes, Tommy his hands -- but it’s hard to deny that it doesn’t look good, flipping over his shoulder. His smile is private, just for Munson, soft the way he got whenever he picked up a new girl. Carrie taps the back of his hand, two sharp smacks, their signal for years that he needed to pay attention and notice something she had. Wide, nervous eyes dart to Steve -- like he hadn’t already been looking at Steve -- so he does his best to assess the way Carol would.

Jealous, viciously, Steve had been theirs in every way that mattered since they were ten years old and Carol had never liked sharing her toys with anyone but them. She watched his face for any sign of unhappiness anytime a new girlfriend came along, and when she found one she passed it along to him. So he could pick and joke until Steve was all theirs again.

So he checked the face. Tried to ignore the way Steve was lit up from the inside out with a joy he could barely remember, and then he saw the hearing aid.

He tapped back, three times. O.M.G.

“The 1985 Homecoming court here to reveal that this has all been a long con, Stevie?”

“Yeah I faked the name change paperwork and picked up a fake ID, sorry I took my business somewhere else.” Steve says it with the sincerity he’s always made those kind of jokes with, his strange sense of humor never coming across when he always sounded so serious. 

Munson gets it though, snorts loud and ugly, before a smile pulls wide across half his face the otherside taught with a gnarly scar. “Now I know why my fake ID business went belly up when we got to the city, not like I only sold three in high school.”  He gestures to the three of them in a wide arc.

Sophomores, they had decided it was time to throw their first real party now that Steve’s parents had moved out of Hawkins in all but name. Steve was a latchkey kid of new proportions and took to self sufficiency in a way that had seemed adult to him then; and in hindsight looked more like a child fighting for his life. Steve bragged how he’d been saving up the weekly checks they’d sent to ‘sustain him’ while they worked in the city during the week. His contribution to Tommy and Carol’s vague plan to throw a kegger by the pool. When they’d floundered, immediately, with the hows, Steve had been the one to suggest going to Munson.

“Love this preview of the reunion,” Carol cuts in, there’s no bite but Munson bristles anyway like she’s being rude for reminding them that there are customers present. “Steve?”

It’s funny, Tommy thinks, the way Steve still straightens his back at Carol’s tone. All this time and he can’t fight the old ingrained instincts either.

“Dustin made the appointment,” Steve apologizes, even as he’s posture perfect and preparing his pastries. The unsaid, ‘I definitely wouldn’t have’ doesn’t go unheard and it doesn’t sting any less even this far from their last interaction.

“Munson could join us,” Tommy offers, a new olive branch since their last one was never seen. Even if it does raise three sets of brows and makes Carrie’s nervous smile tighten even more in the corner of her mouth.

“Well at least one of us has to,” Munson, Eddie, says. Just says, tone like it was meant to be something said under his breath.

He's grown up a lot since high school, they both have. Still, he's only got twenty minutes left on his lunch break and it's been a long day. "God, is that why it's called that?" Growth, he doesn't say that Steve Munson sounds a lot dumber than Steve Harrington.

"It's charming," Carol and Steve both say. Though Carrie is definitely lying and Steve barely gets it out from between his gritted teeth, a sore spot. He's always been good at finding Steve's bruises.

"It's charming," Tommy agrees, like he always did when he was out voted.

Eddie has a smirk spread across his face and a ‘too proud of himself’ look in his eyes. Mouth open to make some quip that Tommy is going to pretend is funny, for Steve’s sake. Now that they’re here, he’s going to do something to show that they could talk to one another again. Steve clicks his tongue, taps his index and middle finger down to his thumb two quick times before he can.

He turns to the girl in the corner, "Erica, scram, go help Robin and the kids with the new donation that just came in."

The teen continues to scribble in the notebook in front of her, bulky headphones over her ears, she makes no sign that Tommy can see that she's heard Steve speak. "Erica, go, or I'll tell your mother you moved out of the dorms. You're 20, it's not child labor, and you've got a timecard."

She sighs and wordlessly packs up her things, she gives Steve a scathing look that takes Tommy back to high school. The withering eyebrow and rolled eyes would have been just at home on Steve’s own face in 1985, but she marches behind the counter, the sound of her dish rattling in the sink before she disappears out the same door that the redhead had gone out.

Now that the room has been cleared, an awkward silence has found the space to squeeze in. Munson, the original, still standing in the doorway and Steve standing between his unlawfully wedded husband and the two people who had lost their chance at him years ago.

The wedding and the reunion both on the horizon had dredged up a nostalgia that Tommy and Carol had been dealing with in their own ways. Dredging up old yearbooks, Carol had found a shoebox of old notes that she’d kept. Conversations written in three different inks by three different hands, nonsensical after all this time. Tommy woke up from dreams that he hadn’t had in years. Always of Steve and Carol, a study in opposites, but similar where it mattered.

“Well,” Steve says, taking charge of the situation like he always would when the other two faltered, “you’re here for a reason. We might as well get started on it.”

Steve’s fingerprints are still on them, just like he’d noticed theirs on him, molded as they were together. They’ve always bowed to his expectations, and his whims. When he ushers them to the table with a spread hand, Tommy and Carol go where they’re beckoned.

And so does Munson.

They keep an empty chair between them, an artificial divide for Tommy’s sanity, but with the sprawl of Munson’s legs their knees still occasionally brush together. Carol had taken the spot closest to Steve, who has stayed standing. He is their gracious host, marking the head of the round table.

“I pulled out the full sampler before I realized it was you,” Steve says. Even with as off balance as the interaction has felt, Tommy doesn’t feel his hackles raising. While it’s possible he’s gotten more subtle with his digs, Steve’s vicious tongue was usually unmistakable. “I can tell you about as many of them as you want though if you want to pretend like we don’t already know what I’ll be making you. I’m sure neither of you have eaten lunch yet.”

“You are going to take us on?” Carol asks. Shock always gives her tone an extra edge, defensive and catty, even if she’s really just waiting to see if another shoe will drop.

“Obviously,” Steve says, placing a faintly orange square of cake in front of her. He slaps Eddie’s hand away from another piece without looking away from either of them. “That’s as far as I’ll be going in participation though.”

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s mouth twitches up with the joke, a filthy smirk that leaves Tommy flushing hot. Too warm to not be a bright and obvious red at the acknowledgment of that old private in-joke.

It doesn’t get better when Carol moans, “Oh my god, Steve!” Even if it is about the cake.

He laughs, and Tommy suspects the two are actually trying to kill him. He chances a glance over at Munson who looks like he doesn’t care at all that his husband has made Tommy’s fiance moan. He is watching Tommy though, an inquisitive look like the one Carol gets when she happens to catch a nature documentary.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with Carol, “I’ll do something small with that citrus cake for you and Tom so you’ve got something you’ll actually eat on your wedding, maybe a pineapple buttercream on top like that nasty Juicy Fruit gum you like so much.”

“I mean it’s really crazy how you’re so good at this when you’ve never had any taste,” Carol compliments, she never did learn how to be nice.

He could probably count Steve’s teeth in the answering smile. Tommy can feel it like an ache in his chest how much he missed this. He snatches another cube of cake off the tray just so has something else to focus on.

“That’s the fancy one for the people who hate their guests,” Munson says as the cake has settled on the flat of Tommy’s tongue.

“It’s lavender,” Steve corrects, and the floral flavor is lodged in the back of his throat at least gives him a reason now to feel so choked up. “And it is for a particular sort of bride.”

“Are you saying I’m not fancy and particular, Munson?” Carol asks. 

She’s obviously talking to Eddie Munson, who lifts his hands up in answer. But it’s Steve who says, “If you tried to feed that to Gail she would leave the reception bitching the whole time.”

“Well go on,” Tommy finds himself goading now that he’s swallowed, “finish calling your shot, Stevie. You said you knew what we were walking out of here with.”

Carol reaches across the table, locking eyes with Eddie as she snags the piece closest to him. The one his fingers had been inching toward like he thought Steve wouldn’t notice him trying to take it.

“I’ll make a small citrus cake for you, Carrie, we’ll hide it in the back of the larger cake so you can get the pictures of you cutting it and smashing into each other's faces-”

“We will not be doing that,” she interrupts, the warning for him and also unnecessary. He already knows how she feels about being embarrassed in public.

“Then the big cake for your guests will be a chocolate cake, I can cover it in a buttercream or a fondant icing also chocolate, because it’s the only kind of cake the Hagan family will eat. Even though I’m sure John hasn’t given you a dime for the wedding, he’ll complain until Hannah gets married if he doesn’t like the cake.”

“Really,” Steve continues, “the only thing up in the air is how many people you were able to get away with not inviting, Care.”

The two of them start talking actual wedding logistics, and as Tommy grabs another bite of cake -- this one looks like it might be a normal flavor -- he figures the real show of good faith would be talking to the only other person at the table while he eats what Steve correctly dubbed his lunch.

“Y’know he never actually answered me,” he says in an undertone.

Munson seems surprised at being spoken to, only widens his eyes in response to Tommy’s unasked question.

“I asked Steve how soon after the first date he proposed, he never actually answered.”

Eddie softens at the edges before he can even say anything. Steve had a way of doing that, bringing out the romantic in a person. He loved with a passion that demanded it be matched. “Technically I proposed to him, but he says it doesn’t count because we weren’t together and I was high on morphine after a major surgery and thought he was Apollo, come to whisk me away.” The smile on Munson’s face looks dopey and drugged up now, like the very memory of whatever hospital stay is so ingrained in his mind he can feel the high now.

“But,” he goes on, “he told me we were getting married whether it was legal or not about three months after he got legally married to another woman.”

“Stop,” Steve has always been able to sense when he’s about to be the butt of the joke. He has a finger pointed at Eddie like a teacher delivering a lecture. “You can’t tell people that. It was for tax reasons, I’m not cheating on my wife.”

“You say tomato, I say whichever one of us is your least favorite has to be the extramarital affair.”

“I say, you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.” Tommy can hear the warm affection behind the insult, the way their picking is a safer way to express their passion for one another.

He thought he would be jealous of whoever finally managed to reel in Steve Harrington for good, and he is. The emotion is there, present in the snarling tangle of emotions that this encounter has left in him. One that he and Carol will have to slowly tease and pick out tonight when they’re home in bed. Trying to make sense of what each thread is and what it means for them. But the one bright pulsing thread he can make sense of is happiness. He’s happy for Steve, happy that he gets to see an old friend so at ease and obviously cared for.

And he’s sad that his time is up, his lunch hour so close to an end he’ll be late getting back to the office. Something he can already hear his Dad and fucking Greg giving him shit for. Which means they have to end their time here.

Steve walks them to the door, flips the sign to mark them closed for lunch.

“Congratulations again, you two,” he says, “I really am happy I can get to be a part of this with you all. Even if it’s a little different than we used to imagine.”

Carol reaches out for the both of them, puts her hand on his arm. Tommy finds that he’s the one who actually says, “We’re glad you found someone who makes you this happy, dude. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, he’s alright most of the time.” It's said with such fondness it becomes a declaration. It’s hard to imagine how they thought they could ever be the something that could make Steve this happy. But maybe in a different life, under different circumstances it could have been.

There’s a minute where they all stand in the doorway. He wonders if they’re all afraid that this might be the last time they see each other, speak to one another, until Steve is delivering the cake on the day of the wedding. Maybe it’s just him, he was the one who pushed back the hardest after things ended.

Someone finally gives in and pushes the door open. It’s TONG a death toll for their current conversation. But it also sends a jolt through Steve, he straightens to his full height like a shock has gone through him. “Here,” he says, “here, um.” He digs around in his apron until he finds a pen and a receipt pad. Jots down something before tearing it off and putting it in Tommy’s hands, “It's our home number, in case you have any cake emergencies or something.”

They really can’t stay any longer.

Carol takes the note, better at keeping track of these things than Tommy is. It’s hard to know if they’ll actually use it, maybe after they talk about it, but if they do she’ll be the one to do it. She’s always been braver than him.

There’s no way of guaranteeing anything but the fact that they’ll have a cake on the table on their wedding day. But he hopes that Steve might stay for the ceremony once he brings it, he can even bring Eddie if that’s what gets him there. 

Alone in his car, Tommy lets himself take a minute to think about Steve Harrington one last time. He isn’t going to get what he wanted as a kid. Doubts that he’ll ever be as close to Steve as he’d been in childhood, too much time has passed and too much has changed.

But there’s an opportunity to get to know Steve Munson, and he isn't going to pass it up. Even if he doesn’t know how to name a bakery.

[vamptits]

wtf..party little poison

[the-bat-bros]

Anxious! Tim Drake

Have some angst head cannons

Anxious! Tim Drake who assumes that if anyone is upset near him, it’s his fault

Anxious! Tim Drake who hides in his room when his family is arguing, and stares at the wall, trying to make out what is being said a few doors down

Anxious! Tim Drake who dissociates whenever he is in trouble

Anxious! Tim Drake who gets aggravated the first time Dick tries to help him through a panic attack

“I said I’m fine”

“Tim I can see that you aren’t fine, and that’s okay. Please talk to me, tell me what’s going on. Let me help-”

“I said I’m fine!”

Anxious! Tim Drake who feels bad about shoving people away who are just trying to help him. But he doesn’t need help. They’re only pitying him anyway. They don’t actually care.

Anxious! Tim Drake who bounces his knee, taps his fingertips together, or twirls a pen to help get some of his anxieties out

Anxious! Tim Drake who absolutely breaks down on the floor in the bathroom when a mission went wrong. It was his fault. He didn’t do enough. He should have done more. He needs to prove himself. He needs to do better.

Anxious! Tim Drake who is up all night because his mind won’t shut up, going over every tiny little detail of the day and what he could have done differently. He’s such a failure. He doesn’t deserve to be part of this family. He needs to be better. They’re probably still upset about that thing from three years ago. Oh god why did he sound so silly talking to Bernard last week? Why didn’t he offer to help Damian with his homework is he a bad brother? Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god.

Anxious! Tim Drake who finally accepts help from Jason. Jay links Tim up with his therapist. Therapy sucks but Jason was right, it’s helping

Anxious! Tim Drake who learns to journal. Writing down what he think he did wrong and then writing why it was okay underneath that. He feels so silly when he does this, but it helps

Anxious! Tim Drake who gets a little better every day. It will take time. Healing isn’t linear. But he isn’t a failure. He is doing the best that he can. And that’s enough.