#draft preview

[be-queer-do-arson]

How do I have FORTY FIVE drafts right now. I feel like a hoarder

[humming-fly]

Just like Justin Mcelroy's callbacks to the chilean miners I have once again emerged to deliver this, More Team Greed Nonsense, this time featuring stupid questions ed asks to get out of work

ngl drawing this is the most clear headed I've felt in weeks if i go longer then seven days without drawing greedling I start going through withdrawl

to that end have a second bonus:

Team Greed Doodles Masterlist

[seriously--fangirling]

Danny & Tim Stoker & Freefall

On the parallels between MAG 104 Sneak Preview and MAG 21 Freefall, particularly in relation to Tim.

Keep in mind that Jon assigned follow-up for this statement to Tim.

Immediately, both statements start off remarkably similarly. Both Moira and Tim describe the events they witnessed as disappearances. This would likely put Tim on edge as soon as he read this. Plus, as an extra pin prick to Tim, the name Robert would bring Robert Smirke (whose architecture is involved in Danny's "disappearance") to mind.

From Tim, we learn that Danny has various "obsessions" which last several months before he switched to something new. He's constantly involved in random things such as charity events and modelling. This is how he first gets into urban exploration.

From Moira, we learn that Robert is much the same. In fact, he first gets involved in skydiving as part of a charity event.

Of course, in both stories, the inciting incident happens along with Danny's and Robert's interests.

When it comes to relationships, Tim says he and Danny don't talk very often but are still very close. Danny always keeps Tim updated on his current interests. Moira sees Robert very infrequently and only gets the "occasional phone call" otherwise. She and Robert do still seem to care about one another very much.

After experiencing something horrifying, Robert and Danny each return to someone they love — the statement givers — clearly traumatized. Danny doesn't explain what happened; Robert does.

I have to ask, does Tim wish Danny had told him? If so, is it because he thinks it will help on his quest for revenge or solely because of a desperate need to know?

After seeing their traumatized loved ones, Moira and Tim both go to bed. When Moira wakes up, Robert is still there, having slept soundly. When Tim wakes up, Danny is gone.

Do you think when Tim read that Moira went to bed, he started mentally screaming at her that that was the wrong thing to do, thinking that Robert would be gone when she woke up since that's what happened to him? Do you think he's jealous of her for seeing Robert happier one last time before the terrible thing happens?

At the climax of each statement, Robert and Danny each initially seem to be alone until suddenly they are not. Both Tim and Moira are helpless to stop what they see, whether because of Tim's fear or because Moira was pushed down. Afterward, neither can explain what they saw.

Tim didn't see what actually happened to Danny. He saw the results: Danny's skin on the dancer who pretended to be him. Does Tim wish he knew exactly what had happened to Danny? Is he glad he didn't see it? I bet when he read about Robert's fear and how he screamed, Tim imagined Danny screaming as his skin is carved off.

~~~

Tim's always been good at hiding his trauma, though. We get no indication of his feelings about this statement, except...

We do know Tim put exceptional work into the follow-up for this statement. According to Jon, "Tim really outdid himself here, and [spent] almost a day combing through accident and incident reports."

[awesomelyanon]

Uh oh

[deliriousblue]

campy romcom shakespeare adaptation about assassins involving heavy themes of coercion with homages to gay porn sprinkled in for flavor. very genuinely no one is doing it like jojo tichakorn

[sysig]

Happy Pride, gay therapists (Patreon)

[phoenixtakaramono]

Chariot and Wolf - Chapter 1 Preview (Part 1/ ?)

(Note: this comes from an earlier draft, so there might or might not be some small changes in the final version that’ll be uploaded to AO3 once the prologue is done.)

CONTEXT

Sneak-Peek:

Fate had always been in the realm of the gods, though even the gods were subject to it.

For as much as mankind, immortals, and gods believed they were the masters of their destiny and could control the little things in life, with those small decisions adding up to the everyday, the overall shape of their lives were not theirs to decide. They were at the mercy of the Moirai—the three Fates who weaved their futures from their spindles on their craftsman’s loom and snipped life threads short. From the beginning, the Fates determined which souls would be born, the course of events, what kind of lives they would live, and for how many days. It was always ever thus.

It was during the month of Hekatombaion, during the important Panathenaic Games held every four years to honor the goddess Athena, when Queen Anticlea fell into labor, sending all into an uproar. On a warm midsummer night, dark and moonless, the midwives, along with the queen’s female relatives and friends tending to her through the moving image of eternity, finally heard the wails of a healthy baby boy.

They had delivered the firstborn son of an Argonaut, King Laertes and his wife, Queen Anticlea.

Their kingdom, at last, had a legitimate heir.

Whilst the exhausted queen slept, the wet-nurse, a dark-haired woman who wore a kekryphalos—a wide-woven woven caul secured around the front of the head, with a pouch in the back where the majority of her hair was tucked inside the elastic cap—presented the sleeping newborn prince before the queen’s honored parents.

The honored servant was named Eurycleia; she had been sold to King Laertes as a young girl, having been treated as an honored servant in his household for many years, that she was almost regarded as the king’s second wife. However Laertes never had Eurycleia attend to him in the bed, out of respect for his principal wife whom he loved. As his trusted servant, Eurycleia had been tasked to attend to the baby’s needs during the queen’s postpartum recovery.

When the servant Eurycleia took this soft delicate creature into her arms, holding him with the utmost care and delicacy, she found herself seized with emotion. Eurycleia fell into a daze looking at the tiny sleeping face peeking from the blue swaddling cloth. Her heart swelled. Although he had been born from another woman’s womb, at this very moment, she felt a mother’s unconditional love wash over her.

Stepping forward, very gently Eurycleia laid the tender sleeping prince upon the aged Autolycus’ knees and addressed respectfully, “The Wolf Itself, Autolykos, you who have dared to battle wits against the craftiest of men, King Sisyphus, may you find a name to give to your child's own child; for he has much been prayed for.” She didn’t dare suggest a name to him, for it was neither her place nor did they share any blood ties, but she could provide a gentle hint.

Wearing a handsome wolf pelt draped over one shoulder, Autolycus, fleet-footed and fleet of fingers, cradled his grandson who had surprised everyone and whose sudden birth sent all into a flurry of panic. He scrutinized him. Looking at the wisps of soft dark down on the infant’s head, it was still much too early to tell whom this child would take after in appearance, whether it was his birth mother or his royal father—or perhaps someone else in their ancestry. But the prince’s penchant for trickery proved innate—perhaps an influence of the child’s great-grandfather. Peering at the infant’s ruddy cheeks, the old Autolycus was once again confronted with the disappointing reality that his family could not have the fortune of ichor running golden through their veins. Only red mortal blood.

Grazing his thumb over the child’s eyelid, he suddenly recalled the servants’ secret whisperings. The prince had been born with marigold eyes. Just like their daughter’s. Just like his. The sort that picked up whatever hue was near. Like a creek dappled in morning light, a dirty stain of gold, darkening into a warm brown around the two innermost black eclipses.

In the past, Autolycus had the dubious honor of being visited, and rewarded for his faithful sacrifices to him, by his swift-footed father with his gold wand, who’d been absent most of his life; glimpsed a glimmer of marigold beneath his shadowed features. There'd been a hint of twisted playfulness which had softened some of the immortal’s merciless edges, lending his youthful beauty a trace of humanness. There was something there, in the defined angles and deep shadows cast over the Messenger God’s marble-like face, the sharp line of his smooth clean shaven jaw, the two wicked slashes of his lips, the hollows of his cheeks, and a pair of eyes the color of pure unsullied ichor which glowed bright gold beneath the wide brim of his winged hat.

But just like strong wine which had been diluted with water, the more and more bloodlines would mix into theirs, the more watered down their bloodline would be. Autolycus’ own sons, as well as his two daughters, Anticlea and Polymede, and now this grandchild, proved evidence of that. None of his children could do something he found as simple as changing horned cattle into hornless ones and brown cows into white ones. Perhaps this was the fate of all borned demigods, who weren’t immortal, destined to live out a life more mortal than divine. There’d come a time in the distant future when the strength of their gifts faded, when a descendant from their bloodline would be no different from that of any other Achaean.

“Since I have angered many, both men and women,” Autolycus announced, in a moment of pure sardonic pique, "as I am a legendary untouchable thief hated by all, let the name of the child be ‘Odysseus.’” Lifting the infant higher with both hands, Autolykos told the future king, “I have high hopes for you, little Odysseus.”

Eurycleia bowed her head. To be wroth against, to be angry or cause hate—a fierce name, strong in meaning, bestowed as an honor to himself. The name betrayed the weight of Autolycus’ expectations and the value he placed on his grandson.

It was said that the Three Sisters of Fate spun a person’s destiny within three nights of their birth. The first sister, Clotho, a young maiden on the left, spun the fibres of a child’s life while in the womb into a single thread, from her distaff onto her spindle. The older and more matronly sister in the center, Lachesis, held the rod used to measure their golden thread of life, for the length of a child’s life, experiences, and the number of tribulations they were predestined to face were determined from her fingers. Then came Atropos—cronely, haggardly, old. Inevitable. The sister whom most were frightened by, for in her gnarled hand held the terrible shears used to cut the thread of life, choosing the manner and time of his or her death. Once cut, the soul would be sent into the Underworld to receive judgement and discharged to one of three destinations: Elysium, for the righteous souls who were to be rewarded; Tartarus, for the vicious souls who were to be punished; and the Fields of Asphodel, for the mediocre and ordinary. Feared by mortals and gods alike, the sisters pressed together to preside over a person’s fate—a prophecy foretold, their past, present, and future set in stone.

Odysseus was King Laertes’ firstborn son, born by the legitimate wife. So long as the king of Ithaca Laertes did not give sire to another son, and the prince suffered neither misfortune nor committed any unforgivable crimes, the course of this child’s destiny had already been charted out for him.

Three nights later, dark storm clouds rolled into Ithaca, heralded by dazzling claps of thunder and lightning that boasted an ocean of tears. The old Autolycus awoke with a start.

“Dear…?” his wife murmured drowsily.

Whatever Autolycus had been about to say to reassure her was interrupted when a flash of blistering color lifted the veil of darkness. His ears rang with the deafening unearthly screech of an eagle. There was a dangerous edge to the cry, like a thunderstorm about to erupt.

Like a bolt of lightning, the fine embroidered bedcover was flung off and Autolycus prostrated himself on the floor. He bellowed, “Zeus, O’ Wise King of the Gods, I heed your prophetic warnings! I give eternal thanks for your consideration and the everlasting grace you have shown to me and my family!”

Deep in Autolycus’ ambrosial sleep, he had dreamt Zeus had flown into his bedchambers in the guise of a large golden eagle, landing on the bedrest above the old swindler’s head. Sharp talons curled, majestic wings folded, a strong yellow beak preened his flight feathers. In the dream from heaven, disguised as a bird of prey, the god proclaimed in a deep, authoritative thunder clap: “Master of Thieves, Autolycus, do you dare sleep now when I come to you bearing a message? Listen closely now, for you are my messenger son’s son and, as far-off as I can be, I care about you and feel compassion.”

Like peering through a fog, Autolycus witnessed a war, and a fatal anger that would bring countless sorrows on the Achaeans, sending the souls of many valiant warriors to Hades, their bodies left behind as spoils for dogs and carrion birds on the broad-paved roads. He then witnessed the mightiest of all, aegis-bearing Zeus, he of the far-thundering voice, seated upon his throne composed of clouds at the gleaming Olympus, looking troubled; inclining his shadowed brow upon ambrosial locks, the Cloud-Lord thunderously forbade the company of gods from interfering in the quarrel of mortals.

Autolycus saw a massive wooden horse being wheeled into a city’s thick fortified gates, and forty soldiers pouring out of the large, hollowed underbelly in the dead of night to push the gates open. He beheld Odysseus—handsome, long-haired, and proud—commanding six hundred men to glory. He saw his grandson, looking fresh and bright after the war, setting sail homeward bound—and the innumerous sufferings he endured. The incidents, and the faces of many, flashed before Autolycus’ eyes like a series of quick lightning bolts.

A cave and the one-eyed monster that lived inside it—a horrid creature, not like a human being at all, but resembling a rugged mountain crag piercing the sky—dashed six of Odysseus’ men to the ground with his club until their brains splattered, tearing their corpse from limb from limb, gorging on their flesh, bones, and entrails; of Odysseus later thrusting a club of olive-wood in the ashes, and then having his men aim it straight and true, sharpened at the tip, into the cyclops’ eye—throwing his weight upon the beam from above, whirling the fiery-sharpened point in the socket like how a man would bore a ship’s timber with a drill, while those below kept it spinning with the thong, as the eyeball burned and boiling blood bubbled around the red hot beam; Autolycus’ ears deafened hearing the pained, earth-shattering roar whilst the surrounding flock of rams, well-fed and thick of fleece, brayed in fright; the monster’s crying had attracted the other savage cyclops who lived in the headlands near him.

In another flash, Autolycus was on a cliffside, and he saw what he assumed to be the silhouette of his grandson from a distance, joined by his crewmates who hastily set sail from the beaches. Dwarfing Autolycus in height, the blinded ogre had stretched both hands out to the starry heaven; his voice rumbled like two boulders grating together, praying to the lord Poseidon—that if he were the god’s true begotten son—to grant a curse upon “the valiant warrior, Odysseus, the sacker of cities and son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca,” to never reach his home alive. Or that if it were Odysseus’ fate to see his friends, to derail the man’s voyage for as long as he could, for the captain to suffer greatly after losing all of his men, and to let him reach his home only in another man’s ship, and to find trouble in his own house. Curse after curse after curse spilled forth. And Poseidon heard his prayer.

Zeus hurled his bolt—and this time Autolycus opened his eyes to see the earth-encircling Poseidon commanding a giant whirlpool. Autolycus’ breath drew tight in his chest. Who could stand the weight of a god’s wrath? A titan towering over the twelve ships, Poseidon calmly declared to them their death sentence. With a majestic sweep of his divine trident, the black ocean swelled up into monstrous giant horses, surging over eleven ships—before crashing down, swallowing the screams of more than five-hundred crewmen. Autolycus watched as Odysseus’ face crumbled in despair. Over the sleet-like spray of salt water and sound of waves rocking the only ship spared, they could hear the god’s vindictive hiss: “Forty-three left under your command….”

“Cousin, Father Zeus; and you other everlasting and blessed gods,” a clear voice suddenly rang out. Loud, energetic, eager. The violent seas had vanished, replaced by sunlight, shining and radiant. Autolycus would recognize that voice anywhere, having pilfered a dagger from the god: Helios the Sun, the one who saw everything. The god threatened, “I ask you to punish the companions of Odysseus, son of Laertes; for they outrageously killed my cattle, in whom I always delighted on my way up into the starry heaven, or when I turned back again from heaven toward earth. I demand just recompensation for my cattle, or you will see me go down to Hades’ and give my light to dead men!”

A bolt of lightning hurled blinded his vision—and this time Autolycus was overlooking his grandson from high above, up in the black clouds. From Zeus’ perspective, as judge, jury, and executioner. Odysseus looked wretched and disheveled, the bloodstain on his tunic blooming like a carnelian flower. “Choose.” Addressing Odysseus, Zeus’s voice was deep, like a storm coming, but gentle, like the rain ending. The god’s sonorous voice echoed through the hollow place of sorrow, reverberating in everyone’s eardrums. “Someone’s gotta die today and you have got the final say….” The last syllable was stretched long, a cruelty masked behind gaiety.

Another flash—and this time Autolycus was astonished to see the familiar tall figure of Athena, beloved daughter of Zeus, marching up to the imposing throne constructed of wispy cumulus clouds. Her voice boomed with authority in the sacred place, coming to Odysseus’ aid, pleading her case before Zeus to release him and to allow the pitiful king of Ithaca to return home. Her voice melded with five other opposing voices who engaged her, turn by turn, in fierce debate. That was all Autolycus was allowed to hear before his vision darkened, and he almost leapt with fright suddenly seeing the helmeted Athena brazenly point her bronze-tipped spear up at a furious Zeus.

The image of Zeus’ daughter raising her weapon against her heavenly father, this great primordial being whose form eclipsed the entire sky, in defense of Autolycus’ grandson, was seared into Autolycus’ eyes. Beholding the god’s true terrible form, Autolycus remembered the stories of the mad Titan, Kronos—he who mated his older sister Rhea—whose blood flowed in Zeus’ veins, as well as his ancestry with the Titans Ouranos, the sky, and Gaia, the earth. The goddess’ noble figure was the last thing he saw before his vision burned bright and a shroud of absolute darkness soon came falling down.

After the last vision, Zeus fell uncannily silent. In the absence of light, the darkness held a presence that was all the more felt because it was not seen. Autolycus heard the distant sound of waves striking the shore, forceful and strong and as constant as the deepest ocean currents; and it was as though the pounding of his heart was keeping in time with the sea’s great tides—the sound a familiar comfort, and every seafarer’s nightmare. A looming danger unable to mitigate.

“…That clever grandson of yours will run afoul of many great gods. These are a mere trifle I have deemed significant and allowed you to see.” The eagle lifted his beak from his feathers. Gazed at Autolycus with eyes blazing with golden ichor. “Odysseus of Ithaca is a man born to trouble. However his fate is to become a fine king of counsel, charged with an army, on whom responsibility so rests. He will go to engineer a clever trick so heinous, the war cannot be won without his strategy, contributions that thereby make him essential for it is fated that Troy will fall. As I will have decreed that us immortal gods cannot interfere in the war, I have effectively tied my own hands—for once I give my nod, my word can never be recalled; to prove true and fulfilled. Heed my only warning, Autolycus, as my wish is to preserve the sanctity of the natural divine order. Hold fast to this, remember all, when honey-tongued sleep frees you.”

With this, the eagle departed in a shower of golden sparks. When Autolycus woke, the divine voice was still ringing in his ears.

At present, he could feel his body ache; the cold floor was unforgiving on his old bones and stiff joints. Dread donned Autolycus’ troubled brow now that he was no longer constrained by sleep’s inability to doubt. Why give him, a thief who’d boasted he could steal undetected from the gods themselves, the grace of a divine vision? Why him—and not somebody else? Autolycus’ cunning mind raced, pondering Zeus’ intentions.

Could it be…? For Zeus to personally descend instead of sending down a messenger, did this not indicate that the god somewhat recognized their unacknowledged familial ties? Although Autolycus’ blood ran crimson, his relationship to the immortal gods of Olympus could be considered the strongest amongst his wives and children, for the blood of Hermes directly flowed through his veins. Disguising his warning as an omen, was their divine ancestor showing consideration for his children’s mortal descendants—however distant and negligible their relation might be, as neither Autolycus nor his children nor children’s children sprung from Zeus’ loins directly?

He heard his wife slip out from the comfort of the warm covers; her warm hands slipped underneath to support her kneeling husband from underneath his elbows. He snapped out of his thoughts. His pulse still thundering from the prophetic dream, gripping his wife by her arms, Autolycus announced feverously, “Beloved Amphithea, come with me to seek an audience with our daughter. We must make haste! For I have seen her son’s future!”

The old woman, seized with fear, obeyed her husband.

That night, Autolycus and Amphithea held an assembly with their daughter and their son-in-law. Listening to Autolycus recount his prophetic vision of an incoming war, Queen Anticlea—a woman of exemplary virtue and chastity—and King Laertes who was a man of honor, wisdom, courage, and a straightforward personality, were, understandably, afraid. Afraid for the state of their kingdom—and for their son. These secret discussions which rolled into the early hours of the next day, behind closed doors, would later come to define Odysseus’ life and rewrite history.

Yet, for all their preparation and well-laid plans, not once did it occur to them, if a person’s fate was something that could be so easily redirected. For, on Odysseus’ glimmering thread, the tribulations which Lachesis had woven for him remained untouched. The innumerous fibres twisted together to form one long golden strand coiled even tighter, strengthening some more.

XXXXXXXXXX

For young children, the passage of time was always particularly noticeable. They went from being tiny, unable to see the world clearly, to sitting, crawling, and then evolving to exploring the world on their short little legs.

In the blink of an eye, Odysseus transformed from a baby who smelled like milk, to a cheerful, rambunctious rascal at just three years old. Like all boys his age, he liked to climb trees, explore, jump, run around, and disappear. The prince was an exceptionally curious troublemaker who gave the servants in the palace many headaches; they were nearly driven to their wit’s end working tirelessly around the clock to find the young prince in every new hiding spot he’d managed to procure for himself in the palace grounds, or having to wait until Odysseus exhausted himself from playing before they could finally put the escape artist to bed.

Several Achaean elders who’d been called into assembly one day had remarked to the king, just like their own offspring, nephews, or grandsons, that perhaps the mind of the legitimate crown prince wasn’t being stimulated enough, which was causing the prince to act out in mischief. The young Odysseus was already showing signs that he was brighter than a majority of boys his age. The solution was to exhaust the reserves of all that untapped energy and funnel it into alternative outlets. With some effort, there was still a chance to correct his ways. Confronted with his son’s penchant for stirring up trouble, Laertes decided to move the matter of the prince’s formal education up much earlier.

It was a principle that bullying others was always better than being bullied.

But should Odysseus be taught well, he would be more likely to grow into a ruler who could distinguish right from wrong. Doting on a child too much could be detrimental to their own growth. Princes who had some talent but didn’t like to study, and were pampered by the household, should he continue this way, would either end up a waste—or a playboy who only knew a life of debauchery. Empires often declined because of a muddle-headed ruler who prioritized pleasures instead of overseeing their kingdom and government affairs.

It ought to be observed that children who were not well-educated struggled to make a name for themselves outside their parents. Looking at Odysseus’ robustness, both parents thought having the prince learn military skills early would also help him get a head start on training his discipline, with the added benefit of shaping his mind—and his physique. For that, they turned to the precedent set by the Spartans. Whilst most Spartan sons waited till they were seven-years old to leave their home and begin their military education at the Agoge, Odysseus reported to the training grounds at the tender age of five—when his grasp over his motor control skills was sufficient enough to hold a wooden practice sword for a long duration without accidentally hurting himself. The Achaean hired as Odysseus’ instructor was a strict retired general; he told the impressionable Odysseus that although Achaean boys were only expected to receive military training for two years in their adolescence, he wouldn’t take it easy on Odysseus just because of his age or status.

Thus, so began Odysseus’ new hellish life.

Not only was he tested on soldier formations and military tactics, he was expected to be well-versed over an assortment of weapons. Spears. Javelins. Sword and shield. Bows. Slings. Horseback riding. Practical skills that any commander needed to know, for the battlefield was a cruel place that eviscerated little boys like him. Every day was a new kind of military drill; Odysseus’ enthusiasm waned when the general started their first lesson off by having him swing his wooden sword in the air repetitively.

It was only when he could swing a sword five hundred times, without break, that they would move onto the next lesson: archery—a lesson that Odysseus had been looking forward to, for he had heard the story of how Laertes and the other hunters who had come from kingdoms worldwide joined hands in the expedition to hunt down the monstrous Calydonian Boar which’d been sent by the angered goddess Artemis. Every year, to celebrate the accomplishment, Laertes had made it the Ithacan tradition to host a hunting expedition for all able men and young men alike to hunt down the wild boars of the region. Whatever expectations Odysseus initially had burned down to cinders when he was handed a bow by his dogmatic teacher and told he wouldn’t be allowed to touch a single arrow until the young prince learned how to string all manners of bow.

Although Laertes was no longer young, he was still vigorous. In addition to the military instructor, Laertes hired private tutors—among them a notable philosopher—to educate the young prince in a wide range of subjects, including philosophy, mathematics, and the sciences. As Odysseus was the crown prince, he required a more specialized curriculum tailored to his specific interests and to prime him for his future.

Learning required patience. The small kingdom of Ithaca had a history of maritime trade and travel, farming and animal husbandry—as well as the gods they were to worship. When the subject matter was interesting and the time was short, Odyessus was the model bright student. When the instructor droned on, he would fall into a drowsy state while listening and needed to force himself to stay awake. It was manageable in short bursts but gradually, over time, Odyessus couldn’t sit still, as if there were countless invisible nails under his bottom.

The pressures of having gone from having the freedom to play whenever he wanted, to a heavy workload and schedule that even adult men would balk at was not an easy adjustment period for any child. So, Odysseus rebelled; he played truant. His young and tender face had carried unswerving determination. One night, Odysseus snuck out of the palace with a plan to pick pretty seashells down at the white-shore sands; for he craftily knew his mom would treat him better once Laertes and Anticlea inevitably discovered that he’d been caught slacking off from his studies again. It was an ingenious plan!

This time, he did not go diving to pick up shells. The blood of a seafarer must run strong in Odysseus for he adored the water. He didn’t understand why his parents and grandparents looked a little nervous each time he said he would be careful playing down at the beaches. In daylight, the embrace of the sea felt warm and comforting after the initial cold shock plunging into the water. He loved how it flowed against his hair like it was being brushed and seeing the more curious fishes swimming up to him, their tails and fins kissing his nose, startling him into laughter, which released tiny bubbles of air. But, seeing as he’d snuck out with the guards and servants remaining unaware of the prince’s late-night escapade, he was pressed for time. Swimming at this late hour would just be asking for trouble.

Sifting his fingers through the sand, picking up seashells and turning them left and right for close inspection, Odysseus had put a handful away in his pouch when he thought he heard a nicker. Surprised, he peeked from his hiding spot behind a rock—and gasped aloud! For, out on the shoreline, he saw the mesmerizing sight of a stampede of majestic stallions galloping across the currents on their blue hooves; even more astonishing, their bodies were composed entirely out of water!

Seeing them, Odysseus’ eyes burned bright. He was treated to a sight of seeing these water horses race wildly across the surface of water, stirring up a spray of saltwater with each powerful kick, before the stampede suddenly launched themselves into the air at a turn, diving right back into the ocean with a loud splash.

…Poseidon?

Odysseus’ gaze was thoughtful. When he later returned that night with his precious cargo, the entire palace had been in an uproar—for the prince was not in his bed and had snuck out! His father had pulled him aside that night and bent him over his knees, spanking him until his bottom glowed red and Odysseus cried out. After that, Odysseus became less rowdy and much more well-behaved, obediently attending his lessons.

Unknowingly, his mood brightened along with the weather, as if something weighing on his heart had vanished. His heart felt a bit lighter—because now he had a purpose to work towards.

[ki56]

Photographer Sonic / Rock Star Shadow Fanfic Chapter 1 - Sneak Peek 1

Chapter 1 beginning (rough draft):

*Sonic POV 3rd Person*

Capturing his surroundings behind the lens was how Sonic saw the world, from the largest of skyscrapers to the smallest of ants crawling along a sidewalk. The camera was where his passion was, his soul, and the photographs he takes are how he shares a piece of himself with others, whether they truly understood it or not.

Today was no different as he sat up on a thick branch at a park in the heart of Metropolis, several miles from his apartment that resided on the east side of the city. As Sonic zoomed his lens just right, he pressed the capture button, and then moved it away so he could look at the screen that showed the final product.

“Not bad,” he murmured to himself as he readied the device to take another shot. “Not every day I see cloud formations like this.”

Two, three, and then more photos were captured as he worked to create the landscape around him via camera and share it on his blog later on after touching up on the colors along with removing blemishes and blurs.

He couldn’t exactly remember when this interest started, for he’s wanted to be a photographer for as long as he could remember. Just an artist's passion that miraculously turned from hobby to something he made money off of, though not much. It was a part time gig at the moment, but at least he was making something from his pictures now, even if that said something was minuscule.

Though, he hoped one day this could turn into a full time career for him, not just something extra he did on evenings and weekends. Not only would he prefer to do photography because it’s his passion, but it’d also be nice to have time for other things and have a life. Granted, he does meet with his friends every couple months, but that’s usually about it.

“I don’t even have time for dating.”

This annoyed grumble was whispered beneath his breath, and good thing too as the last thing he needed was one of the children below to hear him complaining about his love life, or lack thereof in this case.

“Kids can be so cruel in moments of weakness…”

And while he had a pretty good ego, even he couldn’t handle insults from children regarding his inability to find a date.

————

While I haven’t had much time to work on my current fics on AO3, this was an idea I had a while back and actually wrote the first chapter for, well, wrote most of it.

Even though I don’t plan to post this particular story for a while, I was thinking since I had most of chapter 1 written, I could share pieces of it since I won’t be able to work on my other fics for a little bit.

[ghostymarni]

I may have use of you-

[artficlly]

daughter of the rotsál snippet

hi all, ive been hit with my usual seasonal depression yippe... my goal for this month was to write 50k words. i am currently at 37k on the first draft of the daughter of rotsál. this fic is turning out to be a lot longer than i first anticipated it would be so it's been a bit overwhelming to work on. per usual my imposter syndrome is telling me i'm a bad writer (as is the curse of a creative). thought i'd share a snippet with you all, so here is a full scene where isolde the oc meets bucky for the first time.

in the mean time while i suffer writing this first draft, would you guys be interested in seeing some more snippets or lore bits? i did contemplate writing a one-shot just so i would have something more to post than these ramblings haha. let me know!

Head held high, Isolde strode through the emerging path, ignoring the whispers and stares. 

“Ah, here she is.” Father Dreykov spoke, his hand finding the small of Isolde’s back as he guided her before the Naraki leadership. “Isolde. The bride.”

The Naraki leadership loomed before her, a half-circle of men clad in armour and furs, each radiating authority. The man in the seat was undeniably the Ealdorman Steve of House Rogers. He sat tall, his posture regal yet relaxed, his broad shoulders draped in a wolf fur cloak, his armour battle-worn, streaked with faint scratches and dents. His face was as commanding as the rest of him—a square jaw, strong cheekbones, and a mouth set in a line of quiet contemplation. His golden hair was tied back, though a few strands had escaped to frame his face. His blue eyes settled on Isolde with an unsettling intensity. His wife, Lady Peggy, stood tall and poised, a hand resting lightly on Steve’s shoulder. 

Isolde was sure that if Lord Steve wasn’t already married, she would have been offered as a bride to him instead. Isolde swallowed hard as Peggy’s gaze lingered, her expression unreadable. There was no malice in her eyes, but neither was there comfort. Isolde got the impression that this was not a woman who tolerated weakness—not in herself, not in her husband, and certainly not in anyone who might step into their world.

“She is Idamirian.” Lord Steve spoke, a hint of surprise in his words. 

“Well, yes. She was once before she became a daughter of the Rotsál.” Father Dreykov replied, and Isolde recognised a slight hesitancy in his words, as if he was carefully selecting each that passed his lips. “Do you take issue with this?”

Isolde’s chest tightened.

“No. The opposite.” Lord Steve raised his hand to absentmindedly stroke the stubble across his jaw. “I wasn’t aware that any from Idamir survived.”

They didn’t. Hatred coiled in Isolde’s gut like a mighty serpent, and it took everything in her not to sneer at the Ealdorman. His words were so casual, so dismissive—the anger that roared in her veins was as hot as any molten rock that rained from the sky. Of course the Naraki hadn’t thought of the repercussions; of course, they had thought Idamir extinct except those already married into their bloodlines. 

“I expect most didn’t.” Father Dreykov chuckled in relief. “Isolde was one of the few we managed to save during The Black Dawn.”

“An Idamirian daughter of the Rotsál…” Lord Steve pondered aloud. His pronunciation of Rotsál rolled across his tongue with a rumble, his southern accent thick. “A good choice, priest. I will give you that. There is worth in such a bride. She speaks our language, I presume?”

Yes. Yes, she did. Isolde remembered quite vividly the number of times she had been scolded and beaten for her southern accent slipping through in etiquette classes. The Rotsál aimed to neutralise, ensuring a girl could fit in any and all situations. She had not spoken the language in nearly a decade, so she imagined she would be rusty and stiff in ability, but she had spent the first thirteen years of her life communicating in nearly strictly the southern tongue. 

“No, not that I am aware. The Southclaw is not exactly something we cultivate when raising these girls.”

Isolde held her tongue, but annoyance swept through her. Her knowledge of the language would have to be a surprise for her husband once they were wed. Her husband… she wondered which of the armed thegns positioned around and behind Steve would be him. They all had an equal bulkiness to their stature, pure muscle and strength, lined with scars. She did not dare squint too closely at them nor meet their eye. 

“A shame. She will have to learn.” Steve replied with a sigh, settling further into his seat. “What exactly do you cultivate in a bride, priest? I have only ever known your Rotsálian daughters to be assassins, or they meddle in politics that aren’t their own, dressed up in riches to disguise the fact that below it all, they are just simple whores.”

The casual way in which Steve spoke to Father Dreykov astonished Isolde; it was as if disrespect dripped from his every word. It was a carefully constructed vision of mutual respect between the two; that was for sure. All for the sake of alliances. Yet Steve seemed eager to push the boundaries, prodding at Father Dreykov in the hopes that he may pop. 

Isolde’s eyes shot over to look at Father Dreykov, equal parts shock and equal parts horror seeping through her neutral facade. Father Dreykov, to his credit, had not gone red in the face; rather he puffed out his chest and let out a strained chuckle. “That is why daughters of the Rotsál are so special, you see… they are trained to be anything you need them to be. I would not… doubt their prowess.”

Lord Steve’s curiosity peaked, and he leant forward in his seat. “So this one is a bride, but if required, she can be an assassin? A whore?” 

“If that is what you want from her, then yes.”

Steve leant back in his seat once more with a chuckle, looking over his shoulder at a warrior who stood half-drenched in the shadows. “You hear that, Bucky? An assassin in your mix. Is this to your liking?”

Steve’s words hung in the air, a strange blend of jest and command, and as the name was spoken, the figure in the shadows began to move. Slowly, deliberately, the man called Bucky stepped forward, peeling himself from the darkness like a predator emerging from its den. The flickering firelight from the torches cast sharp, angular shadows across his face, revealing a visage that seemed carved from ice.

The infamous Bucky of House Barnes, the White Wolf, the Vetur Soldat, Thegn and Warlord was every inch the Naraki warrior. His shoulders were broad, his frame tall and imposing, clad in dark leather armour. The left pauldron bore faint, jagged etchings in the Naraki style, designs that marked him as a warrior of high standing, though not overly ornate. Across his shoulders a mantle of white wolf fur, its edges worn and weathered by years of riding beneath ash-laden skies

His face was a harsh masterpiece, handsome in a way that unsettled more than it comforted. A strong jawline was covered with stubble, two days old, Isolde estimated. His cheekbones were sharp, his nose slightly crooked—broken at least once in his past. The most striking feature, however, were his eyes: cold, piercing, and unrelenting. Steel blue, they cut through the dim light. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much and felt too little, who measured the world and its people with a calculated detachment.

His hair, dark and shoulder-length, was pulled back loosely, a few messy strands falling forward to frame his face. A scar ran from the corner of his jaw up to his cheekbone. His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from use. 

“She looks too weak… too small to do any real damage, don’t you think?” The man replied, his tone callous and cold, though edged with a cruel amusement. A rumble of laughter passed over the tent. His expression barely shifted as he scanned her from head to toe, his lips pressing into a thin line that spoke of disappointment—or disdain. Whatever he was looking for, he did not see it in her. Isolde recognised the undeniable sting of disappointment in his expression. His words, though directed at Steve, were aimed at Isolde, each one sinking into her like a barbed arrow.

“You want a different bride?” Steve queried. Isolde held her breath. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, even if it felt like her cheeks burned in shame under the scrutiny of so many eyes. She would never hear the end of it when she returned to Rotsál Manor, denied and dismissed. Spoiled goods. The other Sisters would mock her relentlessly, not even good enough for a Naraki Savage. Would she ever be offered another mission? Or would she be cast away, ruined? How could she look Natasha in the face… how could she face Sister June—

“No. She will do.”

Despite the hatred and the disgust, Isolde found herself exhaling sharply in relief. She would do.

She would do.

Father Dreykov gave her a pleased look, the other Father’s bristling in approval.  

Isolde noticed how Lady Peggy subtly twitched, her nails digging into the shoulder of her husband. The blond man tipped his chin up, meeting the eye of his wife. Then, with a gentle elegance, the brunette woman leant over to whisper into her husband's ear.

“My wife wishes to ask a question.” Steve spoke up, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Bucky, who had begun his retreat back into the shadows, hesitated.

“Of course.” Father Dreykov offered with a slight bow of his head. Isolde wondered if the Father’s skin crawled every time he was forced to show respect to these Horselords. She wondered if rage boiled beneath the surface, knowing he had to treat these inferior men as equals. 

“Does your bride have no tongue?” Lady Peggy’s tone cut through the tent like a knife. The crowd shifted in agreement. “Does she not speak? I would like to hear her speak on this matter of marriage before any finalisation.”

Isolde’s eyes shifted to Father Dreykov. The Father, knowing how many eyes lay upon them, subtly nodded his head in permission. 

“I speak, my lady.” Isolde silently thanked Lord Velka that her voice held steady. 

Lady Peggy’s brow quirked in surprise, a delighted smirk pulling at her lips. Even Lord Bucky, in all his indifference, grew still at the sound of her voice. 

“Idamirian… your mother was a healer, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“And your father a blacksmith?”

“No. He was a hunter.”

Lady Peggy’s head quirked in surprise. 

“And you can ride a horse?” 

“Yes.”

“What about running a household, a village? The duties expected of a thegn's wife?”

“Yes.”

Peggy paused, a small hmph passing her lips. Her fingers trailed a pattern across her husband's shoulder, swirling in thought as she continued to assess Isolde with clever eyes. “And how old were you? The day of the Black Dawn?”

The memories flooded back to her. The earth rocked, the walls shaking so hard that dust fell from the roof. Dishes clattered, clay bowls and plates slipping off shelves and shattering by the hearth. The explosion, the boom of it so loud that she thought her head would be split in two…her mother, her face was blurry now, ushering her from the house as the walls caved in. You must go. You must run. Ash rained from the sky, coating every surface. In the distance, a plume of smoke so large, an indescribable mass—

Isolde swallowed back the bitter taste, relaxing her jaw to ensure the words she spoke did not sound through grit teeth. “Three and ten.”

“Which makes you…”

“Three and twenty.”

The question confused Isolde. What was the Lady looking for, evidence that she was unfit? That she was a child, unfitting of such a position? 

“And do you consent to this marriage?”

A quizzical expression slipped onto her face before she could catch it, her body twisting to glance at Father Dreykov as if asking what he made of the question. She found herself stumped momentarily, consent? Why would she need to consent when it was Lord Velka’s will?

“I do.” Isolde finally replied, spine straightening.

“No, do you truly consent to this marriage? You have not been forced or persuaded into this?”

Maybe her confusion betrayed her, or perhaps her tone was not final enough. Her gaze shifted to Father Dreykov once more, brows knitting together before she spoke up once more, more forcefully this time. “I do—”

“Don’t look at the priest. Look at me.” Lady Peggy cut her off immediately, and Isolde snapped her eyes back to meet hers. There was a fierceness to her tone but an underlying worry Isolde could interpret. “Do you consent? You can say no. Tell me, truthfully.” 

The tent had fallen into a hush. Lord Bucky watched her carefully with narrowed eyes. She only now realised that the lid and waterline were marked with a smudged kohl, adding to the intimidation of his stare. Isolde was consenting, wasn’t she? She had trained her entire life for a mission as important as this—why would her opinion, her decision, ever come into question? She had no reason to question her autonomy; The Order of Rotsál knew what was best for her. This was her mission, her path.

“I consent to this marriage, my lady.” Isolde cut back, words final.

Peggy inhaled sharply, then with a tight nod, she turned to look at her husband. It seemed Isolde’s words had convinced her, or at least for the moment. 

Steve looked up at his wife with a smile, eyes wide with unmistakable love. “Wonderful. Tonight, we will celebrate. Come nightfall tomorrow, they will be wed, and our two clans will be bound by blood.”

[thelassoway]

Jason Sudeikis as Ted Lasso Season 3 » Casual Sweaters/Jumpers

[sanska]

MadaTobi | T | AU where people’s souls manifest as shadow animals and Tobirama’s soul is a menace to society just Tobirama.

Summary:

Tobirama couldn’t believe this.

The manifestation of his soul, the sum of his inner desires, shamelessly cuddling up to Madara at night without his knowledge?

Scandalous. Bad, bad soul. They were nothing more than ex-enemies and strangers to each other. Madara was going to hunt him down for the audacity any day now.

(Elsewhere, Madara yawned. “Hn? Oh. Little cat.” He shuffled around in his futon and gestured for the snow leopard to come closer. “Well, settle in then. Futon’s warm.”)

—

Still confused by the date shown being the date I started writing my draft in ao3 and not the date I pressed post but uh. Hello. I wrote the start of something! ​It’s very self indulgent and makes me happy and I hope y’all like it too :)

[aka-indulgence]

this is my magnum opus

[it-is-no-desert]

BEHOLD: KAIMAN BIG CHALLENGES STICKER

I edited my previous sticker design that i'd made and uploaded it to redbubble for convenience bc im curious to see how much better the print quality is compared with when i printed them myself at home. (And now people can buy them again, that is also a plus)

[siriuslysatorusimping]

*Preview* Bittersweet Memories

Hi there. I said I might post a preview or blurb of this, so I decided to go ahead and do that. IDK if or when I'll finish this. It was more of a spur of the moment thing I started that's spiraled in my drafts. It's heavily inspired by The Vow, except Satoru is the one who loses his memory. I don't have timeline or anything else really mapped out, so this preview is a bit choppy. But essentially, they were married, and there was an accident(haven't determined what) that caused him to forget her and getting married, so they got divorced. Again, all the details haven't been figured out yet, but she's in charge of a Tokyo branch of her mother's bakery now. I haven't decided if it'll be something she always did or if she quit her job to do it after the divorce.

It's pretty damn angsty, tbh. But I'd love to know what you guys think!

Kiko's Masterlist | Buy me a coffee ☕️

*Preview* Bittersweet Memories

The bell above the door jingled, and Rinko called, “Welcome!” over her shoulder, “I’ll be right with you.”

Finishing her task, she turned quickly, her heart immediately thundering in her chest at the sight of Gojo Satoru staring at her in surprise.

Had he remembered? Was he here because he wanted to talk to her?

“Satoru–”

“This place is so cute!” a woman exclaimed, wrapping her arms through his and leaning into him. “Thank you for treating me, Satoru.”

The sharp pain in her chest stole her breath, and she swallowed thickly as she blinked the tears away. His memories hadn’t returned, or maybe they had. It didn’t matter now. What did matter was that he clearly didn’t want her anymore. He’d already moved on.

Smiling as brightly as she could, she forced enough air into her lungs to speak.

“Welcome,” she repeated, avoiding Satoru’s eyes by staring at the wall behind him. She could do this. She could keep going. She needed to keep going and accept that their marriage was over. That he wasn’t hers anymore. “What can I get for you?”

“A dozen of those.” Satoru pointed at the caramel miso butter cookies, his brow furrowed in thought. “And whatever she wants.”

Rinko ignored the ache in her chest, keeping the smile in place as she packaged the cookies.

He remembered that he liked the cookies, but he didn’t remember loving her. She guessed it made sense. He’d always had a sweet tooth.

She had to accept that he wasn’t hers anymore and that he never would be. He didn’t want her. He would never want her again.

“What do you recommend?” the woman asked, staring at Rinko curiously. “Everything looks so delicious. I heard that you’re based out of Kyoto?”

“My mother opened the main location in Kyoto,” Rinko confirmed, swallowing around the giant lump that appeared in her throat. “She decided to expand to Tokyo this year.”

“That’s precious,” the woman gushed. “This must be your dream, then. Following in your mother’s footsteps?”

The only difference was that she didn’t have a child like her mother did. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked to dispel them again.

“Something like that,” she finally replied. “We have some seasonal chestnut filled manju right now. I’d recommend those.”

At the woman’s excited nod, she placed a few inside a box and closed it carefully.

Stacking the containers, she accepted the cash Satoru held out, her skin burning when his fingers brushed against hers. Her chest felt hollow at the blank look he gave her as she handed his change back.

“Have a great rest of your day. I hope you enjoy the sweets!”

According to Shoko, it wasn’t anything serious. He was just dating again. Getting back out there. The knowledge didn’t comfort her. Though she didn’t know why she thought it might.

“Rinko-san,” Megumi called, sticking his head out from the back. “I finished sorting the inventory, so I’m gonna take a break.”

“Thanks, kid,” she replied absently as she rested her chin on her palm. “You can make yourself a drink, if you want.”

“Aunt Yuzu is gonna get onto you if you keep letting me have things for free.”

“Your Aunt Yuzu would be giving you even more things for free, and you know it.”

He grinned, disappearing into the back again and she heard the coffee machine just a moment later.

The bell on the door jingled, and she turned her head to welcome them. Her voice stuck in her throat at the sight of Satoru shifting his weight as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Um, hi,” he greeted awkwardly. “I’m– those cookies were really good, so…”

Of course he was back for the cookies. He’d almost given himself diabetes because of those damn things.

“They used to be your favorite,” she informed him as he trailed off, “so that doesn’t surprise me.”

“About the other day, if I’d known that this was your place, I wouldn’t have come in here.”

The air left her lungs as if he’d punched her, and she struggled to keep the hurt from showing on her face at his words. It stung. He really wanted nothing to do with her now.

Move. Get him his fucking cookies so he doesn’t have to look at you anymore.

Blinking, she felt her body moving, going through the motions of retrieving a box and placing cookies inside it.

“I meant– I meant if I’d known this was your place, I wouldn’t have– I wouldn’t have brought a date in here.”

She nodded mechanically, finishing her task and sliding the container across the counter toward him.

“I don’t see why you– if you want to buy your date dessert, there’s nothing stopping you,” she stated, wondering if that hollow ache she felt at the sight of him would ever fade. “It’s not like we have rules against couples here.”

His hand brushed against hers as he leaned closer across the counter. She tried not to flinch away.

“Listen,” he began, his voice quiet as his cologne filled her nose. The same cologne that still clung to some of her favorite shirts. “I’m sorry that I don’t– I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”

“I’m sorry I don’t love you,” was what she was sure he stopped himself from saying. “I’m sorry that losing my memory also meant forgetting whatever made you lovable in my eyes.”

She always knew something like this was a possibility. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t remember whatever it was that made him think she was worth marrying when he’d never wanted to get married before. Losing his memory just solidified that whatever loose screw made him think she was the one for him had finally been righted.

Just like she’d always known would happen.

Finally mustering the courage to meet his eyes, she felt her chest split open at the sight of the azure depths staring back devoid of the love she’d grown so used to. She gave him the most genuine smile she could manage.

“I’m just glad you’re well enough to have your sweet tooth,” she replied lightly. “All that matters is that you’re happy.” even if that means you don’t want me anymore. “Have a great rest of your day.”

The door opened before he could grasp the handle, and Satoru’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the woman in front of him as hers widened in clear panic.

Why was she at his parents’ house?

“What are you–?”

“Rinko, you forgot the– Satoru,” His mother came into view behind her. “I didn’t realize you were coming over today.”

“Decided to drop by,” he replied, his eyes still on Rinko’s face. Why was she there? “Didn’t realize you still–”

“She’s my daughter, whether you accept that or not,” his mother stated firmly. “Rinko, dear, you almost forgot your food.”

“Right,” Rinko squeaked, turning briefly to accept the bag full of bento boxes. “Thank you again for lunch. You didn’t have to–”

“We wanted to,” his mother soothed, wrapping her in a tight hug. “Thank you for bringing the cake. Happy birthday, dear. Have a lovely weekend with your mother. Please tell her we said hi.”

“Of course,” Rinko agreed, extracting herself quickly and rushing past him.

“Be safe going home!”

Once she was gone, his mother turned to him, and he rolled his eyes slightly at the look in hers.

“Don’t start,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair. He really didn’t want to deal with one of her lectures. “I get it, you’re pissed that you lost the perfect daughter-in-law–”

“I’m not angry with you at all,” she denied, stepping aside so he could enter. “I’m just sad.”

“I know you wanted me to stay married–”

“It had nothing to do with you being married,” she cut him off. “I wanted you to give yourself some time, to give her a chance, before you decided to divorce her just because you didn’t remember her. It’s not your fault that you don’t remember marrying her. But Satoru, you loved her more than anything else in the world. If you gave yourself some time to know her again, I have very little doubt you’d love her just like before.”

“You’re forgetting that I never wanted to get married,” he stated, following her into the kitchen. He spotted part of a strawberry cake sitting on the counter, immediately locating a fork and taking a bite. “Why was she here, anyway?”

“Did you not listen earlier?” His mother sighed, exasperated. “She’s still our daughter, whether you’re married or not. And it was her birthday, Satoru. We invited her over to have lunch for her birthday.”

He swallowed thickly, glancing down at the cake.

“She brought this, then?”

“Yes, she did.” She let out another sigh, quieter this time. “You know, the very first time you introduced Rinko to us, you pulled me aside and said that you were going to marry her if it was the last thing you did. You stood right there with hearts in your eyes and a giant grin on your face as you told me you never wanted to be without her.”

At this point, she should just accept that she was self-destructive. Nothing about what she was doing was healthy. It did absolutely nothing to help her move on with her life. But maybe she didn’t want to move on with her life. Not when her heart still fluttered every time she saw him, even if it left her feeling hollow and empty afterward.

Her heart had certainly already shattered beyond repair by now. So really, what did a bit more damage matter?

The bell above the door jingled with his entry, and she greeted him as she always did, the crack in her chest chipping open a bit further.

“One or two dozen?” she asked, used to the routine by now.

His weekly visits were something to both dread and look forward to. It stung that he still loved the cookies so much but felt nothing for her. But what wasn’t to love about her mother’s cookies?

His gaze still held no sign of warmth or affection for her when he met her eyes, something she’d finally grown used to after his first few visits.

The obvious suspicion when he’d seen her at his parents’ house had shaken her more than she expected. Going there had been a mistake, regardless of whether his mother had invited her. They weren’t married anymore. There was no reason for her to spend time with his parents. She still loved them, and she knew they still loved her, but it didn’t mean she could just cross boundaries he’d clearly set.

She didn’t want to put a strain on their relationship, or be in the way when he found someone else and wanted to introduce them.

After all, he was getting back into the swing of life. Back to work, enjoying it like he always had, hanging out with friends and helping some of his students on the weekends. He would be happier now without her in the way.

“Just one dozen this time,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

Nodding, she grabbed a box.

“Any plans for the weekend?” she asked instinctively.

What was she doing? He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want anything to do with her beyond getting his cookies.

“I have a date,” he replied absently, his eyes going wide when she froze. “I’m– I mean– no big plans. Just–”

“That’s–” Her throat went dry as she tried to keep her chest from ripping open any further. She couldn’t risk whatever was left of her heart spilling out in front of him. Not when he was moving on. He deserved to move on and be happy without her holding him back. “That’s good– great, I mean. I’m glad you have plans. You– you seem happy. I’m really glad you’re happy.” without me.

She needed to stop talking. Forget being self-destructive, she was probably making him wildly uncomfortable.

Placing the container with his cookies on the counter, she tried to pretend he was just any other customer as she smiled.

“Have a great rest of your day.”

“All that matters is that you’re happy.”

“I’m really glad you’re happy.”

Her words echoed in his head as he approached the bakery, guilt beginning to creep up like it had every time since he’d stupidly blurted out that he had a fucking date when she asked him if he had plans for the weekend.

Fucking idiot. 

He’d replied without even thinking about who he was talking to, but he’d regretted it as soon as he saw the look in her eyes.

He might not have wanted to be married, but he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to make her suffer.

At least, that’s what he told himself despite the fact that he knew he’d broken her heart and looked the other way when she cried because he didn’t want to believe it was true. He hadn’t wanted to believe he’d completely forgotten years of his life. Years that apparently involved him getting married. The documents and pictures really didn’t lie, though. He knew his family wouldn’t lie about something like that, either.

Everyone said it wasn’t his fault. They said that it wasn’t his fault he didn’t remember her.

What he did remember was the look in her eyes when he’d asked her who she was when he woke up. Asked her why she was in his hospital room and why she was so close to him. The look in her eyes when he’d said he wanted a divorce because he’d never wanted to get married in the first place, and he couldn’t believe that he’d ever changed his mind on that. The sobs she’d tried to conceal as she packed her bags and left without a single protest.

She erased herself from his life so quickly that he’d wondered if she’d always planned on doing so. If she’d been waiting for a way out.

And then she’d appeared again in an instant, standing in front of him in a bakery his date had wanted to try.

Her face had filled with so much hope when she saw him, only to crumple in the next moment when she saw who he was with.

But yet, even after everything he’d done, she still greeted him with a smile and told him she just wanted him to be happy. That she was glad he was happy.

Who wants you to be happy? Who asks if you are okay?

The questions always died in his throat before he could voice them. It felt wrong to ask. Like it was a line he shouldn’t cross because it would be insensitive. Who asked their ex-wife, that they didn’t even remember getting married to, if she was okay after they’d broken her heart without even a second thought?

She clearly wasn’t okay, but she pretended to be. At least, she tried to pretend. But how the hell did he even know that? What part of his psyche just happened to remember what she looked like when she lied?

What he was doing wasn’t just mean. It was cruel.

“Welcome!” she called cheerfully when the bell jingled above his head.

Her voice made his heart speed up, and he blinked at the feeling.

She did have a very pretty voice. He’d noticed the first time he’d heard her speak when he woke up in the hospital. The relief that bled through her words when she saw him open his eyes had confused him at the time. The hurt that colored her tone when he’d asked her to leave still haunted him.

He was suddenly struck by the desire to remember how they’d met. What had he said to her? How had they ended up together in the first place? He’d never really been the relationship type. What had convinced him?

“One or two dozen?” she asked, her question pulling him back to the present. Her smile seemed forced, not reaching her eyes.

How did he know that? Why did he suddenly remember that her real smile made her eyes shine and crinkle at the corners? How was it that he knew her eyes looked like polished jade stone in the moonlight when she was excited?

“Wait,” she said, frowning. “I– sorry, I forgot I don’t even have a full dozen right now. But if you don’t mind waiting just a bit, I can get you a fresh batch?”

Why would she go out of her way to do that?

“Don’t you only have a half-hour till close?” he asked, checking the time. Wouldn’t that waste cookies? “I’ll just take whatever you have left–”

“It’s– I bake them by the dozen anyway, so I’d throw in the couple I have left and call it a day.” She pursed her lips to the side. “But if you don’t want to wait, I understand. Sorry, it was rude of me to ask. I can just–”

“I don’t mind waiting,” he rushed out, taking a seat at one of the small tables. “It’s not a big deal to me.”

She nodded, ducking into the back for a few minutes before reappearing.

“Coffee or tea while you wait? Do you still like–” She cut off, her voice cracking before she cleared her throat. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’m okay,” he stated, that familiar guilt threatening to boil over again.

Should he start a conversation? Or would that give the wrong impression? He didn’t want her to think he was… trying to get too familiar. But he felt bad. He felt like he should say something when she was going out of her way for him. Why did she do that? Why did she seem to care so much about his convenience at the cost of her own?

Before he could say anything, she disappeared into the back, leaving him alone in the small cafe area as the guilt ate away at him.

Was he crazy, or had she lost weight since she’d moved out? Her clothes seemed to fit her differently than they had months ago. Was that why his mother had given her extra leftovers?

Why did the idea of her not eating enough bother him so much?

He jumped when she placed the box on the table in front of him. His chest ached as he watched her step away quickly, retreating back behind the counter before he could even stand. Why did that bother him? Why was he suddenly wondering if she had moved on yet? Why did the idea of seeing her with someone else make him inexplicably angry when he was dating other people?

“On the house,” she informed him, waving him off when he pulled his wallet out anyway. “Since you had to wait.”

He’d barely noticed the time passing because he’d been so stuck in his own head. The warmth that seeped from the box into his hands felt nice. An oddly familiar sense of comfort filled him knowing he’d get to eat fresh cookies even though he couldn’t remember having done so before.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he argued, peeking into the box to see two dozen cookies neatly stacked. “Let me pay–”

“You know, they say time is money,” she joked, her smile faltering when he just frowned. “Really, Sa– Gojo-san, don’t worry. Thank you for being patient.”

The way her voice quivered as she corrected herself made his heart drop to his gut, and he sighed reluctantly.

“Fine,” he conceded. “But I’m paying for them next time.”

He’s happy, and that makes me happy.

She repeated that to herself over and over as she forced herself to take deep breaths.

He’s happy, and that makes me happy.

Because she loved him, she just wanted him to be happy. Even if that meant he didn’t want her anymore. Even if it meant he didn’t love her.

He’s happy, and that makes me happy.

That was all that mattered. His happiness and well-being were the most important.

Life never worked out exactly as planned. So what if her entire future was completely different now? At least she’d gotten a few years to be the happiest she’d ever been.

He’s happy, and that makes me happy.

She would be content knowing he was living his life the way he wanted.

“Just one date with me, Kurisaki-chan,” Satoru implored, leaning towards her as they stood at the bar. “Just one date, and if you don’t have a good time, I’ll never ask you again.”

Her skeptical look drew a chuckle from him. He liked when she looked at him like that. Something about it made him want to tease her more. He gave her a small pout.

“I’d be so good to you,” he implored, debating getting on his knees and begging. Everything about her made him want to know her more, made him want her to know him more.

“Your history doesn’t say that,” Rinko replied, tilting her head and pursing her lips to the side. He was dying to kiss her. “We both know I’m not your type, Gojo.”

“What’s my type?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “What do you think my type is?”

“One-night stands,” she stated bluntly. “No strings attached, no feelings, no relationships.”

Ouch.

“I have feelings for you,” he informed her, his heart racing when she snorted. “Gimme a chance, Kurisaki-chan. I promise I won’t break your heart. I’ll take such good care of you. You just gotta promise not to break my heart, yeah?”

-

“Promise not to break my heart, yeah?”

The words repeated in his mind over and over and over again as he emptied his stomach into the toilet.

What kind of moron had he been?

Of all the things for him to promise. Of all the promises for him to break.

How could she even stand the sight of him after what he’d done to her?

“I promise I won’t break your heart.”

The look in her eyes when he’d told her he didn’t know why he would get married when he’d never wanted to before flashed through his mind. The hurt she made no effort to hide when he asked her to leave the house they’d apparently shared for years. He hadn’t just broken her heart, he’d shattered it and then walked right over the pieces so he could get cookies.

-

Avoiding her eyes, he shifted his feet uncomfortably while he waited his turn.

“How many today?” she asked lightly, her voice sending a fresh wave of guilt through him. “One or two dozen?”

“Whichever,” he replied, still unable to meet her eyes. How could she talk to him so casually? How could she just pretend he hadn’t hurt her so deeply? “Doesn’t matter.”

Her quick intake of breath had his gaze snapping to her face. The practiced smile paired with the sadness in her eyes made him feel sick again. He might vomit right in the middle of the bakery.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he blurted out, his gut dropping when she jumped. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she let out a shaky laugh.

“For not knowing how many cookies you want?”

“I promised I wouldn’t break your heart,” he croaked, his throat closing as his shame threatened to choke him. “I–”

“It was a silly promise,” she cut him off, her brow furrowing as she pursed her lips to the side. “You couldn’t have possibly known what would happen.”

He’d never fucking deserved her love before and he sure as hell never would now.

“I knew you weren’t being serious when you said that,” she stated, shrugging. “I– I already told you I don’t regret marrying you. I don't regret giving you a chance. I don’t regret loving you, either. I just– I just hope you don’t–”

“I don’t,” he rushed, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I’m– I don’t regret it even though I don’t… remember. But I wish I– I wish I could take back how much I've hurt you.”

AN: I included more in this preview than I originally intended but I got carried away and here we are. What'd you guys think? It's a lil angsty, huh?

[ari-kari]

At the crisp hour of 11:53 pm 12:45 am, on the evening of deadline day, I present to you…~my preview~. (Sorry for going AWOL. I work at a pizza place and it’s kind of ruining my life.)

This year, I am partnering with the lovely @lemonance for our entry into the 2025 @spopbigbang! The fic is gonna be an absolute monster, with chapters coming out once per week and a hiatus between parts one and two. But I have done my best to make it a lovable monster ☺️ if you like 50s-inspired psych horror and agonizing amounts of sexual tension, that is. I think you do ;)

Synopsis below - and thanks again to Tippen and all the rest for making Big Bang happen. Thrilled to be a part of it 💕

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The Adora Show

(Coming May 18th)

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Adora Burbank lives what many would consider to be an average life - a stable desk job, a supportive boyfriend, a house in the Bright Moon suburbs. What she doesn’t realize is that there’s nothing remotely “average” about it at all. That’s because her entire life takes place on a massive soundstage, with hired actors playing her loved ones and cameras broadcasting every moment of her day. Now approaching her twenty-fifth birthday, Adora has never left her fabricated island home - and if auteur director Sharon Weaver has anything to say about it, she never will.

Enter Catra, a part-time actor and full-time burnout who can barely afford rent on her shitty Los Angeles apartment. When a lucky break lands her a background role on one of the biggest reality shows in history, she has zero intention of rocking the boat. Her job is to get in, blend into the scenery, and collect her paycheck; the minutiae of Adora Burbank’s life are none of her concern.

Trouble has a way of finding Catra, though. Particularly when she’s trying to avoid it. And when a chance encounter sets her life on a radically altered course, Catra finds her fate inextricably linked with Adora’s own.

All that - and much more - on The Adora Show.

(A Truman Show AU that you absolutely don’t need to watch the base movie for, but should, bc it’s awesome. Heavy on the angst, heavy on the 50s-era sexual repression. See you in a week 😉)