#IM TERRIBLE AT HEADCANONS

[jaeyunverse]

only 6 more days for 12th grade to officially finish and my exams to be over. perhaps jaeyunverse comeback with a long fic ????? 😳

[bbonbonss]

⋆˳⁺ overdoing it ⁺˳⋆

[sadisthetic]

BURST💥

[gunstellations]

double trouble

[yeyinde]

how do you think the boys would look after you when you’re sick? i think Soap and Gaz would wind up getting sick because they couldn’t stay away from you

they definitely seem like the type to coddle. as for the rest—

GHOST—

It's short. Succinct. He prefers blunt honesty, and that's what you aim for when, sniffling pathetically, you open up your messages, and type out: Can't make it. Came down with something, and hit SEND. 

It goes unanswered. 

You pretend, through the hazy spool of your fever, the one that clots inside of your head until you're shivering, teeth chattering, and yearning, that you aren't surprised. That it doesn't prickle somewhere inside of your chest with the distinct flavour of disappointment.

You toss your phone aside, head swimming, and try to get some sleep. You need rest.

You dream of vague touches, and low words dripped in condescension but carrying a tinge of worry. Of care. It's a mess inside the gummy spool of sickness, but it's comforting. The phantom hand on your forehead makes you sigh. 

When you wake up hours later, there is a bag from the pharmacy filled with electrolyte water, cold and flu medication, canned soup, and something to reduce your fever. No note. No phone call. No text. The message is clear.

(Next to the bag, is tea in a thermos. No brand. You taste it and know he made it himself.)

—distant, reserved. He sends you a care package, one he delivers himself, but doesn't linger. If you ask him about it, he'll roll his eyes, maybe mutter a fuckin' hell as he walks away from you. 

—(if you'd touched the seat across from your bed, you'd find that it was still warm.)

GAZ—

He shows up wearing a mask, and has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Says, as he makes his way inside, that he'll fix you right up. All you can do is baulk when he storms your kitchen, pots clattering loudly together, and tells you to go sit. He has it covered. 

(It surprises you a little bit when he does.)

He brings spicy soup that, according to his auntie, is going to clear your sinuses. He fluffs your pillows and drags a blanket over to you. Tucks you in, nice and tight, and turns on Taskmaster for you.

You spend the evening drifting in and out, caught in the throes of a fever nap, but he stays by your side the whole time. 

You wake up late at night, startled awake by some ALDI commercial, and find him snoring on your couch, your feet in his lap. The mask is lopsided. His hair is moussed. He left you some medicine and a glass of water on the coffee table. 

His phone chimes with the sound of an alarm. When you check the notification, all it says is: MEDICINE. EVERY FOUR HOURS. You turn it off, and a notes app pops up. You don't mean to look, but the sight makes you a little misty-eyed.

how to care for someone who is sick

All the boxes are ticked. Spicy soup. Water. Blankets. Rest. Medicine.

You throw the end of your blanket over him and snuggle into his side. 

He wakes up hours later, and you watch trashy reality television together until he carries you to bed.

—no getting rid of him. He wants to make sure you're taken care of. It doesn't surprise you at all, when, a few days later he rings you up, and says he's sick. He's a surprisingly adept caretaker. 

SOAP—

The last thing you remember is texting Soap about something—sick, can't make it—before the medication and the sickness dragged you under. 

You wake up, sticky and wet from the cold sweat of a fever—edging, somehow, on the equilibrium of being both incredibly hot to the point of panting from the inferno blazing through your veins, and absolutely freezing, near hypothermic with goosebumps, and chattering teeth. Nothing sticks in the oil-slick lining of your head. It doesn't make sense. You're dizzy and disoriented. The room spins. You kick the covers off of your burning legs, but pull the comfort tighter around your torso where an arctic chill has settled in the pit of your stomach. 

You try to move, but you're chained down. Locked. Trapped. You nearly panic, but a noise cuts through the wave of terror—

"Stop wigglin' so much," it's slurred into your shoulder, humid breath ghosting over your sweat-slicked neck. "M'tryin' t'sleep…"

His mohawk tickles your nose, his scent thick in your throat. Soap pulls you closer, tucking you deeper into his embrace, and murmurs soothingly until you settle. Until the wave of nausea passes, and the throbbing in your skull is abated by the warm milk and honey smell of him that floods you. 

Clumsily, he reaches for a bottle of water he tucked beneath his pillow, eyes lidded and groggy with sleep. 

"Drink," he urges, pressing it into your hands. 

"I can't drink right now, I'll be sick—"

"Y'need water," he rasps, rubbing his cheek over yours. "Need to drink so you don't get dehydrated."

You huff. "I'll need to sit up for that." 

The prospect of moving makes him grumble softly. His arm tightens around you, refusing to let go. 

Then he stills.  

The curve of his smile on your skin spells trouble. You're already shaking your head before he pops up, smirking. The sleep fades from his eyes in an instant. "I know a way—"

"You'll get sick," you warn, but he's already twisting the cap off, and spilling the water into his mouth

It bulges his cheeks. He looks ridiculous, and you scoff. 

"There is no way—" 

His lips seal over yours. Water runs down your chin when he pushes it inside the melting cavern of your mouth. 

He doesn't need to slip his tongue inside, but he does it, anyway. Nips your lips when he pulls back, eyes glazing over as he watches you sputter and gasp. 

His hand settles on your throat. "Swallow it. Got the whole bottle to get through." 

His eyes trail over your wet cheeks, darkening when your throat bobs under his hand. 

"Good girl," he breathes, and brings the nozzle up to his mouth again. His hand leaves your neck, and slips under the covers. There is a promise in the tips of his fingers when they glide over your molten skin. "We'll work on sweatin' your fever out next, bonnie. You're burnin' up." 

—Soap's definition of caretaking is coddling you. He's a firm believer in sweating it out. 

—it doesn't surprise you when he sends you several articles about how sex is good for colds, and you only feel slightly bad when his voice cracks a week later. 

PRICE—

For a man who lives off of Maduro and scotch, his immune system is surprisingly resilient. 

("It's the cigars," he husks, leaking smoke from his pores. "Keeps me in top shape."

You know better than to argue. It's never a battle you'll ever win.)

You, however, do not survive on miracle tobacco and malt. 

Price doesn't answer the text you send—sick, can't make it to dinner tonight—but nine times out of ten, he usually doesn't. It doesn't surprise you, and you're not worried. He has other things to do—reports, interviews with new cadets, and planning recon missions for men in precarious situations. You turn your phone over on the coffee table, prop your heels on the edge, pull a blanket over your legs, and turn on the trashiest reality television you can stand.

A cup of tea sits by your ankle. You'd taken some medicine, and expect to be napping in a fugue state for the rest of the day. 

It's just a tickle, really. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing that needs immediate attention. You're used to dealing with it alone. 

Somewhere between Gemma blinking at the camera in confusion, you fall into a fitful sleep. Plagued by fever demons that ravage your body until you're drenched in sweat, and moaning in discomfort. Everything feels wrong—

A worn, rough hand settles on your brow. Words clipped, gravel thick. 

Just gotta let it work itself out, love. 

Your stomach churns. You whimper. Arms slide under your knees, bracketed around your back. Flying. Weightless. You sniffle into a warm neck that smells of smoke, and hickory. 

Adrift in the sea. The waves lap at your body. You cling to the thing keeping you upright amid the waves that try to drag you under. 

It sets you down on a lush shore, sand billowing around you until you're tucked inside a cocoon of sun seared warmth. 

It pulls away. 

Your hand snaps out. "Please, don't leave me—"

Gritty hisses whisper in your ear. "Shush, shush. M'not goin' anywhere, but you need water and some medicine. Stay here, love. I'll be right back." 

You find comfort in the raw, rasping tone. Pitched low, and brassbound. You nod, head carving out a piece of bliss in the sand beneath your head. 

It's a blur, really. You remember the weight of a hand holding your head in a plinth, water slipping down your aching throat. A hand brushing back the sweat-slicked hair on your forehead. Dry lips pressed to your crown, susurrus murmurs leaking out into your skin.

You wake up hours later. The island fades into shades of familiarity. There is a weight in your palm. You blink the dredges of fever away, the gossamer of sick that sounds like the waves crashing on the distant shore.

Price. He's sat in an armchair pushed as close to your bed as it'll allow. Your fingers threaded through his. The other hand falls on his lap, resting over a manila folder.

His head dips, chin tucked into his chest. Soft, brassy snores fill your bedroom. 

On the table beside you sits two glasses of scotch, a bottle of water, an ashtray, and medicine. 

You smell something robust and meaty wafting into the room. On your dresser is a bag of takeaway from the Vietnamese restaurant you were supposed to go to. The heady scent of Pho fills the air.

Your fingers squeeze his, a gentle pulse. Warmth blooms in your chest. The heat is enough to rival your fever.

He stayed. 

(He snorts awake a few moments later, and makes you sip the scotch between mouthfuls of the electrolyte water. Good for you, he says. Drink it up, now. 

Once you've drunk as much as you could, he hands you the pho, and watches you sip the broth.) 

—firm, like everything he does. No room for arguments: he's taking care of you whether you like it or not. 

—he keeps you tucked to his chest, and turns on your favourite movies, making snarky comments from the corner of his mouth that make you laugh. You feel instantly better with him by your side. 

He, of course, does not get sick.

[rubra-wav]

As I was drawing this, I realised that if he were to ever do this it would probably be extra as. That's a real ass spotlight on him lmao (idk if this will be canon or not ofc in the actual chapter but I thought it was funny so eh)

[Context]

@matrixbearer2024

Alternate meme version below:

[zoomzooml]

Doodles of my fave boy

He may be more shy and introverted than rest of the group but he still is doofus and silly guy.

"Dresscode? Don't know the guy." He's probably the only one who gets away with it heh

I drew his tail the length of the cable in this one photo lol

[revasserium]

write. it doesn't have to be good, it doesn't even have to be a story. write a sentence, a fragment, a phrase, a thought. write something. write anything. write.

and be proud of yourself that you did.

[small-spark-of-light]

POV: infectat almost dies again

[monstersinthecosmos]

not for anything but friendly reminder that ~fandom discourse~ about where women belong (or people you perceive as women) is misogynistic as fuck. or what they're allowed to say, or what they're allowed to write about, or what they're allowed to enjoy.

next time you see someone having a tantrum and vaguing, especially if their posts from week to week completely contradict each other, perhaps analyze if the common denominator is "a gross woman said something and now i'm mad" without otherwise adhering to any actual principles.

[enhanced-operatives-division]

Roxana Prism and the Horrific Realisation She has a Crush on her Coworker

[icamefromthepinterestscreenshots]

CW: child whumper (sidekick), mentions of previous abuse. (If you find any more CWs I’ve missed, please tell me!)

Villain was feeling great. Todays plan had gone perfectly and now hero’s own sidekick was tied to a chair in front of them. Poor sidekick probably had no idea where they were, Villain smirked.

‘I bet your praying hero is going to show up and save you. I assure you they won’t. They don’t even know where my lair is; besides, do you really think they’ll go through all the effort just to save their stupid little sidekick who got themselves kidnapped?’

Sidekick was shaking. Terrified. Now completely at the villains mercy, their identity was going to be revealed, they just knew it. And then it wouldn’t just be sidekick that will die, but their loved ones too. Hero has told sidekick about villain. Sidekick knew villain was a ruthless killer. Their fear mixed with their guilt for having endangering not only themselves but their friends too. Hero would be so disappointed in sidekick. Villain was right, hero would never bother to save them. It was their own fault that they had messed up and gotten themselves kidnapped.

Villain crouched down and reached out to sidekicks face-

‘Let’s see who’s under this disguise- which I must say, is rather pathetic. Could you not have come up with a better costume for yourself?’, villain joked.

-Sidekick flinched away, but villain swiftly grabbed sidekicks mask and roughly pulled it off their face.

‘I bet you’re-‘,

The villains grin dropped along with their stomach. This was not what they were expecting. Rage shook through villain. Sidekicks face showed nothing but absolute fear.

‘A child. You’re just a child’

Villains face softened as they tried to hide their anger from the kid that sat before them. Hero had sent a child to fight them. A child. How could hero do this? And who was responsible for sidekicks black eye? Villain knew it wasn’t them. Was it hero? When villain got their hands on them-

But that could be dealt with later. Villain needed to focus on the terrified face in front of them.

‘I’m not a child. I’m 15’

‘Who told you that was old? Was it hero? You can’t even drink yet, darling. You’re a child.

And to be clear, I am not going to hurt you. I know hero’s probably told you horrible lies about me, but I can assure you, they’re not true… at least most of them aren’t true. But I would never intentionally hurt a child’

Sidekick was shocked by the softness of villains voice, which was completely different from the roughness it had been filled with 2 seconds ago. It was just an act. It had to be. Sure, hero could be harsh to sidekick, but sidekick deserved it right? Hero was just training sidekick.

‘Are you hungry? Injured? Let me patch you up’

Villain gently brushed sidekicks hair out their face to get a better look at the purple bruises forming on their forehead. Sidekick flinched away from the hand, letting out a small whimper.

That was it. Villain vowed they would destroy hero next time they saw them. But first, they have got to help the poor kid.

————————————————————————————————

This was my first time writing something like this, so any feedback and help would be appreciated. In fact, it think this is the first time I’ve written a story outside an English lesson (which I haven’t done as a subject since GCSE’s) since I wrote a short Harry Potter headcanon when I was 12 lol. I still remember that headcanon tho, and I’m pretty sure it might still be on tumblr somewhere 🫡

[lemony-snickers]

I wonder if at some point, Kakashi might have seriously considered leaving Konoha.

In the end, he is too loyal and too determined to protect the people he loves to truly abandon his home.

But I wonder if he toyed with the idea. In the middle of the night, back slick with sweat after yet another nightmare.

He thinks of how Konoha destroyed his father, thrust Obito into a war he wasn’t ready for, instilled in Rin ideals that led her to believe killing herself was justified because it was in the best interests of the village. He thinks of Minato and Kushina slaughtered before their baby ever got to know them.

He wonders if maybe he’d be better off striking the Leaf symbol from his hitai-ate, leaving behind the strict shinobi code in favor of his own. A code which embraces the grey, prioritizes empathy.

Maybe he even toys with it a little, sneaks out of the village when he’s not on mission to see how long he can get away with before he’s missed; before a hawk circles above his hiding place to call him home.

Like when you’re a kid and you hop out your window, wander down the road or into the woods to a secret spot only you know. Just to test it out. Like “running away” just for a little while might fix whatever is broken.

You always go home, in the end. And so does Kakashi.

Because he would never forgive himself if he truly abandoned his post; the way Sakumo abandoned his son or Rin abandoned her surviving teammate.

I wonder if when Sasuke defects from his home in pursuit of Orochimaru—of power—Kakashi understands a little more than most because he’s considered the same path.

Weighed the price of leaving against the one he has already paid to stay.

[atlas-library]

Once again, @mana-jjk inspires me with her analysis of Toge. She reminded me of his harmless pranks, like the one where he steals Maki's skirt— And she doesn't seem to care that much, right.

So I've been having a silly headcanon, dancing around in my mind.

I usually headcanon Toge as trans, not in a binary way though— He mostly uses he/him and they/them pronouns in my mind, but is very much close to the genderfluid label. A bit of pangender and agender at the same time, if we had to use some other labels. He's all and nothing, his gender fits his moods and outfits, he's Toge, that's it.

But what if? What if it didn't cross his mind before the school (it didn't, it was still there but he'd think "That means I'm a guy" when he's never been one, at least not entirely)? What if the first time he gets to break gender norms is by stealing Maki's skirt?

He keeps staring at it, wondering, and when Panda teases him about it (thinking Toge is having other thoughts, or probably knowing he doesn't yet still teasing), Toge shakes his head. Fish flakes.

So Panda tilts his head to the side, deep in thought, and then— "Wanna prank Maki?" And it's the perfect excuse.

Toge nods. Salmon.

The first time he steals Maki's skirt and puts it on, it feels... weird. They're not the same height or size, Maki's hips are slightly wider than his— But then, Toge convinces himself it's just for the prank. Panda loves pranks, he loves Panda and pranks are funny.

Maki doesn't find it funny, though, just annoying; she rolls her eyes at them, calls them stupid and childish (in a typical "Boys are stupid" fashion she's learnt in elementary school), and flicks Toge's forehead as she walks past him. She doesn't even ask for her skirt back... which seems obvious, since she probably has a spare.

So Toge doesn't take it off right away.

He walks around the hallways dressed like this, feels the wind on his calves, and twirls to watch the pretty movements the skirt does. He does this the rest of the afternoon, until the sun goes down and Maki taps his shoulder with a pout. Oh. She wants it back.

So Toge follows her to her room, waits until she invites him in, and doesn't look around in case she doesn't want him to— But her closet has a glassdoor on the inside. He sees his reflection and, when Maki isn't looking, slowly lifts up his shirt until the waistband of the skirt is visible.

It's slightly too big. It doesn't fall prettily on his hips. Still, he likes it.

Behind him, from the corner of her eye, Maki watches Toge as he shyly admires his reflection. She'd seen that look before— On Mai, every time they'd get new clothes she felt really fit her.

Maki doesn't get Inumaki a lot, but she gets him in that specific moment. He does look pretty in a skirt.

[quuma]

“SILENCE SPEAKS THE LOUDEST”

[not proof read - just forewarning you LOL goodluck,, there's likely many mispellings and inconsistencies in structure and past/present tense]

“silence speaks the loudest.”

a phrase that the boy had never fully understood. how could the lack of noise ever make comment? ever express itself? [he was never one to enjoy symbolism – preferring the objectiveness of facts. unfortunately, symbolism was something he needed to know for his final assessments. when one does not understand, they can do nothing but learn. alas, he had to try.]

sitting together in the common room one late night, air weighed down by the pressure of the upcoming O.W.L.s - silent, still; thinking. him, gaze fixed straight ahead, enraptured by the glowing fire in front of him, parchment and quill long abandoned and spilling in waves onto the cold floor below. [his hand aches, as does his head. unintelligible words bounce around, vaguely connecting to others before disappearing. he can’t remember anything he’s read in the past 2 hours.] you, tucked away in a corner, scribbled work illuminated only by a curtain of reflected moonlight creeping through the alcove windows and the lone candle melting above. drip, drip. the flame almost tickles the end of the wick – forewarning of the late hour. but neither of you make any sudden movement that suggests the intention of leaving anytime soon.

the room had once been full, bustling with frazzled teenagers and their shared confusion. shouts of questions juxtaposing aggressive hushes for silence. his friends had once been there too, now long retired to the comforting confines of their bedsheets. he cannot help but be jealous. [but a small part of him is guiltily glad to be away from them. don’t get him wrong, he loves his friends and fellow housemates, but sometimes he just needs space.]

seconds pass. minutes pass. wax drips to the floor one final time, announcing light’s departure. his eyelids struggle to remain open - fighting a losing battle - but his hands are still. his gaze is finally torn from the hypnotic fire, lethargically flicking around in a half-hearted attempt at waking himself of the enticing trance that orange light brings. they eventually reach you. you, now staring back at him.

the two of you had never been particularly close. it was no personal slight against one another, of course. you were friends of friends - skirting the edges of one another’s social groups, but never each other. there was simply no need to. no magical spark, no unexplainable invisible might bringing you together, no forced proximity in classes – he didn’t think he’d ever even accidently locked eyes with you before this.

silence. a heavy sigh escaped a pair of lips [he couldn’t tell if it had been yours or his, mind too fuzzy from hours of memorising equations, wand movements, and literary techniques.]

no words passed through that night air, but the message was still clear.

you looked away. so did he. movement ensued once more; quills flicking lethargically, eyes hesitantly blinking, the crackle of the fire filling the air.

silence, silence.

time had continued to run its course.

the night (or morning, as the faint light of dawn had replaced the moonlight) had ended with you suddenly rising from your chair, startling the boy from the half-asleep daze he hadn’t even realised he had slipped in to. upon realising that you were leaving, he too clumsily collected his things and stood. by the time he was done (which, admittedly, took an embarrassingly long amount of time. but who could blame him? he was attempting to function off less than an hour’s worth of half-conscious sleep) you were long gone. the sound of the common room door thumping gently behind you, paired with your fading tip-toed footsteps were all that reached him.

in the hours, days, months after that moment of eye contact, that moment of mutual understanding, nothing eventful followed. there were no sudden deep discussions, there were no shared inside jokes – but there was that passing moment. there was that presence. there was that tranquillity. there was that shared struggle of staying awake. there was the recognition of unspoken words; “i’m glad was not alone. i’m glad it was you. no expectations, no forced discussion, no preconceived notions. just two people, sitting, experiencing; living. normal, together. thank you.”

no words ever of acknowledgment of that moment ever cross either of your lips – no one admits the comfort of that silent scene. [but there are now locked gazes. there are now small smiles shared. there is now proximity. the social circles you two skirted are now closer, closing in on one another.]

but you both know. you know, he knows.

he thinks he understands now.

[ququoquaw]

i love the idea that the only reason dokja knows what's going on and is able to do so much crazy stuff is cause he has no taste and chose to religiously read a dog shit story for 10 years