#and realistically i know this is an emergency and a one time thing but THEY don't know that

[pa-pa-plasma]

so this post is definitely about me lol & i just wanna say that

me only having mental illness is a really big assumption

the experiences i talked about were my own & some friends i'd had while going to an alternate school, they weren't secondhand or made up

idk what is wrong with this person but they are super fucking ableist, & going through their blog, it's clear they love to accuse everyone of faking being disabled or needing accommodation for some reason & are obsessed with interacting in bad faith.

just gonna assume they're constantly having a really bad day every day but man if you're gonna make multiple blogs dedicated to speaking about disabled issues, maybe don't alienate a majority of the community & accuse them of not being "disabled enough" for you to fucking listen to them

[temis-de-leon]

Who's their emergency contact

.

Lucifer: Mammon, his favourite brother and the one he turns to when things get serious. For the sake of his peace and sanity, there are things he'd rather keep secret from Diavolo and just for this reason he can't trust Barbatos either; telling something to the butler would only result in the prince knowing.

Mammon: you, whether you like it or not. Depending on the situation, Lucifer may leave him longer than necessary in the hospital (or wherever he's retained) and his younger brothers tend to make fun of him most of the time. If he has to face someone's wrath, please let it be yours.

Levi: Lucifer, the default option. As much as he loves and trusts you, he needs to be realistic: there are some things you cannot handle. Besides that, of course, his eldest brother is responsible when making decisions, especially if his family is involved.

Satan: Lucifer and he hates it. It used to be Asmo until he had an accident with a spell and ended up in serious trouble. When Asmo arrived he cried so hard out of worry that they had to call Lucifer, so he reluctantly changed it to save some time in the future.

Asmo: you. If something happens to him, the first person he wants to see when he wakes up is you and, if it were really serious anyway, you wouldn't go alone to get him. Plus, he'd also die of happiness under your care since he'd be receiving all your attention!

Beel: Lucifer, who he trusts the most in stressful situations. He loves Belphie with all his heart, yes, but he can't trust his twin to be awake at random times; emergencies can happen at any hour, after all.

Belphie: Beel. Does he have to explain? Besides you, there's no one in the family he trusts more than him, so it just makes sense.

You: Lucifer. Mammon tried to negotiate. He tried.

.

.

Main Masterlist

This is so damn stupid. I promise I'm writing my normal posts, but I was watching Grey's Anatomy and it just happened. If it looks wonky, it's because I'm sleepy

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010  @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion

[kurthorton-moving]

my roommates flight home has been canceled and i am not doing well

[harmonizewithechoes]

.

[lionheartedmusings]

hi everyone! i talked about my new "dream job" very briefly a few times, but turns out you really shouldn't count your chickens before they hatch. i debated not saying anything multiple times, and frankly perhaps i should've kept quiet, but i refuse to let this situation eat me up and i feel like the community also deserves some transparency on some things that realistically, you'll never get unless people speak up. i want to preface this by stating very, very clearly that everyone that i met in the studio on a personal level is incredibly talented, passionate, and kind. all of them deserve much, much better than the way they get treated. i applied to be a writer for quackity studios / qsmp and got an email back on the 18th of january. i interviewed for the position on the 23rd of january, and entered trial period on the 28th after signing an "nda".

early during trial period, i asked one of my supervisors about payment and was told they weren't responsible for that and didn't know, but would get back to me as soon as they knew which never ended up happening (i do not blame them at all, they’re incredibly busy people). i should've pressed further, but as someone in a very, very sensitive financial situation and someone who loves the qsmp and admires the talent of everyone who poured their heart and soul into the project, i chose to wait and expect the best. i was officially welcomed into the studio on the 10th of february, and while i waited to be contacted regarding a contract or payment, i had to once again ask (even after i was already working) about payment. i was redirected to "the" head admin as it was him who handled payment, and had to wait days for him to log on so i could add him as a discord friend and ask about my salary. during that conversation, which took almost a week from start to finish, i was asked multiple times if i'd worked professionally as a writer or freelancer (to which the answer was no) before finally being offered between 200-250 dollars (which i later found out shakes out to 170€) per month. i had to ask how i was being paid, and of my own accord provide him with my paypal email in hopes of a response as he never made it clear to whom i should send it. i was incredibly lucky compared to so many members of that team, because i did get paid for my work over that month, even if it felt like i had to beg for compensation that had been promised to me before. it was an awful salary, but i was desperate and so excited to be a part of the team that i accepted the conditions. after léa's tweets, the response "jay" posted, and quackity's emergency stream, i heard once from a supervisor that things were on hold but we'd be informed of any changes. to this day, there has not been any communication either publicly on the discord server or privately, even though i asked a supervisor privately for any possible updates on anything. there's been absolute radio silence. i want to add that i do not in any way blame my supervisors for any of their lack of communication, as they've been nothing but kind and caring towards me and i imagine they'd say something if they could. i have nothing but the utmost respect for them. a few days ago (and i apologize for not being precise with the date but i wasn't checking these things closely as i had no reason to) i noticed that my access to just about everything on the server apart from the announcement channel had been removed, and the only role i retained was the main "writer" one. upon checking, the other writers on the team still retain all of their previous roles. for some reason i do not know nor understand, my access got removed without any sort of word, communication, dm, anything. anything i've ever learnt about this situation, i learnt in the middle of the night live on twitch.tv while i waited to see if i still had a job or not. the only reason i can find for my access being removed and not the other writers is the fact that i'm friends with pomme's admin. i do not know if that is why, it's merely my own speculation, but it's the only link i can see that would lead to that decision. i hope i'm wrong, but hope hasn't gotten me very far in this yet. yesterday, i quit.

i only applied in the first place because i love the qsmp. i love this community, i love this project, and i genuinely and wholeheartedly wanted to help build it as well as be able to in some way support myself while being creative. i'm not making this post because i hate quackity and want to see anything burn — i'm just exhausted, and stressed, and losing sleep over a business that ultimately does not care for the people that made it a reality. i could not in good conscience not say something, because while i was very lucky that my time there was short and while i made friends there that i believe i will take with me for the rest of my life, i've never been someone who can sit and watch others be mistreated so blatantly and just ignore it. i honestly and sincerely hope that moving forward, things change, but after what i've seen i have very little hope left in me. this isn't just about the exploitation of people, or just about not providing people with payment for their work — it's about treating other human beings who are killing themselves and working themselves to the bone with the very minimum of care and respect. it's about people who made the qsmp what it is being discarded and disrespected constantly, and who live in fear and anxiety. these people deserve to be treated well, and that lack of respect hasn't changed regardless of any "announcements" made. my heart and full and complete support goes out to everyone who is dealing with these very unfortunate circumstances and treatment (my dms are always open if you ever want to reach out), to léa for being so incredibly brave and putting herself in the line of fire for the tens of people still in the studio, to all the actors and the twitter teams for the absolute silence they've received as payment for their hard work over almost a year, and to pomme's admin who despite what's going around on twitter has not received any contact from anyone in the studio yet, and deserves so so much better.

it’s my most sincere hope that qsmp thrives and conditions change, because everyone there deserves that. everyone there deserves to be treated like gold because they’re some of the best people i’ve ever met. i wish it didn’t feel like we have to put ourselves in the line of fire publicly for any sort of response because clearly staying silent hasn’t helped anything.

please, support the people who spoke out and support the people still in the project. they're the ones who made the qsmp the qsmp. they're the ones you should be standing with first and foremost.

[bakugoushotwife]

born sinner (part one)

pairing: crime boss!suguru geto x fem!surgeon!reader series content: blood, gore, realistic descriptions of surgery but like as accurate as someone with access to google has, angst, slow-burn, eventual smut, anxiety as a heavy theme, no curses!au, violence, guns, gang mentions and typical violence, religious imagery, etc. words: 8.5k a/n: omg omg happy new year! the gojo writer takes on suguru geto!! he's so challenging for me in the best of ways and i hope that his characterization is at least tolerable LMFAO!! i got this amazing idea from a gorgeously detailed outline from @antizenin who trusted me to bring her outline to life. i hope you love it!! part two //

the lights are entirely too bright in the meeting hall. it’s nothing compared to the lights in the OR that illuminate the vessels of a heart as you slice into it—finding the clot that caused the fourty-one year old mother of two to collapse in the middle of making breakfast. you saved her life, you save lives. you’re a cardiothoracic surgeon–and a top one at that, though you spent your residency flirting with general and neurosurgery, you ultimately landed on the heart of it all–literally. it was riveting work. it was satisfying work. you got to play god, holding the lives of everyone that came through the hospital doors in your hands. you got to be the one to repair the tear in their aorta, the one to physically pump their heart with your own grip. it was thrilling. until it wasn’t. until you couldn’t stop the bleeding or make the heart beat again. until being god of the emergency room meant sending some people to the afterlife, and realizing that you are no god. you’re just a woman with a degree and a scalpel and a crippling fear that you don’t know what you’re really doing at all.

that’s what got you here. the clock in front of you is just about the only thing to look at in this section of the hospital. the board meets here—the people that convene to discuss fates. it’s almost comically just that the long hallway before the meeting room was barren and hopeless–only the clock’s hands to tick loudly by in mock of you. 7:55 am. just five more minutes until you went from the god above it all to a simple beggar praying to be spared. you were no different from those you operated on. you’re suddenly very aware of how scratchy and hard your chair is, making you adjust and readjust to try to find some semblance of comfort in the last five minutes before judgment day. as a surgeon, you know just how out of whack your vitals are. as someone with a diazepam prescription, you know exactly what’s causing it, regardless of the MD at the end of your last name. shit, you forgot to take your pills again this morning—

there’s a faint sound of heels clicking against the cold tile floor in conjunction with the loud clunk, clunk, ding dong ding! of the clock that signals the top of the hour. it’s time. the secretary calls your name as if you’re not the only person waiting out here, and you nod without meeting her eyes. you know without lifting your gaze that hers is judgmental–like everyone’s lately. 

the problem with being god is that you can’t make mistakes without feeling the wrath of the people that once loved you and championed your name.

millions of thoughts race inside your head simultaneously: if you can’t handle the hardening stare of a measly secretary, how on earth would you be able to function under the eyes of the council, the real gods amongst men. they have the authority to revoke your license if you don’t figure out how to answer to them. the one case, the one incident, the one person’s life that ended because of your inability to handle such racing thoughts drives you to clutch at your chest now as you rise from your chair, back aching. 

“right this way.” she says without another glance, and you’re thankful for that reprieve. she turns, loud heels click clacking their way back down the hall at the same pace of your hammering heart. you love being a surgeon. you can’t lose that. you have to fight for it. saving lives is important to you! you just have to convey this. it’s not hard. swallow your fear and finally fight for something you want, put one foot in front of the other, you tell yourself. breathe in and breathe out—you have to get your sinus rhythm back to normal if you have any hope of getting through this. but it’s so hard when all your senses lie to you like this, the clock’s ticks still rattling across your brain—the long and dark hallway only stretching to be longer and darker before you. you know it’s impossible–just your mind playing tricks. or, more aptly, part of you knows that. but the other part starts to break out in a cold sweat once you finally approach the door. on the other side of the heavy oak were the group of people who would decide what your life was worth: do you get to stay a god amongst men, or will you be cast out like the devil himself? 

you can hear the different voices speaking in low whispers before the secretary has even pushed into the room. you know they must be speaking about you from the way their eyes dart all over your timid form in front of them as they shuffle their papers—reports of every mistake and triumph you’ve ever had laid out in front of them, reducing you to a datapoint. it’s a medical license hearing, but you feel like a freshly hit opossum standing before the vultures just waiting to pick your bones clean. maybe being roadkill was more freeing than this. 

this room is much darker than the lobby you waited in, dimly lit by reading lamps positioned to the right of each panelist–five total. three men and two women would decide if your mistake was enough to ruin your career. their desk towered above you, so much so you had to tilt your chin back to be able to take in their disgruntled, disappointed, and disapproving stares. your saliva feels like liquid cement when you go to swallow it down—though it tastes like bile.  

“good morning doctor.” the man on the furthest right says. he has the kindest eyes of them all, though your brain catches his deception. he’s just acting. the other panelists give you tight lipped smiles of greeting and head nods of acknowledgement. you clear your throat a little and give them a bow. 

“good morning, board of internal medicine. i’ve…prepared a statement?” you clench your jaw at the shakiness you can hear in your voice. it’s the older of the two women that nod at you this time. 

“you may present it.” she says, a drawn-on eyebrow raised expectantly. you swallow down that bile-cement flavored spit again, training your eyes on a hairline crack in the tile under your toe. it’s fitting. as time passes, this crack will widen and cause that tile to erode and crumble away. this meeting could be the crack in your foundation. the decision made here today could be the first domino of events to ruin the picture perfect life you’ve carefully put into place. 

“..hiroshi nakamura entered the emergency room on november twenty-third at 4:57 pm. he was suffering from an aortic aneurysm. as many of you are former surgeons yourselves, i know you’re familiar with the diagnosis. many of these go unnoticed. symptomatic pain is brushed off, and many times it’s too late to save them, the silent killer.” you shift your weight, doing your best to maintain eye contact despite the haunting memory. “nakamura-san was a patient of mine previously. he was diagnosed with arteriosclerosis three years prior, the exact date escapes me. it was in the summertime. july maybe. later that day i performed an endarterectomy to reduce the atheromatous plaque in his carotid artery. we kept him for the next three days for observation, his vitals improved and he was discharged with instructions to receive regular checkups. when he was brought back in…i knew immediately that the buildup must have returned, making it harder for blood to travel until it turned into a clot. when i opened him up, his pressure started dropping. he had an aortic dissection, which i’ve run into many times. but the size of nakamura-san’s was significant. i hesitated, deciding between a graft or a stent for treatment. i took too long to choose, and nakamura-san…bled out on the operating table.” you grimace, looking down at that cracked tile again. the line was shaped like a lightning bolt, its jagged curve leading straight under your shoe. you can feel your chest tighten, so you close your eyes and try to push back against the wave of emotion sitting in your throat. “i had to tell nakamura-san’s family what happened. his wife of forty years, his thirty-four year old son, thirty year old daughter, and twenty-eight year old son as well as his young grandchildren. i’ll never forget what my mistake has done to their lives, and i believe it is punishment enough.” 

you step back once you’ve finished speaking, heart still hammering away in your chest. the members of the board nod, seemingly unaffected by your words. the man in the middle of the massive mahogany table picks up his stack of papers, licking his forefinger before flipping through them. “how long have you been prescribed diazepam, doctor?” 

your blood stills. your anxiety was clearly well documented, and you knew it would be on their list of questions. “since i was a teenager, sixteen i believe.” 

he hums, eyes focused on the paper before him. “and how would you say it helps you manage your generalized anxiety disorder?” 

you would do anything for that ticking clock right about now, for this room is so quiet you swore they could hear your thoughts. “it helps considerably. i’ve stayed on it for over ten years now.”

“your prescription history is spotty. were you trying alternative therapies?” the younger woman asks, manicured red nails clutching your entire life between them via vulturous paper reports. 

you open your mouth to answer–no, argue–but realize that won’t help you anymore than the truth will. “no. i…had not.” 

she raises her brow just like the other woman did, except her eyebrow was real and also well taken care of. “so what happened? it seems like you’ve forgotten to pick up your medicine three times this year—one of which was during nakamura-san’s surgery?” you are a cardiothoracic surgeon, one that was considered proficient enough to pick her specialty. you are no fool. you can see the trap she’s laid before you even unmedicated. 

this is the end. all because of your busy schedule and long hours at the hospital. sometimes you missed pharmacy hours, other times you just forgot about it altogether, mind racing with diagnoses and cases that wait for you the next day. but that won’t matter now, you can feel it before you even answer. they knew what they were going to do before you ever walked in this room. “my business hours are usually reserved for saving lives at this hospital. sometimes i’m not able to make it to pickup.” 

“how long until your death toll matches that of your successes, doctor?” the final man at the left asks, punctuating their line of questioning. he shuffles the edges of his papers against the flat top he sits behind. “i think our decision has been reached. you’re no longer licensed to operate in this hospital or any other, effective immediately. take your medicine.” 

he has his doubts, but he supposes that is his nature. it feels strange to organize a meeting between two warring sides, hoping for a somewhat amicable and fortuitous outcome. hope is a foreign concept in this world, in suguru geto’s reality. he runs the west side of tokyo—keeping businesses running and funding local projects as well as controlling the streets with his biggest means of profit—guns for hire. he was a local historic monument. a ghost–everyone knew of him but pretended not to. everyone from bar owners to bakeries, lawyers and school teachers alike all under his influence, his pulse on the town. that’s how he knew the rival eastside head planned to make a move on his territory, and he’s been able to orchestrate a negotiation between them based on the opinion of his mentor and right hand man. 

traditionally, suguru would eliminate his problem at the source. there’s no need to play politics when you make your own rules. but he trusts wholly in his sacred few, the ones who have been with him since the beginning of his reign, and even before then. suguru’s best friend, satoru gojo was his best assassin and loudest mouth. choso kamo was a younger pup, but loyal and hardworking—very protective. and then there was toji fushiguro, the most valued of all. he’s shown suguru the ropes of this industry while still respecting and protecting him. geto entrusts his life to toji. if the man believes a meeting would be wise, then they’ll have the meeting. 

besides, there was no arguing with his logic. if they were able to pull this off, then his men will have free reign in the east, able to expand their territory into shinjuku, and have a working alliance with their only competition. so why was he having second thoughts? he blames satoru and his creepy blue eyes staring at him in the mirror he’s checking himself over in. 

“do you not trust me?” he asks the other man, tugging the top half of his too-long black hair into a neat knot. it reveals the long dragon tattoo that creeps up his neck, eyes glowing with anger at whoever looked. his own golden eyes flicker with unease as they survey the only person in the room. suguru hated how opinionated satoru could be at times, and valued it in others. though he usually didn’t know which way he felt until after the fact. 

the arctic-haired boy scoffed, kicking himself into stride from his previous position leaning against the wall. “oh i trust you. i just think it’s weird. i mean–toji’s so gung-ho, let’s slaughter ‘em all, and now we’re supposed to believe he’s become a diplomat?”

“i didn’t know you knew what diplomat meant.” suguru comments drily, sidestepping his friend’s critique of their teacher.

satoru shoves his round sunglasses back up his nose to conceal his eye roll. suguru was technically his boss—though he could get away with more than most. “hey, you asked. i just…have a bad feeling about this.” he shrugs–a knock at geto’s door causing both men to go on high alert immediately. satoru reaches for his weapon, always expecting an ambush. such is this way of life. 

“geto–sama, the car is ready.” the driver says from the other side of the wood, and satoru relaxes at the realization that it was just ijichi–a man so weak and cowardly that an ambush at his hands would be impossible. suguru releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding onto. he fastens the final button on his shirt, glancing over himself in the mirror once again. he wanted to appear polished and professional in his all black attire—and it worked. he seemed larger than life and as intimidating as ever. 

“perfect. i should get going.” he nods to his best friend–who, due to his abrasive and blunt nature, will not be attending this meeting. suguru adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, strapping his guns to his torso and giving satoru a tight lipped smile. the latter gets the door for him, mockingly saluting. 

“i’ll hold down the fort until you get back, boss!” he chirps, nodding to ijichi before making his way back to the data room. 

toji meets them in the car. it’s a bulletproof black bronco, a fitting vehicle to cart around a high-profile crime boss. suguru’s confidence is bolstered at the sight of his most trusted companion, and he genuinely smiles as he ducks into the backseat with him. 

“hey kid, big day.” the older man says gruffly, his gravelly voice making it sound like he were sixty years his senior instead of a mere fifteen. suguru was no child, and didn’t appear to be one either. the twenty-eight year old man towered over six feet, thick with muscle and riddled with scars of experience, but to toji—suguru was a helpless kitten. 

suguru hums, eyes already scanning for potential danger as the car rolls out of the garage. “big day indeed. you’ve spoken to him already this morning?”

toji claps his broad hand down on suguru’s even broader shoulder, chuckling. “we wouldn’t be headin’ out if i hadn’t. sukuna’s ready for us.” he assures, noting how strong and steady suguru looked. toji was proud, geto has grown quite bit from the scrappy little boy he once was. if he was nervous, he was keeping that close to his chest. 

“good. i think he’ll find my proposal beneficial for us both.” he nods, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. sukuna’s crew mostly pushed petty crime and even pettier drugs—suguru’s bunch could elevate their product and offer more riches for the notoriously greedy ‘cursed king’ ryomen sukuna. 

toji snorts a little, amused by his arrogance. “let’s hope so.” he nods, checking the rearview and windows before they fall into silence. 

the ride is smooth due to the expensive tires and ijichi’s careful nature, leaving geto plenty of peace and quiet to brainstorm all of the ways this could go down. he’s doing a genuine good for japan–sure, he has to break a few laws to do it, but the people of tokyo—well, his half anyway—are prospering. he hopes that even the arrogant man that ryomen is can see what banding together would do for them both. then, it could be just a matter of time before he can branch out into the rest of japan. 

there’s that word again. hope. he feels silly each time he catches himself using it. it’s akin to faith to him. something ideal in entirety, hardly true to the touch. he only believes in what he can see–things like optimism and god are lost on him, they are only fantasies. 

“ijichi! watch the right side—” toji commands gruffly, sitting up straighter in his seat to get a better look. suguru is grounded with a shot of adrenaline, leaning over to peer at the black suv hot on their tails. this highway is busy—civilians in their own cars without a clue in the world littered all over the roads at various speeds. it could be nothing–except geto knows better than to hope that the tinted windows on the car were meant to block out the sun instead of concealing identities. the large suv switches into the left lane, speeding up to catch them. “idiot! step on it!” he calls, and suguru draws one of his guns to be prepared ahead of time, a lesson he learned from the man sitting to his right. 

“is it one of sukuna’s?” he asks aloud, cocking his .45 as the first shots ring out from the vehicle beside them. they bounce right off his armored car, but one knicks the tire. geto curses under his breath, cracking the window enough to pop off a few returning shots of his own. the cadillac is impenetrable too–though he had hoped to flatten one of their tires in return or even get one under the hood. 

ijichi starts to lose control on the vehicle as the tire blows—just the metal rim scraping against the concrete with a deafening hiss. the bronco starts to fishtail, the car beside them only furthering the inevitable by nudging the rear quarter panel into the median ahead. “i’m losing it! we’re gonna flip!” ijichi cries out in panic, prompting suguru’s eyes to widen. 

there’s a loud crunch of metal on concrete before they’re airborne. geto feels a sense of finality wash over him as they turn, his seatbelt the only thing keeping him from breaking his neck. there’s another gross sounding scrape of the driver’s side scraping on the road briefly before they rotate again—heartbeat erratic. this is it. all of his hard work would end in a fiery car accident. he can’t even feel it as his head bounces off the window, only thinking about how satoru was right. he should have appreciated his friend more—he’s probably the only person who will mourn him when he’s gone. the roof caves in when they fall onto it this time, shrapnel scratching his face and making him realize they had stopped. they’re on their back–he’s hanging upside down, but he’s alive. he can smell oil and gas and the inevitable smell of fire, so his numb fingers fumble for the seatbelt’s release button. the car alarms are going off—and he knows if he doesn’t get out soon, the relief of being alive won’t even have time to sink in before it’s ripped away again. he looks around the car—toji’s door ripped off in the accident and his body nowhere to be seen. 

“goddammit–” he growls, clicking the button on his seatbelt over and over, unable to get free. there’s a million alarms going off—the car’s sensors, the airbags, the bitter hum of gunshots ringing in his ears still, maybe even faint police sirens heading this way. none as loud as the one in his head telling him that he had to get out soon–fighting until the button finally releases him and he lands with a thud on the sunroof portion of the now mangled bronco. he crawls toward the only exit, toji’s exit, grimacing at the sickening sound of crunching glass digging into his side as he drags himself through it. he thought dying would be more peaceful—that he would be ready for it, even if he hadn’t finished his work yet. in this business, there is no tomorrow, yet he found himself fighting for one. this wouldn’t be the end of him, some sort of voice in the back of his head told him so. it wasn’t his own, in fact he didn’t recognize it—but it made him take the pain and push forward, out of the car and onto the street beside. 

the sunset would be prettier under better circumstances, but he’s grateful to see it irregardless. his head hurts, and he can’t look around as fast as he wants to without getting dizzy, that ringing deafening his senses. he sees the cadillac–still on the scene– with a group of men huddled outside of it talking. 

he sputters out a cough, clearing his lungs of some of the debris he’s inhaled. it catches their attention—and all geto can process is a pair of dark boots stomping over rubber scraps and glass shards until they’re inches from his face and the legs attached are squatting down to get a better look at him. 

“eh, shoulda known you’d survive it if i did.” he grumbles, a voice so unmistakable suguru’s blood stills in his veins. the sole of the man’s boot shoves into suguru’s shoulder, kicking him to his back. “you trust too much kid. why would sukuna negotiate when he could just take from you instead? shame. you coulda been great.” he says, fumbling behind his back for a 9mm piece, the sobering click of the safety and familiar cock of the gun clearing out all the other noises. geto’s too devastated to speak—though he knows there’s nothing he could say. he lived through the accident just to die with the truth: his mentor betrayed him. 

bang!

getting shot doesn’t feel like you think it does. it’s white hot and instant, a blistering intensity that tells you you're dying. suguru’s hand flies to cover the damage to his chest, eyes wide in disbelief still. he must have already died and gone to hell. he can’t hear anything now but the ringing of the gun and toji’s sigh. 

“meh–just to be sure.” toji yawns, scratching his head with the barrel before turning it back to suguru’s chest. 

bang!

it hurts to breathe, but he has to gasp for air either way—bleeding out on the pavement below. the ringing in his ears is replaced by tires spinning out—signifying that the rival crew had left before the cops could arrive. suguru holds his crimson soaked hand up above his face, clenching his jaw. the pain was hitting him in waves, the clawing feeling of glass embedded in his skin mixed with the burn of being shot, the inability to take a deep breath and his growing weakness, he really was dying this time. 

no. 

that voice again. he’s annoyed by it, but intrigued. why? why not give up? he asks himself, coughing despite the excruciating pain it puts him in and the wetness that seeps out of his mouth—something even he knows is blood. 

there’s so much life to live. fight. revenge, love. there’s more for you. 

he stares up at the pale outline of the moon hanging in the sky, growing brighter as the sky darkened. revenge. that was something he’d like to see. he didn’t know about the rest of it–but was confused by this…guardian angel of his. is this god? he was a born sinner—far away from anything holy. this must be an imagination of his—yet it was motivating enough to get him to move again. they wrecked just outside of harajuku. he knew of a dive bar under his business portfolio that he could try to get to–he could hang on until satoru found him and got him to the hospital, though that was a whole new set of problems. he had to get moving, the ringing of sirens getting closer by the second. 

his vision is blackening and he doesn’t even know how close he is to the bar. his breathing is ragged, everything screaming and aching, body telling him to give up but that voice urging him to keep going. night has settled in fully by now, and he’s thankful for that cover. this area of town is avoided by anyone with good intentions, hence its emptiness at this hour. it couldn’t be too late, 8 pm at the latest, but the only traffic moving through this district are giggly college students and no good drug pushers meeting up with customers in the dark. but it’s reassuring to him, it means he’s getting closer. that’s when the reminiscing hits him. he’s able to see some bright flashing lights—a telltale sign that the bar was just ahead. the shelter of the alleyway gives him some reprieve. maybe if he stops just stopped for a second to catch his breath he’d be able to get to his feet and walk inside, or just getting a phone call in would be enough to save him. he thinks about satoru, how he’d come running as soon as he picked up the phone all while cursing him out for not listening to his warnings sooner. he feels embarrassed that the only person he has to think about is his sarcastic best friend, left to wonder if things would be better or worse if he had a family to think about instead. the last thing he thinks about is that mysterious voice calling out to him to stay awake—but his body is done fighting. all is black. 

what better way to end the worst day of your life than getting shitty at the shittiest bar in town? there were probably lots of better options, like conserving your money since you didn’t know where your next source of income would stream from—but that was tomorrow’s problem. tonight’s problem was drinking your sorrows away next to the attractive man buying all your drinks. he was tall and his hair was spiky to look at but you knew it would be soft to the touch–or maybe that’s the vodka talking. his smile was more akin to a smirk rather than a genuine grin. he was trouble. but trouble was buying, so you’d keep batting you lashes and whining about your sorrows so the shots kept coming. the top-shelf vodka the man offers each time is working to its desired effect, numbing the ache in your heart and the bickering thoughts in your brain. it almost cloaks the mildew scent in the air—rose-colored glasses making the nasty blue carpet and hideous wood paneled walls of the bar look like a dream come true. you finally feel light. you almost forget about the man eyeing you like a predator in wait to your left, consciousness floating high in the clouds. 

you used to hate drinking. as a surgeon, you need a clear mind at all times. who knew when you’d be called in for an emergency case. well, needed. plus, you’ve always been an angry drunk, overly emotional and yelling constantly. it wasn’t a pleasant sight. not to mention the hangovers, ugh—your long-term psyche had always beaten out the short-term pleasure, but tonight you owed it to yourself to feel as bas as possible tomorrow. that’s why the clouds clear—your light-hearted joy short-lived as the bartender slides you another shot before muttering. 

“that’s your last one, doctor.” he tilts his head down, used to serving your fellow surgeon friends when you did have a well-timed night off, though he’s never seen you drunk as the most responsible member of your group, you were always designated driver. not anymore, you’d be lucky to get a text back from any of them now that you were disbarred. maybe that’s what actually makes you mad instead of being cut off. it’s the realization of all the things you’ve really lost–-including the right to drown your sorrows out with a swollen liver. 

“what the fuck?? and i know ya heard me talkin’...not a doctor anymore!! so let me have my vodka, i deserve it!” you whine, stretching your upper body over the scratched and chipped wooden bar keeping you from jumping across at his dumb stupid fat neck—

“no can do, miss. you’re over served as is, ‘s my job on the line.” he shakes his head, eyeing the man next to you to get you under control, assuming he knew you better than a few hours of tipsy talking. you scoff at his insinuations–both that you’re too drunk to handle yourself and that this wallet has any sway over your motor-mouth. 

“don’t look at him—fucking look at me! i’ll kick your goddamn ass, you know that?” you’re fuming. this is the proverbial straw that broke the hypothetical camel’s back. after the day you’ve had, you’re surprised it took this much to get you this rowdy. how much was one person meant to take anyways? venting out your anger would help you plenty, you think to yourself as you lift your knee up, prepared to crawl over that wooden plank saving that man’s life. 

“security!! come get ‘er. she’s wasted.” he scoffs, taking your shot away and making your blood boil even more. “they’ll get an uber for ya. take it easy, doc.” he shakes his head, making you feel remarkably judged all of a sudden, every eye in the place was on you as a guard even bigger than the man next to you drags you off the bar as carefully as he can. you don’t make it easy, kicking and screaming out despite the burning sensation in your cheeks.

“you’re scared of a girl? that’s fucking embarrassing!” you bellow to cloak your own, getting tossed on your feet gently— outside of the dingy building. 

“come on, little lady. let’s get you a ride home.” the security guard says, another one of them making their way outside as some sort of backup–like you were some genuine threat. you scoff, folding your arms. 

“fuck off—don’t need your shitty help, i’ll get home on my own!” you kick his shin, throwing your hair over your shoulder before marching off into the dead of night. 

in one of the worst parts of town. 

the cold shocks you awake, the fear putting you on edge and pushing back the drunkenness that fought so hard to claim you. every rustle of the bushes, each twig snapping has your head on a swivel. you just need to make it to your car, though it was daytime when you foolishly parked it a few doors down to avoid the traffic of drunk people leaving later in the evening. you’ve already made half the distance, the connecting alleyway just up ahead. 

you don’t make it two hundred feet before everything hits you again—and you’re bawling at your own stupidity. you should have made time to pick up your pills. you wouldn’t have to be worried about being kidnapped or murdered in the middle of the night if you had just taken your medicine. your life if over—and you couldn’t blame anyone but yourself. you’re a mess. you’re nearly gasping for breath already—the dark alley mocks you with long shadows reflecting from the moon and stray cats that hop out of the dumpster just to make you fear the worst. you wipe at your cheeks, desperately sniffling to try to regain your senses, eyes aching from the downpour. you’re constantly looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re not being followed, entirely too focused on what’s behind you to notice the log in front of you—you’re sent flying over it and towards the pavement. luckily you take the impact on your shoulder, nothing more than a shocked, “ow–” leaving your lips before you realize you’re not hurt at all thanks to your coat absorbing the brunt of it.

it’s just another strike of your famous luck then, something annoying enough to inconvenience you on a day chock full of them, but not enough to take you down. you push to your hands and knees, looking back towards the offending log—only to realize it’s breathing and has long dark hair strewn about its head. you gasp–the fog muddying up your senses clearing instantly at the realization that this was no log, but some severely injured man! you can hear his struggling breaths, springing into action immediately. it’s nearly second nature to you as you push his hair out of his face and away from his neck. it’s much too dark for you to make out specifics–but his chin shines with something you can only imagine is blood, the same wet liquid pooling in front of his torso, the man laying on his side in an almost fetal position.  

“sir–can you hear me?” you try, placing your fingers where his heartbeat should be. it’s weak and much too slow, but it’s there. you can save him. “sir what happened to you? what’s your name?” you ask loudly, trying to get him to wake up. you groan when he doesn’t respond, blindly fumbling around for the wounds. your heart is racing, any slowness from the alcohol was killed by the adrenaline consuming you now. you gasp out again when you feel glass shards and bullet holes, a good fifteen minutes away from home even if you step on it. you’re not sure if this man has fifteen minutes left in him—the reasonable part of your brain telling you to call the emergency line to get him helped. though, they’d take just as long to show up despite how serious his wounds are. “you’re gonna have to help me a little, big guy.” you groan even louder, trying to put him on his back. it would jostle him less and was the only shot you had at getting a man of his size back to your vehicle on your own. 

you swear you hear him chuckle, but perhaps you were still a bit tipsy. you grab his hands, trying to be careful of the one riddled with glass, situating them in your own at the best leverage point. you’re strong—you can do this. you need to feel useful again–and this man needs to be saved. he’s so heavy, nothing but dead weight as you tug him along behind you. you have to bend a little and pray that your legs can make it to your car, just a final push to get to safety. 

you’re grateful when you see your mom-mobile waiting for you. this was your ambulance, and you were running out of time and the strength to keep pulling, gnawing nervously on your lip. what if he died anyway? what if you couldn’t save him at all, and were only chasing highs you’d never feel again? 

no. you’re skilled. if you couldn’t save this man then… the truth was that no one could. so determination overrides your anxiety for the time being, and you pop the trunk of your sporty suv, looking down at the man with a heart sigh. “okay–i can do it. what are ya, 200, 220?” you muse, squatting down and fixing him over your shoulders as best you could—a fireman’s carry of sorts. your hips and thighs should support you more than your exhausted arms, so you heave up with a strangled grunt. you throw him in a little harder than intended, grimacing. “sorry!” you huff, circling to your driver’s side. at least he’s in, even if your arms are jello and you know you’ll have to get him in the house somehow. you aren’t even thinking about how his blood will stain your tan interior—the rush of saving a life quieting any background noise in your mind. “you gotta hang in there. hang in there, please.” you mumble, weaving through traffic. 

you back up as close to your garage as possible, trying to think ahead for anything that could make this easier on yourself. you throw the car in park, hurrying to get him out of the back. he’s running out of time, and a surgical god you may be–but there’s only so many miracles you can call in. you get him in the same hold from earlier yet you let his feet touch the ground, muscles burning at the exercise. you have to breathe in short bursts, crushed by his heaviness, adrenaline helping you accomplish something you normally wouldn’t be capable of. you stumble with him, still half dragging him. it’s a battle you’re worried you might lose, but you get him on your dining room table, splayed out like a gurney. then you’re prepping your OR, getting the lights on, all the tools and dressings you would need, and most importantly—scrubbing in. infection would kill him if you weren’t careful now. 

“you stumbled into the right hands, mister. or well…i guess i stumbled over you–but you get the point.” you roll your eyes at yourself and glove up, stretching the vinyl over your fingers and flexing them, all part of your pre-op routine. you get your first good look at him then. he’s terribly hurt, it really is even worse than you thought. bullet holes and all this blunt trauma–he must have endured something horrific. but beneath all the bruising marring his olive skin, you can tell that he’s a beautiful man. his inky hair gleams under your bright dining room lights, somehow looking silky despite the tangles bunched up throughout the mane. you sigh, turning your attention to the blood soaked shirt he had on–two perfectly round entrance piercing his front, but no exit wounds. in his case, it was probably saving his life, those bullets possibly lodged in important arteries—scary, but better than bleeding out. he’s already lost quite a bit of blood–and it’s not like you have any history on him to know what type he is. there’s no time to worry about tests–you’d have to get your emergency stash of o negative. it was universal–your own blood that you kept on hand in case of the worst. it looks like this is it. you flawlessly install the iv, watching the slow stream shoot through the clear iv catheter and into his body. it helps with his paleness after a few minutes, and you smile in relief. this was a good sign. you rip his shirt with the last remaining strength you’ve got left, buttons flying to expose extremely bruised ribs and those gaping bullet wounds. “this isn’t gonna feel great, i’m sorry.” you grab your cheap bottle of house vodka, taking another shot from it to steady your nerves before pouring a decent amount over his chest. “i have to get in here—i’m happy you can’t feel it–now, anyway.” you take a deep breath and reach for your scalpel. you decide to perform a sternotomy—cutting between his breast plate to the web of arteries beneath. “i can see the bullets. you’re gonna make it.” you whisper, more encouragement for yourself than for him. your retractors keep his chest open for you wide enough for you to get your forceps in, aiming to pull out a bullet out of a vein close to his heart. “it missed the aorta. you’re actually really lucky.” you chuckle humorlessly.

you wedge your forceps in and take a deep breath. it’s not the aorta, but it will spew blood anyway. “not my preferred method of grafting—no catheters here but. i gotta fix it somehow.” you growl a little in annoyance. you have to squint and move slowly, but you’re able to repair the first leak with a shifty little graft. you’re onto the next one, dropping the offending metal into a bowl—complete with a little clink. “we’ll get you to the hospital just to check my work, yeah?” you sigh, hoping that this would be good enough to save his life. your hands steady over the second bullet, and you repeat the same motions as before. you’re relieved at the sight of his heart literally beating underneath your working hands, knowing that he’s still fighting for his life. you remove the second one and get out of his body—sewing up his chest, letting the blood bag refill his own supply until the bag is drained. you push some saline to clean out the line before hanging a bag of morphine, the pain this mystery man would wake up to would be excruciating. 

once you’re done with the intense life-saving measures, you sit in a chair to pluck the glass from his skin and apply ointments to the road rash on his face and arms. it takes another hour or so of work, but you don’t mind. it’s strangely relaxing to feel like you’re doing your job, and it’s so rewarding when you check his pulse every ten minutes to find it getting stronger and stronger. you hate that you hadn’t invested in a stat monitor, having to check his blood pressure the old fashioned way, but that looked like it was perking up too. you grin, proud of yourself. losing your license didn’t mean you lost your touch. you decide to get the glass and rubble out of his hair, pulling it back away from his face for a second time tonight. you take another lengthy look at the man you’ve saved, still grimacing at the ugly bruises and scrapes when something else catches your eye. the man had several tattoos that seemed unremarkable at first, different dark lines tangling into patterns you didn’t recognize. but the dragon creeping from his collarbone to peek over the collar of his shirt—it’s a yakuza trademark. this man wasn’t a poor soul caught up in a tragic accident—this was a dangerous man. you just saved the life of a war-monger, countless lives ended due to his line of work. part of you wants to open his chest back up and make your grafts fail—but the other part of you wants to feel the success course through your veins when he wakes up. besides, what makes a surgeon and what makes a gang lackey? is it a good childhood? morals? options? who’s to say this man had killed anyone? god knows you wouldn’t want to be judged based off of a few sneak peeks. you sigh, piddling off to your room to get him some new clothes. 

it’s invasive, changing a stranger. but you’re at fifth base already right? saving his life gave you a get out of jail free card, even if he was in the most dangerous crime syndicate in japan. you get his matted jeans off, making yourself look up at the ceiling in modesty and respect. you shimmy the plaid pajama pants up his body–thankful that your ex never came back for his stuff. you decide against wrestling a shirt around all the bandages on his arms and chest—knowing you could hurt him just as much as you’ve helped. you decide to try your luck one last time, pushing your table the short distance to your living room to let him rest on something more comfortable than the cold marble slab. it’s an easy shove to get him onto the couch, and you finally take a deep breath and sigh it all out. success is sweet–surgery is exhausting. you pull a little blanket over him, setting hourly alarms to check on your patient until he wakes. 

he wakes up to the smell of something cooking. the light pouring in from the curtain makes him squint–definitely a sharp adjustment from the darkness that consumed him before. he hears a woman humming a few rooms away, only furthering his confusion. he didn’t die? but how…he didn’t call anyone, and he knows no one in that area would willingly bring the sirens in to help him–and where exactly was he? all of these things hit him at once, but nothing harder than the deep ache in his bones. he couldn’t describe it, something so sharp and throbbing he could hardly get his body to obey his mind’s orders to move. 

sitting up is pure hell. every red flag and stop sign goes off, making him grunt in agony. but he knows he has to get going–get out of whatever trap he’s got himself into. he doesn’t recognize the room–for all he knows, sukuna’s men followed him and have him here to torture. 

but that woman’s voice, he knows it. that doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap still. the humming stops, and footsteps pad closer until a bright face pokes into the room, an ‘o’ shape forming on her face before she enters–complete with a plate of food. 

“you’re awake–” you gasp in surprise. you had just come to do your rounds, deciding that eating with him would help you better watch out. you weren’t expecting him to already be up and at ‘em, he must be very strong. though you still notice how rigid he’s holding himself. “you really should lie down, you…” he cranes his sore neck, flashing you a glimpse of that black ink. you suddenly remember just how dangerous he is, and he looks like a dog backed into a corner, narrow black eyes sizing you up—distrust all over his feline features. 

“who do you work for?” he tilts his head to one side, and your brows furrow in confusion, oh–he was worried you worked for a rival. you shake your head, eager to defend yourself. 

“n-no one, no one right now!” you blurt out, anxiously shifting your weight foot to foot. you look down at the breakfast in your hands, holding it out for him to take instead. “here! eat, as a sign of my goodwill.” 

he analyzes the plate, then looks back up at you–peacocking his shoulders back and hissing at the pain the stretch brought him. now you know just how weak he is—and he can’t make another target out of himself. “i hope you know i will have you killed if you’re lying.” 

despite the way his glare makes your skin crawl and the hair at the base of your neck stand up, you can’t help but laugh at that. “i wouldn’t lie. i saved your life, why would i waste my time?” you shove the plate out further, basically putting it in his hands–one still heavily bandaged from dragging himself through the wreckage. 

he takes the plate from you. if he’s shocked by that, he doesn’t show it. he only watches you as he eats your food, grunting in pain every so often. you took the iv out while he slept, not sure how he’d react when he woke up to wires. “i uh…i have medicine…for the pain.” 

“who are you?” he returns without a second passing. he takes another reluctant bite of food, stomach growling in thanks. 

you tell him your name, stealing a few glances at the heavy furrow of his brow. “you were badly hurt. i am a doctor..so i helped repair what i could. you should recover. i imagine you need to lay low?” you ask with a raised brow, betraying your intellect. he knows you must have some idea of who he is. “you can stay here as long as you need. you might want to shower–but you’ll…probably need some help.” 

his expression shifts before your very eyes. his clenched jaw and steel brow relaxes into a soft look of…gratitude? truthfully, he was baffled. a doctor stumbled upon him, realized that he’s a criminal, saved him anyway—and now offers her home? he almost worries about how naive you really must be—but he owes you a debt he can never repay. you have given him a second chance—made revenge possible when he had given up completely. “thank you, little ebi. i will take up your gracious offer.” he nods, smiling kindly. 

you smile, heart going awol inside your chest. it was the right thing to do, he was injured and needed to be cared for. you’re a doctor who suddenly has a lot of time on her hands. it means nothing–but that you still have empathy left in you. you know you’re close to shaking, but you turn to leave before it can show. “i’ll grab you a change of clothes. don’t move too much until i get back.” you hum, and he hums in acknowledgement. 

he’s rather polite for a yakuza, his refined calmness even in the most dire of situations rubs off on you easily—you hold your head high as you pilfer through the tote of clothes your ex left behind, trying to find something for the big scary man in the living room. you finally decide on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. you even nab some of those painkillers you offered earlier, hoping to ease that stiffness he carries himself with to mask his suffering. 

but when you get back to the living room the only thing waiting for you is the empty breakfast plate and a few hundred dollar bills—your curtains blowing in the harsh wind. your heart sinks for an unknown reason, and you tell yourself it’s because your patient wasn’t dressed for the cold.

[legendofmorons]

Your honor, I humbly submit an idea that has not left me alone for a solid few months. Seriously. I can’t escape it.

Reader is a hero. Well, kinda. They are a hero in their dreams in the most literal sense of the phrase.

When they were younger, they had this incredibly strong love for the Legend of Zelda and Mario and all manner of games where you could simply help people for the sake of doing good. They weren’t too shocked when their dreams took a more realistic turn. As they slept, they felt like they were living a second life where they were the hero. They would go around solving problems, collecting items, and generally saving the day. Some nights, the dreams would be from different times, based on different adventures, or fighting different people.

Those dreams had always felt extremely real to Reader, yet they knew they were just dreams. When morning came, they moved on.

That was the norm until a strange portal appeared in front of them. The summer was coming and they had no better plans, so they threw caution to the wind and stepped through. When they came to, they found themselves clad in the same clothes they wore in every dream, surrounded by the items they had grown so familiar with adventure after adventure.

They had gathered their things, realizing they instinctively knew how to fight, similar to what had happened on that first night. They wandered the area, heroic persona seemingly taking control, heading towards a town and immediately solving problems.

In fact, that was how they found the chain, while attempting to solve another problem. Something told them to keep their name close to their chest and they weren’t in the business of going against their gut, so they listened. They used a nickname in a group full of nicknames.

A long while of traveling and growing trust (and one particularly heated story rendition where the reader just plain forgot to censor their name) and Reader had shared their name with the group. They were met with stunned silence which was, admittedly, not the reaction they were expecting.

As it turned out, each of those dreams became stories to these heroes, acting as a guide on how to act, what to try. In their eyes, Reader was a hero of story and legend, someone kids played at being.

How do you think the boys would move forward from this?

-VS Anon

Dreamscape

Pairing: Chain & reader

Rating: G

Notes: (Y/n/n) - Ypur nick name. I wrote the opening and then skipped the middle, I hope it's okay. I just really wanted to write the meeting.

Summary: You find yourself in the world of the dreams you played hero in, but apparently those dreams were more real than you thought.

Warnings: none.

Other: I saw you submitted something along these lines more recently. VS, do you want a second take on this? I am willing to do another take, haha. As always, if I missed anything, please let me know

-------

You have always had a vivid imagination, at least according to those around you. But you can't really argue. After all, your dreams used to feel like a whole other world. A second life of sorts.

You'd loved games where you played a hero. Legend of Zelda? Amazing. Mario games? Absolutely.

Over the course of your life, you built what would have been quite the legacy in your dreams. You had countless items and had even been blessed by a sages.

Summer hangs in the breezes, due to start any day.

So, when a strange purple portal with a spooky energy opens up before you, you go through it. You don't have much else going on, and don't imagine anything too weird coming of it.

A shield, that was gained from a forest. Wooden with metal enforced ages and a beautiful swirling design carved into it.

You emerge in a small clearing with birds song cheerily overhead.

In front of you is a pile of items. Items that you know, because you collected them in your dreams.

A sword, gifted by the ruler of a fairy kingdom. The blade is enchanted to never break and to absorb any malice.

A small stachel that clips to a belt that is a bottomless bag. Anything you put in there appears in your hand once you reach in and think

A small cluster of potions. One that heals, one that provides stamina, and one that protects from fire.

Even the small flute from your travels.

"What the hell?" You murmur, looking at your hands.

You realize then, belatedly, that you are in the same outfit from your dreams. The leather armor on your limbs and the breathable fabric comfortable.

This is officially Weird, with a capital 'W'. This- doesn't seem like a dream. Not at all.

Ypu gather your items, securing them as you have many times before. You brush yourself off and look around for more details.

The clearing you're in is nice. Wild flowers are scattered about and there's a rabbit at the edge.

A river runs through it.

Well, your best bet is to find a town or something, and you heard once that towns are often near rivers. So, in theory, if you follow the river, you'll be okay.

You head off, following the river downstream and hoping for the best.

-------

After two days of travel you have come to a few more conclusions.

First of all, you can fight. Like- really well. You fought of monsters that included a lynel, some lizards, and several bokoblins.

Second of all, walking for two days straight sucks but also you aren't as exhausted as you probably should be.

And third of all, this is definitely not a dream.

You're starting to wonder if this second life was ever a dream.

The third day you find a small town, but a town nonetheless. Thank whatever it is that looks out for you.

You make your way towards the store, hoping to stock up on arrows and food. You've accepted this is your life for the moment, might as well be prepared.

Unfortunately, while lost in thought you trip and stumble into someone. You are both sent sprawling to the ground.

With a groan, you rollout of them. You sit up and say, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay, are you okay?" A male voice asks.

You turn to look at him and nearly chokes. You find yourself staring at the Link from Skyward Sword.

Okay, this is a lot.

"Uh-" You manage eloquently. Blinking as you try to formulate some kind of response.

"Did you hit your head?" Another male asks, he has pink hair. That's another Link, the one from Link to the past and s several other games.

"I think I might have." You frown, pushing to your feet.

You look around the group and find it made up entirely of Links from different games.

"That's no good, you need a potion?" Asks Twilight Princess Link.

"No... Just a little dazed." You wave him off, "Ever since I walked through a portal it's been a little weird."

"You walked through a portal too?" Asks Wind Waker Link.

"Yeah... Why?"

"I guess you're supposed to help defeat the shadow." Muses what is probably an older version of Majoras mask Link.

"Maybe."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, I'm Twilight." The Link in a wolf pelt says.

"I'm Time."

"Legend."

"Hi, I'm Wind!"

"Wild."

"I'm Warriors."

"Hyrule!"

"I'm Sky."

"Four."

You know these are all nicknames, so you decide to give your own nick name. You have a feeling your real name will cause- a scene.

"I'm (Y/n/n)."

-------

Time can't stop thinking about the connections between you, (Y/n/n) and the hero (Y/n). You both have the same items, the same personality, and even the same appearances.

The hero you remind him of is legendary, chosen not by Hylia but by a deity before any remembered. A hero chosen Fierce Deity.

He comes back to the conversation in time to catch the tail end of your story.

"Ams then my friend was like "Stop hiding from them, they don't remember ypu tripping two years ago, (Y/n)."

"What?" Hyrule chokes.

"You're name is (Y/n)?"

About time. Fierce purrs from the void inside Time's mind.

"Uh- yeah?"

"You're The (Y/n)?!" Wind demands.

"Oh stars." Time mutters.

"I mean, maybe?"

"You're The one who slayed the hydra of Catan?" Wild blinks.

"Oh. I mean, yeah. That wasn't a big deal." You shrug, "It needed to be done."

"You rode a tornado!" Legend accuses.

"What? No I got swept up in a tornado."

"You knew the original sages before Skyloft even exsisted!" Sky gasps.

"Yeah?"

"You're the biggest hero ever." Warriors manages, sounding awed, "How are you unaware?"

"Uh...I didn't think that stuff mattered?"

"Are you kidding? Kids play games where they pretend to be you." Four says, looking horrified at your unawareness of your importance.

"Oh. Neat?" You say shakily.

This makes no sense, your dreams - if they were ever that - never seemed like you would be a hero of legend important enough to be known millenia later across different timeliness.

"You really don't know." Legend muses wryly.

"Glad I helped?"

"You are telling us all about your adventures." Wind informs you.

[mockerycrow]

Hello!!!!!! So i was wonderinfg if you could do a piece for cod mw2? A platonic 141 (other characters can be added if youd like) x (preferably 18-20 yr old) gn or fem reader. It can be a oneshot or headcannons, i dont mind either format!!! If you do a oneshot, any scenario (a mission, off duty, etc) is fine w me!!! You basically have free reign, just keep it strictly platonic, not even a smidge of the hints w the reader and romantic relationships 👍❤️

Ain’t That A Kick In The Head? (Platonic!141 x Fem!Reader)

cod masterlist

A/N: YESS!! I LOVE PLATONIC FICS!! 99% of my writing so far has been romantic, kind of funny considering I’m aromantic and queer. thank you anon <3 i’m also sorry for taking so long. your speciality isn’t specified, but it can’t be demolitions, im sorry!! plot purposes.

[WARNINGS: mentioned misogyny, fluff.]

Considering how young you are, you deal with quite a lot of people who have low expectations for you. To be fair, you don’t have much experience, but you are a quick learner and that’s very much needed on this base. You’re a Specialist, one rank above Private in the U.S. army ranks. When people first meet you, they expect you to be a coward, a twenty year old girl—is what they like to call you—who doesn’t know the difference between a 5.56 mm cartridge and a 7.62 mm cartridge, a clueless little girl. Of course you did not know everything, but it was clear you know enough and have enough skill as you’re apart of the 141.

When you were first picked for the team, Ghost was a bit skeptical. Your age played a big factor because he was concerned about your level of experience, but he overall trusts Price’s judgement. A huge part of it was him worried about how you would take in all of the traumatizing sights they see on every mission. How you would be able to take someone down without a second thought, even if they pleaded for their life. He didn’t voice this worry, nor did he do anything to “shield” you because he knows you know what you signed up for.

You physically train/spar with Ghost and Gaz separately frequently. They are different in size and in style of defense/attack, so they both give you great pointers on how to defend yourself and how to initiate an attack. You have a schedule with them; when you’re on base, you train with Gaz Mondays and Tuesdays and Ghosts on Thursdays, preferably early in the morning with Gaz and in the evening with Ghost. Even when you perfect your own style for attack and defense, you keep training with them; “So you don’t get rusty.”

Price knows what you signed up for, and he knows that he picked you, so like everyone else on the task force, he begins to train you. Being an expert in violence and timing—unconventional warfare too, he occasionally sits in on your training sessions with Gaz and/or Ghost. Sometimes, he talks with Gaz or Ghost beforehand to set up a specific scenario for you to find a way to get out of alive.

Being said, Price takes you out as well as the team to a training field, doing the exact same thing but in a more.. realistic scenario. Being so young, he figures you still have an unacceptable type of response with “fight, flight, or freeze”. His plan is to strip away the freeze response because that’s the one that will get you killed. He also very specifically has himself and your teammates as the enemies in this field because while you’re supposed to trust your team with your life, there’s also often betrayal in the field.

Soap is a demolitions expert, as well as a sniper. He absolutely refuses to let you handle real bombs at first because he knows you didn’t specialize in demolitions like he did. After spending a few months with you, he brings out non-dangerous replicas of bombs and replicated parts to begin to show you how to take a bomb apart/defuse it, when it’s best to let it explode, or how to put one together for emergencies. He absolutely 110% makes sure you know it’s for emergencies when he isn’t there. It’s not that he thinks you’re incapable, but he can’t help but worry. Him learning about how Gaz and Price met, how Price only had seconds to shove the hostage with a bomb vest strapped to him over that railing? Fucking terrifying to him.

Gaz also helps you complete your interrogation training—not being the interrogator, but then interrogatee. Undergoing several mentally challenging tests himself of this variety, he tasks himself with giving you pointers. Your task is to keep your mouth shut about intel and escape the facility and remain hidden, uncaptured during the entire test. He’s so incredibly used to uncomfortable situations, so his pointers during this—seeing that he passed this test himself, the only one who past it in his class—his advice is helpful.

Besides training with Ghost, he coaches you ambushes and stealth. Every time you’re caught in a test, he coaches you on how to evade, on how to remain hidden even when the enemy is right in front of you. He teaches you how to set up traps and ruses, what traps are most commonly used and spotted and what ones aren’t.

Overall, they know you’re inexperienced and young, but you quickly take their advice and training into account, and you get to teach them a thing or two when you arrive on base. You learn quick and Price finally feels as if you’re ready for an intense stealth mission, accompanied by the team. They don’t have any doubt held in their hearts for you, 100% trusting your abilities.

[strawberry-cowmilk]

dinner date with the brothers (realistic)

-> brothers x mc

mc's gender is not mentioned, not proof read

content warnings: this is lowkey a shitpost, bad attempts at flirting

a/n: I don't know basic physics so forgive me if not every star can emit light ?? idk also I have no idea if I did something like this before at this point I don't even know what I did and did not already write

-----

Lucifer

your date was probably rescheduled at least 7 times because this man either forgot or arrived way too late the fancy restaurant couldn't give you a table after you missed your reservation (because of work)

hopefully your 30 grimm soup is perfect because he'd get mad at the waiter if the food is 'too cold', he's basically a karen

when he's done eating a meal but you're not he'd just stare at you with no expression on his face and when you're done or notice him he starts a conversation

Mammon

oh he has it all planned out, he's gonna take you to the best restaurant in the devildom and make you madly in love with him

but mammon ends up knocking over a glass of water, falling off of his chair and knocking three waiters down with him like dominoes when trying to flirt with you, it's like he just says your name and chaos unfolds (it's kind of cute)

also mammon wants to pay the bill but he forgot he bought a huge motorcycle the day before so hopefully you brought your card

Leviathan

listen to me, never let this guy plan date night because it will be akuber pizza at 3am in his room (unless you like that I guess) also levi is probably a picky eater so imagine you take him to a fancy place and all he orders is fries

if he likes you enough he will talk about tsl lore the whole time despite mentally swearing not to before the date

sometimes he reads romantic stuff from his phone under the table to you and then proceeds to be embarrassed

Satan

honestly nothing could really go wrong, he arrives on time, he's nice and direct with the waiters, the place has a very nice vibe and his attempts at flirting with you aren't horrible

he's just not the best at starting and keeping conversations alive so maybe there's an awkward silence here and there

the worst thing that could happen is a cat somehow making it into the restaurant and satan climbing over tables to get to it as fast as possible

Asmodeus

he can probably get you into exclusive places, since he's kind of famous

downside to being kind of famous: you might encounter an overly happy fan who isn't rude but just eats your time

asmo doesn't want to be mean and completely ignore his fan but cmon he's literally on a date

he looks at you with the biggest 'help me' eyes so you have to make up some fake emergency so you two can leave

Beelzebub

you know what happens

please book your dinner date 5 weeks in advance and tell them you're bringing beel so the staff can mentally, physically and culinary prepare

but beel is an actual sweetheart to you he lets you eat his curliest curly fries (meanwhile there are waiters crying in the background trying to bring the 100 steaks to your table)

if you tell him you like something he will order 20 more of said dish for you (please give the waiters a huge tip)

Belphegor

he was nervous honestly so he asked to burrow a fancy suit from one of his brothers (even if the date is at akudonald's)

but this man can say the most unhinged stuff with a straight face, followed by a cute compliment

'hey mc you know I wonder if the devildom would notice if I took away the stars one by one until nothing but darkness is left also your eyes look pretty :))'

you know that one song about blinking in morse code to get the waiter's attention? that

[plaguedocboi]

What extinct animals do you wish were still alive?

Realistically, biologically? All of the animals that we have lost recently as a result of climate change, invasive species, habitat destruction and other preventable human-created causes, and not just the glamorous ones like Thylacines. I want all the amphibians we’ve lost to chytrid and all the tiny invertebrates whose vernal pools were paved over before they were even formally described by science. I want fractured ecosystems to be whole again. I know they never will be, and once a species is gone it’s gone forever. The only thing that can heal those ever-expanding wounds left by the removal of even a single species is time. One day a new ecosystem will emerge with something else filling the roles that were once occupied by the Chinese paddlefish and the golden toad and Saxicolella deniseae, but they will not be the same organisms, and for now those niches are filled only with ghosts.

On a personal wish-fulfillment basis? I’m very bitter that I will never get to have an Anurognathidae pterosaur as a pet and I would like that plot hole to be corrected.

[official-darkforest]

Given how Feathertail dies in this AU, I'm guessing Sharptooth the mountain lion is either a cop or a really violent war hawk in this?

Also, where does Sasha and her kits fit in?

(This is such a cool AU I love it so much)

yep, i think it makes more sense if sharptooth was a war hawk which allows fetaher to more realistically be the cause his of death after the fight they have (he dies suddenly that night due to the brain injury he sustained), while other “sharptooths” are cops and such.

sasha and her kits are tiger’s affair family. she was an aspiring actress that lost her home after her elderly father passed away, his estate being ripped out of her hands and thrusting her out onto the streets with very little to her name. tiger took a liking to her - unfortunately she would find out he was married and purposefully hid away their oldest son tad from him, but still kept in contact. golden and tiger never divorced but golden did disown her husband, and tiger went back to sasha. he had fallen hard for her and weasled his way into her good graces, meeting tad and getting her pregnant two more times. tad would end up drowning during flood season.

in the meantime, tawny would end up in her father’s care (he pulled some strings. she was always a daddy’s girl and turned her against goldenflower for a few months) and she would meet her younger half siblings. she and sasha did not get along well.

tawny would stay with them even after tiger got arrested for his crimes (murder, some other things) since she already got set up to attend a university close by. sasha was relieved when tawny moved out, but didn’t know what to do with her own two children and struggled a lot being a single mother. tiger was still stringing her along and making promises he likely wouldnt be able to fulfill and she was too lonely to leave.

eventually, she found solace in leopardstar and the two became good friends. leopardstar was like an aunt to moth and hawk. sasha’s depression wpuld get worse, though, and for the sake of her children she entrusted leopardstar to be their guardian from then on. sasha would disappear for a while to find herself and get away from tiger. she’s reappeared once every few years, but after a certain point they just stopped hearing from her entirely.

moth had felt abandoned by religion and her family, resenting them for leaving her this way and having 0 control over anything in her life. pushed into it by her brother, she put all her energy towards studying medicine and becoming an army nurse. she served for a few years before resigning and studying to become an emergency surgeon instead - a familiar high stakes environment without the danger of herself being killed. she chopped her hair short in the 70s after returning from her military service.

hawk meanwhile served in the vietnam war. he had been in the military since he was in his late teens, inspired by his father and leopardstar (who was one of many rosie riveters for WW2). he would meet ashfur from thunderclan and hear about his half brother brambleclaw through him (“you remind me of someone back home” ‘really?’) and mudclaw. hawk was lucky enough to return home, keeping in touch with tiger snd bumping into bramble, who came up to visit tawny and figured he’d show his face while he was here. the two got along pretty well after the initial shock, but eventually a rift was put between them when (i have yet to decide what about) and they stop talking, much to squilf’s relief.

[vorthosjay]

Hi Jay. Not wanting to sound mean, but I really think it must be commented and that there's no softer way of doing that: the company's statement of Thunder Junction being an inhabitated plane prior to MoM is not a honest way of capitalizing on a sellable trope without touching its uncomfortable issues. It's even disrespectful. They have done it in a less flagrant way with Kaladesh and both Ixalan iterations, but now they've gotten too far with Thunder Junction. Colonialism is too big an issue to simply being put under the carpet as it never existed and we could just enjoy the sunny part of the history. I really hope Hasbro as a company acknowledges this and changes its way of dealing with the theme. Thanks for letting me pointing this.

Look, you caught me on a bad day, so I'm going to be as polite as possible but let's start with the foundation that this is not a complaint to direct at me. I have no control over any of this. Mark Rosewater exists and takes feedback on Tumblr.

But, let's talk about it, because I've seen some folks take this to extremes.

First off, I've seen a lot of well meaning folks speaking up on behalf of hypothetical indigenous americans, but I'd love to get takes from folks this actually impacts. I'd love for Wizards to post something about their work with cultural consultants, for sure. But the only actual thing I've seen so far is a great story from Magic's first indigenous american author. And when you're speaking on someone else's behalf, you tend to miss things. Like, Kaladesh is not the great representation of south asian culture that you might think when you jumped to it, and it's okay if you didn't know that, but it sort of proves the point that it's very difficult to actually protest on someone else's behalf. And I just haven't heard from anyone who has also mentioned they speak from authority or are impacted by this. That doesn't mean you're wrong, necessarily.

But here's the thing. Thunder Junction isn't history. It takes cues from the American West, sure, but it's a fake world. And sometimes it's okay for a fake world to ignore the bad things that happens in real life and create something more aspirational. Magic does this all the time. Magic doesn't have homophobia, but that isn't really realistic or representative of the real world, is it?

No one, and I mean literally no one, came to me and said that people of color needed to be ostracized and not allowed to work alongside the white people in the demon mob families of New Capenna. That racism was real, it was systemic, and it was violent. But did it need to be tackled in a fantasy crime drama based on america in the 20s? Should it have been? I don't think anyone would have enjoyed it as much. Sometimes it's just fun to play gangster.

Similarly, the colonization and manifest destiny that was the reality of the American West was tragic, but does that need to be our only depiction of indigenous peoples - being colonized? If they were erased completely from the narrative, that would be awful, but can't they just have fun being cool thunder slingers? The Atiin were developed with a consultant, and if you want answers ask Wizards to talk about it.

There's a reason the Oltec were depicted as being sealed off from the Immortal Sun drama that had happened on the surface. To have an aspirational mesoamerican culture that wasn't affected by the Dusk Legion and Azor and all that.

To put it in another perspective, does every period piece featuring black americans need to feature systemic racism to be respectful? Is Bridgerton disrespectful (I mean probably but not for that reason)?

The reason I've framed a lot of this as questions is because I don't necessarily think I know the right answer, especially not for a fantasy card game. I've worked with tribal governments in my emergency management career and spent a week on the Navajo Nation, and talked a lot about perspective on things, and I would not presume to know what the right answer to all of this is.

Edit: to be clear, Could it have been handled better? Probably. I will never deny that. But also it’s a complicated and fraught topic and I’d love to hear from the people wizards contracted who actually know what they’re talking about.

[chiyoso]

IMPERFECTIONS YOU LOATHE

▶PLAY. jing yuan can't wrap his head about it. who would've thought that acne will be the one to defeat you in body, and mind? it's just simply... baffling, for someone like him.

▶CONTENT. female reader, suggestive, reader is a lieutenant for jimg yuan, realistic interactions, romantic tension, subtle self insecurity, flirting, jing yuan's just confused

you were someone who worked under the arbiter general for quite a long time, you've fought a good amount of battles in your long lifespan, be it may from the corrosions of abundance, or the rare hoardes of enemies from the anti-matter legion, it didn't matter, you emerged victorious in every battle you participated in.

akin to your victories, there was this untouchable enemy that troubled you immensely today, an enemy you can never, ever beat by your skilled hand, growing and tormeting you from the inside as you look at the reflection of yourself, the negative emotions and accumulated stress, manifesting into reality, into your... flesh.

dawn in the next day, the cloud knights who fall under your command, took notice the black mouth veil along with your outfit change to fit the uncharacteristic cover over half of your face, you were beautiful nonetheless, strong in both will and physicality, but even then, no one will be able to undermine the hidden turmoil underneath your veil, your radiance, or so you internally claim.

you hear your name slip through a familiar voice during one of your training sessions with the cloud knights, looking over your shoulder to see your highly regarded general, moving towards you with his signature glaive in his hand.

“hm, you certainly never fail to continue surprising me, captain.” the general's lips grows into a faint smirk, referring to your mouth veil and complimenting outfit in contrast to your usual breezy, fit for rough sparring previously.

your relationship with the general had been proven professional with a sense of rivalry and a slight growing admiration as time continues to flow, except... today.

“general.” you greeted, arms crossed valiantly with your gaze continuing to loom over the cloud knights below, training their asses off with your eyes dead set on the field, which felt more intimidating and penetrating as it was the most visible thing from the veil you put on.

“you rang, general?” your eyes narrow slightly, only to be met with his free hand moving towards your mouth veil.

“hm.” a hum of amusement, you hear from the general, feeling the lingering curious gaze of his over your form, in a respectful way of course.

you think.

“to what pleasure do i owe from the visiting, fleeting arbitrator general of the luofu?” your tone carried a slight hint of mirroring amusement and sarcasm, earning a warm, uncommon chuckle from the general.

“captain,” his tone became lower, your gaze finally breaking from the scenery and towards the general's direction to heed his call.

tch. your honed instincts and reflexes itch, your hand suddenly grabbing his wrist, your eyes telling a thousand words not to reach out further while his only show genuine bafflement, following a curiousity after.

“i implore my general to... not do such a thing again,” you hissed, your monotonous tone slick with slight hostility and maintained professionalism.

once again?

your general, huh? his internal thoughts lingered to your words and actions, before retracting his hand from your releasing grasp.

“apologies... but,” he tilts his head to the side with that knowing, charming smile of his.

“surely you cannot blame your general for having his interests piqued today once again, hm?”

you showed annoyance, clicking your tongue with your brows furrowed during your hold on your flowing cover. “captain,” the general called your title once again, your attention caught, darting your eyes to the man nearing your veil, curious, golden irises studying you while you had a moment to yourself.

“... i don't know what you mean, general.” your voice softened, hinted with an amuse once more, feigning ignorance to the most obvious elephant in the room; your choice of attire today.

your gaze returns to the training grounds, only to be met with a strong, accursed breeze of the luofu that wavered the cover on your face, your hand immediately moving towards your mouth veil to secure any type of movement, intriguing the general further.

then with his veteran gaze, he notices it, the battle you hid across your face.

“ah,” “don't.” you immediately cut him off, tone coated with a little more hostility than before, your hands finding its way to his chest to push him away from your personal space respectfully, but he doesn't budge to your nudge, for a few long moments, the two of your eyes searched each other, one of curiousity, and the other of uncertainty.

jing yuan didn't understand one bit, he did not have a logical answer for himself as to why such a trivial thing can weaken such a strong woman who stood by beside him through countless immortal battles, countless victories, losses, it didn't make sense to the curious general as to why she would hide the missed view of her endearing— endearing?

“even the strongest of warriors... can still fall victim to nature of woman hm?” he broke the silence, stepping back from you in respect to your resistance and unwillingness of closeness.

“i-” silence. your expression was faltering from the mention of your troubles, even behind the veil you hid, your turmoil was clear.

the sounds of clashing, groans from the cloud knights, your deep, quiet breaths, and gulps only ensued, that's what you were doing for a little bit while the general only glanced back and forth towards you and the training grounds.

“cloud knights! at ease! take a break, all of you.” your powerful, commanding voice cut his train of thought, your voice ringing through the field, catching the undivided attention through the people who fall in your command, all simultaneously replying with a loud “yes captain!”

“general,” your tone of slight vulnerability in contrast to your powerful voice was met with his eyes to yours again.

“what are you here f—”

“why do you hide behind a mere cloth that hinders my ability to see you in your full glory?”

what? your thoughts raced like the strong currents in scalesgorge waterscapes, as well as feeling the warmth that you haven't felt in a long while grow within your cheeks.

“i will never understand why women fall and weaken under the natural biologies of the human body,” he said, moving towards you again, towering your form, locking his golden gaze with yours.

the two of the most strongest of figures, the highest of reputations, having a moment of uncharacteristic matured intimacy, witnessed by the strong breeze and the select few of prying eyes from the cloud knights, all witnessing his act of closeness.

“but it doesn't mean i, will feign ignorance to whatever chaos that resides within you, of course.” he tilted his body, your knuckles met his lips in a sudden motion, yet his eyes remained onto your veiled, flushing face.

“my deepest, most sincerest apologies to you for any negativity i invoked within you, my captain.”

his lips lingered to your skin, his eyes searching for any reaction, an indication to stop—but you don't retract, instead your gaze remained on his, softening with each passing second.

“stand tall, general...” you said softly, something the general hadn't heard from you for awhile, only to do your bidding with your hand still in his grasp.

“i've never heard you say my name in our time of longevity together, captain.” he chuckled, growing fonder of you, and his thumb subconsciously rubbing your flesh was proof.

you flinch in result of instinct and a sudden touch that neared your veil, but only that, he only traced his callused fingers along the laced, intricate cloth, his eyes never leaving yours in study of you with fascination and a hidden, growing admiration that even the general was unaware of.

then it happens.

your eyes linger a little too long on the features around his face, the piercing, unreadable gaze in his eyes, the texture of his fair skin, his locks that were flowing against the wind—ah, he has a beauty mark? h-

“gener—”

“jing yuan, my captain.” he insisted.

“someone of your caliber shouldn't cower away from the wrath of mother nature, you are far more superior,” he pauses, retracting his hand from the fabric, his gaze following the wind towards the training grounds, glaive downwards onto the platform where both of you stood, his hands both at the circular tip of the hilt.

“... a woman, labored with strength, hardship, and an allure, an enchantment that many fall and succumb to,” his breath got caught in his throat, perhaps realizing in this moment that he was maybe talking about himself in the last parts of his own open, honest words.

“you- you jest, gener-... jing yuan...” you mumbled, disbelief playing in your mind.

“do you know me as a jokester, valiant captain of mine?” he replies with a realization to his own words, chuckling after and, subconsciously fidgeting with his knuckles with his thumb brushing against it.

and you took notice to his mannerisms of course.

jing yuan was someone who didn't take matters such as this lightly, and you knew that full well since spending your immortality beside the general through rigorous training and honing your weapons together.

to sparring numerous times alone in one of the platforms in the divination commission.

to taking your hand in battle and performing a dance of death towards the enemies of the abundance

to claiming victory with him by your side, along with the little lieutenant yanqing and madam yukong's presence.

eons worth of defenses were being torn down in both sides unknowingly from that simple yet quite impactful act of his, but neither waver and fall weak into each others reeling gaze, standing tall and strong with radiating auras of unspoken attraction and endearment towards another, even if the circumstances were still brewing.

all was good, lasting satisfactory, fleeting moments, fleeting lonely moments, moments of tranquility and silence, days that lingered and crept up in your soul, a silence that deafened you from time to time and—“captain?” the general whispered once more of many times to regain your focus and attention to him, brushing off strands of your hair, tucked behind your ear as your irises return to the figure that towered before you.

“jing y—”

“capta—”

a fleeting silence with widened eyes followed both of your simultaneous voices, not long after sounds of genuine laughter of amusement fill the air with a strengthening admiration and sentiment to one another.

“you first, my lady.”

“i was about to say the same thing.”

“without the my lady part anyways,” you continued, bringing a hand over your veil to stifle a full chuckle.

“then,” his free hand slithered towards your lower back, making your cheeks flare up in heat as the sphere end of his glaive met your stomach lightly in a teasing manner, his lips mirroring your uncontrollable grin.

“i planned on sparring with yanqing today, but the little bird told me he had matters to tend to,” you tilt your head, interested in his actions, and where this leads.

“oh? quite unfortunate for you, general.” you mirror his tone with a little more dramatics as you place your knuckles on your forehead, your antics amusing the general further (as well as making him subconsciously smitten).

“unfortunate indeed, my lady.” he leaned closer with his signature, charming smile that was quite different, hinted with a hidden undertone of tenderness, his physique almost barely touching yours from your inviting, mischievous demeanor.

“however, you...” he lifted his arm, the sharp edge of his weapon pointed towards the training grounds, eyes determined and locked to your growing smirk.

“would you be so kind and generous to indulge your general in a spar, valiant valkyrie of the luofu?” he asked, tone coated with noticable playfulness, itching you to do the same.

“it depends general, do you promise not to slice my veil into pieces?" you mused, indulging yourself with his apparent playfulness.

"it was quite pricey you know? along with this outfit of mine of course,” you observed from his obvious gazes to your veil, your keen intuition leaving the general in his slight amazement and surprise.

“i can't even fanthom how you didn't take up the offer to be a diviner like fu xuan,” he said jokingly, lowering his glaive yet the smile only grew further on his lips.

“you read my mind as always, but can you blame your general?” his hand from your lower back moved up to touch the soft fabric of the lace that covered your face that he unknowingly longed to see.

“the darkness that looms half over of your features distracts me more than my taxing paperwork that awaits me in a later time,” he continued, his tone audibly serious this time with a slight frown forming on his face.

god.

except... the arbiter general finds himself in the same situation, subconsciously stealing glances towards you with heavy to minimal intent at times, asking for your presence through his lieutenant, sitting together at the edges of the divination commission's platform after an intense spar, sharing a glass of warm halycon milk, and the serene, comfortable silence that you two continued to share in many moments over the centuries...

“you will be the death of me, yuan.” you sigh in defeat to his enchanting words, while he only perked up to the nickname you uttered out.

it's true though, you've noticed a pattern over the years staying beside the general, you notice yourself holding back your full strength during mid sparring sessions with him to maintain a level of feminity, a feminity you yearned for since being one of the strong, leading figures along the general that you rose to with effort and relentless hardwork.

...

“apologies, i-”

the more he thinks back, the more cogs turned viciously in his mind, if the situated ordeals are with purpose, or... had everything felt natural with her since the beginning when it came to this astonishing, compelling and shining force of nature that shone over the luofu.

a prowess that—“jing yuan?” you called out again, hushed and soft, your voice carried, finally catching the attention of the man who was visibly in deep thought.

he didn't notice finger that poked his cheek lightly, accompanied with your innocent, confused look that he almost choked to in his throat.

“how about that spar, general?”

his eyes widened to your words, shortly before breaking into a wide, satisfied smirk, grabbing your hand that was near his face, continuing to hover you.

“only if you remove your veil-”

“no.”

“then i shall hold back.”

“oh? then please do my general, so i can set the stage of your devastating defeat against my blade, all for the cloud knights in the area who look up to their beloved, arbiter general of the great xianzhou luofu to bear witness to.”

he blinks to your words, two times, maybe three times, before breaking into a wide, uncontrollable grin, taking a step towards you with his head looking over yours.

“... little vixen.”

“your words, my general.”

reblogs help my audience reach, thank you.

[the-ace-with-spades]

Unhinged buddie fic idea again -- Tia Pepa starts setting up Eddie on dates but with a bit of an AU twist.

Tia Pepa starts setting Eddie up on dates. Which Buck is fine with. Obviously. Why wouldn't he be? Eddie is his best friend, he wants him to be happy. He's also straight and maybe Buck liked having him all to himself but realistically, that couldn't last forever.

Whatever. He can get over it. Or he can at least pretend he got over it.

So Eddie is complaining at the firehouse about another set-up date and Buck tries to be positive and encouraging and says something about how Eddie could at least give them a chance - even if every word is said through gritted teeth.

And Eddie is appalled and says something along the lines of, "Maybe my tia should be setting you up, if you're so open to the idea." And everyone from the team claws at the idea, teasing Buck about being single and wanting to marry into the Diaz family through Eddie's cousin or something (which, a bit too close to the truth, ha).

Eddie finds the idea so hilarious that he tells Pepa about it. And regrets it not a minute later when she says, "Why not? I could set your Buck up with someone nice."

This actually makes Eddie grit his teeth, there's just something that makes him itch, even just thinking about Buck going out with any of the women Eddie went out with---Just no.

What he doesn't know is, Tia Pepa goes over his head on this --- just calls Buck (because of course she has his number, he's family and Eddie's and Chris's emergency contact). She sweet-talks Buck into it over the phone, telling him how Eddie told her about how he's single and how she knows just the right person for Buck and it'll be nice to keep Buck close in the family if it works out.

Obviously, Buck is skeptical --- there's just one Diaz he wants to be with and he's unavailable --- but then Pepa keeps on going how she knows just his type and how he's not going to regret it and just one date never harmed anyone and, well, Buck caves in because he's weak against most Diazes it seems.

He doesn't tell anyone about it. Not even Eddie. It's probably just going to be one date that he'll ruin like he always does and the girl will tell Pepa all about it and then Pepa won't even bother to set up another poor girl with him.

He gets a text with the place and time, a small hole-in-the-wall place that's just about Buck's thing, and an ominous message with Addy will wait for you there, look out for a red bandana.

And Buck is expecting some cute girl in dungarees and with a bandana holding up her hair but when he enters the place, it's almost dead and there's just some elderly couple, a group of teens, and a guy. A guy in jeans, a white t-shirt, sunglasses, and with a red bandana tied around his neck.

Turns out Addy is short for Adam, not Adelina or Adriana like Buck thought.

Adam is also gorgeous. Dark hair, chocolate eyes, tan skin, fit and strong. Addy has a six-year-old daughter, is no longer in contact with his ex-husband, works as a nurse in the ER, loves quiet indie places, and would love to travel the world every chance he has.

When after the date --- which goes on for so long the cafe's owner has to ask them to leave because they're closing --- Buck calls Pepa to tell her how it went and when can't really make his mouth produce words, she just tells him, "I told you I know your type, mijo."

Needless to say, Eddie finds out about that fast because Addy is his cousin and texts him for ideas for a second date with 'his friend Buck.'

His brain resets. Then restarts. Then resets again.

He did not know that about Buck. He would've known that about Buck.

He's calling his tia before he knows it and demanding answers.

Eddie, well, Eddie is fuming inside but Buck seems happy and Addy seems happy and they're both good guys so he shuts up whatever unreasonable, surprising anger he's boiling with and helps Addy prepare a date --- tells him about the water show in the aquarium he was planning on taking Buck and Chris to.

But the day of the show comes and Buck isn't answering his texts and he's just walking in circles around the kitchen table and before he realizes what he's doing, he's packing Chris into the car and, "Oh, look at that, what a coincident we're meeting you here."

He feels like an absolute madman when Addy tells him, when Buck and Chris are distracted by colorful fish, "If you didn't want me to date him, you could have just said so."

And a couple of days later both Pepa and Buck are at Eddie's for dinner and he feels like an absolute asshole when Pepa tells Buck Addy doesn't want another date. For about five minutes, that is, because after that Pepa looks Eddie straight in the eyes, he swears, and says brightly, "Don't worry, I know plenty of young single men that are just your type, Evanito."

The history repeats, obviously, and Eddie uses Chris to just 'run' into Buck on his date with another of his cousins. At some point, his cousins probably start to warn each other about it because they stop talking to Eddie about Buck's favorite activities and foods.

But they tell Buck the date places. And Buck tells at least one person on the team, always, and Eddie might be a madman but he's a madman on a mission so he always tricks the info out of someone -- Chim is usually the easiest and Hen won't admit but she likes to gossip about people's love lives. He even manages to trick Bobby into telling him where Buck is on his next date under the disguise of concerned 'Buck sure is going on a lot of dates lately,' etc. and Bobby actually falls for it and Eddie feels guilty about it until he hears Buck is going on a date with his godawful cousin Marco.

(Meanwhile, every time Buck 'runs' into Eddie on a date, he's cursing the universe and its stupid, obvious signs... Like, he knows he's in love with Eddie, the universe can shut up and stop screaming at him.)

Eddie is at Pepa's again and she comes back from where she was talking to someone on the terrace and silently sits down opposite Eddie with that look and says, "So, that was Marco."

"Yes, exactly. Marco. How could you set him up with Marco of all people?"

"Well, I'm running out of candidates because someone keeps on scaring them off."

Eddie doesn't look her in the eyes. He's truly become a madman since the whole thing started happening but like hell he'll admit it.

"You know, Eddie, if you don't want Buck to date any of your cousins, there's an easy solution that will solve this dilemma and will let us keep Buck in the family."

"Pepa---"

"Tell you what, I'll set one more date for him, tomorrow at seven at that ice cream sandwich truck Chris likes," she says, raising her eyebrows pointedly. "You decide if his date stands him up or not."

He never ever again wants to see Buck going out with any of his cousins.

Which doesn't mean he isn't a coward. He doesn't tell Buck. He tries to leave the house three times, changes his clothes about six times, and by the end of it, he's late.

Buck is easy to find between people, towering over most.

Buck smiles when he sees him but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Let me guess, he decided it wasn't worth it and backed out last minute," he sighs. "And Tia Pepa sent me a personal cheer squad to humor me up and pay for my ice cream."

"No, he's here," Eddie says because the it's me doesn't want to leave his mouth.

"Oh," Buck says, and his shoulders don't look so slumpy anymore but he still doesn't look, well, happy. "Where is he then?"

Eddie makes an elaborate wave with his arm and deadpans, "Ta-da."

There's a moment when those big baby blues blink at Eddie dumbly and Eddie swears Buck stops breathing for a few seconds before finally managing to push out, "Oh."

[yusuke-of-valla]

The thing about conflicting headcanons re: Yusuke's financial situation post Madarame (ie is he actually poor, does he make money but spends it all on art because he has poor impulse control, is Kosei a money laundering scheme etc.) is that like Yusuke's financial situation is written to facilitate a running gag so it's not consistent.

The school gives him an allowance, but he's also being charged for utilities despite being on a scholarship and so showers in the cold and works in the dark and worries about the electricity bill.

We know he bought those lobsters that one time but realistically how much of his money is being spent on supplies for class vs non-necessities he feels inspired by? Because canvases are expensive and if there's a certain size expectation/requirement you can't save by getting a smaller canvas. So when someone says "he just spends all his money on art" what are we really talking about?

By Strikers he's very excited to have money from an art contest to spend on his friends but was that true during the course of the base game when he was in his slump? Because I have a hard time believing he was even entering competitions

The details don't really make sense because most of these details come from jokes that are never elaborated on into cohesive worldbuilding.

And even if you want to say the issue is just he's got bad spending habits, that's still a situation that would require intervention by an adult probably because uh, no shit?

Yeah of COURSE Yusuke is completely unprepared to live on his own and is incidentally starving himself, he was raised by a dude who convinced him that the only purpose he served was helping his Sensei. In what way would it have benefitted Madarame to prepare Yusuke in any way to live on his own or know how to balance finances, he actively wanted Yusuke reliant on him, because that's how abuse works.

I'm pretty sure Yusuke has never even conceptualized living on his own, and that's not even adding in the detail of Nakanohara being concerned he'd commit suicide if he stayed with Madarame. NO SHIT HE'D BE BAD AT IT? People don't just emerge from the womb capable of money management

In that situation is the proper response really "oh that Yusuke, he just doesn't understand money, it's not a big deal"?

And like regardless, he IS still starving. Like the extent to which you think it's self inflicted aside, he's a 16 year old who will constantly talk about skipping meals and eating sprouts from the park and that sucks. Someone should maybe like talk to him about the root cause of that!

TL;DR: Yusuke's financial situation doesn't make sense because it's not supposed to, so it kind of doesn't matter to me how people headcanon the nature of it, and I fundamentally think it's incorrect to say one option of "poor vs has bad impulse spending habits" is more correct than the other because arguably they both raise the question of "holy shit why is no one stepping in here" if you think about it all the way through

PS. Also I wrote this whole thing because I saw a tweet that was like "one big misconception i see about yusukes character and how he’s treated is people saying “Why doesn’t Joker/Haru give him money when he’s poor?” and the real fact is that he’s not poor (post madarame). He’s just EXTREMELY irresponsible with his spending and spends it all on art," and I was like "idk if that's a misconception really I think a case can be made for both because it doesn't make sense" and then AFTER I wrote it I remebered that I have repository of every Yusuke scene uploaded into my brain and was like "wait if you call Yusuke poor in PQ2 during the Akihiko/Shinjiro/Yusuke quest he'll agree" and then there's also the scene in Tactica where Marie calls him dirt poor and he doesn't disagree with the poor part, just that she insulted dirt

So like my point still stands but I'd ESPECIALLY not call it a misconception to say he's poor when canon material supports it.

[coffeeghoulie]

Mushy May Day 13: "Just Wanted To Hear Your Voice"

Timezones apart, Mountain and Aether share a late night/early morning phonecall.

Thank you very much to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together, and to @ghuleh-recs for the divider. <3

(this could also be for the long distance extra prompt but i digress, enjoy the fic)

Aether wakes not to his work alarm, but to the drum fill in Respite, his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He shoots up, scrambling for it in a half awake haze. He fumbles to accept the call, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Mount?" He slurs, tongue not fully cooperating yet. His mind struggles with the timezone conversion, the rest of his pack, minus Sunny, halfway across the world. "'S gotta be late over there, what's goin' on?"

There's a deep sigh on the other end, made tinny through the speakers. "Hey, Aeth. There's no emergency. Sorry if I woke you."

"Don't apologize," Aether says, tension easing from his frame as he settles back in bed, phone pinned to his ear by his shoulder as he adjusts a blanket. He doesn't have to be to the infirmary until two hours from now. There's time. And if there wasn't, he'd find a way to make time. Anything for them. "I'm awake, sweet thing. How was the Ritual?"

Another sigh, edging on a groan. "Really fucking long. I don't even want to think about how many more of these we have left. I haven't had a chance to be outside for more than five minutes in a month, nova."

Aether hisses through his teeth in sympathy. He knows second hand what being cut off from one's element feels like, a phantom pain you can't quite shake. Quintessence is everywhere, so Aether's never experienced the loss of it himself.

It's easy for the rest of them to recharge; air a constant, water everywhere on Earth, fire easy to sate with heat. Dew's preferred method of recharging is near-boiling showers, taking advantage of hotels and venues and running their hot water bills sky high. It eases both his fire and what remains of his water.

Earth is a different story, especially when the pack is moving from city to city with barely room to breathe. It's always taken a toll on Mountain, but he takes it like a champ. Though Aether will always, always, always let him vent, knows how satisfying it is to let off steam.

"I'm sorry, Mount," he hums, clearing the sleep from his eyes. He'd been dreaming, something too realistic, almost able to trick his mind that he hadn't been asleep at all, that his mattress had been warm with three ghouls' worth of body heat instead of one.

"Why'd you think it's your fault?" Mountain chuckles halfheartedly. "You in charge of scheduling or somethin'?"

Aether hums. "Maybe. You don't know," he teases. "It's late over there, Mount. You want to hang up and get some sle-?"

"No!" Mountain cuts him off suddenly, distress sharp in his tone. "No, Aeth, please, don't make me hang up."

Aether can't see him, can barely sense their bond, stretched thin with distance. He can imagine it though, the way his shoulders slump, eyes pressing shut. "Not going to make you do anything. Talk to me, sweet thing. Anything you want, just let me hear you."

Mountain sighs, and he can just barely pick up the sound of a hand dragging down his face, scraping against his stubble. Mountain normally likes a clean shave, itchy, regrowing stubble an easy way to send him into a sensory overload. But being on tour makes it difficult to keep up with the upkeep. He wonders when their next hotel day is.

"Cue's halfway through her third blanket," Mountain says slowly. Aether doesn't need to feel the bond to feel the exhaustion seeping into his voice. "We made a stop at a craft store a few days back, she came out with a literal armful of yarn. Every color under the sun. I think she cleared out an entire color's worth of baby blanket yarn. She said something about making one for Aurora."

Aether hums considerately, reaching with one hand to the purple and navy blanket that had been pushed aside in his sleep. Still as soft as the day she had shyly handed it to him, the second one she had ever made, only a few months' summoned. She's come out of her shell since, but Aether rubs the yarn between his thumb and forefinger and remembers anyways. "Aeon's gotten theirs?"

There's silence for a second, and a quiet spew of Ghoulish cursing. "Just fucking nodded like you could see me," Mountain laughs, exhausted. "The second one she made was Aeon's."

"They like it?" Aether asks, biting back a yawn, tail going ramrod straight as he stretches his back. There's the sound of a privacy curtain being pulled back, and Mountain groans softly before the curtain is pulled again.

"Had to make sure they were still out there," he explains. "They're currently burritoed up in it on the couch with Swiss."

"Don't get up and do it now," Aether says, chuffing at the mental image of the new quintessence ghoul all cozy. "But in the morning, if they're still wrapped up, send me a picture, will you, sweet thing?"

A soft chuckle. "Of course, nova. Thank you."

"What for?" Aether says.

"I dunno. Just wanted to hear your voice."

Aether chuffs, reaching for his glasses. It's almost time for him to get up out of bed. "Thank you, too, then," he says, sliding his glasses on one handed. "I miss you all terribly."

There's a long sigh, which changes halfway through into a yawn. "I don't want to hang up, Aeth." His voice is as small as Aether's heard it in years, not since the last time the pack was thrown into upheaval.

"I know, Mount. I know. But you still need to sleep, sweet thing. Call me in the morning?" Aether offers, knowing that he'll probably be on his break by the time Mountain wakes, ever the early riser.

"I'll call you in the morning," Mountain says, still a little hesitant. "I love you, nova."

Aether smiles. "Love you too. I'll talk to you soon."