#i think when you... draw men all the time

[player-tag]

Telemachus is sure he is dead. He’s certain. He’d stepped foot in the palace, and he’d been ambushed. Antinous and Eurymachus had been the ones dealing most of the damage, sitting on his chest to leave him breathless, then punching the shit out of him, until blood oozed from practically every hole on his face. 

Telemachus had accepted, pretty quickly, that he was going to die. Seemed long overdue, anyways (the men had been bothering him for years, he’s surprised it took them this long to come up with this plan—though, to be fair, they aren’t the brightest minds in Ithaca…or the palace, to be fair), so he just hoped that his father had made it back in time to save his mother before those men got their hands on her. 

So Telemachus is left wondering on why he is not only alive, but drinking wine with Poseidon in a cave beneath the island of Ithaca, with Amphitrite gently rubbing mashed ambrosia on his wounds, and wiping away the blood from his nose and teeth. The ambrosia smells like a weird mix of pomegranates and yogurt. The wine goblet is still held in both of his hands, and he has not taken a sip, instead just staring, blank faced, at the God who is very pointedly ignoring his gaze. 

Are those puncture wounds on Poseidon’s chest? Telemachus wonders distantly, as Amphitrite ruffles his hair. 

“What did Asclepius say about the nectar?” Amphitrite asks, holding up another goblet. “Yes, no…a little?”

Poseidon looks above Telemachus, seemingly thinking very deeply about his wife’s question. “Err… Let’s play it safe. No straight nectar, but maybe a dollop in the wine.” Poseidon looks everywhere but Telemachus’s eyes. 

The Prince feels his body’s ache dull, now that the ambrosia has coated all the places he’s been punched, and he turns and smiles appreciatively at the nymph. “Thank you, my Lady. I will remember this for all my life.”

Amphitrite laughs, grabbing his shoulders and rubbing them slightly. “Don’t thank me, my dear,” she grabs a bit of nectar with her two forefingers, scooping it and dropping it into Telemachus’s drink, falling clean off her fingers. “Poseidon went out of his way to visit Apollo and Asclepius, really it should all be him.” She kisses the top of his head, and then waves goodbye. “I’ll be back soon, Poseidon.”

They are left in silence. Telemachus finally sips his wine. It tastes heavenly. Quite literally, and metaphorically. 

“So…” Teleamchus says, trying to sound casual. Because what in the Hades was he meant to do. “Why did…er. That is, why was I chosen to be saved?” And also, why am I completely dry? I was drawing for at least two minutes before you saved me. 

Poseidon finally stares at him. Oh gods, his eyes were scarily blue. Maybe that's why he didn’t look at him initially. “I… hate… unlawful men.” Poseidon himself seems unconvinced by what he’s saying. “They ambushed you, knew you didn’t have a chance…and that’s completely…not fair?” The last part sounds like a question itself, and Telemachus really wished he'd just stayed silent. 

“Ah… okay. Thank you, Lord Poseidon.” They return to their silence, each sipping their drinks, and avoiding each other’s eyes. 

“Uhm,” Telemachus starts again, because he hates the silence and he hates his thoughts. “What’s your favourite wine?” Good Gods, just kill him already. Holy shit. 

Poseidon licks his teeth. “I like… Ithaca’s wine. Very nice. Well made.”

“Oh, when did you get to try it?”

Poseidon very pointedly ignores the question. “Are you excited to see your father?”

Telemachus blinks. “He’s here? He’s alive? What?”

Poseidon stares back at him. “Ah. I guess he still hasn’t made his grand entrance. Uhm. I think he’ll be looking for you soon… So I will hand you over when he asks.”

Then the awkward silence, again. 

Then, Poseidon’s ears perk up. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Telemachus can hear little other than the swish of water, and a barbiton that is seemingly playing from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. “I did not, no…?”

Poseidon snaps his fingers, and suddenly Telemachus can hear a nostalgically familiar voice, saying, “You dare think the ocean can kill my son? You dare think you can harm my family? You will regret ever trying to harm them—”

Suddenly, Poseidon grabs him, and they are swimming up and towards the shore. When they are about to hit the sunlight, break the water tension together, Poseidon aims Telemachus, and throws him out of the water. A stream catches him before he falls, and very neatly places him beside a hooded, bearded man, who does not seem at all surprised that the water just carried him to safety. Or the fact that he’s still completely dry. What the fuck. 

The suitors are staring at him with genuine horror, like they’re seeing a ghost for the first time ever. “Why the fuck are you completely unharmed?” Antinous asks, jaw almost on the floor. Gods, Telemachus is grinning, wanting to cackle, at their expressions. He’s never going to stop praying to Poseidon. 

The hooded man turns to him, and Telemachus sees the way his nose curves, the jut of his chin, the colour and shape of his eyes. That man is definitely Odysseus. 

Odysseus confirms his suspicions when he grabs him, pulling him into a bone crushing hug, almost singing, “My son! Sweetest joy I’ve known, I—” He feels his chiton, then pushes him back and stares at him, holding him still by the shoulders. 

“Did you not have a chlamys?” Odysseus asks, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“Uh… yeah?”

Odysseus turns to the ocean, and shouts, “HEY, ASSHOLE, YOU FORGOT HIS CHLAMYS—”

The water spits out the cape, landing it perfectly on Telemachus’s shoulders, clipped perfectly at his shoulders and everything. The ocean spits something else out, and Telemachus turns, and he feels the suitors stare at the sand with him. 

Sorry, very clearly spelt with shells. 

“Thank you,” Odysseus says, smugly. 

“Thank you, Lord Poseidon,” Telemachus repeats, mildly confused. 

He hears confused muttering from the suitors behind him. When he turns, Melanthius is shrugging very confused at a question either Antinous or Amphinomus had asked him. Eurymachus looks like he’s about to jump into the water himself. 

“Anyways,” Odysseus says, handing Telemachus a bow and a full quiver. “Let’s get to business.”

Telemachus has many questions for both his father and mother. For now, he nocks an arrow and draws his bow. 

after browsing some comments, I think a funnier turn the ithaca saga could've taken is the suitors beat the living shit out of telemachus and then drown him in the ocean, and when they're taunting odysseus about it he just looks at the ocean, raises his eyebrow and posiden spits up a very much alive and in tact but also incredibly confused telemachus.

the waves sound suspiciously like someone saying "nope" over and over again.

[jinjoohaa]

Jealousy looks good on you, baby

when gojo flirts in front of you (Roommate! AU)

CW: Smut, jealousy, aggressive kissing, public intimacy, partial undressing, breast play, possessiveness, filthy talk, Gojo being a dramatic menace, light humiliation, group tension. 18+ only.

You should’ve known Gojo would drag you and Geto here again.

The cozy boutique tucked in a quiet street corner looked nothing like the type of place two 6’3" men would frequent, but it was one of their regular haunts. According to Gojo, they used to come here all the time before you moved in. Now, he brings you instead. Correction: he insists on bringing you.

“I can’t breathe properly if you’re not around,” he’d pout, clinging to your back like a koala.

And so here you were, in the softly lit corner of the store—crystals, candles, racks of handmade lingerie and silk robes surrounding you—while Geto browsed casually through vinyls and incense nearby. You were holding up a mesh top, debating if it was too much or not enough, when Gojo came bouncing up behind you, arms full of frilly chaos.

“Sweets, come on! Try this one, please!” he begged, holding up a deep crimson lace teddy, see-through in every way, tags still dangling. “I swear on my pretty face, this’ll make Toji cry blood.”

You smiled nervously, pushing it back into his arms. “Satoru, please… I already have enough stuff like that.”

“Yeah but this one’s different,” he insisted, sticking his lower lip out, then immediately flitting to the next hanger like a moth in heat. “Oooh look, crotchless!”

You sighed, cheeks warm, and glanced at Geto for backup. He simply chuckled under his breath without looking up.

As the three of you clustered back near the checkout counter, laughter light between you and Geto, Gojo still swinging scandalous outfits in your direction, the bell over the store door rang again.

That’s when she walked in.

Tall, confident, with long black hair cascading down her back and a curve-hugging dress that made you instinctively tug your own skirt lower. She looked like she belonged on a magazine cover. You froze mid-laugh as she walked—no, floated—straight toward Gojo.

“Hey,” she purred, eyes dancing with playful confidence. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

Gojo, being Gojo, tilted his head with a smirk. “I do get that a lot. Maybe we met in your dreams?”

She giggled, flicking her hair behind her shoulder, then leaned closer to him. Too close.

“Maybe I’ll dream about you tonight then. Mind if I get your number?”

Your fingers curled around the hem of your sleeve.

Without hesitation, Gojo whipped out his phone and held it toward her like a knight offering his sword. “Absolutely. I’m very available for dream appearances.”

She winked, typing in her number. “Maybe I’ll bring my friends too next time. You seem like someone who can handle… company.”

Her eyes slid to Geto next, like you weren’t standing right there.

“And you?” she asked, voice silky. “Wouldn’t mind if we all went out sometime? Just the three of us?”

Geto smiled politely and placed a warm hand on your shoulder, drawing you subtly into his side.

“Thanks, but not interested.”

That was the first time the woman seemed to see you. Her eyes flicked to you like an afterthought, lips pursed in surprise. She blinked, smiled awkwardly, and left with a breezy little wave, hips swaying too much for your liking.

Gojo? He was already distracted, holding up a pearl thong and wiggling his eyebrows at you. “You think Nanamin would die if he saw you in this?”

You tried to smile. You really did. But it came out brittle, and your laugh felt a little choked.

“Mm. Maybe.”

You turned your eyes down to the price tag in your hand, trying not to frown too obviously. It didn’t mean anything, right? Gojo was like that with everyone. Flirty, shameless, light-hearted.

Still… it stung a little.

You tried to shake it off as you walked toward a shelf of scented oils, but Geto followed behind quietly, fingers brushing yours. His voice came low, gentle.

“You okay?”

You blinked up at him quickly. “Mhm.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t look okay.”

You shrugged, chewing your lip, not quite looking at him. “Just tired, maybe.”

“Or maybe you’re thinking about how someone tried to steal your Gojo right in front of you?”

You huffed and shook your head, but your cheeks burned. “That's not…”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You went quiet. Your shoulders sank a little.

Geto nudged your side. “Jealous?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

“Hey,” he said again, his voice softening even more. “You know how he is. He talks to pretty strangers like they’re clouds. But he lives for the storm you are.”

You looked at him, brows raised, and he smiled.

"But. . .he. . . infront of me. . ." you stuttered.

"Don't mind him baby, we know him, he's just like that."

“…Mhmm,” you mumbled, still looking away.

“Oh? Is our little girl being possessive?”

You whined, burying your face in your hands, and Geto chuckled, tugging you gently into a side hug.

He grinned, leaned in just enough to brush his lips near your ear.

“I’d kiss that pout right now if it wouldn’t make you combust.”

You squeaked, half-mortified and half-delighted. And of course, that was the moment Gojo returned, dropping an entire armful of frilly things into the basket.

“You guys talking about me again? Huh? Come on let's go home. I'm gonna go three rounds today!"

" Wh-what!?" your eyes widen while geto just chuckled.

The door shut softly behind you as you all stepped into the apartment. You kicked off your shoes in silence, hands limp by your side. Geto moved past you with the shopping bags, silent as ever, his eyes flicking to you from time to time.

Toji was already on the couch, shirtless in gray sweats, remote in hand. One glance at him and you could tell Nanami had gone to bed; the living room was quieter, dimly lit with a soft golden hue. Toji barely looked up until he noticed your expression—or lack of one.

“Yo,” he grunted, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s with the long faces?”

Gojo plopped down on the couch with all his usual energy, pulling you effortlessly into his lap. You barely even resisted at first—habit, maybe—but your body was stiff. Gojo didn’t seem to notice. He leaned in, hands already slipping beneath the hem of your top, mouth trailing soft kisses along your neck.

“Mmh, missed you,” he murmured between kisses. “Lemme have you for just a bit, baby, just a bit—”

You squirmed gently, palms pressing against his chest. “Satoru… I—I need to shower.”

“You can. Later.” He kissed your cheek, then jaw, relentless, still grinning like you weren’t just a little quieter than usual.

“No, just… stop, please.” You tried again, voice even softer now.

“I can’t, baby,” he muttered against your skin. “You’re like air to me—I’ve been holding my breath all day.”

You finally pushed him back with a little more force. Not harsh, but enough.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I’m not in the mood.”

The words left your lips and hung in the air like something sacred and new. Something you’d never said before.

Gojo blinked. His hands froze. “What?”

He looked wounded—genuinely puzzled, as if you’d just slapped him. You never said no. Not to him. Not to anyone. His heart visibly faltered.

Geto leaned back on the wall, arms folded, watching the scene unfold with a quiet, unreadable smile.

Toji glanced up from the couch now, one brow raised, attention caught. “The hell’s gotten into her? She was fine earlier. Why’s she acting like that?”

Gojo rubbed his chest dramatically. “She rejected me. My angel. She rejected me. My heart—” he whimpered, clutching his chest.

Toji squinted. “She was fine before going out with you two. The fuck did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Gojo sat up straight, wounded pride bubbling into defense. “Ask Geto! I didn’t—!”

Toji stood. “Don’t start lying now, dumbass.”

“I’m not lying! I swear, we just went to the store—”

You tuned them out, quietly retreating to your room. You shut the door. Clicked the lock. The silence inside your space was instant, like a breath of still air after a storm.

Your chest felt tight, not because of them bickering—but because of how invisible you’d felt back there. And Gojo—your Gojo—had just flirted like it was nothing. Even if it was all in good fun for him… it didn’t feel like fun to you.

A few minutes passed. The murmur of their voices still rumbled through the wall when you stepped out again.

You didn’t say anything. Just made your way toward the living room where all three men had gathered now, Gojo still in full dramatic crisis, Toji leaning against the dining table sipping water, and Geto—calm as always—watching the scene like theater.

“Toji,” you said softly, your voice cutting through Gojo’s tantrum like a thread. “Can I borrow one of your shirts?”

All three heads turned.

Gojo’s entire body stilled. “What?”

You rarely ever wore anything but Gojo’s clothes around the house or he made you wear it all the time. His t-shirts, his hoodies—his scent wrapped around you like a claim. And now you were asking Toji?

Toji, surprised, set down the glass and blinked. “Uh… sure. Go get it from my closet, bottom shelf.”

You nodded and left. The silence behind you was thunderous.

A minute later you returned, hair slightly tousled, wearing an oversized black shirt that smelled like him.

Toji’s shirt.

You didn’t even glance at Gojo as you padded over to the couch and sat beside Toji, curling slightly into his side.

Toji looked down at you, brows raised. “You okay, baby?”

You nodded faintly, resting your head on his shoulder. He chuckled low, surprised but not complaining. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, smirking right at Gojo, who looked as if he’d been punched.

Gojo stood there, dumbfounded. “Why are you doing this…?” His voice cracked slightly, hands limp by his sides. “Don’t you love me?”

You didn’t respond. Just nestled closer to Toji, wrapping your arms around his bicep.

Gojo blinked rapidly. “She loves me. She loves me. Why isn’t she saying anything?! Why isn’t she—”

You stood up again quietly, walked past him without a word, and stepped onto the balcony.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Inside, Gojo groaned, falling face-first onto the couch. “What did I do? What did I do?? I don’t remember doing anything…”

Geto scoffed. “Maybe you should stop flirting with every girl who bats her lashes at you.”

“What?,” Gojo was confused.

“Exactly,” Geto muttered.

“Suguru,” Gojo moaned, rolling onto his back. “Please. Please. What did I do? I’m losing my mind here.”

Geto, still leaned against the wall, exhaled through his nose. “She was fine until that girl showed up in the store.”

Gojo frowned. “The one who asked for my number?”

Geto nodded.

Gojo blinked. “That upset her?!”

Geto raised an eyebrow.

Gojo’s mouth fell open. “Oh my God. Oh my God—I hurt my baby…”

He scrambled to his feet, tripping over the edge of the rug. “Move, move! I need to go apologize—properly!”

You're leaning on the balcony railing when you hear the sliding door open—too fast. Before you can even turn, you're swept up in Gojo’s arms like you weigh nothing.

“Satoru—Ah—?! Put me down!” you squirm in his grip, smacking his shoulder, but he’s already storming back into the apartment like a man possessed.

“No,” he snaps, kissing your cheek dramatically. “You don’t get to sit out here acting like this.”

He gently lowers you onto the couch, kneels in front of you—yes, kneels—and clasps your hands in his big, warm ones like he’s about to propose.

“Baby, angel, goddess of my heart, my sunshine and moonlight—I’m sorry,” he says so fast and earnestly it almost sounds rehearsed.

“She meant nothing. I didn’t even ask her name. It was ‘Store Girl #398’ or something in my brain, I swear. I’m not gonna text her. I didn’t even look that long—Geto saw!”

You say softly, “It’s fine.”

But your eyes betray you—quietly wounded, still hurting—and Gojo's smile falls.

“Oh no. Oh no-no-no,” he whispers, cupping your cheeks. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out. Don’t ice me, I’m melting, I’m dying. Please. I’ll burn this whole apartment if it makes you smile.”

Behind him, Geto’s lounging like a smug cat, smiling lazily at the whole thing. Toji’s half-watching the TV, one brow raised like what the fuck is going on here.

Nanami, bless him, is probably still knocked out cold in his room, unaware of the emotional soap opera playing in 4K next door.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll delete every girl’s number from my phone. I’ll wear horse blinders when I go out. Just—please don’t shut me out again.”

You looked up at him, heart soft despite everything. You were always soft when it came to him.

Behind you, Toji rolled his eyes.

“Drama queens,” he muttered.

“Shut up, Toji,” Gojo spat, kissing your forehead and then suddenly pulls out his phone with theatrical flair.

“Look! Look, bunny.” He scrolls, finds the contact saved as ‘Store Baddie #27’, and you almost laugh—but your lips twitch, just a little.

He sees it. Gasps.

“Did you see that? You almost smiled. Did I imagine that? Wait—wait—there it is again!” He claps his hands like a kid who just got a puppy.

“She smiled! My angel smiled! My bunny! She still love me!”

You roll your eyes but the warmth is creeping back in, and it’s too late—Gojo’s already pouncing, mouth on yours before you can say no, kissing you so hard your head tips back against the couch cushion.

“I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t be mad. Please let me touch you forever—”

You moan into the kiss when his hands slide under your shirt, thumbs brushing the undersides of your boobs like he missed them more than life itself. He’s practically whining against your lips, desperate and loud, his fingers already tugging your shirt up over your head.

Toji grunts from the other side of the couch. “Damn. She smiled once and you’re acting like she gave you the key to heaven.”

Gojo breaks the kiss to catch his breath, already undoing your bra, eyes wild. “Because she is heaven. You wouldn’t understand, old man.”

“Old man?” Toji echoes with a lazy scoff. “I can still fuck her better than you on your best day.”

“Shut up,” Gojo says, latching his mouth onto your tits like a man starved.

You’re giggling now, even through the heavy breaths and growing heat between your legs.

You were breathless, cupping Gojo’s head as he nuzzles deeper between your breasts.

"My angel." Gojo says, diving back down to your chest, sucking your nipple into his mouth while kneading the other breast with one hand, groaning into your skin. “God, I missed these. You don’t understand, I ache without them.”

You let out a shaky moan, body sinking deeper into the couch, thighs pressed together. He’s already pulling your shorts off with impatient hands, groaning when he sees how damp your panties are.

“Ohh, you were mad, but this pussy still missed me, huh? She was holding a grudge too?”

You gasp when he licks you through the fabric, sloppy and shameless, and Toji just grunts again behind you, flipping the TV volume up like he’s pretending not to hear anything—though the twitch in his jaw betrays him.

“Shameless,” he mutters, but doesn’t move.

Gojo’s laughing against your thigh, breath hot, eyes glowing like you’ve just come back to life. “Don’t ever shut me out again, baby. Just punish me in bed or something. Please. I’ll take spankings, degradation, exile—whatever. Just don’t give me the cold shoulder. It kills me.”

You reach down and tangle your fingers into his white hair, tugging him closer.

“No promises,” you whispers,smiling softly.

And Gojo, mouth already back on your cunt like he’s worshipping at a shrine, groans like that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said.

Toji lets out a grunt and eyes you sideways, voice casual but edged with something a little teasing.

“Yo… would you get jealous if it was me? Huh? Or is all this loyalty just for Loverboy here?”

You softly nods, blushing, cheeks burning.

Of course you’d get jealous if it was Toji.

Or Nanami.

Or Geto.

Got an ask for a scenario where the reader gets jealous, and I had to deliver 💅.

Comment down to get tagged. Also I started a backup account in case something happens to my current one - just to be safe lol, So if y'all are interested, @jinjoohaa-blog do follow !

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[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Soulmate x Reader

AN: I’ve been working on this story on and off since January. Out of all the things I’ve posted, I would consider this my “passion project”. I hope you enjoy!

You were ten years old in the summer of 1964, the year The Beatles hit the radio like a tidal wave and your older brother got a buzz cut before leaving for basic training. The world felt like it was tilting in a dozen different directions at once. War in faraway places, men in suits yelling on the black-and-white television, your father working late at the plant, your mother smoking silently in the kitchen.

And you, well, you were mostly alone.

You played in the overgrown lot two houses down, the one with the rusted-out car half-swallowed by blackberry brambles and a tree that wept sap like tears. The neighborhood kids said the place was haunted, but you weren’t afraid of ghosts. You were afraid of silence. You were afraid of the yawning space your brother had left behind when he went off to learn how to shoot a gun. You were afraid of your mother’s eyes, empty and glassy as ashtrays.

That was the summer you found the bird.

It was a grackle, maybe, or some other kind of blackbird—its feathers a dull, oil-slick sheen in the sunlight, one wing crooked at a strange angle. You spotted it in the tall grass near the back fence, past the busted washing machine someone had dumped there years ago. You might’ve stepped on it if it hadn’t made a sound—a sharp, desperate little peep that stopped you cold.

You crouched down, knees scratching against the dry clover, and stared. The bird’s eyes rolled wildly, beak parted. Flies hovered near its wing, but you waved them off.

It looked small, smaller than it should’ve been. Broken things always seemed smaller.

You didn’t touch it at first. Just sat beside it, cross legged, your hands on your shins, like the grown-ups did in church when the preacher got to talking about death. You watched it tremble. It watched you back.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

Then you went home.

You told your mother there was a hurt bird. She didn’t look up from her cigarette. She flicked ash into the sink, turned on the tap, then turned it off again. You thought she might say something. She didn’t.

So you raided the bathroom for the shoebox where your father kept old receipts. You lined it with one of your brother’s old undershirts, the soft kind that smelled faintly of soap and sun. You carried it back to the lot.

When you lifted the bird, it didn’t fight you. Its body was warm, but too still. You laid it gently in the box, and it blinked once, slow.

You named it Gus.

You brought Gus little bits of bread and water in a bottlecap. You sat with him for hours, humming songs you half-knew from the radio. You read aloud from your books. You told him about your brother’s room, about the posters and the record player and how your mother didn’t go in there anymore. By the second day, Gus tried to stand.

His good wing flapped once, then again, and he managed to shuffle in a slow, lopsided circle inside the shoebox. You clapped softly, grinning like you’d just seen a magic trick. He looked stronger, or maybe just more stubborn, his beady eyes sharp. It made something ache in your chest.

You started thinking maybe he’d get better.

But the air stayed hot and heavy, and your mother stayed quiet. Your father came home later and later, and when he did, he smelled like metal and sweat and something sour. You didn’t talk to him about Gus. You didn’t talk to him about much. He'd ruffle your hair with a calloused hand sometimes, but it felt like the motion of someone remembering a role they were supposed to play.

Every morning, you’d sneak out with the shoebox tucked under your arm. Gus came with you to the lot, to the rusted-out car and the weeping tree. You’d set the box down in the same patch of grass, half in the shade. Sometimes you’d draw in the dirt with a stick. Sometimes you just stared into the box and waited for Gus to make another circle.

He never did.

On the eighth day, Gus didn’t blink. You touched his wing, gently, like always. Nothing.

You sat there for a long time, longer than usual. The light changed around you. Cicadas screamed in the trees. You didn’t cry. You didn’t know how. The ache in your chest grew teeth. It chewed through your ribs like something alive.

You buried him by the busted washing machine, using a spoon from the kitchen and your bare hands when that got too slow. You marked the grave with a rock, one you’d found near the creek a year ago, the one shaped like a heart if you looked at it just right.

That night, you went into your brother’s room for the first time since he left. It still smelled like Brylcreem and vinyl, like teenage boy and summer heat. You lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the room too big, the silence too wide. A record was still sitting on the turntable, warped slightly at the edge.

You didn’t sleep.

A few days later, a postcard came from Fort Jackson. It was short. The handwriting was sloppy.

“Tell Mom I’m fine. Hot as hell down here. Tell the kid I said hey.”

You stared at it a long time. You weren’t sure if “the kid” was supposed to mean you.

Outside, the sun was rising again, bleeding pink across the sky. You thought about Gus. You thought about how he watched you, that first day in the grass, like you were the last thing in the world he could still believe in.

You sat at the kitchen table with the postcard, the one your mother hadn’t looked at yet. She stood at the sink with a fresh cigarette, her back to you.

“His name was Gus,” you said.

She didn’t turn around. But after a moment, she tapped her ash into the sink, and said softly,
“I had a bird once, too.”


You fought back tears.

—-

You’re sixteen now. Taller. Your face longer, sharper at the jaw, the baby softness gone. You keep your hair the way your brother used to when he was your age, before the buzz cut, before basic, before the long stretch of time that peeled the shine off life.

You're sitting on the front porch of your parent’s house. Your knees are drawn up, arms cradling a sleeping bundle against your chest. The baby, your brother’s, is warm and impossibly still, one tiny hand curled against your shirt. Her breath is light. She smells like talcum and formula and something sweet you can't quite name.

Your brother got married last year. Her name is Sharon. You’re not used to saying it yet. She’s nice enough, always smiling too hard and calling you hon. The kind of girl who wears lipstick to the grocery store and hums Patsy Cline while she folds laundry. You don’t dislike her, but there’s something about her that feels far away. Like she belongs to a world you never got the invitation to.

The baby stirs, lets out a soft grunt, then goes quiet again.

Your mother watches from the screen door, cigarette between two fingers, her other hand on her hip. She hasn’t said much since they arrived for the weekend. Just looked at the baby like she couldn’t decide whether to hold her or bolt out into the street. She hasn’t touched her once.

“Looks like you’ve got the magic touch,” your brother had said earlier, clapping you on the back in that too-loud way men do when they don’t know what else to say.

You’d nodded.

Your father’s car pulls into the drive, headlights off even though the suns now bleeding down behind the trees. He gets out slowly, like he always does. He nods at you, says nothing. You nod back. You’re used to this language.

The baby yawns.

You think, suddenly, of how small everything starts. Feathers and fingers and fragile necks. How easy it is to break a thing that trusts you. How hard it is to earn that trust in the first place.

Inside, Sharon’s laughing at something your brother said. The sound is high and tinny, like it doesn’t belong in this house. Like someone wound up a music box and set it spinning.

Your mother finally opens the screen door and steps outside. She doesn’t look at you directly, but she sits on the steps a little ways down, lights another cigarette.

“She looks like him,” she murmurs, not quite to you. “When he was little.”

You glance down at the baby. She does. Same nose. Same dark lashes. You want to ask her if she means that in a good way or a bad one. You don’t.

“She won’t remember any of this,” you say instead. “Not this porch, not the smoke. Not the way the sky looks.”

“No,” your mother says. Her voice is thin. “But you will.”

You look back out at the darkening street. Somewhere, a cicada whines.

You hold the baby a little closer, breathe in her warmth, and whisper something she’ll never remember, something soft and secret.

“I miss Gus.”

—-

You are twenty now. The city is loud in ways the country never was. Car horns instead of cicadas. Neon instead of stars. Sirens, chatter, the thump of bass from apartment windows that never quite close all the way.

You live on the third floor of a building that smells like old carpet and hot metal, where the stairwell light buzzes and flickers. Your place is small—a kitchenette, a window, a mattress on the floor—but it’s yours. You picked the color of the curtains. You bought the secondhand lamp.

It’s a Tuesday when you find him.

You’re walking back from your job at the corner bookstore, the one with the creaky floors and the owner who only ever wears turtlenecks and talks like every sentence might be his last. It’s cold, early March, the air raw with leftover winter. You take the long way home, like you always do when your head feels too full.

You’re passing the alley behind the laundromat when you hear it—a whine, low and ragged. You pause, frown, then follow the sound. It leads you to a shape barely visible beneath a dumpster, dark and shivering.

At first, you think it’s a pile of rags. Then it lifts its head.

The dog is thin as wire, ribs like ladder rungs, fur patchy and soot-dark. His eyes are yellow, too bright for the rest of him. One ear’s torn, and there’s a limp in his back leg when he tries to stand. He doesn’t growl. Doesn’t bark. Just watches you.

You crouch.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t move.

You take a step closer. He flinches but doesn’t run.

You go to the corner store and buy a can of tuna and a cheap plastic bowl. You bring it back. The dog watches you the whole time, still as stone. When you pop the lid and step back, he crawls forward, slowly, like it hurts.

You stay until he’s done. You sit on the concrete, your knees up, hands folded.

He licks the bowl clean, then turns and looks at you again.

You say it out loud before you realize.

“Gus.”

It fits. Not because he’s like the bird, but because he is. The way his bones show, the way his eyes still shine. The way he didn’t run.

You come back the next day. And the next.

By Friday, he lets you touch him.

By Sunday, he follows you home.

Your landlord doesn’t allow pets. You keep Gus hidden, smuggle him in through the back stairwell wrapped in an old hoodie. He curls up on the floor beside your mattress, nose tucked under his tail. When he sleeps, he twitches, like he’s running in his dreams.

You bathe him in the tub with warm water and shampoo. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t fight. You dry him with your last clean towel. The one your brother gave you when you moved out.

He’s cleaner now, but still scarred. Still limps. Still flinches at sudden noises. You know better than to reach too fast. You speak softly. You leave space.

Some nights, you wake up and find him staring at you. Not in a bad way. Just watching, like he’s trying to make sure you’re still there.

You reach down, run your fingers gently behind his ear.

“I won’t leave,” you whisper.

Gus blinks, slow.

—-

You’re twenty-nine now. The city hasn’t gotten any quieter, but it’s not so loud anymore either. Or maybe you’ve just learned how to live inside the noise. You still live in the same apartment—third floor, buzz of the stairwell light, windows that rattle when the trains go by. The curtains are newer. The mattress has a bedframe now. You bought a plant that hasn’t died yet.

Gus is older, too. Was older.

He died on a Wednesday.

He’d been slowing down for months—his steps shaky, his naps longer. His muzzle had gone gray, softening the sharp angles of his face. His limp had come back, worse this time, and no amount of careful walks or warm baths could soothe it. You knew it was coming, even if you didn’t let yourself say the words. You’d seen it before—in feathers, in breath that went still.

You wrapped him in the same hoodie you first carried him home in.

The vet was kind. Quiet. She let you sit on the floor with him, let you stay until he was gone. You held his head in your lap. You whispered the same thing you always had, every time he twitched in his sleep, every time the thunder made him shiver.

“I won’t leave.”

After, the apartment felt cavernous. His absence rang louder than the trains ever could. The empty space beside your bed. The silence when you opened the door and no claws clicked against the floor. You left the radio off for a while. You stopped going the long way home.

Weeks passed like molasses. People at work gave you those sad, knowing looks. You hated it.

You didn’t talk about Gus. Not that Gus. Not the feathers or the grave by the busted washing machine. Not the one who laid his head on your chest that last night and sighed, like he knew it was time.

Then you met Jordan.

You weren’t looking for anyone. You were still trying to figure out how to cook for one person again. But he was there—at the bookstore, of all places. Not your usual shift, just a day you’d swapped with someone. He came in looking for a poetry collection. Asked for help finding it, even though it wasn’t hard to find. Later, you’d wonder if he already knew exactly where it was.

He had round glasses and a knit sweater with a thread pulled loose on the sleeve. His curls looked soft. His smile lit up the whole room.

He asked if you read poetry.

You lied and said yes.

He laughed and admitted he only liked the sad kind. The kind that "felt like a bruise you didn’t mind pressing."

You ended up walking to the café across the street after your shift. He told you about the apartment he was painting, the short story he was trying to finish, the old cat he used to have named Lemon. You told him about the radio you used to leave on for someone. You didn’t say who.

Not then.

But over the next few weeks, you did.

It wasn’t linear, the telling. Pieces came out sideways. Over takeout boxes on your floor. In the quiet space between movie credits and the apartment’s usual creaks. You told him about Gus. About both of them.

He listened like every word mattered. Like he understood something unspoken.

One night, he ran his fingers along your forearm and said, “You know, you look like someone who’s been carrying ghosts for a long time.”

You blinked hard. “Yeah,” you said. “I have.”

Then he kissed you, soft and slow.

You don’t believe in signs. But Jordan’s eyes are the same color as the bird’s feathers were in the sunlight—dark, with that strange oil-slick shine. When he laughs, it sounds like a song you used to hum without realizing it. He touches you like you’re something worth being gentle with.

Sometimes, when he’s fallen asleep on your couch, a book on his chest and his glasses half-off his nose, you look at him and think: You stayed.

Not like the bird. Not like the dog.

You didn’t name him Gus. But you could’ve.

Because there’s something about the way he saw you—tired and hollowed out and still reaching anyway—that reminded you of that first afternoon in the lot, knees in the dirt, watching something broken trust you anyway.

This time, you think, you might finally be ready to trust back.

Masterlist

[talvin-muircastle]

Music Monday: Bagpipes!

If you don't know I love bagpipes, you don't know me at all.

Most people hear the word "bagpipes" and say, "Scottish!"

A majority of those will also allow "Irish".

The impact that Scottish and Irish bagpipe music has had on modern bagpipe music cannot be overstated, but it would be entirely fair to say that, historically speaking, Scotland and Ireland also had bagpipes. We say "Nero fiddled while Rome burned", but aside from the questions about how Nero was vilified for propaganda purposes compared to the historical emperor? He was noted for playing bagpipes. You can look more at the history here.

So, let's take a few hops around the globe to listen to a few--just a few--different takes on bagpipes, historical, modern, and reconstructionist.

The Snake Charmer was India's first professional female bagpiper. (She now lives in Canada.) She does some awesome "cultural mashups" on her channel, and you should definitely check it out.

My favorite Italian band! No, this is not what Nero played: they draw their inspiration from the British Isles tradition of pipes, with some modern twists.

(Some flashing lights in the above, if that is a concern.)

Auli is a Latvian pipes and drums group. Sadly, much of the traditional music from Latvia is lost, so they are reconstructing as best they can. In this video, they join with a few other folk groups to sing a traditional song about the Oak Tree, associated with Midsummer.

Carlos Nuñez is from Galicia, in the northwest of Spain, and this is the Galician version of "The Well of Aran". (No, the words don't quite match with her lipsync, the original is in Spanish.) Carlos plays the gaita. (Also the Irish flute, the ocarina, and who knows what else. Talented man.) You can probably figure out why we are fond of this video.... ;)

As I mentioned back in the St. Patrick's Day edition of Music Monday, Mexico remembers well the men of "Los San Patricios", the St. Patrick's Battalion, and keeps their memory and traditions alive.

United States, India, and Scotland join up for a mashup most unique. :)

The Dame of Drones, the Snake Charmer, and the Phantom Piper. Enjoy!

France has multiple variants of bagpipe. I honestly can't tell you which kind this is, but it's bellows-pumped (like the uillean pipes), and I can't quite tell if there are two or three drones, there: pretty close together. Also, the chanter seems awfully long to me? Maybe somebody can identify it for us.

The mizwad, from Tunisia and Algeria. This one is brand-new to me, I found it while looking for something a little extra to toss in this mix. Definitely want to find more.

Nightwish, the Finnish symphonic metal band, has an uillean piper in their lineup. This video is a favorite of mine.

This has been my, I guess you could call it "family anthem". Originally from the group Wings, and written by Paul McCartney and Denny Laine, but I hold Glen Campbell's cover close to my heart.

My father wished always that this song should be played at his funeral, and that his ashes be scattered, if possible, from the Mull of Kintyre. He died during the pandemic, because his home health aide was an anti-vaxxer, and his ashes remain with his second wife, who can hardly manage to travel so far. I don't know if I shall ever have a chance to fulfill his wish. I was able to gather with friends and play this song to honor him, at least.

When my time comes, play this song and think of me. It's a lovely tune.

And that is Music Monday for this week. I think next week I am going to focus on Carlos Nuñez!

As always, hope you found something you enjoyed.

[apilgrimpassingby]

Time to wheel out John Wesley again!

This premised, let it be observed, that this doctrine [of Calvinism] represents our blessed Lord, “Jesus Christ the righteous,” (1 John 2:1) “the only begotten Son of the Father, full of grace and truth,” (John 1:14) as an hypocrite, a deceiver of the people, a man void of common sincerity. For it cannot be denied, that He everywhere speaks as if He was willing that all men should be saved. Therefore, to say He was not willing that all men should be saved, is to represent Him as a mere hypocrite and dissembler. It cannot be denied that the gracious words which came out of His mouth are full of invitations to all sinners. To say, then, He did not intend to save all sinners, is to represent Him as a gross deceiver of the people. You cannot deny that he says, “Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden.” (Mathew 11:28) If, then, you say He calls those that cannot come; those whom He knows to be unable to come; those whom He can make able to come, but will not; how is it possible to describe greater insincerity? You represent Him as mocking His helpless creatures, by offering what He never intends to give. You describe Him as saying one thing, and meaning another; as pretending the love which He had not. Him, in “whose mouth was no guile,” (1 Peter 2:22) you make full of deceit, void of common sincerity; — then especially, when, drawing nigh the city, He wept over it, and said, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou killest the prophets, and stonest them that are sent unto thee; how often would I have gathered thy children together, — and ye would not;” (Matthew 23:37) Now, if you say, they would, but He would not, you represent Him (which who could hear?) as weeping crocodiles’ tears; weeping over the prey which He Himself had doomed to destruction!

2. Such blasphemy as this, one would think might make the ears of a Christian to tingle! But there is yet more behind; for just as it honours the Son, so doth this doctrine honour the Father. It destroys all His attributes at once: It overturns both His justice, mercy, and truth; yea, it represents the most holy God as worse than the Devil, as both more false, more cruel, and more unjust. More false; because the devil, liar as he is, hath never said, “He willeth all men to be saved:” (1 Timothy 2:4) More unjust; because the devil cannot, if he would, be guilty of such injustice as you ascribe to God, when you say that God condemned millions of souls to everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels, for continuing in sin, which, for want of that grace he will not give them, they cannot avoid: And more cruel; because that unhappy spirit “seeketh rest and findeth none;” (Luke 11:24) so that his own restless misery is a kind of temptation to him to tempt others. But God resteth in His high and holy place; so that to suppose him, of his own mere motion, of His pure will and pleasure, happy as He is, to doom his creatures, whether they will or no, to endless misery, is to impute such cruelty to Him as we cannot impute even to the great enemy of God and man. It is to represent the high God (he that hath ears to hear let him hear!) as more cruel, false, and unjust than the devil!

Taking a two-minute break at work to impulsively ask:

Scriptural arguments against tenets of Calvinism. Go!

(Calvinists are encouraged to play devil's advocate here, no manmade theological ideology is perfect. I am more interested in the sharing of thoughts vs the proving of bests - so battle on your own turf, thanks!)

[stonelions]

just a small personal note

apologies for the lack of new output. top surgery went fine technically but as it turns out my faith in the surgeon's eye was misplaced and aesthetically the results are... not what i hoped for. (my graft placement request was ignored.) i'm trying to wrap my head around it. i'm miserably depressed and feel like i was stupid to expect a good outcome (i have notoriously awful luck) since that's simply not how my life works.

i still have a lot of healing to do, but essentially i feel like i've missed out on a transmasc milestone that everybody else gets to have and be joyful about. i will never want to share my results.

so. basically, thank you to everyone who reblogs my stuff or reads my stories and for all your tags and comments. it's been helping me through an extremely bad time <3

[seasicksilver]

bring back this duo RWBY and my life is yours!!!!!!

[dykedvonte]

I keep seeing fanarts of ppl's OC's being on the ship, so do you think that if there was 6st crewmember (specifically, another woman) Anya would've been more safe? Like, someone to actually call Jimmy's begaviour out, someone Anya might wanna trust? Is there a possibility something might have changed (even if a little) or it would not have mattered at all?

-💀

I feel like the game would make it part of the commentary on where she would believe and help Anya but still be sort of dismissive? Like the whole “don’t waste time crying and being scared keep going and move on, don’t let him win”. It’s supposed to be positive and reinforcing but sometimes it does more damage in those times of mourning and grief, it feels patronizing, like you don’t understand what you’re going through but they do. Even if they did call out his behavior it’s still on Curly to act and while another voice would help, it’s still 4 against 2 on guys that don’t get it until they have to vs women who always have to.

I don’t mind mouthwashing OCs but I do get a bit bored as they tend to be borderline saviors or like Jimmy aligned. They are either more complicit than Curly or just Jimmy haters for no reason, outside of what the creators know about what he did to Anya. I am never irked by OCs but in a story like mouthwashing you really need to think about what your character adds to the commentary, especially if they are there during the crash. It’s nice to have like characters on Anya’s side more whole heartedly and interesting to see characters who placate Jimmy but sometimes it’s one note.

I can’t and don’t want to police peoples OCs it’s never my intention when I comment on trends I notice, but I do feel like the way people make their OCs interact with these two characters and especially Curly, really show a grave misunderstanding of the narrative and these characters as people vs roles in the story. Still, I know people just make up characters for fun and that’s fine. Great even, but I guys I’m focusing more on OCs that are supposed to have those serious dynamics. My favs tend to be pretty-Tulpar or post-Tulpar au OCs.

The inevitably of the crash is on Jimmy. He did that not because he wasn’t stopped but because all his means to kill Anya were taken. The gun, the axe. Even if Curly did strip him of his co-pilot privileges and try to keep him contained there’s only so many people. An extra body helps but they have jobs they have to do, he’s the only one steering the whole ship and Jimmy would likely have an out: food, bathroom, etc. He’s not new and if he couldn’t crash the ship directly, who’s to say he wouldn’t sabotage something else? A clunker like the Tulpar wouldn’t take much. An extra person helps but it’s just another thing that prolongs what a person like Jimmy is willing to do to shirk responsibility.

It’s more than just needing someone to stand up to him and think that’s what is missing when it comes to inserting a character into the mouthwashing setting.

[tariah23]

with the chopped thing too they're doing the same thing where they stretch it so thin until they cant figure out another way to use it- like I saw someone on twitter turn it into an acronym and I rolled my eyes so hard cus I was like okay,,,, last time it was "type shit" and everybody discarded it the moment it was useless to them. it is frustrating

EVERY TIME 😭😭😭

[dailykugisaki]

Day 217 | id in alt

She's a county girl, Inumaki. Give her a break.

(Right to left💥)

[bumblingbabooshka]

thoughts on saavik?

I don't know anything about Saavik v_v I really love these two posts about her though! X and X I think about these posts often and whenever I do I feel like I want to draw!

[dhmis-autism]

Red Guy being deluded with his crush on Duck is equally funny, me thinks

Just this feral full on rabies man Duck who commits war crimes and Red’s delusional ass goes “he is so dreamyyyyy ❤️❤️❤️”

HE'S GOT THEEE WORST TASTE AND I WILL STAND BY THAT FOREVER.

Like, Red has got his issues, but you could see why people would like him. Sooo many people have/had a crush at him at one point it's unreal. NO ONE FEELS THAT WAY ABOUT DUCK GDGDF

THERE'S SO MUCH WRONG WITH HIM... FOR GODS SAKE LOOK AT HIM.

look at his PANTS LEG

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Thinking of baby erik from the infinity comics again and my god why was he so fuckin. UGLY. silly baby…….

[firebreathingcatss-blog]

[sorry4charlieart]

i love old men. dr stone has given me brainrot. i love him. (his hair nearly gave me a breakdown it still doesnt look righT dont get me wrong i like the design but @clownsuu why did you do thAT-)

not me making him have a backstory as a heartbreaker in his college days in my fanfic LMAO im losing my shit fr fr. hes so silly babygirllll

time to rant in the tags a little-

[captain-amadeus]

I promise to continue watching stf anyways