#so it just ends up meaning that they have very different politics in practice

[raywritesthings]

I think the best indication for me of why Hawkeye and BJ are too dissimilar to have become friends in any other situation besides both being assigned to the same MASH unit is that, when Hawkeye is upset about their situation as draftee doctors miles from home, he typically rails against the system that put them there and/or anyone that supports that system; when BJ’s upset about the same thing, he tends to just lash out at Hawkeye who is entirely blameless and often just attempting to offer him comfort.

Which makes sense. Hawkeye is a much safer target than the American military-industrial complex. But it also shows the stark difference between how they process emotions, problem-solve, and their values.

[junkissed]

goodnight n go

member — fwb!vernon x reader genre — smut, angst, non-idol au word count — 1.7k synopsis — you keep coming back for more, but every night ends the same. maybe this time things will be different. warnings — mentions of alcohol, drunk sex, car sex, guitarist!vernon, rock band!hhu, no physical descriptions of reader, vernon is afraid of commitment, sad ending for this part but there will be a part 2 with a happy ending !! notes — before you ask, yes this is based on the ariana song lol but also inspired by black eye because it's been stuck in my head the past few days. as always, thanks to @onlymingyus for reading over this for me <3 i'm still on hiatus and requests are closed but i randomly had inspiration to write something for vernon so i hope you enjoy! i am planning on writing more for this story, but i'm back at uni and my time is already quite limited, so i'll try to write more when i can! reblogs, comments, and asks are super appreciated, it means a lot and helps me keep writing so please lmk if you liked it :)

“hey, you wanna get drinks tonight?”

as usual, that’s how it starts.

you probably should have said no. you’d played this game before. you knew exactly what hansol meant when he offered to hang out after band practice, because it was never just “hanging out”.

you don’t even know why you still go to practices anymore. for a long time you’d avoided them; it wasn’t really your style, and you were never interested in being a groupie for their local gigs. your roommate seungcheol always invited you to every practice, and every time you declined with the excuse of homework or other plans, but cheol finally convinced you to come just one time.

at first, it had been because he wanted you to hear a new song they were working on and he’d wanted to know how you liked it before they played it at an upcoming show. but then he’d introduced you to the rest of his bandmates, and after that there was no going back.

you couldn’t help the way your eyes always gravitated towards hansol, who insisted that you call him his real name instead of his stage name that everyone else called him. from the very first practice, you were captivated by him: the way his long fingers seem to dance along the neck of his guitar so effortlessly, the way his voice rasps when he sings, the way your breath catches in your throat when he grips the microphone stand and rolls his head back, lips parted in ecstasy.

he’s addictive, and it’s exactly the reason why you find yourself in the backseat of his car over and over again.

every time, it was easy to pretend that things would be different. you’d walk into the bar together and sit at the table in the back, order a few drinks, chat for a while about nothing. did you like the new stuff we played tonight? yeah, i know cheol is really excited to perform it saturday. you been doing any writing lately? mmm, a little. i’ve been feeling inspired. we could go back to my place and i could show you. except he never does.

hansol wasn’t a bad guy. he always paid for your drinks no matter how many times you offered to pick up the tab, he was polite, he listened to what you had to say. he just didn’t want more than that, and that’s where it all fell apart. you’d screw around for a while, then you’d part ways and wouldn’t speak to each other until next week. you never went to see them play shows, he never texted, you never called, never went on a real date besides meeting in the same bar down the street every thursday night after practice.

he seemed fine with that. you weren’t. and yet every time, you ended up back in his arms.

he groans into your mouth, pushing his hips into you and pinning you harder against the faded leather seats of his old honda. his lips are sloppy but eager, messily pressing his mouth into yours as his fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck. you can taste the beer and smoke on his breath, but for some reason it doesn’t bother you. maybe you’re used to it, or maybe it’s just because it’s him. you don’t want to know which reason is the truth.

he kisses you until you’re dizzy, and you can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or from the thrill of kissing him once again. it’s a high you’re convinced you’ll never get tired of, although you’re not quite sure yet if it’s one that he will.

hansol always lets you set the pace, but tonight he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. both of your shirts met the floor of his car what seems like hours ago, leaving you in just your pants as he makes out with you as if it’s the first and last time he’ll get that chance. his fingers breeze over your waist the same way they breeze over his guitar strings when he plays: careful yet greedy, each touch intentional yet impulsive as he grips your waist.

he drags his fingers higher and it sends a shiver down your spine, arching your hips up against him and rolling your head back against the seat’s headrest. if there’s only one upside to this relationship, it’s that he’s good at this. really good. if he weren’t, then you wouldn’t have spent so many nights letting him fuck you in the parking lot of your shitty local bar. it does something for your confidence knowing that he must feel the same about you, or else he wouldn’t keep inviting you out. at the very least, this arrangement is mutual, even if you wish it wasn’t.

his hips rock against your crotch again, and even through both of your clothes you can feel how hard he is. your mind is clouded, everything’s a haze, and all you can think about is how badly you want him. the warmth of his skin, the gentle scratch of his nails on the back of your neck, his long eyelashes that flutter against your cheek as he kisses you.

you feel your hands slide haphazardly down his bare chest, fumbling over his hips as you tug on the waistband of his jeans. none of it feels graceful, not like the way he handles his music. it’s sloppy, desperate, clumsy, and it’s everything you need right now.

he manages to lean back from you enough to undo his pants and push them down to his knees, but his mouth is back on yours in an instant. somehow you end up on your back across the seats, gazing up at him with slack lips as his thin silver chain dangles over your face. you might not remember a lot of what happens on these nights when you’re with him, but you’ll always remember this moment. him hovering above you with heavily lidded eyes, biting his lip and cursing as he pushes into you, is etched into your mind in a way you simultaneously love and hate. love because it feels so good, hate because it never lasts.

the rest of those nights never stands out in your memory. you remember feeling good, you remember trembling in his arms and gasping and moaning and crying in pleasure, but the images are too fuzzy to make out. you don’t really need to reflect on them anyway; you know he’ll just bring you out next week and do it all over again.

hansol kisses you once more after you’re both finally spent, but the kisses afterwards are always different. more… hesitant, more uncertain. none of the passion and desperation that you’ve come to crave from him. not what you really want.

“i can drive you home,” he offers once he’s finished cleaning you up. for once you think he might genuinely mean it, but you can never be sure enough to take that chance. you want him to drive you home. god, you want him to so bad. to have him come over with you and stay the night, stay another night and another until your apartment isn’t just yours anymore, that’s what you’ve wanted all this time. and it’s what you’ll never have.

“i’ll call an uber,” you answer.

“i’ll wait with you, then.”

the silence that settles over his car is heavy as you climb back into the front passenger seat. you want to tell him to get in the uber with you, stay more than just a couple hours with you in the furthest back corner of the bar parking lot that’s too far to be illuminated by streetlights. you want to argue that he’s too drunk even to drive himself, that he needs to come home with you and sleep it off together in the comfort of your bed, but you know it’s not true and it won’t work. this is a conversation you’ve had many times before. every night you’ve spent with him blurs into the next, always the same. 

sometimes you want to laugh at how naive you are, for thinking he’d eventually come to his senses and realize there’s more to you than a good lay before a gig. sometimes you want to grab him and shake him by the shoulders and tell him to grow the fuck up, give him an ultimatum and make him tell you what he wants from you or else put an end to it all. sometimes you just want to cry, to mourn your wasted time when you’re fully aware it’s never going to lead to something more, no matter how badly you want it and how hard you try.

no matter how many times you get your hopes up, no matter how many times you pray and beg and plead with god and the universe and every other higher power to get him to realize this can’t keep going on the way it is forever, nothing ever changes. you’re never going to stop running to him when he calls, and he’s never going to stop calling.

finally another car pulls into the lot, and you manage to pull yourself out of his car. you hear your name behind you and you stumble, swaying on your feet as he rolls down his window.

maybe this time will be different.

he says his usual goodbyes and goodnights, flashing you a loose grin and a wave as his engine sputters to life, and he asks if you’re planning on coming to practice next week. 

and you find yourself nodding.

you’re left standing there, your head and your heart pounding, watching his headlights fade as he drives away, until you’ve stood there for so long that your ride starts honking and calling for you to get in the car so you can leave.

maybe next time will be different.

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment or an ask :) it shows me this is something people want to see more of, and knowing people like this makes me want to write more of it! thanks for reading!!

if you want to be notified when i post a new fic, you can join my taglist here!

taglist — located in the replies

[heritageposts]

[...] More specifically, the cycle of violence in The Last of Us Part II appears to be largely modeled after the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I suspect that some players, if they consciously clock the parallels at all, will think The Last of Us Part II is taking a balanced and fair perspective on that conflict, humanizing and exposing flaws in both sides of its in-game analogues. But as someone who grew up in Israel, I recognized a familiar, firmly Israeli way of seeing and explaining the conflict which tries to appear evenhanded and even enlightened, but in practice marginalizes Palestinian experience in a manner that perpetuates a horrific status quo. The game's co-director and co-writer Neil Druckmann, an Israeli who was born and raised in the [occupied] West Bank before his family moved to the U.S., told the Washington Post that the game's themes of revenge can be traced back to the 2000 killing of two Israeli soldiers by a mob in Ramallah. Some of the gruesome details of the incident were captured on video, which Druckmann viewed. In his interview, he recounted the anger and desire for vengeance he felt when he saw the video—and how he later reconsidered and regretted those impulses, saying they made him feel “gross and guilty.” But it gave him the kernel of a story. “I landed on this emotional idea of, can we, over the course of the game, make you feel this intense hate that is universal in the same way that unconditional love is universal?” Druckmann told the Post. “This hate that people feel has the same kind of universality. You hate someone so much that you want them to suffer in the way they’ve made someone you love suffer.” Druckmann drew parallels between The Last of Us and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict again on the official The Last of Us podcast. When discussing the first time Joel kills another man to protect his daughter and the extraordinary measures people will take to protect the ones they love, Druckmann said he follows "a lot of Israeli politics," and compared the incident to Israel's release of hundreds of Palestinians prisoners in exchange for the captured Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit in 2011. He said that his father thought that the exchange was overall bad for Israel, but that his father would release every prisoner in every prison to free his own son. "That's what this story is about, do the ends justify the means, and it's so much about perspective. If it was to save a strange kid maybe Joel would have made a very different decision, but when it was his tribe, his daughter, there was no question about what he was going to do," Druckmann said.

And continuing, on the security structures featured in the The Last of Us Part II:

Besides the familiar zombie fiction aesthetics of an overgrown and decomposing metropolis, The Last of Us Part II's main setting of Seattle is visually and functionally defined by a series of checkpoints, security walls, and barriers. There are many ways to build and depict structures that separate and keep people out. Just Google "U.S.-Mexico border wall" to see the variety of structures on the southern border of the United States alone. The Last of Us Part II's Seattle doesn't look like any of these. Instead, it looks almost exactly like the tall, precast concrete barriers and watch towers Israel started building through the West Bank in 2000.

Illustrations, from the article:

The first barrier Ellie and Dina encounter when arriving in Seattle / West Bank barrier.

. . . article continues on Vice (July 15 2020)

Backup -> archive.today link /archive.org link

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Oh lord the mafia price and pregnant one!!! Maybe one where she tries to go back to work after they move in? Or literally anything else🙏🏻

This got a bit long haha, but enjoy!

(Part 1 here and part 2 here)

You are not in a relationship.

You'd told John, that night after he'd found you in the restaurant, that you were more than happy to have him involved with the baby but that you didn't need him or anyone else. You could do it all on your own, if you needed to.

And he'd agreed with you. Or, at least, he'd told you he agreed. You start to notice, though, that things tended to go his way in the end, so subtly, you barely noticed at first.

The first time you'd taken him to a prenatal appointment, at the free clinic near your apartment, he'd sat with a muscle jumping in his jaw for the entire, very long, wait.

A week later he'd picked you up unexpectedly after a breakfast shift and, under the pretence of going for lunch, driven you to shiny high-rise office building.

"No harm in getting a second opinion, love," he'd assured you as he ushered you into the elevator and pushed the button for "Dr Gail Brady, OB/GYN."

You'd gone along with that one, on the basis that it was better for the baby, and you'd reluctantly let John pay, not even wanting to think what an hour of time with Dr Brady would cost.

There are some things you won't compromise on, of course, but he finds ways around those too. You'd refused to let him move you out of your apartment, for one. He hadn't fought you on it but you weren't stupid—you'd noticed a constant flow of men parked across the street as you came and went and you were sure John had put them there to keep an eye on you. And you had given in and let him change your locks, in the end.

Your latest "discussion" had been about your job. Or rather, your jobs. John had almost had a conniption when he'd found out tht your job at the diner was only part-time—the rest of the time, you waitress at a different, more high-end restaurant across town.

"I need to save as much as I can now, before the baby comes," you'd insisted.

"You don't need either of 'em, never mind two," John had told you, raking his hands through his hair, at which point you'd given up on the conversation. It became a point of contention, one you both tiptoed around, neither one of you willing to admit defeat.

So when your alarm goes off, at stupid o'clock in the morning, the answering groan doesn't come from your lips but from behind you.

And, okay, maybe someone who isnt your boyfriend shouldn't spend so many nights in your bed, but you have to allow yourself some indulgences.

John automatically pulls you back into his chest before you can attempt to get up, practically rolling on top of you, though he's careful not to put much of his weight on you.

"John, I have to get to work, I'm on breakfasts," you complain but he just grumbles into your neck.

"Call in sick."

"I can't," you try to tell him, but by then his hands have drifted down your, toying with the string of your sleep shorts.

"Got a spare 10 minutes then?" he asks and you feel him then, starting to grind into your back, and you give in with a moan just as his hand dips below your waistband.

You're late to work that day and you scowl at John in the car (he never lets you take the train anymore), but he just keeps a hand on your thigh, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

And, over the next few weeks, if you notice a sudden new influx of customers, who always ask to sit in your section, are polite, and tip very generously, well that's just good timing. The new uptick in your income means you can quit your extra gig after a while and even cut down your hours in your main job.

Of course, John is adamant he has no idea who any of these people are, no clue where your new, generous benefactors have come from.

These days, he just turns off your alarm every morning with a glint in his eye, as he tells you he has better ways for you to use your time.

[natsukishinomiyaswife]

⋆ 𝓥𝓲𝓵 𝓢𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓮𝓷𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓽: 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓜𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓜𝓮 𝓢𝓸 𝓗𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂 ⋆

Please note: This is a repost from my old blog, @sugarcookiesheep!

⋆ Being a celebrity was never easy. The public always having their eye on you, watching your every move. Having to make sure you look perfect, sound perfect, act perfect, all to maintain the image you have created. It can be frustrating, exhausting even, the lengths you have to go through for your career. Though the hardest part for Vil was having to be away from you, his love, his darling.

⋆ He never expected to fall in love until he met you, always focusing on his career. Now when he kisses someone, he longs for it to be you, picturing you as he closes his eyes. When he says sweet words to his costar, he imagines he’s saying them to you, unable to hold back his emotions as he gazes into their eyes, saying he loves them. With you, he was no longer Vil Schoenheit, famous actor. He was just Vil, the dedicated, hardworking man you fell in love with.

⋆ There was no need for masks, for polite words or fake smiles. You knew him for who he was, and loved him for who he was, not for his status or fame. With you he felt seen, he felt heard. The times when he’s had to train for a role, practicing to perfect what he needed to do, you’d be there, recognizing the effort he put in. Even when no one else would, and he felt frustrated and defeated, a simple text from you would make everything worth it.

⋆ Due to his work, there were times where he had to be away, traveling to star in a film or go to a photo shoot. During those times you would stay in contact however you could, through texts or phone calls. He would be sitting in his chair, getting his make up done when his phone goes off, a small smile coming to his face as he sees it’s you. Though he doesn’t have much time to respond, your messages brighten his day, giving him motivation. Knowing that one day you’ll see the film he’s in, or the photo he’s getting taken, makes him want to do the very best he can. He wants your eyes only on him, your attention focused on him and him alone.

⋆ He can’t help but feel proud in those moments, seeing you unable to take your eyes away from the screen. How you would turn to him, telling him in amazement how well he did, how much you loved his performance. Noting all the work he put in for the role, acknowledging his time and dedication. There was no one he wanted to impress more than you, no matter how long you’ve been together.

⋆ There were times when he would miss your presence more than usual, looking at pictures of the two of you fondly. During these times he would feel conflicted, wishing to hear your voice but not wanting to disturb you, a time difference separating you now. In a moment of weakness he would give in, his heart skipping a beat as you answered, sounding like you just woke up. He would apologize for waking you, tempted to hang up. You would reassure him, making yourself more comfortable in your bed as you talked. He told you about his day, how his work was going, how much longer he’d be away. You would listen, humming in acknowledgement as you tried your best to stay awake.

⋆ “You make me so happy, Vil” you mumble sleepily, unaware of your words. The line goes silent, making you think he had hung up. On the other end Vil stared at his phone, quiet as hidden insecurities took hold. With his career and fame you didn’t necessarily have a “normal” relationship, Vil keeping it a secret from the public. He wanted to protect you, to keep you safe, to keep you to himself. Were you truly happy with that? With him being away for long periods of time, unable to show you off as you deserved?

⋆ “…do you mean it?” he whispers, desperately wanting to take it back as soon as it spilled out. It took a moment before you responded, sounding more awake this time,

“There is no one I would want to be with but you, Vil. No one could ever make me as happy as you have.”

⋆ He shuts his eyes, taking a shaky breath at your words. You knew him so well, his doubts, his insecurities. How could he ever be with anyone but you, fall for anyone but you. You’ve ruined him, utterly and completely.

“There is no such thing as a happy ending if it doesn’t include you, my love. So stay with me, please. That’s all I ask.” ♡

Originally posted: February 26th, 2024

𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾! ♡

[afsosville]

You know what would've been nice? Shen Jiu ending up on a different peak that's actually good for him. Maybe Qian Cao, or the beast taming peak could've been hella therapeutic. Or the alcohol/brewery peak to drown away all his sorrows. But what if he stayed fucked up, in a way that's actually good and productive for society? Yeah, I wanna toss him over to Yin Hui and let him run wild! I've seen many iterations of Yin Hui, the fanon peak for espionage and poisons in fanfics. By extension, Yin Hui is also covertly the assassination peak, and I wish this peak got more attention around here tbh. Why do I think this peak is the most well suited for Shen Jiu? BECAUSE ASSASSINS. Duh.

So here comes a baby demonic cultivator Shen Jiu and the Yin Hui peak lord immediately wants him. Shen Jiu would be more readily accepted by his peak martial siblings, and no one would bat an eye at Shen Jiu, his standoffish personality or shady past. A lot of Yin Hui disciples are from questionable backgrounds since the Yin Hui peak lord naturally has to be very particular about selecting their disciples. Yin Hui was established to protect the sect and its people by any means necessary. Sure, the rest of the sect may fight against the supernatural, demons, and the undead, but Yin Hui fights an even greater monster: people.

The Yin Hui peak lord manipulated things so that the first impression the rest of the sect has about Shen Jiu is 'that new badass Yin Hui disciple that killed the criminal Wu Yanzi and saved the future sect leader!' (Seeing as Wu Yanzi would be the very sort of ppl they assassinate, he's already getting goated on Yin Hui too.) So Shen Jiu is known as that new prodigious disciple from Yin Hui and is getting some goddamn respect! And just because of his association with his peak, fewer people are inclined to question his background and whatnot since there's an understanding that the identity of the YH disciples needs to be heavily guarded. The Yin Hui peak lord finds out about the Qiu's soon enough, and they erase any and all traces leading back to Shen Jiu. Even framing it in a way that makes it look like WY did the massacre. Any credibility Qiu Haitang could've had for Shen Jiu's murder accusations is thrown out the window. (Ain’t no way in hell the Yin Hui peak lord is going to name SJ that stupid trauma inducing name like a certain Qing Jing peak lord, that's for sure.)

I'm pulling in elements from MDZS over here. In my version of Yin Hui, they have disciples who practice demonic cultivation, but they make sure it's in a safer way that won't hurt them. There's a surprising number of disciples who have damaged cultivation and chose to cultivate the ghost path. The previous generations of Yin Hui peak lords have created Wei Wuxian's inventions in this AU, and is used by the rest of the peak, like the compass of ill winds, paper metamorphosis, the spirit attraction flag, and empathy. I lowkey want a Wei Wuxian that's native to SV to be the Yin Hui peak lord, now that I think about it. He's good with his kiddos and would be an awesome shizun. And ofc, Shen Jiu is a reflection of his environment, so he's certainly making an example out of Wei Wuxian, one of the only positive influences in his life.

Shen Jiu still has his violent tendencies, so nothing has changed about that, but he learns to take that pent-up energy out on missions instead. And he does them well. It even gives him an edge. Everyone else thinks he's just reallyyy good at his job, as expected of the talented head disciple of Yin Hui!!

He really does try his best to not be an ass (bc he gets the love he deserves on Yin Hui) and ends up venting in a different way (coz he knows better than to take it out on people who don’t deserve it.) His shizun really gave him the free reign to kill sl@ve trad3rs, human tr@ffick3rs, r-ists, and other scum whenever he wanted, in the name of stress relief lol. If killing a particular person becomes politically complicated, like the Old Palace Bastard, then you best believe he's going to scheme like the little schemer he is. He's going to Nie Huaisang the OPM.

Since Shen Jiu is not salty about his fucked up cultivation, and his martial siblings respect him, they get along just fine. His cultivation is some parts similar to Wei Wuxian's: Shen Jiu is a ghost cultivator influenced by music. Sure, he may not be that great of a spiritual cultivator, so what? He's pulling up like the Yiling Patriarch with his demonic cultivation and a haunted guqin of his own.

And guess what? Shen Jiu enjoys teaching. He's training miniature assassins, spies, and the art of demonic cultivation, so forgive him if he's more than a little enthusiastic about it. I imagine that he's exactly like Shifu from kung fu panda when it comes to teaching. Still extremely harsh and strict when training, but outside of actually teaching, he's an attentive and caring shizun. And yes, he completely does act like a father figure who is proud of his murder babies, and ends up being called A-Ba so much that all of Cang Qiong thinks he's officially adopted every single one of his disciples. (After being saved by SJ on a mission, NYY persistently begs SJ to take her in even though he desperately thinks Yin Hui isn't a good fit for her. And then, after being under him for a while, she's completed her first mission successfully, has smn else's blood on her face, and is smiling brightly. 

Ning Yingying: "I completed my mission shizun! Are you proud of me?"

Shen Jiu: "..."

Some other peaklord: "Haha like father like daughter! She's definitely your girl alright!"

Shen Jiu: "...!?!" )

Yue Qingyuan is conerneth about his Xiao Jiu, but as long as he's happy, who cares. Shen Jiu has a better relationship with the other peak lords, so when asked about why he visits brothels, he straight up tells them that it's the best place to gather information in the dark. He doesn't have that mentality of "why explain myself when no ones finna believe me anyway" He actually trusts them and is more honest with time. Shen Jiu does come clean about killing the Qiu's at some point, and the peak lords are all like-

"I didn't hear shit"

"See, I'm blind in my left eye, and 75% blind in my right-"

"Completely understandable, Shen shidi!"

They don't even ask why he did it and just assume he had a valid reason, and he absolutely fucking did.

Oh, Shen Jiu gets accused of playing dirty? Liu Qingge, he literally kills ppl and makes poison as a daytime fucking job ofc he's gonna play dirty! Shen Jiu tried killing you that one time on the well mission? Bro you good? The fact that you think he tried to kill you and failed?? You just insulted an entire peak of disciples and their ancestors. You would've been dead before you could even think of sensing their killing intent if it were true. And there was a witness too, doofus. Be fucking for real. Nahh coz there definitely would be more people who are taking Shen Jiu's side whenever the two of them fight.

Shen Jiu uses a shit ton of versatile weapons because most of his fighting and cultivation prowess comes from his wits and adapting to fighting with different styles/methods. He is kinda similar to Xie Lian bc both of them lack spiritual energy/qi (damaged spirit roots in Shen Jiu's case), but that does not mean they are weaker. It just means they learned to train their body and minds instead of relying on cultivation/qi. He has a massive arsenal of weapons along with the demonic cultivation. (Airport security would hate him)

Yin Hui has got to be my favorite fanon peak, and Yin Hui! Shen Jiu plauges so many of my waking thoughts, I can't stop-

I can add elements from my other hyperfixation into this AU, the Avatar Chronicles. Which are the written books from ATLA. The criminal organization Kyoshi joined, the Daofei, for example, could be a good plot point. Or the Platinum Affair from the Yangchen books. If you don’t know what the Avatar Chronicles are, just ignore this last part lol.

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

an ocean in a world full of puddles ◦ Chapter 1

-After being brushed off by Chan once again, you are stuck waiting in the lounge room for him to arrive. What are you going to do when it isn't Chan that arrives, but instead Felix? And it feels like you've known him for years."

words ◦ 5k

genre ◦ series, angst, fluff, the beginning of a wild ride

warnings ◦ chan is painted in sort of a negative light because he is always busy, felix is sort of shy around you at first, but lowkey flirty near the end as he starts to get more comfertable, theres a lot of fucks in this, i keep calling yall im dumb im sorry, fem!reader, felix calls her a lady once,

a/n ◦ The strikeouts are intentional to show how chaotic the reader's mind is and how she feels like her emotions are so invalid she has to just erase them away. I'm sorry if this isn't what you expected. I found myself struggling to describe certain aspects of this and was quite disappointed by the outcome (but please do not let this deter you. If anything, read it and let me know what you think/what I can change. Plus, I know the other parts are going to be way better than this).

also i listened to heather while writing this up until the phone number bit... then i listened to slow down by chase atlantic...do with that information as you will

A VERY VERY SPECAIL THANK YOU TO THESE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE that helped me through the different struggles and stages in this fic I thank most of my unnecessary errors being fixed because of them @yongbun, @jeonginsleftcheek, @luvtak

masterlist ◦ a loved lived in between the stars and the sea

The human condition: a soul filled with passion, but not a mouth to spill it into.

It was ironic really. 

Your soul was filled with passion, but you had a mouth to spill it into.

That mouth just didn't want your passion- 

Your fervor-

Your ardor-

Romance practically coursed through your veins, your blood cells shaped like the hearts you saw the world through. 

Chan was filled with passion.

Chan was filled with ardor.

Chan was filled with romance.

But Chan didn't want poetry-

Chan spilled too much soul into songs. 

Songs that made him too busy for you.

The two of you saw the same goal, but spoke different languages- 

Your love was often- 

Lost in translation. 

You shout, frustration poking in the pit of your stomach painting the car red you dig the pencil into the words scratching them out so hard you cut holes in the page that sounded so stupid

all of this was so stupid

your feelings-

stupid

your issues-

stupid

the thought that Chan was anything other than perfect-

stupid

Why couldn't you just be content with everything you have? So many girls would pay to be in your place, tripping over each other just to be in his presence, and yet, what, you're unhappy because you spoke different languages? 

What the hell does that even mean?

You were trapped inside an inescapable box, the sharp edges of your unrealistic expectations like shackles that cut into your skin, bleeding with a passion only ever found in fiction. 

Why were you always stuck?

stuck in the stars, stuck in the sea-

stuck in this stupid line of stupid traffic, waiting for a stupid meal that Chan probably will be too busy to eat with you, writing some stupid piece of poetry that was about as poetic as the rotting innards of unidentified roadkill.

stupid

stupid

stupid

“Finally,” you mumble as the car in front of you inches up, allowing you access to the next window. You politely bow, grab the trays from the worker’s hand, and drive off.

Your life quickly turned from the hope of a story to the reality of a routine. The road, the walls, the button your finger grazes as the doors to the elevator slam shut, the number of steps it takes to get to his room, the feel of cold metal underneath your palm as you open the door, the same hunch of his shoulders, the same glow of his laptop, the same empty look in his eyes.

the same

the same

the same

Most of your relationship is spent looking at him like this.

"Hey channie," you say, setting the food down on the empty spot beside his keyboard.

"Hi, love." His voice is nothing more than the ghost of a mumble, blending with the click and shift of his mouse, moving different blurs and blobs of color on the screen. Chan tended to get tunnel vision when he was working, even if that meant you were left stranded in the shadows of his forgotten responsibilities. 

"I um brought you dinner." you clear your throat, pointing lamely at the boxes beside him like he couldn't clearly see they were there. He perks up, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours. 

"Oh baby, thank you." The tension in his shoulders melts. "I'm sorry, you know how busy I am sometimes; right now it feels like I'm drowning in work," he chuckles, absentmindedly shifting in his chair.

you're always busy

You push a smile through the tangled ball of suppressed emotions climbing up your throat.

"I know you're busy, but do you think I could eat dinner with you today...please?" Your stomach twists in painful knots. It was pathetic really, the way you begged for attention like a needy dog more than a doting girlfriend, but you were desperate, scrambling to fan a flickering flame that felt long sputtered out. 

stop

You knew what you were getting into when he asked you out—the stress, the anxiety, the workload, the long hours. Chan was always upfront and honest about the struggles of being an idols girlfriend, never wanting to veil your eyes from the harsh sting of realities rays.

then why does it still feel like your soul is burning?

He flicks his gaze to the screen, guilt gnawing at his core. There was so much to do in the day and just never enough time to do it. "I don't know, I don't really have a lot of time right now..." He mumbles, picking at the seam on his shorts apologetically, "Do you think you could wait about 20 minutes? I'm kind of on a roll here."

When your relationship was first blooming, your spirit would often shatter with those words, but pain only holds power when it isn't welcome, and as long as you are loved by him, you will accept the feeling with open arms. 

"I'm going to go sit in the lounge room then." You try to keep the disappointment out of your tone, but it leaks through the cracks echoing in your chest, radiating in palpable waves. You clench your jaw, picking up your tray of food.

does he not care?

"Okay," The squeak of his chair indifferently swiveling back to its previous place echoes in your ears. Louder than anything you've ever heard. 

he didn't even kiss you

1 hour 45 minutes and 13 seconds

That's how long you have been waiting in the lounge room for Chan to walk in the door.

that is how long you've been wallowing in a sad pathetic heap staring at your uneating supper

1 hour 45 minutes and 15 seconds now

16 seconds

17 seconds

You spin around when you hear the door creak open, anticipation fluttering in your stomach, only to plummet when you see Felix standing in the entrance, too busy shoveling a fork full of noodles in his mouth to notice your presence.

Felix was a familiar face, mostly associated with sweet smiles and bouncing eyes; you have only ever talked to him on a handful of occasions, possessing the basic relationship of hellos in the hallways and smiles when you enter the same room, but besides the couple times where he offered you some of his freshly baked brownies or told you which room Chan was in, you haven't actually had a conversation with the boy.

You groan, dramatically deflating in your seat.

Of course, it wasn't chan

Felix yelps, his heart leaping in his chest, only to wrap around his bones, doing trapeze tricks inside his ribs when he lays eyes on you—why, out of all the days he could have seen you, it was on the one day he was least ready, and the way your whole body slumps like a deflated balloon, it becomes crystal clear you weren't exactly jumping up and down to see him either.

Does Cupid have a vendetta against him or something?

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know anybody was in here," he stutters awkwardly, running his fingers through his hair like he was trying to fix it without a mirror. Disappointment quickly brews into guilt watching the way his eyes shift, hurt drooping his shoulders down. 

"No, I'm sorry, it's not like that; I just thought—" You falter. What the hell did you think? Sorry, but I thought you were my boyfriend who left me here all by myself, and like usual, my stupid, hopeful heart really believed this time was going to be different. "You were someone different." You sink into the couch, a dull ache spiderwebbing through the chasms in your chest.

"Let me guess." His eyes crinkle with sympathy. "Chan."

You glance down at your ribs—some silly part of you really believed your shirt had blossomed with the crimson stain of your sorrows.

"How could you guess?" you mutter sarcastically, picking at the skin of your nails. Why did it seem like everybody else got the memo that if you were to search the thesaurus, your name would be the first word under forgotten?

"Well, really, it was a toss-up between you being with him for the past 5 years and the fact that he has been glued to his computer for the past 5 hours," he grins. "Pick your poison."

Your gaze drifts back to the couch that sits idly in front of you, lonely in the middle of the room, out of place, without the implant of another person's body.

"W-Well," he starts, shifting his bowl in his hands. "Do you... I don't know, want some company...maybe."

He's so awkward, so unsure, like a baby deer wobbling on unfamiliar legs, struggling to stay upright. You tilt your head, your lips pulling up into an adoring grin; you never really noticed it before, but he was sort of shy. You had a terrible tendency to take your time observing people unintentionally, causing discomfort to the victims of your restless brain—assessing in silence.

His ears burn when your eyes gloss over with an opaque glaze. His heart drops only for those silly little butterflies that always appear when you are around to swarm their wings around the lump growing in his throat.

Well, that was a bust.

Why couldn't he just be normal around you?

"O-Or not, that's fine too. I-I get it; you're probably l-like waiting for Chan or whatever. I-I can go get him if you would like." He jerks his thumb behind him, forgetting he was holding something for a second, stumbling to catch it right before it falls. You snicker, biting your lips to contain your laughter. His eyes flutter shut, scrunching his nose in embarrassment.

He was cute

Why haven't you talked to him before?

"No, please sit down," you lazily gesture to the couch in front of you. "It's not like Chan's going to be coming down anytime soon."

He sighs, his whole body melting with relief, practically forming into the couch when he shuffles over, adjusting himself to comfortably sit with his legs wide and his head tilted down. He picks up his fork just before whispering, "I'm sorry that he kept you waiting," and stuffing his face. You smile, the sight all sorts of endearing. The amount of food stuffed into his cheeks puffs them out, forcing his mouth into a pout that's smeared with red sauce. For a moment, you almost forget that you're supposed to be groveling, but why would life want to let you live when instead it could remind you constantly how much it sucks?

"I'm used to it." You learn to live with the absence of air when your hope always causes you to suffocate.

"You shouldn't have to be," he murmurs, his hand politely veiling his mouth while he chews. He's staring at his food like his noodles were an impossible labyrinth he's forced to escape, completely oblivious to the cataclysmic sentence he just uttered. Your jaw drops, stomach fluttering with butterflies, butterflies that you could’ve sworn burned out a long time ago. When most of your time is spent in a constant state of apocalypse, you forget the side effects of a romanticism, felt before your soul was littered with the echos of war.

"Oh?"

"Are you not going to eat?" He questions, forehead creased with concern as he gestures to the food that was currently burning a hole in the table. You stare at him stupidly, mouth ever so slightly agape. Did he not notice that there were swarms of zombified insects burrowing their way into your belly, kaleidoscopes charred wings creating panic in your pounding heart?

(cookie interruptions: I was today years old when I found out that a kaleidoscope was the technical term for a swarm of butterflies)

Why was he making you feel so jittery?

"Oh," you blink, giving an imperceptible shake of the head—a weak attempt to gather your disoriented thoughts.

Honestly, you had forgotten it was there.

"I was waiting to eat with Chan..." You mutter through the tufts of wool still stuffed in your head, wrapping your fingers around the tray, but when you pull open its flappy lid, your lips pull into a sneer glaring at the congealed sauce and cold noodles. You weren't surprised that your food had spoiled over the 2 hours you had been waiting, but it didn't make the frustration that bubbled in your gut any less apparent either. "But clearly, that hope was shortlived," you scoff, chucking the useless tray back on the table. 

Felix clears his throat, adjusting himself in his seat. He often found himself tiptoeing on the edge of insanity, always rewriting the words he wanted to say, terrified you had written a line in the sand the waves had washed away.

You were a star with a heart tied to the sea, where he would have more success breaking the bond of the moon than turning the tides of the ocean that suffocated your soul.

So for now, he will coast the cosmos alone, waiting for the day you will finally look his way.

"You can have some of mine... if you want," he whispers, shyly scooting his cup over to you. "It's salmon-flavored; it's really good."

"Are you sure?" you blink, utterly flummoxed.

"Yeah, of course!" You swore you could trace the stories of the sky in the gaps where his freckles glowed.

"Thank you; I promise I won't eat too much," you joke, pulling out your fork. "I don't mind it, really. I can always make more as long as you're eating I'm okay," he grins, sliding his hand out of the way to allow room for yours, grateful for his generosity; you bite back a smile, digging into the hot noodles; a spicy flavor pulled straight from the sea explodes on your tongue as soon as the food meets your lips.

You swear you just tasted heaven's gates.

"Holy shit, this is delicious," you moan, rolling your eyes back in your head.

"I'm glad you like it," he smirks. "It's my special recipe."

"So you do more than bake, huh?" you waggle your brows lightheartedly, though you were sort of impressed by his broad palette of skills. 

"You know that I bake!?" He was still recovering from the shock that you even knew his name—the way he often dissolves into the wall when you enter the room.

"Of course, I know that you bake; I always have to eat at least half of the plate of brownies Chan brings home." You giggle, picking at the noodles, wanting more but feeling guilty for hogging the whole bowl.

"Oh, I'm full," he stretches, rubbing his stomach like a stuffed cartoon character. 

"Are you lying?" Cynism was a side effect of being a creative romanticist—your artistic brain didn't limit itself to only forming one conclusion, while the stories that ended up on paper were solely portrayed as having happy endings—you knew this philosophy was neither sadistic nor realistic, for even if the fictional characters made up of the fluid of your mind betrayed each other, what would a human, evil in its rawest form, do to you?

well that was melodramatic

"You know you're a very skeptical person," he jests, pulling his lips ever so slightly up.

"I'm a hopeless romantic; there's a difference," you state, stuffing your face when you finish studying him down to the very twitch of his right calf muscle.

"Aren't hopeless romantics supposed to be happy-go-lucky all the time? Seeing the world through rose-colored glasses and stuff?"

"You know we are called hopeless for a reason," you snort, unrealistic standards were more of a curse than a blessing.

Scratch that, having unrealistic standards is just a curse

“Being a hopeless romantic is like being an ocean in a world full of puddles.” Your soul speaks like his fingertips have felt its walls a million times before “devastating.”

He stares at you gobsmacked, blinking like you just hit him over the head with a mallet. Your mind kicks into gear, anxious little butterflies flipping on the switch for damage control.

that must have sounded so self-centered

"I-I didn't mean, like, in a cocky way, I'm better than other people. I just meant it's impossible to pour my passion anywhere because everybody else doesn't have room to take it. If anything, I-Im the bad one in this scenario.” You stutter, sporadically shaking your hands, worried that the misconception is going to create a concrete opinion. He quickly waves you off, seeming anything but bothered. 

“An ocean in a world full of puddles that's pretty deep,” he implores, treating the words like age-old wine to be sipped with both time and deference. “You know you should really consider being a poet 'cause that like moved my soul.” Only Lee Felix can make humor sound so honest. 

Why was he so ...amazed

"I like to think I'm a poet." Your cheeks are painted red as you bashfully tilt your head down. 

but right now not so much

“You can't think you're a poet,” he chuckles. “If you ever wanted to read somebody your stuff, I would be happy to help…Maybe it could fix your uncertainty." Something twinkles in his eyes, something nervous yet desperate, something you couldn't quite pinpoint while your stomach was sprinting in circles—the mere thought of showing somebody else your poetry was the equivalent of slicing your heart in half and presenting it to the world on live television.

basically, something that will never happen never ever

"No, no, no, it's nothing like that. I don't really write poetry per se; I just write my..." You trail off.

What do you write?

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he reassures, his warm smile cooling the icy anxiety that crystallized around your core.

Why do you do this to yourself??

Stupid Felix and his stupid power to loosen your lips-

stupid. stupid. stupid.

To be a poet is to be vulnerable; no great art is ever created comfortably. 

Fuck it 

“I write my dreams,” you blurt, peeking out through your clenched eyelids to see if Felix caught the spit of a sentence; clearly, he did the way he lifts his brows thoughtfully. 

“Elaborate”

A man of many annoying questions you see 

“Why,” you groan, sinking into your seat almost comically. 

"Because I want to listen to you," he laughs like whiskey and wine, both husky and rich. You choke, your heart imploding into a million tiny, rose-shaped pieces.

"Nobody wants to listen to me ramble on about hopeless fantasies that will never come true," you sputter, still trying to reshape your rose-shaped shatters into something that resembles an organ. 

"I do."

Oh well, there they go again, forming right back into roses-

He made all of this seem like a complex game of chess, every move of hesitance quickly countered by a block of honesty.

From the moment you could write, you found out that paper was not volatile the way people were, how you could erase a word written but, in time, in life, you cannot erase a sentence said—that philosophy stuck with you, forever rendering you apprehensive to vocalize your feelings.

Maybe it was your soft spot for the stars that made you speak, but either way, when your mouth opened, it felt as though all your past doubts had washed away, and for once, you were free.

"I have always held onto my dreams through the tip of a pen, existing in between the lines of my poetry. But I don't write about deep philosophical pearls of wisdom; I write about love, passion, beauty. I write about coffee and cream, roses and vanilla. I write what I think romance tastes like, how the contrast of the most iconic confessions has been written in the rain, a usually gloomy, grey thing completely transformed through the lenses of love…" You sigh, tilting your head against the back of the cushion in bliss.

"I write the way I want to love, for I know it's the only way to quell my heart's aching urge to live anywhere but reality."

He stares at you eerily still, blinking once, twice, three times."

Why wasn't he saying anything?  

Perhaps you were drunk off Felix's promises, or the cracks Chan created in your chest made you bleed with a passion only ever reserved for your poetry. But either way, you felt naked—exposed under his exploring eyes.

"What?" You croak, picking at the sleeve of your shirt.

Why did everybody act like you were crazy?

Was there something wrong with you?

You are floating in the asteroid belt, a thousand tiny rocks hovering around your head.

"Maybe you're just not looking in the right places." There’s a deep intensity in his eyes, a million roaring waves crashing against each other; you run face-first into a meteor, bouncing around the surfaces of a weightless space.

How many brain-altering revelations could Felix bestow before your brain cracks?

"You know, I haven't even told my friends that," you deflect. It was a dangerous game, diving too deep into your thoughts, and right now, with him—with that statement, danger could quickly bleed into destruction.

"So, I'm not your friend?" Clearly, Felix catches on to the sudden swerve of the conversation, how he eases into it with such grace, jestingly poking your knee.

"This is the first time I've ever had a real conversation with you," you scoff, poking him right back. His jaw drops in faux offense.

"You know, I just gave you my food. I think that deserves an upgrade into friendship territory," he states matter-of-factly.

Two can play at that game-

"I don't have your number; usually friends have each other's number." You place your elbows on your knees. He has been playing a metaphorical game of chess with you this whole time, his pawns moving ever so slightly forward. He forced your hand, the comfortability in your eyes making openings on the board you never meant to create. His rook, his bishop, his queen—they kiss the place right below your king.

You had one more trick up your sleeve-

You were a creative romantic whose moves were nothing less than a story, and you were going to be damned if you let your king be captured.

Now, where's the happy ending in that?

(cookie interruptions… I dont know what this is nor why i am so dramatic but hey what can you do ALSO LISTEN TO SLOW DOWN BY CHASE ATLANTIC I BEGTH OF YOU )

He leans forward, pressing his tongue against his cheek. The fabric of his shirt stretches across the hard ridges of his abs—

No, stop it, bad y/n. 

"Do you want it?" He leans his head ever. So. Slightly. Forward  

"Maybe I do."

"Maybe I'll give it to you," soft, smooth voice- 

you narrow your eyes,

"What will Chan think?"

"It doesn't matter what Chan thinks-"

"Tell that to Chan-"

"Maybe I will." His lips-

"You know, if Chan saw us here right now, he would not be very happy." You suck your teeth.

Check-

He scoffs. Moves his bishop. 

You're right back where you started. 

"You're not his pet."

"Yeah, but I am his girlfriend." Block.

"Those two words are not synonymous," he says. Moves his queen.

Too many openings, too many moves, too many pieces on the board.

Too many outcomes.

Do you even still want to play?

Weren't you the one who started the game?

You bite your cheek, his eyes burning like molten amber, glinting in the overhead lights.

Should you have really asked for his number?

What would Chan think if he saw it in your phone?

Who were you kidding? He would actually have enough time to look at your phone.

"You know," he leans back, extending his arms to drape across the couch, pushing his thighs ever so slightly apart. Gone is the man with smiles like sugar; determination wisps across his face like spits of fire, overtaking every feature."If I give you my number, I'm going to have to help you unlearn your engraved cynicism." He's closing in on you, moving all his pawns in one fair swoop. You're surrounded, swarmed.

"You can't ungrave something it's scientifically impossible." You shift your king. One last dying breath-

Before- 

"I can try."

Checkmate

And like every person of honor does when they have nobly lost a battle they created- 

You run away. 

“I have to admit, as much as I loved this conversation, I really should be going,” you say, picking up your tray of forgotten food to chuck in the trash, leaving Felix's bowl on the table. He jumps up, scrambling to pick up his mess while you dart out the door, tossing the tray in the can just outside the room.

“Wait,” he gasps, stumbling to catch up with your speed. Your finger, out of habit, moves to press the button to the elevator doors—that is, before he catches it, his warm hand wraps around your wrist.

“Now, what gentleman would I be making a lady get her own door?” He bellows, voice deep and low, a sound echoing through his chest as the fabric of his shirt kisses your back. He’s so close, so close, so—

How long has it been since you've been touched? 

Heat. You're drenched in it, painted in it, enveloped in it.

His hand grazes your skin as he slides up your wrist, his finger extending to press the button.

Your breath hitches.

Body shutters. 

Every atom erupting in flames. 

The elevator doors slam open-

Your brain clicks back into place-

“Will I be seeing you again?” Your hot, so hot. He’s hot, so hot. Breath—it tickles your ear. Disoriented, so disoriented.

“I still don't have your number,” you manage to utter, slipping into the doors. His face will be the final thing you see as you descend down the shaft, lifelessly walking to your car where you will go home, go to sleep, and start your routine all over again. He smirks, flicking his eyes to your pants.

“Yes, you do.”

I do? 

The doors inch shut, and a small, teeny-tiny part of you wants to wrench them open, pull him in, force him into the stanzas of your story. You are tired—tired of waiting for your life to begin, tired of repeating the same vicious cycle.

But that wasn't you talking- 

That was the hopeless part of your personality,

The unrealistic-

The fiction- 

Life wasn't a game and reality wasn't a book. 

You had a good thing going wth Chris and you were going to be damned to ruin it just because of one fun conversation.

You reach one finger into the back pocket, feeling around for what Felix could have been talking about.

There's no way.

Your skin brushes across a smooth surface—something that definitely wasn’t there before.

There's no fucking way.

You pull it out.

It's pink and folded and definitely written on. You unfold it.

XXX-XXX-XXXX. Just in case you ever need an editor or a friend.

Oh well, fuck the game. He just flipped over the whole damn chessboard.

Read Chapter 2 here

[soc69]

Erasermic family general hcs:

- when shinsou has bad dreams or intrusive memories of his time in the system it’s hizashi he goes to, not shouta, because even though hizashi was only in the system a short while he understands what Hitoshi went through and how it feels to be abandoned and not know what to do with all the emotions that comes with it.

- eri used to be terrified on present mic. Not of Yamada hizashi, the sweet guy who signs as he talks and makes her chamomile tea when she can’t sleep, but of present mic who looks like a huge flightless bird and squaks weird slang all the time. The fear was fixed when she saw hizashi undergoing the transformation process one day.

- hizashi and shinsou have developed their own ‘sign slang’. As the ones who’ve used it most throughout their lives and with someone new to try it out with they started making their own signs for internet catch phrases and swear words and it pisses Aizawa off so much that he’s left out of the loop. This, in turn, only further encourages shinsou and hizashi to the point where half the time they’re not even making sense to each other but just gesturing randomly whenever shoutas around to piss him off.

- I’m pretty sure it’s canon that hizashi has, like, no nostrils (or maybe really really small ones) on account of his quirk as stoping airflow through your nose means you can make louder vocalisations, so, although everyone thinks mic would be the only one who can cook between him and Aizawa, the two of the basically function as two halves of the same idiot in the kitchen. Since your sense of smell makes up about 70% of your taste buds, despite hizashi enjoying cooking and be able to follow a recipe, without shouta there to taste test, hizashi’s cooking becomes absolutely repulsive and he has no idea. Shouta on the other hand, is perfectly capable of cooking but just refuses to learn because he thinks the system they have worked out now is perfectly functional.

- the first time hizashi is left to cook for Hitoshi alone during one of his early visits, he suffers such a culinary disaster since shouta wasn’t there to supervise. Mic makes sure to tell Hitoshi to tell him if it’s nice or not but the kid is far too polite for that and struggles through 2/3 of the meal that is somehow both sour and salty while also being so fucking spicy that Hitoshi thinks his ears are bleeding before Aizawa comes home and picks something off hizashis plate and immediately tells mic it’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever made and throwing out the entire meal. Hitoshi is absolutely flabbergasted, tears streaming, nose running, throat retching, as yamada and Aizawa both ask him why the fuck he didn’t say something.

- mic likes pretty much every type of music and has sampled practically every genre ever made and since eri has never had the chance to develop her own taste, he takes her on the axact same journey of self discovery. Eri ends up very similar to mic in that she likes a lot of different things but her absolute favourite genre ends up being ‘kawaii metal’ which mic and Hitoshi both find hilarious and let her play it all the time which Aizawa (who only ever listens to brown noise) absolutely fucking hates.

- Aizawa can’t drive. Like at all. He never learnt, never even took any lessons, never had any interest in it. Mic is older than him by a few months and got his lisence super quick and after that Aizawa decided he would never need to learn because he would always have hizashi to chauffeur him around.

- mic doesn’t get angry much so everyone thinks shouta is the scary one but the more you get to know Aizawa the more of a softy he becomes. Mic, on the other hand, is fucking terrifying when you piss him off. Hitoshi and eri have only ever seen it once when some bitch from Hitoshi’s old home ran into them and got mouthy. He’s the quiet anger type that just just radiates insane unpresidented rage and Aizawa finds it incredibly sexy.

- eri is the kind of kid who collects bugs from the garden and spends hours watching them crawl over her hands in absolute amazement because she’s never seen so many of them before. As we all know, mic is terrified of bugs, but eri did not know this until she invited all her little creepy crawly friends into the house for move night. Cue them all cuddled up on the couch one day when mic feels something crawling over his legs. At first he thinks it’s Aizawa as his legs draped over his lap and tells him to cut it out and Aizawa is like ‘huh?’, looks down, and sees the fattest, juiciest cockroach ever on yamadas leg. Aizawa, who also doesn’t really like bugs all that much, is like “zashi, do not fucking move” and eri catches on, turns around and is like “oh! Patrick is here” which makes mic finally notice and release the most deafening scream ever and jumps five ft into the air which knocks a sleeping Hitoshi to the floor who wakes up face to face with a massive fucking spider and joins yamada in the screaming match while Aizawa is using his quirk on mic so none of them go deaf while climbing the furniture to avoid all the bugs and screaming for everyone to calm down in an uncharacteristically high voice while eri just sits on the floor amongst the chaos like “I just wanted you guys to meet my friends”. The house gets fumigated after that.

[astolfofo]

I lowkey kinda feel like writing smth for dr ratio but take this idea for now:

Revisited the 36 questions musical (music in it is so banger my god). Imagine you're one of dr. ratio's old classmates. An academic rival if you will. You part ways with him after high school. You could not imagine going to a university with him. You pity the poor students that do.

But he does come back into your life. You've seen him occasionally at your job. YOu do your best to ignore him, treat him like you would with any other colleague that you might have known. At an arm's length. You're not friends with any of them. You certainty would not treat him with more kindness than you would with any other person. Suffice to say, although petty, you had never gotten over how he was just always just barely a mark or two above you.

That was until you realized that the distance between you two was so great, that he was now your boss. You found out he was a professor in a university through the grapevine of your coworkers who can't stop swooning over him. You tried to ignore them, focus on your work, but today, they were loudly announcing that he was going to be the manager of your department. Strange, you think to yourself. He had never seemed to have an interest in your line of work. He had always been highly theoretical. You had turn to be highly practical. He was one meant for the sciences, while you could only surmount to doing practical application. You'd have imagined he would be doing things that were beyond what the mundane could comprehend. He shouldn't be here.

But he was.

WHILE being a professor at one of the top universities. Countless accomplishments, probably a wall full of certificates and awards. You had grown not to care about things like that. But it still felt that he was invading the one thing you were good at. Still though, you wouldn't let it bother you. In the worst case, you'd switch companies, maybe move somewhere else and he wouldn't be a problem anymore.

But Dr. Ratio seems to have different ideas. Management under his hand was very different. You were immidieately promoted to the highest rank, below manager. Much to your distaste, you had told him multiple times to promote one of your coworkers. They had much better qualifications for becoming a manager than you did. But alas, your protests always came to deaf ears.

Suddenly you were crushed by work, tons of pressure, and under his scrutiny. He was a big fan of doing big, risky projects. Ones that you'd always be responsible for if you failed. You'd try to politely deny his requests, but he'd insist, threatening that you'd be fired if you didn't pull through.

At one point you had just had enough.

You coldly place your resignation onto his desk. The box of your belongings was balanced between your hand and your knees.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"My resignation. I'm leaving." You say simply. "Don't try to convince me to stay. Working under you is simply not something I am suited for."

He seems uninterested. He raises an eyebrow at you. "Is that so? I was under the impression that you were doing quite well."

You didn't know whether you wanted to laugh or scream in that second. You were sure your hair was going to turn half-white before he picked up a goddamn clue. You suppose passing out three times and looking like you had your eyes punched wasn't a strong enough indicator.

"Ah... well... I'm flattered you think that way, but I really think it's time for me to move on...."

"And your plan after this is...?"

"Oh. Maybe work at someplace else." You lie, "I have a few options I can choose from, I'll probably end up working at one of those."

Dr. Ratio looks at your face, and then looks up and down. You stand there akwardly waiting for his approval to leave. You began counting down seconds. If he wasn't going to let you leave in the next two minutes, you'd walk out the door yourself.

"Why don't we sit down and talk first? Before you leave."

What? "Oh no sir.. it's fine... really..."

"It's been a few years since we've last seen each other and talked, hasn't it? I was wondering when you were going to approach me again. It's just a shame it's in this way."

He turns around and puts the sheet of paper into the shredder. You look back at him wide-eyed, debating on whether you would just walk straight out.

"Why don't you set your things aside? Maybe put them back on your desk? It's not like you'll be leaving soon. Unless you want to retire now?"

You open your mouth preparing to yell every curse word you can at him.

"Save your insults for later. Now tell me why you pretended not to recognize me for the past year I've worked here."

[domoz]

A drabble trade with @doveywovy, with prompts "marriage hunt" and "cultural differences"

The brilliant orange of sunset feels like it takes an eternity to fade into dusk.

The strings of lanterns around the edges of the clearing make tonight's gathering of anxious young hopefuls look more like a festival than it has any right to. If it were only Uchiha out here, it practically would be -- there would be talking and dancing and everyone would be sizing up the others out to hunt tonight. But there’s a group of Senju huddled together on the far side of the clearing across from them, and so the atmosphere is decidedly flat. Both sides keep well apart from each other, separated only by the tiny group of participants from other clans.

"Yeah, there's no way someone's not ending up dead tonight." Izuna informs his brother. Madara groans.

"Repeating how bad of an idea you think this is isn't going to stop it at this point." Madara sighs. "Haven't you already made sure a thousand times that no one out tonight is planning on doing anything stupid?"

Izuna has had this argument with him constantly over the past few months, and he's still loath to admit that his brother has a point. Putting a pause to marriage hunts had been sensible when the village had been founded. Nearly two years in, though, and it's starting to seem like they don't have faith in their own creation to survive the pressures of a time-honored tradition.

So even though this is going to end in disaster, the best thing to do to ensure Konoha's long term survival -- and Izuna finds, these days, that he's begrudgingly in support of that outcome -- is to hold a hunt anyways, and just deal with whatever happens.

That doesn't mean he can't say I-told-you-so afterwards, though.

"Our people, yes, but I can't account for the rest of them. I mean, the Senju all came out without shoes, so it's not like my expectations are very high."

"If I've kept my mouth shut about whatever has your clan lighting fires and singing all hours of the night leading up to this, you can bite your tongue on our shoes." Tobirama’s deep voice cuts in, the man butting into their conversation by appearing from the treeline on the Senju side, where he's surely been working his perfectionist little fingers to the bone over something that's going to be a mess anyways.

Izuna turns to him with a retort like usual, but he finds himself staring open-mouthed instead. He's known roughly where Tobirama has been all day, but he hasn't had eyes on him until right this moment. He's not wearing one of the four outfits Izuna has ever seen him in. No armor, no shinobi blacks or training clothes or that mess of dye the Senju call formal clothes. He's in a wave patterned haori, a pair of hakama that's secured at the ankles, and -- and no shoes.

"What the hell?" Madara sputters out a response before Izuna can -- he's too distracted by the string of bells Tobirama has wrapped around one wrist like the rest of the Senju participants, chest squeezing tight with too many reactions to name. "What are you dressed like that for? You're joining?"

"I don't see why I wouldn't." Tobirama says in that tone he usually takes with Madara that makes it sound like the person he's talking to is very stupid, "I'm eligible, and there are several politically advantageous targets. If I participate I can also keep an eye on anyone who might be planning on causing trouble. It's good optics."

"Good optics?" Izuna says, a little too shrill, "You're the clan heir! Don't you have something arranged already?"

He'd always assumed so -- Izuna himself hasn't exactly been betrothed since before he was born, but the list of acceptable candidates for him to marry has never been very long.

He really shouldn't be surprised when Tobirama shakes his head; he's always known that the Senju don't care about bloodlines. They probably hadn't even had to read through the genealogies of all of their participating clan members beforehand.

"Wh-- you're not seriously joining a hunt for political convenience?" Madara cuts in before Tobirama can say something snarky. "That's cold, even for you, Senju."

Tobraima rolls his eyes, "It’s not like I’m aiming  to get married to someone who hates me. If it comes down to that, I won't hunt anyone at all."

The two of them devolve into bickering, but Izuna is hardly listening. Tobirama is either going to walk out of the woods married, or never allowed to marry at all. The stupid bastard probably even thinks he would prefer that.

…It’s not like Izuna can join and do anything about it -- but that's not true, he only shouldn't. Certainly no one would be able to raise any complaint about the two of them being too closely related and, well -- it's a hunt;  if it succeeds there's not really any challenging it anyways.

Tobirama makes a noise of disgust at whatever it is Madara just said and excuses himself with, "I have more important things to worry about tonight than your empty head."

Luckily, Madara is distracted by chasing after him to try and get the last word in, so he doesn't notice as Izuna slinks away to go mingle with the hunters on the Uchiha side of the clearing. Surely, someone has some spare red rope lying around? It’s not as though he’s about to let Tobirama be inflicted on anyone else.

[mouwrites]

Ninjas x reader?

So basically readers dad/mom/wtv is a ex military Sargent who's very overprotective and intimidating. And the ninjas are meeting them for the first time how would they react?

Ooh, I actually like that idea,,, "ex-military parent" is a trope that needs to be used more often tbh

Ninjago - Ninjas When Your Parent is Ex-Military

Cole

He'd be super nervous, but he'd totally ace the first impression

And literally every impression after that

I feel like Cole is just the kind of guy your parents would always love, whether they're strict or laid back, grumpy or cheery—they are going to love him

Maybe it's because he always shows respect

And it's no exception with your parent; if anything, he's extra respectful

Definitely calls them "sir" or "ma'am"

(Honestly he probably does this anyway at first, but he'll do it more consistently with your parent)

Whenever they get all protective over you, he somehow manages to quell their worries without stepping on their toes

Like, if your parent says:

"You know, when we're in public Y/n never leaves my sight."

He'll smile and say:

"That's what I try to do, too. I like to know they're safe."

This technique never fails to satisfy and impress your parent

He seems pretty calm and pleasant when around your parent, and while this is forced at first, it becomes more natural over time

Mostly because your parent starts to relax around him too, easing up on the intimidating glares and snide comments intended as "tests"

Soon enough your parent is actually asking you when you're bringing him home next!

"When are you bringing that Cole boy around again? He's a good kid."

Jay

He is absolutely TERRIFIED to meet your parent when he finds out they're ex-military

He keeps putting off the meeting; little does he know this is making your parent suspicious of him already

You literally have to beg him to meet them, if not for your sake, then for his own

Because you know that the longer he keeps making excuses, the more your parent is going to be biased against him

So when he finally agrees, it's a big relief for you

Not so much for him; he spends every second leading up to the meeting stressing out

What's he gonna wear? What's he gonna say? How should he stand? What if he gets fidgety?

Then it happens: he meets your parent

And he fumbles so hard D:

His bumbling nervousness (which is NOT helped by your parent's intentionally intimidating demeanor) makes him come off as a wuss, which your parent doesn't like

They think Jay can't protect you, which is, like, their #1 requirement for any partner you have

So they totally disapprove of him

That is, until they see him on the news

He somehow failed to mention on your first meeting that he was a ninja; a ninja with powers, no less

So your parent sees him on the news one night, and immediately calls you over

"Is that your boyfriend on the news? Oh my! Did you just see that?? Good gravy!"

"Does this mean you don't hate him now?"

"Hate him? How could I? This kid could take me in a fight! Hell, bring him around again; I've gotta apologize before he comes after me, hah!"

Kai

From what you said about Kai to your parent before they met him, they assumed he was sort of a bad boy

Which they didn't like. At all.

So when they ask you to bring him home, it's almost like a challenge

And that's certainly how Kai sees it; a challenge to prove his worth

So he trains for it

He works out extra hard, practices his smile in the mirror, tests different greetings

It's silly, but you know that he's probably going to need the practice, what with your parent... being like they are

The practice gives him an air of confidence that actually ends up putting your parent off

Everything else was fine; the handshake, calling them "sir/ma'am," asking polite questions...

It was just that smirk, that total lack of nervousness that put a (deeper than usual) scowl on your parent's face

It wasn't that Kai wasn't nervous; he was just hiding it to seem tough

Eventually he starts to break, and his anxiety finally shines through

Your parent realizes that everything he's been doing has been for them, and he wasn't really like that all the time

And then they're just a little impressed; not much, but just enough so that they don't totally hate him

It'll take time for them to warm up to him, and honestly it'll probably take a bit for Kai to warm up to them, too

Your parent will sort of see themselves in Kai: a fiery young person eager for a fight

And from there they'll be besties tbh; they can relate to each other, and they enjoy testing each other's fierceness

Zane

I don't actually think that Zane will be nervous about your parent being ex-military

If he's feeling any anxiety, it's about meeting your parent in general

He doesn't know why them being ex-military would change things; veteran or not, he needs them to like him

But it does give him a hint on how to please them

He spends a lot of time researching the military, trying to come up with topics to discuss

He's also just trying to understand them better

So when you finally meet, he's almost too perfect in the way he conducts himself

He's quite naturally respectful and pleasant, but it's his knowledge about the military that really gets your parent

The questions he asks are so specific that each one makes your parent's brows jump up for half a second in surprise

They're more than happy to answer the question, of course; they're just impressed that he knew to ask

And when he leaves your parent is actually the one asking if he'd like to come over again

Tbh they just want to answer more of his questions

Needless to say, they end up liking him a lot; not as your boyfriend, but as a "nice young man"

It's only after the first meeting that they let the idea that this "nice young man" is your boyfriend set in

The change is visible on their face; they just blink with owlish eyes for a second before clapping you on the shoulder with a grin

"You picked a good one, Y/n! He sure knows his stuff!"

And the more he comes around, the more little details your parent learns to like, from his mannerisms to his personality

They don't even care that he's a robot

He's as human to them as anyone :)

Lloyd

He's pretty scared to meet your parent

His experience with parents was definitely... different

He has no idea what to expect when you tell him that your parent is strict/protective

His parents were about as present in his life as strawberries in an apple pie, so he doesn't really have a sense of what real parenting is like

So just add that to the fact that your parent is like the final boss of seeking parent approval

No matter how much you tell him to just be himself, he's convinced that he needs to act a specific way

He has no idea what that "way" is, but he's certain it exists

Unfortunately he doesn't figure it out by the time he's on your porch knocking on the door

So he's forced to follow your advice

His pleasant, agreeable nature does little to impress your parent

It's not that they don't like him, they just think he's a little... plain

But then they see how he treats you

Lloyd didn't know if showing affection for you was against this obscure idea of "ways to act around parents," but he did it anyway

He was as respectful ever in showing his admiration for you

He called you beautiful and kissed your hand, pulled your chair out for you at the dinner table and everything

He was a total gentleman, as always

This is what got your parent to like him

He wasn't just this plain blonde boy who "fooled" you into dating him; suddenly he was a dazzling gentleman with impeccable manners

This impression might've been a bit exaggerated

I mean, Lloyd is just naturally nice like that; he's not trying to be this "perfect" character

But ultimately that's how your parent sees him, which is better than a bad impression (I guess?)

Nya

She's not scared of your parent

No matter how much they might try to intimidate her, she's unflinching in her demeanor around them

Much like Zane, any anxiety she's feeling is because they're your parent, not because they're ex-military

But I don't think she has any reason to worry

She has a strong personality, with brains, brawn, and that fearless air about her

Your parent is impressed at the way she doesn't even seem to notice their glares

She just keeps smiling her little smile, asking another question to get to know your parent or answering their questions

At first your parent is a little irked by the way they can't seem to get to her, but the more she talks the more they realize that there's a reason behind this

She's a genuine toughie; she's seen enough that she's not scared of much anymore

And that's when your parent decides that they like her

I guess they sort of see themself in her

But they also like the fact that, because she's tough like that, she can protect you

And, just as importantly, she can protect herself

To your parent that means that not only is she going to take care of you, but she's going to take care of herself so that she can always be there for you

So they sort of drop the intimidation tactics

Not all the way, just because that's how they are when it comes to you

Just enough to show Nya that they're warming up to her

And she's totally ecstatic about that!

She knows family is important to you, so to be accepted by your parent is fantastic :D

Thank you for this request!! And thanks for reading, take care doves <33

(divider by saradika)

[transmutationisms]

could you talk more on eds and biopolitics?

sure, so this is broad strokes and it's also worth reiterating that the energy deficit characteristic of EDs can have a lot of different causes besides intentional food restriction—food insecurity is a huge and underrecognised factor here but there are many others. so when i talk about intentional restriction and the desire to be thin / lose weight, i'm not suggesting these are universal characteristics or causes of EDs.

anyway though, in the context of discussing these things, and particularly the relationship between 'diet culture' and EDs, a perennial frustration to me is that i often hear people fall back on the idea that the desire to be thin comes about as a result of the beauty standards perpetuated in mass media, fashion adverts, &c, without any subsequent interrogation of why it is that beauty itself is now so heavily dependent on thinness. after all, plenty of people have pointed out this is not a universal; beauty varies in different times and places, what is described or depicted as beautiful in historical records doesn't necessarily have much overlap with today's hegemonic standards, and so forth.

so when historicising this phenomenon it becomes very clear that the euro/anglo standard of thinness as beauty is, one, part of the ideological apparatus justifying colonialism thru the creation of race and white supremacy. sabrina strings and da'shaun harrison have written on this. two, the thin ideal is also inextricably tied up in medical discourses defining the ideal body as one that is economically productive, with the promise being that if the populace can be transformed into 'healthy',*** useful, hardworking citizens, the state benefits. control of bodyweight is therefore certainly a means of demonstrating one's supposed self-control, moral discipline, &c, but it is also a demand expressed in medical terms: these two discourses merge and overlap, and are both part of the capitalist state's transformation of its citizenry into a biological resource that can be controlled, managed, and exploited to bourgeois ends (profit): hence, biopolitics.

(***the story of how 'health' itself comes to be so dependent on thinness is obviously a critical piece of all this but this post is long as shit already so suffice it to say that this conflation is also not obvious, necessary, universal, &c &c)

medico-political discourses in the 19th century tended to talk about the dangers of both over- and under-weight more than what we hear now; similarly, if you think about something like wilbur atwater's calorie-value charts, these were explicitly intended to guide labourers to the most calorie-dense foods, because to atwater the central danger to be avoided was starvation among the workforce. these days in wealthy countries like the us, you are much more likely to hear about weight management in the context of demands to reduce; this is of course following moves like the WHO declaring an 'obesity epidemic' in 1997, and the rise in the usa of more explicitly nationalist, militaristic weight-loss rhetoric in the post-9/11 era.

however, my position is that these demands for thinness, and the beauty standard that follows and justifies them, are not a departure from earlier 19th- and 20th-century scientific nutrition advice, just an evolution that, for a multitude of reasons (politics, medical professional interests, insurance company practices, &c) has simply come to focus more on the ostensible economic and national threat posed by fatness. the underlying logic bears the biopolitical throughline: the state has, or ought to have, an interest in enforcing the health of its population, and as part of this demands that you the individual surveil and alter your weight according to the scientific guidelines du jour.

this is fertile ground for the development of what, in extreme form, we regard as ED pathology. first, because even the most purely 'health'-motivated individual engaging in the required degree of bodily monitoring and caloric restriction is liable to respond to energy deficit in ways that can become diagnosably distressing. second, because the morals of 'health' are never far from standards of beauty; thinness is sold in overtly profitable ways (the diet and weight-loss industries) and furthermore, our idea of beauty is often a kind of post hoc justification for the thinness already being demanded by state and medical authorities. which is really just to say, beauty is part of the ideological superstructure both resulting from and invoked as a justification for the material conditions of capitalist biopolitics. again this is very broad strokes, but imo it is a much more useful framework to understand EDs than simply presenting them as a result of desiring thinness because it is glorified in The Media, because... reasons (essentially the rené girard model, lol).

[starbunii]

Sorry if this is a personal request but!! Can I get Venti, Scara, and Gorou with a S/O who has heavy triggers to alcohol/the smell and stuff bc of a parent who was always drunk so they had to be the parent in the house? Not like abusive or anyth but just always drunk and emotionally distressing to see

No worries if you don't wanna take this, ty for reading! 💕

. fear of alcohol 𓂃 ♥︎

𝜗𝜚 ┈ venti, scara, and gorou x reader (seperate) ! ｡

notes: idm taking this at all! i feel very honored that you came to my writing for this kind of comfort. that means very much to me. i hope you're ok and in a safer place now, anon. if not, it's ok. everything will get better; i promise you <3

headcanons ノ fluff/angst (?) ノgn! reader ノcanon universe

second person pov !! please enjoy! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

-- ♡ --

venti

now, we're all well aware of his drinking habits. it's a fun past time for him, and it helps him relax

one night, he tried to drink around you, and was admittedly very surprised when you didn't want to

the two of you were practically attached to the hip, you two did everything together! so...why was this any different?

once you explained everything to him, he immediately understood and put the alcohol away and makes a fun soda/cider kind of drink instead!

over time, he starts drinking a lot less. on the odd occasion that he does get drunk, he just lets you know and stays kind of far away (he'll miss you greatly, but your comfort is safety is far more important to him)

will come to you the next day, hung over and clingy, but most of all; so happy to see you

scaramouche

he only really drinks as a sign of politeness, but nothing too crazy

he hates the taste and gets 0 enjoyment off being drunk. him coming home wasted isn't something you have to worry about

however, if you're at a place like a party or a festival, where there's a large collection of drunk people, he'll immediately whisk you away and take you somewhere else; wherever you want to go

if you two go back home, he'll immediately start to pamper you. he wants you to remember that you don't owe him anything. that you aren't a child stuck as a parent

he knows you weren't exactly abused or anything, but he's still careful with his touches regardless, only wanting you to be comfortable

expect gentle massages and light kisses. he'll praise you on how well you're doing, no matter if you're freaking out, or if you're just calm

gorou

similar to scara, gorou only drinks for polite reasons, or if there's something to celebrate. he never goes too far

however, if he does get drunk, he might get a tad bit clingier. not to the point where he's totally helpless; just more affectionate

if you need him to step away because you're getting upset, he'll do so with no complaints. he knows your boundaries need to be respected

will 100% show up with a bouquet and a box of candies the next day as an apology, even if he didn't exactly do anything wrong

gorou would probably stay the night with a buddy to make sure you don't end up triggered or scared. the last thing he wants is for you to be unsettled because of him or something he did

listens if you need to just vent and talk abt it. he understands that what you went through was traumatic, and that seeing someone you love in that very same state must hurt you to a degree. he'll just hold you and comfort you, providing all you need <3

starbunii 2024 — all rights reserved. do not redistribute or translate to any other platforms

[black00olive]

The Right Words

A/N: This was supposed to be just a little thing about Satan writing a love letter to but it quickly ended up spiralling into somewhat of an analysis of Satan's feelings towards you (take that very lightly as a lot of this is just made up of vibes). Also, the "you" isn't a completely blank slate as I did base some of it off of my own MC and all that (that's where most of the canon divergence comes from). I have never written a love letter before, so pls don't bash me for my love letter writing skills. It was also pretty challenging to write something from Satan's POV since he's a lot more sophisticated than I am Lol. In any case, hope you enjoy :3

Pairing: Satan x Reader

Wordcount: ~3,900 words

Summary: Writing should come easy to Satan, he’s practically read every book in existence and written several pieces before. Yet, when it comes to him writing a love letter to you he finds himself completely stuck. None of the words seem right and nothing he’s written seems to fully describe his feelings for you. As he stares at the blank piece of paper in front of him, his mind wanders and he starts to reminisce about how he developed these feelings for you in the first place.

Reading, and the absorption knowledge in-and-of-itself, was a core part of who Satan was. “He was the nerd of the family,” that’s what his idiot of a brother, Mammon, had claimed— said idiot of a brother had quickly learnt to not say such things about him, but that was neither here nor there. Some other core parts of who he was were his love of cats (though in his opinion everyone should love them, and those who didn’t were wrong), how well-connected he was with high society, and lastly his wrath— though he works hard to contain that one. Overall, he was a classy and upstanding demon. Further, if you were to ask someone, or even him, to describe himself they would most likely use words such as knowledgeable, polite, respectable, and intelligent.

In layman’s terms: Satan was smart and cool.

That’s why he’s so confused as to why he was finding himself hunched over his desk hopelessly writing his 34th love letter to you. Furthermore, why was a well-read demon like him unable to find the right words? He was finding that no words could even begin to describe the feeling aching in his chest, and he knew his way with words.

Satan was no Asmodeus, he doesn’t have a different demon (or demons) in his bed each week. He doesn’t have a list of ex-lovers so long he could wrap himself up in it, twice, nor does he flirt with every demon that even so much as glances at him. However, that doesn’t mean Satan is completely inexperienced; he has had lovers before, has lain with others a couple of times, and even made several of his high-society acquaintances through waxing poetries at them. He is quite good with that last one, he’s made many demons swoon with just his words and been told that he has quite the silver tongue. Yet all words seem to escape him when faced with you. He could repeat the same words that had made so many demons before you fall to their knees, but…

Even those sentences couldn’t even begin to encompass all that you are, and all that he feels for you. You deserved more than some half-hearted words that he had just uttered to get what he wanted. You were so much more than any of those words, as well. The entirety of his being was consumed by you. The way you spoke, the way your eyes would crinkle when you laughed at an especially humourous joke, the way your eyes sparkled once you came across something that caught your interest. Your smile, your bravery, your sarcasm, your kindness, your cockiness, your somewhat childish humour, and even your cruelty. Each and every little thing about you made him erupt in emotions that he had previously only read in books. None of the books could compare to the all-encompassing feeling it truly was.

Satan stares at the paper in front of him with a clenched jaw and lets out a disgruntled huff. Letting go of his pen (he really should loosen his hold, it might break and with the rate he’s going he won’t have any left before he finishes a writing something he’s even somewhat content with) and crumpling up the piece of paper, he then chucks it to the pile of other love letters— none of which had come out like he had wanted—, and he starts anew.

It’s a little silly, he thinks, that things ended up like this. When you had first been chosen as the exchange student Satan hadn’t cared, rather he had found himself a little annoyed. It would be incredibly inconvenient to live in the same house as a human, especially with how Lucifer had hounded them to “be more careful” and “suppress” themselves a little more around you. So in the beginning he had kept his distance from you. He had better things to do than to entertain a “dumb” human like you, humans are just a bunch of useless trouble anyway. He cringes at what he had thought of you in the beginning.

He isn’t sure when his feelings for you first started changing from mild annoyance to something else (that’s a lie, he remembers the moment vividly, but sometimes he questions if his thoughts about you had shifted earlier and he just hadn’t noticed). Perhaps it was when you first got your pact with Mammon, just a day after first being summoned. While Satan would be the first to admit that his brother is a complete idiot that doesn’t negate the fact that he’s the second most powerful of them, a student council officer on top of that, so for an ordinary human to manage to form a pact with him so quickly was definitely intriguing. At the time he thought you would stop at that, but you didn’t. Instead you decided to compete against Levi in a competition, a quiz to see who was the biggest The Seven Lords fan at that. A fool’s errand, Satan would have said if you had asked him at the time. Yet you seemed determined to actually win.

He had heard that humans often had a lot of audacity but he would have thought that even the dumbest human could tell that they had no chance of winning. Levi was older than you could even rationalise in your limited human mind, and he had spent a good portion of that time consuming any sliver of TSL media. You must have known that, right? No, Satan knows you knew that, you are a lot smarter than he had ever given you credit for in the past, yet despite that you were still determined to go through with the competition. He supposes it was that reckless determination that had fascinated him enough to tell you to seek out Simeon to help you win. You hadn’t won but you did end up forming a pact with Levi later that same day.

It is that same reckless determination that he loves and hates, it both causes him anguish and makes him admire you. It was that same reckless determination that made you protect both Beel and Luke from Lucifer that day Luke entered the underground tomb and had taken The Grimoire. He had not been there while it had happened, but he had heard. At the time it had amused him how you had stood against Lucifer, now it makes him wish you didn’t disregard your life as much as you had done in the first couple of months of your stay. You already have such a short life, you shouldn’t cut it even shorter… Satan cuts off that thought right there and crumples up the paper in front of him before he places a new one in its place.

He hadn’t believed Asmo when he had said you had been able to coax out more power in him than Solomon ever had. At the time he had just assumed it was Asmo getting too excited over a new “play-thing” (his lip curls up at that, he hates calling you such demeaning things) and was over exaggerating as he usually does.

Yet, Lucifer was wary of you. That meant something because as much as Satan hates to admit it there are very few things that Lucifer can’t handle. During that time Satan had only focused on the fact that you bothered him, and you forming pacts with his brothers bothered him even more. To former him, it was very clear as to what he needed to do. In the present, however, Satan thinks it was foolish of him to be so willing to give away his autonomy just to get under Lucifer’s skin. It was also said foolishness of him that led him to almost kill you when you had rejected his request to form a pact. Satan can feel himself start to frown at the memory of him threatening to tear you limb from limb. He had been so enraged by the thought of a simple human being the one to reject him, that an ordinary human— who didn’t even have the capabilities to use magic— would think themselves better than him, the Avatar of Wrath. The current Satan could never even imagine himself saying something so vile and hateful to you, but at that moment he had been fully ready to go through with the threats. For once in his life, he’s glad Lucifer had stepped in and stopped him.

Then, in spite of the threats, you were still willing to help Lucifer and his relationship (though Satan also has the sneaking suspicion that a big portion of the reason you wanted to help was because you had grown tired of their arguing, especially while sleeping in your room). Arguably, transporting them into, at the time had seemed like, a dating sim wasn’t the best plan but you still tried to make the best out of the situation. It’s cliché, but he can still remember your words from the evening before they were supposed to “profess their love” with vivid clarity because, admittedly, Satan believes it was then he first started developing these feelings for you.

You had asked to speak with him after he had apologised for dragging you into the whole mess. “You don’t have to force yourself to like someone you don’t. Lucifer doesn’t see you as a child as much as you think, he only wants to look good in front of Diavolo as his number two,” is what you had told him. The first part stuck with him, is still stuck with him if Satan is going to be truly honest. Such a simple concept, that you don’t have to like someone. One that he had come across in his books several times before you had even been a thought in the universe. Despite that, when you had said it to him in your typical bold fashion it was as if it was the first time he’d heard of the mere prospect. Like a fog that had swallowed his brain was finally cleared. Satan believes that if you were to ask Levi to describe it, he would say something along the lines of: “he finally reached a high enough level to unlock the ability to understand secret texts.”

Your very simple words had given him a shocking amount of things to contemplate, even more so when the whole situation with Grisella’s death on the train. Her perspective of it not mattering what hand fate deals you but how you deal with it along with yours had made him come to the realisation that he can never go back and change the circumstances of his birth. However, he can choose how to live his life and that has nothing to do with Lucifer. Because he’s not him. It was such a simple answer to an issue that had been plaguing him ever since he was born, and he’s sure that he was only able to find the answer because of you (irregardless of how much you’d like to claim that you didn’t much of a part in his discovery).

Then after the whole fiasco of Lucifer and him switching bodies you had finally accepted his request to form a pact with you. Satan feels his fingertips graze over where his pactmark sits on your body as he smiles. A pact, something that connects the two of you on a much deeper level than any piece of metal exchanged in a ceremony ever could, not that he wouldn’t mind being bonded to you in such a way though. A pact, something akin to an invisible string that ties the two of you together; a string that pulls him to you constantly (he wonders if you feel the same pull), a string that makes him share your pain, a string that binds the two of you together until the day you die.

Perhaps even longer, Satan thinks as his eyebrows furrow and he feels his whole body tense, because you did die. He had felt the tightness in his neck, his brothers had as well— the brothers that had formed pacts with you at that point at least— and they had all ran to the foyer where they had found you along with their youngest brother but it was in a situation Satan is sure he’ll never get out of his mind. Mammon had been the first to move, he had ran to you and had clutched your dying body in his arms. Satan curses his past self for not doing the same. He curses himself for just standing there, watching helplessly, as your pain coursed through his body in pulses. In rhythm with your dying heart. He should have joined in as his brothers started to yell at their youngest, he’s the Avatar of Wrath. However, in that moment, despite having watched countless of humans die before you— being the cause to some of them— he had never in his life felt more lost. Yet, you came back. Satan had watched as you stepped out of the shadows and as you, the one in Mammon’s arms, had slowly fade into nothingness. He had stood just watching as you revealed the truth about Lilith and your relation to her. The he had continued to simply watch as the rest of his brothers had all started hugging you. When he looks back on it, he hadn’t done much but watch during the whole incident. It had weighed heavy on his heart ever since and he had vowed to never be so complacent when you’re in danger.

Then after the whole incident his brothers and him had gone on to do something that he now realises (thanks to you) was incredibly foolish. What number was he of foolish things he’d done in regards to you now? Satan is quite shocked that despite every foolish thing he and his brothers have done you’re still willing to put up with them. Not just that, but you’re willing to love them. Despite the fact that they had foolishly tried to pretend like you hadn’t died that night and that everything was fine. Despite the fact that because of their own denial they had neglected to check if you were okay after you had just died. Despite the fact that they had pushed the responsibility of mending their relationships onto you once more while you were trying to deal with your own whirlwind of emotions over your own death. Despite all of it, you still chose to love them. Satan doubts they’ll ever be worthy of that, of your love, of you. Rightfully, you had called them out on their shameful behaviour.

That evening when you had told them off for down-right ignoring your death Satan believes he fell for you completely, body and— if he had been a human— soul. The green wrath that surrounded you that night was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. His sin engulfing you and the tendrils of it ebbing throughout the dining hall. You had been stewing in this anger for quite a while, he had concluded that evening, because the wrath flowing off of you was so strong. Intoxicating, almost. He had never seen you that angry before, you were usually very good at keeping calm. Of course, you got annoyed and irritated a few times but nothing to that degree. He had needed to stab his fork into his thigh to maintain even some semblance of composure, to not transform fully. As you were berating them he had found it hard to breathe with how your wrath was overwhelming all of his senses, much like how his love is for you nowadays. It was also that evening where Satan finally realised that the seeds of you had fully bloomed into a garden and grown roots in his heart, and he wasn’t willing to rip them out. He loved you, he realised, as much as you’d like to say it wasn’t possible to love someone after such a short period of time he knew he loved you and he’d never love another.

Truthfully, he feels a little bashful admitting that he had only realised he loved you when you were taken over by his sin and insulting them for their poor decision making in deciding to ignore your death, but he was going to be honest with you. You had once said that you value honesty a lot, and he’d give you anything you wanted— no matter what it was; whether it be all the riches in the world, someone’s head, or even the crown to a country. He’d give it to you— and you had wanted his honesty so he’ll give it.

The days following your outburst his eyes could not leave you, as much as he had wanted them to (you were still mad at him, he had yet found the words for the apology you deserved; by simply just existing you tend to render him speechless). He started to notice every little thing about you, your routines, your habits, your ticks, your quirks. Each thing made him fall deeper and deeper in love with you. Even in his lonesome he couldn’t escape you. In every book he’d find you, usually taking shape as the love-interest as he immersed himself in a world where he was that book’s protagonist. In his dreams the two of you would go on adventures, ranging from simple dates on the beach to travelling to different human-world countries. Even when he was out shopping he’d find himself reminded of you from various trinkets and thinking of what clothes or foods or various other goods you’d like. A few times while passing more risky stores that he’d commonly find Asmo browsing, he couldn’t help his mind from wandering to things he would one day like to see you in (if you were comfortable with it, of course. You and your comfort take precedence over everything else).

Eventually he had found the words and given you an apology for how he’d behaved, not even just regarding your death but prior to that as well, and you had accepted it. As the relationship continued to grow as had his feelings. He was no longer simply “in love” with you, but rather he felt something much more intense, overwhelming, and ineffable. Satan supposes that’s why he can never seem to find any words that seem fitting enough for you or the love he holds for you.

Combining his fingers through his hair, Satan sighs as he leans back in his chair. He had set out to write a love letter to you, yet all he’s done so far is reminisce over how his feelings developed for you over the course of your stay. He looks down at the paper in front of him and gently glides his fingers over the words. He isn’t even fully sure why he’s writing this to you. Right, because you valued honesty. The paper starts to lightly shake and Satan realises it’s because his hands are trembling. How humiliating, he’s the Avatar of Wrath, 4th most powerful lord of the underworld, yet the idea of giving you a love letter is what makes him tremble. What if you don’t reciprocate his feelings? His mind starts to doubt, but he forces himself to calm down. Even if you don’t feel the same he will continue to love you and stay by your side. His feelings for you will never change nor waver, he’s sure of that, and for as long as you’ll allow him he’ll stay right by your side.

The Love Letter:

My Dearest,

Recently my thoughts have been drawn irresistibly to you, while that in-and-of-itself isn’t uncommon I find that now it’s become unbearable to simply keep them to myself. So, here I am penning my deepest affections for you as I find myself reminiscing over our shared past. Once, I recall you had told me that you value honesty, so I shall be fully honest with you as I write this. When you had first been summoned I had not thought much of you. I had assumed that you wouldn’t have survived to the end of the exchange year. Yet, you did, technically. However, you didn’t just survive, you managed to thrive. You subverted every last one of my expectations and I found myself growing more and more affection towards you. Now, you’ll be leaving and returning to the human world in a couple of days and I would forever regret it if I didn’t disclose my feelings to you at least once before you leave.

I love you, truly and deeply. From your courage to your kindness as well as your defiance, you have ensnared my heart in ways I never thought possible. You consume my every waking thought and even as I sleep I still find you in every one of my dreams. You’ve seen the depths of my fury, the intensity of my wrath, been victim to my thoughtlessness, and yet, you remain. You choose to stay by me regardless. You’ve awakened emotions in me that I had once only read within the pages of my books. Love, trust, and a tenderness that shouldn’t be possible of the Avatar of Wrath. I find myself yearning for even a moment of your attention, a quick glance or wave as you pass me through the halls. With you, I am not just Satan, the Avatar of Wrath, but something more, something much bigger; a being capable of deep, profound love.

There is not a moment that goes by in which I don’t adore you. Each day I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love with you and all of your quirks. From your beautiful eyes, which seem to invariably lure me in, to your laughter that, like a melody, pierces through the cacophony of my existence, bringing a sense of peace I never knew I craved. And your touch, gentle and reassuring, has the power to calm the raging storm within me. Your endless curiosity makes me remember the beauty of learning and of our world. Your reckless bravery, however with that one I wish you would rely on me more. You don’t have to deal with everything by yourself. Even the traits that humans tend to label as bad I find myself loving; your sarcasm, your stubbornness, your cockiness, your selfishness, and your impulsivity. I even find myself loving your pure cruelty, however rare that one is.

Know this, my beloved, my heart, once a vessel of only wrath, now beats with an ardent longing for you. It would no longer be right to call it mine for it seems to be filled solely with you. I am yours, wholly and completely, bound by a love that transcends the very fabric of our existence. No matter what your response is, trust that I will stay by your side for as long as you let me; whether that be as a friend or as a lover. Either way, I will love you until the end of eternity.

Forever, and always, yours,

Satan

[cmrosens]

Creating fantasy religions: something I'm doing now so thought I would post about my process.

The mistake a lot of writers make is developing a religion from a singular event, and piling a ton of stuff on top of it that makes logical sense. Whereas, in reality, religions are self propelling systems that travel under their own steam and if there is an event that catalyses them, it is never in a socio-cultural or political and economic vacuum.

You also end up with an apparently totally random set of things attached to one figure which does make sense if you know the origins, but otherwise is just accepted even if the meaning is lost.

It is the difference between "the god of Midwinter and festivals around this originated because a cult of necromancers were banished into the frozen wastes and this <event> became the Origin Story for how we got to a midwinter festival with creepy bone puppets in my fantasy world" and a religion that feels ... Real.

Ok so firstly, this is a bit too neat. (This was my original reasoning for a midwinter god called Yarash and I changed it because it wasn't very realistic or interesting for my world.)

Why, let's say, is the god whose feast is at midwinter also the patron of puppet makers and osteopaths?

Well, we could say that this makes a lot of sense because the god's festival was originally to do with remembering the dead, and puppets were used in the festival to represent the dead, as necromancy should have been part of it but people didn't actually know how to raise the dead properly. Then as magic evolved people could actually raise the dead for short periods to deliver messages in these festivals, but this drew internal debate from the conservative priests who thought puppets were the original form and so should be maintained, and necromancy was an aberration, vs the progressives who saw necromancy as the original INTENTION and so the natural and correct progression from the puppets. The debate might rage on for years creating splinters, sects, differing traditions that sit uneasily together but find middle ground in other less controversial topics and practices, and even cults.

At some point, the secular authorities get involved for their own reasons. Maybe some rulers are pro-"The Old Bones" or anti-, or they want to outlaw necromancy or benefit from it for various political reasons, socio-cultural reasons, economic reasons, military intelligence reasons, etc. Whatever happens, happens. Times change. Official attitudes swing back and forth, while internally the religious debates continue, now informed by and perhaps as counters to, this secular intervention.

Then we end up in modern times, the times of the story. Nobody really believes in gods anymore. They do remember the old gods of the seasons and at the secular festival in winter, there are a lot of traditional puppet shows that have a whole history and life of their own. The puppets are called "the old bones" and nobody really remembers why. Osteopaths have the puppets and symbols relating to the midwinter festival on their certificates and college heraldry and nobody really remembers why, but the information is there to look up and is a fun thing to know for trivia nights.

And necromancy... is a controversial branch of science, divorced from its original religious significance for many but not for all, and more integrated as an art or practice in the public consciousness (positively or negatively depending on perspective and propaganda and actual usage).

And now, you have a ton of depth and meat to it without having to flesh out the arguments and debates themselves unless that is plot relevant.

There is a lot you can do with this society now, and by tweaking one thing you can create completely different societies and ideologies. The depth is now there to set your story at any point during this history and to develop numerous ideas. So much stuff can happen.

With the singular event version, and a static fact of a necromancy cult in the frozen wastes, things are much more limited and linear, with less depth to play with.

Also remember that your characters will not be expected to know everything about your world unless they are experts in religion and/or history, and also the 2 subjects are not mutually inclusive so a historian is not an expert theologian and vice versa. How much the average person on the street knows depends on levels of formal education, accessible knowledge beyond formal education, which may include religious instruction and folklore, and propaganda. But it means you can build in some subtle things - like the puppet symbols on the door of an osteopath or bone doctor - that never need to be explained, but have a logical in-world explanation below the surface.

Try taking a static idea and work it into a system and see where it leads!

EDIT: I'm doing a workshop on Build A Hellscape at the Devils and Justified Sinners online conference, Saturday 24th Aug 2024, 9AM UK Time. Sign up below:

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I tried to find out different synagogues' general attitudes on Zionism before converting?

I (late 20s) was raised Christian, but moved well away from that faith after being berated by my homophobic preacher grandma for supporting gay rights (she didn't know I myself was gay at the time). Currently I'd say I'm mostly agnostic, I don't have any strong feelings towards things like whether god exists or what the afterlife is like or anything like that, mostly I am just curious.

I've been interested in Judaism for a while for a lot of reasons. Mainly because, as far as I can figure, the idea of asking questions and debating meanings and forming your own opinion on these topics is actually encouraged unlike in Christianity, where it was a lot of being told not to question god and all that. I've wanted to try converting and seeing if that all feels right to me, but haven't been able to because I don't live somewhere with much of a Jewish population or any synagogues. However, I'll soon be moving to a city that does have a few options for that.

Here's the question: I know that asking individual Jewish people their stance on Israel is inherently antisemitic. I know that just because someone is Jewish doesn't mean they're a Zionist. And I know there's been a lot of antisemitism lately among the discourse surrounding the ongoing Palestinian genocide. However, if I'm going to be joining a community of Jewish people who are gathering because of that, there could very well be some strong feelings one way or another among them. I've also seen a lot of "online conversion" sites (which I've been informed are not reliable) that focus heavily on helping converts Visit To Their New Homeland Of Israel which...again, I know these services aren't reliable, but the way it was emphasized as ~part of the process~ rubbed me the wrong way, and I have no idea how reflective these sites are of actual IRL Jewish communities in general.

Basically, I worry that in my pursuit of conversion, I'll end up within a community of mostly people who support Israel, and if that's the case I'd rather know sooner or later. I know (or, I suppose, people on jumblr have said) that it's practically impossible to get a whole group of Jewish people who agree on any one thing within their faith but I'm betting there are communities who more or less agree on certain things. So WIBTA (A for antisemite in this case ig) if, when speaking to different rabbis, I asked about the general attitude on Zionism within the congregation(? if that's the word for it??) Is there any way to go about it politely?

What are these acronyms?