#unripe expression

[lianchuann]

you wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me

[ao3feed-ue]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 미숙한 표현 | Unripe Expression Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ha Junseo/Lee Jaewon Characters: Ha Junseo, Lee Jaewon (Unripe Expression) Additional Tags: Angst, junseo gets his heart broken TWICE, jaewon is kinda stupid, Crying, Chatting & Messaging

[apiratefellinlovewithastar]

Hi Vi!! so I've decided to post my old Yoonsung/Junseo fic in ao3 and I'm going to gift it to you ♡

I totally missed the days Unripened Expression was ongoing even though the ending wasn't really satisfying for those rooting for Junseo 😭

I JUST SAW!!!! LOVE YOU LI 😭❤️

I just woke up so I’m still in a sleep daze but as soon as everything stops spinning I will read it!

I totally understand you 😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️

[millucake]

idc about the ending anymore. it's disappointing and I'm sure the author is unsatisfied too. author didn't just draw all those intimacy just to feed it to karam who isn't even that fleshed out. anyway, I'm JUNSEO and JISOO now. whatever y'all think.

IMAGINE THIS IS THEM BECAUSE IM PLANNING TO MAKE IT THEM OK. it's been 6 years since this manwha is published but I just read it today and kept tossing on my bed because it's so JSIDIFJFBSNA

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟑]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.6k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, cursing, mentions of abuse/alcoholism, character death and graphic descriptions of death, mentions of vomit

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. this one is... a lot. take heed of the warnings/let me know if there's something i forgot to tag! i might've missed some errors because it's late so i will fix in the morning, otherwise please enjoy! reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗡 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗚𝗢

When the meadows grow full and lush, Kinich awaits your reappearance.

The winter had been long—with his crops iced over, he’d had to rely on hunting to survive. His mother’s absence had taken a heavy toll on his family (though he uses the word loosely), and his father somehow finds more time to drink his life away. Now the sole homemaker, Kinich finds himself as his father’s newfound punching bag as well.

He discovers that he has a talent for patching wounds and bruises.

Some days, the man awakens in the dead of night, freshly sober—Kinich can hear him crying his mother’s name in the dark. He doesn’t know whether to take that as regret, or simply loneliness.

They don’t talk. They never really did, but the silence grows quickly, curling and weaving and winding like vines through the house, until Kinich can feel it wrapping his throat shut. Days and weeks go by without him talking to anyone at all.

Still, he moves on.

The ice finally melts, and he welcomes the sight of animals returning from hibernation, despite how they nip at his garden. New life sprouts from the ground, and it’s only a matter of time before you appear in the forest again as well.

This time, you’re touting a burlap bag of Quenepa Berries, and you offer him one as he approaches.

“They’re sweeter at this time of year,” you comment, before popping one of the fruits into your mouth. He accepts and does the same—this batch is fattened and sweet, he thinks as the juice dribbles down his chin. You must have an eye for a good harvest.

“You came back,” is all he replies, as a greeting.

An incredulous expression crosses your face, almost judgmental—you hold the bag of berries away from him as teasing punishment. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

He reaches over you, quick as a fox, catching one of the fruits in his fingers. 

“Don’t know.”

There’s no way to tell you about his mother’s disappearance, at least not one that he’s confident about. After all, he feels there’s no logic in informing you anyway—there’s no solution that you could potentially offer, and it’s not as though it affects you. But it’s the thought of that, and the lasting image of her footsteps, that had instilled this fear within him.

The fear that you would never return.

But you’re here, he soothes himself, another berry in your outstretched palm. He takes it, just as your voice rings out again.

“So, do your parents not like girls?”

The skin of the fruit catches in his throat at your question, and he lets out a series of wet coughs—you pat his back, eyes wide with concern. It takes a few moments for him to return to his senses.

“What are you talking about?” he splutters, uncharacteristically flustered.

You don’t seem to notice, too absorbed in picking through your bag—you prefer the lightest blue berries, the ones that are still slightly unripe. Perhaps you enjoy the tartness they offer.

“I don’t know,” you reply. “It just seems like you don’t want your parents to see me.”

And there’s no easy way to explain his situation, so he doesn’t. Instead, he hums, watching the birds soar by overhead. His heart vaguely tugs with jealousy at the sight of them.

“It’s not that. My parents just…don’t like people hanging around our house. That’s why we moved out of the village.”

Not a total lie, he reasons—the financial issues were the root cause, but his father had also grown tired of neighbors attempting to intervene in his parents’ endless disputes. It had given him hope, for a time, that someone might be able to remedy the situation. 

But that hope was quickly snuffed out.

“Makes sense,” you say, tracing shapes in the dirt with your foot. You draw a heart, a smiley face, and then something that looks like a defective Yumkasaurus. “Your dad is the mean one, right?”

You’re still not quite educated on social faux-pas at your age, and Kinich almost chokes again.

“What?”

Something rustles in the bushes nearby—an animal scared away by the sudden loudness of his voice.

“He always used to yell at me when I’d come around to leave you things,” you explain, overwhelmingly casual. “Smelled like that stuff that us kids aren’t allowed to go near in the market.”

Kinich vaguely remembers hearing his parents argue about something like that, but all the fighting tends to blur together after a time. He’s not sure how to reply to that, or what you might think if he did.

So he doesn’t.

He asks you about your winter instead, a topic change that you welcome eagerly. You tell him about the village, the white-topped roofs and the way the Yumkasauri would redden and sneeze, whelps hiding in their mother’s wings. You tell him about how you tried ice skating on the frozen river, recounting how many times you fell flat on your face. The thought makes him smile faintly.

He’s almost surprised by how enthusiastic you are about it—you’d told him before about your parents’ death in the cold season. He wonders how you seem to move past it all.

You turn your attention back to him, curious. “What about you? What happened during your winter?”

There’s a lot he could say, but none of it feels right, every word sticking to his tongue, stubborn. 

“The winter felt really long,” he finally says, mostly to himself, chewing thoughtfully.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “It did. But it’s not so bad, I think.”

He hums. “Really?”

You shrug. “Spring always comes again anyway.”

/

On Kinich’s seventh birthday, you knock at his door in the evening.

The November air is crisp, but not yet chilling. After all, the nation of Pyro tends to run warm until the very depths of winter. It’s for that reason that the fireplace still lies darkened and empty, and that the kitchen window is still open a crack.

The sound shocks him at first—it’s been a long time since anyone has visited at all, so much so that the dull thump is unfamiliar. Wilder animals tend to come out when the sun sets, so he tries to finish up his farming and hunting beforehand—at this time, he’s usually preparing some sort of meal for the next day.

He glances at the source of the noise, then at his father, slumped over the kitchen table, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. The man will likely be asleep until the early morning anyway.

So Kinich pads to the door, pulling it open just a crack, and it’s your eye that peers back at him, curious.

Another inch, and then the rest of you is revealed to him—you’re holding a neatly wrapped box in your hands, an innocent smile spread across your lips.

His first words come out in a hiss.

“What are you doing here?”

He thinks he’s been quite clear about your need to return to the village by this time, for many reasons. It’s growing dark, a time where animals and humans alike grow more dangerous, and his father tends to be home. The man has a talent of putting Kinich in the worst moods, and he’d rather not spread that to you.

“It’s your birthday,” you greet, as an explanation, shrugging like it’s all so obvious. Kinich tilts his head.

“So?”

“So, we’re celebrating! I spent the whole day baking this cake with Chief Wayna’s help.”

Kinich steps outside, quietly letting the door shut behind him. The sunset sky is burning away at this time, pinks and reds fading into black and blue. The stars will be out soon. 

“It’s nighttime,” he says, crossing his arms.

You nod vigorously, undeterred. “Yup! All so you can see the candles better. It looks so much cooler when it’s dark.”

It’s a ridiculous statement to someone like him, and Kinich is once again reminded how different the two of you are. His sense of logic doesn’t seem to align with your enduring enthusiasm. Still, he likes the fire that you have about you, and has no interest in snuffing it out, so he merely sighs and leads you away from the front door.

Once you’re a bit away, the house still in view, he looks to you again.

“So, what is it about candles?”

Without a reply, you turn away from him, fiddling with various things—he hears a match being lit, sees the faint light reflect from behind you—and then you’re facing him again, proudly holding out the cake.

There’s seven brightly colored candles sticking out from the top. The candlelight illuminates your face with a soft glow, a cheeky smile spreading across your lips.

“It looks good, right?”

Kinich peers down at the treat—it does look good, with the expensive kind of frosting that he used to look at longingly in the market. He hasn’t had something this sweet, this luxurious, in a long time, or maybe ever. When he glances back up, you’re staring up at him expectantly—he shrinks back from the pressure.

“What is it?” he asks, feeling self-conscious. You point to the candles.

“You have to blow it out.”

Vaguely, he thinks back on when he used to live in the village. He’s seen people hold birthday parties before (though he can’t say he’d ever been invited), but he’s not sure he’s heard of this tradition. Birthday celebrations weren’t something his family could ever afford anyway, or maybe they just didn’t care to.

Kinich realizes he doesn’t even know when his parents’ birthdays are.

But you’re still watching him, so he pushes that thought aside. Instead, he leans over and gently blows out the candles in three small puffs of breath.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” You cheer, tilting the cake toward him. “I hope you made a wish!”

You’d forgotten to mention that before he blew out the candles, he thinks to himself, but he’s in no position to argue with your good will anyway. So he nods, silently making a wish after the fact.

“Alright, the best part is eating it,” you whisper conspiratorially, like you’re sharing a life-shattering secret. “And Elder Leik says it’s bad to have sugar before bed, but I think it’s okay just this once—”

“Kinich!”

That voice—

His heart freezes in his chest. Your face morphs in confusion, and then he’s grasping at your arm and yanking, hiding you behind him—you’re not much smaller than him, though, so it’s a futile effort. At the force, the cake slips out of your grip, smashing uselessly into the grass.

Kinich has half a mind to apologize, but he can’t—instead, he holds you tighter.

“Kinich?” A hoarse voice echoes in the dark. “Where the hell are you?” 

“I’m here. I was just taking a walk,” he replies. His voice shakes at the edges of each syllable—he hopes his father doesn’t notice. 

Something crunches in the distance; it’s the sound of grass underfoot. His father is coming this way, Kinich realizes in a panic. He glances back to your fearful eyes, clutching at the back of his thin t-shirt, and his chest burns with the desire to protect.

It’s too dim to see the man until he’s a few feet in front of you—he’s dressed in a tattered shirt and loose pants, feet dragging through the grass. His eyes narrow when he gets close enough, brows knitting together.

His gaze zeroes in on you, venomous. “It’s you again.”

The collar of Kinich’s shirt grows taut against his throat as you pull against him, afraid. He squeezes at your arm once, a comfort.

“You damn orphans, got nothing better to do? Just fucking around on my property, I should throw you off this goddamn cliff! Not like you got anyone to miss you.”

Kinich grits his teeth. “Leave her alone.”

His father laughs, a grating sound like nails on a chalkboard, then belches. The smell of cheap alcohol filters through the air, even from a distance.

“Go do something useful then. Too many useless people in this world, ha! Just like your damn mother.”

The mention makes the blood ice over in Kinich’s veins, a sharp frost crawling up his spine. Your grip loosens just a hair, likely in confusion, but the detail barely reaches his mind.

“You know where she is?”

The image of his mother’s footsteps in the newly fallen snow had never left his mind—he sees it in his nightmares, trapped and crawling in an endless frozen landscape, alone. He thinks of her when he farms, when he weaves, when he’s forced to eat another Grainfruit.

He thinks of her always, maybe, in the back of his mind.

And his father does too, maybe, based on the way his whole body seems to tighten with anger at the question. He doesn’t reply, at least not verbally.

You watch, horrified. Even as his father’s eyes glow with rage, even as he drunkenly hobbles toward you both, hands outstretched.

(Kinich blankly notes that they form the shape of his own neck.)

The man isn’t too coordinated, especially with the alcohol coursing through his veins—he stumbles a few times on the way, the grass seeming to curl around his ankles, slowing him down. Perhaps it’s the land’s way of protecting him, Kinich thinks. 

He grabs your hand, pulling you behind him. “Come on!”

Kinich runs, wind whipping at his face, the way he always does when his father gets this way. He takes you through the backyard, toward the forest, where his father might lose sight of you both and give up the chase. He knows the paths there and knows them well—the shadows of the trees will protect you both.

But the man is picking up speed behind you, roaring about what he’ll do once he catches you.

“Kinich,” you wheeze. You’d already been semi-exhausted by your trek here, and certainly not expecting a sprint like this.

“I know,” he pants back. “Just a little more.”

You’re trying your hardest, he knows.

But he’s faster than you, and you stumble, lagging behind.

“Kinich!”

His father lunges, fingers barely grasping at the leg of your pants. A shriek erupts from your throat as you tumble to the ground in a twisted pile, and Kinich cries out with you, just as the cliff seems to rumble beneath his feet. 

It happens in slow motion. 

Kinich’s father meets his son’s gaze, enraged, then afraid. Terrified, just as he feels his legs dangle over the edge of the cliff, just as the weight of your smaller body pushes his torso over. Shocked, just as the rest of you starts to come down with him. 

Your screams echo off the darkened mountain. 

Kinich weighs his options—it doesn’t take long—and then leaps forward. His chest smacks painfully into the dirt, but he manages to grab your wrist just as you slip down the cliff.

“Kinich!” 

His father is screaming his name, and so are you, pleading, begging for his help. And you’re still in his grasp, but you’re slipping, and his father is reaching for him, and if he could just grab him with his other hand, he could maybe pull you both up, but—

Kinich’s gaze meets your tear-filled eyes.

So he grits his teeth, clawing at the dirt, and with his other hand, he grabs—

You.

He doesn’t have time to catch his father’s expression—he doesn’t think he’d want to see it anyway—before he’s hauling you up, yanking you into his arms until you’re both collapsing into the grass. The crown of your skull clashes with his chin harshly.

His father is still bellowing curses, not that you seem to hear it over the sound of your screams and cries. But Kinich hears it, somehow, floating above the chaos and agony in your voice.

“It’s your fucking fault! This is all your fault!”

His eyes flutter shut as the voice fades away, and then grows silent.

It’s too quiet.

Even the crickets seem to censor themselves, hiding from the entire ordeal. Kinich releases his hold on you, rolling onto his stomach, then onto his knees. The grass seems to waver under his stare, rippling and oscillating until it feels like the entire world is quivering beneath him.

He barely registers that you’re struggling to pull yourself upright behind him.

You turn away from Kinich’s hunched form to vomit in the grass, overwhelmed by it all. A corpse lies at the foot of the cliff now, one that could’ve just as easily been you. One that might have actually been your fault. The thought makes you vomit again. 

After a few more dry heaves, Kinich’s hand rubs at your back, the other gently easing your hair away from your mouth. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes filled with tears and nose dripping with snot. 

“Kinich,” you sob, trying to catch your breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was too slow, and he—he fell. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry. I know he wasn’t—I don’t—but that was your—your father—”

He takes you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him—really look at him. His expression seems the same as always, but you know the difference. You note the quivering at the edge of his lips, the light sheen at the corners of his eyes. It disappears as quickly as you notice it, flattening under a disposition of stone.

“I weighed the value between you,” he says, gaze meeting your glassy stare. Your heart flutters. “And I chose you.”

And for a bit, you pretend that you can’t hear the thick lump in his throat, or the way his nose scrunches to keep the tears from slipping. Instead, you take his hand, struggling to your feet.

Kinich gives you a once-over—your pant leg is tattered now, a long strip of fabric ripped from the bottom. A flash of crimson peeks from under the remaining cloth.

Thin lines of blood bloom over the joint there, slowly running down the length of your leg.

“You’re bleeding,” he rasps, assessing the extent of your wound. It’s not deep—a skinned knee at most, which he’s grateful for. He’s treated much worse on his own body.

There’s so much to do, he thinks, pushing through the foggy haze permeating his mind. He has to retrieve his father’s body. He has to treat your wound. With his father gone, he needs to make a plan for his own survival.

It’s not as if his father ever really helped out anyway, but the thought of being truly, totally alone is harrowing. It takes another minute for him to remember that you’re still standing at his side.

“Go back to the house,” he mumbles, almost to himself. “Wait for me in the kitchen—”

“No!” You blurt, looking surprised despite yourself. Kinich jolts, meeting your eyes. “You’re going to get his body, right?”

After a moment of hesitation, he nods solemnly.

Kinich has looked down these cliffs many times; he knows the sheer height of them. There’s absolutely no chance that his father’s body is in any sort of good shape at the bottom. The thought makes bile rise in his throat.

You swallow. “So let’s go.”

The fear is reflected in the way your hands shake, but your shoulders straighten and you reach for him, slotting your fingers together. It’s the most bravery that you can manage, at least right now. Kinich accepts it gratefully.

Making your way down the cliff is treacherous with the little light you have. You don’t speak, barely even breathe. The stars lay watchful above, winking and illuminating your way. 

Even with your hand in his, Kinich glances back occasionally, ensuring you’re still with him—you always are, still sniffling and scrubbing at your eyes. 

It’s hard for you, and it’s obvious; he has to catch you several times when your foot slips off the stone, but you’re still with him. You’re still with him, he thinks. Kinich repeats it to himself a few times, letting it anchor him as he struggles down the rocks.

His father’s body is stiff by the time you reach it.

You’re too afraid to look at first, meekly standing behind him. It takes a few minutes before you work up the courage to peek over his shoulder, one hand over your mouth. Kinich isn’t sure whether to pray, or cry, or leave it all behind—for a few minutes, he doesn’t do anything at all.

The body is mangled, as he’d expected. You don’t dare to look at it again; you pace about the area, trying to keep your wits about you. 

Everything about it is too familiar. He sees himself in the corpse, the blond hair fanned around the head like a halo, the golden eyes forever stuck in a faraway stare. The grappling hook that he always kept on his person.

His father. A half of him. His flesh and blood.

And he’d let him go.

Kinich feels for his own heartbeat over his shirt, fisting at the cloth there.

You are still alive, it whispers.

So he calls your name, soft. You peek at him through the darkness.

“We have to bring it back,” he murmurs.

And you, despite it all, despite the terror that licks hot up your neck, simply nod.

“Okay.”

As the two of you drag the corpse back toward the house, fingertips sticky with blood that freezes in the passing wind, Kinich realizes it—

This is the coldest November he’s ever experienced.

[brookghaib-blog]

The Weight of Familiar Things

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: After breaking up in high school, Y/N had never really moved on from the best relationship of her life with Bob after he disappear out of thin air. While working on her shift, Bob reappears the same away he went away.

Word Count: 3,4k

--

The store buzzed softly with the usual low hum of midweek monotony — the steady beep of barcode scanners, the distant whirr of the refrigerator units near the dairy aisle, and the occasional squawk from the ancient intercom that insisted on cutting off half of every announcement.

Y/N stood at the express register, elbows resting on the cool laminate counter as she lazily spun the lid of a half-full bottle of Gatorade she’d stashed behind the till. The clock above the frozen foods section blinked indifferently — 4:07 PM. Still three more hours until she could bolt out of here, rip off the stiff red vest with the faded name tag, and try to salvage enough brainpower for a database systems assignment.

Her shift had been... tolerable. Not slow enough to be bored, but not busy enough to lose herself in the chaos either. Just a constant trickle of shoppers with shopping carts full of existential dread and discount coupons.

“You will not believe what just happened in aisle six,” came the dramatic whisper of Meg, her bestie and co-worker, who appeared from around the shelf like a gossip-hungry ninja.

Y/N straightened up, instantly suspicious. “What now?”

Meg leaned against the counter with all the grace of a wounded goose and sighed deeply, like she was about to recount war crimes. “So, I’m helping Mrs. Kowalski pick out a gluten-free cereal because her nephew has, like, six allergies, and suddenly this dude — I swear to you, hand to my future nutrition degree — this absolute menace shows up and starts harassing everyone in the cereal aisle.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait, like, harassing how?”

Meg rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she might pass out from the effort. “Like ‘hey, girl, are you cereal? Because I wanna eat you for breakfast’ kind of harassing. To Mrs. Kowalski. Who is, like, seventy and barely understands what a protein bar is.”

Y/N nearly snorted out her drink. “No. He did not.”

“He did!” Meg stabbed a finger at the air. “And then when she looked confused and kind of alarmed, he tried to recover by saying she had a ‘youthful aura’ and asked if she believed in reincarnation because he thinks they met in a past life.” Meg paused, raised an eyebrow. “In ancient Egypt. I wish I was making this up.”

Y/N was wheezing now, covering her mouth to avoid attracting customer attention. “Was he on something?”

“I don’t know, but if he was, I want a refund for him because whatever it was clearly failed.” Meg looked genuinely insulted on behalf of humanity. “I told him he had five seconds to get his Tutankhamun-loving ass out of the cereal aisle before I got Jason from produce to ‘escort’ him.”

“Oh my God,” Y/N giggled, leaning over the counter as if it helped her breathe better through the laughter. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Jason threatened to hit him with a bunch of unripe bananas. It was poetic.” Meg smiled smugly, brushing invisible dust off her shoulder like she was a bouncer at a nightclub instead of a student in a grocery vest.

Y/N wiped her eyes. “And this all happened during your gluten-free consultation?”

“Oh, Mrs. Kowalski was living for the drama,” Meg said, lowering her voice. “She literally asked me if she could follow me on Instagram after. Said I had ‘star energy.’ I think I accidentally became her new granddaughter.”

“That’s better than when she told me I look like someone who forgets to eat lunch.”

Meg clutched her chest. “Ouch. Brutal. But also accurate.”

“Rude.” Y/N narrowed her eyes but smiled. “Anyway, are you sure this guy left? I don't want to deal with some reincarnated cereal prophet asking me if I believe in destiny while I'm trying to stock the frozen waffles.”

Meg gestured dramatically toward the front doors. “Gone. Jason banana-walked him out. One of the little kids clapped.”

They both laughed again, louder this time, drawing a suspicious glance from Dan, the thirty-something manager who took his job too seriously and wore khakis like a lifestyle. He always hovered just a little too close to the walkie-talkie strapped to his belt like it was a police badge.

“Act busy,” Y/N hissed.

Meg grabbed a roll of receipt paper and pretended to read the ingredients printed on the cardboard core. “Wow. 100%... pulp.”

Y/N bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

The moment passed, and Meg leaned against the counter again, looking more relaxed. “Hey, you okay today?” she asked quietly, nudging Y/N with her elbow. “You’ve been zoning out between customers like you’re trying to access a hidden file in your brain.”

Y/N sighed. “Just school stuff. I’ve got a network systems quiz tomorrow, and I think I forgot how logic gates work.”

“You’re too smart,” Meg said. “I read a label backward today and got excited that I can still read.”

“I’d trade my brain for your social skills and sense of self-worth.”

“I’d trade my lungs for a nap.” Meg sighed. “And maybe a boyfriend. Or at least someone taller than a bag of dog food.”

Y/N smirked. “You’re setting the bar low, huh?”

“I’m setting the bar realistic,” Meg said. “You ever lifted a 50-pound sack of kibble? That’s some sturdy energy. I want a man who could stop a shopping cart with one hand and still help me study anatomy later, if you know what I mean.”

Y/N made a choking noise. “You’re disgusting.”

Meg grinned. “You love me.”

Y/N shook her head, but she did. She really did. Somehow, amidst their shared suffering at the mercy of impatient customers and barcode scanners, they’d built a friendship that made even the worst shifts manageable.

Just then, the front door sensors gave a low chime as someone new entered the store.

Meg peered over Y/N’s shoulder, then leaned in again. “Oh. Speaking of kibble-worthy men…”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say it—”

“Tall. Brown hair. Weird posture. Looks like he doesn’t know how to buy cereal either. Wanna bet if he’s gonna ask about reincarnation?”

Y/N followed her gaze toward the cereal aisle.

Y/N squinted toward the cereal aisle as Meg leaned in like a commentator at a fashion show.

“Tall,” Meg whispered. “He’s wearing... what is that? Cargo pants? And—yep, oversize sweater that looks big even on his hands. Tell me that doesn’t scream your exact type.”

Y/N huffed. “You think every man is my type if he’s above six feet and looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.”

“Because those are the men who write poetry about you in the dark,” Meg said, eyes narrowed like a seer. “That guy? He looks like he’s been through something. Like he owns exactly one bowl and stares out the window when it rains.”

Y/N tilted her head again. The man — tall, broad, messy hair that looked like he ran his hand through it too often, faint stubble on his jaw — was crouched in front of the granola. Not really inspecting brands. More like… zoning out. His hand hovered over a box, then pulled back.

And there was something about him. Something familiar.

“I… I think I know him,” Y/N muttered, brow furrowed.

Meg gasped. “Wait. Seriously? You dated someone with main character hair and didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t know if I dated him—! I said he looks familiar. Like I’ve seen him before. But I can’t place it.” Y/N crossed her arms. “Maybe from campus? Or a lab partner from freshman year?”

Meg wiggled her eyebrows. “Lab partner turned life partner, let’s goooo.”

Y/N gave her a look. “Meg, he’s buying cereal.”

“And we sell hope. Don’t kill the vibe.”

The two broke into giggles again, their laughter light in the otherwise empty front end of the store. Dan was thankfully nowhere in sight, probably grilling someone in frozen foods about FIFO rotation again. The store was in its sleepy lull between the after-school snack rush and the post-commute dinner crowd, which meant just enough time for existential dread or flirting, whichever came first.

A few minutes later, the man — still slightly hunched, as if he hadn’t fully adapted to existing in public — approached Y/N’s register with a small wire basket.

She straightened up automatically, scanning him as professionally as she could. The basket only held a few items: a loaf of multigrain bread, two cups of plain Greek yogurt, and a small bundle of bananas. Not even the good kind of snacky grocery run. It looked… survivalist.

Up close, he looked even more out of place. Handsome, definitely, but not polished. Like he had been handsome by accident, without any effort or maintenance. His hoodie had a tear near the left cuff. His knuckles looked bruised.

“Hey,” he said, his voice gravel-soft and low. “Just these.”

Y/N smiled politely, fingers moving to scan the items. “No problem.”

There was a brief, awkward pause.

She glanced up. He was watching her — not in a creepy way, but like he was trying to solve a puzzle. And for some reason, that expression made the back of her neck tingle.

“You look… really familiar,” she said before she could stop herself.

He blinked. Then gave a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. I was gonna say the same.”

There was another second of hesitation — and then he set the basket down fully, like he was settling into the moment. “Y/N L/N, right?”

She stiffened a little. “Wait—what?”

“I’m Bob,” he said, slow and unsure, almost like it felt foreign coming out of his mouth. “Bob Reynolds. We… used to date. Back in high school.”

A beat passed.

A very long beat.

Then Meg, who had suddenly materialized from behind a gum display, made a noise that sounded like a suppressed sneeze, only it ended in a strangled laugh. She coughed wildly, slapping her own chest like she was choking on an Altoid.

Y/N’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her eyes scanned his face now, digging past the messy hair and sunken tiredness, through the faint stubble and older, more grown-out shape of him. And yes — yes, of course — it was him.

“Holy crap,” she breathed. “Bob. Bob Reynolds. You… you used to have an earing and used to wear those terrible denim jackets.”

Bob cracked a half-smile. “Guilty. I, uh… grew out of one of those.”

“Yeah,” she said, still stunned.

“Figured I’d evolve,” he replied dryly, glancing down at his feet.

Meg was gripping the gum rack now like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“You were... in my chem class,” Y/N said slowly. “And you used to draw on your notebooks and refuse to dissect frogs.”

“You did the frog for me,” Bob added.

“You looked like you were going to cry,” she shot back with a grin.

“I was very emotionally sensitive about amphibians.”

“I thought you moved away,” she said, still trying to reconcile high school Bob — the quiet, awkward guy who somehow got her attention despite being allergic to school spirit — with the man standing in front of her now.

“I did. For a while. Just got back recently. Kind of laying low.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew. Let alone you.”

Meg, now fully inserted into the conversation, leaned in way too far over the counter. “Y/N was basically queen of the school, by the way. You got the cheerleader valedictorian combo and then ghosted? Savage.”

Bob looked mortified. “I didn’t ghost.”

“She’s kidding,” Y/N said, elbowing Meg. “Mostly.”

“Mostly not,” Meg whispered behind her hand, still grinning.

Bob shifted awkwardly, then finally held out his hand, as if trying to restart everything. “It’s really good to see you, though. You look… the same. Better, actually.”

Y/N took his hand, surprised at how warm it was. Solid. Grounded. “You look…” she hesitated. “Different.”

“Good different or ‘have-you-been-living-in-a-bunker’ different?”

“Depends. How long has that hoodie been alive?”

Bob laughed — a quiet, honest sound. “Long enough to be considered a roommate.”

Meg dramatically fanned herself with a flyer. “I’m going to die right here in aisle one from sexual tension.”

“Go. Stock yogurt.” Y/N hissed through her teeth.

“Yes ma'am.” Meg whispered, backing away with a wink and mouthing call me later like this was a teen drama.

Y/N turned back to Bob, who was trying to smother a grin. She bagged his groceries quickly, handing them over as if she needed her hands busy or else they’d start shaking from the weird flood of emotions creeping up her spine.

“So… you staying around for a while?” she asked.

“Yeah. Trying to figure things out.”

“Well. You know where the bread and yogurt are now.”

Bob took the bag with a nod. “Thanks. For… uh. This. Talking to me.”

She shrugged, softening. “Anytime. I work most afternoons.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

And then he left — walking back out into the spring afternoon like a dream someone half-remembered after waking up. The automatic doors hissed shut behind him.

Meg came sprinting back over like a cartoon character. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

Y/N stared at the door, eyes wide, mind buzzing. “That was Bob. From high school.”

Meg’s jaw dropped. “That’s the Bob? The Bob??”

“I didn’t know he was back.”

Meg stared at her. “Girl. You had a mysterious sad boy phase before it was cool, and you never told me?”

Y/N blinked, mouth slowly turning into a smile. “It’s been a weird day.”

Meg sighed dramatically. “I’m buying you a lottery ticket after shift. Because clearly, the universe is sending you something.”

“Bread and yogurt?”

Meg grinned. “Or closure. Or maybe just the hottest second chance romance I’ve ever seen play out between cereal and a banana threat.”

They both dissolved into laughter again, the kind of laughter that bubbled up from something bigger — something starting.

And in the distance, Bob Reynolds walked home, a little confused, a little nervous.

--

High School Cafeteria, Junior Year

The cafeteria buzzed with the chaotic energy only high school lunch breaks could summon. Trays clattered, someone’s Bluetooth speaker played muffled bass under a hoodie, and the student body fractured into its social tribes: athletes hoarding pizza slices, theater kids rehearsing lines with dramatic fork stabs, and the STEM table arguing over something on a calculator like it was national policy.

Y/N sat with her usual group at the round table by the window — the so-called “popular kids,” though she hated the term. It felt like something from a teen drama rather than real life. Still, it was true that most of the school knew her name. Not in the mean-girl, tiara-wearing way, but because she was… everywhere. Cheer team captain. AP classes. Friendly with the faculty. Genuinely kind. She was the kind of person who remembered people’s birthdays and always knew which vending machine stocked the good trail mix.

Today, though, she was buzzing with something else entirely. Her eyes kept darting to the cafeteria doors every few seconds, even as her friends gossiped.

“So then,” said Jasmine, twirling a plastic spoon like a wand, “I caught Chloe writing ‘Mrs. Max Danvers’ in her notebook. In gel pen. With hearts.”

“She’s so delusional,” Lexi groaned, picking at her salad. “Max hasn’t liked anyone since eighth grade and that was his dog.”

Y/N laughed but not fully — her mind halfway across the school, willing a very specific someone to walk through those doors.

“Okay, Y/N,” said Jasmine, poking her. “Are you even here? What’s with you today?”

“Huh? Oh—” Y/N flushed slightly, biting into a grape and glancing back at the doors.

Lexi gasped. “Oh my God. She’s waiting for her emo prince, isn’t she?”

Y/N tried to look annoyed, but her smile gave her away. “He’s not emo.”

“He literally wore a shirt with a crow on it yesterday,” Jasmine said. “And headphones inside class.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, just as the doors creaked open with a buzz of late students scanning in.

And then—there he was.

Bob Reynolds stepped into the cafeteria like he didn’t belong to it. Tall, slightly slouched, backpack slung over one shoulder with a broken strap safety-pinned together. His hoodie was faded, his jeans frayed at the edges, and his hair looked like he had woken up five minutes ago — but God, her heart skipped every time she saw him.

He scanned the room once with those deep-set eyes and barely smiled — but Y/N knew the look he saved just for her.

Her entire face lit up like a switch flipped. “I’ll be right back,” she said, practically leaping from her chair.

Jasmine looked like she was watching a royal engagement. “She’s sprinting. We’ve lost her.”

Y/N weaved through tables, ignoring wolf whistles from the football guys and eye-rolls from sophomores, until she reached him. Without hesitation, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Hey, stranger,” she beamed, hugging him tight.

Bob’s expression softened like snow melting off a roof. He caught her waist, pulling her close. “Hey.”

And then she kissed him.

Not a peck. Not a shy hallway kiss. This was the full, smile-into-it, kiss-you-like-I’ve-waited-all-morning kind of kiss.

Someone behind them muttered, “Jesus, get a room,” but neither of them noticed.

“You’re late,” she murmured against his mouth, smiling too hard to be stern.

“Had to stay behind in chem. My sulfur compound exploded. Again.”

She laughed. “You’re really bad at chemistry.”

“I’m not bad at it,” he said, feigning offense. “It’s just hostile toward me.”

“Come sit with us.” She tugged his hand, already pulling him through the maze of tables. “You need to eat something that isn’t vending machine trail mix.”

Bob hesitated, but didn’t resist. “Are you sure?”

“They love you,” she said.

That was… a stretch. But he followed anyway.

Back at the table, Jasmine made a dramatic bow as Y/N returned with Bob in tow. “Ah yes. Our table’s brooding king returns.”

Bob raised a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

Lexi gave him a once-over. “Still refusing to cut that hair, I see.”

“It’s almost finals season. I’m growing it in protest.”

“You protest everything.”

He shrugged. “Someone has to.”

Y/N took her seat and dragged him down next to her. His tray only had a banana and a bottle of water, so she immediately started giving him half her sandwich.

“You’re gonna die of scurvy,” she said, breaking it in half.

“You say that like it’s dramatic,” he replied, but took the sandwich anyway.

The group settled into chatter — mostly about the upcoming dance, rumors about a surprise fire drill, and whether Mr. Thomas was dating the substitute gym teacher. Bob didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. He sat with an ease he didn’t have his sophomore year, when people whispered “Isn’t that the guy who tagged the music room lockers?”

He was still a mystery — still quiet, still aloof — but Y/N changed how people looked at him. She always touched his arm when she spoke. She brought him into jokes. She looked at him like he mattered.

And that mattered.

As the others got distracted ranking the weirdest school lunch meat ("Turkey, then ham, then the one they call 'mystery cube'"), Y/N turned slightly, her knee brushing his.

“I missed you today,” she said quietly, almost too private for the lunchroom’s roar.

He looked at her — really looked — and his voice dropped. “I missed you too.”

“You okay?” she asked, tilting her head.

Bob nodded. “Just tired. But I’m good now.”

She kissed his cheek. He turned. Their lips met again, slower this time.

From across the table, Jasmine let out a strangled groan. “You guys. Please.”

Lexi fake gagged with her spoon. “You know we can see you, right?”

Y/N leaned back with a huge grin. “You’re just jealous.”

“I’m jealous of the PDA fog you two are putting out,” Lexi said.

Bob smirked. “We’ll tone it down.”

“No, you won’t,” Jasmine sighed. “You’re gonna get married and make out in the produce aisle and we’re all gonna have to pretend we didn’t see it.”

Y/N leaned her head on Bob’s shoulder. “Promise we’ll invite you to the wedding.”

Bob whispered, just for her, “You know I love you, right?”

She turned her head, eyes soft. “Yeah. I love you too.”

And there it was — in the middle of greasy pizza trays, laughing friends, and the smell of old tater tots — a perfect little moment carved out of time.

Two kids in love.

So stupidly, beautifully in love.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A greenish-brown soup with an herb garnish in a bowl surrounded by a halved lemon, green cardamom pods, and bay leaves, followed by a close-up of the same soup. End ID]

شوربة الفريكة / Shorabat al-frika (Green wheat soup)

Frika (فَرِيكَة or فَرِيك; also transliterated "freekeh," "frikeh," or "farik"‎) is durum wheat harvested in the early spring, while the grain is green, unripe, and tender. Durum wheat, or semolina, is a different species of wheat than that which is ground to produce all-purpose flour (common wheat, or bread wheat); it is used to make couscous (كُسْكُس), bulghur (بلغور), and many types of pasta, and is widely consumed in North Africa, the Levant, and the Arabian peninsula. After harvest, unripe durum is sun-dried and then set ablaze in piles to burn off the straw and leave just the heads of wheat, resulting in a nutty, smoky flavor; the heads are then vigorously rubbed, traditionally by hand, to remove the bran. Frika is named after this last process; the word comes from the verb "فَرَكَ" "faraka," "to rub."

A staple in Palestine, shorabat al-frika (with diacritics, Levantine pronunciation: شُورَبَة الفْرِيكَة) is often eaten as an appetizer with the fast-breaking meal during Ramadan. It may contain nothing more than an onion, olive oil, frika, and water, but sometimes contains meat (usually chicken, but also beef or lamb), green chili peppers, and spices including cardamom, black pepper, bay leaves, turmeric, cumin, and seb'a baharat; some people today like to add chickpeas. Shorabat al-frika is often prepared with the chicken broth obtained by boiling chicken to make musakhkhan (مُسَخَّن), and served alongside it. It is a warming, filling, and earthy soup, with a complexity of flavor imparted by the frika itself: a fresh tartness due to the unripe grain, and a roasted aroma due to its harvesting process.

Shorabat al-frika is in keeping with a Palestinian food ethos of using simple, local ingredients to their fullest potential. Frika itself is sometimes thought to symbolize adaptability and resilience, as it was often eaten in times of scarcity when other crops were not yet ready to be harvested. Legend holds that it was discovered in a time of similar necessity: when villagers in the eastern Mediterannean tried to salvage a field of wheat that had been burned by ambushing soldiers, they found that the grain was still edible beneath the blackened chaff, having been saved from the fire by its moisture.

Frika, due to its centuries as a staple in Palestine, has also come to symbolize acceptance, Palestinian history, and connection to the land and community. In the Palestinian diaspora and amongst internally displaced people in Palestine, food is conceived of as a form of connection to homeland across distance; continuing to make Palestinian food, and remembering or using baladi ("native," "from my country") varieties of grains, produce, and herbs, is a link to the land and an expression of the hope to return.

By the same token, though, frika has come to represent Palestinian displacement and "cultural obliteration," per Rana Abdulla. One of the ways in which Israel rhetorically justifies its existence is by claiming sole ownership of an old, organically arising culture rooted in the land: the easiest way to do this is, of course, to rebrand what was already there. Food connects and combines language (in terminology and pronunciation), culture, history, climate, and land into one web of discourses, and is therefore a prime site for colonial myth-making and ideological nation-building. Thus a construction such as "Israeli freekeh" is, in fact, an intensely political one.

Nevertheless, frika continues its life as a symbol of connection, community, and resistance during adversity in Palestine. Nasser Abufarha, of the Palestine Fair Trade Association, noted in 2015 that more and more Palestinians across the West Bank were harvesting some of their wheat early to make frika, rather than relying on cheaper, imported rice. As of October 23 2023, and in defiance of an Israeli air raid which destroyed their kitchen in 2014, Jamil Abu Assi and his cousins were using frika, alongside lentils and rice, as staples in distributing food to thousands of refugees per day in Bani Suhaila, near Khan Younis. Others in the community donated ingredients or volunteered to distribute meals.

Support Palestinian resistance by contributing to Palestine Action's bail fund or to Palestine Legal's defence fund, or by attending court or making a sign to support the Elbit Eight.

Ingredients:

1 cup (170g) frika baladia (فريكة بلدية), Levantine frika

4 cups water, or vegetarian chicken stock from concentrate

1 large yellow onion, chopped

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1 green chili pepper (فلفل أخضر حار), sliced (optional)

1/2 tsp ground black pepper (فلفل اسود)

5 cardamom pods (حب هال)

2 Mediterannean bay leaves (ورق غار)

250g chicken (or beef) substitute, torn or cubed (optional)

Salt, to taste

Parsley, to garnish

Halved lemon, to serve (optional)

I have kept the spices relatively simple, as most cooks do, to highlight the earthy end of the taste spectrum and to allow the flavor of the frika itself to come forward. Most people add at least cardamom and black pepper; many add bay leaves to this duo; turmeric is the next most common addition I have come across. I have seen a few people add cumin, coriander, or allspice.

Frika can be found in the grains section of your local halal grocery store (labelled "فريكة", “فريك" "freekeh" or "frikeh"). Look for something that specifies “roasted.”

You may also be able to find frika at a speciality or health foods grocery store, but it might not have been fire-roasted as it is in the Levant. If your frika doesn't smell toasty, try roasting it in a dry pan on medium-heat for a few minutes until fragrant.

Frika may be found whole, cracked, or fine (نَاعِمَة‎ / na'ima). You may use any kind for this soup; most people use cracked or fine frika, because of its shorter cooking time. You can pulse whole frika a few times in a food processor or spice mill, until coarsely ground, if you prefer a fine texture but can't find fine frika.

Instructions:

1. Heat olive oil in a large pot on medium. Add onion, a pinch of salt, cardamom pods, and bay leaves and fry, stirring occasionally, until the onion is golden brown.

2. Add the chili pepper and cook briefly until softened.

3. Add frika and black pepper and roast, stirring occasionally, for a few minutes until fragrant.

4. Add the water or stock and stir to combine. Bring to a fast simmer and cook, covered, about 50 minutes for whole frika and 20 minutes for ground, until fully cooked. Add additional water as necessary. The frika will still be chewy at the end of the cooking time.

5. Fry meat substitute of your choice in olive oil with salt, black pepper, and a optionally a pinch of Palestinian seven-spice, until browned. Add to soup and stir to combine. Taste the soup and add salt and more black pepper, if necessary.

6. Garnish with whole or chopped parsley and serve warm.

The meat is usually added to this soup just after the onions, and simmered along with the frika. You can do it this way if you like, but I have never found simmering to do the texture of meat substitutes any favors.

[emeraldtortoiseshell]

@cabbt made an interesting observation about The Ancient One's nickname for Leo, and it got me thinking.

So, throughout the episode that shares his name, The Ancient One repeatedly calls Leo "kumquat".

I must admit: I had no idea what a kumquat was back in the 2000's. For some reason, I thought it was a type of cucumber or gherkin - maybe I just assumed it was something green to match Leo's skin? Plus, cucumbers and turtles/kappas have a connection in Japanese folklore, so it made sense in my head, at least 😅

But no. This is a kumquat:

It's a small citrus fruit, like a sour orange.

So, why did The Ancient One repeatedly call Leo "kumquat"? It's not even remotely connected to Leo or his colour scheme.

Maybe it's like the British expression of calling someone a "plum" as a lighthearted way of saying "you silly fool"? But the only source I can find for the use of 'kumquat' as slang comes from this site, which takes the wording directly from Urban Dictionary. And since neither gives a source (and anyone can submit anything to UD), I'm hesitant to believe that The Ancient One is repeatedly calling poor Leo "a young individual who goes through life constantly disappointing people with his/her infinite failures.” Ouch.

I dunno, I could well be wrong. If anyone is familiar with the term, or has heard it used in such a way, please let me know. But it just seems too harsh for what was, at the end of the day, a kid's show. Plus, the episode Fathers and Sons reveals that The Ancient One had already met Leo before, and seemed quite fond of him and his brothers. Even if Splinter wrote to him to tell him about what Leo was going through, such an insulting nickname seems uncalled for and unexpected.

I'd like to suggest 2 different, but complementary, explanations for The Ancient One's choice of nickname for Leo.

1. Kumquats may be orange when ripe, but while still growing, they're green

Perhaps The Ancient One is linking Leo's green skin to an unripe kumquat, telling him he's inexperienced and still growing/learning. Perhaps, in a roundabout way, he's saying "Give yourself time. You're not yet ready to understand the emotions churning within you, but you'll get there."

Or 2. Kumquats have got a thick outer rind, and the fruit within is said to be rather sour. Perhaps The Ancient One is noting the heavy walls Leo has put up around himself, and how bitter he has become on the inside. He drops the nickname "kumquat" once Leo lets go of his inner anger and starts to forgive himself for what he couldn't do.

He only uses it again to warn Leo to go home when his family is in danger, and even then, he uses his real name twice and "kumquat" only once.

Perhaps "kumquat" is a nickname with a meaning - like 'Splinter' - to warn Leo not to fall back into the darkness that almost consumed him?

But I don't think it's ever meant harshly.

Or, maybe the writers just wanted a silly nickname for the Ancient One to call Leo, and the picked the first East Asian fruit they could find ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I may be wrong. But that's just my interpretation. I'm interested to hear what other people think, and if anyone else has any other theories.

[dapper-suitor]

After reading Peter and Wendy by J.M. Barrie I have come up with my own Captain Hook design....

Here's all my citations for why he looks the way he does!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

★ Described as having a swarthy skin tone, which means an olive or tanned complexion; "Hook nodded. He stood for a long time lost in thought, and at last a curdling smile lit up his swarthy face. Smee had been waiting for it. 'Unrip your plan, captain,' he cried eagerly," (Barrie 90).

★ Outfit modeled after King Charles the Second of England; "In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II., having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts;" (Barrie 81).

★ Loves flowers (Yes, actually.), hence the floral patterns on his vest and jacket; "Thus defenceless Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of the tree looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of compassion disturb his sombre breast? The man was not wholly evil; he loved flowers (I have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no mean performer on the harpsichord)..." (Barrie 191).

★ His hair is distinctly dark and curled; "As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance." (Barrie 80).

★ Eyes of periwinkle blue, forget-me-nots; "Dark as were his thoughts his blue eyes were as soft as the periwinkle.." (Barrie 189). and, "His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not..." (Barrie 80).

★ Specifically the little thumbnail of him with red pupils represents a later trait we see in the novel, in which when he angers his eyes become red, "His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly." (Barrie 80).

★ Hook has a sort of sophisticated air to him because it is heavily implied in the story that he came from a high-class college in England before Neverland, "To reveal who he really was would even at this date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read between the lines must already have guessed, he had been at a famous public school; and its traditions still clung to him like garments, with which indeed they are largely concerned. Thus it was offensive to him even now to board a ship in the same dress in which he grappled her; and he still adhered in his walk to the school's distinguished slouch. But above all he retained the passion for good form." (Barrie 203).

Note: The grey hair streaks isn't really mentioned in the novel, but I thought it would be a cool (obvious) contrast between Hook and Pan.

[lej222]

Exploring ASLFUA Through Symbolism - The Importance of Year 1999

Hello guys! :) I'm so happy for all the messages that I've received, and while many of you asked me to post theories, this one will rather be an observation about Unripe Apples, but I hope it will be interesting enough. :)

To start off, many people have noticed that the year the story takes place in, 1999, is referenced in the Korean title of After School Lessons. While it might seem insignificant at first, I firmly believe that there is a connection between what happens in the world and Miae's personal growth story. Let me explain.

The importance of 1999

1999 was a symbolic year for many reasons. It was the last year of the century, and many people celebrated the beginning of a new millenium (even if there are arguments supporting 2001 as the start of it). When something long ends, it means that something new also starts. 1999 was a transition period in the minds of many - some people believed the end of the year would sign the end of humanity, like how it was highlighted in the first chapters of the webtoon as a joke. So aside from the obvious change in years, it also had a spritual aspect - ending one part of your old life, and starting anew as a different person, also moving on. Does it sound familiar? Because this is exactly what happens to Miae in the story.

Miae is in a transition period in her life - middle school is soon ending and she has to go to high school. She meets someone from her childhood who becomes her first love. And most importantly, Miae grows as a person while meeting new people and understanding their perspectives (or so she probably will, more about this later on). As a new century starts, Miae has to say goodbye to old friends and embrace new challenges. Which, if my prediction is correct, will mark the end of the story. The end of the year will mean a stage of Miae's life also concludes, while a new chapter will start (high school, new friends, new experiences, etc.) But how is it really presented for us readers?

The world revolves around Miae - until it doesn't

While Cheol and Miae are both protagonists of the story, one could argue Miae gets the most focus in the narrative. We see most of her thoughts, her memories, her interactions with others, her family, etc. While Cheol's growth is a big part of the story, his development is nearly concluded at the end of the first part. Cheol gains confidence, friends, he becomes more expressive, he falls in love. What we can expect from him is his confrontation with the school bully and the resolution of his romance with Miae. Cheol seems immature at first, but with Miae's help he learns and matures. On the other hand, Miae seemingly becomes more immature as the story progresses. It sounds contradictory, because I've just said she was the catalyst to Cheol's growth and has helped him understand when he was wrong. But Miae's world is limited, and it becomes even more obvious as the story unfolds.

Like any kid, Miae has problems that seem trivial for adults, but were probably concerns for a lot of us when we were at her age. She has to study although she hates it, likes hanging out with her friends and read comic books, wants to buy new things and falls in love. Her life is seemingly like a comic book - she feels like the protagonist, every encounter with Cheol feels fateful, and she can, even if it requires effort, befriend anyone and understand them. Like any other teenager, Miae feels like the center of her own universe and thinks the world is ending when she experiences negative feelings. It's part of growing up, and it is perfectly illustrated by the comic about the neighbours next door in the story. But growing up also means looking beyond our own limited world. While her encounters with Cheol seem like it was their destiny, many of them were created because of their families (Cheol's family moving there was probably because of their friendship, Cheol got his room because his sister wanted to tease him,etc.) Growing up means that you have to understand that not everything will go your way and not everything stays the same. Growing up means dealing with people whom you cannot understand and might not like you. And most importantly, you learn that life is not a fairy tale and conflicts do not get resolved without communication and feelings won't be understood unless you express them. Which is one of Miae's biggest weaknesses and the source of her immaturity.

Enter Seo Jisu

This is not a shipping post and I love all the characters, so please spare me before I get cancelled. Seo Jisu enters at the perfect time in the story, when Miae starts to lose her sense of boundaries as her feelings for Cheol keep growing. Although Jisu was in the story since the first chapter, Miae's limited universe did not acknowldege him even though they were classmates. She did not know his name, his reputation at school, doesn't remember him from her childhood and doesn't seem to care about him at all. But why did he enter at the perfect moment?

Like I've said, Cheol's catalyst was Miae, but Miae's world was still too small, revolving around Cheol too much. She was still insesitive in many ways and immature. Enter Jisu, Miae's catalyst for personal growth. Jisu is a challenge for Miae just like Miae was for Cheol, no surprise they mirror each other (Miae saying the same thing to Jisu as what Cheol said to Miae is the perfect example.) Miae cannot understand him, she thinks he's weird and wants him to stop following her (sounds familiar?) and makes assumptions about him without trying to talk or get to know him. And while Cheol put in effort to better his relationship with Miae, she does not do the same for Jisu. Jisu is a glitch in the system, one that was not expected and shakes her peaceful days (just like how Miae was the same for Cheol) However, Jisu's presence becomes an important learning opportunity for Miae. There's a reason why I think it was necessary to add him as a potential love interest even if there were already great candidates. And it's because Jisu is mature in ways Miae isn't. The perfect example is when he told her to stop interrupting the confession. And she thought about his words after the incident, and felt ashamed when she was talking to the girl who wanted to confess. And what would happen, let's say, if she realized Jisu was different because of his own circumstances, and not because he wanted to bully her? She knew Cheol wasn't a gangster because she knew him personally. For Miae's world to expand, she needs to make her own efforts and understand others.

The universe seems to like Miae, and interacts with her multiple times in her dreams. Miae is a precious child of the world who is loved, but needs guidance. Right now, as we approach the end of the year the story takes place in, Miae needs to mature and be ready for a new phase of her life. Whether the transition period will end with something (like her and Cheol parting ways) or start with something new (Miae and Cheol getting together at the end of 1999 and running around in circles through the majority of the year) - it doesn't matter. What matters is how she will develop as a person and what she will learn. It's beyond a simple love triangle, it's about people who inspire and help each other and learn from their mistakes. They are kids, they keep changing. The best way is to read ASLFUA as a growth story, not as a romance series, because at the end of the day what matters are the connections these kids create with each other and the memories they make.

[bee-valseveer]

Every self respecting con artist knows the first rule of running a con is to make it believable: and while frankly, this is much easier to do when you live in a world where magic and dragons exist, no matter where you are you can't start selling medicine to beautify oneself if you look like Miracle Max and the Albino from the Princess Bride had an unholy lovechild.

The second rule of running a con is to not stay in one place too long - unless of course, you're an evil royal adviser looking to take over a kingdom.

Thankfully, Peri knew these rules very well - or at least, the Nareldic version which is much less impactful for people not from around there - which was why she was currently attempting to wave goodbye to the adoring crowd of nobles and townspeople and extract herself as quickly as possible from the city before the drinking gourd hanging from her belt turned back into an extremely disgruntled dragon.

To be fair on the dragon, a drinking gourd is not exactly the most comfortable shape to be at the best of times, but especially not when you're being jingled and jangled around like an over enthusiastic apple picker shaking a tree too early in the season before being laid out by an unripe russet.

Still, Peri had been trying to get out of the town for a good four days now, ever since she had "slain" the "rampaging dragon" that had been terrorising the local guilds for the past several moons, but, Peri thought, the problem with being even a self proclaimed hero was that everyone expected you to sit down and enjoy what seemed like several dozen parties, endless thanks from what were really overdramatic townspeople, and fend off multiple requests to settle in longterm.

Peri was by now quite good at the latter, but it was still a hassle to deal with as much attention as she would receive every time she would relieve a city of their burdens - as well as the not inconsiderable amount of coins she could guilt out of the meister or local lord.

It was around ten in the morning by the time Peri had gotten a fair enough distance into the surrounding farmlands that there were only the occasional farmer or labourer she was passing by.

Checking the landscape, she carefully untied the loop securing the drinking gourd from her belt, and placed it on a mound to the side of the road near the ditch that ran between the highway and the field of terrytubers that lay parallel to it.

The gourd shuddered slightly, before morphing into what might have been an intimidating figure of a dragon, covered in sharp spikes; had it not been missing the majority of its tail or been bigger than the twenty centimetres long that it was.

The might-have-otherwise-been-scary dragon scurried up the hand Peri held out to it, scrambling up to her shoulder where it perched, a grumpy expression on its scaly face, and immediately began complaining.

"Coulda died, Agg could, Peri coulda made Agg squeeze hisself to death. Poor Agg, being so mangled, absolutely scrambled. Mean Peri hates Agg she does."

"Oh shut it you overgrown skink," Peri said affectionately, "that didn't hurt at all, and I know that for a fact."

Agg growled petulantly - "Peri don't know that, Peri not a witchy mind reader, she's not."

Peri snorted. "Maybe not, but I can still tell your melodramatic ogreshit apart from anything. You're worse than the last king we 'assisted', 'cept you don't want me to marry your idiot son."

Reaching up, she scratched Agg alongside his chin. "Come on you. You'll grow that tail back in no time, and besides, we've got enough of that spiced scootaroo you liked from that butchery to last us until we're well into the next territory, so shut your gob." She said affectionately.

Agg subsided a little, muttering under his breath dolefully occasionally as he perched on Peri's shoulder, the two scam artists soon disappearing into the late autumns noon dust haze. He wouldn't be fully finished with his woeful histronics for a good while yet, but Peri was used to that - besides, being the time of year it was, she was confident a moth or butterfly looking to lay its eggs somewhere would distract him before too long.

[ao3feed-ue]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 미숙한 표현 | Unripe Expression Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ha Junseo/Original Male Character Characters: Lee Jaewon (Unripe Expression) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Unrequited Crush, Developing Relationship Summary:

“I think I like someone,” Junseo interrupts.

“Oh,” Jaewon says. Then, in recognition, he says loudly, “Oh?”

[genuine-wrestleboy]

is there...a touchstarved fic coming?

IT'S COMING I PROMISE it's a little mechanophilic rn is that a turn off for anyone? idk please have a snippet i love you for waiting

“They hired me to fix you,” you add, like that might sway its decision. “We met once. I don't know if you remember.”

The animatronic stares without speaking, and you get the impression of narrowed eyes, a thoughtful frown. A flock of late-migrating birds goes by outside, calling mournfully into the brisk morning air. The animatronic perks up at the sound, then shakes itself violently and jabs a finger at the back of its head.

“Get it out.” Its voice is stone on stone, grinding and guttering, and silly though the sentiment may be, you can't help but think that it sounds painful.

“Okay,” you say amiably. At this point you wouldn't be surprised if the animatronic had some way to troubleshoot its own systems, but it seems best practice to see what's going on for yourself before you start pulling things loose.

While you get your tools, the animatronic lowers itself stiffly to its knees. You feel its eyes follow you, heavy as a human gaze, and something about it puts flushed heat up the back of your collar. There's that inchoate sense of appraisal again, like it knows something you don't and is waiting, amused, to see whether or not you figure it out.

“Alright, I'm going to touch you now.” You feel a little silly for the warning, but you figure it doesn't hurt to be polite.

Its response comes slowly, as though it has to think about it. “Very well.”

Even still, when you start exploring, it freezes, so quickly that you worry that something in the long-neglected mechanics must've finally shorted out.

“Shit, everything alright?”

“Just do it,” says the animatronic tightly, and then lets out a staticky, startled sound when you touch it again that makes you very glad it can't see your expression. It's not a moan, because you wouldn't know what to physically do with yourself if you had to deal with the implications of that, but the sounds share a border so close that they could rub off on one another, like wet paint.

It feels like every nerve in your body has migrated to your hands as you search for a seam in the matted fur. Fine, ashy grit collects in the whorls of your fingerprints, staining them a waxy grey.

“We should really get you cleaned up after this,” you say, just to say it.

The comment is met by the pinched, metallic sound of old fans scraping into agonized motion. A new rush of urgency tenses your muscles. Care and deliberation are all well and good, but you don't exactly trust the efficacy of the cooling system after all this time, and none of it will do you any good if everything's too hot to touch by the time you find your way in. Adrenaline urges you along, and you feel a surge of triumph when your searching fingers close on the hidden pull of a zipper. Age and grime stick the teeth fast together; you worry at it while trying desperately not to break it. When the fur finally peels apart, it does so with the stiff, reluctant cling of an unripe orange.

Underneath, the metal is greasy black and tacky to the touch. Thick dark liquid coagulates in a shallow divot the size of your smallest fingernail, sucks at the pad of your thumb when you move to swipe it aside. 

“Let me know if this—” you begin, then falter. If this hurts, you were going to say. Over the animatronic's shoulder, you can see its fingers claw against its thighs. You clear your throat awkwardly, suddenly too aware of your own fingers, the metal heating steadily beneath them. “—if anything feels wrong,” you finish lamely.

The animatronic grunts noncommittally. As carefully as if it were made of porcelain, you press the tip of your screwdriver experimentally under the divot's hidden lip. Slow, careful pressure—a small hatch pries stickily upwards, and excitement flares in your chest. It's tempered only a little by the smell that follows, a burst of wet, cloying rot that thrusts through your sinuses and lays itself in your mouth like a sluggy second tongue. You don't gag, but it's a near thing. 

“There we go,” you say, a little nasal, “that's not so bad, right? Oh, look at you, you're gorgeous.”

Visible now under the hatch is a snakes’ nest of wires, blue and red and black, their insulating skins shedding to reveal gleams of greening copper so expertly soldered that you can still make out every path between the joints. The patterns are alien to you, though, unlike any of the machines you've worked on before, as though whoever was responsible for this one was making it up as they went along. It's fascinating in its novelty and exhilarating in its sheer blunt competence. 

How had the creator managed it, to make an animatronic that was still capable of such complex operation after, if what your now former boss was to be believed, thirty years of inactivity? There must be redundancies built into the design to preserve functionality in case of damage, but the fact that they're still effective is astonishing. It makes you want to do something embarrassing, like lean forward and kiss it. If it weren't for the awareness of your impatiently shifting audience, you probably would.

Instead, you focus on the captivating puzzle in front of you, sorting gingerly through the wires with reverent, gloved fingers. They part readily under your touch, slick with more of that dark, acrid liquid, though by now you’re starting to get used to the smell. A rigid tension seizes the animatronic's shoulders, as though it were stopping itself from moving away. The fans in its chest whir and screech.

“Hanging in there?” you ask.

“Don't coddle me,” it bites out, and you laugh before you can stop yourself.

“Who's coddling? I just wanna make sure I'm not touching anything I shouldn't.”

As you speak, you slide a fingernail between two wires, teasing them apart with a soft shlick. Sitting beneath them, top left like a postage stamp, is a battered chip of purple plastic. Corrosion bleeds from its edges in crystalline gobs and fans out in feathery white veins, caustic mechanical mold. Where it meets metal, rubbery ribbons of sealant curl away to bare the fragile circuitry below. You let out a short, appraising breath between your teeth. 

It looks—to use a technical term—bad, but you know better than to mess with anything when you still don't know what it does. You hover a fingertip over the chip, testing for heat. You expect it—a functional heat, at least, enough to confirm that it's still doing what it's meant to, whatever that is. What you don't expect is the chill. It's like the chip is carved from ice, radiating a cold well below the air around it. The unexpected sensation gets a gasp out of you, prickling up your arms in gooseflesh that feels like nails raked lightly along your skin. 

Heat rises into your face, and sinks into your belly. Humiliation nips at its heels.

“There's a chip here,” you blurt, your own silence taking on uncomfortable weight. “D'you know what it's for?”

It's a long shot, but your aim proves true.

“Yes,” says the animatronic, sounding pleased.

[acreaturebythewater]

WIP POLL UPDATE

thank you all for voting for my wips <3

as the rules state, one sentence per vote (with some cheating on my part), here are the updates, some very out of context:

the dumb one - you keep showing up raphael/tav (i called it this because i constantly refer to is as "the stupid fucking fic" in my head lmao) - 6 votes

“So, I was thinking,” she starts, opening the door that leads to her garden, sunshine pouring into the foyer and over the little mouse’s freckled skin. “What can you do?”  “If I were to make a list of all the things I can do, we’d stand here all day.”  She rolls her eyes and Raphael feels anger rising up inside of him.  “Then please, mouse, elaborate.”  “It’s only a matter of time until we’re heading to Avernus,” she says. “I haven’t really stayed in touch with Hope, but I imagine everything is fine. Well, as fine as it can be.”  Right, Hope, a reunion Raphael would rather be without. And definitely not a thought that puts him in a better mood.  “Now, don’t look like that,” she chides and he schools his expression into something more neutral. “But on the off chance there’s a fight, I need to know what you can do. And I know you were all fire and claws but I have my suspicions that isn’t the case anymore.”

the idiots not in love one - a change of heart endgame aradin/tav - 9 votes

“Where are ya goin’?”  She’d recognise that voice anywhere.  Six months have passed since she thought about the adventurer. At least that’s what she tells herself, and it’s technically true if you don’t count the times her traitorous mind slips into nostalgia. Hells, at times she’s even let herself linger a bit. Mostly she just pushes the memories down to their confinements and slams the lid shut quickly, every time leaving a bitter aftertaste. Like biting into an unripe plum.  Only this time there’s no lid to slam shut, because there he is, living and breathing, though soaked to the bone with his lack of proper clothing for the weather. The only sign of time passing being how his curls are longer, and something resembling a patchy beard sitting on his chin.

the cursed one - durgic - 8 votes (i might change this one to 3rd person)

The two figures standing in his audience hall are not what Ketheric expected. Of course, he knows of the Tyrant from the dozens of letters they’ve sent between them. But when the Tyrant presented the daughter of Bhaal as his respected associate, Ketheric expected a filthy, mindless creature.  He wasn’t expecting you.  While the Tyrant does most of the talking, you stand there next to him, clad in fine robes and your chin tilted slightly upwards.  Proud. Regal.  There’s a whisper of a smirk on your lips, as if you’re about to let him in on a secret.

the cute one - the usual alan/reader - 2 votes

“May I?” he asks, voice rumbling.  The speed you nod at almost has you spraining the muscles in your neck, and you croak out a breathy “yes, please”. 

ta-dah!

[star-spacer]

Colors of Home

Sacred Spaces Masterlist (Heart Pirates x reader)

The colors of your world, as per the Heart Pirates

Your profession required you to have a good eye for color. But before meeting the Heart Pirates, you didn’t put much thought into it, more focused on relearning how to live in a world free of the heavy hand that governed you. Then it was the race to establish your reputation, no thought into the colors taking up the world around you.

But like they did for all the other aspects of your life, the Heart Pirates made you think differently.

Red was not a good color you liked as a kid. It meant blood, it meant more stains on your hands in your clothes, and the smell of iron that never washed out.

Yet, red now meant the crimson sunset and even more crimson strands of Shachi’s hair when the sunlight glinted off of them. The reliable, jovial counterpart to Penguin, one-half of the first mate position. Fierce in his own right, when you caught the flash of red hair fighting by your side, you knew that he’d have your back. One of your least favorite colors now rewritten.

Orange was the color of rare, fresh fruits. Unripe persimmons with their stringent flesh and the fuzzy stone fruits found in the warmer Blues. But in the corridors of the Tang, a flash of orange meant the presence of Bepo. When not found by Law’s side, he was often in the navigation room or the library. Quiet and soothing, he was the best person to be by when you were sick of the monotony of your workshop walls and needed the presence of another soul.

The color yellow belonged to the sun. Warmth pervading life that seeped into your pores and bones. The colors of flower pollen that came with the spring breeze. But soon, you also thought that the color yellow belonged to the Heart Pirates. Your crew quite liked yellow, from Ikkaku’s bandana, to Risso’s cap, and Law’s hoodie, your fingers all danced over those items with a reverence and care reserved for no other. The Jolly Roger over your breastbones also smiled a warm-golden yellow. Even when it faded, or the fabrics wore thin, you were there to fix it all. To darn the holes in the bandana, and stitch the seams that were coming loose. 

The more intense, vivid golds brought to mind Law’s eyes. The flash of sadistic satisfaction against an enemy, the sharp metallic pinpoint of focus in surgery, or—if you were lucky enough to catch it—the depthless softness of contentment as he watched over his nakama. While his expression might remain still, his eyes told all in those molten aureate pools.

 Though the Heart Pirates had no official color, you would say that they favored the color yellow. After all, it was the color of the Polar Tang, of the very vessel that housed their hearts and souls.

Green was the color of life. Whereas red brought violence and danger to the forefront of your mind, green always meant peace. As a child, green forests filled your nose with the sharp scent of dirt and heavy sap in the air. Though green was a color hard to come by within the submarine, deep below the pressure of the ocean, it was most often found in Risso’s domain. Green made up the weight of the produce in the crates, nourishment of your family held in your arms. The greens in a well-balanced meal, the greens of a poultice, carefully made to heal. Risso did it all.

Blue.

Blue that was bluer than the ocean of skies, found in the flashes of your black-haired first mate’s eyes beneath the brim of his hat. And when things seemed dire, the flashing, glowing blue of Law’s Room meant that he would take care of everyone. Safety to the Heart Pirates and a certain defeat for all your enemies, even when it sparked fear in the hearts of your opponents, it only revitalized your spirits. That shade of blue enveloped you all, his silent protection and promise as the Captain.

When purple bloomed, it was the color of bruises, ones that Law couldn’t get to in time, but always offered to heal if he saw that they were causing you pain. It littered your skin a lot when you were younger and still did now, but their presence was soothed by the care and concern your nakama gave to you. Furthermore, it was the purple of all the animals and plants that you’ve gotten to see with your crew. Of the five-pointed stars below sea and the vibrant aster flowers in the summer islands. And it was Uni’s favorite color, the tint of his bandana gifted from his sister. Uni, who spoke few words, but his actions said it all in the way he looked out for the crew. The stabilizing presence in your first few chaotic weeks with the crew. 

Your eyes flickered over the swathes of fabrics stacked up on your shelves, mind adrift in the silence that was soon shattered.

“Yo. Tailor-chan!” Shachi sang, sticking his head into your workshop with Clione in town. “Come onto the deck! The sun’s coming out!”

Humming, you thought over the mid-progress projects on your desk. Now that your nakama was larger, and you were all in the Grand Line, there was always something to be patched up. Yet, the invitation to have some much-needed fresh air was too good to pass up after such a long time underwater, the violent storm making it too dangerous to surface.

“Are you coming or not?” Clione prompted. 

“Don’t make me come in there and drag you out,” Shachi threatened.

“Coming, coming,” you said, turning to follow them. Based on the quietness in the halls, it seemed like most of the crew as already on deck. “And if you try to drag me, I’ll break those scrawny arms of yours.”

The redhead bonked the back of your head with a gentle fist. “We both know who’s the scrawny one, and it’s not me.”

“Maybe,” you hedged as the three of you climbed up the stairs. “Maybe it’s Clione.”

Said man turned an affronted look your way. “What did I do?!?”

“It’s more the matter of what you didn’t do,” Shachi said as he pushed open the hatch to the outside. True to your suspicions, quite literally everyone was outside.

Very fine, light droplets were still coming down, but the temperature was a relieving moderate between the Tang’s extremes of sweltering heat and frozen cold. 

Ikkaku sidled up to your side, droplets of water suspended in the coils of her hair like little gems. “Glad you could join us! Thought those two fools died on the way.”

Clione threw up his hands in exasperation. “Why is everyone so mean to me today?”

He shuffled away to join Uni and Morsa, muttering something about scapegoats and unfair insults. Ikkaku reached to pluck something from your hair and smoothed down flyaways, and you let her before she finished and dragged you closer to the railing. Law nodded a greeting when the two of you slotted in place next to him, Bepo waving from his other side. After greeting them both, you turned your eyes out to the reason you were dragged out in the first place.

The sun was out, not low enough to change the sight of the brilliant blue of a post-storm sky. However, it was at a perfect angle for a rainbow to form. Its glittering facade hung over the cheery yellow submarine, a sight so rarely seen in this part of the Blue.

“Quick, does anybody have a photo snail? Snap a picture!”

“Oi, oi don’t shove me! I almost fell overboard!”

“Jean Bart, put me on your shoulders!”

“You’re all responsible for getting yourselves back on the Tang if you end up in the water.”

“Aye, aye!”

“I think a lot of other islands have the same sentiments,” Ikkaku began softly, “but on mine, we say that a rainbow brings good luck.”

Yes, you had to agree. The Heart Pirates were your rainbows, after that stormy day, and every day that you spent with them was like good fortune coming your way.

[queen-rainy-love]

Cookie of the Week: Peach Blossom Cookie

Huge thanks to @what-if-inc for helping me with this one!

This Cookie of the Week is...

Cookie name: Peach Blossom Cookie

Pronouns: He/Him

Rarity: Epic

Position: Middle

Type: Support

Lore: (Written by @what-if-inc) The Ivory Pagoda was not always a place of Apathy. It has existed for many thousands of years, even before the time of Mystic Flour, as the arduous path for those who seek enlightenment. Peach Blossom Cookie is merely a caretaker of a peach garden, amidst the thousands of steps leading up to the peak of the mountaintops, offering the fruit to those daring to face their mortality and worldly desires on this dangerous path. It is said that his garden only blossoms every three-thousand years, and that his crop is longed for even by immortals; his dough may look young and vibrant like the peaches he tends to, but he has lived for countless years, having reached enlightenment even before the Beasts came to be. How Peach Blossom Cookie came to reach such enlightenment and wisdom, what caused him to seek this land of tranquility and make his home there, is lost to the sands of time. He no longer carries a weapon, though he may have once — it has no use in his finely crafted lands of peace. A Cookie who has lived through all of history and watched the world slowly inch by, Peach Blossom Cookie is an enigma, but he needn't be known or understood. All he must do is care for his garden, and for the weary travelers who pass him by…

Personality: Peach Blossom is an easygoing Cookie who has lived for a long time. He takes good care of his peach garden without any other concern. He doesn’t even care about Mystic Flour’s goals. Instead, he expresses more concern about the pain that Dark Cacao’s harbored anger toward Mystic Flour. He can offer kindness and compassion but can also point out the long road of suffering. He also freely offers the sweet fruit of his garden to anyone who passes by. He does take pride in the succulent taste of his fruits.

Skills: Peach Blossom's Skill is called Heavenly Fruit. This skill has Peach Blossom summoning a Peach Tree that heals the team periodically as well as bears Peach Bao fruits. The ally with the lowest Current HP will get additional Healing. Peach Blossom will give Heavenly Fruits to the team to increase their DMG Resist and Debuff Resist. When Apathy is on the team, the Heavenly Fruit will grant resistance to Apathy, ATK, and DMG Resist. The enemies will receive Unripe Peach Baos (inflicting DMG, reducing ATK SPD and MOV SPD). Peach Blossom will become immune to Apathy thanks to Peach Fragrance. 

Costumes: Peach Blossom has zero costumes.

Cookie Decor: Peach Blossom does not have a Cookie Decor.

Thoughts: We need more of this guy. Please Devsister. Give us more content!