#weasel writes

[silver-weasel]

In which Katsuki, a young ambitious pianist, is forced to serve as an accompanist for ballet rehearsals. That's how he meets Izuku, a promising dancer who'll be quick to change everything he thought he knew about music.

READ ON AO3

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI!!)

Tags: ballet AU, pianist!Bakugou Katsuki, ballet dancer!Midoriya Izuku, aged-up characters, strangers to lovers, pining, getting together, eventual smut

I hope you enjoy my dancer!Izuku x pianist!Katsuki brainrot as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

@whentheresmoonlight beta'd this whole mess! Thank you so so much for dealing with my bs ❤️

This fic was written for the @bakudekubigbang. My bang partner @crispyban4na has been a joy to work with, a huge thank you to her as well!! You can find her amazing piece of art from this chap here!

[sleep-deprived-weasel]

Let me be personal here….

There is someone I miss, a friend. He’s not dead or anything, he’s just not here with me rn. He’s at university to be completely honest. I’m still in our hometown. Back to this friend, he’s smart, realistic, sweet…..

No, it all comes out wrong, when I use normal adjectives. He’s my friend, and that’s the greatest thing about him.

Like I said, he’s at college. Ever since he went, we haven’t talked much. He’s busy, I understand, or at least try to. We used to text all the time though. We enjoyed the other’s company. It’s lovely, just enjoying someone’s presence.

He hasn’t really talked to me in a while, just simple responses to whatever message I send him. I don’t text him much either. I want him to text first, but maybe it’s all some form of self-imposed punishment.

I miss him, and I am selfish, wanting his time and attention. I refuse to demand it. He deserves the world and the chance to make new experiences…. and new friends, so I keep my distance.

It hurts to miss him. God I miss him so much. There’s a quote I like from a show called Amphibia “my only remaining wish is that my love reaches you.” I wish that. I hope they know that I’m always here. I hope they know that I still love them, no matter how much time has passed.

If you ever read this. I miss you dude.

Sincerely,

Sleep-Deprived Weasel

P.S. I know I’m a sap!

It was nice to let my feelings out. Definitely haven’t told him or anyone. Thank you humble readers; good night sleep tight; don’t let the weasels bite.

[weaselchild]

A Late Night Hunt

This is set before after Laque has managed to cap his leaking flow and adapted from an rp with a good friend of mine

There were shadows all around him. In the dim lighting of his bedroom, figures illuminated by the moonlight that streams through his open window danced at the corners of his eye as he so desperately tried to focus on the blueprints before him. His vision swam, eye wanting to chase those shadows further into the bedroom, beckoning his gaze towards sharp teeth and wide eyes; unnatural grins and spindly, dripping fingers that wanted to graze ever so lovingly over his face. But he kept his gaze on the paper, vision blurring ever so slightly with fatigue.

Something dripped onto his page. Iridescent and glowing. Flow splattered like tears on his papers. It was getting worse again. It always got worse before it gets better again. His body needed a break from the heavy restrictions he used to cap the ebb and flow of the world’s magic through him.

Letting out a groan of frustration, Laque let his head fall and forehead thump lightly against his desk. Whispering, chittering, laughing, roaring, the cacophony in his head continued, playfully echoing about the room, following figures out of his imagination, black shadows leaving a glowing magenta trail after them as they moved.

Sitting up again, he swivelled in his chair. Pink smeared across his cheek and on his sleeves as he considered what he’s about to ask.

“Did you want them for the night?”

And in the darkness, two eyes blinked back, torn from their simple thoughts of observing.

She was his shadow. A corporeal creature given existence by his acknowledgement, following wherever he goes.

Perhaps that was a little dramatic. She was her own person, after all. She just didn't care much about what that meant. Laque just was the only thing she cared about in this world, her overprotective tendencies never wavering at the sight of that living glass bottle of flow; that she could see the cracks claim more of every day. She knew she'd lost him once. Or was it twice? Between them, their memories of the past were still nonexistent and likely would never exist again. Three was a magic number, but not for the better in this grim fairytale.

She was his shadow. Her existence defined by his. She was one of Them. The Ones he created with the magic of his hallucinogenic-flow dreams. The only one sitting between his dreams and his reality without hurting him. Glowing flow splinters scattered from her jaws as his voice echoed through the dimly lit room. Like a panther she slid from the shadows to his presence, one fingertip trailing off an inky blackness in her shadow along the wall. It seems to shudder.

"Want what? Your furniture?" she whispers, voice low but scratchy. The urges were strong tonight. She’d have to slink out once he was asleep.

She watched a tired smile crack across his face at the perceived joke, the rough edges of his face softening. Her presence always brought him comfort, a familiar lower energy to complement his own. They had been companions since they both could remember (not long at all), perhaps longer.

"Them," he clarified, jerking his head to the corners of the room where the shadows felt most alive, writhing in an endless void, perhaps an amalgamation of various things he saw in his general day to day, making them a terror to behold. She isn’t sure. He isn’t too descriptive when he does see them.

And then one of them blinked at him, its emaciated body breaking from the mass to wind forward as its lidless eyes gaze upon the two of them. He saw its horrible face contort in what might have been the grin of a rotting corpse. More flow splattered across his clothing as he makes to remove his glass eye as distraction, lips curled back in a half snarl at the thought of how he was going to get the stain out of the carpet.

"They're restless. Their voices pound at my skull such that I think they may crack it open."

The emaciated figure knocked its head playfully, much to his annoyance. As if mocking him. Like an asshole. And then it crawled, spider-like, to rest its spiny fingers over Someone’s shoulder where she pulled its lips apart in a gruesome smile in a pathetic attempt to make it presentable.She dared a glance at her disfigured friend, a sweatdrop forming behind her neck. The chapaa hat she's wearing wasn't alive, but sometimes it seemed to move with the flow….like how it was drooping now a little, as if she was in trouble with a parent. And his followed, little ears twitching as if to show their connection.

"You know," she chanced a meek reply, just a little guilty.

The creatures had made their presence known to her not long before Laque's eye started bleeding flow, but she knew only Laque should be able to see them - or at least used to. Not eager to make him doubt his own sanity further, she took them away on regular hunts if only so that her dear friend could have some peace from their haunting presence. She had learned that the creatures cared for their unknowing master as well, much to both party's misery.

"I know… And I'm grateful. I probably would have lost my sanity having to deal with them on my own. I just didn't want to acknowledge them…"

The light thud of his eye on the table got her attention once more and she watched as he reached out to the oversaturated silks that have seen much use already. She frowned as she watched flow trickle down his neck, like blood from a dying body. Another minute or two, and they would have to be out of there. Tonight looked bad, and Laque was pale even under the moonlight.

With the wrap secured, he stood up, brushing his dirty hands off on his hoodie before removing it to clean up the rest like a rag. Without looking, he easily slotted up against her side, followed by two or three more blinking faces slowly coming into focus proper.

"They don't hurt you, right?"

"They hurt you," Someone replied quickly, leaning back against him, "and they know it. They don't want to. When did you notice?"

“I mean… It’s not hard to equate their and your disappearances when they happen at the same time. And they are far from my least favourite part of my symptoms." He gently knocked his head against her a second affectionately, bringing the stained hoodie to reinforce the cloth on his face before repeating his original question once more. "They don't hurt you, right?"

"They…don't. They uh. They make me more powerful? It's great. I don't even need arrows to hunt."

Powerful was an understatement. The flow energy transformed her entirely. She was much more akin to a beast than any human or Majiri in that form.

And she liked it. She was just not sure how Laque would react to it. What if it shocked his mental state enough that it affected the flow? She couldn't risk that right now. Absolutely not. She couldn't lose Laque again. Even if she couldn't remember how she'd lost him the first time.

But he snuggles against her more, hiding his head like a bunny as if to hide from the pounding in his skull. There was something hauntingly familiar about that look of pain. As if it wasn't just something she saw regularly, but before their life here together. She knew as much as he the effect that the hallucinations had on his dwindling sanity on nights like this, when the flow was too rough and restless enough that it gave his demons corporeal form. He wouldn't be able to sleep through it.

"Could you take them for tonight? They're too much."

"Was just about to."

Someone changed into her tank top before throwing a worn out cloak on top. No one needed to recognize her out there with Them. Nights like these were conflicting. She looked forward to the hunt, but the conditions for it hurt Laque.

But if he knew and he was actively asking her…

Maybe not so conflicting then. A small sigh escaped her as she puts their foreheads together in a moment of peace.

"Stay safe. I'll bring back some ingredients for breakfast."

Before Laque could say anything else, she slid off the sheets and silently stalked outside. Claws of neon violet protruded from her hands, connected to magical swirls that slither up her arm. The squeals of terror and calling voices were like a symphony of cacophony in her ears.

An eye in the midst of a swirling portal of magenta, disembodied.

She could feel the power behind her closed sockets now; the snap of pink electricity at her fingertips. They had to go.

"Prey," she hissed, voice like a snake. The shadows around her seemed to echo her statement, contorting in back breaking forms as they manifest from the ground. A small army of repulsive black bleeding upwards in a blasphemous act against the laws of physics. Not a moment later, they're gone.

Never does she feel closer to the feral violence of the land than in this form. With the wind in her hair and blood across her body, she threw her head back and howled’ joined by her friends of the night in a chorus of strangled pleas like the flow in her ears. The impressions of teeth and eyes swirled forth occasionally, the distinct shape of a creature showing through in the light of the two moons, otherwise shrouding her form in an almost protective darkness in the night.

There was always a comfort in the flow that supports her with the shadow creatures, like a gentle touch of Laque's presence. Then again it probably was, the shadow creatures that grant her these abilities were of his power, after all. They clung to Someone, melding around her form and acting as an extension to help track her prey. Instances like these where roles were almost reversed, in which she became the dominant and a part of him her shadow. A snare, an arrow, a boost of speed, whatever she needs to take down her prey, whatever would expend energy and work it off into the bay to join the ambient flow of the air.

She spat out a piece of flow wood, swiped before the small pack of humans descended upon the grove tonight. There was always plenty for everyone, so no one ever cared much about the strange break marks caused by her violent harvesting.

Sometimes she wondered if Laque could make flow wood himself by sleeping on a pile of logs. The creatures behind her begin to dissipate, making a series of sounds rsembling the hacking of flow trees. The energy around them had stabilized, meaning by extension, Laque must be in better shape. She could tell through the flow around her as well. By the time she returned, the creatures were all but thin air. She stood alone next to a large pile of neatly wrapped carcasses.

Blood and liquid Flow smeared her sides, coating her hands and teeth like a thick red glue. A curious expression settled on her face as she internally debates. Laque must be tired tonight, she'll wash up.

Ten minutes later she slipped into Laque's bed, still damp and bare from their pond. Snuggling her young companion is like her wolf's cozy den at the end of a long hunt as he turns over like a bunny looking for affection. He looked a lot better, the color having returned to his cheeks. The leak had already slowed to an almost drip, manageable now even by the oversaturated cloths he used as a makeshift eyepatch though the excess still smeared across her pale flesh. Maybe if she hugged him tight enough, he wouldn't see her friends for the night. Come morning they'll bathe and have breakfast with whatever she's brought back. Life as normal.

[musingweasel]

Heyyy guess who actually started the teen wolf fic they were thinking about writing??

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

you are somebody that i want to keep ; satoru gojo

synopsis; you aren't sure what you have with satoru gojo, but you know that it’s good.

word count; 6.7k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, colleagues to friends to something unlabelled, you love each other though!!, fluff, hurt/comfort, very very soft, reader falls first but gojo falls harder, both of u are afraid of intimacy lol, a lil angsty if u squint, satoru gojo cherishing u for ~7k words straight <33

a/n; basically just a collection of moments between you and gojo throughout the years <33 (a significant amount of time has passed between each part!!) hes an emotionally repressed loser but i love him and he is smitten w u.

in the soft luminescence of daybreak, your kitchen looks something like a dream.

tainted with a hazy sunshine, simmering with warm colours and pleasant scents, it almost seems to sparkle in the peripheral of your vision. brimming with that feeling of home, a home you’ve broken your bones building, desperate to shape it into something safe — and you think you’ve done a pretty good job.

it’s soothing, comforting, all of these sensations. bleeding into each other like smudges of paint on a canvas; hyacinths blooming by the windowsill, espresso-flavored steam wafting up to the roof, soft meows stemming from the cats by your feet. absolute bliss.

indulging in a peace yet to be shattered by the strain of the working world, you rub the sleep from beneath your weary eyes. blinking and yawning like a drowsy child.

beyond the translucent glass of your windows, glimmering with the light of a sun soon to rise, the world is painted pink and indigo — save for that one hint of gold, a streak of honey slathered across the surface of the sky. fluffy clouds drift through the chilly air, melting in the wake of a new day, and you think they look a little like tufts of cotton candy. soft enough to sink your teeth into, if only the glass wasn’t in the way. keeping the cold out.

it’s a new day. a pleasant morning, sitting comfortably on the brink of dawn, before the city has a chance to rouse from its slumber.

a kind of solitude you so rarely get to bask in. 

a false solitude, really. because, for once, there’s another human being in your home — one you don’t know nearly as well as you’d like, for him to be fast asleep on your couch, cheek smushed against the leather. snoring softly. 

satoru gojo.

like this, he looks very… human. vulnerable. hair just slightly tousled, from tossing and turning on your not-so-comfortable couch, blindfold only covering one of his eyes and close to slipping off entirely. his expression has melted into one of something vaguely resembling relaxation, as close to unguarded as you assume he can physically get.

even in his sleep, he looks a little stiff. not entirely at peace; like a stray cat sleeping under the hood of a car. 

(you’re curious. fascinated, maybe, by the loneliness that clings to the strongest person in the universe. by the paradoxical innocence of his grin.)

honestly, everything from last night is kind of a blur. you remember accompanying the strongest sorcerer on a mission, one long enough to leave you completely and utterly spent, fatigue nestled deep into your bones. remember gojo getting a sudden migraine, so earth-shattering that you thought he was going to keel over and throw up in the middle of the street.

then you remember bringing him back home with you. very hesitantly, only after he begrudgingly accepted the fact that he didn’t have much of a choice. because you were fucking exhausted, and so was he, and your apartment happened to be conveniently close. you remember him practically passing out on your couch, still somehow managing to crack a bad joke you can’t recall, while you went to collapse into the comfort of your bed.

and now you’re here. dyed in half-transparent sunbeams, caffeine bubbling in your veins, gazing at your sleeping coworker from your spot by the kitchen table. waiting for the world to open its weary eyes.

it’s still early. some part of you expects him to sleep a while longer, but you can’t say you’re particularly surprised when gojo begins to stir.

a splotch of sunshine splatters across your living room window, staining the floorboards, falling over the contours of his pretty face. in the light, he looks positively holy; white lashes, pale skin, plump lips. like a goddess.

when he opens his eyes, it’s even worse. a single iris cracked open, pooling with unbridled brilliance. eyes so blue they seem to cut through the stillness of the air.

(— and the world wakes up.)

a little groan slips from his lips, barely audible. with groggy movements, he brings a hand up to his face, obscuring the grating light of the sun flitting in. you think you can almost see the gears of his mind turn, as he takes notice of his surroundings, remembering what transpired just hours before.

faster than you thought, he regains some semblance of composure. huffing under his breath, as he forces himself into a sitting position. 

it feels a little wrong, to see the closest thing this world has to a god act so human. be so human. morning-fatigued, just like you, wearing droopy eyelids and a soft, sleepy pout. a little disheveled. groggy with lost dreams.

when his gaze meets yours, you can’t control the breath that hitches pitifully in the back of your throat. a meek skip of your heartbeat, like you just saw something you shouldn’t have. oops.

gojo cracks a grin.

“.. watchin’ me sleep?” he calls out, cheeky. paired with a drowsy yawn. composed, unbothered, but there’s something almost performative about it, something you’re sure you’d miss if he wasn’t still in the process of collecting himself. 

“good morning,” is all you offer him. ignoring his teasing remark. he doesn’t push it, to your surprise. “sleep well?”

a hum. absentminded, jovial. one of his large hands goes to adjust his blindfold, the other to fluff up his hair. kicking off the blanket you just barely had the energy to throw over him last night. your fluffiest one, warm enough to protect him from the chill gnawing at the windows. hopefully.

“like a log,” he quips, stretching idly, muscles straining under his baggy uniform. they must be sore, after that mission. or maybe he’s above such things.

choosing not to comment on his obvious lie, you put your lips against the ceramic of your cup. sipping from the bitter brew, a tinge of hazelnut on your tongue. letting him gather his bearings without you scrutinizing him. a little favor, one liar to another.

“thanks for letting me crash,” he grins, lazy. toothy. stumbling to his feet with a low groan, gaze flitting around the room — looking for the exit. “i’ll get outta your hair,” he mutters, and you raise a brow.

“not staying for breakfast?”

gojo stills. your question rings out, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, into the living room.

his smile twitches, ever so slightly, in what you think must be surprise. then it’s back to normal; like putting on a mask, not allowing a sliver of weakness to slip through the cracks. he exhales a raspy chuckle, a sound that flows through the air and crawls down your spine.

”generous, aren’t you?” he hums, voice rich with amusement. dappling sunlight licks at the white locks of his hair.

you shrug. “i wouldn’t mind the company.”

the words climb up the walls of your throat, a little reckless, eager to catch a glimpse of the miracle before you. satoru gojo, framed by the simplicity of your home — somewhat hard to let go of. sunkissed skin, restless hands. a little out of tune. shifting from foot to foot, eager to get away.

(a little like a frightened fawn, you amuse yourself by thinking. he’s really more like the fox who scared it.)

you think he must be bit uncomfortable. forced to spend the night in a coworker’s apartment, one he doesn't even know that well, one he probably doesn’t have any intention of getting to know. still trying to politely excuse himself. persistent, stubborn.

maybe he didn’t expect this. maybe he was convinced he could sneak away, before you had a chance to wake up. maybe he thought you’d be all too eager to let him leave, and never speak of this again. maybe he’s not used to being wanted. 

“ha… i’m flattered, believe me, but —“

“what do you usually eat?” you ask. cutting him off, gently, tapping your fingertips against the edge of the table. “for breakfast, i mean. i’ll whip something up.”

a chuckle slips from his lips. you can’t put your finger on it, but something about it bothers you. “really, there’s —“

“if you’re worried about inconveniencing me, don’t be.” you pause, unsure of what to say. but the words end up spilling out of your throat, oddly honest. ”it’s been a while since i had the chance to make breakfast for someone else.” 

it’s strange, really, how intent you are on seeing this through. how much effort you’re putting into making him stay. you barely even know him. actually, you don’t know him at all — all you know is that his smile makes you happy and his strength makes you envious. that you aren’t afraid of him, even though you probably should be.

something about him just feels safe.

“i’m pretty good at making pancakes,” you hum, a small smile playing at your lips. polite, jovial. pale light flits in through the window and slips into its curve. ”do you want some? before we go to work.”

(something in his fingers twitch, when you say that tiny word; pancakes. a little tell. you just barely catch it, before it sputters out. before he reels it back in.)

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, a rubber band bound to snap.

gojo stands there, a very subtle contemplation etched into his features. behind him, your cats begin to scratch at the couch, but you don’t scold them. just waiting for something to happen. beyond the glass of your windows, the sun unfurls in the sky, stretching its arms to envelop the world.

he grins, suddenly. soft light reflecting off the white of his teeth. cocky, composed. not quite performative, a little more natural.

“well, if you insist.”

he strolls over to your side, just a tiny bit sluggish, lazy steps and comically long limbs. he must still be tired. but he takes a seat, right across from you, plopping down on the chair with an effortless air of confidence. lighthearted, leaning his elbows on the table, crossing his legs under it. comfortable. settling into his role.

you’re pleasantly surprised.

“how would you like them?” you ask, and you think some of your excitement may have spilled out with the question. if it did, gojo doesn’t comment on it. ”your pancakes.”

“with chocolate chips, please!” he shoots you a sweet smile. “and whipped cream on top.” 

so demanding. for some reason, it makes the corners of your lips quirk up. kinda like a bratty younger brother.

“got it.”

the smell of dark chocolate hangs heavy in the air as you get to work, shuffling around the open space. all while gojo waits, patiently, tapping his foot under the table and staring out the window. leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. listening to the humming of nightingales on the branches of the apple tree down on the ground, and the buzz of your old radio.

the kitchen fills with motion, sounds, smells. life. splotches of sunlight, crinkled cartons of orange juice. the clinking of plates. two tired adults, seated at the same table, indulging in a fleeting peace and the promise of something new. something almost concrete.

a small, precious moment. enough to make your fascination shift into something you know must be fondness. or close to it. 

gojo grins at you, mouth full of pancakes, eagerly telling you about something the kids did last week. wolfing them down, chocolate smeared over his bottom lip. you laugh, and suddenly the world feels a little safer than it should. a little more intact.

you wonder what it means. where it’s going to lead. this feeling of something wonderful beginning, something you couldn’t stop if you wanted to.

a budding connection.

the city lays blanketed beneath a layer of thick snow. blurry pale dots dancing in the wind, obscuring the sky, frost engulfing every building in a bone chilling hug.

with a slight shiver, you dig your hands into the comfort of your pockets, seeking the fleeting warmth you find. admiring the frozen landscape before you, the hustle and bustle of people going about their day. the saffron light of the lamp posts, the glittering snow by your feet, the skeletal apricot trees and their bare branches. this monochrome city you find yourself in.

gojo exhales. strolling cheerily down the street, in tandem with you, a frosty breath to your left that scatters and melts into the open air. it smells minty.

today, he’s wearing black shades — like he usually is when you meet outside of work. it’s kind of nice. when you angle your face a certain way, you can almost see the blue pooling in his eyes, the white of his eyelashes. 

he’s beautiful. he always has been. but like this, you think his beauty is simply unfair, highlighted by the winter wonderland you find yourselves in. mesmerizing, the red flush of his cheeks, how he hums along to some jolly tune playing from a little corner store further down the street. all bundled up, in a stylish overcoat and a nice scarf, untouched by the snowflakes fluttering about. 

protected by his infinity, always. the silly god you call a friend.

he looks content, despite the cold that keeps nipping at your bare skin, smiling widely. blabbing on about the movie you’re about to watch, how he saw it back in high school but never thought it’d get a remake. how his friend thought it sucked but that friend always had bad taste so his opinion is irrelevant. how he has faith that you’ll like it.

(cute.)

distracted by the pretty man so close by, close enough to touch, you don’t look ahead. maybe just a little bit entranced. which would be fine, if you didn’t happen to be walking on the right side of the street — 

crashing straight into a lamp post.

”owch!”

it’s sudden. and it’s a harsh collision, enough to leave your nose stinging, an ache that makes you whine. cursing under your breath as you take a couple steps back, hands reaching for the part of your face that took the brunt of the hit. 

and gosh, is this embarrassing. you dance on the edge of death for a living, and here you are — whining over walking into a fucking lamp post. because you were too enamored by the beauty of your own coworker to pay attention to your surroundings. 

a coworker who is currently looking at you, silently. having failed to warn you in time, stuck in his own memories, caught up in his in-depth, spoiler-filled review of a movie he’s been waiting to watch all week. 

for a moment, all he does is blink. long eyelashes fluttering, like a dove flapping its wings. 

then he starts laughing.

scratch that — gojo is downright cackling, thoroughly amused by your clumsy mishap, like he just saw the funniest thing in the world. laughter ringing out into the cold air, white breaths to compliment the red of your burning ears.

asshole.

with a harsh furrow of your brows, you attempt to look angry; but before long, your lips are curling up. infected by his joy. a soft punch to his shoulder is all you manage, biting back a little puff of laughter. you’re embarrassed.

(so embarrassed you don’t even notice how he puts his infinity down.)

”don’t laugh, you piece of shit!” you hiss, grinning even still, flushing and trying to ignore the curious glances you get from passersby. ”it really hurt!”

but gojo doesn’t stop. doesn’t even attempt to. you think he just grew even more amused, if anything, practically bending over from how hard he’s laughing — clutching his stomach.

”sorry, sorry — ’m just…” he tries to speak, taking deep breaths in between bursts of giggles. ”how the hell — how’d you —” 

he stops trying. laughing, again.

and it’s a genuine laugh. a little wolfish, spilling out from his pretty parted lips, showing off his sharp teeth. from the very bottom of his gut, clear and bright, deep and infectious. melodic. shades close to slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up behind them. trying to collect himself, muffled giggles turning to soft vapour in the cold air. dimples visible on his rosy cheeks.

and suddenly you can't think, can't speak, can only look at him and wonder how a human can be so very beautiful. how it’s metaphysically possible. like a crushed cluster of stars was given human form, a body of celestial light.

he looks so young, like this. a millenia younger, no weight on those broad shoulders, no immovable wall to separate you both. he looks like one of the guys you used to hang out with in middle school, running through corridors and play fighting and holding back shared laughter in the library. before the bite of the world left a mark in your skin.

he looks like himself. like someone pulled the mask off, and all that’s left is the human. none of the godhood he was saddled with at birth.

while you’re busy staring, gojo finally finds his composure again. wiping at his glassy eyes, a chuckle slipping out here and there. distracted by the breathtaking sight, you begin to forget the sting of your collision — until you feel something warm trickle down your chilled skin. 

searching for it with the pads of your fingers, you feel a trail of wetness beneath your nose. and when you bring them down, to get a look, all you see is red. 

”ah.”

gojo moves closer. maybe just a little alarmed, by the blood dripping from your nose, staining the white of the snow beneath your feet. a chilling contrast, one you’re frighteningly used to. it’s almost comforting. blood on your skin, that sting of pain clogging up your nose, enough for you to get lost in. colours melting together, memories rising to the surface —

when suddenly, something touches your cheek. 

one large hand goes to keep your jaw in place, gentle. smooth leather, sneaking under your chin, lifting your face up ever so slightly. warmth trickles from his fingertips through the fabric, and you can smell a hint of his perfume. strawberries and vanilla.

gojo looks at you fondly. wiping the blood from your nose, smudging his expensive gloves. from this angle, you can see his eyes, a blue shimmer in an evening painted white and gray — the sole flicker of colour in this monochrome city. they’re crinkled at the edges.

he looks awfully amused.

(you stay still, not breathing, like any slight motion could have him pulling away.)

”careful,” he croons. so low you barely hear it, almost a purr. the word has a soft underbelly, something you don’t need to dissect to feel.

a sentiment that seems to simmer in the air around you, drifting past the little corner store, a dog tied to a lamp post, your reddened cheeks. past the blue of his eyes, a peripheral that stretches to cover the city before you. words too heavy to speak aloud.

stay safe for me, silly.

then he’s letting go. sudden, the bite of the air replacing his hand. it lingers on your skin, like a memory, like the ghost of a memory. but it’s there. strawberries and vanilla, leather and warmth. something kind. warm.

and it stays there, even as gojo takes a step forward, no longer facing you. walking confidently, the wind bending around his tall stature. long legs and large steps, leaving an imprint in the snow for you to follow. a northern star.

he turns his head, and grins. hair tousled by the breeze, white locks glittering with snowflakes. ”you coming? it’s starting soon.”

a moment passes. 

”or do you need me to call shoko?” 

you puff out a breathy laugh, at that, stumbling forward. reaching up to wipe more of the blood sticking to your skin. sniffling, but smiling, teeth peeking out between your lips.

”yeah, yeah,” a roll of your eyes. ”’m right behind you.”

gojo’s eyes crinkle, disappearing behind his shades when he straightens his back and raises his head. moving forward, while you follow; his back turned to you, snowy hair melting into the white all around you. like something out of a painting. 

with a pep in step, you catch up to him. eager to hear more of his voice, his memories. still basking in the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

a touch from the untouchable.

gojo’s lying on your couch.

he usually is, to be fair, so it shouldn’t be surprising. kicking his legs up, watching tv — or sleeping, snoring loudly, like the couch belongs to him. like your home belongs to him. like he pays rent, and doesn’t just laze around and devour all the sweets in your kitchen cabinets.

(he’s there so often that you’re starting to wonder if you should give him a copy of your keys, or something. but you have a feeling that’d be just a smidge too intimate for him to ever accept.)

this time, however, gojo is doing neither of those things. 

he’s on your couch, but he isn’t manspreading, or draping himself over the leather with a lazy grin. he doesn’t have that air of effortless confidence. and it’s palpable, in the air, the open space, enough that you can feel it. an itch on your skin, a lump in your throat. you could practically feel it as soon as you walked through the door.

he isn’t wearing his blindfold, or his shades. he isn’t even smiling. and gojo is always, always smiling.

you think he might be having a rough day.

even the cats are noticing that something’s off. jumping up in his lap, trying to comfort him, brushing against his legs. purring, when he cradles them close — always so gentle with them. hands petting down their backs, softly, the same hands he uses to rip out the throats of curses and curse users alike.

then they mewl and run away. and for once you wish they wouldn’t, wish they could keep clinging to him like they always do. just to make him feel better. right now, in the state he’s in, you wouldn’t even mind gojo’s usual smug declarations of how does it feel to know they like their papa best? 

you can’t help but feel unsure of yourself. gojo isn’t doing anything, and he isn’t saying anything. he’s just lying there, on his back, eyes closed. letting the darkness of the room engulf him. drowning in his own thoughts.

he must know that you’re there. he must have heard you come in. but he isn’t saying anything, and you wonder if that means he wants you to leave him alone.

you’re reminded of that one morning. when he woke up on your couch, and looked more human than you’d ever seen him. how you wanted to avert your eyes, how wrong it felt to see a god rouse from its slumber. 

(but you know better now.)

hesitantly, you begin to inch closer, step by step. quiet, floorboards barely creaking beneath your weight. tentative, as you settle down on the couch. brushing against the infinity between you.

gojo’s eyes flicker open. like an old tape beginning to play. they still shine with that same brilliance, they always do, but now you think they look just a little dull. a little red.

a moment passes. agonizingly slow.

before you can properly think it through, you’ve done it. almost on instinct, jumping the gun before he has the chance to cover everything up with jokes and laughter. opening your arms; a silent invitation.

gojo only stares. 

his gaze moves down to your outstretched arms, and then up to your face. your pursed lips, nervous eyes, worried crease between your brows. one second passes. two, five. you stop counting.

for a moment, you’re almost certain that he’s about to get up and leave. that he’ll flash you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, walk out the door and then never return. like you flew too close to the sun, just another icarus too mesmerized by the glow of his grin to notice your melting wings. like you stepped over the fragile line that separates his bones from yours, his heartbeat from your greedy hands.

— but then he sluggishly gets into a sitting position, and doesn't look at you.

when gojo collapses into your embrace, you’re so surprised that you almost forget how to breathe. almost forget your own name, forget whose home you’re in, why your arms are wrapped around a pale man. all you can think of is how warm he feels, how he’s like a weighted blanket against you. how he trusts you enough to come so very close. 

cheek pressed against your chest, arms loose around your waist. no infinity, no barriers. just a single touch shared between two damaged human beings. 

a brief inhale gives you the composure that you need. air flowing into your lungs, your brain, as you settle into a comfortable position. no words leave your lips; you just continue to hold him, one hand on his back, testing the waters. letting him hear the echo of your heartbeat. unsure, the both of you, but something about this feels right. close to right. almost there.

gojo is stiff. when you strain your ears, you hear a sharp intake of breath, and a full body shiver courses through him. a tremble of his spine. like he’s itching to run, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. so painfully unused to a proper embrace. 

(a little like a frightened fawn.)

a tender something unfurls within your chest, and you feel almost devoured by the fondness rooting itself into your beating heart. delicate, as you begin to brush away his tousled bangs, leaning close. pressing a kiss to his forehead, glistening with sweat. letting your lips linger on his skin. 

he’s pale, shining in the bleak moonlight cast from the translucent curtains of your living room windows. pale like a ghost. and there are dark crescents beneath his dull eyes.

nightmares, you surmise. they haunt him too, don’t they? of course they do. 

eyes brimming with emotion, you gaze at him; quiet as a mouse, closing his eyes. leaning into your touch, ever so slightly, breathing out a sigh tinged with pure exhaustion. and a certain realization washes over you, akin to a tidal wave, sudden and inevitable. so obvious it’s funny.

you’re not a god at all, are you? 

a coo slips from your lips. barely a sound, more like a soothing breath. warm against his cold skin.

you’re just like everyone else. just as fragile.

one of your thumbs goes to smooth over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. so, so gentle. like one wrong touch could have him crumbling into little grains of stardust, spilling out over the worn leather of your couch.

there are so many things you wish you could say to him. so many things you’ll never be able to say, because you’re afraid that if you give him too much it’ll scare him off. like love could burn him if it were to leak out too fervently. like it’s burned him before. 

so you don’t say anything. but you think it, you repeat it inside your mind like a prayer, and some part of you thinks that’s enough. i’ve got you — a whisper that you don't dare to voice. 

one gojo still manages to hear, somehow, if the way he tugs you closer and snuggles into your neck is anything to go by. a shaky exhale brushing against your collarbone.

(if you feel something wet touch the skin of your shoulder, you don’t mention it.)

you simply hold him, and don’t even think the thought of letting go. even though it takes him hours just to fall asleep, hours you spend anxiously wondering if he’ll change his mind and pull away. but he doesn't leave, even though his body may want him to, and that's enough, and you don’t let go. not even once. he stays cradled to your chest the same way you’d hold a tiny puppy, something fragile. something you need to handle with care.

and when his heartbeat finally mellows out, when you hear little barely audible snores flow from his lips, you finally begin to relax. melting into the couch beneath you, watching him get the rest he deserves. praying that any nightmares of his will be given to you instead.

sleep comes, eventually, to the both of you. tangled up on the couch, him on top of you, comforted by the flutter of each other’s heartbeat. by the warmth of another human being. safe in each other’s arms.

(the next morning, through hazy sunshine and the clinking of coffee cups, he teasingly tells you that just satoru is fine.)

it’s barely daybreak when satoru wakes you up.

a rude awakening, to say the least. he pulls out all the stops, intent on not letting you sleep even a second longer; poking at your cheek, pinching them when that doesn’t work. tickling you, blowing cold air into your ear, flopping down on top of you like a big dog. anything to rouse you from your deep slumber.

and he just will not give it up. no matter how hard you try to ignore him, no matter how many times you swat him away with your duvet pillow or turn to bury your face into the sheets. that’s how satoru always is, how he’s always been, how he hopefully always will be — an absolute pain. one you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

so, when he starts whining for you to just wake up already, voice tinged with a sadness that tugs at your heartstrings, you find yourself opening your tired eyes. all while he murmurs on and on about something unintelligible, still trying to bribe you.

”i’ll make you coffee, okay? just get up. c’moooon.”

”… what time is it, satoru?” is all you mutter, voice leaving your lips in a raspy, disgruntled fashion. stirring a little at the promise of coffee. 

he cracks a grin. ”don’t worry about it! just come with me.”

despite your grumpy attitude, and the ungodly hour at which satoru shakes you awake, you find yourself letting him scoop you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. placing a hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you like it, before grinning mischievously in a way that has you feeling ill at ease.

and ten minutes later, you find yourself on top of a hill. overlooking the woods, and a big lake below you, no city lights visible no matter where you turn — god knows where he’s taken you, but it’s pretty.

breathtaking, even. all frost and wildlife and peace, sweet solitude, tiny flowers blooming on the patches of grass around you. a murder of crows takes flight in the distance, scattering into the indigo of the sky.

gojo grins, boyish and bright, excited breaths turning into vapour as he speaks. awfully proud of himself. 

”i can’t take you on vacation, but —”

he drags you with him, arm looped around your own, plopping down on the ground. not before taking off his jacket, to cover the ground beneath you. grass tickles the skin of your palms, as you comfortably spread your legs, making sure to sit as close to him as possible.

and your heart softens a little.

because he’s mentioned it, before; how it’d be nice to go on a road trip, someday, just the two of you. all around the world, wherever the wind takes you. basking in that feeling of freedom. it’s no more than a fever dream, though, with how busy satoru is, the responsibilities you both shoulder.

so this’ll have to do. that’s probably what he’s thinking.

”the sun’ll rise soon. it’ll be pretty, i promise,” he beams, so close that you feel his warm breath on your skin. that you can see the dimples on his cheeks, his barely visible freckles.

”oh, so that’s why you woke me up so early.” 

his smile widens. ”nice, right? i wanted to surprise you. d’you like it?”

a smile blooms on your lips, in tandem with his, honeyed and content. indulgent. gojo looks at it, and immediately knows your answer.

”yeah. it’s really pretty out here,” you face forward, taking a deep breath, fresh morning air entering your lungs. cool and crisp, stirring your sleepy mind. ”kinda nostalgic.”

satoru hums, and follows your lead. looking ahead, admiring the beauty of an empty world.

the big lake looks like a mirror, from here, glittering in the peripheral of your vision. the sun licks at the frozen sky, not quite breaking through, not entirely ready to rise — but it paints everything a rusty gold and you can almost feel spring shining through, taste it on your tongue, that promise of something better, something more concrete. a warmth you don’t have to question. 

a warmth that’ll stay with you for a long time to come.

it takes about ten seconds for the man by your side to start speaking, again, shattering the peaceful silence. but you don’t mind. his voice is nice, a mellow melody to your morning-fatigued brain.

side by side, you wait for the sun to rise. sharing hushed whispers and laughter, like two kids having a sleepover. like nothing exists but the space that cocoons you, wraps you up in a nostalgia so palpable the entire world feels like a fond memory.

(it makes you feel a millenia younger.)

satoru giggles like a child, telling you about something shoko said, or something megumi did, and you don’t miss a single word that spills from his glossy lips. hanging on to every word he’s willing to give to you. 

he looks so unbothered, like this. eyes crinkling, humming some tune you don’t recognize, like a little nightingale ready to take flight into the skies.

you part your lips, admiring his features. every patch of skin you can see. words making themselves manifest, hungry to see inside his brain, to know more about him. a fascination that’s never quite left you — though now you think it may be better described as love. ”hey, satoru?”

at the sound of his name, he turns to you. the weight of his eyes feels so light, like this. those blessed eyes staring into yours. he tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. ”mm?”

”if you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be right now?”

satoru blinks.

he looks at you, a mild surprise flitting through the lines of his face, as he takes you in. measures the weight of your words.

then he smiles, again. lopsided, almost a smirk, rich with amusement. a hum buzzes in his throat, like a butterfly itching to break out.

”.. you teasing me?” 

a huff fills the air. ”it’s a genuine question!” you insist, moving your leg to nudge his own. ”c’mon. anywhere in the world. i’m just curious.”

another hum. he narrows his eyes, playfully, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a chuckle when that makes you grumble. pouting softly, tilting your head. he’s amused, you can tell. 

but he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, glimmering with morning dew. and you can tell he’s taking you seriously. tasting the question on his tongue.

something shines in his eyes, when he opens them again; crinkling at the corners, soft lines of crows’ feet. you can almost see that burst of aquamarine, breaking through the black glass of his shades. like the laws of physics can’t contain it. and he smiles, as always, a smile so beautiful you wish you could live on the curve of his lips. flimsy, no teeth peeking out, no dimples to admire. but sweet. slathered with honey, as sincere as can be.

his voice comes out a little raspy, tainted with a tinge of fatigue, a smokey residue that sticks to the walls of his throat. but it's genuine, like he just woke up, like he's too sleepy to be dishonest. like every word he says can be no more or less than the absolute truth.

and when he turns to face you, tilting his head enough for you to see that shade of blue you love so dearly, his eyes shine with an honestly so palpable you feel like you’re being devoured.

satoru parts his lips.

”right next to you.”

a moment passes. silent, endless, no sound to be heard but the beating of your own heart.

at last, the sun breaks through that layer of frost, peeking up from the boundary of the world — and the morning begins to thaw. streaks of sunlight cascade down the contours of his handsome face, painting him a mellow gold, and it’s almost enough to distract you from the warmth of his hand finding yours. 

for a moment, satoru looks unsure. smile shifting in the light, into something slightly stiff, and you know that means he's nervous. silent, as he wets his glossy lips. pink tongue tasting strawberry chapstick. 

then he’s leaning forward. 

it’s chaste, the kiss he plants on your forehead, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. but it lingers, even after he’s pulled back — a warmth on your skin. a silent declaration.

he doesn't have to say anything. when you look up at him you can see the red flush of his ears, and when you strain your ears you can hear all those unspoken whispers. the sentiment neither of you will ever have to say out loud, because you know. it’s there. and it means everything. 

and you know that for as long as you live, you’ll both have this. one single thread of normalcy, in your unorthodox existences, one single glimmer of something almost entirely good. something that heals, something that isn’t a blessing and a curse all in one. something soft to the touch.

there’s no need to find the right words for it. there never was.

”kinda looks like melted ice cream.”

the words pull you out of your stupor. satoru’s looking at the sky, and you follow his gaze, watching the sunrise in tandem with him. 

it’s beautiful. soft clouds melting into pinks and oranges, dappling sunbeams lapping at the trees, a saffron shade washing over the empty world in front of you. a world that may not be so empty, after all, because you hear crows in the distance, and someone’s fishing by the lake, and you think you spot a squirrel in the tree closest to you. 

and you have someone, right next to you, right by your side. someone who won’t ever leave.

sometimes, loving satoru gojo feels a little like strolling on the edge of a cliff. like one wrong step could have you tumbling down, a mess of broken bones and unspoken words. but if you do stumble and fall — you know he’ll be waiting at the bottom of the precipice. arms outstretched, wearing that same innocent grin, ready to hoist you both back up.

so you know it’ll be fine.

swallowing down a bout of fresh laughter, like a flower unfurling in your chest, petals brushing against your ribcage, you give in. opting to bask in the moment, in his presence.

”yeah,” you puff out a chuckle, head slumping against satoru’s shoulder. he makes a little noise of approval, and your grin grows. ”it does.”

he doesn’t say anything. smiling, wordlessly, admiring the way the sun kisses up your collarbone. lighting up your face. and you bask in his warmth, how right it feels to be tucked into his side. how safe he feels, even now. how safe you make him feel.

you look at the man to your left, and he looks back at you, and that wonderful unnamed something unfurls inside your chest again. and, without having to speak it aloud, you know it will continue to do so.

many, many years later, he’ll still be satoru, and you’ll still be you. the distance between you will be what it always was; breachable.

and that will be enough.

[cheese-water]

Watching Tubbo interact with people is so interesting. Every conversation he has is a information game that for some reason he keeps winning while making the other person think they won. Even today with his convos with Fred And Foolish, it’s like he knows all the right buttons to press to get someone to talk, literally.

Like, I would have never guessed fighting back on Fred’s robotic answers would get him to speak. Friendship and politeness and compassion, yes but calling out the bullshit responses he gives? I haven’t even mentioned the absolute gall Tubbo has to pull a “let’s run that back bucko” and continue questioning him. And he was right too. Tubbo treated Fred like anyone else on the server, demanding him to just talk to him like a normal person, and that’s what made the worker crack. And now he has a personal appointment at 1 pm pst all from two conversations (we still don’t know if it’s a positive or negative but it’s still a fuck ton of information).

Not even an hour later, we get Tubbo and Foolish’s discussion about the order which was incredible on Tubbo’s part. He instantly twists Foolish’s question about his opinions on The Order back on him and when he doesn’t get a satisfactory response (“I mean, they’re my friends!”), his approach changes.

“Do you think I should join The Order? Disregarding what’s in my best self interest of course.”

The speed at which Foolish responded no is astounding to witness. And Tubbo didn’t even answer his question. He just tweaked it ever so slightly to make Foolish think he was offering the newcomer advice instead of being forced to show most of his cards. To y’know, the guy he’s supposed to arrest in the future.

Makes me wish Tubbo was here for when Foolish arrested Pac and Mike. That interrogation probably would’ve gone a lot better lmao

[carlyraejepsans]

Out of curiosity what instantly ruins a soriel fic for you? I promise this isn't for my own fic 😁

Sans remembering resets. Not even a Soriel specific thing, I catch one whiff of it in any UT fic and it immediately kills any interest I might have had in it. Same with Sans being suicidal (he is not. lmfao)

But let's see, Soriel specific... hm. It's hard to explain what it is that they do wrong specifically. But there's a brand of h/c fics with sans being the comforted where you can tell the author has not taken into account everything that is also wrong with Toriel. She's just there to offer comfort, which I'd argue is something Sans would do more often with how evasive and private he is about his own issues (and how we have literal in canon examples of him comforting her instead, even before they officially met each other)

[fatehbaz]

Because tuatara are very long lived - between 100 and 200 years by most estimates […] - the founding of Aotearoa/New Zealand as a modern nation and the unfolding of settler-wrought changes to its environment have transpired over the course of the lives of perhaps just two tuatara [...].

---

[T]he tuatara (Sphenodon punctatus) [...] [is] the sole surviving representative of an order of reptiles that pre-dates the dinosaurs. [...] [T]he tuatara is of immense global and local significance and its story is pre-eminently one of deep timescales, of life-in-place [...]. Epithets abound for the unique and ancient biodiversity found in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Prized as “Ghosts of Gondwana” (Gibbs 2008), or as denizens of “Moa’s Ark” (Bellamy et al. 1990) or “The Southern Ark” (Andrews 1986), the country’s faunal species invoke fascination and inspire strong language [...]. In rounded terms, it [has been] [...] just 250 years since James Cook made landfall; just 200 years since the founding of the handful of [...] settlements that instigated agricultural transformation of the land [...]. European newcomers [...] were disconcerted by the biota [...]: the country was seen to “lack” terrestrial mammals; many of its birds were flightless and/or songless; its bats crawled through leaf-litter; its penguins inhabited forests; its parrots were mountain-dwellers; its frogs laid eggs that hatched miniature frogs rather than tadpoles [...].

---

Despite having met a reassuringly temperate climate [mild, oceanic, comparable to western Europe], too, the newcomers nevertheless sought to make adjustments to that climate, and it was clear to them that profits beckoned. Surveying the towering lowland forests from the deck of HMS Endeavour in 1769, and perceiving scope for expansion of the fenland drainage schemes being undertaken at that time in England and across swathes of Europe, Joseph Banks [botanist on Cook's voyage] reported on “swamps which might doubtless Easily be drained” [...]. Almost a century later, in New Zealand or Zealandia, the Britain of the South, [...] Hursthouse offered a fuller explication of this ethos: The cultivation of a new country materially improves its climate. Damp and dripping forests, exhaling pestilent vapours from rank and rotten vegetation, fall before the axe [...]. Fen and march and swamp, the bittern’s dank domain, fertile only in miasma, are drained; and the plough converts them into wholesome plains of fruit, and grain, and grass. [...]

[The British administrators] duly set about felling the ancient forests of Aotearoa/New Zealand, draining the country’s swamps [...]. They also began importing and acclimatising a vast array of exotic (predominantly northern-world) species [sheep, cattle, rodents, weasels, cats, crops, English pasture grasses, etc.] [...]. [T]hey constructed the seemingly ordinary agronomic patchwork of Aotearoa/New Zealand's productive, workaday landscapes [...]. This is effected through and/or accompanied by drastic deforestation, alteration of the water table and the flow of waterways, displacement and decline of endemic species, re-organisation of predation chains and pollination sequences and so on [...]. Aotearoa/New Zealand was founded in and through climate crisis [...]. Climate crisis is not a disastrous event waiting to happen in the future in this part of the world; rather, it has been with us for two centuries already [...].

---

[T]he crest formed by the twinned themes of absence and exceptionalism [...] has shaped this creature's niche in the western imagination. As one of the very oldest species on earth, tuatara have come to be recognised [in Euro-American scientific schemas] [...] as an evolutionary and biodiversity treasure [...]. In 1867, [...] Gunther [...] pronounced that it was not a lizard at all [...] [and] placed the tuatara [...] in a new order, Rhynchocephalia, [...] igniting a frenzy of scientific interest worldwide. Specifically, the tuatara was seen to afford opportunities for "astonished witnessing" [...], for "the excitement of having the chance to see, to study, to observe a true saurian of Mesozoic times in the flesh, still living, but only on this tiny speck of the earth [...], while all its ancestors [...] died about one hundred and thirty-five million years ago" [...]. Tuatara have, however, long held special status as a taonga or treasured species in Māori epistemologies, featuring in a range of [...] stories where [...] [they] are described by different climates and archaeologies of knowledge [...] (see Waitangi Tribunal 2011, p. 134). [...]

While unconfirmed sightings in the Wellington district were reported in the nineteenth century, tuatara currently survive only in actively managed - that is, monitored and pest-controlled - areas on scattered offshore islands, as well as in mainland zoo and sanctuary populations. As this confinement suggests, tuatara are functionally “extinct” in almost all of their former wild ranges. [...] [Italicized text in the heading of this post originally situated here in Boswell's article.] [...] In the remaining areas of Aotearoa/New Zealand where this species does now live [...], tuatara may in some cases be the oldest living inhabitants. Yet [...] if the tuatara is a creature of long memory, this memory is at risk of elimination or erasure. [...] [T]uatara expose and complicate the [...] machineries of public memory [...] and attendant environmental ideologies and management paradigms [...].

---

All text above by: Anna Boswell. "Climates of Change: A Tuatara's-Eye View". Humanities, 2020, Volume 9, Issue 2, 38. Published 1 May 2020. This article belongs to the Special Issue Environmental Humanities Approaches to Climate Change. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. The first paragraph/heading in this post, with text in italics, are also the words of Boswell from this same article. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[tswwwit]

i love love love the truth curse fic so much, especially how dipper twists it so that he can still irritate bill with it.

it does make me think though, there was one smut fic where it was mentioned that if bill could he would rip all of dippers fantasies out of his head and use them against him.

part of me wants bill to ask for even just one or two bedroom fantasies while dipper is forced to blab the truth just so bill can abuse the fuck out of whatever idea dipper comes up with

and part of me wants the curse fixed, everything back to normal and no more truth telling. with dipper and bill relaxing after everything, maybe even a few days pass. before bill just loudly and out of the blue shouts ‘FUCK!’ as he realized he missed a great opportunity and now its too late.

I can guarantee you that Bill has that 'FUCK' moment afterwards! Turns out that too many Shenanigans in the interim kind of interrupted his train of thought - and Dipper's a little too clever to be caught by ham-handed or distracted questions. Too bad, Bill; you didn't get to pick Dipper's brain nearly as much as you wanted.

[poisonousquinzel]

Thinking about how likely it is that BTAS Ivy grew old n spent all of that time fully believing that Harley died. That despite all her efforts and desperation to save her and get her away from Joker she didn't, she couldn't, and she lost her. That Harley died the same day that wretched man did and it became just yet another thing linking her to him for eternity.

thinking about how BTAS Ivy loved her So much and never got the chance to grow old with her, to see her heal and recover, to heal and recover with her

thinking about how much they deserved their happy ending but never got one. how we're seeing & getting their Less Platonic moments in the newer BTAS comics with the impending knowledge that the narrative has already decided it's a fate they'll never truly get to indulge in and savor, that it will always be destined to end in tragedy.

how for some universes a happy ending is given, growing old together is just the future we know is already there awaiting them... but not for them, not for btas harlivy... not the originals, for their story will always be a tragedy.

[silver-weasel]

In which Katsuki, a young ambitious pianist, is forced to serve as an accompanist for ballet rehearsals. That's how he meets Izuku, a promising dancer who'll be quick to change everything he thought he knew about music.

READ ON AO3

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI!!)

Tags: ballet AU, pianist!Bakugou Katsuki, ballet dancer!Midoriya Izuku, aged-up characters, strangers to lovers, pining, getting together, eventual smut

Here’s the second chap! I hope you enjoy <3

This work is written for the @bakudekubigbang. Thank you to @whentheresmoonlight for betaing, and to my bang partner @crispyban4na for her amazing art for the fic!

[the-priestess-of-dawn]

Grima and Final Blows

The other day I mentioned that I had an essay about Grima to write that I'd been putting off, and between that and all the great essays my fellow Grimleal scholars have been putting out recently, I decided to sit down and finally get it done.

So here you go. An analysis of Grima's difficulties with directly killing people.

Okay, so I’ve been thinking about this for quite some time, because one of my favorite things to explore when it comes to Grima is the gap between their villain act, which they actively play up in front of others in both Awakening and FEH, and their true feelings, which are hinted at in Awakening (particularly through the Future Past DLC) and made even clearer in FEH— their own evil actions are repulsive to them, and they wish they could live normally among humans, but they don’t believe they have any choice but to be the monster that “the fell dragon, Grima” is supposed to be. They are committed to this “fell dragon” character, to putting on a show for everyone, and they are so good at it that it’s easy to overlook that they… uh… aren’t very good at killing anyone important. Not directly, anyway.

Sure, Grima is responsible for numerous deaths. But what is their actual kill count? Well, in Awakening’s main game… zero. (Unless you count Chrom, but, as we witness, that was not a voluntary act on their part; Validar took control of their body. You could also make the argument that Grima “claiming the sacrifice” at the Dragon’s Table counts, but the problem with that is, although it’s obvious that Grima accepts the life force of the Grimleal members as a sacrifice, it’s not at all clear whether or not Grima personally kills them. Although it’s possible that they did off screen, it’s also possible that Validar killed them, or that they were ordered to take their own lives; there’s no reason Grima would have had to lay a hand on them.) In the Future Past, it’s… one, maybe one and half (Naga’s spirit, and Tiki, but only in body. More on this later.)

And it’s not as though Fire Emblem shies away from showing villains directly murdering people, Even in Awakening itself, the intro to Chapter 9 shows Aversa killing a Plegian soldier for delivering an unsatisfactory report, so it wouldn’t have been out of place to let Grima stab a few NPCs as a show of brutality. Especially seeing as Grima is the evil dragon final boss. As early as Mystery of the Emblem, we can see Medeus killing his cleric hostages to restore his own health if you fail to rescue them before trying to defeat him, and as recently as Engage, we get a whole cutscene of Sombron eating Hyacinth. Fantasy violence my beloved <3

Anyway, the point is, Grima could have been written to be much more violent and I don’t think anyone would have complained. Instead, though, Grima repeatedly— and consistently across the series— tries to avoid engaging in direct combat.

Let’s start with what Grima does in the main game of Awakening. We know that Risen pursue Lucina into the past, because we see them fall out of the portal with her in Chapter 1. We also know that those Risen, as well as the others that are appearing throughout the land, are not being directly controlled by Grima, because later in Chapter 13, as the Shepherds are leaving Plegia after meeting with Validar, Aversa, and the Hierophant, they are pursued by more skilled Risen, and Frederick notes that “Either they are learning our ways, or someone is commanding them…” So… It seems that sending the Risen—with or without specific orders—to attack while Grima is not themself present is a favored tactic.

But what about when Grima is present? Take a look at the Endgame: Grima chapter. Yes, you eventually get to engage Grima in direct combat. But not immediately. What Grima does first is…

Grima attacks the Shepherds with dark spikes from a distance, reducing everyone’s hp to 1. Now, here’s what happens next: Grima attempts to possess their past self, Robin hears the voices of their friends and breaks free, Naga heals everyone back to full health, and then the fight against Grima begins… Except actually, the Shepherds have to get to Grima first, because they’re at the top of the map and they’re not budging. Naga warns them that “Grima’s servants will beset [them] to no end.” and she’s not kidding. Grimleal reinforcements will spawn infinitely, and they can hit pretty hard. Even with everyone starting at full health, it’s possible to lose units to these Grimleal soldiers if Grima isn’t defeated quickly. Can you imagine what would happen if Naga hadn’t healed the Shepherds first?

Well, I’d guess that they’d probably all die to the Grimleal without Grima having to face them up close. Which was probably what Grima was going for.

This isn’t the only time Grima tries the dark spikes trick, either. Grima attempts this exact same move in the Future Past 3 when they face Lucina, Severa, Laurent, and Gerome.

Grima announces “With the next blow, I will kill you.” and then demands that they hand over the Fire Emblem as well as the gemstone they hold. The threat is very real. But…

Given that at 1hp, a gust of wind could take the kids out, would it not have been easier and faster to kill them and just loot their bodies immediately? And yet Grima lets the kids have an extended discussion about sacrifice, and even suggests that Lucina would indeed buy a little more time by running… Again, I cannot stress enough that Grima should be able to finish them off in one hit at this point.

So the plan was almost certainly to back off and let the Risen do the actual killing, even though that would be a lot less efficient under the circumstances. And when Chrom and the Shepherds arrive, Grima immediately turns their attention to them, saying “If it’s a reunion you seek, my soldiers shall welcome you on my behalf.” Then they once again pick a spot at the back of the map and refuse to move from it, forcing the Shepherds to fight through the Risen in order to engage Grima in combat at all.

And sure, Grima has some excuses. “I was hoping not to have to flex any muscle,” they say right before the dark spikes attack, as if to justify why they didn’t do it sooner. And of course they taunt Lucina over having to choose to whether to run as her friends sacrifice themselves for her or to stay and fight and die with them. “I must say I shall enjoy this either way!” Yes, Grima, we get it, you’ve made it very clear that you’re an arrogant asshole.

But is arrogance really all there is to it? If we look at what Tiki tells Grima in the good ending of the Future Past, it looks as though Grima’s arrogance has brought their own downfall. “If you had left Mount Prism alone, Grima, you might have stood a chance. Instead, you have brought the Awakening right to your feet.” However, when you think about it… Is Tiki’s continued existence not in itself a result of Grima’s repeated pattern of not really wanting to land a finishing blow? The game states that Grima did in fact kill Tiki… but only in body, not in spirit. This is, according to Tiki, because Robin intervened.

Now, the question I have is… Is it really possible that Robin could have intervened both against Grima’s will and without them having any idea? Honestly, it’s hard to tell exactly how aware Grima is of Robin’s resistance, because they lie about it a lot, e.g. stating that Robin’s spirit perished in sending Chrom back to his own world, even though just moments later, Robin is once again overpowering them. So, keeping in mind that Grima is a liar, was Grima really arrogant to leave Tiki’s body in Ylisstol, and to not make sure that her spirit was fully destroyed? Or was Robin simply able to capitalize on Grima’s propensity towards backing off?

Because surely the only way Grima could be unaware that Robin had acted against them is if Robin hadn’t actually acted against them. I don’t think I believe that Grima really wanted Tiki gone. Naga, sure—longtime nemesis and all. But if Grima had truly cared about seeing Tiki’s existence destroyed… Well, I doubt Robin could have interfered that much.

But maybe it could still be a matter of arrogance. Maybe Grima just didn’t think Tiki’s spirit could do anything with Naga’s spirit gone, and thus didn't care to pay attention to her anymore once she seemed dead enough.

If that’s true, it doesn’t explain why Shadows of Valentia Grima exhibits the exact same habits when fighting Alm and Celica, despite never having been outside of the Thabes Labyrinth at this point in their life. As opposed to the various Terrors throughout the rest of the Labyrinth, which chase Alm (or Celica) down in the overworld to force a fight, Grima is immobile in their room, and will wait patiently there indefinitely until the player chooses to engage. You can even evacuate from the dungeon.

But if you do choose to fight Grima, it proceeds much like the battles against them in Awakening go. The main difference is that they actually will move from their starting position this time, if you position someone in their range. That still requires a fight against (proto-)Risen who are spawning in from the sides to stop your party’s advance.

So… Now it’s starting to look like Grima actively prefers this one particular trick… And it’s a fundamentally defensive maneuver, which makes perfect sense from SoV Grima’s standpoint (they were attacked out of nowhere, after all), but is not really an obvious standout strategy for Awakening Grima, whose taunts and threats suggest an aggression that would be better supported with a more offensive strategy… Consider, too, that Awakening Grima is in fact being even more defensive than their SoV iteration, since they don’t move towards you at all.

With all that in mind, it really, really looks like Grima doesn’t want to fight, especially in Awakening. Not that they don’t intend for the Shepherds to die—on the contrary, they’ve set everything up so that the Shepherds will eventually be overwhelmed—but that they don’t want to land the killing blow.

(And gee, I wonder what might be fueling their reluctance? Being controlled and made to kill your best friend by your own hand wouldn't be totally traumatic or anything, right?)

And then... Funny thing here, I’ve been procrastinating writing this essay for a long time. I originally started thinking about it shortly before the Depths of Despair banner was released in FEH, so imagine my surprise when I saw this characterization hold up in the writing of Fell Exalt Chrom’s Forging Bonds as well… The Grima there says that Chrom was the one to kill the rest of the Shepherds. Now, it’s pretty clear that it was through Grima controlling him, but that’s not the point. The point is that once again, Grima didn't have to do any direct killing.

Look, if it had only ever happened once, I could buy that maybe Grima was just underestimating their opponents, that maybe they thought they could get away without having to put very much work in. But for Grima to operate this way so many times, so consistently, and to their own detriment? No...

Grima doesn’t like direct combat. Grima has trouble even when it’s a fight they asked for.

And when you think about it, that makes their reaction to Robin choosing to land the final blow themself in the sacrifice ending all the more understandable.

“…YOU WOULD… NOT DARE!”

Because Grima would not dare. Grima has always preferred to let someone else land the final blow.

[marinerainbow]

I have been obsessed with Bistro Huddy for a couple days now, and I found this video and... I can't. I can't stop thinking about this with my Poppy ships. I had to write this crack XD

@just-kit-ink and @wicked1will0sparkles I have a feeling this'll get a chuckle out of you guys (for the sake of argument, let's say that Shiny and Poppy do work for the TP from time to time in this fic. Like... Poppy can offer them info about some of the Uptown toon she works with, and Shiny can do all kinds of crimes with them).

~

It was a rare, and almost frightening, sight to see the boss smiling. Not in an unnerving way, not in smug pride, but actual genuine joy from another person. It almost never happened. Which was why Greasy knew something had to be up between Smartass and Poppy when he saw the two laughing and drinking coffee side by side in the kitchen.

"Ohhhoho! You really said that??"

"Well 'yea, what else was I gonna say? You 'shoulda seen the look on his mug!" The weasel breathed out a few chuckles before he noticed the new presence and looked up, just in time to see his right hand man smirking at him knowingly. Rolling his eyes and shrugging, Smartass chose to just cut himself off, now that he and Poppy weren't alone anymore, "Alright, I'll tell 'ya what happened next later. Seeya at lunch."

It wasn't lost on Poppy that another person's presence did ruin the mood, but she didn't make any implication about that. She didn't want to hurt the Spaniards' feelings... That and work needed to be done anyway. So she just nodded, "Alright. I should get you the paperwork you need by ten, at the latest."

"Sounds good."

Poppy walked off with her mug and a smile, nodding and offering Greasy a cheery "Bonjour." As she passed him and slipped out the kitchen door. That left him the opportunity to smirk knowingly at his boss, who rolled his eyes in response, "Buen día."

"Shuddap, Grease."

Though 'shutting up' was not on Greasy's plans. Not after what he just witnessed. The weasel took his time grabbing his coffee cup from the cupboard and pouring himself some of the much needed caffeinated liquid, all while keeping eye contact with a Smartass who was ever-increasingly going back to his grumpy persona. This probably wasn't a good idea to poke the bear before he could finish his coffee... But hey, this was what happened when you chuck out the TV the night before, and there was nothing else to entertain your right hand man, "So, I see you and Poppy have a little something going on~"

Usually there would be a tapping foot- or a death glare- or a twitching hand and glancing towards the nearest object that would tell the taller weasel that there was indeed something happening between his boss and their sweet friend. However, Smartass must have been truly exhausted since he just huffed and went back to stirring his coffee, "There ain't 'nothin going on. That's just how a work marriage is

The ear-to-ear grin on Greasy's face fell instantly after that, and looked like his brain was shutting down from attempting to process what Smartass just said. As if he claimed that Bugs Bunny was actually a crcodile, "A... A Work marriage?"

"What?? You 'nevah heard of it??" The hint of jealousy in Greasy's eyes seemed to be lost on the head weasel. He looked more surprised at the thought of him not being aware of the special relationship one could have with their coworkers, "Well I ain't explainin' it-"

"Ohhh no, I know what a work wife is. Because that is what Poppy is to me."

The sip that Smartass had attempted to drink almost got coughed up onto his suit. The pink weasel actually had to set the cup down before he glowrred at the other toon. There was absolutely no way his ears were working right. At least Greasy better hope they weren't, "Excuse you??"

Instead of being intimidated, Greasy just crossed his arms and seemed to take on the challenge instead, "You heard me, boss. If she's work married to anybody in this house, it's me."

"Oh no. Uh-uh bub. She's work married t'me."

"No, Poppy is my work wife."

The two weasels whipped their heads towards the doorway, looking at a just woken, disheveled, feral looking Psycho staring at them like they were the insane ones. And he was sending Greasy in particular a glare that could make any iron-willed man feel weak in the bladder, "You already have Shiny. You can't have Poppy too."

At that, Smartass immediately turned back towards Greasy with his fists on his hips, "Oh! You got that lunatic, but you're over here movin' in on my work gal??"

"MY work wife! Get your own!"

"And who's to say I must limit myself to one beautiful woman, eh?" Greasy glanced between his comrades with a hand to his chest, like he wasn't just getting on Smartass' case for being work married to Poppy, "How is that fair?"

"How is tha- BOY-"

"Actually, I'm Poppy's work husband too."

"WHAT!?"All three looked straight at the smoker, now standing in the doorway and looking like he just made the biggest mistake in his life. Why he thought it was a good idea to say that out loud, who knows. But the smoker just groaned and walked further in the kitchen to grab an apple from the fruit bowl, with Stupid following after him.

"Duh, what's happening here?"

Seeing the big lug of a weasel come in all confused made Greasy and Smartass narrow their eyes at him in suspicion. Psycho on the other hand was too busy growling at an unphased Wheezy, "Estúpido, you better not say you're Poppy's work husband too."

Stupid blinked at his brother and coworker for a moment, before his eyes lit up once he caught up with the topic of discussion, "Huh? Noooo, we're not work married!"

"Good. I don't need'ta deal with yo-"

"She's my work mom!"

The whole room fell silent. Smartass and Greasy glanced to each other before looking at the oblivious Stupid, and even Psycho had paused his confrontation with Wheezy- who was now burying his face in his free hand, "Stu, don't-"

"And Wheezy is my work dad!" The buck toothed toon proclaimed happily as he pointed to the internally dying Wheezy, still blissfully unaware of the tension in the room, "He and Poppy work adopted me! We even got ice cream yesterday!"

...

At that moment, without even looking up from his paw, Wheezy knew his smokes would not be enough emotional support to face these ridiculous weasels, "Ok, guys-"

"YOU STARTED A WORK FAMILY WITH POPPY!?"

"¡Destructor de hogares!"

"Is there ANYBODY in this house NOT puttin' the work moves on her!?"

"I'm not, boss!"

"SHUT UP!"

Breakfast and coffee were on no ones mind now. The entire kitchen was quickly filled with screaming, threats, and proclamations of betrayal. Poor Stupid could only stand there, glancing to his work dad and pleading with his eyes for an answer of what to do. Though all Wheezy would do was suck in as much toxic smoke as he could while he still had the chance. Before Smartass could throw the toaster, or Psycho could pounce on somebody.

The only thing that could break up the whole room was the very rabbit of discussion when she poked her head inside in concern. Her eyes pinned down against her head and her eyes were wide as they darted to each individual in the room, "Uh, g-guys? Is everything-"

"Get outta here while you still can, Pops."

"What do you-"

She just barely managed to contain her shriek when suddenly all four pairs of eyes locked onto her, making her stand straight up at attention. The moment to escape was long gone now, "Guys...?"

A long silence hung in the air as the first three weasels all looked at each other, as if agreeing upon something, then looked right back at Poppy. Stupid scratched under his propeller hat in confusion, and Wheezy closed his eyes to fully enjoy the silence before it would be undoubtedly ruined again.

---

"What on Earth- What are you guys talking about?"

Having taken this out to the living room, Poppy was seated on the couch and resisted rubbing her temples. The papers she was working on for Smartass were currently strewn about the coffee table, but all she could focus on were the weasels surrounding her. Wheezy was sitting on her left, not at all wanting to be here either. Smartass was sitting straight up in his own chair, tapping his foot with his arms crossed. Greasy had been trying to sit on Poppy's right, though he kept getting driven off by Psycho who was standing by the couch like a gargoyle. And Stupid was busy getting himself a bowl of cereal in the kitchen now that it wasn't crowded anymore.

If Poppy had been told she was going to be in the middle of a work love triangle- or rectangle in this case- with four of Toontowns biggest criminals four years ago, she would have laughed it off as a joke.

"I don't know how we can make it any clearer, but fine." Smartass huffed out as he leaned forward, almost looking like he was in the middle of one of his business meetings, "These nimrods think you're their work wife. We gotta clear it all up, like usual."

"Smarty-"

"Poppy, it's alright. I know this is all a terrible misunderstanding." Greasy still hadn't managed to slip past Psycho, so he chose to kneel in front of her and take her paw in his hands all dramatic like. He looked like the love interest in one of his novelas, and Poppy just looked so tired, "Just tell these putas that you, Shiny, and I are exclusive. Then we can get back to normal, si?"

"Listen-"

Poppy was once again interrupted, but this time by Psycho as he hopped over the couch just to smack at Greasy's face and hiss like a territorial housecat. The second in command managed to jumo back in time, but that didn't make the lunatic back off, "¿¡Qué carajo!?"

"You go be 'exclusive' with Shiny!"

"Yeah, you shouldn't even be here!"

While the three spiraled into yet another argument, Poppy heaved out a defeated sigh before looking towards the only sane one right now. Their eyes met and, like always, they shared a silent moment of pity and understanding for the other, "Help me."

Although he truly felt sorry for his work wife, and wanted nothing more than to escape this madhouse, there really was nothing Wheezy could do for either of them. All Poppy had to see was his slumped shoulders to know what he was going to say, "I tried, Poppy. You know how they get."

The toon groaned as she gave in and leaned back on the couch to rest her head on the back. Her headache growing with each curse word flung around. Why couldn't these guys just... The bond formed within a stressful and emotionally draining work environment knew no bounds. It couldn't just be contained to one individual. Why couldn't these jerks see that??

Well, at least Wheezy understood it. And Greasy, to an extent... Maybe it was more of a pride thing between him, Psycho and Smartass. If that was the case, then she could get this fixed no prob-

"Alright then. How about a fight?"

Blinking back into the present, and getting over the jarring sudden silence that befell the living room, Poppy turned her head far back enough to see the source of the familiar voice; Shiny standing in the middle of the open front door, with what looked like a crate of her homebrewed alcohol tucked under her arm. The arguing must have been loud enough to cover Shiny coming inside. But either way, her announcing her presence caused the three weasels to actually pause in their bickering, "You guys heard what I said."

Oh god no, "I- Shiny, I don't think that- we don't want that to happen."

The weasel lady just shrugged as she kicked the door closed behind her, taking turns to look each and every one of them in the eye- including Psycho, despite the probability of him taking that as a challenge in the mood he was in now being high. She didn't even bother trying to hide her smirk while placing the moonshine on the nearest syrface as she reiterated, "If you guys want her to choose, why not prove your worthiness and fight for her?

"Shiny, for the love of God, no." Wheezy stated in a firm voice he didn't often use. Glancing to his team, he could see the gears turning in Psycho's and Greasy's heads as they briefly shared a look. Fortunately, though, Smartass at least was currently stuttering out a response in disbelief. Hopefully, that meant the boss' sanity was coming back.

"Too late, Cowboy."

"No! No, not too late! Guys!-"

"You know what?!" Finally. Smartass was being the leader he should have been from the start. Standing up and pointing a finger at the mischievous woman, who just raised an amused brow right back at him, he snapped, "You don't get to come in here and-"

Though he was too late. The time for actual sense in this house had passed. That was made obvious when Smartass was sent flying over his chair and across the room. After a straightjacket clad weasel launched himself right at him. Psycho' battle screech and Smartass' cursing and gun clicking filled the room, and all Greasy did was pull out his switchblade and started cleaning it; preparing himself for war.

Although his expression remained partially neutral, his shaking hands while he lit up his whole pack and jumped right out of his seat showed how absolutely done he was. He wasn't going to bother trying to pull those maniacs away from each other. Not when he didn't even want to make a big deal out of this in the first place, "I'm out."

"PSYCHO NO!" While Wheezy was walking away from the others, Poppy leaped up to her feet with intentions of trying to break up the fight. Though before she could take a step towards the brawl, she was stopped when Shiny placed her well manicured paw on her shoulder. Looking behind her, Poppy watched her shake her head, silently telling her 'it's not worth it, honey', "Shiny!-"

"Let them get it out of their system. They clearly need it, sugar." The woman casually shrugged. The tiny smirk on her lips, though, showed she had more selfish reasons for starting this between them... And that she wasn't going to even try to hide it, "Besides, it's funny how easy they all are. Isn't it?"

"N-No! I can't let my work marriages fall apart!"

"Oh, please. This'll get through to them better than 'sitting down and talking it out' ever would. And you know it." Shiny sighed- not as dramatically as Greasy was renowned for, but there was a hint of drama behind it- before wrapping her arms around the rabbits shoulders and pulling her around and close, making Poppy completely face her now. Good thing, too. As the pencil holder that flew behind Poppy would have hit her in the eye otherwise. Even though Poppy was upset, the look of worry and slight anger towards her was absolutely adorable, and only made Shiny's grin broaden, "Besides, it doesn't really matter in the end. Does it?"

The tiny frown on Poppy's face faltered at that. Though not because she was comprehending how close her best friend was now, "How?"

"'Cause you and I both know that out of everybody here, I'm your true work spouse."

"Oh my god-"

"Hey! I didn't say anything about being the only one! I'm just saying that I'm the matriarch of your little work harem~"

...

Somehow, despite her soured mood, despite the waging three-way war happening just mere feet from them, Shiny still managed to get a smile, and even a little chuckle, out of her. Shaking her head, Poppy decided in that moment to just press her forehead against her favorite lady's crown, and enjoy this tiny moment between them while it could last, "You're terrible."

~

Not paying any mind to the sounds of agony from the three men, or the crashing and breaking of wood, or Smartass' "WHERE'D PSYCHO GET THE LAWN CHAIR!?!?", the dancer just touched noses with her little rabbit and giggled alongside her, "I know~"

While the girls were distracted, Stupid poked his head out of the kitchen doorway to see what was causing so much of a rucus. Crumbs of ceral still unwiped from his lips, "What's going-"

One look at the three feral weasels, a mising Wheezy, and Poppy and Shiny completely forgetting the world around them, Stupid had made probably the smartest decision he ever hsad made in his life at that moment. He quickly and quietly slipped back in the kitchen to finish his food, "Nevermind!"

This got a little genuine Popshine'y at the end of the crack. I don't regret it XD

[vulpisnocturna]

Itachi x reader who wants to break up with him saying that she has never loved him and she's going to another country for studies or make some excuse I don't know I'm feeling sadistic today

But know that Itachi will be broken and hurt

Anon, I think you guys are doing it to mess with me now 🤧 and I’m not writing it with 2nd person POV because you all can reject Itachi and break his heart, not me though, I’m making him dango and taking him to his favourite cafe 🤍

Guess what though- Itachi’s not a wet wipe, and he’s about to enter his girlboss era 💅🏻

-When y/n starts talking and her tone shifts into a cold, demeaning, harsh voice that Itachi’s never expected to hear directed at him, he freezes. He’s wondering what on Earth she might say. He has noticed that she has been getting colder and more distant with him lately, and being as observant as he is, he thinks she might want to break things off

-‘I don’t think I have ever loved you, Itachi. Besides, I’m going to another country to continue my studies, and having a long distance relationship never works’ (me who’s been with the same partner for 4 yrs and did 2 yrs long distance: BULLSHIT!!)

-Her voice is muffled, and it echoes in his head, clattering around like a sword. Why would she say something so cruel? He had never come to know her as a cruel, cold person. It was not the person he’d fallen in love with. He swallows, but he’s quick to conceal his emotions. He’s not going to show her just how hurt he is by what she said.

-‘Was it all a lie, then?’ he asks, calm, detached, hiding the pain in his chest. She shakes her head.

-‘No, I just think I was foolish to think there was something where there wasn’t anything. Sorry’ she says, though her face is impassive. Itachi nods slowly.

-‘Well then. I hope you find happiness’ he says, his lips set in a hard line. Her brow furrows, her lips parting in mild surprise.

-‘You’re just going to take it?’ she asks, staring at him. Itachi’s jaw tightens. Does she expect him to grovel for that kind of treatment? To beg someone who clearly has never valued him to stay with him? He’s not such a pathetic man.

-‘I see no point in continuing a relationship with a person who sees no worth in me and cannot treat me with basic decency. I am not about to beg for cruelty and pretence’ he says simply, starting to gather his things around her flat and putting them in a bag. She blinks, rooted to the spot in the hallway until he passes by her to put his shoes on.

-‘Goodbye, y/n’ he only says, closing the door behind him before she can answer.

-at home, Itachi does not know whether it’s anger or sorrow that dominates his heart. Why has he let himself get so attached? Why has he failed to see the extent of her indifference towards him? Why has he fallen for a lie? Why does it hurt so much, despite knowing now what type of person she is?

-When Shisui comes knocking at his door, he thinks he might not answer, but in the end, he lifts himself off the bed and walks to the door

-Shisui listens to him calmly as he speaks about it, but at the end, his expression is almost comically angry, all narrowed eyes, wrinkled nose and downturned lips.

-‘Fuck her. You’re better off without her, Itachi. And she expected you to fight for her? Tsk. You’d gain more fighting for crumbs at a buffet’ he says, waving his hand dismissively. Itachi smiles slightly. Shisui is always so honest and forward in a way that he values greatly. And he trusts him wholeheartedly.

-‘It still pains me. It was not a lie, to me. I thought I had found the person I wanted to build a family with’ he says absentmindedly, nursing a cup of tea like it‘s whiskey.

-‘You’ll find someone who’s worthy of that. And if you don’t, I’m always here’ he winks, and Itachi scoffs, amused.

Itachi to y/n in this:

[szynkaaa]

When Kaeya Alberich said "slipping away before the final verse is sung, before the poet has uttered the last lines before everything has concluded... I don't know. Something about it just resonates with me"

And the Doctor said "I always rip out the last page of a book. Then it doesn't have to end. I hate endings!"

[ruexvn]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚕

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖, 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝚃𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑. 𝙰 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗

"𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢, 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍?"

"𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝...."

"...𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠? 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔"

𝚂𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚎𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜.

𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙

"𝚌𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚢/𝚗... 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚢. 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎"

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚣𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔. 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜, 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝙲𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎.

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛. 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕. 𝚄𝚗𝚌 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢

"𝙼𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛, 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝙶𝚘 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛"

𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍' 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎.

'𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍~... 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎...' , 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍.

𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚘𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 ..𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎.

"𝚒𝚖 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔....𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔..𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜~"

"....𝚢/𝚗...𝚑𝚒 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔"

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚢𝚙𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑! 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚕, 𝚕𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚕. 𝙱𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎

"𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚢/𝚗... 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛"

𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝.

"𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎....𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎...."

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚆𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢?

"𝙰 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎...𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜...."

𝙵𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎....𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 10 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢.

"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕.... 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚗..."

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑. 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝙿𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛... 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜

"𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎....𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗"

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎?

𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚍, 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛.

"𝙿𝚘𝚙 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕!"

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ