Could you please do some platonic headcanons for Konan? (If you care comfortable writing her) Konan's the love of my life frfr
-📃 anon
Carnival ᢉ𐭩 Konan X reader platonic head-canons
𓂃۶ৎ Warnings: none!
𓂃۶ৎ Context: being best friends with Konan <3
𓂃۶ৎ a/n: Thank you so much for this request! This is my first Naruto fic so I was so excited when getting this request! Especially cuz I love Konan so much <3
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She’ll be your biggest supporter for everything, she’ll root for you for everything decision you make.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Since she’s very skilled with origami, I feel like she’d teach you how to do it, to bond and connect with each other.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ If you’re feeling down, let’s say you just got your heart broken by someone.. she’ll want to cheer you up and she’ll make you a bouquet of paper roses.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She has trouble with painting her own nails, so she’ll ask you to paint them for her.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Even though she has trouble painting her own nails, she has no trouble with painting other peoples nails. So after you’re done with hers, she’ll offer to do yours next, making sure to pick the same nail polish you did on her, just so you two could match.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She’s a bit shy with her makeup, she’ll want to experiment with new eyeshadow looks but won’t try anything out.. until one day you tell her “You know, this kind of eyeshadow color would look great on you! You should try it out.” Giving her motivation and confidence to try a new eyeshadow look.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Konan is definitely more of a listener than a talker, she’ll prefer to listen to you talk than her, she’ll think your more interesting than her.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Matching tattoos!! She would absolutely love that with a friend.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She’s strong and she knows that, so she’ll protect you during battles. She wouldn’t want to ever lose her best friend.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ After she finished up the battle, she’ll come over to you, inspecting your body from head to toe then ask, “Are you hurt? Did you get dirty?” making sure you were absolutely okay.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ protective but subtle, Konan cares deeply for you.. though she doesn’t make it obvious, she watches out for you. And if you’re in need of help, she will subtly come to your safety, in a way that doesn’t cause attention to her.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Though she has a mean mug, her face seems to always soften up when she notices you in the room.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Special treatment, you’re her dear friends, why wouldn’t you get special treatment? You’ve been there for forever so of course you deserve it.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Konan will love to share with you the knowledge she has, she’ll even show you paper jutsus, teaching you how to be creative with your own skills.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She’ll teach you how to fight better, because she cannot always be around to protect you, even if she wants to.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Once in a while, she opens up and you are sure to have your full attention to her. She doesn’t open up often.. but when she does it’s serious. She has deep and meaningful conversations. Then after she’s done, she’ll thank you for listening to her and staying by her side as a friend.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She’ll encourage for you to grow, to become a better version of yourself and to reach the peak of your potential. She’ll share her own experiences to give you advice with it.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She’s very afraid to lose you, she obviously knows the type of world you both live in. So really, all she can hope about is passing away before you do, so she won’t have to suffer the lost of another friend.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ She’ll love to spend hours with you, like doing artsy activities. These activities help you both grow a stronger bond. And there would be a silence that brings you both some comfort and peace.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Sometimes, you guys both share each other’s thoughts together. Then hope that there will be a better future together, as friends.
Akatsuki Boys react when their s/o comes from the future
Warning: fluff, Funny
Characters: Itachi, Kisame, Hidan, Kakuzu, Deidara, Sasori, and Tobi
Hidan
-He’s currently poking your iPhone with his scythe. "What do you mean this 'Siri' bitch knows everything? Does she know Lord Jashin?!" He gets into a 20-minute screaming match with your voice assistant because she can't find the nearest ritual sacrifice site.
Kakuzu
-He is vibrating with greed. He doesn't care about the timeline as he’s stared at your designer sneakers. "The stitching... the unique design... I could sell these to a Daimyo for the price of a small country." He’s currently trying to figure out how to harvest your "future organs" for a premium price.
-Run for your life
Deidara
-You showed him a video of a Michael Bay movie on your phone. He’s been crying for ten minutes. "The CGI... it’s so... soulless! Where is the passion? Where is the explosion and excitement?!" He’s offended that future explosions don't have the same passion. He tries to C4 your phone because "it's an insult to the craft, hm!"
Sasori
He’s fascinated by your wireless earbuds. He’s currently trying to figure out how the sound gets in there without wires. "Small. Efficient. No pulse. This is the closest thing to 'True Art' I’ve seen from a human." He’s 5 seconds away from turning your AirPods into a weaponized puppet.
Itachi Uchiha
-He’s standing in the corner, looking cool and mysterious, but he’s actually using his Sharingan to memorize your Candy Crush patterns. He’s already reached Level 4,000 in his head. He subtly asks if "The Internet" is a Genjutsu, because honestly, it sounds like one.
Kisame Hoshigaki
-My Man!
-He’s delighted by Starbucks. You gave him a Frappuccino and the sugar rush is making him dangerous. "Samehada likes the whipped cream, ne? Tell me, little girl, in the future, do people still try to eat sharks, or do we finally win?"
-Poor baby🤣🦈
Tobi
He’s running around in circles because he found your Snapchat filters. "DEIDARA-SENPAI! LOOK! TOBI IS A KAWAII DOGGY!" He is obsessed with the "dog ears" filter and keeps trying to take a selfie with a very murderous-looking Itachi.
My current favorite thing about writing Narrative is knowing that nobody is really speaking English so I have to specify when they do. It's nobody's mother tongue 🤷🏽 my non-Japanese OCs are Mexican or other Latin American ethnicities.
Note: Set in a post-canon au where Samuels lives. This one-shot was previously posted to deathicus-sling but has been moved here by the author.
Find it on AO3
Masterlist
Programming be damned, Christopher Samuels could absolutely kiss Ripley right about now.
She was whole (physically speaking, at least) and terrifyingly livid (if he could process true emotions, that is), and she was jabbing a finger right into the chest of an identical Samuels model, designation Alistair. And dressed in nothing but a faded hospital gown, crutches under her arms.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your bullshit post-trauma counseling! I need to speak with whoever the hell is in charge,” he could hear the air quotes around those words, “of the Samuels model I brought back with me!”
Alistair, with his calm demeanor, had always been quite easily trodden over by humans. His scores in subservience and passiveness were what made him him, but only served to mark him more likely to cave to aggressive demands.
And aggressive women.
“Madam, I must insist that you return to your quarters. You are still recovering from surgery, and it is best for you to--”
“Do I look like I’m made of glass?” Ripley’s voice has become uncommonly low, almost threatening. “I demand to see him. I demand it. I’ve…” she paused, breathing erratic and panicked. “I just want to see him. Please.”
And then Alistair made the mistake of catching his eye over Amanda Ripley’s shoulder. She spun around, tracked his gaze, and promptly landed him right in the middle of her intense -- relieved -- stare. If androids had a concept of feeling naked, Samuels was sure he’d feel absolutely bare before her golden hazel eyes. Ripley made no move to approach him. In fact (and Christopher rather appreciated the idea) she seemed like she’d forgotten the station’s medical wing entirely, completely lost in his own gaze.
Or, at least he would like to think.
Eventually Alistair quit flicking his eyes between them and took his cue to leave, shoving some forms into Ripley’s frozen fingers.
“If you have any questions or concerns, please visit me at the front desk. Or, better yet,” he stepped backwards towards his desk. “Buzz a nurse from your room.” From there, the frazzled android took his leave.
Amanda Ripley, Queen of Scathing Retorts (in his own mind), did not even blink in the retreating synthetic’s direction. In fact, she was on her toes, stepping closer and closer and closer, until there was barely three feet between them.
“Samuels?” She clutched the stack of forms to her chest. Unsure, hesitant. Doubting. Hoping. Afraid.
“Ripley,” he answered, and his voice was as it ever was. Identical to Alistair’s, to the other Samuels unit named George who stood as a nurse in the trauma ward (no doubt one of the first faces she’d seen.) His tone was warm as a synthetic voicebox could be, measured perfectly for the occasion and person he spoke to. Words always chosen quickly and carefully, treading lightly over fragile human sensibilities. Technically, she should not have been able to tell it was him.
But, by God, this was a Ripley.
So the sound of her name off his lips made her shed tears so suddenly as if someone had turned a faucet. It caused her to shake on her two badly damaged legs, nearly knocking herself over. Before she could fall, however, he reacted. He caught her in his arms while the forms flew and her crutches clattered to the ground.
“Oh God, is it really… you?” Still the slightest bit of doubt, of fear.
“Thanks to you, yes.” And Christopher knew he could thank her until he outlived her, and still never be able to thank her enough. “Your swift power-plug pulling is to blame for my continued existence. As well as dragging me behind you every step of the way until my reboot was complete.” There was far too much distance between them, which he aimed to close shortly.
Ripley had not blinked in a while. That small detail concerned him greatly. Ah, there it was. She inhaled deeply and whispered, “I’m not… not the only one? The only one who made it?”
He shifted her up a bit, then hoisted her up completely in his arms (bridal style, he recalled before shoving the memory brutally back into the darkest recesses of his computer brain.) Thinking like that would summon numerous preventative programs and warning pop-ups. Getting out of one “post-mission debrief” also known as a wipe was one thing; being summoned for another would be the end as he knew it.
As this Christopher knew it.
This Chris was finding the idea of falling in love with Amanda Ripley more and more favorable the longer he held her in his--
Immediately, an error box flashed across his HUD and a bit of coding forced his arms to release Ripley onto the floor ever so gently, only lingering on her waist long enough to regain her own balance. Disappointment flashed through her eyes, gone as soon as it had appeared. Fleeting like a spark through a cable.
“Samuels… Christoper…”
Instead of giving in to anything going on in those viciously traitorous subroutines, and ignoring the longing in his friend’s (just a friend?) face, he began leading her back through the medical wing of this station. Back to her hospital room. Back to where she belonged.
And then he would continue onward to make his reports, and be shipped off to his long-abandoned desk in a large space-station in a large sector of this galaxy, one in hundreds of thousands of Samuelses.
Shipped off, leaving behind the first person, the first human, to acknowledge him.
Christopher truly felt he could kiss this woman.
But an idea is just an idea, and no android ought to be having any of those.
This one's not very detailed, just let your imagination run with it.
If I understand how the post-graduation tests work (as in, the bell test and whatever other jonin sensei do to test their new genin), the genin who fail don't actually go back to the Academy or get dropped from it altogether. They go into the Genin Corps. So, with that in mind:
Team Seven fails the bell test, and, instead of giving them a second chance, Kakashi sends them off to join the Genin Corps.
I wanna see them either: A) working together to push on toward chunin and jonin themselves, despite no longer being on the traditional jonin track, or B) each finding their own path. Or, really, whatever direction you think is most interesting.
Maybe switching perspectives? Maybe one of them gives up, maybe all of them give up, maybe two work together, maybe none of them do.
I'd like to see them with different specialties, behaviors, friends, etc., bc we all know how big an influence Kakashi has on them.
Kakashi doesn't necessarily have to be the bad guy here, either. Maybe he's being practical, maybe he's just traumatized. Maybe he ends up regretting it, maybe he ends up taking them on as students anyway, after a while.
Idk, it's up to you. If you do write it, please tag me! I'd love to read it!
Summary: Ana's time in Japan felt like one disaster after the other; all her peers are dead, one underclassman got himself killed, another went rogue, she narrowly dodged a terrible marriage arrangement, and now she is the acting clan head of her family.
Just peachy, as her sisters would say.
Now she's back in the headache that is Japan's sorcerer society, and she'll just have to make the best of it. With the mess that Geto left in his wake-- and the tempting offer he's made to her in secret-- Ana must now decide whose life she's living, whose lives she's protecting, and if the ends really do justify the means.
This is Haunt the Narrative. Things are going to get worse before they get better.
Rating: Mature Audiences
Warnings: Canon-typical gore and violence, depictions of intrusive thoughts, misogyny, 00s-typical homophobia, cultural differences, suggestive humor, political corruption, human experimentation, dubious science, major character death, additional warnings per chapter summaries
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six
Geto Suguru; friend, classmate, and now a fugitive curse user with an active execution order to be carried out by Gojo Satoru, also friend and classmate. Meanwhile, Ana's life has only just begun to stabilize after the shitshow that was her tenure overseas. Now she is being summoned back to the very place where life took a turn for the worst : Kyoto, Japan, and it's not like it's for an extended-stay vacation either. This is probably totally fine, and nothing sketchy is happening at all.
Rating: Mature Audiences
Warnings: Canon-typical gore and violence, depictions of intrusive thoughts
Author's Note: Apologies for any typos. I don't use beta-readers and I've been staring at this for too long. Take it pls.
Series Masterlist
“This doesn’t make any sense!”
He’d shrugged, a wisp of titanium-white falling out of his stupid top-knot. Satoru-kun looked every bit as unbothered as he always did— which meant he was furious. “The hell do you want me to say?” His voice had begun to crackle through the screen. “Sorry, Creepshow-senpai, but I’ve gotta go. Some of us still have to take missions.”
And with that, Satoru-kun had hung up, leaving Ana to her thoughts once more. The fuming clench of her teeth nearly cracked her jaw in two, and only the fact that her computer was brand-spanking new kept her from sending a reinforced fist clean through. A Skype call in the middle of the night (for her, at least) from Gojo Satoru? She ought to have known nothing good would come of it.
Unfortunately, the only times her powerful kouhai bothered getting touch these days were for consultations or research. Good news just didn’t come out of Japan anymore, not even from an old friendship gone cold.
Even Utahime hadn’t emailed in weeks, though that was for a very different reason than the volatile bomb Satoru just dropped on her.
Suguru-kun, she sighed internally, leaning heavily against her chair. What the hell did you do?
No answer came to Ana in the darkness of her room. Her strangled confusion and bubbling anger stewed unchecked with only the blinding light of her Skype tab, still open and showing her recent calls. An owl hooted by her window. What had her grandmother said about the call of an owl? Something about a bad omen, or brujas in the night waiting for naughty children to go sneaking around? All superstition, as Ana believed, but then again, she was a sorcerer in a world of curses. What could one bad omen do to her? Nonetheless, the bird and darkness made for a somewhat unsettling feeling in her gut.
Her grandmother also disliked Satoru and Suguru; she’d never liked the Gojo clan because of their tendency to produce sorcerers with those eyes— cuidado con sus ojos— and with Suguru-kun, well. She’d been wary of his technique as well. To hear the old woman say it, the pair had eight evil eyes between them— six filled with cursed energy and two filled with a buried hatred.
Tch. At least Ana knew where she got her dramatics.
Only… they weren’t dramatics anymore, were they? Suguru-kun had massacred an entire village in the countryside. If she asked, she was sure she could access the case files and photos, but something told her some things were better left unseen. An angered man doesn’t kill cleanly. He doesn’t lay his victims to rest with care, or cover them with a sheet in the aftermath. An angered man slaughters and leaves bodies to bloat and rot.
Bugs eating flesh. Animals feasting on the dead. Sunlight decomposing them all. Ana squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banishing the images conjured by her sleep-deprived brain, but still they came. Skulls, bones, screams of children who had once laughed and played. Blood, coppery and hot to the taste. Flashing, searing blue. Confusion and pain, fear and horror. Hands thrown up in one last attempt as defense, only to be eaten away by a cursed spirit. He wouldn’t have cherished it, would never have enjoyed it, but wanton violence?
He was not above it.
Another hoot sounded outside her window, dragging Ana back to reality. She was not, in fact, surrounded by screaming dying villagers deep in the Japanese countryside. She was slumped over her laptop.
Fancy that.
Ana puffed out her cheeks in a chest-weary sigh, snapping her laptop shut and slugging off to bed. Even with the benefit of blackout curtains, she felt the rise of moonlight as a cloud moved on. A full moon. She could always tell. Sleep refused her summons as cursed energy flowed into her, rather than circulating, and she wondered what life might have been like if Suguru’s technique had been more like her own. He wouldn’t sleep very well, if that were the case.
He probably hadn’t slept very well anyways, these past few months. Maybe even since he started at Jujutsu Tech.
Maybe even since he was born.
Ana would never get the chance to ask him about it anymore.
So yes, sleep eluded her; she was plagued with thoughts of her favorite little classmate— his long dark hair so similar to her sister’s, his slightly cramped bottom teeth, the way a deep rich purple beaded up in his brown eyes like the wefts of silken fabric shifting in the sun. The way he’d waved at her from the dormitories that fateful spring day when she’d come home for good. That vacant look in his eyes, knowing there were no more business trips, no more group sushi runs, no more guest lectures on cursed energy theory with Yaga-sensei or weapon drills with Kusakabe-senpai.
God, it’s like I enjoy punishing myself, she scoffed inwardly. One day, I won’t torture myself like this.
She couldn’t help it. She’d been so close, and yet so far. Was is any better if she allowed this to roll off her back like everything was fine? Even without the horrific news from Satoru, she’d bitten her nails down to the quick, bleeding from her hands over the students she’d left behind because she couldn’t stand another day under the thumb of a broken society. Were they okay? Had they remembered to eat a square meal? How were their grades? Did anyone shut off the television after they fell asleep? Were they being kind to Nanami and Haibara?
Haibara-kun...
Fuck. Vomit welled up in her throat with nowhere to go but out. Ana spit it up, heart going for first place the way it raced. Cursed energy and anxiety turned her stomach like a washing machine thudding unevenly during the spin-cycle.
I chose to leave. Her mind circled this like a vulture does a carcass. I chose to leave because I have obligations to fulfill.
Leaving is a light way of putting it, huh? It’s more like you found a reason to quit going to Japan and grabbed onto it by the horns.
Teeth flashed sky-blue as hot tendrils of cursed energy began pooling around her, far too much for her to absorb passively. I just wanted the bullshit to stop. You know how it is over there.
You ran away from jujutsu. You have to admit that’s accurate, right? They needed someone in their corner, but you just couldn’t handle it. Now Ana’s thoughts circled her, hungry and devouring.
The puddle on her duvet reeked of acid and undigested dinner. Vomit and shit, he’d once said. Ana had no way to know what her younger friend had gone through, no way to understand, no way to comprehend. As her innate technique re-calibrated itself with only a whispered word— Assimilate— Ana knew she never would. Cursed energy was a curse in itself, frothing inside a human body before being expelled. She felt it swirling in her gut, sickening and sharp. Once upon a time Ana assumed she and Suguru-kun were on the same page, but she didn’t deal in curses; curses didn’t flux and fuse inside her body, biting and clawing to be released.
Still, she couldn’t help but beg the night to answer her. Suguru-kun, what the hell did you do?
Around and around her mind twirled. Or rather, spiraled. Spiraled until the sun subdued the moon with the rise of morning, and Ana realized she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Even so, she slipped out of bed and stared into her vanity mirror, skin dulled by fatigue. The world beyond her home awoke and began their morning ablutions as though nothing had changed. As though Ana’s eyes were not melting out of their sockets from sleep-deprivation. As though her mouth didn’t taste like acid and bile. As though she hadn’t just spent all night, mind torn to shreds over what-ifs and if-onlys.
What a mess. What a shameful mess.
Cold water did nothing to alleviate her stress or simmering anger. Half a liter of coffee only made her bone vibrate underneath her skin and her teeth chatter. Her bedding remained where she’d soiled it, unwilling to deal with the mess. Chilly stone-blue light illuminated the kitchen of her family home, reminding Ana that another day would come and go, time passing without her say so, inevitably bringing nothing but more bad news from Japan in the hours to come.
Was this the price of freedom? Had she had anything to do with this terrible fall from grace? Ana didn’t know if her actions on this earth were strong enough to have had any influence over the future, but if she’d known the outcome of Suguru’s lonely sojourn through the foreign, damaging world of jujutsu, she would have— she’d have—
What can one person do? She’s not anybody special. Not where it counts in this world.
She changed into a ratty tracksuit, the slow-roasted rage within bursting into brilliant flame as the spit it spun on fell into the fire. And as she threw open her blackout curtains, causing the cursed energy pooling around her ruminating mind to coalesce into ink-black sludge, she re-calibrated once again and shivered with every inky curl.
Oh, how that feeling triggered memories of Japan. Shoko-chan’s long hair on her first day, and the choppy bob she gave herself now that she was away from her strict mother. Satoru-kun’s buzzed head, and the fashion magazine he stared at with longing even his practiced smirk couldn’t hide, especially when the models had shaggy locks. And Suguru-kun, his hair already shaggy, tickling his shoulders before he decided to tie it up. He never cut it except for a trim here and there. Ana recalled hearing him wondering aloud whether Jujutsu Tech had strict dress-code restrictions around hair, so she’d dyed her bangs neon green and showed up to assembly with the rest of her class like nothing was off.
Satoru called her tacky and cheap. Shoko scrunched her nose up, claiming Ana must have something to prove. Suguru had laughed along at their comments, but he quit his worrying, and that had been her role solidified.
Nobody even asked her to be so… overbearing. Certainly it was far easier to kinda let the pieces fall where they may, simpler to harden your heart like Mei-san, or create distance like Kusakabe-senpai, or work quietly like Yaga-sensei. Attachment grew thorns. Thorns pricked. Pricked skin bled. But if there was anything Ana would claim about herself without falling into that endless cycle of rumination, it was that she was a bleeding heart, beating only because it gave a hard squeeze in time with her aches. What else could she do?
So she absorbed the cursed energy she was giving off in spades, letting her technique pull it back in before placing it where it belonged. Fifteen heartbeats passed before she fully regulated, and then Ana opened her eyes to the morning sunlight.
When Ana next heard from Satoru, it was because no one would pick up the damn phone. Her mother had gone into the office, a phone call of her own going way past the scheduled end-time. That was jujutsu business for you, Ana mused. What was not typical, was their personal landline going off twice in five minutes without any of the numerous residents jumping up to answer it. Ana snatched the receiver off the wall with a scowl.
“Residencia Arrechavaleta,” she snapped in Spanish. “Who is it?”
“Taco,” said Satoru.
“You—! You moron,” Ana replied, switching clumsily to Japanese. “What happened? Why is my phone ringing off the hook?”
He sighed over the line. “You’re being summoned formally by the council of elders.”
Ana's world went as still as ice. "They can't do that. They don't have jurisdiction over the Americas."
"Oh, Anahí-senpai," he groaned, sounding put-upon. "It's not just the elders. The Kamo clan is calling in a favor or something. I'm not supposed to know this--" because of course he's not, nosy little kid-- "but you're being summoned to help with damage control. They need your technique to clean up Suguru's mess."
And that was the core of the issue, wasn't it? One of their most powerful sorcerers has abandoned the system, and now Japan is scrambling to cross out his name rather than preventing this from happening again. And her job? Tidying up afterwards, controlling the narrative, and erasing any signs of ghosts.
Something she was damn good at. Ana chewed the inside of her lip until she tasted blood, and Satoru continued, "You're gonna get a phone call from Sensei and an official email from the council. You're gonna email them back--"
Ana rubbed her forehead. "I'm doing no such thing--"
"--And accept the mission. It's in compliance with international mission laws, so all you have to do is accept it and let your cute little family know." God, if it weren't such a serious topic, she'd assumed he was teasing her. "Got it?"
Annoyance towards her former classmate bubbles up at his tone. "Who do you think you are, ordering me around? You haven't even graduated yet."
"I'm Gojo Satoru, duh!"
Now sitting on the kitchen counter, Ana mulled it over silently. She could hear a television over the line as Satoru-kun absently channel-surfed. The sound of cartoons resurfaced a memory; Satoru, Shoko, and Suguru, all winding down after a tough exorcism during their first term. Satoru-kun and Suguru-kun were on track to be considered Special Grades, working together all year. Shoko had been pulled away from cursed energy refinement that afternoon to patch them up. Reading the reports made Ana grit her teeth.
Four casualties. Three civilian non-sorcerers and the young team's assistant. But the truth was that her kouhai were already somewhat used to the reality of this world. Suguru has been raised outside jujutsu society, alone in his hometown as young potential. Shoko had been scouted as a child and quickly learned how to use her technique the hard way. And Satoru... Well. Ana was from a prominent family as well. She understood.
His poisons were sugar and mindless cartoons.
But underneath the kid watching Digimon probably on his sixth lollipop of the day, lay Gojo Satoru, Special Grade Sorcerer, wielder of the Six Eyes and Infinity. And right now that was who had come to the phone. Not a scrawny white-haired teen boy scampering around with cupcakes in his lunchbox.
With a hard swallow, Ana drew in a breath to answer him. "I can't just leave. My family-- I have serious obligations here. Some of us actually take those seriously, you know. Generously speaking, I can wrap it up in two months, maybe delegate some of my research into my sister, but that's the absolute best you're getting from me."
Studying the kitchen tile, she wondered out loud, "Why'd you call me anyways?"
"Can't I call my absolute favorite senpai?"
"You said they're making contact soon. This seems a little... underhanded."
"Underhanded?"
"Yes."
Satoru crunched on an unknown snack. She heard him suck his fingertips clean before answering, "Underhanded is my middle name."
"Yeah right," she scoffed. "This isn't really your style Satoru-kun. Leaking information is more Mei-san's industry."
"What can I say? I'm full of surprises, Creepshow-senpai. Comes with being so powerful."
Tch. "Should I be worried?"
"Didn't you hear me? I'm Gojo Satoru. Accept the damn mission and give them your terms. The council has no choice but to accept them because you're the only easily accessible, high-level sorcerer capable of cursed energy manipulation."
Before Ana could get another word in, Satoru hung up on her. Again. A faint lasting crackle of annoyance raced across her skin, mingling with the last dregs of discomfort he'd stirred up with his forceful demand.
At the end of the day, he is Gojo Satoru. He is considered the strongest sorcerer born in four-hundred years. Ruffling his feathers would be detrimental to Ana's personal goals, as well as the mission she's likely to be placed on soon.
He's not just a student anymore. In less than a year, he will be a fully-fledged sorcerer, pulling exorcisms between university classes and moonlighting as his own clan's head.
Connections, her mother constantly reminded Ana. You have to understand the social ladder if you ever want a chance to become clan head.
Not that I want a chance at clan head, Ana wanted to grumble, placing the receiver back on the cradle. Not that she wanted to wade into the trials and tribulations unfolding in Japan right now. Not that she wanted to stand in the middle of a slaughtered village and neutralize residuals reeking of murder and malice.
Alas, choice and want are two things not afforded to clan kids like herself.
In lieu of tempting the cyclical nature of her paralyzing contemplation, Ana hopped off the counter and padded into the foyer where the heavy doors of the office stood. Three light raps startled the natural circulation of cursed energy within. Two-hundred pesos she's still on the phone...
Sure enough, a sleek black flip-phone sat cradled against her mother's shoulder and neck when the door swung open.
"One moment," she said in English, gesturing for Ana to enter the quiet room. "Actually, let me call you back. Five minutes." Now the door clicked shut, and the black phone was gone. Her mother leaned against the desk, arms braces behind her, facing Ana where she lurked like a ghost in the door frame. "Hurry up. There's trouble in Japan."
Well, that answers that question. Fuck. Ana pursed her lips and prepared to take the bold route. Her poker face must've immediately failed, evidenced by her mom's technique flipping through the pages of her brain. "I know."
"It seems you do." It wasn't a question. Confirmation for her mother came in the form of her daughter's own mind. "Huh. The Gojo kid? Nosy little boy. You're correct about there being more to this situation than he's telling you."
"I knew it," Ana muttered, gaze drawn to the floor in her perpetual state of rumination. "He gets really obnoxious like that when he's angry, and it's worse when things don't go his way."
Without preamble, her mother shared what she knew. "Japan has requested your expertise in neutralizing curse energy and the erasure of spectral disturbances. The Kamo clan has also requested that you establish another research center in Kyoto for your... weird shit."
Ana gaped, brimming with indignation. "It's not shit! It's weird, but it's not shit!" It's also the kind of experimentation that cannot be well conducted within Tengen's barrier, which would make chances of moving her lab overseas nearly impossible.
Her mom tipped her head to the side, scrutinizing her daughter. "You're going."
Not a question. Why would it be, when she'd seen into the muck and mire of Ana's mind just now. But just like her calls with Satoru, there was more unsaid in this conversation.
"Yes. What of it? I can choose my own missions, you know. I'm not just at the beck and call of our clan or any council."
"I just found it interesting. You have strong feelings about Japan." Her mother leaned forward, tall frame casting a slight shadow over Ana. "Do you want to know what else I saw?"
Oh. Precognition through temporal cursed energy manipulation. Also known as foresight. Ana liked to call it precognition through impression. Her mother had casually burned through a massive amount of her cursed energy just to read Ana's mind and predict a future from a timeline of choices. Like the way a painter knows their piece before it's finished, and despite certain changes that may occur to divert the predicted path, her mother now had a decent understanding of... whatever amount of time she'd looked into. A finished work can be changed by choices. But the impact never changes, just like a masterpiece can never be unpainted.
Briefly, Ana did wonder what the path painted by her current determination looked like. Who wouldn't be tempted by the usefulness of knowledge? The potential of potential itself? All her thoughts, her choices, the cyclical nature of her mind, laid out into a measurable timeline.
Nightmare fuel, honestly. Stuff like this is what kept her awake at night. How did her mother ever rest?
Her mother was currently waiting patiently, ready to divulge to Ana something helpful, something concrete yet flexible, set in stone yet not fully determined.
The future was full of possibility. The path she stood on now felt more like following a future laying at the bottom of a cliff, leaving Ana to decide whether the fall would be worth the landing.
Typical of her family. Dramatics must be genetic.
"No thanks," Ana replied, shaking her head. Her dark eyes met their twin in a dark face; this was her choice, a choice possibly seen by her mom right this very moment. "Not this time. I can settle this myself."
Curiously, so quickly Ana didn't believe she'd even seen it, an expression flashed across her mother's fine features. If she didn't know any better (she liked to think she did) Ana would call it fear. Since she absolutely knew better, she settled on mild uncertainty.
... actually, perhaps even that was too vulnerable a feeling for her resolute matriarch. Ana didn't know what that expression was supposed to be, but she didn't like it.
And then, cursed energy began leaking from her mother.
Dread curled up and died in Ana's belly, maggots eating its flesh away and making her stomach roil. Silently, caught in the gaze of her mother, whose poker face really should earn her a national award, Ana whispered, "Assimilate," and soaked up the thin blue tendrils.
"Times up," her mom snapped, flipping her phone open and calling her client back. "We leave for a meeting in Mexico City tonight."
"Huh? Wait, Mom--"
"We will be discussing a contract between us and Japan. They want you and two research assistants flown overseas."
"Mom--" Ana stepped forward, but her mother grasped her shoulders and walked her out the door.
"You should have an official summons in your email."
With a thud of solid wood, Ana stood in the foyer, alone.
She shivered, regulating her technique now that there was no extra cursed energy to absorb. The ambient waves of it flowed, but the lapse in circulation from her mom had been startling. Unsettling. Such a thing only happened in times of great stress.
"I'm gonna go pack," she called, knowing her voice would carry into the office.
And she did just that. Another distressing matter had just presented itself to the machine of Ana's voracious mind. The scent of her earlier sick spell knocked her away from spiralling, at least.
Laundry. Yes, that was as good a task as any to get Ana's mind off everything.
What a future it must have been. Ana didn't wanna know.
When the breeze ruffles your hair, it’s the spirit of the dead missing you.
Fandom: Attack on Titan
Characters: Jean Kirstein, Levi Ackerman, and the ghost of Marco Bodt haunting this one-shot
Warnings: Canon-typical gore and violence, drug-use, and a somewhat dramatic author
Find it on AO3
Masterlist
It wasn't often that he even dared to walk underneath the dark of night anymore. With every footstep, every crunch of cobbled pavers and whisper of a breeze through his hair, he felt it. Felt him. And it felt real.
Fingers not his own brushed through his hair, and the boy swore there was a shadow of a laugh— "strawberry blonde? I'm so jealous!”— in the wind. Frantically, heart slamming into his ribs at the sudden phantom touch, Jean tugged at his locks, hoping to catch the warmth of a hand one last time before it faded to nothing. Too late, he patted his head, panting, for the ghost had flown away,just as he always did.
His eyes felt heavy, and hot. Was it all these tears spilling down his cheeks? Or the weighty high from earlier, passing a rolled blunt of something he'd promised his mother he'd never smoke to Armin after taking a drag? Maybe it was all the alcohol, two mugs full of whatever the hell Reiner and Sasha filched from the Commander's quarters. Maybe it was all three.
Jean's head ached.
One step. Another. Cool breeze in his hair. Warm booze in his blood and belly. Smoke springing from his mouth. Ash falling off the finished blunt and glowing like… well, like ashes. The sight sent his heart racing once again, and Jean three the burning paper to the ground, stomping out every fiber of weed into dust—
dust swirling through the air, into his nose, causing him to sneeze—
He slammed a fist into a cart sitting nearby. Sure, his knuckles were fucked now, but that wasn't quite as bad as—
hoisting his body over a shoulder, as if he'd never been a person, never been a human, never even been alive—
Jean let his tears flow, dripping from his chin to stain his shirt. Blood had covered it last night, and though most of it evaporated, what remained could only be—
the blood of his comrades-- no, his brothers, his sisters, his siblings, his friends. All piled high in a wagon like diseased corpses—
He punched the cart again. And again. Another breeze blew by, curling through his hair once more but he put up his hood, hoping to escape another dashed hope, another failed dream. It hurt. The wind hurt, to be so gentle caressing him, and to not be him—
pulling the wagon on his own. There were no horses to spare. He dragged it along with no complaint, only muffled sobs each time another body landed on his shoulders—
His hands hurt. Sharp needles, or splinters, rather, embedded themselves in his skin. The cart took no damage. Jean didn't want it to. They needed every arm, every foot, every strong and willing shoulder they could get.
looks like regret is the order of the day, standing here, watching our friends burn—
Jean's knees felt weak, stomach roiling in protest to the potent whiskey. A smarter kid might have stayed near their impromptu party lest he wander too far, get lost or hurt or do something tragic in the wake of such destruction. Jean was stupid at times, but he wasn't completely pathetic. His right hand flexed—
I don't even know which bones are yours anymore—
He closed his right fist and brought it to his mouth, planting a single kiss on his wrist. Knees shaking, he climbed into the cart, laying quietly. The wood floor felt strange under him, shifting and cold. Stiff. As if he was laying in bags of hardening dough. He couldn't bring himself to fully cry. Tears still dribbled over his face, now falling to rest in his ears and hair hotly.
Another breeze tickled him, brushing his hair. If he didn't know any better, hadn't held a lifeless hand in his, met a deadened eye with his own, carried the weight of bodies and bodies and bodies on his spine, trudging up decimated streets and stepping over red-stained rubble to deliver his own family to be cremated… he might have smiled at the thought of sweet giggles wafting by.
But he had.
He had done all those things and more. His back hurt. His arms hurt. His hips hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt. Everything hurt so very badly.
No wonder the vets all smoked that shit. With his high wearing off, Jean suddenly realized just how much pain he was in. Each joint popped and creaked. His head throbbed. Walls, he might even vomit—
all over his boots again, the smell mingling with the putrid reek of rot and feces—
Nope. He could not hold it. With a frantic jolt, Jean leaned over the lip of his hiding spot and puked over the side with a wet splat. Coughing, he groaned.
He didn't bother looking up, much less saluting his superior. “Listen. Fuck you,” he slurred, rubbing his temples and spitting, “Marco was smarter than all of us. He and Armin played chess once and they had an ongoing game for three months.”
Armin had admitted defeat. For all his immense patience and planning, he knew the most important trick of being a leader. When to back down.
Whichever officer had found him leaned against Jean's cart, smoking.
“You're lucky I'm the one who followed you, Kirstein. Captain Zacharias would have yanked you up by your collar and dragged you back by now.” Smoke billowed into the night.
“The smart ones always die, huh? And us fuckwits are left to try and run this show without them.” His commanding officer took a drag and then put out his cigarette on the pavement. “We all know a thing or two about that, kid, and you won't stop learning until the day you're the smart one being dragged home wrapped in your cloak.”
As the officer rambled on, Jean opened one eye to flare at him. Through the haze of drugs and alcohol, two bright silver eyes pierced him, two stars locked inside a human skull—
burning on the pyre, bones cracking and crumbling until they join each grain of ash to dance into the clouds—
“I had two friends. A long time ago now, but it's fresh in my mind how bright my sister was. She didn't have any proper learning at all, and teaching her to read and write had been hard, but she picked it up quickly. If only she'd seen Hange's experiments—”
“I'm learning about the ODM gear, and it's such a drag—” “Hey! At least sound excited, it's a letter to your mom!”
“My brother was an old soul. Always watching, planning, thinking. Observant, to balance my hotheaded ways back then. He trusted my word, but he knew that I needed his guidance. I've been so lost without him—”
That's familiar to me as well. Being lost. Wondering what if…
“But I can't regret living past them. Then what did they die for? I'll tell you,” Jean jumped as a heavy hand shook him out of his reverie. He sat up, wiping snot from his nose, and blinked blearily into those two stars. “My sister died for knowledge. My brother died for freedom. What did your friend die for?”
What the hell? The officer was high, and babbling on.
“What the hell kind of question— how dare you!”
But the breeze came again. Tender fingertips from some plane beyond his comprehension combed his hair, and this time, when he grabbed manically at his hair—
there it was.
He felt it. Soothing the ache in his split and bleeding knuckles was warmth. Phantom skin planting a kiss on his crown. A reassurance.
What had Marco died for? He wished he knew. Or could make up a frilly spiritual answer like Captain Whoeverthefuck. But Jean didn't feel much like making soul-talk with his CO, so he scoffed.
“He died scared and screaming, without his gear to save him. What kind of answer can I give?” Two stars became four, then eight. And then Jean passed out, drunk and high in a wagon, limp as the corpses around him.
FOUR YEARS LATER
He still hated walking at night. He hated fires. He never attended any recreational bonfires, unless they had plenty of booze and a few grams of bud. Ymir had once introduced a handful of white pills, wrapped in cloth, and Commander Smith (rest his soul) had gone off the deep end, slapping an overdosed Connie and shoving him into a medic's waiting arms.
They never tried hard drugs again, spooked. But the weed remained, and their main visitor during these secret late-night meetings was Levi. He watched them, and pulled any wanderers back into the circle without a word. Sometimes he even rolled their blunts for them. They seemed smaller when he did it, but the Captain insisted they were fine, so no one pushed.
Jean was usually so far gone that he held full conversations with Marco. He'd laugh and throw rocks, wheezing at how they passed right through the apparition and landed a few meters away. The breeze never stopped stroking his head, even when he aimed for Marco's right cheek, only to realize he's sober enough to tell left from right and down another shot.
And each day he carried on. They were all experts at powering through the hangovers. They'd learned from the best.
The best were all dead now.
Jean walked. One step. Another. He kept going until he caught sight of a newspaper stand. One glance at the front page and he snatched one up, tossing coins onto the counter.
Even outside the walls, people died meaninglessly. How many had been scared and screaming? How many young kids had been killed? How many soldiers had died for someone else's dream?
I'm Marcel, you can call me Sling, and this is my multifandom writing sideblog. I am slowly crossposting my current wips from AO3 onto here, as well as adding new works as the opportunity arises.
We are big chillin' here. This is a profic blog run by an adult, so if that bothers you, it's time for you to head on out 👉🏼🚪 Otherwise, you're welcome to stay and lurk.
We literally just started this blog so as of right now (04.14.2026) there's not much here. We'll get on that, just let us cook or whatever the kids are saying these days.
Fanfic Masterlist
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Blog Rules:
- Do not repost any of my writing or art anywhere.
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When the breeze ruffles your hair, it’s the spirit of the dead missing you.
Fandom: Attack on Titan
Characters: Jean Kirstein, Levi Ackerman, and the ghost of Marco Bodt haunting this one-shot
Warnings: Canon-typical gore and violence, drug-use, and a somewhat dramatic author
Find it on AO3
Masterlist
It wasn't often that he even dared to walk underneath the dark of night anymore. With every footstep, every crunch of cobbled pavers and whisper of a breeze through his hair, he felt it. Felt him. And it felt real.
Fingers not his own brushed through his hair, and the boy swore there was a shadow of a laugh— "strawberry blonde? I'm so jealous!”— in the wind. Frantically, heart slamming into his ribs at the sudden phantom touch, Jean tugged at his locks, hoping to catch the warmth of a hand one last time before it faded to nothing. Too late, he patted his head, panting, for the ghost had flown away,just as he always did.
His eyes felt heavy, and hot. Was it all these tears spilling down his cheeks? Or the weighty high from earlier, passing a rolled blunt of something he'd promised his mother he'd never smoke to Armin after taking a drag? Maybe it was all the alcohol, two mugs full of whatever the hell Reiner and Sasha filched from the Commander's quarters. Maybe it was all three.
Jean's head ached.
One step. Another. Cool breeze in his hair. Warm booze in his blood and belly. Smoke springing from his mouth. Ash falling off the finished blunt and glowing like… well, like ashes. The sight sent his heart racing once again, and Jean three the burning paper to the ground, stomping out every fiber of weed into dust—
dust swirling through the air, into his nose, causing him to sneeze—
He slammed a fist into a cart sitting nearby. Sure, his knuckles were fucked now, but that wasn't quite as bad as—
hoisting his body over a shoulder, as if he'd never been a person, never been a human, never even been alive—
Jean let his tears flow, dripping from his chin to stain his shirt. Blood had covered it last night, and though most of it evaporated, what remained could only be—
the blood of his comrades-- no, his brothers, his sisters, his siblings, his friends. All piled high in a wagon like diseased corpses—
He punched the cart again. And again. Another breeze blew by, curling through his hair once more but he put up his hood, hoping to escape another dashed hope, another failed dream. It hurt. The wind hurt, to be so gentle caressing him, and to not be him—
pulling the wagon on his own. There were no horses to spare. He dragged it along with no complaint, only muffled sobs each time another body landed on his shoulders—
His hands hurt. Sharp needles, or splinters, rather, embedded themselves in his skin. The cart took no damage. Jean didn't want it to. They needed every arm, every foot, every strong and willing shoulder they could get.
looks like regret is the order of the day, standing here, watching our friends burn—
Jean's knees felt weak, stomach roiling in protest to the potent whiskey. A smarter kid might have stayed near their impromptu party lest he wander too far, get lost or hurt or do something tragic in the wake of such destruction. Jean was stupid at times, but he wasn't completely pathetic. His right hand flexed—
I don't even know which bones are yours anymore—
He closed his right fist and brought it to his mouth, planting a single kiss on his wrist. Knees shaking, he climbed into the cart, laying quietly. The wood floor felt strange under him, shifting and cold. Stiff. As if he was laying in bags of hardening dough. He couldn't bring himself to fully cry. Tears still dribbled over his face, now falling to rest in his ears and hair hotly.
Another breeze tickled him, brushing his hair. If he didn't know any better, hadn't held a lifeless hand in his, met a deadened eye with his own, carried the weight of bodies and bodies and bodies on his spine, trudging up decimated streets and stepping over red-stained rubble to deliver his own family to be cremated… he might have smiled at the thought of sweet giggles wafting by.
But he had.
He had done all those things and more. His back hurt. His arms hurt. His hips hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt. Everything hurt so very badly.
No wonder the vets all smoked that shit. With his high wearing off, Jean suddenly realized just how much pain he was in. Each joint popped and creaked. His head throbbed. Walls, he might even vomit—
all over his boots again, the smell mingling with the putrid reek of rot and feces—
Nope. He could not hold it. With a frantic jolt, Jean leaned over the lip of his hiding spot and puked over the side with a wet splat. Coughing, he groaned.
He didn't bother looking up, much less saluting his superior. “Listen. Fuck you,” he slurred, rubbing his temples and spitting, “Marco was smarter than all of us. He and Armin played chess once and they had an ongoing game for three months.”
Armin had admitted defeat. For all his immense patience and planning, he knew the most important trick of being a leader. When to back down.
Whichever officer had found him leaned against Jean's cart, smoking.
“You're lucky I'm the one who followed you, Kirstein. Captain Zacharias would have yanked you up by your collar and dragged you back by now.” Smoke billowed into the night.
“The smart ones always die, huh? And us fuckwits are left to try and run this show without them.” His commanding officer took a drag and then put out his cigarette on the pavement. “We all know a thing or two about that, kid, and you won't stop learning until the day you're the smart one being dragged home wrapped in your cloak.”
As the officer rambled on, Jean opened one eye to flare at him. Through the haze of drugs and alcohol, two bright silver eyes pierced him, two stars locked inside a human skull—
burning on the pyre, bones cracking and crumbling until they join each grain of ash to dance into the clouds—
“I had two friends. A long time ago now, but it's fresh in my mind how bright my sister was. She didn't have any proper learning at all, and teaching her to read and write had been hard, but she picked it up quickly. If only she'd seen Hange's experiments—”
“I'm learning about the ODM gear, and it's such a drag—” “Hey! At least sound excited, it's a letter to your mom!”
“My brother was an old soul. Always watching, planning, thinking. Observant, to balance my hotheaded ways back then. He trusted my word, but he knew that I needed his guidance. I've been so lost without him—”
That's familiar to me as well. Being lost. Wondering what if…
“But I can't regret living past them. Then what did they die for? I'll tell you,” Jean jumped as a heavy hand shook him out of his reverie. He sat up, wiping snot from his nose, and blinked blearily into those two stars. “My sister died for knowledge. My brother died for freedom. What did your friend die for?”
What the hell? The officer was high, and babbling on.
“What the hell kind of question— how dare you!”
But the breeze came again. Tender fingertips from some plane beyond his comprehension combed his hair, and this time, when he grabbed manically at his hair—
there it was.
He felt it. Soothing the ache in his split and bleeding knuckles was warmth. Phantom skin planting a kiss on his crown. A reassurance.
What had Marco died for? He wished he knew. Or could make up a frilly spiritual answer like Captain Whoeverthefuck. But Jean didn't feel much like making soul-talk with his CO, so he scoffed.
“He died scared and screaming, without his gear to save him. What kind of answer can I give?” Two stars became four, then eight. And then Jean passed out, drunk and high in a wagon, limp as the corpses around him.
FOUR YEARS LATER
He still hated walking at night. He hated fires. He never attended any recreational bonfires, unless they had plenty of booze and a few grams of bud. Ymir had once introduced a handful of white pills, wrapped in cloth, and Commander Smith (rest his soul) had gone off the deep end, slapping an overdosed Connie and shoving him into a medic's waiting arms.
They never tried hard drugs again, spooked. But the weed remained, and their main visitor during these secret late-night meetings was Levi. He watched them, and pulled any wanderers back into the circle without a word. Sometimes he even rolled their blunts for them. They seemed smaller when he did it, but the Captain insisted they were fine, so no one pushed.
Jean was usually so far gone that he held full conversations with Marco. He'd laugh and throw rocks, wheezing at how they passed right through the apparition and landed a few meters away. The breeze never stopped stroking his head, even when he aimed for Marco's right cheek, only to realize he's sober enough to tell left from right and down another shot.
And each day he carried on. They were all experts at powering through the hangovers. They'd learned from the best.
The best were all dead now.
Jean walked. One step. Another. He kept going until he caught sight of a newspaper stand. One glance at the front page and he snatched one up, tossing coins onto the counter.
Even outside the walls, people died meaninglessly. How many had been scared and screaming? How many young kids had been killed? How many soldiers had died for someone else's dream?
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