#INSTEAD OF IGNORING EACH OTHER AND BEING PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE

[m00ngbin]

Me when most of the high schoolers I know act like high schoolers and are really mean and judgemental and refuse to solve their problems with each other but I need friends so I talk to them anyways

[sixeyesonathiel]

love thy neighbor — teaser

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with crooked smiles and too much charm for someone who tracked mud into every room. satoru made it a habit to annoy you, throwing water over the fence and calling you by the nickname you hated most. somehow, between the bickering and backyard showdowns, he became the one person you could never quite shake.

then college happened, and distance made things quieter—but not for long. one summer, you're both back, arguing over garden hoses like nothing ever changed. he still calls you that nickname, but now he says it softer, like it's a secret he hopes you’ll finally notice.

tags –> one shot, expected 20k+ wc, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, she hated him (she did not), he loved her (he still does), summer vacation tension, other additional tags to be added

red string of fate collection m.list.

the neighborhood was perfect.

white fences, manicured lawns, and an unspoken rule that everything must remain picturesque. but beneath the surface of perfection, an ancient war raged: your mother versus satoru’s. it was a battle fought with gardening shears and passive-aggressive remarks, masked by polite smiles at neighborhood events.

your mother, ever the strategist, sipped her tea with a dramatic sigh whenever satoru’s mother so much as stepped onto her porch. “oh, did you see the way she over-fertilizes?” she mused, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “poor plants, suffocating under all that desperate effort.”

meanwhile, satoru’s mother, arranging her hydrangeas in full view of your living room window, would hum thoughtfully before muttering, “i’d be embarrassed if my hydrangeas were that dull. not that i’d let it happen.”

the tension was palpable, woven into every stolen glance and whispered insult disguised as gardening advice. neither woman ever admitted the rivalry outright, but the perfectly pruned rose bushes and the carefully curated window boxes spoke volumes.

their husbands, however, lived in blissful ignorance. every weekend, they could be found on the golf course or clinking beer bottles over the backyard fence, chuckling about how “our wives are gonna kill each other one day, huh?”

the rivalry simply amused them.

but you and satoru? you were casualties. you were dragged into their war from the moment you could walk, coached into side-eyed glares and dismissive huffs whenever the gojos were mentioned.

when your father first introduced you to satoru at a neighborhood barbecue, he did so with the same pride as a general uniting two warring factions. “this is satoru, gojo’s boy!” he beamed, clapping his friend on the back.

but instead of an instant friendship, all satoru got was a glare and the words your mother had fed you over breakfast that morning.

“we don’t talk to people who use fake grass as a lawn substitute.”

you said it with the confidence of someone who truly understood what that meant, though in reality, you weren’t entirely sure why fake grass was so offensive. satoru blinked at you, mouth slightly open, his white lashes fluttering as if he hadn’t processed what just happened.

“...huh?” he finally said, voice trailing off in confusion.

your dads laughed, the kind of laugh that men share when they think their kids are just being silly. it wasn’t silly. it was war. and from that moment on, satoru gojo was your enemy, whether he wanted to be or not.

the first time you’re sent outside to water the garden, you don’t think much of it—until you see satoru stepping out of his house at the same time, dragging a garden hose behind him. he’s still in his pajamas, some silly blue set with little clouds on it, his white hair sticking up in messy tufts, like he just rolled out of bed. he’s wearing slippers—bunny slippers, to be precise—but what really catches your attention are the socks. white with tiny little blue stars, pulled up just past his ankles, the kind of socks that scream these are my favorite and if anything happens to them, i will never recover.

you freeze, fingers tightening around the nozzle as he glances at you, then at his own hose, then back at you. for a second, neither of you speak. but you both know. your moms, pretending to be absorbed in their baking and magazine-reading inside, have timed this on purpose. “pure coincidence,” your mother had said, the corners of her lips twitching in barely concealed triumph, and you—foolish, naive—had believed her.

satoru, being satoru, tries to be friendly at first, tilting his head as he watches you water the tulips along the fence. “your tulips are kinda nice,” he says, casual, like he’s just making conversation, like he isn’t the enemy.

you whip your head toward him so fast your hair smacks you in the face, eyes narrowing, scoffing as if he’s just insulted your entire bloodline. “don’t lie. your mom says they’re ugly.”

his jaw drops, scandalized, and you swear you can hear the dramatic gasp of betrayal in the air. “well, your mom says our garden looks like a plastic factory exploded.” he crosses his arms, standing his ground, his voice rising slightly like he can’t believe you just threw that at him.

you stare at him.

he stares at you.

the hose in your hand drips onto the grass, but you’re too busy processing his words to care. your mother had what? you had been raised on the belief that your family had the superior garden, the most elegant flowers, the healthiest grass. and now, satoru gojo, the enemy, was claiming that your mom had been talking about his garden?

your lips part in slow betrayal, nose wrinkling in distaste, and you take a slow step back. he mirrors you, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, his fingers twitching against the hose. neither of you say another word. but you both know what’s coming next.

the next day, war begins. it starts simple—satoru ‘accidentally’ sprays you with his hose while you’re carefully pruning the roses, his grin widening when water soaks into your shirt. you shriek, stumbling back, clutching your watering can tighter like a weapon.

fine. if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. you take a step, then another, before gasping dramatically and tripping—the entire can of water spilling directly onto his feet.

he lets out a scream, the most theatrical, over-the-top wail you’ve ever heard, jumping back like he’s been set on fire. “MY SOCKS!” he yells, staring down at them in pure horror, his slippers useless against the water seeping in. his hands fly up to his head, gripping his white tufts in agony, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in a tragedy film. “they’re wet! my favorite socks are WET!”

“oh, please,” you huff, rolling your eyes even as your own shirt clings uncomfortably to your skin. “it’s just water.”

“IT’S IN MY SOCKS.” he’s pacing now, hands on his hips, face twisted in pure devastation. “DO YOU KNOW HOW GROSS WET SOCKS ARE?!”

the next thing you know, you’re both storming inside, loudly declaring your grievances to your fathers.

“she did it on purpose!”

“he started it first!”

you both jab fingers in each other’s direction, demanding justice, your voices overlapping in a chorus of whiny accusations. satoru’s slippers squelch with every step he takes, which only makes him angrier, which only makes you smugger. but your dads, ever the peacemakers, just chuckle over their beers and wave you off. “just work it out, kids!”

useless. completely, utterly useless.

you and satoru glare at each other from across the room, still damp, still fuming, both of you knowing, deep in your little childish hearts—whether you like it or not, this is only the beginning.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @lilychan176 @n1vi @myahfig4 @here4dafics @stfusatoru @mintcheery @44ina @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @getoicious @flowerpot113 @satoruxsc @whytfisgojosohot @emoedgylord @your-mum3000 @chich1ookie @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @drunkenlionwrites @katsukiseyebrows @heartsforseo @beabamboo @bnbaochauuu @cupidsfrost @ethereal-moonlit @arabellasolstice

comment to join the tl xx

[storywriter007]

hi hi hi!! i loved your preferences with the HoO boys! i was wondering if you could do another one, with literally any plot (ex- cuddling hcs, first kiss, or anything you feel like writing) with the same boys (+maybe nico if you write for him?) thank u!!

First Kiss - HoO Boys x Fem!Reader

author's note: hey i'm so glad you liked my work!! y'all have no idea how much it means to me omg :) i didn't include nico bc in the comments a valid point was brought up

warnings: kissing, cursing, whiskey is mentioned as a scent (tbh i've never smelled it, it's just vibes)

genre: fluff

word count: 3.2k (all bullet points)

-> heroes of olympus masterlist

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

send me requests here! (these are my guidelines)

✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒✧.⭒

percy jackson

you and him would've started off as best friends

and as both of you get older, you start liking each-other

percy would 100% be aware of his crush on you

he knows he has it, but he just avoids acting on it

he kinda just does his best to ignore his feelings

bc even though he's charismatic and charming

he's shy and anxious

he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable

and make you never want to talk to him again

he doesn't want to ruin everything you guys have and lose your trust in him

so he undoubtedly tries to pursue someone else

he'll talk about this other girl to you

not to make you jealous

but instead as a weak attempt to make himself feel like he doesn't like you

not a good idea

he makes you unintentionally jealous

you distance yourself from him bc you like him but can't stand hearing abt another girl all the time

but, you don't want to ruin things for him (bc you are convinced he is crazily crushing on her)

so you decide that you've just gotta let him go

percy wonders why his best friend is being so distant

you guys go weeks barely communicating

percy is still trying to convince himself he doesn't like you

but distance makes the heart grow fonder

he realizes and accepts the fact that he is madly in love w/ you (who wouldn't be?)

and that he can't stand this weird distance between you guys anymore

he decides he needs to talk to you

so one day you're just sitting on the deck by the lake with your feet in the water

you're just contemplating your love affair with him

and you see him coming your way

you're trying to avoid him so you get up and start to leave

he literally sprints to you and grabs your arm

you turn to look at him and he asks you why you've been avoiding him

you snatch your arm out of his grip and tell him it's nothing and that you're busy

he doesn't let you leave and keeps asking

so you slide a passive aggressive comment, something like "i bet your girlfriend's thinking about you"

and he realizes that you're jealous

and that he didn't convince himself that he liked this other girl

but he convinced you

he tells you everything

he tells you how much he likes you and that he never even liked this other girl

he was just trying to convince himself he did bc he didn't want to ruin things between the two of you

you confess to liking him too

both of you kind of laugh off your stupid choices

after you're done laughing, you kinda just look into each-other's eyes

both of you are leaning in

until you hear someone coming, and percy just grabs you and jumps underwater

and you guys have your first kiss underwater

your arms are around his neck and his are on your waist

you're like pressed up against one-another

the kiss is kinda steamy bc let's be honest: you've wanted to kiss each-other for five years

but it's a sweet kiss

percy smells like vanilla

you can hear the person saying "i swear they were here a minute ago" and then walking off

you both come up to the surface undeniably blushing/hot and laughing

jason grace

listen, i love jason

that man is STIFF

like you could literally leave him a note that says "i want to kiss you"

and he'd find you and go "that was a pretty good song you suggested. i like this one-direction band"

LMAO

ok but anyways, you guys are frenemies

you guys started off as rivals

you thought being the son of jupiter would make him arrogant

and you thought he was, but he was really just reserved and serious

he didn't know how to be anything different

he didn't like you because you argued with him about everything

you challenged him constantly

and you weren't as nice to him as you were everyone else

but

throughout the years, you get to know each-other better

but that doesn't mean you get along

you guys occasionally unite and get along (and typically when you do, it's the best hours of your life)

but otherwise, you two have it out for each other

constant disagreements and fights

you just loose all of your patience when it comes to each other

so you have a love-hate relationship with him

yeah you'd kill for him but you would never lend him an extra pen on tests

yeah he'd die for you but he would never let you look at his notes

you get along when you need to and this exact mentality is what lands both of you together, as praetors

but let's be real: there is so much unspoken tension between the two of you

like yeah you hate each other but you lowkey wanna make out

and you can't lie and say you didn't trust him or didn't like him

he'd proved you wrong on hundreds of occasions

he was capable, kind, caring, smart, loyal

and he couldn't lie and say he hated you either

you were fun, kind, ambitious, intelligent, and loyal too

over the years, both of you projected an "i hate you."

when in reality, you'd grown quite fond of one-another

you've shown your worst selves to each-other, you've lied for each-other, you've told secrets to each-other, and you've just been each-other's constant

y'both know you like each other: that's what makes the hate even stronger

like jason has other feelings for you but he doesn't know what to call them

attraction? a small crush? love? sexual tension? is it getting hot in here?

first kiss happens before you guys head into a huge battle

yes. the possibility of never seeing you again is what makes the man realize he's in love with you

like you guys are standing on a hill, watching the army of monsters slowly march towards camp jupiter

you guys turn to look at each other

you two are thinking the same thing: if i die, it's an honor to have served with you

"you ready?" you'd ask

"always." he'd say (typical roman)

you'd turn to look at him, but he's already looking at you

he grabs you by your arm and pulls you in for a kiss

it's a long kiss

it's passionate, and it's needy, but it's sweet at the same time

he basically lifts you off your feet and you're holding onto neck and his hair

you're pulling him closer into and he's holding you so tightly

you want to remember this

jason smells like fresh clean sheets mixed w/ whiskey

when you guys finally pull away bc you know you have to lead an army, you rest your foreheads against one-anothers

"good luck y/n"

"i'm gonna see you when this is over jason."

"i know you will."

one of the rare times you guys use first names

and yes, you do see each other again :)

leo valdez

you and leo happens when you first get to camp

and instantly his mind short-circuits and he's like DAM

he knows you're probs gonna reject him

but hey you miss 100% of the chances you don't take

so he starts off, as always, making some bold flirty comment

and to his surprise, you return the banter

he has to pause for a second

he stutters and thinks of a witty response

you laugh at how flustered he is

and that's the start of a beautiful friendship

from that day on, you two are partners in crime

your guys' days consist of: making stupid things, playing stupid pranks, sneaking out to get fast food, and making vlogs of all of the stupid things you do (on an old vhs recorder leo rigged)

you guys are a two in one; if you went somewhere, he did too

soon, your friendship evolves into things that aren't just fun hangouts

you often catch him under cabin 9 and talk to him

you guys open up to each other in his little workshop, a lot

he tells you things he's never told anyone and you do the same

what's different about your relationship w/ leo is that you don't make fun of him

you barely argue with him, you respect him, you don't call him scrawny, you don't point out his insecurities, and you never make a joke at his expense

this makes him feel a lot more comfortable around you

and he puts down whatever he's doing if you come to him in an emotionally distressful state

you guys listen to each other, cry in front of each other, and help each other feel better

leo becomes the only person in your life you can rely on

and you're the same for him

so his thoughts evolve from DAM to i think i'm in love with you

and everyday he's around you, he finds himself falling more and more in love with you

and every late night you're with him under cabin 9, you start to like him more too

he's nervous to confess to you bc he doesn't want you to not feel the same way and you end up pushing him away or something

but he can't ignore how deeply he feels for you

he can't stand it when other guys try to hit on you bc all that's going through his head is that's my girl

so after a lot of contemplating, he decides he needs to tell you how he feels

he invites you to his workshop at a really specific time (which is weird bc he just says come whenever)

but you go and this man has cleaned the place up and dimmed the lights

he has a robot that he programmed

it sees you and starts playing some really corny love song

and he confesses that he really really likes you and that it kills him seeing other guys trying to flirt with you

he says the sweetest things ever about why he likes you and he just sounds like a fangirl tbh

he starts rambling abt how much he likes and how it's totally okay if you don't feel the same way and that he doesn't want this to affect your friendship if you don't and etc

you just go up to him and kiss him

the robot starts cheering and saying "da lady loves leo!!!!" (he would totally program that change my mind)

he short circuits (like the day you met him)

but he kisses you back, hands around your waist as yours are around his neck

leo smells like burning firewood mixed with cinammon

it's a long and sweet kiss, but you guys have to pull away bc you're laughing too much

why? bc the robot won't stop cheering and saying "da lady loves leo!!!!" so he has to take a minute to make it play your favorite song

"sorry." he'd chuckle. "where were we?"

and then you guys would kiss again

frank zhang

you and frank are best friends

you first met each other cleaning the weapons room

you were looking at archery equipment and you just kinda mindlessly said "i wish i knew how to use this"

and frank's ears shot up so fast

he offered to help you learn, and you guys came to a deal

you'd help him become a better swordsman and he would help you become a better archer

during your guys' training sessions, you'd talk a lot

frank finally felt like he had a real friend

you guys would share stories about your pasts and your interests

maybe a little bit of gossip too

frank was kinda surprised you hung out with him so much bc in his eyes, he was a loser

you reassured him that having different strengths didn't make him weak

you often traded shifts with other campers so you could spend more time with him

as time went on, frank became more confident in his ability as a swordsman

and you became more confident in your skills as an archer

so during the next war game

you two teamed up and actually led your group to victory

no one expected two kids from the fifth cohort to steal a victory like that but you guys did

you were diligent, effective, and cooperative

you guys were over the moon that night and frank thanked you for helping him become a better soldier

and you did the same

it was after that night you guys both realized you had a serious crush on one-another

after countless hours training, cleaning, and working

after having hundreds of deep conversations

after helping each-other reach their goals

you guys realize that you really liked one-another

so one day, some kid at camp makes fun of frank for being better at archery than sword fighting

he shakes it off now, ever since you told him the people who make fun of him probably miss the entire target during archery

but he got really pissed off when the kid said "i guess that's why you and y/n are friends. you exchange weaknesses"

it made him upset bc you aren't weak

you acknowledged you faltered in one spot and wanted to do better

that's brave, that's strong

so frank might've "accidentally" hit the kid with his arrow

it was nothing serious, but he was pinned up against the wall by an arrow

it was rlly funny

unfortunately, reyna didn't think so, and frank got sentenced with a bunch of chores

you didn't know this, so you switched your shift and visited him in the weapons room

you asked him what he'd done to miss all the camp activites

he wouldn't say at first, but then he'd admit he kinda shot an arrow and a kid ended up pinned against a wall

you'd ask why he did that bc you knew frank wasn't violent in the least

and it just comes out right there

he admits he went a little crazy bc he didn't like how this kid was talking about you

he talks about how incredible you are and it made him angry that some kid tried to minimize you to a weakness you were working on improving

"and i don't know, i guess i get heated when it comes to people i love" he'd say, before pausing and realizing what just came out of his mouth

obviously you're smiling bc you love him too

you tell him that you love him too, and that you didn't say anything bc you were scared of ruining your friendship

so yes, your first kiss is in the weapons room

you just kinda jump on him and kiss him

he bumps into the wall behind him and he wraps his arms around your mid-section

and yours are around his neck

it's a cute, sweet kiss

it lasts a few seconds more than it should

frank smells like sugar mixed with the irony-smell of the weaponry

but afterwards, you help frank with his chores so you guys can go train

[altkys]

=͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜... 𝙏𝙤𝙭𝙞𝙘 𝙗𝙮 𝘽𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙣𝙚𝙮 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 [ 𝘼𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙤𝙨 ]

Multiple characters at once, woo. I might do a part 2 with 6reeze. I'll add what monsters for each person in the tags but try and guess which one for each. Anyways, here's what type of mythical creature the genshin zaddies would fall in love with because we deserve to be the monster they romance ♥♥ Let me know if I should do a smut/nsfw version

Notes: monarch of yapping over here, had no ideas for Zhongli and he ended up being the longest (that’s kind of just passive aggressive comments about how much he yaps though, can you tell I fucking hate him?) Sorry for not doing you justice Kaeya, you were first up and I was getting used to this. Someone please tell me if I this is nsfw or sfw

Warnings include: blood, blood drinking, cannibalism, biting/marking, murder, drinking, drugging, messing with human corpses, implied attempted murder + mentions of skinny dipping, alcohol, manipulation

❝ Too high, can't come down Losing my head, spinnin' 'round and 'round Do you feel me now? ❞

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♥ 𝙆𝙖𝙚𝙮𝙖 𝘼𝙡𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙝 - 𝙎𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙣

He's a charmer, one who uses flowery words and a bit of subtle, harmless manipulation that might utilise a few white lies. So of course, his significant other must be someone who can match his energy, right? Perhaps even give him a run for his money?

Kaeya finds himself drawn to a siren. You. Your kind isn't as depicted – instead of an entire fish tail, it's a few fins along your feet and webbed hands, with gills along your neck. Your skin is translucent, and glowing blue-purple veins can be seen if he squints. Additionally, you don't eat humans – thankfully.

He's persistent when getting to know you, almost desperately curious to. Though you don’t seem to reciprocate the feeling when he ice-bridges across your ocean cavern and freezes your fins– in his defence, you were the one singing first, it's only fair he defends himself. It’s alright, he promises to not bother you again.

Not a week later, he's back, with another claim of investigating the area under the orders of the Favonius Acting GrandMaster, and a small pouch of rare berries a water-dweller could never try. He snickers as you stare at the swinging brown sack hung on his belt. “See something you like?”

“I’ve no need for a human’s inadequate services.” You give him a tight smile, hiding the way your stomach growls at the smell of sugary berries drifting towards you in the salty sea’s breeze, but before you can let the thought linger, you find the blue gaze of the pirate captain again, an annoying smirk plastered on his face.

“Oh, this? They’re my snacks.” Kaeya drawls, turning to you fully as he took the pouch and swinging it in front of your face. “What, did you crave to try some? Well, I am a gracious knight, so I’ll share—”

You happily swim away with the snatched bag, ignoring his frozen figure.

Secretly, under the guise of ignoring you for stealing, Kaeya watches your delighted expression at something so foreign. It’s a uniquely cute side of someone so manipulative. 

He’s there to visit the next day. And two days after that. Then four days after that. 

Diluc was perplexed at the lack of a significant annoyance in his bar and Rosaria misses her drinking buddy. Jean and Lisa share whispered confusion at how Kaeya is suddenly proactive, volunteering for missions and investigations. Albedo gently consoles Klee as he and Sucrose rejoice over the lack of flirting in their lab. 

Swapping ‘persuasion’ tactics whenever he visits your underwater cave. You share a few verses (in spoken poetry, so as to not charm him), and he tells stories of how he sidestepped work to visit you. You’re dangerous. He, of anyone, knows just how powerful words can be. It’s a terrifyingly enthralling poison.

When it’s high tide, you’ll go on walks by the beach, letting the waves wash over you so you don’t dry out. If he’s feeling playful, he’ll show off a few ice tricks and bridge his way across the water as you swim beside him. He’s gone swimming with you once. Fortunately, a cryo vision can protect his body heat, but the wet clothes after – especially his fur accessory – isn’t worth the effort.

Maybe the next time he swims, he’ll go without clothes. He hopes you’ll reciprocate the gesture.

When he visits, he’ll show you a bit of something from Mond. You don’t care for human knicknacks, not one for voluntary pollution, so he brings you snacks. A few rare berries imported from all over Teyvat, his own specialty dish of Fruity Skewers – and his very favourite, a few bottles of dandelion wine and sparkling, white wine as you both try to replicate his sacred Death After Noon.

“You again.” You say, staring at the basket of wine he had brought with him. Kaeya's eye roves over your laying figure in the sand, staring up at him with unimpressed eyes, yet curious of the basket’s contents. “What’d you bring?”

“Not even a hello, love?” He coos, kneeling down in the sand beside you. “It’s not very nice, y’know.” 

You sigh and bring yourself up, tugging him down by the collar with a playful grin as you leave claw marks in his shirt. “Hello, Kaeya.”

He doesn’t fight you, allowing himself to fall into the sand beside you. He’s used to your antics by now, though it doesn’t make them any less of a headache to deal with. Not that he minds.

“You look nice on the sand,” he mutters, his arms resting on either side of your body as he hovered on top of you, touch gentle yet firm. “Very lovely.”

"Really?" You coo, sharp nails tracing over his lips as you arch your back into him until your chests touch.

He swallows harshly and lets a wolfish smirk stretch his lips. "Yeah, rea- Hey!"

You giggle as you dive back into the waves and appear behind him, snatching the basket as he tackles you into the sand once more, grin buried in your bare stomach. 

It's terrifying to be wrapped around your finger, and even moreso: he didn’t even care.

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♥ 𝘿𝙞𝙡𝙪𝙘 𝙍𝙖𝙜𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙧

The tavern was always open, and with Charles' increasingly old age, Diluc had been working more than ever. Mondstadt's Darknight Hero was out of business.

And yet, mysteriously, Mondstadt remained untouched during its night. The unknown reason weighed heavy of the bartender's mind – he didn't trust the Knights of Favonius. So what was it?

The answer came in his tavern that same nice, though he doesn't realise. No one was there despite the relatively early evening, all too concerned with their duties of preparing for Windblume. Perhaps Diluc could finally go home that night...

You squashed that hope as you stopped at the bartop, tapping a nail against the wood as you stare up at him with pupils too thin and too deep to be natural.

“Good evening.” You drawl, cutting off his greeting. A smile plays at your lips as you rock your digit on the counter. “I do hope I’m not disturbing you tonight.”

"Not at all," Diluc replies coolly, setting down the glass he'd been polishing with a towel. He's tall, staring down at you as you lean on the counter. "How can I assist you this evening?"

“A glass of wine.” You order, but the way your eyes roved him hungrily tells him a different story. Despite his poker face, he can’t help but hold your stare, the presence you hold is too powerful not to. "Red."

He isn’t blind to the hunger in your gaze. It's unsettling, but despite himself, he finds himself intrigued by your presence and the allure you possess.

With movements smooth and practiced, he reaches for a bottle of wine. He grabs a glass and a bottle of Dawn Winery's finest. The liquid swirls inside. "Of course."

"Anything else?" He asks. You answer no. He inquires as to why you drink alone, only once, in a tavern far from the city's entrance.

"Because of hunger." You respond.

Your voice is more quiet, more smooth. Hypnotising. Like the wine you hold in the glass. It makes him sleepy, he's always been a lightweight – though Diluc doesn't know as to why, because you're the one drinking wine.

"Why are you at a bar, and not a restaurant?" He manages to make his mouth move. You straighten up, your figure ominous and looming - not because of physicality. His vision is darker now, and fire isn't lighting anything up.

"Why would I need to be, when my meal is right here?"

Diluc wakes and he's weak and in his bedroom. There's a very obvious stinging in his neck, and Adelinde delivers a letter that claims Charles is calling out of work yet again. It's less than a week to Windblume, and people's spirits are high. He's not so cold as to dampen them.

He slaps on a bandage and tugs his collar high. But a certain nun notices and the Cavalry Captain teases the possibility of a new lover. Diluc ignores them both, but at the end of his shift, a bottle of prune juice is opened with a peacock eye playfully carved into the cork.

You're there suddenly, nodding approvingly at his choice of drink, at his hard work as a food source, but your blood bag is smart and a claymore is pressed to your neck. The truth behind Mondstadt's safety comes to life and Diluc hesitates for just a second and with a short apology, you're gone.

Then you're everywhere. In his tavern sharing drinks and swapping stories, his vineyards on walks that consist of carefully avoiding the sun and hiding under his leather coat, his bedroom and his dreams. Each meet-up, Diluc ends up looking forward to the next. Enjoying them even.

Maybe too much when you tackle him onto his sheets, filled with a hunger that isn't satiated by mere blood anymore. It's a date you find yourselves on a little too often.

"I do believe the last time your Moon City had this celebration, we didn't know each other." You chuckle as Diluc leads you through the crowd, holding an umbrella over you with a carefulness unrivalled by even the most paranoid man.

"Windblume." Diluc nods. He's polite, not the most welcoming, and certainly not enthusiastic, but its a silent sort of fondness and comfortability that would be awkwardness in anyone else's company.

You're led into a pretty dance you've done one time too many. It's somehow more enjoyable with a handsome redhead by your side, who knew?

Its fast and upbeat, but none of the clapping outside meets your ears as you spin him, or when he holds you close, or when your faces are one centimetre too close together and neither of you know when you move, but Diluc's newest romance venture is confirmed in the form of a long, not-so-chaste kiss.

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♥ 𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙚 - 𝙂𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙠𝙪𝙧𝙤

Childe was known by the Fatui as an unexpectedly nice harbinger. One of the youngest in history to reach the rank. But it's common to brush over the trail of blood and bodies it took to reach that point, and even moreso how the fighter enjoys it.

When you first meet, Childe is beaten up and bloody. He's staring up at you, surrounded with the bodies of a couple dozen victims. Some deserved, some not. It's neither of your jobs to judge. Kill and clean up.

You're huge, easily over 10 metres. All bones and chattering teeth that has his ears ringing and his form cloaked in shadow. It excites him, gives him a surge of adrenaline that clears his vision just slightly enough to overcome your attempt on his life and swipe at you with duo-wielded hydro daggers.

It's all he can do to not be skewered. The giant sweeping forearm is fast, hitting his stomach and knocking the wind out of him, and now, in his moment of vulnerability, he's at your mercy.

He tries to make his way onto his knees to get up, but his body won't listen. Each movement he makes is painful; every breath he takes short and sharp at your looming figure. Every bit of energy leaves his body just from standing.

But Childe falls, obviously, trips over the bodies blocking his way – for once in front rather than behind – and falls into very soft, very human arms.

You're not a giant skeleton. Not completely anyways. Just a normal human with an arrow lodged into your skull and blood drenching the left side of your clothes. But you're cold, lifeless despite the very clearly conscious movements of moving him to lie down, and the bone-puppet you control is too busy cleaning up his mess to eat him.

“Dear soldier,” you say, voice echoing with a hollow lack of life. “I’ll see you at your next battle.”

You're there every time. It's a good motivator to not fight until passing out forever, just so he can see you. This hauntingly breathtaking shadow of death that follows him to his dreams. Something he gladly welcomes.

It's a different scenario every time, sometimes he'll kill you. Others, you'll kill him. The latter has him waking up, excited in more than a few ways.

With every hundred kills, Childe learns something new. Your puppet is made of skeletons of people who died in war or of starvation. You feed on humans – at 2 AM exactly. And most importantly, Celestia hate you. Forces you to survive on the scraps of a battlefield. So you seek him out often, as does he when he wants to get stronger.

Sometimes, he'll torch the bodies with his delusion and shape it up real nice, drain the blood for you to drink and not your puppet as he kneels by your side and begs for a fight. Those dates are memories he's fond of.

“Hey, it’s you again.” Childe greets as a familiar shadow falls over him and jogs over. He’s gotten remarkably good at avoiding the bodies as he stops just before you; short enough to talk, long enough to shoot. “Took you long enough.”

You don’t respond, rarely do except for the few sentences every impromptu meet up, but he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t even bat an eye as your skeleton puppet moves to devour the bodies behind him and suddenly paints the land in a sea of blood.

“Ne, let’s fight.” He proposes, eyes sparkling as he lines up his aim to shoot. 

“You’ll die. And then I’ll starve.” You shoot him down as he tries to shoot you down. Not a sweat is broken — not that you can, you are undead after all — as you dodge and block and catch the arrows he sends, ignoring the hearts carved into the spine.

“That’s ok!” He insists with a pout, giving up and throwing the arrows instead. The bow is tossed aside as he uses his strength, good enough to blow a hole through your stomach. You gather the leaking brown blood and draw numbers on different limbs as a gory game of darts as your body heals. An arrow bursts your skull just as you finish. “We can fight in Celestia!”

Childe skips over with a soft, dangerously adoring smile and catches your body before it can fall limp as he observes the fascinating way your brain regenerates. He licks at a bit of blood leaking, enjoying the stale, iron taste. “I’ll find you in every life until one of us dies for good.”

Your apathetic expression is slowly weaved as the undead cells regenerate, but your nose isn’t even fully formed as your lips move to whisper a raspy, “that sounds like a promise.”

“Oh, it is, comrade. It is.” 

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♥ 𝙕𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙞

As the geo archon, as... immature as he was in his youth, Zhongli had some degree of resistance to the element. Paired with his shield and form as a sovereign dragon, geo wasn't exactly a weak point. Or any element, at that.

You're a small merchant, wheeling around a cart around the outskirts of Liyue with products straight from your garden. It's safe to say Zhongli is immediately interested in your house-made Osmanthus wine and small garden statues. It's a stone he vaguely remembers from his shameful younger years, but was too ignorant to learn.

Ever the gentleman and enjoyer of talk, Zhongli strikes up conversation as he samples your wine.

It's good. Really good. And he lets you know in quite the unnecessary, long winded way as he inquires as to the cloth wrapped around your head. Apparently it's a custom from Sumeru, perhaps times have changed, but he's curious as he takes sample after sample until the entire bottle is gone.

“… I apologise.” He coughs into his fist, a rare shade of pink fogging his ears. How embarrassing, he hasn’t had such a lack of self control in a few dozen centuries. “It was merely too—”

“Good?” You jump in before he can monologue again, a stella customer service smile plastered on. “I thank you for your lengthy verbal support, Mr Zhongli, truly. You’re too kind.”

“I merely state the truth.” He chuckled, gloved hands slowly patting himself down. “Not to worry, I will pay for the bott-…”

He falls silent when he realised each pocket he had check is empty, and hitches his twitching smile back on. It's then he realises why bad habits should not go unchecked, for making a bad impression is something he wants far too little for a stranger. “Ahaha. I do apologise.”

A part of him wilts inside as you stare, unimpressed.

“… I travel around Qingxu Pool tomorrow.” You say slowly, holding out a hand for him to shake. He does, and meets your intense gaze as you add, “I shall see you there?”

“You shall.” He says happily. Perhaps he should ask the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour director for a loan in order to buy another few bottles. “Then I will meet you then.”

It takes a while to notice, but somehow, someway, he's meeting with you everyday. You don't mind – why would you, when such an esteemed, good looking gentleman is enamoured with you. But it's a while before Zhongli takes notice of the curse you've striked him with.

Not that he minds. A mere wave of his hand is enough to stop the foreign stone slowly encasing his body, creeping up from his fingertips to everywhere else. But he doesn't confront you, nor does he condemn your actions. The want to be closer, for whatever reason, drives him to remain ignorant.

You often tour your gardens – walking through the osmanthus trees as you explain the origin stories behind the statues, unaware he knows that you're perplexed as to why he isn't frozen among them. Tea olive flowers are plucked every few seconds and woven into the cloth covering your head, and when you sit and enjoy a cup of wine, Zhongli shifts ever so slightly closer every time.

“I believe your wine tastes better each time I visit,” Zhongli smiles, taking a break from his sermon to compliment you as you pour another glass.

"Are you sure it's not just your taste for me?" you jest, swirling your chalice as you chuckle. “Perhaps it's the company, Mr Zhongli.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees easily. Always does in your presence as you rest your head on his shoulder. “Though I do wish you’d address me more casually. It’s a bit formal for friends, don’t you think?”

You tilt your head, your expression curious and slightly teasing. A bit too smug for someone playing clueless. "Friends, you say," you muse. "Is that all I've been thus far, though?"

His grip on the wine glass tightens. Perhaps it was just him, but the osmanthus flowers seemed to smell a lot more enticing on you. Or perhaps it was something else. He can't quite say. All he knows is that you're getting him entranced, as though a drug. He’s always been weak to you, and you know it. You know how much he wants to grab you — ravish you for days on end. The only thing stopping him; your relentless teases.

“It’s rather hot out here,” You say as you stand, unravelling the hair scarf. And suddenly a dozen snakes are staring at him. “Let’s relax inside, Mr Zhongli. And if you prefer I call you by a different name… I’m sure you can convince me somehow. I am a very practical learner.”

... ah.

Big thanks to the following for suggestions and support:

@cinnamol, @aroundsometimes, @eggsnbackn, @lilbabypanda-blog2 @aetherandlight and that one anon who submitted a suggestion privately!!

[spikedfearn]

I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter III

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

warnings: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, explicit sexual themes, non-linear narrative, side rainkay, trauma bonding, near death experience, brief mention of child abuse, more tags to be added

a/n: haha don't hate me but I split the chapter up again! that means there's no smut in this chapter either but it was getting long and the place I chose to leave off felt like a natural end. that being said this chapter is entirely you x bjorn-centric and there is a lot of pay off!

tags: @asvtrials @urfavhanna @orangebeauty (comment if you wanna be notified when a new chapter drops)

wc: 4.4k

Masterlist Next Chapter

Bjorn is the fucking worst. 

A marginal part of you just assumed that maybe he was an angry drunk following your little exchange in the bar but no—he's just angry.

Despite your previous apprehension you begin to accept Kay’s invites to join her and the others whenever they get together, which is a lot. You know you're treading in dangerous territory, allowing yourself to get close to them, but you're powerless to stop it, unable to recall the last time you had this much fun, almost too much, feels a little wrong, like it should be illegal. 

The only downside is dealing with Kay’s asshole cousin Bjorn, like stepping on a dull thumbtack you can't dislodge when you see him joking around with Tyler, his eyes narrowing as soon as he notices you approach, like he has some score to settle. 

You don't let it get you, not immediately, not letting him run you off out of spite, just as petty as he is. 

You can only hold your tongue for so long however, before reacting explosively to whatever insult is thrown your way, giving him exactly what he wants. 

The others stop trying to intervene after so long, when they realize neither of you are willing to back down, deciding to just roll their eyes and ignore your immature back and forth, splintering off to start a new conversation of their own.

It's another one of those nights, the tension between the two of you thick, thicker than the smoke coming from the bonfire, gathered in the quarry again. It's a regular hangout spot for them, liking the exclusivity of its location, far from the hustle and bustle of the streets alive at night, when the majority of the colonists who’re assigned to work in the mines aren't slaving away underground. 

You and Bjorn have been taking digs at each other all night—what else is new?—cycling between something passive aggressive and flippant, or overt and direct, depending on how irritated whatever he says makes you. 

“Always so hot and bothered, ain'tcha’ sweetheart? If ya’ shut up and c’mere I can give ya’ a real mouthful,” he smirks, grabbing himself through the loose crotch of his frayed cargo pants.

Disgust pinches the bridge of your nose, nice and tight, hissing back, “ugh, you're such a pig. I’m thoroughly convinced the shitty apple didn't fall far from the shitty tree,” words soaked in venom, the aftertaste of acid burning the lining of your esophagus. 

It's like pulling the pin on a grenade, watching the way everyone reacts, a collective gasp shredding through the calm. Your revulsion is replaced by one of confusion, head cocking to the side as your posture wilts, losing all strength in your shoulders. You don't get why, not when you've said far, far, worse to one another, made a little game of it even. 

You don't see the usual anger or arrogance you've become accustomed to. Instead he looks hurt. Wounded. Blinking twice as fast like he's trying to stop his eyes from watering only to catch himself, schooling his face into something neutral, something mean.

Bracing yourself for the fallout, Bjorn does something completely unexpected—he leaves. Doesn't scream or swear or snark back, just silently turns and retreats, gravel loudly crunching beneath the black worn-in soles of his stormer boots, not sparing a single glance your way while he does.

“Not cool dude,” Navarro chides in your direction, slinging the strap of the backpack she bought the beer in over her shoulder before jogging off in hot pursuit of her brother, “Bjorn, wait up man!”

It's enough to kill the whole vibe, everyone awkwardly parting ways not long after. You return to your apartment sooner than predicted, playing the scene over and over in your head as you try and decipher what could've triggered that response, like he was on the verge of tears. And the others, with the exception of Andy, all seemed floored, clearly clued in on some context you're missing. 

But the thing is, why should you even care? For Bjorn and his infantile way of coping with whatever he's dealing with? When he's not once shown you the same consideration in return? You shouldn't. 

At least—that's what you tell yourself as you strip down to your underwear and crawl into the familiar warmth of your bed, cocooning your body in your blankets as the exhaustion and sleeping pills kick in, lulling you into a restless sleep. 

A sharp knock on the front door startles you awake, eyes bouncing off the walls of your cramped room before they're drawn sideways, finding the analog clock sitting on your bedside table. 

It's late in the afternoon, not nearly as late as you usually allow yourself to sleep on days off, still, that's not what's currently puzzling your still-waking brain.

There's a followup knock, reminding you why you're awake in the first place, begrudgingly removing yourself from the comfort of your sheets while you try and figure out who'd be visiting you right now, pulling on yesterday's jeans left crumpled on the floor by your bed. 

Maybe it's Kay stopping by to check on you. She looked like she wanted to say something last night, after Tyler smothered the bonfire and everyone had left but ultimately never did, choosing to run and catch up with Rain, weaving their fingers together once she did.

You swear though, if it’s just some corpo from the council coming to assign you mandatory overtime you might just take the automatic jail sentence.  

It ends up being neither. To your surprise it’s Tyler, fist raised like he’s getting ready to knock again, immediately taking one step down on the concrete steps leading up to your doorway to give you some room, cheeks a little red. 

���Sorry, didn’t meanta’ wake you,’” Tyler greets, probably taking note of your unkempt appearance, from your tangled hair to the rapid flutter of your lashes, trying to blink the sleep out of them. 

“Could—would you mind if we had a chat?” He amends, adding on, “it’ll only take a sec,” after the fact, the porch light above your head just bright enough to illuminate the hope on his face. Well, this is new. 

You’ve grown to like Tyler and the company he provides, always thoughtful and in high spirits, regardless if he just clocked out of a sixteen hour shift or not, hands shaking and wrapped in dirty gauze from the wounds he sustained. 

That being said, you’ve never met up just the two of you, only ever spending time in facilitated group settings outside of the mines. 

Nonetheless you move aside, a nonverbal queue to come in that he readily accepts, maneuvering around you to step into the tiny kitchenette adjacent to your bedroom. You watch as he gazes around, taking in the surroundings like all the apartments the colonists reside in don't look exactly the same. Albeit yours is pretty bare, not seeing a point in decorating when you could be transferred again at a moment's notice.

“So,” you say, shattering the quiet, leaning back against the laminate counter, arms folded out in front of you with one foot crossed over the other, right heel lifted off the tile floor, “what did you wanna talk about?”

There’s little doubt in your head as to what it's pertaining to, suspicion shortly confirmed by the sheepish look in Tyler's eyes when he meets yours again,“it's about Bjorn.” 

“I figured as much,” you sigh, waiting for him to go on, his hand coming up to anxiously rub over the back of his neck.

“Right, so. Is’not my place to share but Bjorn has a lot of baggage there—with his family. It's a super sore subject for ‘im,’ so when you said that it kinda dug all that shit up.”

Tyler continues, cutting you off before you have a chance to interrupt, “And I know you didn’t mean it, that you don't owe ‘im anything, and you certainly don't hafta’ listen to me but would you please just. Talk to ‘im?’

You can tell Tyler means well, that he wants to smooth things over between the two of you and, while you’d never readily admit it aloud, you do feel a little bad for Bjorn. Bjorn. Sunlight must be shining through the perpetual polluted cloud cover from up above.

It’s just, you know what it’s like, dealing with the aftermath of familial trauma, trying to navigate a world that’s taken so much and given nothing back. Learned to bare your teeth rather than your soul, the only guaranteed method to alleviate the emotional damage life on Jackson’s Star brings.

Maybe Kay is right. Maybe you and Bjorn are alike.

And maybe Tyler is too, about talking to Bjorn, maybe it's time you two talk it out, try and find common ground so the others don't have to play referee anymore. 

“Fine,” you agree,“I’ll talk to him.” 

All the tension in Tyler's shoulders melts away, a relieved sigh deflating his chest, like he had been steeling himself for a potential refusal. 

“Lovely, that's—thank you. Really.” Tyler beams, drawing you into an unexpected hug, a quick, thankful little squeeze despite your arms still being crossed.

Tyler pulls away so you can face each other again, “I know he can be a total fuckin’ wanker but he's one a’ the only people Kay and I got left. And Kay’s got you now and—you don't have to like ‘im. Hell I don't half the time, but if you could just try and tolerate each other maybe?” 

A giggle bubbles up out of you, offering a reluctant nod in return, “sure, I can try. No promises though.” 

“S’okay. I don't expect Bjorn to listen anyways but if I can at least get you on board, things should be smooth sailin’ yanno?” 

You doubt it'll be that easy, that Bjorn will even be receptive to talking but you're willing to honor Tyler's request and try, for him, Kay and the others. 

Once Tyler leaves, you decide it's better to just rip the bandaid off and go looking for Bjorn, who's apparently putting in overtime, something he's prone to doing whenever he needs to blow off some steam according to his older cousin. 

You clock in and check out a drill, the only way low-level colonists gain entry down here, lugging it through one of the series of carved paths towards the sound of shrill cogging you hear echoing off the walls just up ahead in the distance. 

Bjorn isn't hard to find. He's the only one laboring on his day off, the only one in this section of the mines at least, save for the lone guard stationed at the mouth of the tunnel, paying you little mind as you pass. 

The drill head Bjorn's wielding bores into the hard rock, heavy handed from the anger he's trying to work through, sparks flying off as a result. 

Your stomach swoops low when he looks at you, anticipating some kind of reaction, his muscles sagging just a little but, like the guard, he goes back to working, drilling a little harder than before. You can tell this conversation will be like pulling teeth. 

“Bjorn,” you call, trying to be heard over the sound of grating metal, pulling your goggles up and your mask down, letting it hang around your neck. “Bjorn!” 

The lean lines in his forearms built over time flex harder, highlighted by the sweat gathering there, gloved fingers constricting around the worn handle of the power tool as he readjusts his grip. Even through the face shield you can tell he's gritting his teeth, grinding them just as hard as the drill against the rock, the muscles in his neck straining from the way his jaw is set so incredibly tight.

“Bjorn!” You repeat, growing frustrated, taking the risk of losing a finger or two by pushing at Bjorn's shoulder, “can you please just—look at me?”

He’s quick to snatch your wrist, startling you, strong enough to keep the drill upheld with his other arm while he thumbs the off switch. 

“Wha’ in the bloody fuck d’ya want?!” He snarls, eyes narrowed and brows pinched, twisting your arm to hold it down in between you, mindful not to actually hurt you.

“M’sorry,” you mumble, avoiding the angry scowl he's wearing, now the one unable to make eye contact.

“Wha’ tha’ fuck was tha’?!”

Your throat feels rougher than sandpaper, finding it harder to swallow than the pills you pop every night. “I said I'm—sorry.”

The laugh he gives in response sounds hollow, bitter, “oh thas’ bleedin’ rich comin’ from you. Come ta’ say sorry so you can sleep a little easier tonight, have ya?’ Well I don't want ur fuckin’ pity.”

Your head whips up at that, doing your best to keep composed, despite your fight or flight urging you to combat his animosity with your own. 

“I didn't come to apologize to make myself feel better, that's not who I am. Whether we get along or not doesn't matter. I realized I crossed a line and you deserve better than that. That's why I came to say sorry.” 

His face softens just a bit, just long enough for you to notice before his expression hardens again, lips parting to say something more but he never gets the chance to, interrupted by a low ominous groan that shakes the entire roof of the tunnel you're standing in. Shit, that doesn't sound good.  

You share a look of dread then, before either of you can react, a crevasse three feet wide fractures up the entire length of the rock right above your heads as the deafening roar of a cave-in drowns out every other noise.

The only thing you feel is Bjorn’s calloused hand still holding onto your wrist roughly yanking you into his body right as everything collapses around you.

The first thing you register is the fact you're still alive. Aching all over and windpipe tight from inhaling the harsh toxins released into the air all at once, but—alive.

The next is the ringing in your ears, a high frequency whine that sounds like a mortar shell just went off by your head, leaving you disoriented, possibly concussed.

And the last is the solid body of muscle you're lying on top of, the same one that just saved you from biting it several moments ago. 

He's sprawled out on his back, the rapid wide-eyed blinking and quick rise and fall of his chest trying to draw air back into his lungs an indication he's in much the same condition as you, goggles cracked and his face shield missing. 

Your breath catches when you notice how close the two of you are, so close you can see the dirt clinging to his goatee and the dried cracks of his chapped lips, breath smelling like rolling tobacco and polar ice gum. As much as you hate it, you can't help but think how attractive the view is.

He seems to regain his focus, looking down to lock gazes with yours, realizing the position you're in. His eyes roving over your face as if he's appraising you, as if he's checking you out. 

“Ahem,” you clear your throat, the severely dim lighting disguising the blush bleeding into your cheeks, rolling off and away from him, hoping he didn't feel the rapidity of your heart beating against your sternum like a battering ram. “Thanks.” 

Once the kicked-up soot and debris has settled a bit you take in everything around you—what's left of it. Both your headlamps are busted, both of which you discard along with the goggles and gloves, drills buried somewhere underneath the rubble you just were, the entrance to the tunnel you're in decimated to a cataclysmic degree, the only way in or out. You guys are trapped. 

“Ah fuck,” Bjorn swears, grasping the utterly abysmal situation you’ve both found yourselves in. “This is bad.”

“Thank you for your valuable insight. Where would I be without your brilliant observation skills,” you snark, the two of you sitting up to face each other, backs against either side of the walls that are still intact, knees drawn up to your chests to give each other a little more leg room.

“Shoulda just let ya’ get crushed by them rocks,” he huffs, “woulda saved me tha’ headache. And tha’ oxygen.” 

He's right about the oxygen. In an enclosed space like this with no ventilation, you're both in short supply, aware you'll run out of it soon enough. Even if the collapse didn't initially kill you, the suffocation inevitably will. 

“I seriously can't believe I'm gonna die down here with you of all people.”

“Ah yah,’ cuz this is how I wanted ta’ spend ma’ last moments before I kicked the bucket,” he rolls his eyes, untying the simple knot of his red bandana, which is grimier than usual due to the ash and sediment lingering in the air, setting it on the ground beside him. 

Bjorn pulls a rolled joint out of the breast pocket of his shirt, lighting up as soon as it's in his mouth. You almost tell him to put it out so you can preserve the limited oxygen you have but ultimately you elect to stay quiet. What's it matter anyway? Dying sooner might just be a mercy. 

“How much ya’ wanna bet some synth fuck’s up there right now tellin’ tha' council we're not worth tha' time or trouble?”

“You really have it out for synthetics, don't you?” 

You were aware he didn't like Andy, an opinion he made known every time Rain brought him to group hangouts but you didn't realize it ran that deep, never connecting the dots between his insults and the prejudice he clearly harbors. 

He chuckles, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he does so, a pungent cloud of weed looming over you, “ever tha' observant one, aren't cha babes?” 

“Fuck you,” you bristle, arms loosely wrapping around your shins, fingers lacing together just below the kneecaps. Although, to be fair you did more or less say the same thing to him not even five minutes ago. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” the few oil lamps the cave-in didn't snuff out highlighting the wink he throws your way. “And if ya’ must know—yeah, I do. Every fuckin' last one of ‘em.” 

Deciding to tread carefully you simply ask, “why?” exercising a level of caution you normally never do.

Silence drags between you, expecting Bjorn to ignore your probably invasive question when, to your surprise he replies, answering with a painful degree of honesty that nearly blindsides you, “my mum. She worked in tha’ mines like most o’ us had to. When I was eight, there wuz a collapse much like this one. ‘Cept she was one o’ three miners on one side o’ the tunnel while there were a dozen in tha’ otha. A synth convinced tha’ council her life wuzn’t worth theirs. So—they let her die. Scared. Confused. Probably hopin’ for rescue. She always told me ta' keep tha' light on fo’er when she'd tuck me inta bed before her shift every night so she could find’er way back ta’ me.” 

He yanks out two sets of dog tags tucked underneath his shirt by the chain, one of them his and the other presumably his mother's, just like the ones you’re wearing, the corporation’s way of identifying bodies of miners lost, his thumb running over the engraving etched into one of the nameplates. 

Sympathy swells inside of you listening to him, “that's horrible.” 

You had assumed Bjorn's past was traumatic based on the little information Tyler was willing to share but you never expected it to hit so close to home.

“I get it,” you murmur, head tipping back to stare at the chiseled rock and remaining support beams to hold back any stray tears that might threaten to fall, clenching at your dirty pant legs a little tighter.

“My mom. She was pregnant and forced to work down in the mines until the shit she was inhaling induced her prematurely. Guess toxic fumes are bad for a pregnancy,” you roll your eyes, biting off a sarcastic, watery chuckle. “She ended up dying during childbirth.” 

There's a pause, your words hanging heavy in the air. You've never shared that with anyone who didn't already know. Word traveled fast around each sector, gossip the only news worth spreading, people talking about the girl orphaned by a reckless mother who should've known better. Fuck, it makes you sick just thinking about it.

When Bjorn speaks it's soft, comforting. “Thas’ horrible. So thas’ why you been volunteerin’ for Kay.” 

“Yep,” you confirm, popping the p, head rolling forward to lock eyes again, watching him put out the remnants of his joint on the wall next to him before flicking the butt into the pile of debris. 

“And ur dad?” he asks, the bend of his elbows resting on either one of his knees, leaving his forearms to dangle. 

“Never knew him,” you shrug, becoming detached at the very mention of him, like you’re discussing a stranger, which in a way you are, “he left right after knocking my mom up. Didn't want the added responsibility of raising a kid.”

“Fuck, I wish my old man woulda jus' dipped out from tha’ start. Woulda been the only decent thing he ever did fo'us,” Bjorn spits, words dripping with vitriol, clearly holding a hatred reserved for his father only. 

“What happened to him?” No longer trying to tiptoe around the questions that pop into your head since you're both over sharing. Since you're both dead anyway. 

“He’s still around but 'e's not around if ya know whadd’i mean. After my mom died 'e started boozin’ heavily to deal widit. When he wasn't in the mines 'e was out gettin’ piss drunk. Stupid prick gave fuck all about me and Navarro.” 

There's a growl that rumbles deep in his lower register, rotating his arms so they're pointed wrist-up towards the ceiling. You follow his line of sight, seeing scars littered across his skin, raised and round and purple from healing. Cigarette burns. 

“Bjorn…” you trail off, a level of sadness you haven't felt in a long time settling deep in your skin, “That's—what the fuck. Did Jackson’s, did they do anything about it?” 

“They don't give a rat's arse, yanno that,” he scowls, but not at you, turning his arms back down, “s’long as I'm alright enough to work they'll overlook a black eye or busted up lip. They can all fuckin’ eat shit far as m' concerned.”

“I'm so fucking sorry about earlier. I really, truly am,” You stress, even more genuine than the initial apology you offered, feeling like a total bitch for what you said to him in the quarry. 

He waves you off, combing his fingers through his sweaty, clumped bangs to separate them, “s’alright babes. Already forgiven.” 

You never thought you'd say it but you're actually glad Tyler convinced you to talk things out with Bjorn, even if it inevitably did lead to your approaching demise. If, by some miracle, you both survive, maybe you can be friends. At the very least, friendly. 

“Can't believe m' gonna die a bloody virgin,” Bjorn groans, head falling back against the rock. 

“Really?” You laugh, a full-body chuckle that has you coughing into a loosely curled fist immediately after, your lungs burning from all the shit you've breathed in, “that's your concern?”

“Uh yah! What else do I hafta' be worried about? Dying? That shit’s imminent at this point, hate ta’ break it ta’ ya’ darling.” 

He has a point. Besides, maybe focusing on a smaller problem will diminish some of the fear about the larger one at hand. 

“You're right,” you concede, though you can't help but be surprised by the revelation, with the way Bjorn carries himself he seemed like the type to sleep around with anyone willing to let him, “that does suck.” 

“Oh? So ur not one then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow that disappears under his hair, curiosity piqued. 

“No. Made a few mistakes back in my old sector, had a few one night stands. Nothing serious,” you shrug, indifferent. None of them ever meant something to you anyhow, just a brief period of time when you used alcohol to cope, when you just wanted to feel someone's arms around you. 

“Course—I don't hafta’ die a virgin.” 

His eyes openly roam over you, from your face down to what he can see of your body with the position you're sitting in, tongue parting his lips to slowly lick over them. You feel your stomach flutter, like you'd just swallowed a congregation of butterflies. Okay, he's definitely checking you out now. 

Are you seriously suggesting I sleep with you?” You ask in disbelief, the question entirely rhetorical considering you're the only other person here and he's eyeing you like a prime cut of steak, “what are you, high?”

“Clearly babes. That's beside tha’ point. Wouldn't be tha’ worst thing in tha' world, now would it?” 

“It might be,” you retort, “so was this just your plan all along? Get in my pants?” 

“Ah yah, I collapsed tha' mine so you'd drop ya' knickers fo' me, fucking come off it. And come with me, why don't ya?’” He smirks, doing that signature cocky head tilt of his.

That's not what you meant. Moreso wondering if that was his goal from the start, the tension between you seeming sexual in retrospect. You spear your bottom lip between your teeth, actually considering the offer, always finding Bjorn annoyingly, stupidly, attractive. Maybe you're the one that's high.

“I—” 

As if on queue you hear a familiar rumble, just like the one that trapped you here to begin with, rubble and soot raining down on top of you and Bjorn, looking up just as the ceiling bows.

Bjorn is quicker to react than you are, lunging at you right as one of the wooden support beams gives way and topples sideways, taking another chunk of the mine with it, the both of you avoiding another close call as the tunnel around you continues to shrink and shrink. 

This time he ends up on top of you, the full weight of his body pressing down onto yours, his gaze drawing away from the roof to meet yours again, the intensity of his stare causing heat to pool low in your core.  

Then he kisses you—and you let him. 

[sturniololuvz]

Hellooo.. could you pls maybe do a kind of angsty one where the triplets get into an argument with eachother and their sister gets overwhelmed and sneaks out so she doesn’t have to listen to it and they don’t realise at first and when they do they all start panicking and stuff. You don’t have to tho if you don’t want. (I’m highkey really nervous rn) (my heart is racing more than it does when I run) (I love you)

shawtyyyy calm down 😭

⸻

“She Just Left”

It started with something stupid. It always did.

“You said you’d edit it last night!” Matt shouted from the kitchen.

“I had shit to do, Matt!” Chris fired back. “I’m not your assistant!”

Nick, arms crossed from the couch, chimed in, “Both of you could’ve asked me. Oh wait—no, let’s just scream all day like fucking lunatics.”

Their voices rose, louder and louder. Accusations, swearing, passive-aggressive insults being thrown back and forth like darts.

Y/N sat on the stairs, frozen halfway between the second and third floor.

At first, she tried to ignore it. Just headphones. Volume up.

But it didn’t help.

Something about hearing your brothers scream at each other — voices you loved, voices that were usually teasing or comforting — now full of anger and tension… it made her chest feel tight. Her hands shaky. Like she didn’t belong in her own house.

And the worst part?

None of them noticed her. Not even once.

So, quietly, she walked down the stairs. Grabbed her hoodie. Slipped on her shoes without tying them properly. And walked out the front door.

She didn’t slam it.

She didn’t even close it hard.

She just… left.

⸻

It wasn’t until twenty minutes later, when the shouting fizzled out and Chris slumped against the fridge, breathing heavily, that Nick noticed something.

“…Where’s Y/N?”

Matt looked up. “I dunno. In her room?”

Chris rubbed his face. “I haven’t seen her since like… before we started yelling.”

Nick frowned and called out, “Y/N?”

No answer.

He jogged up the stairs. Knocked on her door. Opened it.

Empty.

Her bed untouched. Her phone charging. Shoes missing.

“Guys,” Nick called down, voice suddenly sharp. “She’s not here.”

Matt stood. “What do you mean?”

“Her shoes are gone. Her phone’s still here.” Nick was pale now. “She snuck out.”

Chris’s heart sank.

“She was here,” he said slowly, the pieces falling together. “She heard us fighting.”

Matt’s jaw clenched. “And we didn’t even notice.”

“She left without a phone?” Nick was already slipping on sneakers, panic rising. “Where the fuck would she go?”

“I don’t know!” Chris snapped, grabbing his keys. “Shit. Shit.”

“I’ll call her friends’ parents,” Matt said, voice tight. “Maybe someone’s seen her.”

Chris looked like he could throw up.

“I didn’t mean for her to feel like that,” he muttered. “We were so loud. So fucking loud.”

Nick grabbed his arm. “We’ll find her. She’s probably just overwhelmed. She needed air.”

⸻

They found her an hour later.

She was sitting on the swings at the elementary school two blocks down — hoodie pulled tight around her, arms wrapped around herself, red-eyed and quiet.

Chris sprinted toward her. “Y/N!”

She looked up, startled, already bracing to be yelled at.

But instead, Chris dropped to his knees in front of her, his voice cracking. “Are you okay? What the hell, you scared the shit out of us.”

She sniffed. “You guys were fighting.”

“We know. We’re sorry,” Matt said gently, walking up behind. “We were being assholes.”

Nick knelt beside her. “You didn’t answer because your phone was home. We thought something happened.”

“I didn’t wanna hear it anymore,” Y/N mumbled. “I just… I needed to not be there.”

Chris pulled her into a hug so tight she couldn’t move. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” she whispered. “I just… don’t like it when you guys hate each other.”

Chris pulled back slightly, eyes glassy. “We don’t hate each other. We just forget how loud we are. And we forget how much it hurts you too.”

Matt rubbed her shoulder. “Next time, tell us. Or take your phone at least. We wanna be mad at each other — not worried sick about you.”

Nick gave her a weak smile. “We’re idiots, but we love you.”

Y/N nodded, voice small. “I love you too.”

Chris stood, scooping her up like she was little again. “We’re going home. And we’re ordering dinner. No yelling. No bullshit. Just us.”

She smiled into his hoodie.

That was all she really wanted anyway.

⸻

[borderlinereminders]

The amount of asks/comments I have on my posts saying "Well, I tried communicating like you said but they just ignored me/got mad at me/laughed at me/didn't work on it" is a lot. And this is just a friendly reminder that just because my communication advice didn't work with your loved ones doesn't mean that I deserve the aggressive asks. (There's a difference between someone commenting on this, and someone getting mad at me personally. I'm referring to the latter.)

I don't write my posts with the intention of "oh, this is how it should always be and will always work." I write my posts with the intention of encouraging people to communicate in healthy manners, instead of hinting or being passive aggressive or just not addressing any of their concerns and letting resentment build. If you communicate with your loved ones in a healthy way, and they don't respond well... Well, depending what it is, it might be important to look at a pattern of behaviour and see if the problem might be them.

Nuance is so important. In all my posts. I feel like I shouldn't have to spell out a disclaimer that "This post does not apply to all circumstances" because I feel like it should be obvious, and I feel like that just takes away from my post at the bottom to write it. It bugs my brain when it's not just my post.

My posts are meant to be guidelines to get you to think about what works for you. Maybe a post makes you think "oh, I wouldn't communicate like that, but maybe I could try -this thing- instead." My posts are meant to get you to look at your behaviour to see if you can do something better, because at the end of the day, the only person you can control is you. You can't control those around you, and maybe in some cases, this means you aren't compatible in each other's lives due to conflicting needs.

[jammatown919]

I've said to a few people that my ratio of blame for the argument that broke the camel's back is about 80% Yaz and 20% Sammy due to Yaz's attitude about her and Sammy's disagreement over Brooklynn (both sides had completely fair points and valid feelings but Yaz was very unfair in the way she spoke), but I think for their problems in general it's more of an even split where they both have several bad communication habits they need to work on to avoid something like this happening to them again. Yaz

Isn't always honest about how she feels

Decides what she's going to do and just does it with little to no discussion even if it's not what's best for the unit

Can get too stubborn about thinking she's right to the point she trivializes and dismisses feelings she doesn't agree with instead of trying to understand them

Has shown at least two instances of resorting to name-calling and/or other rude remarks when she firmly believes she's right and the other person is wrong (I believe this was largely due to a highly stressed out state of mind in which she was concerned for Brooklynn's safety and lashed out because she was worried the others' reluctance to help her might get her hurt, but it still happened)

Sammy

Isn't always honest about how she feels

Bottles up emotions until she's really, really upset and can't control them

Can be passive aggressive when upset

Doesn't completely respect Yaz's need for space during arguments (gets mad at her for suggesting taking a beat in season one) but expects hers to be respected (gets mad at her for continuing to pursue the conversation in season three)

This is something that, as far as we know as the audience, has been slowly building up over the course of several months to a year, primarily due to a severe delay in honest communication. From what I can gather, ever since Yaz has started trying to recover from her PTSD on her own without Sammy's help, they have stopped telling each other when they have a problem. Yaz most likely did not try to have a real conversation with Sammy about feeling coddled (according to Sammy, there was little to no communication about her moving at all). Sammy most likely did not try to directly tell Yaz how lonely she was after the move (I simply cannot believe that Yaz would not have made more attempts to reach out if it had been plainly laid out for her).

By the time they tell each other their grievances, they're upset and defensive because they've been sitting on their problems for months. They both feel that they have completely valid reasons for what they're doing and they both feel that the other has done something wrong, and they're both right. The lack of honest communication is a mutual problem and the foundation of the majority of their issues. Without this background, I do not believe that they would have broken up over the Brooklynn argument, nor do I think Sammy would have felt as strongly about it because a lot of her feelings toward Brooklynn right now parallel her feelings toward Yaz.

But they have to realize this now. Maybe they could ignore it when they were back to being fine soon after every argument because some threat caused them to come back together without talking about anything. But now it's caused them to break up. They have to know now that something has to change if they're going to make this work again. They're so, so obviously still in love, and with the two groups heading to the same place and them inevitably coming back into proximity with each other, I don't know how long they're going to be able to hold themselves back from approaching each other. They both clearly want to talk. Yaz kept asking for Sammy before leaving Italy. Sammy watched her through the door like she was considering coming outside to say something.

Dysfunctional communication over a long period of time can completely drain a person emotionally, and I completely understand the decision to just walk away from it. But these are two people who love each other deeply, and even at the worst of their problems, want to connect and be together and are devastated by the idea of losing each other. They need to sit with this for a bit. Come to terms with what really caused it to get this bad. And once they do, they'll come back to each other, because they love each other too much to not fight for this relationship. They both have work to do, but they love each other too much not to do it.

[butter-bubbles]

How Mike's S4 Rink-o-Mania Fight Parallels Will's S3 Rain Fight....

OMG, OMG, OMG. So while allowing chronic Byler brainrot to consume my thoughts, I had a revelation and I'm not okay. Like at all.

Okay, so in S3 with the iconic Byler rain fight, Will says this:

This whole fight stems from two feelings.

Will's upset that Mike's ignoring and neglecting their friendship to "swap spit with some stupid girl", thus ruining their party.

Will feels abandoned by the person who he's developing romantic feelings for and doesn't know how to handle it.

This was never about the party, not really. It was about Mike's failure to be a good friend to Will and Will's frustration at not being a priority in Mike's life when Mike is a huge priority in his.

Now, let's look at what Mike says to Will during their Rink-O-Mania fight:

This is an interesting choice of words, as it's not an exact parallel to "ruining". Instead, he says "sabotaging", as though Will was actively trying to ruin their date by being snide and sarcastic. Implicitly, it reveals to the audience that Mike believes Will has enough influence over his and El's date to ruin it at all with some very minor sass.

But let's put that aside for a moment and think about what Mike is actually talking about here, since it clearly has nothing to do with El

Will is attempting to sabotage his relationship by... not being as nice and emotionally invest in Mike as he usually is.

Now we know that at the end of S3 that Will promises not to join a new party, and Mike breaks out into this absolutely elated smile.

But at the beginning of S4, Mike fiinds out that Will might have a girl he likes via the letter from El.

Will brings the girl's painting to the airport, Mike does not ask about the girl/crush (like most friends would) but instead very weirdly/passive aggressively questions Will about the painting after awkwardly ignoring his hug, and then spends the remainder of the date pretending to ignore Will and getting pissed at him.

So for reason number #2 we can deduce:

2. Mike is upset that Will is neglecting their relationship for a girl by bringing her painting to their reuinion at the airport and not paying attention to him/acting rude during his date with his girlfriend.

If you look at the reasonings side-by-side, they're basically exact parallels to one another, even down to the immediate denial from both Mike ("That's not true!") and Will ("She was lying to you!"). In fact, I'd argue Mike's accusation is even more damning because it's basically admitting that Will has influence over his relationship with his girlfriend and that he believes Will is intentionally ruining something dear to him, while Will's accusation is more about Mike's inconsiderateness/selfishness. Mike lets Will know Will has influence over him through his willful acts of sabotage whereas Will doesn't even think Mike is considering him at all/he has no influence over Mike because he's too wrapped up in his relationship with El. Will accuses Mike of "ruining our party" because his feelings for Mike go deeper than friendship and therefore he feels neglected when he isn't Mike's priority, and Mike accuses Will of "sabotag[ing] the whole day" because his feelings for Will go deeper than friendship and he feels neglected when he isn't Will's priority.

This parallel just seems like further proof that Will's feelings are reciprocated because there's no way it's a coincidence that both of their signifcant fights in S3/S4 mirror each other so perfectly if the show wasn't trying to communicate that they have mutual romantic feelings/crushes towards one another. They're literally having the exact same argument, but this time it's flipped with Mike expressing disproportionate anger at Will's lack of interest in him. This is great foreshadowing for the #WillfellfirstbutMikefellharder agenda!!

[pretty-blkgirl]

Soul’s Desire [Ch. 39]

- Masterlist -

~~~~|~~~~

”Are you nervous?”

You don’t answer, instead you subtly do breathing exercises while staring at the white wall ahead of you.

Rose sighs but chooses to fix a small flaw in your hair instead of pushing for an answer.

Of course, you were nervous, you were at the KMA’s. Your group was up for four different awards, including Musician of the Year.

The funniest thing about being up for arguably the most important award of the night was your soulmates were up for the same award.

The “pregnancy scare” that happened a few days ago left you feeling a little overwhelmed. You hadn’t been ignoring your soulmates, but you’d be lying if you said you were jumping at any opportunity to talk to them.

You made sure to keep them in the loop about the doctor’s appointment you scheduled two days after the initial scare, and you could feel the relief they felt through your symbol when you confirmed what the at-home tests already told you.

They understood why you needed a bit of extra time to think, but they missed you terribly.

Chan would try his best to catch you at the company, and when he did, he bought you food every time. You thanked him with a few kisses and a tight hug each time, so he started to believe you weren’t angry at them.

Rather, you were just…tired.

Your career, the trauma stemming from your mom, the way Eunji was still very passive-aggressive towards you. So much was happening at once, and you were just ready to rest.

Truth was, after the award show, you were set to leave and go straight home. You had a flight to Jeju the next morning, and you were excited to have some time to relax.

Your nervousness carried for the rest of the night. From taking your seats in the audience to interacting with other idols. It spiked when you realized eight pairs of eyes were a few rows in front of you, taking advantage of the fact that a group they were close friends with sat next to yours.

They took turns looking back, pretending to joke and laugh with their friends but staring at you with what you’d call “puppy dog eyes.”

Seungmin was the best at it, of course, always lingering a little longer when it was his turn to stare.

You smiled each time they looked at you, so they knew you weren’t upset. You loved them, and that little spat wasn’t a make or break in your relationship.

Soon it was your turn to perform, and your anxiety was replaced with excitement and adrenaline for a few minutes while you and your girls destroyed the stage.

You could barely enjoy the standing ovation you received when that familiar feeling crept back into your stomach.

You were on autopilot for the rest of the night, only coming out for a while when your soulmates took their turn on stage. You weren’t shy to admit you were even louder than the fans that were there.

Soon after their performance, it was time for the grand prize winner to be announced.

Your group managed to snag an earlier award which you were extremely grateful for, but this one was the most important.

Again, nervousness.

The murmurs of the crowd sounded like static in your ears. You watched the presenter, nonblinking, as the world around you slowed down.

You watched her mouth move

“And the award goes to…”

She revealed who won. But you didn’t hear her. The feeling that shot through you, starting at your palm and ending at your feet, made you gasp.

You thought your soulmates had won, that was why you felt such strong emotion despite you actively blocking the bond.

But no, it was your group’s picture up on the screen. All of a sudden, you felt hands shaking your shoulders and screams all around you.

Your palm was burning, so you quickly checked it to make sure the ointment wasn’t coming off.

Your older group mates grabbed you and dragged you to the stage with them. As Dae gave a tearful speech, you looked out into the audience, seeking a specific group of people.

They were all standing, giving you looks of pure pride and happiness. Your anxiety vanished, quickly, as if it were never there to begin with.

That moment was when you started to think about your future with them, and that moment was when you started to get excited about the future.

~~~~|~~~~

Taglist: @chuuyaobsessed @h0rnyp0t @prttyxbby @yukichan67 @hanniemylovelyquokka @xxeiraxx @loveforlee444 @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @cunninglibrarian @holly-here @galaxy4489 @hyunmikim @yougottobekittenme @hyeon-yi @katsukis1wife @multi-fandom-nightmare @staybabblingbaby @kozumesphone @fuck-you-im-gae @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @just-a-blackthorn-cookie @champagneconfetti @juju-227592 @borahae-reads @reallychaoticwoo @hwangfrnd @fiest4plum

[0vergrowngraveyard]

the sky is being noisy (thunderstorm directly over my house) so i’m gonna talk about my villain au boys because they need therapy like right now 🫶

tw: abusive behavior

sonic:

sonic was taken in by eggman when he was young (eggdad moment) and didn’t realize that the doctor was just using him for his own gains. when sonic did find out, instead of having a battle of morals, sonic just straight up said that he would be better than eggman ever was and ran away

being around tails has changed his life both for better and for worse. for better because, well, it’s tails! a sonic will always need a tails! they’re a cosmic truth, after all! …right?

unfortunately, being around tails has also caused some harm. he does consider tails to be his little brother, but subconsciously the thought of family scares him after figuring out that eggman had been using him. he’s terrified of rejection and getting attached

is tails just using him too? what if the kit leaves him alone as well? he doesn’t deal with thoughts like these very well, frequently spiraling into extreme highs and lows where he’ll either guilt trip tails into staying by his side or passive aggressively pushes him away

he hates that he does it, he’s very self aware and knows he’s hurting the kid, but he can’t bring himself to either change for the better for leave the kit somewhere he’ll be safe

tails:

tails was not abandoned by his parents in this au, but they were very abusive towards the kit. the prower name is a pretty big one so he’d frequently make public appearance where he was forced to hide his mutation. at home, his parents basically ignore him yet get mad at him for not being the perfect child they wanted

when tails met sonic, he’d been kicked out of the house for the day. he was six years old. sonic found him sitting outside and just started talking to the kit, eventually convincing him to run away with the hedgehog

while being around sonic has helped him feel protected, he can’t help but crave that parental affection he was never shown by his own parents. he’ll go above and beyond just for a simple “good job” or fur ruffle (he does not swat sonic’s hand away). he’s also still very insecure about his namesakes and rarely ever flies

despite craving sonic’s attention so much, he’s also kinda scared of him. he never knows when the hedgehog will snap next and is walking on eggshells almost 24/7

the brothers love each other, they genuinely do, they’re just damaged. nothing about their bond is healthy. it’s very codependent, both of them relying on the other to be their source of happiness. it’s ruining them both

they’ll never leave each other’s side, tho. they’re all each other have and neither of them wants to be alone

[sixeyesonathiel]

love thy neighbor — chapter one.

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with wild white hair and a grin too sharp for someone who always left dirt on your doorstep. satoru lived to rile you up, stealing your snacks and outrunning you in backyard chases, weaving himself into your life despite every glare you threw. through the chaos of shared summers and endless spats, he became a constant you couldn’t quite escape.

college stretched you apart, states away, the silence of distance swallowing your usual bickering—until summer drags you back. nothing’s the same. the air feels heavier, the days stranger, and satoru’s still all smirks and sly glances, but his eyes linger now, carrying a quiet ache you’re only starting to notice. college has you questioning everything, and he’s waiting, like always, for you to catch up to something you’re not ready to name.

tags –> fluff, tiny bit of angst later, eventual smut, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, growing up together, long term pining, yearner satoru, summer vacation tension, alternating POVs.

a/n : releasing this as series with four chapters that will have 10k+ wc per chapter instead of a oneshot out of draft jail because i overyappped once again, i’m really sorry for second guessing and hesitating so much, making u all wait TvT

collection m.list. | series masterlist. | playlist. | next ch.

the neighborhood was perfect.

white fences, manicured lawns, and an unspoken rule that everything must remain picturesque. but beneath the surface of perfection, an ancient war raged: your mother versus satoru’s. it was a battle fought with gardening shears and passive-aggressive remarks, masked by polite smiles at neighborhood events.

your mother, ever the strategist, sipped her tea with a dramatic sigh whenever satoru’s mother so much as stepped onto her porch. “oh, did you see the way she over-fertilizes?” she mused, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “poor plants, suffocating under all that desperate effort.”

meanwhile, satoru’s mother, arranging her hydrangeas in full view of your living room window, would hum thoughtfully before muttering, “i’d be embarrassed if my hydrangeas were that dull. not that i’d let it happen.”

the tension was palpable, woven into every stolen glance and whispered insult disguised as gardening advice. neither woman ever admitted the rivalry outright, but the perfectly pruned rose bushes and the carefully curated window boxes spoke volumes.

their husbands, however, lived in blissful ignorance. every weekend, they could be found on the golf course or clinking beer bottles over the backyard fence, chuckling about how “our wives are gonna kill each other one day, huh?”

the rivalry simply amused them.

but you and satoru? you were casualties. you were dragged into their war from the moment you could walk, coached into side-eyed glares and dismissive huffs whenever the gojos were mentioned.

when your father first introduced you to satoru at a neighborhood barbecue, he did so with the same pride as a general uniting two warring factions. “this is satoru, gojo’s boy!” he beamed, clapping his friend on the back.

but instead of an instant friendship, all satoru got was a glare and the words your mother had fed you over breakfast that morning.

“we don’t talk to people who use fake grass as a lawn substitute.”

you said it with the confidence of someone who truly understood what that meant, though in reality, you weren’t entirely sure why fake grass was so offensive. satoru blinked at you, mouth slightly open, his white lashes fluttering as if he hadn’t processed what just happened.

“...huh?” he finally said, voice trailing off in confusion.

your dads laughed, the kind of laugh that men share when they think their kids are just being silly. it wasn’t silly. it was war. and from that moment on, satoru gojo was your enemy, whether he wanted to be or not.

the first time you’re sent outside to water the garden, you don’t think much of it—until you see satoru stepping out of his house at the same time, dragging a garden hose behind him. he’s still in his pajamas, some silly blue set with little clouds on it, his white hair sticking up in messy tufts, like he just rolled out of bed.

he’s wearing slippers—bunny slippers, to be precise—but what really catches your attention are the socks. white with tiny little blue stars, pulled up just past his ankles, the kind of socks that scream these are my favorite and if anything happens to them, i will never recover.

you freeze, fingers tightening around the nozzle as he glances at you, then at his own hose, then back at you. for a second, neither of you speak. but you both know. your moms, pretending to be absorbed in their baking and magazine-reading inside, have timed this on purpose.

“pure coincidence,” your mother had said, the corners of her lips twitching in barely concealed triumph, and you—foolish, naive—had believed her.

satoru, being satoru, tries to be friendly at first, tilting his head as he watches you water the tulips along the fence. “your tulips are kinda nice,” he says, casual, like he’s just making conversation, like he isn’t the enemy.

you whip your head toward him so fast your hair smacks you in the face, eyes narrowing, scoffing as if he’s just insulted your entire bloodline. “don’t lie. your mom says they’re ugly.”

his jaw drops, scandalized, and you swear you can hear the dramatic gasp of betrayal in the air. “well, your mom says our garden looks like a plastic factory exploded.” he crosses his arms, standing his ground, his voice rising slightly like he can’t believe you just threw that at him.

you stare at him.

he stares at you.

the hose in your hand drips onto the grass, but you’re too busy processing his words to care. your mother had what ? you had been raised on the belief that your family had the superior garden, the most elegant flowers, the healthiest grass. and now, satoru gojo, the enemy, was claiming that your mom had been talking about his garden?

your lips part in slow betrayal, nose wrinkling in distaste, and you take a slow step back. he mirrors you, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, his fingers twitching against the hose. neither of you say another word. but you both know what’s coming next.

the next day, war begins. it starts simple—satoru ‘accidentally’ sprays you with his hose while you’re carefully pruning the roses, his grin widening when water soaks into your shirt. you shriek, stumbling back, clutching your watering can tighter like a weapon. fine. if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. you take a step, then another, before gasping dramatically and tripping—the entire can of water spilling directly onto his feet.

he lets out a scream, the most theatrical, over-the-top wail you’ve ever heard, jumping back like he’s been set on fire. “MY SOCKS!” he yells, staring down at them in pure horror, his slippers useless against the water seeping in. his hands fly up to his head, gripping his white tufts in agony, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in a tragedy film. “they’re wet! my favorite socks are WET!”

“oh, please,” you huff, rolling your eyes even as your own shirt clings uncomfortably to your skin. “it’s just water.”

“IT’S IN MY SOCKS.” he’s pacing now, hands on his hips, face twisted in pure devastation. “DO YOU KNOW HOW GROSS WET SOCKS ARE?!”

the next thing you know, you’re both storming inside, loudly declaring your grievances to your fathers.

“she did it on purpose!”

“he started it first!”

you both jab fingers in each other’s direction, demanding justice, your voices overlapping in a chorus of whiny accusations. satoru’s slippers squelch with every step he takes, which only makes him angrier, which only makes you smugger. but your dads, ever the peacemakers, just chuckle over their beers and wave you off. “just work it out, kids!”

useless. completely, utterly useless.

you and satoru glare at each other from across the room, still damp, still fuming, both of you knowing, deep in your little childish hearts—whether you like it or not, this is only the beginning.

days slip by, your damp glares hardening into a silent pact—every sprinkler twitch, every sidelong glance a spark for the next war. your moms, oblivious or scheming, sip lemonade on the porch, their laughter sharp as pruning shears, while you and satoru circle like cats, waiting for the other to pounce.

it appears overnight.

one day, your mother’s pristine front yard is free of any unnecessary clutter, and the next, it’s there—perched right at the edge of the gojos’ flower bed, staring directly at your house with its beady, unsettling eyes.

the ugliest garden gnome you’ve ever seen. its paint is chipped in places, its smile is a little too wide, and its hat is a garish shade of red that clashes horribly with the hydrangeas behind it.

your mother nearly drops her morning tea when she spots it through the kitchen window.

“oh. oh, that woman wants to play dirty.”

she sets her cup down with the grace of a queen preparing for battle, fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain like she’s contemplating war strategies. her brows draw together, lips pressed into a firm line as she leans closer, scrutinizing the gnome like it personally insulted her taste in home decor.

by the end of the day, a stone fairy statue sits on your side of the fence, directly facing the gnome. her expression is serene, her wings spread wide, and her hands clasped together as if in prayer—yet something about her placement feels pointed. deliberate. a silent declaration of superiority in the war of aesthetics.

you and satoru meet at the line that divides your houses, staring at each other over the ridiculous decorations your mothers have so proudly planted in the soil. it’s early afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the grass, and the air is thick with unspoken tension.

satoru stands lazily with his hands in his pockets, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, the summer light catching in his white hair and making it look almost silver. his eyes, bright and sharp, flit between the fairy and the gnome before settling on you, amusement flickering in their depths.

“so,” he drawls, rocking back slightly on his heels. “admiring the superior piece of art?”

you don’t answer. instead, you take a single step forward and flick his forehead, hard. his head jerks back slightly, his smirk faltering for half a second before he recovers, blinking at you like you’ve just committed a grave crime against his entire bloodline.

“your gnome looks like it crawled out of a swamp.”

satoru’s jaw drops, a scandalized gasp slipping past his lips. his hand flies to his forehead, rubbing the spot you flicked like you just inflicted some kind of irreversible damage.

“you—” he sputters, shaking his head as if in disbelief. then, with the precision of someone who has been waiting for this moment his entire life, he flicks you right back, his finger striking the center of your forehead with surprising force.

“your fairy looks like it belongs in a cemetery.”

you don’t know who lunges first, but suddenly, you’re both on the ground. hands grasping at arms, legs kicking up dirt, your yells and shrieks breaking the peaceful afternoon air.

satoru pulls at your sleeve, so you shove him, and he shoves you right back, his stupidly strong grip knocking you off balance. the scent of freshly cut grass fills your nose as your back hits the ground, satoru’s weight pressing down as he tries to pin you, but you twist, rolling and taking him with you.

“get off me, you overgrown ferret!” you hiss, your fingers grasping at the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to push him away.

“overgrown?” he scoffs, despite being half sprawled across the dirt, panting. “you’re literally—ow! stop pulling my hair, you gremlin!”

grass sticks to your clothes, dust clings to your skin, and the world tilts as you both roll across the lawn like a pair of feral raccoons fighting over food.

from the porch, your mother gasps, her hand flying to her chest in horror. satoru’s mom, less dramatic but equally exasperated, calls out something about ruining the flowers, but neither of you hear her over the sound of your bickering.

your fathers, however, are the last to react. one second, they’re sipping their beers on the porch, talking about some old golf game, and the next, their precious children are rolling in the dirt like a pair of rabid raccoons.

both men jump up at the same time, eyes wide, jaws dropping in comical horror.

“oh my god, they’re fighting.” gojo’s dad sounds genuinely distressed, like he’s just witnessed the betrayal of the century.

your dad nearly trips over the porch step as he rushes forward, his voice heavy with disbelief. “this is a disaster! we raised them better than this!”

it takes all their combined strength to pry you and satoru apart. you’re still kicking, your hand tangled in his stupid white hair, while he’s gripping onto your sleeve like he refuses to let you get the last hit. dirt smudges both your cheeks, grass stains your clothes, and the once-perfect garden is in shambles around you.

satoru’s mom lets out a horrified gasp, clutching her chest as she surveys the battlefield that was once a pristine lawn. her manicured fingers tremble, eyes darting between the trampled flowers and her son’s dirt-streaked face like she’s witnessing the collapse of civilization.

your mom, on the other hand, stands tall with her arms crossed, head tilting ever so slightly as a slow, satisfied smile curls on her lips—like a queen who just watched her heir claim victory in a brutal duel. her gaze flickers to you, pride gleaming in her eyes before she speaks, voice low and laced with amusement.

“you see?” she murmurs, just loud enough for her husband to hear, yet dripping with the unmistakable venom of a well-placed jab. “this is what happens when you let your daughter socialize with bad influences.”

she doesn’t look at satoru’s mom as she says it, but the weight of her words lands squarely where it’s meant to.

satoru’s mom bristles, her grip tightening on the pearl necklace resting against her collarbone, but she holds her tongue—for now. the war between them is long-standing, fought with polite smiles and passive-aggressive flower arrangements, but today, your mom has landed a solid hit.

your dads, however, are too emotionally wounded to acknowledge their wives’ ongoing cold war. your father looks at you like you just kicked a puppy in front of him, his hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair in utter disbelief.

“you’re best friends!” he exclaims, voice cracking like his entire world is crumbling before his eyes. “this—this is not how best friends act!” his horror is genuine, as if the mere thought of you and satoru, the lifelong duo, turning on each other is an omen of the apocalypse.

satoru’s dad isn’t faring any better, hands braced against his knees as if steadying himself for what might come next. he exhales, long and pained, shaking his head like he’s about to mourn the loss of something sacred.

“we failed them,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with grief. he looks at his son, at the tangled mess of white hair and stubborn defiance, then at you, covered in dirt and glaring daggers at his boy.

to him, this is a tragedy beyond comprehension.

for a fleeting moment, the sheer devastation in their eyes almost makes you feel bad. almost. but then you glance at satoru, and he’s already looking at you with that same ridiculous, half-offended, half-smug expression, a silent dare in those too-bright eyes.

the pity shrivels and dies instantly, replaced by a renewed wave of annoyance. because, honestly, why does he look like he won? he didn’t win.

“you’re gonna apologize and shake hands,” your dad says, attempting to sound firm despite the evident emotional turmoil in his voice.

you and satoru both freeze, breathing still uneven from the scuffle, before simultaneously turning away with identical scoffs. the idea of making peace with each other so soon, especially under adult supervision, is downright insulting.

“absolutely not.” the rejection comes in perfect unison, as if you rehearsed it beforehand.

but then satoru’s dad straightens up, shoulders squared, and fixes you both with a rare, serious, dad look—the kind that demands obedience without words, the kind that even satoru, with all his stubborn arrogance, hesitates to challenge. suddenly, rebellion doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

grumbling under your breath, you stomp forward, satoru mirroring your reluctance with a dramatic sigh. your hands clasp together with the enthusiasm of someone being forced to shake hands with a venomous snake.

and then, just because neither of you can ever let the other win, you squeeze. hard .

satoru winces first, barely, and your lips twitch into a victorious grin. but then he recovers, tightening his grip just enough to make your fingers ache, and a smirk creeps onto his face. across the yard, your dads, completely oblivious to the ongoing war happening in your clasped hands, wipe fake tears from their eyes, murmuring about how balance has been restored.

but nothing has been solved. nothing at all.

the forced peace lasts exactly three days before you're elbowing him in the ribs for hogging the watering can. he retaliates by “accidentally” spraying your shoes.

you step on his foot.

he tugs your hair.

you pinch his arm when no one’s looking—fingers darting quick, nailing the soft spot under his sleeve. he yelps “ow!” under his breath, swatting back with a pouty glare. by the time the roses are watered, you’ve racked up twelve secret scuffles—stealthy masterpieces hidden from the kitchen windows where your moms sip grudges with their brew.

he trips you into a rosebush with a sly nudge—smug grin flashing, all teeth and blue-eyed glee. you lob a fistful of fertilizer like a prank grenade. it dusts his face gritty brown. he sputters “gross!” and wipes it off with his t-shirt hem.

your cackle cuts the air when dirt clumps in his perfect white hair. he shakes it out like a wet dog, strands spiking like a porcupine. then he shoves you—hands fast on your shoulders—sending you splashing into the birdbath. water soaks your shorts.

“jerk!” you hiss, scrambling up, nose scrunched in fury. he giggles “serves you right!” and dodges your swat, slippers squishing on the grass. it’s exhausting—this endless tug-of-war. arms ache. slippers muddy. but stopping? not an option. you’re magnets, doomed to clash.

the backyard brawl simmers all week. each morning brings sneaky jabs and muffled yelps. roses and hydrangeas stand as silent witnesses.

your dads catch on eventually—dirt-stained clothes you try to sneak past the laundry, faint bruises on your knees, satoru’s slight limp after you “accidentally” drop a watering can on his foot. they’re done. sick of scuffs. sick of whining.

sick of their wives’ icy fence-side stares—each blaming the other’s kid, their garden rivalry now a cold war over mulch tips and pta brags.

one afternoon, mid-scuffle—over who stepped on whose garden bed and if that’s an act of war—you’re shoving his chest, his elbow jabs your side. your dads roll in like tired storm clouds.

“enough!” yours barks, arms crossed, flannel sleeves rolled up, face etched with exhaustion from your week-long nonsense.

satoru’s dad nods, rubbing his temples. “you’re driving us up the wall—cut it out or you’re grounded ‘til christmas.” 

“he started it!” you snap, pointing at satoru—your pout deepens, your muddy slippers leaving a smudge on the patio as you cross your arms tight.

“she pinched me first!” satoru fires back, his voice high and whiny as he jabs a finger at you, his hair still dusted with fertilizer flecks, his blue eyes wide with mock innocence.

“that’s it,” your dad says, rubbing his temples like this is physically paining him. “you’re best friends now. deal with it.” his voice is firm, final, like a judge handing down a life sentence.

satoru’s dad stands beside him, nodding like he’s just made peace with some deep, personal tragedy.

“if you’re gonna keep fighting, you might as well do it under supervision,” he adds, voice hollow with defeat. “playdates. every day. no exceptions.”

you and satoru freeze, eyes locking in an unspoken moment of horror. playdates? every day? with him?

“no,” you start, shaking your head as panic sets in, “no, no, no, i refuse—”

“you can’t make us!” satoru cries, taking a step back like he might actually run for it.

but your dad is already walking away like the matter is settled, and satoru’s dad claps a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder, muttering something about “team bonding” before disappearing inside.

betrayal. this is betrayal of the highest order.

you whip around, jabbing a finger into satoru’s chest, voice dripping with accusation. “this is your fault.”

his jaw drops, indignant. “my fault? you’re the one who threw the first punch last time!”

“because you called my hair stupid!”

“it is stupid!” he fires back, arms flailing as he gestures wildly toward your head. “it looks like a mop!”

you take a deep, dramatic gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve been personally wounded. “oh, yeah? well, at least i don’t look like a walking snow cone!”

his mouth falls open, blue eyes wide with pure, unfiltered rage. for a moment, he just stares at you, like he can’t even process what you’ve just said.

then, with the air of a man who has lost everything, he lets out a long, exhausted sigh and stomps away, muttering under his breath about how this arrangement is going to kill him.

good.

you hope it does.

the next day, you arrive at his house with a plan. if you’re going to suffer through this nightmare, you’re dragging him down with you.

so you stride through the front yard like a queen arriving at her court, the tiny porcelain tea set clinking in your bag with each step. a plastic crown sits atop your head, slightly askew from the wind but still regal in its defiance.

your expression is the picture of authority as you set down your things, the miniature table unfolding beneath your hands with all the grandeur of a royal banquet being prepared.

“sit,” you command, voice dripping with the kind of entitlement that demands obedience.

satoru, standing barefoot in the grass with his wild white hair falling messily over his too-blue eyes, just blinks at you. then he tilts his head, gaze flicking between you, the tea set, and the absurd little chairs you’ve arranged.

“i’m not drinking imaginary tea,” he says flatly.

your smile is slow, syrupy sweet—too sweet, the kind that signals incoming disaster. “oh, but you are.”

he narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. it’s a battle of wills, a silent exchange where neither of you so much as blink.

then, with the exaggerated sigh of a man facing his own execution, satoru flops onto the tiny chair, legs sprawled out, arms still folded like he’s being forced into some great injustice.

you nod in satisfaction, pouring the invisible tea with practiced elegance, your pinky raised just so. the delicate porcelain cup is extended toward him, an offering of peace—or, more accurately, an invitation to his suffering.

he takes it hesitantly, fingers curling around the dainty handle like it might shatter under his touch. then, in the most over-the-top display of mock refinement you’ve ever seen, he lifts it to his lips with the grace of a nobleman.

“ah, yes,” he drawls, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his chin upward. “delicious. simply divine.”

your hum of approval is sharp as you sip from your own cup, matching his theatrics with an air of superiority. “good.”

the corner of his mouth twitches, his eyes peering at you over the rim of his cup, and you know—this isn’t over.

revenge comes swiftly.

the moment you step through the door, satoru is on you like a storm, all grabby hands and reckless energy, fingers locking around your wrist before you can so much as take off your shoes.

he yanks you forward with the force of a battlefield general rallying his troops, pale strands an untamed mess, sticking out in wild tufts like he’s been plotting for hours. there’s an unmistakable glint in his too-bright eyes, something electric, something that makes your stomach twist with impending doom.

you try to plant your feet, to demand an explanation, but he tugs harder, practically dragging you down the hallway like a man possessed.

“sit,” he commands, throwing his arm out with a flourish the second you cross the threshold into his room.

your gaze sweeps across the floor, and your stomach drops. an army—an entire army—is laid out before you, meticulously arranged in tight, strategic formations.

tiny soldiers stand at attention, their weapons poised for battle, knights lined up with their plastic swords raised high, towering mechs positioned like silent sentinels at the edges.

even a couple of dinosaurs lurk ominously in the back, their beady little eyes trained on the battlefield as if waiting for their cue to wreak havoc.

you swallow, suddenly aware of the tiny doll clutched in your hands—a delicate princess with golden curls, her dainty features carved into a permanent, gentle smile. she does not belong here.

satoru turns to you, the grin stretching across his face so wide it practically glows. “war,” he declares, voice heavy with self-satisfaction.

your fingers tighten around the doll. “… war?”

he nods, far too pleased with himself. “yeah. your princesses are under attack. they’re defenseless.” his head tilts, expression shifting into a mockery of pity, but the gleam in his eyes betrays him. “tragic, really.”

your lips press into a thin line, suspicion creeping in. “what happens if they lose?”

his grin sharpens. teeth. teeth everywhere. “they get executed.”

your gasp is immediate, theatrical, hands clutching your chest as if he’s personally driven a dagger through your heart. “executed?!”

satoru shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “war’s brutal.”

your grip on the princess tightens, rage curling in your chest like a wildfire. the urge to flip his entire battlefield, to scatter his perfectly aligned soldiers like fallen leaves, is almost unbearable. you could end this before it even begins.

but then satoru smirks, slow and confident, tilting his head in that infuriating way that makes your blood boil. and just like that, losing is no longer an option.

and so, the war rages on.

tea party chaos one day, epic war games the next.

you haul out fancy tea sets, doilies, and plastic tiaras, daring him to squirm. he counters with action figures, spinning tragic tales to pin their doom on you.

you snatch his favorite snacks, munching with a glare; he traps you in marathons of your least-liked cartoon, smirking at every grimace.

playdates turn into battlegrounds, a clash of stubborn wills. you bake fake cookies; he chokes theatrically, flopping to the floor. he stages a war; you parade your princess dolls, decreeing peace to ruin his plans. neither of you yields.

yet somewhere amid tea-sipping and battle cries, the venom softens. it’s still a fight, but now it’s about who cracks a smile first. the worst days are quiet ones, no one to spar with. it’s not fun, but it’s not awful.

and maybe you don’t mind the challenge.

not that you’ll say it.

it hits like rain on a sunny day—sudden, uninvited. you didn’t plan to enjoy satoru’s chaos. but between the shouts and shoves, you laugh. he laughs too, not smug, but real, and your stomach flips, like maybe—maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought.

but your mom notices.

she always notices. when you come home from his house, she watches you extra close, her eyes sharp like when she’s trying to catch you sneaking extra cookies before dinner.

that night, when she brushes your hair, she doesn’t say it right away. her fingers are careful, gentle, but her voice is not. “remember, sweetheart, we don’t get too close to them.” it’s not a question. it’s a rule. the same kind of rule as don’t run with scissors or don’t talk to strangers—except this one hurts.

so the next day, you fix it. it should feel like something big is happening, like the sky should turn black and lightning should strike right between you, like the world should know this is the worst thing ever. but no. the stupid sun is still shining. the wind is still blowing. and the ugly little garden gnome by satoru’s front steps is still sitting there, laughing at you. it makes you want to kick it. but you can’t, because you have something more important to do.

“your hair is ugly.”

satoru’s head snaps up so fast you think he might get dizzy. “huh?!”

you cross your arms, lifting your chin like you totally mean it. “it’s so white. it looks like bird poop.”

there’s a long, long silence. satoru’s mouth hangs open, like he’s waiting for you to say just kidding! but you don’t. his hands ball into little fists at his sides, his face going all red—not the angry kind of red, but the kind that looks like he just swallowed a rock. “why are you being so mean?”

you look away. your chest feels all tight and weird, like when you’re about to cry but you can’t, because if you do, then it’s over. your mom’s voice rings in your head again— we don’t get too close to them. “ i was just bored.”

and just like that, everything breaks.

he stares at you like you just kicked his puppy. his stupid blue eyes get all shiny, like he might actually cry, and that makes you feel even worse. “but… but yesterday—”

he stops. his lips press together, and he swallows really hard, like there’s something stuck in his throat. then, before you can say anything else, before you can even take it back—he steps away.

“fine,” he says, and his voice sounds wobbly, like a popsicle stick bridge that’s about to snap. “i don’t care, anyway.”

but you know he does. because satoru always cares—loudly, annoyingly, in ways you don’t even understand yet. and for the first time ever, he turns away first. doesn’t yell, doesn’t push, doesn’t try to win.

he just leaves. and for some reason, that makes you want to cry more than anything in the whole wide world.

satoru didn’t talk to you after that day. not in the loud, teasing way he usually did, not in the begrudging, petty way you’d come to expect. not even when your dads gathered for the weekend barbecue, laughing over beers about how their kids had finally made peace.

you could feel his glare from across the yard, burning into your skin like a laser beam, but the second you turned to look, he was already stomping away, white hair bouncing with every step.

you’d won the war, hadn’t you? you should’ve felt victorious, you should’ve been skipping circles around him just to rub it in his stupid face. but instead, your stomach twisted up all weird, like you swallowed a rock—or maybe a whole pile of them.

and then, as if the universe had personally decided that your life wasn’t miserable enough, disaster struck.

the evening air was thick with the smell of damp dirt and fresh grass, but all you could smell was your impending doom.

your mother loomed over the flowerbed—or what was left of it. crushed petals and snapped stems lay scattered, a wreckage you caused. the porch light stretched her shadow, sharp and accusing, across the dirt. her arms were crossed, lips a thin line, but her eyes—piercing, soul-searing—made your stomach plummet.

you swallowed, glancing at the ruined flowers under your shoes. you’d only chased a butterfly, but—crunch—they were gone, and you were doomed.

“look at what you’ve done!”

your hands balled up, body rigid. “i’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice small, but she didn’t flinch.

she sighed, pinching her nose like you were her endless headache. “i work hard on this garden, and this is how you repay me?” her head shook, disappointment stinging like a slap. “these plants are my babies, and you trample them like you don’t belong here.”

…oh.

your breath snagged, heart stuttering. her babies? your chest clamped tight, ears buzzing, and it clicked—too perfectly. your mom’s lawn obsession, how you didn’t quite match your parents’ looks, your weird food quirks, her sighs, heavy with unspoken weight when she bragged about you to neighbors. 

this was it.

you were adopted.

panic flared, wild and sharp. if she knew you’d cracked her secret, would she… return you? like a mismatched shirt shoved back to the store? would she ship you to some grim place where unwanted kids ate cold broccoli forever, no cookies, no warmth? no way. you wouldn’t let her.

you had to run.

before they could box up your stuff, before their soft, syrupy voices cooed, we’re sorry, sweetheart, it’s just not right. you’d need clothes, snacks, a flashlight—money? (where did money even come from?)—maybe a blanket. you could live in the woods, charm squirrels, nibble berries. 

or you can find your real family.

maybe they were out there, longing for you. maybe you were a lost princess, a royal carriage just waiting to whisk you to a castle. maybe your true parents, rich and heartbroken, ached for their stolen kid. maybe this was your big break.

you had to get out.

you scanned the room—not yours, not anymore. glow-in-the-dark stars speckled the ceiling, stuffed animals slumped in the corner, soon someone else’s, someone who’d fit this family better. your throat tightened, but you shook it off. no time for tears. you had a mission.

you grabbed your pink backpack, stuffing it fast—three snacks, a hello kitty juice box for style, a flickering flashlight, and your stuffed bunny, because even runaways need a friend. it was heavier than you thought, tugging at your shoulders as you crept to the window. you nudged it open, wincing at the frame’s squeak. night air slipped in, whispering of adventure, maybe a real home.

but doubt crept in too.

not about running—that was still the plan. but the actual escaping? harder than it looked. your grand exit felt shaky, and you wondered if you were really built for this runaway life.

now, for the hardest part: actually leaving.

you climbed onto the windowsill, fingers gripping the edge as you looked down. it wasn’t that high… right? you just had to dangle, drop, land, and run. simple. foolproof.

you sucked in a breath and shifted forward, lowering yourself carefully, your feet searching for the ground—but it wasn’t there.

your legs kicked uselessly, toes barely brushing the wall, and for a humiliating ten seconds, you dangled there, flailing, before gravity made the decision for you.

with a yelp, you plummeted straight into the bushes, a sharp rustling of leaves accompanying your graceless fall. a dull pain shot up your arms, the sting of scraped skin making your eyes prick with tears, but you bit them back.

a true runaway does not cry! with all the dignity you could muster, you pushed yourself up, shaking off leaves and twigs, ready to make your grand escape—

“you look like an idiot.”

your breath caught in your throat. your stomach dropped.

oh no.

slowly, you turned your head, dread curling in your chest. and there he was, perched at his own window, elbows resting on the sill, white hair catching the fading sunlight. gojo satoru.

he had the nerve to look completely relaxed, chin resting in his palm, his stupidly bright blue eyes filled with unmistakable amusement.

he had been watching you.

“what are you doing?” he asked, voice laced with barely-contained laughter.

you straightened your backpack straps, shooting him a glare. ”leaving.”

“leaving where?”

“away.”

his head tilted slightly, studying you like you were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. “that’s not an answer.”

ugh. always so annoying. always questioning everything. wait—why is he even trying to get you to explain yourself to him? this wasn’t his business!

you huffed, turning on your heel with a dramatic flip of your hair. "none of your business, satoru. goodbye forever."

you had barely taken four steps before the unmistakable sound of feet landing lightly on the pavement made you freeze.

your eyes widened. you turned back just in time to see him straightening up, brushing invisible dust from his pants, completely unbothered—because unlike you, he hadn’t fumbled his escape. no flailing, no tragic bush landing. just an effortless, cat-like jump from his window, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

you clenched your fists. of course he made it look easy.

he fell into step beside you, hands buried deep in his pockets, his pace maddeningly unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be but right here, ruining your night. 

it was infuriating how effortlessly he matched your pace—never rushing, never struggling, just there, lingering like an annoying ghost you couldn't shake in the darkness.

“you don’t even know where you’re going.”

his voice was light, almost teasing, but you caught the undertone of amusement laced beneath it.

you spun around so fast your backpack nearly smacked you in the face, eyes blazing as you glared up at him. “yes, i do.”

he didn’t even blink, just tilted his head, one white eyebrow arching with skepticism. “oh yeah? where?”

your mouth opened—then promptly shut. under the weight of his expectant gaze, your mind scrambled for an answer, something grand, something impressive, something that would prove you weren’t just some clueless kid storming off on a whim. but all that came out was a very unconvincing:

“...the forest.”

satoru pulled a face like you had just suggested something utterly pathetic. he actually wrinkled his nose. “lame,” he declared flatly. “if you’re running away, at least go somewhere cool.”

your eyes narrowed dangerously. “oh, and where would you go, genius?”

his expression shifted instantly, brightening with exaggerated thoughtfulness as he tapped a finger against his chin. he dragged the moment out, milking the attention for all it was worth, before finally grinning. “probably the moon. or mars. as long as it’s on space.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw the inside of your skull. “be serious.”

“you be serious.”

“i am serious.”

“then why are you running away with just a backpack?”

you froze, shoulders snapping rigid. your fingers clenched around the straps of your backpack as heat crept up your face.

right. that.

you knew something about your plan felt slightly underdeveloped, but it wasn’t like you were going to admit that. you forced your expression into something defiant, lips parting to throw back a retort—but nothing came. because, well... he had a point.

“why do you even care?” you snapped instead, turning the conversation away from your failure. “just go back inside and leave me alone!”

he shrugged, completely unaffected by your growing irritation. “nah. watching you fail at running away is way more fun.”

your jaw clenched so tight it ached.

you should have known he’d be a problem.

but you were determined. you were going to run away, and there was nothing gojo satoru could do about it.

you slung your backpack higher, stomping down the street, ignoring the patter of footsteps dogging you. maybe speed would shake him, but no—satoru’s smirk followed, wide and smug, like your escape was his evening show.

you sped up. he kept pace. you crawled; he mirrored, whistling a tune that clawed at your nerves.

hours dragged—maybe two, but each step burned eternal with him bouncing beside you, white hair aglow under streetlights, practically engineered to irk you. at first, you’d burned with purpose—flee your mom’s scolds, her heavy sighs, and start fresh, maybe in a city, baking in some cozy shop.

now? your legs screamed, feet pulsing. regret piled high, and you just wanted to collapse.

“i’m hungry,” satoru whined, his voice grating, lips twitching with mischief.

you groaned, dragging slower. “shut up, satoru,” you muttered, exhaustion coating your words, shoulders slumping.

“no!” he snapped. “this is your fault! you should’ve at least rode a bike if you were gonna run away like a loser!”

“i’m not a loser!” you shot back, voice wobbling, defensive. your glare faltered under his teasing glint.

he sidled closer, face moonlit, mischief dancing in his eyes. “you kinda are. only losers run away and don’t even know where they’re going.”

your cheeks flared. “i do know where i’m going!” you insisted, but doubt gnawed. the dream of running was souring fast.

he arched a brow, smirk widening. “oh yeah? where?”

you froze, scanning the dark—nothing. words failed. “…” you mumbled, purpose fraying.

satoru’s smug hum stung, his grin widening as he stood, hands on hips, relishing your fluster. “exactly. loser.”

you huffed, stomping toward the park’s swings. “whatever. let’s just sit.” annoyance masked relief as you sank onto a seat, sighing into the quiet night.

satoru flopped beside you, stretching with a groan. “ugh, finally. thought my legs were gonna fall off.” his white hair spilled over the swing’s chain, catching moonlight like a mocking halo.

 you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the swing creaking under your shifting weight. “stop being so dramatic.” your fingers gripped the cold metal chains, grounding you as a breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

“says the one who ran away over some flowers,” satoru shot back, kicking his legs lazily, bunny slippers scuffing the dirt. his smirk glinted, sharp in the dim light.

“says the one who followed me,” you snapped, arms crossed tight. damp grass and metal tinged the air, his stare prickling even without a glance.

he grinned, shameless, leaning to sway the swing. “well, yeah. what else was i supposed to do? let you get eaten by raccoons?” his brows wiggled, voice thick with fake worry.

you stiffened, rigid against the creaky seat. “…there are no raccoons here.” your tone held firm, but your eyes flicked to the shadowy bushes, doubt nibbling.

“are you sure?” he tilted his head, blue eyes twinkling, finger tapping his chin to stretch your unease.

you froze—breath catching. the night yawned wider, leaves rustling too lively.

he leaned closer, voice a mock whisper. “you know, i heard they sneak up on dumb kids who run away.” his breath grazed your ear, swing rocking as he shifted.

your fingers clamped the chains, knuckles pale. “you’re lying.” your voice wavered, small against the vast park.

he gasped, clutching his chest, eyes wide with fake shock. “why would i lie to you?” he flailed, nearly tipping the swing, slippers flopping.

“because you’re you!” you shoved his shoulder, steadying the creaking metal. an owl hooted, siding with you.

“fair point.” he shrugged, grin lazy, settling back as the swing slowed. crickets hummed, playground groaning softly.

you kicked his shin—hard. “ow—hey!” he yelped, rubbing it, hair bouncing as he glared.

“you deserved it.” you huffed, chin high, swing swaying gently, cooling your flush.

“did not!”

“did too!”

“did not—ugh, whatever, i’m too hungry to argue,” satoru groaned, flopping against the swing, hand splaying over his stomach. “feed me.” he batted his lashes, moonlight catching his mischief.

you scrunched your nose, leaning back. “excuse me?“

“you packed snacks, right?” he flicked a finger at your bag. “hand ‘em over.” his palm opened, expectant.

“why should i?” you hugged the bag tight, zipper glinting.

“because i followed you and kept you safe from raccoons.” he puffed his chest, slippers swinging with smugness.

you scowled, lips thin. “you were literally just saying you wanted me to get eaten by them.”

“so? didn’t let it happen.” he shrugged, teeth flashing, chains rattling as he leaned in.

“ugh,” you groaned, yanking the bag off, unzipping it sharply. “fine, only so you shut up.”

you pulled out a biscuit, fingers brushing his as you dropped it in his palm. he stared at it, then you, jaw dropping. “…are you serious?”

you smirked, leaning back. “take it or leave it.”

he grumbled but bit in, crunch loud in the stillness. silence settled, heavy, until he swallowed. “gimme another one.” crumbs dusted his fingers, eyes glinting.

you scoffed, loud and dramatic, head thrown back like he’d demanded your soul. “absolutely not.”

“c’monnnn, i’m starving.” he whined, slumping forward, elbows on knees, white hair flopping over his pouty face, moonlight amplifying the ridiculousness.

“too bad. should’ve brought your own food.” you shot back, sticking out your tongue.

“i would’ve if you actually planned this runaway properly.” he muttered, crossing his arms, mimicking your huff.

“ugh! just be grateful i even shared at all!”

“pfft. what else do you got?” he asked, leaning toward your bag, curiosity undimmed.

you glared through the dim light. “nothing.” your lie was sharp, hugging the bag tight, the hello kitty juice box now a state secret.

satoru’s grin turned wicked, teeth glinting. “liar. you have a juice box, don’t you?” he leaned closer, breath teasingly warm.

your fingers dug into the fabric, heart tripping. “no.” your voice wavered, face turning away as the swing creaked.

“you totally do.”

“do not.”

“you do.”

“do not.”

“oh yeah? then what’s this?” he lunged, snatching your bag and unzipping it in one swift move.

“hey!” you yelped, diving, but he twisted away, laughing as he held it high.

“aha! knew it!” he crowed, waving the hello kitty juice box like a prize, pink design flashing in the moonlight. he leaped from the swing, chains clattering.

your face burned, horror spiking. “PUT THAT BACK!” you shrieked, lunging, but he danced away, cackling through the empty park.

satoru spun, keeping it out of reach. “oh? what’s wrong? embarrassed about your cute little juice?” he taunted, dodging your flailing hands.

“shut up! give it back!” you swiped, slippers skidding, but he sidestepped effortlessly.

“hmmm… nah,” he said, popping the straw in with flair and sipping dramatically. “mmm, tastes like victory.” he leaned against the swing pole, smirking.

you gasped, betrayal hitting hard. “YOU. DID. NOT.” your voice shook, fists clenched.

“i did,” he smirked, sipping again. “mmm. strawberry.” he twirled the box, straw bobbing.

rage narrowed your vision. “GOJO SATORU, I HOPE YOU CHOKE!” you roared, tackling him off the swing, both crashing to the dirt.

satoru yelped, hitting the ground with you on top, a tangle of fury. “OW—YOU MANIAC, GET OFF ME!” he flailed, slippers flying, juice box rolling free.

“GIVE IT BACK, THIEF!” you snarled, pinning his arms, reaching for your prize, hair falling in your face.

“I HOPE YOU CHOKE, SATORU!” you yelled, snatching at the box as he squirmed, laughing through indignation.

“JOKES ON YOU, I ALREADY SWALLOWED!” he wheezed, bucking beneath you, hair now dirt-dusted.

“YOU’RE A MONSTER!” you shrieked, shoving his chest, betrayal stinging sharp.

“AND YOU’RE A GREMLIN!” he shot back, twisting, nearly toppling you, voice cracking with laughter.

“THAT WAS MY JUICE!” you wailed, grabbing the box, clutching it like a lifeline, breath heaving.

“IT’S OUR JUICE NOW!” he argued, propped on elbows, grinning like he’d won. your elbow accidentally jabbed his ribs.

“OWWW!” he howled, flopping back, clutching his side theatrically, rolling in mock agony. “THIS IS IT. I’M DYING.”

you froze, juice box dangling, blinking down. “…what?” your voice softened, anger fading.

satoru whimpered, curling up, eyes squeezed shut for effect. “you got me. this is the end. tell my mom i love her. tell your mom i don’t love her. tell my dad he owes me twenty bucks.” he peeked one eye, gauging you, breath hitching.

your heart stuttered—he was faking, clearly, but doubt whispered: what if? tears pricked as you sniffled. “satoru, you idiot!” you choked, voice wobbling, “you can’t die! who am i gonna fight with if you die?!” you dropped beside him, dirt cold.

“i dunno…” he groaned, head lolling, faint and pitiful. “maybe get a pet goldfish. name it satoru junior.”

“but i don’t want a goldfish!”

“too bad… this is fate…” he wheezed, going limp, playing dead.

“shut up! shut up, stupid! you’re not allowed to die!” you cried, throwing yourself onto him, hugging tight, tears soaking his shirt.

satoru wailed, chest shaking, real tears mixing with fake. “ow, ow, ow! you’re squishing me!” he pushed at your shoulders.

“I’M SORRY, OKAY?! I DIDN’T MEAN TO KILL YOU!” you sobbed, hugging harder.

“YOU’RE KILLING ME RIGHT NOW! STOP HUGGING ME SO TIGHT!” he wailed, kicking, feet smacking dirt.

“DON’T DIIIIE!”

“I WON’T IF YOU GET OFF ME, YOU GREMLIN!”

“PROMISE?!”

“YES! I PROMISE!” he shouted, hoarse, flopping back in defeat.

“PINKY PROMISE?!” you pressed, holding out your trembling pinky.

“I CAN’T PINKY PROMISE IF YOU’RE CRUSHING ME, LOSER!” he snapped, tears streaming, hair sticking to his dirt-smeared face.

eventually, your sobs calmed into sniffles—your grip loosening as exhaustion took over. satoru’s cries faded into tired little hiccups, his chest still rising and falling fast beneath you. the playground settled back into quiet, the night wrapping around you like a heavy, damp cloak.

you fell asleep with him right there, sprawled across the cold playground floor, too worn out to move. you curled up against satoru, your face smushed into his shoulder, your breath evening out into soft, snotty snores. satoru, despite all his whining, let an arm flop lazily over you, his own snores mixing with yours as drool pooled between you.

your dads found you like that, a tangled heap of dirt and tears under the moonlight.

“oh, for fuck’s sake.” your dad muttered, rubbing his face with a tired hand, his voice rough with exasperation. he stood there, hands on his hips, staring down at the mess you’d made of yourselves.

“wait, wait,” satoru’s dad whispered, already fumbling for his phone, a grin tugging at his lips despite the late hour. “we have to take a picture.” he crouched down, angling the camera to catch the full disaster—your drooling face, satoru’s sprawled limbs, the abandoned juice box lying pitifully in the dirt nearby. the flash went off, immortalizing the chaos, and the night carried on, oblivious to the two little warriors who’d fought themselves to sleep.

the morning after your playground disaster hits like a dodgeball to the face, jolting you awake with your dad’s laugh booming through the walls, drowning out the birds chirping meanly outside. you blink against sunlight stabbing through your blinds, legs caught in sheets, and stumble out of bed in messy pajamas—one sleeve drooping, hair a wild puff.

you shuffle downstairs, steps creaking, eyes gummy with sleep, and freeze. there, on the mantle, sits the awful proof—you and satoru, a muddy pile under broken monkey bars, drool on your face, his arm flopped over you, both smeared with dirt and chaos.

your dad’s laugh erupts again, shaking the couch as he slaps his knee, grinning huge.

“look at you two! thick as thieves!” he hollers, wiping a tear, his flannel stretching tight.

you squeak—a whiny, horrified sound—hands flying to your face. “it’s so gross!” you wail, voice muffled, peeking at the photo—your drooly cheek squished against satoru’s shoulder—and step back, foot scuffing the floor. “burn it, pleeease!”

“oh no you don’t.” your mom snaps from the kitchen, stirring coffee like she’s brewing a curse, burnt toast smog around her. her glare could zap you dead. “running off over flowers—with that gojo boy? you’re lucky you’re not grounded forever.”

you cringe, twisting your fingers, shoulders curling.

“aw, honey,” your dad chuckles, sipping juice, all calm. “she was just eloping with satoru a little early—gotta practice for the real thing!”

“don’t encourage her!” your mom barks, slamming her mug, coffee splashing, eyes flicking to satoru’s mom’s smug hydrangeas outside.

you whine, flopping against the wall. “i’m running away forever!” you mumble into your sleeve, sun warming your pout as your mom mutters—“that boy’s trouble”—her spoon clinking angrily..

next door, satoru’s trapped in his own morning horror, stomping into the kitchen, fuzzy blue slippers squeaking on tile. he freezes, blue eyes popping wide, and jabs a finger at the framed photo wobbling by the toaster—same drooly wreck, same muddy faces, a twin to your nightmare.

“rip it up!” he wails, voice cracking like he’s auditioning for tragedy, arms windmilling wildly, nearly toppling a mug. “i look like a zombie!”

his dad leans back in his chair, coffee mug in hand, completely unmoved, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he reaches over with a broad hand.

“aw, come on,” he chuckles, ruffling satoru’s already doomed hair until the strands rebel further, flopping into his face like a snowy avalanche. “you two are inseparable—gonna tell this story at your wedding one day.”

satoru shrieks, staggering back, knocking a spoon to the floor with a clatter. “noooo! she tried to murder me!” he howls, clutching his head like it’s about to explode, hair flying as he thrashes.

his mom sips tea at the sink, sunhat tilted primly, lips smirking sharp. “if he even survives her chaos,” she murmurs, swirling her tea with a clink, “she’s a tornado.”

satoru wails louder, flopping against the fridge, face squished in despair. “my life’s ruined!” he whines, kicking the floor, sock drooping, as warm bread’s scent mixes with his sulky gloom.

satoru groans, long and dramatic, dragging his hands down his face until his cheeks puff out, his slippers scuffing as he spins to glare at the photo again—his drool-glossed lips parted, your muddy handprint on his shirt—and flops against the fridge with a thud.

“i’m never living this down,” he mutters, voice muffled as the fridge hums behind him, the scent of warm bread from the toaster oven curling around his misery while he kicks at the floor, his sock slipping further down his ankle.

outside, the hydrangeas bob in the breeze like they’re in on the joke, a silent audience to the disaster unfolding on either side of the fence. watering plants shouldn’t be this chaotic, but with satoru involved, everything turns into a summer storm—the air already thick with cicadas and the sharp, damp scent of upturned earth.  

your mom shoves the hose into your hands, coffee sloshing dangerously as she snaps ”don’t let him ruin my tulips” before vanishing inside, the screen door slamming behind her like a warning shot.

you trudge out in your slippers—ratty pink ones with a half-peeled bunny face—squinting against the sun as it beats down, smug and unrelenting, like it’s waiting for you to crack first.  

and there he is.  

satoru slinks across the yard like a villain caught mid-scheme, dragging his hose behind him, the green coil snagging on every patch of grass. his eyes—bright, sharp, unfairly blue—lock onto yours over the fence, mischief sparking in them like a lit fuse. his hair’s a mess of white strands flopping over his forehead, one fuzzy slipper kicking at the dirt as he straightens, grin already in place.  

“your dad’s a jerk for framing that,” you snap, twisting the nozzle with a jerk—only to spray your own shin, cold water seeping into your pajama pants. you scowl.  

“yours too, idiot,” he fires back, voice dripping with faux innocence as he angles his hose, misting your toes with deliberate precision. the droplets glitter like tiny knives in the sunlight. “now everyone’s gonna think we’re friends.”  

“jerk!” you yelp, and retaliate, your aim wild but effective—water arcs straight for his chest, drenching his stupid oversized shirt until it clings to him, fabric going sheer in patches.  

he barks a laugh, half-shielding himself with the hose like it’s a sword, free hand swiping wet hair from his eyes. “hey! watch it—”  

the air crackles with spray and tension, the sun casting long, warped shadows of you both across the grass. your mom’s voice slices through from the porch: “keep it civil!”—coffee cup in hand, frown sharp enough to cut.  

his mom’s shout follows, sunhat bobbing as she leans over the railing. “watch my sod!”  

“like i’d ruin her precious grass,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you redirect the hose toward your tulips, water pooling around them like a makeshift moat.  

“you would if you could aim,” satoru taunts, leaning forward, smirk widening as his hose dangles, dripping onto his already-wrecked slipper. 

“shut up,” you hiss, flicking another spray—just enough to make him hop back with a squelch.  

“oi!”  

you bite your lip to hide the grin, turning away before he sees it.  

later, through your window, the day fades into gold, and you catch him pacing his room, backlit by the dying light like some dramatic silhouette. he flips you off—long fingers splayed, wrist twisting with unnecessary flair—before yanking the blinds shut, hair flopping like a defeated flag.  

you press your nose to the glass, fogging it with your breath as you stick out your tongue. “loser.” 

outside, the cicadas drone on, relentless. across the gap, you can feel him glaring at his own window, probably plotting his next move—all sharp eyes and slouched shoulders, one slipper abandoned in defeat.  

you wouldn’t expect anything less.  

somehow, that’s the point. 

summer lingers, sticky and slow, your mornings a ritual of traded barbs across the fence—his smirk sharp, your eye-roll sharper. but the days stretch, and the battles blur, until the leaves hint at gold, and your dads' voices boom, calling you both to the yard like it’s time to rewrite the rules.

then—almost without warning—the air turns crisp. the hydrangeas fade from vibrant blue to dull brown, their petals curling like old paper, while the maple out back erupts in flames of red and orange. one morning you wake to find the grass glittering with frost, your breath fogging the window as you peer out at the changed world.

fall sweeps in with crisp air nipping at your cheeks, golden leaves crunching underfoot like nature’s tiny applause, and the dads declare it barbecue season with all the gusto of backyard kings.

they drag mismatched lawn chairs—wobbly legs and faded stripes—into your yard, smoke curling from the grill in lazy spirals, the scent of charred burgers doing a clumsy tango with your mom’s lavender bushes, their purple heads bobbing in the breeze.

you step outside, the grass cool against your slippers, and spot that cursed photo—yes, that one—propped dead center on the picnic table like a first-place ribbon from your playground disaster, its tacky gold frame glinting in the late afternoon sun.

your dad chuckles “look at our little warriors!”—his voice a rumble as he clinks a soda can with satoru’s dad, the aluminum clank sharp against the fire pit’s crackle. he leans back in his chair, flannel stretched tight over his belly, grinning like he’s just told the joke of the year.

satoru’s dad nods, sipping his own soda with a smirk. “bet they’ll run this neighborhood someday,” he says, his laugh booming over the snap of burning logs, the firelight dancing in his glasses.

your mom’s mouth thins into a tight line, a silent protest as she crosses her arms, muttering “over-fertilized nonsense” at the hydrangeas peeking over the fence like nosy neighbors. her eyes narrow, sharp as the lavender’s scent, while satoru’s mom hums louder—a smug little tune—pruning her bushes with a snip-snip of her shears, each cut a tiny victory carved into the air.

you and satoru are squeezed onto a rickety bench, paper plates wobbling precariously between your knees, the wood creaking like it’s begging for mercy.

he elbows you hard—his bony arm jabbing your side—making your soda fizz over the rim in a bubbly hiss, and you scrunch your nose, glaring at him through the corner of your eye.

“this is your fault,” you hiss, shoving him back with a quick nudge, ketchup smearing your fingers like war paint as your plate tilts dangerously.

“nah, yours framed it first,” he retorts, flicking a fry at your face—his long fingers quick and precise, his blue eyes glinting with mischief as it sails through the air.

you catch it mid-flight with a snap of your hand, popping it into your mouth with a defiant crunch. “good, hope they frame it in the hallway,” you snap, your pout deepening as you chew, glaring at his smug face.

“hope you get detention,” he mutters, leaning closer, his white hair flopping forward like a messy curtain, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

“hope you get ketchup in your eye,” you fire back, flicking your stained fingers at him—he flinches just a bit, his smirk faltering for a split second.

you shove him again, a quick push with your shoulder, and he shoves back, his slipper brushing your leg—your plate flips onto your lap with a sad plop, ketchup splattering your shorts like a crime scene.

“ugh, you’re the worst!” you yelp, smearing a dollop of ketchup onto his arm—his t-shirt sleeve now a canvas of red streaks—and you pout harder, lips trembling with mock fury.

“you’re welcome!” he laughs, snagging a fry from the mess on your lap with a quick swipe, popping it into his mouth with a grin that shows too many teeth, his cheeks dimpling.

“quit stealing my food!” you snap, swatting at his hand—your fingers barely graze him as he dodges, leaning back on the bench like he’s king of the chaos, his fuzzy blue slippers swinging lightly.

“it’s payment for sitting next to you,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, his t-shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of his stomach as he smirks, daring you to argue.

your mom’s glare from the porch could melt steel—she stands there, arms crossed, a shadow against the sunset—while his mom’s pruning pauses, her shears glinting as she shoots you both a look that screams behave, her sunhat tilting like a crown of judgment.

you huff, plotting to fling a pickle slice at his head, your fingers itching to grab one from your ruined plate. but the dusk sky turns orange behind your petty war, painting the yard in a warm glow, and you settle for glaring instead, your slippers scuffing the grass beneath the bench.

you slip away to the tire swing after dinner, the oak’s gnarled branches casting long shadows across the grass. the rope groans under your grip as you push off, bare ankles brushing cool blades of grass. the distant crackle of the fire pit fades behind you, replaced by the whisper of leaves overhead.

of course he follows.

pebbles skitter against your shins, each one a tiny declaration of war. you don’t have to look to know he’s smirking—can picture the way his slippers scuff against dirt with deliberate laziness. when you finally glance back, the dying light catches in his eyes, turning them electric. his hair glows like embers, white strands lit from within.

“quit it!” you snap, swatting at nothing as another stone finds its mark. your fingers tighten around the rope, knuckles going pale.

“make me,” he dares, and suddenly he’s there, long fingers wrapping around the rope. the world tilts violently as he spins you, your stomach lurching into your throat. his laughter cuts through the dizzying whirl—bright, sharp, dangerous.

“you’re gonna kill me!” the words tear free as colors blur into streaks, one slipper dangling precariously from your toes.

“maybe then you’ll stop hogging the swing!” the rope slips from his grasp, sending you wobbling to an unsteady stop. He rocks back on his heels, hands shoved deep in pockets, grin wide enough to split his face.

you’re moving before the world stops spinning—launching yourself at him with a wordless shout. you collide in a tangle of limbs, rolling through crushed grass and fallen leaves. the earth smells rich and damp beneath you, filling your lungs with each gasping breath.

from the porch, your dads’ voices carry across the yard, “there they go again!” their applause ringing through the twilight. firelight dances in their raised soda cans, painting their grinning faces in flickering gold.

your mom’s groan cuts through the celebration. “not again.”

satoru’s mother’s shriek follows, “not my sod!”

you come to rest with him pinned beneath you, knees digging into soft earth. “say sorry!” you demand, hair wild around your face. your breath comes in quick puffs, stirring the strands that have escaped into your eyes.

“never!” he gasps between laughter, his whole body shaking with it. one blue slipper hangs half-off his foot, swinging uselessly as he squirms. his eyes crinkle at the corners, bright with challenge even as he lies trapped in the grass.

later, when the fire’s burned low to embers and your dad shoves a half-melted popsicle between you with a gruff “sharing’s caring,” you could scream.

satoru takes the first bite—obnoxiously loud, teeth cracking through the ice—and his mouth goes instantly blue. “tastes better stolen,” he declares, tongue swiping at a drip sliding down his wrist. his hair’s a mess of white strands falling into his eyes, backlit by the dying firelight like some kind of haloed menace.

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, yanking the popsicle back. the cold burns your teeth when you bite down, but you force your scowl to stay put, even as your slippers swing uselessly from your toes.

“and you like it,” he sing-songs, leaning in so close you can smell the sugar on his breath. his tongue’s still stained, lolling out in a way that should be gross but just makes your fingers itch to shove him.

so you do.

one sharp push to his chest sends him sprawling into the grass with a soft oof. “dream on,” you snap, but he’s already laughing, arms splayed like he’s making snow angels in the dirt, gaze fixed on the purpling sky.

dusk settles around you both, thick with woodsmoke and the lazy chirp of crickets. your pout falters—just for a second—when the popsicle’s sweetness hits your tongue again. across the yard, the fire pit’s glow paints long shadows that dance over his grin when you sneak a glance, already scheming. always scheming.

by the time you drag yourself inside, the night’s gone quiet save for the memory of his laughter, clinging like burrs to your thoughts. the stars blink down, sealing your truce—or your war—in their cool, indifferent light.

the years blur like a popsicle melting under a summer sun, sticky and sweet, your battles with satoru piling up like crumpled homework in a backpack—each one louder, messier, sharper. 

sixth grade drags you into school’s squeaky halls, where lockers slam and whispers sting, and satoru’s there, always, his white hair flopping, his lanky frame shooting up overnight like a weed that won’t quit. he towers over you by spring, his sneakers scuffing the linoleum as he leans too close, smirking “shorty” while flicking your forehead—his voice cracks mid-taunt, a squeaky betrayal that makes you cackle, water spraying from your bottle like a victory fountain across his shirt. 

you chase him through the cafeteria, trays wobbling, your laughter bouncing off the walls as he trips over his own gangly legs, his blue eyes wide with mock outrage. your moms’ war rages on—hers with her smug wind chimes, yours with that chipped gnome glaring from the lawn—while you and Satoru hurl insults over the fence, hoses flailing, your shadows tangling longer now, stretching into dusk like a sloppy braid that won’t untie. 

but the walks home, your backpacks swinging, his slippers squishing, carry a rhythm neither of you name—a truce woven into scuffs and shoves, your glares softening when no one’s looking, the cicadas humming like they’re in on it.

middle school crashes in like a rogue wave, and satoru’s growth spurt turns him into a walking skyscraper, his arms too long, his grin too wide, his voice settling into a teasing lilt that makes your stomach flip in ways you won’t admit. 

you’re still elbowing him in the ribs, still dodging his paint-flecked flicks in art class, but now he’s stealing your fries at lunch, his long fingers snatching them with a lazy “tax for sitting here” while you kick his shin under the table. 

the block parties keep coming, your dads clinking beers and shouting “teamwork!” as you and satoru spill lemonade, tumble into grass, and wrestle over the last popsicle—his blue-stained tongue lolling out as he pins you, your shriek loud enough to scare the crickets. 

yet something’s shifting, soft as the breeze rustling new leaves—you catch him staring once, his ears pink, his smirk faltering when you shove him off the tire swing, and your own cheeks burn when he lingers too close, his shadow swallowing yours. through your glass window, he’s still tossing that rubber ball—thunk-thunk—his frame filling the frame now, his grin flashing across the gap like a sparkler you can’t look away from. 

you mutter “he’s so annoying” into your pillow, but your lips twitch, your glow-in-the-dark stars winking above, and the night hums with a truth neither of you will say: you’re magnets, doomed to clash, bound to stick, your war softening into something that glows brighter than the summer sun.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @lilychan176 @n1vi @myahfig4 @here4dafics @stfusatoru @mintcheery @44ina @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @getoicious @flowerpot113 @satoruxsc @whytfisgojosohot @emoedgylord @your-mum3000 @chich1ookie @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @drunkenlionwrites @katsukiseyebrows @heartsforseo @beabamboo @bnbaochauuu @cupidsfrost @ethereal-moonlit @arabellasolstice @captainhoneythebunny @scryarchives @fancypeacepersona @anathemaspeaks @ilovebeansyay

plz comment if u want to be added on the tag list xx

[earako]

Gah!

Okay, apologies in advance for the feels but I refuse to be the only one subject to my brains shenanigans-

Thinking of the "better world au" from journal three and I'm imaging what if somee weird magic stuff basically turned Stan into a guard against Bill entering their dimension

Like, I'm thinking maybe Stan pulled a Betty Grof and when he stumbled across wish magic, he wished for the power to keep his family safe, only instead of merging with a chaos entity Stan becomes a statue or he's transformed into something that makes it impossoble to accrss the journal he's holding.

And maybe an expedition group digs up magicified Stan and call in Ford for an inspection cause they don't know what they're looking at "but it's neat that it looks almost exactly like you, huh Dr.Pines?"

At first Ford tries to laugh it off as a coincidence but then they run some tests.

They find out their artifact is alive.

They find out its binding magic,meant to keep something hidden.

They fins Journal three and Ford can't ignore it anymore-this was Stanley, his twin, his little brother he sent away all those years ago, eternally stuck as nothing more than a magic safe for Stanfords mistake.

Cue a whoolleee lot of guilt, but also, for maximum angst, if they manage to undo it, Stan swinging between being angry at Ford but also secretly believing keeping the journal hidden was the one thing he did right and now its back with Ford and underneath Stan's prickly, passive aggressiveness is a concerningly low sense of self-esteem.

So in short: Stan twins gotta wrestle with hating themselves, lingering anger at each other, but also trying to be the bigger person (and failing miserably)

[keepingeahalive]

Why Rapple Wouldn’t Work as a Couple

First off, let’s get this out of the way: Raven and Apple are not related. Well…more like distantly related, but to the point where any relation is almost nil. Raven is not destined to marry Apple’s father because Apple’s dad and Raven’s dad (The Good King) are two separate characters. Raven is only destined to be jealous of Apple and poison her. That is all.

Okay, on with the real debate.

I'm probably gonna get a lot of hate for this, but I can't see Apple and Raven as a couple. While both of their arcs were about coming to accept each other, they weren't equal in their relationship. Raven made it clear to Apple many times that she felt disrespected, and Apple ignored that and pushed her own agenda on her. It may have come from a place of caring, but Apple didn't get Raven at all. I can see them working through their issues down the line, but their love story (if you can call it that) is better as platonic.

Bulldozing and Passive Aggression

From the first episode, we can see that Apple immediately took control for both of them. She went behind Raven's back to room with her and decorated Raven's side of the room without her permission, all because Raven is an important part of "her" story.

Not their story. "Her" story.

Her friendship with Raven in the first three chapters was surface-level at best. She assumes what Raven wants instead of actually getting to know her, like when she decides to take "Home Evil-nomics" to get back at Raven for taking Princessology. But Raven's favorite class isn't Home Evil-nomics. It's Muse-ic.

We can see Raven trying to be patient with Apple because Raven is a good person. She doesn't want a repeat of what happened between Snow White and the Evil Queen. In fact, we see her other friends hide their concerns from Apple because they don't want to upset her.

When Ashlynn finally comes out about her relationship with Hunter, she's immediately met with Apple's dismay. Apple tells her several times that she's making the wrong decision, and it gets to Ashlynn so much that she chooses her friendship with Apple over her relationship with Hunter because she doesn't want everyone to be upset. Although Ashlynn decides to do what makes her happy, Apple still tells her outright that she's making the wrong choice.

Briar starts to feel the weight of her destiny sink in and, instead of being met with compassion and understanding, Apple tells Briar "we all have our part to play." While Briar rightfully calls her out for how privileged she is, it takes her three chapters and two more specials to admit to Apple that she was too scared to tell anyone that she didn't want to follow her destiny.

They both go behind Raven's back to poison a birthday cake she made for Apple just so she would stop crying about it.

Apple is the next Queen of Ever After, and she wants to take an active role in serving her people. But she thinks she knows what's best for everyone. If they don't do what she says, then there's something wrong and she has to fix them. Everyone enabled this behavior, except for Raven. This domination is what causes her and Raven's tension at the start of the series.

2. Apple's Fears

Apple is a selfish character. But that selfishness is born of fear.

She believes going against her destiny means dying and being forgotten.

I believe she does care about her friends, in the same vein a God-fearing church-goer cares about the people in her community. She believes there is only one true way of staying safe: following your destiny. If you don't, something bad happens. And she has to remind you of that. She thinks she's helping people when she's really being insensitive and condescending. And this comes down the hardest on Raven.

Raven is the equivalent of someone who's become disillusioned with their faith. She's unhappy with the system she's been put in and she wants something better. That doesn't mean she's not afraid of what might happen if she does. She's terrified she might doom everyone at first. But taking a risk on Legacy Day and showing everyone they can live without following a predetermined path made her and others more hopeful that they could live better lives.

But Apple can't be convinced with one act of rebellion. She doubles down on her beliefs and blames Raven for ruining her Happily Ever After. She's so afraid of her future being uncertain that she would rather follow a status quo where someone she claims to care for is locked away for the rest of her life. You could argue that she doesn't understand that's what would happen, but she never bothered to understand Raven's perspective. Raven takes Apple's perspective in Thronecoming and considers the consequences of her actions. Raven cares about her friends too, so much that she's willing to put her happiness aside to keep them safe. Apple never once did that for her, or for any of her other friends.

This stems from Apple being promised the best destiny out of anyone. She'd go on to live a very prestigious life as Queen. But she's too naive to realize what that would mean for everyone else: Raven would be locked up for the rest of her life, Ashlynn would die to continue her legacy, and Briar would marry some random dude several decades younger than her and never see Apple or anyone she knew ever again. I understand that no one wants to lose the stability they've had their entire life. But she doesn't seem to understand how good she has it.

3. Apple and Raven's Growth

Way Too Wonderland and Dragon Games gave us a lot in terms of character development. Apple and Raven have gotten to know each other better at this point. Even though they have their differences, they do care about each other.

Say what you will about Way Too Wonderland, but I do believe Apple has come to know Raven and is genuinely shocked and heartbroken when Raven finally signed the Storybook of Legends. She's come to care about who Raven really is, she knows Raven would never want to hurt anyone, and she realizes that destinies can be dangerous. I understand her main reasoning was that anyone could easily take someone else's destiny if they had the chance. But seeing what signing the book did to Raven frightened her. Destroying the book with Raven cemented a level of trust and understanding that Raven was longing for.

Which is what makes Dragon Games so heartbreaking.

Apple is a privileged little princess who was promised the best destiny one could expect. I don't think anyone would be all that happy about letting that go. It goes back to what she fears the most. She doesn't know what to do without her destiny. And with her mother only feeding into these insecurities, it allows Apple's doubts to resurface and for someone to take advantage of that.

Apple could have prevented releasing the Evil Queen. But she was too deep in her own cowardice to think clearly. Desperation will make people do anything, especially if promised a happy ending for you and everyone you love (maybe subconsciously hoping Raven would be her True Love). That doesn't excuse her freeing a war criminal who happens to be her best friend's estranged mother, thereby breaking her trust all over again. Raven had just started seeing Apple as someone she could depend on. That's gone now, and Raven had a right to be angry with Apple's selfishness and cowardice.

"But Apple realized her mistake and Raven forgave her in the end!" That's true, but that doesn't mean things are okay between them. Apple is still Raven's friend, and it's in Raven's character to forgive her. But I don't see her forgetting this experience any time soon. That trust would have to be built up all over again and, if you ask me, this ruled out any chance of them getting together romantically. I think Raven would need some time away from Apple to figure things out. Apple could use that time to figure herself out too, especially after figuring out it was Darling who woke her.

If that trust was able to be built back up again, hopefully they would have grown as people and learned to be better friends. But you can't expect this level of trust to be regained for a partnership.

4. A One-Sided Romance

If Rapple were to be anything romantic, it would only come from Apple.

Apple was always obsessed with Raven. I do believe she wanted Raven to fulfill their destinies so they would both be safe, but was too selfish to consider how that would look from Raven's end. She never showed any interest in Daring and, while she enjoyed the admiration she got from other boys, never expressed interest in anyone else.

Except Raven.

So, yes. I do believe Apple was in love with Raven. But I can't see Raven returning those feelings. Apple always disregarded what she wanted, ignored her when she argued against her destiny, and continually tried to turn Raven into something she wasn't. Even after her much-needed character development in Way to Wonderland and Dragon Games, these two still don't have a good foundation of trust between them. If we had gotten more of the show, we might have seen some healing. And, in my opinion, that would include Apple learning to let go of Raven and focusing on her own growth as a person.

And maybe someone else...

In all seriousness, Apple and Raven have a complicated relationship that I don't see working romantically. I know they have the most development together, and it would be an interesting take on the enemies-to-lover trope. But with how often Apple betrayed Raven's trust and how grounded and self-aware Raven is, I can't see them getting together.

I can see Raven being Apple's first crush, but the closest these two can get is sisters.

Because, you know, Raven has a boyfriend. It's Dexter. Say what you want about him, but they have a healthier relationship than Raven and Apple could ever have, romantic or not.

[ravenbloodshot]

How Riize Members Argue Tarot Reading

Overall, the way they handle disagreements

They can get very passionate and be quite stubborn about things they feel their right about. But there's still an energy of holding back, not completely going off or being too direct. Almost like they know that keeping the peace is vital even when they are angry with each other. I heard "I still have to see them in the morning." They keep things respectful but they still argue their points to the fullest.

I get a vibe that members apologize a lot after fights. Even if a member was in the right, they still apologize and hug it out after the fight settles.

I feel like most arguments are about teaching/letting another member know what one is and not okay with. Boundary setting

Now let's see how they individually argue

Eunseok

He's quite assertive and direct when he argues. Not one to give up easily even when others don't understand what he's mad about, he still says how he feels. He's very stern as well, it would be quite hard to ignore him or purposely play stupid. He's like "nah, your wrong about xyz. Don't do that again".

He keeps a cool, calm, and collected demeanor about him. Not very phased by what the other person says, just wishes to get his point across and be done with it.

Sohee

Sohee is more meek, timid and holds back from arguing even if he's in the right. He's the type to talk to other members about what he's upset about instead of directly addressing the member he has a problem with. It's like a vibe of gathering witnesses and allies so that they could stand up for him. Almost like he doesn't want to confront anybody by himself (tbh he doesn't want to confront anybody at all)

He's not very secure and firm with his points when he argues. For example, if he was to confront someone and they gave any kind of push back, he would just drop it or play if off like "oh maybe I misunderstood the situation."

Sungchan

He's not confrontational as well. Likes to always appear as peaceful and happy (probably doesn't like the feeling of being angry, so he kind of avoids that emotion).

He's another one that would go talk to others about his problem instead of addressing the person he has a problem with. But he may only talk about what the other person did that was wrong, never tell what wrong he may have did.

I feel like he's the type to have a problem setting up boundaries. Doesn't stand up for himself either. For example, let's say a member would always make a mess of the kitchen every time they made food. Instead of Sungchan telling them to clean up after themselves, he would clean the mess up himself. And maybe say a few passive-aggressive comments

Anton

Does not argue in a healthy way. He can become VERY disrespectful when he's upset. He's the type to roast and make fun of the person he has a disagreement with. It could just be that most of the arguments/fights he's been in were with people that were equally as disrespectful and aggressive. But I do see that he still has a problem with calmly arguing his points without spewing insults and malicious comments

He's one of those ppl that would talk about how much money he has and how he is of a greater status when he argues. "Your not even on my level level" "your a brokie, a straight bum". Not gonna lie, his roasts can be pretty funny if your not at the receiving end of it.

Overall, he can become quite egotistical when he argues.

Shotaro

He's the definition of "the calm before the storm" or "fuck around and find out". He initially keeps a calm disposition when he's confronting/arguing with someone. But thats as long as the other person has that same energy, as soon the other person wants to get loud and rowdy that's when he will give that same energy back. And he's not one to be messed with

He does still have a mature and peacekeeping way about him (this side of him is especially reserved for when he argues with ppl he cares about). But there is another side of him that can be very petty, vengeful and antagonistic. All depends on how you come at him plus the scale of how much he gives af about you

Wonbin

I heard "he's not" when I asked how does he argue and handle disagreements. I found it strange that the message was "he's not" and not "he doesn't". It makes me think that no matter how much of disagreement someone has with him , he won't engage in arguing, there's literally no point in confronting him. It reminds me of a King during ancient times that would have lords and townsfolk come to him with their problems, as the King he would listen and say his piece. That's the end. There's no argument. You visited the King, said what you needed, he gives a comment or two, and then your dismissed. (Lol his energy is hilarious, if only I could be this regal when I argue).

He does listen and hear ppl out. But I don't feel like he says much. Even with his lack of engagement, he likely still is someone others don't stay mad at for long. Probably bc he himself isn't mad at the other person so even if they hold a grudge against him he would act like everything is fine (bc technically everything would be fine on his end). The type to invite them to hang out and chill minutes after an "argument".

[dislikabledionysian]

I'm nervous to come off of anon due to the judgement I might receive for this (not from you but from others), but I completely agree with you on the recent discourse. It bothers me a lot when people just speak as if they absolutely for certain know everything. We can't know everything about ancient worship, and to speak with such certainties is both ignorant and cocky. Also as a recon myself, I find it pretty ridiculous to judge other people's ways of worship. Every practice is different, and that's ok! That's natural. Even in ancient times, practices varied from city-state to city-state. I cannot understand people who pressure others to practice in one specific way, and it's very frustrating to see other recons talk down to people who don't practice the same. Recons aren't better than others, it's just a matter of personal preference. I really don't get why someone would actively tear other people down when we could lift each other up instead. It's hard enough to be helpol in the modern day as it is, we don't need to bite at each other's throats. And what a show of Xenia too, judging someone as a worshipper based on the gods that they worship. The passive aggressiveness towards you (and others) was wild to see.

Thank you for sharing your opinions. It felt validating to see someone else addressing this wild issue. It caught me off guard when I saw it.

Thank you so much for this, I don't blame you, I've gotten an insane amount of anon hate because of this, and creators who are incredibly popular have been putting me in the spotlight for their many more followers, all while accusing me of bad Xenia for standing up for people who are too afraid to stand up for themselves. It's ridiculous. But truthfully it's also just really amusing to watch so many people come to me saying that they always felt something was off and was too afraid to say it.

I just wanna say that you're so valid and wonderful, and I really appreciate all the work that recons do for the community, because without you guys we would still be getting our sources from fucking Tumblr LMAO. But thank you as well for standing up for people who aren't strict recons. I never intended to make drama but I'm so tired of people being afraid to practice because of the way they're treated by these people, and I've gotten many dms both in the past AND now of people saying that they were afraid to practice because of the elitism in the space, and that isn't okay with me. The gods are for everyone, even those who are still learning. We should be there for them too, and we aren't. And I'm not okay with it anymore.

May many blessings find their way into your life, friend. May Dionysus fill your cup with boundless joy