#WHERE WAS THIS ENERGY WHEN I WAS GROWING UP!?

[luna-azzurra]

Why Your Protagonist Shouldn’t Be the Only One With a Brain Cell

Your side characters are not scenery. they’re not just there to hold the protagonist’s emotional purse while they go through their Heroic Arc. if your MC is the sun, cool. but the story still needs stars. and planets. and like, a moon or two. or else we’re just staring at one bright dude in an empty void. which gets old. fast.

→ So, they should want stuff. and not just “help the main character win the thing.” maybe they want revenge. or validation. or to finally pass their damn exams. maybe they don’t want to be part of the story. that’s interesting too! the point is: they’ve got lives. your protagonist is not the center of their universe (even if they’re in love with them).

→ disagree. please and fight a little. healthy conflict between characters = chef’s kiss. let your side characters call the MC out when they’re being an idiot. let them have their own opinions and morals and trauma. not everything needs to be “yes boss, I’m with you to the end”...some of the best dynamics come from people who love each other but can’t agree on what the right thing even is.

→ disappear sometimes. You don’t need to cram every side character into every chapter. people go home. they get busy. they have their own stuff going on. let them drift in and out naturally. it’s more realistic and it gives you room to breathe between interactions. absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever.

→ surprise the reader. I Mean, do you ever get to that one scene where a side character does something way out of pocket and you’re like “EXCUSE ME??” yeah, I love it. it’s not out of nowhere if you’ve built them properly. people are full of contradictions. give your side characters layers and weirdness and secrets and soft spots. make them unpredictable in the way that real people are.

→ Steal the spotlight (just a little) and let them have their moment. their own little arcs. let the reader fall for them. there’s no law that says only the MC can be interesting. in fact, your story will be better if the supporting cast occasionally steals the show. think of it like ensemble energy, your MC’s glow-up hits harder when the people around them are shining too.

[emmyrosee]

There’s something about when the Itoshi Rin comes up and cuddles you the first time.

Youre no stranger to cuddling up to him, crawling in his lap or sneaking into his arms while he’s on his phone, resting your head on his chest in bed or pawing for his hand to gently rub your back when you crave it most, you’ll take the reigns and guide him because he doesn’t know what to do himself.

But the first time Itoshi Rin comes up to you, is a sight to behold.

The couch cradles your body perfectly, almost coaxing you into a state of sleep as you lazily watch whatever is playing on tv, blinking lazily as exhaustion threatens to takeover. It’s quiet in the house, a warm temperature under the blanket, and you yawn softly and grab your phone to scroll on and fight sleep off.

You see Rin come out of the kitchen and into the living room, and you offer him a sleepy smile. “Hey cutie man,” you hum, making a grabby hand for his, which he blinks at, but eventually laces his fingers with yours. “Come cuddle?”

It’s at this point you’re more than used to Rin rolling his eyes and grumbling about how no, he doesn’t need cuddles, he’s too mature for that, and a squeeze to your hand as he stands awkwardly for a few minutes before leaving.

But today, he lets his pretty eyes flick between your face and your blanket covered body, shrugging, and dropping your hand. You assume he’s going to leave, so you cuddle on yourself once again, eyes growing heavy as they close.

Then, a weight slowly forms on the other end of the couch. Your eyes open as you watch Itoshi Rin awkwardly station himself, his knee planted into the cushions and hands trying to find padding to crawl on top of you, as you’ve done to him countless times. You close your eyes and fight the smile as to not deter him from getting comfortable.

A few minutes later, you feel his body hovering over yours, as if contemplating his next move like a nervous kitten. You bet he looks so sweet, eyes glazed in love and cheeks a pinkish hue as he tries to get comfortable before he finally lays on top of you, slowly, unsure.

It’s like he’s in a plank position, still not putting his entire weight down on you, so to help him, you lay flatter on your back and slowly open your eyes, watching him try and navigate this. Your hands sneak to his hair and gently pet it, and to your shock, he doesn’t skitter away. He looks up at you, with the exact look you assumed he would be wearing, and you smile encouragingly, “you can lay down if you want.”

He ponders. Then, a miracle.

Itoshi Rin lays his body weight on top of yours, head burrowing in your chest while his arms struggle to find placement. You wrap your own around him, fingers scratching his scalp and others tickling down his back. He sighs softly and shifts a final time to get comfortable, his eyes fixated onto the screen to avoid yours.

“I love you,” you whisper, and shock courses through you again when Rin mumbles a sweet little “I love you, too,” back.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says, but it seems moreso for himself than for you.

“Why would it?” You say softly. And at your words, his body seems to relax fully, melting like a pad of butter and smothering you, much to your delight. You see his eyes flutter close and his cheek nuzzles into your chest more, and you let Itoshi Rin take whatever he needs from you, whatever love he desires, whatever affection he craves, whatever energy will get him where he needs to be, you allow him to take.

And you always will.

[hexjulia]

This is already very long but I want to add something about tidying up, which is not exactly the same as simpler repeating tasks like laundry that have results that are easy to look forward to (clean clothes, nice smells) and limited in a way "tidying up" isn't, especially when your place is just one big mess.

For the longest time I had no idea how much clutter bothered me. This was in part because like most people with adhd I was constantly nagged at (and shouted at) about the mess I left behind when I was distracted, to the point that tidying up just felt bad. It made me feel anxious, tired, guilty. I was convinced I just thrived in a cluttered mess simply because I dreaded tidying up and other people always wanted me to do more of it. I certainly felt better sitting in a messy place without anyone bothering me than I did in a somewhat tidy one with someone constantly complaining about the state of things. I figured I was simply more comfortable in a messy environment... but that's not true!

It took a long while to realise because I spent a long time subjected to this negative treatment and responding to it. After a while of it being absent however I started trying to pay more attention to/identify when I was feeling overstimulated and/or overwhelmed in some way, and really what I was feeling in the background of other things at all. Which often turned out to be... irritation. A lot of irritation. Often caused by a visually overwhelmed sensation best described as "seeing too many objects with no oversight". Which irritates and exhausts me, and was part of why I found starting so exhausting.

This was not immediately obvious to me. Other emotional responses were more in the foreground, more obvious because they were interpersonal ("finally I'm not being hounded and shamed!" i love being left to my own devices) and this is more of a sensory/emotional response to environment I suppose. I'm not really someone who explodes in anger. It was also easy to just sense as vague discomfort without realising what it was about.

But at some point I noticed my supposedly comfortable mess was actually a constant source of background irritation and overwhelmed sensation leading to a sort of paralysed exhaustion I was always having to fight my way through, every step of the way (also exhausting). So I started to try fixing this uphill battle situation. It's very important to me to do this for my own comfort and to keep thinking about that as a reason for every single action part of this. If you have a similar experience growing up with adhd and dreamily irritating adults ill-equiped to help you develop habits that support you this will likely be the main thing for you. It really is about your own comfort and taking away sources of discomfort. But you have to get there somehow and every step can't be exhausting.

Figure out how things in your environnent feel to you. Sometimes you just have to sit down and do nothing but think about that intensely for a bit. I set a timer and start by looking around, examining which objects are irritating me right now. Then i do something about it. And i look again. And what irritates me now? And now?

For me that usually turns out to be a lot of objects. It might be different for you.

This prevents the overwhelmed sensation from festering and becoming itself something that is hard to face. It stops a pile of stuff from being perceived as one big huge overwhelming thing that i don't know where to start with and exhausted by. I let irritation lead. After a while it just feels like restless energy and then it transforms into a contented feeling when things become less overwhelming to look at. Irritation/anger in response to your environment doesn't have to be a problem. Sometimes you can also let it lead and use it to stop feeling tired and overwhelmed.

ok that was very long so i hope adding this it helped at least 1 person. ^^

thinking about how many people hate doing chores like laundry ironing etc (for themselves! unfairly being expected to take care of everyone else's things is something completely different) and how in attempts to fix the resulting issues (piles of gross stuff etc) it's just framed as another thing to feel bad about not doing, which is not very encouraging under any circumstances -- but if the reason why things keep piling up is something like depression or adhd will make it about 10x as hard, because you likely already feel bad about yourself. And now looking at the piles comes with a lecture about getting your shit together and being an adult at the back of your head.

It's just not effective. It's the wrong reason. You shouldn't be cleaning because you're afraid of being shamed or because you feel guilty. That might work once every few months in a burst of manic chore energy but that's no way to live. The reason why I don't find these things exhausting to do is because it's just things I do to make myself comfortable, and it feels that way. When I'm ironing my clothes I look forward to wearing clean cozy warm clothes. I'm also daydreaming about 20 other things because I do have adhd and I'm maybe listening to an audiobook, but the emotion associated with doing my own laundry is something like ...contentment because I get to decide how exactly I want my clothes to smell and feel. It's largely just a positive emotion. I think the trick is getting yourself to be happy you get to make future you happy. That's a sustainable motivation you don't need shame or guilt for.

Also sometimes it's easy to underestimate how much a "small" sensory issue is making things hard. I hate touching dirty laundry, especially things like wet dishrags. I realised this was what made me want to avoid doing that specific bag of laundry and got some gloves. Now it's fine because I don't have to touch any wet and questionable textures. A lot of these accomodations might feel like overkill + you might not notice how much they bother you/contribute to putting things off until you pay attention and do something about it. If you think the scent bothers you a lot wearing a mask to empty the bin might help remove revulsion re: emptying the bin and so make that easier to motivate yourself into doing just wear one. Yeah it is overkill and not needed. But you don't want to accumulate trash inside because the smell would make you uncomfortable. If the goal is to avoid discomfort you should also eliminate the discomfort of the chore itself insofar possible! If your hands hurt easily from scrubbing things clean see if you can find a more effective cleaning agent or a cheap electric brush. If the sound of the vacuum bothers you even just a little put on headphones. There is no need to make this into some kind of guiltstriken spartan ordeal or only prevent discomfort if it's absolutely necessary for the task.

Chores are going to be a part of your days probably your entire life. It can be a comfortable experience associated with feeling cared for by yourself, feeling in control of how you live, a moment of quiet simple tasks and no deadlines. It doesn't have to feel bad. And if you fail at keeping up you aren't lazy or bad. You're just probably making yourself uncomfortable, but that's not a sin. And you can always change what you do to accomodate your needs.

[thecchiiiiiiii]

Say by Keshi – “Talking with your hands, but do you mean it? Baby, all you gotta do is say the word,I know what you're thinking, but just say it first”  (Lara Raj x reader)

Synopsis: Lara loves all music. The loudness. Unfortunately for her, she likes you, someone who's familiar with the sound of silence. 

—☆

Lara Raj had always been loud.

She was born on a Monday. The kind where thunder cracked straight over the town and refused to let up for two days. Rhea Raj, all of ten years old and furious at being stuck babysitting a red-faced newborn, still likes to say Lara came howling into the world with the storm inside her lungs.

By fifteen, Lara still hadn’t shut up.

Her mom said it with fondness, her teachers said it with exasperation, her sister said it with an exhausted grin when Lara burst into her room at 2AM to hum the bridge of a new song she’d half-written on a crumpled math worksheet.

Noise was Lara’s religion.

Guitar chords in the shower. Lyrics scribbled on gum wrappers. Laughing too loud when Daniela snorted soda through her nose at lunch. Singing out of tune in Rhea’s battered sedan on the way to buy cheap boba. Slamming the front door. Forgetting her keys. Never, ever whispering.

Lara Raj never knew how quiet could feel like thunder until she met you.

It starts the way most high school things do— in a hallway buzzing with static and rumor.

Lara’s fifteen, earbuds jammed in, a guitar pick in her pocket, the scent of new paperbacks and cheap cafeteria pizza clinging to her hoodie. She’s swapping textbooks at her locker when your name drifts to her through the static.

“Y/n can’t talk, right? Born mute?”

“Yeah, but they’re so pretty though. Have you seen their sketches?”

Lara freezes halfway through stuffing her chemistry binder into her bag. She knows of you, everyone does.

The kid who drifts through the halls soft as mist, smile tucked shy under the hem of your sleeves, words blooming only through your hands or neat black ink on the corners of notebook pages.

Something about your silence looks like the calm she’s always searching for between drum solos.

She should slam her locker, plug back into her music, forget about it. But when she catches sight of you later, sitting under the old acacia tree, knees drawn up, pencil scratching slow spirals of graphite across your sketchpad— she stops.

Something in the hush around you feels louder than any chord she’s blasted through her battered headphones.

So the first time she really saw you, sitting cross-legged under the battered old acacia tree behind the science wing, Lara Raj thought: "God, how can someone so quiet take up so much space?"

You weren’t exactly new. Everyone at school knew you in the casual, whispered way kids collect stories about each other like pressed flowers in their notebooks.

"Born mute. Never speaks. Some surgery rumor, a throat thing, vocal cords didn’t grow right."

Some people said your brother Eli once punched a sophomore for mocking your silence. Lara believed that one immediately.

Eli was a year above her— she’d seen him on the soccer field, barking orders like a drill sergeant, all broad shoulders and that big protective energy that made even senior boys hush up when he glared.

But you, you were nothing like him. The few times Lara had passed you in the hallway, you were tucked small against your locker, books held close to your chest, hair falling over your eyes.

You’d glance up if you caught her staring. Once, your gaze snagged on the frayed guitar pick tied to her backpack zipper, and Lara had wondered if you recognized the band logo Sharpied on it.

She never said hi. Too easy to get distracted. Too much noise in her head already.

Until that day.

She tries paper first.

Wednesday, third period Chem. Rain shivers at the window panes. She tears a corner off her math notes and writes, "Hi. You look bored. Want company?"

She slides it across your lab table, breath trapped in her chest like a note caught between chords. You glance at the slip, then up at her— eyebrow arched, mouth tugged into a shy, crooked grin.

You scribble back: "You’re the loud one, right?"

She nearly snorts out loud. Loud. Yeah— she guesses she is.

You flip the paper over, doodle a tiny smiley face next to your name, just Y/n, neat and small.

When the bell rings, she doesn’t even hear it, too busy tucking that scrap into her back pocket like it’s something holy.

She learns your schedule next, like the lyrics of a song she can’t stop humming.

Third: Chem.

Lunch: Under the acacia, always you and your sketchpad.

Fifth: Art elective— where you draw her guitar case without her noticing.

After school: Sometimes library, sometimes behind the gym where your brother Eli barks orders at sweaty soccer boys who pretend to listen.

It was mid-September, heat still clinging to the concrete.

She’d flunked her chem quiz, nearly lost her guitar pick for real this time, and forgotten her lunch on the counter— and Daniela had texted her, "we stole u fries lol come find us", but Lara found herself drifting instead.

To the back lawn. Past the dumpsters. To the battered acacia tree she’d only ever noticed as a landmark to cut behind when she was late for band practice.

You sat there, knees tucked up, sketchbook balanced carefully on top. You wore your headphones, one of those big, soft pairs, not the cheap white buds she used, and you were so still Lara swore you were part of the tree for a second. Your pencil scratched the page.

Lara stepped closer. Her boot hit a branch.

You looked up.

Later she would try to describe it to her friends, the look. It wasn’t shy exactly.

It wasn’t bold either. It was something in between— startled, but soft. Like you’d already forgiven her for being a clumsy intrusion.

Lara crouched, letting her guitar case slide off her shoulder with a thump.

“Hey, Y/n”

You blinked. Tucked your pencil behind your ear. Nodded once.

She rocked back on her heels. “Cool tree.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. You angled the sketchbook just enough for her to peek, a rough outline of the crooked trunk, roots snaking like veins into the dirt. No name scribbled on the top; just tiny date numbers she couldn’t read upside down.

She whistled low. “You’re good.”

You tilted your head. The pencil slipped down behind your fingers— you tapped it twice on the page, then mimed holding another, holding it out. An invisible offering.

“Oh. Right.” Lara dug into her pocket.

She didn’t have a pencil, just the same chewed-up pen she used to scribble lyrics in study hall. She handed it over anyway. You took it, flipped to the back page, wrote in neat, careful block letters:

"Well, hello, guitar girl."

Lara barked a laugh. “Guilty.”

You shrugged, a little smile playing at the corner of your mouth.

She watched your hands, the way you shaped words, even when you didn’t sign them yet. There was so much language there, unspoken, blooming out of your fingertips.

A bell rang somewhere. Lara winced. She should’ve been in remedial chem by now. She stayed rooted to the dirt instead.

“Can I—” She gestured at the grass beside you. “Sit?”

You patted the spot. She plopped down so fast she knocked her guitar case over. You caught it with one sneaker before it toppled.

And just like that, the loudest girl in school sat beside the quietest kid in town, the world humming around them, heat soaking into their backs.

The next day, Lara found you again.

She didn’t know if you’d be there, maybe you’d decided the girl who nearly flattened your tree with her chatter was too much. But there you were with the same headphones, same sketchbook, a different pencil.

Lara dropped beside you like she’d been there every day of her life. She didn’t say anything at first. She just pulled a crumpled piece of lined paper from her hoodie pocket, smoothed it out over her knee, and wrote:

"What are you listening to?"

You leaned over, read it. Your grin this time was tiny but bright— like a spark under her ribs. You tugged one earcup off and pressed it to her ear.

Soft piano, a voice that cracked at the edges. Not her usual blasting guitars, but it was… nice. Warm. Sad. She couldn’t catch the words, but the hush of it made her chest ache a little.

When she pulled back, you flipped her note over, scribbled in the margin:

'Do you sing?"

She snorted, took the pen back. "Yeah, but let me play for you. Want to hear?"

Your eyes widened. You nodded— once, twice, so quick it made her grin split wide.

That afternoon, she dragged you behind the band room, a dusty concrete corner where the choir kids snuck to chain-smoke before home time.

She cracked her guitar case open, tuned strings while you hugged your knees to your chest, eyes glued to her fingers.

She didn’t sing that first time, just let the strings do the talking.

The chords slipped easy, a half-finished verse she’d been stuck on for weeks but suddenly felt right. You watched every movement like she was magic.

When she finished, you clapped, soft, silent, fingertips tapping against your palm. Your smile was enough to make the traffic noise fade behind the gym walls.

—☆

At home, Lara’s sister notices first.

Rhea Raj is twenty, a student at the local uni who breezes in and out of the house like she owns every corner of it.

Her hair’s always tied up, sleeves rolled, mug of tea half-forgotten on the counter. She catches Lara once, sprawled across the living room floor, a sign language book open next to her guitar picks.

Rhea leans on the doorway. “Homework?”

“Kind of,” Lara mumbles.

Rhea arches an eyebrow. “For who?”

Lara doesn’t look up. Her fingers shape letters, shaky, stubborn. H-I. H-I.

Over and over. The page is creased from her nails.

Rhea pads over, flops down beside her. She flicks the corner of the book. “You’ve never studied this hard for math.”

“It’s not math,” Lara says, cheeks warm. She presses her palm to the page.

“It’s for… it’s for them.”

Rhea’s smile curves slow, fond. She brushes Lara’s hair back from her forehead, like she’s eight again. “You’re all heart, kid. Don’t mess it up.”

So, Lara tries.

The first time Lara tries to sign to you for real, she messes it up so badly you nearly fall off the bench laughing.

Friday, after Chem, she drops beside you under the acacia tree, heart thundering. You glance up, eyes bright as ever. She wipes her palms on her jeans, breathes deep, lifts her hands.

Lara stands in front of you, tongue caught between her teeth. She’s wearing the same grey hoodie she’s practically lived in all month, sleeves shoved up so she doesn’t lose track of her hands.

“Okay,” she mutters, flexing her fingers. 

You tilt your head, grin already tugging at your mouth. You tap your chin— the universal go on.

She lifts her dominant hand, tries to shape the letter H, realizes halfway through she’s not even signing letters, just making weird finger claws. She fumbles, tries again.

“Shit. Wait— I swear I got this last night.”

You giggle, an actual soft huff of breath that ghosts over your teeth but never breaks into sound.

You sign the proper H-I so easily it makes her want to melt into the scuffed tile floor.

“Oh my god,” she groans, throwing her hands up.

“You make it look like art. I make it look like a cramp.”

You reach out, catch her wrist, tug her closer so her knees bump yours.

Gently, patient, you fold her fingers, straighten the curve of her index, correct the thumb. Your hands are warm. You look up at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters in this hallway full of echoing footsteps and dusty music stands.

When you’re done, you squeeze her knuckles once— "there. Got it."

She tries again, slow. H-I. You beam at her. Her stomach does a flip she’ll be too embarrassed to tell Rhea about later.

She tries it again, all by herself.

So stiff. So wrong. She knows it the second your brows lift, lips twitching— and then you laugh. No sound, but your shoulders shake, your grin explodes like dawn, and Lara’s face flames hot.

“Shut up,” she huffs, punching your shoulder. But you’re still laughing, eyes crinkled, teeth showing. Best sound she never hears.

Something deep in Lara’s chest shifts. She thinks, "God, if this is quiet, let me drown in it."

That night, she does tell Rhea. Not about the stomach flip, but the rest.

Rhea’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, textbooks spread out like a campfire around her laptop. She’s got an old band T-shirt on, collar torn at the seam, hair piled up in a bun that’s mostly falling apart.

Lara flops face-first onto the blankets. “How do you get your fingers to do the right thing?”

Rhea doesn’t even look up. “Context?”

“Sign language.”

That gets her attention. Rhea clicks her pen shut, pushes her glasses up her nose, and peers at Lara’s muffled groan into the comforter.

“Lara. Please tell me you didn’t insult them by accidentally signing something cursed.”

“I didn’t!” Lara protests, rolling over. “I’m just… slow. I can’t even do a hi right.”

Rhea smiles— that older sister smile, half smug, half secretly proud. She reaches out, flicks Lara’s forehead. “So go slow. Do it wrong until you do it right. You always do.”

Lara squints. “Is that an insult?”

“It’s encouragement.” Rhea leans down, presses a kiss to Lara’s hairline. “Now get out of my room before you eat all my brain cells.”

Later that week, Lara corners you behind the music room. She’s got crumpled printouts in her hand— beginner’s guide to ASL she found online.

“I’m learning,” she announces, holding up the messy pages like proof of her devotion.

You tilt your head. Your mouth quirks up, your version of a grin. You flick your fingers in rapid signs, but Lara can only catch the first word: slow.

“I know I suck,” she grumbles, shoving your shoulder playfully.

“Teach me, then.”

You do.

Some days, she finds you in the library, your hands patiently guiding hers, correcting her crooked signs.

Other times, you sit on the bleachers after school while she stumbles over the alphabet, her tongue stuck out in concentration while you laugh— silently but with your whole body.

She does. For you, she does it over and over until her hands cramp.

At lunch, during breaks, on the bus when she rides past her stop just to sit with you longer. Sometimes you take her hands in yours, fix her fingers, guide her wrists. Your skin is warm, and she thinks if she believed in fate, it would look a lot like this.

“You’re obsessed,” Daniela says, twirling a pencil between her fingers. They’re at Megan’s house, floor littered with pizza boxes and iced coffee cups. Sophia’s braiding Manon’s hair, Yoonchae’s scrolling through her phone.

Lara throws a cushion at Daniela. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Megan singsongs. “You literally bought a whole sign language book for them.”

“I just want to talk to them properly.”

“You barely talk to us properly,” Yoonchae deadpans. The girls laugh. Lara hides her burning cheeks behind a pillow. They don’t get it. Not really.

Because it’s not about them—it’s about you.

About how you look at her like she’s more than noise.

About how your eyes crinkle when she signs music wrong, and you gently fix her with patient hands.

About how you make silence feel like a song she wants to play on repeat.

—☆

Eli never liked Lara Raj.

To be fair, Eli never liked anyone who got too close to you.

He’s only a year older, but he carries himself like he’s twenty-five, broad-shouldered and loud in all the ways you are not. He yells across the soccer field like he owns it.

He stands behind you at the bus stop like a sentry. If anyone so much as brushes your shoulder in the hallway, he appears out of thin air, jaw tight, voice sharp.

The first time Lara tries to sit with you in the cafeteria, Eli’s there— arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she’s an intruder.

“Raj,” he says, like it’s an insult.

She just lifts her tray. “Raj,” she echoes sweetly.

She plops down next to you anyway. You look between them, cheeks pink. Eli clicks his tongue.

“She’s fine,” you sign to him under the table. Lara catches it, pretends she doesn’t.

But she sees the way your shoulders hunch when Eli sighs, the way you shrink when he hisses: “They’ll hurt you. Everyone does.”

Lara hates that.

Hates that your softness looks like weakness to other people, when she knows better— your quiet is strong, patient, louder than any shout.

She leans closer, bumping your arm with hers until you look at her. She signs I’m not everyone. Not yet fluent, fingers sloppy, but her eyes promise the rest.

You smile.

Eli hates it immediately.

The first time Lara shows up at your locker after last bell, guitar case thumping her shin, Eli’s there too— looming like a brick wall with legs.

“Raj,” he grunts. He says her name like a curse.

“Hey, Captain Buzzkill,” Lara shoots back.

You hover between them, eyes darting, mouth pressed thin. Eli bristles when Lara steps too close, when your hands brush, when she signs a sloppy Hi that makes you giggle.

“Heard you’re trying to make my sibling your pet project,” Eli says, voice sharp.

Lara rolls her eyes so hard it might stick. “I’m trying to be their friend.”

Eli scoffs. “Yeah. Right.”

He tugs your backpack over your shoulder like you’re five again. Lara sticks her tongue out when his back turns. You grin at her over your brother’s shoulder, your fingers flicking a quick, secret Later.

He’s always there— lurking around corners like some overgrown bouncer, glowering at anyone who so much as bumps your shoulder in the hall. Lara knows he’s just protective, but it makes her teeth itch.

It comes to a head on a Thursday.

She’s waiting for you outside the gym, guitar case balanced upright between her knees, thumb scrolling mindlessly through old photos on her cracked phone screen. The boys’ soccer team floods out in a sweaty wave of laughter and deodorant clouds.

Eli’s at the tail end, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey half untucked, barking something at a sophomore who immediately stumbles an apology and scurries off.

Then he spots her.

He stops dead, like someone yanked his shoelaces tight. His eyes flick from her guitar to her ripped jeans to the bracelets jangling around her wrist.

He doesn’t say anything yet, just stands there, chest rising and falling, blocking her view of the exit like a human eclipse.

Lara sighs. “Hey, Big Brother.”

He grunts. Points a thumb over his shoulder. “Practice’s over. Go home.”

“I’m waiting for them.”

Eli’s jaw ticks.

He glances back, and there you are, emerging from the locker room with your bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp at the temples.

You brighten when you see Lara. Then your eyes flick to Eli and you hesitate, shoulders drawing in like you’re trying to fold up small.

Something hot and sharp twists behind Lara’s ribs.

She stands up. Shifts her guitar strap higher, squares her shoulders. “I’m allowed to wait for them, you know.”

Eli looks at her like she’s a mosquito buzzing in his ear. “Yeah? And I’m allowed to tell you to knock it off.”

“Why?” Lara snaps.

“Because you think they’re glass? They’re not. They’re a whole human, Eli.”

His nostrils flare. He turns to you— and you flinch, just a little. Not because you’re afraid, exactly, but because the world’s always made you small when Eli’s made himself big to protect you.

Your hands lift— quick, subtle. It’s fine, you sign at Lara over his shoulder. It’s okay.

But it’s not okay. Not to her.

“Look,” Eli grits out, voice dropping low so the other boys don’t overhear.

“I’m not the enemy here. I just— they don’t— I don’t want people messing them up.”

“I’m not people,” Lara fires back. “I’m me.”

Your hand finds Lara’s sleeve then gentle. She feels the brush of your fingers through the fabric like a heartbeat. Your thumb rubs a tiny circle into her elbow. It’s enough.

Eli sees it. He sees the look in your eyes— the stubborn, quiet please. And for once, he just sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. Mutters, “Fine. Whatever.”

He stomps off without another word. Lara watches him go, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. You squeeze her arm once before pulling your hand away.

“He’s a jerk,” Lara says lightly.

You sign: He loves me.

“I know.”

You bump her hip with yours, barely a nudge. Her grin splits so wide it hurts her cheeks.

Lara’s friends are the worst.

In the best way, obviously, but still. The next day, she plops her tray down at the girls’ table and immediately regrets it.

Daniela leans over her fries like a vulture. “So. How’s your little crush?”

Megan whistles. Sophia tries to hide her grin behind her juice box. Manon just hums dramatically and Yoonchae throws a balled-up napkin at Lara’s shoulder.

Lara shoves a fry in her mouth. “I don’t have a crush.”

“Liar,” Daniela sing-songs. “Yoonchae saw you under the acacia again yesterday. Looking all soft.”

Yoonchae cups her hands dramatically around an invisible heart. “So romantic. So tragic. The music freak and the mute kid.”

“Hey,” Lara snaps, but there’s no real bite. “Don’t call them that.”

Yoonchae’s grin falters, just a hair. She lifts her palms. “Didn’t mean it bad. I mean— they’re sweet. They look at you like you invented the sun.”

That shuts Lara up. Heat crawls up her neck. She drops her eyes to her tray, pushes her peas around with a plastic fork.

Daniela nudges her foot under the table. “We’re just teasing, Raj. Seriously. It’s cute. You deserve a soft love.”

Lara chews her lip. Her mind drifts— you, under that crooked tree.

The soft hush of your pencil on paper. The way you sign Hi now every time you spot her across the quad.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “They do, too.”

“You’re gonna get in a fistfight with Eli at this rate,” Dani says, chewing on a pen cap.

Lara flops beside Sophia, and replies. “I’d win.”

Sophia snorts. “No, you wouldn’t.”

Megan pops a chip in her mouth, muffled around the crunch: “Lara’s stubborn. Might stand a chance.”

Manon hums, braiding her own hair across her. “Yoonchae says Eli’s bark is worse than his bite.”

“Yoonchae knows everything,” Daniela mutters. Yoonchae looks up from her phone, flicks her hair back, and grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“I say,” Yoonchae drawls, “if Raj wants the quiet kid, Raj gets the quiet kid. Screw Eli.”

Lara sits up, a smile blooming across her face. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

“Obviously,” Yoonchae says.

One night, Lara sits at the kitchen counter, twirling pasta around her fork while her mom hums by the stove. Mrs. Raj, always half-listening, half-cooking, full of soft warmth. She taps Lara’s elbow when she realizes her daughter hasn’t said a word in ten minutes— a record.

“Who’s got you so quiet, huh?”

Lara jolts. Her fork clatters to the plate. “What?”

Mrs. Raj just smiles, slicing basil. “You’re humming. But you’re not loud. That’s new.”

Lara shrugs. Pushes her hair behind her ear. “Just… someone from school.”

Her mom’s knife stills. Her eyes soften, that gentle mother-knows-everything look. “Someone good?”

“Yeah.” Lara’s voice cracks a bit. “The best.”

Her mother just hums, brushes Lara’s cheek with the back of her knuckles. “Then bring them here sometime. I want to meet the silence that can hush my Lara Raj.”

Lara tries to be quiet when she tiptoes into the kitchen at 2AM. She really does. But her guitar case bangs the table leg and the kettle switch snaps too loud and the squeak of the fridge door is a death sentence in a Raj household that wakes at the drop of a spoon.

Rhea appears in the doorway, hair a mess, one slipper missing. She squints at Lara like she’s seeing through six layers of teen angst and unfinished chord progressions.

“You practicing or writing love songs?” she mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

Lara freezes mid-pour, instant ramen steam curling into her face. “Neither.”

Rhea snorts. “Liar.”

Lara sighs. She plops down at the kitchen table, guitar half out of its case. She picks a chord, then another, fingers fumbling quiet, sleepy notes.

“It’s not a love song,” she says after a minute. “It’s… them. It’s just them.”

Rhea leans against the counter. Watches her sister shape silence into music. She doesn’t say be careful. She doesn’t say what if they break your heart. She just pushes off the counter, ruffles Lara’s hair, and says, “Play it loud tomorrow.”

—☆

It happens in pieces.

She’s waiting by your gate after soccer practice, Eli storms out first, sweat dark on his collar, eyes narrowed when he spots Lara perched on the fence.

“Again?” he snaps.

“Miss me?” she chirps.

You appear behind him, bag slipping down your arm, hair damp with practice sweat. Lara’s grin softens. You look tired, shy, but your fingers lift.

Hi.

She signs it back— better now. You beam. Eli sighs, curses under his breath.

“Don’t you have other people to bug, Raj?”

Lara hops off the fence, shoulders her guitar. “Nope. Just yours.”

You giggle into your sleeve when Eli throws his hands up in defeat.

The first time you sign something secret to Lara, it happens on a bus that smells like wet vinyl and half-finished homework.

It’s mid-October, dusk folding itself tight around the city in that sticky way only monsoon season knows.

Lara’s wedged against the window, shoulder braced so the cold glass hums against her cheek. Your sketchbook is balanced on your knees— not open to the acacia tree this time, but to something else: a half-finished doodle of her guitar. The strings are too many, winding off the page like roots.

Outside, the rain comes down soft but relentless. Lara likes it, how the world hushes under water. How it forces her to sit still. How you’re close enough that your elbow bumps hers every time the bus lurches.

She leans closer, nose nearly brushing your temple. “Show me?”

You stiffen, just a flicker, then angle the sketchbook toward her. There’s a tiny version of her name hidden in the curves of the guitar body. She laughs, loud enough to make the kid across the aisle glance up from his phone.

“You’re cheesy,” she says.

You sign back, You like cheesy.

“Guilty.”

The bus rumbles through a puddle big enough to rock them sideways. Lara’s giggle fizzles into a sigh. She traces the tip of her finger just under the sketch— close enough to the pencil lines that she can feel the pressure in her skin.

“I wish I could draw like you,” she murmurs.

You tap her knuckles— You sing.

“I shout.”

You sing. You repeat it with your eyes, with the soft slope of your mouth.

She wants to grab your face and kiss you right then— but the driver’s rearview mirror glints at her like an accusation. So, she stays pressed close instead.

Your fingers brush hers, a new sign she’s only seen once before. Secret.

Lara leans in, mouth so close you can taste her mint gum. “What?”

You tug your sleeve down, hiding your hands for a second, then pull it back up, slow, dramatic. You spell it letter by letter, your thumb trembling: I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

Lara’s brain short-circuits.

For a heartbeat, she forgets her own hands work. She forgets how air works. She forgets the bus is full of sleepy students and flickering window condensation and someone’s backpack wedged under her boot.

Then you look up, and you’re smiling. Shy. Brave. Yours.

She bursts into laughter, then clamps a hand over her mouth so she doesn’t blow the roof off the bus.

Your cheeks go pink. She catches your wrist before you can tuck it away again. Carefully, she shapes her reply— fingers clumsy but certain.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

The driver misses her stop that day. She doesn’t care.

She carves out pieces of you wherever she can.

Some days it’s little things: you passing her your pencil when she forgets hers (which is often).

You slipping notes in her locker— tiny doodles of her guitar, or of you and her stick-figured and holding hands under the sun. She tapes them inside her binder like relics.

Other days, it’s bigger things: you showing her your sketchbooks.

She flips through pages and pages of soft graphite lines, trees, clouds, the curve of her jaw, her guitar propped on her knee. She stares at her likeness drawn by your hands and feels her heart press up against her ribs like it wants out.

She lets you listen to her music. She buys a cheap pair of over-ear headphones, pink and peeling at the edges. She presses one side to your ear, the other to hers, and leans so close your shoulders touch. The world hums around you— nothing but chords and breath.

When Eli finds her waiting at your gate, he loses it.

It’s a Friday, right after soccer practice. Lara’s leaning against the chain-link fence, guitar case strapped to her back, boot tapping against the concrete.

Eli spots her, sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead. He storms up, fists clenched at his sides.

“What the hell do you want now, Raj?”

She lifts a hand, calm. “I’m here for Y/n.”

“You think you’re cute? Hanging around like a stray? They don’t need—”

Your presence is thunder. Lara knows that best.

You step from behind him, hand on his arm. You don’t sign anything at firs, just look at him, then her, then back at him.

Then you sign I want her here.

It knocks the wind out of Lara every time, the way you choose her so plainly.

Eli curses under his breath. He hates it. He hates her. He hates that you’re not his baby sibling anymore, easy to guard with snarls and barked threats. He glares at Lara like she’s something he can scare off.

Lara just steps closer, grin sharp and warm all at once. She lifts her hands, signs something new— something you taught her just last week.

Family.

Eli scoffs, storming off. But Lara swears she sees the corner of his mouth twitch, like he knows he’s losing, and maybe that’s okay.

There are nights when Lara lies awake replaying it all.

Your smile under the acacia tree. Your hands covering hers when she messes up. The way you tilt your head, eyes soft and bright, when she rambles about chords and lyrics and new bands she wants you to hear.

You made her love quiet. You made her crave it. Crave sitting in silence with you, no need to fill it with empty words. The world is loud enough. You are enough.

So she keeps showing up.

When your bus breaks down? She’s there with her old bike, demanding you hop on the back while she pedals you home, both of you laughing so hard you nearly tip over.

When you forget lunch? She shoves half her sandwich in your hands, glaring when you try to sign I’m fine. She’s not taking no for an answer.

When Eli picks you up late from practice? She sits with you on the curb, head on your shoulder, humming under her breath so soft you feel it more than hear it.

One afternoon, she drags you to the music room.

The door clicks shut behind you. Sunlight slants through dust motes. There’s an old piano, scuffed and slightly out of tune, but perfect. She sits, pats the space beside her.

You watch her hands dance across the keys— hesitant at first, then stronger. A melody tumbles out, notes half-formed and shy. She glances at you, a grin tugging at her mouth.

“Learned this for you,” she says, even though you can’t hear her voice. She signs it, messy but clear.

You lean in, press your fingers to the keys with hers. Your hands move together, music you can feel. Her heartbeat in every chord. The hush between notes. Your breath, her breath, the silence that sings louder than any amp she’s ever plugged in.

It’s not perfect.

Eli still worries. Her friends still tease. You still laugh when she fumbles a sign and accidentally says banana instead of beautiful. She throws her pencil at you, but you catch it, smile so wide her knees go weak.

It’s not perfect, but it’s real. And that’s enough.

It’s late October when Lara’s friends decide they need a real high school sleepover— cheap horror movies, too much soda, ghost stories that make them squeal loud enough for Mrs. Raj to knock on the door at 1AM and threaten to confiscate the microwave popcorn.

You’re there, curled up on the end of Lara’s bed. Her room’s a riot of posters, old band flyers, glow-in-the-dark stars, sticky notes with half-finished lyrics. You sit cross-legged on the faded quilt Rhea passed down when she moved to her dorm.

Megan’s telling some nonsense about the library ghost that slams locker doors at midnight. Manon’s half under the covers, eyes wide, clutching a pillow like a shield. Daniela is braiding Yoonchae’s hair, whispering shut up, Megan every time she tries to ramp up the tension.

Lara’s not listening. She’s watching you.

You’re pressed into her blankets like you belong there. Your sketchbook’s tucked under your thigh, safe, private.

Every time the story spikes to and then it grabbed her ankle, you flinch a little, but your eyes dart to Lara like you’re making sure she’s still looking back.

She is.

At some point, the lights stay off, the ghost stories fade into quiet giggles and the hiss of soda cans settling on the floor. Megan passes out first, sprawled halfway off Lara’s beanbag. Sophia curls up beside her, hair fanned out like a halo.

Lara catches your sleeve. She mouths, Stay?

You sign Safe— the same sign you taught her weeks ago, thumb hooked to pinky, palm pressed over your heart.

She shifts closer. Under the blankets, your fingers brush hers. In the hush of her bedroom, the hum of the old desk lamp, the wheeze of the fan, your silence feels like the loudest lullaby she’s ever heard.

You wake to the soft squeak of the door in the morning. Lara’s half-draped across your side, hair a tangled mess under her chin. Her breath tickles your collarbone.

Mrs. Raj stands in the doorway, housecoat tied at the waist, eyebrows lifted in that way that says I knew this was coming, don’t even try to deny it.

You tense— just a little. Lara snuffles, shifts, tightens her grip on your hoodie sleeve like a kid clinging to her blanket.

Mrs. Raj just smiles, small, sleepy. She lifts her mug in a mock toast, mouths, Breakfast?

You nod, careful not to wake Lara. She stands there another heartbeat, takes in the soft sprawl of her daughter tangled up in you, the hush of your fingers laced tight even in sleep.

She closes the door without a word. Later, she’ll put an extra mug on the table beside Lara’s cereal. She’ll slide you a plate stacked too high with bread. She won’t ask for an explanation.

She doesn’t need one.

Daniela wakes up first, hair stuck to her cheek with static. She sees you, sees Lara drooling on your shoulder, and bites back a squeal so loud it makes Manon shoot awake like a kicked cat.

“Oh my god,” Daniela hisses. “You two are so soft I’m gonna throw up.”

You blink blearily at her, squint at the new morning sun. Lara only groans, buries her face deeper against you. Her fingers curl tighter into your hoodie, that old frayed sleeve you’ve let her tug around your knuckles like a promise.

That afternoon, Rhea finds you both on the couch, same position, but this time Lara’s learning how to shape a new sign. Stay. Promise. Forever.

Rhea raises an eyebrow from the kitchen. Lara doesn’t see her, but you do. Rhea catches your eye, tilts her head— You okay?

You nod.

Rhea nods back, then flips a pancake, humming off-key, pretending the world isn’t quietly rearranging itself into something softer.

—☆

It’s not all sunshine.

Lara’s too loud sometimes, you flinch when her voice spikes, when she laughs too sharp at a joke someone shouts across the quad. You hate that your own head can’t handle noise the way hers craves it.

One afternoon in November, it boils over.

She’s showing off, busking near the fountain, her friends hyping her up, Megan filming with shaky hands. The chords are bright, the lyrics half nonsense, her grin so wide you swear you could fit the sky inside it.

But the amp squeals, feedback shrieking like a bomb.

Your palms fly to your ears before you even know you’re moving. Lara doesn’t notice — not at first. She hits the next chord, laughing when Daniela throws a coin that bounces off her shoe.

Then she sees you, curled small on the edge of the fountain, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders rigid. She drops her pick so fast it skitters across the pavement.

She’s there in two steps, hands on yours, pulling them down gently. You flinch anyway. Her smile falters.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

You won’t. Not yet. You hate that it feels like her noise— the thing she loves most, can hurt you.

She says your name. Once. Twice. Her voice drops to a whisper. She presses her forehead to yours, breathes out, Stay with me in the hush only you can hear.

When you finally look up, your eyes are wet. Hers too.

Later, on the bus ride home, she signs Sorry so many times your knuckles ache from her insistent fingers.

You tug her hand to your mouth, press your lips to her palm. Not your fault, you sign back. Never your fault.

She doesn’t speak the rest of the ride. But her thumb traces I love you into your knee until the bus wheezes to your stop.

The winter fair hits their small town like a sudden heartbeat, all string lights draped over the quad, cheap tinsel snagging in the breeze, paper snowflakes taped to the library windows even though it’s still too warm to ever really snow here.

Lara loves it, the mess, the music blasting from battered speakers, the noise of a hundred kids yelling about raffle tickets and overpriced cotton candy. She drags you through it like she’s never letting you go.

Your fingers stay tangled in hers the whole time. You pretend not to see how Eli watches from the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, his protective shell peeling off piece by piece as he sees you smiling. Really smiling.

Daniela buys them both neon bracelets that glow under the fair lights. Manon spills blue soda down her sweater and blames Megan for shoving her mid-sip. Yoonchae drags them to the fortune teller’s booth, where an old lady squints at Lara’s palm and mutters something about love found in the hush between words.

Lara nearly chokes laughing. You just grin, tucking her hair behind her ear while her cheeks go red from the cider.

When the group scatters to ride the rickety Ferris wheel, Lara tugs you away— down the back path that curls behind the food stalls, away from the sugar haze and broken pop songs. She wants you all to herself tonight. Wants the hush. Wants to hear you in your own way.

The two of you find an old bench under strings of fairy lights half burnt out. The music is a distant echo now, a heartbeat behind the rustle of dry leaves and the squeak of Lara’s boots scuffing the concrete.

She swings your joined hands between you, breath steaming in the cold. Her neon bracelet glows pale against your wrist where it brushes your sleeve.

“I think this is my favorite night of the year,” she says, voice soft for once. “I get to be loud and you still show up.”

You tap her chest, sign You are always loud.

She snorts, shoves your shoulder gently. “Rude.”

You sign again; I like it.

She goes quiet. Really quiet.

The kind that makes the world tilt. Her thumb runs circles on your wrist, brushing the tiny half-moon scar you once told her came from falling off your bike when you were seven.

She wants to say I love you again. But the words feel too small, too flat, for this moment. So she presses her lips to your knuckles instead, lets the hush say it for her.

Eli corners her two days later, not under the acacia or behind the music wing this time, but on the cracked rooftop of the school gym where he sometimes goes to be alone.

She’s up there because she needs air, the fair’s high fading into the post-festival quiet, her brain chewing on unfinished chords she can’t get out of her head.

When she finds Eli, he’s sitting on the ledge with his back to the wall, chewing a toothpick like it owes him money.

He doesn’t look up when she flops down next to him.

They sit in silence a while. A crow hops along the fence, caws once like it’s scolding them for not filling the air with noise.

Finally, Eli grunts, “You’re gonna hurt them.”

Lara stares at the cracked tile. “Yeah.”

“You gonna stop?”

“No.”

He snorts— a bitter half-laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Figures.”

She picks at the frayed hem of her hoodie. “You know I’d never hurt them on purpose, right?”

Eli’s jaw works, that same stubborn clench she’s seen in your face a hundred times when words fail you but your hands say too much. He flicks the toothpick into the wind.

“You’re loud,” he mutters.

“I know.”

“They’re not.”

“I know.”

“They need—” He cuts himself off. His shoulders slump. “They need quiet.”

Lara’s throat aches.

She thinks of your hands signing I love you on that rainy bus, of the way your shoulders curl in when the noise spikes too high, of how you always come back anyway.

She says it like a promise. “I can be quiet.”

Eli barks a laugh— sharp and surprised. “Lara Raj. Quiet?”

She grins through the sting behind her eyelids. “Not always. Just… when it matters.”

He studies her then, really looks.

For a second, he’s not the overgrown guard dog blocking her way home. He’s just a brother trying to make sure the best thing he’s ever had stays whole.

Finally, he nods. “If you break them, I’ll break your guitar.”

She snorts wetly, wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Fair deal.”

It happens under the acacia, of course. Where else?

They’ve grown roots into this tree together, secrets scribbled in your sketchbook, songs that only ever found their bridge when Lara sat here humming chord progressions into the bark.

It’s stupidly early, dawn just bleeding pale pink into the courtyard. There’s dew on her boots, her breath curls white in the cold.

You’re there before her, legs tucked under you, a thermos balanced on the grass, sketchbook closed for once. You’re watching the horizon like it’s a song only you can hear.

When you see her, you smile, small, sleepy, all yours.

Lara doesn’t sit right away. She drops her bag, cracks her knuckles, stands in front of you like she’s about to give a speech in front of the whole damn school.

She doesn’t trust her voice. Not for this. So she trusts her hands.

She signs slow— every motion shaped like a prayer, a confession, a secret song:

You made me love quiet.

Your eyes widen. Your breath fogs out in a tiny laugh you can’t voice but she hears anyway.

She keeps going, stumbling through the shapes you’ve taught her one clumsy letter at a time.

You are different. You make me feel complete. You are the loudest noise I ever heard.

She chokes on the last bit, her fingers fumble. You reach out, steady her wrist, guide her through the sign again: Noise. Loud. Heart.

She drops her hands. Laughs, breathless. “I’m really bad at this.”

You shake your head, tug her down so she’s kneeling in the grass. You touch your forehead to hers, close enough she can taste the warmth of your silence.

You sign back— one word. The only one that matters.

Stay.

She does.

She lifts her hands. Slow. Careful. You watch every letter.

She swallows, breath caught in her throat. You reach for her wrist, steadying.

I love you.

It’s so quiet under the tree— no bell, no kids yelling, just the hush of your heartbeat pressed against hers when you lean in. Your fingers move, the words she wanted most.

I love you too.

Lara didn’t need a crowd cheering or a guitar riff or a bass drop.

You are the loudest thing she’d ever heard.

She thinks of the first note in Chem, the first clumsy Hi, the loud hum of her guitar and the hush of your laugh.

She thinks she could live a thousand noisy days if every silence ends with you. 

Rhea’s the first to spot you when you both stumble in, grass stains on Lara’s jeans, your hoodie sleeve damp from where she wiped her eyes.

She’s leaning on the counter, mug balanced in one hand, phone in the other. She takes one look at Lara’s dopey grin and your shy tucked-in shoulders and just snorts.

“Good morning, heartbreakers.”

Lara flips her off with the gentlest middle finger in the world. You giggle, silent, soft, still louder than anything she’s ever heard.

Mrs. Raj appears behind Rhea, wipes her hands on a tea towel. Her eyes flick from her daughter to you, the hush you bring with you like a gift.

She smiles. “Pancakes?”

You nod. Lara bumps your hip with hers, signs Please just to show off.

Rhea rolls her eyes but ruffles Lara’s hair. Mrs. Raj pours too much syrup on your plate. Someone’s phone plays a crackly old love song on the windowsill.

Outside, the day stirs awake, birds in the wire, the street rumbling with a distant bus. The Raj house hums with the hush Lara never knew she needed.

And in the middle of it, the loudest girl in town holds your quiet like it’s the sweetest song she’ll ever write.

[mrsackermanfeed]

<;)>: As the six-week countdown nears its end, his adorable wife is growing impatient. She wants it now and is determined to get her way, leaving no room for Nanami not to fill her again

You and Nanami could hardly contain your excitement as the six-week mark approached. Amidst the whirlwind of caring for the newborn, late-night feedings, and all the tender moments in between, time seemed to fly by. Each day was a beautiful blend of chaos and joy, making you both eager for the end.

He had shown an incredible amount of patience, a kindness that seemed to know no bounds. He carefully followed the doctor's guidelines, steadfastly committed to helping you heal after the baby. His dedication was unwavering, as if he understood just how crucial these moments were for your recovery.

But you…

You didn’t give a second thought when the lights dimmed after a long day. There you were, pheromones radiating from your body, your hips swaying gently as you settled into your husband’s lap. “You’re such a good daddy,” you breathed out, your voice teasing yet affectionate. His response quivered slightly, as if you were a delicate treasure, but his hands remained anchored to your hips, holding you close. The warmth between you crackled in the dim light, igniting the evening with an electric intimacy.

“Baby… you know we can’t,” he protested, but his words were lost as your lips explored his neck, leaving behind a trail of sweet love bites. Each kiss ignited a deep, guttural moan from him, echoing the tension between desire and restraint.

His eyes fluttered shut, caught in a whirlwind of ecstasy as you settled onto him, pinning him down. Your hands explored the contours of his chest, a tantalizing dance of desire, while you pleaded for more. How could he possibly resist?

“Just the tip—please,” you pleaded softly, your voice trembling with anticipation. He let out a gentle sigh, the sound filled with a blend of yearning and hesitation.

“How am i supposed to tell you no ?”

He was torn, feeling a surge of desire that mirrored your own restless energy. The heat between you was palpable, and his body ached with anticipation, his cock straining, desperate for your touch.

“That's the thing, you can't “ You made it clear just how much he indulged you; even when he said no, you always found a way to get what you wanted.

He eased away his pajama pants , letting his cock free from that breathless restraint, your arms wrapping under his head you held him close , “ Just the tip mama “ he reassured himself of that promise he made with himself , scooting your knees up you felt him prod against your dripping cunt .

“Just the tip daddy “You parroted back before fully sliding down and engulfing his whole cock in your warmth , his hands gripped your ass, pulling you off "You never listen,” he growled, his teeth clenched tightly in frustration. But despite his annoyance, he felt the undeniable pull of desire and couldn't help but draw you back down closer to him.

“She missed you too baby “ you whispered , hugging his face into your shoulder , his legs tensed , he didn’t know how he would explain too the doctor , you where the reason your fresh stitches where ripped again .

He didn't stop, he didn't think about stopping his hands gripping your juicy fleshy, that rippled softly after every stroke of his cock, his mind fuzzy, your whimpers growing as he changed rhythm, “ that's my good girl, so fucking good —to me” he never failed with his sweet talk reminding you everytime how proud of you he was for being his wife.

Stomach tangled in knots, pouting for restraint from your climax, “ fuck keep sweet talking me I’m going to make a mess “ you huffed picking up your hips you rode his cock .

“Look at you,” he said softly, eyes locked onto yours as you moved above him. The thrill of the moment sent a shiver down your spine, and just as the pleasure peaked, his hand came down with a sharp, playful smack against your ass. You couldn’t help but let out a stifled gasp, your hand quickly flying to your mouth to suppress the sound, desperate not to wake the baby sleeping nearby.

“Move your hand, and ride “ he spanked you for a second time, hand slamming into the bed did you bounce slowly, pursed lips suppressing that gut scream from ecstasy.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pressing his lips gently against yours. You felt a rush of warmth as you leaned closer, savoring the sweet intimacy. As he deepened the kiss, you found yourself lost in the moment, every soft gasp and lingering moan escaping into his mouth, creating a beautiful symphony of desire between you.

“I love you so damn much!” you exclaimed, tears welling in your eyes. He couldn’t help but smirk, a playful glint in his gaze, as he took in the raw emotion you laid bare.

“Lets make that mess you spoke of” his thighs tensing as your pussy milked his cock for the unspoken weight had lingered for months, seeping inside you like a festering wound. He watched, breath caught in his throat, as your hips danced against his, surrendering to the gravity of desire. The air in the room was thick with tension, filled with heavy breaths—none of which were his.…

"I'm not finished with you yet," he said, flipping over with a determined glint in his eyes.

[aventurineswife]

Hey, can you do request with M! Rover with fem reader who get isekaid into wuwa.

One-shot romantic (fem reader being a oblivious type)

She can upgrade his level and the other to make him more stronger, M! Rover at first thinking that he needs to protect her at all costs he doesn't know why,he just feels like he have a connection with her,he don't like when man got close to her, there's a time where he is being clingy (my baby want a hug and my warm (⁠⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) ).

She is a calm type and ready to protect her friends even if she will lost her life, (just a scenario that I made) when M! Rover almost got stabbed at the stomach and didn't have time to dodge the attack she stood up in front of him and let herself be pierched by a knife that stabbed to her stomach.

When M! Rover catch her before she fall to the ground and cradle her close to his chest and she is lying limp in his arms.

He gone berserk, the enemy already been defeated and he bring her to a doctor to get her treated. When she awake and M! Rover is already there waiting for her, then M! Rover hug her tightly.

The rest is up to you

I just want my M! Rover 😔❤ he is so cute and loveable

“I'd Bleed for You Again”

Summary: Isekai’d into the world of Wuthering Waves, you are a calm yet selfless traveler who discovers a strange power: the ability to strengthen the mysterious Rover. As you journey by his side, unaware of the connection slowly growing between you, Rover becomes increasingly protective—drawn by an inexplicable bond. But when danger strikes and you sacrifice yourself to shield him from a fatal blow, Rover’s emotions erupt, revealing just how deeply he cares. In the aftermath of pain and revelation, something unspoken finally blooms.

Tags: M!Rover x Female!Reader, Isekai AU, Slow Burn, Romantic Tension, Protective Rover, Oblivious But Brave Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst With Happy Ending, Near-Death Experience, Emotional Reunion, Soft & Clingy Rover Moments, Mutual Pining.

Warnings: Violence/Combat Injuries, Blood (Non-Graphic), Stabbing/Near-Fatal Wound, Emotional Distress/Angst, Protective Behavior (Jealousy Implied), Light Possessiveness (Not Toxic), Fluff After Angst.

The world had shifted the moment you opened your eyes.

One moment, you were sitting quietly in your room, just another day in your ordinary life, and the next—you were standing in a place that thrummed with foreign energy, unfamiliar skies stretching over fractured ruins and soaring technology. You were in Wuthering Waves. A game world… or so you thought.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You simply accepted it with a quiet breath and began walking forward. Something inside you told you that this world needed your help—and you listened.

You met him not long after. Rover.

He stood amidst a collapsed building, calm and unreadable, his golden eyes shining with an inner storm. He didn’t ask your name, only if you were okay. And when you laid your hand on his arm and upgraded his strength instinctively—watching his core pulse with a surge of light—he just stared at you like he knew you.

Since that day, he never left your side.

At first, Rover believed it was duty.

You were... different. Your presence was calming, yet powerful. You could enhance his abilities, and perhaps unknowingly, his very soul. He told himself he followed you to keep you safe. That was all.

But he hated it when others approached you—especially men. When Mortefi clapped your shoulder? His jaw clenched. When Scar threw you a sly grin? Rover's hand drifted to his sword.

And when you giggled, blissfully unaware of the effect you had?

He just wanted to pull you close and whisper: Mine. Stay close to me, always.

He’d never say it. Not yet. You were too precious.

You never noticed the tension in Rover’s posture when someone lingered too long near you. You never realized the way his fingers always hovered near your wrist, like he wanted to hold your hand but didn’t dare. You just smiled, kind and steady, focused on helping everyone you could.

That day came like any other.

An ambush. A battle.

You and Rover stood back-to-back against waves of Threnodians, fighting in perfect synch. But then he appeared—larger, faster, crueler than the others, blade arcing straight toward Rover’s unguarded side.

Time slowed.

You didn’t hesitate.

You stepped between them.

Pain exploded in your stomach. A warm, wet shock that stole your breath. But you smiled through it, eyes locking with Rover’s wide, disbelieving gaze.

"You're worth saving," you whispered.

Then the world fell away.

"No—no no no—!"

Rover caught you before you hit the ground, arms cradling your limp form. His hands trembled, blood smearing across your clothes. He pressed his forehead to yours, whispering your name again and again as fury bloomed inside him like fire.

Golden eyes burned as he rose. His sword pulsed in his grip.

The enemy didn’t stand a chance.

He didn’t leave your side.

Not when the medics shouted orders. Not when they stitched you up. Not when you hovered on the edge of life. He held your hand the entire time.

And when your eyes finally fluttered open days later...

You found him slumped beside your bed, sleeping with his head resting near your arm. As if sensing you, he jolted awake, eyes wide.

“You’re awake...” he breathed, voice shaking.

You gave a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled you into his chest—arms wrapping around you with desperate warmth. His breath hitched against your hair.

“You idiot,” he murmured. “You don’t get to do that. Not to me.”

You blinked, stunned. “Rover?”

“I don’t know what this bond is,” he said quietly, “but I feel it. With you. Like I’ve known you for lifetimes. Like I’d fall apart without you.”

You felt your cheeks warm. “I-I’m just me. Nothing special.”

He pulled back, golden eyes fierce. “You’re everything.”

And this time, when he leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours...

You didn’t look away.

[lucygraysboy]

“yeah, yeah, don’t mention it.” jesse waves his hand in a dismissive manner, cheeks growing rosy and an awkward smile blooming on his lips. he’s not used to being treated like a hero and doesn’t actually think he’s done anything worthy of such hearty gratitude. if he was the one struggling to swim to the surface, he’d hope billy’s girl would try to help him out, too. animosities aside. his moral compass is skewed but at the end of the day his heart is in the right place — billy will always be his little brother, no matter how often they argue or how long they go without talking to each other, and lucy gray… well, billy loves her. “i lost my flip flops,” billy grumbles when jesse wraps his arm around his waist, helping him up the trail. both of them look down at his bare feet. it’s hard to see in the darkness, on the trail where the pines don’t allow for more than a sliver of moonlight to shine through, but the blond still lets out a chuckle and taps his friend on the back. “go on, billy boy. we’ll find ‘em in the mornin’.” they do manage to stumble upon pat garrett’s flashlight, though. jesse turns it on and lights the way, occasionally looking over his shoulder and purposely slowing down to keep a close eye on lucy gray. he doesn’t want to hear more about this brawl that ensured between billy and pat, or whatever had happened earlier between him and his girl. it’s none of jesse’s business and it only makes him feel awkward, having to witness this.

billy spins in his arms, regaining more control over his body and frowning at lucy gray’s words. “i never called you a floozy! i said you’s a cheater, which you are by the way! but that don’t mean i don’t care ‘bout some asshole tryin’ to feel you up on a boat! so i put ‘im in ‘is place, what’s so terrible ‘bout that? are you gon’ defend ‘im too now?! won’t touch you again, ’s all that matters,” the cowboy grumbles, pressing his fingertips to his torn brow and wincing when they come back bloody. he’s supposed to be back on set in a week! now he’s getting angry again. well, at least until lucy gray mentions ice. that would indeed feel good on his face, on his lip that seems to be pulsing more furiously with each step and on his brow. he’d have to agree with her openly so he says nothing, just leans back on jesse as they keep walking. pines and rocks making the soles of his feet hurt. “why was you gettin’ down there in the water all by yourself anyway? huh? a few bucks in soap and shampoo really worth losin’ your life for?” he asks, his voice angry, annoyed even though the bite’s gone now. he doesn’t have the energy for another fight. “thanks, jesse. thanks for savin’ my reckless ex-girlfriend’s life. she can’t take care of herself.” jesse just runs a hand over his face, unsure how many times he can repeat the phrase don’t mention it before they take it literally and shut up. “blah, blah, blah.” billy turns around again, making that hand gesture, where his fingers and thumb repeatedly snap together, indicating her pointless babbling. jesse has to grab him by said hand and urge him forward. “you know, jess, he sent her pictures of his fuckin’ filly! an’ she got mad at me!” the blond just raises his eyebrows, lets out a hum and keeps them walking, feeling way more awkward than he did as a kid when his parents were arguing in front of him.

when they reach the campsite, the bonfire’s still burning and the light above the steps to the old RV is on. pat’s sitting on a folding chair, clutching his side and hissing as doc examines his jaw and the insides of his mouth. apparently one of his teeth is a bit wobbly now. they say nothing when they see billy, lucy gray and jesse. doc lifts his hand in a silent hello and jesse responds the same way. pat and billy eye each other for a moment, but then billy begins to walk back to the camper without a word. pat, being pat, sticks his foot out and trips him. jesse grabs his stumbling friend by the shoulder and just as billy attempts to retaliate insists, “let it go, billy boy. let it go.” he hands him a cool beer bottle to put on his swollen lip, but billy turns it down and heads straight for his bunk, making sure to wipe his dirty feet on pat’s fart-filled sleepin’ bag before climbing up. 

“thank you for that too, for comin’ just in time jesse.” what a rare moment in time, lucy gray treating him with sincere appreciation and kindness. really, he’s done a lot of shit. but what the hell would she have done if not for them coming out? it’s a confusing feeling, knowing all the bad jesse has still done but he did her a favor she can’t be more grateful for… and she’d go as far to say he helped her from drowning. billy would have been too late if her feet hadn’t become untangled from her skirt. “thank you,” for the towel. wringing her hair out again, she stands wobbly in discomfort and from her nerves that still has her hands and limbs shaking. shuffling over, slipping her feet into her flip flops, “it’s not the time for it! you idiot! since you don’t care about my honor anyway— when you disrespect me callin’ me a floozy. and be honest billy, you only beat up pat not to defend me, but to show him dominance.” since living like a monk is all that’s on his mind, he thought pat was going to get a night with her. “to get your rocks off, from all that psychotic anger you were just filled with.” the tiny brunette scowls, “who doesn’t want to sleep at this point?” after what he’s done, his messed up face would break her heart any other time— but right now, he just deserves it. dragging herself along behind jesse because she IS going but not stopping with the comments, she’s looking to billy as they begin to walk, “won’t be any ice to apply to all that bullshit either.” be lucky if he finds a piece in one of the coolers, gesturing to his bloodied face. “how awful.” to get beaten like that, to have water still stuck in her nose she’s trying to blow into her shirt, to be soaking wet in her fresh clean clothes she JUST put back on. it’s really adding fuel to her low and depressed and terrible mood. hating every single damn step of the way, has her tensed, walking uncomfortably and ready to slam her face against a boulder. “mhm, no thanks to you,” she repeats, “you know i can’t swim. and you didn’t give a damn. what if jesse hadn’t came? you’d felt real bad once i wasn’t there to argue with anymore. to accuse bein’ a whore. a cheater. and whatever else horrific ideas you’ve copped up ‘bout me. and river? shut up, billy. just shut the hell up…textin’ any man on the face of this earth is the last thing I EVER will be doin’ again. i’ve had my fair share of men, by now. real dad who leaves me, preacher who berates me consistently and leaves me, best friend who leaves me, billy taupe who belittled me n’ my worth and leaves me, best friend who comes back into my life and sets us up off lies, that last guy who just had his own problems, best friend who comes back into my life again and then says i’m this and that. pat bein’ a sicko. so i don’t reckon all this, i know i’m long done with men.” who cares if jesse is hearing it all, she doesn’t give one flyin’ possum airing out all her dirty laundry. she doesn’t care about anything right this moment.

[wooprince]

you forgot to break up with me...

Jungwon thought that your smile was only meant for him.

He thought wrong.

inspired by day6's congratulations

pairing: jungwon x fem!reader

a/n: english isn't my first language, excuse any errors lol

Now you don’t even answer the phone. Jungwon chuckled bitterly, the bright screen displaying the missed call reminding him once again of the growing distance between you. His thumb hovered over the screen for a couple of seconds, debating whether to call you again. Should I? Should I not? What’s there to lose?

Screw it. Against his better judgment, his heart guided his actions as he tapped your number once more. Nothing. He followed up with a text: “Are you free? Let’s talk this out.” Still nothing. Jungwon sighed—a little too loudly—but he was past the point of caring. There was no one else in the subway coach with him anyway. It was almost one in the morning on a weekday, and he was just heading back to the dorm after band practice. Funny how he’d been all laughter and giggles just minutes ago, and now he was back to his miserable self the moment he was alone. This was a side he knew better than to show anyone else... except maybe you.

But now you weren’t there to witness him in this state—to comfort him, to soothe his aching heart. You were the only one who could ever get him to loosen up. And now, you were also the reason he was falling apart, in shambles. You were both the breaker and the healer of his heart.

Jungwon stared at his phone, his face blank, though a thousand thoughts ran through his mind. He was confused and hurt. For weeks now, he’d been replaying the moments you shared, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Did I not pay enough attention to her? Was it because Jay kept asking me to hang out with the guys after band practice? Was it because I was late to our date that one time? Wait… did I miss a week of giving her flowers? But she never said anything… So what was it..?

Letting out another tired sigh, Jungwon brushed his bangs back in frustration, locked his phone, and shoved it into his hoodie pocket. He leaned his head against the coach mirror, feeling the vibrations with every turn the bullet train took. City lights swerved past him as his eyes mindlessly stared ahead—at the energy drink ad on the wall, and at the way the mirror opposite him reflected his miserable, blank face whenever the outside scenery went dark.

It wasn’t until two minutes later that the loud yet robotic voice blared through the speaker above his head. “The next station is Seoul Station. Transfer is available to KTX, AREX, and Line 4. The doors are on the right.”

Just two more stations until he reached the dorm.

Jungwon decided he would just rest until he made it to his station. He was about to close his eyes when he heard it—that faint laugh. He could recognise that sound anywhere: the melodic, breathy laugh, like a whisper carried on the wind. There was no mistaking it—the giggling belonged to you. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen for you, after all. He loved seeing how cheerful you became when you laughed, or how your eyes crinkled in joy at his lame jokes. But most of all, he loved being the reason behind your laughter. Jungwon’s eyes snapped open as the realisation dawned on him. Wait a minute…

The faint giggle grew clearer with each passing second, inching closer, until it was finally inside the same coach as him.

He looked to his side, towards where the giggles were coming from. And there you were, standing inside the coach just a short distance away, your back still turned against him as you searched for a place to sit. Under normal circumstances, Jungwon would’ve been giddy to see you. But not this time… His eyes quickly noticed that your arm was linked with another guy’s hand—someone he’d never seen before. Who’s this guy? What are you doing with him? Why are you holding his hand?

You seemed happy, Jungwon noted. It lasted only a few seconds, yet to him it felt like slow motion, as you and the new guy took your seats in front of him, still unaware of the way he was staring. You still had that same smile on your face, giggling at whatever funny thing the new guy had said.

He recognised that smile. It was the same one you used to flash at him when you first started dating. The same grin you wore whenever he showed up with flowers on your usual weekend dates—and it was always red tulips, because you’d once mentioned that red roses were overrated. He remembered. And he adjusted. The original rose bouquet was immediately swapped for tulips the following weekend, and every date after that.

It was the same smile you’d unknowingly wear whenever he visited your campus, just to drop off the warm lunchbox he had carefully picked from a nearby takeaway spot, because you’d once mentioned liking their rolled omelette. The same smile you’d flash when he sang you to sleep, humming whatever ballad came to mind and somehow turning it into a lullaby as he gently caressed your cheek.

Jungwon thought that your smile was only meant for him.

He thought wrong.

He stared at the two of you, now seated in front of him and still unaware of his gaze. The guy whispered something to you and earned another one of your breathy giggles—your hand quickly swatting his arm as he chuckled. Then, a beat.

Your eyes wandered absently around the bullet train coach before finally landing on the figure across from you, locking eyes with the brokenhearted boy you knew all too well. Your body froze. Then, slowly, your gaze dropped to your lap. You shifted away from the guy—barely an inch, but enough for Jungwon to notice.

Jungwon saw it—the way your smile slowly faltered at the sight of him, how his presence alone was enough to silence you. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Because the way his gaze pierced into yours was enough to convey everything he had been keeping inside. His confusion, disbelief, uncertainty. He frowned, though it wasn’t out of anger. It was more in search of clarity, some kind of explanation for this moment. Why were you there with him—and not with me?

Your eyes blinked rapidly without you realising, almost as if hoping he might disappear if you just blinked one more time. But he was there. Jungwon, your long-time boyfriend. The boyfriend you’d asked for “some time apart” from just three weeks ago, so you could rethink your relationship.

That wasn’t the truth, was it?

Excuses. Your detachment had started months before the so-called break. It began small—opting out of weekend dates, citing exhaustion from university assignments. Jungwon understood, and instead sent over snacks and chocolates. “To help you stay awake when I’m not there,” he’d say.

At times, he’d call you. You still picked up, just with less enthusiasm in your voice, and your replies grew shorter and shorter. He didn’t mind it much at first. Maybe you were just worn out from uni. He tried to understand, tried to justify each action you took that pulled you further away from him. But every time he reached out, it only seemed to push you farther still, until it felt like there was no way to reach you at all.

Things escalated last month—just three weeks ago—when he finally showed up at your house after three days of being ignored. You hadn’t answered a single call or text from him.

“Tell me what I did wrong. I’ll fix it for us,” he demanded, still maintaining his composure despite the growing impatience inside him.

“Jungwon… It’s… It’s not you. It’s me,” you muttered, refusing to look up at him.

“...Right. The oldest line in the book. I can’t understand you.”

“I mean it… You did nothing wrong. I just…”

Jungwon let out a disbelieving chuckle. “You’re saying it’s all on you, but you’re walking away like I’m the one who did something wrong. You sure it’s not me?”

“Jungwon—listen. I don’t want us to fight—”

“Don’t I deserve the truth? Are you sick of me now?” His voice rose slightly, his accusations spilling out.

“Just listen—”

“Is there someone else? Is that it? Is that why you’ve been ignoring me? Because you’ve found someone new—”

“LET’S TAKE A BREAK.” You cut him off. Silence. Jungwon had to collect himself, unsure if he’d heard you correctly.

“A break…?” His voice wavered as he repeated it. You nodded, tears threatening to spill from the frustration.

“But… but why? I thought we were doing just fine… right?”

“...Lately, I’ve been questioning where this relationship is going.”

“I don’t get it… I thought we were happy. Was I wrong this whole time?”

“That’s why I need some time away from you… I just need to be sure. Of my feelings. Of us.” 

Your words left Jungwon stunned. As hurt as he was, he was the type to put your feelings above his own. So of course, he agreed. Some time away from each other might be what you needed to come back to him… or so he convinced himself.

Clearly, that wasn’t the case when he saw you sitting next to this new dude. His replacement. The one you’d rather spend your time with. It was obvious all along… Jungwon was the fool in this relationship. The break in the relationship was simply so you could date someone else in the meantime? What a joke.

The new guy whispered something in your ear again, and you giggled, avoiding Jungwon’s gaze. But for a split second, your fingers tensed around the new guy’s sleeve. Your smile twitched. Almost faltered, before it returned, brighter than ever, as if you were overcompensating.

He smirked bitterly, not in mockery, but more out of disbelief. His eyes lingered on the two of you as his mind became wrecked with thoughts. How could I even move forward knowing what you’ve been doing behind my back? Should I hold a grudge? What was the point of all the time we spent together? Is that new guy so much better than me? Did you have to do that to me?

The bullet train ride felt longer than usual. When the speaker finally blared, announcing his station, he felt a small burden lift off his shoulders. Wordlessly, he stood up, slung his guitar bag across his body, and made his way to the door.

Jungwon’s deadpan stare lingered for one last second on the sight of you clinging to the new guy, before he stepped off the train and walked away from you, both literally and figuratively.

You forgot to break up with me...

[mariusperkins]

Not really sure what the point of the Monica storyline was, it feels like we came out of it still barely knowing anything about her relationship with Bertha and their overall family dynamic. Also really hated George and Larry laughing at Bertha when inviting Monica was first brought up.

Hello anon thank you for giving the excuse to rant about this!!

I did suspect Monica was going to be underused - every guest star basically is because the season is not long enough to support an arc for them, and I would be shocked if any new face besides Hector and The Future Mr Peggy Scott William (and family) gets more than 1-2 episodes of screen time. I do so wish that we had, if not the 20 episode seasons of ye olden days, then at least 10-15 to let some part of this show breathe a little more.

As for what we do learn, I think you can force more out of it than there is in the words on the page, since the gilded age is good at giving you a huge amount in the crumbs of Tone Of Voice or A Shared Look or even just looking up something to give yourself the historical context. Bertha and her family history is obviously a great example of this - the hint of Irish ancestry, the tiny fragment we know about her mother seeing Bertha as a vehicle for her dreams, her long view of their family's rise from the very start of her and George's marriage.

To me it was like... Their mother had two daughters and, for whatever reason, she chose Bertha as, if not The Favourite, then at least the one that she put her energy into. Bertha didn't learn the more controlling aspects of herself from nowhere, so you can assume that their mother likely chose her clothes and dictated her movements to a similar degree (though maybe less extreme, since they were - most likely - working class, and Bertha would certainly not have had the education Gladys had in a governess/etc). It would be impossible, I think, for the sisters to not be in conflict and resent each other in some way growing up (why can't you see what mother and I are trying to achieve For Our Family vs why can't you guys be happy with what we have), the kind of things that wedges itself deep in your soul, and I feel like we do see that on display in the episode - not in screaming fights like they might have done in their youth, but the constant prodding at one another: why don't you want a nicer dress to impress someone important vs why do you care so much about Meaningless Things. You can see the gap growing even wider as they got older and their mother died, that last point of connection gone (and now she'll never see either of them "win", so their tug of war will never be over).

But as with most backstories in the gilded age, if you don't want to actively seek it out and think it over, the show can fit the basic and very boring reading that Bertha is a stuck up bitch and her kind sister Monica has always been happy with what she has.

Which brings me to what I really want to talk about: this is maybe the cruelest the Russell family has been to Bertha in the show's run.

I am not unsympathetic to Gladys here, it's a tough position (made tougher by agreeing to the engagement! And thinking she could rely on George, who for narrative purposes the show needs to be shockingly ineffectual here), a devastatingly sad historical reality for a lot of young women in that time period, though as Marian points out again and again in this show when people think to ask her opinion: finding love in the 1800s was no guarantee that you would have a happy or secure life (a thing still true today, really), and that there were plenty of arranged partnerships where people made the best of it and made themselves happy because of it (which is clearly JF's position on the dollar princesses, given this and Cora DowntonAbbey). I'm glad that from what I have heard about her arc in the second half of the season that she finds some measure of happiness, and her refusing to come out of her room is the least bad of the Russell family in this episode.

As for the others...

I hated George laughing with Larry, yet another example of George getting to have the kind of relationship with his kids specifically because Bertha can't, because he never has to be the bad guy with them (even with Gladys, he frames it as not being able to stop Bertha, putting the blame back on her, as though they don't live in the 1880s). George and the kids constantly get to trade isn't Bertha being so ridiculous looks, and it honestly makes me so sad, to think of her being so isolated even within her own family, to never get to be brought into their jokes, to always be the opponent in some way.

It also lets him wash his hands of his role in the family. George clearly views him being a Good Dad as the thing that really shows his moral character (and not, you know...his terrible factory conditions and brutal way of doing business), and he's so obviously resentful that he can't so cleanly be The Good Guy here that he's taking it out on Bertha. I've said it before and I'll say it again: it's the 1880s. If he didn't want the marriage to go ahead, it wouldn't. Between this and his play out west, he's taking out every insecurity and frustration on Bertha, every trait of her's he's spent two seasons admiring now made to be a glaring fault in her character. It is, in a word, unfair.

And with Larry inviting Monica... Just what was that supposed to achieve, besides him trying to humiliate Bertha? There is a difference, I think, between being a protective older brother, and just being cruel to someone you do not like and this was the latter. Making Bertha uncomfortable in her own home does not protect Gladys. Humiliating Bertha in front of people she's trying to impress does not help Gladys. Having someone else to roll your eyes at when Bertha says or does anything does not help Gladys. I do not believe for one second he was motivated in any way by wanting her to be there, which makes it not only cruel to Bertha but also pretty rude to Monica. How would you like to be invited to a wedding as a joke on someone else?

On top of all of that, any and every scene of Bertha trying to impress someone and getting nowhere with them, because to them she will always be the potato picker's daughter in a fancy dress and nothing more, it just breaks my heart. Bertha is never trying harder than she is in those moments with Mrs Astor or Lady Sarah and it will never be enough. And Monica sort of reinforces that, doesn't she, as they look around at the wedding - the beautiful decorations, the place packed with beautifully dressed well to do people, all here to celebrate Bertha's daughter - and her sister says it's nothing. All her work is nothing to the Lady Sarah's of the world and to the Monica's. She will not get in above and they will not let her in below, and so it is her, isolated and alone forever, always grasping, always hoping that, next time, maybe you'll get it right, maybe that's the time it will really and truly work.

I know so many people seemed to have finished the episode feeling like Bertha was Unforgiveable, but honestly after episode 4 I feel more sympathetic to her than ever.

[flyndragon]

ok so we all know that SBS assigning nuclear family roles to the strawhats is wrong and bad. here's the real deal:

Luffy: Middle Child:The sort of middle child that just has no idea what family dynamics is, and is thus unaffected by birth order. Is he a little stupid? Maybe. Is he the sweetest cuddliest little lovebug? yes. Everyone's secret favorite because he himself doesn't have a favorite. The type of family member who would grow up and never get a real job, but gosh darn it nobody really cares.

Zoro: Eldest Child: Has got that intense sense internally that they are solely responsible for the well being of the rest of the family. Feels he has to be the 'serious' one. Will hold other people to their promises and responsibilities without being asked to do so, but doesn't really share his own inner world.

Nami: Dad: Navigator means she's a little? bit driving this metophorical bus and she WOULDNT have to ask for Directions but if she needed too? Also Money. I think canonically gives everyone else an allowance. If the Sunny had a thermostat you know she'd be watching that motherfucker like a Hawk.

Usopp: Middle Child pt. 2: The sort of middle child who DID develop a complex about it. Invested all their energy into standing out by being a class clown to get attention but still sometimes feels like they have no role in the family, despite being very much loved

Sanji: Mom: Holy shit Sanji is the most mom-coded man I've ever read. Yes he do the cookin', yes he do the cleanin', ect ect, but wow It does deeper than that. His mind is always on everyone else safety but more mom-ish, their needs. I would not put it past him to break out a wet wipe and scrubbing if someone a spot on their nose.

Chopper: Youngest Child: Obvious. He's Baby. The specific brand of youngest where they're also a massive over achiever. Like you didn't need to go that hard baby. Everyone already loves you.

Robin: Weird Aunt, Weird Aunt!!: Sorry that Oda is so wrong but she is not a mom. She is so obviously the cool aunt all the teenagers like. Works in academia. Lets the kids watch scary movies. Gives out slightly too much sugar, then tells them that the sugar will rot your teeth out. She is an adams family relative, put some respect on her name!

Franky: Uncle: just your normal uncle. Has 5 jobs and a cool car/motorcycle that he maintains himself. He is King of the local makerspace, and everyone comes to him when they need to borrow a drill press or w/e and hes genuinely kind while he guides them through using it. Comes to every family occasion dressed inappropriately, no matter what the occasion.

Brook: Old man that nobody knows how they're Related: Is he a grandparent? a Friend of your grandparent? A grand-cousin thrice removed? At this point nobody knows and everyone enjoys his presence at parties and cookouts too much to ask

Jinbe: grand-uncle: He's a boring community college professor and then you learn that he spent most of his 20s in jail for being a civil rights leader. Also for throwing bricks at cops

[ruru195]

Boris’ Brilliant Experiment

The camera beeped on, catching Boris proudly standing in the kitchen—though he looked like he’d raided half the house. Draped over his shoulders was Cuphead’s coat, which was much too long for him, while Bendy’s smudged goggles were perched crookedly on his head, slipping dangerously low over his eyes. On his hands were mechanic’s gloves he could barely flex his fingers in.

“Heya folks!” Boris beamed into the camera. “Today we’re gonna conduct a very important scientific investigation.” He puffed up his chest, trying to look scholarly. “Now, none of this is mine. This here’s Cuphead’s coat, Bendy’s goggles—which smell a little like burnt oil—and these gloves are from… somewhere in Bendy’s workshop. I’m really hopin’ Cup doesn’t kill me for usin’ his fancy coat.”

Boris leaned closer, voice dropping to a secretive, eager whisper. “So here’s what’s got me curious. The other day, I was sittin’ with Bendy—y’know, chattin’ about nothin’—when he suddenly starts goin’ on about how Cuphead’s skin is real soft. Like, actual skin soft.”

Boris spread his hands wide, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s weird, right? ‘Cause they’re porcelain people. They’re hollow, like fancy cups. They’re supposed to be smooth and hard. But Bendy swears up and down that his boyfriend’s skin feels all gentle and squishy, and I just—” Boris did a little spin, throwing his hands up. “—I gotta know how that works! I mean, is it magic? Is it because they’re living? Is it some weird side effect from all that soul energy they got swirling around inside? I’m gonna find out.”

The camera wobbled as Boris picked it up and tiptoed into the living room, where Mugman was snoring blissfully, completely dead to the world.

“Perfect test subject,” Boris whispered like a cartoon villain. “Now, let’s see if Mugman’s skin is like Cup’s.”

He started with a single, tentative poke to Mugman’s cheek. It gave way, soft and plush under his finger, exactly like real skin. Boris’s mouth fell open.

“Oh WOW… look at that!” he whispered excitedly to the camera. “It’s all soft when I’m gentle… but—”

He pressed a little harder. Suddenly, the cheek was firm, unyielding as smooth ceramic. Boris’s eyes went wide, sparkling with discovery. “It’s like… it adjusts. When you’re soft, it’s soft. When you push, it’s like pokin’ a teapot!”

Boris paused, grin growing far too mischievous. “For the sake of complete scientific accuracy, we gotta see just how hard this can get.”

He drew back his fist, gave the camera a confident thumbs up—then slammed it into Mugman’s stomach with everything he had.

There was a horrible CRUNCH that did not come from Mugman. Boris’s eyes went wide before he fell to the ground, clutching his now totally mangled hand.

“AAAAAAAAAAGH MY HAND! MY BONES! THEY’RE ALL GONE!” Boris wailed, rolling back and forth on the carpet in absolute agony.

Mugman bolted upright, blinking sleepily down at him. “Huh? Boris? Why’re ya rollin’ on the ground screamin’? And—wait, is that Cuphead’s coat?!”

“IT WAS FOR SCIENCE!” Boris sobbed, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes.

The camera, now tilted sideways on the floor, caught it all: Boris writhing in self-inflicted misery, Mugman scratching his head in confused alarm, and Cuphead’s voice faintly shrieking from the hallway, “BORIS, IF THAT’S MY COAT I SWEAR—!”

Truly, the pursuit of knowledge came at a painful (and very loud) cost.

[hey-iam-fire-ghost-but-i-write]

Ok but why does Shakespeare version of ophelia predicts the future like.

Ophelia goes mad because her father is dead and drowns because of her grief. when morpheus goes missing, Ophelia goes kinda crazy with the whole searching all the words for him for 100 years. Only to end up almost dead and metaphorically dying as dreams raven

Hi, sweet anon! Yes! When looking for Ophelia's name, I came across a few options that could fit her but it was the imagery that came with this one why I made up my mind.

Is in part 005 (coming soon) where I tap a little bit into this, because yes: my Ophelia did die the day she became human, her purpose in the Dreaming lost and the only reason why she remains there is Morpheus' plea for her not to leave him.

Shakespeare's Ophelia drowns because of her grief, and suddenly all expectations draw away from her and the only thing they see is this grieving saint girl who went away too soon. Metaphorically, only in death a girl can be free of the mandates of society.

My Ophelia loses all senses of purpose, yes, but it's also free of all expectations and demands from her Lord— she gave away something greater than just wings to keep him from grieving her. In that moment of desperation, he turned her into something even riskier to lose. He drew all her mission from her the second he trapped her in a human form.

Is no coincidence that Morpheus uses the rain to trap her in the castle after the argument and then shows up the second she steps into the water. He remembers their promises, because he still holds her accountable for them.

And it's only when Ophelia steps into the rain, drenches herself in the fountain, that he finally understands it: she's no longer his, she's her own.

I also LOVE Millais' Ophelia, that painting is beautiful and I'm sure it was throughout appreciated by Dream too. So I leave you a little drabble about that!

contemplation

“Could we go and see Hob?” you ask softly, tiptoeing as you get closer to his ear. 

He stays silent, and just when you’re starting to believe you won’t get an answer “We agreed to not be away for long”

“Well, yes, but it’s been so long— I would like to get to talk to him through this new form” you hug his arm closer to your chest “Could you indulge me just this once?”

“Just this once, little bird?” he replies with a question, tone suggestive and ironic as he lifts an eyebrow at you.

There was not a day in his eternal existence when he did not indulge you.

It was a cold and rainy day in London, humid and unpleasant. The kind of day one would wish to stay inside for as long as possible. 

But then again, you were not much of an inside person. And when Morpheus offered the Waking World to you after so long— you couldn’t deny it.

It’s been months in the Dreaming, and although it was nice to lay low back home after close to one hundred years of searching all around the cosmos and it’s planes for him… you still needed to fly away.

Irritable and antsy, Morpheus saw you day after day grow more and more closed off— grieving the loss of your wings was a constant energy draining activity. It took far too much from you.

He had to do something.

So, now you are walking through the Tate Britain, your arms interlocked as you stop every once in a while to look up at the artistry in contemplation. Some you’ve already seen hidden in plain sight, as they were being painted— for they were strictly given from Morpheus to the artists. His inspiration, his life long mission to keep the Waking World’s imagination alive.

The Museum was filled with him, and the muses— Calliope’s sisters.

Calliope.

It’s been a while since the last encounter of Morpheus and his past wife— the encounter fleeting but charged with old sentiments coming afloat for the both of them. 

And, incredibly, for you too. Calliope was a chapter in the long storybook of Dream— one filled with love persevering in the form of grief. It took the Dreaming days to recover from the floods after their separation, and even more for Morpheus to even attempt and love again.

“Where’s your mind?” he rasps, his lips grazing softly at the helix of your ear.

You turn to him, your eyes looking up at him through your eyelashes— and all the thoughts about his past lovers slip away “You promised a lovely outing” you reproach, not backing up when his own face comes closer to yours.

“Is this not enough for you, little bird?” he challenges, to see how far you would complain— to continue this lighthearted banter. A glint of amusement in his eyes.

“I’ve already seen every single one of these paintings, Dream” you point out, formalities out the window.

“In all the one hundred years away from me you made a point to tour galleries?”

You click your tongue, looking away— and then you see her.

She was here, the vibrant painting of Ophelia was hanging right in front of you now. You almost gasp upon seeing her.

She was just as you remembered her, dramatic and so familiar— her auburn hair hallowing her death striking face, her dress like the one of a spectrum wandering around haunted castles. And the flowers.

Your flowers.

“She’s here” you breathe out, surprised.

Morpheus hums, turning towards the painting “She is” he nods. 

“Why does she—?” you whisper, taking a step closer as you let go of Morpheus’ arm.

It was like looking in a mirror. 

Morpheus himself touched Millais with inspiration for this specific piece, almost as if it was a commissioned work. Now you understand why. He surely hand chose the model for the painting. You guess he looked all around the Waking World for someone who looked like you.

And after all these years, you're just realizing this.

For when you were still a raven, you couldn't picture the first face of yours he ever saw before gifting you your position by his side.

He steps besides you, too “I never got to see it finished”

Gone, imprisoned from you. From the entire world. For over a hundred years.

How long has he been wanting to see the products of his inspiration?

“I have” you whisper “I was there”

“I remember” he nods.

You both stand there together for a while in quiet contemplation.

“Next time I visit Hob, I’ll point to her if he asks for you” he starts walking away again, and you follow after.

How foolish, but how it made you stomach bubble in need when he would try and keep you from the world.

Taglist! 🤎 @elinadenise @thelady-of-dragonfire @radioactivewatson @jeshomie @getitrtealgood @stranger-chan @universallyrascaldreamercookie @edynmeyer1 @littlemisstrashcan

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[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 13 - Sorry for the long wait and short chapter but life is kicking my ass <3

The sounds of the camp moving and rising like a great beast in the dawn woke them. Cassian held Nesta tight for a few moments, savouring their closeness before she was allowed to move. He kissed her gently then rose with her. In silence, they dressed. Cassian donned his armour then checked his weapons before sheathing them. The seven red siphons on his body pulsed in anticipation of the fight to come. The mud on the bottom of Nesta’s dress had hardened during the night and chipped off as she pulled it on. Cassian had well and truly ruined the back of it, although with a loose length of string, he did try to lace it together where he’d torn off the buttons. In the grand scheme of things, a broken dress was the least of her problems.

‘You can’t just fly us somewhere, Cassian?’ She twisted her hands together. ‘Just you and I. We can find a corner of a foreign field that will be forever ours.’

Cassian’s eyes closed and he swayed on the spot before he moved to her. His wide hands cupped her face. ‘I want that. You can’t imagine how much I want to run. This is my purpose, Nesta.’

It wasn’t right for her to crumble now. She had been through too much to break – but Cassian had been someone to lean on and it was so hard to stand alone. She couldn’t lose him. He could not be just another number sacrificed to the meat grinder.

Horns sounded.

‘I have to go.’

Nesta swallowed, unable to find any words.

He pulled her close again, an arm curving around her back. ‘Be safe. At the first signs of things going south, you get the hell out. Don’t look back. Don’t try to save anybody. You get yourself safe. Promise me that.’

Their kiss was not at all gentle. It was the sort of the kiss that devoured. His hands delved into her hair. Her hands grasped his leathers, groping his body to try and hold him for longer. Her pulse throbbed when Cassian let her go.

‘I love you.’

He tilted his head, black hair falling across his face as he offered up a grin. ‘I know.’

She watched him go from the tent but did not follow. Nesta needed that moment to compose herself before she fell apart.

‘I will not weep,’ she told herself, although her eyes were telling a different story. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, breathing steadily. She could not lose him. Nesta refused to start again. Her heart belonged in Iron Crest with him. In Iron Crest, Cassian had forced change into the camp so that it was somewhere better; a place where orphaned children had a chance to grow up safe and loved. Here, she could lead by his example and help where possible. She could do that.

The day was busy aiding the healers with new bandages and fresh water. Her arms ached from carrying the heavy buckets but it was the least she could do. There were older Illyrian females in the camp too who cooked so Nesta carried wood to their fires and dispensed food to healers to keep their energy up. She ran across the camp passing messages until her boots made her feet bleed. More than once, she slipped in the mud as rain lashed down.  

She had lost count of the number of males who were dead or close to it. Feyre and Mor were helping to organise the wounded at the various healing tents. Those directed to the left had the highest chance of living. Those with minor wounds did not even leave the battlefield and continued to fight until they received more serious injuries. Some passed through the healers’ tents in a matter of minutes and went straight back into the fighting. Those who were directed to the right were often carried because their wounds were more serious. Many of them were unconscious and were carried there by camp mates who wanted them off the field before they died. They had no healers for those. Only females – some Illyrian, some from the Hewn City – who held the males’ hands as they left the world to give them a small comfort.

Nesta could not think of the ones who had already died on the battlefield. Of the boots that were trampling their bodies. The families who would be waiting for the news of their deaths that wouldn't come until it was all over and discarded bodies were foraged for like shells upon the sand.

Throughout it all, the never-ending churning of battle sounded. Naively, she had thought her mind might block it out, but it remained there like a dark cloud. She could not think of Cassian - not for a single moment - or she would not be able to move again.

Amidst the chaos of more wounded flowing into the camp like the tide, Nesta spotted Balthazar. He struggled to fly with another’s arm slung over his shoulder. A third male was on the other side of the injured one to try and keep him upright.

A sudden lurch of pain made Nesta’s knees buckle.

It was Cassian.

Cassian was between the males, bloodied and unconscious.

Then she saw it. A gash across his middle that had torn open his leathers. Balthazar’s hands were pressing against Cassian’s abdomen, trying to keep his organs from spilling out. There was so much blood. She had never seen so much blood from a wound.

Nesta froze where she was.

Her heart was rupturing in two.

This could not be it. It could not happen this way.

The healer took a single look at him and directed Balthazar to the right. That was where the males were sent to die.

Nesta surged forwards but was met by her sister’s body. Feyre’s hands went to her shoulders, holding her still. ‘Nesta, he’s too badly injured. The healers need to focus their efforts on the ones who can be easily healed.’

She shook in Feyre’s arms. The mating bond felt as if it was fraying. Every thread was spreading further away, growing weaker.

‘He needs a healer,’ she gritted out.

There was pity in her sister’s eyes, but no real warmth.

Morrigan strode over. Mud and blood were sprayed against her leathers from the day. She moved to lay a hand upon Nesta’s shoulder then thought better of it. ‘The healers will expend too much energy on such a wound. We must think of the majority.’

How many times had she said such a thing today to grieving soldiers who’d demanded the same for their brothers and fathers and sons? How many had died because they had steered the hand of fate?

‘He will not last the night. I’m sorry, Nesta,’ Feyre said, her tone softer.

Fire boiled Nesta’s blood. It writhed through her veins, angry and potent. She pushed away her sister’s arms and stepped back. Nesta burnt. Silver flames wreathed her head like a crown. More slithered around her arms. It became her armour. Her whole body was devoured by it. The camp around them paused their workings to stare in horror at what she was becoming. She was a creature of rage and pain, one of loss and fury.

‘He is my fucking mate. You will send every healer to his side or I will burn this entire camp to the ground.’

***

Sweat beaded on Cassian’s forehead as he fought to kick off the mountain of layers piled on top of him. The movement had stars blazing across his vision while pain erupted across his stomach.

He was in his tent. Not his tent. This was smaller, too small for a brazier yet one burnt all the same there, smoking him out like a sausage. It wasn’t a healing tent as those were spacious enough for many bodies. Was he dead? Death wouldn’t smell so smoky, surely.

Cassian forced his weight onto one hand as he tried to sit himself up.

‘Don’t even think about moving,’ came a sharp voice.

Amongst the haze of smoke and pain, he made out Nesta’s shape. She was curled up near his head like a cat, eyelids almost closed as she peered at him.

‘Are we dead?’

‘Not yet,’ she replied, voice hoarse.

Cassian coughed and wafted his hand through the air, trying to disperse some of the smoke. ‘This tent is too small for a brazier.’

‘You were as cold as the grave. It was either the brazier or Balthazar pressing his naked body to yours to warm you.’

At his instruction, Nesta peeled open the tent to allow fresh air in. The night was crisp with its coldness but the camp remained awake.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ Nesta pushed up to her feet as Cassian did the same. A hand shot out to steady him as he swayed. ‘Get down. Now. You are injured. Gravely. You are being winnowed back to rest.’

‘I am the leader of Iron Crest. It is my duty to fight, but first I must see to my males.’

The words were easier said than done when it felt as though he was wading through mud. Each step had to be carefully thought about before he planted his boot then steadied himself. Even Nesta didn’t dare to tug him back to the tent for fear of toppling him over.

The battle returned to him in broken shards. They had called him Enalius. His blade had cut through Hybern’s soldiers like they were sheaths of wheat. Until one of their blades had slashed his stomach. The thin tunic that had been pulled over his body was backwards. Cassian pulled the collar away from his chest to peer at the wound. It was bad. Males had died from lesser ones.

The camp quietened as they moved. The armies of Night and Summer paused to gawp. Any pride that Cassian felt for his heroics in the battle soon dried up when he noticed that it was not adoration in their eyes, but horror and fear. They weren’t looking at him. No, all attention was on his wife.

Cassian raised his arm to beckon Nesta closer. She put her arm around his back to offer support, but he wanted her close for a different reason. If anybody wanted to lay a finger on his mate, they’d need to go through him first.

Shadows built up from the ground like sand being poured then the High Lord of the Night Court materialised in front of them. His eyes narrowed. ‘Why is he up?’

‘Because he cares for his males – perhaps you should try it,’ Nesta snarled before Cassian had a chance to open his lips.

This side of her was new. It was territorial and her vitriol was directed at Rhysand instead of him for a change.

Rhysand took a step back, wariness tightening his features. Not only him. Others in the camp who were immobile were backing away too. Some made a sign against evil.

‘What the hell have I missed?’

‘Your mate threatened to destroy this entire camp with her newfound killing power.’

Nesta folded her arms over her chest. In the moonlight, Cassian could see her better. Silver rimmed her irises. It was unnatural, but utterly beautiful.

‘Now, why would I do such a thing?’

At Rhysand’s silence, Nesta turned to Cassian. She was so tired. Her body wanted to collapse, but that spine held her upright. Cassian cupped her cheek with his hand. She deserved so much better than this.

‘They would have let you die,’ she whispered. ‘They were going to let you die. You weren’t worth the effort of saving.’

He’d have made the same call if one of his males had the wound too – and the thought suddenly sickened him. How many had died because they didn’t have a Nesta standing up for them.

‘I want you to count all of the stars, Nes,’ he murmured.

‘Why?’

‘Because when this is all over – when we have our time – I will give you as many kisses as there are stars in the sky.’  

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter ten || saturday night fights - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

❝ Kamo “Choso,” a guarded boxer, meets a soft-spoken baker when he starts daily visits after training. Their connection grows slowly—social media follow, sweet diner dates, shared springtime moments—but love comes through quiet acts: tending wounds, pearl necklaces, building a home together. Challenges follow—a big match, media attention, and legal fights,—yet their bond deepens through intimacy, honest conversations under starry nights, and passionate reunions after weeks apart. As they balance family, business, and future plans, Choso sheds his tough exterior and the baker learns to trust in love worth fighting for.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

The day of Choso’s match came heavy and slow. You moved through the house — your house now — with restless energy. The floors creaked softly under your steps, the sunlight slanting across the warm wood, catching on the little things that made it yours — a book half-open on the coffee table, a mug left out on the kitchen counter, a vase of fresh flowers near the window. But you weren’t settled. Couldn’t be. As much as you wanted to be at the arena, sitting ringside, watching Choso fight like you had that first time — you weren’t. Choso had been adamant.

“I don’t want you there,” he said days before, voice low, firm but not unkind. “It ain’t you. I don’t want you watchin’ me turn into somethin’ ugly.” You’d fought it — softly, gently — but you understood. It wasn’t about you not being strong enough to handle it. It was about Choso — not wanting to become that version of himself in front of you, not wanting you to see the parts of him he hated the most. So you stayed home, pacing the hallways, tidying already-tidy rooms, checking your phone every few minutes for updates that wouldn’t come. When the match ended, all you got was a single text:

"Won’t be long."

You heard the low rumble of his truck pulling into the driveway before you saw him — the engine idling as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the front yard. You pulled open the front door before he could even step onto the porch. Choso was there, shoulders slumped, hoodie pulled up, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and then you saw it — the bruising already blooming along his jaw, dark and angry against the cut of his cheekbone, his bottom lip a little swollen. You swallowed hard against the instinct to rush forward and fuss over him. He caught your expression and gave a soft huff — half tired, half amused.

“S’not as bad as it looks,” he muttered, stepping inside. The familiar scent of him — sweat, leather, something darker — curled around you as he passed. You shut the door behind him, locking it, the house settling again around you both like a sigh. “Come on,” you said quietly, brushing your fingers lightly against his wrist. “Shower.” He didn’t argue — didn’t have the energy — just let you lead him through the quiet house, past the kitchen where the kettle still sat forgotten, past the cozy living room with the books and the photos and the life you’d built, toward the master bathroom at the back of the house.

You turned on the shower, the water rushing hot and heavy against the tile, steam already curling into the air. Choso stripped slowly — wincing once when he pulled the hoodie over his head — the bruises more visible now in the harsh overhead light. You tugged your own clothes off, stepping in first and holding your hand out for him. He followed, ducking slightly under the stream, water sluicing over his broad shoulders, his hair flattening to his scalp. For a moment, he just stood there — still, breathing slow, the heat soaking into his skin, loosening muscles pulled too tight.

You picked up the washcloth, lathering it with soap, and started gently working it over his arms, his chest, careful around the bruised ribs. Choso’s eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady under your hands. You moved in front of him, cupping his face carefully, thumbs brushing along the stubbled line of his jaw, careful not to press too hard against the swelling. “You don’t have to do this anymore,” you murmured, your voice barely carrying over the rush of water. Choso’s eyelids lifted — heavy, dark. You smoothed your thumbs along his cheeks, brushing water from his lashes.

“You don’t have to keep fighting if you don’t want to,” you said. “You’ve got other options now. Brand deals. Endorsements. Enough money to start fresh.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead lightly to yours, water dripping between you. “I been thinkin’,” he said, voice rough. “Brand deals ain’t me. But...” You waited, patient, feeling his hands slide to your waist, holding you steady. “I wanna open a gym,” he said. “Somethin’ small. Clean. Not like the big ones. A place for kids startin’ out. Give ‘em a shot. Somewhere to belong.” Your chest ached, warm and full. “That sounds perfect,” you whispered.

Choso’s hand curled against your back, pulling you closer. “Wanna build it here. In town. Where we’re already home.”

You smiled — a real, slow smile — resting your forehead against his. “You will,” you said. “And I’ll help. However you need.” He kissed you then — not rough, not urgent — just there, solid and sure, like a promise. You washed him slowly after that, neither of you speaking much, the water doing the talking — warm, soothing, forgiving. Washing away the bruises, the blood, the weight of the night.

Later, after you’d both dried off and changed into clean clothes — Choso in loose sweats, you in one of his old shirts — you curled up together on the big couch in the living room, lights low, the house quiet around you. Choso tucked you against him, his hand resting low on your belly, thumb stroking slow circles over the soft fabric. No words. No rush.

Just the quiet certainty that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that only settled deep in the middle of the night — after the hum of the world faded, after even the floors had stopped creaking under the day's footsteps. Choso sat at the kitchen table, barefoot, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, an old hoodie draped loose around his shoulders. The house felt different at night — softer somehow. The moonlight spilled in through the wide windows, casting a pale, silver glow across the wooden floors, catching on the edges of the furniture, the curve of the table, and there it sat. The small velvet box.

He turned it over slowly in his calloused hands, the weight of it heavy and solid and real in a way nothing else had ever been. The ring inside — simple, bright — wasn’t new. It wasn’t flashy. But it carried something bigger than both of you: a piece of your family’s history, a quiet legacy, a promise tucked neatly between generations. Choso’s thumb brushed the soft velvet, the texture grounding him. He’d fought for a lot of things in his life. Fought in gyms, fought in rings, fought against the kind of loneliness that crept in when you didn't have a home to come back to. But this — you — this was the first thing he didn’t want to fight for.

He just wanted to ask.

He didn’t hear you come in.

Soft, bare feet against the hardwood. No sound, just the faint shift of air. When he looked up, you were there — standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sleepy and vulnerable in the low light. One of his old t-shirts hung loose on your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Bare legs, bare feet. Your hair was mussed from sleep, curling at your temples, and your eyes — wide, soft — landed first on him, then on what sat in his hand. The box.

Your breath hitched, barely audible, and you froze. Choso watched you — watched the way you swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at your sides, your heart in your eyes. He didn’t move. Didn’t try to hide it. Just looked at you — at the way the moonlight kissed your skin, at the curve of your bare shoulders, the vulnerable set of your mouth — and then back down at the ring, and then back up again. His throat worked around the words, thick and rough.

“You’ll say yes, right?”

It wasn’t the polished, practiced proposal some people would expect. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was Choso — simple, real, raw. You blinked, a tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. “Of course,” you whispered, voice shaking. Choso’s face didn’t change much — no grin, no wide smile — but his eyes softened, the kind of softness that could break you open, that could pull you under and make you never want to come up for air again.

He stood slowly, moving around the table, the box still in his hand.

When he reached you, he hesitated for just a second — the ghost of nerves flashing across his face — before he opened the box, the small diamond catching the faint light, shimmering quietly between you. You didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. You just held out your hand, palm up, fingers trembling slightly. Choso took your hand carefully, like it was something precious, and slid the ring onto your finger — slow, deliberate, grounding himself in the feel of it, in the feel of you. It fit perfectly, of course it did. Your mother was no fool.

You stepped into him then, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest. Choso closed his arms around you, holding you against him — steady, sure. “You’re sure?” he murmured against your hair, voice low, rough. You nodded, feeling him breathe against you. “I’ve never been more sure.” Choso’s hand slid up your back, cradling the back of your head, his mouth brushing the crown of your hair. “Good,” he said softly. “Me too.”

And in the quiet of the kitchen — in the house you are building your life together, in the middle of the night when the world had finally gone still — you stood there, tangled up in each other, the promise of forever pressed between your bodies, small and simple and real. Exactly the way it was always meant to be.

Morning broke slow and gentle, the kind of light that didn’t rush — just filtered in soft and warm through the bedroom windows, spilling across the floor in lazy beams. You blinked awake, the air cool against your bare legs, the sheets twisted around you. For a moment, you stayed still, breathing in the quiet — the smell of fresh air from the cracked window, the faint scent of Choso on the pillow beside you and then you remembered. You shifted slightly, lifting your hand into the morning light. The ring caught immediately — a thin silver band, simple, elegant, the marquise diamond gleaming quietly as it caught the early sun. Your breath caught in your chest.

Your mother’s ring.

You brushed your thumb carefully over the band, your throat tightening with the weight of it. The years it carried. The love. It wasn’t just a ring. It was family. Home. A future rooted in something deep and real. You were still staring when the faint sounds of the kitchen reached you — the creak of the old cabinets, the low clatter of dishes, the hum of the coffee maker.

Choso.

You smiled, pushing the blankets back and slipping one of his old hoodies over your head, padding barefoot through the house toward the kitchen. There he was — barefoot in sweats, shirtless under the open hoodie he shrugged on, hair still damp from the quick shower you hadn’t heard him take. He was at the stove, flipping something in a pan with easy, unhurried movements. You leaned against the arch leading to the kitchen, just watching him — the steady lines of his shoulders, the way his brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the domesticity of it all so natural now it made your heart ache a little.

Without thinking, you crossed the room, your bare feet soundless on the wood. Choso glanced up as you slid into the chair at the table, giving you a once-over — the messy curls, the oversized hoodie, the bare legs. His mouth tugged at the corner, small and real. “Sleep okay?” he asked, voice low and rough with sleep. You nodded, hand still turning, the ring glinting in the soft light.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “More than okay.” Choso finished with the pan, plating a couple of scrambled eggs and toast, setting the plate in front of you before sliding into the chair across from you with his own. You sat there for a second, just smiling stupidly at each other. Finally, you picked up your phone from the table, holding your hand out across the table to him. Choso, understanding immediately, reached out — his big, calloused hand covering yours, fingers lacing lightly between yours. You angled the phone, the focus sharp on the ring sitting perfectly on your finger, Choso’s hand steady and sure beneath yours.

Snap.

You stared at the photo for a second — the simplicity of it, the realness — and smiled wider, your heart thudding against your ribs. On instinct, you opened your personal Instagram account and posted it with a caption so simple it barely needed words:

"The easiest yes. 🕊️💍"

Within minutes, the comments started rolling in — hearts, congratulations, friends and distant family chiming in with excitement, the kind of warmth that made the world feel a little smaller, a little kinder. Choso just ate his breakfast, quiet as always, but there was a little something extra in the way his mouth tugged up when he saw you smiling down at your phone.

Later that afternoon, you wandered barefoot into the backyard, the wooden screen door creaking softly as it closed behind you. The air was warm, thick with the smell of cut grass and distant blooming flowers, the sky stretched wide and endless above. The grass was cool under your feet, still damp from the morning dew that hadn’t fully dried, each blade brushing your skin in gentle, tickling strokes. You padded across the yard without really thinking, the loose hem of Choso’s t-shirt swaying lightly against your thighs, sleeves hanging past your elbows. You tilted your head back, eyes slipping closed, feeling the sun spill across your face — warm, golden, comforting.

Your hand lifted lazily, fingers spreading to shield your eyes from the brightness. The other hand, almost without thought, settled lightly over your belly, fingers splaying there as if to anchor you to the moment — to the earth, to the day, to this life you were quietly building. The ring caught the sun immediately — a sharp gleam of silver and diamond that glittered with every tiny movement. From where he stood on the back porch, Choso watched you. He watched the way your hair lifted slightly in the soft breeze, wild and free, the way your mouth curved naturally into a smile — not for anyone, not for a camera, just for the sheer being of it.

You weren’t posing. You weren’t aware of yourself. You were just you — barefoot in the grass, bathed in sunlight, happiness bleeding from you like warmth. Choso pulled his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants, slow and deliberate, careful not to disturb the stillness of the moment. He lifted it, framing you carefully — your hand lifted mid-gesture, the ring throwing off little prisms of light, and behind it, you. Smiling wide, bright enough to outshine the diamond, all soft teeth and crinkled eyes and flushed cheeks, joy so vivid it made everything else in the frame seem dull in comparison.

Snap.

You didn’t even notice — too lost in the feel of the sun, the breeze, the world settling into something good. Choso lowered the phone, staring at the photo for a long moment. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t posed. It was perfect.

You, standing there barefoot and smiling, the symbol of your promise to each other glinting against the backdrop of the life you were making — simple, solid, real. Choso brushed his thumb lightly over the screen, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Later, without ceremony, without flash, he posted the photo to his otherwise mostly-empty Instagram. No fancy caption. No song lyrics. No announcement. Just the truth, plain and certain, the words typed slow and sure:

"My favorite win yet. 🖤"

And for once, Choso didn’t feel the usual twist of uncertainty when he put something of himself out there.

Because this — you — this was the one thing he knew without doubt.

NEXT

[lilmissnatcat24]

today is the day!!! here's everything ive wanted to say about my minibang fic but havent been able to!!! (yap session incoming)

honestly, this is one of my favorite things ive written, so not talking about it has been really tough for me. i started writing this in january (not knowing the minbang will even be a thing), and then i gave myself my own deadline of april to finish because i didnt want to deal with writing something while i was in japan. and i probably didnt touch a single other one of my fics while i was writing this, it consumed my mind, body, and soul. i would be hunched over at work on my phone writing this, i stayed up way too late, i woke up early so i could write it before work. like i was actually obsessed with this idea. (and of course it burnt me out for like 2 months afterwards where i wasnt able to write anything because i couldnt replicated that high, whoops).

i had like 20 different titles the whole time (for the longest time it was called time after time which..... i like that song but i do not like that as a fic title) but i finally came on composed of nows, which comes from an emily dickinson poem, forever is composed of nows

Let Months dissolve in further Months – And Years – exhale in Years –

the inspo from the fic came mostly from a song i love called johnny dear by kassi vallaza, about a cowboy that returns to a ranch ran by a woman he loved long ago. something i always do with longfics is make my last chapter some sort of song lyric, so that one is from the chorus. a couple of books really inspired me as well, the unmaking of june farrow by adrienne young (about a woman who can travel in time but her timelines got screwed up so she does not remember her husband or her daughter), and the vampires of el norte by isabel camus (about a young couple torn apart when one of them becomes a vampire and their relationship afterwards-- actually a dnf, not because i didn't like it, but because my library loan expired and i havent been able to get it back)

initially, i wanted it to be longer, but i ran out of time, and by the time it was finished i really liked the pacing of it. it was different for me because i tried to get pretty technical with it-- everything from the riptides to the birkefield i mention in this, how they get around the fall of mass effect relays-- is all inspired by the great lakes (shockers, i know). i know riptides aren't exclusive to the great lakes, but growing up on them, ive seen them in the water, i know how dangerous they are, and that idea inspired me but in space, like if you get sucked up the only way to get out of it is it ride it out. and the birkefield that the ships installed has something to do with measuring earthquakes (again, the great lakes aren't necessarily known for earthquakes verses an area like san fransisco or japan, but because of their nature on old glaciers, they still experience tectonic movements, i think the biggest earthquake ive ever felt when i lived in cleveland ended up on around like a 4.5 on the richter scale. i barely felt it, but then the news freaks out like OH!! EARTHQUAKE!!)

anyway, this is my favorite little snippet from chapter 3 (aka chapter 2 if i was able to not make the prologue the official chapter 1 on ao3, but alas), please enjoy:

Slowly, he brought his hands up to her hood. He expected her to swat him away, to push him backwards, to knock him on his ass like she did all those years ago. The only thing she did was squirm her head backwards, some futile attempt for them to live in this suspended reality just a little bit longer. But even that was half hearted.  Garrus knew that Shepard never did anything half hearted.  She looked exactly the same. He supposed that the energy from the Crucible that was keeping her alive all those years would have put a pause on her aging, but he wasn’t expecting that she would look exactly, to the T , how she did on the night she left him. Hair so red it almost hurt to look at for too long, pulled back in the most haphazard updo he’d ever seen. Her skin was milky white, except for the thousands and thousands of freckles that dotted her face, concentrated around her nose with that little bump that he would let his fingers trace up and down, up and down. And her eyes-- Garrus had never seen eyes so big on a human before. He remembered when they first met, he thought they were almost yellow. But as he grew to know her, and as he grew to love her, he could see the lightness of warm browns and greens and ambers flecked in her pupils, her eyelashes almost comically large. They reminded him of grass, but the type of grass his mother used to yell at him for playing in as a child because the deeply embedded stains were so hard to get out of his clothes. Her eyes were more home than anything else-- a simpler time, a time where Garrus could just be a boy.  “ Claire? ” he said so quietly, he wondered if he imagined it. He doubted that she could hear it from his mouth, almost like it was a prayer. But she stiffened up, mouth turned downwards, nose crinkled, as if she were disgusted. Garrus didn’t blame her-- he’d be disgusted with himself, too.  “ Sir ,” Lonia’s voice finally cut through the fog that had battered his mind, voice shrill and sharp. “Do you know her?”  How could Garrus respond to a question like that? Turians didn’t do nuance, everything was black and white. But with Shepard, he could see the shades of gray that were invisible to him before. Yes, he knew her. And yes, at a time in his life, she was everything to him. She never stopped being that to him, but the hold on his heart lessened and lessened the longer she was away. Does he still know her? He had no idea. Nineteen years was a long time, long enough for someone to completely forget. She’s changed-- even though she looked exactly the same. She’s different-- even though he was certain he could reach out and trace the curves of her face from memory alone.  He forced himself to take a step back. He actually felt the neurons in his legs listening to the command from his brain, like perfect little soldiers. That’s what he was, after all.  “Never seen her before in my life,” Garrus managed to say. He turned on his toes and retreated, ignoring the pestering questions for orders and requests and demands and everything a good leader was supposed to do. He closed the door behind him-- and found the tiniest bit in solace in the fact that this time, he did it first. 

anyway if you're still here thank you for listening to my yap session and maaaaybe check the fic out idk if you're free or into that if it's not too much of a hassle..........

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66930793/chapters/172762642

[blushkurasakunyan]

WBK details: Furin Trio (Suo)

Overall I think Suo is an overall great guy. He's a guy that can be sweet, considerate and polite, but when offended, he'll be cold, cruel, and snarky. He can be mature, but he can also be an immature emotional brat who terrorizes others :'D. He's still a 15 year old who has plenty of time to grow, after all.

I love his relationship with Sakura and Nirei, he very much treats them as brothers-of-sorts.

Nirei

I see his relationship with Nirei as a younger brother he needs to look out for. Nire's not physically strong, but he does work hard and tries his best, and Suo really appreciates that. As the vice-captains of the class, they work together to best support Sakura they best they can, and that involves making sure Sakura never feels alone or that he has to shoulder everything.

Suo normally doesn't like to do bothersome things, but he doesn't find it a bother to help out his friends. Even when Nirei asked for him to train him, he readily agreed and trained with him outside of class, and even during training sessions in the gym too. So far we've seen Nirei be proficient with the "roly poly stance", and he's getting more of an eye for a fight as well. It's only been a few months, there's no way Nirei can hold his own in a fight, but he can at least protect himself a bit now. Nire's specialty is moral support and information gathering anyways.

They have such a good relationship now, where Suo is free to joke around (and terrorize Kanuma) where Nire's just massively silently sideyeing him :'DDD

But when it comes to Sakura, they both are so strongly supportive of their friend that they are the best vice-captains one could hope for.

Sakura

As much as Suo presents himself as a very mature person, he does have bouts of immaturity (like during Kanuma's fight or with KEEL) when he gets emotional (From Sakura's influence), and shows moments of immaturity.

Suo doesn't like immature people. He thinks people who talk big who can't back it up are stupid. Of all people, his first impression of Sakura was that he was also such a dumb immature person. However his mindset immediately changed the more he interacted with Sakura - it didn't take long for Sakura to earn his respect - he's actually a guy with morals and strength and a desire to set things right, someone full of convictions to do the right thing (Shishitoren arc).

He was so impressed with Sakura, that he immediately volunteered him as Class Captain, and everyone agreed. After all, Suo's known to be super strong, and if Suo vouches for him, then Sakura MUST be amazing right?

Despite this respect, Suo still likes to joke around and play pranks on Sakura. Despite Sakura being rather naive and easily trusting, Suo LOVES it. Such naivety is usually seen as childish, but not Suo, he gets a kick out of it when he sees Sakura blushing and getting embarassed. He doesn't do it out of maliciousness; he just likes to poke fun at people but Sakura just happens to have the most amusing reactions. As Suo says, Sakura is a tough guy and he'll be ok. As much as Suo annoys him with such pranks, Sakura doesn't mind it too much and gets over quickly without a grudge. He may hiss and bicker, but again, he gets over it quickly.

It's just another day with the Furin trio where Sakura falls for Suo's joke, and Nirei pointing out that Suo was joking, and Sakura being a hissing offended blob lol. This just shows how close they are, just being able to laugh and have fun.

But there are moments of seriousness: Suo knows when to be serious and drop the jokes. Like when Sakura is sick, he tries to make a comment of how he's normally hungry, expecting Sakura to vehemetly deny it, or that he's too sick or something, but Sakura doesn't even have the energy to retort back, and both of them know how unusual that is. This isn't the time to be poking fun at Sakura, this is serious.

Suo being observant, knows that this is no time for jokes, that Sakura's really sick, but doesn't want their help, and he just wants to be alone. One glance at his apartment is pretty telling: Sakura's been alone, he's probably been alone for a long time, he's definitely living alone, he doesn't have a furnished room, and he doesn't have any food or medicine. He's in pretty rough shape, but if Sakura doesn't want them there, they can't force it (but they CAN make Kotoha visit him lol, Sakura likes Pothos food, he can't say no :'D)

But he's very considerate and respectful, and lets Nirei know that they accomplished their goal of visiting the sick sakura, checking up on him, he's reassured them he's ok, so they'll leave the snacks and go home to let him rest up.

In this context, Suo did what a good friend would do: give Sakura the space he needs to recover. It's not good to be pushy, and he knows that it will overwhelm him instead. Instead he reports to the others that they visited, and if he doesn't show up to school tomorrow the'll visit again.

When Sakura returns to class and admits that he's scared that the class will lose faith in him as their grade captain because of his "weakness", Suo gives a gentle smile and rebuke, that Sakura would think of such a thing, he should trust and rely on them more. This is Suo being genuine, he really does like Sakura as a friend and he's still supportive of him as before. It's his job as the vice-captain to help him out anyways, and mistakes happen - such words were what Sakura really needed to get his confidence back! :) Later on, after the Furin trio have more adventures together and get closer and become more of a tightly knit team, Endo drops this bomb:

It's been a while, but they recall it vividly: Their first time at Sakura's apartment and it is lonely and dark. The time when Sakura was so sick he couldnt move, and as friends they couldn't do much for him. Suo doesn't usualy attack first, but after Endo made such a rude and demeaning comment, Suo became more aggressive and lept in with punches and kicks alongside Kanji and Tsubakino. To Suo, Sakura has already become a beloved member of Furin and Class 1-1 and he won't tolerate anyone disrespecting his good friend and Captain.

----

While I see Suo treating Nirei as a younger brother of sorts (master and disciple/younger person he takes care of), I see Suo treating Sakura as more of an equal, where he is free to poke fun at tease ONLY because they are so close, but Sakura is also that 'brother' that needs pointers here and there with advice to help him grow too. Suo overall is very nurturing to his best friends and helps them out however he can so they can grow properly, happy and healthy :)

As sarcastic as he sounds to Sakura, Suo really does like to give out positive words of affirmation that he did a great job :)

And after the Endo battle, he made sure, along with Nirei, pass on the information to the rest of the class how much Sakura struggled to protect them all, and he still has really low confidence and that they need to work together to somehow make it better -- they really are supper supportive vice-captains who care a lot for him!! :)