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undercoverpena · 9 months

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The day Frankie both loves and loathes the kitchen counter

frankie morales x f!reader | resurrected chances

summary: fall is a season that looks good on you.

warnings: none. autumn vibes. fluff, established relationship. dad!frankie (so mentions of a child - luca). an: i wrote this to make myself smile. wordcount: 2.5k

It changes in the blink of an eye.

One moment, the nights seem long and then they’re swallowed. The sunlight barely able to kiss the world for long, before it sinks back down to the horizon.

Then, there’s the changing leaves. How they fall from the branches without regret—all in a flurry of shades he finds you admiring each morning when you’re holding your morning coffee.

It does something to you, fall. It casts a spell—transforms—sprinkles shaved pumpkin and glitters over you as the wind whispers the incantation. It swoops through and blows away the other cobwebs left by the other seasons, until you’re embodied by autumn.

The change doesn’t just happen to you, but the rest of the home too.

He witnesses how, one day the counters and table are clear, and the next, they are decorated in fall ornaments, and ghouls and pumpkins replace the usual mugs you both drink from. How the fireplace in the living room has decorative ghosts all over it, purple and orange fairy lights, with homemade bunting hanging that features little orange and yellow Luca-sized hands from a craft morning he’d “rudely interrupted”.

Frankie had known what he was getting in for when you’d told him autumn was your favourite time of year—but, he still couldn’t quite believe what the season looked like on you.

How good you looked. How happy. How joy radiated from you and bled out into every corner.

You transition with a click of your fingers from a summer wardrobe to oversized fluffy jumpers (his, always his—specifically ones bought for him, but only ever worn by him once before they are ‘mysteriously’ stolen), black leggings and the fluffiest socks (that when unrolled, come up close to your knee).

And, if you’re able to—which is most of the time—Frankie finds you’ve perfectly matched the shade of jumper to the scrunchie in your hair. Sometimes, with embellishments, such as changing leaves on them or ghosts, but his favourite happens to be the pumpkins.

Before you, he’d never thought that would be a thought he’d even have. Frankie hadn’t ever even thought of himself as someone who loved a season, but just like his son, he’d been bewitched.

Your affection for flickering candles, big blankets and wrapped-up walks rubbed off on him and Luca—secretly both becoming as obsessed with mornings spent doing autumnal crafts as you. Frankie even stupidly got excited about the prospect of another pumpkin patch visit.

But, with that all said, if someone asked him what his favourite part of the season was, it was how your two’s home changed. The way warmth rolled from you—cementing the knowledge that he’d made the right choice. Because with you, there have only been moments when he feels peace, happiness and joy. Each emotion all underpinned by moments involving shadow-touched skin and sun-kissed bodies.

You patting the seat next to you, loading up another movie—your favourite, you’d said—with popcorn in an orange bowl, and a blanket (all earth green and lined with thick fluff) just for him.

He loves curling up, but there’s something about thickened blankets and soft layers that has him excited by the season.

He just feels disappointed that with another autumn arriving, he realises he hasn’t managed to sort the things he wanted to do for you.

The shelving he said last year he’d put up in the kitchen, so you can put more of your ornaments on display. Fix the door to the end cupboard, so you can put your baking and cookie trays away, rather than hiding them in the oven. But mostly, he had hoped to—

“You alright under there, Morales?”

Blinking, he finds you smirking, watching him. “Stop staring at me.”

“Well, it’s hard not to,” you murmur, swinging your legs on the counter.

The one he should have remodelled by now. It makes his jaw tighten, and his teeth slide together.

His head turning, dark pools of brown drinking you in as you swirl the spoon around your mug—not because you need to mix the sugar or milk, but for something to do other than drool over the appearance of him under the dining table he’s fixing.

Because Frankie knows your mug is practically empty. And he also knows that when he begins these home projects, he doesn’t tend to finish them in one day if you’re around.

“Could say the same to you.”

You roll your eyes, because, to you, it’s a jumper and leggings. But to him, today’s attire is a deep forest green jumper, the one with flecks of white and orange woven in periodically—a favourite of his, and apparently yours too.

The socks today, however, are different. Thick, woollen ones he recognised all too well, smirking to himself as he brushes the hair from his forehead, slotting the screwdriver back in place before tightening.

Because the socks are his.

Feeling your eyes on him, until he hears you jump down from the counter.

“Fine, I’ll begin baking before the little man gets dropped off.”

A smile being shot over your shoulder, pulling at the cookbook that’s more flour than paper from the shelf, before splaying it across the counter.

He knows you know what you’re doing when you hinge at the hips, and lean over the counter in front of him. His mouth going dry, just like it always does when you’re teasing him.

Frankie’s about to comment on what a distraction you are, that if you want to eat at the table tonight he needs to concentrate. But then you hiss, pulling your hand back from the edge of the counter—the one chipped and forever catching on clothes, once again catching against your hand.

Then he’s just full of annoyance.

Both at the fucking counter and at himself for not prioritising the kitchen. For not giving you the dream kitchen you deserve.

The emotions shoved into his repair of the table, completing it in record time, that by the time he’s stood, you’ve chosen whatever it is you’re aiming to make. Your fingers twitching—all lost in your mind, likely calculating, mentally checking timings.

It’s what makes it easier to slide up behind you, lose his hand up the jumper of his you’re buried in. Sliding it up until he can feel your skin, all toasty, warm. Your smile slowly grows as he rests his chin on your shoulder, watching you.

Frankie has the pleasure of seeing you smile in Spring, Summer or Winter—three-hundred and sixty-five—but your skin isn’t always tinged with the scent of spiced apple, to the point he’s not sure if the season is pouring from you or if you’re just around the candles and soaps too much. He doesn’t get to see you glow in the same way as you do in Fall, like you do in the other seasons.

“Is it sturdy? The table.”

Lifting his brow, he turns you in his arms. Fingers sliding up your neck, jaw until they’re resting on your cheek.

As much as he tells you that you’re easy to read, Frankie knows he’s not all that difficult himself. Least of all with you. He’s been told he gets a twinkle, a shimmer—a soft tug of his lips that he tries to bury in nonchalance.

Shrugging, he drops his hand as he sighs. “Maybe we should check.”

“How do w—Frankie!”

With ease, he spins your body, moving it backwards, twisting, until the top of your thighs nudge against the lip of the table, fingers fanning out, palm cupping your waist as he sniggers. His palm rests under the fabric, worn and toughened, flush against skin, tasting the warmth that burns from your lips—swallowing the joy which emits from every part of you.

“We can’t.”

“We can’t?”

Shooting him a look, you purse your lips. “If we break another piece of furniture��”

You’re not cross, he can tell. If anything, your eyes are gleaming, swarmed in happiness, so close to cracking and asking him to help you on the surface.

But then, you twist your fingers in the hairs at the base of his neck. Whispering that you love him, that it looks more than sturdy, it looks solid, perfect, amazing—more words punctuated by kisses, before his hands keep you nose to nose.

Because if he does, he won’t stare at the kitchen counter.

The one he despises, hates. The one that’s chipped and was up there at the top of his list to replace when the two of you bought the house you’re both standing in. But then it fell, plummeting, landing somewhere around ‘someday’ rather than ‘today’.

You don’t hate it.

Rarely ever see an issue with it. Barely recognise how ill-fitting it is to the rest of your hand-painted cupboards and thrifted accessories. That at least once a week, if not a day, you catch your hand in the same place—scuffing jumpers, blouses and more on the cracked edge.

You deserve better. A thought which pulsates inside him—constantly doing so, too. It vibrates in his ribs and echoes in the dark when he should be sleeping. He thinks about it like he does much of the house, the one he told you he’d fix, repair, re-build—even if you weren’t fazed then, and aren’t now either.

Your excitement swallows up any of his concerns, his internal beatings. Because I love it Frankie, I love you and I love this for us. He’d have thought you were lying, except your eyes still gush with joy when you look over it, as though you cannot see any of the imperfections he can.

Unable to see how he’s let you down. That he should be providing more for you—even if you never, ever think it or even say it.

“What you thinkin’ about, baby?”

Your knuckles trace his cheek. An answer there, burning on the tip of his tongue. That, thanks to you, it was hard to hate anything, never mind the counter.

The one you did a good job covering in assorted-sized decorative pumpkins and coloured pencils you’d pushed to the side. That in truth, he liked the things which sat on it, like his mail being alongside yours—and the set of mugs that had once housed both your coffees that he’d brought to you in bed this morning and the ones you’d made when he’d begun his table-fixing.

Morning. It seemed so long ago—more than hours, more like days. It forces him to tighten his arm around you and bury his face into your neck.

“Frankie,” you whine, soft, all innocent. “Talk to me.”

“Just thinking about how pretty you look.”

“Oh, shut up.”

His nose brushes against your cheek, eyes finding yours as you try to avert them. “So much so, I really, really wanna put your elbows on the table and take you from—“

“Francisco.”

Laughter flows from the last syllable to paint the room in even more contentment. Coating him in genuine bliss that smooths over the cracks, the rougher parts of him.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Later?”

Later, you echo. Even if he knows the day has already been swallowed by him visiting the store to fetch nails and a tool, he’s sure he already owns—but can’t for the life of him find. The rest will be filled with hyperactivity and pumpkin carving with his son.

“You do look good in my socks, baby.”

He watches your chin dip, before your hand presses against his chest—fingers and thumb digging into his t-shirt. You try to bite back your shy smile, because even if the two of you have been together a while, you still seem to go shy when he compliments you.

“Really like the sight of you in my clothes,” he continues, hands on you as you head back to your place in the kitchen.

Turning, you swat at him, laughing—the sound you make is like music to his ears. Forever makes his days better. The noise which plays in the back of his head when he’s driving down a long, winding road—desperate to get back to you.

It’s why he tugs on your wrist, pulling your hand from your face, letting him hear it fully, watching it fade as your eyes blink, pupils fixing, lids widening as you take him in. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to how you look at him—full of appreciation and love, like it’s easy to do. Like you’re not forced or feel obligated.

“They’re comfy,” you say, all tinged with embarrassment—as though he would ever mind.

As though the sight of you slowly wearing his wardrobe doesn’t make his chest swell—doesn’t fill the space with warmth where his heart doubles.

Smiling—almost mirroring yours—he brushes your cheek. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

Looping an arm around his neck, you press a kiss to his lips—his hips pressing into yours, unable to move from him, arms looping around his neck. They won’t bake themselves, Frankie. And, doesn’t he know it, but neither of you move.

The kitchen counter—the one he hates, and wants to rip out—keeps you in place. Not that he gets the impression you want to be anywhere but here, laughing with him, baking, likely recanting a story about spiders and the reason you had needed to buy new wooden spoons and a spatula.

Your cheek warms under his palm, his thumb stroking a path that curls up with your cheek as you begin to grin. “Shh, Morales.”

And he does.

But only so he can kiss you.

You in his fluffy woollen socks, his jumper and your leggings.

Starting it slow before he deepens it. Before his whole body wants to feel you pressed against his, fingers sliding around your cheek and jaw, feeling the way you move to kiss him back.

It’s intense, fire being breathed into his throat and down into his chest. He laps up every flame—allows it to coat his tongue, and spreads its heat through every nerve as he licks into your mouth.

He’s happy, oh so happy.

Losing himself in you, mouth sliding from your lips to the curve of your jaw and down the pulse of your neck. Your fingers knotting in his curls and his top, leg trying to hook around him—leaning, cautiously and foolishly, against the counter until he stabilises you with his hands.

Because you’re brilliant. Perfect. Beautiful. But, oh so fucking clumsy.

His teeth roll over the space where your neck meets your shoulder, and he groans. Hands dropping from their place, finding a new home on the back of your thighs, lifting, leveraging until you’re safe. Sat all pretty and set to be devoured, upon the counter he can’t wait to replace—

“Stop thinking about the counter, Frankie.”

He smirks, biting back a laugh. “How’d you know?”

Hooking your legs around him, his fingers run up the bare skin—thumb dragging a line more intentionally than the rest—coming to a stop between your thighs.

“Because I know you. Because you look at me like I saved you from a burning building, and you look at the counter like it was the reason the building was on fire.”

Kissing you, he grins—right against your mouth. “I really hate it.”

“I know,” you coo, biting his lower lip. “So, how about we move to the bedroom.”

Pulling his head back, his eyes narrow—your fingers brushing his curls behind his ears.

an: autumn is my fave, can you tell?

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cultivating-saplings · 3 months

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In honour of 4/13x15 I'm posting (a very slightly edited version of) the paper I wrote on the Unofficial Homestuck Collection for one of my classes last term. The language/tone is a bit more academic than what I would usually put up on here, but it's exam season so...

Don’t Turn Your Back on the Body:

The Resurrection of Homestuck After the Death of Flash

Digital media is, broadly speaking, very difficult to preserve. The rapid pace of technological development means that obsolescence and decay present a consistent threat to the availability of natively digital works. Most computers produced in 2023 no longer have built in CD drives, and I feel fairly confident in asserting that none are being produced with floppy disk readers outside of hobbyist spaces. Issues with the accessibility of physically stored digital media can be mitigated (at least for now) by the use of external readers, but the preservation of fully digital media, born and hosted in its entirety on the Internet, is a different beast entirely.

This is, in part, an issue of pure volume; no one organization could ever hope to archive the vast amounts of stuff that the Internet is constantly producing, let alone organize it into a resource that could be used effectively. Like Borges’ cartographers who created “a Map of the Empire whose size was that of the Empire,” to fully archive the Internet would be to replicate it in its entirety. Thus scope becomes a central question of fully digital archiving.

The Internet Archive, which also operates the Wayback Machine, answers that question with a resounding and all-encompassing ‘yes’ — their stated goal is to “provide Universal Access to All Knowledge,” but even this comes with caveats. The organization freely permits members of the public to upload files to the archive and save pages on the Wayback Machine, but the work carried out by its official volunteers is more curated, and prioritizes webpages which have been identified as particularly important.

The Internet Archive is very effective within its own space, yes, but it has its limits. When the piece of work you are trying to archive is composed of not just static text and images, but longform animations and complex browser-based games, where do you put it? What do you do when the software necessary to access these elements of the work has been taken offline? And what happens if the people who were supposed to safeguard it fail to do so?

These were the issues that the fans of Homestuck faced in 2020 as the impending deactivation of Flash loomed on the horizon.

But first, before I properly explain what the Unofficial Homestuck Collection really is and why it is so effective as a digital archive, let me tell you about Homestuck.

Frustrated with the poorly implemented official preservation of the comic, and with a lot of free time on his hands, one fan began the Unofficial Homestuck Collection as a personal project during lockdown, during the “depths of 2020.” As the project changed hands and more fans became involved over the following years, its true scope came into focus: the Collection would preserve not only Homestuck itself, in its entirety and with its Flash-dependent pages intact, but also as much of its contextual material as possible, thus making it a prime example of the effectiveness of fan-driven digital archiving and preservation. Because the people who created the Collection are long standing fans of Homestuck, they know which pieces of peripheral material will provide the context the comic demands. The Collection preserves Homestuck as a text in a way that would be impossible in an analogue format, creating an archive both of the work and of the experience of reading it in a serialized format.

Andrew Hussie began* Homestuck on April 13th of 2009, and published it serially on mspaintadventures.com, his personal website at the time, until its conclusion on April 13th, 2016. Prior to beginning Homestuck, Hussie had been publishing short webcomics and pieces of fiction for several years on his older website, Team Special Olympics, since 2004, which had gained him a small but very loyal following. This following was centered mostly around the forum attached to the TSO website, which hosted the first of Hussie’s ‘MS Paint Adventures,’ Jailbreak, in September of 2006. Jailbreak was a short comic which Hussie produced as a collaborative writing game on these forums, in the style of early text adventures.

Beginning with the prompt, “You wake up locked in a deserted jail cell, completely alone. There is nothing at all in your cell, useful or otherwise,” Hussie then wrote the rest of the comic according to the first comment posted after every page. This, perhaps predictably, resulted in a barely coherent mess of a story.

Following the conclusion of Jailbreak after a short 134 pages, Hussie would produce two more comics prior to beginning Homestuck: the unfinished Bard Quest (June-July 2007) and Problem Sleuth (March 2008-April 2009), which was his longest work so far at the time of its conclusion. Problem Sleuth in particular represented a substantial increase in production quality and general coherency over Jailbreak, as Hussie gained experience using the MSPA forums as tools for collaborative storytelling, reigning in the meandering narrative by allowing himself to be more selective about which forum responses he followed.

Hussie would continue this more controlled style of forum collaboration throughout the first three Acts of Homestuck, which followed a much more focused story than any of his prior work, thanks to his decision to use reader input only in specific parts of the comic. In the introduction to the print edition of the first Act, Hussie described his own role during the production of these first Acts as “dungeon master, a game engine responding to input, and an improv comic all in one.” During the process of writing Act 4, Hussie stopped taking prompts from readers entirely, and would construct the rest of the comic ostensibly as its sole author.

‘Okay,’ you might now be thinking, ‘you’ve given me the context, but what the hell is Homestuck? And what’s it about?’ Well, to wildly oversimplify a very complex piece of media, Homestuck is a webcomic about four young online friends who play a video game that causes the end of their universe and grants them the power to create a new one as they see fit. It is a story about growing up and realizing you’ve been forever changed by your experiences, a story about leaving behind the life you knew and constructing a new one. It is also a story about time travel and paradoxes, genetics and cloning, a large number of aliens, a possibly larger number of puppets (at least one of which is sentient), and an unfortunate amount of clowns.

This story slowly unfolds over the course of 8126 pages, 817,929 words, and 166 animated panels, 95 of which contained some degree of interactivity and all of which total over four hours in length. Most of the comic’s pages consist of a main image, usually a short looping gif, accompanied by a text description or dialogue, which is almost always written in the format and style of online chat-logs between characters. As mentioned previously, however, these simpler gif-and-description pages are interspersed with longer videos, animated in Flash and soundtracked by one of Hussie’s several collaborators.

The first of these animated panels was uploaded a few weeks into Homestuck’s publication — an animated opening title-card for the comic, scored ominously with sounds of howling wind and windchimes. This first Flash panel was relatively simple, but the next would introduce a bespoke soundtrack (“Harlequin” by Mark Hadley), and the third would include simple interactivity. These soundtracked animations and interactive segments increased in scope and complexity over the course of the comic’s run; the final animated page in the comic, “[S] Collide,” comes in at nearly twenty minutes in length, and some of the larger interactive segments can take upwards of two hours to fully explore.

While some of the later interactive pages were developed in an engine based on HTML5, most of Homestuck would be built using Adobe Flash, and would depend on the program for basic functionality. This would prove disastrous for the comic’s long term preservation. Flash was very popular, and had become ubiquitous by the early 2010s, but it had security issues which were easy to exploit, its range was fairly limited in terms of what kinds of animations it could produce, and, as its most fatal flaw, it couldn’t run on mobile. Thus with the expanding use of smartphones and tablets, Flash became less and less practical as a tool for web developers, and Adobe began slowly preparing to kill it. On December 31st, 2020, Adobe sent Flash off to the farm where it could frolic and play in the digital sunshine, leaving many online communities facing a crisis. How do you preserve a text when its foundations have crumbled?

With Homestuck using Flash in such an integral way, the issue of preservation was an important one. After the finale, Hussie would post some short post-credits stories to Snapchat from October 2016 to August 2017, as well as a longer epilogue in April 2019, before stepping away from any formal involvement with the comic in 2020. In 2018, Hussie had given the distribution rights for Homestuck to VIZ Media, which primarily handled the English-language publication of several manga series, and had left the rights to the IP and the freedom to produce new work to former collaborators. Thus it was VIZ who took on the task of officially preserving Homestuck against the death of Flash.

To say their efforts were unsatisfactory would, I think, be paying them too great a compliment. The complex and highly detailed Flash animations were replaced with embedded YouTube links to low-quality screen-captures of the originals. The hours-long walkaround games were not translated at all, replaced with ‘choose your own adventure’ style pages of text and links. The official version of Homestuck as it currently exists fails to capture a lot of what made the comic work, because it removes a lot of the gamified elements of the comic that are so integral to its storytelling.

There are many snapshots of the website from before the walkaround games were taken down on the Wayback Machine, but the Flash emulator that archive.org uses is very inconsistent, frequently becoming stuck on looping loading screens or failing to process assets correctly. While the dubious preservation of the long Flash animations is a real issue on its own, the lack of any attempt to replicate the format of these longform games represents the loss of something essential to the comic. Homestuck is, throughout the whole of its story, intertwined with the visual and cultural language of video games. The loss of the complex interactivity of these panels fundamentally changes how the reader is permitted to engage with them and, by extension, with Homestuck’s narrative as a whole. The official version of Homestuck that exists online is no longer complete.

This incredibly poor preservation was the impetus behind the creation of the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. In its most basic form, the Collection is simply a preserved and restored version of Homestuck, intact and in high quality, accessible through a downloadable client, rather than online — reducing the Collection down to this basic description does it a disservice. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection includes not just Homestuck, but all of Hussie’s prior work: Jailbreak, Bard Quest, and Problem Sleuth are in there, but so are the full contents of his first website, Team Special Olympics, alongside archived versions of his now-deleted accounts on various social media platforms, and copies of threads from the MSPA forums that he would later reference in the main comic. The Collection also includes material that Hussie released alongside Homestuck, like the in-fiction blog of one of the main characters, various short comics written by guest authors, and a full episode of an in-universe childrens’ cartoon.

These peripheral materials are interesting and provide context for some of the more obscure references throughout Homestuck, but many of them were not produced until well into the comic’s run, and assume an audience that is caught up with the most recent update, making them dangerously full of spoilers for the unaware new reader. This issue is solved by the appropriately named ‘new reader mode.’ One of a variety of useful accessibility tools included in the Collection, the new reader mode tracks which page a user has reached, and implements a universal spoiler cloak over the whole program, hiding all materials that were released after their most recent page’s publication. This tool is what transforms the Unofficial Homestuck Collection from an archive of a text, into an archive of an experience.

De Kosnik argues that fan-driven archiving serves as a way for fans to mediate their own temporal experience of a text, describing websites hosting fanworks as mechanisms which “maintain the possibility of individuals joining fandoms… long after a media text has ceased to air.” While De Kosnik’s focus is on archives of fanworks and their function in ongoing fan spaces, I would argue that this framework, which centers the impact of serialization on the dynamics of fan communities, fits extremely well when applied to the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. Homestuck was published serially over the course of seven years, accompanied by blog posts, side comics, music, and other pieces of peripheral media that were released in tandem with the comic itself.

Updates were highly anticipated events, and fan communities were structured around them — one user on Tumblr found an unlisted part of the MSPA forums where Hussie posted new pages before they were published, and this “MSPA Prophet” became a fixture of the fandom for their ability to predict when the next update would come. The event that was an update (or upd8, after the typing style of a popular character) was a central aspect of the experience of reading Homestuck during its publication, and it is one that is very difficult to recover now that the comic exists as a static, completed work. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection, through its new reader mode, functions as a solution to that absence. It does more than safeguard the reader against unwanted spoilers: it temporarily transforms Homestuck back into an incomplete text.

Homestuck makes use of the assumed preexisting knowledge of the reader, and their “intuitive familiarity” with various types of digital media and culture, especially ones which are inherently participatory. The story’s use of narrative motifs and referential easter-eggs allows Homestuck to function, in Hussie’s own words, as “both a story and a puzzle,” but that “There [are] a range of ways to interface with it[…] Failing to grasp everything shouldn’t preclude basic enjoyment, nor is it a symptom of failure by either the reader or the story.” In the most frequent example of repeated symbology in Homestuck, Hussie peppers the text with references to the number ‘413,’ simplified from April 13th, the day the comic began.

The story follows four friends who are all thirteen years old, many of the songs on the comic’s soundtrack are exactly four minutes and thirteen seconds long, and the timestamps on chat-logs show that characters frequently begin important conversations at precisely 4:13, to name just a few of the number’s appearances. The combination of puzzle and story in Homestuck extends beyond these kinds of motifs, however, and into the way Hussie employs referential humour.

Some of these references are fairly easy to catch; in Act 4, one of the main characters is gifted the Warhammer of Zillyhoo — a brightly coloured weapon which originally appeared in Problem Sleuth. Others, however, are much more obscure. The older brother of another main character runs a business creating bizarre, semi-ironic puppet pornography. Most of the audience read this as an absurdist joke about the internet’s love for offputting porn; the subset of fans who had been following Hussie for several years, or those who looked into Hussie’s early activity on the MSPA forums, however, would find themselves with new understanding of a long-running joke. This element of the experience of reading Homestuck is something that the Unofficial Homestuck Collection not only preserves, but makes readily accessible to the comic’s readers in a way that would not have been possible during the comic’s publication.

On a purely theoretical basis, I would argue that the Unofficial Homestuck Collection is valuable not just in the context of contemporary fan activity, but as a potentially valuable resource for future research. Homestuck is a foundational piece of the current cultural landscape, its influences permeating both digital and analog media in subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) ways.

Undertale, titan of online culture that it is, was created by Toby Fox, who was the composer behind a large amount of the music in Homestuck and was, during the game’s production, living in Andrew Hussie’s basement. Tamsyn Muir, author of the Locked Tomb tetralogy, began her writing career as a prominent figure in the Homestuck fandom on Tumblr and Archive of Our Own. Although the reach of her original work has thoroughly outgrown her fandom roots, Muir includes sly references to Homestuck in several places in her books. Hell, one of the animators working on Bluey, a cartoon aimed at very young children, included references to Homestuck in the backgrounds of episodes they worked on, as easter-eggs for the benefit of parents in the know. All of this is to say that Homestuck has its hooks deep within the culture of the Internet, and its impacts will, I think, be felt for a long time yet.

The Unofficial Homestuck Collection is certainly not immune to digital decay or link rot, but it is resistant to them, since it is hosted on a large and well established website (GitHub), and, once downloaded, can be accessed without an internet connection, and shared freely. For the hypothetical future researcher, the Collection contains resources to mitigate the frustration of trying to hunt down pieces of contextual or peripheral material by packaging them with the text itself — it functions like a sourcebook.

Bibliography

Bamboshu, and GiovanH. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection. 2020. https://bambosh.dev/unofficial-homestuck-collection/

De Kosnik, Abigail. Rogue Archives: Digital Cultural Memory and Media Fandom. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2016. https://doi.org/10.7551/mitpress/10248.001.0001.

Glaser, Tim. “Homestuck as a Game: A Webcomic between Playful Participation, Digital Technostalgia, and Irritating Inventory Systems.” In Comics and Videogames. Edited by Andreas Rauscher, Daniel Stein, and Jan-Noel Thon. 96–112. Routledge, 2021. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781003035466-8.

Hussie, Andrew. Homestuck. MS Paint Adventures, 2009-2016. https://homestuck.com.

Nakhaie, FS. “Reproduce and Adapt: Homestuck in Print and Digital (Re)Incarnations.” Convergence, 2022. https://doi.org/10.1177/13548565221141961.

Read MS Paint Adventures. “Statistics.” Last modified April 7, 2018. http://readmspa.org/stats/.

Veale, Kevin. “‘Friendship Isn’t an Emotion Fucknuts’: Manipulating Affective Materiality to Shape the Experience of Homestuck’s Story.” Convergence 25, no. 5-6 (2019): 1027–43. https://doi.org/10.1177/1354856517714954.

#ray speaks #homestuck #413 #the unofficial homestuck collection #andrew hussie #uhhhh #homestuck studies #i fucking guess #if you notice any errors in this don't hesitate to let me know! i always try to keep living versions of all my old essays #so that if something new comes along i can add it for future reference or easier editing if i ever want to get it published #also this is Fucking Long and i will not apologize

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thepenultimateword · 1 year

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Love Thy Enemy Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

CW: forced relationship, captivity, very light violence

As it turned out, the city had not changed much. Yes, the peacekeepers wore a different colored uniform. Yes, there was still rubble and buildings in different stages of disrepair. And yes, as the empress's carriage passed, a portion of the people froze or stared or a combination of both. But they were still going about their lives. Selling, buying, socializing, sweeping out their homes. None of the burning and hunger Vorrin had pictured these last few months.

Empress Callista watched him out of the corner of her eye. She pretended to be occupied with the stack of letters and supplications she'd brought along with her, but her attention was not so easily masked.

Maybe she expected him to run.

"Here." She licked the tip of her finger and separated one of the pages from the rest of the stack, holding it out to him. "What do you make of this?"

Vorrin pinched the page tentatively before scanning it over . It looked like…a military report? One of the generals wanted permission to increase the troop size within Tarov, the next city over, as well as its surrounding villages.

He peered over the top of the page. “What are you expecting of me?”

“Your opinion.” The empress lounged back in her seat. “This is your homeland. Is it a good idea? What is the temperament of the city’s inhabitants? I’m still keeping troops in the larger cities at the borderlands, so sending more to Tarov would be stretching it a little thin, though nothing I can’t handle with little strategy. Though, a confirmation of necessity would be preferable before I leap into any orders.”

Vorrin furrowed his brow. “Why would I help you? You’re the enemy.”

“The war is over, darling, whether you like or not, this is the outcome. So you can either make the transition smoother, or let your people drown in uncertainty.”

Vorrin bit savagely at his lower lip. This felt wrong. He shouldn’t be doing anything for this tyrant or her people. But on the other hand, what if he really did more harm by refusing than submitting? Empress Callista had a point. The kingdom would never be what it once was.

As far as Vorrin knew, King Duras had been declared missing in action. No body among the heaps of dead, but no appearences after all this time either. Likely, he had been missed. War was rarely so kind as to leave its victims pristine and recognizable. Even a king.

If he was alive, he wasn’t taking the kingdom back any time soon. If he did give his opinion, there would be no loyalty lost there. And Vorrin supposed he’d already practically turned over the kingdom, what was a little more dagger twisting?

“I would pull out.”

Empress Callista scoffed.

“No, I’m serious.” Vorrin set himself a little firmer in his seat, meeting the empress’s predatory, amber gaze directly. “The people were already on edge when you invaded. The more troops you send to watch them, the more you segregate yourself from your goal, that is their respect and acceptance for you as their rightful ruler. Things may be smoother here in the capital with you present, but I can guarantee tension is growing. Especially in Tarov. The majority of that population comes from retired soldiers and palace officials. Patriots. You push, they push right back. Pull out. Give them some space. Then reapproach without the soldiers.”

Empress Callista crooked her brow slyly. “I wasn’t expecting that much honesty.”

Vorrin jolted a little, surprised at the empress’s surprise. “You…asked for my opinion.”

“Yes, but most people involve a few more lies and manipulation tactics. You don’t have an ounce of venom in your body, do you, lovely?”

A rush of warmth swept through Vorrin’s cheeks, and he gritted his teeth. “I’m plenty venomous. I just didn’t see a point in lying.”

“If you say so, darling.” She shook the page back out of his clenching fists and placed it wrinkled on the “read” stack. “Alright, I’ll pen up a fall back order when we return this afternoon.”

Vorrin blinked. “Wait. You’re using my idea?”

“Mm. I’ll at least see how it plays out.”

“But…but I’m just…a trophy. A consort. Won’t your advisors protest?”

“I don’t know the customs of Totholan, but in Avarose, royal consort is a seat of honor. In fact, consorts are much more utilized for their personal talents then they are for…more expected duties. Many consorts never even see the inside of the imperial bedroom, only consorts in name as to be kept close and protected. You, my darling, can count yourself special.”

She winked, and Vorrin hated himself for blushing harder.

He opened his mouth to belt some scathing defense he hadn’t quite worked out yet when the carriage jolted to a halt.

"Ah, we're here."

The empress bustled her robes together, ready as the footman swung the carriage door open to descend to the cobblestone road.

Vorrin ignored the footman’s offered hand and leapt the steps to the ground, sending an ungracious puff of dust up around his ankles.

He blinked around himself at the shopping district. “Here?”

“We have several droll obligations today, so why not begin with something lighter? There are several traditional outfits I expect you to keep, but I do not pretend not to notice your displeasure for your wardrobe. I’ll be keeping you to a certain standard, but perhaps we can find you some items that are more to your liking.”

Vorrin recoiled from the offer, unable to help the displeasure he knew twisted his features. It felt a little too much like acceptance of his position. And he was far from that. “I respectfully refuse.”

“No need to be shy, choose anything you like.”

“I’m not your dress-up doll.”

“But you are mine. Now, let’s not make a scene, hm?”

She started toward one of the shops, entourage close on her heels.Vorrin picked up speed to a brusque soldier’s stride, passing just a couple centimeters in front of her.

“So much for a position of honor,” he growled lowly, “Don’t give me commands and act like I have a choice.”

The empress came to a halt and let her servants grab the door for her. “But aren’t pretenses so much nicer?”

“No. At least with orders I can–”

“Excuse yourself for not having a choice?” Empress Callista finished, resting her hand on the small of his back to usher him forward. “You know, if you didn’t spend so much time pouting, maybe you could have done something for your people by now.

Vorrin bristled. “Pouting? You’ve stolen my entire country!”

His voice bounced off the polished walls and alcoved displays, and Empress Callista’s grip grew tighter around his waist. Her other hand pressed a soft, but unusually strong finger to his lips. For the first time Vorrin realized she stood only an inch or so shorter than he did. Were all Avarosian women this tall or was it just her?

“I apologize,” she murmured. “That was insensitive of me. Of course, you’re grieving. If you would like me to pick out all of your clothes, I will. I certainly have some ideas.”

Vorrin fought the urge to bite, instead jerking a step to the right to slip out of her grip. “I’ll pick some blasted clothing.”

With that he stormed around the perimeter room, eyeing the wooden models bitterly and feeling a little childish. He felt Empress Callista following a few feet behind him; even if weren’t for the tramping feet of her guards, the aura coming off her was practically tangible, a pressing shadow against his spine. And it was just as obvious when the pressure suddenly lifted.

He preteneded to stop and admire a long, red suitcoat with bronze buttons while stealing a glance over his shoulder. Empress Callista stood in front of who Vorrin could only assume was the shop owner, a withered old man with half his weight on a cane and hair pulled into a long silky tail that draped over one shoulder. He smiled and bowed incessantly to the empress while shooting suspicious side glances in Vorrin’s direction.

How was he the one getting ill looks? He wasn’t the one who overthrew any kingdoms recently! Was it really that obvious that he was reaching beyond his station?

Before he could think on it any further, both came walking in his direction, Empress Callista with a strong stride, the shop owner at a tottering crawl.

“Nigellus is going to have someone take your measurements,” Empress Callista said, reaching him first. “After that, you can choose anything you like and they’ll tailor it to your size.”

“Why can’t one of your tailors at the palace make me new clothes?”

“Spoken like the soldier you are. Do you eat the same food for every meal? Do you find one pretty tune and listen to nothing else? Clothing is art. It’s full of variety and differing styles, and if you want it done right you go to the masters. And you may have noticed, this one doesn’t travel well.” Her gaze flicked up to the coat, surveying it up and down. “You like this?”

“It’s a little flashy,” he said.

“Mm. Does it come in black?”

That part was not addressed to him but to “Nigellus”, as he came up behind them. He rapped his jade-handled cane against the floor as he came to a halt.

He grimaced a little, but assented, voice raspy and soft, like the vocal cords could barely support being used. “It could be done.”

Empress Callista brushed something imaginary off the breast of Vorrin’s tunic. “You look good in black.”

Vorrin stiffened. Black was the Totholan general’s uniform color. Was she making fun of him?

“But of course it’s up to you,” she said.

“I’d like to keep looking,” he replied non-committedly.

“Once you’re measured, I’ll show you to the most appropriate sections,” Nigellus said. Vorrin had given enough commands in his life to know when he was being given one. And even though it came from a fragile old tailor, he found himself following the man’s waving hand into the back. Much to his surprise, and relief, Empress Callista did not follow.

They entered a rounded alcove of a room covered from wall to wall in mirrors, quadrupling Vorrin’s uncomfortable, irreecognizable self back at him. Maybe he understood why Nigellus had not been fooled by his status. He dressed like royalty, his hair was spun with gold and jewels, but the way he stood was like a scrapper getting ready to brawl. Not to mention that habitual grit to his teeth when he was in an uncomfortable position, a grimace on the best day and a scowl on the worst. That sort of thing definitely would have been trained out of royal by birth.

His 5 reflections rapidly shook their heads. What was he thinking? He wasn’t a royal by anything.

“This is one of our fitting rooms,” Nigellus said. He wacked a rounded stand at the room’s center, sort of like what the models in the shop stood on. “Step up here.”

Vorrin obeyed. Again.

Nigellus claimed the cushioned chair at Vorrin’s right side and raised his wispy voice loud enough that it cracked. “Angelique! Bareck!”

It barely seemed loud enough to pass the fitting room walls, but almost immediately, a pair of employees, a thin man in a rolled shirt and clinging trousers and a young woman with her golden hair braided into a crown, came through the door, armed with fabric and measuring tape.

“Please, take off your outer clothing,” Nigellus said, beady eyes back on him. “I require as exact a measurement as possible.”

Vorrin hesitated with his fingers pressed to his buttons. He’d undressed in front of others plenty of times, especially now that he never dressed on his own, but… He sideglanced at Angelique.

“Angelique has no interest in your figure,” Nigellus said bluntly, sending Vorrin’s face blushing six-fold. “Now stop acting like timid schoolboy and undress. I have other appointments today.”

Vorrin had rarely felt small next to anyone, but this man held the same presence of his childhood commanding officers, but with a quarter of the physical strength. Perhaps being bossed around was the new theme of his life. He began unbuttoning his coat and wondered as he slid it to the ground, how he was going to get some of these pieces back on.

No sooner was he bare, scar-riddled skin reflected at all angles, and the two employees surged forward. For the next half hour, he stood at stock still attention while they measured practically every inch of him and Nigellus watched discomfortingly from the side. Every once in a while he barked–or wheezed–out commands to hold different fabrics up to his body. Something about seeing how the different materials draped or matched.

“You’ve met the empress before?” Vorrin found himself saying without warning as the room grew quiet.

“A couple of times now,” the tailor replied, wrinkled hands scribbling down something in a tiny notepad.. “I made her “coronation” clothes. And now I’ll make yours.”

Vorrin jerked around, causing Bareck to stumbled back a surprised step. “My what?”

“Oh dear,” Nigellus said dryly, not sounding at all concerned or sympathetic. “Did you not know about that?”

“Don’t be clever, old man. What are you talking about?”

“Your introduction as Empress Callista’s official royal consort. It’s no different than your current station, you’re simply being presented publicly.”

“And everyone knows of this.”

“I may be more informed for obvious reasons.”

“Why are you serving a tyrant?” Vorrin cried, more out of his own building panic than any real anger toward the old man. He knew it was unfair. It wasn’t like Nigellus could turn the empress away, or pack up his life and move. Besides, Vorrin was worse. He hadn’t been exactly , compliant with his new position, but he still went along with it all.

Nigellus barely seemed bothered by his outburst, tapping his fingers lightly against his cane. “Take it from someone who has been around a while. King Duras was a parasite to his people. The empress did us a favor by taking him off the throne.”

“Treason.”

“Not anymore.” He hauled himself to his feet. “You’re finished. Angelique and Bareck will help you dress. I will attend to the Empress.”

Vorrin watched the man going with a bitterness that surprised even himself. What did it matter what the tailor thought? He knew what he’d seen in battle. What he’d felt. He didn’t need confirmation to know what Empress Callista had done was unforgivable.

As he exited the fitting room several minutes later, he was immediately accosted by the empress shoving a bundle of outfits against his chest.

“Nigellus said you’d like these ones,” she said, almost…giddy? He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her anything other than bold and sly.

The outfits were all finely made but the styles were definitely simpler than the majority of the outfits with their dramatic cuts and frills.

He looked at Nigellus in surprise, but the man simply pointed toward the other end of the store.

“There are more on that side if you’d like to browse.”

“Er…thank you.”

He let Callista transfer the clothing into his arms and followed her purposeful stride to the indicated clothing. High collars, practical trousers. Military style. But…fancy. Not practical for actual military use, but one might be fooled.

“Any of these are fine.”

“Be specific darling. I’ll buy you three.”

He motioned vaguely to two styles on models, one high collared and caped, and the other with a long, v-cut coat, and held up a third charcoal outfit from the bundle Empress Callista had forced on him.

With that, the money was exchanged, a promise of delivery by the end of the week offered, and they were on their way.

“Now where?” he asked as they exited, eyeing the guards as they spread out to give the illusion of privacy.

“We take a walk. As you saw, I receive constant reports on the kingdom’s condition, but I like to see the larger issues myself before passing judgment.”

“And this larger issue is…?

“Some political unrest in the dregs. Talks of uprising. Persecution of those trying to assimilate. As well as persecution of those who speak up against me. A whole pot waiting to boil over.”

“And you’re just going to walk into that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re the empress! You’re valuable.” Maybe not to him, but to the well-being of the country. Especially with no one else lined up to rule. The last thing they needed was another ruler dying and sending them into a bloodbath for the throne.

“That’s sweet, but if I was scared of scraps, I wouldn’t have declared war. Now stay close.”

She linked arms with him once again, this time holding more to him than forcing him to hold her.

It was a little disconcerting how quickly the polished steps and wide glass windows turned to greasy streets and smoky stench. Vorrin had to admit that the dregs had never seemed so grim when he’d had nothing higher to compare it to. The people stood outside their houses, hanging clothes between rooftops or smoking with neighbors, dirty-faced children kicked loose stone along the street. But as soon as they caught sight of the pair of them they froze, expressions somewhere between shocked and bitter. He felt like a bright colored pheasant strutting into a hunting camp.

“Empress…”

“Keep moving.” She gripped him tighter, maybe that wasn’t her softening as much as it was keeping him locked in place. “We’re meeting someone a couple blocks from here. If you don’t act nervous they won’t bother you.”

“Obviously, you don’t know the dregs. They love—”

“Vorrin, you cur!”

Vorrin’s body stiffened at the husky voice, familiar and yet unknown.

He turned around just as the stout, horse-shouldered woman bowled into him, slamming his chest over and over with strong, battered hands. It all happened so fast, he had no time to steel himself; the next thing he knew he was toppling to the street, palms slipping on the oily grime.

A whirl of thick, blonde curls loomed overhead.

“Where is my son, Vorrin? Where is my son?”

Vorrin’s brain rapidly picked her apart, shortening the hair, slimming the face, turning those dishrag gray eyes to stormy blue. Emil. Emil’s…mother.

“He’s safe. He’s only in the dungeons,” he spilled rapidly before he could realize how ridiculous that sounded.

Her eyes flashed behind her curtain of hair. “The dungeon? My son is imprisoned so that you can whore around with the enemy?”

“I was trying to save them.” They were the only words he could find, but they sounded weak even to him.

"You didn’t do anything for them! You betrayed them! And your country!”

The guards leached out from hiding in the corners of Vorrin’s eyes.

“Wait…no…” he protested, but he couldn’t seem to raise his voice loud enough.

“I hope it's worth it!” Emil’s mother snarled, and in her he saw his soldier’s hate. “I hope you have enough gold and silk to cushion your sleep at night. Enough tinctures and hot bath water to wash all the blood from your hands.”

She spat a wad of saliva in his face. .

All at once, a pair of guards seized her, dragging her with arms twisted behind her back.

“Wait!” Vorrin cried, “Stop! Let her go!”

Empress Callista stepped forward, all danger and poison in one breath. “You’re under arrest for assaulting a royal consort.”

The woman snarled, and Callista bared her teeth to match it. “You should be happy. You're joining your son. Though unlike him, I can’t promise the absence of punishment.”

“No!” Vorrin scrambled upright, clothes smeared and torn. He snatched the empress’s arm, yanking her a couple feet away.

Her guards made a move to grab him as well when she held up a hand to stop them.

“Don’t do that,” she said, snapping his grip.

“Don’t arrest her.”

“What?”

“She’s just upset! She has a right to be upset!”

“Yes, but she does not have the right to lay hands on a consort like a common brawler. To touch anything or anyone in association with royalty is a crime. A serious one.”

“This is about pride?” he said, gritting his teeth.

She furrowed her brow, but her voice managed to remain cool. “This isn’t about me; it’s about you. Your reputation. Your honor as a consort.”

“I don't want any of this!”

“Like it or not, it’s what you have.”

“You let her go!”

Empress Callista closed her eyes against the saliva spray. When she opened them again they were ablaze. “Guards, take my consort back to the palace. Now.”

Part 4

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees s @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii @deflated-bouncingball @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps @demonictumble @inkbirdie @vuvulia @bouncyartist @lunatic-moss-studio @breilobrealdi i @freefallingup13 @i-am-a-story-goblin @ryunniez @rainy-knights-of-villany @distractedlydistracted @saspas-corner r @echoednonny @perilous-dreamer @blood-enthusiast @randomfixation @alexkolax @pksnowie @blessupblessup @wolfeyedwitch @thedeepvoidinmyheart @cornflower-cowboy @bestblob @a-chaotic-gremlin @espresso-depresso-system @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @paleassprince @takingawildbreath @yindo @psychiclibrariesquotestoad @harpycartoons @pickleking8 @urmyhopeeee

#fantasci tumblr #fantasy #fantasci writing #royalty #royal x soldier #royal x general #empress x general #enemies to lovers #slow burn #writblr #writeblr #series #creative writing #fiction

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onlycosmere · 2 years

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Kaladin Chapter One from Stormlight 5, Parts 1 and 2

Brandon Sanderson: This is first draft. So there's gonna be some stuff in this, things might change. Just be warning you.

This is Kaladin from [Stormlight] Book Five.

Chapter Kaladin One

Kaladin felt good.

Not great. Not after spending weeks hiding in an occupied city, forced to stretch himself both physically and emotionally far beyond the reasonable limit. Not after what had happened to Teft. No, Kaladin didn't feel great. But he stood in the sunlight, looking out the window of his room.

He thought that maybe he would someday feel great again. Knowing that, being able to recognize it, was enough. Indeed, there was an incongruent spring to his step as he walked to his barrack. Why did he feel good? Yes, they had protected Urithiru, but at great cost. Dalinar had set a deadline that was horrifically soon; war was coming upon them, and now Kaladin wasn't going to even be part of it. He was on leave; self-imposed this time.

He'd said the right words, but had realized that those words weren't enough. Stormlight healed his body, but his soul needed time. Bridge Four and the Windrunners would go to battle without him. He should feel awful. A part of him simply refused to do so.

He dug through his clothing, stacks of civilian clothing neatly laundered for him and delivered this morning. The world might be ending in ten days, but Urithiru's washwomen soldiered on. None of the choices felt right, and shortly he glanced to the wall where a new uniform hung, sent by the quartermaster to replace the one Kaladin had ruined during the fighting two days before. Leyten kept a rack of them in Kaladin's size.

Kaladin had stuck it there with a Lashing last night after Teft's funeral, testing something he'd been told by the others: Urithiru was awake now, with its own Bondsmith, and things were... different. That Lashing he had used should have run out after minutes; yet here this one was, ten hours later, still going strong. The extended powers only worked in the city, but he could already see that going forward, this would be a very different place to live. Assuming anyone survived the next two weeks.

A short time later, Syl poked her head into his room without any thought for privacy, as usual. Granted, his room didn't have a door, but a hanging cloth. Doors were in short supply, and they'd installed their first ones on the examination rooms up the hallway to offer privacy to the patients.

Not that a door would have stopped Syl; she could squeeze through the smallest cracks. Except, today, she was walking around full human-sized, for some reason, and wearing a havah instead of her usual girlish dress. She was doing that more commonly, as of late.

As Kaladin did the last buttons on the high collar of his uniform jacket, she bounced over to stand behind him, then floated up in the air a foot or so to look over his shoulder at him in the mirror.

"Can't you make yourself any size?" he asked, checking his jacket cuffs.

"Yeah. Within reason."

"Whose reason?"

"No idea," she said. "I tried to get as big as a mountain, once. It involved lots of grunting and thinking like rocks. Really big rocks. I managed a very small mountain; like, enough to fit in this room with the tip brushing the ceiling, but super narrow. That's as big as I could go."

"So, you could be tall enough to tower over me?" he said. "Why do you usually make yourself shorter than me, instead?"

"It just feels right," she said.

"That's your explanation for basically everything."

"Yep." She poked him. He could barely feel it; even at this size, she was insubstantial in the physical realm. "Uniform? I thought you weren't gonna wear one of those anymore. What happened?"

He hesitated, then pulled the jacket down at the bottom to pull the wrinkles across the sides. "It just feels right," he admitted, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

She grinned, and storm him, he couldn't help but grinning back. "Someone is having a good day," she said, poking him again.

"Bizarrely," Kaladin said. "If I understand right, the world is slated to end in ten days."

"To maybe end in ten days."

"And the enemy appears to be mobilizing for some reason, rather than just waiting for the deadline. What do they hope to accomplish?"

"Something nefarious, no doubt," she said.

"More people are going to die," he replied. "Perhaps people I care about. I won't be there to help them, and..."

"Kaladin Stormblessed!" she said, rising up into the air higher, arms folded. Though she wore a fashionable havah, she left her white-blue glowing hair floating free, waving and shifting in the wind. The non-existent wind, currently. She raised up until she loomed two feet above him. "Don't you dare talk yourself into being miserable!"

"Or what?"

"Or I," she thundered, "shall make silly faces at you all day, as only I can."

"Those aren't silly," he said, shivering.

"They're hilarious!"

"Last time, you made a tentacle come out of your forehead."

"High brow comedy."

"A spinning eyeball growing from the end of it?"

"Every joke needs a good twist."

"Then it slapped me!"

"Punchline. Obviously." She shook her head. "Storms. All the humans in the world, and I end up picking the one without a taste for refined humor."

He met her eyes, and her smile was storming contagious. "It just feels warm," he said, "to have finally figured a few things out. To have made progress, despite it all. To have let go of that weight I was carrying and to step out from the shadow. I know the darkness will return, but I think... I think I'll be able to remember, this time. Better than before."

"Remember what?"

He met her eyes, Lashing himself upward, floating until he was eye level with her. "That days like this exist, too." She nodded firmly. "I wish I could show Teft," Kaladin said. "I miss him like a hole in my own flesh, still."

"I know," she said softly. If she'd been a human friend, she might have offered a hug. Syl didn't seem to understand physicality like a human did, even if she had a more substantial body in the cognitive realm. He got the feeling she didn't actually spend much time there, though; she seemed more natural to this realm than the other honorspren, flitting about like the windspren she sometimes imitated. And indeed today, to cheer him up, she waved eagerly and led him out to the main living room of the family quarters. *inaudible* full human size wearing a havah, but flying about, moving with a swooping motion that was, honestly, a tad ridiculous to watch.

Kal didn't fall, though, continuing to hover. Because, why not? It felt like he wasn't even using up his Stormlight; or if he was, it was constantly replenished, like what happened when Dalinar opened a perpendicularity.

In the main living room, they found Oroden playing with his blocks. At Syl's suggestion, they spent a good half hour hovering the blocks in the air for the *inaudible*. It felt a strange use of his powers, literally harvested from the essence of a god. But, when he stopped, Oroden pointed. "Kaddin," the little boy said, pointing. "You need box!" "You," in this case, meant Oroden himself, who had noticed that everyone called him "you," and had decided that was just another name for him.

Kaladin smiled, hovering up another set of blocks. Syl, shrunken down, hopped from block to block in the air as Oroden swatted and moved them. What am I doing? Kaladin thought after a little of that. The world is ending, my best friend is dead, and I'm playing blocks with my little brother?

Then, in response, a voice deep from within him. Familiar, almost certainly imagined. Hold onto this, Kal. Embrace it. I didn't die so you could mope about like a wet Horneater with no razor. It didn't seem anything mystical, but instead... well, Kaladin had known Teft long enough to anticipate what the man would have said. Even in death, a good sergeant knew his job: keep the officers pointed the right direction."

"Pyl!" Oroden said, gesturing to Syl. "Pyl, come pin!" He was off a second later, with Syl following afterwards as he hopped and pointed, then starting spinning around in circles with her twirling around him.

Kaladin watched, seating on the floor amidst hovering blocks. His mother settled down beside him and nudged him in the side, then handed him a bowl with some lavis grain and spiced crab meat on the top. She wore her hair tied with a kerchief, like she'd always done when working back in Hearthstone. He took the bowl of food without complaint, though he didn't feel particularly like eating. As his mother eyed him, he dutifully started eating away. If there was a group more demanding than sergeants when it came to an officer's well-being, it would be mothers. When he'd been younger, this sort of attention had mortified him. Now, after years without, he found he didn't mind a little mothering. Truth be told, whether he wanted to eat or not, he needed the food.

"How are ya?" she asked.

"Good," he said around spoonfulls of lavis. She studied him. "Really," he said. "Good. Not great. Good enough."

A block flew past, steaming with Stormlight, Lashed upward precisely enough to counteract its weight. Hesina tapped it with a hesitant finger, sending it spinning through the room. "Shouldn't those fall?" she asked.

"Eventually, maybe?" He shrugged. "Navani has done something weird to the place. It's more than the fact that the tower is somehow warm now, and the pressure equalized. The entire city is infused, like a sphere." Water flowed, now, from holes in walls. You simply had to press your hand to the top of the hole and ask, and it came streaming out. You asked for a temperature, and it came out that heat. Suddenly, a lot of the strange basins and empty pools in the tower made sense. They'd expected spigots, but most locations didn't have those. Just mysterious outlets.

He smiled as he watched Syl spin around Oroden, twirling himself, then left him with a few blocks as a distraction. She popped to human size again and flopped down on her back next to Kaladin and his mother, her face covered in an illusionary approximation of sweat. "How," Syl said, "do small humans just keep going? Where does their energy come from?"

"One of the great mysteries of the cosmere," his mother said. "If you think this is bad, you should have seen Kal."

"Oooh," Syl said, rolling over and looking to her with wide eyes, her long, blue-white hair tumbling around her face. No human woman Kaladin had ever known had acted such a casual way wearing a havah. The tight dresses, while not strictly formal, weren't designed for rolling about on the ground bare-footed. Syl, however, would be Syl. "Embarassing childhood stories?" she said. "Go. Talk. While his mouth is full of food so he can't stop you."

"He never stopped moving," Hesina said, leaning forward, "except when he finally <clumped to the ground> to sleep, giving us brief hours of respite. I was required to sing his favorite song, and Lirin would have to chase him. And he could tell if Lirin was giving a half-hearted chase and would chastise him. It was honestly the cutest thing to see Lirin being chewed out by a three-year-old."

"I could have guessed," Syl said, "he would be tyrannical as a child."

"Not tyrannical," Hesina said. "He merely like things to be the way that they should be. As he saw them. Children often are like that, Syl, accepting only one answer to any question because nuance is difficult and confusing."

"Yeah," Kaladin said, scraping the last of the lavis from his bowl. "Children. That's a worldview that obviously only strikes children, never the rest of us."

His mother gave him a side hug, one arm around his shoulders. The kind that seemed to grudgingly admit that he wasn't a little boy anymore. "Do you sometimes wish," she asked him, "the world were a simpler place? That easy answers of a child were, in truth, the actual answers?"

"Not anymore," he said. "'Cause I think the easier answers would condemn me. Most everyone, actually." That made his mother beam, for some reason, even though it was a simple thing to say. Then her eyes got a certain mischievous sparkle to them. He knew his mother, and knew to be wary of what was coming next

"So. You have a spren friend," she said. "Did you ever ask her that important question you always asked me?"

He sighed, bracing himself. "And which question would that be, mother?"

"Poopspren," she said, poking him. "You were always so fascinated by the idea."

"That was Tien!" Kaladin said. "That was not me!"

She returned a knowing stare. Mothers; they remember too well.

"Fine," he said. "Maybe I was intrigued." He glanced at Syl, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes. "Did you ever know any...?"

"Poopspren?" she said flatly. He nodded. "Like, the stinky stuff that comes out of you when you think I'm not looking?" she said. "That stuff? The world is ending, and this is what you want to know? You're asking the only living daughter of the storms, princess of the honorspren, this question: how much poop do I personally know?"

"It's just something that came up," he said, "now and then, when we were boys, if poop actually had a spren, or..."

"Oh, I know tons," Syl said, barely keeping a straight face. "We had them over for dinner all the time. Stormfather and I. Knew an entire poop family."

"I do not want to discuss the topic anymore," Kaladin said. "Please, can we move on. I don't need to know more about poop."

Unfortunately, Oroden wandered over and was watching the conversation with interest. He stepped up and patted Kaladin on the knee. "It's okay, Kaddin," he said in a comforting voice, with a tone of repeating something he'd been told. "Poop goes in the potty. Do better next time and get a treat."

This, of course, sent Syl into a fit of uproarious laughter, flopping on her back again. Kaladin gave his mother his captain's glare, one he knew from experience was good enough to make any soldier go white. Mothers, however, ignored the chain of command. And the glare only made her seem more amused.

So it was that Kaladin was exceedingly relieved when his father appeared in the doorway, a spring in his step and a large stack of papers under his arm. His wife walked over to take these, curious. "Dalinar's medical corps layouts and current operating procedures," Lirin explained to her.

"Dalinar, eh?" she said. "A few meetings and you're on a first-name basis with the most powerful man in the world?"

"The boy's attitude is contagious," Lirin said.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with his upbringing," Hesina said. "We'll instead assume that four years in the military somehow conditioned him to be flippant around lighteyes."

"Well, I mean..." Lirin glanced at Kaladin. Both looked into his eyes, which were a deep blue these days, never fading back to their proper brown. Didn't help that he was, even still, hovering a few inches off the ground. Air was more comfortable than stone, after all. He knew they found what he'd become to be somewhat unbelievable. He didn't blame them. He found himself stomping in on occasion and trying to believe it himself.

The two of them moved over to the counter at the side of the room, spreading out the pages. "It's a mess," Lirin said. "His entire medical system needs a rebuild from the ground up, with training on how to properly sanitize. Apparently, many of his best field medics have fallen in recent events."

"I hear the army has had a difficult time of things these last few years," Hesina said, scanning the pages.

You have no idea, Kaladin thought. They glanced at Syl, who had sidled over to sit next to him. Oroden went chasing blocks again, and Kaladin... well, he just basked in it for a time. Family. Peace. He'd been running from disaster to disaster for so long, he'd completely forgotten what this felt like. Even moments like dinners with Bridge Four, precious times of respite, had felt like the gasps of air you might get while drowning, rather than truly peaceful breaks. Yet, here he was. Retired, watching his brother play, sitting next to Syl, listening to his parents chat. Storms, it had been a wild ride. He'd survived it all, somehow. And it wasn't his fault that he had.

Syl sat upright next to him, then rested her head, insubstantial though it was, on the side of his shoulder as she watched the blocks float. Which was odd behavior for her, but he wasn't accustomed to her spending so much time in a human size, so maybe her head grew more tired when she was larger. "Why the full size?" he asked her.

"When we were in Shadesmar," she said, "something felt different, about the way everyone looked at me, treated me. I felt more like a person. Less like a force of nature. I'm finding I missed that."

"Do I treat you differently when you're small?"

"A little."

"And you want me to change?"

"I want," she said, "things to change and be the same all at once." She looked at him, and probably saw on his face that he found that completely baffling. She continued, leaning back and giving him a grin. "Suffice it to say that I want to make it harder for certain people to ignore me." With that, she poked him in the arm.

"Is it harder to be this size?"

"Yep," she said. "But I've decided I want to make the effort. Not all the time. More often, though, than I used to." She shook her head, making her hair swirl around. "Do not question the will of the mighty spren princess, Kaladin Stormblessed. My whims are as inscrutable as they are magnanimous."

"You were just saying you wanted to be treated like a person," he said, "not a force of nature."

"No," she said. "I want to decide when I'm treated like a person. That doesn't preclude me wanting to be properly worshiped, as well." She smiled, devious. "I've been thinking of all kinds of things to make Lunamor do, if we ever see him again."

He wanted to offer her some consolation on that, but he honestly had no idea if they'd ever see Rock again. Another hurt, different from the loss of Teft, different again from the loss of Moash; perhaps, the loss of the man he'd thought Moash had been.

"Son," Lirin said from the side of the room, "don't you have a meeting with Dalinar? He mentioned he had something for you to do."

"I already know what it is," Kaladin said, standing up. "He told me yesterday. Szeth is going to Shinovar to confront Ishar. Dalinar wants me to go with him and see if I can do something to help."

"Ishar?" Hesina said. "You mean Ishi'elin, priest of the Heralds, second only to the Almighty in glory and truth?"

"Yeah," Kaladin said. "Apparently he's gone mad? Not surprising, considering how Taln and Ash are faring."

Mother gave him an odd look, and it took a moment to realize it was because he was speaking so familiarly of Heralds, figures of lore that were the focus of religious devotion the world over. He wasn't certain of why he used the familiar tone and names so easily; he didn't know either of them, and was simply using the names they'd used in meetings. It felt natural to talk that way. He'd stopped reverencing people he didn't know the way Amaram branded him. God or king, if they wanted his respect... well, they could earn it.

"Son," Lirin said, turning away from the many sheets of papers they'd been studying, detailing out Dalinar's medical tent layouts. From the way Lirin said the word, Kaladin braced himself for some kind of lecture.

He was unprepared, then, for Lirin to embrace him. Awkwardly; it wasn't Lirin's natural state, this sort of attention. Yet, Kaladin appreciated it. The gesture conveyed things that Lirin found it hard to say. That he'd been wrong. That perhaps Kaladin needed to find his own way. So, Kaladin embraced him back.

"I wish," Lirin said, "I had fatherly advice for you. But I far outpaced my understanding of the way things work in life, so I guess... go be you. Go save the world."

"Dad," Kaladin said. "I'm not going to war. I'm not going to save the world. I'm just going to see if I can talk a crazy man out of a few of his issues."

"Then you are the best one to do it." Lirin pulled back. "I love you."

Kaladin forcibly suppressed an eye roll. This was what he'd wanted; he could deal with a little sappiness.

"Stay safe," his mother said, giving him another side hug. "And come back to us.

He gave her a nod, then glanced at Syl. She'd changed while he wasn't looking, from a havah to a Bridge Four uniform, with her hair in a ponytail like Lyn usually wore. It looked right, somehow, on Syl.

It was time to go. With one final hug for his brother, Kaladin strode out to meet his destiny, for the first time in years feeling like he was somewhat in control. Deciding for himself to take the next step in his life, rather than being thrust into it by momentum or act of society. And while he'd woken up feeling good, that knowledge, that sense of volition and control, felt legitimately great.

Chapter Kaladin Two

Kaladin soared up through the center column of Urithiru, accompanied by Syl. Dalinar still kept his meetings on the top floor, though Kaladin had trouble imagining the location was convenient for people who couldn't fly. He found it difficult not to think about the last time he'd flown up this corridor, following Teft's murder. Enraged, feeling like something unfamiliar had poisoned his blood. A rage, fraternal twin to the normal feelings of Stormlight. Eagerness to act, but this time also to destroy, a storm inside of him, this time red and broken with bloody lightning. That man he'd become after killing the Pursuer; that man frightened him. Even now, days later, lit by calm sunlight, remembering that man was like remembering a nightmare. Made more terrifying by the fact that he knew it had been Kaladin himself and his choices that had led him to that point.

He lighted at the top of the elevator shaft and noted a glow coming from a nearby room. "Navani," Syl whispered, eyes wide. She shrank down to the size of a spren and zipped off. There was something almost intoxicating about Navani to the spren of the city, something about her bond to the Tower and what it had done. Syl would be back shortly, but like vines seeking water, when they came near Navani these last little while, Syl had always flown off for a little bit.

Kaladin forced himself to walk, not glide, over to the room where Dalinar was taking his meetings today. As soon as he left Urithiru, Kaladin would need to go back to using Stormlight only when necessary. Best to be in the habit now.

Dalinar's meeting room had a smaller chamber outside for people to wait while meetings finished. Urithiru was getting more and more furniture these days, so there was a nice couch here in this small stone room where one could sit and wait. It was, unfortunately, taken up entirely by Wit, who was laying on his back, using space that could have accommodated three people, his foot up on one armrest, reading some kind of book and chuckling to himself. "Ahh, Wema," he mumbled, turning the page. "So you've finally seen what a catch Vadam is. Let's see how you screw it up."

"Wit?" Kaladin said. "I didn't realize you were even back in the Tower." It was probably a stupid thing to say, though. Jasnah was back, having been fetched by Windrunners and transported to the Oathgate in Azimir, so it made sense Wit had come along.

Wit, being Wit, finished his page of reading before acknowledging Kaladin. Finally, the lanky man snapped the book closed, then turned and lounged on the sofa in a different way, arms to the sides along the back, one leg crossed over the other, looking nothing so much as a king on his throne. A very relaxed king on a very cushy throne.

"Well," he said, eyes alight with amusement, "if it isn't my favorite flute thief!"

"You gave me that flute, Wit," Kaladin said, sighing as he leaned against the frame of the doorway.

"And then lost it."

"That's not the same as stealing."

"I'm a storyteller," Wit said with a flip of the fingers. "My kind have the right to redefine words as we see fit."

"That's stupid."

"That's literature."

"It's confusing."

"The more confusing, the better the literature!"

"That might be the most pretentious thing I've ever heard."

"Ah," Wit said, pointing. "Now you're getting it. I knew you'd understand."

Kaladin hesitated, trying to sort through what had just been said. Sometimes, during conversations with Wit, he wished he had someone to take notes for him. Wit just sat there, looking back at him, seeming self-satisfied. "So..." Kaladin said, "do you want your flute back?"

"Hell no! I gave you that flute, bridgeboy! Returning it back would be almost as insulting as stealing it!"

"What am I supposed to do with it, though?"

"Hmm," Wit said, reaching into a bag at his feet and slipping out a different flute, this one painted with some kind of shiny red lacquer. He twirled it in his hand. "If only there was something one could do with this curious piece of wood. These holes seem intended for some arcane purpose beyond the understanding of mortals." Kaladin rolled his eyes. "If only," Wit continued, "there was a way to learn to do something productive with this item! It has the look of some natural sort... maybe an instrument? Of curious, mythological design, perhaps intended for some useful purpose? Alas, my poor, finite mind is incapable of comprehending the-"

"If I don't interrupt," Kaladin said, "how long will you keep going?"

"Long, long past the time when it was funny."

"It was ever funny?"

"The words?" Wit said. "Of course not. Your face while I say them, though. Well, it's been said that I am an artist. This is true. Unfortunately, the primary subjects of my art can never experience the truth of my creations as displayed upon their features, them becoming the only one immune to the experience." He flipped the flute in his hand again, then handed it toward Kaladin. "For loan, this time. It has the same fingerings of the one I gave you, though not the same... capacity."

"Wit. I can't play this flute any more than I could play the other one you gave me. I have no idea how."

"So?" Wit flipped the flute again, then extended it further toward Kaladin.

"I guess... I have to wait until Dalinar is done," Kaladin said, looking longingly at the door, which remained closed. Dalinar often took his time in meetings, ignoring appointment times, despite of Navani's attempts to get him to pay attention to one of the many clocks she delivered him. So there was no telling how long Kaladin would be up here.

Wit grinned. And, well... Kaladin felt indebted to him. As infuriating as the man (or whatever he actually was) could be... Well, when Kaladin had been in the worst darkness of the storm, Wit had been there to pull him out. Somehow, despite it being a vision or a nightmare of some sort, Wit had come for him. This man was a friend, and Kaladin appreciated him, quirks included, so he played the role the man obviously wanted.

"Will you teach me?" Kaladin said, taking the flute. "I don't have a lot of time but-"

Wit was already moving, whipping some sheets of paper from the bag at his feet. They had a strange kind of symbol on them, which made Kaladin nervous, but Wit insisted that it wasn't actually writing. Just the marks on paper representing sounds. He said that part with a smile, and it took Kaladin a few minutes to realize the inherent joke to them. Still, over the next hour (Dalinar really was taking his time), Kaladin listened and followed Wit's instructions. He learned the basics of fingering, of reading music and making notes. It was a different experience entirely from trying to figure it out on his own, though he'd largely forgotten about the flute. When Wit would let him in recent months.

When he'd first got it, he had legitimately tried. He knew that he had to blow air across the thing in just the right way, but it wasn't until Wit showed him exactly how to hold his hands that Kaladin managed to coax a few timid notes from the thing. An hour later, he forced out a stumbling rendition of the first line of music with notes that sounded far more shrill than Wit's version. It was an incredibly simple accomplishment, just a handful a notes; yet Kaladin felt he'd climbed a mountain in accomplishing it. He was smiling in a stupid way as Syl peeked back in to investigate the source of the noise. Probably wondering who's been stepping on a rat, Kaladin thought to himself.

"Nice work," Wit said. "Next time you're in a fight, start with a bit of that. The enemy is sure to drop their weapon and cover their ears."

"If anyone asks me about my skill, I'll just be sure to tell them who my teacher is." Wit grinned at that. "Am I at least going to get a story this time?" Kaladin asked, handing the flute back as he sat beside the man on the couch. When was Dalinar going to be done?

"That depends on how well you listen. And if you do what I say. And if you're willing to make up a few of your own." He rapped the flute with his knuckles.

"It was a fun enough way to pass the time while waiting, Wit," Kaladin said, "but I have to ask. Music? Me, playing a flute? What relevance is any of that?"

"Ah. Now there's a question for the ages," Wit said, leaning back. "What use is art? Why does it hold such meaning and potence to us? I can't tell you, because the short answer is unappealing and the long answer takes months. I will instead say this: every society in every region of every planet I've visited (and I've been to quite a large number) has made art."

Kaladin nodded thoughtfully at that. It made sense; Wit wasn't answering it as an actual question, but Kaladin was accustomed to that by now. Protesting would only lead to mockery.

"Perhaps the question isn't 'what use is art?'" Wit mused. "Perhaps even that simple question misses the point? It's like asking the use of having hands or walking upright or growing hair. Art is part of us, Kaladin. That's the use; that's the reason. It exists because we need it on some fundamental level. And the use is simply that: to be made.

When Kaladin didn't respond, Wit eyed him. "I can accept that," Kaladin said. "It's a tautology. Which is the point: the more confusing, the better, right?"

Wit grinned, and then that grin faded. He glanced through the door into Dalinar's meeting room.

"Wit," Kaladin asked, "I get the feeling this next part is going to be difficult."

"Yeah," Wit said softly. "I feel it too." A straight answer. Those were always strangely disturbing.

"Do you have any words of wisdom? Encouragement?"

"Everything you've done, Kal, everything you've been, has prepared you for this. It's going to be hard. Fortunately, life has been hard, so you're working under familiar constraints. We just carry these weights, son; eventually, we'll get to put them down."

Kaladin glanced to the side to where Wit was staring off into space, idly spinning the red flute in his fingers. Something in his voice, his face. "You're talking," Kaladin said softly, "like you think one of us won't survive this."

"I wish I were optimistic enough to think one of us would survive."

"Wit, I'm pretty sure I've heard you say that you're immortal."

"Yeah. Immortality doesn't seem to go as far as it once did, kid." He glanced at Kaladin, then plastered on a smiling face. "Listen. I think you can rise to this. Probably. Difficult though it will be. You're up for a different kind of challenge now. As am I." Wit tapped the flute. "You're going to have to learn to play music, Kaladin. Without using your breath or your lips."

"Wit. I know we've been joking about being confusing. Can you try for once to be clear?"

"I am trying. You'll win when you don't play music with your own breath, and when you fight without your own muscles. Play the flute, but don't. And fight, but don't."

"I think you've been reading too many stories, Wit. Riddles aren't actually helpful in real life."

Wit launched himself off the couch, crossing the room on legs that suddenly seemed spindly. He passed Syl, human-sized again, lingering in the doorway and watching him with a frown. "Listen," Wit said, sounding almost frustrated. "It will make sense when you get to it, maybe, if you can take this next journey down the right path. Keep your hope strong."

"Jasnah doesn't believe in hope," Syl whispered at the doorway. "I heard her complaining about it once."

"Jasnah would make an excellent Wit," Wit said, pointing at Syl. "She's the right amount of smart and the right amount of stupid all at once." He smiled in a fond way, and Kaladin wondered if there was anything to the rumors about those two. Wit spun toward Kaladin. "Do you know about the Passions?"

"That's some old Thaylen religion," Kaladin said, shrugging. "Something about emotion."

"Derived anciently from the teachings of Odium," Wit said, crossing the room and spreading his hands. "Though, honestly, it's not polite to point out that fact to practitioners of the Passions. People don't like hearing the way their religion was, mythologized like all others, as if myths can't be true. Regardless, the Passions teach that if you are fervent enough, if you care enough, your emotion itself will influence yourself. Not simply because of positive thinking. The Passions, as a religion, teach that if you want something badly enough, the cosmere will provide it for you."

Kaladin nodded slowly. "There might be something to that."

"Kid," Wit said, leaning down before where Kaladin still sat on the couch. "The Passions are utter horseshit."

"Why? It's good to be hopeful. The Passions sound nice."

"The wrong people get far too much mileage out of things that sound nice," Wit said. "The amount of money, effort, and lives wasted on things that sound nice would astonish you. Take it from a guy who is all too capable of the lie: nothing is easier to sell somebody than the story that they want to hear.

"Nice doesn't mean true, or even helpful. The Passions are deeply insulting if you spare even a moment to consider. I once spoon-fed broth to a trembling child in a kingdom that no longer exists. I found her on a road leading away from a battlefield after her parents, simple peasants who were caught between clashing armies, were slaughtered. Her elder brother lay half a mile behind, having starved hours before I found her. You think that kid who starved didn't want to eat? You think her parents didn't want badly enough to escape the ravages of war? You think if they had Passion enough, the cosmere would have saved them? How convenient to be able to believe that people are poor because they simply didn't care enough to be rich? That they didn't pray hard enough? So convenient to make suffering their own fault, rather than the result of life being unfair and birth mattering more than aptitude or storming Passion."

Kaladin met Wit's eyes, frowning. He didn't know if he'd ever seen the man so riled up by a simple concept, one that barely seemed to have anything to do with their conversation. But one could never tell with Wit. Non sequiturs that ended up being relevant were the daggers he kept strapped to his boots to be employed when his foes were distracted.

"You're a lighteyes now, Kaladin," Wit said, leaning forward even further. "You've hauled yourself up out of the crem, and done something incredible in that. You deserve praise. But be careful of assuming that people only get what they deserve in life. That's been sold a hundred different ways: positive thinking leading to opportunity, absolutist prosperity doctrines, the Passions. I've seen the same ideas recycled in a dozen different worlds, sure to emerge among useful ideas like storming weeds on a battlefield. They're all the same: deliberate, pernicious lies devised by powers who know their success was due to to luck at best, crass exploitation and larceny at worst. So they have to invent some kind of moral rationalization, a lie that lets them think they deserve what they have. Then, after inhaling their own stench long enough, they decide to package and sell it. And when it doesn't work for anyone else; well, they have the ultimate excuse. It isn't the idea that is flawed. You just don't care enough."

"Storms," Syl said, crossing the room. "This is important to you."

"And yet," Wit said, glancing at her, "wanting and praying desperately for all of them to choke on their own fingers as they reach down their throats to pull forth further nuggets of regurgitated idiodicy, it hasn't happened. Funny, that."

"Hope matters, though," Kaladin said. "You just told me earlier to hope."

"Sure, it matters. Of course it matters. You think I'd be here if it didn't? Hope is a virtue. But the definition of that word is relevant. You know what a virtue actually is? It's not that difficult."

"If this entire conversation is the way I learn," Kaladin said, "then I dispute the point of it not being that difficult."

Wit chuckled, then stepped back and threw his hands in the air. "Virtue is something that is valuable, even if it gives you nothing. A virtue persists without payment or compensation. Positive thinking is great, vital, useful; but it has to remain so, even if it gets you nothing. Belief, truth, honor: the moment these exist only to get you something is the moment you've missed the storming point."

He glanced at Syl. "This is where Jasnah is wrong about hope, smart though she is in so many other ways. If hope didn't mean anything to you despite losing, then it wasn't ever a virtue to you in the first place. Took me a long time to learn this, even though I've had it explained to me a long time ago by a smart man. A man who lost every belief he thought he had, but started over now."

"Sounds like someone wise," Syl said.

"Oh, Saze is among the best. He might be the wisest man I've ever known."

"Too bad none of it rubbed off," Kaladin said.

Wit tossed his flute, spinning it, then pointed it directly at Kaladin. "Congratulations. You've practiced music, you've listened to a self-important rant, and you've delivered quips at awkward points. I dub you a graduate from Wit's school of practical impracticality."

Syl sat down on the couch, though she left no impression in its cushions, hovering as always rather than truly sitting. She seemed completely baffled by all of this.

"Wit," Kaladin said, "does that make me your apprentice?"

Wit belted out a full-stomach last, one that lasted an extended time, long enough to be uncomfortable. "Kal," he said, gasping for breath, "you've learned a few things, but you're still far, far too useful a human being to be an apprentice of mine. You'd end up actually helping people! No, I have to refuse. I've already got one bridgeboy as an apprentice, and he's plenty incompetent to keep a hold of the position for many years to come."

"I'm sure Sig will love that description of him," Kaladin said. "I'll have you know he's doing a fine job leading the Windrunners."

"You've been corrupting him," Wit said. "I'm trying to return that favor to you. No, you're not my apprentice, but that doesn't mean you can't pick up a thing or two. A kind of cross-training into uselessness."

"You're so storming melodramatic," Kaladin said.

"Just trying to give you a proper send-off," Wit replied. "We're at the end, Kaladin, and you are needed. I want to send you to your divine destiny with a spring in your step."

"I don't know why everyone talks like that," Kaladin said. "War might be coming, but I'm heading away from it. Dalinar wants me to help a maniac come back to himself, and perhaps keep another one in line during the trip."

"That's it, eh?" Wit said. "Yeah, that's it. A little thing. Just you becoming the world's first therapist."

Kaladin glanced at Syl, who shook her head. "We have no idea what that is, Wit."

"Because," Wit said, "you haven't finished inventing it yet!" He leaned in. "About time someone figured out a method to counteract what I've been doing. Makes my job more fun, because a challenge is always appreciated. Now go, the two of you. The world needs you: more than you, or it, or anyone other than your humble Wit yet realizes. The fight ahead of you is going to be legendary. Just remember what I said. You can't fight this one with the strength of muscle. You'll have to wield the spear another way."

"And learn to play the flute," Kaladin said flatly, "without playing it."

"Yep, you've got it."

With a sight, Kaladin stood up. Then, the most remarkable thing happened. Wit extended his hand. Then didn't pull it back as Kaladin hesitantly took it, but gave it a firm shake.

"Thank you," Wit said.

"For what?"

"For the inspiration."

Kaladin frowned again. "I'm never going to see you again, am I, Wit?"

"Nobody knows the future, Kal," he replied, "not even me. So instead of saying goodbye, let's call this an extended period of necessary separation, requisite to give me time to think of the most perfect, exquisite insult. And if I never get to deliver it to you in person; well, kindly do me the favor of imagining how wonderful it was, all right?"

"All right."

Wit winked at him, then let go of his hand and walked over to rap at the door. Dalinar himself opened it a moment later. "You finally done with him, Wit?" the man asked. "I've been waiting for a storming hour, and there isn't time to waste!"

"He's yours," Wit said. "Remember what I told you."

"I will," both Kaladin and Dalinar said at the same time. They glanced at each other.

"Wit," Kaladin called just before the man vanished. "What about my story? What about my story?"

"You will tell your own story this time, Kaladin," Wit said, with a last glance and a wink. Then he was gone, his whistle from outside slowly retreating.

"You ever think," Kaladin said to Dalinar, "that you'd end up dancing on that man's whims?"

"I suspect," Dalinar said, stepping back and waving for Kaladin to enter, "we've been dancing to them for years without knowing it. I think he's some kind of god."

"No," Syl said, joining Kaladin as they walked in, but looking over her shoulder. "He could have been a god, but he turned it down. Which makes him something else entirely."

Dalinar grunted, then gestured into the chamber. "Come. I have a few things to tell the two of you, then you need to be on your way."

#the stormlight archive #kowt #stormlight 5 #cosmere #brandon sanderson #cosmere future #cfsbf #root #long post

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allergictocolor · 15 days

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Character Profile - Cousin Itt

Cousin Itt was created for the 1960s TV show, so I don’t have a quote from Charles Addams saying what he should be like. He was fashioned after two drawings of a man completely covered in/made out of hair and wearing sunglasses:

In his first TV appearance, he was a little person wearing a suit and gloves, who simply had a tremendous amount of hair. You could clearly see his legs, arms, and hands. Here he is performing a magic act for the family:

That first costume was made using real human hair, but since everyone everywhere smoked all the time back in the 60s, the costume was later changed to synthetic hair to be less of a fire hazard. They also added more hair, glasses, and sometimes a hat. This became the iconic look of Cousin Itt.

He was played by Felix Silla (above right), who at 3’11” tall was the perfect height to wear the costume. While he performed Itt’s actions, they did not use his voice. Itt’s signature meeping sounds were created by the show’s sound engineer, Tony Magro. His way of speaking was replicated in various ways in every later incarnation, even when he was voiced by a celebrity. In the 2019 and 2021 3D animated films, his voice was provided by Snoop Dogg, but it sounds like it was played backwards and the pitch was raised and possibly sped up. Despite his speech being indecipherable, the members of the Addams family can all understand Itt perfectly.

In the sitcom, Itt will ring the doorbell when he arrives at the house, but if they take too long to let him in, he’ll climb up the walls and enter the house through a window or the chimney. Itt doesn’t live in the house, but he has a guest room built to his dimensions. The others have to stoop to fit inside of it. It’s played for comedic effect, but it’s kind of wonderful that there’s at least one place where other people have to deal with everything being built for his size, rather than the other way around.

The plots for Cousin Itt’s appearances in the sitcom centered around him finding a job or, at one point, losing his hair. In the 1991 film, he falls in love with Margaret Alford, the wife of Tully Alford, who was scamming the family. This sort of establishes Itt as a ladies’ man, which carries over into the 90s animated series and the 3D animated films. Though in the 1993 movie, he’s happily married to Margaret and they have a hairy little child together named What.

Cousin Itt has not yet appeared in the Netflix show Wednesday, though an ancestor of his has. In the seventh episode, Fester, Thing, and Wednesday break into a safe behind a painting of Ignatius ”Iggy” Itt. The way that Fester refers to him makes it clear that this is not the Itt that they both know today, but a different, earlier relative. In addition to that, the dates under the painting are from 200 years ago, and we can assume that Cousin Itt is not over 200 years old. Though it is hard to tell with this family.

Will Cousin Itt make an appearance in Wednesday? It’s unlikely to happen in season 2 unless it’s a surprise. None of the guest stars listed are under four feet tall. There is the possibility that one of the new actors with an unnamed role could be the voice actor for Itt, and a little person would be hired to do the body work, but it’s far more likely that they would hire someone famous for the role.

We are already meeting Grandmama in season 2, and there will be some amount of plot happening in the Addams family mansion, so we can’t completely rule out the possibility of Itt making an appearance. However, they may also wait until a third season to introduce him, and hire someone like Warwick Davis to play him. Right now, only those involved in the show know for certain.

#the addams family #addams family #cousin itt

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 1 year

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Hello! Can I please request a teenager!reader that deal with a scholar phobia (panic attacks, sickness due to bullying, pressure) and how the RoR characters will help them. Thank you for reading my request and I love your writting !

-It started off small, you were looking a bit more tired lately, more exhausted, like you hadn’t been sleeping well, which was true, most nights were spent tossing and turning, unable to turn your brain off.

-Then little mistakes here and there, like you weren’t focusing, grabbing the salt instead of the sugar to put into your tea, or forgetting to wear a jacket on a cooler day. You were definitely more absent minded.

-When asked by various members of your adoptive family, you just waved off their concerns, telling them that you’ve been studying a lot, “I want to be smart to make you all proud!”

-Then came with the withdrawn behavior, wearing long sleeves even though it was colder out, trying to hide a limp in your gait, saying you had stepped funny off a curb and that you would be okay.

-You started eating less and less, and only eating in your bedroom, while you were studying, you cheeks were starting to look a bit hollow as well.

-Tesla checked over your homework and pointed out your mistakes. Tears had welled in your eyes and you were struggling to hold them back but smiled, thanking him, praying that he and the others didn’t see your tears.

-Then came a phone call, you had been jumped at school, four on one, others had stepped in but you were pretty messed up.

-Adam and Hades were selected to be the ones to pick you up and when they saw you in the hospital, there was no hiding their fury.

-You had wounds, not fresh looking ones from the beating today, old ones, ones that looked weeks old, bruises of several shades and sizes. They could see your ribs poking out and you had an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose, as your breathing was labored.

-The doctor told them how, in her study of you, that you had been being bullied for what looked to be months now, something the school was no involved with, as these bullies made sure to never do it in line of security cameras, and threatened other students to keep quiet.

-She also found that you were severely malnourished and dehydrated and the way your body looked, besides the wounds, was that you had been under a lot of severe stress lately.

-Once home, you were sat on the couch and faced a family meeting, you vs. everyone else in your massive family, who demanded to know why you hadn’t said anything about the bullying or the stress you had been under.

-You broke down, apologizing like it was your fault, that you just wanted to make them proud of you. You tried your best with your grades but you kept making mistakes and you weren’t good enough for them.

-Eve surprised everyone by slapping your cheek, not hard enough to seriously hurt you, but enough to shock you to get your attention, fuming down at you as tears were welled in her own eyes, a few slipping down her cheeks in anger, “We’re proud of you no matter what you do! We’re here to support and help you, but we can’t help you if you don’t say anything, or if you keep secrets like this! We love you Y/N, and nothing will every change that. I- we don’t want to see you like this ever- ever again!”

-You were quickly in tears, sobbing in her arms as she hugged you, petting your hair, letting you cry. When you finally calmed down a feast was prepared for you and you were expected to eat enough for two people before you were allowed to get up.

-You had no problem, as your stress had been masking how hungry you actually were, but as you ate, you looked around, seeing several members of your family gone.

-As if reading your mind, Kojiro smiled warmly, ruffling your hair gently, “They had to go out for a bit. Said they would be back in about an hour.”

-When you returned on Monday, you were shocked to hear all four of the bullies had suddenly changed schools. You were none the wiser on the reason why as you family decided to keep that from you, for now.

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror tesla #ror had #ror eve #ror adam

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starlightsuffered · 13 days

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Friends and Play

A/n - I am changing the weekend to someone else just because I don’t like some of the allegations against him. I hope you can still enjoy this! :)

Info - multiple sex partners, Dom men, hard dom, soft dom, involves Michael b Jordan, Oscar Issac, Austin butler, and Tom Holland, showing off, teasing, oral(male receiving), humping boot, needy fem, finger kink, hair pulling, degrading, multicum, breeding kink, some size kink, daddy kink, unprotected sex, slapping, aftercare sex, praise

Many dreams of mine had come true since dating Timothée. This was one of the more salacious ones. I stood in his huge shower, completely naked, being leered at by his group of friends. Timothée sat in an ornate chair with a smirk on his face.

Michael, Austin, Oscar, and Tom were all looking at my body like it was a piece of meat and I fucking loved it. I wasn’t sure why I wanted this so badly, but I did.

“Who wants to fuck the slut first?” I asked with a grin. I could already see the tent in every man’s pants.

“I think the oldest should go first,” said Oscar. He pushed forward. He stripped off his clothing. His gorgeous, tan, ass was ripe to sink my nails into.

His cock was uncut and thick. I smiled at the sight of his dark body hair. Surely, an older man like this would know how to treat my needy pussy.

To my surprise, Oscar picked me up. He pressed me against the shower’s slick wall.

“A baby girl like you deserves to be taken care of,” he said in his low, sexy voice.

His cock pressed against my wetness. He went in slowly. I felt him stretch every inch of my drenched cunt. I let out a gasp when he was snug inside. His hands were on my ass, massaging the skin.

He began to rut inside me. I was already clawing at his back. I moaned as he hit my g-spot over and over. I looked at Timothée as Oscar fucked me. He was feeling himself over his pants. He slowly sipped a glass of wine. I noticed the other men were getting hot and bothered too.

“That’s a good girl, take daddy’s big dick,” Oscar crooned. He sounded so pleased with me that I melted.

“Yes sir,” I whimpered.

“You’re so pretty like this, all controlled and taken advantage of,” he continued.

“I’m your small little p-plaything,” I whined as he kept hitting such a deep, tender spot inside me.

“That’s it princess, that’s it,” he nuzzled his face into my neck as he said it. My walls were fluttering madly as he fucked me.

“Squeezing me so good. You may be young but I know this pussy is experienced. Your tenderness is so good for daddy,” he praised me.

“Daddy, oh daddy, I want your cum,” I begged.

The anticipation of all the loads that would be poured into me was already bringing me near the edge. I was close and I’d barely had a taste of what this night held. Oscar was just so talented. His hips action coaxed me to the brink.

“You know you wanna come on my big cock, you can do this baby. I know you can make daddy proud,” Oscar moaned to me. I was panting. My legs wrapped fully around him as he thrust.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, FUCK!” I cried out and then I exploded. My whole body clenched and I wailed. I felt pleasure ripple through me.

“Yes!”

“Baby giiiiiiirl,” Oscar grunted longingly. He shot his load in me. Rope after rope of cum was fucked deep inside of me.

“How’d she feel?” Timothée asked.

“She’s fucking tight and warm,” Oscar chuckled as he let me down. His dick still dripped a little.

“Ready for the next one,” I panted. I was so excited for this night.

Michael came next. He pushed me down so I was just ass up. He smiled as I looked back. He slammed home with none of the gentleness of the man before him.

“Fuck!” I cried. Michael was wild and harsh.

“Such a nice little fuck toy,” he growled. His finger bit into my sides. I loved it all. I pushed my my ass back, so he was deeper inside my guts.

“I fucking love this Timothée,” I gasped. I was staring straight at my boyfriend. I bit my bottom lip and winked at him.

“I bet you do you fucking whore,” Timothée laughed.

“Yeah I’m a fucking whore,” I agreed. “Just a dick slut.”

“Yeah, a cum filled little sex doll. You’re such a slut you’ll take all this,” Timothée chuckled. He was still touching the large bulge in his pants.

“I bet you hope this lasts all night, just being used for a pump and dump,” Michael said with a contagious excitement.

“Ooh, oof, Ohh, yes, yes,” I moaned. I was staring at Timothée. I knew my face showed him how amazing I felt. Every snap of Michael’s hips made me more and more warm and fuzzy.

I wanted to be cum drunk. I could feel Michael pushing Oscar’s seed deeper and deeper. The bliss was unspeakable. I could only let my eyes roll back.

Michael was grabby. He pressed on my lower stomach. His hands whipped across my ass. He pulled my hair back.

“Gonna fill this tight puss,” he said and spat at oh my back and erupted. Pumps of semen were sprayed inside me.

“Yes, yes!” I screamed.

Soon, I was against the wall again. Tom had yanked my head to the side. He was marking my neck with hickeys.

“That’s a good princess. It’s nice of you to let all these men cum inside you. I can feel all the loads mixing. Want some seed from Kingston babe?”

“Please, fill me up! I wanna get pregnant and not have any idea who it’s from,” I begged.

“I’ll breed you babe,” Tom chuckled.

“Tom, oh Tom, you big uncut dick,” I moaned.

“Ugh, uff, yeah, fuck, I wanna cream in your ass baby girl,” he growled. He took his dick out. He spun me around. He held my arms back possessively. He slapped it across my ass cheeks.

“Thaaaaats it,” he groaned as his big member stretch my hole. He was slamming home. I felt so full and stuffed with goodness.

“Good girl,” he cooed. I was making desperate little noises. Tom gave me his thumb. I suckled needily, soothing my need to have something in my mouth.

“That’s it, take it up the ass,” he said gently.

My gaze was locked on Timothée. He nodded ever so slightly. He was letting me know I was doing well.

“Good little thing,” Tom praised.

Mmmhmmmmm,” I agreed.

“Let’s put some cum in your hole yeah?” He said cockily.

“That’s the good stuff,” he said as he began to dump his cum in me. He massaged my swollen clit as he coached me through another orgasm.

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s how you clench me princess. You feel good even around my fingers.”

When Tom left the shower I was a sore and heaving mess. I had cum all over me. I was leaking from my holes. I wanted a break but I needed to keep going. I looked to Timothée for strength and he smiled at me.

He had grabbed a towel so he could wank underneath it. I could hear the wet sounds and I knew if I was pleasing my man I could power through.

“On your knees,” came the incredibly deep voice. I looked up to see the tall blond. Austin had come to play.

In a move of dominance, Austin grabbed Tom’s hand. He pried out the two fingers that had been inside me. He sucked them deep into his mouth.

“Ripe and ready,” he purred when he’d tasted my slick.

“Oh fuck,” I whispered.

“Mouth open, fingers on clit,” Austin ordered. I assumed the position he desired. I was on my knees and waiting.

Austin grabbed my jaw with one large hand. He held it in a way that stopped me from closing my mouth. He began to jerk his cock so fast and aggressively I could barely believe it. He looked like he’d tear it off from how harshly he masturbated.

“You don’t even deserve to have my dick inside you little cum slave,” he snarled.

“Uh uh,” I agreed as best I could.

“Such a slut getting run through. I don’t want that whore pussy, I’ll take your tiny pure mouth,” he told me.

I felt my body shudder with lust from his words. I was squirming.

Austin was the only one who still wore clothes and shoes and I would soon find out why. He jutted his foot forward.

“Hump my boot bitch,” he chuckled. I moved forward and fitted my pussy where it belonged. He still had my jaw in a vice grip as I rode the leather.

“Holy fuck,” Austin crowed.

“Look at this Timothée. Look at that line of wetness she’s leaving. Fucking hell! I don’t even need to do anything to turn you into a sopping little bitch. I haven’t even taken my clothes off. I just pulled my pants below my balls and you’re a mess.”

“Yes,” I managed to say.

“Such a cock tease,” he said darkly. “Fuck you don’t deserve my length so why do I want to shove it inside you.”

“Please,” I lisped as rubbed myself as fast as I could on him. I was going to come undone. The sensitivity of my pussy plus the wildly sexual situation was increasing my lust.

“Come,” I said with tears in my eyes. It all washed over me. I was weeping as the beautiful feeling washed over me. I was soaking in it, basking in it. I was drooling from how he held my jaw and Austin was blurry from my tears of euphoria.

“Fuck!” He barked. “Such a cock slut I can’t help it!”

With those words he rammed his cock deep down my throat. I choked at first but then my lips wrapped around him. He made a noise of pride as he watched me instantly go into sucking.

“Fuck,” he gasped again and he was cumming. I gulped down the salty goodness and my excess saliva. His balls rested on my chin. He pushed so I had his entire dick down my throat. My nose was touching his stomach as he continued to pour eagerly.

When I moved off, strings of spit connected me to his dick. I was panting like a dog. My knees hurt and my body was sore but I was living my dreams.

“My turn baby,” Timothée smiled and it was actually sweet this time.

He picked me up bridal style and carried me away from the crowd of men. Soon I was on our fluffy bed.

“I’m sore,” I moaned.

“I know beautiful, but just one more for me okay?” He asked.

“Okay,” I whimpered.

Timothée shed his clothing and joined me in the bed. He hovered over me and pressed a sweet kiss to my swollen lips. He pushed inside my aching walls slowly.

“You did so good, such a beautiful tease,” he cooed. He kissed down my neck as his small thrusts began. He was gasping into my skin. I felt so desirable.

“I can feel all that cum that you took so well,” he told me gently.

“I did my best for you,” I shivered.

“I know you did beautiful,” he crooned and he petted the hair back from my face. He peppered his lips all over my skin.

“I don’t know if I can come again,” I confessed.

“That’s okay,” he soothed me. He moved my legs so that they wrapped around him. He was fucking me hard down into the mattress. He wanted his semen to be the last load. He wanted my most recent memory to be of his cum, topping me off.

“I’m close baby, I’ve been edging all night,” he grunted.

“Let go, let go,” I begged.

“Ohhhh!” He wailed. His familiar warm cum was filling me up. I squirmed and cried out as I felt it. It was, of course, the biggest one of all.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said as he kissed my sweaty temple. “Good girl.”

“Thank you too, Timothée,” I sighed. I let myself uncoil and relax finally. Timothee kept me wrapped in his arms, his palm protectively cupping my pussy. He wanted that massive mixture of seed to stay inside me.

“You did perfect.”

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming

#timothee chalamet #timothée chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee chamalet #timothee fanfic #timothee x y/n #timothee imagine #x reader #fanfiction #friends and play #reader insert #fem reader

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sunny6677 · 1 year

Text

Spookytale

(An Undertale x Spooky Month crossover)

Chapter 18: A Slice Of Pie.

Summary: After an incident involving the whole town getting hypnotized(besides Skid) and falling into a hole, all of them find themselves in a place that will change their life forever.

TWS: ROY'S TRAUMA IMPLICATIONS, TRAUMA IMPLICATIONS.

————

After a few moments, Lila took a step foward, and placed her hand on the doorknob. She clenched her fingers around it, and slowly twisted it downwards, making it let out a creaking sound. Anticipation gently flickered inside of everyone's body, though of course they knew nothing was going to happen. It was just that with the constant monsters that they encountered around here, none of them really knew if they were going to have to fight something anytime they entered a room or not.

The door slowly opened as Lila pushed it foward, and she peeked her head in. Roy also peeked inside, though he was still behind Lila, so he couldn't exactly see much. But as Lila was able to make out the features of the room, her eyes widened, and her lips slowly turned up into an eager smile. "Woah!.." She seemed fascinated by the room.

Lila then opened the door more, and began to walk inside. And as she did, those who were behind her got a better look at the room. Robert and Ross seemed slightly amazed as they walked in, despite it just being a room. Roy seemed uncertain of how to react, merely glancing around. Jaune grinned as she walked in, seeming to enjoy the sight she was seeing.

Jack and John walked in as well, though they seemed less amazed than the others had. If anything, they just glanced around like Roy did. John had to admit though, this room reminded him of his daughters. But he wasn't sure why.

The room was average-sized, with bright red walls. The floor was wooden and peach colored. There was a bright red and peach colored rug in the middle of the room, and it seemed to have odd patterns on it. It seemed like something you'd find at an elderly persons house, or an old house in general. There was a comfy looking bed on the right side of the room, having a big red blanket coveted over it. Beside it were odd looking but weirdly big plushies.

And in the room, there even seemed to be a few other things. Such as a small box of toys in front of the ending side of the bed, though none of them exactly interested any of the people in the room. Perhaps Skid and Pump would enjoy them though. There was a large closet on the right side of the bed, filled with striped shirts that seemed to be meant for children(which Lila had discovered when she opened it for a moment).

There was a tiny shelf of items next to the closet, and on the top, there was an empty but dusty photo frame. And beside the shelf was a box of kids shoes in a disparity of sizes. Above the box of kids shoes, there was a picture of a flower. And beside both of those things was merely a lamp. There was also another lamp behind the bed as well.

"This room is adorable!" Lila grinned. She looked to be having a better time then she had so far, at the very least. "Yeah, girl! I think I'd like sleeping in here! But.." Jaune paused, not able to find her words. She then nervously chuckled, "..nevermind. Let's just keep looking at the room." Lila only raised a brow at her, and hesitantly replied, "..uh.. okay, Jaune."

"Ya know.. this looks a lot like my daughters room." John commented, still standing in front of the door. "Does it?" Jack replied, facing John. "Yeah.. I wonder if she had a kid before we came here or somethin'." John sighed, looking to the right side of the room as if still observing it.

"Well, even if she does, we're not kids.. so.." Roy grumbled softly. It was hard to tell if he was just trying to find something to be angry about, or if he was genuinely ticked off about such a minor thing. "Yeah.. but, Skid and Pump are. And even if we're not, at the very least.. we have a place to sleep, right?" Robert tried saying, nervously smiling. "...yeah, I guess so. But still.." Roy quietly mumbled to himself, crossing his arms tightly.

"...you think she's gonna make some of us sleep on the floor?" Ross said, looking at the room still. "..maybe. She'll probably give us pillows or blankets if she does, though.." Robert replied. Roy let out an exhausted sigh, and then said in his raspy voice, "Well, if she does, go ahead and tell me later.. I think I'm gonna go ahead and sleep in here." Roy began walking over to the bed, as most of everyone in the room shot him a puzzled look.

"...really? But.. there's pie out there right now, dude. Can't you just eat first, and then go to sleep?" Ross inquired, gesturing with his hand. "I don't care.. I'm too tired to actually go out there right now anyway." Roy groaned, sitting himself on the bed. "Are you sure? I mean.. I guess we can go ahead and wake you up later, but the pies gonna get cold if you don't eat it." Robert stated softly.

"So what? She probably has other things anyway.." Roy responded, laying himself on the bed, and attempting to cover himself with the blanket. "Uh.. okay then. We'll be with Toriel in the other room if you need any of us, alright?" Robert tried saying, smiling at Roy from where he stood. Roy looked back at him, and a barely visible but small smile formed on his face. He sighed, and replied, "...okay.."

"Come on, Robert. Let's just go ahead and eat some of the pie, alright?" Ross smiled, turning around to face the door so he could head out of it. Slowly, everyone else began to head out of the room as well. Robert nodded, and began to follow Ross out of the door. "Let us know if you need something, okay, kid?" Jack said as he stood in the doorframe, letting Lila and Jaune pass through. "We'll be out there with Toriel!" Jaune tried saying, her motherly instincts slightly having kicked in.

Roy mumbled, "Okay, okay, I heard you all the first time.. now leave me alone.."

...

"...do you want us to turn off the lights for you?" Lila questioned.

Roy groaned, "No, no.. I'll get them, okay? Now just leave me alone!"

Lila hesitated. "Well, that wasn't very nice.." She spoke with her hands on her hips, before walking out into the corridor to go and find her son. And to have pie, of course. Jaune followed behind Lila, saying something unintelligible to her. Jack began to leave off into the corridor as well, though before they all left, John finally uttered, "Night, kid.."

And then, they all went into the corridor and into wherever Toriel went, closing the door and leaving Roy in the room by himself. He sighed, shuffling beneath the covers as he attempted to lay down and mumbled things to himself, "Stupid.. trying to.."

But as he did, for whatever reason, the dusty photo frame on the shelf had caught his eye for a moment. Thoughts clouded his mind. Why was a photo frame even there if there was nothing in it?

He paused.

"...eh.. it's probably nothing." Roy yawned. He then found exhaustion clinging to his mind. He could barely keep his eyes open. He was about to turn over so he could turn off the lamp that was behind the bed, but..

..his vision went dark.

And before he knew it, he had succumbed to sleep. He had been so exhausted from just about everything that it had been enough to make him pass out.

————

....Roy was awake.

He slowly opened his eyes, though instead of the blinding red and peach color, he was met with darkness. For a split second, he didn't know where he was, the silence filling his hearing, and the darkness clouding his vision. But then he remembered how he had gotten here after a few seconds, and let out an annoyed sigh. Of course, he was still here. He knew it was the same place, since after a few seconds, he was able to make out the features of the room despite how dark it was. Somewhere deep inside himself, he hoped it all to be a dream. But in his town, he knew it didn't work that way.

He knew that in his life, it didn't work that way.

"Still here.. great." He sarcastically remarked in an exhausted tone. He then let out a sigh. And he began to try and lift himself upward, though drowsiness was like chains clinging to his wrists, and he was barely able to move himself up. He turned over, in an attempt to slip off the bed that way, but he then thought he could see something in the darkness. An item of some kind. A sweet, warm scent filled the room slightly.

After squinting, his brain finally connected what it had been. It was a slice of pie, from one of the pies Toriel had baked for everyone that had come here. Someone had brought a slice of pie into the room for him. And not only that, he finally managed to connect why the room had been so dark. He only didn't immediately connect it when he woke up because of his exhaustion, but.. someone had turned the lights off for him as well.

Had it been.. could it have been..

No, he didn't have time to think about that right now. Either way, he was awake now. He could probably eat the pie, even if it was most likely cold now that he was awake. He could handle it. Roy knew he could handle anything. For he was tough. He knew that a cold slice of pie wasn't all that bad.

Roy then slipped out of the bed(after awkwardly realizing his hat was for some reason on the side of the bed, and attempting to put it back on), stumbling to his feet. His head ached slightly with the effects from sleep, and for a moment, he could only look down at the ground. Roy then finally let out another yawn, and began to walk toward the pie, making sure he didn't accidentally trip on something in the dark.

When he finally made his way toward it, he bent down, observing it. He couldn't immediately trust Toriel. That was what he knew. What if she was trying to poison them all with the pie? It wasn't so easy to trust anyone that fast. Roy didn't want to be taken advantage of, or to gain anyone's trust and be made oblivious to any of their manipulation. Not again.

Not after what..

Roy shook his head. He continued to observe the pie, but he found no evidence of any poison in it. It was a regular pie, plain and simple. He extended out a hand, and poked it slightly. Somehow.. it was still warm.

...

He knew he probably didn't need to question it. Toriel was a sentient goat lady. That was far weirder than a pie that was still warm even though he had been sleeping for presumably either thirty minutes or an hour.

Roy knew he couldn't eat it with his bare hands. It was probably best if he asked Toriel if she had something he could eat it with. After all, manners were programmed into his head. His mother had taught him so, and his mother had taught him that any form of informality was wrong. He would not be respected or loved that way. And he wanted respect and love.

Yet Toriel had been giving him that the whole time. So why couldn't he trust her?

Perhaps, because he didn't know her. Or perhaps, because the previous time an adult figure had given him that, they used that to make him do what they wanted.

...

He sighed. He shook his head, and slowly picked up the pie. "Whatever.." He grumbled tiredly. Roy then began to walk toward the door, trying not to stumble in the darkness. He had to admit, despite his trust issues, the pie did look good.

He walked toward the door, and with one hand, he twisted the doorknob, and pushed the door open. Bright light made its way into his vision, making him squint. The pie glistened in the now present source of light. And he slowly heard talking coming from another room, which sounded to be somewhat far away from where he was.

Either way, he sighed, and began to walk down the corridor. And to wherever the talking was coming from.

/////////////////

Somewhat short chapter, but oh well.

#spooky month #read the tws #spooky month au #lila spooky month #hatzgang spooky month #jack spooky month #john spooky month #jaune spooky month #spookytale #undertale

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velvetwarfare · 4 months

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Vermillion eyes stare down at the ruby cabochon necklace clasped tightly around her neck, running slender digits amongst the sheen surface absentmindedly. The absence of the vampire’s reflection only crescendoed her loneliness, eye bags becoming all the more noticeable to the public eye — but none to the cabaret performer.

Makeup artists or Velvette always tended to the beauty aspect of her career for this very reason — which only amplified the gut-wrenching feeling of being nothing more than a dress up doll. A wind up toy on stage in daylight hours, limbs mechanically moving to a rhythm Valentino created specifically for her — and an elixir brewer by night, conjuring up all sorts of concoctions involving his pheromones. A repetitive cycle that never ended, never changed, never swayed to a different melody.

It’s been so long since she visited her favorite district. Homesickness bit at Betty’s heart strings, anxiety gnawing away like a mole rat. How was she doing? Is she okay? Does she think of me still? Does she miss me? Is she looking for me?

A quiet sigh. The grip on the ruby strengthened in desperation, tears threatening to spill from the vampire’s eyes out of frustration. She had never gotten far when it came to visitation hours — a part of her pondered if Valentino knew about her feelings for the other woman and was attempting to drive them further apart. In a manner, it was a blessing in disguise — if their bond had been exploited, Betty wouldn’t know what to do in such a terrifying dilemma. It was for the best that she stayed away — for both of their safety.

Then again….they are both overlords. It would be so fucking refreshing to watch her TEAR VALENTINO APART LIMB FROM LIMB. That thought brought a bitter snicker.

“ Just you wait…I will be back, my darling, “

Betty muttered under her breath, long ears flicking at the sound of footsteps approaching her room,

“ …And when I return, I will give us the life of luxury and love we deserve. “

“ VALENTINE! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE, WE’RE ROLLING! “

Tucking the necklace into her dress and quickly fixing on the one Valentino ‘gifted’ her, Betty groaned and headed out.

—

Being so high up in the air on a spinning hoop was the most FREEING she’s felt since she signed that damn contract. Nobody could touch her, nobody could put their grubby hands on her — it was just she, flashing lights, and the large window displaying the LOVELY view of Hell outside. Everything outside the glass prison was no bigger than figurine-sized markings, but Betty had been around enough to pinpoint what each landmark was.

Swinging to and fro in dips and circles, the feelings of LONGING AND HEARTACHE SCREAMED FROM HER ANGERED SOUL, swallowing back the torrent of tears she desperately wanted to YELL OUT.

As the hoop pushed forwards again, Betty extended her body in an elegant pose — and SHOT OUT A CLAWED HAND, STRETCHING IT AS FAR AS SHE COULD TOWARD THE WINDOW IN A YEARNING REACH. The gazette can’t be that far, right? It’s just SEVERAL MILES AWAY. I CAN MAKE IT THAT FAR IF I JUST FIGURE OUT HOW TO CONTROL MY BLOOD MAGIC AGAIN — I HAVE TO RELEARN HOW TO TURN INTO THE FOG CLOUD AGAIN. THEN I CAN GO TO HER FOR HELP.

The hoop YANKED the vampire away, glassy eyes widening as she felt herself get SHREDDED away from the glass pane.

WAIT FOR ME.

PLEASE, WAIT FOR ME.

WHY DID I NOT JUST MAKE A FUCKING CONTRACT WITH HER INSTEAD?

WE COULD HAVE BEEN SOMETHING.

ANYTHING OTHER THAN THIS.

I LOVED HER.

I FUCKING LOVED HER.

I LOVE HER.

#🐀 VERSE: DOLLHOUSE. 🐀#lesbian longing but make it angsty #little drabble ✨

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beepperson · 2 years

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Commissions OPEN (USD ONLY AT THIS TIME PLEASE!)

Welcome to my commission sheet! (Open images for better quality, be sure to check my #myart tag for more examples too! - All prices in USD!)

If you decide to buy a commission from me, reply or (preferably) send me a DM with emotions/poses you'd want, character and (optional) outfit refs, how you'd want to pay, and any other things you'd want me to know!!! :)

Headshot/Bust Emote Sprites

Color: $10 per character; $2 for additional emotes per character; $2 for additional outfits, hair styles, etc. per character

For example, if you get a commission for two characters with three emotes and two unique outfits each, this would cost $32 (20+8+4)

Black & White (or "Undertale Style"): $5 per character; $1 for additional emotes per character; $1 for additional outfits, hair styles, etc. per character

For example, if you get a commission for two characters with three emotes and two unique outfits each, this would cost $16 (10+4+2)

Please let me know what emotions you'd like me to do. If you don't give me any, I'll draw broad emotions (like happiness, sadness, angry, etc.)

Portrait-Style Sprites

$35 per character/pose

(for all types of commissions, you will be given the art in its original size and a 2x scaled up copy for better visual clarity) (also for all commission types, you can specify if you'd like there to be outlines or not; I find myself drawing in a "lineless" style more often than not but I can draw with outlines no problem)

If there are any other kinds of commissions you had in mind that are not specifically listed here, feel free to ask and I'll let you know if I can do them!

You may repost my art anywhere as long as you credit me (as BeepPerson).

You may use any art I've made for you in commercial media (games, films, etc.) at any time, still granting that you give me credit and letting me know what you've used it in if possible. This is mostly for my own curiosity to be honest, and I might check out what you put it in once it's done. ;)

During the commission process, if there are any changes you'd want me to make before "finalizing" the art, just let me know and I will do them free of charge up to a certain point; very small changes will always be free but if you would want me to make sweeping changes to a design or specific emotion more than once, it will cost extra.

If in the future you'd want some changes made to a previous comm, I can do minor changes such as color palettes, clusters of pixels (like the edges of eyes), etc. free of charge. Bigger changes will likely cost a few dollars, depending on the scale of the change.

Related to the previous points, you are free to make changes to my art without having to get my permission, if you feel that would be easier for you. However, you may not make changes to my art and claim it as yours; you must still credit me for the original art, and preferably note that you've edited the art in some way.

I post all art I make at my discretion. If you'd prefer that I do not post art I make for you, please discuss this with me.

I reserve the right to decline doing a commission for any reason.

I will NOT draw:

Anything designed to be hateful or targeting a specific person/group for harassment.

Anything involving body waste.

Characters with no ref/purely text descriptions of a design (I will take literally any quality of ref over none at all, so don't be afraid to open up Paint and make a general idea for me)

[Anything that future Beep adds to this tentative list]

I will PROBABLY NOT draw:

Characters with complex body markings (unless I can heavily simplify them, and depending on the size of the art)

[Anything that future Beep adds to this tentative list]

I WILL draw:

Pretty much anything not listed above

What I accept for payment, most to least (top to bottom):

USD (ONLY ACCEPTING USD COMMS AT THE MOMENT)

Art/Adopts (depends on how much I like them, and if I'm accepting trades at the time)

Games (preferably for Steam, GOG, or itch; I can be pretty picky with what games I'd want, but my favorite genres are action-adventure and Fallout/Zelda/Deus Ex style open world games if this helps; don't try and offer me games that were in a really cheap & recent sale or I'll find out 👁)

Virtual items/currencies (I will most likely reject any offers like this tbfh, but if you offer me a lot in either TF2 items or DeviantArt points then I may consider, but even then I highly prefer literally anything above for payment)

Anything else not listed

I can take mixed offers, just make a note of it in the forum and I'll consider.

#pixel art #commissions #myart

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impeccablebackside · 2 months

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what are the queens and their toms favorite sex positions?

As always, good ask anon. This has been discussed before, so please see a post about favourite positions / teasing and one about least favourite positions. Otherwise, while I always try to give new information, I will likely pull from past asks scattered all throughout this blog for this post if that is alright.

With Vic and Plato, they are in mutual agreement with what both like. Their preferred positions are where Vic is either face down ass up on all fours, or where she is on her back, legs splayed open as much as possible as Plato absolutely rails hers. Typically, with the white queen on her back and Plato standing / kneeling above her is the best of all worlds. An important aspect for them is the ability to make direct eye contact and kiss while they are intimate, so any face-to-face fucking is most rewarding. Seeing the excitement and pleasure in their looks as they go through every motion is something very special.

They, due to their differences in heights / sizes, tend to go at it in more adventurous positions as well, usually with Plato holding her off the ground and fucking her in his arms. While Vic is the more dominant one in the relationship, when Plato gets that feral look in his eyes, and lifts her up, all that changes as she is gently manhandled. I do realize that it is not specifically meant to be sexual, but the entire pas de deux is essentially a run down of how much Plato is capable of fucking his white queen in different positions like it is nothing. It is not for show either, because he does and he will gladly do that. From holding her out in front of him and fucking her, to wrapping his arms around her waist and fucking her doggystyle off the ground, to fingering her while she is slung over his shoulder, or having her sit on his shoulders as he eats her out. She relishes in it though, being wanted like that, and likes having someone show her physically how much they love and desire her and her body. Even though she is regal in some aspects, she usually likes being fucked with intent and treated less delicately.

Rumple is constantly riding atop or mounting her lover, as well as directing the show. Queens or toms, she likes the physical contact of throwing her entire body into another’s. Specifically driving her hips and grinding in a rhythmic way. Facing forward or back, it is a experience. There is considerable variability and flexibility (literal or not) with her partners. Her small size also allows for some more unusual positions in general because she can fit on top of others. Face riding is undoubtedly her favourite past time, and none of her partners mind her having fun with it.

Mungo would agree to whatever his little love asked, but in his head nothing will ever beat forms of missionary where her legs are spread apart or wrapped around his waist or back. Being able to fuck himself into her as much as possible makes him lose his mind and he slowly pushes / pins her legs back toward her shoulders more and more until he is essentially fucking her senseless in a mating press.

Tanto's favourite position is 69ing with another queen. Specifically, she looks to have both parties laying on their sides rather than one on top of the other. With this she can focus on another queen's pussy, but still get a peek at their expression. Plus, she can wrap her legs around the other queen's head and neck, pushing her hips into their face. The overall shared desire and action between both parties is what makes it a preferred position for her. As much as she loves little more than connecting physically and spiritually with another during any form of intimacy, the feral need and want that takes over her when she is face-to-pussy figuratively and literally gives her the best pleasure. Plus, it is always a special thing for all involved when she squirts onto then faces of other when she cums. That is hot as all shit anon.

Cass and Alonzo share their favoured position, and neither of them will ever get tired of it. The brown queens likes getting railed when she is on her knees with her ass raised, or on her back with her legs pulled up high towards her head. Deep thrusts at a healthy pace, or faster are her preference, and is one of the few queens who will also take it standing up depending how frisky they get. The feeling of deep thrusts made with lust is astounding to her, and the electrifying sensation builds the more her tom fucks her. Her perfect pussy is one to get swollen when she is being pleasured, so thrusts near the end are revelatory before and after she cums. Alonzo always gives her his all, and dreams about her perfect backside, so when she offers it to him he has to pace himself and hide his eagerness before ultimately going feral and emptying himself into her with all the cum his body can give.

Tugger likes fucking anyone when they are bent over in from of him, and lucky for him Bomba fucking loves that shit. Hitting it from the back allows for him to roll his hips and thrust into his partner like no other position can, and his partners are always in for a treat. Plus, there is a hungriness the sneaks into his movements like that, especially with the red queen. He sometimes pushes whoever is on the receiving end down even more and full out puts his whole body into fucking them into the ground while breathing heavy / growling on the back of their neck. It ends up being a hybrid kittystyle / pronebone that leaves his lover in shambles as they cum over and over.

Misto prefers fucking his partners with them laying on their backs and him kneeling between their legs. He can guide his thrusts better and he does quite like seeing how his partner's pussy looks as it is being penetrated. Ultimately though, his fave will always be a sandwhich of getting fucked from behind while fucking someone else in the ass or pussy.

Deme and Munk cannot reasonably pick one, but simple missionary never misses for them when they are tangled in the arms of the other. They love to make eye contact and watch the pleasure and desire flash in their lover's eyes as they connect. There are quick kisses between moans, giving just enough time to breathe when it gets really frenetic. Munk drives himself deep into Deme almost from the get go. Another preferred position is a 'prone bone' / not-quite-kittystyle chest to back type pounding. Munk breathing heavy on the back of her neck elicits a long held fetish for danger and vulnerability in Deme. An opportunity to be prone (ha) to the will of her lover that drives her wild. All of this is even more heightened with scratches or biting on her back that increases the physicality of the interaction.

Jenny hands down loves getting fucked in the ass while on all fours. Nothing else excites or pleasures her quite as much, and if there is another partner fucking her pussy, even better. Double penetration is a rarer, but no less exciting thing for her. That is another reason why she likes orgies.

Busto's preferred way of indulging in his queen(s) is fucking them while they are sitting in his lap, both facing toward or away from him. His larger size makes it a rather good 'base' for his queens to sit in his lap, and when things get heavy, the heavy get fucking with glee. Given the dapper tom's most frequent partner is Jenny, it may be surprising to know that Busto is not at all scared off by her anal preferences. He will take her ass all day any day and then give a knowing nod to passerbys as he strolls away with a renewed pep in his ambling step.

Skimble does not really care in the end, but a frantic kittystyle affair of fucking any queen is his choice. He has a lot of fun with Jenny and Jelly, and his sometimes will slap their ass as they get going, faster and faster. Do I think that he spanks in time with his thrusts, sort of like a sex train? You bet your ass I do.

Jelly likes getting it while sitting in someone's lap, with her back to their chest and their arms around her playing with nipples. She also likes being forced up against a wall, but truthfully it merely ends up as a manifestation of being submissive to her partner(s), so anything with her at the mercy of another is totally fine.

AGus is all about the reverse cowgirl where he is on his back and Jelly is riding him. He likes being able to see her asshole and pussy while he is fucking her, and will give hard pinches and squeezes to make her yelp.

#anyway yeah anon i would be like mungo with rumple #her on her back legs spread in a V while i fuck her silly #that is a want and a need #i have a few more asks to get through and i am hoping to have one per day for the next few days but no guarantees #either way send more if you are into it anons

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myjourneytoahealthyme1 · 2 years

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If your path to healthy involves getting your body to a healthy weight or size, there is a vast difference between just eating whatever you want but at a calorie deficit, and eating balanced macronutrients at a perfectly calculated calorie deficit to ensure your body is properly nourished. This is where I FAILED every other time I tried to get healthy...I was manipulating all the diet programs, saving points for drinks and sweets, and tweaking things to make sure I wasn't *really* giving up anything I wanted or thought I deserved. I wasn't all-in (even though I thought I was), because there were always loopholes. I was only tricking myself, and in the end, I am the only one I was hurting. I would play all the mental games - I'd justify eating a sugary dessert because I did some exercise that day, or having another glass of wine because I didn't eat dinner, or eating a few cookies and a salad and calling it a day....none of that helped my body, and I certainly wasn't nourishing my body with the proper nutrients. That's why this program is different. I knew it almost immediately when I started following it. It was so easy to follow because it took all the thought process out of meals. I didn't have to prep or shop or use brainpower to track and count everything that I ate. I didn't have to pay attention to macros - because it is all taken care of for me. I didn't have to stress. It was SO EASY to provide my body with perfectly balanced nutrition, with perfectly balanced macros, and because I didn't have to think about it or stress over it...I was able to start focusing on the mental work behind making small healthy changes to my habits, so I didn't fall back into old unhealthy habits. THAT is why I am sharing every day that I lost 60 pounds in 4.5 months and have happily and successfully maintained it. It is the BEST THING I've ever done for myself. I am going into this holiday season with a completely different mindset than ever before. You can do it too. I'm here to share it, and coach you, and guide you, and support you. Join me. I'm offering you a $42 gift this month in honor of my 42nd birthday, & we'll celebrate CHOOSING YOU! #myjourneytoahealthyme https://www.instagram.com/p/CkgMPi2OANQ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#myjourneytoahealthyme

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sukirichi · 3 years

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— out of reach | gojo x reader

request: Girllllll I just read your jealous gojo fic and my heart went 📈📈📈📈💥💥💥 youre now one of my fav writers 🙏🧎‍♀️And the spicy parts 😫😫😫 💖 If your asks are still open, could I please request a fic where GOJO has a size kink 🥺🥺🥺 my 5’1 ass is obsessed with that shizzzz

pov: you’re gojo’s childhood friend and roommate – which leads to utter chaos – or perhaps utter bliss?

warnings: size kink, lots of teasing, lots of cursing, dirty talk, choking (probably not in the way you think), body worship, lots of size difference scenes, slight manhandling, overstimulation, thigh fucking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (don’t do this irl guys) + unedited fic :D

notes: idk what happened here LMAOOO but i loved writing this one because i’m short as hell too lol. thanks for this request anon, i hope you like it! <3

word count: 10.5k

masterlist !

If you’re going to be honest, having Gojo as a roommate is something completely unexpected.

Not only are you two from entirely different worlds – him as a jujutsu sorcerer and you as an average human who can’t see curses – but he’s also just someone who is entirely out of your league. He’s respected and looked up to in his field of work, while half of your co-workers don’t even know your name, much less notice you in function parties where you mostly just nibble on sushi before calling it a day and turning back home.

You and Gojo met in elementary school. You could tell from the way he’s surrounded by servants and stern looking adults, firm hands on his small shoulders, that he was different from everyone else.

Apparently, he comes from one of the three big clans in the jujutsu world or whatever. You honestly don’t care about any of that, because Gojo refuses to act maturely about his role in the clan. You still remember how quiet he was on the first day of school, never smiling and keeping to himself despite your persuasion to eat lunch with him or play with him after school in the courtyard.

You miss that Gojo Satoru – the quiet, serious kid who was far too gentle in his actions yet firm in his words and beliefs. When you were still a little girl, you admired how he seemed older than his age, a wistful look in those azure blue eyes of his that you’ve always loved.

To you, Gojo Satoru was your hero. You’ve always been one of the shortest kids in class, and it didn’t help that you really loved pigtails all the way until middle school that made you an easy target from immature people who’s being hit way too fast by puberty and growing each passing day. You never minded your short stature because really, it’s just height, but you couldn’t ignore how your confidence dwindled each day when they called you several array of nicknames.

Too shy to fight back, you’d laugh it off or force a smile.

Gojo wasn’t having any of it. He’d break his silence and immediately pull you to his side (which only made things worse because Gojo was one of the tallest kids in class, further emphasizing how small you are right next to him) before threatening to smack the kids right in the face.

The threat should be enough to land him detention, but because he’s Gojo Satoru, the golden kid everyone loved, they took his word seriously.

At the age of eleven, you started seeing your best friend as your knight in shining armour. Gojo basked in this, growing protective and always glaring at whoever snickered when you walked past them. Sometimes he even bared his teeth to hiss at them, which was honestly so ridiculous now that you think about, though the message – the threat – always came across loud and clear.

So yeah, you love Gojo, you still do.

Years flew by and the two of you grew apart due to work and also as a part of growing up. You still kept in contact, messaging each other once a month to ask the other how they’re doing. His work kept him extremely busy though, and Gojo didn’t want you involved in the dangers of what he’s doing, so he makes sure to keep a safe distance.

Until six months ago, you hear a banging on your door. You’re just about ready to throw hands because your former roommate moved out to live with her stoner boyfriend, leaving you to shoulder all the bills and responsibilities of maintaining a two man apartment.

A sneer forms on your lips as you swing the door open, a scowl already on your face. You assumed it was your roommate who returned to get the pair of lace panties they left in their room, but instead, your childhood friend stands before you, taller (seriously, how has he not stopped growing?) and definitely a lot hotter than the last time you saw him.

One thing leads to another, and now it feels like there was never such distance between the two of you with how easily you both fell back into a comfortable – yet chaotic – rhythm and routine of being each other’s roommate.

Not that you mind, of course. Gojo’s definitely changed a lot from when you were kids. He’s no longer that stiff or sensitive when it comes to others. In fact, it seems like he loosens up a lot more with age, because you can barely recognize the man living under the same roof with you now.

For one thing, Gojo is loud. Like really talkative, won’t shut the fuck up and speaks like he’s in a screaming contest with someone. It doesn’t matter if you’re taking an important phone call or sleepwalking at three in the morning to pee, Gojo is always creating some sort of ruckus.

You’d never admit it out loud, but you loved it. You love him.

He’s definitely a lot more enthusiastic and fun to be with now that both of you have grown up, or in Gojo’s case, simply aged. His maturity reversed backwards because it feels like you’re taking care of a little kid.

Not only does his body clock is practically non-existent, he’s also horrible when it comes to taking care of himself and being punctual with work.

Fortunately for him, you love him, and you both leave for work at the same time. You always wake up earlier to prepare breakfast so you’d both have energy to start the day – although you highly doubt there’s really anything that depletes his endless source of one.

Sleepily walking through the kitchen with your fist rubbing at your eyes, you rummage through the refrigerator for some eggs when you realize there’s none.

Huh, you think to yourself, scratching your scalp. You’re sure that Gojo went grocery shopping last week since it’s his chore to do the outside stuff like buying groceries and throwing thrash, so where did it go?

You open shelf by shelf, checking each corner and shoving cans aside to look for the tray. With a glare, you stand on your tiptoes to pull the pantry open, only to have your mouth fall aghast because it’s all there – right at the back where you can’t reach it!

Fucking Satoru, you grit your teeth while heaving your body up onto the counter. It’s a struggle because not only are your muscles still half asleep, but because the shelf is right in your face, and if you’re not careful enough, you could hit it right with your face and fall over. Of fucking course you know Satoru did this to make fun of you – and now you retract your statement over your best friend.

It’s all a lie.

He’s a pain in the ass. Why do you even bother cooking for him and letting him live literally just a room away when you know he won’t stop pulling shit like this?

Because, the nagging voice in your head tries to mock, he’s your best friend and you can’t really say no to him. This makes you huff as you carefully pull the tray towards you, hooking two fingers at the edge while your other palm grips at the end of the counter for support. No thanks to your short limbs, you’re practically hogging the shelf by now in an attempt to reach it. You look ridiculous, that’s for sure, and you make a mental note to keep Satoru’s windows open tonight so he freezes to death –

“Aw, cupcake,” a sing-song voice emerges from the other side of the room. “You look so adorable. You should’ve woke me up if you need my help.”

“Fuck off, Satoru,” you flip him off. The man only laughs, the rambunctious sound echoing off the walls. It’s way too early in the morning and he’s already so damn loud; something builds up at the back of your head out of frustration already. His grin only gets wider when you finally got the eggs and clutch it your chest, setting it down on the counter while wiping your sweat away from your face. “Freeloader,” you mutter under your breath, ignoring him when he happily skips over to you.

“Ouch,” he places a palm over his chest, although you both know he’s never really affected by anything. “So what’s for breakfast today? You?”

“You know, I can kick you out anytime I want. I’m being extremely nice even going as far to cook you breakfast before you leave for work, so don’t test my patience.”

“Exactly, my best friend is so kind,” Satoru grows the audacity to rest his arm on your head. This triggers a reflexive response from you; shoulders tensing up and hands curling into fists beside you. “I would totally date her if she wasn’t such a temperamental little devil,” you nearly stab him with a fork with his statement, which he thinks he’s being so sly for but you heard it, and you’re most definitely not pleased with it. “Okay, I’m kidding! I’m going to go shower now!”

You roll your eyes at him and heat the pan over with some oil, muttering under your breath that you’re really going to kick him out soon. As if things couldn’t get worse – as if Satoru couldn’t get any worse – he smacks your backside in the process before darting to the showers.

“Gojo Satoru!”

“Morning, best friend, love ya!”

You were right. He is a pain in the ass.

“You don’t always have to walk me to work.”

“I know.”

“So why’re you still here? I’m not a little kid anymore,” Contrary to your words, you stick closer to Satoru when the morning rush of workers and students begin to crowd the streets. Your best friend notices this with a small smile, his hand resting on the small of your back. “Don’t even try, Satoru.”

“I wasn’t saying anything.”

“I know that look on your face,” you fiddle with the buttons of your uniform, sighing when Satoru follows you inside the bus after tapping your phone for two seats. It’s not a surprise to you anymore that most of your expenses are spent by him, for him, and he lazily sprawls his long limbs across the seat before you pulling you down right next to him.

As much as you hate this man, especially because he smirks at the attention he’s receiving from women – even men – in the bus, you have to admit he’s warm and smells damn good. You bite the inside of your cheeks, looking around in slight self-consciousness before inching a little closer, just to feel his warmth. He’s comforting – irrationally so – so you set your bag between the both of you to keep your sanity. “If you keep doing this, Principal Yaga might fire your ass because you’re never on time.”

“Trust me, cupcake, he won’t. I’m too valuable for that.”

How you saw that coming – you can’t tell anymore. The bus ride is relatively quiet and eventless, with you dozing off every now and then because you’re never a morning person. Thankfully, Satoru is more respectful this time around, lolling your head until it drops to his shoulder. After that, he snakes his arm around your waist before resting it on your thigh as a way to say you don’t have to head bang every damn second and just sleep.

On any other occasion, you would’ve hated it. You always look so small whenever you’re in Satoru’s presence. It doesn’t help that he’s long and lanky, either, his slender fingers effortlessly caressing your thigh while almost your entire body is flushed next to him. But right now, he’s too warm, too soft, and you’re too tired that for just a little bit, you allow yourself to relax.

A beeping wakes you up a moment later. Opening your eyes, you push yourself off Satoru when you see an old lady reaching for the handles. No one gave up their seats for her even as the bus driver asked her to find a seat lest she’d fall.

“Grandma, here, take my seat—” You’re about to stand up and offer it to her when Satoru tugs you by the wrist. Because of your small, wobbly composure, pulling you to him takes little to no effort. You end up on his lap, sitting on him as if you’re nothing but a small, dainty schoolbag. Satoru is clearly enjoying this because you feel him breathily laugh on the back of your neck, charming – annoyingly so – as he gestures to the now empty spot beside him.

“It’s no worries, Grandma. She’ll be fine,” he gestures to you, patting your head like you’re some puppy. “Please, take a seat. The bus is already moving.”

“Satoru, get off me,” You wriggle yourself from his hold, which only ends up in wasted effort because this big oaf doesn’t even budge. He even bounces you on one of his thighs, and you dig your nails into his arms as a silent plead for him to stop. He ignores this, ignores your small whines and the apparent embarrassment that has you debating whether to punch him or hide yourself in the safety of his uniform.

“She’s a feisty little one, isn’t she?”

The old lady watches the two of you banter, giggling behind her wrinkled hands. “You’re an adorable couple.”

“I think so too!”

“You’re so going to pay for this, Satoru,” you grumble, face planted onto your palms. This is it – the worst day of your life. It’s even worse because despite your protests, you have to admit his lap is actually comfortable. You’ve already known this before after countless times of cuddling with Satoru during movie nights, but its different when you’re both out in public. It feels...oddly intimate and maybe even romantic when he rubs soothing circles at your back, almost as if apologizing for this event. Most of all, you just hate the way something pools beneath your stomach at having him so close to you like this. “This is so embarrassing. I’m practically crushing you with my weight.”

“Please, cupcake, you barely weigh anything. I could easily lift you off with just my finger,” when you elbow him in the chest, Satoru only laughs, raising both hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’ll stop teasing.”

You give up. No one seems to be paying much attention to any of you anyway, so you sigh, letting yourself hide in the crook of his neck as you watch the city pass through the windows. Your body moves as his chest rises and falls from his breathing, the movement oddly comforting. It’s embarrassing – it really is – but at least the grandma was comfortable until Satoru drops you off near your building.

“You don’t have to walk me all the way there.”

“Why not? You don’t want people to see us together or something?”

“No,” you stare at him from the corner of your eye. It’s no secret Satoru is attractive. This bastard knows it too, judging from the way he confidently and arrogantly swaggers next to you, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walked with no care in the world. “My co-workers keep asking me for your number every time I tell them we’re not dating. It’s getting annoying at this point how they go Satoru this and Satoru that.”

“Am I hearing it right? Is cupcake jealous?”

“I’m not jealous, I’m disgusted,” you correct, “They don’t know how much of a pain you are to have around. They’re so focused with your looks that they completely overlook the fact you can’t even wash your dirty underwear!”

Satoru frowns at this, pointing his finger to you as if you’ve accused him of a huge crime. “Hey, I wash my underwear.”

“Yeah and last time you did, you mixed it with whites! My work uniform turned a stupid shade of blue! Now I can’t picture the colour of your boxers out of my head and it’s giving me a headache!”

“Wow, Y/N,” the smirk on his face and the sudden drop of nicknames lets you know you’ve said something wrong. Even behind his blindfold, you could tell his eyes are just sparkling with amusement. He’s enjoying this way too much. “I never thought you’d ever picture my boxers. I mean, I don’t mind showing it to you if you ask nicely—”

“Ugh, you’re so hopeless. I’m going to work.”

Gojo laughs when you jog away from him. He catches up with you in a matter of seconds, only having to take a few steps forward before he’s right beside you again. You’re unsure if you should be annoyed it’s so easy for him to always be right next to you, and how he almost always is right next to you while you prefer running away. It muddles with your heart and mind so much you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying not to be swayed by the sickeningly sweet sound of his laughter. “I can’t pick you up later, okay? I might work overtime!” (that’s a lie since Gojo prefers shopping and sightseeing)

Both of you know that’s a lie. Gojo never works overtime. He’s going to work for a few hours and so and call playing around with his students as “on-hand learning” before he goes shopping for stupid souvenirs and wild-flavoured mochis, then end his day by sightseeing and coming back home.

“Wasn’t expecting you to,” you mumble, waving goodbye to him as the office doors close. Slowly, Satoru’s grin and enthusiastic farewell fades into view until nothing but the pale, silver walls of your office greets you.

Funny how you claim to hate this man so much, yet the moment he’s out of sight, everything becomes dull and pointless.

It’s an absolutely shitty day. Your equally shitty boss blames you for something you didn’t even do, all because his incompetent secretary – who you’re sure he’s sleeping with – lost this month’s report and claimed she handed it to you last week when you’re not involved in that kind of work. Logic doesn’t come by them because your boss publicly humiliates and scolds you, calling you all kinds of names until tears are streaming down your face.

You slam the door shut the moment you get home, kicking your shoes off as you head straight to your room. You don’t bother taking your makeup off anymore as you change into a loose shirt and floral cotton shirts, padding to the kitchen after seeing Satoru is well nestled into the couch.

At least someone’s had a good day.

Seeing as the sink is empty, he probably hasn’t eaten dinner. This makes you sigh, because when will he ever learn to look after himself? He’s literally like a child.

Satoru pauses whatever he’s watching before he hovers over you, head tilted to the side as he gazes at you with curiosity. You ignore him and begin to set down some bowls and chopsticks for dinner, all the while Satoru is studying every inch of your tightly pulled face. “Bad day?” he concludes.

“Hmm.”

“Bad day it is then,” he nods to himself. “I can cook dinner, if you want.”

“And have you burn my apartment? No thanks,” you scoff, pushing him aside to retrieve the pans when you see that he’s placed them above again, even after you’ve reminded countless times to just leave it near the holders in the sink. “Ugh, why do you keep putting the pans in this shelf? You know I can’t reach this. I’ve had enough with you pulling pranks on me, and don’t think I’ve forgotten you placed my shampoo above the shower head today, you idiot,” you snarl and hop over the counter again to get the pans, trying your best to fight back the tears that are threatening to fall. “You’re really bothersome, you know that?”

“Then why don’t you kick me out?” he challenges, completely oblivious to how you’re struggling – both physically and emotionally. “You always complain about me being a nuisance here, but you’re not really doing anything to keep me out.”

“Because where else would you go?”

“Technically, I have a room back at the Institute.”

“Yeah, but because you’re so stupid and reckless that you got kicked out of your own home,” you spat out, and you watch as Satoru raises a brow at your statement. Banter is common between the both of you, but something about the intensity of your gaze lets him know you’re serious this time around. “I don’t even know how Yuuji puts up with you. That poor Megumi is right when he says you’re insufferable. You’re good for nothing!”

Satoru scoffs, “Fine, if you hate me that much, why didn’t you just say so earlier? I could easily pack my bags and go since I’m just making everything harder—” Satoru doesn’t get to finish what he’s saying when your hand over the counter that acts as support slips under you, and you fall, legs bent awkwardly while you scream, preparing yourself for the impact. The pan is long forgotten, your only thought was oh my god, so this is how I die.

But it never came, and you keep your eyes shut tight even as warm hands cup your ass. Satoru is breathing hard under you. Finally gaining the courage to crack an eye open, your breath halts when you see that he’s sitting on the floor, with you safely nestled between him.

Satoru has always had pretty eyes, but it’s rare he takes off his blindfold off even when he’s home. This is one of those rare occurrences that he seems like a normal human, dressed in a gray sweatshirt that hands low from his collarbones and magnetic blue eyes staring right back at you. His touch is gentle, almost as if he’s afraid to hurt you, and his voice that is usually loud and teasing comes out breathy and hesitant.

“Are you okay?”

Your gaze drops down to his lips. He’s close, so close, that if you just lean a little closer you could – you snap out of your daze. “Get off me.”

“Cupcake, you’re the one who’s on top of me,” his voice falls an octave lower, eyes flitting down to your clothing – or rather the lack of it – before Satoru takes a deep breath. “Did you really have to wear that?”

“I have the right to wear whatever I want in the comfort of my own home.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” he raised a brow, this time completely in control of himself as he gazes back up at you with a burning gaze. You see nothing but the way one corner of his lips tilt up, almost teasing, and he looks so much like a shit-eater that you feel heat crawl down your spine.

You push yourself off him but your bent foot behind you slips, and you fall forward with your hands clutching his strong shoulders. Satoru catches your leg behind you, drags it forward until your knee is pressed in between one of your warmth, very much still enjoying the way you wriggle away from his hold. He knows his effect on you – but you deny this wholeheartedly.

“Careful, cupcake. This isn’t a slip and slide.”

“I hate you so much,” you bare your teeth at him, slapping his chest until he finally lets go of you. Turning your back to him, you pick up the pan and begin preparing your dinner, muttering curses under your breath as you heat up the stove. “I’m kicking you out tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

“Eat your damn dinner first.”

Dinner after that is awkward. Although Gojo is someone who can wolf down his meal in three seconds, he takes his time in eating to start conversation with you. Sometimes he asks decent questions like how your day was or he’d talk about something stupid, but he’s quiet the whole time. He even volunteers to do the dishes before retreating to his room, coating the house in silence.

It almost feels like you’re all alone over again.

You’ve gotten so used to him being an utter mess everywhere that when he’s not trying to piss you off and actually giving you the much needed peace, you begin to hate it. Memories of the rude things you’ve said to him a while ago play and in your head, and you bang your head against the wall repeatedly.

How are you supposed to apologize to Satoru now?

The answer doesn’t come until you stare at your walls, wide awake at midnight. The house is still eerily silent and you don’t stop shuffling around your bed in discomfort. Many times, you wished that Satoru would shut up and leave you alone, but now that he’s actually done that, it feels weird. Uncomfortable. It feels wrong.

With a grunt, you kick off the sheets and carefully tread to his room, knocking lightly in case he’s already sleeping. “Satoru?” you call out, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “Are you awake?”

You’ve seen Satoru angry as kids before, but what would he be like now? Would he still want to be your friend? Would he still annoy you by hiding your things somewhere you can’t reach? Or would he be the who is now out of reach? If he leaves...who’s going to walk you to work? Who’s going to complain he doesn’t want to do groceries but buys you things you don’t ask for but want anyway? Who’s going to keep teasing the living daylights out of you if not him?

All these thoughts claw at the back of your mind until your bottom lip trembles. You hate how weak you feel; how you’re never careful with your words.

You never meant it when you said all that.

Your train of thought is cut off when the door swings open, revealing an equally tired-looking Satoru. At the sight of you peering up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes the door wider and steps closer to you, his large hands cupping your face as he leans down in worry. “Cupcake,” his brows pinch together, “Did something happen? Is something wrong?”

“I just wanted to apologize for everything I said,” you blurt out, “I was just tired from work and my boss was being shitty, so I wasn’t totally myself that time and I’m really sorry I took my anger out on you. I didn’t mean it when I said you’re insufferable and that I’m kicking you out so – yeah,” you breathe out, trailing your gaze downwards to stare at your feet instead. It’s difficult to look him in the eye right now. When you finally gain courage to speak again, it barely comes out as a whimper, your hands delicately tugging at his shirt. “Please stay. I like having my best friend around here.”

Satoru doesn’t answer.

You’re about to look up at him just in case you’ve said something wrong, or worse, he refuses to forgive you, but then – “Yeah, I know you wouldn’t kick me out. You’re too much of a darling to say no to me.”

Sigh. Satoru laughs when he sees your shoulders deflate, absolutely shattered in exhaustion. Hiding your smile to now show him you’re relieved, you punch his chest that really feels like a fly had accidentally flew into him. “Way to ruin the mood, Satoru. And here I thought I could have a serious conversation with you for once.”

“Apology accepted,” he beams, tilting your chin upwards so you could look at him. Even in the darkness of his room, his eyes glow, leaving you hypnotized in its beauty. “Plus, I think I’m the one who should apologize. You’re right; I haven’t been the best roommate and I am a freeloader,” he scratches the side of his head in thought. “But I do buy you food all the time though.”

“Yeah, with my money,” you counter, but you don’t really care anymore at this point. You’re beyond elated you’re both fine now, and you shyly gesture to his big, warm bed that suddenly looks so comfortable. “Can I stay here for tonight?”

“You want Satoru’s bear hug?”

“Yes, I do.” There’s no hesitation in your words and you don’t complain anymore when he easily picks you up like a ragdoll using only one arm. He’s surprisingly gentle when he places you both down on the bed, sheets warm and soft as it blankets over you.

It would be perfect – except it’s so damn awkward.

Gojo’s long limbs are everywhere. Your face is pressed into his chest, both your legs tangled together. His arm is sprawled over the curve of your hip, his hand nearly grazing your ass that’s barely covered by the thin material of your shorts, but if he shifts, he’ll end up cupping the back of your thighs which is equally uncomfortable.

He seems to be stuck in the same position because you’re so small, and your knees are grazing his groin. Had he known you’re going to sleep with him, he would’ve worn underwear or even boxers under his sweatpants.

He’s never told you before, but he prefers to sleep in the nude. Satoru only picked up the nearest pair of pants when he heard you knock, and even then, he didn’t have the time to wear a shirt.

Your breath is hot on his skin and he’s so sensitive and aware of all your movements. Satoru clears his throat awkwardly, shifting until his arm lightly holds your back instead, but then he pulls away as if he’s touched fire when he’d unknowingly fiddled with your bra clasp instead. It’s so painfully awkward that Satoru chuckles above you, while you scrunch your nose, silently praying to the heavens above that he won’t hear how loud your heart is beating right now.

“Why is it so hot in your own room?”

“Maybe it’s time you get me an AC.”

“You wish, Satoru,” you mumble beneath him, making yourself as comfortable as you can with your cheek resting on his bicep. It’s not the softest pillow considering he’s pretty muscular, but he’s warm and smells like mint spice nevertheless. “You’re really not going to put on a shirt?”

Satoru sighs, a long and loud one that is extended for dramatic purposes. Suddenly, he pushes your knee off of him, grimacing and thanking the darkness that you can’t see how much he’s struggling right now. “Cupcake, this is hard for me as much as it is for you. You’re barely wearing anything.”

“Since when have you cared about what I wear?”

“I’m a man, Y/N,” is what he reasons with, “You’re lucky it’s me. Had it been someone else and you crawled into their bed wearing these—” Satoru pinches the waistband of your shorts, and you squeal in protest, only making him laugh afterwards before he lets it go and the material snaps back at your skin, “—poor excuse of what you call shorts, I can’t guarantee they’ll give you a peaceful night.”

You know exactly what he’s trying to hint at. Still, it’s hard to believe that Satoru is capable of seeing you that way.

It’s not that you feel you’re unattractive. You know you’re pretty and have been out on many dates, but it’s easy to feel that you’re not sexy when you have the height of a thirteen year old and you’ve been constantly chastised about it.

Satoru’s not-compliment compliment has your heart skipping a beat, and you scoff in response. “Shut up,” you warn lamely, “I want to sleep.”

“Then let’s sleep, cupcake.” You don’t know if it’s because you’re utterly exhausted that you doze off seconds later or if Satoru’s words just held power in them, but soon all thoughts of anything unwanted drifts out the window, his arms keeping you close, completely safe and sound until the worst nightmares couldn’t even come close.

Hot. It’s extremely hot.

You crack an eye open to try and find the source of this uncomfortable heat, but you freeze when you realize you can’t feel your muscles from the chin down. Panic rises in your throat once you see the current predicament you’re in, and a scream rips through your throat so loud that the birds outside scurry away in a flurry.

You’re wrapped in Satoru’s blanket and comforter, rendering you unable to move because of how he’d treated you like a burrito wrap. Even your toes are captured inside this hell, and only your head is able to wriggle side to side.

“Satoru!”

The culprit comes out of the shower a split second later, his hair dripping wet and only a towel hanging low from his lips. If you weren’t so hell-bent on killing him, you would’ve been speechless at the way water drips from his hair down to the curves of his abs, going down down down into a place only your darkest imaginations could take you.

Satoru bends over in laughter as he whips out his phone, jumping from angle to angle and side to side to take photos of you. “Fuck,” he howls, slapping his thigh while you snarl in an attempt to break free. “You’re a lot cuter than I thought you’d be.”

“Satoru! Get me out of here!”

“No, this is way too gold. I’m sending these to my students.”

“Satoru, I’m serious!” The devil incarnate himself falls deaf to your please.

Maybe it’s because the violent intent has coursed through your veins so strongly that a surge of energy and strength overcomes you, and soon, you’ve rolled out of the blanket. The fresh air nipping at your heated skin is most welcomed, but right now, you had a mission to fulfil: obliterate Gojo Satoru.

The platinum haired man is still laughing to himself, too distracted in scrolling through the best photos to send to his students that he doesn’t notice you escaping and zooming straight right at him.

The momentum is enough to catch him off guard until you end up on top of him, short arms clawing your way through to snatch his phone. Satoru yelps when his phone lands out into the living room and your hands come down to choke him. You don’t have plans to kill him, but you want to hurt him enough to remind him you’re not someone he can fuck with.

You’ve just about had enough of this man and you’re so sick of him!

Satoru yells out a “Hey!” when you let out a battle cry, using your legs to kick him back when he tries to sit up. Your plan backfires when your hands slip down his wet skin and you fall face forwards, hands barely touching the ground for support when your lips come crashing down on his.

He stills underneath you. It takes a moment for you to realize that holy shit, you’re kissing him and his lips are so soft that has you scrambling back, but Satoru doesn’t let you.

His large hand comes up at the back of your neck to pull you forward. The sudden movement makes you gasp, and Satoru slips his tongue inside when you do so. You no longer remember how you got here or try to make sense of what’s going on, because he feels so good, tastes so good that you bury your nails in his hair while he ravishes your mouth.

You’re so tiny that his hand cups your entire buttcheek almost possessively, a low growl emanating deep in his throat when your tongue eagerly intertwines with his. Satoru tastes like heaven and everything about the kiss is sloppy – tongue clashing with one another and teeth nibbling at the other’s lips. It’s clear both of you can’t get enough of one another as you moan in his mouth, shamelessly grinding on his crotch, suddenly thankful that you’re always wearing thin clothes when you feel him harden underneath you.

“Fuck, baby,” he pulls away to breathe, a string of saliva connecting the both of you. “Yeah, just like that,” There’s something empowering about the way he pants at your ministrations, especially when you roll your hips faster across his erection. “Keep going, baby, you’re doing – fuck – so well.”

You smirk at his praises, latching your teeth on his neck to suck marks on them. Satoru groans at the same time you muffle your moans through his skin, his hands sliding under your shirt to tug the cups of your bra down. You nearly lose it when he pinches your nipple, bolts of electricity running down your spine at the contact. A moan breaks through your lips just as you come right there and then, the wetness of your sudden orgasm barely hidden in your flimsy underwear.

“Feel good?” he teases and drags your shirt down to the other side, but the post-nut clarity hits. And when it does, it hits hard.

Fuck. You just came from Satoru’s simple touches, and he’s so unsatisfied, still painfully hard underneath you but nothing but panic and regret washes over you like a strong tidal wave. Suddenly, you grow lightheaded as you push yourself off him, fixing your bra while ignoring the confused and hurt look on his face.

“I gotta go to work,” you run out the room, feeling your body tremble as Satoru runs after you. “Make yourself breakfast. I’ll eat on the way out.”

“Y/N, wait!”

You know you’ve just ruined everything – that nothing will ever be the same after that – but you’re scared, utterly and remorsefully so, that you slam the door right in his face as if you don’t have any idea how much you broke him.

You’ll never forget the way Satoru’s face fell when you left.

Just as you thought, nothing is the same after that. The tension is so thick around the apartment you make an effort and go out of your way just to avoid him and the apartment completely.

It’s cowardly – you know this much – but do you ever try to fix the friendship you cherish but shattered completely? You don’t. You don’t because it only crashes down onto you now that maybe your feelings for him aren’t just platonic, after all. It’s even worse because you touch yourself at the thought of him filling you up when he’s asleep, all because you want him so bad and the mere presence of him has your brain malfunctioning.

It isn’t entirely sexual either. Yes, you want to fuck him badly, but it scares you down to the core even more because you want so much more than that.

Now you understand why you always say he’s a bother but never asked him to leave. It’s because you like him, actually romantically interested in him. It makes sense now why you always felt so annoyed whenever your co-workers asked for his number, or how you’re immediately pissed off when Satoru talks about this hot woman he saw at work. You always chalk it up to an excuse you just hate how he can’t keep in his pants, but it isn’t true at all.

It’s because you actually like him – and you’re at a loss on what to do or how to deal with it.

The next few days feels like hell. Satoru isn’t stupid; he knows you’re avoiding him. He stops teasing you eventually and even buys takeout all the time when you lock yourself up in your room right after work, refusing to cook dinner or even eat all so you’d be spared the torture of looking at him.

He’d knock at your door and ask you to eat, but other than that, he’s respected your distance.

You feel like the most terrible person on earth. You don’t miss the way dark circles line under his eyes or how he’s lost his spark, barely even speaking to you when you’ve come or about to leave for work.

You’re alone the whole ride, as well, and it only dawns on you how lonely you are when Satoru isn’t always annoying you all the time.

But it doesn’t make sense. Why is he so bothered by it? Didn’t he regret it? It’s painfully clear you’re not Satoru’s type. You’ve seen the women he dated before, and you’re not close to them so why does he seem like he’s struggling with this as well? Or maybe...he’s just sad that his friend is avoiding him.

Yeah, that has to be it.

Satoru is a man. He was probably turned on at that time, but after giving some thought about it, he probably wants to keep his distance too. He’d be insane if he ever actually wants to date you – his best friend out of all people – because he’s Gojo Satoru and he could literally have everyone else.

You don’t care that you’re a coward.

You don’t care that Satoru is sad to see you this way.

You don’t care because you know he’ll reject you, you know he’ll be weirded if you admit your feelings for him. To him, you’re like his little sister. There’s just no way you two would work out. For now, you have to get comfortable with the uncomfortable. You just need some time to get over your feelings for him, and when you’re confident you won’t fall for him again, you’ll mend your friendship.

You just need time.

“So, Y/N, you still don’t want to give us your friend’s number?”

“Yeah, Y/N, you should share it,” your co-worker encourages by jabbing her shoulder to yours. It’s a lazy Friday night and the staff went out for dinner. You don’t usually come to these hangouts since dinner with Satoru is always much more fun, but he’s the last person you want to think about now, so you happily join them. Now, though, you’re starting to regret ever coming here. “If he’s really single like you said, then it shouldn’t be a big deal to ask for it.”

“Well, since you want it so badly, why don’t you ask him directly for it instead?” you snap, feeling anger begin to trickle. All you wanted was just one day where you don’t have to think of him, but of course they had to bring him up. It’s also annoying how they can never seem to get the message across that you don’t want them dating him. “Why do I have to be the messenger?”

“We haven’t seen him much. Doesn’t he always walk you to work?”

“He’s been busy with his job, that’s all.” And also because I’m avoiding him – so now he’s avoiding me too.

“He’s a teacher, right?”

“Oh, come on, guys, don’t be so dense,” your senpai chugged her drink rather loudly, catching the attention of your nosy co-workers who wouldn’t stop pestering you for his number. “Look at how uncomfortable she looks. It’s obvious she doesn’t want you guys to be involved with her friend for a reason. Think of how weird it is for her too if ever her co-worker and best friend dated. She’s going to feel like a third wheel.”

“I’m not—”

“That makes sense,” your co-worker nodded beside you, “Are you sure you just don’t like him though?”

“Ew, why would I?” the food began to taste bitter through your lies, “He may be tall and attractive, but as his roommate, I’ve seen his ugly side. Satoru is a complete slob and can’t even cook to save his life.”

“I don’t mind cooking for him all the time if I were to be his little housewife.”

“That’s never gonna happen,” your words came out harsher than it was, and you laugh it off with a wave of your hand when your co-workers’ eyes widened. “I’ve been living with him for six months and he’s never brought anyone home or told me he’s going on a date. I told you already, he’s a no strings attached kind of guy. He’s nothing but a one night stand.”

“You have to admit he’s still sexy though.”

Right. You hide your groan through another shot because there’s no way of convincing them otherwise. As much as you hate to admit, you’re actually jealous on how freely they could talk about him like that, but then again, it’s not like you and Satoru were dating – or would ever date, for that matter.

They start to leave one by one when it starts to get late, leaving only you who’s still desperate to avoid Satoru. Nothing prepares you for when the sky darkens and a storm comes pouring just as you’ve left the closing shop, the rain drenching and soaking your clothes through and through. Running under the nearest tree for shelter, you shiver. It’s cold – way too cold – and curse yourself for not bringing a darned umbrella.

The nearest bus stop is like what, fifteen to twenty minutes away? Your teeth are chattering and your legs are shaking, and you fumble through your phone as you dial a number you know by heart before you even realize what you’re doing. “S-Satoru?”

“Y/N,” the surprise is unmasked in his voice, something shuffling in the background before it falls silent. “Is everything okay?”

“Uhm, are you busy right now? It’s fine if you are, I’m just—”

“I’m training with Yuuji, but what is it?”

“Listen, I,” you inhale sharply when coldness bursts through your body, making you shiver and press yourself closer to tree to get away from the rain. Above you, thunder crackles before the rain grows heavier and angrier. “I forgot to bring an umbrella and I’m absolutely soaked right now. The nearest bus stop is fifteen minutes away and all the buildings here look so shady—”

“I’ll be on my way. Text me where you are,” You nod and thank him, too cold and numb to realize you’ve just broken days of silence. You lose track of time under there, hugging yourself until your lips turn blue. It doesn’t take long before Satoru shows up minutes later, his hair equally drenched and sticking flat to his eyes free from his blindfold while he pants, hand on his knees. “Thank goodness you’re safe. I rushed here so fast I forgot to bring an umbrella.”

After seeing Satoru drenched like that, something snaps within you. He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact the rain is unforgiving as it slaps the pavement, and your heart breaks when you see that he’s more concerned for you – even after you’ve given him the silent treatment. “You idiot! Now you’re soaking wet too, you’re going to get sick!”

“Highly unlikely,” he shrugs. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“But what about—” Satoru suddenly carries you before draping his coat over your head, running until he found a cab to hail. He immediately asks the driver to turn up the heater while you tremble on top of him, not caring anymore that you’re sticking so close to him for heat.

Satoru doesn’t let you go all the way inside the apartment. He sets you down on the couch where you take off your wet clothes in haste, too cold with teeth chattering that you silently take the hoodie and boxers Satoru offers you, making sure to keep his gaze averted the whole time. Once fully dressed, you snuggle back into the sofa’s comfort, stiffening when the couch dips beside you.

Not a moment later, Satoru towel-dries your hair, leaving your mouth and throat dry with guilt. Even after you’ve unnecessarily been a bitch to him, he’s still so kind with you.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Satoru...” you twiddle with your thumbs just as he starts to ruffle the towel in your hair, making sure to squeeze water out of the strands as he dries it. “About what happened the other day—”

“It didn’t happen if you don’t want it to,” his voice is cold’ monotonous and so emotionless you’re rendered speechless. “You can forget about it.”

“I...”

“You regret it, right?” he’s done with drying your hair, and he stands up to place the wet towels in the sink as you watch him stride all the way there. He’s changed his clothes too; looking comfortable in a plain white shirt and some grey sweatpants, looking every bit the domestic boyfriend you’ve always wanted but can never have. “It’s fine. We can forget about it and go back to normal,” to emphasize his point, Satoru winks at you, though it does nothing but make your heart sink.

“What if I don’t want to forget it?” your voice is small; hesitant and wavering with fear. “What if...the only reason I pulled away is because I wanted more of you?”

Satoru’s back freezes as he sets the towel aside. At this point, your heart is pulsing on your tongue, and you dig your nails onto your thighs when Satoru sits down next to you, right next to you. He’s silent the whole time; eyes calculatedly piercing through yours. Your breath hitches when his hands that are burning hot against your cold skin cups your jaw before his thumb runs across your lips, his eyes turning dark at your reactions.

“And what if I said I felt the same way?”

“I,” you gasp, closing your eyes because it all feels so surreal. “I like you, Satoru. I like you a lot and I—” he doesn’t let you finish. Soon, you find yourself in his lap with his hands cupping your cheeks while he smashes his lips onto yours.

Satoru is absolutely feral. He’s breathing hard and almost angry, even, with the way his teeth are biting down to nibble on your lips. You moan when he drags you closer, your clothed centre rubbing on his thigh with delicious friction. “You have no idea,” he rasps down on your lips, “how much I’ve fucking liked you ever since we were kids,” Satoru pushes his hoodie aside, revealing your sweet neck to him, and he doesn’t waste his time in sucking and abusing the poor flesh so he can mark you as his. “I’ve always wanted you, Y/N, it’s always you, always you.”

You fist his hoodie when Satoru sinks his teeth down into the juncture of your neck, his hands curious and exploring every inch of your body. He knows you’re naked underneath his clothes, but it’s a different thing when he actually feels your breasts right on his palm. Satoru tweaks the hardened bud in his fingers, growling when you moan at the contact and use his thigh to get off.

“You—” you gasp as you expose your neck to him, wild and needy as you keep rubbing your heat over his thigh. “—talk way too fucking much,” you scold, finally pushing his lips away from your neck. Satoru chuckles at your eagerness but you silence him by flinging his boxers off of your body and somewhere far away, exposing your heat slick with arousal right in front of him. His pupils blow in excitement, hands coming up to grab at your hips, but his attention is taken away when you nibble on his ear to whisper, “Shut up and fuck me.”

The simple command is enough to make his patience snap. In a flash, you’re pinned underneath him, whining and moaning when his finger meets no resistance as he slips it inside. “You’re that needy, huh?” he laughs even louder when you lose it, humping yourself on his finger because it’s not enough.

“Satoru,” you beg, clutching his bicep when he adds another finger in. “More.”

His fingers are so long, hitting places that your small ones could never reach. He begins to scissor his way in, his fingers deliciously rubbing against your velvety walls while pumping them inside and out in a speed that causes you to squelch around him.

It’s absolutely lewd how you’re eagerly spread out before him, but your head is clouded with lust, no longer hindered by shyness out of your need to cum. Your chest is rising heavily, his thumb now rubbing against your clit as he coaxes you to cum. “Tell me what you want, baby,” he kisses your cheeks, eyelids, nose, anywhere but your lips, his voice so gentle and innocent as if he’s not knuckle deep inside you. “Tell me how you want me.”

“Inside,” you whine, gasping when he brushes against a really sensitive spot that has you clamping down on him. “‘Toru, fuck, just fuck me.”

“Beg for it,” he smiles against your skin, relentless and harsh as he keeps pushing inside you. You feel him everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Another finger adds in until you’re dripping enough on his palm and staining the couch, but neither of you care. “I said, beg for it.”

“No,” you hold back, nearly crying out when he pulls your fingers out of you. That sudden emptiness is back again, but you don’t want to beg. You’ve never begged another man before, and this won’t be the first time you’ll be doing so either. You refuse to let him have the upper hand despite the crystal clear fact you’re already soaking wet for him, but because you’re stubborn, you only fumble with his sweatpants to spring his cock free.

He’s already dripping with pre-cum from the slit, his cock hard and angry. Despite his arousal, Satoru stops you from going further, using only one hand to trap both your wrists. “Beg for it,” he demands again, his other fist already pumping down on his shaft.

You nearly cry at the sight. Both of you are aware that Satoru is capable of pleasuring himself, but it’s not that easy for you. Your small, dainty fingers will never be parallel to the pleasure his long cock could give you. All you had to do was beg for it. He’s right there, within reach, if only you’d just –

Impatient for your answer, Satoru takes you by the hips and discards your hoodie in the process, sinking you down his cock, inch by delicious inch. You don’t hold back from the sensual and high-pitched moan that leaves your lips. He’s long, and the tip of his cock just about brushes your cervix when he bottoms out. He feels so good, so warm and huge and filling you up right where you want him to be. Your head falls down on his shoulder as you begin to roll your hips, but Satoru has had enough.

“Fuck, look at you,” he presses on the bulge of his cock visible through your abdomen. “You’re so fucking small – how do you take me so well? I could ruin you. Do you want that? Do you want me to ruin you?”

“Yes, yes, fuck.”

“You think you can just leave me hanging like that, huh?” he slaps your ass, eliciting another moan from you and making you clench around his cock. Satoru falters for a moment. Before you can react, he stands up, your legs wrapped around his waist with nothing but his tip hitting inside you. “You’ve been so fucking mean – leaving me wanting you like that and ignoring me for days. Do you think you deserve this, huh?” Satoru kicks his door open at the same time he loosens his hold around your ass, making you slide down his length the next second.

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out just as Satoru begins to bounce you, your breasts following the motion of him fucking deep into you. “Fuck, Toru, that’s too—”

He’s so eager to fuck you, to make a mess out of you and have you losing your mind over his cock that he doesn’t even wait until you’re both on the bed. You no longer register when your back hits the pillow, or how your arms are frozen when he pins it above your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he praises as he watches you clench around him. You’re so small and his eyes zero in on the way your abdomen bulges then flattens again every time he pounds into you, rolling his hips in a way that has you screaming and thighs quaking. “Beautiful, beautiful, perfect,” the moment his hands grip at your hips to pin you down, you know he’s not going to stop. And you don’t want him to.

Satoru latches his lips around your right breast, gently grazing his teeth over it while his other hand pinches and rolls the pebbled nipple between his fingers. He feels so good – and you’re crying already by the time you wrap your legs around him to pull him closer.

The room is filled with the smell of sex, the sound of skin slapping against skin combined with his breathy grunts and your moans like heaven on his ears. Satoru wants you to feel how much he loves you – how much he adores you – and the pace he sets is torturous. He snaps his hips against yours and presses down on the bulge of his cock through your belly, chuckling when you tighten more around him.

Your head lols to the side, tears falling down your pretty face because of how rough he’s being. But you don’t complain, not when he’s filling you in so deep and he’s kissing you everywhere, touching you everywhere, making you feel nothing else and nobody else but him.

“You’re amazing,” he rasps, watching the way your tight cunt sucks him in greedily as if you don’t want him to go anywhere else. “You take me in so well – you really want me to destroy you, huh?”

“Satoru, please,” you finally plead, “I-I’m cumming, I want you, I need you, oh,” you squeal when he finally lets your arms free. You look so precious, so innocent, and he doesn’t let up his pace. He plants his feet into the ground and his strokes begin to grow sloppy, your tight walls encouraging him to go faster, go deeper.

If possible, Satoru is only even more fuelled with the way you look so precious and innocent in that moment. His touch is gentle in comparison to the way he’s mercilessly plowing into you, using his thumb to wipe away the tears streaming down your cheeks. He knows he’s too big for you, that much is obvious from how much you’re already overstimulated just by his size, but your nails sink down on the flesh of his ass as a silent plead for more.

“Fuuuuck, I’m so close!”

“Yeah?” He fondled your clit, loving the sight of your small body creaming down on his cock. “Come for me, sweet girl. I want to feel you coming on my cock. Come on, tell me you’re mine. You’re made me for aren’t you?”

“Yes, Satoru, fuck,” you squeal, throwing your head back for a second when he keeps hitting your g-spot that has you seeing stars. Your toes curl and your hands fist the sheets behind you as he keeps impaling you with his cock right then and there.

You looked perfect; so perfect to him that he’s basically using you for his own pleasure at this moment. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, back arching and nipples brushing against his chest.

In that moment, you grow needy to have him even closer, tilting up to blindly search for his lips. Satoru complies; leaning down and leaving open mouthed breathy kisses that’s a mix of you moaning and crying around him, while he struggles to do so when he’s cursing at the feeling of you coating his cock with your juices. Satoru looks down at your tiny frame trapped in his arms, his voice husky as he groans once he saw both of your arousal absolutely leaking out of your wet cunt.

He’s so close but you’re already over the edge, scratching at his back at the overstimulation. You’re still so sensitive from when you came and Satoru doesn’t slow one down one bit. He loses his rhythm as his thrusts go sloppy, and Satoru buries his face in your neck as his cock twitches inside you until he bursts with his cum leaking out of your hole.

Satoru’s arms give out beneath you, his chest colliding with yours but not enough that he’s crushing you with his weight. You’re both breathing hard and panting, his dick softening inside you.

He pulls back a moment later to slide out his sensitive cock, wincing while he watches pools of cum gather in your pussy before it drips out. It isn’t until he’s witnessing the mess he’s made he realizes how you’ve been so good for him; taking him all the way in despite your quivering frame. It dawns on him now just how tiny you are when he pulls you close to him; you’re practically hanging off his chest with how small your body is.

He wonders how you’re able to fit all of him, but he’s grateful nevertheless. Satoru shows his appreciation by peppering kisses all over your face, his hand snaking down to caress your inner thighs.

“Hmm,” you moan into the kiss, jolting when his knuckles brush against your sensitive clit. “Satoru, no,” you whine while pushing his hand away, and he shushes you with another kiss. “’M too sensitive, please...”

“It’s fine, cupcake, it’s fine,” his nickname for you is back again, and you lean closer to him just as he begins to massage your sore legs. “You did so well for me, cupcake, you know that? You’re such a good girl for me,” too fucked out to have a comprehensive answer, you only nod in response, spreading your legs open again and ignoring the warm stickiness between your thighs as Satoru kneads your abused flesh. You feel him kiss your temple before he leaves to get a towel and cleans you up. Meanwhile, you’re so tired you’re about to doze out in his bed.

“Hey,” he soothes, bundling you up in his arms until you’re tucked in the safety of his body. So small, he coos inside his head, watching as you fold yourself even smaller while your eyes flutter. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh into his shoulder, “I feel good. Thank you.”

Satoru doesn’t really know what you’re thanking him for. He feels like he’s the one who’s mostly indebted to you after everything you’ve done for him. You’ve already fallen asleep before he gets the chance to tell you how he feels, so Satoru only covers you both under his blanket, making sure there’s no more space between you out of fear you’ll distance yourself from him again.

But he doesn’t have to worry about that because you’re right next to him, and you’re never out of reach.

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