#because I'm bitter and Czech.

[stromuprisahat]

Six of Crows- Chapter 27

Kaz is confronted about his straying from the plan.

Kaz obeys.

He doesn't have to explain himself further as a leader, yet a single sentence of insistence from Inej makes him reveal more.

I've been recently reminded of the term morality pet. While I enjoy his soft spot for Inej, I don't think this particular moment is suitable for supporting the rest of the group. They're literally on a roof of Fjerdan most guarded building, barefoot, poorly clothed, and the clock is ticking.

Yeah. their history should be longer than just a year or two.

And Jesper doesn't seem happy about being left out. :(

Can't wait for the enraged crowds yelling Kaz is an awful person for LYING to his people INCLUDING the woman he'll claim to have feelings for just because he's not ready to share his tragic backstory.

Or not. I keep forgetting this is a cool teen criminal, not a survivor of hundreds of years of extermination attempts with revolutionary tendencies. [End of bitter Darkling stan rant]

He's not afraid to admit a mistake, but he won't offer the truth.

[unnervinglyferal]

List of European countries and why I hate them, in alphabetical order:

Albania - I've never heard fucking anything about the people here, do you people even do anything save for having beef with everyone else in the Balkans. Fuck you.

Andorra - I don't think this place is even a real country. It's like the size of my dick. Fuck you.

Austria - You know what you did. Fuck you.

Belarus - Sucking Russia's dick just for the novelty of getting to be featured in their ongoing cringe compilation. An utter embarrassment. Fuck you.

Belgium - If there's two things I hate, it's colonialist brutality and the fucking smurfs. Fuck you.

Bosnia and Herzegovina - Despite all the rest of their shitshow, at least the rest of the Balkans can at least agree whether they're one country or two countries. Make up your minds. Fuck you.

Bulgaria - The best thing you've got going on is the yoghurt and even that isn't as good as the greek ones. Fuck you.

Croatia - Out of all the countries in Europe whose existence I had literally forgot about, this is the oldest and the largest. How do you trace your history back to the fucking antiquity and only barely seem to exist at all? Fuck you.

Cyprus - I actually had to google to check that Cyprus isn't just a part of Greece, but apparently you gained independence from the UK in 1960? How the fuck are you in Europe and get colonized by Europe. Fuck you.

Czech Republic - Your main export is utterly unpronounceable last names. There's a reason why you can't shouldn't be allowed to put five consonants in a row. Fuck you.

Denmark - Annoyingly smug golden retriever-ass mushy-faced fucks. If I pressed my open palm into a dane's face, it would ooze through my fingers because these mushy fucks don't have bones.

Estonia - The bitter, prettier and smarter sister to Finland who is passive-aggressively better at everything but still doesn't get the same attention. Finns show up to your shores to raid the booze stores, vomit on everything, and leave, and you just let them. Fuck you.

Finland - An entire nation of spoiled ivory tower whiners who just will not understand how good they have it. The entire country would die out by mass suicide if things ever got half as bad as they are in the rest of the world. Fuck you.

France - The only reason why the french aren't known as an equal mass of colonialist brutes as the brits are is the language barrier. They're just as stupid but you'll never know what they're thinking because they consider learning another language to be beneath them. Fuck you.

Georgia - The americans stole your name and put it on a state and you just fucking let them. Now we have to hear about their utter lack of understanding of geography every single time some shit happens at your borders. Fuck you.

Germany - I'm jewish. And looking at your involvement in Israel, I'm starting to think you people don't really even care that much whose side you're on, if there's a genocide happening anywhere, you just like to be included. Fuck you.

Greece - You have like 4000 years of recorded history verifying that you've spent that entire time thinking you're smarter and prettier than anyone else in the whole world. You specifically invented the word hubris to describe yourselves. Fuck you.

Hungary - I'm pretty sure that you guys are the reason why people think all of Europe is a backwards shithole. Fuck you.

Iceland - The only reason you people can dedicate all of your time in inbreeding ponies and people is because your climate is so miserable that nobody wants to move there. Fuck you.

Ireland - Your climate is just as wet and miserable as Iceland, but you still got colonized by the english. Fuck you.

Italy - I've never met an italian who was capable of doing anything in a punctual and organized way. Imagining a whole country being run by italians seems impossible. Like having 15 cats successfully operating a tank. Fuck you.

Kosovo - What the fuck even is the Balkans. You guys don't even have your own language. Fuck you.

Latvia - Like Estonia without any of the good parts. Fuck you.

Liechtenstein - This isn't even a real country, this is just the quarantine containment where Switzerland ships the people who are too annoying for Switzerland. Fuck you.

Lithuania - The most boring of the Baltics. Fuck you.

Luxembourg - There is no way this place is fucking real. The fuck do you mean your citizens are called luxembourgers. The fuck do you mean your official language is luxembourgish. What the fuck is any of this. Fuck you.

Malta - Same thing as Liechtenstein, but for all surrounding countries around the Mediterranean sea. Fuck you.

Moldova - How and why is there a tiny-ass country the size of my dick on the border of the Balkans. How does this exist. Fuck you.

Monaco - This isn't a real country, it's a french ploy for tax evasion. Fuck you.

Montenegro - Oh won't you look at that, another teeny tiny Balkan country. Montenegrin is the stupidest name I've ever heard for a language, that sounds like a comedy bit. Fuck you.

Netherlands - Fuck your weed and fuck your bicycles. Fuck you.

North Macedonia - This also feels like a country they just made up just to make the list of European countries longer. Fuck you.

Norway - Fuck your oil and fuck you.

Poland - Your main export is far right politics and porn-addicted communist furry femboys. Fuck you.

Portugal - Spain but a little bit to the left. The only way to tell the spanish and the portugese apart is by whether they get mad when you call them spanish. Fuck you.

Romania - Get your fucking shit together. Fuck you.

Russia - Fuck you.

San Marino - Italy has two stupid little city-states as pets. This one is the one I hate less because it only contains tax evaders.

Serbia - The only thing I know about Serbia is A Serbian Film. Fuck that film and fuck you for making me remember it.

Slovakia - The wettest, saddest slavs of all the slavs of Europe. Fuck you.

Slovenia - Slovene is the second-stupidest name I've ever heard for a language. Fuck you.

Spain - I have no idea how the fuck a people who are as disorganized as italians managed to also be as competent as france and britain at colonialism. Fuck you.

Sweden - As smug and mushy as danes and as inbred as icelanders. Fuck you.

Switzerland - You know what you did. And continue doing. Fuck you.

Ukraine - You wouldn't be in this fucking situation if you hadn't trusted Soviet Union's pinky promise to never invade. A russian's promise is not worth the oxygen it wastes. You guys are cool but nonetheless, fuck you.

United Kingdom - Fuck you smug bastards for everything.

Vatican City - Italy has two stupid little city-states as pets. This one is the one I hate more because it contains the pope. Fuck you.

[princesssarisa]

@faintingheroine

I'm feeling tempted to write an essay about Wuthering Heights that compares Catherine Linton to the title character of Sleeping Beauty.

Like the princess in most adaptations of that tale, she's lively and playful, and she's had too sheltered an upbringing and is eager for new adventures and companionship. As with the fairy tale's King and Queen, Edgar's sheltering ends up leading her straight into the trap he wants to protect her from, because she's too naïve to beware of it. Her months of imprisonment at Wuthering Heights and her becoming bitter and cold can also be viewed as her equivalent of the enchanted sleep, while her ultimate healing and joy with Hareton is her "awakening." When I watched the Czech film How to Wake a Princess, I particularly felt Cathy II vibes from Princess Růženka – probably in part because of her love for nature, and in part because in that version she's also in a love triangle with two young men, one sickly and prissy, the other her more down-to-earth true love. And like Sleeping Beauty, Cathy II's journey can also be seen to mirror both the universal process of growing up and the changing of seasons in nature, a la the myth of Persephone.

We all know that Wuthering Heights has some fairy tale-ish qualities but this is one analogy I've never read before. Of course the funny part of it is that Heathcliff corresponds to the evil fairy/Maleficent.

[jjtheclown555]

The Beauty of Death

tw. minor descriptions of blood, passive suicidal ideation

content. nikolai went hunting, bringing reader back to his home not knowing that they are the incarnation of death

pairings. vampire!nikolai x death!reader

word count. 1.7k words

a/n. i would like to thank vari (if they see this) for the idea and gabs (if they see this) for helping me figure out where to go with the story. I wrote reader as being czech because I like to project (it's not heavily shown, just 2 pet names are in czech). Finally, I'm pretty sure reader is gender neutral but if there are any implications of reader being female please let me know so I can edit it.

Right as his fangs sunk into your skin, blood pulsing against his tongue, he pulled himself away. The crimson on his lips wasn’t warm like a human—providing heat to his forever-cold body—nor was it sweet like many other women he had taken blood from. Your blood was bitter, a poison that caused him to jolt, coughing it up with urgency.

You sit up on white sheets that had been stained with red, watching as Nikolai kneels on the ground, hunching over where he had crashed in his haste. He spits the last of your blood up, a few red drops landing on your feet. You curl your legs into your chest, eyebrows knitting together in concern about the man kneeling before you.

Nikolai glances up, face scrunching at the smell of your blood dripping from the wound he made on your neck. He stares as your hand moves to the bite mark, gently touching it and moving your blood-stained fingers in view. You smear it between your fingers, watching as it spreads along your hand. Nikolai watches, taking your hand and bringing it close, almost touching your blood to his lips once more.

“What are you?” He asks, grin surfacing with a raised brow. “Neither your blood nor your scent is that of a human. Your blood is painful. I’ve had the blood of hundreds but none have ever hurt.” He runs his thumb over your fingers, looking at the blood contrasting his pale skin. You watch as Nikolai gently plays with your hand before he looks up at you once more, forming eye contact and tilting his head as he awaits your answer. 

You reach your other arm towards him, helping him get up and sit next to you on the bed. “You said you like quizzes when you first brought me here, yes?” Nikolai begins nodding vigorously, his grin widening until you’re convinced he couldn’t possibly smile wider. “Then how about I give you three guesses to figure out what I am? Your best three guesses.” Laughter rings out and Nikolai claps his hands a few times before standing before you. He taps his chin and lets out small questioning noises.

“Another undead perhaps?” You immediately shake your head.

“Hmm. Do you take really poor care of your body?” A second

wrong answer.

He looks disappointed that he hasn’t figured it out, pouting at you. He deeply breathes, “I need to make this last one count!” You let out a small hum as you watch him pace. Nikolai scratches his head, observing you. Looking you up and down, walking around the bed to see every angle for a hint. Right as he begins analyzing you up close, his eyes instantly light up as he walks back in front of you. He does a slight spin, bowing theatrically. He tilts his head up to meet your eyes and shouts, “Aha! I think I know! You’re some kind of god, aren’t you?”

You smile, nodding your head. “Correct, Nikolai.” He cheers, fangs showing as he shouts praises for himself. He couldn’t look happier about being right. He grips your shoulders and asks question after question about what you do, how you got here, and why you’re among unholy creatures. You chuckle at his excitement, “Well to begin, I am death-”

“Like Mara? From the myths?”

You nod and he gazes at you, eyes widened in amazement. “Yes, but my name will suit me just fine.” Your lips turn up at the sight of his intrigue. “As for why I’m here, I enjoy watching the living up close. I don’t influence people's deaths—that would be needlessly cruel—but observing others and watching as they step closer and closer to their collection to the underworld is a bit of a hobby. And how I’m here,” You pause for a moment before your lips quirk up in a sly smile. “Do you really think a god couldn’t go wherever they please?”

Nikolai lets out a small chuckle, “I suppose you can do anything you want, can’t you?” He sits next to you, the bed shaking slightly under his weight. “I’m in the presence of a god, that’s something I never expected to happen in this neverending lifetime.” He inhales the scent of your blood again, a slight twinge pulling at his features as he attempts not to make a face of repulsion. “Is your blood going to be what finally kills me?”

“It won’t.” You say shuffling back to lay back against the mattress. “Not much went into your system. Were you to continue drinking despite the taste, you may have died from it if not you’d fall quite ill while I’d remain unaffected.” He hums along, kicking his legs back and forth and he processes your explanation. He bites his lip, a small amount of blood pooling from it that he quickly licks away. “I suppose you’ll have to continue hunting for food, láska, as I’m sure you’ve noticed my blood will not suffice.” 

He glances at you before pulling himself over you, caging you between his arms. “I figured the blood of a god would be heavenly, the sweetest I’d ever taste, I suppose I was wrong.” As Nikolai speaks, you look over him hovering above you. You notice every detail from the scar on his eye to the smile lines curling down his cheeks to the build of his body. For a moment, you tune him out, focusing on his strange, cold beauty. In an instant, your eyes trail up to his lips and without thinking you quickly peck them as his sentence ends. He’s startled, allowing you to shove him off of you, laughing to yourself. 

His eyes widen, mouth falling agape while his brain slowly clicks together what had happened. “The look on your face!” You cry out as laughter rings through your throat. Nikolai doesn’t respond, for a moment he is completely speechless and you fill the empty noise from him with your hysterics. He softens up as he recognizes the peck. His breathing slows as he finally processes what you had done. 

“What the hell was that for?” He shouts out, tone exasperated.

“Humour, of course.”

Nikolai huffs, “So you find it funny to mock me?” He rolls his eyes and you click your tongue. Your head tilts at his question, vaguely offended at how he took it. “You think I’m mocking you?” He nods, a disgraced pout on his face. “That’s not how I wanted you to feel in the slightest! I apologize if I offended you, it wasn’t my intention.” You smile, fidgeting with your fingers. Nikolai can’t help but notice how awkward you seem for that of a god. “You looked pretty and I wanted to do something unexpected. I intended for you to laugh with me but I suppose I read you wrong.”

His lips quiver and a cackle emits from him. “You just wanted to make me laugh? That’s so cute! You’re so adorable.” Your eyes waver and he smirks at your faulty expression. “Am I making you lose your composure? A vampire, a being of sin, with a god?” He looks down at the wound on your neck once more before meeting your eyes. “Sorry, I’m going on and you’re still bleeding. I should probably clean you up.”

You watch Nikolai get up and leave the room. You wait a few minutes for him to return, kicking your legs back and forth and humming to yourself. You see him come back in with a wet cloth so you sit up and stretch a little as he reaches over and wipes the crimson that stains your neck and fingers. “Sorry, I don’t have any bandages so this will have to do.” 

He’s unusually soft. You think. In the last few hours since you met, you saw Nikolai as a very eccentric man, always keeping you on your toes but in this moment he’s quiet, gentle, sweet even.

“Do you know what I want more than anything?” He asks, pulling you out of your trance. You tilt your head, asking what it is he wishes for. “Freedom.” A soft twitch of his lips doesn’t go unnoticed by you as the cloth continues to glide against your skin. “I wish to know what it takes to reach that freedom, to be as free as a dove flying through the skies rather than one trapped within a golden cage. I attempted to rid myself of my emotions, I killed the loved ones who trapped me in that cage…” He hesitates, “I killed my dearest friend, the only one who understood me truly.” You don’t know how to feel, whether to feel pity, or empathy, or to remain indifferent. “Even after all of that, I still feel trapped by my humanity. After hundreds of years in this world, trying to free myself, I’m still stuck in that cage.”

“Would death free me?”

Your heart cracks, you swear you can feel it. You swear you can hear it. A twinge and a small breaking noise. You know there are ways for vampires to be killed and you’re sure he knows too. You fear for him. You see death daily. You enjoy witnessing as people reach the inevitable, but you can feel that the two of you meeting may have shifted his death date. “Death can’t free you. All death will do is trap you further, leaving you in the underworld for the rest of eternity…” You trail off and silence falls between you both. It’s deafening, neither of you can bear it. You’re the one to break it though, with a quick statement, the kind that leaves him thinking everything and nothing all at once. “Your freedom shouldn’t be in spite of your emotions or your love. Your freedom should be a piece of it.” You cup his cheeks, “So fly, můj milovaný, like those doves you love so much.” You kiss his cheek. It’s cold. But it feels nice. “Your freedom is close. I can feel it.”

You get off the bed, slow steps reaching the doorway where, for a second, you turn back to him. “I should go, Nikolai, but you can just call my name if you want to see me again.” You walk out the door and he hears you skip down the hall, loud thumps as you walk down the stairs. “Okay, Mara-” A short pause before he whispers out. “I mean, Y/N, moya ptashka.”

[hanzajesthanza]

Happy birthday!! Just wanna say while I'm here that you are truly the no.1 Witcher scholar and I love your work, and also I actually find it very moving that even though you are not Polish and don't speak Polish, you treat the books with such respect and deep understanding of the culture and language!! I wish everyone engaged with the works that they love in this way. I'm Polish but I'd since moved away and have a lot of bitterness towards the social environments I grew up in, but the Witcher is the one thing from Poland I truly love and makes me feel connected to my heritage and idk I just love your work sorry for the long message!

oh thank you!! i am so flattered by your words 😅 all i can say is, i try my best, of course! and a short essay response incoming...

the witcher is not only a translated work, but a multilingual and multicultural/national community, fanbase, and the american fanbase from which i'm coming is a relatively new development in the broader fanbase, especially as it relates to the books. it's more complex than how i'll phrase it here, but, essentially when you're in the fandom of the witcher books, you're in a predominantly polish other slavic language speaking space, even if you only speak english, because the books were created in polish and the whole thing has had over 30 years to gain traction and fans in poland and other slavic language speaking countries.

(i think there tends to be a certain level of entitlement from people, alright, americans whose primary language is english, where it is expected that everything be in english - you hear it all the time, stories of tourists going to a different country and demand english be spoken for everything for them. while english is indeed commonly spoken in poland, i think it would be a bit ridiculous, bringing it back to the witcher fandom, to expect every online interaction and material you come across to be in english, and expect to never use polish sources or look at the original text in polish. it may not be something you're skilled in or know about, but it's an opportunity for you to learn and ask questions. just embrace that, strive for understanding, even if you don't have any which you're beginning with. being prepared to be wrong and mistaken, being willing and open to being corrected. so, treating with respect and striving to better understand cultures which one doesn't belong to should be step one, i hope, at least in this community!)

i don't believe that there is such a thing as an english side of the fanbase which stands on its own separate from the original polish (and czech and russian, the first two languages witcher was translated into) fanbase(s), because the english fanbase was seeded and encouraged by these fans, a good portion of whom were bilingual and helped the fanbase grow by posting in english, gaining visibility and encouraging others to join and read the books. so you can't really have the english fandom without the polish fandom, it's like a branch off of a tree. and, with the majority of lifelong, or in other capacity dedicated and passionate, fans, coming from poland, and some of these fans also engaging in english-speaking places online, we're going to share ideas and end up admiring each other and becoming friends! and there's, again as always, a lot you can learn from your friends.

addressing the witcher as a work specifically, its identity is inseparable from its written language. with translations to other slavic languages, there's not an exceptional amount lost, but when it comes to english... well... though the story is there (except for a few glaring errors), there's not only lot of language-specific word choice, wordplay, and jokes that are lost in the english language and especially in the the official translation (which was crafted, i think to be as much of an "easy read" for an english reader as possible, and not to preserve sapkowski's style, character, and vocabulary), but also because a lot of the cultural phenomenon, celebration, element, described in the books, simply doesn't exist for the english reader and is untranslatable without an explanation of the context and history. sapkowski, who speaks italian, has mentioned the saying "traduttore, traditore," (translator, traitor) in interviews.

for just a few examples, torque at the end of the short story "edge of the world" saying "goodnight" being the perfect end to the story, because of the saying where the devil says goodnight. or the saovine tradition of burning straw falka dolls resembling the burning (or drowning) of marzanna effigies. and, also related to saovine, the offerings of honey, groats, and vodka for spirits being a mirror image of dziady. all of this is something that's not common knowledge for the english reader, it's stuff i learned about by looking it up, or having a conversation about, or reading a forum page online, or learned however, but learning about it made my enjoyment of the story a lot richer because i could (in part) go back and appreciate the depth of realism and familiarity woven into the world. and the act of seeking that out, or having that conversation, the act of learning itself was rewarding, to satisfy curiosity and engage my mind and social brain.

also just, a lot of the time, i'm trying to figure out where sapkowski's mind was at when he wrote some of this stuff, or who are these characters and what are these characters feeling, and all we have of them, to understand them, is their words. and the official translation isn't able to translate word for word. so looking at the polish edition and working through the sentence to translate (and looking into the nuances in definitions of words and phrases), i've found, can really help my reading comprehension and interpretation of the scene or character.

of course, sapkowski was taking "paneuropean" inspiration from multiple different cultures, not all of them slavic, a lot of them western european, weaving all these different fantasy and folktale sources together to create something diversely culturally rich. but as an english reader, i was motivated to seek out, "how does that line originally go in polish?" or "what's the original folktale sapkowski is referencing here?" because it just makes it that much more fun! it's part of the fun! of course an english reader could just pick up the books, breeze through them, and get a lot of enjoyment out of that, but without investigating any of the language or culture, it remains surface-level enjoyment. it's so rewarding to be able to exist in a community and friend circles that are positive towards learning and teaching in a casual way, it has made the witcher a lot more than just books for me. and all i'm doing personally is just having fun and learning as i go!

[beelper-owo]

I am now going to post my SCP OCs because I want to and I'm procrastinating from important thing

SCP OCs list:

Isekai'd reality-bending mad scientist looking for cure for her condition creates two test subjects that she gets way too attached to. Abandons said subjects after surprise Foundation visit. Succumbs to powers and fucking DIES (Thanks GOC). (Alice; Named for "Alison" by Elvis Costello)

Failed experiment #2 has attachment issues and is a very willing test subject. Creator/"Mother" made him functionally immortal to try and preserve experiment/not lose data/not die because of ritual to preserve Failed experiment #1/not die because of Failed experiment #1. (Jack/Jack Flash; Named for "Jumpin' Jack Flash" by The Rolling Stones; DO NOT CONFUSE WITH THE OTHER FUCKER NAMED JACK, I WROTE THIS CHARACTER IN 9TH GRADE)

Failed experiment #1 speedruns that one GOC manual thingy. Starts drawing attention to Creator/"Mother". Last straw was when someone almost hit him on a bike, to which he responds by flicking the wheel to turn in front of an oncoming car. Creator sedates him, can't bring herself to kill him, and decides to try storing his soul in his younger brother, Failed experiment #2. Failed experiment #2 is not doing too well because of it. (Jules/Julian; Named for "Hey Jude" by The Beatles)

Failed experiment #2's therapist and friend. Sweet catholic lady. Very accepting. Not anomalous. Great with kids. Friends-to-Close friends-to-Lovers relationship with Former MTF agent. (Valerie Rose; The name sounded pretty, and she is pretty. :3)

Former MTF agent is currently a security guard. Not anomalous. Mixed race Venuzualan-Italian. Parents are first-generation immigrants to America, and therefore he has triple citizenship and is tri-lingual. Will curse you out in all three languages. Nice to his friends, standoffish to others. Was a US Army Ranger before joining the Foundation as an MTF. Got an injury (still deciding what injury) and was placed on security guard duty. Overworked himself, made the injury worse, and is now permanently on security guard duty. Very bitter about it. Friends with Failed experiment #2, Failed experiment #2's therapist, Frankish vampire, and Cursed doctor. (Jean Rocco; Idk I came up with the last name and it sounded cool)

Frankish vampire born 24 years after the fall of the Western Roman empire. Averse to human blood. Survived by living out of caves, sewers, catacombs, etc. and feeding on animal blood. Born with condition, symptoms developed as he aged. Left village after killing a cat out of desperation and hunger. Speaks a mix of Frankish and Medieval Latin. Eventually learns some French as territories/places/people expand. Learns English after being captured by the Foundation in October 2009. Friends with Failed experiment #2, Former MTF agent, and Cursed doctor. (Bertric Bertram; Bert-: "Bright", -ric: "Powerful", -ram: "Active")

Cursed doctor is a medical doctor who accidently pissed off a thaumaturgist and was cursed to go into a trance-like state everyday and carry someone to a random distance away from their original position. Was picked up by the Foundation after the curse led to him getting assault and attempted kidnapping charges. Has chronic pain from being shot in the side during one of these instances. Staff have to be warned everytime he moves to a different site in order to prevent him from being murdered. Is friends with Failed experiment #2, Former MTF agent, and Frankish vampire. (David Dopravce; Dopravce is Czech for "carrier", "hauler", "forwarder", or "conveyer", according to Google Translate)

[bogkeep]

foreign country ask game: 8, 29, 18?

8. do you get confused with other nationalities? if so, which ones and by whom?

every scandinavian gets confused with which scandinavian country they're from, so i've been mistaken for swedish or danish by Everyone Outside Of Scandinavia plenty of times haha. also finnish - when i worked a couple summer seasons at a café up in northern norway, all of my coworkers were finns and a lot of the bus drivers and visitors were finns, so they all spoke finnish at me assuming i too, would understand.

an interesting twist is how many norwegians have thought i'm foreign! which is half true, since my mother is czech and i speak the language and all that, but a lot of people have had some kind of HMMM YOU DON'T SEEM FULLY NORWEGIAN WHERE ARE YOU FROMMMMM attitude towards me. is it the autism? sometimes it's because people don't understand how my name is theodor and think it must be a feminine name in another language. so it goes. maybe it's the dialect thing, which leads me to -

18. do you speak with a dialect of your native language?

i do! norway has really distinct and diverse dialects which makes anyone speaking Correct Bokmål sound like an alien (oslo isn't real. oslo can't hurt me). where i was born, the Far North, has a very distinct and beautiful dialect that has a saami/finnish lilt to it, but since my family moved south when i was like 4 years old i wasn't able to hold on to it. this can probably be said for every archetypical norwegian dialect, but the trøndelag area dialect is often imitated for comedic purposes and it always felt to me like it doesn't get taken very seriously and just got this unfortunate vibe to it. when Baby Haiz tried to pick up on a lot of words and sounds from local kindergarteners, adults tended to point out changes in my speech which made me really self-conscious about it, which in turn made me try to NOT pick up on the dialect, leading me with a sort of washed out trønder dialect with traces of northern influence and a LOT of internalized shame about it. didn't help when middle school classmates would laugh at me for the way i intonated words like 'corn' or something. AUTISM NIGHTMARE. everyone from the south read me as a trønder, people in trøndelag can be a bit 50/50 on it, and people from northern norway somehow clock my remnants of finnmarking. and i just repeat 'hæ?' at everyone regardless where they're from because i've got ~*Auditory Processing Disorder*~

29. does your region/city have a beef with another place in your country?

not that i know of tbh! i do think northern norway as a whole harbors some easily warranted bitterness from being neglected by the government in the south and having to suffer stupid political decisions made by people in oslo who have no idea what it's like up there, but that's... normal country stuff probably hahaha

[redwineconversation]

Welcome, Ghosts (Slavia Prague - Olympique Lyonnais Postgame Thoughts)

"No, we haven't forgotten. We think of it as motivation."

That's what Danielle van de Donk said in the postgame interview when asked if the loss against Chelsea has been pushed aside.

I called it at the time. I said it would keep them up at night, bring back the insomnia they both hate so much and yet crave at the time. They're better like this, angry and bitter and desperate to satisfy their bloodlust. They need something to get angry about because that allows them to reveal their true nature.

They're better for it, really, when they're pissed off. They see more clearly. Their passing is crisper, faster. The goals are more clinical. The defense is cleaner. In a weird way that maybe monsters only truly understand, the only way this team can be truly happy if when they have a blow torch in their hands and the world is starting to shrink back in fear. Monsters recognize monsters, after all.

You can argue that Slavia Prague doesn't have the same pedigree as Lyon and therefore the score is misleading. Sure, I will give you that. I'm not sure any alleged fan of WoSo would be able to cite a player from Slavia Prague without googling it first. But, you only beat the team that's in front of you. You have to play the team, not the club, or else you have to admit the consequences. Wendie Renard said as much in the pregame press conference.

And it's not like Slavia Prague is a bad team. They're honestly not. I think a lot of the pearl clutching is unwarranted because it was based on the false equivalency of "if I have not heard of this team or league then it must be bad." Slavia Prague had won all of their league games coming into this game. Slavia Prague had a considerable number of Czech international players on their team. Slavia Prague had also a history of playing in the Champions League.

if you want to talk about Lyon's "easy" group, then talk about what made it happen. Talk about Arsenal treating the qualifying game like a preseason game against a farmer's league team and how they got their ass handed to them. Talk about Wolfsburg not knowing better when they really should have. If those two teams aren't in the group stages, it's because they rolled up and thought a team WoSo had to google - and even then did so incorrectly - and thought that team would blink. They were sloppy, they were careless, and that's why Lyon is booking flights to Norway and Austria instead of England and Germany.

But this isn't about hubris.

This is about a vexed, vengeful benefactor having given in to their blood lust and not particularly caring anymore about being reformed.

This is Lyon, really. A monster in search of satisfying their bloodlust simply because they were wrong a year ago. This is Lyon without the restraints caused by crippling injuries. This is who they are underneath all the pretenses: a team of vexed players who are annoyed people are no longer bowing in front of this ruthless killing machine.

I'm not sure when, exactly, the game was won. 3-0, probably. 4-0 for sure. But Lyon scored more because they could, because this is who they are, really: vexed, vengeful, wronged, they wanted the world to know payments are finally due. Debts must be paid, and Lyon doesn't particularly care who they have to ruthlessly dismantle for that to happen. Bow down or feel the consequences. For Lyon, it's that simple.

It wasn't a perfect performance - Hegerberg was sloppy at best, the kindest thing I can say about Becho is that she completed passes - and I think that's important to really emphasize. Not all 11 players played a perfect game the way they did against Barcelona in May 2022. But we saw the old Lyon, really, the one who made people uncomfortable. A lot of the players were "good" simply because they were playing the way Lyon is when dangerous: happy, carefree, and with a score to settle.

It's early in the season. it's so, so early, and so much can change. November 14, 2023 does not tell us anything about how things will look in May 2024. But what it does tell us is how things could go. We know what Lyon is capable of now, of what their intentions are.

May 2024 is so far away. There are so many games to be played between now and then, so, so many things can - and probably will - go wrong. But we have something in the meantime: a vexed, vengeful monster coming in from the rain, with their dark eyes, looking like themselves again.

I'm not ashamed to admit it: I missed my ruthless killing machine. Welcome back. I love the color red on you, let's see what we can do with that.

[flavor-aid-sekt]

Snacks in Czechia

4.05.2024

When in other countries, I always try to eat something local. Sometimes it's just one dish, but in Prague, my friends and I mostly ate typical Czech dishes. I want to describe my favorites. I found the first place actually by accident and it was good that we looked there out of curiosity. The restaurant "Bistro Knedlin" serves delicious knedlíky. These are flour buns cooked in steamed dough. The ones here came with a sweet or salty filling. The choice was huge: of the sweet ones, for example, strawberry, pistachio, raspberry, coconut, or mango, and of the sweet ones with cheese or meat. The knedliki are fresh and prepared on the spot. I chose the Kinder chocolate-flavored ones and the cherry ones, while Laura chose the blueberry and chocolate ones. The knedliki were served on tiny sweet plates. The queues at the checkout were long, and everyone wanted to try them. Some even took large sets to go. When the knedliki were pressed with a fork, they burst and the delicious filling poured out. A delicious sweet, and very cheap too.

We also found another venue by chance. Its name was 'U Laury' and all in all, that was enough to go there. The bar had a lovely hidden garden, and as the weather was nice, we went there. Here we ate Czech knedle, which are knedliki served with goulash. The dough is made from potatoes or wheat flour. A cylinder is formed from the dough, cooked in salted water, and cut into slices. They taste a bit like bread, they're fluffy and I dipped them in stew sauce. I don't eat pork often, but the one served here was quite good. It's not a dish I would eat every day, but I understand why knedle are so popular. On the premises, the staff were also lovely. I asked for a dish without onions and there was no problem. I wonder if they would taste good with a different sauce.

The final rarity this time is a drink. The Czech Republic is known for its good beer, so we stopped at a bar in the evening. My friends each ordered a Czech beer. I don't like it, but Laura and Ada gave it a try and for me it was too bitter. Instead, I discovered something much better - a drink called Beton. I took it as a joke because the name means concrete in Polish. And it was surprisingly good and refreshing. The drink consists of a tonic and Becherovka, an herbal liqueur. This is a strong alcohol made right here in the Czech Republic. I read that it is used to make many drinks. And the one I drank was trivially simple, and tasty. I even ordered it in two different pubs because I liked it so much. Both the lighter and the stronger versions are great. Next time I'm in the Czech Republic I must buy myself a bottle of Becherovka. With the alcohol, the girls and I waited for the evening to go to the Charles Bridge again. While drinking we made silly videos to remember the trip. It was a pleasant end to the day, as we kept exploring and walking through the city.

[lostfracturess]

first of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH for your sweet sweet notes on the chapter, it's so fun to see your reactions as you read! I appreciate it so much for taking your time to do that, to let me get an insight on your thoughts while reading! ♡

You broke his jaw in seven bloody places, knocked out half his teeth.

yes! in real life often such things get fixed with money instead of the right punishment such people deserve and it tasted bitter to write that but i wanted to show satoru doing everything to keep her out of trouble even if it means swallowing down the pitter pill, what brings us to the next note...

I choked down the dry pills, the bitterness clinging to my tongue like a curse

yes yes yes! it should mirror suguru's struggle from the anime, feel so bad for both of them :(

because i too am reading Kafka right now, aaah i love him so much

ahhh I've been rereading fafka lately and "letters to his father" this is by far my favorite of him!! i read it in german as he was german-czech writer and i wanted to read it his words without maybe some things getting lost in translation. but yes, kafka is everything!! phrasing that kind of trauma like no other could ever.

For a split second I stared, baffled. This woman is utterly insane. And I love her for it.

I ACTUALLY CHANGED THAT AGAIN. often i reread the chapter and then my brain can't stop correcting again and i changed that line to "For a split second I stared, stunned. This woman is completely insane. And I can't wait to marry her."

idk if satoru would say "utterly" (but i like that word omg, so british), so i changed it a bit later on haha.

trust me when i say i’ve literal butterflies in me, if a man doesn’t treat me like this, i want no man. (why would you raise my standards sweetheart?) this man right here is a dream.

he is a dream!!!! a green flag with a lot of issues but still!!!! everyone deserves a satoru gojo written by a woman in their lives.

why are you breaking my heart??? because if satoru’s liver gives up here, mine does too (it is).

ahhh i'm sorry!! i'm still considering the story to have a happy ending, so don't worry!! but it might hurt on the way there.

i thought i was crazy to feel this because no character ever appreciates pity, but now that gojo satoru says this in love.

yes yes yes! satoru is so desperate for any kind of attention of her, that he doesn't even mind if she looks in pity or hate at him. he just wants her TO LOOK AT HIM, like however that might be, he just want her to have feelings for her, in any kind. good or bad. and i think that's beautiful.

i should not be finding him doing drugs attractive, i shouldn’t be hot all over! what are you doing to me???

omg i had this idea in my mind for a long time and thought it is to risky, like i don't want to make taking drugs sexy with this story, it's bad and no one should do it, but i just hope the audience is mature enough to difference between fiction and real world.

but yes omg, satoru gojo can take drugs of my skin whenever and wherever he wants haha.

WHAT WAS THAT LAST PART???

yes, satoru gojo is insane indeed. ngl.

thank you so much for writing these notes, i appreciate it so much!! hope you like the next chapter as well 😭❤️

【 ꜱʏᴍᴘᴛᴏᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇꜱ 】 ch. 9

x PAIRING professor!gojo satoru x f!reader (medical!au)

x SUMMARY he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart. (this sounds more fluffy than it actually is, it's more angsty/dark and emotional damaging lol).

x WORD COUNT 11.5 k (i'm insane)

x WARNINGS this story contains substance abuse/addiction, smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, angst, mentions of death/illness, graphic medical procedures. you can also read it on ao3 or wattpad. pls like or repost if you enjoyed ♡

x AUTHORS'S NOTE this chapter is in satoru's pov! "she/her" -> "you", also there is a minor character from the manga in this chapter but no spoilers :) also, this chapter gets kinda dark? pls remember this is fiction, don't do drugs and also don't sleep with addicts, thank you!! enjoy reading!! ♡

x NAVIGATION ch 1; ch 2; ch 3; ch 4; ch 5; ch 6; ch 7; ch 8

♫₊ ♪ playlist

Sweat trickled beneath the collar of my shirt.

My fingers dug into my arm, nails biting through the fabric.

If I didn't scratch, maybe I wouldn't lose my damn mind. Maybe the office walls would stop spinning long enough for me to think.

But the itch burning beneath my skin was too strong today, almost unbearable.

I barely registered Higurama's entrance as he pleasured me with yet another visit. He slumped into the chair across from me, looking less like a lawyer and more like a corpse given a temporary reprieve.

His sunflower pin, that obligatory symbol of his profession, seemed ironic given the permanent scowl etched onto his face.

"Well?" I snapped, desperate to break the silence that made the itch even more cruel. "Spit it out."

He sighed, then reached into his worn leather briefcase and retrieved a slim folder. He placed it on the desk. "The good news is, the brat's family is willing to settle. Saves us the headache of a trial."

"And the bad news?"

"It'll cost you. A lot." He slid the folder across the desk. "The kid wants a ridiculous sum, claiming emotional damages and whatnot."

I huffed, a harsh sound that echoed in the silent office. Images of the student's bloody face after I'd put him in his place flashed across my mind, the satisfaction fleeting. My fingers twitched at my sides, the urge to scratch growing stronger. I rolled down my sleeves. 

Damn my luck.

I slid the folder back to him, not needing to see the sum. "Tell them whatever he wants, he gets. Just make this go away."

Higuruma frowned. "I understand wanting this over with, but we could negotiate, bring that amount down—"

"No." I cut him off. "Money doesn't matter. If this mess disappears, it's worth every damn yen."

Higuruma's eyebrows shot up. "We're not talking about an insignificant amount, Gojo. You broke his jaw in seven bloody places, knocked out half his teeth."

A smirk twisted my lips. "Sadly not all of his teeth."

"Gojo," Higurama's voice held a warning edge I'd rarely heard from him. "You could be staring down the barrel of a prison sentence."

"That's why I have you, isn't it?" I leaned back in my chair. "Old friend's favor and all that."

Higurama's stare hardened. "This isn't like those scrapes I used to bail you out of. The consequences here are far more serious. I'd never agree to settle this if you weren't a friend. You should countersue that kid for drugging your student."

The mention of her made my stomach clench. "I said no," my voice low. "I won't drag her in front of some courtroom circus. End it, Higurama. Whatever it takes."

Higuruma let out a sigh that spoke volumes. He stood, straightening his jacket, that sunflower pin glinting with a false cheerfulness in the afternoon sunlight.

"Very well," he said. "I'll prepare the documents. Be advised, this could set a dangerous precedent—"

I cut him off with a raised hand, the very thought of potential consequences a fresh irritant beneath my skin. "Just get this over with," I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a hospital to run."

He nodded and turned. 

As he reached the office door, I spoke, my voice low. "Higuruma."

He paused, one hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"You keep your mouth shut." It wasn't a request, but an order. "This doesn't touch her, understand?"

"I have my professional obligations, Gojo."

"And I have mine," I countered. "Her finding out is not an option."

"Perhaps it's a decision you shouldn't be making for her."

"Perhaps," I replied, the word a blade in the silence that followed. "But it's a decision I will make. That is all."

He nodded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He knew, the bastard. The truth wasn't just about the lawsuit, and it hung unspoken between us.

He opened the door and stepped out without another word.

I slumped back in my chair, the leather creaking in protest, and released a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. It trembled as it left my lungs.

My hand. That goddamned traitorous hand was shaking again.

I fumbled in my desk drawer, fingertips brushing against the familiar shape of the pill bottle.  Clonidine. Not the ideal solution, but it was all I had right now.

I choked down the dry pills, the bitterness clinging to my tongue like a curse.

Why the sudden weakness? Why now?

I'd survived far worse without crumbling like this.

The room tilted slightly, the fluorescent lights blurring into white splotches. I squeezed my eyes shut and steadied myself, hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as the wood threatened to splinter under my grip. 

My breath hitched in my throat, each ragged gasp burning like acid.

No. I wouldn't let it take me. I wouldn't let her see me like this.

I could do this. I had to.

For her.

It was a lie, and I knew it. The pills would numb the physical symptoms for a while, but the real battle was the one in my head. And that, I was far from winning.

You can't run from what's inside your head, can you?

I needed fresh air.

─── ·✧· ───

I stumbled down the hallway, vision blurring slightly at the edges, willing myself to simply keep moving. My skin prickled and burned, every nerve on fire.

I burst through the double doors leading to the main lobby, momentarily disorientated by the sudden change from sterile hallways to the bustling public space.

My lungs sucked in a shaky breath, and with it came a scent — a subtle mix of something floral and the clean, faintly metallic tang of blood.

Her scent? 

What the hell—

My gaze swept the area, and there she was. She sat across the room, partially obscured by a crowd of people waiting to donate blood. The curve of her neck, the way her hair fell across her shoulders, were unmistakable. 

Why was she here, in the hospital?

If something was wrong, damn it, she should have told me.

But then I saw it. A needle was taped to the crook of her arm, a thin tube snaking down to a partially filled blood bag. She held a book in her hand and there was a line of concentration between her brows as she read, her thumb tracing idly across the page.

My hands fumbled to smooth down my shirt, a useless gesture since it was hopelessly wrinkled. Taking a steadying breath, I weaved through the crowd.

The trembling wouldn't quit, but with each step towards her, it seemed to lessen, replaced by a different kind of nervous energy. Still, I tried to project a calmness I didn't feel.

I couldn't let her see me like this, not now.

She still hadn't noticed me as I stood in front of her, her attention focused on the book in her hands. I leaned in, the scent of her perfume mingled with the sterile hospital smell, a combination both familiar and disturbingly intimate in this setting.

She was so engrossed in her book that she didn't notice me until I gently pushed it down, an easy smile pulling at my lips.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

She blinked up at me. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Her eyes darted down to the needle in her arm, blood trickling steadily into the bag.

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?" I took the chair beside her, unable to contain my sudden annoyance. Why not tell me? It was illogical, this possessiveness, but damn it, I wanted to know.

"Thought I'd enjoy a few moments without your charming company." The sarcasm dripped sweetly from her lips, and under other circumstances, I might have countered with a playful remark of my own.

But today, my mind was something else. Looking away, I tried to ignore the subtle itch beneath my skin and focus on anything else.

"Quite the weather today, huh?" I finally blurted out, staring past her at the gray sky outside. Lame. Even for me.

"You came to me to talk about the weather?" She brought her book back up.

"It's going to storm soon."

"Is it?" She didn't even look up.

I watched her for a moment. Not just her face, but the way the sunlight painted delicate gold along her cheekbones, the way a single strand of hair had escaped, brushing against her lashes like a gentle whisper and creating a softness her serious expression couldn't hide.

It was a painfully beautiful sight, and so cruelly unlike my fucked up world. Some twisted part of me longed to disrupt it, to be the storm she couldn't ignore, even as another, saner part of me wanted to protect that peace, to protect her at all costs.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

"Kafka."

"Didn't know you were into literature." Damn, even to myself, I sounded like a condescending ass.

She lowered the book, meeting my gaze with equal parts amusement and defiance. "Believe it or not, I do read things that's not all about brains."

Something in the intensity of her expression, the way she held the book, made me want to understand this side of her. "What do you like about it?"

"There's just something about Kafka that speaks to me. It's—unsettling but in a compelling way." She closed the book for a second, her gaze lingering on the cover. "It's actually my second time reading it."

"Is this your favorite of Kafka's books?"

"It is."

"Read me your favorite part," I said, leaning back in the chair, folding my hands behind my head. My eyes slid closed, less to feign disinterest and more to focus on the sound of her voice.

She sighed, and the quiet rustle of pages told me she was flipping through the book. "Okay, but it might sound a bit strange out of context," she warned.

"I'm sure I'll love it."

I love everything that comes out of your mouth, silly.

"He wrote it to his father," she said, giving me a bit of context before she started to read.

"I'm not going to say that I have become what I am only as a result of your influence..."

Her voice was a soft caress. I drank it in, savoring her words, yet a shiver ran down my spine as she continued.

"...It is indeed quite possible that even if I had grown up entirely free from your influence I should probably have still become a weakly, timid, hesitant, restless person."

The words carried a cruel, familiar sting, each one leaving a fresh, burning scar on my skin.

"I should have been happy to have you as a friend, as a boss, an uncle, a grandfather, even as a father-in-law, only as a father you have been too strong for me..."

Too strong.

What a fucked up way to describe it. A child, small and defenseless, pitted against an unyielding force. Where was the justice in that?

My father's voice thundered through my mind. Like a knife, his disapproval carved into my very being. Not strong enough. Never enough. Not what a Gojo should be. Never living up to the legacy, never matching him.

Weakness. That's all he ever saw.

My fists tightened until my nails dug into my palms.

The old anger flared hot.

"...and for that I was much too weak." She closed the book.

My eyes snapped open, blinking in the harsh light. My head throbbed. The familiar itch clawed beneath my skin, a demanding, relentless torment. I dug my nails harder into my palms.

No. I wouldn't let him have that power, wouldn't lose control.

Her gaze flickered to mine, and I swore something shifted in the air between us.

"He describes how it was growing up with such a strong father, how it shaped him his whole life," she paused, her voice laced with hesitation. "He writes about the desire for approval, the weight of expectations. It's about seeking validation from someone who's supposed to guide you, but instead becomes this unattainable figure."

Her words echoed uncomfortably in my mind.

My gaze fixed on her hands, the way they nervously gripped the book, fingernails biting into the worn cover. Why was she so tense? Did she know? No, I never told her.

"Satoru?" Her voice sliced through my thoughts. 

Before I could respond, the shrill sound of my pager tore through the room. I fumbled for it, eyes scanning the stark message.

Brain bleed. Trial patient. ICU. STAT.

"Fuck." Adrenaline surged through me. I shot to my feet, "I've got to go. There was another brain bleeding with one of our trial patients."

"Wait!" She stood abruptly, her gaze locked on the IV line snaking into her arm.

What is she—

Wait—

What??

Before I could interfere, she yanked the needle out of her arm. A bead of blood gushed out, and she quickly pressed a cotton ball against it. "I'm coming with you."

For a split second I stared, stunned. This woman is completely insane. And I can't wait to marry her.

We sprinted through the hospital corridors, a blur of white walls and concerned faces. Bursting into the ICU, my heart pounded against my ribs, my focus narrowing to the patient on the bed. A doctor stood beside him, a grave expression etched on his face.

"Time of death, 16:22."

The words echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence. My chest tightened as the world narrowed to the still form on the bed, the empty hum of machines. It was over. We're too late.

Wait. She will surely—

I turned around, and a surge of fear shot through me. 

She stood there, her face ashen, the crimson-stained cotton ball clutched in her trembling hand. Eyes that were usually so vibrant now held a shattering vulnerability, her breaths coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

In an instant, I was at her side. "Hey, hey," I said. "It's okay. Just breath, can you do that for me?"

My hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The warmth of her skin was in stark contrast to the ice in my veins. My mind churned, guilt twisting like a knife in my gut. Of course, she would react like this. I'd been a fool to bring her here.

"Wait in my office," I said, my voice as gentle as I could manage despite my fear. "I'll be with you as soon as possible."

Her eyes locked with mine, searching. A flicker of resistance crossed her face, then resignation. She nodded, a mere jerk of her head, and stumbled away, each step seeming to take an impossible effort.

Watching her go, my heart clenched. 

For all her strength, her boldness, there was this fragile core to her, one that the world, and I, seemed intent on bruising. And that, more than anything, sent a spike of anger through me—an anger directed squarely at myself.

Fuck, focus, you have a job to do here.

"Dr. –" I began, and then cursed inwardly. What the hell was his name again? Familiar face, stupid haircut, uglier glasses—

"Dr. Ijichi," the young doctor said, his voice a touch shaky. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Right, of course." Annoyance pricked at me. He's a newbie. I should know this, I should care. 

I softened my tone, just a fraction. 

"Let's go over this from the start. What triggered the bleed? Did the patient present any new symptoms?"

Ijichi flipped through the chart, his fingers fumbling slightly. "The bleed appears spontaneous. Scans from yesterday showed no signs of an aneurysm or underlying issues. Blood panels within normal limits, no recent head trauma reported."

"But something must have caused it," I snapped. "The implant—could there be a malfunction? A short-circuit? Anything?"

Ijichi took a step back, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "It's possible. But I'd—I'd need to examine the implant itself for any sign of damage."

"Well, then do that." The words came out harsher than I intended. My gaze swept over him, noting the faint tremor in his hands. Damn it, I was scaring the kid. I forced myself to take a breath. "Look, I know this is a lot. But we need to act fast."

"Patient's medical records are clean. Blood pressure was normal at last check." Ijichi was regaining some of his composure, his voice a touch firmer. A good sign.

"Can I see his scans? Lab work? Everything."

The next minutes was a blur of reports, X-rays, MRI sequences. I scrutinized every detail, my mind racing ahead, chasing ghosts of potential errors. Ijichi hovered nearby. He fielded my questions, fetching additional reports and cross-referencing data. 

I couldn't fault his dedication, but a nagging thought itched at the back of my mind. Experience mattered in situations like this, a cool head under pressure. Maybe if I was here sooner—

The annoyance flared again. If this was a flaw in the method, heads would roll. Mine, Suguru's, and—the trial would be scrutinized, the funding in jeopardy—and her—

Dammit. I'd promised her this wouldn't happen again. That with me, she wouldn't have to watch another patient die. Images of her flashed before my eyes—the haunted look she'd worn earlier, her vulnerability.

My fingers twitched against my arm, nails biting into skin.

"Dr. Gojo?" Ijichi's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "I've isolated something in the pre-op scans."

I snapped back to the present. I leaned over his shoulder, peering at the image. A slight irregularity, a minuscule shadow on the edge of the implant interface.

"Could this be it?" Ijichi's voice held a hint of excitement, of finally being useful.

"Maybe," I said. "Any sign of inflammation? Tissue reaction?"

He zoomed in further. "Inconclusive, sir. We'll need higher resolution images, maybe a tissue sample from the insertion site."

"The autopsy." The word was heavy on my tongue. "Get on it. I want the implant and surrounding tissue on my table as soon as possible."

Ijichi nodded. "I'll contact pathology right away."

Left alone in the small room, I slumped into a chair, exhaustion washing over me. The relentless adrenaline rush was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache and the lingering, uncomfortable question.

How many more patients were out there, ticking time bombs with our technology inside their heads? And what the hell were we going to do about it?

The sterile confines of the ICU were suffocating. 

I looked over to the clock and my breath hitched. Fuck, I left her alone for over 30 minutes now. I sprung up from the chair and raced to my office.

Bursting through the door, I saw her—knees drawn to her chest, head buried in her arms. A sharp pain shot through me, guilt twisting with a strange sense of relief that she'd obeyed my command at least.

In a few swift strides, I knelt before her. "Hey, love" I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. "You okay?"

She blinked, eyes wide and shadowed. A forced smile touched her lips. "Yeah, just—it was all a bit much. I'll be fine."

The words were hollow, the act unconvincing. Her skin was pale, her jaw tight, and her eyes betrayed the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears.

"Don't do that," I said, more softly than I intended. "Don't pretend with me."

"I'm fine, really," she said, pulling her gaze away.

I watched her, a familiar ache settling in my chest. I'd told her to wait here, thinking it would shield her from the worst of it. Instead, I'd left her alone with her thoughts.

I'm so stupid.

I hesitated, searching for the right words, "Do you often get these panic attacks?"

Confusion clouded her features. "What?"

She doesn't even know herself?

I brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Panic attacks. Like back there, in the ICU—"

Her eyes widened, then immediately narrowed in defensiveness. "I wasn't panicked. Just startled."

But I wasn't buying it, not this time. 

"The way you were breathing, the way you couldn't stand still," I ticked the signs off on my fingers, mirroring her symptoms back at her. "Remember the first time you did surgery with Suguru? When that patient died?"

"That was different."

"Or the massive bleeding in our last patient while surgery? When the suture tore," I continued relentlessly.

The defiance was fading from her eyes. I knew I was pushing her, but it felt necessary, a brutal ripping off of a bandage.

"I didn't think of it as of panic attacks," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Oh, my brave, brilliant girl. How could I love her more?

I reached out, tracing the faint tracks of tears beneath her eyes. 

"What happened with the patient?" she asked.

"The bleed was massive," I said. "Likely a flaw in the implant itself, a malfunction we didn't anticipate. The autopsy will confirm."

She closed her eyes briefly. "Are we going to have to shut down the trial?"

"It's too early to say," I said, threading my fingers through my hair. "Maybe, I don't know."

We were both silent for a moment.

She wandered over to my desk. Perching atop it, she crossed her legs, staring blankly into the dimness of the office. I wonder what she's thinking right now.

Her gaze drifted over the desk's surface. Her eyes landed on a single, crisp document—the lawsuit, left there carelessly, intentionally, by Higurama after our earlier meeting. 

That bastard.

"What's the status on the assault charge?"

My stomach turned. Of course, she would ask. "It's being handled. Just paperwork and legal wrangling."

"By handled you mean?" she prompted, her eyes flicking back to the document. As her eyes scanned the document, her frown deepened, her fingers tracing the neatly typed figures.

I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly wishing those papers were buried at the bottom of a hazardous waste bin. "Higurama is negotiating with the kid's lawyers."

She looked up, her full attention now fixed on me. "Are you Insane?"

"It's not that bad—" I began, but the words died as I saw the anger on her face.

"They want how much? Is there a typo? A few too many zeroes?"

"It's fine. Money isn't the issue. I can handle it."

Her eyes narrowed. "Satoru, even for you, that sum is—" She paused. "You can't pay that. I won't let you."

"Let me? You make it sound like you have a say in the matter." I stepped closer, the distance between us shrinking.

Her expression softened with a flicker of annoyance, an emotion I found strangely comforting after the raw worry of a moment ago. "Satoru, this isn't a joke. I'm serious."

"Come on, a few zeroes here or there—it's pocket change for a devastatingly brilliant neurosurgeon as myself."

"This isn't something to joke about!" She swatted at my chest, a futile gesture that made me want to grin even wider.

"You love it." I rested my hands on either side of her on the desk, capturing her. "Admit it, the arrogance is part of my charm."

"Part of your insufferableness, more like."

"Everything's going to be fine." I lean in closer, the faint scent of jasmine that always clung to her, was intoxicating. "I promise. You need to trust me."

"Satoru—" she began, ready to launch into another argument.

Before another word could escape, I closed the distance between us and silenced her with a kiss. It began softly, a tentative press of lips, as if seeking permission. But when she sighed, her body melting against mine, it deepened into something more urgent, more insistent.

My hand slid into her hair, tilting her head just so I could claim her more. The taste of her was a much-needed distraction from the weight of the day. How goddamned much I loved her taste. Needed it more than I could ever admit.

When I finally broke the kiss, a flicker of anger still sparked within her, and oh, I loved it. Loved it when she was all angry with me. Every flicker of those expressive eyes, every sharp word—it all belonged to me. I craved all of her.

"Now," I said. "How about some coffee?"

─── ·✧· ───

The air in Yaga's office was suffocating. 

Every word from that old bastard was a knife, twisting deeper with each infuriatingly accurate accusation.

"You lost a trial patient," he rumbled, and I had to suppress a wince. 

"Setbacks happen," I shot back. "We fix it, we make it better. That's how progress works."

His fist slammed against the desk, making me jump. Damn it, Yaga always knew how to get under my skin. "And the cost? The reputation? Your recklessness will bury us all, Gojo."

"Risks I'm willing to take," I spat. "My patients are willing to take them. Because we believe in something more than your damn paperwork and red tape."

Yaga stood, his face a mask of cold fury. "Boundaries exist for a reason. And until you remember that, your precious project is over. The trial ends now."

The words echoed in the silence, a death sentence. 

I can't risk it getting shot down, not for her. The thought burned, fueled by the terror of seeing those tears again.

"I won't accept this," I said, my voice rough, "I'll fight it. The Ministry, the funding agencies—I'll make them see the potential!"

Yaga's lip curled in a humorless smile. "And while you chase those grand delusions, perhaps you should focus on the mess already on your doorstep. Your, shall we say, 'unprofessional' entanglement with that student of yours hardly instills confidence."

The blow landed with devastating force. 

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that, Gojo."

"That's—" My voice cracked, the words catching in my throat like a shard of glass. "Irrelevant. It's a personal matter."

"Is it?" Yaga countered. "When your personal choices compromise your judgment, jeopardize not only this project but the lives of countless patients—it becomes very much my business. I've tolerated this long enough."

What?

"You can't touch my surgeries. Those patients need me."

"Do they?" His question was a poisoned dart. "Or do they need a surgeon with a clear head and untarnished reputation? While this mess remains unresolved, consider your surgical privileges suspended. You have enough on your plate."

I slammed my hand against the desk, heedless of the pain it sent tearing through me. My surgeries, my purpose, the very core of my identity—he can't take that away from me.

"This isn't fair," I said through gritted teeth. "You're overreacting. One setback—"

"One setback too many," Yaga cut me off, his voice hard as steel. "You've exhibited a reckless disregard for protocol, for ethics, and now it's spiraling out of control. The board has lost faith in your ability to lead this project, and frankly," he paused, his gaze piercing, "so have I."

The room felt suffocating, the air too thin to breathe. It was as if the walls were pressing in, crushing the fight out of me.

Yaga sighed. "Clear your head, Gojo. Sort out your priorities. Until then, take a step back. And for your sake, and the sake of those around you, stay out of trouble."

Then, a knock sounded at the door. I turned around.

The door creaked open, and there she stood, her eyes wide. 

My heart sank. 

In that moment, seeing her framed in the doorway of Yaga's office, a cruel reminder of the mess I'd made, the last thin threat snapped. 

This was on me, not her.

"Don't you dare drag her into this," I hissed before anyone in the room could speak. "This is on me and not—"

"Silence," Yaga's voice cut through my outburst. "Both of you. Sit."

She met my gaze, a flicker of something I couldn't name passing through her eyes. Then, she crossed the room and sat, her posture straight. The sight of her, defiant yet composed, filled me with a strange sense of pride.

"There will be repercussions, as you both are well aware," Yaga began. "The ethics committee has been alerted. A formal hearing will be scheduled, likely within the week, to address this debacle." 

He paused, his gaze raking over both of us. "I suggest you prepare yourselves well. The fallout will be severe."

The ethics committee?

Fuck.

My stomach churned, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin.

My fingers twitched. The itch beneath my skin now flared into a maddening burn. It took every ounce of control to fight the urge to rip the skin off my arm, to tear away the invisible parasites gnawing at my sanity.

"What kind of fallout?" I asked. "Suspension? Expulsion?"

Yaga's expression was unreadable. "The committee will decide that. Your actions—both individually and collectively—will be scrutinized."

"But she—" I began, but Yaga held up a hand, silencing me. 

"Enough," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I suggest you both to prepare very well what you'll tell them, especially regarding your relationship." 

He let the implication linger in the air, a silent accusation.

"You can leave now," Yaga announced, already adverting his gaze from us to some papers in from of him.

I shot to my feet, my chair scraping back with a screech. I grabbed her hand, a silent command to follow. I knew she had a million questions, but I needed the world to stop spinning out of control for one damn minute.

I needed air first.

I needed to breathe first.

"Let's get out of here first, okay?" I said before she could even open her mouth to speak.

The elevator carried us down. I gripped the handrail so hard it felt like my fingers might break. Her gaze burned into me, her worry a palpable weight in the too-small space. I averted my eyes, focusing on the grimy elevator floor. 

If I looked at her now, I knew I'd crumble.

"Satoru, we should tell them," her voice was soft.

Please, love. Be silent. Don't make this harder for me.

"No," I said, harsher than intended. "We won't. This could ruin you, and I won't let that happen." The words sounded strong, protective—but the truth was, I was terrified.

My hand twitched with the need for a relief I hadn't known this strong for weeks. Just one pill, one measly little pill was all I needed right now. It gnawed at me, a craving that wouldn't be ignored.

"But it's my choice too. You don't get to decide this alone."

"You don't understand. If they find out about us now, under these circumstances they'll use it against us, make it look like we were reckless, unprofessional. Our judgment, everything we've worked for, will be called into question."

"I don't care about their judgment! I care about what happens to you!"

Couldn't she see? This wasn't about bravery, or honor. This was about survival. It was about saving her, even if it meant destroying myself in the process.

"I can't risk your future, not for this. End of discussion." I turned away, unable to stand the hurt, the frustration burning in her eyes.

I was meant to be her strength, and I was failing her. Failing us.

Then, as if the universe itself decided to pile on my misery, the elevator lights began to flicker. The low hum warped into a high-pitched whine, the sound like nails scraping along my exposed nerves.

The elevator jolted, then shuddered to an abrupt halt. Darkness crashed down, pierced only by the sickly yellow glow of the emergency lights.

Stuck.

Trapped. 

Confined.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Then, a voice, tinny and overly cheerful, chirped through the elevator's speaker. "Uhm, sorry about this folks. Seems we have a minor—uh, technical issue. Be with you shortly."

Fuck.

I could feel her gaze burn into my neck, a heavy pressure like she held a gun to my head.

"Well, you can't fuck your way out of this one, can you?" Her voice held a cruel amusement.

I considered it for a moment, then remembered the security camera scrutinizing our every move, the worker no doubt listening. Too risky.

Not that I'd mind a video.

I sighed. Leaning heavily against the cold metal, I let my head thunk against the elevator door.

God, please have mercy.

Defeated, I turned and slid down the elevator door, sinking to the floor, the metal cold against my back. She crossed her arms and I knew she wouldn't back down.

For a while, silence reigned.

"They'll want to know everything—about the research project, the surgeries, the brain bleeding, the student lawsuit," I hesitated for a second. "And about us."

"I know." Her reply was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive.

"This should concern you."

"I don't care."

My god, this woman makes me lose my mind.

Her stubbornness was so infuriating, yet it made me want to rip her clothes off right here, right now. It was as if she saw the storm raging within me and refused to back down, daring it to break us both.

I shifted, the cold floor chilling me to the bone. "If we tell them now about us, they'll use it against us. They'll tear us apart."

"And what's the alternative?"

"We say nothing. Professor and student. Nothing more."

"They'll question others."

"No one knows, except Suguru, and he won't tell anyone."

"We already look guilty. Professor and student spending so much time together? Doing surgeries together? Let alone the scene you caused at the summer gathering. People already talk, Satoru. You know they do."

She was right. Damn her for always being right.

"The committee will know," she continued. "They'll ask questions. And we can't afford to be caught off guard."

"Damn it," I cursed, raking a hand through my hair.

"Satoru," she began, the sound of my name on her lips a caress against my raw nerves.

Please never stop saying my name.

"We both made choices. The only option now is to be truthful. You can't shield me from this, nor do I want you to. I've chosen to be here. So, we tell them. Tell them you and I," she faltered slightly over the next word, "that we're in a relationship."

I blinked, my mind stuck on the word. Relationship. 

She'd never used that word before.

But the way she said it now, laced with that familiar defiance. Always the challenge, testing my limits, turning everything into a battlefield. God, I craved it—the clash, the surrender, the maddening, intoxicating burn of her. All of it. All the time.

A smile, genuine and almost idiotic, spread across my face. 

She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"We're in a relationship?"

Say it again, love.

"You're such an idiot."

Giving me nothing as always.

"How are you holding up?" Her question stopped me cold. "Just two more weeks, right?"

Two weeks. 

Two more weeks until I was supposed to be completely free from the insidious grip of the opioids. My fingers twitched at my sides at the mere thought of it.

I forced a smile. "Everything's fine."

The lie burned my throat, but it was preferable to the alternative. I couldn't let her see my weakness, not now, not with everything else hanging by a thread.

"Not quite convincing," she said. "But then again, you never were a good liar, were you?"

She saw through me. Of course, she did.

In that moment, something shifted—a silent war waged between us. Her gaze relentless as she fixed me with her gorgeous eyes.

"Guess my luck's run out, huh?"

"Don't," she warned. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out, Satoru."

We held each other's gaze, a silent standoff in the flickering emergency lights. It was always like that, always a battle of wills to see who would give in first, yet this time fear flickered in her eyes, a fear that matched my own.

A crackle from the elevator's speaker broke the spell. 

"Hey there, folks," the tinny voice chirped. "Just wanted to let you know we're working on it. Shouldn't be too much longer. Sorry for any inconvenience!"

Wordlessly, she shifted closer. Sinking down beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine.

We sat in silence, side by side.

Each breath I took felt less violent, the chaos in my mind muted by the simple warmth radiating from her. I reached for her hand, our fingers intertwining.

In those shared breaths, the world melted away.

"You know," I began, the words barely a whisper. "I'd do anything for you."

Her hand tightened in mine. "And I'd anything for you."

A bittersweet smile touched my lips. "And that will probably be our undoing. Either way, looks like we're in for one hell of a fight."

My grip on her hand tightened. I couldn't lose her. Not to the fallout of my mistakes and certainly not to the vultures who would circle us, seeking to exploit any sign of weakness.

I was trapped in a cruel paradox. My need to protect her was the very thing that might destroy her. And the realization cut deep.

"Then let's fight like hell," she said. "If it's a battle they want, it's a battle they'll get."

God, I love this woman. 

And as we sat there, trapped in that metal box, I knew one thing for sure:

Trouble would come—it always does. But anyone who dared to hurt her would have to get through me first.

─── ·✧· ───

A light summer rain spattered the city streets, blurring the neon signs into shimmering streaks of color. I dodged between hurried strangers, the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt. Each step brought me closer to my destination.

As I reached the weathered wooden door, my phone buzzed. Suguru's name flashed on the screen.

"Hey," Suguru's voice crackled through the line. "I got those test results you asked about."

"And?"

The silence that stretched felt like an eternity. 

"Elevated AST, ALT, ALP, bilirubin, and GGT, low on albumin," Suguru finally said.

I clenched my fist around my hair. "Can't you at least sugarcoat that a bit?"

"Satoru this is serious. You need treatment, and we need to plan this out, like, yesterday."

What a pain.

"Look, I'm in the city right now," I said. "There's something I need to pick up. Can we discuss this later?"

"Something more important than your liver giving up?"

"Well," I began, a wry smile playing on my lips, "If you must know, I'm about to make a seriously bad financial decision."

A beat of silence, then a groan. "Satoru, you know I can't read your damn mind. Just spit it out."

"It's for her."

I didn't need to elaborate. He understood.

"Figured," Suguru said, resignation evident in his voice. "But seriously, Satoru, your liver—"

"I know, I know," I cut him off. "We'll talk later. Promise."

I hung up before he could protest further.

The shop's weathered sign creaked above the doorway as I stepped inside. A bell tinkled, cutting through the stillness. The musty scent of old paper and polished wood enveloped me.

The shop was empty. I wandered further in, into the maze of shelves. Sunlight pierced the stained glass windows, fracturing into shards of crimson and sapphire that danced across the worn wooden floor. Dust motes danced in the beams.

My eyes drifted over the towering shelves filled with books. I reached out, my fingers trailing along faded covers, the embossed lettering cool beneath my touch.

Them, a soft shuffle of footsteps echoed from the back room.

A tiny, elderly woman emerged. "Can I help you find something?"

"Actually," I said. "I believe I have an order to pick up."

Her wrinkled face lit up. "Oh, wonderful!" she exclaimed, a burst of energy belying her age. "That special piece. It took some doing to get ahold of it, you know. Just a moment, dear."

She disappeared back into the dim recesses of the shop. My fingers tapped restlessly against the wooden cashier's desk as I waited.

The old woman returned, carefully cradling a worn wooden box in her gnarled hands. My pulse quickened. With trembling fingers, she unlatched the box, revealing a slim volume nestled in aged tissue paper. Lifting it out, she held it towards me.

"Signed by Kafka himself."

The weight of the volume in my hands was unexpectedly heavy as I took in the sight of the worn leather and faded ink.

"She must be very special," the old woman said.

"Huh?"

"The woman you gift this to."

"She is," I said, a smile tucking on my lips. "She's everything. Deserves everything."

"She must be very lucky to have you."

Her words echoed in my head. Lucky? More like a burden.

"I'm not so sure about that," I began, the words hesitantly tumbling out, "maybe she deserves someone who doesn't have to try so hard."

The old woman tilted her head. "Sometimes, dear," she said softly, "it's those who try the hardest that are the ones worth holding onto."

"But what if trying isn't enough? What if the very act of trying—it just breaks things more?"

The old woman's smile didn't fade a bit. "Love is often a messy business. Broken things can be mended, you know. Sometimes the cracks make them all the more beautiful."

"But some things are beyond saving," I whispered, the bitter taste of the words lingering in my mouth. 

Damn it, why couldn't I be better for her? She deserved someone strong, someone who wasn't one bad day away from crumbling.

"Perhaps. And perhaps," she countered quietly, "it just that brokenness that makes it perfect."

I huffed. "That sounds like something she would say."

I glanced down at the book, the worn leather seemed to burn against my skin. My fingers twitched. It had been hours—too many hours—since my last pill.

The old woman cleared her throat "Well, dear," she said, her voice taking on a brisk tone, "shall we settle up then? I believe that comes to—"

She fished out a worn leather purse and snapped it open, revealing a wad of crumpled bills. My eyes widened as she extracted them, my brain fumbling to calculate the absurd amount she fanned out before me. My jaw must have hit the floor.

"Life advice never comes cheap, dear boy."

─── ·✧· ───

The basketball arced through the air, a perfect curve that ended with the satisfying swish of the net. Another shot, another temporary reprieve. The rhythm was soothing, a mindless distraction that usually brought a sense of ease.

But tonight, it felt hollow.

Another shot. Another basket. 

Each thud of the ball against the cracked asphalt mirrored the pounding in my temples. Sweat stung my eyes, my lungs burned. The deserted court, bathed in the fading warmth of the afternoon sun, offered no solace.

Another shot soared towards the backboard, this time clattering wildly off the rim. The ball ricocheted away. Frustration surged through me.

Elevated liver enzymes. Decreased platelets. Albumin's dropping. This isn't about a few late nights, Satoru. Your body is giving up on you.

Suguru's warnings echoed like a death knell.

It was bad. Worse than I'd allowed myself to admit. The years of pushing limits, of drowning my demons in a haze of toxic oblivion, had caught up with me with brutal efficiency.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, and for a sickening moment the cracked asphalt seemed to tilt and sway. I forced myself to focus, to regain control. The irony of it all nearly choked out a bitter laugh. 

Control. 

What a futile concept.

Suddenly, my arm burned, a sharp insistent sting. I clutched it, fingernails scraping against the already inflamed skin. It was a subconscious act, a frantic search for relief from the maddening itch that throbbed beneath the surface.

My fingers came away sticky and red.

Fuck.

Then, my phone buzzed against my thigh. I fished it out of my shorts, the screen blurring in the fading light.

It was her.

[6:15 PM] You: Seen your car in the university parking. Still here?

[6:15 PM] Satoru: Basketball court.

[6:15 PM] You: Should have known.

[6:15 PM] You: On my way.

A shiver ran through me, a rush of something akin to adrenaline.

She was coming.

The bleeding scratches on my arm seared. I fumbled for the sleeve of my crewneck sweatshirt, pulling it down hastily in an attempt to hide the evidence.

I forced myself to focus on the net.

And then I saw her, a silhouette etched against the dying light, her presence shattering the fragile focus I'd clung to. My heart hammered in my chest.

For a moment, time seemed to stutter.

She came towards me, her steps soft against the rough asphalt. Every detail of her etched itself onto my mind with painful clarity. The way the twilight painted streaks of gold across her skin, the gentle curve of her lips, the slight furrow of concern between her impossibly beautiful eyes.

My god, those eyes.

Even if she looks at me in pity, I wish she would never stop looking at me.

I forced myself to toss another shot, a pathetic attempt to feign normalcy. The ball arced through the air and swished through the net—a lucky streak.

Her footsteps stopped just short of the three-point line. She didn't speak, just watched me with those perceptive eyes that always seemed to see too much. My pulse quickened, a mix of fear and longing washing over me.

Tonight, in that flowery dress, she was insanely beautiful. 

She reached down and scooped up the ball that had just rolled to a stop at her feet. A spark of amusement ignited in her eyes, a challenge I knew I would accept even before it left her lips.

With a playful smile, she began to dribble. Her movements were hesitant, fumbling—adorable. So different from the confident woman she was in the operating room. 

Still, she moved with focused determination, mirroring the way she approached everything in life. For a moment, I just watched, savoring the unexpected tenderness of her trying.

I closed the distance between us, amusement tugging at my lips. I reached for the ball, intent on displaying my effortless skill.

But she surprised me. Though I easily pushed her away, a hint of resistance in her stance, she didn't stumble back as I'd expected. She held her ground, our bodies a breath apart.

She tilted her chin up, defiance still burning in those impossibly pretty eyes. For a breathless moment, I was lost in their depths, in the faint scent of her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

God, how I needed her.

"You're quite distracting," I said, my gaze drawn to the sheen of sweat glistening along the curve of her neck. Our bodies were impossibly close, my breath ghosting across her lips, the faintest hint of her smile teasing me.

"Don't blame me for your bad play." She snatched the ball, biting her lower lip as I moved to block her shot. I closed in, body to body. With a twist and a feint, she evaded me, keeping the ball just out of reach. 

"Or is the great Dr. Gojo," her eyes flickered down to my lips, then back up, "—afraid of a little challenge?"

The words hung in the air, a taunt, and a dare.

My hands moved instinctively, framing her face, tilting it upwards. The distance between us vanished in a heartbeat.

Her lips were soft, yielding against mine, the faint taste of something sweet clinging to them. My pulse thundered, fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw. I pulled her closer, our bodies molding against each other. Her exhale a soft sigh against my lips.

The basketball, forgotten and rolling away across the cracked asphalt.

I deepened the kiss, not able to resist her. I lost myself in the sensations—the warmth of her skin, the intoxicating taste of her, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the summer heat. Raw need flared within me, a desperate hunger that threatened to consume all semblance of control in me.

When I finally drew back, it took every ounce of my willpower. She was breathless, her eyes filled with a yearning. Just how I like it.

I snatched the forgotten basketball from the asphalt, twirling it on a finger. "So much for your challenge." My voice coming out slightly breathless. 

I spun on my heel, took a few steps, and arced the ball towards the net. It swished through with a satisfying thud. "Looks like someone gets distracted easily."

"That's hardly fair," she retorted with a determination in her gaze that both amused and intrigued me. "You're basically a pro."

"So you admit defeat then?" I taunted, dribbling the ball between my legs.

I could see the way she was analyzing my movements, trying to mimic the way I held the ball and the fluidity of my shots. She was always like that analyzing my every move. Watching me with an intensity that only she could.

"Not at all. You just need a handicap. Perhaps you can only use one hand behind your back?"

"Alright, first-year," I smirked, tossing her the ball. "You're on. Just don't blame me when I crush you even with a handicap."

The ball bounced awkwardly in her grasp as she took a hesitant shot. It bounced off the backboard, miles away from the net. A flicker of frustration crossed her face. Fucking adorable.

"Next one's going in," I said as I retrieved the ball and began dribbling. "But you have to get it from me first."

I kept my promise, playing with one hand behind my back. Yet, I wasn't playing to win. I was playing to keep her close, to savor the spark in her eyes, the way she moved with a newfound confidence.

She darted in close, her eyes locked on the ball, and with a swift movement, she feigned a step to the left before stealing the ball from my less-guarded side. She took her shot.

Her second attempt was slightly better, the ball at least hitting the rim with a hollow clang.

She should really just stick to surgeries, not sports.

She retrieved the ball again. After a particularly clumsy dribbling attempt of her, I swooped in, intercepting the ball with ease. However, she surprised me. Lunging forward, she snatched the ball from my grasp again and, in a fluid motion, took a wild, off-balance shot.

The ball soared through the air, tracing a perfect arc. It hit the backboard and, against all odds, bounced through the net.

"Maybe you're not as good as you think you are?" she teased, flashing me that smile. 

Oh, sweet thing. I let you win just to see that smile. But it's still cute how you try.

"Lucky shot." Without conscious thought, I moved closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

"Careful, Professor, or your student might surpass you." She teased again as if she didn't know exactly what those words did to me.

But sure, tease me again. Bring it on. Tease me, taunt me, push me until I snap.

You'll reap what you sow.

She began dribbling, but I was relentless, closing in. With a quick feint, I disarmed her, snatching the ball and watching it roll away.

She tried to sidestep, a flicker of surprise in those beautiful eyes. Too slow. With a final stride, I cut off her escape, her back hitting the cool metal of the basketball pole. She was trapped.

I grabbed her neck, fingers intertwining in her hair. Before she could object, before I could second-guess myself, I closed the remaining distance, my lips crashing against hers. Her soft gasp swallowed by my own hungry sigh.

The kiss was heated, desperate, a clash of urgency and hesitant surrender. My arms circled her hips. I bent my knees slightly and, in one swift motion, lifted her off the ground. Her legs wrapped around my waist, a gasp escaping her lips.

I pressed her closer, my body straining with an almost painful need. I lost myself in the softness of her lips, the faint taste of cherry chapstick, the intoxicating sensation of her skin against mine.

I deepened the kiss, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips. I tightened my hold, pressing her closer until I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against mine. A moan escaped my throat as I felt the sudden desire to possess, to consume, to brand her as mine.

Not out of aggression, but a desperate need for more—more touch, more taste, more of the overwhelming rush that only she could give me. 

She was the fix I couldn't resist, the poison I desperately craved. Because with her, oblivion felt so damn close.

Her hands tightened in my hair, the short strands of my undercut providing purchase as she tugged me closer. Her scent enveloped me. It clung to my tongue, my lungs, fueled the heat blazing in my blood. 

My teeth grazed her lower lip, drawing a soft moan that stretched my shorts even more painfully. It was my undoing. Every thought, every restraint burned away in the heat of the moment. I needed to have her. Not just a taste, not just this stolen moment.

I craved all of her, with a desperation that bordered on madness.

Then, like a splash of ice water, her nails raked across the raw skin on my arm, searing pain cutting through the haze. I winced, her touch like burning coals on my skin.

"What's wrong?" she gasped, breaking the kiss.

"Everything's fine," I said, not wanting to let go of her. I leaned in again but she flinched back. 

"Don't lie to me." Then, her gaze fell to the faint stain of blood seeping through my sleeve. Her eyes widened. "Satoru, your arm—"

In an instant she rolled up my sleeve, revealing the scratches. 

Fuck.

I lowered her back to the ground. Her eyes narrowed, a frown creasing her brow.

"It's nothing."

"It's always 'nothing', with you," she said sharply.

Reluctantly, I allowed her to roll up my sleeve even more, revealing the red marks. Here was the ugly truth, laid bare beneath her concerned gaze.

"Do you have something to clean this?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes flickered towards my sports bag, lying forgotten on the sideline bench. With a determined look I knew all too well, she walked towards it.

I tried to stop her, but she was already unzipping the bag, rummaging through its contents. A knot tightened in my stomach. There was no first aid kit, no antiseptic wipes—only the worn book that I hadn't had time to wrap yet.

"What's that?" she said.

She pulled the book out, a flicker of confusion crossing her perfect face.

"Sorry, it's not wrapped." Not that I know how to wrap a present, as I hardly ever made gifts before. But I would have tried for her. It was the least I could do.

Her eyes flicked from the book to me, her brain clearly working overtime. She turned it over, studying the faded cover. Slowly, realization dawned in her eyes. "You—you bought this for me?"

I shrugged, a nonchalant mask to hide the frantic pounding of my heart. "Thought you might like it."

"Like it?" She flipped open the book, revealing the faded signature on the first page and a key tucked loosely among the pages. For a moment she just stared, then looked up at me, her eyes wide. "Satoru, is this—"

"Ink on paper," I finished for her. "And a spare key to my apartment."

Silence descended, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves. It felt like she was staring a hole through me. Then, she walked over, book still clutched in her hand. Instead of the thanks I expected, she swatted me on the arm with the cover.

"Ouch, you know how expensive that was?"

"I can't accept this." She held the book away from her as if it might burn her. "It's too much, Satoru."

"Don't like it?"

"Like? Like?" Her voice rose, and then she looked back down at the book, a smile spreading across her face. "Satoru, this is—," she trailed off. "How did you get this?"

"Had to bargain with an old hag. Some minor soul-selling, nothing major."

"No, seriously, this must have cost a fortune."

"Money doesn't matter," I said softly. "It's you. You're all that matters."

The book in her hand twitched. There was a flicker in her eyes, like the urge to swat me with it again, but she contained the impulse. It was replaced a moment later with a frown as she focused now on the bloodstain on my sleeve.

She moved closer, a dangerous stillness about her. 

Her touch on my sleeve was hesitant, fingers tracing the inflamed scratches. "You gonna tell me what this is? Or are you gonna sidestep the issue again until we fight, because you know my patience is wearing quite thin these days."

"Nervous habit."

"It's new." There was no judgement, just a matter-of-fact tone in her voice.

"Yeah." 

The lie felt like ash on my tongue. 

It wasn't new, of course. I'd just gotten worse at hiding it.

"Thank you."

"For what?" I asked.

"The book, idiot," she said with a gentle smile. "And for telling me."

Ah, that smile. I melt every time.

"Come on," she said, letting go of my arm and turning towards the university. "Let's patch you up."

Without hesitation, I followed.

─── ·✧· ───

"So," I started, a slight wince escaping me as she cleaned the scratches. "You didn't tell me. What brought you here in the first place?"

"You didn't ask."

"I'm asking now."

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face. "I had some research to do in the library."

I knew her too well—the slight catch in her voice, the way she avoided my gaze.

"What research?" I prodded gently.

She sighed, then met my eyes. "The patient with the brain bleed. I had to double-check something."

Of course, she would still be agonizing over it. It was in her nature—the relentless, stubborn dedication was what would make her the best damn doctor I knew she'd become.

"Don't," I said. "Don't think too much about it. I can't stand to see the worry in your eyes."

She held my gaze. "I just want to be as prepared as I can be."

"I know, love," my voice softened. "But not tonight, okay?"

Suguru's office reeked of stale smoke and lingering whiskey—a sharp contrast to his neat workspace. Ironic how I was the one out of first-aid supplies. The addict, while he was still well stocked. But that's why I had his key.

She carefully placed a bandage over the last scratch. "You know the first ethics committee hearing is soon."

"Are you nervous?"

"Are you not?"

"No. Our research is flawless. Bulletproof."

"There's always a flaw. And they'll find it. Something we missed, overlooked. Don't blame me for wanting to prepare."

"You are prepared," I said. "Nobody knows this research like you. Not even Suguru. It's your blood, sweat, and sleepless nights poured into every page. This is yours in a way it could never be mine. You gave it life, meaning."

She seemed lost in thought, her focus narrowing in on my arm. She moved closer, like she'd just spotted something.

"Satoru—" she began, then hesitated. Even in the dim light, I could tell what she saw. "Where did you get those scars?" Her frown deepened. She leaned in closer, as though seeking further proof.

My fingers twitched. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. It was a distraction, a pain to combat the other. She had that look in her eyes that seemed to say, you know I won't stop until I hear the truth. So I gave in.

"My father was a demanding man," I said, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "My mother turned a blind eye." 

I couldn't bring myself to say more. The image was enough to paint the picture.

For a second it seemed she froze. Her gaze remained fixed on my arm, her grip tightening ever so slightly.

Wordlessly, she rose and moved away. Moments later, she returned, a small syringe gleaming dully in the dim light.

"What's that?"

"Antibiotic," she said. "Those scratches were raw, you could get an infection."

"I'm fine."

"Let me be the judge of that." A hint of steel laced her words. Then, with startling gentleness, she added, "I don't want to see those old wounds opened any wider."

She tilted my arm, and with a swift, practiced move, the needle pierced my skin. I barely flinched. How different from the times I'd taught her, her hands trembling, her hesitation a reflection of her gentle heart.

Now, she moved with the certainty of a seasoned surgeon.

She'd grown so much.

For a moment, I simply watched her.

Finally, she turned, disposing of the gloves and syringe. She crossed the room and retrieved something from her purse, my gaze following her movements.

Then she was in front of me, her hand outstretched. My eyes focused on the small, white pill resting in her palm.

I knew the shape better than my own reflection.

A wave of nausea crashed over me.

Why would she do that?

I stared at the pill, then met her gaze. There was fear in her eyes. 

"That's not clonidine," I said.

I knew exactly what it was. Yet, I wanted to hear it from her, needed her to say it.

"It's hydromorphone," she said, her voice firm. "Take it, Satoru."

"Why?"

"Because you've been scratching your arm bloody, that's why."

A dangerous thrill surged through me, a sharp contrast to the icy dread in my veins.

She had no idea what she'd start here.

"Take it," she snapped, "before I force it down your throat."

Something shifted in the air between us.

I stood, my movements slow and purposeful. With one swift move, I closed the distance between us until I loomed over her. My breath ghosted over her lips, the scent of her fear mingled with the ever-present, gnawing need.

Without breaking eye contact, I took the pill and reached for the half-filled liquor glass on Suguru's desk.

She watched, confused, but she didn't stop me as I crushed the pill against the weathered wood of the desk. It shattered easily beneath the glass, the sound like a gunshot in the tense silence.

I took hold of her nape. My fingers threaded through her hair, my grip firm. Her lips parted, a silent plea, but I flinched back, denying her.

Not yet, love.

Where's the fun with that?

I slowly turned her around until she faced the desk. She shuddered as I gently pressed her forward, bending her over the surface.

The thin straps of her summer dress dipped, revealing the gentle curve of her shoulders, a vulnerability that made me lose all good reason.

Her breath quickened, a soft sound against the silence of the room. I reached forward, fingertips ghosting over her skin. Then, with a deliberate slowness, I swept the hair away from her nape, exposing the tender skin beneath.

For a long, breathless moment, I simply absorbed the sight before me. 

Her perfect body was bent in graceful submission, the delicate straps of her dress barely clinging to her shoulders. The exposed curve of her nape, the soft warmth radiating from her skin. 

Raw need surged through me, a reckless defiance of the consequences, of the fragile threads of self-control I still clung to.

Why did she offer me the pill?

And why couldn't I stop?

My hands were unfamiliar steady as I reached into my pocket, fumbling for my wallet. Withdrawing a credit card, I placed the white powder on its smooth surface.

Her breath hitched as I moved closer, the card hovering just above the silken expanse of her exposed skin. Then, with deliberate slowness, I lowered it, creating a thin white line on her back. It felt like a brand, a pact forged in shared recklessness.

She shivered, a slight tremor that ran through her entire form. Whether it was revulsion or anticipation, I couldn't tell. And in that moment, I realized I didn't want to know.

I leaned closer, my heated breath ghosting over her back. Without conscious thought, I opened my mouth, my tongue licking the powder off the delicate skin of her back.

The taste was bitter, acidic, sweet—familiar.

The rush hit me like a bolt of lightning.

My skin crawled, alive with a tingling rush. My senses honed to a razor's edge, amplifying every sight, smell, and sound. Exhilaration surged through me, a wild, intoxicating rush, tinged with a fear that tightened my chest like a vice.

Fuck, how I missed that. 

How I craved it.

I pulled back, gasping, struggling to regain control. 

Yet, my hands refused to retreat, frozen against the heat of her skin. They trembled, a desperate battle between insatiable need and the last shreds of restraint. The warmth of her burned me, a tantalizing agony beneath the thin fabric of her dress.

A war raged within me. 

One voice screamed for surrender, for the oblivion of her touch, the sweet release of surrender. The other, weaker now, whispered warnings, a faint plea for control. It was a familiar battle, and with each second, my control weakened.

The sweet tang of the powder lingered on my tongue. 

Yet, it did nothing to quell the rising fire within me.

A fire only she could extinguish.

Unable to stop myself, my hands moved on their own. My fingers traced the curve of her hip, the warmth of her skin a siren's call through the delicate fabric. With a gentle push, the hemline of her dress inched upwards, revealing the smooth expanse of her thigh.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. "Satoru?"

"Don't speak," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Don't speak, love.

Every word of you would only fuel the fire even more.

And my sanity was already hanging by a fragile thread.

I pushed the flimsy strap of her dress further down her shoulder. Delicate skin, warmed by the summer heat now laid bare. I ran a hand over the expanse of her back, reveling in the silky softness, the shudder that rippled through her at my touch.

I slid my hand beneath the hem of her dress, my fingers mapping the soft curve of her thigh. She moaned, a ragged sound that mirrored my own desperate need. I tugged the dress upwards still, baring more skin to my touch.

My chest heaved, my breath coming in uneven gasps. With a rough pull, I slammed her against me, her body against my already hard length a sensation that threatened to shatter the last vestiges of control.

The battle within me was all but lost. There was only this moment, this desperate, all-consuming need to claim, to consume, to lose myself in the oblivion she offered.

My hands roamed. The flimsy fabric of her dress was a mere inconvenience, torn aside to reveal the soft swell of her hips, the smooth expanse of her inner thighs. She shivered beneath my touch, fingers digging into her heated skin.

"Wait," her breath hitched. "Not here."

Yeah, it was Suguru's office. His desk. 

But in this moment, I couldn't care less.

"Yes, here."

My hand wound into her hair, forcing her head back. She gasped, her body arching against mine in surrender. The room tilted, the world outside blurring into nothingness. The only reality was her in front of me. I wanted to mark her, claim her as mine. 

Consequences, reason, all were distant echoes drowned out by the roaring in my blood. The rational part of my brain, a pathetically small voice, screamed at me to stop. 

But this part was loosing.

I pushed her dress all the way up to her waist, revealing the lacy underwear she wore. I drew her closer still, seeking a connection deeper than skin on skin. A moan escaped her lips, and she arched against me, the tremble of her body a heady mix of surrender and desperation.

"Satoru...please," she whispered.

"Tell me to stop," I said. Each word was a test, a twisted game we both knew she'd lose. My hand slid between her legs, a slow, agonizing caress that made her breath hitch. "Tell me, and I will."

A single word, and this could end. I waited, barely breathing.

She shook her head slightly. Then, with a boldness that ignited me all over again, she arched into my touch. "Don't stop," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Please, don't stop."

My god, that woman.

I could feel the despite simmering beneath her surrender, a bitter tang that only made this twisted game more addicting.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" I said, pushing the fabric of her underwear aside and sliding a finger inside her, feeling how wet and ready she was.

She was soaked through, drenched in a way that told me she wanted it as badly as I did.

With each stroke, I felt her body yield to me, growing even wetter as I explored her depths. It was an intoxicating sensation, knowing that I had such a powerful effect on her, that I could reduce her to this state of pure need with nothing but my touch.

She let out a ragged breath, gripping the wooden surface beneath her as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. I added another finger, stretching her open as I thrust in and out of her, searching for that sweet spot I knew would drive her mad.

When I found it, she gasped, her walls tightening around my fingers. "Right there," she moaned. "Don't stop."

I know, love. I know you like that spot.

I know how you crave it. The surrender. The sweet release of losing control to me. 

And in this moment, there was nothing I wouldn't give you.

Burn me. Break me. Doesn't matter. I'd still offer myself willingly. 

I'm yours to ruin.

But tonight, you'll break for me.

Every fiber of my being screamed for her, begging to bury itself deep inside of her. Watching her writhe underneath me, hearing her soft cries as I thrust into her, only fueled my hunger further.

I wanted to feel all of her, to brand myself onto her skin.

My cock throbbed painfully in my shorts, straining against the fabric. I could feel the precum leaking from the tip, dampening the material. The urge to rip off my clothes and plunge into her almost unbearable.

All I could see, all I wanted, was to be inside of her. Where I fit perfectly.

Then—the door. 

My hand stopped. Her gasp snagged in her throat.

Suguru stood in the doorway, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. Some people just don't understand the concept of knocking first, do they?

I withdrew my fingers. With a swift tug, I pulled her dress down, covering the parts of her only I deserved to bare. His eyes didn't have the right.

"Really?" Suguru sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "My desk?"

"Problem? Or feeling left out, Suguru?" My slick fingers found my mouth. I licked them slowly, savoring the lingering taste of her. My eyes never left him. "I thought you liked sharing."

─── ·✧· ───

➸ part ten is coming when i'm out of the the hospital for writing like a maniac.

x a/n: SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP. i don't know if satoru went insane in this chapter or if i went insane while writing it. maybe both. but i had SO MUCH fun writing in his pov. i had a few heart attacks while writing this. and yes, imagine the "yes, here" in anakin skywalker's voice haha. 

also i know that kafka's books all got released after his death so a copy of his book with his signature is slightly unrealistic, but we just ignore that fact.

and last, don't sleep with addicts, that's not cool in real life, but in fiction it's okay, he can't hurt you there. anyway thank you so so much for reading, i hope you don't come at me for writing this omg, i'm so nervous posting this. i'm gonna go throw up now.

➸ taglist: @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved @ykehqqy @hexrts-anatomy @fvsm4x @tw0fvced @heijihattorisgf @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator @erwinslut @shervinss @certainlysyko @mechalily @purplehallow11 @kendall0111 @bloopsstuff @therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @whereflowerswenttodie

[adore-gregor]

Yeah i'm not cheering for ukraine sorry but... the way they play no. Other underdogs did so much better

[metalliceyepoker]

So 'Ethan' is Hebrew name, and means 'firm, strong, and enduring'. Our persevering protagonist. Fitting huh?

'Donna' is Italian, meaning 'Lady' or 'woman'. If it's 'Don', that's for male, meaning 'Lord' or 'gentleman' winkwonk. It says at wiki that the surname 'Beneviento' came from the Italian town, 'Benevento', which means 'good wind'.

'Salvatore'. Italian origin name. Means 'saviour'. It's theorized that his family were doctors, so makes sense. 'Moreau' is from old French! Means 'dark-skinned'.

Now 'Karl'...... very ironic name. And I am nothing if not a lover for ironies. Because that's german name meaning 'free man'. His surname is pretty interesting too, because, you see, 'Eisenberg' means 'Iron Mountain'. His boss battle winkwonk. 'Berg' means mountain. 'Heißen' could mean 'Hot' or 'to call'. Hot mountain. Fucking volcano amirite.

Rosemary, the herb, it symbolizes remembrance. Put it on the coffin, and it means the memory of the deceased shall never fade. It also means honoring the fallen.

Mia went MIA for 3 years aha-

'Mia' has many origins. Latin/spanish/Italian origin says 'mine'. Welp ethan's cold dead ass sure ain't yours no mo-

Hebrew origin says 'bitter'. Hmmmmm.

Sorry I just, really can't understand why the fuck she'd lie, twice, to her loyal, loving husband like that who went through hell for her, a normal, boring IT guy who did all that for his family and her lie costed him his life- didn't even tell him he's a walking corpse- had he known, would he still had mold bebe? Was the whole Village incident preventable?

It was your fault to work for a crime syndicate and lie to your husband! And get him killed! Trauma? Don't wanna talk about it? Well at least you owed it to him to let him know he's dead. Dead. For 3 years you hid it. Had an infected kid with him. Who ultimately got detected in Miranda's radar. He died for her. Your daughter is forever tormented because of her power and trauma. And lack of father. Ffs. What you crying for. Smh.

Got derailed from frustration. Ahem.

'Miranda' is Latin origin. 'To be wondered at', 'Worthy of admiration'. Truly, the priestess of the Black God.

'Eva' means 'life' or 'living one'. Again, interesting name.

Elena the village girl, Greek origin, her name means shining light. That got snuffed out in blazing fire. Her father, Leonardo, sure was Strong as Lion when he tore through those people. Also their surname Lupu means wolf. Lol.

'Lulian', the one who points gun at your face, his name is Romanian origin. It means 'youthful man'.

The owner of the grave at Beneviento mansion, Claudia, that name means 'lame'. As in, crippled. Imagine Donna having had someone she cared about. Someone wheelchair bound. All the more heartbreaking.

'Angie' means 'messenger' or 'messenger of god'. What's with these names and symbolism hm capcom?

Ooh almost forgot Dimitrescu family! A sin punishable by gutting from long claws.

That surname means, 'follower of Demeter'. Yes that Greek goddess of fertility. 'Alcina' is Greek origin, meaning 'strong willed, opinionated', but it also says that it is from a poem. Beautiful sorcerer who ruled over the world.

Oh would you look at that? Hebrew origin of 'Bela' means 'devouring' or 'destructive'! Czech origin says 'white'. Well she is quite pale. And very hungry.

'Daniela' means, 'God is my judge'.

'Cassandra'? 'The one who shines and excels over men'. Loud and clear Cassie.

You know the big lycan with hammer? Uriaş? Yeah his name is Romanian. It means 'huge' or 'giant'.

Vâlcolac is Romanian for werewolf, Moroaică and Samcă are both from folklore, and Cadou is Romanian for 'gift'. Yeah some gift it is.

And that's about it. I'm loving all these symbolism. Intentional or not, it makes writing so much better.

[smokyvrbada]

For the prompt thingie 2) and Bi-Han :)

Hey lovely! I'm so so sorry about the delay, got behind on some college stuff 😕 but anyways, here are some of my favorite personal hc's I have for our favorite grumpy cryomancer <3 Hope you enjoy!

❄Favorite Bi-Han HC's❄

Warnings: brief suggestive themes, mentions of blood + violence + death, very brief mentions of anatomy, mentions of abuse, slight angst, Bi-Han being a lovable asshole

Bi-Han is a surprisingly good swimmer, and he also taught Kuai how to swim in their youth too. Sometimes after a long and grueling mission, he'll seek out some of the frozen lakes and streams around the temple and take a dip to wash away the blood and grime. Just imagine him skinny-dipping in clear frozen water oml

Learning languages is one of the Lin Kuei's top priorities when it comes to molding assassins besides brutality, as it helps efficiency when going to other countries to get intel and carry out missions. With that being said, Bi-Han is multilingual, speaking fluent Chinese (Mandarin and Cantonese primarily) and English. He can also understand basic Czech phrases (thanks Tomas) and the bulk of Japanese.

When Bi-Han was a younger student, the only people that he associated himself with (besides his brother) were Hydro and previously Sektor. What was once a friendly rivalry with Sektor became bitter jealously as they grew older, it only escalated further when Bi-Han became Sub-Zero. Hydro was a mentor and sort of like an older brother to Bi-Han; he disappeared when Bi-Han was in his late teens, and only the Grandmaster seems to know what happened to him.

Most of Bi-Han's scars are on his torso and arms. Some of the smaller ones on his forearms and hands mainly come from punishments he endured while he was young, but most of them are from mission-related injuries. When Bi-Han freezes himself or just parts of his body, very rarely the sharp edges of the ice can leave small, accidental cuts; this happened more often when he was still mastering his abilities.

He also has one tattoo on his forearm; it's the Lin Kuei symbol in his shade of blue, but it's small and always hidden under his arm garments (I remember seeing Lin Kuei warriors with the symbol tattooed on them in MK Conquest?? and I do think they mark warriors in that way).

After Bi-Han took up the mantle of Sub-Zero, some problems rose between him and the higher ranking Lin Kuei (mainly Sektor). With Bi-Han essentially becoming the pinnacle of the Lin Kuei, it also meant that Kuai would be left at risk in the lower ranks. Although Bi-Han went on to become a colder version of himself during his time as Sub-Zero, he still looked after and protected Kuai Liang (and sometimes Smoke) under wraps. Even after Bi-Han's passing, Kuai still remembers his narrow escapes of punishment that wouldn't be possible without someone pulling strings.

Everyone knows if or when Bi-Han is around because the temperature drops immediately. I'd like to think that cryomancy heavily based on emotions well; so if Bi-Han is in a relatively good mood, very light ice forms around and the temperature of a room drops steadily. But if Bi-Han is very pissed off or in an extreme amount of stress, thick layers of ice begin to form around, and sometimes icicles and frost form on his skin. This makes it hard sometimes on missions, because targets begin to feel like something is wrong from the sudden coldness.

[milfmacbeth]

@euphcme thanks for asking!! (answering here because tumblr replies do not like long essays)

ok, so what's currently stewing in my brain is a fantasy series loosely based on early modern central/eastern europe and best summed up as “ragtag bunch of misfits hunting gods”. it's got an ensemble cast, most of which i have yet to name because i'm fucking terrible at coming up with names, but some of the most important ones are zmija, emanuel, and kazimir.

zmija is a deposed princess who, as of book 2, has this entity of primordial darkness sealed inside her. i’ve always been fascinated by apotheosis as a trope, especially when it’s lovecraftian and fucked up. so yeah, over the course of the narrative zmija has a corruption arc as the lines between her and the entity blur (spoiler warning for a book that might come out in a decade at the earliest lmao). she ascends to godhood but she loses her humanity in the process. she’s a brilliant strategist, she’s full of rage, and she wants to tear the world down.

emanuel sounds like i wrote him when i was twelve. probably my most self-indulgent character. he’s a plague doctor, he’s a demigod, and he has raven-black wings and wields a scythe. edgy as hell but i love him

kazimir is a fire mage who starts out a mercenary only in it for the money. he was raised by devils but like… the czech kind (czech devils are just Guys, they’re demons like crowley from good omens is a demon). he’s ruthless, he’s an absolute bastard, and he’s a poor little meow meow who ends up on his knees and covered in blood quite a lot

kazimir and zmija are currently in their divorce arc after a huge betrayal and i’m thinking about how the reconciliation is going to go (basically figuring out how long the grudge should last to be realistic but not go on for too long)

another character that i’m obsessed with is from a different story. it’s a trilogy of… i’m just gonna call it historical fantasy but i still need to figure out the details. it’s about the middle ages (because i’m sick of the extremely negative and inaccurate portrayal of the middle ages in fantasy and hollywood and everywhere else) and i want to make it as accurate as i possibly can (discounting the more fantastical elements of course). the character is the narrator of the whole thing. they’re a catholic saint who is heavily implied to actually be a pagan god that got co-opted by the catholic church. they’re narrating centuries of history, the good, the bad, the human. this has left them somewhat jaded, bitter, and sarcastic but they still want to see the good in everything.

so yeah, that was a sample of my OCs. one day, you’ll find them on a book shelf

tagged by @euphcme <3<3

last song: way out there by lord huron

currently watching: nothing

currently reading: demian by hermann hesse

current obsession: my OCs!

tagging: @yesyoutubeisruiningmylife @eternita

[eridanidreams]

Small Kindnesses

Adam likes heights. He has ever since middle school, when he'd escape to the school roof to avoid the rich kids that tried to bully him for being poor. Up high, it's quiet. He can have a smoke, let the wind ruffle his hair, be nothing and no one but himself. Sometimes it's the only peace he gets.

He's sitting on top of the abandoned LIMB clinic near the metro station when he hears a muffled sob. At first he thinks he's hearing things; in all the months he's lived in Prague, he's never run into anyone else up here. When he hears it again, he checks it out.

It's a dark-haired young woman, somewhere in that gawky part of the late teens where nothing quite works like it's supposed to. She's got her arms wrapped around her shins and her face buried in her knees, and she's sitting a lot closer to the edge than he's really comfortable with. She hears him come around, snaps her head up in startlement, and her eyes are swollen with tears. She blurts something at him in Czech, but the wind whips her words away and he doesn't quite catch it, even with augmented hearing.

He gives her his friendliest smile, says one of the Czech phrases he's memorized: "Nemluvím česky. Mluvíš anglicky?" I don't speak Czech. Do you speak English?

She looks at him with wide eyes, like a startled deer about to run, but says, in a trembling voice, "Ano. Yes, I speak some Anglish." She sounds almost confused, like it's not how she expected the conversation to go.

"Yeah?" Adam takes the opening, sits down a few arms-lengths away from her. I'm harmless, see? "Do you come up here often?"

She shakes her head. She doesn’t look at him straight-on, just keeps darting little glances at him out of the corner of her eye. It’s not the usual kind of look he gets as the ‘scary aug,’ more just the ‘strange man’ type of look. He can live with that. “I do,” he says, casually, like it’s just a regular conversation and not him talking a scared young woman off a ledge. “I like to come up and watch the lights shine on the water.”

She stares out toward the Vltava. “It looks very cold,” she says.

Adam’s lips quirk in a wry smile of remembrance. “It is,” he agrees.

She shivers, and he realizes that it’s not just the mention of the cold water, that the beat-up hoodie she’s wearing isn’t nearly enough to keep her warm. He has to ask. “Is everything okay?”

She doesn’t answer him for a long moment. He concentrates on letting her see his concern—it’s hard, he’s gotten into the habit of hiding his feelings—and not making any movements she might consider threatening. “Cold is supposed to make it easier,” she finally says.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ve heard that. It’s never true.”

Now she looks at him full-on. “What do you know about it?”

Adam picks his words carefully. “Cold…just hurts in a different way. It’s not harder, or easier, just different.” Adam props his arm on one knee in a deliberate echo of her posture. He’s mirroring her, every motion slow and careful, trying to convince her on a level below words that he can be trusted. “Would you like to talk about it?”

She ducks her head. “It’s stupid.” There’s tension in every inch of her posture. Even if she’s not quite ready to jump, she’s tempted to run, and that could end just as badly.

He’s not sure he could catch her if she jumped, Icarus or not. So he makes his voice as gentle as he can—he knows how he tends to sound, rough and blunt and impatient—and says, “Sometimes people call things ‘stupid’ because they don’t understand, or they don’t know what to do, or they’re scared.” He glances briefly in her direction. “Whatever you say, I promise I won’t think it’s stupid.” He looks back out over the cityscape. “And if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay too. Just—” he shrugs himself out of his coat. The wind’s bitter, but his augs will hold him for awhile. “Can I—” he offers it to her.

She shrugs. He takes it as assent and, a little awkwardly, leans over to drape it around her. She doesn’t say anything, but her fingers clutch the lapels and draw it close, and in a little while, she stops shivering. It’s much longer before she starts to talk, but he’s patient.

“My uncle says I cry too much,” she finally says, quietly enough that he wouldn’t have heard it without augmented hearing.

“In my experience,” he says, equally quietly, “most people don’t cry without a good reason.”

She shrugs again. “My father is dead. I miss him.” She says it so simply, and yet there’s such a freight of pain in her voice that Adam’s heart aches.

“Yeah, that’s a good reason,” he agrees. He thinks of the people he’s lost, how the wounds may not be fresh, but they’re still painful. “It hurts to lose people we love. It’s kind of a package deal.” His fingers itch for a cigarette, and he’s downwind of her; he figures it’ll be okay—except that they’re still in the pocket of his coat, and he’s not going to ask for it back. He’ll just have to live with it. “The only way not to hurt is not to love. Me, I don’t think that’s a good trade.”

Her voice is plaintive. “Why do you care?” There’s so many ways he could parse that. He settles on the one that feels the most true.

“Someone has to,” Adam says. He waves his hand out over the city. “That—all of that—was built by people who cared. The whole world is built by people who care.” He looks at her, not entirely sure she understands. Hell, he’s not sure he understands. “As long as there’s enough people who care, it doesn’t matter that there’s a lot of people who don’t. The world will keep spinning.”

She’s quiet for a long time, like she’s thinking about it. It’s pretty heady stuff for a teenager, but he’s always thought that kids were tougher than anyone gave them credit for.

“Not to care…” she’s putting the words together, carefully, and he can’t tell if it’s because she’s struggling to get the words out in English, or if it’s just the way she’s forming the thought. “Not to love—is like not to live. To die.” She looks down into the dark, and Adam wonders if he’s going to have to catch her after all. “Would you…care?”

There’s an ache in his throat when he replies. “Yeah, I would. You, uh, you study poetry in school?” She nods, cautiously. “There’s a really old poem in English. ‘Every man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.’”

She gives him an odd look, one he can’t quite decipher. “You don’t look like the kind of person who likes poetry.”

He laughs a little, softly. “What kind of person do I look like?” He means it as a joke, but she takes it seriously.

“A little scary,” she whispers, with a blush. “But you only look scary. I’m not scared. You’re—you’re very nice.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “My father always said not to judge by looks. I’m—I’m glad you were up here.”

“So am I,” Adam says, honestly. They sit there like that for a while longer in a companionable silence.

She looks down at the ground again. “Um...I’m not sure how I’m going to get down from here.”

ΔX

It’s a few weeks later, and Adam’s been busy; he hasn’t exactly forgotten, but it hasn’t been on his mind. He misses the coat, but he figures it’s a small price to pay for a young woman’s life, and leaves it at that. It’s the end of a long, rough day, and he’s more concerned about whether there’s yet another problem with his license when he’s pulled out of line at the metro. He’s only a little relieved when he recognizes the officer that pulls him out. “Still expecting something good to happen?” she asks.

“Seems to be working so far,” Adam comments. “What do you need?”

He reaches for his papers, but she waves him down. “No, no. I am merely curious why a woman would be in this quarter, looking for a tall, dark, heavily-augmented man with mirrorshades, with only the description but no name.” She looks at him for a reaction, but he only shrugs. “She said the mystery aug was the reason her daughter came home alive a few weeks ago. When she told me that, I thought of you.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, I just...she just needed someone to listen to her.”

She tilts her head. “You keep making me rethink my complicity in the ongoing police state, you know that?” It’s a running joke between them.

“Maybe being a child of this moment in history means being in a position to make a difference,” he responds. It’s something he’s considered saying before.

She looks thoughtful. “Perhaps. In any case, the difference I am making today is to make sure that the gift she left actually gets to you, instead of being stolen by my corrupt colleagues.” She hands him a cardboard box, neatly wrapped in white paper. It’s surprisingly heavy for its size.

He’s startled. “Thanks,” he says, meaning it. “That actually does make a difference.” He offers her a small but genuine smile. “Like I said, seems to be working so far.”

She smiles back. “Go home, Detroit. Have a nice night.”

He doesn’t open the package until he gets home, although his curiosity is eating him alive. There’s a note on top of something wrapped in tissue paper. He starts there. It’s in Czech, but it’s simple enough that he doesn’t need help translating it.

I hope this finds its way to you. Thank you for saving my daughter’s life. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask.

The address is in one of the working-class neighborhoods of the city. He doesn’t think he’ll ever follow up on it, that’s not why he stopped in the first place, but he’s warmed by the sentiment regardless. He flips open the tissue paper to find--his coat, cleaned, mended, in better shape than it has been in years. Tucked inside the coat is a box that smells like chocolate and cinnamon, and is full of cookies. There’s another note in the box, written in careful English. Thank you, Mr. Scary Nice Man. He can’t help but smile.

Adam has one of the cookies. It tastes like hope.

On AO3: Small Kindnesses (1816 words) by Eridani_Dreams

[brews-and-pubs]

Bullfinch Brewpub, Syracuse NY

2 November 2022

I'm on my way to Ohio for a long weekend of R&R and decided once again to do a half-day's drive to Syracuse before continuing to my destination. I've even been to the Destiny USA Mall here, visiting the World of Beer a couple of years ago. But now there's a new brewpub in town and it's also in this large mall.

Bullfinch is a family-owned craft brewery with a farm as well, so all the food is farm-to-table. The attention to detail definitely shows! As to the space they're in, I almost wonder whether they took over a different establishment's spot as it reminds me an awful lot of a chain of brewpubs I've been to in other places ...

I started off with a flight of four which I'll describe from left-to-right:

Find Familiar FEST - this is an Amber Lager at 5.8% that is their nod to Oktoberfest. It was interesting -- not outstanding in any way, but by its subtlety, perhaps the best of the lot. It was definitely one I could have repeated.

Modify Memory - a NEIPA at 8%, they bill this as "pushing the bounds of hoppy bitterness," but I didn't find that to be the case at all. Instead, the higher alcohol content provided a sweetness that, combined with the NEIPA flavors, made this a very well-balanced brew. Even though I'm not always a fan of the higher ABV beers, this was easily my favorite of the four.

Fog Cloud - another NEIPA, but only 6.5% this time, this was very good, but honestly, it was so much like every other very good NEIPA out there. In spite of how much I liked it, I wouldn't have done a second simply because I could get this taste at many brewpubs throughout the Northeast.

Insight Czech - this Czech Pilsner at 6% started out as my favorite of the flight but ended up my least favorite. Why? I'm still not sure, but something about it didn't wear well with me -- it seemed too edgy in the end almost as if it were being served before its time.

Their food menu is not huge but everything sounded so good. I fell for the Reuben which they make with brisket (and yes, that sealed the deal!). Rather than the standard chips, I decided it wouldn't hurt me to have a side salad, which I ordered with Bleu Cheese dressing as usual ... and the salad then came with a liberal sprinkling of crumbled Bleu Cheese in addition to what was in the dressing! The brisket was so tender and tasty; my only complaint would be that I had to use my knife and fork for the sandwich, but that's a real nit-picky complaint. The taste was just marvelous and the last bite was every bit as good as the first (and that can't be said about a lot of restaurant food).

At this point, I really debated what to do for a follow-on pint. I was so tempted to repeat one of the selections from the flight but I was also glad I didn't because otherwise I would have missed out on this beauty:

That's their Hex Hefe, a traditional German-style Hefeweizen at 5.2%. I don't always like this style, but this one was so flavorful and true to the German traditions that I was really glad to close out this visit with it.

I'm not a fan of Syracuse in general, but if I find myself back in this area again - and I most likely will - I'll definitely plan a return to Bullfinch.