#ben affleck alts

[macsmittens]

my crackship: jason bourne x nick dunne (gone girl)

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Brazil flooding will take weeks to subside, experts warn

Brazil's southernmost state capital may suffer severe flooding for weeks to come, experts warn, compounding the struggles of half a million people forced to abandon their inundated homes.

Parts of Rio Grande do Sul state have seen more than 630 mm (25 inches) of rain so far this month, national weather service INMET reported ��� more than London's average rainfall in a year.

The waters of Lake Guaiba, which breached its banks to flood state capital Porto Alegre, have risen again this week to 5.22 meters (17.13 feet), well above the flood level of 3.0 meters and close to last week's all-time record of 5.33 meters.

Meteorologists and engineers at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul (UFRGS) said water levels could stabilize or keep rising if it rains again. They said it could take a month before the water retreats below flood levels, based on historical comparisons.

Continue reading.

[ghostiboos]

So how's everybody feeling about the inauguration today

[welcometoteyvat]

new catgirl hmmmm

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceres Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Trigger Warnings: Workplace harassment, pregnancy complications, verbal abuse, grief, and loss. Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Redemption Arc, Workplace Dynamics, Gamer Culture, Mystery Identity, Mild Violence, Pregnancy Complications, Emotional Hurt, Disassociation, Depression.

A/N: Before you start reading— 1. Man, after finalizing this chapter, I was the Ben Affleck meme outside, chain-smoking my sanity away. 2. Minors, DNI. It’s not spicy, but seriously, don’t ruin your innocence here. 3. Our reader is tough as nails, but damn, even I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. 4. I’ve sprinkled some links, a playlist, and a meme to lighten the vibe, but customize the vibe however you need. 5. Fair warning: the ending’s gonna hurt. If you’re not in the headspace for that, skip the parts marked with { }. Take care of yourself, okay? Let’s get wrecked together.

Previous Chapter 5 - Something Soft, Something Sharp (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 6 (alt ending 1.2) - Veiled Realities

The gaming convention hall pulsed with energy—screens flashing with gameplay demos from various companies, creative souls showcasing their cosplays, excited chatter bouncing off the high ceilings, and the occasional triumphant shout from someone winning a round. You kept your barely see-through-only for you-hood low, blending seamlessly with the crowd as you moved toward your company’s booth. The email from your employee still sat in your inbox, her words playing on a loop in your mind:

“I wanted to bring to your attention a concerning issue that has been occurring within our team. Certain male employees have been engaging in inappropriate behavior towards their female colleagues, making comments that suggest women do not belong in the gaming industry.

Despite providing multiple rounds of workplace etiquette training, these individuals continue to make such remarks, often doing so after the training sessions have concluded. While we have attempted to address the situation discreetly, the behavior has persisted and is becoming increasingly problematic.

I felt it was important to make you aware of this issue, even if no immediate action is taken, as you are committed to fostering an inclusive and respectful work environment.”

You weren’t about to let it slide.

Your gaze landed on your company’s booth, where a small group had gathered. Two men—mid-forties, loud with unwarranted confidence—were smirking as they leaned toward a younger woman who stood stiffly, her arms crossed.

“Come on,” one of them said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You can’t even finish a round without dying. How are you going to tell us what to do?”

“Yeah,” the other chimed in, his laugh grating. “We're not sexist or anything, but gaming’s just not your thing. Stick to HR or something.”

You gritted your teeth, the instinct to step in bubbling beneath the surface. But you held back, watching as the woman squared her shoulders and prepared to fire back. Before she could, you pulled out your phone. With a few quick taps, an email was swiftly dispatched to the CHRO, with the COO, CSO, CMO, and the event coordinator all included in the loop for informational purposes.

The response from the CHRO came immediately: "We’ll start the off-boarding right away."

Within minutes, the two men’s phones buzzed simultaneously. They frowned, pulling them out, only for their faces to pale.

“What the—”

“Fucking hell!”

They stared at their screens, then at each other, and finally back at the woman they’d been harassing. “It’s you—”

Before they could finish, your voice cut through, calm. “You have five minutes to vacate the premises, or security will escort you if needed.”

The woman blinked at you, her surprise quickly replaced by a smirk as the men stammered and shuffled off grumbling to gather their things. You turned away before she could say anything, your hood still obscuring your face.

Then a loud voice rang out. “No, no, NO! Game broken! Is not me! Me loyal fan!”

Heads turned, including yours, to a really tall man with bright white hair and pale skin standing at the demo station, gesturing wildly at the screen. His coat hung loosely around his shoulders, and he wore dark sunglasses indoors. With his striking appearance, he could easily model for Giorgio Armani.

“Mechanics! Broken! No strong! Me? Strongest!” he declared, his English so fractured and accented that it took you a moment to piece together what he was trying to say.

One of your employees—a nervous-looking junior—stammered, “Uh… sir, maybe you just need more practice?”

The man looked personally offended. “Me beat curse! Me GOAT!” He paused, frowned, and then switched to rapid Japanese, clearly too frustrated to stick with English.

The junior blinked, helplessly lost. “Uh… what?”

The woman who had been dealing with the earlier bullying snorted. “Looks like you’ve got competition, Steve,” she muttered, glaring at her now ex-coworker as they left before turning to the man. “Sir, maybe try again? Second round’s free.”

“Free?” His face lit up like a Christmas town. “Yay! Free! Strongest WIN!”

“Stop embarrassing yourself,” came a calm, deep voice from behind him.

You tilted your neck to see another man—a tall figure, though not quite as towering as his counterpart—impeccably dressed in black. Neatly styled blond hair framed his face. With his striking looks, he would make a perfect brand ambassador for Tom Ford or Bironi; he resembled a male Victoria's Secret model. Beneath his green-tinted glasses, his eyes flicked to the white-haired chaos generator with the resigned air of a pet parent.

The white-haired man turned to glare at him. “No embarrassing! Winning!”

“Winning,” the blond deadpanned, glancing at the screen where the white-haired one’s character had just been obliterated.

He pouted, muttering something in Japanese that sounded suspiciously like an insult, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

The blond man sighed heavily and said something in Japanese. “Sore wa gēmudesu. Kojin-tekina fukushūde wa arimasen.” (“It’s a game. Not a personal vendetta.”)

The white-haired one said something that the blond pointedly ignored. “Sō, fukushūda! Noroi o uchiyabutta. Subete o uchiyabutta, daga kono bakageta... Mekanikku dake wa!” (“Yes, it is vendetta! I beat curses; I beat everything, but this stupid... mechanics!”)

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but find the men’s voices incredibly attractive, even though they were completely different from each other—or was it the fact that they were speaking Japanese? Anyone with half a brain cell knew how undeniably masculine the language sounded.

“Anata to issho ni kurubekide wa nakatta to wakatte imashita.” The blond said, his tone clipped as he hovered by a different station, playing an older game in your company’s lineup—one that hadn’t done well financially but had won multiple awards and had a loyal following. (“I knew I shouldn’t have come with you.”)

You weren’t usually one to ogle men, but damn, the blond one’s biceps looked very chewable. Underneath his overcoat, you could imagine them flexing as he moved his fingers on the keyboard.

You immediately cringed at your own thoughts and made a mental note to stop spending so much time with your unhinged employees.

The white-haired one ignored him. “More round!” he yelled at the junior, who sighed and let him.

The man launched into another round, biting his lower lip in concentration like a child. Was that lip gloss?!

He was really close to perfecting the strike when the in-game AI learned his moves and took him down. He looked like he was about to cry, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at how adorable he was.

The blond’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes narrowing slightly in recognition—or perhaps suspicion. “You’re enjoying yourself?” he asked, his English perfect, despite the accent.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The white-haired one suddenly perked up, finally noticing you. His eyes widened, and he jabbed a finger in your direction. “You! Pretty hoodie lady! Play?”

Caught off guard, you blinked, face still obscured by the hood. “Play what?”

“Game!” He gestured wildly at the screen. “Strongest win! You lose!”

The blond groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gojo, stop harassing strangers.”

“Me no harass! Me... invite!” The Gojo declared, beaming at you.

Against your better judgment, you stepped closer, curiosity outweighing caution.

The woman from earlier smirked, stepping up to the console. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

“Think you better?” He grinned, clearly convinced he was about to crush you, then pointed at the blond. “Nanamin, see me!”

“Don’t call me that!” The blond spat at him, making you think—was ‘Nanamin’ a derogatory word in their language?

The blond furrowed his brow, his gaze flicking over you. Something about the way you carried yourself seemed… off. Not in a bad way, but something didn’t fit in his mind.

You slid into the seat across from Gojo, the monitors facing the opposite way. “Alright, fine. Let’s see what the ‘strongest’ has got.”

The first round was a blur of offensive movements and insults—Gojo threw out broken English mixed with Japanese, your focus entirely on the screen.

To your dismay, he was… good. Annoyingly good. You’d come up with the idea and then tested this game for over 5,000 hours. You were basically omniscient in it—knew every trick and exploit, but Gojo’s reflexes and instincts were ridiculous.

So you cheated.

Subtly, of course.

A quick input enabled God Mode, giving you just enough of an edge to win the round.

Within minutes, Gojo’s smug grin crumbled as you utterly demolished him in-game, your hands moving with muscle memory.

The blond, who had been watching silently, let out a low chuckle. “Looks like you’ve met your match, Gojo.”

Gojo froze, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the screen. “You cheat!”

You grinned, leaning back. “No, I’m just better,” you said smoothly, your voice calm. Inside, you panicked a little; he couldn’t have possibly known; your screen wasn’t facing him.

“Yes! CHEAT! Me see!” He tapped his temple. “Muttsu no me! Me see!” Then he made a gesture that encompassed the whole planet with his long, troll-like arms. (“Six eyes.”)

You smirked, but before you could respond, the blond interjected. “Gojo, you’re imagining things.”

“Sōzō janai yo! Kanojo wa hontōni zuru o shita nda! Anata mo mitadesho. Eigo de itte!” Gojo gestured wildly at Nanami, who barely glanced at him. (“I’m NOT imagining! She literally just cheated! You saw it too. Say it in English!”)

“You’re hallucinating,” the blond said flatly.

“I am NOT!”

“Yes, you are. You’re tired. No more video games; go sit down over there.” The blond had seen you cheat, but he wasn’t letting the opportunity to embarrass Gojo pass.

Gojo sputtered, clearly betrayed, while you fought to keep a straight face.

“Impossible!” Gojo huffed at you, but there was no malice in his tone, only a kind of begrudging admiration. “You… strong.”

You shrugged, pulling your hood up just enough to smile. “Told you.”

Gojo’s throat made a strangled sound that suspiciously resembled a mewl; he seemed like a nerd. “Me ahh Gojo Satoru. He Nanami Kento.” He pointed at the blond without looking away from you.

Nanami’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, his expression unreadable.

“So, Gojo and Nanami are your names? I believe Japan has a different naming convention, right?” You asked, steering the conversation away to avoid revealing your own name. Surrounded by a crowd, you felt uneasy about receiving random CVs and taking selfies with men whose hands seemed to wander a bit too freely.

Nanami was caught off guard by your knowledge. “You are correct. No, those are our surnames. He doesn’t know much English.”

He continued eyeing you with a poker face. “I don’t suppose you’d tell us your name?”

You scrambled to respond, giving them your gamer tag, which sounded surprisingly like a real name.

Gojo laughed, while Nanami’s gaze remained fixed on you. “Pardon my English, but I meant your real name.” He looked a bit smug as if saying, I-didn’t-stutter.

Damn! They were too perceptive. “Maybe next time,” you said, already rising to your feet, turning on your heel, and slipping into the crowd before they could press further.

You could feel their eyes on you, with Nanami’s gaze lingering the longest, as if he were piecing together a puzzle.

Later, after you walked out of the convention hall and made your way toward the food stalls, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. You’d come to check on your team and ended up with a story you’d never forget.

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo was still at the booth, raving about the “mysterious hoodie lady” who was, in his words, “gaming goddess.” Nanami simply shook his head, filing away the memory of your smile for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

Nanami commented, “We never got her name.”

Gojo, beaming, muttered, “Me find her. Strongest reserves rematch.”

Nanami rubbed his temple. “It’s ‘deserves.’”

Gojo waved him off. “Ya ya that!”

//

Hours later, you stepped outside to go home.

The alley was dimly lit, the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the brick walls. You tugged your hood tighter, the weight of the day settling heavily on your shoulders as you made your way through. Just as you reached the halfway point, angry voices broke the quiet, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps closing in.

“You think you can fire us just like that?” One of the men sneered, his face twisted with rage as he stepped into view. His friend loomed beside him, cracking his knuckles with an air of smugness.

You stopped, turning slowly to face them. Your pulse quickened, but you kept your tone cold. “I don’t think,” you replied, as you shifted into a defensive stance. “I know.”

The first man lunged, and you dodged, pivoting on your heel to avoid his clumsy attack. Your brain kicked into overdrive, calculating angles and weaknesses as you landed a solid kick to his shin, your heels digging in. He stumbled, cursing, but his friend was already charging at you.

You ducked, your fists up, but you weren’t trained for this. They were bigger, stronger, and clearly fueled by rage. Damn it, you thought bitterly, wishing you’d waited for Megumi—or at least brought your security detail in regular clothes.

“HEY!”

The voice boomed down the alley, startling everyone. You froze mid-dodge, turning toward the source of the voice.

Gojo stood at the entrance, his white hair glowing faintly under the streetlamp. His grin feral, hands shoved casually into his pockets. “What this? Fight? Without me?” His English was awful, the words garbled but unmistakably confident.

Behind him, Nanami appeared with the air of someone ready to ruin someone’s day. His eyes locked on the men, his expression grim. “Let’s divide and conquer.”

What followed was a masterclass in contrasts, a scene you’d replay in your mind for days.

Gojo’s opponent barely had time to process the incoming whirlwind before Gojo sidestepped his first punch with an exaggerated lean, one hand cupping his chin as if bored. “Loser shit,” he said.

The man swung again, and Gojo ducked low, popping up behind him like a magician revealing his latest trick. “Try harder! Or you go home?” His English faltered, and he switched to Japanese mid-sentence, gesturing at the alley’s exit.

Frustrated, the man lunged, but Gojo pivoted effortlessly, his movements mocking. “Ah-ah!” he teased, flicking the man’s forehead with enough force to send him faltering back. He could have actually flicked him through the wall, but he was trying to impress you, not terrify you. Then, with a theatrical spin, he delivered a sharp kick to the back of the man’s knees, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Strongest wins!” Gojo declared triumphantly as the man groaned in pain.

Meanwhile, Nanami was a study in calm brutality. His opponent came at him swinging, fists wild and uncoordinated. Nanami stepped to the side, his movements smooth, allowing the man’s momentum to carry him forward.

The attacker stumbled, and Nanami seized the opportunity. A precise jab to the spine sent the man gasping, doubling over in pain. Without missing a beat, Nanami delivered a swift knee to the stomach, his face utterly impassive as his opponent crumpled to the ground.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, adjusting his collar with indifference.

Within moments, both men were on the ground, groaning and defeated as the security—who’d arrived mid-fight—dragged them away.

Gojo glanced over at Nanami. “Why so serious, Nanamin?!”

Nanami shot him a flat look. That was the only phrase Gojo knew properly.

Gojo turned to you, his grin impossibly wide. “Hoodie lady! You okay?”

You adjusted your hood, making sure your face stayed hidden, though a faint smile tugged at your lips. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Nanami stepped closer, his gaze lingering on you with quiet intensity. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said, his tone edged with concern.

“I can handle myself,” you replied, though your voice softened.

“Clearly,” Nanami said, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you pulled it out to see a notification from your ride. “Well, thanks again for saving me.”

You turned to leave, but Gojo moved faster than you could anticipate, stepping into your space with a speed that made your heart skip. He leaned in, his face far too close as he tilted his head, his eyes still obscured by the ridiculous sunglasses. “Name,” he demanded, his tone expectant.

“Gojo,” Nanami barked, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking him back. “Control yourself.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, still obscured by your barely see-through hood.

Well, they did save you, and no one was around right now, but they could be stalkers. So you only told them your nickname, essentially half your first name.

Gojo repeated it, his accent thick as he rolled the syllables around in his mouth like a taste he wanted to savor. Nanami echoed it under his breath, committing it to memory with far more subtlety. You had never loved your name more.

Gojo clapped his hands together, his grin as bright as the streetlamp above. “Okaaay, now us food! You come us!”

You blinked at him, bewildered.

Nanami immediately choked, “My apologies, my colleague means, would you like to join us for dinner?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Maybe next time. My grumpy ride is here.”

Before they could argue, you slipped past them as the soft hum of a sleek black Maserati cut through the alley’s quiet. The car glided to a stop, the sharp lines of its body catching the faint light from the streetlamp. The door opened smoothly, revealing a young Japanese man with sea urchin spiky black hair and a scowl sharp enough to rival Nanami’s deadliest glare.

He stepped out, his tailored suit pristine despite the late hour. His deep blue eyes swept over the scene, narrowing slightly as they landed on Gojo and Nanami. There was no mistaking the barely contained irritation in his expression as he glared daggers at the two men.

You smiled faintly as you approached and side-hugged him; his gaze softened, though the crease in his brow remained.

“You’re late,” he muttered, holding the door open for you. His English and accent perfectly matched yours, so Gojo deduced he definitely hadn’t lived in Japan much.

“You’re crabby,” you replied, sliding into the passenger seat.

“I wouldn’t be if you didn’t insist on wandering into alleys like this,” he said, his tone exasperated but tinged with familiarity. He cast one last glance at Gojo and Nanami, his lips curling slightly in what could only be described as a warning.

“Wait... you sent the security?” You asked, tone surprised.

“Yes.” He clipped, tone not revealing much. You’d later learn that the men who’d tried to hit you disappeared under mysterious circumstances after tonight. When you asked Megumi, he’d just glare at you and mutter about not having time to look into freeloaders.

Gojo tilted his head, his six eyes narrowing as he watched the interaction with growing curiosity. Nanami too had his gaze locked on the Maserati as the young man slipped back into the driver’s seat. The way his hand lingered on the steering wheel, his face scanning you for injuries. His head tilted slightly toward you as you spoke, suggesting something closer than casual acquaintance.

Nanami thought of looking you or the young man up on LinkedIn only to realize he never actually saw your face or knew the man’s name.

As the car pulled away, the faint glow of the interior lights illuminated your face behind the dark-tinted windows for just a moment. Gojo’s grin widened as he caught a glimpse of your smile, and Nanami’s eyes narrowed as he committed the fleeting image to memory for some reason he still didn’t understand.

Gojo’s eyes remained fixed on you as the guy driving whisked you away, scolding you for not waiting for him.

Nanami was also watching your retreating car in the distance. His thoughts lingered on the brief glimpse of your smile—the only part of you they’d truly seen. “Boyfriend?” He asked.

Gojo smirked, “You are awfully curious today, Nanamin.” Switching back to Japanese.

“Just answer the question.”

“I’m actually not sure. But the boy is a Zen'in; interestingly enough, the one’s father I killed before Suguru ran away.”

Gojo’s smile widened as you removed the hood from your face a few meters away. He had never been more grateful for his six eyes.

Good. He had a face now.

He clapped Nanami on the back. “Hoodie lady is full of surprises.”

Nanami’s expression remained unreadable. “You don’t even know her full name.”

Gojo’s grin only widened. “I’ll find her.”

Little did you know you had just met your future husbands.

//

After ensuring a safe distance between you and the men he’d encountered, your best friend turned to you, his expression serious. “Stay away from those two; they are sorcerers.”

"But aren't you?"

He immediately cut you off, "I only share the bloodline nothing else. You know what sorcerers did to my father. Besides, I think it was one of them."

You understood the weight of Megumi’s words, but you also knew why his father had been killed. It wasn’t because sorcerers were inherently dangerous, but because he had been too much of a thrill-seeker. “You do realize I’m not your child, right? I’m older than you.”

“Well, that’s too damn bad, Grandma.”

“Heyy!”

He chuckled to himself, but the laughter quickly faded as he asked, “What did they want with you anyway?” He was trying hard not to let you know he was probing.

“Nothing. They just wanted to know my name, and I kept dodging it with pseudonyms. Then they asked me to dinner, and I told them next time. But you don’t have to worry about it. I don’t think I’d ever see them again.” You said this absentmindedly, focused on ordering takeout on your phone before you arrived home.

“Good. Keep it that way. Don’t entertain them again.”

“Italian?” you asked, trying to shift the conversation.

“Get that Spinach and Broccoli Alfredo from that small place. Put it on my card.” He liked the dish, but it wasn’t his go-to for special occasions; it was yours.

“Aww, what’s the occasion?”

“You almost getting beaten up.”

You scowled at him.

“Relax. I’m just making sure you’re okay, or my father will resurrect himself and beat my ass.” He laughed, but there was an edge to his humor.

You thought of the men for a few days, their faces lingering in your mind, but you quickly moved on with your hectic life. You were determined not to let Megumi down. He didn’t have many friends besides you that he’d hang out with, let alone have around with his mom, and with his dad gone, he’d never recover from the betrayal if something happened to you.

But when had you ever listened to Megumi?

Today, you wished you had.

--

After they’d left you alone, the days bled together in a haze of exhaustion and dread. You busied yourself with the mundane tasks of preparing for the twins, folding impossibly tiny clothes, and arranging bottles on the counter like talismans against the pain threatening to consume you. Sukuna had been true to his word, filling the gaps with his presence and resources, but even his towering strength couldn’t shield you from the memories.

Each kick, each flutter, was a visceral reminder of the life growing inside you—a life you were determined to protect. Yet, every movement felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the faces you couldn’t erase. Gojo’s sharp grin, dulled now by sorrow. Nanami’s stoicism, cracking under the weight of his regret. They haunted you, their voices whispering in the silence of your nights, their hands ghosting over your skin in dreams that turned to nightmares.

One evening, Sukuna returned, his silhouette framed by the doorway. He carried bags of groceries, the muscles in his arms flexing as he set them down with more care than you thought him capable of. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something foreign: concern.

“You’re wearing yourself thin,” he said, his voice rough but quiet. His crimson eyes swept over you, lingering on the trembling in your hands as you folded a onesie.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though the lie sat heavy in your chest.

“Princess,” he said again, softer now, and the nickname cracked something inside you. “You’re not fine.”

Your hands froze mid-fold, the fabric slipping from your fingers. The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in. “I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Sukuna crossed the room in three strides, his arms encircling you. His touch was firm, grounding, and you let yourself lean into him. “You’re doing it,” he murmured against your hair. “And you’re not alone.”

But the words couldn’t reach the hollow ache inside you.

//

The next day, the soft knock at the door was more polite than usual, almost hesitant. Sukuna didn’t wait for you to answer—he never did; he never even knocked—but this time, he lingered in the doorway, his hulking frame lit by the warm glow of the sunlight filtering in through the window. His expression was unreadable, though the faintest flicker of something nervous passed through his crimson eyes.

In his hands, he held a large box, haphazardly wrapped in crinkled newspaper and secured with what looked like electrical tape.

“What is that?” You asked, narrowing your eyes.

He grunted, stepping inside and setting the box down on the coffee table with a thud. “It’s for them,” he said, jerking his chin toward your stomach.

You blinked, thrown off by the unexpected gesture. “You got them… a gift?”

He shot you a glare, defensive already. “Don’t make it weird. It’s not a big deal.”

Your curiosity got the better of you, and you shuffled over to the box, careful to lower yourself onto the couch. Sukuna watched, his arms crossed over his chest, as you peeled back the layers of tape and newspaper.

Inside was chaos.

A mishmash of items tumbled out—two tiny leather jackets, complete with spikes on the shoulders; a set of Blobfish plushies; and what could only be described as baby-sized combat boots, polished to a mirror shine.

Your jaw dropped. “Sukuna… what the hell is this?”

He shrugged, his smirk returning, though it was softer than usual. “Gear. For when they’re old enough to not embarrass me.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, loud and uncontrollable. It startled even you, breaking through the thick fog of grief and exhaustion that had clung to you for days. “Spiked leather jackets? Combat boots? What are they, tiny bikers?”

“They’re going to be strong,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact as he dropped onto the armchair across from you. “Might as well dress the part.”

You shook your head, still laughing as you held up one of the jackets. It was absurdly small, the spikes dulled for safety. “This is so extra.”

“You’re welcome,” he shot back, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his satisfaction at your reaction.

You set the jacket down, your laughter fading into a softer smile. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Sukuna leaned back, his gaze locking onto yours with a rare intensity. “I know,” he said simply.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the air between you charged with something unspoken. He broke the silence first, waving a hand toward the mess of items on the table. “I’m not saying they’ll ever use this crap. Just… figured it might make you laugh.”

Your chest tightened, the ache of loss mingling with something warmer, something unfamiliar. “It did,” you admitted, your voice softer now.

“Good.” He stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “I’ll pick up something more normal next time. Maybe. Only if you drink enough water.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “Please don’t. This is perfect.”

Sukuna’s smirk widened as he swaggered toward the door. Just before he left, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder, and said, “I’m not going anywhere, Princess.”

In a moment that could only be described as peak Sukuna, he turned to make his grand exit, only for his nose to collide with the door frame with a resounding thud.

“Stupid... who put this here?” He grumbled, rubbing his nose furiously as if it were the door’s fault for existing. You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the room like a cackling hyena.

“Maybe it’s a sign you should start ducking!” You teased, and he shot you a look that was half annoyed, half amused, like a cat that had just been splashed with water, but it was warm.

“I’ll just buy a bigger door!” He retorted, throwing his hands up in exaggerated exasperation.

With that, he turned to leave again, but not before bumping his head against the door frame once more, muttering, “This door is clearly out to get me.” You couldn’t help but laugh even harder.

And then he was gone, leaving you surrounded by the absurdity he’d brought with him. You looked down at the tiny jackets and boots, your hand resting on your stomach as the twins stirred softly. Maybe your laughing did calm them.

//

Same night, your bedroom was cold, the soft glow of a nightlight casting shadows that seemed to shift with your every movement. You slept in the center of the room, one hand resting on your swollen belly. The twins kicked softly, their presence grounding and tormenting you in equal measure.

The guilt was a living thing, coiled tight around your chest. Sukuna had done everything—more than you could have asked for—but the lie you’d spun had fangs. Each day, it bit deeper, carving wounds you couldn’t heal.

You woke screaming, clutching your stomach as panic clawed at your throat. Sukuna was there in an instant, his hands steady on your shoulders, his voice sharp and commanding. “What is it?”

“They’re going to take them,” your voice raw and broken. “They’ll find a way.”

“No one’s taking anything,” his crimson eyes blazing with an intensity that should have comforted you. But the storm inside you raged on.

“You don’t know them,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “They’ll stop at nothing.”

Sukuna cupped your face, his touch surprisingly gentle in his large hands. “They won’t get near you. Not while I’m here.”

But his words were like whispers against a hurricane. You turned away, your gaze falling to the crib, its bars a reminder of the prison you’d built around your heart.

“I’ll protect you,” you murmured to the twins, your hands trembling as you traced the curve of your stomach. “Even if it kills me.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence heavy and oppressive.

“I won’t let you die.” Sukuna whispered. You turned to look at him only to be kissed by him on your temple. It wasn’t anything passionate; it was as if he was sealing a promise.

//

The next morning, you shuffled into the living room, your back aching from another restless night. The twins had been unusually active, their cursed energy—or at least what you deduced was cursed energy—pressing against your insides like waves crashing against fragile glass. You’d woken up drenched in sweat, the faint outline of one of their hands or feet briefly visible under your skin before retreating into the shadows of your body. It was horrifying and beautiful, and you hated that you didn’t know how to feel about it.

Sukuna was already in the living room, sitting on the floor, a cup of coffee in his hand. He glanced up as you entered, his crimson eyes scanning you like he could read every thought you were trying to suppress.

“You look worse than usual,” he said, his voice cutting but not cruel.

“Thanks,” you muttered, dropping onto the couch with a wince.

He didn’t respond right away, just set his cup down, straightened and stretched, his maroon hoodie riding up, revealing markings on his stomach. He watched you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. Despite being on the floor, he was somehow on eye level with you.

After a moment, he stood and disappeared into the kitchen. You didn’t have the energy to ask what he was doing.

When he returned, he was holding a glass of water and a small bowl filled with neatly peeled and cut fruit. He handed them to you without a word, his hand lingering for a moment as you took the bowl.

“Eat,” he said simply, sitting back down on the floor in front of you.

You stared at the fruit. “You didn’t have to—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “Just eat.”

You did, the sweet and sourness of the fruits grounding you. Sukuna watched, his gaze flicking between your face and your stomach.

After a while, he spoke again, his voice softer. “You hate looking at yourself, don’t you?”

Your breath caught; you definitely had a type. Type that kept seeing through your lies!

You didn’t answer, but the way you looked away was answer enough.

Sukuna shifted closer, resting his forearms on his knees. “Can I?”

You frowned, unsure. “Why?”

“Just trust me, Princess,” he said, his smirk faint but not unkind.

Reluctantly, you let him. His hands moved to your baby balloon, his touch firm but careful, soothing you as he pressed his palms against the curve.

“Feel that?” he murmured as one of the twins shifted beneath his hand, the movement almost shy.

You nodded, your throat tight.

“They’re strong,” he said, his voice steady. “They know you’re protecting them.”

Another flutter beneath your skin, this one softer, more deliberate. Sukuna’s hands didn’t move, his warmth radiating through you like a shield against the chill that had settled in your bones.

“You’re not broken,” he said after a moment, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “And you’re not alone in this.”

“You sure are comfortable touching them now.” You teased.

He snorted. “And here I thought I was helping you feel better.”

You laughed and closed your eyes as the twins settled, their energy calming under the weight of his words. The war inside you felt a little less unbearable.

//

A few days later, the apartment was warm, sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds and landing in soft streaks across the living room floor. You sat on the couch, one hand absently resting on your stomach while the other scrolled through your phone. You weren’t looking at anything in particular, just trying to distract yourself from the relentless ache in your lower back and the twins’ ongoing UFC match in your uterus.

Sukuna walked in, carrying a bag of groceries like it was filled with feathers as usual. His broad shoulders filled the doorway as he kicked it shut behind him. He looked at you, then at the untouched snack bowl on the coffee table, then back at you.

“You didn’t eat the strawberries I cut,” he said flatly, setting the bag down.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you replied without looking up.

“You’re always hungry,” he shot back, folding his arms.

You finally glanced up at him, raising a brow. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

He snorted, dropping onto the armchair across from you. “Yeah, into a cranky gargoyle. What’s up with you today?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, your tone too breezy.

His eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “Bullshit.”

You sighed, setting your phone down. “I’m fine, Sukuna. Can’t a woman just sit in peace without being interrogated?”

“Not when that woman’s got two cursed powerhouses doing cartwheels inside her,” he replied, his smirk faint but pointed.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against the couch. “I’m just tired, okay?”

He stared at you for a long moment, his crimson eyes flicking to your stomach, then back to your face.

“You’re not tired,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “You feel weird. About your body.”

Your head snapped up, your mouth opening to protest, but he cut you off with a raised hand.

“Don’t even try to deny it,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You’re confident, sure. You’re also human. You’re carrying their demon spawns, and it’s messing with your head. I’d feel weird too.”

You blinked, thrown off by the bluntness of his words. “That’s… not exactly how I’d put it.”

“Whatever,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Point is, you’re not as slick as you think you are, Princess.”

You stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or be offended. “And what, you’re here to be my body image coach now?”

“Very perceptive of you,” he said, standing abruptly. He grabbed the bag of groceries and pulled out a tub of chocolate ice cream and a loaf of bread. Even your cravings weren’t original from your husbands.

“What are you doing?” you asked, watching in bemusement as he started slathering jam on a slice of bread.

“Making you a snack,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Pickle and peanut butter sandwich. Ice cream chaser. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“That’s disgusting,” you said, wrinkling your nose.

“Yeah, well, so’s the idea of that white-haired one being someone’s dad, but here we are,” he quipped, tossing the sandwich onto a plate and handing it to you.

You stared at the monstrosity, then at him. “This is your solution to my body issues? Weird snacks?”

“No,” he said, sitting back down and gesturing at you with a flourish. “My solution is this: you’re hot, you’re badass, and if anyone says otherwise, I’ll break their spine. But you’re also you, which means you’re allowed to feel weird about turning into a walking incubator for two special-grade cursed-energy gremlins. Doesn’t mean you’re less of anything.”

You blinked. “That’s… oddly sweet.”

“I aim to please,” he grumbled, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. “Now eat the sandwich before I change my mind.”

You laughed, taking a tentative bite of the pickle-peanut butter monstrosity. It was terrible, but for some reason, it made you feel a little better.

//

The next day, the air was crisp, the kind of weather that made the leaves crunch underfoot and the sunlight feel softer. Sukuna strolled beside you, a reusable shopping bag slung over his shoulder like a fashion statement, his other hand steadying you as you waddled along the cobblestone path of the farmer’s market, your face obscured by a large mask. The twins had been kicking non-stop since breakfast, and your back felt like it was holding the weight of the world.

“I don’t know why you dragged me here,” you muttered, squinting at a stall of overpriced honey jars.

“Because you’ve been sulking for days,” Sukuna replied, smirking. “And I’m tired of watching you fold tiny clothes and cry about it.”

Before you could retort, he veered off toward a stall selling baby onesies, grabbing one with a print of a cartoon goat that read Mommy’s Little Terror. He held it up, raising a brow. “This fits their vibe.”

You snorted despite yourself. “They’re not even born yet, and you’re assigning them a vibe?”

“Yeah,” he said, tossing it into the bag. “And this.” He grabbed another onesie, this one pink and emblazoned with Future World Domination Leader.

You laughed, leaning on his arm for support as the twins shifted again. Sukuna noticed immediately, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “Tired?”

“A little,” you admitted, though your body screamed a lot.

Without a word, he scooped you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. “What are you—put me down!”

“Shut up, Princess,” he said, grinning as heads turned to stare at the giant man carrying a visibly and heavily—maybe too heavily—pregnant woman like she weighed nothing. “You’ll thank me later.”

An older woman at a nearby stall clasped her hands together, her face lighting up. “Oh, isn’t he just wonderful? So attentive!”

Sukuna didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I’m pretty great,” he said, flashing her a cocky grin. “My wife’s a champ, though. Carrying our twins and still managing to look this bewitching.”

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. “Stoppp.”

He ignored you, turning his attention to the woman. “I’m so proud of her. She’s going to be an amazing birthgiver.”

The woman beamed, clearly swooning. “You’re both so lucky!”

“Yeah,” Sukuna said, his voice softening just enough for only you to hear. “I am.”

//

Later that week, Sukuna insisted on taking you grocery shopping. You protested, but he ignored you as usual, guiding you through the aisles with a hand on your lower back.

“Pickles?” he asked, holding up a jar with a raised brow.

You nodded, reaching for it, but he pulled it back. “What’s the magic word?”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Fine,” you huffed. “Please.”

He handed it over with a smug grin. “See? Was that so hard?”

At the checkout, the cashier—a young woman with doe eyes—couldn’t stop glancing at Sukuna, her cheeks pink as she scanned the items.

“These pickles,” she started, clearly searching for a conversation starter. “A craving?”

Sukuna nodded solemnly. “Yeah. She’s eating for three, and I’m eating for stress.”

You choked on a laugh, swatting his arm. “Don’t listen to him.”

The cashier giggled nervously, her eyes lingering on Sukuna a moment too long. He didn’t even notice, too busy helping you into your coat and carrying all the bags in one hand like they weighed air.

Outside, you leaned against him, your feet aching. “You didn’t have to do all of that.”

He smirked, draping an arm around your shoulders. “Sure I did. It’s my job to keep you entertained.”

//

A couple of days later, at the park, Sukuna insisted on renting a swan paddle boat “for the twins.” The boat was comically small for his frame, his knees practically up to his chest as he paddled with exaggerated effort and heavy breaths.

“Why are we doing this?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

“Because I like suffering,” he said, glaring at the water like it had personally offended him.

He was doing it for you, to make you laugh as much as possible.

Then when you finally broke into giggles, he grinned, satisfied.

//

That night, when you struggled to sleep, Sukuna sat by your bed, massaging pain-relieving oils into your swollen ankles with surprising care. His hands were rough but gentle, his expression focused.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion.

He glanced up, his crimson eyes softer than you’d ever seen. “I know,” he said simply, his hands never faltering.

You fell asleep to the sound of his low, rumbling voice, humming an off-key lullaby he’d probably made up on the spot. His humming seemed to soothe the twins into no-cartwheeling sleep, which helped you relax for the night.

Sukuna never thought he could be perfect, but in those moments, he was everything you needed.

//

The next day, the yoga studio smelled faintly of lavender and freshly cleaned mats. Sukuna walked in beside you, his presence as imposing as ever. His crimson eyes swept over the room, narrowing slightly at the women who turned to gawk. He helped you settle onto your mat with the kind of careful attention that seemed absurd coming from someone like him, crouching to adjust the pillow beneath your knees before straightening to his full, towering height.

The murmurs started immediately. Low at first, barely audible, but growing louder with every second. You could feel the weight of their stares pressing against your skin, even through the mask you wore to keep a low profile.

Sukuna noticed too. His gaze darkened, his smirk vanishing as his eyes darted across the room. “What’s their problem?” he muttered under his breath.

You tried to ignore it, focusing on your breathing as the instructor began leading the class through stretches. But the whispers didn’t stop.

“She’s the one,” someone hissed, loud enough to reach your ears.

“Carrying twins,” another added, voice dripping with disdain.

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms. Sukuna’s head snapped toward the source of the voices, his expression hardening.

And then, of course, Karen appeared.

She strode across the room, her leggings pulled so high they might as well have been a second ribcage. Her smirk was cruel as she stopped in front of you.

The room went quiet. She loomed over you—as you were sitting on the floor—her arms crossed, her expression smug. “What’s it like being the talk of the internet? The woman who couldn’t keep her men in line?”

You felt Sukuna tense beside you, his hand twitching at his side. You placed a hand on his arm, silently telling him to hold back. “I’m here to practice yoga, not entertain you.”

Karen’s smirk widened, her gaze flicking over you like you were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Practice yoga? That’s rich. You mean parading around with your ‘fake husband’ after your other two clowns beat people up? Gave people permanent injuries?”

Then she turned to Sukuna and continued, “Oh, I knew for a fact you were a chum who got stuck with her. I was right, and you lied.”

You kept your grip on Sukuna’s arm firm. You spoke calmly but firm. “Watch your mouth! First of all, don’t bring Sukuna into this. Second, I was the one holding them back. I didn’t incite it. I kept my employees alive that day.”

Karen’s gaze swept over you, landing on your stomach, clearly not ready to back off. “Honestly, it’s impressive,” she continued, her tone dripping with mockery. “First, you marry two men, and then you end up with him?”

Sukuna’s growl was low and guttural, his towering frame eclipsing hers. “Watch it.”

“Karen,” you yelled, “you don’t know anything about my life. You don’t know what I’ve been through, what I’ve survived.”

“Survived?” Karen scoffed. “You mean you survived your ‘unnatural ways’ coming out in front of the entire world? Or is it surviving the fact that no one takes you seriously anymore?”

“Sukuna,” you said, your voice lowering. “Let’s just go.”

Your stomach was churning, the weight of her words sinking in like lead. Sukuna’s hand rested lightly on you, grounding you, but even his presence couldn’t shield you from the growing stares around the room.

Karen stepped closer, looming over you, invading your personal space. It felt as though she might resort to physical violence with you at any moment. Her voice dropped, but the venom in her tone remained unmistakable. “People are calling you a sex addict, you know. Can’t say I blame them. Married to two men, pregnant with God knows who’s kids, and now cozying up to him?” She sneered. “You’re not just a scandal—you’re a disgrace. You can’t live without dick can you! What now? You’ll add him to your harem too, you whore! If I were in your place, I would have killed myself!”

The words hit like daggers, each one twisting deeper. Your breath caught, but before you could respond, Sukuna moved.

It happened in an instant.

You gasped, “Ryo!”

The slap cracked through the studio like a thunderclap, silencing the room. Karen stumbled, clutching her cheek, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

Sukuna loomed over her, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. His voice was low, a growl that rumbled through the silence. “Say one more word, and I’ll make sure you never speak again.”

Karen’s confidence crumbled instantly, her wide-eyed shock betraying the venom she’d spewed moments ago. She glanced around the room, searching for someone—anyone—to come to her defense, but the silence was deafening. The other mothers avoided her gaze, their expressions a mix of discomfort and quiet satisfaction.

Her husband wasn’t there, of course. He’d finally had enough of her tirades, her endless need to dominate every room she walked into. The divorce papers had already been filed, and his absence spoke louder than any words ever could. Karen, with her toxic cocktail of insecurity and unchecked cruelty, had been left with nothing but her bitterness.

She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t pregnant and had no intention of ever being so. For years, she’d come to these classes not to bond or prepare for motherhood but to belittle and bully anyone she deemed weaker. She was a relic of high school, clinging to the power she once wielded over others, desperate to make someone else feel smaller to distract from her own failures.

Today, you had been her target. Her divorce had clearly left her hellbent on tearing someone else down, and she might’ve succeeded—she might’ve even turned to violence—if Sukuna hadn’t intervened. You were glad Sukuna didn’t see gender while serving people their karma.

Your heart pounded, but you forced yourself to stand—or try to. A sharp cramp shot through your side, stealing your breath. You stumbled, clutching your stomach as the twins shifted violently.

Sukuna caught you before you could fall, his hands steadying you as he glared at Karen.

His growl cut through the silence. “We’re leaving,” he said, his voice cold and final.

He didn’t move at first, his glare fixed on Karen like a wolf deciding whether the hunt was worth it, like debating whether she deserved another hit.

Finally, he relented, his muscles relaxing as he focused on you. “I’ll get you a private instructor,” he added, his tone softening as he looked at you.

The twins stirred. Pain shot through your abdomen, and you gasped, clutching at Sukuna’s shirt.

“Hang on,” he muttered, his voice softening as he carried you out of the studio.

Behind you, Karen stood frozen, her face pale and her cheek still burning red. No one moved to comfort her. No one even looked at her. The only sound in the room was the quiet creak of the door as it closed behind you.

//

Once in the car, you buried your face in his chest, your breathing erratic. He held you close, his large hand stroking your hair awkwardly but gently.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said, his voice firm but uncharacteristically tender. “Only you know the truth. Only you know what you went through and how you survived.”

//

The ride home was quiet. Sukuna carried you inside, settling you on the couch with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache.

But the silence stretched on, and the weight of Karen’s words pressed down on you like a vice. The twins shifted again, their energy erratic, feeding off your turmoil.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Sukuna crouched in front of you, his large hands resting on your knees. “Don’t,” he said firmly. “Don’t apologize for insecure humans.”

You nodded, but the hollow ache in your chest didn’t ease.

As the hours passed, you found yourself staring out the window, the city lights blurring as tears filled your eyes.

Sukuna stayed close, his presence steady but silent. When the tears finally came, hot and unrelenting, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as you cried.

And though he didn’t say it, his arms were a fortress around you as the world outside kept spinning, cruel and unforgiving. He silently vowed that no one would ever hurt you again.

//

Days after that, the silence that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe. You sat curled up on the couch, an old photo clutched tightly in your hands. It was worn at the edges, the glossy finish dulled from countless times you’d held it. In it, Gojo was grinning, his arm slung lazily over Nanami’s shoulders. You were in the middle, laughing at something you couldn’t remember now, your face lit with a happiness that felt like it belonged to someone else. The pain it brought was sharp, raw, an open wound that refused to heal no matter how much time passed.

Maybe you didn’t love them anymore—not in the way you once had. That love had been replaced by something darker, heavier. But the ache of what they’d done to you, the way they’d left you to drown in your own loneliness while they found comfort in each other… it consumed you.

You didn’t hear Sukuna until he was standing in the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” he asked, his voice softer than usual but still carrying that edge of exasperation.

You startled, quickly tucking the photo under your thigh. “I’m not doing anything.”

His crimson eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of you. “Don’t lie to me, Princess. You’re terrible at it.”

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “I just… I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have left.”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but they were out before you could stop them. Sukuna’s expression shifted to something unreadable.

“You’re joking,” he said, his voice flat.

“I’m not,” you whispered, your hands trembling in your lap. “I mean, they didn’t care about me, not really, but… I still left, and so much happened. People got hurt.”

“You kept the people alive!” Sukuna said, his tone sharper now. He leaned closer, his crimson eyes boring into yours. “You walked away because they didn’t deserve you.”

You shook your head, the tears falling faster now. “What if I made a mistake? What if I should’ve tried harder? Maybe none of this would have happened.”

“Stop,” Sukuna snapped, his voice cutting through your spiral. He grabbed your chin gently but firmly, forcing you to look at him. “Do you really think that despite one of them having the gift of six eyes, if he still couldn’t see the life growing inside you, they wouldn’t have taken you for granted through the pregnancy as well?! They’re the ones who fucked up. Not you. They had you—you—and they chose to ignore you. That’s on them, not you.”

The conviction in his voice made your chest tighten, but the doubt still lingered. “But—”

“No,” he interrupted, his thumb brushing against your jaw in a soft gesture. “No ‘but.’ You didn’t leave because you stopped loving them. You left because they stopped showing you they loved you.”

His words cracked something in you, like an old vase you never saw but always sensed the presence of in your heart’s home.

You let out a shaky breath, the photo slipping from your lap and landing face-up on the couch. Sukuna glanced at it, his jaw tightening for a moment before he reached for it. He studied it silently, his thumb brushing over your smiling face.

“They didn’t deserve this version of you,” he said, his voice low. “And they sure as hell don’t deserve the you now.”

The warmth in his words, the unguarded softness, made your heart ache in a different way. He handed the photo back to you, his hand lingering over yours for a moment.

“I’m not saying it’ll stop hurting,” he admitted, his crimson eyes meeting yours. “But don’t waste your time wondering if you should’ve stayed. You didn’t leave for no reason. Remember the past version of yourself in that exact moment when everything was crumbling around you. What you felt. Don’t put yourself through that.”

You nodded, the weight in your chest easing just slightly. Sukuna stood, offering you his hand. “Come on,” he said, his smirk returning faintly. “You’ve been crying for hours. Let me make you something to eat before you wither away. Besides, you deserve better. Better than them. Better than what they gave you.”

Then smugly added, “Someone as amazing as me.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly, taking his hand.

//

The first signs came like whispers in the dark—a sharp, fleeting twinge low in your abdomen, a dull ache spreading like ripples in water. You brushed it off as stress, convincing yourself it was nothing.

But Sukuna noticed. He always noticed.

His crimson eyes tracked your every move, narrowing at the way you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your hand lingering on your belly a beat too long.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile.

His gaze hardened, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “You’re a terrible liar, Princess.”

That evening, as you struggled to stand after dinner, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. Sukuna was at your side in an instant, his large hand steadying you.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. “We’re going to the hospital.”

You tried to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced you.

// Music

{The hospital was cold, sterile as usual. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows on the linoleum floors. The smell of antiseptic clung to everything, making your stomach churn.

You sat on the examination table, the thin paper gown sticking uncomfortably to your skin. The room felt too bright, too exposed. Sukuna sat beside you, his broad frame dwarfing the small plastic chair. His expression was unreadable, but his hand rested on his knee, the tension in his fingers betraying his calm façade. The fake husband playing the role perfectly.

The doctor entered, her face carefully neutral, but you caught the hesitation in her movements.

“Let’s take a look,” she said, her tone professional but soft.

The ultrasound gel was cold against your skin, and the room silent except for the faint hum of the machine. You stared at the monitor, waiting for the familiar sound of their heartbeats.

But the silence stretched on.

The doctor’s brow furrowed, her hand pausing over the probe.

“What is it?” Sukuna’s voice was tense.

The doctor hesitated, her hand hovering over the ultrasound machine as though the pause could soften the blow. Her eyes flicked to you, then back to the screen, her expression unreadable.

“I’m… not detecting a heartbeat.”

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

“No,” the denial spilling out before you could think. Your voice trembled, barely audible. “No, that’s not right. They were moving. Just yesterday. I felt them. I was craving pickles, and I had really bad back pain too; they were moving so much.”

The doctor’s face was heavy with sympathy as she set the probe down. “I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head, the room tilting around you. Your hand flew to your stomach, pressing against the curve as if your touch could summon them back, as if you could will them to respond. “They can’t be gone,” you choked out, your voice breaking.

The doctor took a breath, her voice steady but clinical, as if detachment could lessen the cruelty of what she had to say. “It’s an extraordinarily rare case—heteropaternal superfecundation combined with double fertilization. Their development was… incompatible with life.”

The medical jargon felt cruel, meaningless. Just noise.

Sukuna’s hand found yours, his grip firm, grounding, but it only highlighted how far away you felt. It made it real. His jaw was clenched, his crimson eyes darker than you’d ever seen, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.

Your head spun, the walls closing in, the fluorescent lights glaring like they were trying to expose every raw nerve. The doctor’s voice faded, a dull hum drowned out by the pounding of your own heartbeat.

“They were mine,” you whispered.

Sukuna leaned closer, his hand steady against your back.

The doctor excused herself quietly, the door clicking shut behind her. The silence that followed pressed against your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift.

You sat frozen, your hand still pressed to your stomach, waiting for something—anything. A kick, a flutter, some proof that they were still there.

But there was nothing.

You curled into yourself, clutching your stomach as though you could shield what was already gone.

“They were mine,” you repeated, the words a broken mantra. “They were mine.”

Sukuna’s grip was almost bruising. His other arm wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest.

He didn’t speak, didn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He just held you, his breath steady against your hair as your world fell apart.

After months of crying, your tears had finally run out. You couldn’t will them now, not that you wanted to.

You were done.

The dissociation came slowly, creeping in like a shadow. You faded into hollow silence, your body still in his arms. You stared at the floor, your eyes unfocused, your mind retreating into a void where the suffering couldn’t reach you.

Sukuna’s voice broke through the fog, low and firm. “Stay with me, Princess.”

But you couldn’t. Not anymore.

The hollowness swallowed you whole, leaving nothing but the ghost of what could have been.

But Sukuna stayed, his presence a steady anchor in the storm, an anchor you couldn’t see.

//

The procedure to remove them was a nightmare. The machines beeped; the cold metal of the instruments glinted, their sharp edges catching your eye and filling your chest with dread.

Sukuna stood by your side. His hand wrapped around yours like a hazy lifeline, anchoring you to a reality you didn’t care about.

His crimson eyes never left your face, his expression unreadable but tense, his jaw set as though he could will the universe to reverse itself by sheer force.

The procedure began, the doctor’s voice a muted hum in the background. Pressure built in your abdomen, the sensation alien and invasive, like something being torn away from the core of your existence. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste grounding you.

But you didn’t scream no matter how much it hurt. You couldn’t bring yourself to care whether you made it or if the universe would be kind enough to end it all through a freak incident of medical malpractice.

Sukuna didn’t flinch, didn’t move, his grip tightening as if to remind you he was there. The machines continued their cold, unfeeling symphony, and the minutes stretched into an eternity.

//

When it was over, there was only silence. The absence of their presence, a void that swallowed everything else.

The doctor murmured something to Sukuna, her words slipping past you like water over stone. You sat up shakily, the hospital gown sticking to your damp skin, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. But mind wasn’t there.

“I want to see them,” you whispered. “Please.”

Sukuna was in front of you in an instant, his broad chest blocking your view as he pulled you into his arms. His grip was firm but careful, cradling you as though you might shatter as the doctors moved discreetly behind him.

“No,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You don’t want to see them, Princess. Trust me.”

You clutched at his shirt with trembling hands. “They were mine,” you choked out, your words muffled against him.

“They still are,” he murmured, his tone softer than you’d ever heard. His hand stroked your back in slow, grounding motions, his presence steady even as his own turmoil blared beneath.

The sight of them would haunt him forever.

He’d seen them as the doctors worked quickly, their small, fragile forms laid out in a shallow steel tray. The boy’s limbs were long, spindly, his jawline so sharp it was almost serrated. His translucent skin revealed a web of delicate veins, branching like cracks in glass. The girl’s features were softer, her tiny hands fused into curling nubs, her face serene despite the unnatural bulge beneath her closed eyelids. Their hair split down the middle—one half blond, the other stark white—a cruel mirror of their fathers.

They were chimeric, a grotesque fusion of too much DNA, as the doctors explained to him later, alone. “Incompatible with life,” they had said clinically, as though that phrase could encompass the enormity of the loss.

They told him there was no recorded case of such a thing ever happening.

Sukuna stayed silent through it all, his hand flexing at his side as if he wanted to destroy the room, the machines, the universe itself. But when he returned to you, he was calm again, his rage buried beneath layers of quiet resolve.

The hospital was a blur after that, like you were seeing through water. Sukuna dealt with the hospital staff in his usual manner—efficient, cold, terrifying. He had the remains cremated, sparing you the finality of their lifeless forms. You barely noticed when he disappeared to speak with the staff, his voice low and clipped, or when he returned, his presence looming beside you like a shield you didn’t ask for.

When you asked about the remains, your voice hollow and detached, he didn’t sugarcoat it. “It’s already done,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for questions.

You nodded, not because you agreed, but because you didn’t care enough to argue.

“Let’s go home,” he said, his voice steady as he helped you to your feet.

You clung to him as he carried you out of the hospital, but your expressions remained unreadable. The hollow ache in your chest felt endless, but Sukuna didn’t let go, his presence a fragile shield against the unbearable weight of what you’d lost.

//

The days after were an endless cycle of nothingness. Sukuna filled the void with his relentless presence, taking over everything he already used to manage. He cooked meals you barely touched, cleaned the apartment with medical precision, scheduled your appointments, and arranged therapy without asking.

“You need this,” he said when you stared blankly at the brochure he placed in front of you. His tone firm, final.

You went because it was easier than refusing. The therapist spoke gently, her words carefully chosen, but they washed over you like white noise. You answered her questions in monotone, offering just enough to keep the sessions moving. He drove you to and back from your appointments and waited for you in between.

“It’ll take time,” she said once after your session, her voice warm with reassurance. Sukuna nodded. You didn’t respond.}

//

At home, you spent hours by the window, staring at the sea. The waves rolled in and out, unchanging, as if mocking the chaos that had become your life. Sukuna hovered in the background, his movements quiet. He never pushed, never demanded anything from you.

Sometimes he’d sit nearby, reading or scrolling through his phone, his presence grounding in its consistency. Other times, he’d leave you entirely alone, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway as he gave you space you didn’t know how to fill.

When nightmares came, they weren’t violent anymore. They strangled you silently. You’d wake in a cold sweat, your chest heavy with an ache that felt like it would never leave. Sukuna was always there, sitting at the edge of your bed, his hand resting on your shoulder or his voice a low murmur in the dark. Had he stopped sleeping? You were too dissociated to argue.

“It’s okay,” he’d say, though you didn’t believe him.

One night, you woke to find him standing in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the faint light from the hall. He didn’t notice you watching as he muttered under his breath, his voice low and dangerous.

“If they ever come near you again, I’ll kill them.”

You didn’t ask who he meant. You didn’t want to know.

No matter what Sukuna did—his soft gestures, his quiet presence, his unwavering care—you remained numb.

He brought you flowers once, bright and vibrant, placing them on the table with a small, awkward shrug. You glanced at them briefly before returning to your spot by the window.

He cooked your favorite meal, setting the plate in front of you with a forced smirk. “Eat, Princess,” he said, but when you pushed the food around with your fork and left the table without a word, he didn’t stop you.

Even when he tried to make you laugh—muttering sarcastic comments about the people outside, rolling his eyes dramatically when the news played something ridiculous—it barely registered.

The world felt distant, like you were watching it through frosted glass.

Sukuna’s presence was the only constant, but even that felt like something happening to someone else.

And though you didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge the weight of his efforts, he stayed. Silent, steady, unyielding.

//

One night when the pain got too much, you walked to his room and cried in his chest. After months.

He held you the way he always did, but it was stronger this time, as if trying to anchor you in a storm that wouldn’t pass. He didn’t fill the void with empty reassurances, nor did he push you to speak.

The next day, things went back to you staring at nothing.

--

Japan

Gojo sat slouched, manspreading on the couch, his T-shirt messy like his hair, eyes uncovered, hands dangling between his knees, a photo clutched so tightly the edges were crumpled. The room was dim, lit only by the gray haze of a city that never quite slept. His six eyes scanned the image for the hundredth time, even though he knew every detail by heart—the grainy black-and-white outline of two unmistakable shapes, curled together like yin and yang. He’d gotten it from the hospital you visited before leaving.

He let out a hollow laugh, the sound breaking the oppressive silence. “Twins. Our twins.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.

Nanami stood by the window, staring out at the endless city lights. His sweater covered with alcohol stains, his sleeves rolled up to reveal veins that looked ready to burst.

Gojo tilted his head back, his eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling. “Do you think she—” He stopped, his voice failing him. He tried again. “Do you think she hates us?”

Nanami’s face was as if it had been carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. “She doesn’t hate us,” he spoke lowly. “She… doesn’t trust us. There’s a difference.” It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

Gojo’s laugh was sharper this time, almost cruel. “Trust? Trust died the night we left her alone in this goddamn drawing room. Remember that? Her silently crying, begging us to tell her we cared, and we…” His voice faltered, and he shook his head. “We crawled into bed together like cowards.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching, shattering the glass he’d forgotten he was holding. But before Gojo could look up, his own RCT healed him. He stared at the disappeared wound like he wanted it back. “I remember, but I don’t think that was the final straw. I think it was the same weekend.”

Gojo stayed silent for a long time at that and then asked, “do you think they’ll look like her?” His voice softened, and he stared down at the photo, his thumb brushing over the image. “Her smile…”

Nanami’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I hope they don’t look like us.”

Gojo’s head snapped up, his six eyes narrowing. “Why the hell would you say that?”

Nanami’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Because we ruin everything we touch.”

Gojo leaned back, letting the photo fall to the coffee table. His hands ran through his hair, tugging hard enough to sting. “They’re better off without us.”

Nanami walked over and sat across from him, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of them. “Everything hurts.”

Gojo’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile before falling flat. “Hurt? Nanami, this… this is beyond hurt. This is…” He gestured vaguely, words failing him. “I’m empty. She’s gone, and I…”

Nanami reached for the photo, his fingers brushing against the image. “At least we have this,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with something raw. “Something to know it was real.”

He paused for what felt like an eternity and then added, “She’ll protect them.”

Gojo’s six eyes dimmed, their usual brilliance dulled by exhaustion. “Yeah. She’ll protect them. From us.”

Nanami’s grip on the photo tightened. “From the world we brought her into.”

The two men sat in silence, the photo lying between them like a ghost of what could have been. The air was thick with grief, regret, and a despair so deep it felt like drowning. Neither spoke again that night.

A/N: Okay, y’all, save the rage essays for after the next chapter—then hit me with your 14-page death threats. This pain was necessary for the redemption arc, but I promise groveling starts in the new year. Pain first, comfort later—like a good skincare routine. Drop your theories, death threats (creative ones pls), or tell me if Gojo should be banned from gaming conventions forever. Your comments = my serotonin boost, so don’t hold back. Did this chapter ruin your day, your week, or your will to exist? Let me know. 😘"

Chapter 7 (alt ending 1.3) - Sapphire Echoes (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy

If I missed to tag anyone, please remind me.

[acaiispng]

nonsense redraw of that one magazine cover with ben affleck and matt damon but specifically for my 70s au

magazine in question + alt versions below cut

reference

[weclassybouquetfun]

THE FLASH has arrived after being a tad delayed.

But what's 5 years and 3 months amongst friends.

Congrats to Andrés "Andy" Muschietti

for getting this film across the finishing line. A s though there's reportedly a sequel script in play and Muschietti said that he would dream of replacing Ezra Miller in a subsequent film his assurance may be moot as THE FLASH signals the end of the DCEU while BLUE BEETLE will usher in the DC Universe under James Gunn.

But good news for Muschietti; he had been tapped to direct BATMAN: THE BRAVE AND THE BOLD.

No, not this cartoon beauty

The live-action adaptation of the Grant Morrison run.

For me, THE FLASH is the perfect swan song for the DCEU. Go out in style, Barry!

SPOILERS FOR THE FLASH (despite everyone and their grandmas posting spoilers all across social media to either trash the F/X or to spite an Ezra Miller fronted project). Yes, I have made hating spoilers a large part of my personality.

THE GOOD

-Ezra Miller was a delight. I loved the dual iterations of Barry. As current day Bruce says their scars (maybe he said traumas) are what made them. Of course a Barry who was raised by his parents ends up with a different personality than a Barry who was scarred by his mother's murder and father's incarceration. He had to grow up fast yet remained socially stunted as he was consumed with getting justice for his father. I think it would get tiresome real quick if the film were just quirky/awkward Barry. We got grounded Barry and that other side.

-It was a nice touch when he does the messaging to the nurse that she should seek professional help after such a jarring event but the JL themselves haven't figured that out for themselves yet.

-I don't believe I have ever read a Flash standalone so maybe all of these themes were covered in his issues but there were certainly strains of Booster Gold Vol. 2 and Flashpoint in this. Alt!Barry repeatedly turning back time to try to save Supergirl and Batman and failing was exactly like Booster Gold trying to save Barbara Gordon from being shot and paralyzed by the Joker. Each time she would still get shot and Booster himself would be pulverized by the Joker Gang until Rip Hunter stopped him and let him know that event was a fixed point that couldn't be changed. It had to happen.

And Flashpoint where Barry wakes up to a new universe and tries to get back to the standard timeline but instead ends up and remains in a new universe similar but different from his own.

Which leads to -

-Batmans!!! I still don't know what makes a good Batman, but I do know what makes a good Bruce Wayne and Val Kilmer and Ben Affleck is that for me so I delighted in seeing him again. So fantastic that all these years later Michael Keaton gets his swan song.

As Barry tells Bruce things change across multiverses but there are constants such as Bruce having a Alfred as it is fated. But there is also, seemingly, the constant that Bruce is defined by being Batman. In THE DARK KNIGHT RISES he doesn't return to Bruce Wayne but instead ducks out of society until Gotham is truly threatened and only bows out when he is assured that Gotham is in good hands. In THE FLASH Bruce cleans up Gotham and retreats to a hermetic existence until Barry coaxes him out. He dies happily in battle as Batman, a better death than just dying as the pedestrian Bruce Wayne.

And as I love reaching back to the past and closing circles seeing George Clooney as Bruce was amazing.

Talk about reaching back-

-I LOVED THE REIMAGING OF CHRISTOPHER REEVES' SUPERMAN! I bow down to poorly rendered CGI G.O.A.T Superman.

This is the man who said, "I think I was the right actor for the part at the time I played it, but I think the role is larger than any particular actor and should be reinterpreted from generation to generation."

How fitting that so many reinterpretations were presented, including the payoff of the Eric Stoltz BACK TO THE FUTURE jokes.

Just as Stoltz was the Marty McFly that never really was, we got Nic Cage's near Superman reference!!

He exists in the multiverse!

and yeah, we saw other Flashes but who cares when there is Supermen...and Helen Slater's Supergirl!

Another trip through the multiverse was done courtesy of TITANS where Gar

-The humour wasn't overkill. Loved how they did the slow reveal of Bruce being tied to the Lasso of Truth. It seemed OOC for him to be bashful around Diana but I went with it, but no need; he was just lassoed. I hope people caught him chastising himself for not donating his wealth to help the poor.

-Loved Sasha Calle's Kara. Would have loved to see more of her.

-Barry's stakes only work if the audience cares and how much did I love Maribel Verdú as Nora Allen. It would not have worked if we couldn't feel the depth of Barry's loss. Verdú was so loving and vibrant that my heart ached that Barry couldn't save her.

Verdú, Temeura Morrison (who appears), Jesse L. Martin of TV's THE FLASH and these hotties are the best parents in the DCEU.

-Nice seeing Muschietti's pal and MAMA lead Nikolaj Coster-Waldau play a rando who has his pizza snagged by Barry and Muschietti himself playing a man who gets his hot dog snatched by Barry.

-Speaking of dogs that end credits with the therapy dog in free fall was a perfect clincher to the prior mad scene with the babies in the forefront. And for those bashing the egregiously fake babies in that scene I think it would have created anxiety for plenty of people if they CGI'd actual babies. The comedic element of such lunacy works because they're so fake looking.

THE BAD

-Kiersey Clemons getting short-shrift.

If there isn't a sequel it's very disappointing how little she has to do. I would have loved to see their friendship flourish.

Also, does this film retcon the deleted scene which was reinstated in the Snyder cut of JUSTICE LEAGUE?

Seemingly, no as she says she feels like she has seen Barry lately and he cagily denies it, but it's not as if Iris had a head injury or was knocked out during that scene. How can you not remember someone saving your life? Unless the implication is that Barry was moving so fast that she only got a glimpse of him, which...doubtful.

-Which brings me to my second issue..

THE REST

-The issue with the Flash as a standalone is that is really serves to showcase Batman and to a lesser extent Supergirl. They Captain America: Civil War'red the film!

But maybe that's just because as a character Barry isn't that compelling. His #1 enemy is just a reverse of himself. Barry is a hero but also an unwitting agent of chaos as his defining trait is not the speed force but upending the universe in a quest to save his mother,

so maybe there isn't enough meat on the bone so to speak character-wise to delve deeper but if they could do it with Aquaman then Barry deserved a deeper exploration.

-I don't think we needed the angle that Barry was at the scene of Zod's attack and he has kicks himself over not being able to save the kid's dad. He has enough of a complex.

-This could very well be because I have an unreasonable dislike of Ron Livingston but what a downgrade from Billy Crudup (who was too busy with AppleTV+'s THE MORNING SHOW to return).

Crudup's scenes in JL were infinitely more effective than anything Livingston eked out in this.

Just as Crudup had a minor role in JUSTICE LEAGUE, but made a big impression, Luke Brandon Field appeared in one ep of AMC+'s wonderful INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE but I clocked him immediately in his small role as a criminal Bruce takes down.

[afaimsblog]

Hot Topic - Was zum Diskurs im Internet wird und was nicht und warum

Menschen sind unaufmerksam und zu Skandalen werden die Dinge, aus denen man Skandale macht. In "Penguin" ist ein hässlicher haariger dicker Mann überaus nackt zu sehen, aber es ist die "Nacktszene" in "Agatha All Along", über die sich das Internet aufregt (obwohl die familienfreundlich ist aka man sieht so gut wie nichts). Das Aufblitzen einen Frauenhinterns ist ein Skandal wie es scheint, vor allem wohl aus Misogynie heraus oder vielleicht weil man, wenn Kathryn Hahn schon nackt ist, gerne mehr von ihr gesehen hätte, und die Tatsache, dass man nichts gesehen hat der wahre Skandal ist? Was weiß ich. Die Gedankengänge und Motivationen der geistesgestörten typischen Internet-User sind für geistig normale Menschen nicht nachzuvollziehen. Was aber klar ist, ist, dass der Internetdiskurs davon bestimmt wird wieviel Leute über gewisse Themen reden. Wenn sie Dinge ignorieren oder nur mit drei anderen Leuten besprechen, weiß niemand von diesen Dingen, wenn aber auf einmal berühmte Leute ihren Senf dazu geben oder Accounts mit vielen Followern darauf aufmerksam werden verbreiten sich diese Themen und werden Teil des sehr öffentlichen Diskurses. Creators erleben immer wieder wie auf einmal ein von ihnen erschaffener Meme groß wird, sie neue Follower in Massen bekommen, oder ein Wortschöpfung von ihnen auf einmal überall geflügelt wird, obwohl sie selbst nichts anders gemacht haben als sonst auch. Selbst Meinereiner hat mal einen Shipnamen geschaffen, weil ich es einfach als Erste getan habe und das von anderen übernommen wurde. Und ja, das war eine wirklich keine Sache mit einem kleinen Ship in einem kleinen Fandom, aber es war Einfluss. Als Normalsterblicher hat man selten Einfluss. Und Themen zur großen Dikussion freigeben, kann man schon gar nicht.

Wer das kann, weiß keiner so genau. Aber es ist klar, dass es meistens geladene Themen sind, die heiß diskutiert werden, und meistens ist es auch so, dass negative Äußerungen zu einem Thema erst dazu führen, das es groß wird. Nicht umsonst heißt das alte Sprichwort "Negative Presse ist besser als gar keine Presse" - schon vor der Social Media war es besser wenn irgendetwas über jemanden oder etwas berichtet wurde als gar nichts. Heutzutage sind wohl auch viele der Meinung, dass es besser ist negative Tweets über sich zu lesen als wenn man ignoriert wird. Je größer man ist, desto mehr wünscht man sich aber wohl, dass man doch lieber ignoriert werden würde. Ich kann mir nicht vorstellen, dass Jennifer Lopez erfreut darüber ist, dass offen spekuliert wird, dass das FBI [!] für ihre Scheidung verantwortlich ist, weil sie Ben Affleck ein Sexvideo von ihr übergeben haben (auf die Unterstellung, dass sie darauf ein Verbrechen begeht, gehe ich hier gar nicht erst ein, weil sich dieses Argument selbst entkräftet: Das FBI würde in diesem Fall das Video der Staatsanwaltschaft übergeben und nicht dem Ehemann der Täterin, zumindest hoffe ich das mal sehr). Und falls Justin Bieber als jugendlicher Star vergewaltigt wurde, wird es ihn sicher nicht freuen, dass darüber auf einmal alle spekulieren als wäre das etwas, das irgendjemand etwas angeht oder öffentlich diskutiert werden muss.

Aber ja, bösartige Gerüchte und Unterstellungen gab es immer und wird es immer geben, wenn man in der Öffentlichkeit steht. Neu im 21. Jahrhundert ist, dass sich die Diskussionen über die sogenannte öffentliche Moral von der Bibelgruppe und dem Stammtisch in die Hassecken des Internets, sprich eben die Social Media, verlagert hat. Heute werden nicht nur Menschen verurteilt, sondern auch Kunstwerke, und zwar nicht mehr nur dann, wenn die wirklich bekannt sind oder benutzt werden wollen um Leute, die dahinter stehen, zu vernichten, sondern scheinbar bei jeder sich bietenden Gelegenheit. Denn immerhin muss ja der "Woke Mindvirus" bekämpft werden. Was immer das ist und wie immer man das durch Hass, der bestätigt, dass alles, was nicht weiß männlichen und hetero und nach Möglichkeit mindestens in den späten 40ern ist, gehasst wird, erreichen will. Dabei ist aber auffällig, dass viel mehr als früher auf Gerüchte und angebliche Inhalte eingegangen wird als auf tatsächliche. "Madame Bovary" oder "Anna Karenina" haben die Szenen und Situationen, an denen Anstoß genommen wurde, tatsächlich beinhaltet. Werther-Fieber hat zu vermehrten Selbstmorden geführt, auch wenn Goethe Selbstmord in seinem Werk eben gerade nicht romantisieren wollte und sich selbst durch das Schreiben davon abhalten wollte. Doch heute wird Serien vorgeworfen woke zu sein, wenn sie es nicht einmal wirklich sind, und gewisse Fandoms und Franchises werden herausgepickt und systematisch angegriffen (und das von beiden Seiten) beruhend auf falschen Aussagen über das Quellenmaterial genauso wie die Umsetzung. Während anderes untergeht, was wirklich eine Diskussion wert wäre.

Nehmen wir Ableismus in Science Fiction. "Eureka" hat die neue Zeitlinie beibehalten, weil Alisons Sohn in der kein Autist mehr war und damit "besser". Kein Mensch hat das diese Entscheidung je problematisiert oder in diesen Kontext gerückt. Die schlechsteste TNG-Episode aller Zeiten "Die Operation" hat einen Worf, der rituellen Selbstmord begehen will, weil er gelähmt ist, weil die klingonische Kultur sagt, er ist jetzt nichts mehr wert. Als sich Will darüber bei Picard aufregt (auch weil Worf ihn dazu aufgefordert hat ihm dabei zu helfen), verteidigt dieser Worfs Entscheidung und Bitte auch noch mit den Worten "es ist seine Kultur, das musst du respektieren" (kein Wunder, dass ich Sisko, der Worf gedroht hat ihn aus der Sternenflotte zu werfen als der seinem Bruder später beim selben Ritual geholfen hat, weil der aus ebenso klingonisch dummen Gründen sterben wollte, immer lieber mochte). Später in der Folge meint der gute Captain dann schon wieder, dass Worf eben lieber tot als gelähmt wäre und daher eine überaus gefährliche experimentelle Operation über sich ergehen lassen soll, obwohl Beverly explizit gegen diese ist. Die einzige Person, die von Anfang an daran denkt, dass Worf einen kleinen Sohn ohne Mutter hat, ist Deanna, und Will bringt dieses Arguement schließlich indirekt um sich aus der assistierter Selbstmord-Sache rauszuwinden, indem er sagt kulturell gesehen müsste Klein-Alexander beim Selbstmord assistieren nicht er. Klar, die Folge betont, dass alle anderen Mitglieder der Enterprise Besatzung trotz Lähmung mehr oder weniger glücklich weiterleben könnten, aber die leben ja in einer anderen Kultur (als ihr Mit-Sternenflotten-Offizier Worf mit den menschlichen Eltern und dem menschlichen Bruder und dem Sohn, der die klingonische Kultur hasst. Worf hat genau ein klingonisches Familienmitglied, und zu TNG-Zeiten praktisch keine echten klingonischen Freunde). Die Folge ist Ableismus in Reinform und um so erstaunlicher, wenn man bedenkt, dass sie einen gehbehinderten Hauptcharakter nur kurze Zeit später für DS9 eingeplant hatten - vielleicht als Wiedergutmachung?

Noch seltsamer sind Beispiele von Skandalen über Dinge, die jeder schon wusste, der sich damit auskennt. Für inzwischen sehr langer Zeit hatte Betsy Braddock von den X-Men zum ersten Mal On Panel Sex mit einem weiblichen Charakter, etwas über das niemand jemals geredet hat, vielleicht weil es in einer Nebenserie passiert ist. Letztes Jahr wurde es dann auf einmal zum Skandal, dass Betsy "lesbisch geworden ist", weil sie nun eine offene Beziehung mit Rachel Summers führt (von der es neu war, dass sie bi ist, und da sich ihre beste Freundin Kitty Pryde seit dem ebenfalls als bi geoutet hat, sehen wir ihre gemeinsame Zeit im britischen X-Men-Ableger Excalibur auf einmal mit ganz anderen Augen). Noch seltsamer war die "Velma ist lesbisch"-Enthüllung von vor ein paar Jahren, da Velma in der Fan-Lieblingsserie "Mystery Incoperated" sogar zwei weibliche Love Interests hatte, und die zweite ihre Haupt Love Interest in der zweiten Staffel war, und wenn das Ende nicht wäre wohl ihr Endgame gewesen wäre. Ich würde ja sagen, dass sie die Natur der Beziehung der beiden Mädchen nicht ausdrücklich bestätigt haben, wenn die Tatsache nicht wäre, dass Marcie alias Hot Dog Water im Zwischenvorspann Daphne ersetzt und umgeben von Herzen ein Foto von Velma umarmt (wie Daphne sonst immer in der gleichen Position eines von Fred umarmt), ganz zu schweigen von dem sehr deutlichen Dialog, der es zwar nicht sagt, aber eben dadurch sagt, dass es immer gerade nicht ausgesprochen wird. Damals war das aber alles offenbar kein großes Thema, weil es keiner dazu gemacht hat. Als Tim Drake, der dritte Robin, als bi geoutet wurde, haben Comic-Kenner gesagt: "Na endlich!" und sich alle anderen darüber aufgeregt, so wie lange davor der berühmte "erste" Rictor/Shatterstar-Kuss für Leser der alten "X-Force"-Serie keine Überraschung war, für Shatterstar-Erfinder Rob Liebfeld und viele Leute im Internet aber schon. Also ja, News und Skandale werden gemacht und oft aus Dingen, die für Eingeweihte nicht neu sind.

Wir werden vermutlich nie verstehen was warum ein großes Thema wird und was warum das eben nicht oder erst ein Jahrzehnt später oder mehr wird. Big Internet scheint das zu bestimmen, doch wer oder was Big Internet ist, weiß keiner, wohl auch weil es sich auch ständig ändert.

Was bleibt uns also übrig? In gewisse Diskussionen gar nicht erst einsteigen, andere beinhart weiterhin fact checken und die Beleidigungen, die man dafür erhält, ignorieren und andere einfach in Gang bringen, auch wenn man weiß, dass sie vermutlich toxisch werden, dann hält man sie eben im eigenen Safe Space (sofern es einen gibt). Mehr kann man sowieso nicht tun.

Leider.

[gamerbulten]

Liam Neeson, aksiyon dolu Blacklight fragmanında FBI'ı ele geçirdi Çok sayıda araba kovalamacası ve silahl...

[dear-indies]

can you please help me find an alternative fc to ben affleck? with his problematic antics i'd rather not use him but somebody with a similar aesthetic would be liked

Eric McCormack (1963) 

Billy Burke (1966) 

Timothy Olyphant (1968) English, Scottish, 1/8th Ashkenazi Jewish, small amounts of German, Dutch, and Irish, remote French Huguenot.

Néstor Carbonell (1967) Cuban [Spanish, Catalan, Basque]

Danny Nucci (1968) Italian / Sephardi Jewish.

Ben Mendelsohn (1969) ¼ Ashkenazi Jewish, 1/8 Greek, 1/32 German, Scottish, English, Irish.

Shemar Moore (1970) African-American / French-Canadian, Irish.

Jon Hamm (1971) 

Gabriel Macht (1972) Ashkenazi Jewish.

Arjun Rampal (1972) Punjabi, Dutch.

Jason Behr (1973) 

Kaneshiro Takeshi (1973) Japanese / Taiwanese.

Florian David Fitz (1974) 

Sendhil Ramamurthy (1974) Kannada and Tamil Indian.

Danny Pino (1974) Cuban. 

Paul Amos (1975) 

Justin Hartley (1977)

Brian Tee (1977) Japanese / Korean. 

Lee Dong Wook (1981) Korean. 

Steve Memmolo (?)

Although if you’re recasting Batman please cast somebody who is Jewish! -C

[crimeronan]

started from the bottom now we here

[orphans-of-coldfront]

Working on my alt's Scholar zeta relic in FFXIV by going through Pharos Sirius sync'd repeatedly for poetics and gc seals makes me want to finish the relic and never play healer again. 😅😅😭

The sheer rage I feel every time, just to go out and feel like the Ben Affleck smoking meme for 15 minutes before queuing again... God DAMN this is rough.

[zacksnydersjusticeleaguede]

Zack Snyder's Justice League Stream Deutsch Film Ganzer Online 2021

Film stream - https://zack-snyders-justice-league-de.blogspot.com/

Der Director's Cut der Justice League von Zach Snyder, in dem Darkseid der Hauptgegner ist.

Manchmal ist der Name eines Regisseurs im Titel nur ein Akt des Ego, aber im Fall von Zack Snyders Justice League ist er durchaus für einen Film geeignet, der nicht das Werk eines anderen als des Autors hinter 300 sein könnte. Ein fehlerhafter Blockbuster Diese erweiterte Version der Superhelden-Extravaganz von 2017 wird in einem neuen Schnitt wieder veröffentlicht, der vom ursprünglichen Filmemacher Jahre nach seinem Ausscheiden aus dem Projekt betreut wird. Sie wird durch Snyders fein kalibrierte Vorliebe für mythische Pop-Größe sowohl gestärkt als auch behindert. Das Bild läuft vier Stunden und bietet einen weitreichenden Rahmen, während Batman und seine Kohorten um die Rettung der Erde kämpfen. Obwohl der Kampf um eine zufriedenstellendere und endgültigere Darstellung der Justice League sicherlich atemberaubend sein kann, wird Snyders Version sicherlich durch seine Exzesse und die zugrunde liegenden Mängel einer überfüllten Geschichte zunichte gemacht. Zack Snyders Justice League trifft HBO Max und internationale Partner am 18. März dank einer von Fans inszenierten Kampagne, in der Snyder gebeten wird, seine ursprüngliche Vision zu verwirklichen, nachdem der Avengers-Filmemacher Joss Whedon ihn während der Produktion ersetzt hatte. Abgesehen von Wonder Woman 1984 war das Superheldenkino während der Pandemie Mangelware. Erwarten Sie daher ein beträchtliches Interesse - ganz zu schweigen von der krankhaften Neugier auf diese zweite Einstellung bei einem kritischen und kommerziellen Misserfolg.

Batman (Ben Affleck), der noch immer vom Tod von Superman (Henry Cavill) betroffen ist, versammelt ein Team von Superhelden - Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot), Aquaman (Jason Momoa), Cyborg (Ray Fisher) und Flash (Ezra Miller) Konfrontieren Sie einen interstellaren Feind, Steppenwolf (von Ciaran Hinds geäußert), der gekommen ist, um die Mutterkisten zu sammeln, mystische Geräte, die, wenn sie zusammengefügt werden, den Planeten zerstören werden. Aber ohne den Mann aus Stahl sind unsere Helden möglicherweise nicht mächtig genug, um ihn aufzuhalten.

Es wurde viel darüber gesagt, dass Snyder den Film 2017 verlassen hat (teilweise wegen des Selbstmordes seiner Tochter Autumn) und durch Whedon ersetzt wurde, der einen Großteil des Bildes neu geschrieben und neu aufgenommen hat. Mit einem geschätzten Budget von 70 Millionen US-Dollar enthält Zack Snyders Justice League kein Filmmaterial von Whedon, stellt Snyders Material wieder her und enthält neu gefilmte Szenen. (Diese neue Version wird im 4: 3-Format und nicht im herkömmlichen Breitbildformat angezeigt, falls der Film jemals in IMAX abgespielt wird.)

Im Gegensatz zu Whedons witziger, hektischer zweistündiger Version nimmt sich Zack Snyders Justice League Zeit, um jeden ihrer Charaktere - einschließlich Steppenwolf (dessen CG erheblich verbessert ist) - zu etablieren und die Einsätze für den vorhersehbaren Kampf um Leben und Tod zwischen Gut und Böse zu legen böse. In einer Zeit, in der es dem Publikum leichter fällt, Streaming-Serien zu spielen, ist die vierstündige Laufzeit von Zack Snyders Justice League möglicherweise nicht so entmutigend, und der Filmemacher leistet gute Arbeit, um das Verfahren in einem gleichmäßigen, selbstbewussten Tempo zu halten.

Im Laufe seiner Karriere hat Snyder stets übergroße Brillen mit einem dunklen Ton und einem stilisierten visuellen Flair hergestellt, das sich an Graphic Novels und Videospielen orientiert, und tatsächlich schwelgt der Film in seinem operativen Ehrgeiz. Die traurige Farbpalette des Kameramanns Fabian Wagner und die brütende Partitur von Tom Holkenborg verleihen der Geschichte, in der diese DC-Helden - im Gegensatz zu ihren sonnigeren Marvel-Kollegen - als gefolterte Personen behandelt werden, die durch die Verantwortung belastet sind, als letzter Kampf der Erde gegen den scheinbar unbesiegbaren Steppenwolf zu dienen. Trotz der klugen Comic-Erleichterung von The Flash fühlt sich Snyders Vision wirklich düster und episch an - nicht nur wegen Supermans Tod, sondern auch, weil dieser alternde Batman befürchtet, dass er es nicht wert ist, seine Mitstreiter zu führen.

Die längere Erzählung hilft bei einigen Aufführungen - insbesondere bei Fisher als jungem Mann, der mit seiner neuen Realität als kybernetischem Wesen ringt. Aber Affleck bleibt ein bisschen zu mürrisch, und Gadot hat nicht den gleichen Funken wie in ihren eigenen Wonder Woman-Filmen - ein Hinweis darauf, dass diese Charaktere selbst nach vier Stunden in eine weitläufige Erzählung eingebettet werden, die nicht immer jeden zulässt von ihnen zu glänzen.

So bewegend Snyders auffällige Theaterstücke auch sein mögen, der Film sackt schließlich unter dem Gewicht seiner eigenen Selbstbedeutung ab. (Während Zack Snyders Justice League der ursprünglichen Kinofassung überlegen ist, weiß man zu schätzen, warum Whedon versucht hat, Leichtsinn einzufügen.) Und im Vergleich zum weitaus geschickteren Jonglieren von Charakteren und Vorfällen in den Avengers-Bildern bleibt Chris Terrios Drehbuch bei der Suche nach Mother Boxes sowie die Adressierung unzähliger Nebencharaktere, darunter Amy Adams 'triste Lois Lane.

Am tödlichsten ist jedoch, dass Snyder nach dem letzten Showdown mit Steppenwolf einen langwierigen Epilog aufgreift, der noch mehr Charaktere einführt, was zu dem Gefühl beiträgt, dass seine Besessenheit dieses Mammutunternehmen zwar befeuert, ihn aber auch anfällig für Overkill macht. Dieses oft absorbierende Werk kann so mächtig sein wie Superman selbst, aber ein Mangel an Zurückhaltung erweist sich als sein Kryptonit.

Es sollte leicht sein, Zack Snyders Justice League als Unsinn abzutun. Es geht um eine Gruppe von Superhelden - einige gekappt, andere nicht -, die zusammenarbeiten, um einen intergalaktischen genozidalen Alien zu besiegen. Dies ist auch die gleiche Handlung wie bei einem Avengers-Film, daher liegt der Hauptunterschied in der Ausführung. Während sich die Marvel-Filme für eine allgemein ansprechende Pop-Sensibilität entscheiden, ist diese Justice League bedeutungsvoll und manchmal nachdenklich, ein Werk eines einzigartigen Regisseurs, der eine einzigartige Interpretation von Superhelden hat. All dies wäre interessant, sogar provokativ, wenn Snyders Talent seiner Vision entsprechen würde. Leider untergraben das Aufblähen des Storytelling und die bombastische Aktion sein endgültiges Update des Originalfilms. Aufgrund beruflicher Unterschiede und familiärer Tragödien konnte Zack Snyder die Justice League 2017 nicht beenden. Joss Whedon übernahm die Zügel und lieferte dann einen zweistündigen Beiljob, der Snyders mythischen Ehrgeiz unbehaglich mit seinen eigenen witzigen Instinkten verband. Diese aktualisierte Justice League ist zugegebenermaßen eine Verbesserung: Snyder hat viele Szenen, die nicht funktionierten, abgeworfen und einige andere hinzugefügt, um sie (grenzwertig) kohärent zu machen. Das Ergebnis ist ein maximalistisches vierstündiges Epos (ja, dieser Film ist länger als Lawrence von Arabien und Vom Winde verweht). Sind alle vier Stunden notwendig, um diese Geschichte zu erzählen? Absolut nicht. Werden diejenigen, die #releasethesnydercut-Trends haben, mit dem, was ihnen gegeben wird, zufrieden sein? Wahrscheinlich, obwohl sie eher erschöpft als berauscht sein könnten.

Snyder fügt so viel Aufblähung hinzu, dass sich sein Film so anfühlt, als würde er sich über vier Tage und nicht über vier Stunden entfalten. An einem längeren Film ist an sich nichts auszusetzen - Der Ire ist fast dreieinhalb Stunden alt und verdient seine Laufzeit -, also liegt das Problem hier im Detail. Mehrere Charaktere werden mehr als einmal vorgestellt, während die Ursprungsgeschichten von Cyborg (Ray Fisher) und The Flash (Ezra Miller) die größere Erzählung verlangsamen. In sechs Teilen und einem Epilog erzeugt und löscht die Justice League erzählerische Impulse, bis nur noch eigenständige Szenen oder Bilder übrig bleiben. Einige einzelne Szenen sind faszinierend, wie ein langer Rückblick, in dem sich alte Helden gegen einen gemeinsamen Feind vereinen. Sie bieten Snyder die Möglichkeit, sein Lieblingsthema zu erkunden - das Nebeneinander von Superhelden und ursprünglicher Mythologie -, außer dass sich seine Helden nicht so entwickeln, wie er es wünscht. In Snyders Herzen gibt es eine resonante Version dieser Geschichte, aber egal wie viel er versucht, er will es nie ganz in unsere hinein.

Anstelle eines Seitenverhältnisses „Briefkasten“ wählt Snyder Boxer-4: 3-Dimensionen, die fast quadratisch sind. Dafür gibt es zwei Gründe: Er kann die Höhe eines hoch aufragenden IMAX-Bildschirms ausfüllen, obwohl der Heimbetrachter auf der linken und rechten Seite vertikale schwarze Balken sieht. Noch wichtiger ist, dass dieses Seitenverhältnis es ihm ermöglicht, Bilder und Menschen auf unterschiedliche Weise zu betrachten. Hier ist die Justice League etwas Einzigartiges. Der quadratische Rahmen betont Gesichter und Körper, eine formale Einschränkung, die das Thema „Götter auf Erden“ vertieft, das den Film dominiert. Vielleicht ist die IMAX-Version des Films wirklich beeindruckend, ein Gonzo-Superhelden-Experiment, das etwas Dringenderes und Ursprünglicheres erschließt. Manchmal sind die Bilder großartig, wie eine Einstellung von Superman (Henry Cavill), der eine messianische Pose einnimmt, während er über dem Planeten schwebt. Trotzdem besteht eine ständige Inkongruenz zwischen der formalen Schönheit und jeder tieferen Verbindung.

Diese Herangehensweise an das Spülen von Küchenspülen ist letztendlich statisch, fast wie eine Urlaubs-Diashow, die jedes erschöpfende Detail abdeckt. Ohne jeglichen Impuls leiden die Aufführungen entsprechend. Es gibt keine Spannung zwischen Batman (Ben Affleck) und den anderen Helden, als er versucht, sie zu rekrutieren, weil wir wissen, dass es eine lange, charakterbasierte Szene gibt, die das Verfahren bald in die Länge ziehen wird. Aquaman (Jason Momoa) und Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot) sind wie nachträgliche Gedanken, ein vergessenes menschliches Element in einer Geschichte, die nur Raum für intergalaktische Zerstörung bietet. Der Bösewicht Steppenwolf hat leichte ästhetische Verbesserungen erfahren, aber er hat immer noch die Bedrohung eines mittleren Managers, dessen Hauptziel es ist, magische Kisten zu sammeln (bei aller Feierlichkeit verlässt sich die Justice League immer noch auf dieselben müden McGuffins wie ihre Marvel-Äquivalente ). Bei so vielem, was hier passiert, geht es um Verpflichtung - eine, die Snyder den Charakteren und seinen Fans gegenüber empfindet -, dass wichtigere Elemente wie Charakter / Leistung zweitrangig sind.

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[project-casting]

Hollywood Abandons U.S. Over Lack of Coronavirus Testing

Hollywood Abandons U.S. Over Lack of Coronavirus Testing

Hollywood abandons filming in the U.S. due to the lack of Coronavirus tests.

A movie starring Ben Affleck was supposed to start filming in the United States. However, due to the lack of COVID-19 Coronavirus testing material and fast lab results, producers moved the filming location to Canada.

Ben Affleck’s latest movie is just one of several projects leaving the U.S. for Canada, the U.K., and…

[fencer-x]

I prefer liogalo, and I’m generally not interested in switching. I feel like some folks talk about switching because it’s idk more woke or some bullshit but lbr most of the fandom is gonna go for the ~twinkier~/smaller/delicate-looking one bottoming? (Whether that’s actually true or just a headcanon) And like half the fanfic with the rarer configuration is gonna emphasize how ~rare~ it is for the other one to top like “dw this isn’t how they normally do it of course ;))))”

Examples that immediately come to mind: otabek and iwaizumi in the western fandom because that’s also unfortunately (unfortunately in the sense that my preferences went against the fandom grain and therefore I have almost nothing to consume) where my interests swung as well, and at some point you just get so tired of it like yeah yeah okay *insert meme of Ben Affleck smoking*

It’s a lot easier to not have a hardline stance when your preferences are met I guess? People make their preferences obvious in art portrayals/visual cues/their characterization — it’s in the way the tropes are used/what’s emphasized even with pg stuff. Idk if it’s necessarily a bad thing — i def use it to determine if a fic /dj/artist artist enjoys the same configuration I do. Idk sometimes it’s super obvious? Sometimes it’s just kinda lonely not being in the majority lol

Lol sorry didn’t mean to wall of text you, it’s just something I think about sometimes. Not necessarily top/bottom dynamics but like, what gets popular and why and how this influences fan content, feel free to ignore me :’D

I personally prefer the OPTION of switching, because the fans I’ve met who are adamant about one or the other are adamant for gross reasons (usually couched in “lol have you SEEN him! He’s a TOTAL bottom!” expecting me to agree with them... which is what the shippers that prompted my initial post were saying...).

And I expect this isn’t widely understood in PM fandom, but: liogalo is not actually all that rare (in JP fandom at least)! It accounts for 1/3 of the content with lio and galo together at the next event, so while galolio has more doujinshi/fan content coming out for it at this event, it’s by no means utterly dwarfing liogalo, so the idea people need to be ‘on guard’ and aggressively express their support for one version over the other is a little absurd. It’s in the minority, but one out of every three people enjoys it, pretty much :) And that’s just JP fans who ONLY ship it, to the exclusion of galolio, suggesting that a much larger portion are more than excited for lio topping. He may have the ‘look’, but even Japanese fandom isn’t treating him like they treat other characters with similar builds.

I already talked about your Otabek and Iwaizumi woes (I assume you mean Yuri/Otabek and Oikawa/Iwaizumi? since those are the alts of the more popular versions; but even Oikawa/Iwaizumi isn’t terribly rare, in JP at least, because tsundere ukes are super popular here...)

On which note, you mention fanfic a lot--have you looked for doujinshi of your rarer ships? Because people who ship ‘usually on bottom one is on top’ are almost NEVER the ‘lol this is just a one-off thing’. They like that one on top--or more aptly, they like the OTHER one on bottom. So you’ll find eager shippers of those ‘orders’ in JP fandom rather than ‘switching for social justice points’ (which boggles my mind... why wouldn’t you just ship switching pairings BECAUSE IT’S HOT? I get to see either character in whatever position I like. IT’S FANTASTIC. why do it performatively? fandom.......)

And yes, even PG stuff can be OOC when an artist/writer ships something in a way you might not enjoy. Making one character overly aggressive, or another crying at the drop of a hat. It all stems from a poor understanding of the characters imho, but that’s another story entirely, because sometimes a creator just has an itch they want to scratch and who really cares what others think, because they’re creating for themselves, not others.

[bambiskii]

Throwback MondaY cus thats a thing now, whos your favorite dude actor?? Ben affleck has a special place in my heart ♡ . . Shirt @coolshirtz (the best) Wig @trendywigs Alt acc @bambiskii_basic almost at 9k les go! . . #coolshirtz #lacewig #kawaiifashion #kawaiistyle #kawaii #catears #cosplayer #altgirl #alternativefashion #fashioninsta #fashioninspo #kfashion #jfashion (at Perth, Western Australia) https://www.instagram.com/p/By0PoyLjV4O/?igshid=bu02frb5r4th