#did the hijack thing for editing

[avaantares]

Yet another AO3 bot situation - please spread the word!

Hi, it's me again, the person who wrote that viral post about fanfiction plagiarism! Today I'm here to warn you about abuse perpetrated by bots who have stolen AO3 usernames.

There's currently an epidemic of bots going around leaving (apparently random) horrible, hateful comments on people's fics. This isn't the first time bots have invaded AO3, but the big problem with this wave is that they're using real AO3 usernames to do it.

I learned about this when another writer contacted me after receiving the following comment on their story:

Now, while that is my username, I DEFINITELY did not leave this comment (and anyone who would leave something like that on a fic should be slapped! What an awful thing to post). This fic is in a completely unrelated fandom that I have never participated in, nor has that author participated in any of my fandoms, so the probability of it being some intentional fandom drama thing to make me look bad is also low.

The writer whose fic the comment was left on enlisted the aid of some friends and tracked down other guest comments with unrelated usernames attached, which is pretty strong evidence that they are being left by bots at random.

The TL;DR: If you receive a cruel comment from a (Guest) with an actual AO3 username attached, it's most likely from a bot. Please do not lash out at or dogpile the AO3 user who owns that name, and who in all likelihood has no idea that their name has been hijacked for evil.

If finding this kind of comment on a fic, even left by a bot, is likely to upset you, I would recommend changing your comment settings so that only users who are logged in can leave comments. To do this, edit your story settings, and under "Privacy," select the radio button that says "Only registered users can comment," as shown below.

Please spread the word to other AO3 users! And if you see mean guest comments on other fics, maybe let the author know that it's probably from a bot and not a real person who thinks their writing is bad.

[gojoest]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

━━━ synopsis: fate has a strange way of birthing love. you married gojo satoru to stay close to his father — an arranged union built to conceal a scandalous affair. but somewhere between the lies and the silence, another secret began to stir quietly in your chest. one that did not belong to his father at all. 

━━━ content warning: MDNI, fem! reader (she/her), arranged marriage, affair, infidelity, love triangle, age gap (late 50s vs late 20s/early 30s), reader’s age isn’t necessarily specified but she’s written with late 20s/early30s in mind, unreliable narrator, original characters (satoru’s parents: gojo akihito & gojo saori), falling in love, sexual themes but no explicit content, alcohol consumption in a few scenes, reader is drunk in one scene, flashbacks, character death, murder, twists, there’s a specific fire scene that is heavily inspired by the manhwa “betrayal of dignity”, pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, ask to tag if something triggering is missing 

━━━ pairing: gojo satoru x fem! reader ; gojo akihito (oc) x fem! reader 

━━━ word count: 20k+ (…idk what happened there tbh) 

━━━ author’s note: hello guys! this is the idea i first mentioned back in october and it’s finally coming to life! it’s the longest thing i’ve ever written so please be gentle and kind — to me, to the story, and to reader. i did my best to proofread while editing but apologies in advance for any typos, inconsistencies or mistakes that might’ve slipped through! i hope you enjoy the read ♡

Love can make you do crazy things.  

Sometimes it’s a silly behavior that you exhibit, one that isn’t akin to your usual self, one that makes you a bit of a fool. 

You find yourself taking detours to “accidentally” bump into someone. Your heart races at the sight of them, and you disguise your longing behind an awkward ‘What a coincidence!’, but what you really mean is ‘I really wanted to see you! I couldn’t stay away.’ It’s harmless — charming, even. 

But what happens when love blooms where it shouldn’t? When it takes root in poisoned soil, nurtured by secrecy and betrayal — can it still be called innocent? When the heart wants what it shouldn’t, when desire threatens to unravel lives and twist fates — is it still harmless? Still endearing? 

No. The fool knows better — but doesn’t care. 

Blinded by love, reason is cast aside. Judgment dulls. Morality slips through desperate fingers. The choices no longer belong to conscience; they belong to longing. 

Science says that falling in love mimics a drug high — dopamine rushes, rational thought hijacked, impulse overrides consequence. You become addicted. You crave. And in that craving, you’d do anything to have it. No matter the cost. 

-- 

The air in the room is thick. With the windows shut, the scent of sex lingers — trapped between the four walls of the hotel room, clinging to your skin and his. Your bodies lie tangled, worn out and still close. 

“Nobody saw you come in, right?” the whitehaired man beside you breaks the silence, voice low but tender. His breathing has steadied, back to its usual calm rhythm. 

You tilt your head, cheek still pressed against his damp chest. His hand, which had been trailing lazily along your bare back, moves up to cradle your neck — gentle, almost instinctive. Like he’s trying to spare you any discomfort, even now. It makes you smile, the way he always trembles for you. 

“No, no one saw me”, you murmur. “It’s not like this is the first time.” 

“It’s the first time since you got married”, he replies, his tone quieter, more guarded. 

“Is this why you’re so tense?” you let out a feeble laugh. “Nothing’s changed, really — except now we’re both married...” the smile on your lips slowly fades. Your lips part, more words caught behind them. 

...not to each other though — you want to say, but you don’t. You don’t want to break the moment. It’s been too long since you last had this. 

“Actually”, he trails off, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. 

At times like this, you’re reminded, again, how large he is. He barely shifts beneath you, just stretches one arm to grab the pack, the other still wrapped around your waist. He lights a cigarette with practiced ease, tucks it between his lips, and inhales deeply.  

“There’s one thing that has changed”, he says, smoke curling from his mouth. 

“Oh?” 

“I see you every day now.” 

A faint smile touches his lips, softening his blue eyes. He kisses the top of your head, gaze lingering on you. 

That’s right. You do see each other every day now. It’s the consequence of living under the same roof. 

“But even so, moments like this... they’ve become rare. That bothers me.” 

The warmth leaves his voice. His eyes grow distant, pale and cold. “Seems like he is keeping you too busy. Maybe he’s starting to like you.” he speaks in a dull voice. 

“You think so?” 

“He’s around the house more, with you. He used to be gone all the time. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” His tone hardens. “He wasn’t supposed to act like this.” 

You let out a dry, uneasy chuckle. “Maybe he’s taking after you. Maybe I bewitched him... just like I bewitched you.” 

You don’t mean it. It’s just a tease, but the words land wrong.  

“Don’t joke about it”, he mutters, exhaling sharply. His brows furrow, tension creeping back into his features. “That’d be... problematic.” 

The man beside you is Gojo Akihito — your lover. The former head of the Gojo Clan. He is also the father of your husband. The current head of the clan — Gojo Satoru. 

...you only meant to lighten the mood. But just like his plan —  

It’s not working. 

-- 

Rumor has it: The clan head, Gojo Satoru, is completely enamored with his wife. 

It has become the talk of the mansion.  

“Did you see”, one maid whispers, nudging her colleague as they set the long dining table. “He brought her flowers, again.” 

“That’s nothing”, another chimes in, lowering her voice. “The other day he asked me how to make omurice. Said he wanted to learn it properly.” 

The first two maids lean in, wide-eyed. “And? What happened?” 

“I went into the kitchen early next morning”, she continues with a conspiratorial grin, “And there he was. Apron and everything. Cooking omurice from scratch. Said it was for his wife. Even served it on a fancy plate — with flowers from the garden. I think he picked them himself.” 

The maids collectively gasp, hands covering mouths, eyes sparkling. 

“He’s completely smitten”, one sighs, nearly swooning. “I heard he turned down every arranged match before her — didn’t even consider them. Then out of nowhere, he agrees to this one without a second thought.” 

“At first, I figured he just caved from the pressure”, another adds. “You know how the elders kept pushing. I thought he married her to shut them up.” 

“But now? Look at him. That’s not obligation. That’s a man in love.” 

A round of dreamy sighs circles the table. 

“Remember how he used to show up maybe once every couple of months? Only if something serious needed his attention?” 

“Now we see him every day”, one nods. “And if he’s not home, it feels... weird.” 

“He always comes back”, says another. “No matter how late. And the first thing he does is go see her.” 

“That’s not all”, the first maid says, lowering her voice even more. “The other day, he came home with a wound.” 

“No way. Him?” one of the others gasps. “He’s untouchable — who even got close enough to land a hit?” 

“Exactly. And do you know what he did? He let her clean him up. She asked for the first aid kit, and he just... smiled. The whole time. Like it didn’t hurt at all.” 

A chorus of quiet squeals follows, full of awe and disbelief. 

“He let himself be struck just so she’d fuss over him?” one whispers, covering her mouth. “God, he’s hopeless.” 

But before the fantasy could grow any richer, a sharp voice cuts through the air. 

“If you’re done gossiping”, Akihito says coolly from the doorway, “Perhaps you could focus on the work you’re actually being paid to do. Call everyone when dinner is ready.” 

The maids freeze, spines straightening, heads bowing in rapid succession. “Y-yes, sir. Our apologies.” 

Akihito didn’t linger. He didn’t need to. 

It wasn’t their chatter that irritated him. It was what they were whispering about. What they were seeing — what he couldn’t ignore. That’s what got under his skin. 

--  

“Good evening, wife.” 

You blink at the mirror just as a bouquet of forget-me-nots is gently laid in front of you on the vanity. Satoru leans in behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder, smiling. “You look beautiful, as always.” he murmurs against your ear. 

You shift slightly in your chair, but his hands land softly on your shoulders, holding you in place — not forcefully, but firmly enough to suggest he’s not letting you leave just yet.  

“Want me to brush your hair?” 

You sigh and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I can do it myself.” 

“I know”, he says smoothly. “But I want to.” 

Persistent. That’s one thing you’ve learned about him in the month you’ve been married — Satoru always gets what he wants. If you said no now, you wouldn’t put it past him to slip gum into your hair just so you’d have to ask for help. 

Just like he did with your slippers. 

He wanted to put them on for you one morning — for no reason other than his own mischief, you’re sure — but you refused. Later, fresh out of the shower, they were gone. All of them. Every pair. Oh no, we’re out of slippers! Guess I’ll just carry you — he said with that shameless grin of his. And he did. Said the floor was too cold. Couldn’t let his wife get sick, after all. He carried you around the house all morning. Then, right before leaving to run some errands together, he knelt, slipped your shoes on like some smug prince, and you let him — half amused, half annoyed. 

The bastard always wins. 

“Fine”, you relent now, sitting back. 

“Don’t worry”, he says, picking up the brush. “I’ll be gentle.” 

So far, nothing about this marriage has matched what Akihito told you. It was supposed to be nothing more than a formality. He reassured you countless times that his son would not even glance at you — let alone lay a hand on you; that you would probably just see him just once, on your wedding day, and that would be the end of it. But so far, Akihito was wrong about everything. 

He’s never home, huh? — You see him every day. 

He won’t touch you, huh? — Then why does he look for every excuse to be close? Going as far as to get himself injured on purpose and come back without healing himself so you’ll tend to him... Why does he always find a reason to touch your arm, your hand, your back? Why... Maybe, he wants to get in your pants? That must be it... right? Why else would he try so hard to make things work? It’s not like you two married out of love. You could’ve just quietly existed as his wife on paper; he certainly doesn’t have to bother making you an actual part of his life. 

Sure, he is a huge tease. But it’s not the annoying kind. It’s... disarming. You hate to admit it, but there’s something about him. A pull. A quiet magnetism that makes you want to lean in instead of pull away. And sometimes, you forget — forget why you came to be his wife in the first place, that this was never meant to be more than convenience serving the purposes of a scandalous affair. 

Until you remember. Until you look at him and see shadows of Akihito — the resemblance too striking to ignore. A younger version of the man who changed everything for you. 

You sigh, unable to keep your thoughts from wandering. 

“Did I hurt you?”, Satoru asks, suddenly pausing mid-stroke. 

You glance at his reflection. For just a second, there’s something soft in his expression. Worry. “No”, you say. “Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

He continues brushing, careful not to let the bristles graze your skin. Instead, his hand absorbs the pressure — the motion surprisingly tender. Then his hand drops. Light fingertips brush your neck. Two fingers lift your chin, tilting your head back until your eyes meet. “Thinking about someone else while I’m this close to you?” he asks, brows furrowed. His tone is calm, but the edge in it isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Serious. 

“Jealous?” you smirk, trying to deflect. 

He places the brush down and leans in. His head hovering over yours. There’s barely any distance left. When you both breathe out a veil of warm air falls and fills the tiny gap left between your faces. “Very”, he says quietly, his face deprived of the usual grin. “Makes me want to do terrible things to the man in your thoughts.” He’s not joking. Not even a little. 

“I was thinking about you, actually”, you reply. It’s not technically a lie.  

Not accustomed to such intimate closeness with him, heat starts to spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat acting peculiarly too. The nearness is too much. You share a bed, yes — but neither of you has ever dared cross the middle. Not yet. Why beat so fast suddenly, heart? Must be the fact he’s looming over you like this that is making you uncomfortable. Trying to break the tension, you joke. “If you’re planning on doing terrible things to yourself, make sure you don’t die. I’d hate to be widowed so young.” 

His expression falters. For a second, you see it — genuine surprise. It’s satisfying. He blinks, once, twice, head pulling back slightly, fingers at your jaw trembling with something unspoken. But it doesn’t last. He recovers quickly. 

A breathy laugh escapes him as he leans in again. “You were thinking about me? What, something dirty?” 

You scoff. “You wish.” 

“I do”, he replies instantly. “And don’t worry — you’ll get there soon enough.” 

The audacity. 

“What makes you so sure I’ll get there”, you shoot back. He grins, guiding your face back toward the mirror. “If you can’t see it up close...” He taps the glass. “Just look there. I’m kind of a masterpiece.” 

“The only piece you are is a piece of work”, you mutter, turning your head with a huff, your hair brushing against his face. You expect a quip in return. But he goes still. Sniffs. 

“Hmm... What’s that smell?” He leans closer, nose buried briefly in your hair. “I didn’t know you smoked.” 

You freeze. Akihito’s cigarettes. You didn’t wash your hair after the hotel. Damn it. 

“I don’t”, you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. 

“You smell like cigarettes.” 

“I was with a friend earlier. She smokes. Maybe that’s why.” you lie. 

Satoru watches you carefully through the mirror. “Good. You shouldn’t smoke”, he says at last, straightening up. “My wife has to live a long life. With me.” A smile tugs at his lips. A playful smirk, back to normal. 

You try to summon a sharp retort. Something clever. But all you manage is a tight, fake smile as your heart thunders in your chest. You were almost caught. 

Then— 

Knock-knock. 

“Dinner is ready, sir. Madam.” one of the maids calls from outside. 

“Hai-hai~”, Satoru casually yells out. “We’ll be down in a minute.” 

-- 

The dining room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but tension — stretched thin between the four people who sit on the table. It makes the softest sounds feel sharp. Or maybe it’s just in your head, considering the situation. 

It’s tradition, apparently — whenever everyone is home, meals are eaten together. Your least favorite part of the day. Understandably so, given the circumstances: you willingly put yourself here, fully aware you’d be sitting across from the woman whose husband you’re secretly sleeping with, and beside the son you’re technically cheating on — with his father. 

You sit beside your husband, Satoru. Across from you, Akihito — your lover, your secret. Next to him is Saori, your lover’s wife and husband’s mother — regal and silent, her expression unreadable as always, like she’s wearing a careful mask. 

No one speaks when the food is served. Just the mechanical act of eating, a silence that presses against your ribs like guilt. Your appetite has all but vanished since becoming the bride of the Gojo Clan, your stomach perpetually knotted with remorse. Sometimes even water feels repulsive. You often catch yourself wondering why you’re even doing this. Is it really love? You begin to question the choice you made, weighing it with a heaviness that never seems to lift. 

Then, as always, the silence shatters. Satoru reaches over, casual as anything, and plucks a bite of greens from your plate with his chopsticks. “Yours always taste better”, he grins, dropping them in his mouth. “Must be the way you chew”, he says with a mouthful.  

A small, soft laugh escapes you before you can catch it. There he goes with his silly antics again, you think. He somehow always knows how to tug you out of your head, whether you want him to or not. 

Akihito’s chopsticks pause mid-motion. His eyes narrow, barely, but you feel the weight of it. “Interesting”, he says, voice low and smooth, but with a faint edge. “I thought you never touched your greens.” 

Satoru doesn’t look away from you as he chews, slow and deliberate. “Tastes change.” 

The air thins. You take a sip of wine to steady your hands and avoid meeting Akihito’s eyes. You can feel them — heavy, disapproving, and not very kind. 

“They do”, Akihito replies after a moment, setting his chopsticks down with a soft click. “Although not always for the better.”  

You want to look at him, to read what he’s really thinking — but you don’t dare. Sometimes it feels like even a glance might betray you. Especially now, as Satoru shifts slightly in his seat, angling himself subtly closer to you, as if rising to meet some unspoken challenge. 

“I suppose it depends”, Satoru says lightly, the smile still playing on his lips. “Sometimes, watching someone savor something — it can spark a craving in you too.” He smiles at you then — softly — and something flutters in your chest that has no business being there. Then, he adds, with just enough weight to sharpen the air again. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, old man? How tastes change over time.” 

You freeze, just for a moment. Akihito doesn’t blink. His tone stays dry, his face unreadable. “Was there a point to that?” 

Satoru leans back slightly. “Just that, at your age, I’d expect you to be less surprised when people... shift.” 

Across from you, Saori finally lifts her wine glass. She doesn’t drink — not yet — but she swirls the red liquid slowly, her gaze shifting from father to son like she’s watching something she’s already seen before. They clash often, you’ve noticed. Not loudly, not outright — but it’s always there. A push and pull beneath the surface, a cold war of words and glances. 

Sometimes, you wonder if Satoru knows about the affair. He says things — subtle, but cutting — that make you pause, that make you think he might be more aware than he lets on. Maybe that’s why he’s pursuing you so intently — just to prove a point to his father. But then, there are moments when his gaze softens when he looks at you, when his touch lingers just a second too long. He goes out of his way every day just to be near you. And in those moments, it feels too sincere to be a game. You start to think he might actually mean it. That he’s not just chasing you out of spite — but because he truly wants you. 

You reach for your own glass again, taking another sip of wine, as if it might wash away the tension thickening by the second. But it doesn’t. Setting the glass back down, your hand lingers at its base. Your fingers brush against Satoru’s hand that rests on the table between you two. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his pinky curls beneath yours — just enough to be felt, not seen. You don’t pull away. You know Akihito sees it. You feel it. The tick in his jaw is barely visible, but you notice it. 

“I’ve been seeing you around way more frequently, Satoru. I hope marriage hasn’t dulled your focus”, he says, his voice smooth and pointed. “There are more important things than... comfort.” 

The irony, you think. The words sound like a joke to you, coming from the same man who orchestrated your marriage just to keep you closer and see you more freely. You barely manage to swallow a scoff. 

Satoru leans back in his chair, unfazed. “You’d be surprised”, he says lightly. “Sometimes comfort is the only thing keeping people from falling apart.”  

“It’s rare”, Saori speaks at last, “to see affection in this house. Perhaps we shouldn’t discourage it.” Her words are gentle, kind — at least, on the surface. But they carry the weight of something unspoken, a quiet complaint from a woman who has never been loved by her husband — not in the way a lover is. 

The silence that follows is anything but gentle. Her words hang in the air, delicate yet heavy, like the last note of a song no one knows how to follow. No one speaks. Not right away. You watch Akihito, wondering if he’ll respond — if he even knows how. But his expression remains unreadable, carved from habit more than emotion. Then, without looking at anyone in particular, he speaks, as if the comment never touched him at all. “I meant to tell you”, Akihito says, cutting through the quiet like a blade, “The elders requested a meeting with you tomorrow morning.” 

Satoru’s glass of water stills halfway to his lips. “Can’t”, he says casually. “I’m taking my wife out.” 

You blink. That’s the first you’ve heard of it. 

Akihito’s expression doesn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw tightens — just once, sharply — as he exhales through his nose. “You can reschedule”, he says. “The clan elders don’t appreciate being made to wait.” 

Satoru shrugs. “Neither does she.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, but the weight of it presses into your ribs like heat. 

The silence that follows is tight, full of things no one says. Saori watches Akihito this time, her gaze sharp as cut glass. Her husband is acting odd. And she notices everything. 

--  

Gojo Akihito was a man carved from discipline. Now in his late fifties, he was a figure both respected and quietly feared. When he entered a room, silence followed. Backs straightened. Conversations halted. People instinctively adjusted their posture — as if simply being in his presence demanded their best. His presence was weighty, not in a menacing way, but with a gravity that commanded reverence. His name alone held power — spoken softly, carefully, like it belonged to someone who mattered more than most. And he did. Shaped by the will of the elders, Akihito had been molded into the ideal head of the Gojo Clan: composed, unwavering, and dutiful. Obedience had been stitched into his bones from childhood. He was taught not to dream, but to serve. To lead with strength and never stray from what was expected. 

His path had been set before he could walk it — become strong, inherit the clan, marry a chosen wife, produce an heir. And he did. His talents bloomed early. Power came easily to him, and with it, authority. He married Saori, a woman selected by the elders, and fulfilled his role without resistance. Love was never part of the arrangement — but respect was. Even in the absence of affection, he treated her with dignity. They never became lovers — much to Saori’s quiet sorrow, for she had loved him from the very beginning. After they conceived Satoru, he never touched her again. As if it had been part of a duty — fulfilled, then forgotten. 

When he stepped down and passed the title of clan head to his son, Akihito did not fade quietly into the background. His voice still carried weight, often more so than of the current leader. To many, he remained the pillar of the clan. The rock. Unmoving. Unshakeable. Dependable. But even stone erodes, given time. Even the strongest man can change. Even a rock, under enough heat — can melt. 

-- 

Akihito wasn’t supposed to be here. The streets were too narrow, too loud, brimming with color and life in a way that felt foreign to him. He was meant to be elsewhere, at a meeting across town — another empty ritual of clan maintenance. But his driver took a wrong turn, and instead of rerouting, Akihito had stepped out, needing a walk. Needing air. Needing space from the weight that always clung to his shoulders. That’s when he saw you. 

At first, it was nothing. You were just a figure in the crowd — young, distracted, smiling faintly at your phone, coffee in hand. But something about you… stopped him. You passed by without noticing him, and the moment stretched too long. Something about you felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why. A detail misplaced in time. A memory from a life he never lived. He turned — just slightly. Just enough to watch you go. You entered a nearby café tucked between cramped buildings. Small. A little worn. Too cozy, too youthful for someone like him. He should have kept walking. But he followed you inside. He told himself it was curiosity. That he needed a moment to sit, make a call, kill time. But deep down, even then, he knew. He picked a seat in the corner. Three tables away from you. 

He returned the next day. And the next. It was irrational. Dangerous. He wasn’t the kind of man who indulged temptations. His life had been a masterclass in restraint — each step measured, each emotion disciplined out of existence. But you… You sat in the same spot each day, sipping a drink, sometimes reading, sometimes just staring out the window with that faraway look that seemed to see something no one else could. He wondered what you saw. He wondered what you wanted. He wondered what it would feel like to be the thing you looked at that way.  And he hated himself for it. 

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know that the man sitting a few tables away had once been the most powerful figure in one of Japan’s oldest sorcerer clans. That he had blood on his hands and responsibilities that still echoed through every inch of his life. You didn’t know that his marriage was nothing more than a political alignment. That he had followed every rule. Sacrificed every selfish urge. That he had never, in over fifty years, been in love. Not until now. 

On the third day, he stopped resisting and made a decision. He stood up, walked to your table, and asked — “May I sit?” 

-- 

Three tables. He was sitting three tables away from you — again. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. Today made the third. 

You’d noticed him immediately. How could you not? Tall, impeccably dressed, white hair, broad shoulders, and unmistakably refined. You guessed he was in his fifties, but he wore it well — almost too well. Dressed in a designer suit, he looked out of place in this cozy, slightly run-down café filled with students and twenty-somethings. Yet, there he was. 

Each time you stole a glance, he was gazing out the window, never once meeting your eyes. But something about him — his presence, the stillness in the way he sat, the ghost of a smile on his lips — kept drawing your attention. Maybe you were imagining things. But, perhaps, was he there… for you? Just as you started telling yourself it was all in your head, he moved. Ah, he’s leaving— 

No — he wasn’t. He was walking toward you. 

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened as he came to a stop at your table. 

“May I sit?” he asked, voice smooth but low, as if careful not to disturb the air between you. You blinked, pulse rising. “Why here?” you asked, managing a dry smile. “There are plenty of other tables, including the one you’ve been using for the past few days.” You motioned toward his old table. “I like the view better from here,” he replied calmly, and took the seat without waiting for permission. 

The view, of course, was you. He had resisted the pull for two days. But today, Gojo Akihito gave in. In his fifties, for the first time in his life — he fell in love. And for the first time… he broke a rule. 

-- 

He didn’t touch you. Not for weeks. Not inappropriately, not even in passing. His interest was always wrapped in respect, laced with a restraint that was somehow more intoxicating than overt desire. He spoke little, but with purpose. He listened like it was sacred. Asked questions no one else had ever bothered to. You told yourself it was harmless. That you liked the attention he was giving you. That you weren’t doing anything wrong… with a married man. It’s just a connection — nothing more. But the way he looked at you… like you were something precious, something rare, he had no right to touch but desperately wanted to — it stirred something in you. 

When he kissed you for the first time, it wasn’t impulse. It was quiet. Measured. Like a man saying a prayer before stepping into hell. And you let him. After that, the pretense faded. You started meeting behind closed doors…  

You were in love, yes. Or maybe, looking back now, you only thought you were. Not the way he was. You were free, while Akihito was chained to a life he could never escape. The deeper Akihito sank into you, the more you floated above him. Untethered. Capable of leaving. And that was what terrified him the most. He needed something stronger — something permanent — to bind you to him. 

One year into your affair, Akihito proposed something unthinkable. 

“An arranged marriage?” you gasped, your voice cracking in disbelief. “To your son?” You tried to push away from him, stepping out of the bathtub, but he caught your wrist and pulled you back in. 

“I miss you too much when you’re away”, he murmured against your shoulder. His breath was hot. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close, anchoring you to him in the steaming water. “Not knowing when I’ll see you again — it’s unbearable. And knowing it won’t be tomorrow? I hate that.” 

You sat between his legs, your bare back pressed to his chest, steam rising around you like a veil. His head dipped to the curve of your neck. You said nothing. Your lips trembled with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, with a sob that didn’t quite leave your throat. 

You spoke every day. But meetings were rare. Always discreet. Always in motion. Hotels changed with every rendezvous. Different rooms, different names, different times of arrival. You booked separate rooms but only ever used one. Because what you shared was a scandal. And the walls, anywhere, could talk. He was the former head of the Gojo Clan. A public man. A married man. And in the Gojo Clan, divorce was taboo. Unspoken but absolute. Marriage ended only with death. 

“It’s madness”, you whispered. “You’d just… hand me over to another man like that?” 

“I’m not handing you over”, he said, voice low and tired. “It’ll be just on paper. You know what Satoru’s like — he’s obsessed with his work. Sorcery is the only thing he’s ever cared about. He won’t touch you.” He paused. He knew how it sounded. But to him, it made sense. He was convinced this was the best way to keep you close. Satoru, as far as Akihito knew, had no interest in romance, no time for love. If you married his son, your place in the clan would be secured — and so would your bond to him. Even if you tried to leave him one day, you’d still be part of his world. Divorce, after all, was never an option. “Think about it”, he continued. “We’d be able to see each other more freely. People wouldn’t question it if we were spotted together — we’d be family. It would raise fewer suspicions than what we’re doing now.” 

You stared into the steam, into nothing. “...fine.” You caved. 

Neither of you knew then just how flawed the plan truly was. The flaw had a name: Gojo Satoru. 

-- 

Back in your shared bedroom, you close the door behind you and turn to face Satoru. He’s already tugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. You squint at him, arms crossed. “What was that earlier?” He pauses, one sock halfway off. “Hm?” He looks up at you, eyebrow arched in that maddeningly innocent way. 

“‘I’m taking my wife out’”, you echo flatly. “We made no such plans.” 

He chuckles — a low, amused sound. “Ah. That.” Straightening up, he begins rolling his sleeves to the elbows, wandering toward the bed. “I was too distracted by your beauty when I got home, I must’ve forgotten to tell you.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me what exactly?” 

“That everyone wants to meet you”, he says, as if it’s obvious. 

“Everyone?” you eye him. 

“My students. My colleagues. Most of them think I made up this whole marriage thing just for attention.” He grins like it’s the most absurd idea in the world. “So tomorrow, you’re coming with me. I need to show them that my wife is, in fact, a very real, very stunning person~” 

You blink. “So you didn’t just blurt it out to get out of meeting the elders?” 

He scoffs and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “Please. I don’t need an excuse to avoid them. I’ll meet them when I feel like it — not when they demand it.” Of course he would say that. “Besides”, he adds lazily, “I figured we could hang out a little after. Grab a bite or go somewhere. A proper date.” 

You stare at him. “A date?” — “Yeah”, he shoots. “You know, two people spending time together on purpose because they want to?” 

“Satoru”, you sigh, “you don’t have to bother with this kind of thing. This is an arranged marriage, let me remind you. We’re not... required to play house.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mock curiosity. “Who said couples in arranged marriages can’t go on dates? That’s a rule now? If it is, I must’ve missed the fine print.” 

He’s relentless — in a strangely charming way. Always pushing, always poking. And the worst part is... he knows you don’t exactly hate it. You glance away, shaking your head. “Alright”, you say finally, “fine” — and he immediately beams like he’s just won something. And maybe he has — in his own strange way. Satoru doesn’t need much to feel victorious. But there’s something you have noticed — how a yes from you is usually worth a trophy in his world, even if you offer it begrudgingly. 

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to make of the warmth blooming quietly in your chest. It’s not love. It can’t be. Right? But it’s something. A softening, maybe. A flicker of possibility. Your fingers absently toy with the edge of your sleeve. That strange flutter you’ve been ignoring — the one he keeps coaxing out of you — is getting harder to deny. What exactly are you doing? — you ask yourself. 

And then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out quickly and glance down at the screen. 

Akihito: Come to the guest house. 

Just like that, reality presses its weight back onto your shoulders. It doesn’t look like Satoru noticed anything, but your hands are already closing the message, hiding the screen like a child caught with stolen sweets. “I’m going to the kitchen”, you say, too quickly. “I want something sweet.” 

Satoru sits up a little. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get—” 

“No.” You cut him off, maybe too fast. “I’m not sure what I want yet, so I’ll just look around.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment. Something unreadable flickers there — brief, sharp, gone too fast. Then he leans back on his hands, still smiling. “Alright, my picky little bride. Don’t be long.” 

You force a light laugh and slip out the door. 

-- 

Akihito hears your knock — light, familiar — before the door opens. You’re still in your dinner clothes, but your hair is looser now, lipstick faded. You look comfortable, relaxed — and he does not exactly like that. You step quietly, and he lets you come to him without saying a word. For a moment, neither of you speak. 

He looks somewhat tense, but the air between you is still warm with memory — earlier today, your skin beneath his hands, your lips murmuring his name into a hotel pillow. And yet. “I’m sorry for calling you over like this”, he says finally, his voice low. “I just needed to see you.” 

You smile faintly. “You saw me at dinner.” 

“Not like this.” His eyes search yours. “Not alone. Not without... him.” 

You stiffen slightly — not defensively. Just aware. Akihito gestures to the seat beside him. You sit.

“He’s not the same”, he murmurs after a pause. “Satoru. He’s changing.” 

You don’t respond at first. You fold your hands in your lap. 

“You know what he used to be like? Detached. Cold. Always disappearing on missions. He never gave a damn about what anyone thought of him — never entertained sentiment. And now?” He scoffs softly. “Flowers. Cooking. Holding your hand under the table like some infatuated schoolboy...” 

Your mouth opens — then closes. You can’t find the right words. 

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he asks quietly. “At dinner. The way he looks at you.” 

Your gaze falters. Not guilty — not quite — but cautious. “He’s just playing the part, Aki”, you say eventually. “He’s always been theatrical.” 

Akihito shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t an act.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. No anger. Just... disbelief. Like he’s watching something slip through his fingers that he didn’t expect to lose. “Before you came into his life, he never stayed home. Never cared about meals or traditions or people. He never had time for anything... personal.” 

You look down. 

Akihito studies your profile, as if memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the slope of your cheek. “I know I’m the one who suggested this arrangement”, he says, and his voice is more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I told myself it was the best way to keep you close. Safe. But now...” He trails off. 

You reach out, take his hand in yours. “I’m still yours, Aki”, you say gently. “You know that.” 

“I want to believe that”, he murmurs. You squeeze his hand. “You can.” 

But your voice falters, just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick up to your face. There’s no accusation in them. Only fear. The quiet, creeping kind that lives under the surface of a man who’s spent a lifetime being in control. 

“I know he’s not you”, you add softly. “I know why I said yes to this. You don’t have to worry.” 

Akihito nods slowly. But his silence stretches too long. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your hair. Grateful. Reassured — or trying to be. But the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if the threat is outside of what you have... or is growing inside it. 

-- 

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite”, Satoru chuckles, watching you fidget with your sleeves like you’re about to walk into a job interview. You shoot him a dry look. “You say that like you’re not the worst of them.” 

“Me? I’m the warm-up act. They are the terrifying ones”, he teases, nodding toward the lounge room door. You roll your eyes but don’t stop playing with your cuffs. 

“You’ll be fine”, he adds, nudging your elbow gently. “Just flash that charming smile and pretend I’m not hovering behind you like a lovesick fool.” 

“You are hovering.” 

“I’m setting the scene”, he grins. “For dramatic effect.” 

You scoff. “I’m not scared, you know.” 

“Of course not”, he nods solemnly. “You’re just fidgeting because you’re excited to meet my fan club.” You shoot him a sideways glare. He leans over, voice lowering just a touch. “They’re going to love you”, he says, softer now. “They’ve never seen me with someone like you.” 

“Someone like me?” 

“Someone who makes me behave.” 

You don’t get the chance to press him on that. He throws the door open before you can respond — and the room instantly freezes. Chairs creak to a halt. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. All heads turn. A spoon hovers midair. A can of soda stops halfway to someone’s lips. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. And all of it — every flicker of curiosity, disbelief, and blatant awe — is aimed squarely at you. 

“Guys”, Satoru announces, all flair and no shame, “This is my wife. Try not to scare her off.” You manage a composed smile, offering a polite nod. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

The reactions come in like dominos. 

Yuuji blinks so fast he looks like a malfunctioning cartoon. “She’s real. She’s actually real.”

Nobara lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. How is he married to her?” 

“There’s definitely something wrong with her”, Megumi mutters, arms crossed.

“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage”, Maki deadpans without missing a beat.

Even stoic Shoko lifts her eyebrows, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. “I genuinely thought he made you up.”

Ijichi bows at the waist, glasses fogged slightly from the tea steam. “Gojo-san speaks of you often. I assumed it was... metaphorical.” Nanami says absolutely nothing. Just closes his eyes and exhales, a slow, pained breath that says this is beneath me, but also of course this is happening. 

Meanwhile, Geto is the picture of calm. Reclined on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he simply smirks and raises his hand in greeting. “About time you dragged her here, Satoru.” 

“Don’t encourage him”, Nanami mutters without opening his eyes. 

You can’t help it — you laugh. A light, genuine thing that breaks the awkward spell in the room like shattering glass. The tension in your chest uncoils slightly, and Satoru beams beside you. 

“Oh god”, Nobara groans. “Even her laugh is gorgeous. This is unbelievable.” 

“Do you need help?” Megumi asks again, completely serious.

“She’s under some kind of spell, huh?” Yuuji whispers. “Do we do something? Help her?” 

“No need to rescue her”, Satoru says smugly. “She married me willingly” 

“That’s even worse”, Nanami mutters. 

“You guys are insufferable”, you finally say, smiling despite yourself. 

“You’re perfect for him then”, Shoko hums. 

“Alright, alright, don’t scare her off on her first visit”, Geto says, rising from the couch. He strolls over, offering his hand. “I’m Suguru. Satoru’s better half.” 

“Hey!” Satoru protests. 

You shake Geto’s hand. “Pleasure.” 

“It really is”, he replies smoothly. “Though we may have to talk about your taste in men.” 

“I’ve made peace with it”, you reply with a smirk. The room erupts into scattered chuckles. Even Megumi snorts. Satoru clutches his chest. “I feel so betrayed.” 

“Get in line”, Nanami mutters again. 

“Come on”, Geto waves you over. “Sit. Eat something. Let us dissect your personality in peace.” As you move to join them, Satoru’s hand brushes your lower back — a barely-there touch. Protective. Familiar. You glance at him. He’s still smiling like the sun — blinding and hard to read beneath the surface.  

You ease yourself into a spot between Suguru and Satoru on the long couch. Plates and cups shift around. The lounge settles into casual chaos again, but it’s warmer now — less like scrutiny, more like curious acceptance. As conversations spark up around you, you feel it — a brush at your side. Subtle, deliberate. Satoru’s hand slides across the space between you on the couch. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look your way. But under the table, his fingers quietly reach for yours. At first, you don’t respond. The chatter of the room covers the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. It feels like everyone might notice, even though no one’s looking. And still — slowly — your fingers curl around his. 

You glance sideways at him. He’s still grinning and bickering with Geto about who’s ageing better — but there’s a flicker in his eyes when they meet yours. Something warm. Something that longs. And Satoru doesn’t look like he’s letting go of your hand anytime soon. 

-- 

Even after leaving the school and walking toward the car, Satoru hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. And, truthfully, you haven’t tried to pull away either. His hand is warm and steady, fingers loosely laced with yours like it’s always been this natural. “They’re very chaotic”, you say as you walk side by side, the late afternoon sun painting golden highlights into his white hair. “But adorably so.” 

Satoru gasps. “How come you never say that about me?” 

“I do say you’re chaotic.” 

“Not that part”, he pouts, dragging your hand slightly as he walks. “Say I’m adorable too.”

You glance up at him with a smirk. “Why make me lie now?” 

He clutches his chest like you just wounded him. “Unbelievable. And here I was, thinking we were having a romantic moment.” 

“You pouted like a toddler five seconds ago. That was the opposite of romantic.” 

“That was endearing, thank you very much.” He sighs dramatically, unlocking the car with a flick of his keys. “One day you’ll realize just how lucky you are to have married me.”

You chuckle. “I’m still trying to figure that out.” 

As the engine hums to life and the radio kicks in with something mellow, he steals a glance at you. “You liked them, though?”

You nod. “They’re all... a lot. But in a good way. I liked them. They like you, too — though it’s hilarious how some of them thought I was a figment of your imagination at first.” 

“That’s fair”, he shrugs. “Even I sometimes think you’re too good to be real.” You don’t reply to that — partly because it’s sweet, partly because it makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to admit. 

-- 

Instead of taking you to a fancy restaurant, Satoru pulls the car up near a quiet park tucked into a tree-lined stretch of the city. It’s not crowded, the evening air is crisp, and the swings creak gently in the breeze. 

“A date doesn’t have to be complicated”, he says, hands behind his head, strolling beside you. “This used to be my favorite spot when I ditched meetings.”

You laugh. “What a responsible clan head.” 

“Oh, terribly irresponsible”, he agrees proudly. “Now — race you to the swings!”

You both make a break for it, laughing as your shoes hit gravel. You get there first, narrowly beating him (because he let you), and triumphantly claim the left swing. Satoru sits on the other — except, the chains creak loudly as he settles in, clearly too tall and too big for the tiny seat. 

“God, you look ridiculous”, you say between laughs.

“Hey”, he grins. “Let me have my moment.” He tries to swing but his feet keep dragging on the ground. You get off and try to push him but fail spectacularly. “You’re too heavy!” you exclaim. He snorts. “I’m muscle and grace, I’ll have you know.” 

“Lift your legs then! That’s the only way this will work.” 

“If I lift my legs, the swing will snap and we’ll both die.”  

You dissolve into laughter, arms over your chest as you watch him try — and fail — to get any lift. “Hop off now”, you say. “It’s your turn to push me.”

He gets off, and you take over. He starts pushing you gently, and you find yourself relaxing, head tilted back toward the sky as you glide back and forth. You don’t notice how quiet he’s gone until the swing slows and you look back to find him watching you — softly, openly, with none of his usual teasing in sight. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. He shrugs. “You look happy. I like seeing you like this.” 

Your heart stumbles. And just like that, the real world catches up — Akihito, the marriage, the plan... Guilt prickles under your skin. You’re not supposed to feel this warm around Satoru. Not this content. He notices the shift in your eyes, tension in your smile. “Hey.” He walks in front of the swing, kneeling slightly to meet your gaze. “Where did you go just now?” 

You open your mouth — but you don’t know what to say. There’s too much. You’re not even sure what you’re feeling anymore. Satoru doesn’t push. He simply lifts a hand to brush your cheek with his knuckles, gentler than anyone would expect from a man like him. “If you’re scared”, he says, “I’ll wait. But I’m not stopping.” 

You should say something — anything — but you don’t. Instead, you lean forward without thinking. Just a little. Just enough. And he meets you halfway. You kiss. It’s soft. Uncomplicated. Barely a breath long — but enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts scramble. You pull back just as fast, cheeks feeling hot, and suddenly shoot up to your feet. 

“I—uh—I’m going to head to the car”, you stammer, already backing away. “Give me fifteen minutes. Just... wait, okay? Don’t come right now.” Satoru blinks after you as you run off, flustered. A slow smile spreads across his lips. He lifts a hand, touching his fingers to where your lips met his. “Why shy away like this now?” he murmurs to himself, chuckling. “It’s not like this is our first kiss...” 

His smile lingers, a little softer now. Almost nostalgic. He watches the direction you went, lost in thought. Because only he remembers. You’ve kissed before. But back then, you didn’t know who he was. And you still don’t remember. 

-- 

Satoru remembers it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The memory came rushing back the moment he saw your picture — the proposed match for the arranged marriage. The others in the room kept talking, formalities piling up like a tide of obligations, but he barely heard a word.  

It was you — the girl who stole his first kiss. The girl he never managed to find again. 

It happened years ago, sometime past midnight. He had just wrapped up a mission — a dull one, barely worth remembering — and was wandering the streets of Tokyo, eating red bean mochi with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other. Still in uniform, still buzzing from leftover cursed energy, still too wired to sleep. As he strolled past a row of late-night bars and clubs, the music leaked into the street like fog. Somewhere between neon signs and cigarette smoke, he spotted you — a girl slumped on the curb outside a nightclub, arms wrapped around your knees, head lolling sleepily to one side. You looked like you were dozing off. Alone. Vulnerable.  

He kept walking. At first. But something didn’t sit right. There were a few guys loitering nearby — drunk, leering, the kind of men that don’t need a reason to ruin someone’s night. One of them peeled away from the group and started approaching you, calling out something Satoru didn’t care to hear. He stopped at a vending machine, fingers patting his pockets as if he were looking for coins — but really, he was watching. Calculating. When the guy crouched beside you and reached out to brush your hair behind your ear, Satoru moved. Fast. “Sorry I took so long”, he said loudly, slinging his jacket over your shoulders in one smooth motion as he stepped between you and the stranger. 

The man froze. 

Satoru didn’t raise his voice, didn’t flare cursed energy — just looked at him. Cold. Unblinking. Dangerous. The guy got the message. “I was just making sure she was okay”, the creep stammered. 

“Yeah”, Satoru said flatly. “She is. Now leave.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Once the guys scurried off, Satoru crouched beside you, tilting his head. “Hey. Not a great place for a nap, you know?” You stirred, muttering something incoherent. “I’m serious”, he said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s not safe out here.” 

“Can’t walk”, you mumbled. “Not sure if I’m spinning, or everything else is.” 

He blinked. “That bad, huh?”

You squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A kidnapper?”

“Definitely not.”

“Hmm”, you leaned your cheek against your knee. “Guess you’ll do.” 

Satoru stared. “What does that mean?” You reached and tugged his sleeve, and with surprising strength, pulled him to sit beside you. Then, without warning, you laid your head in his lap. “What are you—?” 

“You’re warm”, you sighed, nestling closer. “And you smell nice. But I kind of feel like throwing up.” 

“Please don’t”, he said instantly, trying not to panic. “This is my favorite outfit.” 

You giggled. “You’re funny.”

He looked down at you, at the way your hair fanned across his thighs, at the curve of your sleepy smile. “What are you even doing out here alone?” he asked. 

“I lost my friends”, you mumbled. “Or maybe they lost me. Who’s to say...” 

“You got a phone?” 

You held it up proudly. It was dead. “Perfect”, he sighed. 

Eventually, when it became clear you weren’t going to get up willingly, he gathered you into his arms and stood. “Alright, mystery girl. I’m getting you somewhere safe — where’s your place?” 

“Wait, wait”, you slurred, squinting suspiciously at him. “I don’t know you. I can’t just tell you where I live!” 

“You’re literally unconscious on the sidewalk and I’m carrying you like a bridal bouquet. I think we’re past that point.” 

You didn’t answer. Your head lolled onto his shoulder. He sighed, glanced around. He didn’t know your name, didn’t know where you lived — but you looked about college-aged, and the university campus wasn’t far. It was the best guess he had. So he started walking.  

Halfway there, a group of girls came jogging down the sidewalk, calling some name (yours). They looked frantic — until they saw you in his arms.  “Oh god”, one of them exhaled. “We’ve been looking for her everywhere!” 

They reached out to take you, but you lifted your head groggily, blinking at him like you’d just remembered he existed. You took off his sunglasses and placed them on his head, then cupped his face in both hands, surprisingly gentle. 

“You’re pretty”, you said. 

He blinked. 

Then you leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and quick. “Thank you”, you whispered. “For keeping me warm.” 

And just like that, your friends pulled you away — you still wearing his jacket, him still too stunned to speak. He stood there long after you were gone, fingers pressed to his lips, dazed. “What a weird girl”, he muttered. 

But he’d already fallen for you. 

He tried to find you after that, of course — visited the area again, lingered by the campus, even asked around in his own way. But your name, your face... all of it had vanished like a dream after waking. Until years later — when he saw your photo again. And this time? He said yes without hesitation. 

-- 

The days begin to blend. Soft, warm mornings. Laughter over late breakfast. The rustle of flower petals against your cheek as you wake — a new habit Satoru’s picked up. You open your eyes to a fresh bouquet on your pillow, tied together with a silk ribbon and a folded note tucked inside. 

Roses are red, violets are blue, don’t open the curtains, I’m watching you ;)  S. 

You roll your eyes but smile. By now, your phone is full of messages from him — some voice notes, some texts. Some completely random, like: 

Voice message — 9:07 AM 

Hey, I found this stray cat that reminds me of you. They ignored me when I tried to pet them and just walked off. Thought that was kinda romantic~  

Text — 10:12 AM 

Do you miss me or are you pretending I don’t exist again? Be honest. I can take it. (Don’t be honest) 

Sometimes he’s halfway through a mission and still finds the time to send you a photo of some stupid little charm at a shrine that “looks cursed like you” — and by the time he returns home, you’ve forgotten how silence used to fill the rooms before he came. 

You start leaving notes back. Hiding snacks in his coat. One time, you sent him flowers — as a joke. A massive, bright pink bouquet delivered right to the faculty lounge at Jujutsu Tech. 

Yuuji nearly dropped his drink when he saw it. “Sensei, I thought you were the man in this relationship... but I guess you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” 

Satoru beamed as he held the bouquet. “Listen, Yuuji, I think she’s got me on a leash. And honestly? I don’t mind it.” 

Geto didn’t even blink. “You’ve always liked being domesticated.” 

Nanami groaned in the distance. “Please take your romance outside school grounds.” 

Your life with him feels like a sitcom at times. Like you’ve somehow fallen into a slice-of-life version of your own story. And strangely, you don’t hate it.

But not all lives move at the same pace. 

Akihito watches it unfold from the shadows of his own silence. This was not part of the plan. You’re playing your role way too well to his liking. Are you humoring Satoru’s peculiar behavior for the sake of keeping the peace... or is there something more to it?

He feels the distance stretching. You reply to his messages slower now. When he calls, you sound distracted — not cold, just... somewhere else. Sometimes when he walks by your and Satoru’s room, he hears his son’s voice talking to you and it cuts deeper than he expects. Laughing. Teasing. Talking to you in a tone Akihito used to think was only his to use. 

He remembers your last few moments together, how they’ve been growing shorter. More careful. Your touches — once confident, rooted in secret familiarity — now come with hesitation. Like you’re aware of something new. Something blooming in the cracks you didn’t plan for. You were slipping. And for the first time in a very long time, Akihito doesn’t know what to do. 

He doesn’t confront you. He won’t. Because even now, he trusts you. Even now, he tells himself you would never betray him like that... But still — he’s left staring at the space beside him that used to be filled by you, fingers curled into fists he won’t raise, breathing through a storm he never thought he’d have to weather. 

--  

Evening settles softly across the room like a warm blanket. The lights are dim, casting a gentle golden hue over the shared bedroom you’ve both slowly grown used to — not just as a space, but as a kind of quiet haven. You sit on the bed with your knees tucked close to your chest, absently flipping through some old magazine you already checked out twice. Satoru is nearby, sprawled across the foot of the bed, fiddling with his phone but mostly stealing glances at you. The silence between you is easy now. Not empty, not awkward — just comfortable. 

Still, something hangs between you, unspoken but undeniably there. It’s been lingering ever since that kiss in the park. You haven’t kissed again since, but your touches linger longer now — a brush of fingers as you pass something to him, the slow curl of his hand around yours when you walk beside each other. Close, but careful. 

Tonight feels different. 

“Do you ever miss the chaos?” you ask, not looking up from the page. “Before we... whatever this is.” 

“Before we became a domestic power couple?” Satoru teases, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic. I used to be wild. Now I fold your laundry.” You laugh. “You don’t fold my laundry.” 

“I would. For the record. If it meant you’d smile like that.”  

You glance at him now, and his expression softens when your eyes meet. The air changes. It’s in the way he shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. There’s something different in his gaze — not just affection, but hunger veiled by hesitance. You feel it too. That same flutter deep in your belly. The nervous kind. The kind that tastes like anticipation. He moves closer, slowly, watching you for any flicker of hesitation. When he reaches out, his fingers brush lightly along your jaw, his thumb barely skimming your cheek. You don’t move away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that for a while now”, you whisper.

He smiles, a little crooked, a little shy — rare, for him. “Yeah. I’ve been... trying to behave.” 

Your lips part, but you don’t speak. Satoru leans in, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slower than last time. Less impulsive. More reverent. His hand cups the back of your head gently as he pulls you closer, tasting your breath as if he’s been craving it every day since the last time. And then he pulls back. Breath shaky. Eyes shut. You blink, still dazed from the kiss. “Satoru? What are you doing?” 

He exhales a slow, uneven breath. “Waiting for you to slap me.”

You stare at him. That rare vulnerability in his voice knocks the breath right out of your lungs. “Why would I slap you?” 

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t warn you. I just... kissed you. Again. I told myself I’d wait until you wanted me.” 

You hesitate only for a heartbeat. Then, you lean forward and take his face in your hands, gently pulling him back into you. Your lips find his, and this time there’s no pause. No retreat. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you. Every angle. Every sound you make. Your hands find their way under the hem of is shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin, and he shivers beneath your touch. You break the kiss long enough to whisper, “Come closer.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Only if you want me to.” 

“I do”, you breathe, voice trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.” His arms tighten around you, and it’s slow, almost reverent, the way he lays you down — like you’re something sacred. Clothes are shed without urgency, and his hands trace the lines of your body like he’s reading scripture. The rest unfolds in quiet gasps and whispered names. It’s not just desire — it’s need. Familiar, frightening, warm... 

...when it’s over, the silence that follows is different from all the ones that came before. You lie beside him, heart still racing, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your arm. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, memorizing the curve of your lips, the way your chest raises and falls. And for a moment, you forget every plan. Every lie. Every secret. For a moment, it feels like love. The kind that sneaks up on you — quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore. You lie tangled together, your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tenderly caressing your bare skin. Hearts still thudding. 

Satoru is the one to break the silence, his voice light, teasing (as usual). “So... You really don’t remember me, huh?” 

You blink, lifting your head just enough to glance at him. “What?” 

“Brutal...”, he laughs. “And here I was, thinking I made a lasting impression that night.” 

You narrow your eyes, unsure if he’s joking. “What are you talking about?” 

“Nahh, I get it — you were pretty drunk”, he says, dragging the words out like a cat playing with mouse. 

“Oh god—” You sit up suddenly, sheet gathering around your chest. “Don’t tell me we’ve hooked up in the past and I don’t remember it?” Satoru bursts out laughing. “No, not like that.”

You squint at him. “Then stop being so cryptic and tell me!” 

He stretches, hands behind his head, smug and insufferable. “Let’s just say… you were outside a bar. Alone. Slumped on the curb. And I saved your life.”

You blink again. He continues, barely hiding his amusement. “Some creep tried to hit on you. I intervened, obviously. You asked if I was a kidnapper, told me I smelled nice, then fell asleep in my lap.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.” 

“Oh, there’s more,” he says with a mock-serious nod. “You called me pretty. And you kissed me.”

You gape. “You’re lying.” 

“I’m not,” he says, lips twitching. “And you stole my jacket, by the way.”

Your eyes widen. Something flickers at the edge of your memory. “Wait— that was your jacket?”

Satoru raises his brows, clearly enjoying himself. “Yep.” 

“I always wondered where it came from”, you mumble, stunned. “I kept it for years. I thought maybe someone just… gave it to me out of pity.” 

“Well, I did give it to you”, he says, softer now. “But it wasn’t pity.” 

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing it all. “I can’t believe it. That was you.” 

He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal — but his voice betrays him when he says, “Yeah. I looked for you, you know? Went back to that street, hung around your supposed campus. Thought about that stupid night more times than I’d ever admit.” 

You gasp. 

“When your photo showed up in the marriage proposal packet?” He looks over at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “I said yes before they even finished reading your name.” 

You stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

He smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you didn’t look at me like this before.” You lean in, heart heavy with something warm and aching. “How do I look at you now?” 

“Like you might not disappear this time.” 

-- 

You slip into your nightgown, your skin still tingling with traces of warmth and tenderness. The sound of water runs in the background — Satoru in the shower, humming something off-key. A lazy smile plays on your lips as you step out of the bedroom, quietly padding down the hallway. You tell yourself it’s just to grab snacks. Maybe a drink. Something to soothe the afterglow that’s left your heart both full and aching. 

But as you reach the kitchen and flick on the soft underlight, your body seizes.

Akihito is there. Standing in the low light like a phantom, glass in one hand, his other curled into a loose fist at his side. The bottle of whiskey beside him is nearly half-empty. He doesn’t speak right away — just stares at you, and it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before. Not like this. There’s pain, yes. But buried under that is something sharper. Something raw. 

“Akihito...” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t answer. Just brings the glass to his lips again, slowly, as if buying time — or trying to keep himself from saying what’s already clawing its way up his throat. Akihito, huh? You used to call him Aki... 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing slightly as he steps forward. You don’t move — not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t quite dare. He stops in front of you, closer than comfort allows. The scent of whiskey and something tired hangs on him — disappointment. His eyes flicker over your face, and you know he sees it. The softness in your cheeks. The haze still lingering in your gaze. The warmth that isn’t his. He knows. Of course he does. But he wants to confirm, one last time. 

His hand reaches toward you, swiftly lifting your nightgown to brush his fingers against your cunt, bare, still wet and sore. You flinch, instinctively stepping back — but his free hand snaps around your wrist. He withdraws his fingers, bringing them close to your face, then slowly rubs them together. Smearing the slick, laced with remnants that don’t belong to him. “You slept with him”, he says, low, flat. No question. Just a quiet accusation. 

Your breath catches. 

He leans in, close enough for his words to brush against your skin. “Do you love him?”

Before your lips can part, before your heart even finds a beat, a new voice breaks the silence. 

“Hey, I was looking for y—” Satoru enters the room, still damp from the shower, water clinging to his chest, a towel slung low around his waist, another in his hands as he rubs it through his hair. The moment he sees his father, he stops mid-step. His eyes lock at his hand around your wrist. His tone drops, his jaw clenches. He immediately yanks his hand away from you, then his eyes dart to the whiskey on the counter. “Old man, did you get drunk enough to mistake my wife for yours?” 

Akihito doesn’t answer right away, but he tenses. For a moment, he seems to fold in on himself — trying, perhaps, to remember who he is, and who he’s supposed to be. “I lost my balance for a second”, he mutters. Then without another glance at either of you, he brushes past and disappears down the hall. 

The silence he leaves behind is deafening. You’re frozen. Like glass on the verge of shattering. Guilt crawls under your skin like a fever. You want to scream. You want to run. You feel like you’ve betrayed them both. 

Satoru looks at you. His expression softens the moment he sees your face. “Hey...” voice gentle now. “You okay? You look a bit... pale.” He tries to joke, but there’s a note of worry breeding into his words. “Did I... maybe go a little too hard on you back there?” A faint smirk, halfhearted. His eyes, though, are searching.  

You force yourself to nod, to smile like you’re fine. “No. I’m okay. I just—” you glance toward the hallway, “I got startled. I didn’t expect to see anyone else awake.”

Satoru doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push either. He just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch almost reverent. “Next time, tell me”, he says softly. “I’ll walk you around the house like a proper husband.” 

You laugh — weakly, but you manage it. Neither of you says what you’re thinking. Neither of you asks the questions hanging thick in the air. But both of you feel it. Something has shifted. And in the stillness that follows, all you can do is hold your breath and pretend it’s not already slipping out of your control. 

-- 

The soft creak of Akihito’s footsteps disappears into the silence of the hallway as if he is retreating from more than just a room. By the time he reaches the bedroom he shares with Saori, the burn in his chest has settled into something heavier, duller. She is already asleep, curled into herself beneath the silk sheets. He doesn’t even look at her. Akihito pours himself another drink from the decanter near the dresser, the sound of the liquid filling the glass louder than it should. His hand shakes as he brings it to his lips. He has lost count of how many glasses he had tonight. 

He believed he was in control, never imagining, even for a moment, that you might be the one to falter. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, nursing the bitterness on his tongue, trying to down what feels like the unraveling of everything. His grip tightens around the glass until his knuckles turn white. And eventually, the weight of it — the whiskey, the pain, the loss — pulls him down. He settles in bed, fully clothed, eyes open to the dark. Only when the alcohol dulls the sharpest edges of his thoughts does sleep finally claim him. 

Saori wakes sometime later — hours, maybe. She doesn’t know what stirred her at first. The clock ticks quietly. The room is still. But then she hears it. A soft sound. A broken voice. Akihito. At first, she thinks he is awake, whispering. But when she turns to face him, she sees the tight lines on his brow, his face twisted in restless dreaming. 

...a name falls from his lips like a prayer. Your name.

“Don’t leave me...” He shifts, face turned toward her, eyes shut tight. His voice cracks in a way she has never heard before. “I love you... please... don’t go...” 

Saori doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe. For a long moment, all she can do is stare at the man she spent more than half her life beside. The man who kept so much from her. Until now.

Everything made sense to her now. All of it. The proposal of a random girl — a nobody, by traditional standards — as a bride for the clan head. His obsessive oversight of your marriage. His silence. His sudden, inexplicable shifts in mood. All the times he came home reeking of another woman. And now this. 

She sits up slowly, placing her hand on her lap as the cold realization settles deep into her bones. Her husband has never said her name like that, even in dreams. A sharp, unfamiliar ache blooms in her chest. It isn’t jealousy — though that is part of it. It is grief. For a marriage that never really belonged to her. For a love that was never hers to begin with. She turns to look at Akihito once more. His lips move soundlessly now, breath uneven. Vulnerable in a way he has never let himself be when conscious. Saori whispers, her voice nearly a breath, “You poor, stupid man...” 

And she doesn’t know whether to feel pity, rage, or heartbreak. So she sits there — in the dim quiet, beside the man who is dreaming of someone else — and tries to remember what it feels like to be chosen. 

-- 

The morning sun spills through sheer drapes. Saori sits before her vanity, back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap as the house attendant brushes through her hair. She stares at her reflection — still, expressionless. But her eyes, always sharp, betray thought in motion. There’s no puffiness in them, no redness, no sign of the long night she endured beside her sleeping husband and the dreams he whispered into the dark. Not a trace of it reached the surface. Because Gojo Saori does not falter. 

She was raised for this life. Trained from the moment she could walk and speak — in manners, in posture, in etiquette. In silence. In sacrifice. She was chosen for the Gojo Clan as if born for it, bred for it. A perfect match to elevate status and maintain lineage. An ideal bride, by design. Not merely beautiful, but refined. Not merely obedient, but poised. Regal in her restraint. And still, he never loved her. Gojo Akihito, the man she married at twenty-one, gave her everything a wife could ask for — wealth, status, a name that carried power. But not his heart. Never his heart. She spent years trying to earn it anyway. With devotion. With loyalty so fierce it could have moved mountains if he had only looked her way and seen her properly. 

But last night... Last night, in the hush of the sleeping room they shared for so many years, he spoke someone else’s name. Not once. Not carelessly. Lovingly. 

Saori meets her own gaze in the mirror — unwavering, unflinching. She should’ve wept, perhaps. Cried the way lesser women might. Collapsed into trembling disbelief or broken rage. But she had no time for that. No space, in the skin she wears, for such indulgence. Her family name was teetered on scandal, and she bled too much grace into this place to see it torn down now — not by a girl’s foolishness, not by a man’s longing. Gojo Saori was, above else, a guardian of the image. But the image was beginning to crack. And she was ready to protect what needed protecting.  

--  

You sit at the table, eyes tracing the rim of your teacup, steam curling softly into the morning air. You haven’t taken a sip. You haven’t touched your plate. Your stomach is tight, twisted with guilt... especially after last night. 

Satoru is full of light and ease, as he always is — grinning, teasing, tossing playful remarks into the stillness like stones skipping across a glassy lake. His hand brushes yours casually, fingertips lingering just long enough to warm your skin. It’s comforting in a way, how unchanged he is. But his energy doesn’t reach you this morning. You smile when you’re supposed to. You answer when he prompts you. But your mind is far away — caught between the memory of last night’s warmth and the echo of Akihito’s voice, flat and cracked with disappointment. 

Akihito sits quietly, as he always does, but today his silence feels heavier. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose, slow and methodical, as if trying to will away a migraine. He hasn’t touched his food. His presence across the table burns into you like a brand. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel his restraint like a tremor in the room — barely contained, always building. 

Saori is a vision of composure. She lifts her teacup with perfect posture, takes delicate sips, and sets it down with the precision of someone who has performed this same ritual every morning of her life. Her face is unreadable — not blank, but too measured. There’s something behind her stillness, something coiled. But you can’t tell what. She gives nothing away. 

Satoru leans in toward you with a lopsided grin, voice dipped in mischief. His hand brushes your arm again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he senses how fragile you feel. “You’re awfully quiet today”, he points out. You blink, startled — his voice snapping you out of your spiral — and you force a breath, a small smile. He’s trying to bring you back. The way he always does. “I didn’t get much sleep last night”, you manage, voice low and tight. 

“Tired, huh?” he echoes with a soft laugh, leaning in closer. His voice drops to a whisper, just for you. “Guess that’s what happens after a long, productive night... right?” 

Your heart stumbles. The words land like a thunderclap, disguised as a joke, but sharp enough to cut through your skin. His wink is lighthearted — harmless in his mind — but you freeze. You don’t laugh. You can’t. The knot in your stomach coils tighter, shame rising in your chest. You drop your gaze and press your lips together, every nerve on fire. 

Then comes the sound. A sharp, sudden crack. 

Akihito’s hand clenches around his teacup — or what’s left of it. Porcelain shards glint, splintered across the table and floor. His palm is cut, a slow trickle of blood winding through the lines of his hand, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He stares at the broken cup like it’s something far away. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched. A man unraveling slowly — but silently. 

Satoru turns toward him, his gaze casual, almost detached. He says nothing. 

Saori moves immediately, her composure untouched as she rises and then immediately kneels beside him without ceremony, inspecting the wound with clinical care. Her voice is even, steady. “Are you alright?” Akihito doesn’t respond. His eyes are still fixed on the broken shards. His breath is shallow. Hollow. You wonder if he even knows where he is. Saori retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet, her movements smooth, practiced. She tends to the cut with quiet precision, wrapping the bandage around his hand in silence. She doesn’t look at you, not directly — but her awareness is piercing. You can feel her watching, even when her eyes aren’t on you. 

You try not to flinch under the weight of it. 

Satoru watches you now. Truly watches you, and only you. There’s concern in his eyes, but beneath it, something darker — a flicker of something unreadable, as if he’s seeing straight through you. 

--  

You walk Satoru to the front of the estate, the morning sun slowly warming the stone path. He lingers, reluctant to go. “Are you sure you want me to leave?” he asks, searching your face. “You’ve been... kind of out of it all morning.”

You manage a smile, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair. “I told you, I’m just tired.”  

He’s clearly unconvinced. “Then let me stay. I’ll take the day off, we’ll snuggle in bed, watch trashy movies, eat junk food — whatever you want.” 

“No”, you cut him off gently. “They’ll chew you out for skipping another day because of me. I’m fine, I promise. I just... need a little time to myself.” 

He watches you for a moment longer, visibly debating. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You better call me if you change your mind. Or even if you don’t. I just want to hear your voice.” 

“I will”, you say, trying to mean it. 

“You won’t”, he mutters. “But I’ll pretend to believe you.” 

You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. And then the weight returns, heavy and unforgiving. You turn and head back toward your room, your steps slow. You were planning to reach out to Akihito — to talk, to finally be honest. At least with him. You need to say the words out loud. 

Halfway to your door, one of the maids appears at the end of the corridor, bowing her head respectfully as she approaches. “Lady Saori has asked if you would join her for tea in the garden”, she says. 

You blink. “Tea?” 

“She’s waiting for you now”, the maid adds.  

Your stomach twists. This is a first. Saori has never invited you anywhere, never initiated anything outside of polite formality. And now — tea? You murmur your thanks and change direction, heading toward the garden with careful steps. When you arrive, Saori is already seated beneath the wide shade of the cherry blossom tree. Everything is picturesque — the porcelain tea set arranged perfectly, delicate sweets on a lacquer tray. Not a single detail out of place. She looks up as you approach, her posture composed, her expression mild. 

“Hello again”, she says, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”

You lower yourself slowly. “Thank you.” 

She pours the tea herself. No attendants. No distractions. Just you and her. “We’ve never had the chance to talk”, she says, tone pleasant. “Just the two of us.” 

You nod faintly. “I guess not.” 

She picks up her cup, takes a small sip, and sets it down again. “Satoru seems happy.”

You glance at her, cautious. “He is.” 

“I can tell. He’s always been bright, but lately there’s something different. Something new. He’s softer. His laugh is more genuine.” She offers a smile. “He clearly cares for you — deeply.” 

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.” 

She hums softly, and then — without a change in tone — asks, “And how are things between you and my husband?”

The question hits you like a stone dropped into still water. No warning. No shift in expression.  

You stiffen, staring at her.

She doesn’t look away, “Not well, I imagine?” voice still calm. 

“I—” 

“I don’t want to hear it”, she cuts in, quiet but firm. 

Silence settles like a weight. Her voice remains calm, but the steel beneath it is undeniable. “I am not blind.” 

You lower your gaze. 

“I see the way Akihito looks at you. I see what it’s done to him.” Her fingers rest gently on the rim of her teacup. “And I know the kind of woman it takes to twist a man like him into something unrecognizable.” 

You flinch. 

“I won’t let this continue. I won’t let you unravel this family from the inside out. If you stay on this path, you won’t just break Akihito — you’ll destroy Satoru too. He’s already too attached. Too invested. And when this blows apart — because it will, like all secrets do — do you really think he won’t be the one to bleed for it?” 

You look up at her, heart pounding. Her words feel like nails driven into your spine. There’s no venom in her voce. No raised pitch. Just control. Cold and deliberate. “I’m giving you a choice”, she says. “You leave. On your own terms. Or I will make sure you have no terms at all.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What can you even say? What are you supposed to do? Argue? 

“Think it over”, she says, lifting her teacup again. “Before it becomes something you can’t come back from.” Then her eyes meet yours one last time — still poised, but with a new edge. “And don’t even think about telling Akihito we had this conversation.” she adds softly. “Unless you want Satoru to know about it too.” 

-- 

You barely make it back to your room before your legs give out. The door shuts behind you and you crash onto the bed, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless now. The dam is breaking. Your shoulders shake, and the sob that leaves you is hoarse, pulled from a place so deep it feels like you’re splitting open. 

Everything was falling apart — like a chain of dominoes tipping one after another. One thing went wrong, and the rest followed, collapsing in swift, inevitable sequence. The worst part? The love blooming quietly in your chest. There’s no use pretending anymore. You can try to lie to everyone else — maybe even try to lie to yourself. But the truth is carved into your every glance, every touch, every breath, every unspoken word between you and Satoru. You love him. But you’re not allowed to have him. Not after this. Not when the damage has already begun to spill over the edges.  

You sit in the stillness for a while, until your tears run dry and resolve begins to settle in their place. There’s one thing left to do — the thing you intended before everything spiraled. You need to speak with Akihito. You pick up your phone and type out the message. 

Meet me in an hour. I’ll send you the location of the hotel. 

Then you get up, dress in silence, and leave. 

-- 

The room is quiet when he arrives. Akihito steps inside and finds you standing by the window, framed in soft, diffused light. There’s something different in your posture — something heavier. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you, then takes a step forward. 

He dropped everything and came to you. Still hoping. That small, foolish hope still flickers in him — that maybe, despite everything, you’ve called him here because you’ve come back. He reaches for you, arms out as if to hold you again. But you step back. 

“No”, you say, voice tight. “We can’t do this anymore.” 

His hands drop to his sides. “What?” his voice barely comes out. You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Aki... we can’t.” He stares at you. Then — a bitter, hollow laugh escapes him. “So that’s it?” His voice cracks. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you? And all this was for nothing?” 

You close your eyes. The silence answers for you. He paces away, running a hand through his hair, then back again. “God”, he mutters. “I thought this was the perfect plan. I thought — if I couldn’t have you publicly, I could at least have you close. Through him. Knowing he wouldn’t want you, wouldn’t touch you. Knowing that you loved me...” He looks at you now, eyes sharp with grief. “But I was wrong about both.” 

You wrap your arms around yourself. “This was a terrible idea from the start, and you know it”, you whisper. “I should’ve never agreed. I should’ve never let it get this far. I wish I’d never—” 

“Don’t”, he snaps, suddenly raw. “Don’t say you wish you never met me. Don’t.” 

Your breath hitches, but you don’t take it back. His voice lowers, thick with disbelief. “You don’t really mean it... right?”

Your silence cuts deeper than any answer.

He lets out a sharp breath, like it hurts, and moves to step toward you again, in utter denial of what’s unfolding before his eyes. 

“No”, you say, firmer this time. “Please. Just let this be the end.” 

You reach for the door. He follows. For the first time, you leave the hotel room together — not like all the other times, not hidden, not careful. You’re walking away, and he’s chasing you, hand reaching desperately for yours. 

“Wait—!” 

Akihito’s hand closes around your wrist just as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip tight, desperate — like holding on could somehow undo everything unraveling between you.

And then you hear it — a familiar voice calls your name. 

“...is that you?” 

You freeze. Shoko stands a few feet away, dressed in her uniform. Her gaze flicks from your face to where Akihito’s hand still clings to yours, and her expression changes in an instant. 

And just like that — in the space of a single day — everything you’ve tried to keep buried begins to rise. Crashing, all at once, to the surface. 

-- 

The sun is long gone by the time Satoru returns, the estate cloaked in stillness. He steps inside, calling your name softly. When you appear at the end of the hall, barefoot in the dim light, something in him settles — and then, just as quickly, something else begins to stir. You look like yourself, and yet... not. Your smile is soft but distant, your eyes shimmering in a way he can’t place. “I’m home”, he says, shrugging off his jacket. “Missed me?” 

You nod, walking up to him. You press a hand to his chest. “Little bit.” He smiles and leans down to kiss you, and when your lips meet, he feels it — the way you cling just a little tighter, hold just a little longer. It’s like you’re trying to memorize the way he tastes.  

Later, in your shared room, the lights are low and the silence is velvet. You’re already in bed when he returns from the shower, his white hair damp and tousled, towel slung loosely around his neck. He slips in beside you, cold fingers brushing your arm. You shiver, not from the chill — from the weight of what’s to come.

“You said you needed some time for yourself this morning, but you’re still like this”, he murmurs, pulling you close. “I don’t like it.”

You nestle against his chest, pressing your cheek to his skin. “I’m okay now.” 

There’s something in your voice that makes him pause. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he wraps his arms around you tighter, grounding himself in the curve of your spine, the warmth of your breath against him. 

“You smell like cotton candy”, you whisper.

He chuckles, nose brushing the crown of your head. “It’s that new shampoo. Smells fancy, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers with his like it’s the last time... “Will you stay with me?” you ask softly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he breathes.

“Good”, you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Then, come closer.”

Satoru tilts his head down to look at you, a flicker of unease moving behind his gaze. “Of course”, he says. “Where else would I go?” 

You pull him down to kiss you again. Deep. Slow. There’s no teasing. No games. Just something desperate threaded through every movement. Like a goodbye wrapped in silk. When you make love, there’s no rush. No fire. Just the quiet rhythm of two people trying to suspend time — to stretch a moment into forever. You whisper his name like a prayer. He kisses your temple like he’s stealing a promise he doesn’t know he’s about to break. 

Afterward, you lie tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your bare shoulder. Your breathing evens. Sleep comes to you quickly — a peace you haven’t known in a while.  

But Satoru doesn’t sleep. He watches you in the darkness, his blue eyes searching your face, as if trying to decode something written there. Something unsaid. You’ve never look so peaceful. And, honestly, that’s what scares him. His chest tightens. Something in his gut whispers that he’s missing something. That he’s not seeing the full picture. That maybe... you’re slipping through his fingers.

“Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” he murmurs, barely audible, brushing a thumb along your cheek. You stir, but don’t wake. He leans down and kisses your forehead — gentle, reverent. “I love you”, he whispers into your hair. And for a moment, he lets himself believe it’s enough to keep you. 

-- 

A week passes. The Gojo estate buzzes with preparations for the annual celebration — Saori and Akihito’s wedding anniversary. As always, Saori is at the heart of it all, composed and efficient, orchestrating every detail with practiced grace. Akihito, on the other hand, remains distant. Detached. You barely see him around the mansion. Not a word has passed between you since that day at the hotel. It feels like he’s quietly disappearing — withdrawing, piece by piece — and yet, an uneasy weight sits in your chest. Something feels off. Unfinished. 

One afternoon, as you help Saori sort through invitations, she brings it up — casually. “Have you made up your mind?” she asks, her eyes never lifting from the stack of envelopes. You pause, fingers brushing the edge of an envelope, and answer softly — almost absently. “Who knows.” 

-- 

Morning light filters through the sheer curtains. You’re already awake, lying still in Satoru’s arms. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, one arm draped lazily around your waist, holding you in place like an anchor. Carefully, you ease out from under his arm. He shifts but doesn’t wake. Bare feet touch the cold floor as you rise and stand in the light, allowing yourself one last look. He’s lying on his back now, hair a tousled against the pillow. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way only sleep allows. Your chest aches. 

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and lift your gaze to the mirror. Your eyes are red. Hollow. The skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. But beneath the weariness, there’s something else — resolve. When you return to the room, Satoru is stirring. He squints at you with a sleepy grin. “Come back”, he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I sleep better when you’re here.”  

You smile softly. “Can’t. You know today’s the big day.” 

He stretches like a cat, arms reaching above his head, the sheet slipping down to his hips. “Ugh. Right. Completely forgot about that”, he groans and then rolls onto his side. You manage a quiet laugh. As he nestles back into the pillow, you linger in the doorway. “I love you.” you whisper — quietly, so quietly he won’t hear. Then you close the door behind you. And with that, the countdown begins. 

--  

The Gojo estate is nothing short of magnificent tonight. The garden glows beneath a canopy of paper lanterns, warm amber light spilling across the sea of guests. Tables are dressed in fresh flowers. Soft music hums in the background, blending into murmured conversations and the gentle clinking of glasses. Tonight is a celebration of image — Akihito and Saori’s wedding anniversary. Saori is elegance incarnate, her smile as polished as the pearls at her neck. Akihito stands beside her, composed, offering polite nods and minimal words. Together, they are the picture of grace. But the image is just that — a facade. There’s nothing worth celebrating. Nothing real about the harmony they pretend to share. 

Across the garden, Satoru floats through the evening like a disruption in the symmetry. Dressed in a loose gray suit, tie nowhere in sight, he laughs too loud, drowns juice from a champagne glass, and teases the elders with casual disrespect. No one bats an eye — it’s just Satoru being Satoru. But those who know him — really know him — can see it. He’s restless. His eyes keep scanning the crowd. At first subtly. Then, with growing urgency. You’re not out here. You slipped away earlier, saying something about fixing your dress. But that was over thirty minutes ago. Long enough for the knot in his stomach to tighten. Long enough for his laugh to start sounding forced. 

He leans toward Shoko, who’s sipping wine with a bored expression. “Have you seen her?” 

“Nope”, Shoko replies, unbothered. “Didn’t she say she was heading to the bathroom?” 

“Yeah”, Satoru’s fingers drum against the table. “But how long does fixing a dress take?” 

Across the garden, Akihito and Saori stand side by side as guests gather for the toast. She leans in, whispers something. He nods — but his gaze flickers, briefly, toward the house. 

An elder raises a glass. “To love. To strength. To bonds that stand the test of time.” 

Glasses rise.

Clink.

Applause follows. The illusion holds.

Until— 

BOOM. 

A thunderous crack splits the air. The ground shakes. Heat pulses across the garden like a wave. Screams erupt. From the left wing of the estate, fire bursts through the windows — a wall of flame swallowing the air. Smoke billows thick and choking. Music cuts out. Plates crash. Glass shatters. 

Satoru’s glass falls from his hand and explodes against the ground. Something sharp drives into his chest. He knows — you’re still inside. But before the thought is fully formed, he’s already running.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” His voice cuts through the chaos as he barrels through the guests. 

Akihito starts to follow, face pale, but Saori grabs his arm. Her gaze then snaps to her son. “Satoru, STOP!” she cries — but he doesn’t hear.

To Satoru, the world is silent now. There is only the roar of the fire and the pounding of his heart. He bursts through the estate doors, sprinting toward the source of the flames. He forgets his technique. Forgets his own safety. Forgets everything — except you.

“Please, baby— please, my love— I’m coming, please— Don’t do this to me, please—”, he keeps chanting.

The deeper he goes, the more warped the hall becomes — blackened, unrecognizable. He reaches the kitchen — but it’s empty. Panic claws up his throat. He turns, runs to the nearby bathroom. Kicks the door open. Heat smacks him like a wall. Smoke clogs his lungs. He pulls his sleeve over his mouth and steps inside.  

Then he sees it — someone collapsed near the sink, limbs sprawled. Still. His heart stops. He nearly slips as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the figure. Burnt and unrecognizable. But the dress — what’s left of it — is familiar. The color. The delicate trim. There’s a necklace around the neck, half-melted, but unmistakably yours. “No”, he whispers. “No, no, no—” 

His hand hovers over your body. His throat tightens. Everything around him is heat, noise, pressure, but in his ears, there’s only silence. Like the world just folded in on itself. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit his lips — salt and ash. “I was just with you...” he whispers, almost childlike, broken. “You were laughing with me a moment ago...” He leans in, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes raggedly. Body shaking.  

Behind him, voices start to echo. Footsteps. Shouting. Geto is coming to pull him out. But Satoru doesn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t move. He can’t. For the first time in his life, it feels like he’s lost. 

-- 

The fire was quickly contained. The Gojo mansion still stands, its structure untouched. Only the left wing of the first floor bears the marks of the fire. The investigation concluded that the fire was caused by an overheating motor in the bathroom’s ventilation system, a tragic accident. Only one life was lost: yours. 

Your funeral was two days ago. A private ceremony. Satoru didn’t speak during it. He barely moved. Just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes hidden behind the blindfold. Quiet. In a way he’s never been. 

Now, days later, the world still spins — people still laugh, they breathe, they live. But he’s still here. In the room that was once your shared bedroom. Alone. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos of your things scattered around the room. Your belongings — still as you left them — seem to scream your absence. He can’t bring himself to touch them. Not yet. Not ever. The book you were reading, the bottle of perfume on the nightstand, your lotion, your earrings, the brush on the vanity, and your nightgown — neatly folded on your side of the bed. It all kills him. The maids are prohibited from entering the room. He’s made sure of it. The silence of the space, with all its untouched remnants of you, is his alone to bear. 

He buries his face in your pillow, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of your scent. But it’s long gone. A strangled breath leaves him. Then another. And then... he breaks. His hands shake as he scrolls through his phone, endlessly flipping through old texts. Rereading them. The messages that still feel so alive — your voice echoing in his mind. One voicemail stands out. The one you left days before the accident. He presses play. 

“Satoru, stop leaving the toilet seat up! I’m too sleepy in the mornings to notice, but my butt definitely doesn’t appreciate an unexpected ice bath.” 

He laughs. Just once. And then, he breaks again. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, curls into himself, his body crumpling into fetal position. He cries. Not quietly. No. He cries like he’s been holding it in his entire life, like the ground beneath him finally gave way and left him with nothing to stand on. No air. No reason. 

They say he’s doing fine. Around others, he smiles. He jokes. He walks with that same easy confidence, says the right things, acts like nothing’s changed. But Geto and Shoko know better. They see it in the way he visits your grave every day. The way his shoulders stiffen when someone dares mention your name. The way his hands tremble when they’re not stuffed in his pockets. He’s unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And still, no one knows the truth. Not yet. Not even him. 

Only Shoko does. 

-- 

You follow Shoko into the morgue at Jujutsu Tech, each step slow and soundless. She doesn’t speak. Just moves steadily toward a counter, where she sets a folder down. Her back remains to you. The silence stretches long and taut. Then— 

“I wasn’t sure what to make of what I saw earlier”, she finally says. “But the fact that you followed me here... it confirms my suspicions.” 

You try to speak, but no words come out. Only a shaky breath escapes, heavy with guilt, regret, and everything you’ve been holding in for far too long. Shoko turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are sharp.

“You look like you want to say something”, she says. “So say it.” 

The words stumble out at first, fractured and raw. But then they come faster, pouring from you. You tell her everything — the affair, the reason behind the arranged marriage, the lies... everything. And the worst of it — that somehow, in the wreckage of it all, you fell in love with Satoru. You nearly choke saying it aloud, the weight of the truth crushing in your chest.

Shoko listens in silence. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. When you finally stop, she speaks with her usual stillness. “Why are you telling me this?” Then, sharper, “Why not tell Gojo?” 

“No”, you say quickly. “I can’t... I won’t do this to him.”

She tilts her head, gaze narrowing. “You already did”, she replies flatly. “Whether you tell him or not doesn’t change that.” 

Your throat tightens. “I know... and I need you to help me.” 

“Help you?” she repeats. “Why would I?” 

“Because I don’t want him to hurt, not like this.” 

There’s a long pause. Shoko just watches you — assessing, weighing. Then she steps closer, her voice low. “But he will hurt. In a way I’m not sure he’ll ever come back from.”

You meet her gaze, desperation burning in yours. “Please.”

She says nothing, but something seems to be shifting in her. 

“There’s something that will hurt him less than the truth”, you say. “I need you to find a body. Someone who resembles me. Imbue it with my residuals — only you can do that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her arms cross slowly. “You want me to find a corpse?” she asks. “You want me to help you fake your death? Is that it?” 

You nod, eyes dropping. “He’ll be better off thinking I’m dead than knowing what I’ve done.” 

“You’re underestimating him”, Shoko says, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you mean to him. This isn’t mercy — it’ll destroy him.”

Her words cut like glass, but you close your eyes. “Please”, you whisper. 

“When?”, Shoko asks, and you blink. “When do you need the body?” she repeats, rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

-- 

(One month later) 

You moved away. Far away. To a small village tucked in the mountains, hidden in a forgotten corner of the country. It’s quiet here — the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. No one knows your name here. Not your real one, anyway. You rent a modest cottage, barely furnished, but clean. You wake with the sun, tend to your tiny garden, then walk to the local pub where you started working just enough to get by. It’s simple. Monotonous. A life carved from necessity, not desire. And yet, every night before bed, you check your phone. One conversation always sits at the top of your inbox: Shoko. 

Your last message was three days ago. 

You: How is he? 

Her reply came the next morning. 

Shoko: Still breathing. Don’t ask for more. 

You didn’t. You never do. 

-- 

(Back at Jujutsu Tech) 

Satoru has just returned from a mission, and it’s clear he’s not himself. He’s sharp, but off. The usual cocky confidence has slipped into irritation, and he drifts through the halls with his mind elsewhere. Distracted. A clipboard hangs loosely in his hand, and he’s on the hunt for Shoko — she’s supposed to fill out a report. 

These days, he only drops the act around her. Or Geto. Or, of course, when alone. When he’s not pretending, he’s quiet. Drained. Nothing like the Gojo Satoru everyone knows. 

As he nears the morgue, he slows. A muffled voice cuts through the silence behind the door. It’s Shoko, on the phone. He’s about to knock when he hears it. 

Your name. 

Satoru freezes. Is he finally losing his mind? But then, there’s more— 

“...you need to stop asking.” 

A pause. Then, softer— 

“He... He doesn’t talk about you still. He’s not okay. But you knew he wouldn’t be.” 

The world stills. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. It’s like his mind is short-circuiting. Did he hear that right? His grip tightens on the clipboard until it creaks beneath his fingers. But then, it comes again. 

Your name. 

He stands there, stunned for a moment, before his body moves of its own accord. The door opens with a slow creak.

Shoko looks up, and she sighs. “...I have work to do”, she says quietly, and ends the call.

Satoru steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He throws the clipboard aside. He is not smiling, and he’s no longer wearing his blindfold. And for the first time in a month, his eyes are fully visible — different, bottomless, rimmed in red — and they are fixed on her. “Care to explain?”, he says, voice low, flat. 

Shoko doesn’t play dumb. She doesn’t lie. She leans back against the wall, her posture shifting to something almost resigned. She exhales, a soft sound, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She knew it would come. And for the first time in weeks, Satoru’s eyes — his grief-clouded eyes — are lit by something else. Hope. 

“She’s alive.”, Shoko says. The words hang in the air between them, and Satoru’s world shifts. He doesn’t react at first. Just stands there, trying to process her words. 

Finally, his voice cracks — barely audible, barely more than a whisper, like something fragile. “You let me bury her.” 

Shoko’s gaze softens for a moment, but then she sighs, a sound that’s more exhausted than regretful. “She said it’d hurt you less.” 

“Less?” He laughs once, a shar, disbelieving sound. “Less than what?” 

“The truth.” The words come from Shoko with unflinching clarity. “She had an affair with your father.”

Shoko waits. For a reaction. For anger. For questions. For anything.  

But Satoru doesn’t blink. He only asks one question. “Where is she?” 

-- 

The Gojo estate still stands. The first floor — once scorched by fire — has long since been renovated. But beneath the surface, the scars of the past remain. For those who know, it’s impossible to forget what was lost. Akihito sits in the living room, staring down at the floor, his expression hollow. The once commanding patriarch is now a broken shell. His hands tremble as he takes a sip of his drink, his gaze unfocused, consumed by grief. He hasn’t spoken much in weeks. Every time he tries, his voice cracks. The loss of you has shattered him. Sometimes he tells himself it was better this way — better to lose you to death than to watch you belong to someone else. Even if that someone else was his son. For a moment, that thought would make it easier to breathe. But then again, what did it matter? You were gone. And something in him knew — the fire wasn’t an accident. He suspected Saori. Maybe she found out. Maybe she did this to you. Should he kill her? But that wouldn’t bring you back. And besides... the clan. He still had a duty to do. 

Saori sits nearby, her gaze fixed out the window, her lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile. Her eyes flicker to Akihito for a brief moment, but there’s no sympathy in them — only contentment. After everything, she believes fate has finally righted itself. She watches him fall apart with quiet detachment, a sense of calm in her stillness. At least now, he is more hers than he is yours. “Perhaps it was fate”, she murmurs softly, her words for no one but the walls. Akihito’s eyes remain distant, his thoughts far removed from her voice. He’s too lost to hear anything she says — too far gone to care. 

Then, the door opens. Satoru enters, no grand gesture, no announcement. His presence fills the room immediately, thick and heavy, like an impending storm. Akihito doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows why his son is here — he can feel it in the air before he even steps further in. Saori glances at Satoru, her eyes narrowing slightly, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She rises without a word, understanding that this conversation isn’t for her. She leaves quietly, walking past her son with only a brief, knowing look.

The door clicks shut behind her. 

Akihito slumps lower in his seat, but he doesn’t look at his son. He doesn’t need to. The way Satoru stands there, rigid, fists clenched, eyes dark and filled with fury. Akihito feels the weight of it, heavy in the room, before he even lifts his head to look at him.

“You know”, Akihito says quietly, his voice hoarse, a statement rather than a question. Satoru stands still, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning. He doesn’t answer. The air between them crackles with the unsaid. Akihito presses on, his voice low, laced with a tremor. “How did you find out?” 

Still, Satoru remains silent. His fists tremble at his sides, his breathing shallow, ragged. The words catch in his throat, a clash of fury and hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and strained, as though forcing each word past the tightness in his chest.

“You broke her.” he spits, finally. “You broke the one thing most precious to me.” 

Akihito flinches, the weight of the accusation landing heavily on him. His gaze hardens, but he can’t meet Satoru’s eyes. There’s nothing to say. His son is right — he did break her. And by doing so, he broke his son as well. 

Satoru steps forward suddenly, his movements swift and calculated. The space between them closes in an instant, and Satoru’s eyes, wide with intensity, burn through the silence as he towers over his own father. There’s something primal in the air now — a rawness, an energy that could consume the entire room, the entire estate, if left unchecked. Akihito doesn’t react, he just sits there, knowing what’s coming. He accepts it. The man he once was, gone. And this son — this powerful, broken son — is the reckoning he’s been waiting for. 

“Do you have anything to say?” Satoru’s voice is barely containing the storm inside him. His hands shake, still clenched tightly into fists, but there’s a note of something darker in his gaze — an edge that suggests the breaking point is near. Akihito looks at him, pained, defeated, but remains silent. The words don’t come. 

The sound that follows — sharp and violent — could be a fist crashing into flesh or a bone snapping under pressure. It’s unclear, too quick to pinpoint. The air itself seems to shatter with it.

Satoru turns without another word, leaving the mansion. His hands are covered in blood.

Behind him, a scream shatters the silence. Saori’s scream, high and frantic, echoes through the halls. Saori doesn’t know it yet, but her time is coming too. Soon enough. 

-- 

Satoru knew. He had known for a while. It wasn’t a dramatic discovery. It was quiet and accidental, in fact. It happened early into your marriage, when you were still distant with him — polite but clipped. Somehow always guarded. He thought it was the nerves at first. Shyness. The weight of tradition. But then a month passed, and you still wouldn’t meet his eyes unless it was absolutely necessary. Still flinched when he reached for you. He could handle awkward beginnings, of course — especially for you. He wasn’t expecting a fairytale, you didn’t even remember him. But what he couldn’t handle was not knowing you, the way that you never let him in. 

So he did what a curious man with too little patience like himself might do. He followed you. Not out of suspicion of course. He thought if he observed you from a distance, he might’ve learned things you weren’t ready to tell or show him. Your habits. Anything. And then, one afternoon, he watched you enter a hotel. Alone. Odd. 

Ten minutes later, his father arrived. Very odd. 

Satoru waited. Two hours later, you walked out. Head down, hair slightly mussed. You didn’t see him. Shortly after, Akihito exited the building, adjusting his coat, wearing an expression Satoru had rarely seen on him — satisfied, secretive. And that was it. He didn’t even use his Six Eyes at first. Part of him didn’t want confirmation. Part of him hoped it was just a coincidence. But shortly after, he let his technique drift over your form. And there it was. Residuals. His father’s cursed energy. All over you. 

...and everything began to click. Your stiffness. The arranged marriage. His father’s sudden interest in choosing his bride. How Akihito had spoken of you before the engagement with just a touch too much fondness.  It wasn’t an arranged marriage; it was a cover. You weren’t his. You were his father’s. 

Satoru never confronted you, never let on that he knew. He just watched. Watched the way you disappeared for hours and returned with a soft look in your eyes that was never for him. Watched the way Akihito seemed lighter after seeing you. Watched the lie of a marriage unfold, thread by thread, every day. He never blamed you, though. He thought, maybe this was fate’s twisted way of bringing you back together. Yes, he could’ve easily destroyed it, could’ve exposed the affair and made the clan turn against Akihito. But that would’ve meant the clan turning against you as well. And Satoru never wanted to ruin you, he wanted to keep you.  

So he waited. Watched. Loved you in silence. And when he caught glimpses — that maybe you were beginning to see him, not just the son of the man you loved, that you were starting to change — that was all it took. He clung to that.

Because the thing about Gojo Satoru is that, when he wants something — really, truly wants it — he doesn’t stop. Not rules. Not family. Nothing can stop him.

You had been stolen from him once — the night on the curb, when fate gave you to him and then ripped you away before he could even ask your name. Then it happened again. His father got to you first.

Now, he wasn’t going to let you be taken away from him for the third time. No matter what. Even if it meant choosing heart over blood.

If you had faked your death and disappeared because you believed you couldn’t exist in a world with both of them, then all he had to do was remove the one standing in the way. To keep you. 

-- 

You’re wiping down the tables at the pub, preparing for the new day. Half-focused. Letting the repetitive motion ground you, steady your nerves. Trying not to think about the ghost of him that’s never really left you.  

The door creaks open behind you.

“We’re not open yet”, you immediately call out. Politely, without turning around. “Please come back in an hour.” 

Silence. Neither a response, nor footsteps indicating that the person is leaving. You glance over your shoulder, ready to repeat yourself, but the words catch in your throat. 

Satoru is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. “Won’t you make an exception for me?” he says softly. It’s meant to sound like him — teasing, light — but his voice gives him away. It’s quiet, fragile. Like it might crack if he tries any harder to keep it steady. 

The rag slips from your hands. You freeze. Then slowly, you turn. But you don’t meet his eyes. You don’t dare. “Why would you come here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s not a question of how he found you. The answer was simple. Shoko. 

He steps forward, slowly. “For you.” 

“For me”, you echo under your breath, more to yourself than to him, a bitter laugh escaping you. “For me, huh?” you repeat.

“For you.” — he says again, with no hesitation. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shrink, as if you could fold into nothing. As if it might protect you from the weight of what he’s carrying in his voice. “Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to be found?” 

“I did”, he says. “I considered a lot of things, actually.” He pauses before he takes another step, and then adds, “But the fact you did something so reckless... made me consider that you cared more than I imagined.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You don’t understand—” 

“I do.” He cuts in gently. “You thought if you stayed, you’d destroy us both.” 

You finally look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, and something inside you threatens to cave, the devastation in him nearly buckling your knees. “I did something unforgivable.” 

He exhales, like what he’s about to say is so obvious it needn’t be said out loud. But he does it anyway — “I was ready to do anything for you.” 

“Even if what I did was truly terrible?” 

“Even then.” 

He takes another step, and then another, until the distance between is gone. Until he’s close enough to touch. You want to move. To put space between you, but your feet don’t listen. And his presence — it roots you in place like gravity.

“You could’ve told me everything”, he murmurs. “You should’ve told me.” A pause. “I already knew.” 

“What?”, your breath stutters. 

His eyes darken, and a faint, bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’ve known for a while.” 

“But... Shoko... didn’t Shoko—” 

“It wasn’t her.” He shakes his head. “I found out myself.” He falls silent for a moment, like the memory stings to recall. 

“And you never said anything?” 

“I had my reasons”, he says softly. “Just like you had yours.” He lifts his hand — the lightest touch — and tilts your chin up. The gentleness nearly undoes you. You try to speak, but the words tangle with the sob building in your chest. It slips out instead — small, broken. His fingers brush beneath your eye, catching the tear before it falls. Even as his own hand trembles. “One word from you would’ve changed everything”, he whispers. “I would’ve burned everything down to keep you safe. Happy.” 

You slowly break under the weight of his words, forehead falling to his chest. You feel the tension in him — not anger, not judgment. Just ache. His arms wrap around you. 

“You were always my girl”, he breathes into your hair. “Even when you didn’t know it. Even when you were his. From the moment you fell asleep on my lap outside that club, you were mine.” 

You tilt your head up, lips trembling. “I’m... I’m really s—” 

“Shh.” 

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. “I know.”

And then, his lips charge closer — you meet him halfway into a soft, slow kiss. One that is both an ache and a release all at once.

It hurts to want him this much. It hurts to know what you did. It hurts to know that he still looks at you with so much love, even when he knows it all. It hurts, that despite everything, it’s still you.  

-- 

You never thought you’d find peace again. Not truly. But now, the mornings are calm. The nights are quiet. The days pass without dread — light, easy, almost gentle. You and Satoru settled into this small life together, tucked away from the rest of the world. 

He left it all behind — the clan, the title, the crushing weight of being the strongest. Here, he isn’t Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo Clan or the face of sorcerer society. Here, he’s just Satoru. Your Satoru. The one who wakes up beside you each morning, arm draped around your waist, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your ear. The one who insists on cooking breakfast and makes an unspeakable mess in the kitchen. The one who still leaves the toilet seat up just to hear you scold him — and grins when you do. 

Your belly is growing now — small, round, and full of promise. Sometimes he speaks to it like he already knows who your child will be. Sometimes he rests his head there and falls asleep. Other times, he lies awake with his hand on your baby bump, eyes full of wonder and fear, whispering that he hopes he’ll be good enough — for both of you. 

There are things left unspoken between you. You’ve never asked what happened after he left the clan — or more accurately, what happened before he left. You suspect the truth, of course. There’s no way not to. But you don’t press. And he doesn’t offer. 

Still, you think of Akihito sometimes. It’s impossible not to — he was a turning point, a fire you walked through to become who you are now. And sometimes, in the right light, Satoru looks so much like him. The same build, the same jawline, the same eyes.

But you know better. He’s nothing like him. Akihito, for all his love, always chose the clan in the end. His desires may have been selfish, but they were always entwined with duty. He loved you, yes. But he never chose you. Not truly. 

But Satoru did. He always chose you — even when it broke him. Even when it meant walking away from everything he was. Even when it meant taking a life — his own blood — to protect yours.

When he said, “I was ready to do anything for you”,

...he really meant it. 

[the-prince-of-professors]

There is a reason for that, actually! I've read the correspondence regarding the production of the book, and this is how it went down:

Yorkshire TV didn't produce the book themselves, but instead the rights for publication were sold by them and writer Philip Mackie to Pan Books upon request (and later they were also sold to the US publisher). The writer of the book, Dulan Barber (alias David Fletcher), wrote the book based on the television scripts that Mackie wrote and sent him via post during 1976.

The book was planned to be released around the same time as the TV series premiered (at least in the UK), so Barber didn't actually see the filmed series, though he was granted a screening or two of "The Amateur Cracksman". He also mentions reading Hornung's original stories along with the scripts.

So when it comes down to it, this book is not actually based on the finished TV series but on the same screenplays as the TV series is based on. So in a way you could say that this book and the filmed TV series are two different adaptations of Mackie's screenplays, for two different media and different purposes. Which of course is rather interesting if you want to compare notes with the TV adaptation!

This part here, for instance, with The Bedroom Scene™: Mackie's script does specify that the setting is Bunny's bedroom but there is never a stage direction for Raffles to sit down on the bed - that was likely added in blocking/rehearsal by the director. In the book, however, we only find out that they are in Bunny's bedroom at the end of the scene ("Bunny managed to mumble a 'good night' before stretching himself out on his bed") and there is no real indication of where Raffles has been during the conversation (on the bed? on a chair?) which is rather fun. My qualified guess because of the "slapping his thigh" bit is that Barber had the scene from "The Amateur Cracksman" in his head while writing this, since that was a Tony-Raffles and Chris-Bunny interaction set in a bedroom that he had seen on screen.

Also, yeah, the whole thing is rather silly as a concept 😅 It's purely commercial, of course; a way for the publishers to make some money off a hopefully popular show and a way for Yorkshire and Mackie to get some extra cash through upfront payments and royalties. This was before most people had a VCR in their homes, so it wasn't like people could record the show and watch it later over and over. Mackie surely was grateful for the extra income, but he thought the idea of the book rather ridiculous - he writes the following to producer Jacky Stoller in April 1976:

So that I can do this, would you mind sending me copies of THE GOLD CUP and THE CHEST OF SILVER? I haven't got any, because of this silly thing about the book-writer wanting them, to make a book of the show of the book, and it takes them years (far longer than a TV show) to get a book ready for the bookstalls, even a paperback. Since I have known about the book project, I have been making an extra copy of the script: but those two I'm lacking.

incidentally that chest of silver scene is so fascinating because why did they add in a scene with that energy and framing etc and then when they, inexplicably, published a novelisation of the show(?) they kind of skimmed over it and cut lines of dialogue and dont really focus on the setting/framing details that To Me are what make it interesting

(on archive.org)

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part one)

part one ; breaking news and breaking points

warnings ; none!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; okay. hi. hello. me again! this authors note is going to be delirious because it is quite literally 2am as i edit this and i am shot. regardless — welcome to off the record! this is my baby. my child. my toddler who can’t walk or speak yet but the concept is there

let’s get one thing straight: i am NOT a politician. i do not work in politics, i do not enjoy american politics and i most certainly am no expert. i almost failed government in high school. i’m not sure of the accuracy of White House journalism but i do know one thing. i tried my very best!! so gold star for ang <3

anyway! welcome to the disaster. this is a rom-com, emphasis on the com because these two idiots are so deep in denial. we’re talking enemies-to-lovers, but in the “we’ve been rivals since college and now sit two rows apart at white house briefings” kind of way. grab some tea. snuggle your cat. scream into a pillow. idk, whatever works for you

playlist here

series masterlist here

The thing about White House press briefings is, if you don’t speak fast, Jungkook Jeon will.

And then you’ll have to watch his stupid little smirk on the screens in the newsroom all night while your editor asks why you didn’t ask the damn question.

You raise your hand, nearly leap out of your seat to deliver the inquiry you scribbled messily in the margins of your notepad. It’s something about a new federal rollout; dry on paper, but a minefield of public and private backdoor deals if you phrase it right. The question is halfway out of your mouth before—

“Secretary Thompson,” comes a voice from three rows back, “can you clarify whether the administration still plans to partner with private sector organizations despite last quarter’s concerns?”

Goddamnit.

You slump in your chair. Of course he gets there first.

It’s a clean question. Sharp. Subtle accusation wrapped in neutral intonation. The kind of question that makes cabinet members pause and choose their words very carefully, which Secretary Thompson now does, leaning forward and clearing her throat, visibly recalibrating.

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s sitting back in his chair like he owns the damn room. The entire Metro ride spent rehearsing that question, complete with dramatic pauses practiced between stops, has been hijacked by someone who waited until your mouth formed the first syllable before swooping in.

You turn slowly, against your better judgement. The muscles on your face achieve that special brand of neutrality that actually translates to: I'm mentally signing you up for a lifetime subscription to minor inconveniences. May your phone forever hover at 1% battery and may your socks perpetually slip down inside your shoes.

Three rows behind sits the human embodiment of your nightmares, looking like he just won a gold medal in the sport of Question Sniping, expression carrying a level of smugness you want to smack right off his face. And like, yeah, it’s fine that he beat you to the punch but you’re oddly impressed by how effortlessly he did it.

He’s sporting a black suit with no tie. Because heaven forbid he follow even the most basic protocols of professionalism. Elbow slung across the chair next to him like this is a casual Monday coffee run and not a federal media gauntlet. He’s already relaxing in his seat like he didn’t just outflank you in broad daylight.

He grins at you from across the pressroom, a perfect display of professionally whitened teeth that makes you contemplate the legality of throwing your pen across the room.

Disgusting.

You whip your head back to the front before you commit a felony in front of a sitting cabinet member. Immediately, you’re pulling your phone out of your back pocket, opening up iMessage.

Okay, count to ten. One, two, three…

Mentally, you’re trying to imagine your therapist's voice saying something about "workplace appropriate responses to colleagues” (although your therapist has never met Jeon Jungkook and is therefore woefully unprepared to provide relevant advice in this situation.)

Physically, your jaw tightens with the force of some unspoken comeback.

He always does this.

And the worst part isn't just that his strategy works consistently, or that Secretary Thompson is now giving a rehearsed answer that will yield exactly one (1) usable quote for his article; it's that microscopic part of you that recognizes the brilliance of his approach.

You learned this the hard way four years ago, during your very first White House press briefing fresh out of Columbia University, notepad filled with questions you’d rewritten five different times, trying not to sweat through your blouse because Jeon Jungkook was five seats away.

You hadn’t seen him since graduation. Not since he walked off that stage behind you; second in your class, already being courted by every network with a pulse. You’d hoped that being hired at competing outlets might mean distance. Space to build your career without having to look over your shoulder every time you submitted a story.

No such luck.

He was already there when you entered the briefing room for the first time. Already seated, sporting that annoying smile when he spotted you in the doorway.

You still remember the way his voice cut through the room like it belonged there. Just the right amount of bite to make the congressman answering the question squirm. It wasn’t even a bad question, but it was sharp enough to make everyone sit up, and that was the point when playing with American politics.

One doesn’t need to be liked. They need to be remembered.

You’d raised your hand right after. You were so determined not to let him win the room that you misread the energy entirely. And when the mic came to you, you fumbled. It wasn’t with the content — you’d done your research, you always did — but with the delivery. You were trying so hard to seem composed, to prove you deserved to be there, that your voice went flat. You didn’t breathe between sentences or really pace the question.

And the congressman, an older man with a short temper and a penchant for being rattled, cut you off mid-sentence. He waved a hand like you were a mosquito buzzing too close to his ear.

“Get to the point please,” He’d said, clearly annoyed.

You had, but the damage was done.

And Jungkook? He didn't even need to smirk — a restraint that somehow made his victory all the more infuriating. He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, lips pressed in a neutral line. But you knew him well enough to spot the amusement hiding in his eyes. He didn't look directly at you because that would've been too obvious, too much like admitting that this little press room dance of yours is his favorite form of foreplay, which is precisely the kind of vulnerability neither of you would ever confess to even under the influence of truth serum.

Either way, Jungkook never needs to gloat out loud. He just waits for you to see that he saw.

That’s how it started. The silent, deadly, professional tug-of-war that is probably so entertaining for onlookers that the White House should start selling tickets.

Four years later and nothing’s changed — except now you’ve learned how to play the game too. How to keep your voice calm, how to pace your brain, how to smile like a threat. You studied your opponents playbook until the pages wore thin.

So you sit there, pen poised, chin high, and let Secretary Thompson drone on for another minute while the reporters around you settle. Jungkook is probably lounging in the back like the cocky bastard he is, no doubt smiling like a motherfucker.

When the next lull in her sentence comes, you speak.

“Madam Secretary, given the administration’s recent walkback on infrastructure spending and the pivot toward incentivizing private sector, can you clarify what measures are in place for companies receiving federal subsidies, especially those with prior violations?”

The room stills like a sitcom freeze frame, where some narrator would quip "it was at this moment they knew..." as your question hangs in the air.

Thompson blinks twice. And then, to everyone’s surprise including your own, she smiles; it’s a genuine reaction, not the wide campaign-trail grin but the subtle acknowledgment that screams, finally, a real question from someone who did their homework instead of skimming the briefing notes.

She answers in detail. All lengthy and thoughtful and some political jargon you’re jotting in your notepad like a madman. Meanwhile your chest burns with the sweet, silent glow of victory, something your overachieving soul has been chasing since you color-coded your first set of flash cards in elementary school.

You know it’s there before you see it — Jungkook’s gaze.

There will be no swiveling of your neck to face him because turning would mean acknowledging, and acknowledging would mean giving away a fraction of this perfect moment; you don't need visual confirmation when you can practically feel him watching, probably chewing the inside of his cheek with that nervous habit he thinks nobody notices, calculating how he missed this angle while the room leans forward collectively, listening harder now than they were during his question.

God, it is tempting, though.

Just one glance. One raised brow. Maybe even a middle finger held discreetly under your notepad.

But you’re better than that.

…Mostly.

Still, the corner of your mouth twitches microscopically.

Game on, Jeon. Let’s see who wins this round.

The next thirty minutes go by just like this:

You raise your hand to try and get another question in, he mirrors you half a second later.

You jot down a quote, he glances up like he’s writing the same one faster.

You whisper something to the correspondent next to you, and he makes a point to become the world’s friendliest man.

By the time the briefing wraps, your notepad is full, your recorder has thirty solid minutes of good material, and your blood pressure is only slightly elevated — which you’re going to count as a win. Secretary Thompson gives her usual nod, the press secretary calls it and the room begins to scatter in that chaotic shuffle unique to people who have five minutes to rewrite a headline before someone else beats them to it.

You pack up, shoving pens and postits and a mildly passive-aggressive question list into your leather tote. It’s not like you’re in a rush. You’ve got what you need. Jenna — your editor, manager, queen of never being impressed — will actually be pleased for once. Last week she told you your questions were “good, not great” which you’ve translated to mean “where’s the political bloodshed?” But today, you’ve got enough edge to headline the next two cycles.

You’re halfway to the exit, steps quick against the marble floor, when you hear it—

Shoes.

Nice ones. Expensive, but already too broken-in to be new.

And they’re moving quickly like the fire alarm just went off.

Your eyes don’t have to spare a look. Your spine already knows who it is.

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, and keep walking. If you ignore him long enough, he might combust from the lack of attention.

“Smooth question.”

You blink up at the hallway ahead of you. What was that counting trick you were doing earlier? Oh, right.. four, five, six....

A sigh heaves from the depths of your lungs. Quite loudly it echoes off the walls.

“Jungkook.” you begin, not slowing your pace, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask the intern to print it out and shred it for recycling.”

He laughs at that amusedly.

“Come on,” he retorts, falling into step beside you now, “You stole my topic and framed it better. That was… mildly impressive.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s got his press badge tucked half into his blazer pocket like it’s too cool to wear properly, and the top button of his shirt is now undone.

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “Mildly impressive? Should I frame that statement and hang it next to my degree? My… valedictorian degree, perhaps?”

He leans in, a little too close for comfort. “Don’t worry. Mine’s right behind yours.”

You bite back a smile that threatens to show face. “And don’t you forget it.”

“You know, you’re lucky I didn’t ask a second question just to steal the narrative out from under you,” Jungkook sticks his hands in his pockets, pulling out a packet of gum.

Your eyes roll back into your frontal lobe, “Oh, I’m counting on it. Watching you try to top yourself is half the fun.”

Your feet betray you before you have a chance to stop them, and they stop walking, finally turn to face him. “Are you like this with everyone? I’m starting to get a little flattered.”

He looks at you for a second longer than you like. No smirk this time, just that stillness he gets when he’s thinking. Or, worse… he’s about to be really, really honest.

He shrugs, pops the gum in his mouth, smile creeping back into place like it never left. “Nah,” he’s already walking backwards toward the exit. “You’re the only one who bites back.”

His body disappears into the hallway crowd as if he knows exactly when to exit a scene, melting into the Washington ecosystem of power suits, security earpieces, and polished shoes on marble.

Jeon Jungkook is an insufferable bastard — one of the best-of-breed kind of bastards, possibly the best one you’ve ever had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on the angle) of going to school with. Decidedly not bad on the eyes, which is unfortunate. Counterproductive, really. Because it’s hard to maintain a healthy level of hatred toward someone when their jawline could headline a fashion campaign and their smirks come pre-loaded with cinematic timing.

And yet, somehow, you manage.

Ever since freshman year when he walked into your public policy seminar and had the audacity to sit in the front row — the seat you always took, the one closest to the professor, the one with the best lighting for scribbling down notes. He didn’t even glance at you when he took it.

You clashed immediately. Over literally everything. Theories and tone and comma placement. Who should’ve been chosen to moderate the midterm debate and who had more credible citations in their annotated bibliography. You can’t even remember the first real argument anymore; all you know is it escalated quickly, something about a poorly formatted slide deck and a long-winded tangent on federalism that he thought was charming and you thought were grounds for expulsion.

To your luck, that turned into this.

Into years of mutual loathing, thinly veiled behind professional respect that makes your coworkers say things like “you two should interview a senator together!” while you fantasize about pushing him down a flight of stairs and then writing his obituary out of spite.

You can’t describe your relationship with Jungkook without sounding emotionally unstable. It’s not just because he got that one A+ in International Relations. It’s not some awkward sexual tension. It’s whatever exists in that middle ground between admiration and provocation.

Listen, you recognize his intelligence. He definitely recognizes your ambition. He’s just always been naturally, effortlessly good. Jungkook doesn’t have to rehearse or over-prepare or go through mental flowcharts in the mirror before a press event.

And the only thing worse than someone who always competes with you is someone who doesn’t have to.

That’s what always gets you. You’ve spent your entire career building scaffolding around every step forward and you are nothing if not methodical. And then he waltzes in with gel in his hair and throws out a line you write down immediately to send to Jenna.

You push the briefing room door open with your hip and walk in, tote clutched tightly.

Emma doesn’t look up. Her fingers are flying over her laptop, nails clacking against keys in short bursts of aggression. Brows furrowed, glasses slipping slightly down her nose, and her tongue is poking between her teeth the way it always does.

“Any luck?” you ask, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl that you’re 98% sure was only restocked because Emma guilt-tripped the White House kitchen staff with that one story she wrote about USDA budget cuts and “the symbolic death of the American apple.”

She grunts in response, closing her laptop quickly and swiveling to face you in her chair.

You bite into the apple, placing your heavy bag down on the floor beside your desk, which is conveniently always placed next to hers.

“How was Jungkook today?” She asks casually as if it’s not one of the most emotionally loaded questions a person can be asked. It’s a routine part of your dynamic at this point. Morning coffee, afternoon sarcasm, and one post-briefing debrief where Emma asks you how Jungkook was, and you pretend he wasn’t Jungkook.

“Obnoxious,” you shrug instantly. “Duh.”

Emma snorts while you continue on, rotating your apple to take another bite. “He was wearing this stupid smile today. I lowkey feel like he was more smug than normal.“

Emma hums knowingly. “That’s your favorite one.”

You ignore that. Just Emma being Emma.

“And of course,” you exhale, “he asked my question.”

That gets her attention.

She scoots her chair toward you slowly, like she’s gearing up for the best tea of her life. “Wait. The question? The one about partnering with private sector organizations?”

“The very one,” You sigh dramatically.

Emma gasps, places a hand over her chest. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, but he did,” you say, taking another bite of your apple, chewing long enough to build suspense. “Fell for it and beat me to it by two seconds.“

She clutches her heart like she’s just witnessed a murder. “War criminal. Both you and him.”

“It’s fine,” you snicker to yourself. “Took the bait like always. Already texted it to Jenna.“

So… there’s this minor (major) thing you do that if anyone finds out, you’re absolutely getting the boot off the Hill. You leave notes around the newsrooms with concepts that you plan to ask at the press briefings and your initials on the paper, and when Jungkook inevitably picks one up and asks them, you send the answer to Jenna. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Emma groans and throws her head back, dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders. “God, how do you come up with this? It’s diabolical.”

“I know.”

“You’re evil.”

“I know.”

She looks at you, tilts her neck, considers. “One of these days I’m gonna get it out of you… why you hate him so much. I swear to god, if the White House ever releases security cam footage, it’s over for you.”

You scoff, leaning against your desk. “Because he’s annoying.. and arrogant and—”

There’s a pause while your narrow your eyes like you’re compiling a legal case. “He’s allergic to shirts that fit.”

Emma just blinks at you.

“It’s not complicated,” You wave her off.

“Mmm,” she says unconvinced, already spinning back toward her laptop. “Sure. Not complicated. That’s exactly what people say before saying something really complicated.”

You flip her off.

She blows you a kiss, raising her watered-down iced latte as a toast, “I wish you a very get well soon.”

It’s nice having Emma. Someone who gets it. She was the only one who didn’t blink when you got hired straight out of school, the only one who didn’t second guess it when you worked your way into every White House event rotation. She never asks why you work late or why your standards are too high.

Emma’s seen you at your most terrifying and your most tired and knows they’re usually the same thing.

You finish your apple, toss the core into the bin, and stretch your neck. You’ve got a headline to punch up, an editor to impress, and a man to destroy.

Before you even have a chance to settle into your uncomfortable chair, Jenna, woman of the hour, bursts into the room like she’s just outrun a breaking news alert.

She’s breathless, auburn hair slightly windblown like she sprinted down the hall, which she probably did — Jenna’s never walked a day in her life. She’s powered exclusively by the adrenaline of publishing scoops before Politico can even spellcheck theirs.

“There you are!” she gasps, practically skidding to a stop beside your desk. Almost like you’ve been playing hide-and-seek instead of sitting where you’re supposed to be.

Emma startles, half-spilling her iced latte.

You don’t even look up from computer that you just rebooted on to life. “Hello to you too, Jenna. Everything okay?”

“Better than okay.” She’s already tossing her phone onto the nearest desk, face alight with manic glee that usually only happens when your publication beats everyone else to the punch. “We published first. That question you texted me. I’m already having it run the evening slot with a featured quote box and a goddamn infographic. Do you know how rare infographics are on pieces like this?”

Emma perks up immediately. “Infographics?”

“Motion animated ones. And it’s outperforming by like 400%. Who fed him that question? I know that was you. Don’t lie to me, you little minx.” Jenna’s eyes are sparkling, hazel flecks in her eyes popping out more than normal.

You blink at her, expression calm, the exact opposite of the excitement living beneath your ribs. “Hm. Was it me?”

“Was it?” Jenna nearly falls over the desk. “You literally texted it to me two seconds after he opened his mouth so I have my suspicions. I watched the tapes back.”

You shrug, sipping from your water bottle. “What can I say? Quick fingers. Predictable men.”

Jenna stares at you. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well, I have noticed… if I leave a well-worded, question lying within reach, he’ll take it. Should I be reporting him?” Your degree was in Political Science, but right now, it’s sounding a lot more like Lying.

Emma coughs on her coffee. “Oh my god.”

“He delivers it perfectly. He never even changes the phrasing!! Almost like he wants me to know he found it,” You mimic a toddler who got pushed on the playground, all false petulance.

Jenna groans, facepalming. “Jesus, that’s terrifying. Worse than finding out you’re doing it on purpose.”

Emma gapes and plays along with it, your trusty sidekick. “He’s using you like a human press puppet.”

You smile. “Whatever. I got the best answer out of Secretary Thompson today anyway.”

You’re not wrong. Not entirely. In fact, you’re opening up Google Docs as you speak to start typing before any person beats you to the punch.

“Well,” Jenna begins, “Great job today.”

Mission accomplished.

Despite everything, you’re pretty pleased with yourself. Emma’s shoulders sag a little with those three words, though you hardly notice.

You sit back in your chair, fingers hovering over your keyboard.

Another question, another quote, another game won.

It’s not cheating. It’s journalism, baby.

Later that night, the building hums like it’s finally exhaled after holding its breath all day, kind of peaceful in the way only Capitol Hill can be when it’s past five and most of the egos have gone home. The usual bustle has evaporated into a familiar sound of click-clacking keyboards and the hum of vending machines that will forever only take singles.

You’re probably the only person left. Well. You and Jenna. But Jenna doesn’t really count — you swear to god she pays rent here.

She exists in this windowless purgatory like it’s her personal loft. Her desk is still lit, hair up in a claw clip. There’s a cold coffee sweating beside her keyboard and an unopened granola bar that’s been sitting there since at least noon. Her coat is slung over the back of her chair in a way that implies she might leave. News flash: she won’t.

Meanwhile you’re cross-referencing quote attributions for the day’s coverage when it hits.

Ping.

You barely register it at first. Just another email in the never-ending trickle of nonsense from Washington’s most noisy inbox.

But the subject line awakens something in you, jolts you back onto earth after being a zombie for the past three hours.

From: pressroom@cnnpolitics.com

Subject: URGENT — CONFIRMED LEAK: Rep. Monroe / Rep. Delgado

Your heart skips and then sprints to catch up. You open the email, trepidation bleeding into your every movement like it might bite. Skimming it at first glance, you see a bunch of buzz words: late night, caught, office, intern.

And then you're up out of your chair like you spotted free coffee in the break room before anyone else, your demeanor shattered by what's glowing on your screen.

“Jenna.”

No answer comes from your editor, who's apparently developed selective hearing after years of people bringing her stories that are "definitely going to change everything."

“Jenna!”

Her chair swivels, eyes already squinting. “What.” she says, less a question and more a verbal eyeroll.

You motion her over. She groans, wheels her chair two feet, and reads over your shoulder.

She doesn’t speak for a full five seconds, a silence so profound you’re starting to think you misinterpreted the email.

“Holy shit.”

Your head bobs up and down once. “Yeah.”

Both of you stand. Stare at the screen like the text might dissolve if you blink. The email is brief but pretty brutal. Something about a late-night vote hold, a closed-door committee session, and Monroe being seen leaving Delgado’s office at 1:43 a.m. by a very chatty intern with no understanding of political discretion. It’s like the equivalent of catching Romeo leaving Juliet’s balcony.

“Please tell me we’re already writing this,” Jenna breathes, pulling her phone out and typing. “Tell me we’re not about to get scooped.”

You’re already closing your laptop. “We’re not. I just got this a minute ago.”

“Crap, okay,” she undoes her claw clip, runs a hand through her tangled locks. “You think NBC and Fox got word too?”

“Probably,” You tuck your laptop into your bag. “But… we can figure out what the other teams are saying. If you’re game for it.”

There’s a knowing look you two share, an unspoken understanding that comes from years of working in close quarters.

Just like that, with only a few words shared, you’re both gone — shoulders brushing in the hallway, shoes scuffing in sync as you pass the security desk and head toward the press rooms. Tiny, overcrowded hives filled with correspondents from neighboring organizations who all know something but never enough, all refreshing Twitter, all waiting for the official statement that will inevitably say nothing and everything at once.

You pass two staffers whispering near the elevator, some dude pretending not to be texting frantically in the corner, and a communications intern standing so still you’re not sure if he’s waiting for an answer or just buffering.

Walk faster, you repeat to yourself. No shot you’re losing this battle.

This is it. Every correspondent’s wet dream. The moment when instinct meets information. When knowing the right people and knowing how to read them becomes everything.

Fortunately, you’re good at this. Like, really good at this.

Jenna tugs on your arm as you turn a corner.

“Remember what I said in March?” she mutters. “I told you, these senators get more scandalous by the second.”

“Well, yeah, but that was about the comms director’s divorce and a broken espresso machine,” You remind her.

“Still counts.”

A grin is suppressed from your face. Technically, it is true. In this building, nothing stays quiet for long. Rumors and gossip spread quicker than a high school hallway.

Even though CNN is the top news source in the world — objectively, indisputably, and according to your network’s annual conference PowerPoint — your rivals over at Fox, NBC, and a handful of other outlets you don’t care to name are often your best sources.

Everyone loves to talk and you adore talkers.

The Hill is built on whispers, and your favorite kind of people are the ones who don’t know how to keep secrets in the same breath they use to ask for anonymity. There’s something about long hours and winding hallways that makes people careless with information. Or maybe it’s the sense of power, that euphoric high of having access to things you shouldn’t, stories that haven’t broken yet.

Right now, you’re chasing one of them.

You and Jenna waltz into the Fox press room like you own it (which you don’t, but that’s never stopped you before.)

It’s mostly empty, except for a few people quietly panicking over the situation in that journalist way where they sit very still while their eyes scream.

It’s a solemn few feet of space, lit by flickering fluorescents and decorated with the same kind of soul-crushing government chairs that squeak if you so much as fart. Someone left a takeout container open on one of the desks and you do your best not to inhale near it.

A quick glance of the room tells you all you need to know and then, to your dismay — you see him.

Jungkook.

Hunched over his laptop at the far end of the room like he’s doing important work but probably just rereading something you published earlier to find holes in it. His blazer from the briefing is gone, slung somewhere out of sight, white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, sleeves creased and casual and — God help you — revealing the tattoos on his right arm.

You’ve only seen it a handful of times. Most people on the Hill haven’t seen it at all. It’s not exactly Capitol dress code.

But he’s Jeon Jungkook so rules were always more like suggestions when it came to him.

Whatever. Not what you came here for. You focus on his colleague, Sana. She’s sharp as hell, desk always covered in four phones and three half-charged battery packs.

Most of the time, you like her. She’s blunt. She doesn’t pretend to like you more than she does, and she gives enough if you know how to ask.

“Sana,” You say, all business-like, sliding into her personal space like this is a casual catch-up and not an intel sweep. Jenna lingers behind you like a henchwoman.

Sana glances up and sighs. “What now?”

“Looking for background on Monroe and Delgado,” You busy yourself with your nail beds, pretending to be focused on the fact that your polish is chipping slightly.

“I know that’s not true,” she says, still typing. “You never ask for background. You ask for the stuff that makes our lawyers sweat.”

You smile, full canines on display. “Come on. You know I’d never get you sued. Fired, maybe.”

“Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Sana rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”

You’re about to lean in with the next carefully worded ask when he speaks.

“You could just ask me, you know,” comes Jungkook’s voice from the corner of the room.

You don’t dare turn around.

Begrudgingly, you sigh, loud enough for him to hear. “Didn’t realize you were qualified to speak on matters you didn’t fabricate.”

Behind you, Jenna snorts.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat.

“You wound me,” he fires back. You can smell the sarcasm in his voice. “Especially after I gifted you that question earlier.”

You spin your body slowly to glance at him. He’s already looking at you, fingers paused over his keyboard, head tilted, one brow raised like he’s genuinely curious how you’ll respond.

Sometimes he does this. Pretends you’re having a conversation when you’re in the middle of ignoring him. Like he’s the main character and you’re just the supporting plot that hasn’t fallen for his clown act yet.

“I’d say thank you,” you retort, “but I think you’re confusing mediocrity for generosity.”

His mouth twitches, doesn't quite reach his eyes but manages to rattle something in your chest like a perfectly aimed pebble against a window, making noise without breaking glass.

“Well,” he stretches slightly in his chair, ink on his arm catching the overhead light, “I guess we’re both useful to each other, aren’t we?”

Verbally, there’s no response you can come up with. Almost like you’re trying to capture a complex emotion with an emoji.

He refuses to look away from you. All you can muster up is meeting his gaze, forcing your eyes not to back down from his own deep brown ones.

Which is stupid and arrogant of him.

And deeply, profoundly annoying.

One day, you’ll create a PowerPoint presentation documenting all the reasons he should be knocked down several pegs.

But, also, he’s kind of—

No.

No, not going there.

You turn back to Sana, who’s watching the whole exchange with the vaguely interested expression of someone who’s seen this movie before.

“Anyway,” you say, tone firm, “back to the real work.”

Jungkook chuckles under his breath sadistically.

Sana raises a brow. She adjusts her posture, closes out of whatever she was doing, and gives you that look. Sneaky one, might you add.

Jenna settles into the empty seat next to Sana with a soft thunk, all amusement and quiet observation, as if she’s pulled up to a live podcast and knows better than to interrupt the good part.

You lean in just a little, palms firmly planted down on her desk.

“You’ve always had great instincts,” you begin sweetly, “Way better than that guy over at NBC who thinks ‘no comment’ is an acceptable answer. And honestly? You’re usually two steps ahead of everyone in this room, including me.”

Sana’s face falls flat. “Flattery’s not free.”

“I’m just stating facts,” you reply, twirling your hair around your finger. “But if you happened to know anything about where Monroe actually was during the vote delay, and with who, and if that info happened to fall into my lap by accident…”

She taps her desk once.

You pause for dramatic effect. Jenna says nothing.

You know it’s working. Cross your heart and hope to die, Sana’s resolve is softening enough to consider it. This is the rhythm you’ve lived and died by for the past four years: collect the whispers, push at the edges, find the person who wants to feel a little important, and let them talk.

You hear the chair scrape before the words follow.

“Okay, you’re scalping her,” Jungkook says flatly, rising from his area like he’s decided to intervene on moral grounds — which is rich, considering he spent last week casually rephrasing your own coverage on-air without blinking.

You don’t even bat an eyelash in his direction.

“Boohoo,” you briefly flip through your mental Rolodex of dismissive expressions, “call the ethics board, Jeon.”

You hear his footsteps. He’s walking over like someone about to cut the red wire, like this is a bomb he’s been called in to defuse.

“Seriously,” he now stands a few feet away, arms crossed, that infuriatingly amused expression plastered across his stupidly symmetrical face. “You’ve got her in a journalistic chokehold. It’s not even subtle.”

You peer over at him and flutter your lashes innocently. “You’d prefer subtle? That’s funny, coming from the guy who once baited a senator with free Red Bull to confirm a time stamp.”

“That was different.”

“That was illegal.”

“It was unofficial.”

You scoff. “Right. Just like your fact-checking process.”

Jenna leans her chin on her fist and sighs. “Hereeee we go.”

Sana barely spares a look up. “Can you two keep it down? Some of us are trying to break a government scandal before midnight.”

Your lips are formed tightly in a line. “I’m so sorry. He just follows me everywhere.”

“This is literally the Fox pressroom.” Jungkook spits out automatically.

“And yet somehow I’m more valuable here than you are.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

You turn fully now, squaring your shoulders like this is war and he just stepped onto your side of the trench. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne — something citrusy and woodsy that makes your thoughts inconveniently disorganized. Jaw set in that infuriating way it does when he thinks he’s being reasonable.

“You know,” he tilts his head slightly, “at some point, you’re gonna run out of tricks.”

“Jungkook, you still fall for all of them.”

Sana mutters something about noise levels.

There’s a smile on your face you do not mean. Jungkook’s watching you intently now, clearly waiting for the moment you lose your cool, which you won’t. You don’t lose your cool. That’s your thing. Your signature move. You’re composed, unbothered if you will.

If the others are tired of it? Too damn bad.

Both of you will continue to respectfully decline to flinch first.

“You’re exhausting,” he says, half-laughing, which would be charming if it weren’t directed at you.

“Good,” you snap, “I hope it costs you sleep.”

“I’ve started taking a higher dose of melatonin to account for that.”

Luckily, before you can retaliate with something that will absolutely haunt you in the shower later, Jenna cuts in, phone screen brightly illuminating her face. “Guys…?”

Neither of you turn. You’re in this weird standoff. First one to look away loses.

She’s louder this time. “Um. Guys?”

“What?” You and Jungkook say in unison, like children caught throwing hands in the sandbox.

She blinks at her iPhone once, then twice, and stands slowly, holding her phone out like it might spontaneously detonate.

“I just got the alert,” she swallows deeply. “CNN got invited to a press pool.”

The room stills. Nothing has technically changed, yet somehow everything feels different, like the universe just rearranged its furniture while no one was looking.

You snatch the phone from her hand without a second thought, scanning the email with speed, stomach already dropping because you know what this means.

Fox. NBC. CNN. Wall Street Journal. Pool assignment. Limited access. Confidential source briefings. Strict cooperation protocol.

Jungkook steps closer to read over your shoulder, and you can feel his body heat like a threat. You edge away out of pure spite.

Sana exhales, “Oh, that’s gonna be fun.”

“No,” you murmur, half to her and half to God, “it’s not.”

Jenna sits back down, hand outstretched waiting for her phone back, probably mentally forwarding the email to your entire team with ten exclamation points and the subject line ‘URGENT: PRESS POOL.’

But all your brain can focus on is the last line of the memo: PRESS POOL ASSIGNMENTS WILL BE FINALIZED BY MORNING.

You swallow, jaw setting in place. Currently, you’re trying not to imagine the absolute hell of being locked into a room with Jungkook and being expected to collaborate. Or even worse, share credit.

Press pools are the bane of your entire existence. It’s lazy reporting dressed up in exclusivity, a dog and pony show where no one’s allowed to ask real questions, just “coordinate coverage” and “represent their outlet professionally,” which basically means sit down, shut up, and don’t make your network look like a dick.

It also may have a tiny, minuscule detail to it that you deject everytime; it’s always you and Jungkook they send. The two best damn correspondents on the Hill, which everyone knows, even if they pretend they don’t. You’re the ones they trust to get the job done. To ask the things no one else will.

And that would be flattering — if it didn’t mean getting locked in a room with him, breathing the same recirculated air, trading quotes and knowing exactly which angle he’s going to try and spin. It’s not a compliment anymore. It’s a punishment dressed up in prestige.

Now — if you’ve read that email right (and you have, because you always do) — you’re going to have to share that twenty minute slot with the one man on Earth who treats interviews and policy like some sick game.

You lower the phone slowly, handing it back to Jenna in a daze.

Jenna looks at you, eyes gleaming. “If it makes you feel better, this is gonna be amazing for us.”

“Who’s us?”

You’re already praying for divine intervention. Or a natural disaster. Or a scheduling conflict. Or a press badge malfunction. Literally anything but this.

Really, there should be no surprise when Jenna is showcasing a small smile on her face, the words already forming on the tip of her lip-glossed tongue.

You beat her to it. “Let me guess. You’re going to ask me to go.”

She blinks, then nods sweetly, too sweetly for your liking.

“I mean,” she says, clasping her hands, “you’re the sharpest we’ve got. You’re strategic. Respected on both sides of the aisle—”

“C’mon, I’ve gone to every single one. Can you please send Emma?” You may as well get on your knees and beg at this point.

Jenna disregards that completely.

“I want you to own the scandal,” she corrects, beaming now. “Control the narrative. Just, you know… professionally.“

You roll your eyes so hard you see your own childhood trauma. Turning to Sana, you’re already half-defeated.

“Thanks for your help,” you sigh, giving her a nod. “And for not actively reporting me to HR during that conversation.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “It was close.”

You’re halfway out the door, already planning what stress snack you’re going to inhale before opening a shared Google Doc with 45 other correspondents when it happens.

“See you Thursday, then. Three o’clock.”

You freeze. Actually, scratch that. You malfunction.

Your body halts so fast you nearly swing into the doorframe. You swivel on your heel, well aware of how the universe personally loves to torment you.

Jungkook Jeon is smiling, cheek to cheek.

He’s leaned back in his own chair now, one leg crossed over the other like he’s settling into a fireside chat, phone lifted lazily in the air, Gmail open and illuminating.

You can only assume his own boss forwarded the press pool email to him. God isn’t exactly subtle when he wants you to suffer.

“They letting just anybody in now?” You muster up the insult.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t even have to ask. Must be fate.”

No part of you falters. You stare at him. “Or a curse. It’s also not even confirmed yet, dimwit.”

“I don’t make the rules,” He raises his hands in mock defeat, and somehow you know that’s a lie. You’re almost certain he knew this was coming and bribed someone.

Jenna pats you on the back as she walks past. “Think of it as a growth opportunity.”

You glance at her like she just told you to do trust falls into oncoming traffic. “I don’t want a growth opportunity. I want a restraining order.”

Jungkook hums solemnly. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a migraine,” You quip.

You step into the hallway and exhale, followed by a brief intermission where you regret every life decision that led you here.

A few distant feet away, Jungkook calls out all bright and cheerful, like this is a fun little reunion instead of your personal hell, “Should I bring the talking points or are we winging it like last time?”

Not a fiber in your body stops. You just keep walking, steps fast, fury simmering beneath the surface like a pot that’s about to boil over.

Of course you’ll be stuck sharing air and quotes and probably a goddamn printer with him.

Like you said, press pools… bane of your entire existence.

masterlist + ask

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[kjhbsies]

Heyy! Can I have a James Potter x reader "Because less than twenty feet away was Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?"

Either Bali or Morocco with a bit of Santorini pls? U can choose<3 Tysm

Bad Habit

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join my 500 celebration!

James Potter x photojournalist!reader

synopsis: She was just supposed to take the football games— not fall in love with a jock during a drunk game of 7 Minutes of Heaven. Now he’s questioning everything, including why he ever thought playing matchmaker with Sirius was a good idea.

wordcount: 3, 029

note: Prompt: "Because less than twenty feet away was Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?" + Morocco: the almost-kiss. fluff again! thanks for the request, i appreciated it (though, i must admit, i found it hard to think of a particular scene that would go well with the prompt) this is modern football player!james REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

It started like a lot of college friendship does— accidentally, inconveniently, and with far too much sweat involved.

You were one of the photojournalists of your university's student publication, and he was the James Potter— star athlete, Gryffindor's varsity football captain, and walking ray of sunshine. You were usually behind the lens, trying to capture the perfect shot of their games— the intensity, the movement, the dedication of every player in the field. But no matter how hard you tried, your shots always seemed to be hijacked by him, James, with his boyish grin, striking some ridiculous pose mid-game like he was in a photoshoot for Vogue.

At first, you didn't get it. Why the hell was he flirting with your camera?

And it's actually when Lily Evans, one of the newswriters, had come to join you at the Gryffindor's game— that you realized that he was just using you to get close to her.

Naturally, you gave him the cold shoulder. Sure, you and Lily were friends, but not to the extent that you knew everything about her. Hell, you didn't even know that he was her crush for years. So, it'd be creepy if you gave him any details about her life. And besides, you don't have time to play messenger for another desperate jock crushing on your friend.

But James, being James, took it as a challenge. Every game? Wink. Smile. Kissy face. Every water break? 'Hey, camera girl, getting my good side?' You tried ignoring him. Really did. But then he started bringing you snacks to your post-game editing sessions. He started sitting beside you on every bus ride. He always caught you in one of the cafes you frequented and treated you to an iced Spanish latte because he said, 'Photographers are always fueled by caffeine.'

The worst part? It worked.

Little by little, the annoyingly loud and arrogant jock turned out to be just... loud. And goofy. And surprisingly genuine. You caught glimpses of his big heart: the way he comforted his teammates after a lost game, the way he checked in on everyone after practice, and how he always made sure his friends were happy. You saw past the bravado and found something lovable in James Potter. And it sucked.

Because, of course, he was still madly in love with Lily. Even if he'd toned down the dramatic serenades and public declarations, he still got that look in his eyes when she walked by. So you buried your feelings, deep, deep down where they couldn't hurt you— or worse, embarrass you.

To make things worse, James got it in his head that you were into Sirius Black. You don't know how it started, maybe you and Sirius bantered a little too naturally after a bus ride home, or maybe James just wanted to believe it so badly. Whatever the reason, he took it as gospel.

"Oh, come on, Y/n. You and Sirius? Absolute perfection." He said with a stupid grin.

You rolled your eyes. "We don't have anything in common, James."

"Oh, you do! You both like... leather and sarcasm."

"Leather?" You repeated.

"Don't question the method, just trust the Cupid."

Sirius, of course, found it hilarious. The guy knew about your feelings accidentally when he found you staring too deeply while watching James and Lily interact. And when you told him about James's assumption, he grinned, shrugged, and just said, 'Well, I am devastatingly handsome,' and he also planned to just play it along just to shut James up.

Which brings us tonight.

Frank's house was packed— an absolute zoo of sweaty students celebrating Gryffindor's third win in a row. Tables were full of beer pong, someone was passed out on the stairs, and the air was thick with cigarettes and weed (thanks to Remus's magic stash). And James— James was distracted.

His friends were talking in the living room. Peter was gesturing animatedly at the couch, but James kept drifting his attention to the nearby kitchen, where you and Sirius were situated.

You were standing by the stereo with Sirius, laughing at something he'd said, one of his rings glinting under the lights as he casually draped an arm around your shoulders. You laughed again, head tilting back, and James choked on his beer.

"What are you looking at?" Remus asked, sipping from a red cup beside him.

"Nothing."

"You look constipated."

"I am not." James glared at him. "Do you reckon they're already together and they're not telling me?" He asked, eyes trained on you and Sirius again.

"Ah, I see." Remus hummed. "Wouldn't be surprised if they already are."

"She's laughing at his jokes."

"So?"

"I tell funny jokes, too."

"Mhm. Do you also tell them with your hands on her hips?"

James flushed. "We're friends."

"So are you and Wormy. But you don't let him cuddle you at parties."

Peter suddenly appeared beside the two of them with snacks. "Would if you asked."

James groaned.

A soft creeakk echoed through the room, despite the music blaring. And everyone turned to look at the random, ancient-looking broom closet emerging from seemingly nowhere.

Frank stood beside it proudly, eyes wide with mischief. "This is the momentum killer of the night!"

Marlene, already tipsy with a red solo cup in hand, a backwards hat on, and a pair of sunglasses, let out a cheer. "Seven Minutes in Heaven!" She screamed.

A chorus of gasps and drunken giggles escaped across the room.

"We spin the bottle, whoever lands it on goes in the closet for seven minutes! You can talk, kiss, declare your love, or hell— even shag, we don't care! We won't judge— well, maybe a little. Just be entertaining!"

Everyone clapped like seals, even Remus, who had already fallen sideways onto a bean bag.

Now, a giant circle was formed, where everyone wanted to participate. You and Sirius were curled up on one of the couches, situated directly across from James. You had been sipping someone's leftover whiskey cola— definitely not yours, but you had lost yours an hour ago. No one was sober. Not even Remus, who had been munching a suspicious brownie earlier.

You were already tipsy, cheeks warm, head dizzy, when the first spin landed on Remus and Mary. Everyone howled.

The two shuffled awkwardly into the tiny broom closet. Seven minutes later, they emerged looking disheveled— Mary's necklace was backwards, and Remus's neatly ironed clothes were wrinkled.

Second spin: Peter and Marlene.

You don't know what happened in there, but there was yelling, loud banging, and when they came out, Peter had no socks on, and Marlene was holding one of Peter's shoes like a weapon. No one asked what happened.

Third spin.

The bottle slowed.

It ticked past Frank.

Past Dorcas.

Past Sirius.

And then it stopped. Right between you and James.

"OOOHH!" Sirius hollered. "This is gonna be so good!"

James blinked. You blinked. The room? Roared.

"Go on, camera girl!" One of James's teammates clapped.

"Use protection!" Remus yelled before falling asleep on Sirius's shoulder.

Marlene shoved both of you inside the broom closet. "Try not to destroy the shelf in there. Or do. Your seven minutes start now." She winked before slamming the door shut.

You two were way too close. James took up more than half the tiny closet— he was tall, broad, and definitely not designed for this cramped space.

Both of you sat down after a few minutes, your knees touching, breath mingling in the closed air. The small bulb did its job on lighting up the space, though still dim, you could still make up the shape of his jaw, the wild hairs curling around his ears, and—

"You're staring," James said with a smirk.

"Really?" You tried playing it cool. "Surprised you could see me with those things." You shot back, pointing at James's foggy eyeglasses.

James chuckled, removing them and shoving them into his pockets. "Fair point. What are we even supposed to do here?"

"Try not to suffocate?" You smiled. "And not sit on each other's laps accidentally?"

"Too late for that," He mumbled, shifting slightly as his knees brushed against yours. "Okay, how about a game? Try to get each other more?"

"Classic stalling tactic." You teased, but smiled anyway. "Alright. What's your favorite color?"

"Red and gold."

"Called it. You're waaayy predictable, Potter."

James snickered. "Your turn. How about... what was your worst experience as a photojournalist?"

You groaned. "Took the best shots in my whole life. Chef's kiss. Only to realize later that my SD card was corrupted."

James winced. "Ouch. That's brutal."

"Tell me about it." You shrugged. "Okay— your favorite coach among everyone that has handled your team?"

He hummed, placing a hand on his chin. "That's a tough one. But... probably Coach Jason."

"Oh, really? The guy who made you run 30 laps at 6 AM?"

"He's tough, yeah. But I can tell he was genuine among everyone else. Made us better."

You nodded, impressed. "Alright, fair."

"How about... who's your favorite football player?"

"Number 3. Sirius Orion Black."

James let out a loud gasp, clutching his chest dramatically as if in mock betrayal. "Y/n! I was hurt! I was your first friend. I was the award-winning captain! I always bring you coffee and snacks when you're hungry!"

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth. "Okay, okay, relax! Fine, I was kidding. Of course, you're my number one favorite!"

"Promise?"

You nodded, sincere. "Yes, James. I promise."

A beat of silence.

James cleared his throat, "Okay... here's one: did you ever have a crush on any of the football players?"

You froze.

Your brain screamed at you to lie. Say no. Say someone else.

But maybe it was the alcohol consuming your veins. Or maybe it was this tight, hot space. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you. Those damn hazel eyes.

So, you nodded. "Yeah... #7. James Fleamont Potter."

Silence.

Dead, awful silence.

James stared at you like you just smacked him with a ball. "You what—? Since... when?"

You tried to keep your voice light. "A couple of months ago. But it's fine. It's just a silly, happy crush."

James blinked. "Happy—?"

"You know, soft, small, not too serious." You replied quickly, trying to lie your way out of this awkward situation. "It's whatever. It's done." It isn't.

"Done?"

You nodded, smiling bitterly. "Yeah, I just saw how you were so deeply enamored by Lily, so I kind of... stopped. But, I really liked you before."

Done.

Liked.

Stopped.

The words rattled in James's brain like an echo.

He sat there, stunned, lips parted to say something, but didn't know how.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Hello? Earth to Potter?"

Still nothing.

You shifted, trying to get comfortable. Your foot had gone numb from the cramped position. But as you adjusted, James also moved— just a fraction, really— and suddenly, you lost balance.

With a yelp, you tumbled forward. Right onto James.

Both of you froze.

Your faces were inches apart. Lips practically brushing. You could smell the faint beer on it, and see his stupidly handsome face up close.

He gulped.

His hands instinctively landed on your waist, holding you firmly. His eyes darted to your lips.

"Uh," You smiled awkwardly. "Hi?"

Then—

SLAM.

The closet door swung open.

"Time's up, lovers— WOAH!" Marlene shrieked.

Everyone turned to see... you... practically on top of James, his hands on your waist, faces a few centimeters apart from each other.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Remus clapped.

Peter yelled, “Knew it!"

You scrambled off James, flustered beyond reason, brushing your hair back as if it would erase the last seven minutes. James looked equally stunned, blinking like he’d forgotten how to function.

Sirius was grinning ear to ear. “So... was it hot in there, or was it just you two?”

You glared at him.

James looked at you.

You looked at James.

And for the first time since the night began, neither of you was pretending anymore.

"Did they kiss?"

"Was that a... straddle?"

"Why did Captain Potter look like he got hit by a football?"

You sighed, trying to ignore the whispers going around. But none of that mattered, though, because as soon as you sat beside Sirius, he nudged you while wiggling his eyebrows.

"Sooo... what happened in there, closet goblin?"

You sighed dramatically and leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder. "I confessed."

Sirius choked on his drink. "You what?!"

"But not like a cute confession," You stared at him, eyes widening. "Like... I-don't-know-why-I-said-that-I-blamed-the-alcohol-and-my-soul type of confession. I said I liked him. Past tense. And then I panicked and told him it was just a silly crush."

Sirius blinked. "Oh."

You nodded slowly. "...Yeah."

Then he blinked again. "...Oh?"

"Please say something coherent."

He grinned, "So you're telling me that you," He pointed at you. "Y/n Y/l/n, keeper of secrets, and hater of feelings, went inside a tiny closet, then came out confessing a crush... and then lied about moving on? A bit bold move, actually. Though I might say that was great."

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "My heart is still pounding like I ran a bloody marathon. I literally fell on top of him. Our lips almost touched. And I'm pretty sure I saw God for 0.3 seconds when he looked at me like that."

"Like what?"

You looked at him and imitated James's face— doe eyes and a pout, to which Sirius snorted.

"Oh, yeah, that's the Potter's dumbstruck in love face, alright."

You smacked his arm, and both of you started laughing.

Meanwhile, across the room, James Potter, star athlete, certified himbo, and former emotionally stable individual, was leaning against the wall while clutching a red solo cup filled with cold water.

Remus, red-faced from him and Mary's 7 Minutes of Heaven and from drunkenness, stood beside him. "You looked like you just walked out of a Greek tragedy."

James gulped his water. "She confessed."

Remus looked at him, dumbfounded. It's as if the alcohol went out of his body completely.

"...Like confessed confessed?"

James nodded dumbly, eyes still glued on you and Sirius laughing together.

Reemus peered in your direction. "And? What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong is— I'm confused!" James whispered-yelled, gesturing to himself and sloshing water on his shirt. "I thought I liked Lily!"

"Thought?" Remus raised an eyebrow.

James ignored him. "And now— now, she was laughing with Sirius like they're starring at a romcom, and I feel like someone should just punch me back to reality."

"I'll volunteer, but go on." Remus patted his shoulder.

"She said she liked me. Liked, Moony! Past bloody tense. And I'm just— why didn't she say anything earlier? I would've done something!"

"Would you?"

James stopped. He paused, pondering everything.

"...Yeah." He admitted sincerely. "Yeah, I would've. Because how couldn't you fall for her? During those times, we were just playing hide and seek in our own little world and calling it friendship. But it was her. It was always her. And now I feel like a bloody idiot because I told Pads to flirt with her just so I wouldn't fall harder!"

Remus gaped at him. "You told Padfoot to— oh, my, Merlin, you created your own love triangle. You're dumb as hell."

"I know!" James whispered-yelled again. "And now I am so, so mad!"

Remus's brow shot up. "And why is that?"

"Because less than ten feet away is Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?"

Remus's lips parted. "That was oddly poetic."

"I've evolved."

Remus sighed. "Now, listen. If you're just confused, then let it go. But if you actually want something, then ask her to start over. Do it properly. No closets. No Sirius interference. Just you and her."

James nodded, taking everything that Remus had said.

And then, without hesitation, he downed the rest of his water like vodka and muttered "showtime" under his breath before making a beeline to where you were.

"Can I steal you for a sec?"

You looked up, blinking rapidly. "What?"

"You know, just the two of us. T-to talk..." James scratched the back of his neck.

Sirius wiggled his eyebrows. "Oops. Say less." He gave James a playful salute before standing up from the couch.

You stared at James, absolutely embarrassed. "Is this about what I've said in the closet? Because I swear I was drunk and probably malfunctioning like my SD card—"

He shook his head, then offered you his hand again, like earlier. "Let's start over."

"What?"

"Let's start over," He repeated, kneeling in front of you so you two were at eye level. "Hi, I'm James Fleamont Potter. I'm an Aries, I like football, and I'm currently suffering from an existential crisis brought by a pretty photojournalist who just confessed that she used to like me. And I was wondering if she'd give me a shot to get to know her without pretending I'm into someone else."

You blinked. "You're not into Lily?"

"I thought I was. Turns out, I was just scared. Because you? You terrify the living shit out of me. And not in a bad way. You terrify me in a way that makes me want to be better, funnier, maybe even take those stupid foggy eyeglasses and stare at you properly. So. Start over?"

You smiled. "Alright. I'm Y/n. I like breaking the rules of every party game. I almost once committed arson trying to get a good shot. And I'm trying not to kiss the boy kneeling in front of me."

James's ears went beet red. "Then don't try."

You both stared at each other— heart pounding, breath uneven— and as your faces leaned in just an inch closer—

Marlene’s voice boomed across the room.

“IF YOU’RE GONNA KISS, DO IT IN THE CLOSET LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!!”

Everyone cackled.

James flipped her off, and you just giggled, cheeks burning, heart fluttering.

And then, finally, he kissed you. Right there on the couch.

And you were 100% sure it was better than any seven minutes in any stupid cabinet.

©kjhbsies

[itsnesss]

𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

🖇️ more...

"We just had to go to the team photo session. How hard could it be?" you asked, watching Ollie run through the paddock waving a Ferrari flag that clearly wasn’t his.

"Depends... before or after Kimi and Yuki hijacked the golf cart?" Max replied in the most neutral voice possible.

Oscar appeared, panting.

"I can’t find them. They have a megaphone and they’re shouting ‘Long live chaos!’"

"Perfect," you said. "We lost them in under ten minutes."

At that moment, Lando rolled by on a skateboard, Charles was behind him on an electric scooter, and Carlos ran past holding a GoPro like he was filming a survival documentary.

"What are they doing?" Max asked.

"Escape Room: Track Edition," said Lando, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Checo and George were sitting in a corner playing chess with pieces made out of Tupperware. Fernando was giving them tactical advice like it was actual warfare.

"I just wanted a nice group photo," you whispered, staring at your empty camera.

"And I just wanted no one to fall in the fountain this time," Max added.

Yuki yelled from afar:

"WE DID IT! THREE DRIVERS IN ONE CART!"

A loud metallic crash followed.

Oscar covered his face. Charles came running.

"Do we have insurance for this?"

"Toto has insurance for everything," Max replied, like that would somehow fix it.

Eventually, you managed to gather everyone in front of the camera. Kimi was holding the flag upside down. Ollie had dirt on his face. Lando was still on the skateboard. But they smiled.

Click.

"Can we go eat now?" Kimi asked.

"Only if no one steals the cutlery this time," you said, eyeing Charles, who whistled innocently.

Max slung an arm over your shoulders.

[slippinninque]

😌Snug🤗

In which Terry wasn't ready

Warnings: none really! Fluffy! May need some edits, secret-at-work-post, soft!terry, short fic

The two of you were sleeping back to back, the mutual warmth perfect to keep you both asleep. Terry woke in the middle of the night to a full bladder but the feel of you, the soft sounds of your breathing behind him, he laid there for as long as he could to savour.

When he finally got the motivation to go to the bathroom, Terry marveled on the last half year of his life with you on the way. The ending of his last relationship felt more like an agreement than a “breakup”. She was a great woman, wonderful in mind and in body but Terry just didn’t want to stay. Didn’t want to linger or bask or any of the other things a man should want to do when he's with a woman he adores.

Then came you.

You were a flame that has never him. Bright, impossibly warm and just as so to turn away from. He’s never felt so content in his life, your love settled down on his heart like a sun-warmed feline claiming it's spot. You pulled a brightness out of his life that he hadn’t even noticed was there, that he had a sneaking suspicion that he now couldn't live without.

Even now, just the thought of you still being there when he came back to bed–Terry resisted the urge to hurry back down the bedroom. That's what the mere thought of you did to him. You made him feel giddy at any hour, at any day.

When he returned to bed, you made a little noise as he resumed his previous position. Terry was ready to stare at the wall where the nightlights of the outside world painted his bedroom wall, knowing sleep could be fickle to him. It was good not to be lonely, though.

Terry reached for the book on his nightstand, deciding to test out that rechargeable book light, only, you turned over and shifted closer to him. Terry’s back bloomed with warmth as you pressed against him, throwing an arm and leg across him. Your size difference should have made it awkward, but it was very comfortable. Beyond comfortable. Soothing? It was soothing. In his mind's eye, he imagined your naked brown skin trying to slip beneath his own, a beautiful little furnace lost in her dreams.

One of your legs rubbed against his, stroking steady and slow. Could you feel his heart beating through his back? Terry swore he could feel yours, it felt like a lullaby. Every inch of you were molded to the back of him in a perfect hug. How had he never known being held could feel like this?

You nuzzled closer and his eyes closed at the feel of your breath across his skin. He could feel your lips move but nothing came out, he felt a kiss. He could feel the silkiness of your bonnet as you managed to shift even closer–your hand spanned and kneading at his stomach.

Terry didn’t move, he didn't want to move. He didn't feel ensnared or cramped, didn't feel that timer hung over his head counting down the few minutes of his comfort.

All he could feel was you.

Terry tipped towards a sleepiness, his breathing falling in step with yours. Logically, with his size, it should have made it a bit difficult. Yet, you gathered him up like he was nothing but a body pillow. He liked it. Terry’s never been the little spoon before.

He cuddled back tentatively, pulling the arm around him higher to hold your hand. Behind him, you wriggled happily. Terry wasn't sure if he was smiling or had his heart hijacked by his body again. Either way, he was swept away by the absolute comfort of being snuggled.

-----------------

✨ending notes✨: just a little fluff!🤭😌 I haven't been reading much aside from this damned cozy cottage book and now it got me all fluffy!!! ✨💕 Tell me what you think with a reblog or a comment! Thank you for reading!!!💕💖✨💖✨💕✨💖✨💕✨💖💕

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@kindofaintrovert @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @ms-angiealsina @flydotty @hunnishive

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@megamindsecretlair @sageispunk @blackerthings @notapradagurl7 @theereina

[britishsquidward]

Every Single "Holy (x)!" Thing Robin Says in the 66 Series (In Alphabetical Order)

Source: The Official Batman Batbook, The Revised Bat Edition

Note: I noticed some of the words in the book were spelt incorrectly or not in the correct order so I did my best to remedy them, but if you notice an error or maybe a word that didn't show up, let me know so I can make the proper adjustments!

Long Post Incoming:

A

Holy Agility

Holy Almost

Holy Alps

Holy Alter-Ego

Holy Anagrams

Holy Apparition (x2)

Holy Armadillos

Holy Ashtray

Holy Asp

Holy Astringent Pomite Fruit

Holy Astronomy

Holy Audobon

B

Holy Backfire

Holy Ball and Chain

Holy Bank Balance

Holy Bankruptcy

Holy Banks

Holy Barracuda

Holy Bargain Basement

Holy Bat-Logic

Holy Bat-Trap

Holy Benedict Arnold

Holy Bijou

Holy Bikini

Holy Blackbeard

Holy Blackout

Holy Blank Catridge

Holy Blizzard

Holy Bluebeard

Holy Bouncing Boilerplate

Holy Bowler

Holy Bullseye (x2)

Holy Bunsons

C

Holy Caffeine

Holy Camouflage (x2)

Holy Captain Nemo

Holy Caruso

Holy Catastrophe (x2)

Holy Chicken Coop

Holy Chiliblains

Holy Chocolate Eclair

Holy Chutzpah

Holy Cinderella

Holy Cinemascope

Holy Cliche

Holy Cliffhangers

Holy Clockwork

Holy Clockworks

Holy Coffin Nails

Holy Cold Creeps

Holy Complications

Holy Consecration

Holy Contributing to the Deliquency of Minors

Holy Corpuscles

Holy Cosmos

Holy Costume Party

Holy Crack-Up

Holy Crossfire

Holy Crucial Moment

Holy Crying Towels

Holy Cryptology

Holy Crystal Ball

D

Holy D'Artagnan

Holy Davy Jones

Holy Dead End

Holy Demolition

Holy Dental Hygiene

Holy Deposit Slip

Holy Detonation

Holy Detonator

Holy Deviltry

Holy Dilemma

Holy Disappearing Act

Holy Disaster Area

Holy Distortion

Holy Diversionary Tactic

Holy Diversionary Tactics

E

Holy Edison

Holy Eggshells

Holy Epicure

Holy Epigrams

Holy Escape Hatch

Holy Explosion

F

Holy Falsefront

Holy Fate Worse Than Death

Holy Felony

Holy Finishing Touches

Holy Fireworks

Holy Firing Squad

Holy Fishbowl

Holy Flightplan

Holy Flip-Flop

Holy Floodgates

Holy Floor Covering

Holy Flypaper

Holy Fog

Holy Fork-In-The-Road

Holy Fourth Amendment

Holy Frankenstein (x2)

Holy Fratricide

Holy Frogman

Holy Fruit Salad

Holy Fugitives

Holy Funny Bone

G

Holy Gall

Holy Gambles

Holy Gemini

Holy Geography

Holy Ghost Writer

Holy Giveaways

Holy Glue Pot

Holy Golden Gate

Holy Gbaf Zeppelin

Holy Grammar

Holy Graveyard

Holy Greed

Holy Guacamole

Holy Guadal Canal

Holy Gullibility

H

Holy H'Ordourves

Holy Haberdashery

Holy Hailstorm

Holy Hairdo

Holy Halleli

Holy Halloween

Holy Hamburger

Holy Hamlet (x2)

Holy Handiwork

Holy Happenstance

Holy Hardest Metal in the World

Holy Haziness

Holy Headache (x2)

Holy Headlines

Holy Heart-Break (x2)

Holy Heart Failure (x2)

Holy Helmets

Holy Helplessness

Holy Here We Go Again

Holy Hiedelburg

Holy Hieroglyphics (x3)

Holy High Wire

Holy Hijack

Holy Hijackers

Holy History

Holy Hoaxes

Holy Hole-in-a-Doughnut

Holy Hollywood

Holy Homecoming

Holy Homework

Holy Homicide

Holy Hoodwink

Holy Hoofbeats (x2)

Holy Horseshoe

Holy Horseshoes

Holy Hostage (x2)

Holy Hot Foot

Holy Hot Spot

Holy Houdini (x4)

Holy Human Collector's Item

Holy Human Pearls

Holy Human Pressure Cooker

Holy Human Surfboards

Holy Hunting Horn

Holy Hurricane

Holy Hydraulics

Holy Hypnotism

Holy Hypodermic

Holy Hypothesis

I

Holy Ice Picks

Holy Ice Skates

Holy Iceberg

Holy Impossibility

Holy Impregnability

Holy Incantation

Holy Inquisition

Holy Interplanetary Yardstick

Holy Interruptions

Holy I.T.&T.

J

Holy Jack-in-the-Box (x2)

Holy Jailbreak

Holy Jawbreaker

Holy Jelly Molds

Holy Jetset

Holy Jigsaw Puzzles

Holy Jitterbugs

Holy Journey to the Centre of the Earth

Holy Jumble

K

Holy Keyhole

Holy Keyring

Holy Kilowatts

Holy Kindergarten

Holy Knit One, Purl Two

Holy Knockout Drops

Holy Known-Unknown Flying Objects

Holy Koufax

L

Holy Leopard

Holy Levitation

Holy Lift-Off

Holy Living End

Holy Lodestone

Holy Long John Silver

Holy Looking Glass

Holy Lovebirds

Holy Luther Burbank

M

Holy Madnes

Holy Magician

Holy Magic Lantern

Holy Mainstrings

Holy Marathon

Holy Mashed Potatoes

Holy Masquerade (x2)

Holy Matador

Holy Mechanical Army

Holy Memorandum

Holy Memory Bank

Holy Merlin the Magician

Holy Mermaid

Holy Merry-Go-Round

Holy Metronome

Holy Miracles

Holy Miscast

Holy Missing Relatives

Holy Molars

Holy Molehill

Holy Movie Moguls

Holy Mucilage (x2)

Holy Multitudes

Holy Murder

Holy Mush

N

Holy Naivete

Holy Nerve Centre

Holy Nick-Of-Time (x2)

Holy Nightmare (x2)

Holy Non Sequiturs

O

Holy Oleo

Holy Olfactory

Holy One-Track Batcomputer Mind

Holy Oversight

Holy Oxygen

P

Holy Paderevsky

Holy Perfect Pitch

Holy Piano Roll

Holy Polar Front

Holy Polar Icesheets

Holy Polaris

Holy Popcorn

Holy Pot Luck

Holy Precision

Holy Pressure Cooker

Holy Priceless Collection of Etruscan Snoods

Holy Pseudonym

Holy Purple Cannibals

Holy Puzzles

(There's none for Q)

R

Holy Rainbow (x2)

Holy Rats in a Trap

Holy Ravioli

Holy Razor's Edge

Holy Red Herring

Holy Red Snapper

Holy Reincarnation

Holy Relief

Holy Recompense

Holy Remote-Control Robot

Holy Reshevsky

Holy Return from Oblivion

Holy Reverse Polarity

Holy Ricochet

Holy Rip Van Winkle (x2)

Holy Rising Hemlines

Holy Road Blocks

Holy Robert Lewis Stevenson

Holy Rock Garden

Holy Rocking Chair

Holy Rudder

S

Holy Sarcophagus

Holy Sardine

Holy Schizophrenia

Holy Sedatives

Holy Self-Service

Holy Semantics

Holy Serpentine

Holy Shamrocks

Holy Sherlock Holmes

Holy Shocks

Holy Show-Ups

Holy Showcase

Holy Shrinkage

Holy Skull Tamper

Holy Sky Rockets

Holy Slipped Disc

Holy Smoke (x2)

Holy Smokes (x2)

Holy Smokestack

Holy Snowball

Holy Sonic Booms

Holy Special Delivery

Holy Spider Webs

Holy Split Seconds

Holy Squirrel Cage

Holy Stalactite

Holy Stampede

Holy Standstills

Holy Stereo

Holy Stew Pot

Holy Stomachache

Holy Strait Jacket

Holy Stratosphere

Holy Stuffing

Holy Stupor

Holy Sub-Orbit

Holy Sudden Incapicitation

Holy Sundial

Holy Superlatives

Holy Suprise Party

Holy Switch-A-Roo

T

Holy Taj Mahal

Holy Tartars

Holy Taxation

Holy Taxidermy

Holy Tee Shot

Holy Ten Toes

Holy Terminology

Holy Tintinnabulation

Holy Tip-Offs

Holy Titanic

Holy Tome

Holy Toreador

Holy Trampoline

Holy Transformation

Holy Travel Agent

Holy Trickery

Holy Triple Feature

Holy Trolls and Goblins

Holy Tuxedo

U

Holy Uncanny Photographic Mental Process

Holy Understatement

Holy Underwritten Metropolis

Holy Unlikelihood

Holy Unrefillable Prescrptions

V

Holy Vanity Case

Holy Venezuela

Holy Vertebra

Holy Voltage

W

Holy Waste of Energy

Holy Wayne Manor

Holy Weaponry

Holy Wedding Cake

Holy Werner von Braun

Holy Whiskers

Holy Wigs

(There's none for X)

(There's none for Y)

Z

Holy Zorro

[e-on-edge]

Avalanche Part 1

(Trying to get used to 2nd person, while continuing the story. Bear with me. I also put a lot less work into this. Writing it in tumblr drafts and doing only the most basic of editing. I've given up trying to make it perfect I just want the ideas out of my head.)

Link to Part 2

This one is all fluff and fun! Not explicit, but the next part will be, which is why I'm leaving the 18+ warning up on this one.

A small warning for mentions of drugs and alcohol

The year was 1986. You’re in college now, just trying to get through your preliminaries before you have to finally pick a major. Unlike you, Caleb had everything planned. He was almost done with his degree and already had a job lined up at the DAA for when he graduated. It was different for you. You didn’t excel at school, at anything, the way Caleb did. He was a born natural at whatever he tried his hand at. Meanwhile, you needed a tutor to pass entry-level trig.

Caleb wasn’t happy about your choice, but Zayne was the smartest person you knew. Book smart, at least. Plus Caleb was so busy now with graduation prep and getting in his hours on the simulator he didn’t have the time to teach you the principles of imaginary numbers. Zayne did.

Zayne was going for his PhD, and he too was almost finished with his schooling. Next would be his residency, and he wasn’t looking forward to that. Mingling around with the other young doctors and nurses had never been where he felt comfortable. He wished he could just skip to the end where he was established in his career, but that wasn’t the way things worked. He was all too pleased when you asked him for help with something basic like Trigonometry. Math, and you, were definitely his comfort zone.

“I just don’t understand where I’m even going to need this.” You groan, pushing the textbook away with an air of disgust.

“You likely won’t once you graduate, but you will if you want to cross that stage.” Zayne put his pencil between his teeth as he pulled the book back to rest in front of you on the dining table. “One more try, then we’ll take a break. Let’s focus on this equation…”

“Ugh” You toss your head back and sink into the chair like a toddler. “Couldn’t we take a break now? We’ve been at it for hours, doc.”

Zayne can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He liked that you called him Doctor, even though he was still years away from being one.

“Alright, but not too long.” He leaned back, relaxing. “Your breaks have a habit of hijacking the day.”

The sound of keys at the door makes both of you turn. Caleb is home.

He enters the apartment with his head bowed, a sack of groceries dangling from his wrist as he wriggles the keys from the lock. When he looks up and meets your gaze, his brow furrows.

“Another study sesh?” He asks, walking into the kitchen to set the groceries on the counter.

“We’ve almost solved one equation.” You jest.

“That so?” Caleb says absently, stocking the fridge. He seems distracted, avoiding your gaze.

You get up from the table and walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

Behind you, Zayne takes a long sip of Dr. Pepper and watches the wall.

“Welcome home.” You muse, snuggling into Caleb’s chest. “I missed you.”

Caleb softens, wrapping his arms around you as he presses a light kiss to the top of your head.

“Missed you too, pipsqueak.” You watch his eyes flick across to the dining table before settling back on you. “I thought we could celebrate tonight, just the two of us.”

You glance over your shoulder to where Zayne is awkwardly trying to look occupied.

“What exactly are we celebrating?” You ask in a softer tone.

“I finally finished my hours on the simulator.” Caleb’s prideful smile breaks through his demeanor. “I bought us some champagne to share, and I was going to cook a special dinner but…” he trailed off before raising his voice to include Zayne in the conversation, “I only got enough for two. Sorry man.”

“That’s alright.” Zayne went to stand, brushing off his shirt, “We can finish studying later.”

You move away from Caleb, feeling guilty for making Zayne feel so unwelcome. You turn back, eyes pleading. Caleb sighs.

“No, wait,” he gives you a stern look, but when you don’t relent your pouting he continues, “Stay. I heard you’ve got something to celebrate as well.”

You whip around, finding Zayne frozen in the tiny apartment foyer.

“What’s he talking about?”

Zayne sighs. He’d been hoping to avoid this.

“Oh, nothing extravagant.” He breathed, bashfully rubbing his neck.

“That’s not what I heard.” Caleb went on, “I heard you saved some chick's life in the food court.”

Your eyes widen in awe.

“What?! Zayne! Why didn’t you say something?”

He winced slightly as you tugged on his sleeve, making apologetic eye contact with your boyfriend over your shoulder.

“It isn’t a big deal.” He shrugged, “She choked, that’s all.”

Caleb looked at Zayne knowingly but did not correct him further.

“Either way, you’re welcome to celebrate with us. This one hardly eats what I make her anyways, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of food for you.”

You shoot Caleb a glare.

“It’s not my fault I can’t keep up with your portion sizes, I don’t have that kind of metabolism.” You turn back to Zayne, grabbing his cold hand in yours. “Do stay.” You plead with a smile. “I promised you a break, after all, and if you go home you’ll just start working again and you know it.”

Zayne exhaled heavily through his nose, holding his coat in one hand, you in the other, one foot still pointed toward the door. You watch as his brow creases and relaxes with thought as if he’s weighing every outcome in his mind. Finally, he speaks.

“I suppose I could stay for dinner.” He set his coat back on the rack and moved away from the door.

“Bitchin'!” You shake him a little with excitement, planting a kiss on his cheek. The action wasn’t planned and startled you almost as much as it startled him, but nothing prepared you for Caleb’s burning stare. “Sorry.” You say, backing off. “I get too enthusiastic sometimes.”

“No worries.” Zayne hums, rubbing the spot on his cheek with a barely concealed grin.

“Who wants a drink?” Caleb interjects from the kitchen, already pouring a glass.

“Me!” you and Zayne say in unison.

Night sneaks up on all of you. The dining table was littered with messy dishes and dirty napkins, two empty bottles of champagne, and three half-full glasses remaining.

You twirl yours between nimble fingers, watching the golden liquid swirl. Your head feels heavy, your cheeks warm, and you aren't wasted but you're buzzing.

Zayne is also flushed, leaning back in his seat laughing at another one of Caleb’s anecdotes. The two men warmed to each other rather quickly once the alcohol started flowing. Laughing and joking in the way that men do. You cherished seeing them together like this, your two favorite people in the whole world. You couldn't wipe the smile from your face if you tried.

Caleb took another sip, still humming in amusement.

“I tried to tell Patrick he couldn't handle the altitude but he just wouldn't listen.” the pilot-to-be shook his head, “I've never seen anyone vomit that much in the simulator.”

“Sounds like a classmate of mine.” Zayne mused, “He gets sick at the sight of blood, yet wants to be a doctor? I don't think I will ever understand.”

Both men reach for the bottle, their hands colliding on the glass before pulling away clumsily.

“Sorry, you go ahead.”

“No, it's all yours.”

You sigh, grabbing the empty bottle and giving it a shake for their benefit.

“It's empty, dinguses,” you say with a sloppy grin. “Should someone go to the store for more?”

“No need,” Caleb grunts a bit as he stands, heading to the bedroom for a couple of confusing moments before reappearing with an ornate glass bottle of brown liquid. “I keep this for rainy days. Pip can't handle it, but what about you?”

Zayne smirks, sliding his glass over.

“I do have a fondness for whiskey,” he replies.

You fold your arms in a pout.

“What? And I'm just expected to sober up?”

Caleb smiles, pouring Zayne a shot.

“Check your bedside table.”

You smile at him in question, but he gestures you off with a nod of his head. “Go on.”

With an excited leap, you lurch from your chair, skipping to the bedroom to hunt for your present...whatever it is.

After some glancing around in the dark, you spot it. Illuminated by the smallest sliver of moonlight, near the shadow of your lamp, is a crinkled stick made of paper. You can smell its contents the moment you lay eyes on it, a heavenly sour blend of earth that you knew all too well. You snatch the joint without hesitation and fish a lighter from the drawer. Caleb always got you the best Kush. You didn't know where from, and you didn't care a wink. His little gifts were the only thing getting you through college free of a mental breakdown.

After blazing up and taking a couple much much-needed long hits, you saunter back into the living area with a more relaxed gait. The tension in your shoulders melts as the herb stings your lips, smoke trickling from your nostrils as you plop back down happily in your seat.

Caleb smiles over you in that warm, endearing way that makes your insides dance. He looked so handsome in the dim light. His purple eyes sparkled with mischief as he tossed back another shot.

You can't restrain your affections any longer.

Once Caleb was back in his seat, you moved to his lap, straddling him with a grin and a kiss. He welcomes you with a warm hand cupping your ass, squeezing just hard enough to hurt a little, and you loved it.

“Let’s all play a game.” you giggle, turning around on top of him so your upper body weight is supported by the table while he still cradles your hips. You look at Zayne with a warm smile, one he can never say no to. “It will be fun.”

Zayne looks at Caleb for a long moment before he looks back at you.

“What do you have in mind?”

You sit up, taking another long drag on your joint.

“Truth.” You lean forward again, breasts almost spilling from the top of your shirt. “Or dare.”

“Pipsqueak,” Caleb utters your name like a warning, his thumb stroking circles over the denim of your jeans. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Oh come on!” You whine, throwing your head against the polished wood. “It’s not a true celebration unless we do something silly.” You look at them both with doe eyes. “Please?”

“Fine, but let’s move to the couch.” Caleb picks you up, and drops you on your feet, patting your ass playfully as you skip toward the sofa.

Zayne follows, drink in hand.

Once the three of you are settled on the cushions comfortably, Caleb and Zayne share another shot over your head, cheering their glasses with a clink.

You pull your legs up, curling them underneath you so you don’t have to crane so much to see their faces.

“I’ll go first. Ask me.” You turn to Caleb expectantly, batting your lashes as he tucks your hair back.

“Truth or dare?” He hums, still gazing deep into your eyes.

“Dare.”

Caleb grins.

“I dare you to take a shot with us.”

Rolling your eyes, you smile. You saw that one coming a mile away. Caleb offered you his glass as he picked up the Jameson, pouring one out for you and Zayne and keeping the bottle for himself.

You hated whiskey. It was too rich, too strong, and the bittersweet sting of it lingered on your tongue for hours to come. Yet, you tossed it back without a single complaint, handing the glass back to your boyfriend with a superior smirk.

“My turn.” you shift, spinning on the cushion to face Zayne. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth, I suppose.” Zayne wipes a drop from his lip with a calculated swipe of his fingers.

“What happened with the girl in the food court?”

He smiled, almost laughing. He should have expected the question from you.

“She choked, that was true. Only, I wasn't present for that. The man who gave her the Heimlich punctured her lung. He couldn't have known, but she had dislocated a rib earlier at her rugby game. The resulting pressure from him trying to save her ended up putting her at even more dire risk.” His brow knit together as he recalled the events, his smile fading, “When I got there she wasn't breathing. I had to perform emergency thoracentesis to remove the excess fluid while we waited for paramedics.”

“Shit.” Caleb hissed under his breath, taking another drink.

“Whats, Thora-cent..ysis?” you ask, clumsily fumbling over the word.

Zayne lights up just slightly, inching closer to you to explain with his hands. He touches a spot between your lower ribs, and you twitch as it tickles.

“I poke a hole right here, to release the fluid buildup. Once she could breathe again, I kept the pressure on the wound until the medics arrived.” he removes his cold hand from your side, reaching for his drink again. He was starting to look red in the face. You wondered how drunk he was.

“That's incredible Zayne.” you breathe in awe, “They really should just make you a surgeon already.”

He chuckled.

“I still have a ways to go before I get there.” his green eyes flick up to Caleb over your shoulder. “Truth or dare, captain?”

The word hangs for a while in the air between them. An old taunt from childhood, in those formative years before Caleb matched Zayne in size, and could still be teased without consequence. You feel Caleb tense beside you, but his expression remains playful.

“Dare,” he commands.

“How predictable.” Zayne scoffs, tapping his chin as he thinks. “Alright. I dare you…to let me kiss your girlfriend.”

“Zayne!” You gasp, covering your mouth both from the shock but also to hide your unshakable grin.

Caleb, to your surprise, laughs.

“Trying to get me out this early in the game? Nuh-uh.” he chided, pulling your face forcefully into his lips as he planted a passionate, slobbering kiss on you. When he released you, he smeared his spit across your mouth with a wicked grin, practically pushing you into Zayne’s arms. “She's all yours.”

Zayne raised an eyebrow. He hadn't truly expected Caleb to allow this, he just wanted to win the game. Though, as you look up at him patiently, he wonders if he maybe had ulterior motives after all.

Zayne’s cool fingers brush your cheek before gently pulling you toward him. His arms wrapped around you, and he shifted to let you settle in his lap as he bent to meet your lips. Your breath catches as his tenderness soaks into your bones, the kiss light and sensitive. He doesn't stop after one or two. No. He holds you firm until he's had his fill of little kisses, passionate in his quiet way.

By the time he's done with you, your chest is heaving, and your face is red. You're afraid to look back at your boyfriend, who undoubtedly regrets his decision to stay in the game. Yet when you finally look at Caleb again, he seems unphased, tossing back another shot with only a subtle flush under his eyes.

“Truth or dare?” he asks you bluntly, keeping his eyes locked on Zayne.

“Truth.” You whisper, wanting to steer the game in a different direction - though the palpable tension in the air suggested it was much too late for that.

“Did you like him kissing you?” Caleb asks immediately.

“Caleb…” you move toward him, but one strong hand grabs you by the wrist, stopping you from touching him.

“Answer.”

“…yes.” your reply is scarcely audible over your heartbeat, pounding like drums against your skull.

“Zayne? Truth or dare?” Caleb continued, letting you go.

Zayne’s brow tightened, he knew he was being backed into a corner. Caleb always did this, even when they were kids. Zayne might've been the oldest but Caleb was always the one in control, and neither of them cared to lose. Not then, not now.

“Dare.”

You sank back between them, just praying things didn't escalate the same way they did on the playground all those years ago.

“Kiss her again.” Caleb's tone darkened as he took another shot.

You sit up, shocked.

“Caleb!”

Zayne wasted no time, he cupped your face and pulled you into another deliciously tender kiss.

You push him off with a grunt, fighting the pleasure back into its hiding place deep inside you.

“Enough!” you snap, standing from the couch in a huff, “I’m not a stick to measure your dicks with!”

Silence.

What had you just said? Was that what you meant to say? “No, I mean,” you stutter, a smile cracking your serious expression, “The stick isn't me, just that you two - stop -” you chuckle despite yourself “I'm not a toy, is what I mean!”

You look up, your cheeks burning from embarrassment. The two young men share a look of confusion before they too break into laughter.

“Come’ere Pipsqueak,” Caleb opens his arms in wait, and you happily fly to him. He wraps you in a comforting embrace, stroking your hair. “We know what you meant. I'm sorry.”

“Me too.” Zayne agreed. “I'm so very sorry. That was…childish of me.”

“Of both of us,” Caleb adds, kissing your forehead. “Forgive us?”

You rub your eyes with a grin, nodding. You couldn't stay mad even if you wanted to, the weed saw to that.

“You were right. This game was a bad idea.”

“No…” Caleb hummed reassuringly, “To be honest, watching you two was kinda hot.”

Zayne chuckled, thinking Caleb was joking, but you knew better. His tone was sincere, aroused even.

“Really?” you ask, surprised.

Caleb shrugs and nods.

“What? I can't have kinks?” He tickles you, making you laugh and wriggle in his arms.

“Of course you can!” you exclaim, trying to break away. “I just would never expect that to be one.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Zayne asks, finally catching on. His cheeks were bright red.

“Relax Doctor,” Caleb said, nuzzling your neck as he crawled over you. You giggled, scooting back until you were in Zayne’s lap again, Caleb still nibbling at your throat. “We don't bite.”

He pulls off of you, his violet eyes lidded with lust. You look up at Zayne, who is in a similar state of distress.

“Truth or dare?” you ask the green-eyed boy behind you, your voice shaking with excitement.

He lets out a stuttered gasp.

“Dare.”

[degloved]

so one thing that i noticed immediately reading sotr is that yes, they're poor, but they're not katniss-poor (and the everdeens were one of the better off families in the seam at that.) in only 25 years, they all collectively went from "getting by" to "starving in the streets like dogs." that's not a natural progression of things.

clearly, obviously, even before katniss, snow has had d12 in his sights in a very real but subtle way. you look at the state of d12 and see a dirty starved depressed population fenced in like cattle, and you think "this is a place forgotten by its master." but it's not. it's never been. he is systematically, one lost penny by another, breaking them down. taking their resources and killing them off slowly, torturously.

but you can't do that to your workers if you want to reap the fruits of their labor, especially not those who work intense physical jobs like coal mining—where their life expectancy is reduced even more so due to chemical exposure and explosive accidents. unless... you don't really need those workers, right? unless their output isn't that valuable. unless you can get coal from, say, district 2. or elsewhere. the living conditions of d12 are unparalleled in their misery—nowhere is as bad as there, because nowhere else is being punished. people are poor, but they get by. even 12 used to get by once.

my next point—snow could've bombed d12 at any point. he did not need them, he needed them even less than he needed d13 & yet 13 is gone but 12 stands. and, well, turns out one can come by "graphite" (nuclear energy) some other way. i'm sure that ever since then and maybe before that, they've known they can't put their eggs all in one basket. further proving 12's meager coal output doesn't exactly make the whole panem go round.

we can reasonably conclude that the districts 11, 12 and 13 have historically been the most troublesome. in sotr, d11 tributes refuse to join the careers—they walk around with an air of indifference about the games. loulou, the hijacked 12 year old—also from 11. so, her parents were... rebels? traitors? someone that "warranted" this (nevermind that none of those horrors can be called warranted in the first place.) in cf, d11 openly show a smidgen of rebellious energy during katniss' victory tour, being sort of the embers of a possible uprising. clearly, this is a district that is & has been less likely to cooperate than the others. d12—same thing. haymitch, katniss, lucy grey, and probably dozens of people before them and between them—especially of the covey.

they're... scheme-y. and snow knows this. and so it follows that it's not shocking, can't be, that those so-called "outer districts" are said to be the poorest. they're kept down, systematically, with hunger and poverty, because when they're not hungry and impoverished, they Do Some Shit. hell, they do some shit even when they are. but snow, equally, cannot resist sadism. he could bomb them immediately, yeah, wipe them clean off the face of the planet like he did d13. he doesn't need them, their output, their workers. really, having peacekeepers there and such is just a waste of money. but he loves taking his resentment out on them, he loves to see them suffer, he loves to reap their children. and that eventually costs him everything. because he didn't—couldn't, for his own twisted reasons—destroy them when he still had the chance.

edit to add: i can't believe i forgot this (i was tired) but let's not forget reaper in the 10th games, the district 11 tribute, who (1) killed a peaceekeeper back home and (2) tore a panem flag off the wall to make a morgue for the fallen tributes within the arena. i fear d11 has BEEN that girl !!!!

[imustbenuts]

the hundred line coming of age route thoughts about the narrative and eito. (general spoilers)

the guy's officially multiplied inside my brain. anyway.

this route made me laugh a lot. thinking about how eito was defeated with the power of friendship that he helped curate gives me the giggles.

but thats not the real intersting bit for me. i found it interesting on a game mechanical level how much this route mirrors the beat of the 2nd scenario (that branches into truth and rebellion routes), but consistently refused to let me/the player pick decisions for takumi at the parts where he should.

in effect here, eito has hijacked the decisions for takumi and the latter willingly lets him subconsciously or not. takumi seems very happy to have the old eito back that he just. throws everything he knows about the actual eito out the window. sure he still wants eito to be happy but this isnt proper understanding, its one sided imposing of his will.

thanks to that whole dynamic though theres the very cool part of him coming up with the plan of cutting himself in half to banzai on veshy and also the not at all cool (and very evil actually what the actual fuck man!!) idea of brainwashing eito to keep him in check.

takumi does not see the real eito in this route and does not seem to meaningfully care about him here. this is like. mundanely evil shit. he does things just heroic enough to get the girl but in doing so makes everything (the truth, the reality, the nuance of the war) a farce for his shounen plotline.

takumi was this close to getting eito on his side if he just showed concern and understanding about his condition, but he just kinda went 'eh, sirei can brainwash this away no big'. the can of evil he just unleashed unto this route with that decision is so fucking absurd that im actually glad eito went final boss on takumi.

because fuck you takumi, you dont deserve the full good ending on this route actually. the friendship hardwork victory tropes? pweh.

understandable.

takumi ends this route either by mutually killing himself and eito, or he does the heroic thing and gets the girl but with eito just quitting the plot. i cant even blame eito for offing himself. ...i kinda feel terrible for him actually. this route is torture on the guy.

they also... do not make it to day 100, and the exodus project is probably still ongoing. they lack critical information that immunizes them to further manipulation from both sides. eito pulls off the ultimate pallete corruption here at least for me. its great.

with what i mentioned in my eito meta appreciation thoughts post im adding "eito can also be the judge jury executioner of the mc", but as a little bit of that as an extra at least in this route.

its very fun but also very fascinating at what happens if takumi just does his own things instead of the player braincell input

also me at eito in the final battle: "why are you here why are you even bothering to fight i can delete you in 2 turns!!! why did you engage in wave 3 like this?! what did you come here for?! go home!!!!!"

also also. shion saying "the power of hemoanima is omnipotent (万能bannou)", and then having takumi interpreting that as "erractic (出鱈目 detarame)" is killing me. detarame implies 'asspull' or 'complete bullshit' in this context.

EDIT:

this cg in the Best Friends ending is also. mwah. the way its framed is so one sided. the handle of the scythe seperates the two. interpretation ahoy but i see this as takumi's footing (social power context) being higher, and he can just force his ideals to eito, but doesnt fully go to his level to understand him. eito seems to be just on the ground waiting for death and dragging takumi with him. neither is willing to compromise their position to seek full mutual understanding

...until takumi lowers himself by giving in to his anger and hate, forcing himself and his whole deal onto eito

lowkey wondering if this whole plot was just some kind of long winded suicide plan by eito too.

[currentfandomkick]

Back-ish.

Took a bit to finish this as Work Hell and exhaustion (and editing for format ReasonsTM)

Enjoy, and let me know if there’s anything in particular you want explored next, and i’ll see if i can add it to the list for the drabbles (the characters hijack everything so no guarantees)

Masterpost Here

Contrary to popular belief, Skulker is good at his job.

He knows how to craft a perfect trap, how to hunt virtually every type of ghost, and has succeeded every time with enough persistence. The halfa was proving an excellent challenge and reminder that hunting took time and planning.

The issue was he also knew his prey was being hunted by another, and this one’s motives were unknown. This ectopus made it clear that it intends to drown the whelp in either form, and that. That annoyed Skulker.

He followed the rules of hunting. Do not go after pregnant entities, or those capable of during their respective spawning season(s). Only hunt what is permitted. Always release your prey if they are endangered, but you may take something to commemorate the event.

Skulker’s choice was the halfa’s first pelt. He’d grow a new one in a year or so, and it would give the halfa time to acclimate to the zone rather than guarding the portal and the whole of Amity so viciously.

But this Ectopus ignored the rules of engaging with the halfa—only treat Phantom and Fenton as the same person when the “ghost hunting”parents were not around. No need to put the child at risk long term.

Halfas were extinct in the realms far longer than most were certain of, a few reigns before Pariah at least. And Skulker was well aware most of the ghosts and Neverborn he interacted with were born well into the Age of Anarchy as Ghost Writer and the record keepers were so fond of calling it.

And it was only after Pariah’s ‘sleep’ began that the liminal population declined on the Living’s side. Apparently species like Sampson’s took quite the hit, most no longer existing. Sampson was one of two Purpler Back Gorillas alive.

Understandably, the liminal gorilla was frustrated. Non-liminals failed to comprehend ghost speak, their culture was almost dead due lack of population and they were treated more like a lab rat than a person.

That was before encountering the first liminal—admittedly halfas pushed the limits of liminality—she’d found existed besides herself. The whelp’s understanding of the language was basic, but he hasn’t had his first shedding yet nor did he seem to interact with other liminals often either.

Skulker was not idiotic enough to ignore the Whelp’s need for his ghost parent’s protection. It was the issue of getting Sampson around Amity to protect the whelp from this “Taco” ectopus that was an issue.

He made sure to bring a fruit basket from the Realms, and included a shedding from a birdlike entity.

Sampson snarled until he left the offering.

“I have news about your son. He is ill,” Skulker began.

Sampson growled ill???Howexplain

“Likely the overhunting from Taco the Ectopus, as the whelp calls them, but there may be other causes. He’s rather old now to not have undergone his first shedding—don’t look at me like that we both know he is—and is experiencing soul form regression. there are those in the Realms who can help.”

Sampson beat her chest. yesHelphow?

“We need to bring him to Realm’s doctors. He may need to reside in his haunt, or require treatment of a number of things. I am not certain, but this Taco may require independent capture and containment. The doctors will know better,” Skulker admitted.

goNOW

“… yes we can go once we have the whelp—does his core have a particular sensation attached to it?”

ColdbigHugemoving

“I’ll let the doctors know when we arrive. Do you want to bring him in his small form, or one of his usual two?”

smallEasycarry

“He should be headed to the aquarium tonight, shall I set up the blob ghost perimeter?” It was the easiest way to monitor one’s prey and lire away competition… and confirm whether or not this “Taco” is targeting the whelp personally or as an ecto source.

He’s hoping the latter, but has a sinking feeling it will be the former. And he will have to hide the stupid finned brat in his prosthetic…

He should see if his girlfriend or her friends don’t mind helping him distract the intruder from the whelp.

Johnny and Kitty are rather fond of their ex. And Ember is insistent on setting up more playdates between her frightmate Youngblood and the whelp. Something about them being ‘same font different hat’ that he didn’t quite get. Oh well, if it didn’t involve animals, weapons, tactics or hunting he rarely gave it much thought in life, let alone his afterlife.

With Sampson’s (terrifying) blessing, Skulker got to work.

Masterpost Here

Tags: @skulld3mort-1fan @theizzyof3malec3 @brattysleepyreader @sebas-nights @elidaweirdotaku0520 @bianca-hooks123 @the-autistic-spider @laurcad123 @just-lurking-here-dont-mind-meh @atinygracie @stars-obsession-pit @wanderwithwings @aibhilin-atibeka

[sortagaysortahigh]

Through Time 2014. | James 'Bucky' Barnes

Series Masterlist. This is part twosies

A/N: Okay yall, here's part two, I'm just getting ready to post these bakc to back based on whats been read thru and edited again </3 Big thank yous to @anxietyandtacos and @love-chx for sitting with me while i obsess over ts and reading/rereading my drafts <3 Follows canon events, but is not fully canon compliant. This would follow CA:TWS

Summary: After waking up from a seventy year long cryogenic freeze, life is anything but normal. Sure you still have Steve as a friend, but finding out what happened to Bucky was devastating.

Warnings: 2nd person POV, Use of Y/N (not often but IM SORRY OK), angsty, spelling and grammar errors, cursing, mentions of violence, Racial themes/Mentions of racism, hydra trauma for my shaylas </3, mentions of torture (cause hydra), getting shot at, straight up violence, breaking and entering, reader was also experimented on by hydra (mentioned not depicted), no happy ending yet lmfao im sorry

Word Count: 3.4k

Bucky Barnes x WOC!Reader (Reader has vague descriptions, but it is noted that she is a woman of color!!!! Which is an important plot point!)

I'm ngl yall, the things i have to say ab this man would set feminism back so lemme stfu.

2014 Washington D.C.

It didn’t help that when you’d woken up, your entire body was on fire and you were practically strapped to a hospital bed. Except the hospital was different, the smell was the same, but there was this beeping that wouldn’t stop, and as you looked around, the screens—or pictures? were strange.

Then you noticed the large thin screen mounted on the wall directly across from where you were laying. You assumed this had to be some kind of television based on the way it played what looked to be a film in color. You knew that technicolor was starting to become more prominent a few months ago, but this—this wasn’t technicolor.

As you tried to speak, your throat was too dry, and the searing pain was still evident through your body.

Then the door opened, and Steve walked in with a redheaded woman beside him. Their clothes were odd, It did look a hell of a lot more comfortable than what you had to wear every day, and she had on pants.

It didn’t take long for you to figure out that this definitely wasn’t 1945 anymore.

Maybe you should’ve been more shocked to see Steve alive, but with the knowledge of what went into the super soldier serum, it wasn’t that alarming to see him.

Steve rounded the bed, mumbling apologies while unstrapping you buckle by buckle. He then grabbed the water bottle beside the bed—which was in an ugly plastic square shape with the image of a tropical tree or fish on it. You watched as he poured it into a cup, getting closer to you, and helping you drink it.

“Sorry about the restraints Doc, when they woke me up, I kinda kicked a few asses then took off running. Precautions and all.” he spoke as you drank the water.

You slowly lifted your arms, wincing at the burning pain through them, jaw clenched as you took a deep breath, voice throaty while speaking “Steve—what year is it?”

His eyes widened as he nodded his head, then he looked at the redhead “See, I told you she was really smart—” when his eyes met yours, you were waiting for an answer, clearly irritated “Oh, well, it’s 2014. This is Natasha by the way.”

You awkwardly waved at Natasha, still trying to ignore the pain in your body. “Steve, why the hell is it 2014, not 1945, and why does it feel like I’m getting burned alive—also is polio still a thing?”

Steve laughed at your question “No, polio isn’t a thing now. They have a vaccine for it though. Not that you’ll need it. Uh see, the thing is—how do I put this. So I was hit by the tesseract—that artifact from Odin if you remember and was frozen for 70 years underwater. The base you worked out of was hijacked by and you were put through a trial of cryo-hibernation by hydra. However, their main base that they had you in was actually burned down in 1946.”

Your brows knit together while Steve rambled trying to fill you in, then you glanced over at Natasha, she easily got the message, clearing her throat.

“Basically, you were in a deep underground lab, but all entrances had been burned down and destroyed. It ran on optimized fuel and what we believe is solar power, hence you being frozen for so long. Shield found you a week ago, and you’ve basically been defrosting since.”

You slowly nodded your head. Admittedly, it wasn’t difficult information to process, if anything you were just dreading having to catch up on seventy years of history. Not to mention the technology advancements, the irritating beeping from whatever monitor around you was enough.

“What’s next, you tell me Bucky’s actually alive.”

The silence in the room was tense. You blinked several times, gaze moving from Steve to Natasha, over and over again. 

“No—Steve! Are you fucking kidding me?!” 

Steve gasped “Language! I forgot you curse like a sailor. It’s been so long—actually I think Bucks the one who told me you cursed like that, come to think of it. But well technically he is alive. But it’s actually great that you’re awake now because we could really use your brain.”

You scoffed, now sitting up fully, wincing at the shooting pain from your abdomen up your spine.

“What the hell do you mean technically?!” Then your hands were moving to your neck, eyes wide, searching for the locket. Steve dug in his pocket, handing it to you. 

“Is now a bad time to say that we’re here to break you out of this hospital?”

You were in a state of shock trying to understand what was going on. Being stuck in a cryo-freeze for seventy years made sense, not because you would ever willingly do something like that to yourself. But based on your research and findings from the end of the war, it was clear Hydra was moving in the direction of human preservation, cloning, and mind control. 

You just hadn’t realized their scientists had successfully figured it out.

Natasha was quick to remove your IVs and monitor lines before Steve scooped you up out of the bed. 

“What the fuck—” Steve was quick to shush you as he left the room, glancing around several times, avoiding any doctors, nurses, shield agents, or possible hydra agents. He knew his way around this hospital, ducking through different corners, rushing down empty stairwells until you were all in a parking garage.

You didn’t have any time to process anything new or different, not when Steve was buckling you into the backseat of a large black car, the leather seats uncomfortable against your bare thighs. It also dawned on you that you weren’t clothed, you had on a hospital gown and that was it. 

“Can I get some clothes? Maybe a run down on the past seventy years? Do I have any great nephews or nieces? Also can we talk about women wearing pants? And what the hell is that small device in your hand Steve? Jesus—wait, do people still go to church? I mean religions been around for centuries so probably. Wait—what the hell?”

You paused, glancing out of the car window, brows knit together at the sight of people all around the city. It was easily inferred that this was modern day Washington D.C., the several signs and small flags along lamp posts indicated that much. 

The most shocking part of it all though was the sight of racially and ethnically diverse people mixing and mingling with white people. There were no segregated signs or streets, hell you’d almost given yourself whiplash the second you noticed an actual interracial couple kissing on the sidewalk.

Everyone around paid them no mind.

“So is racism still a thing? I mean, in theory it would be but what’s the scale or I guess the scope?” 

Natasha looked at you with a confused expression, then she glanced at Steve who shrugged before replying “You’ve gotta remember, we’re from the 40s. That’s pre-civil rights.”

You gasped “Civil rights? Like there was a civil rights era? Jesus Christ, I think I might faint or something. Wait—if this is Washington D.C., who’s the president?” This was the definition of culture shock, how you were able to accept what was essentially time travel so easily but couldn’t comprehend civil rights was astonishing in and of itself.

It wasn’t long before Natasha handed you her phone, leaning over the center console, explaining it to you. She’d even managed to simplify an explanation of the internet, which led you down another wormhole of questions while you followed along with her.

The good thing about being an experienced scientist and holding a doctorate degree was that you were a fast learner. Meanwhile Steve kept driving, and eventually, you all stopped at a high secluded base of some sort. It looked to be an abandoned military unit, but upon further inspection, you knew there was much more than meets the eye.

Natasha gave you a bag of clothes, ushering Steve out of the truck “Sorry if they’re a little big or a little small, I didn’t really know what you were working with.” 

You smiled at her “It’s alright, I appreciate the gesture.” Then she opened the door and stepped out of the truck. It had taken you a few minutes to get dressed, fumbling with the cotton pants they gave you, and struggling to untie the hospital gown before huffing and ripping it in half—your own strength a bit surprising.

Once you had on the outfit, which consisted of a pair of black cotton pants, white socks, a white undershirt, and a large baggy sweatshirt you were set. Although it did take a few minutes to undo the braids in your hair—wincing at the pull of a few knots and tangles. The last thing you did was open the locket, smiling at the image of Sergeant Barnes before shutting it and clasping the necklace on.

At first, you were a bit wobbly on your feet, grasping onto the car door with wide eyes the moment your knees buckled. After a frustrated sigh, you were able to find your footing, body feeling almost numb, the aching burn still prominent.

Steve helped you walk inside, and eventually after a lot of struggling and complaints on your end, you all ended up in a very large base. It was older, the technology clearly from the 40s and from what you could tell, it was still fully operational with the right person.

“See, now this, this I understand.” You spoke as your fingers trailed along the dusty computers, then you were squatting down, pulling open a few hardware cases—eyes widening the moment you practically ripped off a sheet of metal from one of them. You blamed it on the machinery breaking over time.

Steve and Natasha watched you move from place to place, connecting different wires, flipping different switches, turning a series of knobs, a few lights flickering here and there. Then you were across the room, walking like a baby deer on shaky legs until you managed to find a large breaker box, pulling it open and scanning the several Russian words.

Once you flipped three different switches, the entire base lit up.

That led to several recordings of Armin Zola popping up on screen. Then you glanced around, overhead lights now shining brightly throughout the base. A series of motorized computers spinning rapidly.That’s when you spotted the main shattered monitor, a camera following your movements.

“Ah, good, you brought Doctor Y/l/n as I asked! It is wonderful to see you again, of course, you had so much wasted potential with the SSR. Have they told you about hydra’s relationship with shield? Did they let you know about the new world order?”

You rolled your eyes at his words.

“Okay Zola, we get it, shields compromised, let me guess, we’re about to be blown up. This isn’t my first rodeo. Now before the missile hits, what did you do to me—most importantly what the hell did you do to Bucky.”

Natasha watched, glancing from your figure to Steve who simply shrugged.

“Do you not feel it already? In your bones? The new strength? The new power? We fixed you—we had so much hope for you but you were lost, another tragic demise. You could’ve been with him—side by side working under Hydra.”

You reeled back, shaking your head. There was no way they’d made you into one of their experimental pawns. But it made so much sense. After Dr. Erskine was shot, you were the next best thing to recreating the serum, you’d made the best version of it, the most effective version of it.

They needed you. By any means necessary. Sure they’d gotten to Bucky first, but they wanted to use him as a pawn to get to you.

If they’d already experimented on Bucky before his rescue, then that would’ve meant that he survived the fall. They waited for him, they knew he would fall. They knew Bucky would’ve sacrificed himself to help Steve—to save Steve.

Your eyes widened, looking at the monitor. “Zola, who was the informant?” 

His laugh echoed throughout the room. “Your precious little friend of course. Not by choice, her circle was compromised, she said too much to the wrong people. That’s how we found out about your connections to Barnes.”

“But now, he is gone and the Winter Soldier has a mission to kill you.”

Then Natasha was grabbing you, dragging you with her and Steve as they dove into a large opening below a grate, the explosion sounding throughout the room made your eyes burn and ears ring.

You woke up with another jolt, part of you hoping that it would be 1946 again and everything was just a weird dream after being exposed to too much radiation when working with Howard Stark. Unfortunately for you, this was not a weird dream and you were currently on someone’s sofa, in a house you didn’t recognize while Steve and Natasha went back and forth, meanwhile another man was in the room.

“Good to see you’re awake doc, I’m Sam Wilson, I’ll be joining you all for this whole hydra takedown situation.” He extended a hand, you shook it with a shrug. “So, you’re the Doctor that made Steve—well huge? Heard you’ve got a hit out from Hydra.”

You nodded “yeah, guess so. So is now a bad time to start with my questions again?” 

Sam laughed, shaking his head with a wide smile. You then sat up and he sat beside you.

He answered most of your questions, it was actually nice getting full on genuine answers about the state of the world. He didn’t sugarcoat things—not that Steve had ever really gone out of his way to do so, but it was always apparent that he skirted around the edges when it came to issues that impacted people like you. It was like he wanted to paint things in a pretty picture all the time, and that optimism wasn’t always needed.

Sam told you the truth, he told you that yes the world was still screwed up, yes things like racism and poverty were still abundant, but things were better now and people had strived for better.

He then elbowed you “and uh—between me and you. If we can ever get your boyfriend to not be psychotically brainwashed, anyone can get married now.” 

You blushed at that, swatting at Sam’s arm slightly.

Sam excused himself, grabbing a set of files before presenting them to Steve. You did your best to listen, but you were so tired and sluggish. It was as if your head was pounding and you were slipping into a cloud of exhaustion.

It was like you were in and out of consciousness. 

When you woke up it was because a man was getting literally dragged out of the window of the car you were in. Someone punched a hole through the glass, and from there, his body was thrown across the highway.

“Are we fucking serious?! You guys couldn’t have left me at the house?! I survived World War II for this shit?!” You moved your hands rapidly as you spoke, now finally processing that you all were in the middle of a shoot out of some sort, one of Hydra’s soldiers on the top of the car, ripping the steering wheel from Sam’s hands, the car itself flailing as another hit it multiple times.

You couldn’t stop cursing as you slid out of the vehicle in Sam’s arms. 

“Who the hell is that?! You’re kidding me right?—That’s James?!” it was as if your commentary fell on deaf ears, meanwhile Steve was being blown off of the bridge, followed by Natasha jumping and shooting. Sam was somewhere in the back, and you were crouched behind one of the black Hydra trucks. 

You sighed, shaking your head as four men anchored themselves to the cars on the bridge, clearly about to jump off, or glide down with ropes. Then you pulled open the car door, spotting a rifle, shaking your head as you picked it up.

“Peggy Carter if you could see me now.” You whispered before standing up, Sam already taking down two of the men, then you were shooting at the others, moving to the edge of the bridge, looking down at the ground where three more stood, raising the rifle, and with a steady aim, you shot each one of them down. 

It felt instinctual—now that was new. Peggy and Colonel Phillips had shown you a thing or two, but nothing like this. 

“Damn little lady, I shouldn’t have underestimated you” Sam laughed as he spoke, nodding his head at you before motioning behind you where more Hydra agents emerged.

“This is the worst day of my life! And once again! I survived a world war!” You shouted as you shot at the men, aiming low, then high, several times. You knocked each and every one down with the help of Sam. Somehow Sam had wings—that you’d have to ask him about later—and then he was dropping you off next to Natasha and aiding Steve.

Your eyes were wide as you looked at Bucky—your Bucky. Steve called out to him, but he didn’t recognize Steve. Natasha tried to hold you back, but it was idiotic, you shoved her away, shaking your head, walking towards the fight, brows knit together as you looked ahead.

“Bucky?” his gaze snapped away from Steve to you.

This wasn’t Bucky, this was the Winter Soldier, but for a brief minute you watched him falter, stumbling slightly as his eyes fell on to you. 

You knew it was the grief. You’d spent a year grieving James Barnes, he was the love of your life in some odd way. You shook your head while staring at him, tears in your eyes stinging as you watched him with clouded vision.

Then he was raising his gun at you, but he was hesitating, his eyes moving rapidly between you and Steve. Then he was shooting, and Steve hadn’t gotten to you quick enough. Your body hit the ground as you screamed like a banshee.

The bullets stung as they hit you—except you weren’t shot. You remembered what it felt like to be shot. Your clothes were torn, but you didn’t have a singular injury. It was as if the bullets bounced off of your skin. It still hurt, but there was no damage.

“So much for seeing him on the other side.”

The only true pain you felt was heartache. Bucky was alive, but he wasn’t Bucky. This wasn’t the 40s anymore, and you weren’t fully human—not like before. Hydra had experimented on you as well, they’d done something to you, altered your biological chemistry, they’d treated you like nothing more than a rat.

-

Once again Steve Rogers had managed to take down Hydra. He’d been hospitalized for a week following the successful take down of Hydra’s weaponry.

Steve had also crash landed into the Potomac River and someone had fished him out. 

You knew that it was Bucky. There was a crack in his mind, a gap small enough to slither back into, something that would eventually break down the walls constructed from brain washing and mind control, not to mention full on torture. Hydra was known for torture, it’s what they did best.

It was clear that Steve had managed to break through, even if it was just barely. It was enough for Bucky to dive into the river to save him—to save his former best friend. 

You hadn’t said a single word to Steve about it, not because you didn’t want to. But because you didn’t need to, it was unspoken, the both of you had a very clear understanding of what had happened to Bucky. There was also a clear plan that you’d go after him.

Honestly, you don’t really have a purpose in life at this point. Not when you’d been frozen in time and woken up seventy years later with newfound abilities, a broken heart, and a seat at Captain America’s table. 

So you decided that sticking by Steve’s side was the best course of action.

-

Thanks for reading my lovers <333

Series Masterlist

[beevean]

Don't know if this take is hot or not, but I feel I've GOTTA say it: Doctor Eggman getting batted away by a story's climax or being manipulated by another Villain of the Week the whole time is fine, and he doesn't need to be THE reason things happen in the games, if something interesting is done with the usurper. What if it's an equal intellectual who challenges him for control and genuinely outsmarts him? What if it's a sympathetic being who uses him to do extreme things for the right reasons?

Strongly agree | Agree | Neutral | Disagree | Strongly disagree

The series has done with Eggman this sort of... reverse Sigma/Dracula thing where the dude went through a phase where he could hardly be allowed to be the proper antagonist of his own franchise. Sure, he set the plot in motion, but then at the very end woosh! Time to face the true bad guy, a terrifying god monster thing the likes of which Eggman could never compete!

It's damaging to his credibility. What's the point of having an archnemesis, if he's constantly belittled? It's why Colors restoring him as the final boss was such a big deal. It's why Eggman dispatching the Deadly Six and Infinite to claw back to his position of main bad guy was so important. And now that Frontiers set things back yet again with The End, I ain't trusting like that anymore.

What if it's an equal intellectual who challenges him for control and genuinely outsmarts him?

You mean Eggman Nega? :P They already did that, and look at that, Nega's whole deal is apparently that he's so much more evil than his counterpart/ancestor because he wants to destroy the world, not merely conquer it!

What if it's a sympathetic being who uses him to do extreme things for the right reasons?

You mean Chaos, who pretended to be Eggman's pet for the sake of collecting the Chaos Emeralds, becoming Perfect, and laying destruction due to the immense grief it was still feeling? Admittedly, SA1 is one of the best example of this "Hijacked by Gods" trope, because Eggman was in fact an outright menace through 99% of the story, it made sense with the themes of the story, and Chaos is more interesting than most of the flat gods that succeded it.

(edit: I forgor about Shadow in SA2. lol. but that's already a more complicated case. Eggman got manipulated by Shadow who got posthumously manipulated by Gerald. Intriguing for Shadow! Less so for Eggman, although I'm not denying he was very cool in that game too)

I get what you mean. I know that every trope can be pulled off well, with the right amount of care. A rival for Eggman in smarts (an evil one, so not counting Tails) could be a cool concept. But I personally don't want to see Eggman getting upstaged anymore. It was tiring and childish, and to me feels fanfiction-y. It took me until Colors to even respect Eggman as a character because the Adventure era did him so dirty that as a kid I didn't understand why he was even around.

[aweirdlisa]

Generation Loss thoughts/theories

Okay I had to return from the dead to post about Generation Loss because decoding the Founder’s letter is something I am still proud of (it took me about 4? hours) and it got Genloss to grab me with its claws to pull me right back in! I’ve been a big webseries and ARG fan since like 2009 so I’m happy there is still some awesome content being made to this day.

First of all, Ranboo, the founders game website is phenomenal, absolutely sick work, I’m thoroughly excited and terrified to see what is next!

Second of all I rewatched and re-read pretty much everything of Genloss since the start and I’ve got thoughts I want to spill in one place to have them all together, so here goes (thanks for reading if you do!) I will try to keep it chronological:

In “T_1”, the very first video, we are introduced vaguely to a world where history may have been tampered with through generation loss which appears to be some sort of psychology/principle/scientific method probably founded by the Founder, which is taught and used to alter or censor certain events, effectively changing the world with it

With what we know so far I believe this generation loss movement isn’t just the editing and reproducing of versions of media to the point where they’re deformed or altered, but they can actually alter the things people see like our Hero and the other people did within the Social Experiments, to the point where even extreme things like gore can be censored (Charlie on the operating table for example), people can be “brainwashed” or “hijacked” in a way, we also see a brain shape in one of the images with the Genloss logo near it

In opposition to the Genloss party, we have Red Text Person, who seems to be against the whole principle and wants to kill the Founder of this movement

The inauguration in T_2 is either for us the viewer to see how readily available we are to killing other humans through choices on a screen, or it was a procedure that the folks in the Social Experiments went through to become “worthy“ and thus ready for the show

In “Connecting…” we hear that they are looking for individuals and to call if we spot them

In “Connected” we hear about Showfall media for the first time and how they have a missing person’s hotline

In “Connected” we also see a tunnel which I believe to be the use of transportation to either other universes (“One to another”, “one of many”, “look into infinity”) aka generations or simple time travel to other generations

In “Connected” we also have another influence of Red Text Person trying to warn us that we shouldn’t watch the show

In “Announcement” we learn that the missing individuals are all caught by “It”, “everyone but me” according to Red Text Person

Red Text Person at this point seems unsure where their signal is ending up, which is with us

The Social Experiments air live, where I thought Hetch was Red Text Person, but they turned out to not be on our side, having been given a role by the Founder (however voluntarily that may have been)

Ranboo aka the Hero and the others were the “missing individuals” mentioned in the earlier videos, ending up being caught as they are needed for the experiments, perhaps because they were a threat to the founder, rebels against the Genloss movement, or simply cannon fodder to test out what is possible with “infinity” as the Founder says

In “A Message From The Founder” the Founder announces he is creating the Founder’s cut, a “perfect” version of the story

In the meantime we are introduced to Zero’s journal snippets which start surfacing on twitter, however they were written somewhere in the 1900s, despite this we somehow affect her world/time through polls, where we end up blasting happy birthday through her radio

Zero started keeping this diary as result of a treatment / therapy she started due to something that happened 8 months prior, in addition she starts tracking the wild dreams she has as per suggestion of her friend “Jay” who is into the supernatural

Her dreams consist of a field with red sky, an unnatural cave/chasm, a sky rippling like water and crashing into her, a hospital turning into a hallway with a creature chasing her and eventually seeing herself with a wreck against a tree in the same field as before, the tree has a certain symbol etched into it, presumably the Genloss symbol

The wreck could imply the incident that occurred 8 months prior

Zero notes how she hates the uncertain future and how she wishes she could just control everything

Zero works for a store fixing VCRs and helping customers among other things

All shown entries are implied to be written between July 30th - Aigist 15th 19XX (probably late 1900s due to radios and VCRs being a thing)

In “Coming_Soon” another tease of the Founder’s Cut happens, yet notably the Founder mentions that what we are about to see actually happened live, but “just not here”, implying the possibility of a multiverse rather than the time travel situation

In “Again” the Founder clarifies that they made the Founder’s cut by replaying the Social Experiments over and over again until it became a perfect, pure version

The Founder’s Cut is released on YouTube, at the end we are shown a conversation between Miss Roads, aka Zero and her presumed therapist who tells her to keep a journal which is how we learn about Zero’s name and how she started her journaling

In “From The Founder’s Desk” we are introduced to a code in the form of a substitution cipher using newly created symbols that seem to be based off of the Genloss logo, this could be one of Four keys to the Founder’s door as mentioned on twitter, though what the keys are isn’t clear yet

Once translated, the message appears to be a letter from the Founder directed at an unnamed “you”, speaking of how the Founder watched and watched until noticing “you” and how special “you” were, but how “you were not perfect” and how they can and will create something beautiful and perfect

The letter could be referring to some final goal of creating a perfect “story” as mentioned before

In “Welcome to Generation 0” the Founder tells us about being ready to see the real story, the one from his generation, Generation 0 (an alternate universe or timeline?) we only need the keys and the door to get to see it, which will be provided to us in time

In “T_3” we hear the rumblings of a machine and see a red door which we now recognise from the Founder’s Game, Red Text Person shows up again, testifying of having seen people who shouldn’t exist yet do, implying they may have been displaced from their own timeline/universe or censored through generation loss, yet Red Text Person saw them

Red Text Person also refers to an “it” and “not knowing what it is for but I have to stop it”, the it in question could refer to a machine that the Founder uses to do everything they have been doing, or to the principle of Genloss itself

Lastly Red Text Person implies something is coming, but they will try to show us what “they” have done and to who

In “The Fortune Teller” we hear a voice speak of the future being a beautiful thing and then mentioning “the door” asking us if we know what lies beyond it and if we really want to open it, so far this video stumped me as to what it really means, the short sentence of hidden code also hasn’t been decoded with a 100% certainty but we will get there !

In the meantime VHS tapes of the Founder’s cut arrived to those who ordered them, where we were led to the Founder’s Game website, the “beginning” that was planted in our generation being the password to the website

The first part of the Founder’s game has us walk through a hallway, where we encounter the person from the T_2 video before they were killed when you make the “You vs Them” choice

We also see someone vigorously watch and rewind a tape in a room, this could possibly be the founder as they’re working on the Social Experiments at the time as they had not happened yet while T_2 person is still alive

Lastly we are given the option to choose between a Laboratory and Holding Cell B, which we will found out in a week whichever was chosen

Whew this was long! To recap my thoughts a bit concisely, I believe the Founder was the one to introduce/invent the technology used to alter people’s minds using generation loss to replace memories and influence the world they live in. It’s possible that Showfall was created as a company to apply their technology to spread and control media as they liked. If used on a large enough group of people they could effectively control entire worlds. On top of that it is possible time travel or multiversal travel takes place when we see the tunnels in the videos. People are taken “from one to another”, where they were “one of millions”, and get their brains messed with until they “are worthy” to participate in one of the stories.

What could possibly be the goal? Perhaps total control of everything we know, some sadistic story that will be “perfect” to the Founder’s vision. Maybe the freedom to create as many stories as they like. He mentions that the Social Experiments were a literal test to see what is possible with infinity, and that the rabbit hole can go deep with infinite generations, infinite stories. We are shown “his” generation up next and what will be the home of the “perfect” story, so it could be that he just wants to fix his own reality to suit his wishes.

How does Zero fit into this? She experienced some sort of incident leaving her troubled, which leads to her journal entries. She experiences strange dreams and talks of wishing how she could control everything. She deals with VCRs on the regular so she could become the Red Text Person who ends up witnessing “Generation 0” and tries to stop the Founder before things go to shit even more?

That or if you want to go full tragedy, she could somehow become the Founder in an attempt to fix her reality, where she could undo the incident that caused her so much trauma, but needs to practice on other realities first?

Zero is pretty much the biggest question mark to me at the moment, but the scale of the Founder, Showfall media, and their power are getting clearer and clearer, to a terrifying degree!

The timeline is a little wonky now that we are going from “generation 1” to 0 and that we are interacting with things from the past in the Founder’s Game, but I’m sure things will fall into place once it’s all over.

Anyway I could be incredibly wrong about all of this, but I am having an incredible time with all the lore and cannot wait to see where it all leads up to!

See ya!

[fillingthescrapbook]

Let's Talk About: Fantasy High Junior Year and Rock the Boat

Who knew the opening minutes with Ally hijacking the intro would lead to Brennan quitting just before the episode ends? I guess we did. We were told. By Ally's before-the-season featurette, and by the episode description. We were told.

Almonds almost took out Brennan before Ally could. We got a little ghost with hairy feet--showing hole! And then we got the wrong graphic at the end? I think?

And now Zac's the dungeon master.

The biggest thing I learned from this episode? How dim the lights that are on Brennan have to be, just so he doesn't wash out. Like, look at Zacky in that photo. The lighting team is truly amazing at their work, just to be able to balance Brennan out with the rest of the cast.

But joke's aside--

WHAT AN EPISODE!

The Intrepid Heroes are one hundred percent some of the best players of tabletop-roleplaying in the business. And not just because they're making us laugh--it's because they're able to deliver some outstanding storytelling alongside the jokes!

Yes, a lot of kudos goes to Brennan too. For his amazing DM-ing. But the cast? A standing ovation for the lot of them. Even just Ally pointing out how Gorgug and Kristen being the first of the Bad Kids to die--and being in direct line of fire with the dragons? Accidental narrative drama! (Edited to add: It was Gorgug who remembered they died, and Kristen—looking at all the dragons surrounding then—who said it could happen again still.)

Fabian having invested so much on his popularity track pays off. Riz and Eugenia being an amazing team, Siobhan and Ally giving outstanding support, and Fig (and Emily!) finally getting over their cursed rolls--it was all so brilliant. Blimey!

Gorgug was the MVP of this fight though. Zac's rolls and Gorgug's stats truly kept the Bad Kids afloat. And Brennan asking Zac to roll for things Gorgug was concentrating on gave me the loudest laugh of the episode. Because the only thing he was concentrating on: was staying alive!

And, please, talented artists out there. Let's make a music video for Fight in the Sky by Fig and the Cig Figs. Using vulture footage taken with GoPros.

I don't have much else to say. Next week looks even more wild. And Murph is now the Expert of the Cocked Dice.

Oh, and "Shoot Grandma and gas it."