#it was a bad love triangle

[fake-married-my-dead-fiance]

Went through The Forbidden Marriage tag and so many people don't like that the king has been pining for his murdered wife for seven years and want the Guard to win the love triangle instead.

You know, the Guard who has been pining after a woman he didn't even meet for seven years 🤦🏼‍♀️

(and yes, I know it was the female lead, I don't care. He's been looking for her for seven years and he didn't ever meet her. He saw her from the side ONCE. That is just as off-putting as still being in love with your wife, who was murdered! If that's something that off-puts you)

(also pretty clear the King has some complex and unhealthy grief because his wife was murdered, no one believes that, and he wasn't allowed to mourn her properly, not to mention the ongoing psychological torture. It's not like he's just hung up on some woman 🙄)

[alliluyevas]

"i hate love triangles" "i hate cheating" "stop writing about love triangles and cheating" people write about love triangles and cheating because complex emotions and romantic conflict are deeply compelling themes. get good.

[paintedcrows]

Biting you. Biting you. Biting-

[tubesock86]

the girls

[libralita]

The funniest thing about cosmere reddit is that they've somehow gaslit themselves into thinking that Brandon's early work is bad. They basically treat Elantris and even Era 1 like they're really subpar compared to his newer works. What's even funnier is that they're doing this with the Way of Kings now. People are constantly saying it's bloated.

Also I'm sorry but if this is your first time reading TWoK, I do not care about your opinion on whether it's bloated or not. I don't believe that you know what is actually foreshadowing and what is "bloat".

I'm not going to be surprised when the narrative in like 10 years is going to be "Arc 1 is really not that great."

[celestie0]

choso x reader | punk rock au [18+]

in another life ch.1 cupid's arrow

ᰔ pairing. punk rock au - bass player! choso x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. you and choso were lovers in college when him and his rock band were just nobodies with nothing but a dream, but when his band strikes a deal with an up-and-coming record label in tokyo, you make the tough decision to break up with him since you couldn’t go with him to the city. flash forward seven years, his band is the biggest rock band in the world, n you move from the countryside to tokyo with your fiancé nanami to start your new life together. but in the heart of the city, home to many, there’s one person there that still has the power to turn your whole life upside down. and when you run into him again after all those years, feelings you didn’t know were still haunting you come crashing back all at once, and you’re not sure what it is you want from your life anymore.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fluff, angst, smut, punk rock au, partying, drinking/alcohol, weed usage, cigarette usage, romance, slow burn, friends to lovers, second chance romance, time skips, love triangle, bad boy choso, slight age gap (five yrs), longterm pining, jealousy, messy decisions, you know the drill

ᰔ chapter. 1/x (probably 6)

ᰔ words. 10.2k

a/n. hellooooo aaa welcome to my new choso fic :'') i'm so excited for this one! i'm just laughing at how i cannot just stick to a oneshot idea and somehow end up planning out a fullblown series instead hahah. but anyways, i hope you enjoy! thank you to everyone that wanted to be on the taglist, i'm really looking forward to diving into this story. see you at the bottom!!

alsooo my m00tie @sykosugu and i decided to post for our fics at the same time hehe she has a really spicy suguru x reader fic called 'on the run' that i highly recommend so go check that out as well if you're interestedd <33

nav. ch1 :: ch2 (pending)

“and there was something about you that now, i can’t remember. it’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender.”

present day. summer.

“We’re gonna miss you so, so, so much, love,” Mai groans, pulling you in towards her for a hug and you reciprocate with fondness.

Another pair of arms wraps around you, grip much tighter and you protest through a difficult breath. “Do you really have to go?” Nobara asks.

You tap on the skin of her arm, urging her to ease her hold in this group hug, and she finally relents and the three of you pull apart from one another. There’s a slight gasp from your lips as you breathe in fresh summer air. “I do, Nobie, I’m sorry. Nanami said it’s the final decision.”

You’re standing on hot concrete in front of a little countryside cottage that you’ve called home for years, but will soon just be a memory. You know which light switches illuminate corners of the rooms, and which creaking wood panels on the floor to avoid when looking for a midnight snack. It’s where you spent years studying for finals, arguing with your mom, learning how to care for Ms. Roxie, and it’s where you fell in love. More than once.

Your parents gave the house to you and Nanami once the two of you became engaged, but that blessing was soon to be given away, as Nanami received news six months ago that he was being promoted and relocated to Tokyo. Now, you have two bags in your hands, your purse slung around your shoulder, and a suitcase filled to the brim with the life you’ve tried to stuff in it. Your taxi driver has the other suitcase, because there were some things you couldn’t leave behind after all, and he’s putting it in the trunk right now.

“Nanami is so rude to take you from us,” Mai sighs, “but at least you’ll be one of those cool city girls now. So scary. I heard trends change faster there than the leaves on Rowan tree during spring.”

Nobara lets out a gasp that’s only half exaggerated. “No way! It can’t be!”

The taxi driver calls after you with a quick question, to which you answer back with a shout from where you stood. A quick glance at your watch tells you it’s time to get moving, as you’ll be taking a connecting train once you reach Tokyo that you need to be on time for. And then he’ll be there. Nanami will be waiting for you there, to lead you into the life that he’s started to make for the two of you.

“I’ll call so very often,” you promise the two of them, “and I will miss you two so very often as well.” Tears prickle in your eyes, and it seems to be contagious as they shimmer in Nobara and Mai’s eyes as well. Another group hug takes place between the three of you, harsh sun beating down with birds chirping in the distance as you try to take in the last few moments you’ve been granted of this place. “Take care of Roxie for us,” you say through a sniffle, “to you, it may seem like you’re only the bearer of food for her, but I promise that little kitty will love you two like no other.”

They both nod at you as you pull away, and you swipe at a tear that rolls down your cheek as you roll your suitcase down the pebbled walkway of your now past home.

The taxi driver helps hoist your suitcase into the trunk and places your other two bags into the back seat. You take a seat at the front with him, clicking the passenger seatbelt, and you roll down the window to wave bye with blown kisses as the taxi driver pulls away from the rocky mud road with crunching under the wheels. You watch Mai and Nobara and your home in the side view mirror until they’re no longer visible, but their voices of farewell linger in the air for a moment more.

“Alright, ma’am, bound for Tokyo!” your taxi driver chirps, his rough-looking hands opening and closing a few times to stretch out the joints of his fingers before tightly gripping onto the steering wheel again.

“Yes, Tokyo,” you murmur softly, gaze set out the window of the familiar street shops and stretches of patchy trees you know you’ll miss once you’re in the city.

“What’s your name?” the man asks, a thick country accent rolling off his tongue, with a sweetness like honey.

You turn your head to look at him more closely. The hair of his eyebrows is bushy, somewhat unkempt, and he has thick lines across his cheeks and forehead that can only mean that he’s lived a lot of life.

You tell him your name and he nods slowly as the two of you stop at a through road, a few school children hurrying past before he turns right onto the main road. “That’s a nice name. Which one of your parents gave it to ya?”

“Um. Both of them?”

He lets out a noise of acknowledgement, and doesn’t ask a further question. You smooth out the fabric of your long skirt with a hand, then toy with the band of your simple watch. Just when you think a comfortable silence has fallen between the two of you, and you think you have the luxury of losing yourself in your thoughts with sights beyond the polished glass window, the man speaks up again.

“Alright then, miss, tell me a story.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Pardon?”

“We’re gonna be spendin’ three hours in this car together, darlin’. It’s either I talk your ear off or you talk mine off,” he says, broad shoulders rolling backwards once as he gets comfortable in his driving position.

“Uh…do we need to talk at all?”

He glances over at you for a moment. The car wheels grind over rocks on gravel road near an agricultural field, and his fingers flex once again on the wheel. “You younger generations are so stuck in your own worlds. Entertain some conversation with the poor old taxi driver, will ya?”

You sigh, folding your hands in your nap neatly. “Alright. I don’t really have many stories to tell, though.”

“A young lady like you, packin’ up her whole life to move to a big city? I beg to differ,” he counters.

His words have you tucking your bottom lip under your teeth, a few blinks of your eyelids to process his observation of you. Your mind searches for stories to tell. Maybe that moment last week when you watched a momma duck waddle across a bridge with all seven of her baby ducklings. Or maybe you could tell him about that time you drove your car into a ditch the night of the comet festival and you swear you saw a UFO in the sky. The story you’ve been telling a lot lately, though, was the one of how Nanami proposed.

But then there’s a different story that comes to mind. With hazy images of blinding stage lights in dim venues, cigarette smoke wafting through the air, sounds of bass and drums and cheers. Smell of dry grass, the feeling of your back against a blanket, heart beating fast underneath the stars in front of a twinkling lake. And forever in your memory, the patterns of his inked skin.

“You got a boyfriend?” the man asks, suddenly.

“Are…are you hitting on me?” you ask awkwardly.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he shakes his head, lifting his left hand up from the steering wheel and turning the back of it to face you. A silver ring adorning his fourth finger shimmers from the reflected sunlight through the window. “Happily married. Been with my missus for 22 years.”

A small smile makes its way onto your face as you relax into your seat a little, feeling calmer. “Oh, I see. I’m sorry for assuming. And I have a fiancé, actually.”

“Oh?” he chirps, stealing a quick glance at your left hand that was still folded neatly underneath your right one in your lap. “How come I’m not seein’ a ring?”

You tug at the small chain around your neck, a chill felt as diamond stone and cold metal drags against the skin of your sternum before you pull out your own promise of marriage, dangling it in front of your chest for him to steal another glance at. “I wear it around my neck. I’m a pottery teacher, so I usually take it off when showing my students any demos. I figured if I kept taking it off like that, I might lose it, so I just wear it around my neck now.”

“That’s interesting,” he comments, “It’s a real nice ring, that’s for sure! Tell me about this man you’re marryin.”

Your heart aches at the thought of Nanami. It’s been six months since you’ve seen him, since he relocated to Tokyo first, and you’ve missed him every day since. You were in the middle of the academic year at the elementary school you taught at, so they asked you to stay back, but Nanami had already accepted the promotion, thus the two of you made the decision that he would move to Tokyo first to get situated and you’d soon follow in the summer. It was a lot of stress to handle as just one person; searching for apartments on top of managing the heightened expectations from his boss from his new role, but he did it all without a complaint. Because he loves you, and that’s who Nanami was. Someone who would move mountains for you. He’s worked hard to make a place for you in Tokyo, one to call home.

“He really loves me,” you say to the man, softly.

“And you love him?”

“So much.”

“Was he your first love?”

Your breath catches in your throat from his question, a small chill running down your spine. The silence that settles could’ve lasted two seconds or two centuries, and you never would’ve known.

You lick your lips before answering. “No, he wasn’t.”

“Hmm…” the man hums. Bumpy roads are now smooth as he turns onto properly laid roads, the exit from your town onto intercity roads. “I can tell.”

“You can tell?” you ask, skeptic in your tone as you tilt your head at him.

“I can tell from your voice that there was someone else before. Someone who meant a whole lot to you, but he went away for some reason,” he says.

You’re not sure why there’s a lump in your throat from his words, a heavy thing with so much substance that it threatens to weigh your heart as well. Your eyes study the side of his face. “You’re getting all of that from my voice?”

The man’s expression is blank as if it were tabula rasa, something so different from the way you’ve felt for so long now, like your heart has been torn in two. There was something so tempting about it; the luxury of a clean slate. Of a new beginning. A fresh start. And it’s hard not to imagine how you would’ve painted things differently.

“Tell me about him,” the man says, the story he was looking for having been found. “Your first love.”

“He…” you start, shocked that you’re actually answering, but it’s like an invitation you can’t resist, “he was my first boyfriend…my first serious boyfriend. I met him the summer after high school. During a summer like this one.”

.

.

.

seven years ago. summer.

chapter 1. cupid’s arrow.

“C’mon, faster!” Mai exclaims, her hand wrapped around your wrist to tug you across the dim streets of downtown. 

“Just— wait— Mai, please, slow down,” you’re stumbling after her, feet failing to keep up, and you almost crash right into her when she comes to a sudden halt on the sidewalk.

“This is it,” she says, staring up at the sporadically blinking neon lights of what appears to be a small venue, black marquee letters that spell out Backseat Serenade Tonight @ 10pm stand out to you in a way that feels haunting. “We’re so late, let’s head inside.”

Mai drags you inside, and the security guy is less than thrilled by the commotion as he stands in front of closed double doors. You can feel the bass of music vibrating the walls, accompanied by loud shrill screams and chants coming from inside, and the red velvet flooring underneath your feet fuel you with static as you two approach the man dressed in full black.

Mai fumbles with her purse to pull out her phone, and the man scans the barcoded tickets on her screen before giving the two of you wristbands to wear and then he opens the door for the two of you.

The inside of the venue is small but packed, minimal lighting save for moving lights that illuminate the band on stage, but it’s even harder to see anything over the heads of people with their hands up in the air. Mai’s grip on your forearm is tight as she roughly weaves the two of you through the crowd, determined in her gait but you feel the need to apologize to the people she’s shoving in the process. You’re surprised at how fast the two of you make it to the front barricades, thanks to Mai’s nimbleness alone, and your eyes raise to the scene onstage through wafting smoke through the air.

“Alright, alright, alright,” one of the band members chimes right as the final instrumentals of the song begin to fade. His hair is a pale silver under dusty lighting, pushed up from out of his face by a black headband snapped to his forehead, and his eyes are distinctly blue. He has an electric guitar hanging from his neck by a thick black strap. He raises both of his hands up into the air, waving them down a few times to calm down the crowd, and there are scattered hushes surrounding you and Mai. “This is our last song, and we just want to thank you all so much for coming out tonight! This crowd’s the best we’ve ever had!” 

The people cheer in response as a light and relaxed melody begins to tune together from the instrumentals on stage. You hear Mai groan beside you. “What the fuck?! We missed the entire set?!” 

Your hands curl around the cold metal of the barricade dividers and your eyes sweep across the stage. There’s a man in the far back with short black hair, bouncing his leg up and down as he’s seated behind a drum set, fidgeting with wooden sticks in his hands, and you’re puzzled by the fact that he’s wearing a very poorly fitted suit onstage. Off to the right, a man with pink hair is messing with the headphones snapped to his ears in front of an electric keyboard, spread fingers pressing down on chords, and you can vaguely see the black nail polish at the tips of his fingers. A woman with mid length blonde hair and pink highlights stands at the front, her hand wrapped around the mic resting on top of the stand. She’s laughing, tipping her head back at something else the electric guitar player says over the mic, but you’ve drowned out the words because your eyes finally land on what’s directly in front of you.

With an almost bored expression on his face, a man stands with a matte black bass guitar hung from his neck as he has one foot up on the top of a subwoofer located flush to the edge of the stage. His hair is raven black, longer at the nape of his neck with shorter layers scattered, and tendrils fall over his face. There’s a glint to his polished black shoes off of where you’re standing, and he’s wearing tight black jeans that cling to the thick and lean muscles of his calves and thighs, with a leather belt fastened around the circumference of his hips. The shirt that’s tucked into his jeans is just as tight to his skin, and a small gasp leaves your lips when you take in the sight of his arms covered in intricate patterns of ink. His right arm is practically covered from the wrist all the way up to the cut of his short sleeve, likely beyond, and his left arm has ink traveling up to his forearm only, like he’s still working on mapping it all out. You watch the way his biceps flex as he bends his arms, bringing his hands up to his face to push his hair back, and your heart is keeping fast rhythm with the music. 

“Cho!” the woman at the front speaks into the mic, turning her head to look at this man who you’re sure is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. “You’ve hardly said a single word tonight, baby. Not that that’s unusual though. Why don’t you say a few words before we kick off the last song?”

A bunch of whoos!! and ahhhs!!! and yesss!!! scatter throughout the crowd in the form of cheers and you watch the man furrow his brows together, a scowl forming on his face. There’s a band of black underneath his eyes that runs across the bridge of his nose, with perpendicular lines resembling arrows running down his cheeks. Dark purple eyes that match the dark shadows around them glint under flickering stage lighting as he takes his foot off the speaker and walks a few steps backwards to position himself at his stationed mic. 

“Fine,” he says, and you’re watching the way his lips barely brush against the mic as he speaks, “This is our last song. It’s called Lost Cause. Enjoy. Or don’t. It’s up to you. Who the fuck am I to tell you what to do.”

There’s only a slight beat of silence from the crowd before they’re cheering again, while his band members just stare at him stunned. The white-haired electric guitarist yells into his mic something like  “THAT’S IT?!” before the drum player cuts him off with three taps of his sticks in the air, and then the song commences from them on practiced reflex. 

The energy from the crowd is loud in the last few minutes of the show, smoke rising in the air from the machines spread across the raised stage, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the bass player. You rest your forearms on the cold metal in front of you, the sight of Mai jumping up and down in your periphery as she headbangs and shakes her hair. 

The bass player’s eyes start to scan the venue within what seems to be the final chorus of the song, chin tipping up and fingers continuing to strum as he assesses the back of the crowd first, then gaze darting throughout the center, before he begins to study the front barricade. You watch his every movement, mapping the trail of his sight, and your heart skips a beat when those dark eyes finally fall on yours. 

His eyes briefly flicker to your left, to continue his study of the crowd, but it’s as if his brain just registered something with a delay, and he quickly moves his gaze back to you in a double take. His eyes widen, bored expression quickly turned into one of surprise with a glint to his pupils, and you swear you’ve been struck by an arrow to your heart.

“Yaaaay! Thank you everyone!” the woman at the front exclaims, pulling her mic from the stand to walk around to make work of the crowd. The white-haired man approaches the edge of the stage with a pleased grin on his face, high-fiving all of the outstretched arms, and the man at the keyboard simply waves a few times before incessantly tuning buttons on his headphones. Drum boy hasn’t stopped playing some sort of loud rhythm as an encore. Your sight is set back onto the bass player, and he’s looking off somewhere else now. Somewhere backstage. 

“Hey!” the white-haired man exclaims once he’s made it in front of the two of you. “Mai! You made it!”

She reaches out to grab his forearm, tugging down harshly so he’s stumbling and dropping one knee to the stage floor, kneeling. “Of course I was gonna make it! Thanks for the tickets,” she’s yelling over loud ambient cheers and music, “this is my friend y/n, by the way. Oh, and this is Gojo, he’s the guy I was telling you about.”

You nod at him, and try to accept his outstretched hand when someone bumps you from behind and your hand is in favor of stabilizing yourself over the divider instead.

You can barely hear the laugh from Gojo’s position on the raised stage. “Just meet us backstage! We can chat for a bit with proper introductions and all.”

As the crowd begins to dissipate with people moving through the sets of double doors out back, Gojo hops off stage to take you and Mai through a side door that leads into a hallway that lines the back of the stage. You look up into the high ceilings with metal structural poles banding between the walls, and the dim yellow lighting in small bulbs bolted to the walls like a runway remind you of movie theater exit routes.

“So, what’d you guys think of the show?” Gojo asks, his arms raised up and hands interlocked behind his neck in a casual-not-so-casual way as he sends the two of you a lazy look over his shoulder. 

“Well, we only made it for one song since miss barista over here was running late from her shift,” she sighs, whacking your arm once with the back of her hand. You glance down and realize you didn’t even have the time to take your frilled and wrinkled apron off. “But, from what we did get to hear, AMAZING! AWESOME! SPECTACULAR!”

Gojo is grinning wide as he turns around to face the two of you, continuing to walk but backwards as he slaps the raised hand that Mai had in the air for him. “I’m so glad, I felt the pressure to please was high since I’ve been hyping up our shows to you for so long.”

“We’ve only known each other for like two weeks.”

“I know. But PSYCH 210 lecture at the ass crack of dawn really brings two people together, y’know.”

Mai and Gojo continue to laugh and talk about random things college-related, and there’s a stirring feeling in your chest that you’re surrounded by people older and much more well-lived than you. You’ve just graduated high school, barely a few months ago, but Mai was a few years older than you, so any time she tries to introduce you to her college friends, you feel the need to perform or be someone that you’re not so they’ll like you, despite the fact that you’re aware of the fallacy in that. And tonight, that responsibility feels much more daunting for some reason.

There are voices heard further down the hall, and as you approach, you notice the drum guy, keyboard guy, and devilishly handsome bass guy are all loitering around in that area, along with a few other people they seemed to have invited backstage. 

Gojo walks up to them, grabbing onto the bass man’s hand firmly before patting him on the back, then slings his arms around the other two. “This is Higurama,” he says, rubbing the top of the black-haired guy’s head with the knuckles of his fist, “he does drums for us. And this is Sukuna,” he says, about to repeat the same gesture to the top of his head but his wrist is grabbed and twisted, “ow, fuck, fuck, fuck– sorry.” Sukuna lets go of his wrist, scowl dissipating into sadistic amusement, and Gojo’s holding his wrist, now slightly red from the burn, with a pout on his face. “He does the keyboard. And all the techno sounds. And some other stuff I’ve frankly no fucking clue about.”

The two of them acknowledge you and Mai, along with the few other people who Gojo seems to know as well, and then Gojo’s approaching the bass player again before resting his elbow up on his shoulder, leaning his weight onto him and the man just crosses his arms across his chest, sending Gojo a side-eye. “Mai, I think you two have met before, but this is Choso. Choso Kamo, our bass player. Best bass player I’ve ever known to be honest. Be careful though, he might bite you.”

Choso scowls, rolling his shoulder back once to get rid of Gojo’s resting elbow. His eyes are on yours, boring into you deep, and when he darts his tongue out briefly to wet his bottom lip, you finally notice the silver lip ring near the corner of his mouth. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” he says, hand outstretched and you shake it with a mention of your name to him. The skin on his fingers feel rough from play, a small sacrifice to pay for the talent he’s harnessed over the years from plucking at strings. His eyes sweep down you once. “Why are you dressed like Strawberry Shortcake?”

“I–” you start, glancing down at your attire and feeling the heat pool in your cheeks, “I just got off a work shift. I work at a cafe.”

“Oh,” he responds, and you notice his hand is still holding onto yours, Your eyes trail the patterns on his skin, visible in more detail up close, and you find yourself lost in every line and swirl and scale and skull and cross, the only thing breaking you out of your trance being Mai’s jab of her elbow to your ribcage.

You gasp, snatching your hand away from Choso, and when you look up at his face, there’s a hint of amusement on it. 

“Babes, he was asking you a question,” Mai says, looking between you and the man in front of you.

“Huh?” you ask, suddenly flustered and you swipe your palm down your work apron to wipe the sweat that begins to perspire at your palm from the lingering heat of his hand.

“I was asking if you liked the show,” Choso says, tilting his head to the side and now he’s allowing his eyes to travel all across you in any way he wants. 

“I loved it,” you respond, almost breathlessly, “it was great. I mean– we only saw, like, one song. But still, really amazing.”  

“Only one song?” Choso asks, his eyebrow raising, “that’s a shame. You’ve gotta come to more shows then.”

Before you can respond, there’s a feminine voice heard down the hallway, sounding an awful lot like the one echoing off the speakers inside the concert venue, and then the blond woman who was the lead singer of the band skips right up to the group formulating in this hallway before wrapping her arms around Choso’s neck and pulling him down towards her in a kiss.

You’re standing there stunned, eyes immediately averting from the scene of the two of them in front of you, but in the corner of your eye you can see his arm wrap around her waist briefly before he pulls her away from him, and the release of her lips from his makes a sound that for some reason creates a pit in your stomach.

“Cho, baby, I just had an insane conversation,” she says, still practically hanging from his neck as she stands on tiptoes, “with this record label guy. He’s apparently hot shit in Tokyo, and he wants to offer us this city gig ‘cause he thinks we’re a potential sign-on, and–”

Choso’s hand reaches to the back of his neck, gripping around her wrist to pull it apart from her other one, and then her arms fall to her sides and her heels flatten to the ground as she blinks up at him. “That’s cool, Sana, but can we talk about that later?”

Gojo’s arms cross his chest as he leans forward, glaring at the woman. “Yeah. And as a band, not just with your lover.”

Sana rolls her eyes and scoffs, placing curled hands low on her hips. “He’s not my lover, bitch. Unless he’s my lover like you’re lovers with a blunt on a sunday– sucked off in a car ‘cause you’ve got nothing better to do.”

“That’s offensive to both of us,” Gojo grumbles but Choso just sighs, unbothered, as he rubs at the back of his neck. He makes eye contact with you again, and his expression sobers as though he forgot for a second that you were still standing there. 

Sana turns to you and Mai. “Hi, I’m Sana, nice to meet you guys. Sorry, I thought you two were some of our other friends, otherwise I wouldn’t have kissed Cho in front of you. I hate PDA, trust me.” 

Mai lets out an awkward laugh as she shakes her hand, and you almost don’t want to shake her hand, but you do just to be polite.

“You didn’t hate PDA that one time I was about to bag the girl I’d been talking to for weeks and you decided to grind your sorry excuse of an ass right up against me in front of her,” Gojo grumbles.

She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Whatever, she thought you were gay anyways. Would’ve done yourself a favor if you actually grabbed my ass.”

She ignores the insulted gesture Gojo makes, cutting off whatever words he was about to spew with words of her own. “What are you girls doing after this? We’re having a post-show party, you two should come.” She glances at you. “Uh, love, I’d ditch the apron though. Unless it’s, like, some sort of fetish for you.”

You’re defeated as your arms cross your torso to grip the hem of your apron and pull it up over your head, shaking your head a bit to allow your hair to fall back into place, and then you fold the frilly article of clothing neatly before hanging it over your arm. “It’s not,” you sigh, too exhausted to be subject to the title of your occupation anymore. A small flicker of your eyes to Choso tells you he’s staring at you.

Sana shrugs. “So you pretty ladies wanna come?”

Mai shakes her head. “No, sorry, my baby here,” she says, wrapping her arm around yours tightly, “just graduated high school recently, so she’s too young for a party. I’ve got a responsibility to look after her. And throwing her into a room full of sleazy drunk punk college dudes is the opposite of looking after her.”

Sukuna comes around, leaning his arm against the wall, smirk on his face, as he eyes you like you’re something to steal. “Just graduated high school? So you just turned eighteen, sweetheart?”

Mai glares daggers at him. “Get the fuck away from her, Super Senior. You’re icky. Also, case in point proven.”

Sana whacks the back of Sukuna’s head, and he all but growls at her. “Stop being creepy,” she reprimands him before turning to Mai again. “No, I swear, it’s not like that. It’s chill, minimal alcohol. No drugs. Just a small get-together with a few of our fellow friends, and friends of fellow friends, from the music scene.” She leans against Choso’s arm, wide eyes looking up at him, but he doesn’t lean into her. “Right, Cho? No scary guys for her to worry about?” 

His eyes narrow at you, raking down your figure again, and his chest moves a little faster with his breath. “I’m against it. It’s no place for an eighteen-year-old. You’re a fucking idiot for trying to invite a girl who just recently graduated from highschool to a house party. She’s practically a kid.”

Your heart sinks from his words, and you feel juvenile standing in front of him, in a way that makes you angry and embarrassed at the same time, and you can’t bite back the words in time, “Whatever, at least I haven’t been on crack since the day I was born like you probably were.”

Almost all heads in this small hallway snap to you, if they weren’t already there before, wide eyes blinking before Gojo bursts out into a laugh, which dominoes into Mai’s laughter, and you barely register the way Sana looks you up and down once before forcing a smile. Choso’s surprised expression turns into a disgruntled one as he crosses his arms across his chest, and you can’t help but watch the stretch of his inked skin over his muscles as they flex. 

“I’ve never done crack, shortcake, and your lame insult only proves my point on your immaturity,” he scowls, leaning his upper body forward towards you, and his gaze briefly drops to your lips.

Sana comes in between the two of you, pressing herself up against him to get him away, and he takes an involuntary step back and now he’s scowling at her too. She turns around to face you, and there’s that forced smile again. “Uh, y’know what, sweets? Cho is sooo totally right, no place at all for a—I’m sorry, how old did you say you were?”

“Eighteen,” you say with a slight grit to your teeth.

“Oh! Yeah, no place for you, sorry,” she says, with a small jut of her bottom lip to signal a pout.

You roll your eyes at her, then glance past her at Choso who’s looking at you like he’s still got a few retaliating words for you on his tongue, but then he’s dropping his gaze to the neckline of your shirt, eyeing the shape of your breasts, even dipping further down your legs and you let out a scoff.

“You sure enjoy checking me out for someone you think is practically a kid,” you spit back.

He’s not angry this time, the corner of his mouth simply tipping up slightly into a smirk. “I meant you’re too young to drink, but you’re old enough to fuck, so spare me the attitude.”

Your cheeks flush at his comment, nonetheless made in front of a group of people who were practically strangers to you, and you’re about to give him a piece of your mind when Mai grabs your forearm and Gojo places himself between you and jerkface. 

“Woah! Look at the time,” Gojo chirps, glancing at his wrist that was absent of any time-telling device but he rolls with it anyway, “should probably head out now, since the venue’s closing soon. Y’know, grab our stuff.”

Mai nods her head at you in response to his words, sending a single glare Choso’s way before exchanging some pleasantries with Gojo and then dragging you down the hallway with her towards the exit.

“Hey–” you begin to complain, her grip on you starting to hurt, and you eventually yank your arm away from her before she opens the backdoor exit. “Let’s go to that party.”

Mai sighs, leaning her back against the door and crosses her arms. “No way. Your mom wanted me to get you home before midnight,” she says as she glances at the time on her phone, “and it’s close to midnight.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m an adult now, I don’t have to adhere to a midnight curfew, like I’m fucking Cindarella.”

Mai raises an eyebrow at you from the profanity, recognizing the fact that it’s something you just forced into your vocabulary in a way that doesn’t suit you. “I already said no.”

“Take me or else I’m going to tell your mom about the nipple piercings you got last week.”

Mai hisses a sharp breath through her teeth. “You’re a bitch.”

“Take me,” you deadpan.

She tilts her head back so that it hits the metal of the door, and then she’s pushing her back against it to open it, the rush of cold wind from outside brushing past the two of you as she steps into the night and you follow her. “Oh my god, fine. But only for a little bit, and let’s get the lie straight right now–you had explosive diarrhea at the concert so I couldn’t take you home right away since you were incapacitated in the restrooms.”

“What? Why do I have to be the one with explosive diarrhea?” you ask, frown on your face but there’s a skip to your step as you follow her down the street to where she very poorly parallel parked and you open the passenger side door. She doesn’t bother answering you as she settles into the driver’s seat and her car roars to life with a few struggling turns of the key in ignition. 

“No drinking,” Mai says, voice strict with eyes locked on yours, and it’s the last thing she says before she starts driving. 

The house is just a few miles from the venue location, and Mai seems to have been there before since she turns the navigation off once she turns onto a street that has her driving switch to from perusal to more casual.  

Gojo is the one to greet you two at the door with wide eyes and a drink in his hand. You notice he’s changed out of his stage attire into something more casual, and likely in a rush too since his hair is disheveled, and you figured that you and Mai barely got here after they did. The surprised look on his face is quick to turn into a pleased one at the sight of the two of you. “Oh sweet you two actually came,” he comments, waving a hand for you two to come inside, “figured Kamo would’ve scared you off.”

You roll your eyes, “where is that jerk? I still have a few choice words for him.”

“Babes, let it go,” Mai sighs, “Not worth your time.”

“I concur,” Gojo says, “but, if you really want, he’s upstairs putting some of my stuff he borrowed for tonight’s show back into my room. You can…” he glances down at you once, “uh. Cuss him to death? Or whatever you can manage, I guess. But just don’t fuck on my bed, please. That’s my only rule.”

“Why do you sound like that’s a rule you’ve had to make often?” Mai scoffs, amused, while your cheeks feel hot. 

Gojo slumps his shoulders in some type of comical defeat. “I don’t wanna talk about it…” he mumbles, voice trailing off and turning on his heel to walk away while Mai follows him off with more follow-up questions he doesn’t seem receptive to answering. 

Your eyes glance over to the staircase, studying for a moment as loud party music fills your ears before making your way over and up the steps. As you head down the hallway leading into bedrooms, the floorboards creak until your sneakers even over soft carpet, and you hear soft sounds of clattering off to the left. There’s a door that’s half ajar leading into a warmly lit room, and you deftly peek your head through the opening.

Choso stands near the foot of the bed inside a messy room, black boxes and cases and wires surrounding him as he fumbles with unplugging some sort of audio station pad from another piece of hardware. His hand grips tightly around the thick black rubber coating of the wire, and you watch the flex of his knuckles that tense the veins running up his arm, sleeve of the shirt he’s worn all night stretching to accommodate the roll of muscle at his upper arm. With a solid yank, the chord releases itself before the wire whacks him straight in the face and he grumbles a fuck under his breath and he rubs the skin of his cheek, to which you can’t help but let out a small laugh at the sight of. 

His furrowed and frustrated expression turns into surprise as his eyes flicker to the entrance of the room. He stands up straight, and then there’s that bored expression again. “Oh. Shortcake. I thought I said you’ve got no business being here.”

“Yeah, about that, I’m waiting for you to apologize to me,” you say, leaning sideways against the doorframe as you cross your arms over your chest. 

He sighs, eyes moving away from yours to busy himself with the jungle of equipment he’s practically drowning in, as if he couldn’t be bothered by your presence right now. “Apologize for what?”

You make your way inside the room, foot pushing aside anything sprawled on the floor that’s in your way so you can continue to approach him, and you stop just when you’re just a step away. His gaze is still set to the ground as he’s crouched over slightly, but it shifts from the speaker he was toying with to the shape of your shoes instead.

“Apologize to me for being so crass,” you say, “after we had just met.”

He slowly straightens his spine, and you’re a little shocked to find the height that he has on you. His expression is curious, eyes narrowing slightly like he has you all figured out already, and it pisses you off. “Crass is such a prissy word to use, princess. Try ‘apologize to me for being a massive dick’ or something, and I’ll start to take you more seriously.”

“Why are you so rude?” you ask, anger building up inside of you all of a sudden. “I’ve barely met you, I don’t see how I could’ve upset you in any way. Yet you’ve already insulted me in multiple ways tonight, and it’s not a cool look for you. Trust me.”

“You’re the one that basically called me a crackhead,” he counters, but there’s no real offense behind it.

“Yeah, because you called me a kid,” you say, face tightening even further with anger, “even though I’m an adult.”

He sighs, closing his eyes in irritation, and tilts his head up to look at the ceiling briefly as his mouth hangs slightly open, all as if he’s running thin of the capacity to deal with this conversation, and then he looks back down at you again. “Shortcake, I didn’t call you a kid ‘cause of your age. I called you a kid ‘cause you’re just so–” he starts, eyes traveling down your body paired with a vague gesture of his hand towards all of you, and you find yourself shifting on your feet to stand a little more poised, “you just seem so innocent and clueless and, uh, forgive me, naive.”

“You’re the clueless one here if you still think negging a girl will get you anywhere with her,” you say, hands clenched in fists at your side now.

There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he tilts his head at you, some of his dark hair falling over his forehead from the motion and a few strands weave with his eyelashes. “I’m not trying to get anywhere with you here, sweetheart, unless you’re wanting that,” he says, voice almost purred at the end as he steps over a guitar case on the floor to get closer to you.

You’re unable to make eye contact with him when he’s close and you can smell the earthy notes of his cologne, mixed with another scent that seems more distinctly him that makes your head spin. Your gaze takes in the sight of his forearm, the one with scattered tattoos trailing up his arm but not yet fully inked in. You wonder what he’s saving the space for, and what he’s willing to let in. 

When your gaze flickers up to his face again, you’re a little surprised to see his expression is softer. He suddenly holds his forearm up in front of you. Your eyes signal confusion to him, but he just keeps his arm up the same.

“You’ve been ogling my tattoos since we met,” he says, voice low, “if you’re curious, then just have a closer look.”

Your breath picks up in speed, and you hesitate for a moment but it’s true. You were curious. Your hands shakily hold onto his forearm to keep it still as you study the ink on his skin. You twist his arm as much as his joint allows, and he lets you handle him in any way you want, and you swear the snake tattooed on his skin moves as if it were alive. A dark blossoming rose with highlights of burgundy red catches your eye near his elbow, and you brush the back of your hand against it. Your fingers accidentally find his pulse at his wrist, and you find his heart is beating fast. 

You run a flat palm up his arm, the skin to skin contact feeling intimate, and your fingers stop when they tuck under the fabric of his sleeve. You feel the warmth and curve of his bicep, lightly wrapping your hand around it, and you blush at the sight of how small your hand looks on him.

“What does this one mean?” you ask, not meaning for it to come out as a whisper, but you feel like his answer is meant to be kept a secret. Your thumb swipes over small roman numerals permanently etched into him over muscle.

“It’s my dad’s military tag,” he responds, voice quiet like yours.

You tear your gaze away from his skin to look up at him, and you realize he’s closed enough distance between the two of you to where his face is just inches away. From the moment you looked up, his eyes have been on your lips, and his brow furrows as if he’s fighting some voice in his head that’s testing this harmony between the two of you in this moment. 

You swear he’s about to kiss you, since there could be no other explanation for the way he was looking at you, but instead he clears his throat and his face is first to distance from you before he pulls his arm back as well, and then a small step backwards. “Sorry,” he says, and he almost sounds awkward. It startles you, because it’s the first time he doesn’t sound cool or calm or collected.

“That-” you start, “...wait, what are you sorry for?”

His eyes widen, and you see the heaviness under them for a moment, “uhh…I’m actually not too sure.”

Your head feels clear now that he’s not close enough to breathe in, and you blink a few times as your annoyance from earlier resurfaces amidst the lingering energy he just broke between you two. “Start with ‘I’m sorry for calling you a kid, and then also just now calling you naive and clueless,’” you say, foot tapping impatiently, “and then, in front of all your bandmates, mocking the fact I’m not old enough to drink, and shamelessly traveling your eyes over me, and then–” your breath catches slightly as the words fail to leave your tongue, cheeks feeling hot, “and then saying–” you try again, but the thought only falls flat, and he’s taking a step closer to you again.

“And then saying that you’re old enough to fuck?” he asks, finishing your sentence for you, but there’s no remorse in his tone at all. 

His hand suddenly finds the small of your back and he pushes gently so you take a stumbled step towards him, like he needed to have you close to him again.  His lips brush against the top of your head, and the sensation sends a hot feeling through your chest. “Choso,” you reprimand him.

“Fuck,” he exhales, like in cynical disbelief, “my name sounds so sweet coming from you.”

It makes no sense, but you grip his shirt at his chest just to make contact with him, and you brave yourself to look up at him, wondering if he can see the hint of worry in your eyes, because he already feels like something you can’t resist.

His eyes are dark now, different from the tenderness in them before, and he’s freely studying the features of your face. “I don’t want to fuck you, Shortcake, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re a little too good for me to do something like that.”

His words say one thing while his eyes say another, his arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close, and you’re astonished at how little he cares about the clear contradiction in his words from the way he holds you. His gaze slowly travels down from your eyes to your lips.

“What about–” you start, heart beating fast in your chest as you see the glimmer of the silver ring pierced through his lip. You bite back the words.

But he reads your mind, because his head dips down towards yours and he captures your lips in his, slow and sweet at first before pressing more firmly, more decisively with both hands flying to hold your waist. A moan muffles in your throat at the sensation of his bare fingers coyly traveling under the hem of your shirt, and you can’t help but slide your arms up over his shoulders, locking them behind his neck to pull him down closer to you, and he sighs in response as he presses your hips flush against him. The chill metal of his lip ring has the plush of your bottom lip tingling cold, and when his tongue swipes across to warm it for you, your mouth opens with ease. You taste spearmint on his tongue, and his lips curve against yours in what feels like an amused smile, large hands now slid so far up your shirt that his fingers reach the band of your bra.

“Hey, Cho, do you know where–”

The trill of a feminine voice in the air cuts through harshly, and he pulls his lips from yours but not without a moment of reluctance. You two turn your head to the door, and you see Sana standing there, eyes wide and blinking as she takes in the sight of the two of you standing in what feels like a guilty proximity from how her eyes silently curse you. 

You can only manage an awkward laugh, fist shoving against Choso’s shoulder but his hands are still placed firmly on the curve over your lower back, dangerously close to the plush of your ass, and your hips are practically pinned to him while you do all you can to lean your upper body away. “Oh–sorry, this…is not what it looks like–”

“I…” Sana starts, and you can see the hurt in her expression, but she quickly corrects it, “Oh! Ah, was just lookin’ for Cho here,” she says, making her way into the room, and a harsh shove of your fist against Choso’s chest finally has him relenting to let you go. Your posture immediately stiffens when she approaches Choso’s side, and she playfully pushes his arm but the effort is weak. “Kissing girls in Satoru’s room is seriously not a good idea, Cho. That freak probably has cameras in here to make sure people don’t bump uglies in his room again after that New Year’s party.” 

Choso gives her a pointed look, like he wasn’t caught up on that drama, but you’re just standing there with your eyes flicking between the familiarity of the two people standing in front of you. Why wasn’t Sana jealous? She was looking at you ten seconds ago like she was a whole lot of jealous. 

“What are you looking for?” Choso asks her, and she holds her red plastic solo cup with her drink in it out for him to hold as she crouches down to the floor to sift through the equipment now surrounding the three of you.

“My lucky mic,” she says, “Gojo said it’d be here.” There’s a hint of something in her voice, something that mirrors betrayal if you’re perceptive enough. 

You watch Choso lick his lips once, eyes darting to you, before he’s crouching down too to help her look. “For something that allegedly means a lot to you, you sure do a shit job at looking out for it,” he comments with a sigh before pulling out a black case from under three other ones and handing it to her. “It’s here.” 

“I’m–” you say, taking a step back and almost tripping over a guitar case, “I’m, um, going to head downstairs. Mai is probably looking for me.”

Choso raises an eyebrow at you from where he’s still crouched down next to Sana, and he’s about to speak when Sana cuts him off.

“Okay. Bye,” she says, still rummaging through things mindlessly even though she had already been given what she was looking for.

Choso makes a move to stand up, like he wants to see you out the door, but Sana’s hand grabs him by his forearm, eyes still not meeting his, and there’s a beat of confusion in his eyes as he studies the side of her face. But you know what sort of look she probably has in her eyes right now, and you know only because you’re also a girl, and all girls know what it’s like when a guy you love doesn’t want you in the way that you want him. All you can do at this moment is feel sorry for her.

The atmosphere in the room begins to suffocate, and you head out of the door in a rush. 

.

.

.

present day. summer.

“He kissed ya the day he met ya? Hmph! That wouldn’t fly with me,” the man seated beside you says, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he shifts slightly in his seat to puff his chest out. 

“Hmm,” you hum as you look out the window wistfully, memories that you had locked up for so many years opened like a pandora box that fills your chest with warmth but has your fingers trembling with anxiety because you know how it all ends. “You wouldn’t…let a man kiss you on the first day he met you?”

The driver humors you with a hearty laugh from his chest, at least. “Not talkin’ about it that way, darlin’. I’m talkin’ about my daughters. I’ve got two girls of my own. A man should keep his hands to himself the first time he meets a lady. At least that’s what I’ve taught ‘em.”

There’s a small smile that tugs at your lips at his words, the love he has for his daughters heard clearly through his strict tone. You left out a lot of the details that probably would’ve angered him on your behalf even more, so the fact he still ended up getting worked up about it has you a little amused and reflective at the same time. “How old are your daughters?” you ask, tucking strands of your hair behind your ear, watching the wind-rustled plains of grass that you two have been driving by for a while now.

“They’re a little younger than you,” he comments, his expression now a bit more serious, “one just graduated from college, she’s startin’ more school in the city soon, and the other’s still in highschool. She’s turning sixteen next week.”

“Ah, sixteen,” you muse, “that’s a confusing age.”

“You got that right,” he gruffs, “the other day, she called me on my way home from work to bring some drink called a boba. Fifty-two years of life and I never even knew there was a damn thing called a boba! Why would anyone want swirlin’ stuff in their drink?! Anyways, the shop got her order wrong, and when I brought it home, she refused to drink it, called me the worst dad ever, then stormed upstairs to slam the door on her room. I turn to my wife, and she’s shakin’ her head at me like I’m the one that did something wrong!”

You laugh, then press your lips into a smile. “I’d have to agree with her on that,” you joke, and he lets out another disgruntled noise that has you laughing again. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve lived with my wife and those two girls for over two decades,” he sighs. “I’m used to it by now. All three are equally pains in my ass, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your smile drops a little as you look at him more contemplatively. There’s a glimmer in his eyes as he speaks, and you realize it’s familiar, but the answer of where you’ve seen it before fails to arrive.

“My youngest,” he starts again, “she’s been listenin’ to really loud music lately.” He presses one of the buttons underneath the AC vents, static noises coming to life before he changes the output to bluetooth. “My wife says it’s some sort of phase, but I’m not likin’ the music. Always sounding tempered and inappropriate.” He plays a song from his phone paired to the car, speakers flowing with music, and a chill runs down your spine the moment the first few notes fill your ears. A song so painfully familiar, so connected to your soul it’s as if your heart still keeps time with it to this day. 

“See what I’m talkin’ about?” the man says, “Lots of words about skin and cigarettes.” With a shake of his head, he lowers the volume. “She’s obsessed with this band, it’s probably a band similar to your old lover’s from the sound of it. She’s got posters of ‘em up on the wall, and she took the picture of us on our first fishing trip together out of the picture frame on her desk and replaced it with this man. This silly-lookin’ white-haired man that always looks like he’s just pretending he knows how to play a guitar. Hmph! She keeps saying ‘dad, I wanna go to their concert!’ There’s no way in hell I’m allowing that.”

You stare down at your lap, brow furrowed from the realization flashing through your head, and your thumb nervously passes over the skin of your other hand. In your periphery, you see him glance over at you once, and he sighs before stopping the music and speaking up again.

“It’s fine,” he says, “my youngest got her sister into the same band, and she likes one of the other ones. Plays bass. He’s too rough-lookin’ for my daughter. Arms covered in tattoos, he’s even got some on his face! She keeps dreamin’ about havin’ him for a boyfriend, but if she brought that home, there’s no way I’d approve. I’d scare him off with my rifle.”

Your heart is beating fast in your chest, and you realize what a small world it is. Or, you realize just how big Choso’s world must be now. So much bigger than he or any of the other members of his band could’ve ever imagined. For once in a lifetime, so rare and pure, are dreams that are fully realized. 

“Gosh,” you respond when you realize you’ve been lost in your own revelations for too long, “that’s an…extreme response. You sound like my father, though.”

“Hm,” he responds, “I’m sure. Did your father approve of this lover of yours? The one that’s makin’ moves on you so fast and too soon?”

You lean back in your seat with your head hitting the headrest. It’s been years since you’ve felt like you’re being lectured or reprimanded for anything, but the feeling comes back to you at this moment as if no time had passed at all. No matter how old you get, you’ll never forget how humbling the feeling was when you thought you knew everything at eighteen, just to look back and realize you didn’t have a single clue.

You sigh. “No. He didn’t approve. Far from it.”

.

.

.

seven years ago. autumn.

chapter 2. the juvenile & the delinquent.

[to be continued]

a/n. eeeeeppp thank you very much for reading n supporting my new fic!! i hope you enjoyed :') still a lot more to uncover n unpack hahah i'm so nervous to start a new fic but i'm also very excited!!! i love choso sm but i also love nanami so this is gonna be interesting to write. also TYSM to everyone that wanted to be on taglist for this omg your support means the world to meeee. love you all sm.

taglist: @joemama-2 @sweetpo1son @lilluna12 @polarbvnny @4y3sh4 @sedona-the-l0bster @horisdope @ilovenana88 @thexmistress @atsushirolll @flvrrg0d @strawnanamilk @nighttwingg @indieotterxoxo @pirana10 @bakuhoethotski @tvdumarvelhpsimp @lavender-hvze @whereflowerswenttodie @alwaysfreakingout @kaitoluver @3xv5s @wrenabbadon @erwinslut @winsga18 @ynishalee @yungbloode

love u all so much!!

[krysmcscience]

Don't mind me, just slacking on a big Billford comic by making other far more ridiculous Billford comics and also some AU art (please excuse my slapdash human!Bill thank you please, also before anyone asks the art style is messy and all over the place because idgaf LOL)

This started out as an excuse to design a Bill Cipher-inspired "wedding" dress, but then spiraled wildly out of control. Various rambles and a bunch more human!Bill arts under the cut, including another silly little comic at the end! (Feel free to skip the rambles, I won't be offended. I know I'm bad at shutting up. XD)

I may or may not write some comedy stuff for this AU, which I'm calling 'For Better Or Worse (But Mostly Worse)'. While Ford DOES remember getting sloshed enough for one thing to lead to making out with another after karaoke, neither he nor Bill remember this wedding, At All. The Love God did nothing to dissuade them from going hog wild on their marriage spending, either, so it got...uh. Exorbitantly Expensive. As in, the grand total could probably buy the entire fucking MOON sort of expensive. (It's fine, don't worry, Bill's good enough at crime to be able to afford it.) Also, because the logic of this AU is mostly dictated by Rule of Funny, the Love God's powers are close to unlimited when it comes to matters of romance, but ONLY when it comes to matters of romance. (Like weddings!)

Want an empty human vessel to smash the soul of a triangle into for date nights or when it's convenient, or perhaps even when it's NOT convenient? Easy peasy! Want the marriage to be recognized in every corner of the multiverse from now until the end of time, thus making any potential future divorce nigh-on impossible? Can do! Want to buy an entire beach for the ceremony and honeymoon and in general, and totally not at all because it would be Super Hilarious to prevent any specific movies from being made on that very same beach in the future? Fine, whatever, it's not his finances he's ruining!

Does the Love God also provide special rings that just so happen to turn incorporeal as long as the "happy couple" doesn't remember that they barged into his dreams to bully him into presiding over their marriage? ...No comment!

He spends the next thirty years trying and failing to get in touch with either of them for payment. This is why you should always demand half the money up front, my guy!

Also it's absolutely a traditional Jewish wedding, because I like the idea of Bill demanding all the keepsakes from the marriage that he paid for, and being completely confused when one of the things he's handed is a fancy container full of broken glass. He gets it later, but in the moment, he thinks the Love God is just fucking with him some more.

Ramble over! Here's the full dress that caused the comic to happen, along with what Ford wound up wearing at the wedding (and begrudgingly agreeing to put on again later for Reasons), aaaaand also a close-up of Bill's ring:

I may have forgotten to draw Bill's hair floofier when drawing the back of the dress, lmao

Since double ring ceremonies have been leaking over into Jewish wedding customs for a while now, Ford also has a ring, but his is the much more traditional plain gold band. There's definitely a message engraved on the inside - embarrassing, cringe, or incriminating somehow - but I haven't decided what it is yet, so use your imagination for now. XD Bill, on the other hand, saw the phrase 'traditional plain gold band' and said "No Thank You" before proceeding to embellish his ring to his liking. And because he's a secret sap who adores Ford's extra fingers, the triangle points add up to twelve, as do the engraved stars. Yes, they're stars, not dots, I just got lazy. There's also six lashes on the eye gem, and probably an eye engraving on the inside with another six lashes. (Bill's got it BAD, okay? We all know this.)

Here are the initial scribbles of Bill's custom vessel in more casual attire, please ignore the wonky anatomy and the fact that I flat out refuse to ever draw him with a proper top hat:

He does actually need a cane in this vessel; since Bill tends to possess men and especially Ford more often than not, he's used to having a higher center of gravity when in a human body, so his ability to balance is pretty garbage. (He may or may not topple over with concerning regularity.) As for his empty eye socket, his bangs don't do much to hide it since he's so high-energy (dude is constantly on the move), and he also refuses to wear a patch over it, because 1.) why bother, and 2.) it's more fun to freak people out.

To better align with Ford's attraction towards the strange, the vessel was designed with super minor shapeshifting ability - Bill can look like a perfectly normal human, but he can also make the teeth and fingers sharper whenever he likes (which is mostly just when he's angry or being more of a menace than usual), as well as slit down the pupils or outright ditch the irises altogether. He can also have whatever he wants in the downstairs department, just because I'm an indecisive bitch on that front, lmao. Maybe he can have boobs if he wants them, too, but I ain't drawin' tits on no triangle, nuh-uh, no sir. His powers are otherwise limited down to what humans can do, because for some reason, the Love God doesn't trust Bill to not snap into Immediate Apocalypse Mode if he's given a physical form that's actually all his and no one else's.

Due to the body being all his and no one else's, it's also not really a standard possession so much as it is just...Bill being temporarily human. He's a lot more aware of and in tune with his human body's senses than he ever was with his "puppets", which makes things like pain a lot more intense. (He is mostly fine with this, because he's a fukken masochist.)

A bit more fashion stuff, including beach and party attire~

The beach outfit was mostly me trying and failing to nail down his body shape, which is still not bottom-heavy enough. I then decided to slap a bikini on it, before making it supremely unsexy with a pair of fugly shorts, because Bill's fashion choices are not allowed to be conventionally attractive. Meanwhile, the party outfit was mostly me looking at the casual attire I designed, asking 'how would Bill make this Worse', and then drawing the result. The mismatched thigh-highs are killing me inside! :D

No, his vessel can't actually summon fire, I just drew it for funzies before I decided on said vessel's limitations. Yes, the gold brick tattoos are absolutely a reference to the fic 'Knowing Me, Knowing You' - I simply could not resist.

I also HAD to draw Bill in one of his canonical(?) shirts, just made tank-top'd:

He is absolutely about to over-correct and fall backwards after this. USE YOUR CANE, GOOFBALL!!! (I meant to draw Bill closer to this degree of bottom-heavy in the other images, but. Alas. I am bad at anatomy, LOL)

And, last but not least before More Comic Time, I attempted to draw him closer to Gravity Falls style:

Jury's out on whether or not I succeeded, but - hey. I tried. Now have some Handyman Bill AU, but with my goofy human design, instead:

Hey, it's a 'mystery snack', and the guy wanted A BITE to eat - the joke was right there, guys!!! (Based on this post, because it just screamed BILL CIPHER to me.)

whoops i forgor bills ring and cracks ahaha too late now

I WILL SHUT UP AND STOP RAMBLING NOW K THX BYYYYYE

[physalian]

7 Misused Tropes (And How to Improve Them)

Tropes in isolation aren’t inherently bad, but a lot of them are prone to poor execution. Each one of these probably could have a whole post by themselves. A few of these used to be good but have since fallen by the wayside as their original meaning has been lost.

7. Dramatic Miscommunication

You know the ones. I think it’s worse when the story is otherwise good, the writers just could not come up with a better way to get X alone or send Y off on the necessary side quest than the lowest of low hanging fruit.

Two essential ingredients for fixing this trope: Precedent and consequences

Precedent–have the character doing the missassuming already be prone to jumping to conclusions, already suspicious or insecure, or misled by a third party so this looks inevitable, instead of pulled out of your ass.

Consequences–usually these are big blow up fights that fizzle out without any impact on the plot once they fulfill their purpose, but if it’s a nasty enough fight, characters shouldn’t just forgive and forget. While they might not completely ruin relationships, it should have characters taking a step back and either second guessing where they stand, or using this blowup to fix an underlying issue in said relationship.

6. Love Triangles

Good Love Triangle for the first 3 seasons: Elena/Stefan/Damon (TVD).

Bad Love Triangle for the entire series: Bella/Edward/Jacob (Twilight).

The difference between them (besides time to flesh out both candidates) is that both brothers brought valid pros and cons to Elena’s life, both got the chance to be with her, and Elena’s whole arc wasn’t solely focused on the agonizing choice of which brother she should pick. Regardless of which camp you’re in, Stefan brought stability, that classic cliché high school romance, mostly all good vibes. He never challenged her or talked down to her or got aggressive with her. Damon did the opposite, for better or for worse, and we know which direction the show went.

On the other hand, Jacob never for one second stood a chance with Bella and the narrative wasn’t kidding anyone. They never so much as went on one date (unless you count the motorcycle ride) and it seemed like Bella was only letting him hang on for pity’s sake. Theoretically he brought pros to the table that Edward couldn’t (like, idk, being alive), but the narrative never explored what could be done with him. He just ended up being the Nice Guy friend who then decided it’d be hot to lust after an infant.

5. Agency-less Chosen Ones

These tend to be wish fulfillment characters that bring nothing to the story and have no discernible skills, yet are constantly in the middle of the action, have all the love interests fawning over them, and are Important and Critical to saving the world… because the narrative said so. They don’t make a single choice the entire plot except to move forward or stagnate, chosen by the gods or a prophecy or fate and destiny.

The problem: These characters walk with the crutch of “I’m the chosen one thus I don’t need a reason to exist in the story” and that’s just not a satisfying narrative shortcut. So? Give them agency. Even if they’re chosen by some ancient prophecy, you still have to convince the reader why the Universe wasn’t just talking out of its ass.

Good example: Emmet from Lego Movie literally says he’s useless and has no skills and cannot think outside the Lego box. He’s supposed to be as generic as painfully possible and when he does have creative ideas, they’re supposed to be asinine and stupid. And yet. He might be physically dragged around by the other characters, but he has plenty of choices, plenty of opposition to what’s happening, plenty to say about the state of his world, and his ideas do matter and his intimate knowledge of the instructions and playing by the rules is how they win.

4. Bad Boy Love Interests

These guys were supposed to be counter-culture icons, standing up to The Man for the little guy because he knows the system is broken and rigged. He’s an affront to the stereotypical nuclear lifestyle, he resents a robotic and soulless office job and wants to create art or music or in some way benefit his world and isn’t going to play nice just to get his way. He exists in contrast to the nuclear female protagonist: Conservative, demure, rule-following caged bird who falls in love with him because he shows her that life isn’t meant to be lived in The Man’s cage. He respects the authority that deserves respect, the teachers who actually give a shit, the janitors, the librarians, but probably not the principal or the police or the local politicians, because he knows they don’t respect him and respect is a two-way street. He’s probably a mama’s boy or at the very least loves his parents (if they’re alive) and while he might engage in a little property damage like graffiti, it’s for a good cause.

This dude is NOT SUPPOSED TO BE: Abusive, controlling, aggressive, or condescending to his love interest. He’s not supposed to be an overprotective stalker or plagued by insecure jealousy over any other man in his love interest’s life. He’s not rude to his friends or arrogant about his own smarts and doesn’t think he knows best about every little thing in the world. He’s not sexist or racist just to make himself feel better and he doesn’t pressure his love interest into sex because she owes him or whatever.

Ahem.

Please bring back classic bad boys. That is all.

3. Major Character Death (for shock value)

I remember the implosion of the Walking Dead fandom after they killed Carl, one of the very few characters who was supposed to make it to the end, for… various sketchy reasons and I could never figure out what was true. Some theorized that his actor was aging out of the ‘child actor’ payscale and they didn’t want to pay him as an adult and while I have no proof, it wouldn’t surprise me at all.

Carl died after getting bit in just one of those hectic moments where he got unlucky, while doing something noble and stupid. In isolation, it fits the nature of the “anyone can die” show but man did it just come across in poor taste.

Obviously “for shock value” shouldn’t be the reason you do anything in your story but there is still a way to pull it off without it causing a riot: Make sure they get killed in a non-contrived way. If you plan on killing off one of your heroes suddenly, either make it bitterly ironic, or make it a situation that this character would absolutely get themselves into. The more it “fits” the less likely audiences will see the hand of the author coming in just to break the character’s fictional contract.

2. The Power Inside You All Along

This trope is usually disappointing because it tends to melt a character’s whole arc down into something pointless—this whole adventure was apparently useless if they didn’t actually need to grow or change or challenge their conceptions of the world. They could have got up off the couch as joe shmoe and beat the villain day one.

While that’s probably not what their creator intends, ‘it was inside you all along *wink*’ tends to feel that way, as it discourages internal conflict. Usually, their creator is likely trying to convey the message that one need not change, that it’s what’s inside them already that makes them special.

I present to you once again Kung Fu Panda’s “there is no secret ingredient” i.e. “the power inside you”. The difference is. Po still has plenty of internal conflict: his own self-confidence. He begins the movie eager but inexperienced and a bit oblivious, fanboying it up around his heroes. He and Shifu both insult his weight and his lacking kung fu skills, and his arc is learning self-confidence, learning how to use his weight and the body he has to fight in a way that the villain isn’t prepared for, to where Po can shit-talk him to his face during the final fight.

Most failures of this trope don’t bother exercising their protagonist. They’re pissy and resistant for the entire story and only win when the narrative agrees they were right all along. Therefore, no change, no conflict, no resolution.

1. Strong Female Characters

So many of these read like "slapped boops on a male character". They don’t work for many reasons (usually being very preachy with their agendas), but they especially don’t work when by trying to be pro-feminist, they’re still reinforcing masculine standards. A lot of people, when Captain Marvel came out, said “you didn’t have any issues with Tony Stark being an asshole but now you do when he’s a woman” which. No.

Tony was an asshole, but being an asshole was the whole point of his character, and he got humbled right quick by getting blown up and held hostage. “Proof that Tony Stark Has a Heart” and all that.

Carol was an asshole with nothing to substantiate it, and never got a reality check. She had amnesia so we didn’t get insight into who she was before to understand this transition into dickishness and was so OP, she wasn’t ever physically or emotionally challenged like Tony was.

But the other thing is this: Slapping boobs on a male character with a slew of toxic masculine traits also says that to be a successful woman, you must behave like a man. It swings so far from the femme fatale sexy leg lamp that it comes around and eats its own tail. These characters are just mean and insecure and build themselves up by tearing down the men around them.

So. Calhoun from Wreck it Ralph is this exact trope done extremely well. She’s aggressive, arrogant, loud, rude, and cynical. For about 10% of her arc. The movie immediately throws her into a situation where her strengths are basically useless—she’s stuck in Candy Land and has to rely on someone who is the antithesis of her game and character to make it out. The movie also shows you why she’s cynical via her tragic backstory.

Not only that, she’s more than just a heap of toxic masculinity in a pixie cut. She laughs, she cries, she admits when she’s wrong, she has a soft side, a gentle side, a caring side, and remains a badass through and through.

Or, once again rolling out Tigress from Kung Fu Panda: Proud, aggressive, the snubbed chosen one, cynical, mean, and overconfident in her abilities. Tigress nearly gets her entire team killed in her arrogance. She’s allowed to be wrong, very wrong. She also has her soft moments and, like Calhoun, has a very valid reason for being jaded, and is still shown to be capable of softness and nurturing during the evacuation.

Third example to hammer home that I don’t hate badass women: Andromache. Jaded, overconfident, short-tempered, aggressive, and a little mean-spirited. Tragic explanatory backstory? Check. She is also caring and loyal to her team, allowed to get emotional, allowed to be wrong and fail and lose, and kind of the surrogate mom of the team, who can also laugh and joke around and have light-hearted moments.

Whether the character is a man or a woman, being an arrogant asshole who takes zero accountability and refuses to admit when they’re wrong and never loses, audiences aren’t going to like them.

[firephoenix23]

The Final Color Code

Okay here is the final color code. I will be honest I didn't solve it all but here is what it says

TWO DIMENSIONS TO AND FRO / YOU ALWAYS NO WHICH WAY TO GO / IF YOURE LOST DONT BE AFRAID IN EUCLYDIA / YOUVE GOT IT MADE / RUN TOO FAR RIGHT OF FRAME YOULL APPEAR ON LEFT AGAIN / JUMP TOO HIGH DONT CRY OR FRET / YOULL POP UP FROM THE GROUND I BET / IN THIS PLACE THERE IS NO FEAR LOVED ONES WILL NEVER NEAR / ROLES AND RULES ALWAYS CLEAR / EUCLYDIA WE HOLD YOU DEAR

[lovegrowsart]

it's pretty wild to me that people don't see that aang running off to save katara in CoD is his luke in empire strikes back moment, where he runs headlong into his want and attachment and he's narratively punished for doing so and not learning his lesson - aang runs after katara despite guru pathik's warning, like luke runs after leia and han from yoda on dagobah despite yoda's warning; similarly, as a result, things go to hell in ba sing se like they do on bespin - aang enters the avatar state before he's ready and gets killed, and ba sing se falls to the fire nation, luke fights vader before he's ready, loses a hand, and symbolically commits suicide after vader tells him he's luke's father.

the difference between their character arcs is that george lucas and co. actually went thru with luke's hero's journey and understood the fundamental difference between attachment and love, whereas I don't think bryke understood this difference and then dropped this from aang's arc pretty much completely and replaced it with aang digging in his heels into his want and attachment and he gets rewarded with energy bending from a lion turtle, the avatar state from a random pointy rock, and his forever girl from the self-indulgent white men that couldn't bring themselves to give their hero a compelling character arc that meant he might not have gotten everything he wanted at the end.

[bylrlve]

Warning! Spoilers for Stranger Things 5 mentioned,

Rewatching episode 2, and I’m genuinely staggered by how many times Mike peeks at Will. It’s very clear his mind is on Will, in fact. I am also staggered by just how many small byler details are in here.

His whole face drops after no. 4 too, as @starbylers observed here.

I also want to include these @chirpsythismorning gifs from the roller rink scene, as they’re brilliant:

Mike watching Will get out of the van, and seemingly offering a hand to him.

Mike openly watching Will as they take their skates.

(X) (X)

These are very deliberate acting choices from Finn Wolfhard, and he was certainly doing it on instruction.

Some other notes on 402:

The transition from Mike and El being fake -> Murray looking up looking like he’s experiencing his Seeing Clearly -> Robin talking about Vickie laughing ‘and not like a cheap, fake laugh, but a real, genuine laugh’, right after we saw Mike hiding his genuine disgust at burritos for breakfast behind a tone of fake laughter.

Mike’s whole face just drops into an unhappy, spaced-out espression when it zooms in on El - this is after Will ignored his sock joke (video here by @buckybxarnes)

As many have observed, Mike and El look genuinely miserable when viewed from Angela’s perspective, as opposed to the shot of them skating with Will miserable behind them

It’s occurred to me that in s2, 3, and 4, the byler plot really takes off in episode 2. I’m wondering if that’s also the case with s5 - I’ve reconsidered my theory that the Mike + El rooftop scene takes place after the hospital plot in ep 2, as I’ve heard that the paparazzi at the filming site were told it was in episode 1.

The door slam/open transition between Joyce going to the bank to get the 40k random for Hopper, utterly singleminded, and Mike barging into the womens’ bathroom, being kicked out, and subsequently starting an argy-bargy with Will as opposed to continuing to prioritise El… well!

The disparity in time is so interesting. El counts off 185 days since she last saw Mike - which is roughly six months, as is canon within the show (Sept-Oct 1985-March 1986). And here Mike is, saying ‘you knew she was having trouble for, like, a year’ and Will saying ‘it’s been a year, Mike’ and, in 404, Mike saying ‘the last year has been weird.’ It’s pretty obvious the last one is Mike referring to their fight nine months earlier, plus the time prior that Mike had spent pulling away from the rest of the Party to focus on El. The second one is Will potentially referencing the time that elapsed since their fight - even if it’s moreso subtext from the writers. What, then, to make of Mike saying Will knew El was having trouble for, like, a year? What subtext could be meant by this? I’d love to hear your guys’ thoughts because u can’t quite deduce this.

Mike listing off everything Will did is so hilarious given the surveillance he carried out all day on the boy, and given the fact that poor El being humiliated publicly and assaulted with liquid before she skated off bawling did not, apparently, ruin the day. On second thoughts, I understand what Will meant… she’s in trouble having Mike’s gay ass for a boyfriend.

What’s striking me now is that this fight + El’s iconic roller skate moment, are the real emotional climaxes of this episode’s M/E/W plot. It could have been Mike finding El and comforting her before she lashed out at Angela. It could have been him talking to her afterwards. It could have been at the house - him following her up to her room and silently comforting her until she fell asleep. No, no. Mike and Will airing out their grievances (and Mike betraying which of the two truly emotionally affects him more) + El handling her own shit, while Mike thoroughly disapproves.

The way that Will just wants to be Mike’s friend, but it’s Mike making it so deeply weird.

The way, also, that they stick together at the rink even after the fight, and Mike openly is more preoccupied by Will in the van. I’ve seen it observed before: the parallel between El and Will staring out the same window in the van crying: Mike looks at Will in the shot. He does not look at El in the shot.

I think it’s hilarious that Mike ends the fight by feigning concern for El - he offered her no comfort whatsoever, actively stood away from her when she was waiting for Jonathan and Argyle to arrive, ignored her crying in the van, and of course:

She didn’t look fine.

Mike and Will are blocked together, not Mike and El

The sincerity of Mike’s concern over El juxtaposed with the rank falseness of ‘no, that’s…that’s not true, maybe I was a little upset in the moment’ etc really sticks out - the defensiveness is reminiscent of the tone he took with Will during the fight, but even then he was more sincere-sounding because he was more emotionally affected.

Bylers don’t talk enough about the insanity of ‘who… who said that I didn’t?’ In context, thinking logically, Mike is very likely referring to Will here (the bullies were shouting at her, he could hear what they were saying)- and why would his mind immediately go to ‘Will thinks I don’t love El, and has told her his suspicions?’ Why would he take a defensive tone?

Seriously, 402-403 M/W/E may well be the plot that (potentially) spells out byler endgame the most.

[mike-milkyway]

Zoro not falling in love usually and then getting the biggest most gut wrenching crushes on an stretchy guy with a special interest on pirates and almost immediately after on a cook with self-esteem issues.

[mrkgrl]

Can I still tag it with TW movie--- or uh... TW movie The Aftermath, maybe. I have so many more of these doodles/comics.

[altruistark]

watching dofp & i love that future charles is so vague w his warning to logan like. tf u mean “be patient w me” u were a DEPRESSED DIVORCED DRUG ADDICT with a DRINKING PROBLEM i think bro deserved a little more of a heads up

[thetoyboxs]

[Slides the folder over]

Read my fanfic.

Anyways! I wrote a fic a few weeks ago with a prompt here on tumblr and even did some doodles to go along with it. I then posted it onto AO3 and, turns out, people really liked it! Wow! 

So I decided to render out those sketches into these lovely scenes! And yes I did use the webtoon’s style I was not about to go tumbling over how to draw the batboys in my own style. I don’t know how accurate any of this is but I did have fun. 

[ambeauty]

Contrary to popular belief, I think s4 being the final season is not necessarily a bad thing. The first season was 8 episodes and they told a complete story. Through their success, they have gotten to expand on that story and the characters throughout the past two seasons, mileage may vary.

For me, next season the important things to touch on is Sydney’s backstory, all of Carmy’s conflict resolutions, and whatever they decide lies ahead for Sydney and Carmy as business partners and hopefully a realization that everything they have felt for each other is on a deeper level than just professional admiration. There is a lot to wrap up but I trust Chris and Joanna will be able to carry this very complex and dynamic story home and stick the landing as they say.

I will forever be grateful to Chris Storer specifically for seeing Ayo, and giving her this star making opportunity. Not only has she been given the opportunity to show range, not just comedic, but dramatic, introspective, ambitious, anxious, talented, intelligent, and discerning. Something we rarely get from Black women leads on television. Also providing her the opportunity to flex her creativity and mentoring her through direction was beautiful to watch and she flourished. Her episode was one of the most highly rated in s3.

What I love about the creatives behind the bear, including (og) cast and crew is that they all recognize the greatness in everyone. They have a genuine respect for each other and what their show represents and what it means to people. I feel they will go to the ends of the earth to support each other and they work they have done together and individually. They really seem like a family despite any perceived mess and drama. I look forward to supporting what they all do when this era comes to an end, celebrating their wins or losses, and how this wild ride concludes.