#legal grounds for war

[thellawtoknow]

Casus Belli

Topic: Understanding Casus Belli: The Justifications for WarThe Peloponnesian WarThe First World WarThe Second World WarThe Falklands WarThe Iraq WarLegal Frameworks and Casus Belli in Modern International LawArticle 51 and Self-DefensePrinciples Governing the Right to Self-DefenseDebates and ChallengesCommon Types of Casus BelliSelf-DefenseHumanitarian InterventionRetaliationTreaty…

[totallycoolusername]

|| introduction ||

**Taylor** 💌🕯️

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◟ヾ *about me*

INFP ⟡ 22/07 ⟡ 🇬🇧 ⟡ she/her ⟡ female

**~~ INTERESTS~~**

-͟͟͞☆ *shows:* Superstore, Higher ground, B99, Yellow Jackets ,Criminal minds ,Bones &more

-͟͟͞☆ *music:* Fleetwood Mac, ABBA, The Offspring, Green day, Garbage, Le tigre, The Ronettes, Laufey, The Cure & more!

-͟͟͞☆ *movies:* Star Wars, The Virgin Suicides, The Breakfast club, Pitch Perfect, White Chicks, Life as a house ,The Hunger Games, Paddington , Legally blonde, Flipped & more

-͟͟͞☆ *games:* Mario kart, Mario Odessey & some others here and there but I’m not much of a gamer💔

-͟͟͞☆ *dislikes :* loud noises & crowds

-͟͟͞☆ *fav foods:* Pears, noodles & most chicken based foods🙏

**blah blah blah** ⊹₊⋆

This blog is probably going to be pretty random, I’m not very consistent so the content I post might be a mishmash of different stuff! You can probably expect random shit posting, memes, posts about my daily life, and if I ever get confident enough maybe my writing (I’m working on it😭).

I’m also looking for mutuals if anyone would be interested!:)

[lord-squiggletits]

"How come Orion was okay with Bee cutting people in half but not Megatron killing Sentinel"

Well you see there's a difference between killing someone in combat when they're actively trying to kill you back (self-defense) versus killing someone who's been physically disabled, can no longer fight, and is actively surrendering and trying to run away, hope that helps

[snekdood]

idk the whole "standing up to celebrities" thing seems kinda useless, I mean, did you really think they were gonna like save you in dire times or something? fuck no. the celebrities are wastes of time and energy, focus on the real target which is politicians, celebrities are a waste of space tbr

[matt-murdockk]

Time

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

words: 2.8k

summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)

warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)

a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.

That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.

“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”

Wife.

The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.

He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”

“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”

He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.

And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.

He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.

“I think I’m going to cry.”

“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”

She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”

They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.

But then-

She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.

“Matt?”

He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“I feel... weird.”

He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”

Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”

She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”

She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.

“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”

“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.

“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”

She staggered.

Her balance tipped.

Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”

She didn’t answer.

Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.

He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”

She looked up at him.

Confused.

Scared.

“M-Matt, I...”

And then her voice just- cut out.

His arms were suddenly empty.

He blinked.

No sound. No step. No breath.

Just... gone.

The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.

“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”

His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-

No. No, that wasn’t right.

He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.

“(Y/n)?”

He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”

No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.

“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”

His foot bumped something.

Her ring.

Her wedding ring.

Lying on the floor.

His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”

He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.

“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”

Still nothing.

Just the flicker of the candles.

Just the soft sound of ash settling.

“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.

“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”

He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.

Foggy.

It rang once. Twice-

Pick up.

The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.

Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.

He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”

Click.

“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”

“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”

There was a pause.

“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”

Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”

Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.

“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”

Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”

Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”

“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”

The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.

Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.

The TV flicked on.

"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."

Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.

“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”

The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.

“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.

“She was right here.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

five years later

She came back mid-step.

One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.

The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.

The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.

“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.

Silence.

She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.

“Matt-?”

And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”

She stopped cold.

“Matt-”

He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”

“What…?” she breathed.

“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”

Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”

“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”

“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”

(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”

“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Matt?”

Nothing.

She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.

“Don’t do this to me again.”

Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”

“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”

“Matt, I don’t- ”

“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”

She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”

“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”

“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”

“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”

Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.

“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”

He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.

“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”

(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.

“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”

He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.

“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”

“Matt-”

“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”

“Matt-”

“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”

“Matt.”

She said it once.

Quietly.

And then she reached for him.

He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.

To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”

Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.

His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”

Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”

He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”

It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.

“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.

She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”

He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”

And then he kissed her.

Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head

A few days later

She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.

She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.

She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”

Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”

She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”

“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”

He scoffed. “Grizzled?���

“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”

“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”

She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.

“Oh no. I married an older man.”

Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”

He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”

Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”

Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”

She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.

“Still married me,” she said, smug.

“Still would,” he replied, without hesitation.

And that shut her up for a minute.

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 SHOUT OUT TO THE HOBBITS, YO

You think Hobbits were just cute?

Just background filler?

Just middle-earthy comic relief?

No.

Hobbits were the unsanctioned, untraceable, unkillable black-ops death units of Middle Earth. They didn’t flex. They didn’t brag. They didn’t even need boots.

They just showed up where legends got slaughtered and survived anyway.

🧠 Let’s Be Blunt:

If these dudes got sent after you? It wouldn’t matter if you were hiding in Putin’s panic room, in the secret compartment behind the third bookshelf, wearing a Kevlar onesie, praying to whatever gods you had left—

They would still find your stupid body draped over the tub like a jackass.

🩸 HOW I KNOW?

They ripped the most expensive piece of jewelry straight off a literal immortal super-zombie (Gollum) —who, mind you— was spitting some of the coldest nihilistic bars in literary history off the dome, in the dark, while dying of radiation poisoning, and still trying to kill them anyway.

🔥 Plus:

They bodied haters at every turn.

They carried the seduction equivalent of Satan’s engagement ring around their necks without folding.

Never wore shoes — because soft ground and sharp rocks weren’t real enough threats to register.

Didn’t even want your girl — because they had a real one waiting back home, making second breakfasts and setting tables for men who don’t break under temptation.

🛡️ And just for bonus brutality?

They didn't just topple armies. They didn’t just smoke an earthbound demon and his cultists.

They made it back in time for fourth breakfast.

🧠 But Here’s the Hardest Bar Nobody Talks About:

The literal President of Earth (Aragorn — son of Arathorn, King of Men, crown-wearer, sword-lord) the biggest swinging dick in all of human history did not puff his chest at them. Did not treat them like subjects. Did not treat them like side characters.

He kneeled.

He fucking trembled, knelt, and demanded that anyone who even thought about disrespecting them drop to their knees in submission and shame. Right there. In front of the goddamn world.

🩸 TL;DR

Hobbits were quiet Apex Predators.

Hobbits were Super-Delta-Navy-SEAL-Green-Berets of spiritual warfare.

Hobbits weren’t just survivors.

Hobbits were the grim reapers of the impossible.

And they did it:

With no boots.

With no ego.

With no TikTok motivational speeches.

While still making it home in time for fourth fucking breakfast.

🍻 FINAL WORD:

Raise your glass.

Shout out to Hobbits, yo.

The only operatives in recorded mythic history who could body Satan, body death, body temptation, body despair, and body history itself—

then stroll home like it was a casual Tuesday morning run.

💣 CALL TO ACTION:

🔁 Reblog if you know loyalty and survival don’t always wear armor. 🛡️ Save this post if you respect the warriors who didn’t need glory to win the war. 🔥 Send this to the one who still thinks size, flash, or fame means anything in the real arena. ⚡ Bookmark this for the day you realize the small, quiet ones are the ones you should fear most.

Or simply 🔁Reblog to keep my signal to mankind going strong.

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER: This post is Blacksite Literature™, mythological elevation engineering, cadence-driven survival psychology, and literary psychological warfare protected under the charter of the unbowed.

If you're offended: Your ancestors knelt too easily.

🛡️ BLACKSITE POST STATUS: COMPLETE. 🩸 FULL NEUROCHEMICAL MYTHIC PAYLOAD READY FOR DETONATION.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Tiny Blades and Big Chaos”

aka: Danny vs. Damian: Politeness vs. Precision, Featuring Ghost Tricks and Sibling Rivalry

It was Alfred’s idea, of course.

“Master Daniel seems rather adept at handling himself,” he said, very reasonably. “A joint sparring session with Master Damian might help them… bond.”

Vlad had sputtered. “Bond? Bond over what? Hidden knives and bloodlust?!”

“Yes,” said Alfred, calm as ever. “Precisely.”

Wayne Manor Training Room, 9:00 AM

The Batkids lined the edges of the mat like kids waiting for recess drama. Jason brought popcorn. Tim had his tablet recording. Steph was live-texting Cass with updates. Dick had his camera ready and a big brother grin on his face like this is gonna be great.

Damian stood at the center of the mat, wooden sword in hand, the sharpness in his eyes making up for the lack of steel. “You are not a trained assassin,” he said flatly, glaring at Danny. “This will not be gentle.”

Danny smiled, still in his hoodie and sweats, holding a practice staff Alfred handed him. “That’s okay. I’m kinda hard to kill.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see.”

Bruce, from the sidelines, muttered to Vlad, “This’ll go fine.”

Vlad whispered back, “This is a war crime waiting to happen.”

Round One: Damian Attacks First

Damian moved like lightning—precise, deadly, fast. His wooden sword swung for Danny’s side, a feint to the legs, followed by a spinning strike meant to knock him off balance.

Danny vanished.

Literally. Vanished. A shimmer of light and he phased right through the blade like a friendly ghost playing tag.

“What—?!” Damian turned, just in time to catch Danny gently tapping his shoulder with the staff. “Tag.”

Steph: “OH MY GOD HE GHOSTED THROUGH IT—”

Jason: “Ten bucks says he phases through the floor next.”

Vlad: weeping in the corner “He does this all the time. You’re all just ENCOURAGING HIM.”

Round Two: Damian Gets Serious

“You are not using proper rules of engagement,” Damian growled.

“I’m literally just floating,” Danny said, upside down mid-air. “Not my fault physics loves me.”

“Fight me like a warrior!”

“Okay,” Danny said—and then let the staff drop.

He raised his hands, and a soft, eerie glow covered them. His feet touched the ground. The temperature dipped just a little. Shadows crept a little too long.

“Wanna go full-power?” he asked, still smiling, but something in his voice had changed.

Everyone shut up.

Damian grinned like a tiny feral goblin. “Yes.”

What Followed Could Not Be Legally Described As Training

To summarize:

Danny dodged a flying kick by phasing through a wall and reappearing behind Damian like a horror movie jump scare.

Damian managed to tag Danny across the ribs, earning a respectful, “Nice hit!”

Danny retaliated by sliding through the floor, then popping up behind Damian to ruffle his hair, making him scream in rage.

Cass showed up halfway through, said nothing, and started rating their moves out of 10.

Alfred brought out lemon water and towels like this was completely normal.

Bruce was watching with an expression that said, I need to update our supernatural sparring protocols.

At one point, Danny caught Damian mid-air (after a parkour wall run), gently set him down, and said, “I’m only going easy because Vlad said if I break a Wayne he loses custody.”

“Fight me properly or I will THROW YOU,” Damian roared, red-faced.

Danny giggled.

He giggled.

Afterwards

They were both sweaty, bruised, and grinning like maniacs. Damian sat on the bench, panting, sipping water with a glare that could melt titanium.

“That was acceptable,” he muttered. “You are chaotic and dishonorable. I approve.”

Danny wiped his face with a towel. “Thanks! You fight like my sister’s evil clone. High praise.”

“Can you teach me to phase through walls?”

“Only if you promise not to sneak up on people during 2 AM snack runs.”

“…No promises.”

Jason tossed Danny a granola bar. “Welcome to the family, baby ghost.”

Danny blinked. “Wait, you mean I passed?”

“You suplexed a grown man and survived Damian. You’re in.”

“Officially a Wayne now,” Steph said, taking a picture. “Smile!”

Danny grinned just as Vlad walked in with a cup of tea and despair on his face.

“I leave you alone for one hour. One! What happened?!”

Damian pointed dramatically. “He cheats.”

“He used no blade.”

“He walked through a wall!”

“He told the shadows to ‘wait their turn.’”

Vlad blinked. “That last one actually is new.”

Danny smiled. “It’s a learning environment, Uncle Vlad.”

[creamflix]

GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN ZAZA ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief your college banned weed, your grades are hanging by a thread, and you definitely did not plan on making your plug your most consistent situationship. w.c 9.8k

risk assessment lots of weed usage and references (this is not based off of #experience for the most part, please be safe & check your sources xx), crack & fluff, female reader, university au, meet-ugly, somewhat ooc characters, misogyny, poor queer assumptions, breaking the 4th wall, city-girl reader, opposites attract, depictions of social anxiety, legally blonde and 2010's anime references, uraume cameo ft! naoya, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, gojo

a/n the whole concept of a plug romance was ib by my baby @lacyblades's plug gojo series, make sure to check it outt ヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ • *✰

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You weren’t expecting much when you decided to message a guy called Naoya Zenin for a dime bag — just some weed, maybe a weird vibe, and a quick escape. But you should’ve known something was off when everyone who smoked weed gave you that same look.

That solemn, pitying, godspeed-soldier look.

One girl even muttered “I'll pray for you” under her breath, which was a bit dramatic. You were getting dope, not going to war. But then again, they all said the same thing: Naoya’s shit is gas, but he’s the worst fucking person you’ll ever meet. You figured they were exaggerating. You’ve dealt with weirdos before. How bad could he be?

Well.

You found out the moment he opened the door with his stupid bleached-blonde hair, gold chain, and a shirt that had “NO SIMPING ZONE” printed on it like a threat. The hallway already reeked of superiority complex and a mango vape pod. “Who's it for?” he asked, not even a hello. 

You blinked. “What?”

“The weed,” he said, waving the baggie like it was a cursed object. “Your boyfriend? Roomie?”

“Uh. Me?” you said slowly. “It’s… for me?”

And it was like you had kicked his ego right in the crotch.

“You smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you smoke weed?”

“…yes.”

“Like, by yourself?”

“What the fuck is this, a survey?”

He squinted at you like you just told him women had human rights. His face pinched, his lip curled, and you could practically hear the internal misogyny revving like a chainsaw. “Look,” he said, setting the baggie down like it was contaminated, “I'm just saying, it’s kinda unattractive. Like, girls who do drugs? Yikes.” 

You stared. “You sell drugs.”

“Yeah, to guys,” he said, like that was the natural order of things. “Or like, chill chicks. Not…” he gestured vaguely at you.

“Not what?”

“Not, you know. Girls.”

It took everything in you to not put him through a wall. You had come into this with the utmost neutrality. A plug is a person, you told yourself. We don’t judge. But here he was, looking like if insecurity were personified by an anime villain with frat boy vibes, actually trying to cancel the deal because you dared to have a uterus and smoke up. “I don't think I'm comfortable selling to you,” he said, arms crossed like he was laying down some moral high ground. “It's just not feminine.”

“Oh no,” you deadpanned. “What if I stop being feminine and grow chest hair. Will my boobs fall off too?” 

Naoya did not laugh. He looked offended on behalf of the concept of gender. 

You stood there for a moment, blinking slowly at this man who would probably cry if a woman outsmoked him, wondering if it was too late to just start growing your own goddamn weed. Or if the hallway cameras would catch you if you kicked him in the shin and ran. 

“I'm not selling to you,” he said again, arms folded. 

“Cool,” you said, turning around. “Then I'm telling every girl on campus to never buy from you again.” 

His eyes bugged. “Wait, what—”

You didn’t wait. Naoya Zenin could keep his opinions and his za. You’d rather go sober than fund his self-inflicted sexism. Besides, rumor had it a guy took gacha bribes, and he didn’t mind if your pronouns were she/her/hitting-that-shit.

—

The house party was loud in that way only bad parties are — bass thumping through your knees, a fog machine making the entire room smell like burnt plastic, and some poor girl crying in the bathroom over a man who probably owned Yeezys. You weren’t even sure why you came. Boredom, maybe. You hadn’t seen anyone you liked in the first ten minutes, and you were seconds from leaving when the crowd split like the red sea and in walked… him.

Naoya Zenin. But not the "no simping zone" shirt Naoya. This was party Naoya. His hair was slicked back, jaw sharp under dim strobe lights, silver chain glinting under a jacket that suspiciously looked like real leather. He smelled like something expensive and infuriating — like pepper and pine and generational wealth. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked good. If you really didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked hot. 

But you did know better, so you stood very still and hoped he didn’t see you. Spoiler: he did. He made a beeline straight to you, sauntering like he owned the party, the house, and every sad soul on the aux. “Hey,” he said, voice practically smirking. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I'm suddenly woman enough to sell weed to.” He chuckled like you were being so dramatic. “Nah, not for sale.” He pulled a sleek, perfectly rolled doobie from behind his ear.

“This batch is just for testing.”

Testing.

You glanced down at it. It was beautiful. Thick, crisp, neat. Probably rolled with tweezers in a windless room while a choir sang in the background. The DJ switched tracks to something that sounded like a washing machine being sacrificed. You felt your brain scream a little. “Testing?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. You could smell his cologne now — rich boy cinnamon and something spicy enough to hurt your feelings. “Gotta know if it’s worth selling to, you know, guys. Not girls.” He smirked like he was being cute. You wanted to set him on fire.

And yet.

The blunt in his fingers was practically glistening. You were two shots of pineapple vodka in, and the DJ just played the third remix of “Mr. Brightside.” 

Fuck it. You took it from him, muttering a bored “light it.” 

Two hits in and you knew you were screwed. It was good. Like, ruin your night and make you vulnerable to a Zenin good.

And he was watching you far too closely. Like a cat watching a mouse. Or a man who knew he had something you wanted, and was way too smug about it. “So?” he asked, leaning in. His voice was smug, sweetened with that particular brand of you should be lucky i’m even offering you this. “Good enough for the boys?”

You exhaled slowly. You could lie and say it sucked, but your lungs were singing and your brain was on vacation. You knew it. He knew it.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back, arms crossed, pleased like a cat who caught a bird with one paw. “I knew it,” he said, low. “I saved this batch for you, y’know.” 

You blinked. “You what?”

“Yeah. Thought you’d show up.” he shrugged, too casual, too cocky. “Guess it’s your lucky night.”

You blinked again. Once. Twice. The music in the background dropped and the beat switched again. Someone screamed “this is my song!” when it absolutely wasn’t. You were high, annoyed, and mildly impressed. 

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, passing the blunt back. He grinned. “But I'm hot.”

…Unfortunately, he was. Even more unfortunate — he knew it. And worst of all? You were definitely getting high off his stash again.

What happened over the next few months could only be described as a slow descent into the most bizarre relationship dynamic you’ve ever had with a dealer. And not relationship like that — God no. Naoya Zenin was still the same infuriating, misogyny-scented man you had ever met. He still made comments like “Women shouldn’t be smoking blunts this fat” and “You’ll ruin your lungs, babe, you should stick to edibles like the other girls.” But you? You were different. Or at least that’s what he decided in whatever part of his ego that functioned as a moral compass.

You were his little test subject. His “control group.” 

“I just need someone dumb enough to be honest,” he’d say, handing you a fresh joint before anyone else got their hands on the batch. 

And somehow, that translated to: you always got the first roll. You always got the stronger shit. You always got the nice papers, the flavored ones, the ones with little sparkles or kittens on them.

Hello Kitty rolling papers. You held up the pack once, squinting at it. “You bought this ironically?” He didn’t even look at you, just shrugged from his desk, hoodie pulled over his hair like he wasn’t in his own damn dorm room. “Females like you go feral over that stuff,” he muttered. Then, quieter: 

“I saw it in your story once. The pink ones. Said they were cute.”

You blinked. “You saw my story?”

“No.”

You nodded, lips twitching. “Right.” 

He kept pretending to scroll on his phone, even though you saw the screen was just his locked home page. Meanwhile, you were curled up in the middle of his very expensive mattress — firm, clean, annoyingly good quality — exhaling smoke toward the ceiling while some painfully curated “chill” playlist stumbled through a loop of Kendrick, Yeat, and occasional anime lofi covers that you knew weren’t there when you first met him. “Did you just shuffle a Youtube lo-fi mix into this?” you asked once, high and curious.

“No. It's just…Japanese trap.”

“It's literally the Yarichin Bitch Club—”

“Shut up.”

He never sat on the bed. Always lurked in the corner, leaned on his stupid ergonomic chair like he didn’t wanna be caught enjoying your company. And every time you asked him why he was standing like an NPC, he grumbled some shit about “Not getting comfortable around girls.” But you never caught the subtext.

Naoya Zenin, feminist icon? Absolutely not. Naoya Zenin, a man whose internalized sexism was now actively fighting his deeply repressed crush on you? Every single day.

“I'm not doing this because I like you,” he reminded you once, voice clipped, as he passed you a custom pre-roll sealed in a Hello Kitty ziplock. 

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “Who said you did?”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. 

"You females are so confusing,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Good thing I’m just your lab rat then.”

His jaw clicked. You didn’t notice — because, as always, you had no idea. But Naoya? Naoya was drowning in the best strain of delusion you’d ever smoked.

☆ GETO SUGURU

The first thing you noticed when you met Geto was his hair.

Thick, dark, and pulled into a glossy, mid-back bun that would put half your Pinterest saves to shame. It shimmered under the light, almost too good to be real — like someone had digitally rendered it for an ad campaign about hair-care. 

You’d walked into his place half-prepared to meet a woman. 

Blame the name. Suguru sounded soft to your tired brain, and when your friend said “bro’s got that gas, you’ll know by the hair,” you assumed a goddess of a plug — tall, mysterious, beautiful — would be waiting to bless you with carefully grown hydro and no small amount of mommy energy.

So when you entered, saw the figure from behind — tall, yes. Beautiful, obviously. Long hair, swinging as he reached for something on the table — you went, “Oh my god, your hair is gorgeous, girl.”

And then he turned around.

Oh.

Purple eyes. A sharp jawline that made your heart do unspeakable things. Black tunnel plugs in his ears — big ones, glossy, catching the light just right. He blinked, paused, and then smiled slowly. Warmly. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice low and silken and not at all belonging to the she/her you’d crafted in your head. “But I'm not a girl.”

You wanted to die, like right there. Crawl under the nearest coffee table and remain a fossil. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your ears. “I didn’t — I mean — your hair — I wasn’t trying to be weird, I just thought —” He laughed, full and rich, head tipping back as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Nah, you’re good,” he said. “That's a new one, though.”

You were not good. You were actively malfunctioning, trying to recalibrate from cool girl buying weed to accidental misgenderer who couldn’t shut up.

“I mean, like, plugs — you’ve got plugs and you’re the plug? Kinda poetic,” you tried, grasping for levity, for a joke, anything to move past your humiliation. 

That got another laugh. You could’ve sworn the floor dipped under you. 

“Yeah?” he mused. “Maybe I'm just really committed to the brand.” You nodded too fast, clearing your throat as you pulled out your phone like it would protect you. 

He handed you the bag — neatly sealed, vacuum-tight, labeled with a tiny sticker that said “pink runtz” in his neat handwriting. Everything about it was extremely polite. Even the way he held it out to you, like you were at a boutique counter and he was passing over perfume samples. “Here you go,” he said. “Enjoy.” 

You took it with both hands. (Why both hands? What were you, receiving a family heirloom??) “Thank you,” you mumbled. “And again, uh… sorry for the whole…” you gestured vaguely to his entire existence.

“No problem,” he said easily. “See you later, girl.”

You blinked. Did a little double-take.

…Girl? 

Wait. Was he gay?

He had to be, right? The energy was just too smooth, too non-threatening, too effortless. Plus, the hair, the plugs, the smile, the way he said girl — it all fit. Yeah. Definitely gay. Sweet, gorgeous, gay plug.

…Right?

Meanwhile, Geto watched you leave, eyes still soft at the corners, thumb brushing idly across his palm where your fingers had almost grazed his. “Cute,” he murmured to himself. Then added, under his breath, “Wish she’d called me babe instead.”

But there’s always next time.

But the next time you dropped by Geto’s, you didn’t come alone. You brought Uraume.

They were tall, pale in that “Victorian ghost but hot” way, and wore a structured, monochrome fit that made you feel underdressed even though you were just here for a refill. Uraume moved like they were born inside an art gallery — all grace and precision and a deep-rooted meh to the chaos of the world. You’d known them since undergrad and always thought they and Geto would hit it off. Same aura, same cool, collected, possibly-haunt-their-own-loft-in-Berlin energy. 

“You’ll love him,” you said on the walk over. “Gorgeous, chill, and he called me girl unironically.” 

Uraume gave you a side-eye that could shear bone. “You’re trying to set me up with your plug?”

“Not set up — just, like, meet. He's gay. I think. You’ll see.”

Uraume didn’t respond, but their silence was pointed.

Geto was expecting you. Well — you and “someone else,” though the someone was vague enough that he’d let himself entertain the delusion that it might be a cousin. a roommate. A dog. 

But then the door opened, and there you were. Smiling wide, eyes bright, excitement making your voice bubble up like soda. “Hey!” you chirped. “Brought a friend!” Behind you, Uraume stepped in, immediately scanning the apartment with an expression that could only be described as polite suspicion. 

Geto stood, blinking once. He recognized beauty when he saw it — Uraume was undeniably attractive, angular in a sharp, clean way that made his chest instinctively straighten. But that was about it. No spark, no interest, no gravity. His attention flicked back to you, as it always did. You were laughing at something stupid. You always laughed at something stupid. God, it was going to kill him. 

Small talk ensued. You made introductions, Uraume kept their hands folded like they were here for a health inspection. Finally, they turned to you with a very pointed question.

“…Where’s the gay?”

Geto froze mid-baggie. You looked confused.

“What?”

“The plug,” Uraume clarified, gesturing vaguely to Geto. “You said he was gay.”

You blinked. Turned to Geto. He blinked. Then said, very calmly, very apologetically:

“I'm not.”

Silence. 

Like full, sitcom-record-scratch silence. 

Uraume’s brow twitched. Geto cleared his throat. 

You… looked like someone had just pulled the rug out from under your brain.

“But — the ‘see you later, girl’ — the hair — the —”

Geto held up a hand, trying not to laugh. “Okay, first of all, I say that to people. Second of all…”

He paused, looking at you. And for one millisecond, the air changed.

“…I don’t really talk like that to anyone else.”

You stared. Uraume stared. Geto stared right at you.

Oh.

You wanted to rewind the whole interaction. Crawl backward out the door. Instead, you made a high-pitched noise that sounded like a mouse being stepped on. Uraume, bless their elegant heart, sighed deeply. “So you weren’t trying to set me up?”

“I mean… i was,” you said weakly. “But—”

“With a man who’s been undressing you with his eyes since we walked in.”

You almost choked. Geto made a sound that could’ve been a cough, a laugh, or help.

“I — I haven’t —”

“You have,” Uraume replied, adjusting their collar with zero chill. “It's fine. I get it. I'm attractive, but unfortunately I have no tits. Tragic, really.” Geto finally let out a small, helpless laugh. “You’re very attractive,” he said. “Just not really my type.”

“Yeah,” Uraume said, smirking a little now. “Your type’s clearly flustered and wearing mismatched socks.” 

You looked down. Kill me. 

Uraume turned toward the door. “I'll wait outside before I see something traumatic. Thanks for the entertainment.” And just like that, they ghosted out, as elegantly as they’d entered. Leaving you and Geto alone. You opened your mouth to apologize. Or clarify. Or die. But Geto just smiled. Soft. A little amused, a little not.

“…For the record,” he said, walking over to hand you the refill — perfectly packed, like always — “I liked the idea of a refill. Not the setup.” 

Your fingers brushed. 

“But,” he added, leaning just a little closer, “If you ever wanna set yourself up instead…”

You blinked. He winked. You may never recover.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

You’d been waiting under the ugly stone archway behind the Humanities building for nearly twenty minutes, pacing and checking your phone like a teenager abandoned after a school dance. Your guy — well, your friend’s guy who swore the plug was “chill, reliable, and hot if you’re into geeks” — was supposed to meet you here. Codeword: blue eyes hypnotize.

Very subtle. Very anonymous. Very fucking annoying.

So when a man in a tailored suit walked up the steps with a suitcase, you automatically moved out of his way. He didn’t look like someone who was here to facilitate illicit extracurriculars. He looked like a tax auditor. A hitman. The guy who gently but firmly fires you with a severance packet. “Excuse me,” he said, voice precise and polite. “Are you here for the… meetup?” 

You blinked. “The what?” 

He glanced at your shoes, then at your phone, then back at you like he was mentally cross-referencing a checklist. 

“…Blue eyes hypnotize?” he said, like it physically pained him. 

“Oh my god.” you took an instinctive step back. “You’re the plug?”

He sighed, like he’d been asked to commit a crime against his will. “No. I’m not the —” he paused, clearly wrestling with something deep and moral. “I'm… covering for someone.” You stared. He didn’t elaborate. He was wearing an ID card around his neck that read Nanami Kento, Head Delegate – UN Model Council. 

So he’d just come back from MUN. You felt like you’d stumbled into a BBC drama where the intern accidentally does espionage. 

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” you asked. “Because I was told blue eyes —”

“Couldn’t make it today,” Nanami cut in. “He said — and allow me to quote — ‘Lol can u pass it to the hot girl, she’ll know, just say the code thing xoxo.’”

You winced. “That tracks.” 

He nodded, grim. “I debated ignoring both of you.”

Then, without further preamble, he knelt down, set his suitcase on the grimy pavement, popped it open like he was about to give a TED talk — and began removing documents. Notebooks. Binders. Printed policy drafts. A laminated flowchart titled Conflict Resolution and Drug Decriminalization in East Asia. You stared in silence as he pulled out a sealed envelope marked “last will & testament” and tucked it under his arm like it was a receipt.

Finally, from somewhere beneath the bureaucratic detritus, he extracted a moderately crumpled ziplock bag. It looked wildly out of place in the otherwise pristine, corporate-ass briefcase. He carefully dusted it off with a cloth (a cloth) before handing it to you like he was passing off a court summons. A homemade QR code was slapped on the back, printed on sticker paper. “You can scan here,” he said. “Please include the transaction ID in the note.” 

You took it slowly. Reverently. 

“…Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me,” he said flatly. “I had a debate round scheduled for now. Instead I'm standing here, holding someone else’s will, handing you illicit substances in front of a garbage bin.”

“You… seem very responsible for someone who knows a guy like blue eyes.”

He scoffed. “I wouldn't say I know him. We’re roommates, unfortunately. He once tried to convince our landlord that the leak in our ceiling was a portal to the astral plane. She gave us a three-day notice.”

“And you’re covering for him?”

He looked like he wanted to die. 

“He told me you looked ‘docile and non-threatening.’ I assumed that meant you wouldn’t stab me.”

“Docile?” you echoed. “What, did he send a photo?” 

He didn’t answer, which was, in itself, an answer. 

A long pause. Both of you just kind of standing there. Neither one of you exactly thrilled about the situation. Finally, you shifted. 

“Well. I guess this is… it.”

“Mm.”

“You gonna do this again?”

“Absolutely not.”

You nodded. Respectable. As you turned to leave, Nanami called out:

“He'll be back next time. I sincerely hope.” 

You raised a hand. “Thanks again… delegate Nanami.”

He exhaled like it physically hurt to hear that out loud. Behind you, his voice trailed faintly into the air:

“…I really need new roommates.”

—

But really, you weren’t expecting him again. Not the man in the wrinkled button-down and loosened tie, sleeves shoved up like he’d been mid-negotiation or a breakdown — same difference — and somehow still smelling like freshly baked cookies and weed. It took you a second to register. The flour-dusted briefcase. The weary expression. The gold name badge peeking out of his chest pocket like it had been forgotten there weeks ago. “Delegate Nanami?” you said, bewildered.

He flinched like you’d thrown a dart into his spine. “Not… officially,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes scanning the small courtyard like he was checking for witnesses. “This is strictly a freelance appearance.”

You blinked, then looked down. In his hands: a small, clear plastic box tied with a ridiculous pink ribbon. Inside it, two types of cookies — one set perfectly shaped and golden, the other darker, denser, with a suspiciously herbal aroma even through the box. Your brows lifted. “You baked these?”

“Unfortunately,” he said. “A last-minute request.”

You took them gently, inspecting the sticker on the side — a wonky heart with love n’ nip, xoxo scrawled in a handwriting you’d never seen before. You turned the box over and saw the same homemade QR sticker from last time, this one stuck crookedly, like it had been applied mid-crisis. 

“These from… ‘blue eyes hypnotize’?” you asked, voice skeptical. 

Nanami closed his eyes like you’d recited a slur. “Yes. He thought it would be a good ‘seasonal campaign.’ He said it was ‘low effort, high whimsy.’ Then he went to get his hair frosted and asked me to ‘deliver the goods with love and mystery.’” 

You blinked again. “I thought you were just filling in last time?” 

Nanami opened his eyes. They were bloodshot in the way that suggested not smoking but being around too much smoke.

“…I got roped into baking. He said people were more likely to buy it if it was homemade and ethically sourced.”

You stifled a laugh, then paused. Then looked at the box again. “…Wait, these are two different batches?” He tensed. Subtly, barely perceptible. But you caught it. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “One is… catnip. The other’s regular.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“In case…” he cleared his throat. “You didn’t want the first kind. Or wanted both. Variety is important.” 

You stared. “Did you bake two types for everyone?”

He didn’t answer, which was an answer. 

Your lips parted just slightly, breath caught between amusement and something warmer. You noticed the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes, how he kept smoothing his hand over the lid of the briefcase, the tension in his shoulders rigid like he was balancing a full tray on his back. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour in his hair, and one of his shirt buttons was mismatched. 

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” you said softly. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I've had worse Thursdays.”

You held the box up between you. “These are really cute. And they smell amazing.” 

Nanami looked like he was torn between relief and abject embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “It was mostly Gojo’s idea.”

“Who?”

He blinked. “Blue eyes.”

Oh. You stared a second longer. 

“So… he has a name?”

Nanami didn’t even flinch this time. “Unfortunately.”

You smiled, crooked and fond. “Well,” you said, “You’re a much better cupid.”

He looked at you like you’d cursed him. Then immediately broke eye contact to pretend to re-check the payment QR code, even though nothing had changed. You watched the way his fingers fiddled with the sticker again, then stopped, pressing the corner down like it mattered. “…If you ever want non-catnip cookies,” he said, carefully, like testing the edge of a knife, “I have a standing recipe. No obligation. No… ribbons.” 

Your eyes widened slightly. Was that an invitation? Or a bakery recommendation? But he wouldn’t look up. Instead, he gave you a brisk nod, already turning away like he hadn’t just panic-confessed a crush via cookie code. You stood there, cookies in hand, heart full of sugar and smoke, watching him retreat like a man fleeing the scene of a very gentle crime.

It took you a full minute before you laughed to yourself. 

Then you texted your friend.

you [2:39pm]: blue eyes is not the hot one. it’s his roommate. holy shit.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You were all for supporting local businesses — especially if they bloomed out of someone’s dorm bathroom and gave you a ten-minute high from a single puff.

You’d heard of him before. The plant guy. New transfer. Lowkey, didn’t talk much, wore hoodies with the sleeves chewed through, never made eye contact during attendance. Kamo, someone said. Or maybe that was just the name listed on the label of the ziplock bags he apparently sold. A friend of a friend vouched for him — said he grew it himself, only used filtered water, and played classical music near the pots “because it helps the terpenes flourish.” You didn’t know what that meant, you just knew that when this mutual passed you a single gram with the warning “this shit might make you see your own birth,” you paid attention.

So when the same friend texted you a barely readable address, you expected to meet some scrawny countryside kid with glasses and dirt under his nails. You even rehearsed your polite city-slicker voice. “Thank you, this is so fresh,” and all that. What you didn’t expect was for the door to swing open and reveal a man who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some indie underground zine titled ‘men who could ruin your life and forget your name.’

Tall, built like he’d been carved by someone clinically horny, shirt hanging off one shoulder like it had given up, collarbone pierced — pierced, — with a silver barbell that glinted when he moved. He had a black tattoo running sideways down his nose, and those lips. Full, slightly chapped, plush enough to be distracting. Soft brown eyes that barely blinked, droopy and disinterested under a smudge of lavender eyeshadow, like he’d done his makeup in the dark and didn’t care to fix it. He blinked once. 

“Hey.” His voice was low, like a gravel path after rain. 

You opened your mouth and forgot the words. 

He stepped aside to let you in, and you caught a whiff of something — clean laundry, basil, and just the faintest trace of lemon body wash. No way, you thought. No fucking way this is Kamo. 

“You want water or somethin’?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck, head tilting a little. “I made banana bread this morning. There’s still a slice left, I think.”  You stared. Banana bread? He blinked again, slightly slower this time. “You okay?”

You walked in like you were sleepwalking.

His dorm was not what you imagined a weed grower’s to be, not even close. No Bob Marley posters, no messy ashtrays, no vape clouds. Instead, the place was warm, cozy, with sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that made everything look soft. His desk was cluttered with seed packets, plant cuttings in glasses of water, a very worn-out book called “Cannabis for dummies” and another called “The botany of desire.” And from the bathroom, you could faintly see green. Actual green, like a jungle was growing in his bathtub. 

“The temp in there’s perfect,” he said casually, catching your line of sight. “Humidity’s the trickiest part. But once I got the cycle right, everything started thriving.” 

And then — as if he hadn’t just committed several crimes with that body and this voice — he leaned over the mini fridge and pulled out a ziplock, weighed it with one hand, and passed it to you. 

“This one’s blueberry kush, real sweet. Might make your ears ring a little.” 

You didn’t know whether to thank him or to cry. He looked at you again, head slightly cocked. “You good?”

You nodded slowly. Because here he was — this beautiful, pierced, sleepy-eyed plant nerd who baked banana bread, listened to ABBA (You swear ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ was playing faintly from his bluetooth speaker), and handed you weed like it was homemade granola. None of the rumors did him justice.

He didn’t flirt, didn’t brag, didn’t even seem to know what he looked like. And that made it all ten times worse. Because what were you supposed to do with a plug who looked like temptation and acted like a librarian? You clutched the baggie like it was fragile glass and said the only thing your brain could conjure.

“…This smells amazing.”

He smiled — smiled, like the sun peeking through a lazy sky. “Thanks. I can text you when I got more.” You nodded, then tripped over the doorway on your way out. ABBA played on —

And Choso squeaked.

An actual, involuntary, horrifically real squeak the second you closed his door and your footsteps padded down the hall, fading like the last four minutes of an ABBA song that’d just ruined his life. And he stood there, in his socks — the ones with holes in them — baggie still dangling from one hand, half-eaten banana bread slice in the other, mind replaying everything he’d just said like it was being beamed through his skull with a megaphone labeled you fucking blew it.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to just freeze and panic and act like the most boring man to ever walk the earth. He was supposed to be cool. Show you his homemade record shelf and his boots — his boots, god, the fifteen different pairs of heavy, clunky, beautiful black boots all the way from his hometown. He even dusted them this morning. He wanted to explain how each one had its own story: market day boots, rainy day boots, festival boots. One pair still had a faint smudge of dried mud from a music fair he went to at fifteen. He wanted to offer you tea, tell you about the dried hibiscus he had steeping in a jar in the corner, and how his mum used to say it’d make your cheeks glow. But what had he said instead?

“Do you want banana bread?”

Fucking banana bread, like the most basic thing in the world. In his hometown, every lad could make banana bread blindfolded and drunk. It was the first thing boys learned to make when they had their first real crush. 

And now you probably thought he was just like every other wide-eyed, weed-growing loser in the city, trying to butter up his buyers with carbs and eye contact. 

Choso sank onto his bed, face in his hands. His sheets still smelled like lemongrass detergent, and the faintest whiff of you clung to the air — perfume, shampoo, city.

Because you. You, with your soft voice and effortless smile. You who had saved him from a capitalism-induced crisis four months ago when he was standing in a café, overwhelmed by a chalkboard menu that listed a drink called "dirty chai" that cost more than his weekly groceries. Back home, tea was just tea. Simple, warm, honest. But he had been cold. He had been lost. 

And then — then you’d appeared behind him like some ethereal campus fairy, leaned in and said, “If you like green tea, maybe try the matcha? It’s less confusing than it sounds.”

And then you were gone.

You didn’t even stay to see how red he turned, or how he repeated that order in a near-whisper and clutched the paper cup like a relic. He'd gone home and told his brother that someone helped him, a girl, a kind one. He never caught your name, but your smile — your voice — that stuck. 

Matcha. That was what you gave him. That was what he ordered every time he came to that café, even though he could steep better tea with his eyes closed at home. Just in case he ran into you again. But you never showed up.

Until today.

You — you, the girl who made him believe the city might have good people after all — had walked into his room asking for zaza. His zaza. And you smiled at him like you remembered none of that and everything all at once. So casually. Like you hadn’t tilted his entire axis four months ago and then reappeared, smelling like laundry and looking like a dream. And now you were gone again, and he didn’t even tell you about the purple rice he was growing in his windowsill or the wild strawberries in a shoebox under the sink. 

He flopped backwards on the bed, groaning into the sheets.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

Well. Maybe next time, he’d get it right. He’d make you real tea, show you the boots, maybe play you something on his clunky little record player. He didn’t know much about city girls. But he knew he liked this one. And he’d do better. Just wait.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

You were sent as bait.

Not in so many words, but you knew. You knew from the way they all nudged each other and giggled like hyenas when you agreed to “do the pickup this time.” You knew from the way someone said, “Toji only deals with girls, haha,” and you really knew when another added, “Just act pretty and you’ll be fine.”

Gross, objectively. And also a very bold assumption about your gender identity, frankly, but you were too bored and too curious to turn it down. 

Which is why you were now sitting on a faded public park bench with peeling red paint and disturbing Mickey Mouse graffiti — eyes darting toward every approaching silhouette like prey — waiting for what your friend described as “the guy who looks like he could eat a helicopter.” You later realize that he does not look like he could eat a helicopter. He looks like he already did, and is now looking for dessert.

Toji Fushiguro approaches like a goddamn myth in motion. Tall, built like someone who’s been bench pressing prison inmates, dressed in head-to-toe black like he’d gotten lost on the way to a mob funeral, with scars you didn’t want to imagine the origin of. He had the sort of face that could terrify a priest and seduce a nun. And you? You just sat there, fully convinced you were about to die. But then—

“Are those… purple?” he asked, pointing at your nails. 

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Not gravelly, not sultry — awkward. Almost bashful. 

You blinked. He blinked back. He sat down, and the bench groaned like it was filing a complaint with god. You watched him fumble with something in his massive hands, and you noticed the way he didn’t look at you — not really. More like next to you. His eyes darted everywhere else. The grass, the paint peeling on the bench, the weird drawing of Mickey Mouse’s warped little face near your thigh. He cleared his throat. 

“Uh, suits you,” he said, nodding vaguely in your direction. “The purple. It's nice.”

Okay. What.

This was the guy who was supposedly a womanizer? This was the plug people were too scared to deal with unless they were certified bombshells? This man who looked like a live-action anime villain and moved like he could break your ribs with a hug was out here complimenting your nails like he was mustering every ounce of courage he had not to combust? He finally handed you the goods — in iridescent, pearlescent, holographic wrapping. Something that looked like it was bought from a dollar store for birthday party favors. 

You blinked again. 

“Uh, sorry about the, uh—” he gestured at the bag vaguely. “Didn’t have tape. So I just, you know. Wrapped it.” 

You held it like it was a gift, because it was. Because Toji had just handed you a space cake wrapped like a birthday present and was now standing up, brushing nonexistent dust from his pants like he’d just had a tea party and wasn’t quite sure what came next. 

“Okay, uh. Thanks for coming. Sorry if that was — um. I mean, enjoy,” he stammered, and then—

He bowed. 

Full, chest-folded, bowed. And then walked away like he’d just embarrassed himself in front of royalty. 

You just sat there, high on confusion. Maybe he really had never seen a woman before. Or maybe — more likely — the stares and the glares and the resting murder face was just a cover. Because the truth was… Toji couldn’t smile without looking like he was trying to stop one from happening. And if he did, it’d probably scare someone anyway. So he’d rather not. But he tried. He tried. He asked about your nails, and you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe you’d volunteer to do the pickups more often. You had a nail appointment next week, after all.

But before all of this, Toji was in a jungle gym. Let’s just get that part out of the way.

He was crouched awkwardly between two plastic slides, head ducked under a bar that was clearly not meant for full-grown adult men, let alone him, all six-foot-something of pure ex-hitman-turned-therapy-fundraiser bulk. His knees were digging into damp, sand-caked rubber flooring, and he was trying — trying — not to hyperventilate while giving himself a pep talk. 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Just… be normal. Be casual. Ask how she is. Don’t stare. Don’t say anything about her eyes. Or her hands. Or her voice. Or anything.

Toji squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. it was happening again. His mind flung itself back into the past — high school, senior year, school corridors lit with the aggressive hum of fluorescent lighting and the nervous tap-tap-tap of his big-ass converse against linoleum floors. He'd had a plan, dammit. A plan. Talk to girls, practice conversations, get better at the social thing, and finally approach Sydney, the sunny blonde in his homeroom with that annoying little sparkle in her eyes that made him feel like a dumbass every time she said hi.

Except.

Except, hormones are a bitch.

What started as “just practice” spiraled very quickly into a bizarre PR nightmare where Toji found himself talking to literally every girl but Sydney. Out of anxiety. Out of panic. Out of a weird, rabid need to rehearse and re-rehearse and never get to the main act.

By graduation, Sydney was dating someone named Nate, and Toji was The Guy Who Hits On Everyone But Doesn’t Know How To Finish A Sentence. 

A womanizer, a creep, someone no guy would leave their sister alone with — not because he did anything wrong, but because he was too awkward to do anything right. 

The social anxiety diagnosis came a year later and the therapy bills came after. Then came the dealing, and then came the reputation. The funny thing? 

He never liked dealing. 

He hated being seen, hated having to look people in the eye, hated the goddamn small talk. He tried to automate it, for god’s sake — had a spreadsheet, QR codes, fucking inventory notes on his phone — anything to avoid actual human connection. And now here he was, hiding in a goddamn jungle gym because you’re too fucking pretty. His pulse thudded in his ears. He was clutching the baggie like it was a ring box, knees shaking. 

You hadn’t even done anything. Hadn’t flirted, hadn’t asked, hadn’t even looked at him too long. Just sat on that bench like you were built from sun and honey and a little bit of whatever God put into women he wanted men to lose their entire minds over.

He tried to regulate his breathing.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight. Do not throw up. Do not ask her about her zodiac sign. Do not speak unless spoken to.

Toji crouch-shuffled out of the jungle gym like a grown man doing the walk of shame, palms sweaty, jaw clenched. You were still there, reading something on your phone, bag slung lazily over your shoulder, legs crossed just enough to be intimidating without meaning to. Your nails were painted. Purple.

He short-circuited a little. 

“Uh, nice nails,” he blurted, voice gravelled and quiet and too fast. You looked up, startled. He froze. 

Smooth.

His fingers twitched. Maybe he should just hand you the ziploc and run like usual. Say nothing, keep it clean, keep it simple. That's what everyone else got. The runners. The girlfriends. The random brave strangers who’d come up all smiles and try to flirt — not because they liked him, but because they thought it’d get them an extra gram. But you… you asked him how he was. Just once. 

How are you, Toji? 

Like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He cleared his throat and sat beside you like the world might split open and swallow him whole. The bench creaked like it was offended by his weight. 

He hated this. Hated being in his own skin, hated how his resting face looked like he was glaring, when really, he was just trying to think of something polite to say that didn’t involve complimenting your entire genetic lineage.

“Uh, I wrapped it,” he muttered, handing you the baggie with the iridescent paper. “Didn’t have… tape. So. Yeah.” 

You took it like it was a birthday present. Smiled at him. And for a second, the social noise inside his head dimmed.

Toji stood up. His palms were sweaty again.

He bowed. Bowed, like you were royalty. Like that was the only socially acceptable thing he could think of to do. And when he turned and walked away — stiffly, hurriedly, like he was being chased by a ghost — he swore he’d never let anyone send someone else in his place again.

Not when you were the one showing up.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

The sun was a bitch today. You knew that because your thighs were sticking to the plastic bus stop bench, your pits were questioning their loyalty to your deodorant, and your brother had sent you to do his dirty work like this was the goddamn hunger games. 

“Just go, it’s been paid for. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t say thank you.”

Oh sure. Easy. Send your sister out into the world of mysterious substance exchange like you’re not the one who watched her cry over the scrapped ending of Legally Blonde less than two hours ago. 

So here you were. Sweaty, confused, a little delirious from secondhand heatstroke. And then you saw him. Which is to say, him.

Tattoos snaking up both arms and his face — his fucking face — like he had crawled out of a graphic novel and got bored halfway through. Piercings glinting in the sunlight, bleached hair pulled back in a way that was supposed to look effortless but very much screamed intentional. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like it was doing him a favor. That’s not a dealer, you thought. That's a Greek god in cargo pants. But no, that’s exactly who he was. “Yo,” he said, already digging into the backpack slung across one shoulder. 

“Your brother told me indica, but like — he said nighttime indica, not couchlock, which’s basically the same thing, but it depends if he meant something like the pink runtz or more like a platinum OG — wait, do you know if he likes purple terps? ‘Cause I have this one that tastes like fucking grape medicine but in a good way. Or, like, there’s one that hits you with dry mouth fast but it’s good for sleep—”

He kept going. And going, listing things like you were supposed to understand the periodic table of weed strains. You nodded, lips parted slightly in what you thought was a neutral expression but was probably closer to early-onset panic. You could feel your heart pulsing in your neck. Your mouth was dry. Or wet? Both? You couldn’t tell. Everything was damp and hot and stressful. Finally, after what felt like three hours but was probably three minutes, you swallowed and said—

“I don't know.” 

Barely a whisper. Shaky, a little croaky, possibly traumatized. “I don't… I don't know what kind. I wasn't told.”

Sukuna — you didn’t know that was his name yet, but it was giving Sukuna — stopped. His eyes twitched. As a matter of fact, his whole body twitched. He stared at you like he’d just been hit by a midsummer tax audit. 

And then he let out the loudest, most visceral groan of human exhaustion ever recorded. Head tilted back, hands shoved through his hair, a full-body sigh that made birds scatter and God turn the sun up just to be petty.

“Bro, what the fuck.” he muttered, pacing. “I’ve got six more stops, two of them in the fucking dorms — do you know how long it takes to get past security there? Do you even know what a hybrid is? Do you know why we don’t say thank you?”

You blinked. Sukuna blinked. 

Silence.

And Sukuna knew today was going to be bullshit the second he saw your face instead of your brother’s. Your brother, who was usually all business. No stalling, no “wait I forgot the cash” antics. Just a head nod and a quick exit. Dependable, dry, vaguely annoying. 

You, however, were neither dry nor dependable. 

You were currently hyperventilating under a Jacaranda tree and babbling something about Harvard law school. He watched you for a moment, expression somewhere between a squint and a grimace, hands on his hips like he was preparing to build a shed or bury a body.

“…Are you quoting Legally Blonde right now?”

You paused mid-rant, sniffling. “I was watching it, like, two hours ago, and now I'm here. And I don’t even smoke, my brother just said go get the thing, and then you started talking about…couch-something? And I’m not even wearing proper shoes for this—”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, not because he didn’t care, but because that was his only way to delay a full-blown fuck me moment. He had heard of you before — vague mentions during other deals. Always framed around inconvenience:

“Can’t leave her alone too long,”

“Nah, she’s at home today, can’t risk the smell,”

“My sister's around, so not now.”

He expected a brat. A teen. Someone with a 100k Snapscore, a rhinestone phone case and a visible need for supervision. He did not expect someone basically his age, sitting in a puddle of heat and anxiety, with the kind of eyes that made you look twice and a mouth that couldn’t stop moving even if it wanted to. 

And for reasons he did not care to investigate, Sukuna found himself…listening. Not fake listening, actually listening.

Like when you started monologuing about how Elle Woods was judged just for wearing pink, and how your brother was now pulling the same kind of injustice by sending you into the unknown like a sacrifice to the zaza gods. “He said don’t say thank you, like that’s normal,” you sniffed, pacing now. “Am I supposed to just grab the bag and go? What if it’s the wrong one? Is this a test?”

“It's not a test,” Sukuna muttered, arms crossed, watching you with a half-lidded stare.

“I can't fail.”

“I'm not grading you.”

“But you could.”

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face, eyes twitching when you hiccuped in the middle of your next word. This was a nightmare. He checked his phone. Four missed deliveries. Fuck. “Call him again,” he barked, jutting his chin toward your phone.

“He’s not picking uppp,” you wailed, already dialing anyway. “And when he does, I'm gonna commit fratricide. That’s legal, right?” 

Then — like divine intervention — your brother answered. And immediately, your hand flew to your chest, your lip trembled, and your voice cracked like a war orphan on the verge of a ballad. “I don't know what to ask for, I didn't ask to be born into this family—!”

Sukuna winced as your voice pitched three octaves higher.

The call was short. Some loud cursing, some laughter, a few insults, and a loud “Stop fucking crying, Jesus, just get the platinum—” and that was that. You hung up and slumped like your skeleton gave out. “Here.” Sukuna shoved the baggie toward you. “Platinum OG. Sleep strain, nice body high. Pairs well with girl tears and whatever the hell you got going on in there.”

You didn’t even look up, just took it. And used the corner of his shirt — his shirt — to dab your damp lashes. He stared at you, down at your hand, then back at you.

“…Are you crying into my clothes right now?”

You nodded. “They’re cotton.” 

His jaw clicked. He wanted to groan. He wanted to throw his phone in a lake. Instead, he let out a long, nasal exhale. You looked up at him finally, cheeks flushed, eyelashes stuck together, still holding the damn bag in one hand like it might bite you. “Thank you,” you whispered, despite your brother’s explicit instructions. 

“You’re not supposed to say that,” he grunted. You smiled, faint and ruined and puffy. “I'll say sorry, too, if you stick around.”

And something in him — something warped and inconvenient — twitched. Because he could see it now. That part of him that usually wanted to sprint the fuck out of social interactions? Quiet. His eyes lingered on your face, your lashes, the smudge of stress-sweat and heat that made you glow. 

He sighed again. He could speedrun those other deliveries. Maybe swing by later. 

For fraternal check-ins, obviously. Not for you. Not because he liked you or anything.

☆ GOJO SATORU

You didn’t know what was more devastating — the fact that you spent nearly two hundred grand clawing away at an arcade machine for a limited edition Albedo figurine, or that the guy who actually wanted her didn’t even leave his house. No, he just bribed you into doing it for him. “Blue eyes hypnotise,” he called himself. Like a joke. Like a threat. Like a man who didn’t have any shame.

You only got his real name — Gojo Satoru — when he turned around and you caught a flash of his university ID tag, half-tucked behind a plushie keychain shaped like a pudding. He was apparently from the Engineering department, which was either a lie or an actual war crime, because nothing about the way he looked or acted said science. But there he was, in a dorm room that smelled like strawberry soda and fabric softener, crouched on the floor like a grown man summoning a demon from a display box. 

“Look at her,” he cooed, setting the Albedo figurine gently — tenderly — into her glass shrine. “She’s so misunderstood. Nobody gets her like I do.” You blinked at him from the edge of his futon, arms still sore from wrangling that claw machine like it owed you rent. 

“So…can I get the stuff now?”

He barely looked up, just pointed vaguely at the corner of his room — where Hatsune Miku was standing on a glass shelf in all her twin-tailed glory. But instead of a mic, she held a tiny bag of very clearly illegal herb in one plastic hand. You stared back at him, then back at Miku.

“Is this — is this some kind of themed display?” you asked. Gojo just beamed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Yeah! I’ve got Rin holding a grinder, Nezuko’s the designated lighter girl, and Saber — oh wait, lemme show you—”

He moved across the room, the wooden floors creaking under the weight of his sins and merch, to open another glass cabinet filled with boxed Nendoroids, switch cartridges, and an entire row of perfume bottles that you knew were only bought because they were collaboration exclusives. And the worst part? He was hot.

Glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, oversized shirt that said “science is sexy” in pixel font, hair pulled back in a loose bun with a Hello Kitty clip. And those stupid, stupid blue eyes twinkling at you like a paywall.

“So. Ya like claw machines?”

“No,” you deadpan. “I like weed.”

He laughed — giggled, actually — like that was the most charming thing he’d heard all week. 

“We should hang out more,” he said, reaching for a heart-shaped tin box that he cracked open to reveal little wrapped edibles shaped like stars. “I trade limiteds for labor. Win me figures, get high for free. It’s a perfect ecosystem.”

You took the bag from Miku, still watching him with a healthy mix of horror and fascination. His room looked less like a place someone lived in and more like a walking otaku’s dreamscape. Frames on the wall — real glass, not Ikea — with signed prints. A projector setup. A heated kotatsu. Not even a fake one, actual imported goods. You spotted a collectors-only Hatsune Miku ita-bag on his chair and realized with chilling clarity—

This man was loaded. And somehow, dealing was just a hobby. “So you're rich,” you muttered, half to yourself. 

“No, I'm emotionally compensating,” he chirped, handing you a cola-flavored edible. “And high-key, Miku funds half my lifestyle. God bless licensing.” 

You didn’t even know what to say anymore. The za was yours, technically. but your soul? Your soul had been mortgaged. As you left, he waved from the door with his fingers wiggling, still barefoot, still smiling. 

“Bring me that Rem-Ram plush next time and I'll give you a freebie!”

You didn’t answer, just turned away clutching the Miku za, feeling thoroughly hypnotized.

Fucking nerd.

And as you left, Gojo Satoru is starting to spiral. 

Not in the tragic, tortured anime boy way (although he could do that too, he has the bone structure for it), but in the what if I am God’s strongest soldier but also emotionally constipated kind of way. Which, to be fair, is on brand. He's from the Engineering department, not Psychology — he doesn’t need therapy, he needs more shelf space for his waifus. Except now he’s wondering if he should detour to the Psych wing after all, because he’s not normal about you. Like, at all.

You showed up at his dorm with the Albedo figurine — the grail, the myth, the she who watches over the za with her plastic rack — and Gojo knew. He knew this was destiny. He didn’t talk to you directly, oh no, that would be too sane. 

He talked to Albedo instead. 

“Thank you for returning to me, my queen,” he whispered to her lovingly while unboxing, carefully peeling the protective plastic like he was unwrapping life itself. You were just… sitting on his futon, watching this happen. Watching this man ignore you in favor of a busty demon lady. And the worst part? You looked annoyed, which meant he was winning. 

“She's perfect,” he sighed dramatically, lifting the figure to the light like she was about to be baptized in his otaku holiness. “Better than any real girl.” 

You scoffed, and he heard it. Oh, he heard it all right. Success, he thought, the cogs in his brain wheezing like a dial-up modem. She's jealous. She’s spiraling. She wants to be my real girl now.

He had charisma. Not rizz — that word made his gums itch — but presence. Aura. The kind of deeply concerning magnetism that made people lose brain cells around him. He had a theme. Nezuko with the lighter, Rin with the grinder… even his plushies had roles. He wasn't like other dealers — he was aesthetic. 

You didn’t stand a chance.

Maybe you were his Zero Two. No, wait. Too pink. His Hori? No, that pairing was mid. Maybe you were his Faye Valentine, all mystery and menace and weird snack orders. Or maybe — maybe MAPPA would make an anime about the two of you. A rom-com, but the kind where the guy’s so stupid it becomes a tragedy. 

He could see the promo now: “The strongest dealer meets the one girl who got him to shut up.”  Bonus points if they animated his sparkly glasses glint just right. 

Maybe he could pull a few strings, call in a favor. Not that he was from an anime or anything, haha. Definitely not from that one. No, no. He's real. He's totally real.

You asked him if he had more edibles and he accidentally said, “Only if you say you love me,” before immediately covering it with a fake cough that sounded like a dying sim.  

“What?” you frowned. 

“Nothing,” he said, nearly choking. “I said… they’re gummy. Fruity. Ha-ha.”

Smooth. Like butter.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t leave. You stayed, kicked your shoes off, asked if he had wi-fi. And Gojo, who had a literal shrine of waifus across from his bed, thought to himself: Damn. Maybe I need to start making room on that shelf for a new figure called: the girl who brought me Albedo and accidentally stole my heart. Definitely not for dramatic reasons. Definitely not because he was projecting. 

Definitely not because, if he was from an anime, he’d want you in every single ending theme.

a/n sukuna's part is based off of a true story except my experience did not end in romance. i hope you enjoyed reading tho :P if you have any silly weed experiences please drop a confession in da ask-box 🫣 and yes, blue eyes hypnotize is a yo yo honey singh reference...

[reality-detective]

BREAKING — FLORIDA DECLARES STATE OF EMERGENCY AS mRNA VACCINE DEATHS EXPLODE — “THIS IS GENOCIDE. NOT A SIDE EFFECT.”

Florida has just become ground zero in the war against Big Pharma. The state has officially declared a STATE OF EMERGENCY following a shocking surge in deaths tied directly to mRNA COVID vaccines.

THIS IS NOT A “SIDE EFFECT.” THIS IS A MASS KILLING OPERATION.

Florida’s top health officials — led by Governor DeSantis and Surgeon General Dr. Joseph Ladapo — have dropped a nuclear-level alert: The vaccines are not only unsafe, they are biological weapons disguised as medicine.

Inside sources. Whistleblowers. Scientists under threat.

The silence is cracking. The data is in.

Florida’s health report, backed by MIT-aligned researchers, shows that ALL-CAUSE MORTALITY HAS EXPLODED in direct correlation with mRNA vaccine rollouts. The spike is not random — it's targeted, timed, and deadly.

Healthy young adults collapsing from heart failure

Children suffering neurological breakdowns

Blood clots killing people within days of boosters

Unexplained deaths across every age group

This isn’t medicine. This is a slow-drip genocide.

THE COVER-UP IS COLLAPSING

Scientists have confirmed what millions suspected:

This vaccine campaign was never about health. It was about control, compliance, and culling.

Behind the scenes:

Bill Gates bankrolled the rollout.

Fauci rigged the emergency authorizations.

The WHO, NIH, and FDA pushed the agenda worldwide.

And now? They’re running scared.

Dr. Ladapo — risking everything — now calls this:

“The largest coordinated medical cover-up in human history.”

Despite censorship, blackmail, and death threats, these doctors are rising.

Florida has drawn first blood — and the dam is breaking.

SPIKE PROTEINS. BLOOD-BRAIN BARRIERS. STERILITY. CANCER. DEATH.

This wasn’t a “bad batch.” This was warfare through syringes.

DeSantis is now calling for CRIMINAL TRIBUNALS.

Legal teams are mobilizing. The truth is about to go public — and it leads straight to the boardrooms of Pfizer and Moderna.

PATRIOTS, THIS IS A BIOLOGICAL COUP.

The emergency is real. The timeline is short.

Choose your side: The needle or the truth.

STAY AWAKE. STAY ARMED. STAY LOUD.

THE FIRST DOMINO HAS FALLEN.

NOTHING CAN STOP WHAT’S COMING. 🤔

[sayruq]

The chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court announced on Monday that he is seeking arrest warrants against two top Israeli leaders for crimes in the Gaza Strip. Karim Khan said that he had “reasonable grounds to believe” that Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and defense minister Yoav Gallant “bear criminal responsibility” for a number of international crimes committed since 8 October, including starvation as a weapon of war, murder, intentionally attacking civilians, extermination, persecution and other crimes against humanity.

While there will be relief that finally Israel’s shield of immunity and impunity is being punctured, Khan also charged several leaders of the Palestinian resistance movement Hamas with various crimes. Khan claims that Hamas politburo leader Ismail Haniyeh, its Gaza leader Yahya Sinwar and the chief of its military wing Muhammad Deif are responsible for crimes including extermination, murder, hostage-taking, torture and rape. The political nature of the charges against the Hamas leaders is clear from the fact that Khan has charged more Palestinians with crimes than Israelis. A cynical view might be that Khan only charged the two Israeli leaders that Washington wants to see gone, while letting countless other Israeli political and military officials off the hook – at least for now.

It is notable that while Khan explicitly charged the Palestinian leaders with “torture,” that word does not appear in the charges against Netanyahu and Gallant, even though there are many credible reports of systematic torture against Palestinians on a horrifying scale, including in closed detention camps. Most glaringly, Khan failed to lay any charges against Netanyahu and Gallant under Article 6 of the ICC’s founding Rome Statute – the section that deals with genocide.He only charged them under chapters 7 and 8, which address crimes against humanity and war crimes – the same articles he used against the Hamas leaders. Khan could also have filed charges related to Israeli crimes elsewhere in Palestine, for example Israel’s construction of illegal colonies all over the occupied West Bank – a crime that has been ongoing for decades. By failing to do so, he is feeding the false impression that history began on 7 October 2023.

But this will also be of no surprise to anyone, least of all Hamas leaders, who would have expected to be charged as the price of obtaining some measure of international justice for their people. In January, for instance, Mousa Abu Marzouk, a senior leader of Hamas, wrote, “Since 2015 Hamas has repeatedly expressed its interest in appearing before and being judged by the ICC not on the basis of unsubstantiated allegations and screams but evidence and facts. Israel has not.” Abu Marzouk added: “Hamas stands ready to appear before the ICC with witnesses and live testimony and bear the burden of any judicial finding against it or its members after a full and fair trial with rules of evidence; with examination and cross examination into what we have done or not over the many years of our leadership as a national liberation movement. Is Israel?”

The arrest warrants – which have still to be formally issued by the court’s judges – will have no immediate impact on Sinwar or Deif, whose whereabouts as underground resistance leaders is unknown. Arrest by the ICC is the least of their concerns. As for Hamas politburo chief Ismail Haniyeh, he lives in Qatar, which is one of only a handful of countries that is not a member of the ICC and is therefore not legally obligated to arrest him and hand him over. Hamas is already outlawed and subject to sanctions by the United States and across Europe so it is not as if the movement’s leaders would have been moving freely anyway.

And although Khan has pulled his punches, the arrest warrants will have an enormous impact on Israel and its leaders, who now find themselves ostracized and constrained in unprecedented ways. Netanyahu and Gallant will be unable to travel to dozens of countries, including most of Europe, without fear of arrest. European countries, in particular, which purport to uphold international law, will either have to detain them and hand them over to the court, or openly defy their legal obligations. This includes Germany, which provides arms for Israel’s genocide while purporting to be a champion of international law.The damage to Israel’s reputation and its descent into even greater pariah status is assured, despite Khan’s every effort to soften the blow. The United States, Israel’s chief arms supplier and accomplice in the genocide, is also not a member of the ICC, and it will not cooperate with the arrest warrants. But even for a government as heedless of international law as Washington, the leaders of its closest ally being charged by the ICC increases both the domestic and international political cost of supporting Israel unconditionally.

[zepskies]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS || Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: Here we go - my last short series for @jacklesversebingo, and my first time writing a 1940s AU! I've had a lot of fun on this one. 🥰

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Series Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Angst, PSTD/trauma, WWII history, infidelity/cheating, eventual smut, lawyer!Sam, soldier!Dean, hurt/comfort, fluff, heavily inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker.

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Chapters:

✦ Part 1: Legal Grounds

✦ Part 2: Devil May Care

✦ Part 3: A Moment

✦ Part 4: Complicit

✦ Part 5: Dried Ink

Series Complete!

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[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Like her or not, we're now on the same side and this woman knows what she's talking about. She suggests actionable steps steps we must take to win ourcountry back from the fascists.

From Liz Cheney

Dear Democratic Party,

I need more from you. You keep sending emails begging for $15,while we’re watching fascism consolidate power in real time. This administration is not simply “a different ideology.” It is a coordinated, authoritarian machine — with the Supreme Court, the House, the Senate, and the executive pen all under its control. And you? You’re still asking for decorum and donations. WTF. That won’t save us. I don’t want to hear another polite floor speech. I want strategy. I want fire. I want action so bold it shifts the damn news cycle — not fits inside one. Every time I see something from the DNC, it’s asking me for funds.

Surprise. Those of us who donate don’t want to keep sending money just to watch you stand frozen as the Constitution goes up in flames — shaking your heads and saying, “Well, there’s not much we can do. He has the majority.” I call bullshit. If you don’t know how to think outside the box… If you don’t know how to strategize… If you don’t know how to fight fire with fire… what the hell are we giving you money for? Some of us have two or three advanced degrees. Some of us have military training. Some of us know what coordinated resistance looks like — and this ain��t it. Yes, the tours around the country? Nice. The speeches? Nice. The clever congressional clapbacks? Nice. That was great for giving hope. Now we need action.

You have to stop acting like this is a normal presidency that will just time out in four years. We’re not even at Day 90, and look at the chaos. Look at the disappearances. Look at the erosion of the judiciary, the press, and our rights. If you do not stop this, we will not make it 1,460 days. So here’s what I need from you — right now:

⸻

1. Form an independent, civilian-powered investigative coalition.

I’m talking experts. Veterans. Whistleblowers. Journalists. Watchdog orgs. Deputize the resistance. Build a real-time archive of corruption, overreach, and executive abuse. Make it public. Make it unshakable. Let the people drag the rot into the light. If you can’t hold formal hearings, hold public ones. If Congress won’t act, let the country act. This isn’t about optics — it’s about receipts. Because at some point, these people will be held accountable. And when that day comes, we’ll need every name, every signature, every illegal order, every act of silence—documented. You’re not just preserving truth — you’re preparing evidence for prosecution. The more they vanish people and weaponize data, the more we need truth in the sunlight.

⸻

2. Join the International Criminal Court.

Yes, I said it. Call their bluff. You cannot control what the other side does. But you can control your own integrity. So prove it. Prove that your party is still grounded in law, human rights, and ethical leadership. Join. If you’ve got nothing to hide — join. Show the world who’s hiding bodies, bribes, and buried bank accounts. Force the GOP to explain why they’d rather protect a war criminal than sign a treaty. And while you’re at it, publicly invite ICC observers into U.S. borders. Make this administration explain — on camera — why they’re terrified of international oversight.

⸻

3. Fund state-level resistance infrastructure.

Don’t just send postcards. Send resources. Channel DNC funds into rapid-response teams, legal defense coalitions, sanctuary networks, and digital security training. If the federal government is hijacked, build power underneath it. If the laws become tools of oppression, help people resist them legally, locally, and boldly. This is not campaign season — this is an authoritarian purge. Stop campaigning. Act like this is the end of democracy, because it is. We WILL REMEMBER the warriors come primaries. Fighting this regime should be your marketing strategy.

And let’s be clear:

The reason the other side always seems three steps ahead is because they ARE. They prepared for this. They infiltrated school boards, courts, local legislatures, and police unions. They built a machine while you wrote press releases. We’re reacting — they’ve been executing a plan for years. It’s time to shift from panic to blueprint. You should already be working with strategists and military minds on PROJECT 2029 — a coordinated, long-term plan to rebuild this country when the smoke clears.

You should be publicly laying out:

• The laws and amendments you’ll pass to ensure this never happens again• The systems you’ll tear down and the safeguards you’ll enshrine • The plan to hold perpetrators of human atrocities accountable • The urgent commitment to immediately bring home those sold into slavery in El Salvador You say you’re the party of the people? Then show the people the plan.

⸻

4. Use your platform to educate the public on rights and resistance tactics.

If they’re going to strip us of rights and lie about it — arm the people with truth. Text campaigns. Mass trainings. Downloadable “Know Your Rights” kits. Multilingual legal guides. Encrypted phone trees. Give people tools, not soundbites. We don’t need more slogans. We need survival manuals.

⸻

5. Leverage international media and watchdogs.

Stop hoping U.S. cable news will wake up. They’re too busy playing both sides of fascism. Feed the real stories to BBC, Al Jazeera, The Guardian, Reuters, Der Spiegel — hell, leak them to anonymous dropboxes if you have to. Make what’s happening in America a global scandal. And stop relying on platforms that are actively suppressing truth. Start leveraging Substack. Use Bluesky. That’s where the resistance is migrating. That’s where censorship hasn’t caught up. If the mainstream won’t carry the truth — outflank them. Get creative. Go underground. Go global. If our democracy is being dismantled in broad daylight, make sure the whole world sees it — and make sure we’re still able to say it.

⸻

6. Create a digital safe haven for whistleblowers and defectors.

Not everyone inside this regime is loyal. Some are scared. Some want out. Build the channels. Encrypted. Anonymous. Protected. Make it easy for the cracks in the system to become gaping holes. And while you’re at it? Stop ostracizing MAGA defectors. Everyone makes mistakes — even glaring, critical ones. We are not the bullies. We are not the ones filled with hate. And it is not your job to shame people who finally saw the fire and chose to step out of it. They will have to deal with that internal struggle — the guilt of putting a very dangerous and callous regime in power. But they’re already outnumbered. Don’t push them back into the crowd. We don’t need purity. We need numbers. We need people willing to burn their red hats and testify against the machine they helped build.

⸻

7. Study the collapse—and the comeback.

You should be learning from South Korea and how they managed their brief rule under dictatorship. They didn’t waste time chasing the one man with absolute immunity. They went after the structure. The aides. The enforcers. The loyalists. The architects. They knocked out the foundation one pillar at a time — until the “strongman” had no one left to stand on. And his power crumbled beneath him. You should be independently investigating every author of Project 2025, every aide who defies court orders, every communications director repeating lies, every policy writer enabling cruelty, every water boy who keeps this engine running. You can’t stop a regime by asking the king to sit down. You dismantle the throne he’s standing on — one coward at a time.

⸻

Stop being scared to fight dirty when the other side is fighting to erase the damn Constitution.

They are threatening to disappear AMERICANS. A M E R I C A N S. And your biggest move can’t be another strongly worded email. We don’t want your urgently fundraising subject lines. We want backbone. We want action. We want to know you’ll stand up before we’re all ordered to sit down — permanently. We are watching. And I don’t just mean your base. I mean millions of us who see exactly what’s happening. I’ve only got 6,000 followers — but the groups I’m in? The networks I touch? Over a quarter million. Often when I speak, it echoes. But when we ALL speak, it ROARS with pressure that will cause change. We need to be deafening. You still have a chance to do something historic. To be remembered for courage, not caution. To go down as the party that didn’t just watch the fall — but fought the hell back with everything they had.

But the clock is ticking.

And the deportation buses are idling.

* * * *

UPDATE AND NOTE:

I have received (what seems like) several hundred copies of a document allegedly authored by Liz Cheney entitled, “Democrats, I need more from you.” The “letter” was not authored by Cheney, but by someone who does not appear to have a readily identifiable profile as a pro-democracy activist. The purported author, “Dr. Pru Lee,” may not be the real identity of the author.

Setting aside the mysterious source of the letter, it has struck a chord with many Democrats. Indeed, many of the copies forwarded to me are accompanied by emails that express some sense of satisfaction that the author has criticized the Democratic Party for its failures and laid out a sensible plan for a path forward.

I suspect the letter was written by a Democratic consultant or insider who is upset with the progressive wing of the party and/or the grassroots movement. The author says, in part,

Yes, the tours around the country? Nice. The speeches? Nice. The clever congressional clapbacks? Nice. That was great for giving hope. Now we need action Don’t just send postcards. Send resources.

Many of the “recommendations” in the letter aren’t realistic—either in a reasonable timeframe or ever. For example, the letter demands the Democratic Party

Form an independent, civilian-powered investigative coalition. Deputize the resistance. Join the International Criminal Court. Fund state-level resistance infrastructure. Stop campaigning. You [the Democratic Party] should be publicly laying out: • The laws and amendments you’ll pass to ensure this never happens again • The systems you’ll tear down and the safeguards you’ll enshrine • The plan to hold perpetrators of human atrocities accountable.

I endorse the author’s passion and understand how the author has managed to channel the anger of rank-and-file Democrats toward their party. But it simply isn’t productive or helpful during this moment of crisis to devote our resources to attacking the Democratic Party.

Here’s a thought experiment: If you have forwarded the above letter to your closest one hundred friends and relatives, try drafting a sequel that begins, “Dear Republicans, I need more from you . . . .”

The virtue of the “Dear Republicans” version of the letter is that it shifts the focus to where it belongs: On those who are enabling Trump, rather than on those who are resisting him.

Is the resistance perfect? No. Is the Democratic Party perfect? No. Are congressional Democrats perfect? No. But compared to their Republican counterparts, Democrats look like heroes of democracy, warts and all.

Democrats aren’t the problem. They are the solution. Be part of the solution. We can sort out the credits and debits after we reclaim democracy!

[Robert B. Hubbell]

[lookinthymirror]

Let’s talk about October 8th

Edit: I stupidly forgot the author…This beautiful piece was written by Masha Gabriel, the director of CAMERA’s Spanish department, CAMERA Español.

Oct. 8, however, took on a uniquely Jewish significance. The focus shifted from the event itself to the reactions it provoked. Rather than universal empathy for the victims, what followed was a wave of hatred. If the seventh was marked by extreme violence, the eighth saw this evil rationalized and fitted into ideological frameworks.

As horrifying images circulated, Europe witnessed jubilant celebrations and the rise of openly antisemitic voices justifying the slaughter, while others sought to deny the atrocities witnessed by the world. Never before had such a massacre been met with such public rejoicing and unashamed antisemitism in Western streets.

This mix of celebration, denial and justification paradoxically formed a cohesive ideological front that permeated intellectual, artistic, media and educational spheres. Oct. 8 reminded many Jews that they stood alone, while Islamist totalitarians had enough allies in the West to reignite existential Jewish fears never fully buried.

Holocaust historian Georges Bensoussan reflected on these events likening them to a “second act” of the Holocaust, saying: “Jews reacted with their long memory of persecution and, more poignantly, their recent memory of the Shoah. Oct. 7 was seen as a prelude to a potential catastrophe, awakening existential fears even among the most empathetic observers.”

In a mutating Western world, however, compassionate voices were often drowned out by orchestrated narratives aimed at erasing any possibility of coexistence. Jews were attacked globally in response to the violence in Israel with hatred spreading like wildfire, filling streets with angry mobs and antisemitic chants, and targeting Jewish sites from cemeteries to synagogues.

Under the guise of radical slogans, terrorism’s useful pawns waged war on the free world and were met largely with cowardly silence. To sustain this lack of empathy for Jewish victims, some segments of the left sought to dehumanize Israelis, even comparing them to Nazis.

Such distortions only deepened Jewish trauma and deflected from legitimate discourse on conflict resolution. Terms like “genocide” were misapplied, ignoring legal definitions and historical context, further complicating efforts toward peace.

Ironically, those who claim moral high ground often fuel antisemitism and fixate on demonizing Zionism—an anticolonial movement that enabled the self-determination of an indigenous people in their homeland, ensuring equal rights for all citizens, regardless of race, gender or status.

Oct. 8 symbolizes not only Jewish isolation but also a profound moral failure of the West that is incapable of protecting its minorities or educating against historical and emotional illiteracy fostered through empty slogans, which, as French philosopher Raphael Enthoven aptly put it, “substitutes for thought.”

[unfinishedslurs]

average batfam dinner conversation

“Maybe try therapy?” Duke suggested. “Just putting that out there. You know, as an idea.”

“You try therapy,” Tim snarked back, jabbing his fork into the broccoli with a worrying amount of fervor. 

“It would be good for you.” Cass grinned mischievously over her plate at Duke. He narrowed his eyes, and there was a muffled thump beneath the table. It was immediately followed by a slightly louder thump, and he yelped. 

Bruce really thought the kids knew better than to pick fights with her at this point. 

Duke scowled as he rubbed his shin. “I’m the best adjusted out of all you assholes.”

“Lies and slander,” Dick declared. “There is no ‘best adjusted’ out of us, and if there were it would be me.”

Everyone turned and stared at him for that. He stared back with a bright smile, daring them to challenge the notion. 

He was lucky Jason wasn’t here, because he would have picked a fight instantly. Especially because he’d been there for the worst of his and Dick’s fights, back when their family was smaller but somehow no less complicated. The rest of his kids were too tired to argue the point, thank god. 

“I went to therapy once.”

Now everyone was staring at him instead. He took another bite of his food. 

“Uh…are you going to elaborate or anything?” Duke asked. 

Bruce chewed, swallowed, and sighed. “The therapist kidnapped me and held me for ransom.”

“Oh my god.”

“That explains…a lot.”

“You mean everything about him?” 

That was hurtful. It didn’t explain everything about him. That would be ignoring both his parents deaths and finding out he lived above a giant cave that was the perfect size for a secret lair. Really, Dick, he expected better. 

“Sorry that happened,” Cass said, because she loves him the most. Then she added, “It does track.”

Never mind. Bruce was going to die cold and alone, rather than be surrounded by his army of tiny traitors. At least Damian was eating quietly, although he could see him hiding his gaming counsel beneath the table. He was supposed to be grounded, but Bruce could only deal with so many losing battles a day. 

“What if you went to a therapist outside of Gotham?” Duke suggested, apparently having latched onto the idea of Bruce seeing a professional. He didn’t know why. All in all, he thought he was handling things pretty well. 

Tim snorted. “Yeah, and then they’d take off their mask at the end of the session to reveal it was Ra’s al Ghul all along.”

“Yeah, okay, fair. But like, Ra’s al Ghul? That’s who you’re going with? Seems out of his area of expertise.”

“If you ask him, nothing is out of his expertise. He’s probably got, like, three psychology degrees or something.”

“More,” Damian said. The final holdout in the children's war against his mental health this evening. Bruce quietly despairs. “He is a knowledgeable man. Although most of the degrees he has earned are not legally recognized, as he did not actually go to a university for them. I myself have obtained several while living with the League.”

Duke nodded along. “So what I’m hearing is we hire Ra’s to be Bruce’s therapist.”

Tim immediately choked on his chicken and fell out of his chair. Dick had a similar reaction, erupting in a coughing fit that nearly toppled him too. Cass just laughed loudly. Damian was looking at Duke with disturbance written across his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Bruce decided then and there not to mention that he actually had confided in Ra’s some while training under the League. He’d take the secret to his grave, if only not to give Duke more steam. 

“Could be funny,” Cass said. “Mental illness? All illness can be cured with my special green pool.”

There was a strange silence after she said that, as if his kids were waiting for something. Dick frowned and leaned over Tim’s chair. “Tim? Buddy? Are you dead? You didn’t even make a joke about Jason being sick in the head.”

“Did I kill Tim?” Duke asked. “Shit, Jason’s gonna be pissed. He’s gonna have to stop calling him a cockroach.”

“Don’t worry, Thomas. The name still fits perfectly.”

Maybe he could skip patrol tonight and just…go to bed for once. Take a break. Smoke a joint and watch Real Housewives of Metropolis again, if only to quietly make fun of Superman’s guest appearance. Or loudly, if he felt like antagonizing Clark. 

“Wait, no, I think he’s actually choking, hold on-“ Dick’s chair tumbled over as he rushed to give Tim the Heimlich. Cass’s eyes widened, and she quickly grabbed a trashcan to save the floors. Bruce got a glass of water ready as he retched. 

Tim’s head popped up from under the table, and he pointed at Duke. “We have got to hang out more,” he rasped. 

Duke looked touched. “I just almost killed you.”

“That’s how I make all my friends, you’re not special.” He accepted the water, and Bruce quietly despaired as he helped him up. Why were his children friends with such dangerous people?

There’s a little voice niggling in the back of his head that says that maybe if he didn’t want his children to be friends with dangerous people, he should lead by example instead of befriending the most dangerous people on earth. He pushed it away. 

Damian sniffs. “Your self preservation skills are abhorrent, Drake. I should never have even bothered putting in an effort to get rid of you, your stupidity will make quick work of you sooner rather than later.”

“Puh-lease, like none of your friends have tried to kill you.”

“Obviously not. My instincts are far superior to yours.”

“Horton hears a bitch ass liar,” Tim singsongs, and immediately has to duck back under the table to dodge the fork that was thrown at him. Thank God Alfred wasn’t in the room for it. If the silver was scratched, Alfred would give him the I’m not mad just disappointed face. As if it’s Bruce’s fault his children are like this.

He takes zero responsibility. They came to him like that.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #19

Pepper Potts prided herself on her ability to adapt. She’d survived Tony Stark’s post-cave existentialism, Stark Expo 2010, the entirety of the Avengers Initiative, and several global cataclysms. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared her for the day she received a glowing scroll via flaming raven at 3 a.m. It exploded into glitter and legal jargon the second she touched it.

The Temporal Child Reassignment Authority—TCRA for short, like an IRS from hell with better penmanship—had declared her the legal guardian of four de-aged minors, all results of an “interdimensional ghost war and subsequent reality collapse.” The document even included a family tree, pointing out her half-sister Maddie Fenton as their maternal parent. The kicker? Three of the children were meta-class ecto-beings. And the fourth was an “anomalous prodigy with cognitive potential exceeding known human thresholds.”

Pepper blinked at the words, reread them, and poured herself the strongest wine she owned.

By the time she finished the bottle, her living room shimmered with unnatural frost, and a swirling green portal opened with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Out stumbled four children—if one could use such a soft word for what appeared to be three weapons of mass destruction and a tiny, furious psychologist in the making.

Jazz was nine years old, with blazing red hair in a ponytail so tight it looked like a weapon. Her eyes scanned the room with military precision. She was holding a notebook, already scribbling down assessments.

Dan, aged seven, had black-and-white hair that flickered between forms, red eyes glowing faintly, and a permanent scowl that screamed war criminal in a booster seat. His tiny boot crushed a Stark Industries coaster underfoot.

Danny, five, looked like an overcaffeinated sugar cube in a “Ghostbusters are Bigots” shirt. He levitated six inches off the ground, phasing through the coffee table like it offended him personally.

And Dani—dear sweet baby Dani—was three, wore a tutu over her jumpsuit, and was gnawing on a Stark tech screwdriver like a teething raptor. It sparked. She giggled.

Pepper stared.

Tony wandered in wearing Iron Man pajama pants and blinked at the chaos.

“Huh. Why do I suddenly feel like a dad?”

Pepper stood up and handed him the scroll.

Ten minutes later, Tony was grinning like a proud, chaotic uncle who just realized he’d inherited a feral army. “Oh, I love them.”

“I want to kill Maddie,” Pepper muttered. “I want to re-kill her if she’s already dead. I don’t care. I will unearth her soul and yell.”

Jazz looked up from her notes. “Statistically, yelling is ineffective when dealing with narcissistic sociopaths with academic degrees. But I can write up an interrogation protocol if you give me twenty minutes and a war room.”

Tony looked at her like she was a gift from God. “Pepper. She’s a baby you.”

“She’s a terrifying baby me.”

“I love her.”

Dan crossed his arms, floating ominously. “I’m only here because they said I can’t go back to the timeline where I killed everyone.”

Dani beamed. “I like juice!”

Danny phased up to the ceiling fan. “Does this house have ghost-repellent death lasers like the last one? I hate those.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You got hit by ghost-repellent death lasers?”

Pepper was already dialing every Avenger in existence. “Tony. Tony, their parents worked with the GIW.”

“The what?”

Jazz narrowed her eyes. “The Ghost Investigation Ward. They are basically interdimensional fascists who want to wipe out all ghosts and hybrid anomalies. Also, they tried to vivisect us.”

Tony blinked. “Vivisect?”

“Scalpels, restraints, anti-ecto shackles, and a man named Agent O who smells like ham and crime,” Jazz said flatly.

“I’m going to kill someone,” Pepper muttered, pacing. “I’m going to launch an HR-approved war.”

Dani blinked. “Are we allowed to bite?”

“No,” Pepper said.

“Yes,” Tony said at the same time.

Dani cheered.

By the time Natasha arrived, Dani was in the air vents, Danny had short-circuited the AI, Dan was brooding in the fireplace like a Dickensian ghost of vengeance, and Jazz was lecturing FRIDAY on ethical protocol failure.

Natasha stood in the entryway, staring, her eyes wide with either horror or admiration.

“Pepper. Did you birth little Widows?”

“No,” Pepper said tightly. “They’re Maddie’s kids. Maddie’s. As in, I share DNA with them and now legally own them. Apparently.”

Jazz tilted her head. “Ms. Romanoff. I’ve analyzed your fight patterns from Battle of New York and determined you have unresolved trauma related to institutional betrayal. Would you like to unpack that?”

Tony leaned over. “She’s nine.”

“She scares me,” Natasha whispered.

Bucky showed up next and read the full report Jazz had printed out for him, complete with footnotes, photos, and color-coded trauma timelines.

The super soldier sat down, dead-eyed. “I just had a Hydra flashback from a PowerPoint.”

Jazz gave him a lollipop. “That’s a common symptom. I recommend candy and validation.”

Dan muttered something about weak mortals and floated upside down through a wall.

“I like him,” Bucky said faintly.

Steve walked in, saw Dan breathing ectoplasmic fire at the neighbor’s cat, and noped back out.

Wanda arrived and blinked at Jazz, whose psychic aura flared like a dying star every time she got emotional.

They stared at each other for a long time.

“I sense wrath,” Wanda said.

Jazz nodded. “I contain multitudes.”

Pepper was halfway through arranging a legal drone strike on the GIW when Rhodey FaceTimed her. “Hey, uh, why is CNN reporting that four tiny gods have occupied New York and turned the Stark Tower into a haunted war bunker?”

“They’re children,” Pepper said.

Tony poked his head into frame. “Children who can melt tanks.”

Danny flew by holding the Iron Man helmet upside down like a bowl of cereal.

“Dani just set the couch on fire,” Pepper added, dead-eyed.

Rhodey blinked. “I’ll bring extinguishers.”

The thing about children, Pepper had learned, is that they operate entirely on vibes, sugar, and trauma. And these four had plenty of all three. Jazz was terrifyingly competent, and within a week had formed an inter-Avengers child committee, wrote a new AI ethics guideline, and had Bruce Banner signing waivers just to talk to her.

Dan blew up a parking meter because it “looked at him wrong.”

Danny asked Tony if they could build an ecto-bazooka together and promised not to use it on Steve “unless Steve said ghosts weren’t real again.”

Dani tried to use her powers to possess a Roomba and ride it into battle.

Pepper walked in on all four of them forming a pact to “annihilate GIW headquarters” with something called Operation Ghost Buster Buster.

Tony approved instantly.

Pepper did not.

“Pepper,” Tony said. “We have kids now.”

“We have war orphans now.”

“They’re adorable!”

“They’re armed.”

“They’re basically Avengers Junior.”

Dani crashed through the ceiling riding a ghost dragon she “found in the laundry room.”

“I changed my mind,” Pepper muttered. “They’re perfect.”

Pepper flew to Amity Park a week later, dressed in corporate armor and rage. She walked into the Fenton household with Natasha, Bucky, and a glowing legal team of literal demons (Tony’s idea) and found Maddie and Jack cheerfully explaining how ecto-dissection worked on “halflings.”

When Maddie smiled and said, “It’s science, dear,” Pepper threw her coffee in Maddie’s face.

Tony had to hold her back while Bucky dismantled the Fenton portal and Natasha found enough surveillance footage to convict them of several counts of attempted child murder.

Jazz watched the entire thing from the jet via livestream, calmly taking notes.

“Pepper’s my favorite aunt,” she said.

Dan nodded. “She has potential.”

Danny was asleep on Tony’s shoulder, clutching a ghost plushie.

Dani was drawing herself riding a unicorn with a flame thrower.

The Avengers voted unanimously to make the kids honorary members. Jazz requested clearance access to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s trauma archives and got it. Dan received therapy. Danny built a ghost-safe treehouse. Dani declared herself queen of the Stark kitchen and banned kale.

Pepper watched them play in the yard one day and finally exhaled.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” she whispered.

Tony grinned. “You’re doing fine.”

Jazz ran by wielding a dagger made of solidified ghost energy.

Danny chased her screaming something about shared custody of the Lunchables.

Dan floated overhead like a sullen storm cloud.

Dani cackled, flying past them on her Roomba dragon.

“I need wine,” Pepper muttered.

Tony kissed her cheek. “I’ll buy you a vineyard.”

[synchodai]

HBO's Continued Insistence on Dumbing Down Westerosi Politics

So there have been countless thinkpieces already on how GOT simplified the feudalist politics of Westeros (by giving a lowborn sellsword lordship over The Reach, by having no consequences for destroying the Sept of Baelor, etc.), but I haven't seen a lot of people talking about that for House of the Dragon.

The worst being that the show presupposes that Rhaenyra is the lawful heir when the books showed there are plenty of lawful arguments why she wouldn't be.

Mind you that I've been enjoying the show a lot so far. This is just to vent out my frustration with the writers' failure to fully engage with the values and protocols of the Middle Age-inspired setting. The show seems uninterested in laws of the Realm in a story ostensibly about politics, save for when they're using it as an excuse to amplify depictions of sex and violence.

Blacks vs Greens wasn't a matter of misunderstanding of who each side thought Viserys wanted on the throne. It was the Targaryens' belief of their absolute authority clashing with the Realm's established traditions. Everyone always knew who Viserys chose as heir. In Fire and Blood, Grand Maester Orwyle said as much when he was parleying with Rhaenyra on behalf of the Greens.

Rhaenyra heard his terms in stony silence, then asked Orwyle if he remembered her father, King Viserys. "Of course, Your Grace," the maester answered. "Perhaps you can tell us who he named as his heir and successor," the queen said, her crown upon her head. "You, Your Grace," Orwyle replied. And Rhaenyra nodded and said, "With your own tongue you admit I am your lawful queen. Why do you serve my half-brother, the pretender?" Munkun tells us that Orwyle gave a long and erudite reply, citing the Andal law and the Great Council of 101. Mushroom claims he stammered and voided his bladder. Whichever is true, his answer did not satisfy Princess Rhaenyra.

(For non-F&B readers: Munkun is the Grand Maester who served Aegon III, the king who came after this civil war. Munkun's book, The Dance of the Dragons, A True Telling, is one of Fire and Blood's source texts. Mushroom is the King Landing court jester from Viserys I to Aegon III's reign. One is a source written with academic rigor but is secondhand at best. The other is a firsthand eyewitness account but is from a literal fool who will take every chance to make things more scandalous and sexual to please the crowd.)

In House of the Dragon, they replaced Orwyle with Otto and Orwyle's discussion of legal precedent with Otto handing Rhaenyra a book page from Alicent. It's quite evident here that the writers, much like Mushroom, thought a discussion on the actual laws of the Realm were negligible in this story about a succession war.

Even Alicent made no pretense that Viserys chose Rhaenyra over her children and I have no idea why the HBO writers decided to make her mistakenly think otherwise. Maybe they thought a queen regent pushing her son to take the throne over another woman made her appear unsympathetic as a character, but if anything, this only makes show!Alicent less politically savvy and more delusional than her book counterpart, fully believing an addled king's vague muttering on his deathbed was sufficient grounds to change heirs last minute.

Book!Alicent following Andal laws instead of her husband's wishes makes sense given her Andal upbringing, her devotion to the Faith of the Seven which enforces said laws, and her desire to protect her children from Rhaenyra given that Rhaenyra has shown she's not above murdering family (see: Laenor).

In the books, there was a long discussion between the former king's council on who should succeed Viserys.

Here are the arguments for Rhaenyra:

Rhaenyra was older than her brothers and had more Targaryen blood

the late king had chosen her as his successor, that he had repeatedly refused to alter the succession despite the pleadings of Queen Alicent and her greens

hundreds of lords and landed knights had done obeisance to the princess in 105 AC, and sworn solemn oaths to defend her rights.

Here are the arguments for Aegon II:

many of the lords who had sworn to defend the succession of Princess Rhaenyra were long dead [...]

Ironrod, the master of laws, cited the Great Council of 101 and the Old King’s choice of Baelon rather than Rhaenys in 92

the hallowed Andal tradition wherein the rights of a trueborn son always came before the rights of a mere daughter

Ser Otto reminded them that Rhaenyra’s husband was none other than Prince Daemon, and “we all know that one’s nature. Make no mistake, should Rhaenyra ever sit the Iron Throne, it will be Lord Flea Bottom who rules us, a king consort as cruel and unforgiving as Maegor ever was [...]”

Should the princess reign [...] Jacaerys Velaryon would rule after her. “Seven save this realm if we seat a bastard on the Iron Throne.”

Once again, the show chose to cut out this long political discussion. Instead, the council had already made up their mind and decided to stage a coup (when in their perspectives from the books, it would definitely not be a coup).

For all their marketing how two sides are equally grey, HotD is actively delegitimizing Aegon II. The strongest argument for him is how his claim follows the laws of the Realm, but the show doesn't seem to care about the laws of the Realm or the political need to maintain a more predictable/tested transfer of power.

Instead, the show focuses on Viserys's relationship with his daughter and the mysticism of the Targaryen bloodline. In doing so, they emphasize Rhaenyra's strongest arguments for succession — that she's more of a Targaryen than her half-brother and that her father prefered her.

And what for? Because in our modern-day, we don't have male-prefered inheritance and people can only imagine misogyny as the only injustice here? What about the injustice of a monarch exercising absolute control, thinking that his "superior" heritage makes him above the established laws of the native people?

This is not to say Aegon II is unquestionably the heir. But this is to say that the show removed the political nuance of why people are questioning in the first place. Precedence isn't the end-all-be-all of succession, but neither is "because daddy said so".