#might be ridiculous; but it's internally coherent

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

I saw your tags on your Percy Jackson post and I would LOVE to hear your thoughts on the Umbrella Academy 👀👀👀

The tags: #i think both types of stories work#you just have to be CONSISTENT about it [side-eyes umbrella academy]

There's a lot I like about Umbrella Academy, and there's a lot that I forgive in Umbrella Academy because it's a comic book adaptation and most comics have similar problems. BUT.

In S2E9, when the Handler shoots live ammo from a real gun at a child, it's portrayed as sweet and harmless —bullets are just background noise (e.g. James Bond) and this show has slapstick stakes. In S2E10, when the Handler shoots from a real gun at six adults, they have a graphic drawn-out death scene — bullets kill people (e.g. Pulp Fiction) and this is a much darker type of show.

Klaus gets kidnapped and murdered in S1, and his siblings roll their eyes about how he's irresponsible. Klaus gets accidentally killed in S3, and his siblings react with devastation and horror. Violence is funny, when it's Five killing 20 of his coworkers. Violence is horrifying, when it's Viktor killing Pogo. So on.

You can't have it both ways. It creates mood whiplash. It makes the characters feel callous. It can feel like no events ever matter, so there's no point in caring. I can't tell how seriously to take any given scene, because the same sequence of actions is sometimes treated as comedy and sometimes as tragedy.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

though uhhh if you expect consistency of artstyle in the animatic project

maybe

don't ;;

[yuwuta]

YUUTA OKKOTSU’S DECLASSIFIED JUJUTSU TECH SURVIVAL GUIDE (AN APPETITE HAUNTING THE HEART)

❝i know this tastes too good to be healthy. the more it melts, the sweeter it gets, so take my heart out because i need all of you.

*this is yuuta okkotsu’s fool-reviewed plan for navigating all things curses, sorcery, and love. 

pairings. okkotsu/reader

content, warnings. canon-adjacent, reader has a cursed technique, friends to lovers, smut (uhh... no triggers i think? other than implied virginity loss on yuuta’s part), mentions of violence/curses, possessive/intrusive thoughts... he starts of kinda sweet and weird and then just gets... weirder and worse lol, so mostly yuuta being... yuuta <2

notes. jujustu tech is a college not a highschool, yes i brought naruto in this, i believe in sasuke slander only from a place of pure love, real sasuke ridicule will not be accepted xoxo

word count. 12k i told you i could yap about him all day

playing. candy/baekhyun, untouched/the veronicas, cream soda/exo, lacy/olivia rodrigo, pure honey/beyoncé

#1 — Do NOT touch Maki Zenin’s tools (but if you do, the cute girl who hangs around Inumaki might help to patch you up).

Yuuta hadn’t meant to piss off Maki. He was trying to be helpful, but Yuuta learned the hard way today: do not touch Maki’s cursed tools, at all, for any reason whatsoever. He intended to hand it back to her, but she was prompt in assuming that was part of an attack, snatching it from under his grasp and giving him a jab on the wrist with the dull end of the stick. If the beatdown he’d endured during training put Yuuta on his deathbed, then that hit was the final nail in the coffin.  

The crack! sound of his bones made everyone pause their sparring, and Gojo winced the loudest, “Ouch! That one had to hurt, kid!” It was also Gojo who gathered everyone to stand around and look down at him clutching his wrist in pain, before making the executive decision to appoint you as Yuuta’s caretaker.  

“This is definitely something you can handle!” he cheered, patting the top of your head, “Take our dearest Yuuta to the infirmary and patch him up, please and thank you! With the way Maki’s been kicking him into the ground, those cuts are sure to get infected sooner rather than later. The two of you can join us for dinner when you’re finished!”  

Yuuta tried to refute, on the grounds of “No—no! I—ouch—this really isn’t worth using any kind of cursed energy over!” Which was quickly met with a mischievous raised eyebrow from his teacher, “Oh? Are you insinuating that my precious student doesn’t have the skill to fix a simple fracture?” That prompted Yuuta to spill a flurry of apologies, none of which were coherent, and ended up with him trailing behind you sheepishly to the infirmary with a broken wrist, several bleeding wounds, and probably early heart failure.  

Now, Yuuta sits with his feet dangling off of the edge of the examination chair, shivering from the chilliness of the room, and all of his nerve endings rattling at the realization that this is the first time that he’s been alone in a room with you since you’ve met. He winces, first at the sting of disinfectant into his wound, and then internally—mostly out of embarrassment—because his outward reaction made you pause your actions to question if he’s okay.  

Okay is relative, he thinks. In the grand scheme of things, he’s okay. Concerning his current injuries, he’ll be okay eventually. Concerning this… whatever this is he feels for you… maybe not so okay.  

“Sorry,” he stutters, too loud for the atmosphere and proximity of your bodies to each other, and, so, he winces again, cheeks staining red to match his embarrassment, as if he or you needed any confirmation of it. He doesn’t mean to be a difficult patient, but he has an adversity surrounding hospitals and medical care, and that alcohol really does burn, and you’re really close to his face, and—and you giggle a little, but Yuuta hears a chorus, instead; warm, spring-like, with violins and a piano and cellos strumming in perfect harmony, and the buzz of bees and butterfly wings flapping the melody.  

“You apologize a lot,” you tell him, a kind smile on your lips. You step forward, just a bit, as you peel off the band-aid adhesive and gently press it over the bridge of Yuuta’s nose. It’s Hello Kitty themed. It makes him want to scream.  

“Yeah, uh—sorry about that!” Yuuta apologizes, once again too loudly. He scratches at the back of his neck with his left hand, and his eyes go wide after a few beats, “No, wait—I didn’t mean to apologize again. I just... I, uh... thank you. That’s what I wanted to say. For helping me, you have my sincerest thank you.” 

Yuuta dips his head to bow, and when he raises it again, you’re blinking at him owlishly, and he thinks he’s really done it now. You must think he’s a freak, if you didn’t already. He thinks you’re gonna tell him off for being pathetic and a weakling, but instead you laugh again—that precious sound that pauses Yuuta’s world for the better.  

“You’re awfully formal. There’s no need for that, or to thank me. We’re friends, afterall,” you reassure him, “Even if Gojo did force you to be my practice dummy.” 

It’s his turn to reassure you, his uninjured hand moving from his neck to shake frantically in front of him, “It’s completely okay,” he does his best to give you a smile as warm as the one you give him. It probably doesn’t work, but he tries anyway—he’s always been an awkward smiler, too wide-mouthed and toothy, “You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you.”  

Your face seems almost solemn at his declaration, and the panic instantly kicks in again. Yuuta scrambles when his words play back in his head, “I’m sorry, was that weird? I meant that I trust your judgment. You can, uh, fix me up however you best see fit—or just leave it! I’m sure it’ll heal on—”

“You’re awfully self-sacrificing, too,” you cut him off with a laugh, your usual warm nature clicking back. Yuuta shrugs, feeble; you smile wider, “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. I keep staring, and I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable.” 

“Not at all! You don’t... make me uncomfortable, I mean. You could never,” Yuuta rushes, curling back into himself after his outburst, “You... it always feels really nice when you’re around. I can’t explain it, but everything is calmer.”

Your eyes flutter across his face, before you turn away from him, “I can tell it makes you nervous—I can hear the changes in your heartbeat,” you tell him, opening the cabinet to return the alcohol to its rightful place. You must also be able to hear his thoughts, chiming in just as Yuuta continues to wonder if his heartbeat is really that loud, “It’s part of my technique. I don’t mean to intrude on your heart.” 

Is it an intrusion if Yuuta left room for you? If he wanted you to be there? Was it crazy to think that he’d give you his heart to hold and trust you to take care of it, even though you’d only met a few months ago? Maybe it would be easier if he let you squeeze tight enough to put him out of his misery already.

Luckily, you keep talking before he can say something stupid like that out-loud again. 

“It’s just that... you remind me of somebody that I used to know. You’re kind like him, and you both share a well-intentioned recklessness, too. I see so much of him in you that it’s hard not to stare sometimes,” you admit, turning back to face him, and gingerly taking his wrist between your hands. When your hands start to glow, Yuuta can feel it—your reversed cursed technique is warm on the surface, but chilly underneath, like a heated blanket on top of perfectly cool sheets. 

“I don’t mean to say that you’re just a replacement,” you continue, slowly rotating your hands over his injury. It stings a little, then soothes, “I’m just still in awe of how nice it feels being around you. It feels strangely—” 

“Familiar,” Yuuta interjects, “I understand. You feel that way, too. I think... that’s what I meant before.” He understands your words perfectly because you remind him of someone precious to him, too; someone he used to and still loves alot. “You—it makes me happy, that’s why I seem so nervous.”

It seems as though you understand him, too. His heart sings, and you can probably hear it, but Yuuta doesn’t quite mind so much now. What he feels for you is consuming, maybe concerning, but knowing that you know what it’s like to love like him brings him an odd sense of comfort. Maybe he should be jealous that you’ve had someone to love that much before, but he’s not exactly in a position to talk. What matters is that you can hear him and feel him—his heart and his love and his sad and his happy, and it doesn’t push you away. 

It makes him want to burst. He owes you a thank you for putting something so precious in his life. He owes you an apology, for ever doubting that you couldn’t handle his symptoms. He should have realized that you can handle his love.

“You feel really warm, too,” he blushes, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand, “And, uh, not just because you’re holding my hand.” 

The twinkle in your eyes turns into confusion, then surprise when you look down to see that the hand below his wrist had moved to rest underneath his palm instead. His wrist was well healed by now, and you’d been, effectively, massaging his skin and muscles with your technique for the latter duration of your conversation without realizing it. 

Yuuta couldn’t tell when it went from healing to hand holding, but he’s not complaining—and he doesn’t think he could have stopped it either. Another quality to your technique that he couldn’t understand was how your energy felt sticky, flowed like honey; how it managed to run into broken crevices and bruised dents with a mind of its own. Even if he’d wanted to pull his hand away—and he didn’t, he absolutely did not—he wouldn’t have gotten far from you. He never wanted to be. 

“You already have calluses on your palm,” you note, dispelling your healing energy, holding onto Yuuta’s hand only by want now, “You train hard. You’ll catch up to Maki and Toge, quickly, but not if you don’t take care of yourself.” 

Yuuta almost chokes when you rotate your wrist so that your fingers are aligned. Your hand is so much softer than his, warmer than his, and maybe he’s idealistic, but your fingers seem to slot perfectly between his when you curl them. 

“I’m not always going to be around to fix you up,” you warn him, “So don’t go around pissing Maki off too much, alright?” 

Yuuta can feel the heat from your body flow through him. From his palm, up his arm, down into his chest, and everywhere else. It doesn’t feel real. You’re holding his hand, you’re smiling at him, you’re right there and you’re so bright and beautiful, so Yuuta doesn’t know why his thoughts are so gray and dangerous; you wouldn’t hurt him, and he doesn’t want to hurt you, so why can’t he stop thinking about keeping you like this—of stitching your hands together forever to keep you by his side, or letting this heat consume and burn you both. 

Yuuta shakes his head to wiggle those thoughts away, but to you it seems like he’s saying no to staying off of Maki’s radar. When he realizes it, he nods too reverently to make up for it; surely looking like an idiot, and then to top it off, he squeaks, “I—yes, ma’am!” 

Another foolish outburst on his end, perhaps, but it makes you giggle, fills the room with springtime for a moment, so to Yuuta, it was worth it. “Good,” you nod, release his hand and beckon him off of the chair, “Come on, we should go eat before Panda takes all the good sides for himself.” 

Yuuta follows you back to the dorms with his stomach already full of love, love, love. He loves you, and you can hear, and see, and feel exactly what you do to him, and you don’t run. Yuuta thinks maybe you should, even though he doesn’t want you to. Surely you know what he did to Rika when he loved her. 

Rika seems to like you, actually, if the humming of her voice in his head as he takes his seat at the table next to you is any indication. He can vaguely make out some of her words as you pass him the dumplings—warm, kind, loyal. He agrees. Pretty, too. No disagreement there. 

In such a short amount of time, you’ve shifted Yuuta’s ethos for life. He wanted to die to be with the person he loved before, and never quite understood why Rika would stop him, why she would want him to suffer in this life alone; but maybe this is what Rika was always trying to tell him; that his love was not lost and buried with her, but flowing towards you, his heart, a beacon for you to locate. 

You’d mentioned that he reminded you of someone you knew before, that you couldn’t see anymore. Yuuta doesn’t know what happened to your person before he came along; he can only hope that you’ll allow him and his heart to be a vessel for your love someday, too. He won’t disappoint you. He won’t let you let go of him. 

It shouldn’t be hard. You already have his heart in your hands. 

#2 — Gojo is more than a teacher. He is also the school event planner, once ranked Diamond in Overwatch, and is the only person blacklisted from any and all kitchens on campus. He also gives pretty good (sometimes questionable?) advice. His eyes are kind of scary.  

You’re there when he and Toge are nearly decimated by the Grade 1 curse in the abandoned market. He still doesn’t understand much about sorcery at this point, so seeing people like you and Toge in action is awe-inspiring to say the least. Yuuta knows that Toge is nothing short of amazing, but he can’t help but to be drawn into you, you, you—your energy, your fighting style, the seemingly never-ending applications of your technique. Cursed energy in and of itself is still a foreign concept to him, so perhaps it’s that seeing you use the reverse of it so effortlessly is even more novel to him. 

He can hear Rika strumming in the back of his mind, an indistinct itch and hum that sounds vaguely like laughter at his self-justification. He chooses to ignore her. 

After, while he’s still buzzing with the tingly warm sensation of your technique after you’d patched him up, Gojo finds him, and Yuuta, unable to keep up a façade, pours all his anxious, worried, inquisitive feelings about his mission on the table. 

“The way that (_____) can heal wounds... is that something I can learn?” Yuuta questions his teacher, eyes tired but genuine and earnest.  

And Gojo, all knowing and absolutely singing at the implications, smiles so wide he’s certain his newest student could see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, even through the dark tint of his glasses. “Maybe.”  

He goes on, leaning back into the old loveseat, one leg crossed over his other knee, “You’ll probably be able to learn to heal yourself with reversed cursed technique, but using it to heal others is difficult and rare. Shoko and (_____) are the only people I know who can do it.”

“Is… did she get to learn it because she’s a Grade 1?” He remembers Maki explaining the ranking system for Jujutsu sorcerers. You and Toge were ranked the highest in the class, and amongst the other Kyoto students; it would make sense that you two have learned more applications of your techniques due to your higher placements.

Gojo chuckles, much to Yuuta’s confusion. “That’s not quite how it works—and if it were, then you’d already know because you’re a Special Grade. You don’t unlock new lessons as you move up, you move up because of how well you’ve learned to control and apply your own cursed technique.”

Right. That makes sense. Except Yuuta knows that his classification of Special Grade is a bit of a cheat because he can’t control or apply his cursed energy half as well as any of his classmates. He has Rika to thank for his immediate promotion, not himself or his own skills.

“In any case, if you do learn it, you’ll never be able to execute it like her, that’s for certain. Reversed cursed technique is complicated to learn and nearly impossible to teach. It’s one of those things you truly have to figure out for yourself when the timing is right—I only got it when I was on the brink of death. It’s 100% effective on the person doing it, but only 50% effective when applied to other people by the user,” Gojo says, “Except for (_____). She was born with reversed cursed energy, which is why she has an almost 100% output on herself and others, so she’s extra special. ”

Yuuta frowns. He never expected to do anything half as well as you, but knowing there’s only half a chance that he could, literally, only ever meet you half-way is frustrating. You can save him time and time and time again, as you already have, and all he can do is be a wound for you to stitch back together. 

It must be difficult for you. A similar thought had crossed his mind when he first met Shoko-san, feeling bad for her having to carry the burden of healing others, knowing that she could never receive the same treatment in return. It’s worse for you, though, to be an angel amongst the men on this Earth—it’s not fair that you can give so much to help, and nobody can do the same for you. Yuuta wants to give something to you, he wants to devote himself to you, so at the very least, you have that. If he can’t give you anything else, he can give you himself.

Gojo laughs at Yuuta’s silence, kicking his legs up on the coffee table. “That’s hard for you to hear, huh? Ha! You truly are a lover, not a fighter, Yuuta.”

Yuuta blinks at him. “I, uh... thank you?” He says, even though he’s not so certain that those two things are discernable.  

“Right now, the best thing for you to do is focus on controlling Rika and your cursed energy. That way, (_____) can also focus on fighting, and not healing, when you’re on missions together. The stronger you are, the less she’ll have to clean up after you,” Gojo advises.

He puts his feet back on the floor and uses the leverage to lean over, a bit too close for Yuuta’s comfort. “The only thing you can do for her is to learn to help yourself.”

Yuuta’s eyes go wide. He wants to—he wants to help you, wants to help himself, wants to help others, too. There’s a selfish twang for a moment, the thought of not needing you anymore tugging at his heart, but Rika reminds him that he’ll still want you. 

Then an even scarier thought crosses his mind. “What happens if I don’t learn to control this? What happens if I curse her instead?”

Yuuta trembles at the thought, breathing and heartbeat erratic, his sensei moving back a bit. Rika is there again, reassuring him that he never hurt her, that his love never hurts, that the only person he’s ever truly harmed is himself by isolation of his own feelings. Trust her, Rika demands, she can handle this.

You can. Can you? You have, so far. You don’t run, you don’t push, you give, and give, and give to him; Rika was kind and playful and took and took and took Yuuta’s loneliness and sickness in stride and he still cursed her, seemingly for all eternity. He wants to love and be loved, but not if it means hurting you—isn’t it bad enough that he’s already inept at healing your wounds? Why should he risk giving you more?

“Yuuta,” Gojo calls him out of his thoughts, “I’m disappointed.” 

That truly breaks Yuuta’s cyclical monologue. “I—disappointed?” 

Gojo ticks his tongue, shakes his head and points a finger in accusation, “You should know your fellow classmates better by now. (_____) is not that weak or scared,” he chastises, “You’re so worried about cursing her that you haven’t realized that she is the only person so far to have effectively used her curse on you.”

Yuuta pauses, eyes wet with the awful realization that Gojo was right. You have already cursed him; your technique has already gotten past the barrier of his curse. You’ve cursed him. He never stopped to think that it was possible, worried only about himself. How selfish—he shares Gojo’s disappointment in himself. 

He’s spent so much time loathing his jealous mind and decaying heart that he hasn’t opened his eyes to see you that you’ve found him. You can poison anything he does, and make the antidote with equal ease; how stupidly naive of Yuuta to think that he could be the one to diagnose or treat you better than you could him, or yourself. 

“I’m sorry, sensei,” Yuuta dips his head, and also spares you an internal apology, “I understand better, now.”

“Is that so?” Gojo muses, leaning back into the sofa. His eyes scan Yuuta’s when his head is raised again, that knowing grin creeping back up on his lips. “Well, if you still want to know more about reversed curse technique, or want help learning it, it’s not an entirely lost cause. I’m definitely not the person for this lesson, but, you know who is?” 

Yuuta feels a sense of whiplash from the change in Gojo’s demeanor. Confusion clouds his mind again, and he shrugs, “Um... Shoko-sensei?” 

Gojo makes a loud buzzer noise, complete with crossing his arms in front of his chest in a big ‘X.’ Yuuta frowns again. Is that where Toge learned to do that? 

“Wrong! I’m talking about (_____), obviously!” Gojo claps his hands together, before lowering his glasses to wiggle his eyebrows, “Tutoring is a textbook way to get some alone time, kiddo. You want to spend more time with her outside of class and missions, right?”

“I want to spend all my time with her,” Yuuta confesses, mindlessly. And foolishly, he soon realizes, when he sees that Gojo’s grin has tripled; and he’s quick to flash his hands to correct himself, “No—not like that—not in a creepy way! I just... I want to get to know her better, like you said.”

Yuuta’s awkward chuckles fill the space, and he can feel his insides burning from his cheeks all the way down to his hands. Would he ever be able to think coherently or tactfully when it came to you? 

“So, uh... I... it’s okay if I ask her about this stuff, too?” 

“Some sorcerers don’t like talking about their cursed techniques. But (_____) might not mind. You won’t know until you try.” 

Yuuta nods shallowly. Try. He can do that—if not for himself, then for you; he can try for you. All you need from him is to accept your course of treatment; to love you is to let you curse him, completely. 

“I’m a firm believer that all’s fair in love and war,” Gojo stands, stretching into Yuuta’s space to ruffle his hair. He leans down further, giving him a glimpse of his glowing eyes before sparing him a wink, “So, be a little greedy, and give it your best shot.”

#3 — Social media is the most twisted curse out there. It makes you feel so close, yet is a stark reminder of just how far you are from the person on the other end of the screen. 

Yuuta has never considered himself good with technology. Even before Rika’s incident, he often felt ostracized by his peers because he didn’t have the same interest in or experience with games and cartoons. He had no reason to have a computer or a phone until enrolling at Jujutsu Tech, and there was an evident learning curve in navigating the devices. Toge often snickered watching Yuuta use his smartphone with the dexterity of a senior citizen. 

He only barely set up Instagram and TikTok accounts with Toge’s help, but he doesn’t really get the idea of followers—why would people who don’t know him want to follow him? Why would he follow them? He doesn’t know many memes or jokes and even after seeing them, he doesn’t think many are all that funny, but he laughs anyway. 

He doesn’t have much time to perfect his social media and meme skills, anyway. He’s dedicated to training and gaining mission experience—which pays off when Geto declares war on the school by the end of the year. Yuuta remembers how you returned his phone to him the next day, a few cracks and black, dark spots on the screen, giggling that you’d found it in the rubble, but that even your reverse cursed technique couldn’t fix its scars. 

He thinks he gets the hang of it in the end—the basics of communication and the appeal behind connection with others through it—even going so far as to trade selfies with Gojo sometimes, who always seemed happy to receive them, no matter how much post-exorcism curse gunk Yuuta was covered in. 

He also frequently exchanges texts with you. He much prefers to see you in person, but when you’re stuck for long hours in the ER, or away from campus on your own missions, Yuuta has grown fond of receiving your messages. He always attempts to read them in your voice and imagine your facial expressions to match those of the emojis you send. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of those yet, doesn’t understand what Toge means when he says that not all smiley faces are created equally, so to save himself the trouble, and potential embarrassment, he’s opted to use emoticons instead. Which, if you asked him, has been working out in his favor, seeing as you call them cute. 

Yuuta also uses the safety of his phone screen to implement some of Gojo’s advice; picking your brain about curses, sorcery, and healing via text message for just long enough for you to say it’s easier to explain in person to come to him and teach him in your spare time. Soon these study sessions turn into texts asking to hang out outside of class and missions and work, and Yuuta couldn’t be more elated. The screen he once scorned at seemed to be his one-way ticket to being able to talk to his favorite person constantly. 

But Yuuta never thought it would become his only means of communication with you. He’s devastated when you break the news to him, over half-finished oolong tea and nervous finger-twiddling. 

“You’re leaving?” He echoes, hoping he doesn’t sound too much like a heartbroken child, even though that’s exactly how he feels. 

It’s quiet outside of the tea shop where you two sit, nearing seven in the evening; only the soft sounds of other customers conversing behind you two inside, distant cars on the main street, and the sound of Yuuta’s heart beating frantically.  

“Not leaving leaving,” you clarify, pausing your finger twirling to place one of your hands over Yuuta’s on the table, “I’m still studying, but I’m being sent abroad for a bit.” 

He should be focused on the fact that you’re touching his hand—Yuuta should be happy! Rika still cheers for you in his mind, but her voice is quieter now—but Yuuta can’t. He’s focused on everything else, spiraling about the implications of your words. You’re leaving... going away from him when things are going so well. 

Yuuta was so happy when you taught him the reversed curse technique, even happier when he realized he did have the ability to heal others, knowing it also meant having the ability to help you relieve some of your burdens. That didn’t mean that he didn’t still want to give himself to you, he would if you’d have him—but now he wouldn’t have the chance.  

“I haven’t told anyone else yet—Gojo only told me this morning,” you mumble, “I’m going to miss you all a lot, but we can still text every day! I don’t know how long the time difference will be, but we can FaceTime.” 

It’s not lost on Yuuta that he is the first person that you’ve told about this. It’s another thing to be happy about, another little victory he never thought he’d achieve, but it’s still overpowered by the dread of you leaving him. 

He blinks, placing his other hand atop yours, sandwiching them between his, “How long?” Yuuta can’t read the expression on your face, but you don’t pull your hand away. He’s glad. He didn’t think when he’d done it, but the lack of rejection feels good—your touch always feels good, reverse cursed energy or not. 

“I’m… not sure—a few months at least, maybe until the end of the year,” you admit, squeezing his hand, “There are some cursed objects and scrolls they want me to help recover, and Gojo says I get to work with another Special Grade sorcerer, too.” 

His hands feel so good, so warm, but everything else about Yuuta feels cold, icy with dread and fear. You’re going away for a long time, and he won’t get to see you or hear you laugh or feel your warmth while you’re gone. His sunny days are going away, and Yuuta honestly doesn’t know how many more overcast skies and rain clouds he can take.

And it’s selfish, he knows. He should be happy for you—you were chosen for this mission, for this training; you’re getting the chance to use your skills to help others, and train even further. So, why couldn’t he be happy for you? Why could he only feel a pit in his stomach about the thought of you leaving and meeting some other Special Grade who’s rightfully deserving of their title? Not only had he lost the thing that brought him to you in the first place, but you’re about to find another replacement. Sure, with or without Rika’s curse, Yuuta had become so much stronger, but what’s it worth if he couldn’t keep you by his side?

“Tsukumo is supposed to be really cool, but you’ll always be my favorite Special Grade, Yuuta,” you taunt with a smile. 

Yuuta’s eyes go wide and watery with wobbly lips and flushed cheeked and sweaty palms to match. Favorite. Favorite, favorite, favorite. The word spoken in your voice rings in his head like a beautiful chime, the tones washing over him and erasing all his fear and doubt and insecurity. 

You had called Yuuta your favorite. Sure, he’s still upset when he and the other first-years drop you off at the airport too weeks later, he still cries the first night you’re gone, still nearly breaks his knee trying to jump for his phone the first time that you call; but it’s okay because Yuuta is living off of the temporary high of being your favorite. 

And also, because, in the end, your separation seems to have been inevitable. Not a month after everyone bids you farewell from Jujutsu Tech, Gojo tells him that he’s next on the docket to be sent abroad. He’s happy for a split second, thinking that he might get sent off to Europe where you’re still working with Tsukumo, but then Yuuta learns his true fate: studying under the tutelage of Miguel in Kenya; equal parts away from his classmates in Tokyo, and from you in Barcelona. 

Whoever said distance makes the heart grow fonder was a liar and a bitch, because the favorite boy honeymoon comes to an end when Yuuta settles into his new room and makes his first call to you from Nairobi. The feeling and reality of being alone, and even further away from you finally hits him. Still, he relishes in the sound of your voice; fantasizes that when you reach for your phone to show him your new things, it’s you reaching for his hand; dreams of you laying next to him when you fall asleep on the call, and desperately wishes that he could touch you, hold you, kiss you. 

He really wants to kiss you. He thinks he’s probably always wanted to kiss you, from the very moment his feelings for you started to grow; even if he couldn’t discern them at first, he knows now—Yuuta knows that he misses you like he’s never missed anyone before. The grief of losing part of Rika, and then losing his proximity to you merely weeks apart is finally catching up to him, and it’s morphing into a yearning that tugs on his heartstrings and rattles his brain. 

He knows that the rate of growth of his feelings for you hasn’t been steady, but he blames you for that. You’re the reason he loves you so much, the reason he can’t sleep at night, the reason he learns how to bring Rika back—because he thinks of you, you, you, and how he lost Rika once, and he’d be a fool to lose you twice.

Yuuta thinks it’s no coincidence that your cursed technique has the ability to alter him in mind and body. You have so much ownership over him and you probably don’t even know that Yuuta has spent every single moment of his life living and breathing for you since you’ve met. 

And you take his breath away yet again, when he gets to see you in Germany. Miguel is taking him to Switzerland on a classified mission, and you and Tsukumo are on your way to Austria, and by some great miracle, your layovers align. When he sees you waving to him down the long corridor in the airport, it feels like a scene straight out of his dreams. Yuuta spares no time trying to look cool or nonchalant; making a beeline to you, desperate to feel your touch after so long. 

He’s breathless in those ten minutes that you’re reunited. Everything is too short, but he does his best to live in it all. He speaks a mile a minute, cramming in anything he hadn’t already revealed to you in your many late-night FaceTimes, and swallowing everything you tell him. He wants to believe that he’d made the best of what little time he had with you, but the truth is he didn’t. Because while you were smiling and hugging and telling him that you missed him, all Yuuta really wanted to do was kiss you—and if he were a smarter man, a better man, he would have. 

He thinks, for a split second, that you might have wanted to kiss him too—when you rock back on your heels after saying good-bye, hesitating for just a moment, almost expectantly, before your eyes flutter away. He’ll never know, because he never asked, he never tried, he never said—only whispered, pathetically, to himself as he watches the silhouette of you and Tsukomo before you disappear for boarding, that he loves you. 

He almost believes that you hear it when you turn over your shoulder after his quiet confession. Would it have been better that way—if he kissed you, or confessed in the heat of the moment���or would it be taking advantage of an otherwise beautiful moment? Yuuta will never know, and the what if tantalizes him.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and opens the thread of your messages. He starts typing, then stops. Backspace. Start typing. Pause. Read, re-read. Delete. Groan. 

What’s the point? He can’t kiss you through the screen, and he’ll be damned if the first time he tells you that he’s in love with you is via phone call. He slumps his shoulders, and Miguel gives him a pity pat on the back. Yuuta goes to lock his phone when he sees the gray thought bubbles pop up below your last message and his entire body goes rigid in anticipation. 

[received] 03:27 PM — [attachment: 1 image] — you should keep a closer eye on your things yuuta — i miss you already (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤ 

Yuuta’s heart stops when he sees the picture of you in your seat, wearing his white uniform jacket. He doesn’t know when you snuck it away from him, but that doesn’t matter—like anything else, he would have willingly given it to you, and then some. It looks much better on you anyway, and Yuuta pinches his eyes shut for a brief moment, to swallow down the thoughts threatening to swarm his mind of you in his arms, in other clothes, in his bed. 

He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets the warm, gooey feeling settle into his veins, and moves his fingers to type. 

[sent] 03:38 PM — keep it, you can have anything of mine you want — i miss you more (๑′ ᴗ ‵๑)♥

You heart his messages and let him know you’re taking off soon, and putting your phone on airplane mode until you land. He’s not so confident to send a picture in return, unless you ask for it. Maybe you will, when you’re in Austria. He’ll have to work on his selfies.

He takes another once over the picture you sent, committing the idea of you in his clothes to memory. He knows the messages won’t delete themselves, but he takes a screenshot for safekeeping anyway. Maybe phones aren’t so bad, afterall. 

#4 — Do not kill Itadori Yuuji. Under any circumstances. Even if some days you really feel like it. Also, sign up for a Crunchyroll subscription. 

Yuuta can confidently say that his training abroad was both the most difficult and fulfilling thing he’s ever experienced. He believes that the change he’s endured is mostly good—he’s physically stronger, emotionally wiser, and overall more confident in himself and his cursed technique. One year ago, he would have been content with dying, but now he has more than enough reasons to keep living. He has people who care about him, and who would miss him if he were gone; and he’s got someone he would miss a whole bunch, too, should anything happen to them.  

By miss Yuuta means that he might burn down a small town, might level a city, might flip the entire world on its axis if something were to happen to you. In his defense, he’d go to extremes for most of his friends—but for you, there’s truly nothing he wouldn’t risk.  

He figured that out in his time abroad, too; came to terms with the fact that he’s selfish with his love. He loves too much, too hard, too close, and he isn’t very willing to share. He doesn’t see it as a bad thing, anymore, either—Yuuta knows now that the way he loves makes him who he is, and right now, he has the confidence to say that he likes that person, and that he loves you, undoubtedly. 

So, forgive him if there’s a cloud of negative energy the size of a coach bus looming over him at the moment, because since you’ve returned to campus, Itadori Yuuji has been slobbering over you like a lovesick puppy.  

Because apparently, you happen to know Itadori Yuuji—as in, since you were four and he was three, all the way up until your senior year of highschool, when you were scouted by Gojo, who, believes that you coming home from your study abroad trip would be the perfect time to reunite two best friends who hadn’t seen or heard from each other for the better part of two years—all while keeping this little reunion a secret from everybody, including you and Itadori.

A surprise, it certainly is, when the first time that Yuuta and the other second-years see you in months is on the dingy couch in the common room, under a cuddle pile of the first-years. Nobara’s arms wrapped around your left arm, body slumped against your side, Megumi’s long limbs stretching over Itadori’s torso, leaving the palm of his hand resting on your thigh. Far too close for Yuuta’s comfort. The only saving grace is that the jacket he loaned you is also spread across your lap, offering another layer between your body and his palm. And then there’s Itadori Yuuji, squished right between you and Megumi, with his head on your shoulder, his arms around your waist, and your free arm slung around his neck. 

Yuuta should have been relishing in the fact that you were finally home, but all his focus is drawn to the way your position allows Itadori to cuddle right into you, to the way your arm is around his shoulder and your cheek pressed against the top of his head. You two might as well have been in your own little world, and Yuuta hates it. And, as if that’s not enough, the realization that he was not the first person to hug you or welcome you home clicks, and his anger bubbles deeper.  

Next comes dread, that creeps in slowly when you and the first-years wake up, and you and Itadori go on and on and on about how surprised you were to see each other at the airport, how Itadori just assumed that when Gojo said he’d assigned them to “pick up something super special,” that he was messing with them, how you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off of your precious, precious kouhai that you’d missed so dearly.

Childhood best friends brought back together through sorcery. Yuuta’s seen that one before, and he didn’t like the ending.

You and Itadori mend the gap in your friendship like two years of no contact was nothing, falling into a pattern that’s so easy and familiar, that it’s painful for Yuuta to watch. The assumption that you’d died, and the knowledge that Yuuji had actually died only served to strengthen your vows to protect each other in the name of your friendship from here on out.  

Yuuta considers putting his own sword through his chest if it means you’ll swear your devotion to him. If he died, would you cry for him? Would you pray over his grave and beg for him to come back to you?—or would you find comfort in those who kept living, find solace in a friend who came back for you and can still hold you in his arms? 

“Tsuna tsuna,” he hears from his left, followed by a mischievous giggle. Toge’s taunting is hardly enough to pull Yuuta out of his cloud of rage, but the blunt end of Maki’s staff is.  

“Will you stop pining so damn hard?” she sneers, whipping the staff back to her side and placing a hand on her hip, “Not only is it pathetic, it’s gonna attract curses like flies to honey.”  

“Why am I the only one getting hit?” He turns to his right to motion to Megumi, who seems to be brooding just as hard. Megumi respects you, but it was easy to see that he was reaching his limit on sharing his recently revived lover with someone else. Maki huffs, “Because he doesn’t have a literal cloud of darkness looming around him.”  

Yuuta sighs, doing his best to reign in his feelings, but it’s pointless once he hears your laughter across the field—light and airy and sunshiney and all because of Itadori Yuuji. 

What were you two talking about? If Itadori were out of the way, would you pledge yourself to Yuuta? Did he ever hold a space comparable to Itadori in your heart—would you let him?

A broken chord strikes Yuuta’s heart when he realizes that Itadori is the person you told him about last year; the person you missed so much, and you never thought you’d be able to see again; the person that Yuuta reminded you of; the person he was happy and eager to be for you. And now, in knowing Itadori, Yuuta thinks that his willingness was beautifully naive—to think that he could compare to someone like this. Itadori is light, where Yuuta is dark; he sees the best in people, where Yuuta manages to come off on the wrong foot always; he perseveres in faith and determination, where Yuuta is fueled by an anxious desire to prove, prove, prove himself to be worth something to anybody. 

He can see how easy it is to love Itadori. It’s easy to cling to faith, to believe in something higher than yourself, to know that someone above can pull you up. Yuuta cannot compete where he cannot compare; he’s a shadow that engulfs you, takes you away from light, a dream that’s hard to wake up from. He could never be bright to you; his best attempt would probably drive you and him too close to the sun, martyred for love in burning flames.

Still, even in all his jealousy, Yuuta comes to the even more sobering realization that making Itadori disappear wouldn’t fix his problems. You told him he wasn’t Itadori’s replacement, but maybe that’s because he could never be him; maybe he doesn’t have to be. Yuuji could never be him, and he could never be Yuuji, but whether Yuuta likes it or not, he and Itadori are two sides of the same coin; and as such, Yuuta has, begrudgingly, grown to feel the same sense of responsibility over the younger boy that you do.

So, even though he never expected that they would both be at the mercy of your hand at the same time in this lifetime, he absolutely cannot kill Itadori Yuuji. Not only would it make you sad, but it would probably make Yuuta even sadder in the end, somehow. What a bother. 

He’s about to get up—to leave, maybe go over there, he doesn’t know yet—but he stops when he hears a calm buzzing by his ear. Yuuta blinks, slowly, shoulders relaxing unconsciously, allowing the larger than normal honey-bee to land on him. He recognizes it as one of your shikigami—and even if he hadn’t, that familiar, cooling sensation that washes over him would have let him know—so, gently, he lifts a hand across his torso, allowing it to crawl onto his finger, and strum its tune.

Yuuta can feel a few more, hear them humming around him, and he closes his eyes, lets the small group of bees flutter around him and all that looming jealousy dissipates from his body. 

Faintly, past the calm hum of the small swarm, Yuuta can hear the call of Yuuji’s voice, petulant, “Aw, no fair. Fushiguro, I want calming shikigami, too! Can you bring out the bunnies? Please.” 

Beside him, Toge and Maki seem bemused by his newly calmed state, then amused when Megumi sighs, stands, and reluctantly pulls his hands together before a couple dozen white rabbits flood the field and hop onto Yuuji. 

The buzzing grows softer, and then quiet. Briefly, Yuuta feels a bee land on his cheek, before it flies away, leaving the smell of fresh pollen in his wake, and when he blinks his eyes open again, you’re there, in front of him with a smile sweeter than anything he’s ever known. 

“Hope they didn’t scare you,” you muse, waving a finger before the last bee hovering around you disappears, “You seemed upset, everything alright?” 

He’s about to open his mouth to say something, anything, when he’s cut off by Itadori Yuuji once again, with one bunny on either shoulder, and three more cradled in his arms. “Hey, doesn’t (_____) totally remind you guys of Sakura!”  

Maki scoffs, albeit with amusement, as she points her staff at Yuuji’s hair. “If anyone bears resemblance to Sakura, it’s you, Itadori.”  

Yuuji actually makes an attempt to look at his own hair before chuckling. Yuuta flashes a look to Megumi, who looks equal parts exasperated and enchanted. Yuuta doesn’t get the reference, and when Inumaki starts making gestures about how Yuuji is like some Naruto guy and Yuuji screams about how Megumi resembles a Shikamaru, he becomes too afraid to ask.  

You seemed charmed at the end of the discussion, when everybody fundamentally agrees that you’re the Sakura of the group. Yuuta is far less charmed by these comparisons (and it has nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t get one). He doubts that this Sakura person can do what you can do, doubts that Sakura is even worthy enough to be compared to you, whoever she may be. 

And maybe Yuuta goes back to his room to watch several compilation videos about ships in Naruto later that day, but nobody has to know that. From what he’s gathered, Sakura is pretty cool, and even though Yuuji bears the most physical resemblance to her, he can see why everyone agrees that your healing abilities compare well to hers. Yuuta thinks you’re better, and he’s still holding out hope that there’s some other character equivalent for you that Itadori didn’t think of, that Yuuta can, just to prove that he knows you better. He doesn’t fight any comparisons between Gojo and Kakashi, though. That one honestly freaked him out a little. 

If it turns out that you’re Sakura, then he should hope to be Sasuke, but Yuuta thinks this dude is kind of a dick. From the 47 minutes of scattered Naruto content that he’s consumed, he actually much prefers the dynamic between Sakura and Naruto, even if that does equate to Itadori Yuuji having a crush on you, at least you’re out of his league and chasing after somebody else. 

Still, he thinks Sakura would be upset if Naruto actually died, or worse, if Sasuke actually killed him—never mind the fact that apparently he tried to kill her? Yuuta would never do that, but Sakura still seems to like Sasuke after all of that... in any case, Itadori Yuuji must live, and Yuuta must accept his fate as Sasuke reborn. 

Though, to Yuuta’s understanding so far, Sasuke and Naruto are destined to duke it out and if only one of them has to survive, then maybe it’s not so bad to be this guy. Yuuta doesn’t know how it ends between them, but he thinks he could take on Itadori Yuuji if he had to. He won’t because he’s your friend, and Yuuta’s friend now, too, but if Itadori or the curse inside of him acts up, then Yuuta can at least rest assured he can put a stop to it. That’s not something he could have guaranteed a year ago, but now, he can. 

Yuuta sighs, finally locking his phone and shoving his head under his blanket. He’s been knee deep in analyses about Sakura ships for the past two and a half hours now, and he’ll admit Sasuke is growing on him, but not much. His only saving grace seems to be that Sakura is madly, unconditionally in love with him; Yuuta wouldn’t mind having that kind of devotion from you. He turns to lay on his back, staring up at the blank ceiling and wonders: if it came down to saving only one of them, would Sakura pick Naruto or Sasuke... would you choose the boy who’s loved and looked up to you since you were kids, or the boy who sacrificed everything in hopes of gaining enough strength so that what happened to him never happens to anyone else. 

Maybe they answer that in the series, Yuuta reasons. 720 episodes, at 20 minutes per episode... if he devotes about half-a-day to watching Naruto, then he can breeze through it in a little over two weeks, maybe sooner if he uses his weekends efficiently. That’s plausible, and by the end of it, Yuuta is certain that he’ll have the answers he needs—and even if it doesn’t, then at least, he’ll have one more thing to talk to you about.

In the end, Sakura picks Sasuke, Naruto marries somebody else, and Yuuta understands that the two were never opposites, but complements, and that Itadori Yuuji-shaped pit in his stomach dissipates. Still, about three weeks later at breakfast he makes the argument that if anything you’re more akin to Tsunade, minus the gambling addiction, and that gets him rave reactions from everyone, including you, who is more than happy to show him your new slug shikigami as a means of commemorating your new Naruto kin. 

Believe that, Itadori. 

#5 — None of this matters if you don’t kiss her. You have to kiss the girl—or she’ll get mad enough to the point where she’ll kiss you.

The following month comes your indictment into the Semi-Special Grade hall of responsibility. Yuuta vaguely recalls Gojo’s lecture on how people don’t really get promoted to Special Grade—it’s classification you’re born or cursed with, like himself, or Yuuji, or Tsukumo—but, you, of course, defy all odds and expand everything Yuuta knows. Nobody is surprised—Yuuta thinks everyone was among the similar thought that you were undoubtedly unique amongst your classmates, in a way that was different from him or Yuuji. Being born with a body that generates reversed cursed energy instead of cursed energy is deserving of Special Grade status if you asked him; he doesn’t know what pushed the higher-ups into finally acknowledging your skill, but he knows it’s well-past due. And while he’s happy you’re getting recognition for your efforts, Yuuta would never wish to saddle you with half of the shit the higher-ups put him through. 

They better hope that Yuuta doesn’t find out that they’re plotting anything with you, lest they meet the end of his sword.

Part of your promotion entails a dual-degree program that will have you starting medical school next fall. Yuuta almost cries at the thought of you being sent away again, until you tell him that Gojo managed to pull a few strings this time—to fund everything and keep you in Tokyo. 

And even though you’re not licensed to treat civilians yet, you’re already more than experienced with taking care of and healing your fellow sorcerers, which lends Shoko’s promotional gift to be a shiny new office, right across from hers. Yuuta is the first person you invite inside, and he brings you a photo of you, him, Maki, and Toge from last year—honestly, probably the only photo the four of you have together—to christen your desk, and a plaque with your name on it for the door, that he may or may not have fantasized about it reading with your first name and his last name on it instead.

To no surprise, your office becomes a safe haven of sorts. Yuuta would define any time or place with you as a safe haven, but there’s something special about this place. Maybe Yuuta is still leaping from this being the second time you’ve chosen him. He’s the first person to see your office, the first person to sit at your chair, your first official patient when he stubs his toe against the corner of your desk (where he left the first decorative object). Maybe it’s a little far to say that this place has him all over it as much as it does you, but Yuuta likes the sound of that. 

When he comes back from gruesome missions, he’s invited to let himself in, no matter how much blood he’s covered in, and you’ll be there to take care of him. It’s not different than before—not different than even last year when he’d waddled in your shadow to the room across the hall and sat down with heart palpitations while you fixed his wrist—but something about this feels special. It holds a different weight than hanging out in your dorm or cooking together in the kitchen; this office is yours, the things you say and do to him here are confidential, the yearning for and almost-kisses you almost have are for you and him alone; within these four walls, you’re free to curse him completely. 

So, he’s understandably upset when your office becomes a cozy corner for the other students as well. Maki likes to take refuge inside to study alone, Panda and Toge have been caught on more than one occasion attempting to wrap gauze around each other like zombies, Megumi uses your supplies and basic first-aid lessons to prepare small kits for him and the other first-years, hell, even Gojo has been found asleep in your office on more than one occasion. He gets why people are drawn to you like a magnet, why you’re comforting, and welcoming, and a source of warmth for them, but that doesn’t mean that Yuuta likes to share you. It’s much harder to almost-kiss you this way. 

He must have pouted loud enough about it, because shortly after, instead of inviting Yuuta to your office for lunch, you ask him to meet you on the field. Not one to question you, he obeys, and soon, instead he’s met with an entirely new safe haven, sitting criss-cross inside your domain with all your shikigami slithering and fluttering and buzzing about him. A butterfly lands on his nose, and Yuuta’s nose crinkles. You lean in to let it crawl on your finger instead, and don’t lean too far back when you slowly begin to explain to him the intricacies of your domain and how it all comes together. 

It’s amazing, surely. Yuuta listens as best he can, but it’s hard when there’s a halo of butterflies around you, and a symphony of bees buzzing in his ear, and a slug kissing at his hand, and a snake coiling around his body and gently massaging his muscles, and your voice sound so soft and warm, and you look so pretty and, and, and he wants to kiss you again. 

He wants to kiss you really badly. He wonders if that’s part of your domain—honestly, he’d wondered if that magnetic, honey-like attraction he has to you is in any part influenced by your healing nature—wonders if the confines of your space exacerbates the flow of blood to his heart and his cheeks and his—

“Are you listening?” you question, that glowing, addictive smile on your face, “You know I can make the snake bite, the bees sting.” 

God, Yuuta wants to kiss you. He wants to live in the spring garden of your love forever, and ever, and roll around in the grass and drink honey with you, and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you. You could keep him here forever, he’d be perfectly content with living his days wrapped up in your curse. 

Yuuta shakes his head to snap out of his daydream, disrupting a few butterflies in the process. “I—sorry,” he apologies, “I’m listening now.”

You hum, folding your legs underneath your knees and sitting before him. Yuuta’s certain he looks slightly ridiculous, covered head to toe in animals and small insects and burning underneath your gaze—wasn’t this domain supposed to help people feel better? Is there no cure for lovesickness that you can use on him—or, at the very least, embarrassment?

“I asked you why you won’t kiss me.” 

Yuuta knows that if he weren’t in your domain right now, he would have fallen to a sudden death. “I—I, um,” words, Yuuta, words; a bee lands on his cheek, he takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry.” 

That doesn’t seem like the right answer, judging by the twist of your lips. Of course it’s not—because it’s a lie, and you know it, and you know he knows that you know it. How could he be sorry for wanting you, for spending every last waking moment breathing for you, hoping that you’ll end his laborious breaths and pour air into him yourself?

“You know, I brought you in here to make sure that you wouldn’t run or pass out on me,” you confess, reaching out your hand towards him; the tip of your finger barely grazes his cheek as you allow the bee to crawl onto you, “I worry about your heart more than I should.” 

You flick your finger gently, allowing the bee to flutter freely and your eyes to focus back on Yuuta’s, “Right now, in this domain, it’s mine to control. To stop, to beat.” It’s yours outside of here, too; to fix, to break. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Why won’t you let me have it, Yuuta?” 

Yuuta gasps, and despite his surprise, despite his extreme lovesickness, despite his dark desires, his heartbeat remains steady, his body remains perfectly tempered and cool, his voice resonates clearly—all because of you. 

“You’ve always had it,” he confesses, “Always. From the moment I met you.” 

He can’t read your expression. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the power struggle here; domain aside, you can hear everything about him, sense the slightest physiological change in him, alter any one of his bodily functions at your whim and Yuuta doesn’t know what goes on in you. Would it be wrong to confess that he likes it; that this feels like you having him, that he likes knowing you can take him? 

“I thought so, maybe,” you enlighten him, “Last year with all the calls and texts,” you lean over and set free a butterfly from his shoulder, “And then in the airport,” then guiding the snake to coil around your arm and around your torso, “And then I thought maybe you’d have said something when you were jealous of Yuuji,” this time your hand touches him, a feather-light touch to his elbow, “But you didn’t, and I was beginning to wonder if I was hearing your heart beat for someone else, instead.” 

Yuuta grabs at your hand erratically, “No—no. Never.” 

He’s senselessly in love with you, and if it weren’t for your healing hands, Yuuta’s certain his ribs would have cracked from the pressure of his happy heart by now; but then again, maybe he should ask you to let it break—let that fracture serve as an entry point for you and yours, to prove to you that it beats for you and you alone. 

“So then what is with you? You have a habit of giving girls your heart and not kissing them, or asking them out—is it always straight to marriage with you?” 

It’s torture hearing that word fall from your lips. He doesn’t have time to even begin to process it. Yuuta’s eyes flicker to the smile on your lips, the slight tilt of your head. He says something he shouldn’t, “Would you be opposed to that?” 

“I’d like a kiss first,” you tease, “Would you give me one?” 

And how could he ever deny you anything. There, with a harmony of beautiful insects and warm sunlight, Yuuta finally, finally, takes the last move forward to kiss you. It’s everything he wants and exactly as he’d imagined—he can feel the rush in his bones, the want in his stomach, the love against his skin when you fall into him. 

It’s one kiss, and another, and then Yuuta can feel your tongue against his, greedily falling into the rush of you. He’s everywhere, hands on your neck, lips on yours, body stradling yours when he carefully leans you backwards; Yuuta has you, and you have him, and he won’t let this moment go to waste. He pulls away for a moment, only a moment, to take in your kiss-swollen lips and commit this vision to memory. He’ll have to take another visual photograph outside of your domain, when your bodies are free to breathe erratically and equilibrium is broken so you and truly, truly, feel all of Yuuta’s love in earnest. 

He wonders if it’s the effect of your domain that prevents his nerves from running haywire when you take off his shirt, when you let him take off your pants, when you have your hands on his chest and his on your hips. It must be. Yuuta knows for certain that otherwise, he’d be a blushing mess of fumbling limbs and stuttering words. 

Still, Yuuta thinks, domain or no domain, he wouldn’t let this moment pass him. It’s not nerves when his hand brushes over your clothed clit and he hears you moan—even if it had been, that would have been the antidote to his poison. Lust, pressure, possession wash over him in excruciating waves. He wants more. He wants you. 

Impatience when he adds pressure with his hand, bliss when you buck your hips to add more of your own, greedily grinding against his fingers. Yuuta kisses you again, swallows your moans and feeds you his own when slips his hand past the barrier of your underwear, and he feels your warm, wet cunt against his fingertips for the first time, and when he pushes two fingers into your heat, he thinks he could cum right then and there, from this alone. 

“Yu—Yuuta, more,” you plead. Your hand on his neck, fingernails scraping into his skin that should leave a mark. They probably won’t. He’ll be sure that next time they stick. 

And Yuuta, unable to deny you anything, obeys. He curls his fingers inside of you, thrusting gently at first, and then with more confidence—and warning, when he hears you snarl about not teasing. Ironic, he thinks, as he watches your lips fall open, since you’ve had him strung along since day one. 

“I wanna—wanna cum with you inside,” you moan, a sound that Yuuta promises to commit to memory. Later, when his brain is working better, and the coil in his stomach isn’t so tight, and you’re not clenching around his fingers. 

You’re greedy, and Yuuta’s never realized it. You suck him in and still want more, and you must know that he’ll give it to you. It should serve as a warning, you have the high-ground to take him any which way you want—for a fool, for granted, for yourself, for nobody else; so what does it say about him that it only spurs his arousal, that it makes him impossibly hard and he can feel himself leaking from the thought of it. 

“I want that, too,” he reassures you, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, because you’re perfect for him, “But I want this first. Give me this first, please. Please.” 

He thinks you might cry. The rational part of him knows you can regulate it, that you probably won’t; the sick part of him wants to see it, wants to know what it takes to make you lose control. 

You call his name like a prayer, once, twice, and on the third time, Yuuta can feel it as much as he can hear it. He can feel the moment that your walls clench, and your eyes screw shut, and your body convulses around him. You’re beautiful, irreverent, and Yuuta thinks that being responsible for this is the greatest achievement of his life. 

He wears your orgasm with pride, raking over you as you blink your eyes open to him again. You’re lucid too quickly, he really is going to have to take the time to enjoy this somewhere less controlled later, eagerly wrapping your hand around his wrist and forcing them to his mouth. Yuuta groans when he tastes you on his tongue, nothing short of euphoric, and he’s sure to taste every last drop. 

You smile, and then laugh—an almost inaudibly giggle that has Yuuta smiling back reflexively. Like always, he follows your every move and succumbs to all your whims when you lean up to kiss him, and then coax off his pants and underwear, and line the tip of his dick up with your slit and pull him in, again, by the neck to bite at his ear, “Come on, Yuuta. Give it to me.” 

An order, a promise, a plea—Yuuta vows to fulfill them all, determined and spell-bound when he sinks into you. He can only imagine what it feels like for you, but for him it’s warm, wet, soft, snug, sticky—like honey, like a bee drawn to sweetness. It’s good, too good, Yuuta doesn’t know how to last when you feel this good. 

He can feel you everywhere, around his dick, your hands on his back, your breath on his cheek, your skin against his. He feels stuck to you, stuck in you, mind, body, and soul as one, unable to differentiate him from you, from you, from you. 

“Fuck,” Yuuta stares, carefully swiping a thumb over your browbone, conscious but not in command on how deep he’s thrusting into you, “You’re so—fuck, I love you.” He wants to hear you say it back, he needs to, he has to. He can feel it again, stomach in knots, and nerves on fire, and skin sticky, and Yuuta has to know—“Please, please. Do you love me, too?” 

You stutter, only from the rock of his hips into yours, reaching for his face and cradling it between healing hands, “Of course I love you, Yuuta.” His mouth opens, wobbly, and tears flow over his eyes—briefly, Yuuta thinks that it’s cruel that you’d let him cry; that you have command over every function in his body and that you’d let him cry, but he can’t bring himself to be upset. He’d probably have cried regardless, because hearing you say that you love him is a rush comparable only to burning tightness in his gut right now. 

You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling his lips to yours when you finally let go together. Yuuta can feel you tight around him, when he cums; and an unfiltered harmony of moans and skin on skin when he lays on top of you, sinks into you. Your hands don’t leave his hair, and Yuuta finds bliss in your affection, in being in your arms, in being yours. 

He doesn’t know how long you two stay like that, he doesn’t know if physical time passes in your domain, but it doesn’t matter. He’d stay here forever with you, let you use the full extent of your prowess to eat his heart out as sustenance, bleed for you to quench your thirst. He’d be everything you need and more; he’ll make sure that he’s all you want when it’s done and over. 

[genderkoolaid]

For your experiences with transadrophobia:

Back a few years ago I was being followed by this group of 3 girls after I refused to give them my number. Keep in mind that they don't know I'm trans yet, they think I'm a cis girl at this point. They followed behind me, pestered me about my number, they wouldn't give up but it hadn't escalated to yelling or insults yet. After a little while of this they went back to their car and came out with a different group of girls, one of the girls from the original group (the one who asked for my number in the first place) stayed with this new group, I think now there were 4 of them.

This scared me so terribly that for some ridiculous reason I thought outing myself would make them stop, even though I could tell they were getting close to giving up. I understand now how ridiculously dangerous this was, but for some reason younger me thought that if they knew I was a trans man, they would stop. So know that they knew I was a trans man, I was first greeted with visible disgust before they stopped walking behind me and started running for me.

Without getting to into too this, they commented on the size of my chest repeatedly, told me that "a real man" wouldn't be so scared of them so clearly I'm not a real man, and yelled and screamed some other things at me that I dont remember clear enough to retell in a coherent way, but they would always find away to rope me being a trans man into it. After that I thought they had left me alone for awhile, but what they actually did was take a different road so they could cut me off on the street I was walking on.

Now they were in front of me, blocking me from walking through, when I turned around their car was parked down the road by the sidewalk, so I would have had to walk past it to get away, which I absolutely wasn't doing. One of them ran towards me and raised her hands at me like she was going to hit me- thankfully she didn't. On the same kinda note, the other girls ran and jumped at me like they were gonna kick me- again, thankfully they didn't, but I think all of this was to try and scare me in to turning around and walk towards their car. They only seriously started threatening me after I outed myself. Some how a I got away, I don't really remember how but I did. The walk I was going on should have took 15 minutes max, it turned into about an hour- hour and a half maybe? Because of them.

I understand that all of this is way way on the lighter side of things people have experienced, but it was definitely a horrifying first experience with irl transphobia. The situation makes me so goddamn angry now though, because the only reason I outed myself was because at the time I was surrounded by cis queer women telling me about how easy trans men and mascs have it. About how safe we are from violence. Meanwhile I had older trans men telling me that we don't experience as much hatred, violence and oppression as women (both cis and trans) so that we have to be aware of that and use our privilege to protect those around us.

It makes me angry how I internalized that so much that I put myself in even more danger. It scares me to think about what might have happened had I not gotten a friend there, because they showed no signs of stopping and just got more and more aggressive. I'm really sorry if this is to much, or not relevant! I just thought this might count. Again I'm so sorry if it doesn't.

Thank you for sharing. I'm sorry they did that to you, it sounds like a terrifying experience.

[fillinforlater]

i kinda agrer w the anon like ig the older members r fine but if u plan on writing for new jeans rhe maknae is 14/15…

A measured Response

While I think the other anon who send the initially accusation is still the one sending asks to my inbox, I also think that you are another person. I will strengthen and steel-man your concerns/argument, though it will always baffle me that y'all have these ridiculous spelling errors. Seriously, guys, at least try to type coherent messages/a literal paragraph with no mistakes.

(To those of you who do, thank you <3)

For some fucking reason I feel like I have to make this a thing. I should not, really. These accusations are baseless, I'm not the thing he wants to frame me as, so on and so on, but because I think you are genuinely kinda worried what I meant, I'll explain it to you.

(I'm not sorry if I sound condescending or anything, because I am)

It started with this ask, which basically asked me:

"Do you plan on writing NewJeans in the future?"

Now, being human and (probably) understanding English as well as context, this is what I (and probably 99% of other people with the right context) assumed this person meant:

"Do you plan on writing a fic about any of the 18+ NewJeans members in the future?"

bUt tHaT iSnT wHaT tHeY aSkEd!?

You cannot possibly reach that conclusion. Seriously, go look at literally every fic I ever wrote. Age of the idols? Ranging from 30 something down to 18, the absolute hard legal and (I guess) moral minimum, the line I don't cross.

If you go to my page or just open this weird ass tab from Tumblr (fuck Tumblr), you see stuff like "18+ Girl Group fic writer" or "No minors" or (from my Biaslists & Writelist & Requests tab) "Remember that I said most and 18+. This automatically excluded all 18- idols... I won't write those." This is easily understandable, obvious context to the message from above.

Or did you think I would just write about literal new jeans, like an review or something? No, of course not.

Oh, you can also look at my response, like... I specifically mention Hanni and Danielle, two 18+ idols, very popular, probably the two (including I guess Minji) the asker probably meant.

Now the point where I might look like an idiot if I take you seriously:

I responded to the baseless accusation with a GIF of Hanni, the focus on an easily identifiable part (her ass). The response of the accuser (still in my inbox):

"You just admitted you're a pedo"

Wrong and cringe.

Granted, you did not know this message (if you are a different person), yet you still, after seeing the Hanni GIF decided to say this. Either you are fucking stupid or this is maliciously framing me. Pick your poison.

(BTW: You are stupid because Hanni is 18. International age. Whatever the fuck Koreans use/used to use does not count, but she is also "19"/an adult there)

If you now need it black on white (or white on black), here it goes:

I'm not a pedo. I'm even against idols debuting under the age of 18.

(Why did I even bother? I dunno man, now it's out of the system)

With that said, I got some ideas for a Hanni fic (still very basic, but god, she is gorgeous and hot) and for a Danielle fic (funnily, it's not even a smut).

Everyone, have a nice day and some pretty Minji <3

[angelofthemornings]

I sat down and contemplated why the transandrophobia argument made no sense to me and then I realized that - aside from transphobia, internalized transphobia, gender essentialism (including and especially Man As Enemy), and the urge to commit lateral aggression - the words transandrophobia and transmisogyny are actually quite different, the argument might come from a fundamental historical misunderstanding about that, and that's interesting to me.

(Similar to how transmisogyny and misogynoir are words that are quite different - they've broadened in a display of parallel evolution to encompass "any of the unique experiences with hatred trans women/Black women face by virtue of being trans women/Black women", and we're going to come back to that expansion later, but misogynoir was originally coined to criticize hip-hop culture and was a term used for media criticism. Transmisogyny comes the famous text Whipping Girl and was/is a sociological term.)

First of all, lemme get my copy of Whipping Girl and get the original and most impactful definition of the word.

"While trans people on the female-to-male (FTM) spectrum face discrimination for breaking gender norms (i.e., oppositional sexism), their expressions of maleness or masculinity themselves are not targeted for ridicule—to do so would require one to question masculinity itself.

When a trans person is ridiculed or dismissed not merely for failing to live up to gender norms, but for their expressions of femaleness or femininity, they become the victims of a specific form of discrimination: trans-misogyny."

You may want to read that one over a few times.

(I'd argue this passage would be clearer if Serano specified that trans men's *successful* expressions of masculinity aren't criticized - "successful" being in the eye of whatever individual or community is currently beholding the person - because we do criticize men for having beards but not binding due to back problems or whatever and "failing" at being coherently masculine, that is, for letting "femininity" slip in. But, we just don't criticize men for being successfully masculine in the eyes of the beholder. Ever. Trans or cis. This is because masculinity has UNIVERSALLY positive associations, to the extent that we have to say stuff like "toxic masculinity" to separate our criticism of masculinity from the "actual/real/default" masculinity, which is never negative. Meanwhile, femininity is often criticized in and of itself. I mean, you can easily hear someone say "ew, that's girly" but not "ew, that's manly.") (To zero in on the argument a little more, trans women being successfully feminine is a threat or a joke or a figure of revulsion - remember when Cards Against Humanity had "a passing transsexual" as a card they later apologized for and pulled? Meanwhile, I've never seen anybody walk into the gay bar with existential paranoia that one of the gorgeous twunks in there might secretly have had certain surgeries. ...actually, I think I've met that guy, but hopefully we can agree that "passing trans man as threat" is not anywhere *near* as much of a thing.)

So. What this boils down to is that transmisogyny was originally a word that refers to trans women's unique relationship with misogyny.

However. This word has expanded to include trans women's unique experiences with transphobia as well. (For example. Cis women aren't often accused of being sexual predators even when they do something like literally "seduce" a junior high student, so the idea of sexually predatory trans women isn't from misogyny, but transphobia. Still, nowadays you'll hear discussions of the predatory transfeminine stereotype called "transmisogyny" as well, and so you can see how the definition has broadened.)

You could criticize trans men here for "stealing" a word from trans women. But the queer community has been sharing terminology since forever, so I personally don't find this to be a very compelling argument against the term. (I'm old enough that I was extremely confused the first time I heard someone say "gay men can't be butches.")

Now, at some point trans men appear to have heard this and thought, hmm, I want to speak with more clarity and precision about transphobia that affects only or primarily trans men. (For instance, one example that comes up a lot is trans men as scared brainwashed little children who need legislation to save them from themselves - trans women, on the other hand, are generally considered not to be poisoned by societal forces but to have agency in the most negative way imaginable, as in, they're making an active choice to be duplicitous predators. Or at least acting alone in general, for instance, out of personal mental illness.)

So. Someone came up with "transandrophobia" as a counterpart to transmisogyny's broadened but not original and most impactful definition.

So, in essence.

Transmisogyny is a word about trans women's unique experiences with misogyny and transphobia.

Transandrophobia is a word about trans men's unique experiences with transphobia alone.

Androphobia does not exist. We do not, as a society, criticize or punish successful masculinity. I'm not gonna argue this one out because it would take another six paragraphs. So...you know, I think people were originally just working off the Whipping Girl definition and not the broadened one and just mad that it implied androphobia is actually a thing.

...but, you know that all queer people are siblings, right? Is it theft or cross-pollination? Why or why not?

But transphobia against trans men sure as hell exists and sometimes it does have unique manifestations that come from unique places. (I don't see trans women who have legal M markers worrying too much about whether insurance will pay for their childbirth.) This is probably worth having a word for - it appears to be desirable to the transmasculine community - and so I'm honestly not sure what the big deal is that they want this word to exist. It may have been tasteful to pick a term that didn't resemble "transmisogyny" so much because the word has a very different origin and describes very different phenomena.

Speaking of siblings, I should give my little sister (she is trans) and her wife a call. If I sit down and think about what trans women face for five minutes I suddenly get really protective over her for mysterious reasons.

[watchingblsnowandforever]

Prompt: “there is a rumour going around that the vocalist of a popular boy band is dating someone and everyone’s guessing who he could be dating, and everyone’s guess is anyone but me” au (taken from this list by @alan-apologist)

Word count: 608

Pairing: Tinn × Gun

Title: Not Your Boyfriend (Or, Am I?)

Note: This is an original work by me (@watchingblsnowandforever). Do NOT repost, or post to another website without my explicit permission.

No matter how hard and gruelling the day was, Tinn always found a little bit of joy in the break room. Every single day, without fail, all the doctors and nurses gossiped about the rumoured boyfriend of the lead vocalist of Chinzhilla. 

Chinzhilla was the #1 band in Thailand now. Tinn couldn't go anywhere without hearing their name. 

One time, he'd realized that he was out of toothpaste in the middle of the night and had to drag himself to the nearest 7/11. At the counter, the boy noticed his Chinzhilla hoodie he'd borrowed (read: stolen) from Gun and went on a breathless rant about how good Chinzhilla was and how handsome their members were. Tinn would have found it hilarious if he were not sleep deprived, but he could only just blink owlishly at the boy until he sheepishly apologized and finally gave him his toothpaste. 

A couple of weeks ago, in an interview, the other band members were teasing the lead vocalist about how whipped he was for his boyfriend, and Gun had confidently retorted that his boyfriend was more whipped for him, and except for a little snickering, none of the others had denied that.

While true, it'd taken Tinn back to their high school days, and he'd screamed into his pillow with cherry red cheeks, and then called Tiw to rant. Again. 

See, they had a deal. Every other weekend, Tinn treated Tiw to whatever he wanted, and Tiw patiently listened to all his (coherent and otherwise) rants. 

They both knew Tiw would do it no matter how much he complained, but it gave them an opportunity to catch up on each other's lives.

Anyways, since then, there had been an uproar among the Chinzhilla fans about who this mysterious boyfriend could be, and why they didn't know all about him already.

So his colleagues - grown, professional adults, he might add - liked to speculate who the lucky man could be. Their guesses became more ridiculous by the day. 

Today was no different. And as usual, he just listened to them and laughed internally as he ate his homemade lunch (packed by his beloved boyfriend).

“Do you think it’s that guy, Tiwson?”

“Oh yeah! Doesn’t he attend every one of their concerts?”

“I’ve heard that he even has a backstage pass!”

“Wait, wait, I think Gun and Tiwson went to the same high school!”

There was a collective gasp.

Tinn choked on his rice. 

Tiwson?! Tiwson of all people?! He had the urge to laugh hysterically even as his eyes watered. That was simultaneously the closest to the right person and the furthest thing from the truth.

“Are you okay, phi?” Abbie asked. He gave her a thumbs up.

Abbie was an intern under him. She was one of the best medical students he’d seen. Only thing was, she loved to gossip, and knew everything about everyone that was ever on the internet. And she had a huge crush on her fellow intern Tess.

________

That evening, when he told Tiwson about how he was apparently dating Gun, Tiw’s expression had him laughing for a solid ten minutes.

Gun, on the other hand, looked at him all angry and jealous and kissed him senseless and then some.

It was a pretty long night, and Tinn had to take the next day off.

Totally worth it.

Maybe, just maybe, he should encourage his colleagues’ “discussions” and tell Gun all about it when he came back home.

Gun chased him with (a replica of) the Chinzhilla plushie around their house after he heard that.

Life was pretty good, he thought, as he ran around the living room laughing.

[crazylittlejester]

DAILY BRAINROT

Thinking about the AUs again because I was going through my Marked For Later and realized I missed a few when I was setting up the directory...

Anyway, someone swapped out Time for Mask in their AU (I can't remember if you also did this for FH9 or not) and you know what? Valid. In fact, I might even do the same thing because writing Mask is ridiculously easy compared to writing Time for some unknown reason?

Although due to the, uh, awkwardness of OoT I have yet to see much of teenage-bodied-Mask/Time. He's usually either in his canon form as a 30-ish year-old adult or around 9-12 post-MM. I feel like maybe I should take advantage of this to be a little extra mean to him, but I have been being a little extra mean to all the boys lately.

Also, shout out to all the AUs I've read in which Twilight is a sort of clueless, bumbling 17-21 year-old that accidentally kicks off like all the inciting events of the main plot. Like, look, he's not stupid, but he's definitely smart in the opposite direction of where he's supposed to be going. I think he's fairly well-read and is very kinesthetically intelligent (for lack of a better term) but he's also a Link.

Plus, I like to smack him with the general anxiety headcanon that makes him into an overthinking, anxious mess in addition to that.

OOOOOOH AUs

I guess I did sorta swap Time and Mask in FH9 😭 AND YEAH FOR SOME REASON WRITING MASK IS EASIER (and for some other unknown reason, I keep fucking writing Time pov fics)

This is exactly why I made my Mask in LTTC 17, I feel like we never see that character in his mid to late teens. I did also age him up a little in FH9, my memory is fucking BLANK rn but he’s 14 or 15 in that fic

ALSKDKKDKD I SO AGREE. Twi to me is very intelligent in an Odd Problem Solving kinda way. He’s not Warriors with the Chess Master type problem solving skills, but I believe in my heart a modern Twi could fix fucking anything with a role of duct tape. There’s an issue? He’ll find a way to fix it, it may be a TERRIFYING solution, but he’ll fix it it’ll be fine

I too love to slap him with the anxiety headcanon, he’s a bit of a mess. A big ol’ sweetheart who’s very kind and friendly despite his pissed off looking resting face, but also someone who’s screaming at the sky internally and overthinks a lot

also sorry if none of this is super coherent i am barely hangin’ on rn, i am exhausted and my brain is a puddle of goo

[tutuandscoot]

Part three of the interwiew moment feels thing. Is Scott dissing current ice skating saying they grew up in an era where they had to take risks? Also i find the fact that they sometimes choose what to do based on what would be more unexpected hilarious. And Scott mentioning Suzanne by name saying she sort of lay the groundwork for that, like yea give that woman all the credit she deserves. Oh and them talking a lot whenever they do meet up now thats really endearing, sort of derailing the interwiew. Their parents waking up at 4 in the morning every day for years oh they really must have loved seeing their kids doing what they loved, it seems like a small thing but really its huge, how much they did for their kids. And the train analogy is nice and Scott saying he really likes it too when tessa is wondering if shes taking it too far. They really support each other so much. And them ending the interwiew saying they wouldnt be where they are without all the people supporting them. Its a really nice way to end the interwiew not focusing on themself but on others. And yea thats the interwiew. I hope this wasnt too rambling for you. If I manage to form more coherent thoughts about parts of this, il send you another ask. But yea the interwiew had a really nice vibe to it, being serious but not at the same time.

No this was a more coherent summary than I could’ve done!

This bit about their parents sacrificing so much for them:

So heads up I’m not a parent and I’m an only child so i might be speaking out of my arse here and of course every family situation is different

Disclosures out of the way;

When I was growing up dancing and being super into it and quite talented- starting to look for more opportunities out side of just my crappy dance school, my mum would basically drop everything for me. She wasn’t a single parent but she basically was bc my dad did nothing for me in this respect, she had one part time job that didn’t pay much and every single cent went to me and my dancing. I didn’t have the early wake ups like vm did thankfully but I had to travel really far away to get better training. She would pick my up from school after work 3 days a week and we would drive 2 hours away for 4 hours of dance, finish at 9 and drive home for 2 hours while I sleep in the car and the next day I would have to be at school at 6 am for school dance, then there was the exorbitant fees for training, pointe shoes, uniforms, physio, competitions, travel- my first international competition I got to the finals and she didn’t have enough money left to get a ticket to watch me, so she waited in the dressing rooms listening over the sound system.

She did so much for me and when I stopped dancing due to my back problems she layed an enormous amount of guilt on herself thinking it was her fault/ she shouldn’t have let me pursue this when my back condition developed bc it ended in so much pain and heart break. That was really hard for us and we fell out of our very close relationship over that grief, but we’re now getting back on better terms.

(I’m sorry this is a little life story)

On the contrary:

My best friend growing up who I danced with, she was one of 3 kids and her family was far more well off than me, she did dance and gymnastics- I’m pretty sure at one point she was national level at gymnastics. Anyway, one day her mum said to my mum “I could never do what you do for your daughter (me)”.

Now she had 3 young kids, worked full time, understandable it would be hard to take her daughter all around the place.

But VM’s parents did it.

They both have multiple siblings, yes some of T’s were much older when she was a child starting skating, but Scott’s were closer in age. T’s parents worked full time- her grandma helped out a lot. Skating is RIDICULOUSLY expensive and very hard to get funding for- a lot of adult skaters work other jobs to support themselves. They did it- they did all that for their kids- their youngest kids at that which a) in a way the others were older and could take care of themselves more but b) raising kids is expensive and again I’m not a parent but I imagine by kid 3 or 4 this gets exhausting- so now having the last kids to be born in each family be the ones doing the most and having the most insane- as VM said, depraved lifestyle full of strictness most kids don’t ever insure- their parents still did that for them.

This is not a comment on good and bad parenting- as I said people have different situations- but there are some that really do go above and beyond and don’t let anything/ don’t make excuses for themselves as parents for not giving their children everything to succeed- VM’s parents are incredible they deserve so much credit for what wonderful children they raised- NO MEDIA TRAINING- they were just raised so well to be kind and empathetic and appreciate every opportunity to afforded them.

Parents of the freaking century!!

[nanlaria]

2023 Fanfic Wrapup

How many stories did you post?

Since this was the first year I’ve attempted posting anything of my writing online, I had a pretty easy answer: 32, with a whopping 186,402 words, according to AO3.

2. Which ones were your favorites?

My favorites to write have to be the ones for Rurouni Kenshin. As much as I enjoy the characters, I really enjoy the history and doing the research for the era. I find the Bakumatsu era fascinating. The coincidence of two completely unrelated countries (Japan and USA) having their internal Civil Wars at nearly the same time – without any form of relationship – blows my mind. The culture, the language, and the intensity of the times are engrossing.

3. Which one was the most satisfying to write?

Oof. They were all satisfying in some way. The most satisfying of all? That’s so hard to even weigh. For different reasons, I could say Bombs, because physics and chemistry are fun to learn; Walking Wounded because it’s one of the longer ones, but still coherent and complete; I’m Fine because it was the first one I managed to keep under 2k words!

4. The most difficult?

Through Fire and Shadow – and it’s the most difficult because it’s not complete; it is original characters based on a D&D campaign I ran for the previous two years. The campaign may have ended, but I have yet to complete the story. It’s also one of the more … adult themed stories I’ve ever written. Awkward, but yet completely appropriate for the story I want to tell.

5. Rec something that you're proud of.

I’m ridiculously proud of Ring of Fire, Ring of Horror. The six part/chapter (whichever) story is a MacGyver (2016) fanfic not based on any particular episode. I did a lot of research for this one, including maps, trade statistics, regional history, times, travel ability, distances for different vehicles, not to mention botany and chemistry (because Mac has to use some chemistry to blow something up). I put a lot of effort into that story, and it made me happy to have it come to a conclusion.

6. Wow us with whatever big thing you might want to work on next!

Next big thing? I still have several things to finish! Whumptober 2023 gave me so many ideas that I started and have yet to complete. I guess my ‘next big thing’ would be to finish all the loose story lines I have dangling!

Thank you @rosieblogstuff for the tag! I'd tag people, but I think you already got the ones I know.

[shveris]

malibu

mysta was scared of the ocean but he was glad shu brought him to the beach.

tags: bubble tea shop au, strangers to lovers, my writing style drifts into the poetry area some times good luck deciphering that

chapter two: i

the way he jumped at the soft vibrations of his phone made mysta groan internally. since when was he so desperate?

shu: it was okay, today was busier than usual :(

mysta: damn prolly cuz of the fair

shu: ahh yea u might be right mr detective

mysta: 🕵🏻 !!

the brunette put his phone away to bury his face in his pillow. exchanging number with shu was the bravest thing he has done since asking that one girl in kindergarten for the black crayon, just to get scolded for making her cry. at least shu didn’t seem to mind texting him every now and then, even replying during his shifts and sending him pictures of drinks he made for himself.

it may have only been a week but mysta felt like shu has always been a part of his life; a constant, flowing with each other like waves (rocking back and forth in a steady and unchanging rhythm) and he felt so incredibly ridiculous for thinking about that innocent angel in that way. he didn’t even swear or curse, he’d notice, and it made his chest arch in a way he can’t seem to explain to himself even.

every word shu exchanged with him gave him a certain sense of nostalgia and comfort, his voice wrapping around him like a warm blanket during london’s grey winter and mysta felt like the world would finally be at peace with shu existing next to him.

his phone vibrated, startling him once again.

shu: wanna go to the fair tmrw? c:

mysta could hear the rushing of his own blood in his ears, forgetting to breathe for a second while hovering his thumbs above his keyboard. he was sure the train of thoughts he followed a split second ago, had just vanished into thin air, along side any other coherent words of the english language inside his brain.

mysta: yea!

mysta: dont u have work tho?

shu: o yea u can pick me up at 8:40

mysta: sounds goodd

everything inside his mind was racing; racing against the suddenly rapid beating of his heart; the realization of spending an evening with shu trying to kick in. does this count as a date?, he asked himself, trying to calm down.

he sat up in his bed, combing a hand through his ash brown hair. mysta felt like he was sinking into the pit of his darkest thoughts, low self-esteem nagging at every inch of his skin — sickness was setting at the pit of his stomach, adrenaline making him dizzy.

mysta knew he had to keep himself grounded, but not at the bottom of the ocean. long nails with chipped black paint leaving red lines on the skin of his throat and the soft burn of it reminded him of diving down too deep, the lack of air making him lightheaded in a way he’d never enjoy.

when mysta left the house the next evening, nina was nowhere to be seen (not that he would care because he didn’t) and the summer sun was still out and very much too bright for him — at least malibu was giving him good reasons to wear his sunglasses again because the uk surely didn’t — but he could handle it now.

the shop still had all its lights on, though the sign at the door said “closed” and shu, on the inside, was wiping down the tables while one of his co-workers stood at the sink. mysta wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enter so he softly knocked on the glass of the door. shu shot him a happy smile and a thumbs up before he turned around, speaking to his colleague.

two minutes passed before the ravenette came out of the store, a small bag strapped around his chest. they awkwardly looked at each other before mysta remembered “this might be a bloody date” and offered shu open arms, a shy invitation for a hug, and how could shu ever say no to a blushing mysta.

“how was your shift?”, the ashen asked after they parted, feeling awfully stiff — mysta will probably never get used to physical touch as he grew up without it, and strange things scared him, but the bad attempt at small talk could’ve also been a reason for the sudden amount of stress. to his relief, shu answered with a genuine smile and words, and it felt like a dream come true, that’s how deep mysta had his head in the ocean.

the walk to the fair was short, filled with a light breeze, warm words, lucid laughter. the bright and colored lights of the venue made shu look like a painting mysta could stare at for hours and he’d never get tired of it.

seagulls around were patiently waiting for opportunities to strike for food, screaming children and loud voices went blurry in a hunch the closer they got.

mysta would be lying if he’d say he liked those kinds of events — with a lot of people, colors, sounds, smells —, most of the time he avoided them for the sake of not getting sensory overloaded. but tonight, he could feel it, would be different. tonight he had shu with him, shu who took away all his attention, even on the ferris wheel when they could look over all of malibu; all the way to point dume while catching the silhouettes of the santa monica mountains, with the channel islands and santa barbara to the other side.

the various food stalls did a great job at making mysta a poor man, which was also partly his fault since he insisted on paying for everything (much to shu’s disagreeing (cute) pout). they had also found a takoyaki stand and after tasting their food, the ravenette had told mysta he could make better ones at home, which he took for a future invitation and, perhaps, a second date.

the sky above was dark and clear, mysta had asked to put his sunglasses into shu’s bag and he could only see a few stars above them, the lights of the city cancelling out magic he liked to watch when in the uk; the part of london he lived in was small and not as lively as malibu. over the years the brunette taught himself to love the loneliness those suns, constellations and galaxies would grace him with. the sky felt wide and open, he could see danger approaching, he could prepare himself to get lost — the ocean on the other hand was blurry, filled with pressure and everything humanity didn’t dare touch.

“frick.” the ravenette looked over his shoulder, someone had run into him and didn’t even apologize. mysta didn’t like how packed it was but chaos was a natural occurrence when it came to darkness, he should know and shu knew it better.

“c’mere”, mysta shuffled as close as he could to shu and grabbed his hand, he was so scared of losing shu in the crowd — it would mean getting a panic attack in the middle of a dozen people, strangers, people he didn’t know- oh god, why were there so many people? air, where was all the air all of the sudden? why did he even say yes to this? this was an awful idea, he should leave, immediately-

“let’s go over here”, shu swiftly intertwined their fingers, dragging the ashen through the stream of chatter to a more open area with activity booths and arcade machines. his brows were furrowed when he looked at mysta’s face in the dim light the lanterns and decorations offered: “deep breaths, deep breaths.” shu’s free hand made up and down movements with every breath he took, hoping the visualization would help mysta. people passing them looked at shu with judging gazes, and usually he would go hide somewhere the sun would never reach, but mysta’s panicked expression felt like a hit to the stomach.

“okay, okay”, the ashen whispered after he felt more stable again, “okay, i’m okay.”

“you are, you’re doing well. i’m here, i gotchu.” shu looked at him with so much innocent determination, it washed away the strain on mysta’s lungs. his sunset eyes stared into shu’s before he was starting to take in his surroundings again.

“let’s relax a bit”, the ravenette grinned, relieved, before giving mysta’s hand a gently squeeze — and both of them didn’t want to let go of each other — before dragging him to a stand that seemed to be advertising goldfish catching.

they watched each other play their rounds, giddy laughter whenever the little fish managed to jump or wiggle off the flimsy scoop net and in the end neither of them managed to get a good catch (or any catch, really).

mysta wasn’t quite surprised when he found out shu was above averagely skilled at crane games although he still couldn’t stop himself from staring at the ravenette in awe. mysta was holding onto their sixth pokémon plush toy and he could already feel all the kids around them staring in envy.

“another one, let’s gooo, babyyy”, shu presented a snorlax to the brunette and maybe it was the way his eyebrows rose or how he hold it up to him, but mysta couldn’t stop himself from letting out a small laugh.

“come on”, shu grinned and helped the other one with carrying the different plushies. mysta looked at him, puzzled: “where to?”

“the kids will eat you up alive if we won’t share some of our prizes”, the ravenette giggled and mysta swore someone just stabbed him with amor’s arrow, right through his chest, into his fast beating heart.

it didn’t even take them five minutes to hand out all the toys and when it came down to the last one, shu insisted in keeping it. mysta didn’t mind, he won it himself and he personally had no need for more plushies as his bed at home in the uk was already overflowing with those.

“so vulpix is your favorite pokémon?”, mysta grinned but instead of answering, shu’s face flushed bright red, which mysta didn’t even notice due to all the different colored lights painting the scene like they were in a dreamy movie.

“y- yeah!” mysta had to stifle a giggle, shu was an awful liar.

after about two hours shu could feel exhaustion settle in his bones, he bet he could stay longer if it weren’t for his shift. walking and standing around started to hurt his feet and his legs felt heavy to a point where they had to sit down on one of the benches for some rest.

“i’ll bring you home once you feel be’er again”, the ashen said and the tone in his voice was unfamiliar to shu, though he didn’t dislike it. he’s never heard such a determent mysta so he welcomed the change of air, feeling glad to be seen as trusted enough to see an unfiltered version of his new friend.

“sure”, shu smiled, tired but still welcoming, “we can walk along the beach, i live nearby.” mysta got up, dusted off his pants, and offered his hand to the other. shu grabbed it without hesitation and thanked him after getting pulled up. their fingers intertwined automatically and the both of them enjoyed the subtly touch of warmth, the secure feeling it gave them. they were each others life boats, softly seesawing on a never ending navy fabric between the stars mysta never got to reach and the salty water shu had seen one too many times in his life.

once they walked off the fair, the loud chatter got drowned in beach sounds. they had to cross a small plastered part with vehicles parking left and right, trailers attached to most of them. mysta was almost fascinated with the bizarre sight until a group of four men stopped them in their path.

mysta may have grown up in a secluded area of london, but distance had never stopped gangs. this wasn’t the first time he’s encountered gang members and it will never be his last — simply because he did not possess something even close to luck — so his first instinct was stepping in front of shu. there was no way he’ll let them harm the obsidian haired and if this would be some of those crazy cliché manga he read in his spare time, he’d stab out their eyes because “how dare they lay their eyes on an angelic being like shu yamino”.

“you’re kosaka’s kid, right?”, one of them asked and mysta got upset at the darkness he usually loved to bathe in because right now, he couldn’t see shit, only the silhouettes of four strongly build men with shoulders wider than his fridge.

“kosaka’s what?”, the ashen asked in confusion, dragging shu behind him even closer to his back (and to be really honest with himself: the weird angle his arm was at began to hurt him), trying to shield him away.

“don’t play stupid, boy, we saw you with her multiple times. even the color of your hair is similar.” oh. oh. they meant nina. mysta completely forgot about her last name as he associated it with his dad; all memories and information in relation to him got shoved into the back of his mind when he was old enough to understand that he was the reason his mom cried every evening for three years.

“i seriously don’t know who you’re talking about, i don’t know no kosaka or wha’ever you mean, dude”, he explained slowly, eyes narrowed, tone cold and careful. what did these men want and how was his weird aunt related to this? for christ’ sake, he didn’t even know the name of the street she lived in.

“he’s a good liar, you have to give him that!”, another guy laughed with a raspy tint in his voice, as if his throat was made out of rough corned sandpaper — it wasn’t, mysta knew, he was just a smoker and a heavy one at that, too —, “let’s just get him, she’ll react instantly.”

get him? get? as in “kidnap”? oh hell nah.

mysta’s legs were faster than the four men’s thinking process’ as he death gripped shu’s hand and ran back to the fair, into the clutter of people. the yells behind him doubled in volume and amount since mysta did not really care about the three kids he just ran over or the middle aged woman with her portion of overpriced fries.

they fought themselves through the crowd, taking turns and corners over and over; if mysta was good at something, it was mind games. he knew how to trick people, knew how to get rid of them, knew how to fuck them up real good if necessary. and for mysta, shu was his top priority and after looking over his shoulder to make sure shu wasn’t about to pass out, all he saw was a determent expression and parted lips, a small sign to the pathway to success.

they never let go of each other because if they would drown, shu was there to stop them and mysta knew that reaching for the stars would keep them afloat for a while.

chapter 1 / 3 / 4

the fic on ao3 and my twitter

[yamalegacy]

prompt eleven with mirko 😳

i've already done 11 with midnight but idc, i love buff bunny too much not to do it! and well, considering how it aligns with the godly possessive!rumi hcs, it's way too tempting anyway! so here goes!

prompt: #11 from this list  “I bet you think you’re real cute letting them put their hands all over you. We’ll see how cute you look later when I get you home.”

pairing: mirko (usagiyama rumi) x gn!reader

cw: SMUT. afab reader. rumi is a possessive bunny. brat!reader. dom/sub dynamic. hair pulling, spanking, dirty talking, slight degradation & praise kink (yes, both at the same time, don’t underestimate rumi), fingering, strapon, slight anal fingering. oh boy this really is the filthiest thing i’ve written in a loooong time.

word count: about 3,7k words WOPS I GOT CARRIED AWAY

⚠️ MDNI reminder for minors to not interact with this post ⚠️

   Your phone buzzes exactly seven minutes after you started a conversation with Keigo— he insists you call him Keigo, because Hawks is too professional and Takami is too formal, his own words. Seven whole minutes (yes, you’ve been keeping an eye on the time during the whole conversation). It’s over six minutes later than you’d expected, really. It buzzes again almost immediately, and you make a point to ignore your phone for a bit as you glance at Rumi, on the other side of the bar, over the rim of your glass.

When she arcs an eyebrow at you, visibly losing her patience, you give all your attention to Keigo again and offer him a smile before pulling your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check the messages you’ve no doubt received from the Rabbit Hero.

fluffy butt 🐇🤍

i bet you think you’re real cute letting him put his hands all over you we’ll see how cute you look later when i get you home

It’s almost disappointing how predictable she is with these things. Almost. Rumi is way too hot when she gets jealous for it to actually be disappointing. You want to remind her that she is the one who invited you to that bar and who left you alone to get drinks, that she is the one who got distracted by a conversation with Ryukyu, but you decide to leave her on read and see what happens.

From where you stand, you can see Rumi’s internal struggle not to just abruptly cut Ryukyu in the middle of what she is saying so that she can get right between you and Keigo. It’s quite the amusing sight, from her flattened ears to her thumping foot, her attitude reeks of frustration. You can’t help but wonder what will tick her off so much that she will intervene — Keigo has only touched you shoulder and given your arm a light squeeze and Rumi is already seething, so it seems likely just about anything would set her off.

“I can hear her thump from here,” Keigo comments, a lazy smile adorning his lips. “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to murder me yet.”

You chuckle at his words.

“I think she’s trying to see whether or not looks can kill.”

He leans closer to you (and you know it’s much too closer to Rumi’s standards because you can smell the minty alcohol on his breath), “I sure hope looks can kill. It’d be a lot less painful than her foot up my— well, wherever she fancies shoving it, I guess.”

You don’t even have time to give him a reaction that you can hear heavy footsteps approaching, so you lean away from Keigo just enough to properly look at your girlfriend as she marches over to you. It’s only now that she is right here that you notice she’s opened her leather jacket, revealing one of her favorite crop tops — black, sinfully tight and exposing just the right amount of cleavage and abs to make your mouth water. 

God, her skin always looks so tempting, you want to reach out, to put a hand on her waist, under her jacket, but she grabs you by the wrist before you can even try to move a muscle. Her eyes are fixed on you, and, to your surprise, she doesn’t even acknowledge Keigo.

“We’re leaving,” she says, her tone stern.

“Rumi... it’d be rude to leave so early,” you tell her, smiling at her with all the innocence you can muster (enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know you well), “and you are the one who wanted us to come here in the first pl—”

“We’re leaving. I remembered I have something to do.”

You want to push, to tease, to see how far she’ll go, so even if her tone leaves no room for argument, you open your mouth again.

“But you—”

“Now.”

She tugs are your arm and you follow as she takes a first few steps away from Keigo, only to turn around and face him.

“I hope you choke on your fucking feathers, birdy.”

“Always nice to talk to you, Usagiyama,” he simply smirks and gives her a small wave of his hand, “and I hope something,” he glances at you, “will enjoy getting done.”

Rumi doesn't give you any time to say goodbye to him, or to any of her hero friends, and she drags you out of the bar, heading straight for her car. She doesn't even let you register how forceful she is being that you've already been shoved in the passenger seat.

The ride home is short (too short; Rumi drives way too fast for a Pro Hero who is supposed to set an example for those around her) and awfully quiet. She didn't even look at you, didn't glance your way at least once like she usually does. Rumi's ears are still flattened in annoyance when she opens the door of her house to push you inside.

She kicks off her sneakers and takes off her leather jacket to leave it on the back of chair, then heads to the couch, sitting down nonchalantly, arms crossed under her chest in a way that pushes up her tits. All you can do is stare, unable to form a coherent thought as you settle down next to her.

“You had fun flirting with Big Bird, baby?” she asks, and the question would be innocent enough if you didn't know your girlfriend better.

You move so that you're facing Rumi on the couch, your knee bumping into a strong thigh — and maybe, for a moment, you get briefly distracted by the thought of these rippling muscles on either side of your head.

“Come on, Rumi, you know there was no actual flirting. We were just having fun.”

She leans closer to you, invading your personal space, face so close to yours that all you can see in the harsh coldness in her eyes. You barely have time to blink that one of her hands is at the back of your head, her grip on your hair surprisingly gentle.

“Oh, because you think I don’t know what little game you were playing with him there?” she is nearly snarling at you, and this time, her grip on your hair tightens, deliciously painful, and she tugs. “Why do you think I waited so long to grab you, uh?”

So, she knew? The whole time you spent talking with Keigo, flirting with him and allowing him to flirt to get a reaction from her, she knew? And it still didn't stop her from getting jealous and acting possessive in the middle of a bar, surrounded by numerous other Pro Heroes.

Her grip on your hair tightens once more and she brings you closer to her body.

"I just wanted to see how far you'd take your little game," she explains, words nearly spat through her gritted teeth. "But I couldn't take it anymore. You're mine, understood?" she asks, but the way she pulls at your hair clearly tells you that she expects no reply.

"I thought we agreed that I was my own person?" you smirk, even as she yet again tugs at your hair. "We said we don't own each other even if we're dating, didn't we?"

It is true, it's something you've talked about pretty early in your relationship together, after Rumi admitted that she could get jealous easily, but hated that she got jealous. It led to conversation about acting possessive during sex and marking, and you know that's what Rumi is going on about right now, and not some sort of ownership that she'd have over you because she is your girlfriend. But you can't help it, can't help wanting to push all her buttons and see what kind of punishment it earns you.

"You're playing smartass with me now, uh?"

She tugs at your hair again, forcing your head back slightly, but you hold eye contact, refusing to let her get the submission that she wants from you just now. You've already earned yourself a punishment, might as well make the most of it, right?

"I would never."

You smile innocently and bat your eyelashes at her, even if the pain tickling your scalp is starting to blur your sight.

She lets go of your hair without saying anything, and for just a second, you think she might be too annoyed with your act and drop the issue entirely to move on and do whatever she feels like doing for the rest of the night. But she wraps her strong fingers around your wrist and pulls, her free hand pressing harshly between your shoulder blades to push you down onto her lap, face into the couch cushion and ass up, perched over her thighs.

Well, shit.

The first spank comes unexpectedly fast and hard, you have no time to brace yourself for the impact, and your jeans do little to absorb the shock and the pain spreading through your cheek.

“Shit!” you groan through gritted teeth, trying your best not to get too loud, which is most likely exactly what Rumi wants right now.

“Got something to say, baby?” Rumi asks, and you can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Nope. All good,” you mumble.

A second slap comes, matching the first one in speed and strength, leaving your ass numb from the pain. If there’s one thing you can never expect from your girlfriend, it’s for her to go easy on you.

“All good, you said?”

“Yup,” you whimper pathetically, your voice having none of the bite you wish for. Two spanks, and Rumi already has you trembling over her lap, it’s ridiculous, but you should have seen it coming, really.

She spanks you again, twice, and takes the time to brush the palm of her hand over your sore cheeks, the gesture almost soothing. She repeats the movements again, and again, before stopping to give your ass a squeeze. With each spank, you pant, forcing yourself to swallow the moans that threaten to fall past your lips.

“You’re taking your punishment really well today, baby. Trying to be good for me?” she teases, her hand now comfortably lodged between your thighs, too close to your aching core and yet not nearly close enough.

“Or maybe you’re not hitting as hard as you think you are.”

You aren't sure why you said that, aren't sure what you're doing right now, all you know is that it's dangerous because you're just provoking Rumi — it's always a recipe for disaster in the end.

She doesn't spank you though, but she snakes a hand between her lap and your stomach, pressing her fingers into your skin and pushing up until you put your weight on your knees and lift yourself up enough for her to get access to the button of your pants. Rumi hooks her fingers at the hem of your jeans and tugs, dragging them down your thighs along with your underwear.

She doesn't give you time to adapt to the cool air against your exposed bottom, doesn't let you collect your thoughts or even take a breath, before she is spanking you again. She marks no pause between each strike, just spanks and spanks and spanks. Lost in the rapid fire of her assault on your sensitive ass, you can't stop yourself from moaning — and that's when she pauses.

“Did my baby just moan?”

You stubbornly refuse to respond, clenching your jaw. You know a spank is coming, but you still aren’t ready for the pain.

“It’s okay to admit that you’re just a slut, desperate for me to touch you,” she coos, her calloused fingers gently brushing the raw skin of your ass. “Even if I’m just spanking you, you want me to touch you, don’t you? Because you’re a needy little whore for me, uh?”

Her words cause a shiver to run down your spine, straight to your core, but you press your thighs together and bit your tongue. You’re well aware what she wants you to do, what she wants you to say, but you don’t want to give it to her today. You’ve decided to play, and you won’t back down just because she’s spanking your ass raw. At your stubborn silence, she all but growls in your ear, her annoyance obvious as she slaps your burning cheek once more.

“How long do you think you can resist, baby?” she asks as her fingers trace little patterns on your back, your shirt riding up as her hand slowly moves higher. “How long til you act like the good little slut you are for me?”

You muffle your whine in the cushion, which is starting to feel uncomfortably wet from your tears and drool under your cheek. You hate it, but you can’t give in now. Rumi would be too pleased.

“Just say you’re mine, baby, say you’re my perfect good little slut,” she says, her fingers trailing down your back to settle between your thighs, an inch from where you need her most, “just say it and I promise I’ll fuck your pretty cunt so good you won’t be able to walk.”

She runs a finger along your drenched fold, and you hear her hum in delight. You hate how wet she’s making you; you can’t deny that this is all for her, that it’s the effect she has one you. Met with only silence once again, Rumi harshly pinches your clit between her thumb and index finger.

“Aaah! Rumi—” you gasp, whole body quivering.

“Say it. Say you’re my slut. Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please,” you whimper weakly.

“Uh? What did you say? Didn’t hear you, baby. Stop hiding in the couch and gimme a proper sentence.”

You nearly sob as she tightens her grip on your clit before releasing it.

“I’m your slut! All yours!” you feel your whole face burning at your own word, at the desperation in your voice. “I need you to fuck me! Please... Mirko... please fuck me.”

She chuckles, all too amused to your liking.

“See? Ain’t so hard to be good, is it?”

Before you can register what’s happening, Rumi has hoisted you in her arms and thrown you over her shoulder and is making her way to your bedroom. Your pants still down the middle of your thighs and ass bared, it’s the most embarrassing ever but you can’t even find words to express it; you can feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, sticky and embarrassing.

She tosses onto the bed as soon as she is close enough to it.

“Be good and strip for me, baby. Take everything off.”

You hurry to obey, pushing your pants further down and kicking them off your feet before you start working on taking off your shirt. Rumi’s disappeared into the bathroom, so you sit patiently to wait for her, back leaning against the headboard.

When she comes back, Rumi is dressed, and you take the time to admire her beauty. The size of her strong arms obvious through the thin material of her long-sleeved crop top, the delicious expanse of tan skin of her stomach, her tight abs, the curve of her hips— you notice it only now, the thick bulge hidden under her jeans. You look up at her face, surprise written all over your features, and the smile she gives you is playful, she even wiggles her eyebrows at you.

Rumi unbuttons and unzips her pants, freeing the thickness of her strapon from them before climbing on the bed. She sits, legs spread, and beckons you closer with the simple movement of a finger.

“Suck it,” she demands, “get my cock nice and ready to fuck your cunt.”

You crawl over to her and wrap a hand around the hard silicone as soon as it’s within reach, your lips closing around its head. You circle it with your tongue, lick it, and look up at Rumi’s face, the dildo snug in your mouth. She can’t feel it, but she always enjoys when you put on a show for her.

Long gone is your little rebellious act from earlier. All you want is for Rumi to take you here and now, to have her fuck you until you pass out.

As you take more of the silicone cock into your mouth, she puts a hand on your head, and soon enough, you can feel her tight grip in your hair. You’re almost halfway when she tugs and pulls you away from her cock.

“Ass up. Face down. Now.”

You do as she orders, resisting the temptation to look up when you feel the bed dip next to you. You hear her open the drawer of the nightstand, then the sound of the lube bottle being opened. From the loud clang that follows, you know she’s thrown the bottle back in the drawer rather than bother putting it down.

Her fingers are cold when they press against your entrance, slick with thick lube that she spreads over your folds, over your clit, before pushing two fingers inside you. You grip at the sheets, low moan leaving your lips.

“Look at you, being all good for me now,” she comments, her tone teasing. “Taking my fingers so well.” This time, her voice comes from much closer, and you feel her chest pressing against your back. She kisses your neck and shoulders as she starts moving her fingers, slow and deliberate. “You want my cock, baby?”

You whimper at a particularly harsh thrust of her fingers and tighten your grip on the sheet to try and keep yourself anchored, balanced.

“Yes, please! I want your cock in me!”

She pulls out her fingers, and your cunt clenches around the emptiness. You can’t help but moan miserably. She coos above you, amused by your desperation, of course.

She pushes the thick head of the strapon against your hole, but instead of pushing further into you, she guides it up and down your folds, several time, painfully slow, spreading the slickness of your arousal mixed with the lube. You whine and push your hips back, seeking what she is refusing you. A big mistake, and you know it even before both her hands hit your ass, still raw from the spanking she gave you.

“Don’t try that again, baby,” she warns, squeezing the flesh of your in her hands as she presses the dildo against your entrance again. “You gonna be good for me now?”

“I promise I’ll be good! So, please, please fuck me!”

She pushes into you slowly, just the head, then pulls out and repeats the movement, carefully stretching you. She eases more of the strapon inside you with each move, and while you are grateful for how careful she is being, you wish she would just fuck you into the mattress already.

Finally, you feel her hips against your ass, and she pauses for a moment as her hands rest on your waist.

“You ready, baby?”

“I am.”

The pace she sets is fast, the movements of her hips quick, precise and harsh, almost unforgiving. The material of her pants feels rough against the sensitive skin of your ass, and you suspect Rumi of having kept her pants on merely to torture you that way.

Within seconds, Rumi has you panting and moaning.

“So good for me, taking my cock so well.”

She slows her quick pace to focus on deeper, more forceful thrusts. You can’t even form a coherent sentence, or even words, to respond. And when one of her hands leaves your waist, you clench your teeth and brace yourself for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead of spanking you, she is gentle as she places her hand on your ass. She doesn’t leave you time to consider asking her what she is doing that her thumb is pushing against your hole, and she keeps it set firmly in your ass as she quickens the pace again, fucking into your cunt ruthlessly, her hips slapping your ass with each thrust.

“Fuck! Mirko! Please!”

You’re babbling, unsure if the sounds that come out of your mouth are even the ones in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care when all you can feel is your girlfriend fucking you like your lives depends on it. And with each thrust bringing you closer to the edge, you moan, you mewl, you pant, you aren’t sure which, the lewd, wet noises of your pussy overwhelming your senses.

“Look at you, baby,” she croons, “being such a good slut for me, making such pretty noises just for me. So pretty and perfect. And all mine.”

“I’m so close! Please! I wanna come!”

She stills her hips, “then do,” she simply says, punctuating the short sentence with a strong thrust before resuming her quick pace.

It only takes a few more thrusts of her cock and her thumb pushing a little further into your ass for your muscles to clench desperately around her strap as waves of pleasure crash through your body, your limbs quivering from the unadulterated bliss clouding your mind. 

She is gentle as she pulls out, kisses your back as she eases you down onto the mattress and lies down next to you.

You turn your head to look at her, and she is grinning at you as you lay limply on the bed. She caresses your cheek, soft and loving, and shifts closer to kiss you on the nose.

“You did so good, babe,” she whispers, her smile only broadening, “I’m so proud of you.”

Feeling the exhaustion invade your body, you close your eye and focus on enjoying her gentle touch as she runs her fingers along your back and shoulders.

“Let’s get you in the shower in a few minutes, yeah? I’ll have to take care of your ass. I really got carried, sorry ‘bout that.”

You chuckle sleepily at her apology.

“Don’t be sorry, you know I liked it.”

“I do know. I mean, you fucking dripped on my pants, there’s still a spot on my thigh.”

You groan in embarrassment, and you would cover your face with your hands if your muscles weren’t still twitching from your orgasm.

“Just carry my lifeless body to the bathroom.”

“Gimme a break, I’m tired too. I fucking wrecked my hands spanking you so hard, ya know?”

“You really want to compare the state of your hands to my ass?” you mutter, frowning, eyes barely opening.

It’s her turn to chuckle.

“Yeah, okay, no. Just, lemme take a breathe and I’ll take care of my baby.”

[psychedellic-phase]

Fifteen (pt 15)

A/N: this went up at 11:45 and tumblr just deleted all the content soo sorry it’s a lil late! Final part will be up friday <3

wc: 5.0k

tw: cursing, vomiting, pregnancy, miscarriage all around angsty vibes

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Streets look strange at night, especially in the winter months. The air is eerily quiet, the roads are empty, and the ground beneath your feet is icy and cold. Streetlights are the only thing providing light, their bulbs old and flickering. 

That flickering light was Spencer’s only company as he waited for a taxi cab, rocking back and forth on his heels in a desperate attempt to release the nervous energy in his body. His hands were holding onto your box for dear life. The cold air bit at his fingers, but he didn’t mind. Letter fifteen stared up at him as he waited for the car to arrive. 

“Where are you off too?” The older man had said when Spencer got in, choosing to ignore the germs that were most definitely in the back seat. He was too distracted to think of the twenty other passengers who sat exactly where he sat earlier today. 

“Dulles international, please.”

“Where’re you flying to at this hour?”

Spencer cleared his throat, settling the box onto his lap, “Seattle.”

“Seattle?” the man said, voice gruff and strained as if he smoked a pack a day, “That’s a flight.”

“Five hours,” He said, “two thousand, seven hundred, eighty nine point one miles.”

“Like I said, a flight. What’s waiting for you in Seattle?” 

Spencer half smiled, looking up at the driver in the rearview mirror, “A girl.”

He smiled back, “It’s always a girl”

Spencer nodded, “Actually, it’s the girl.”

“The one that got away?” 

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Well good luck,” the driver said before the car went silent and Spencer’s thoughts were allowed to fill his head. 

The mixture of emotions in his gut were varied: excitement, anticipation, anxiety, stress, hope, fear. It all swirled around in him, leaving him nauseas. Somewhere during the night, the snow turned into rain, drops chasing each other down the window. Spencer stared at them, his forehead against the cool glass, city lights gleaming through streaks of rain that looked an awful lot like tears. 

He got out of the taxi, handing the driver a wad of cash, and made his way into the airport. He stared at the flight logs, seeing that his flight was already boarding. He cursed himself for not leaving more time. That seemed to be the general theme of his life; he always needs more time. 

He practically ran to security, contents of the box jangling and nearly spilling out. When he got there, he didn’t even want to hand it to the TSA agent. That box was yours. It was you, and him, and no one else deserved to know the contents. 

Except, apparently, this TSA agent, who only looked at him kind of funny when they scanned the contents and saw a stuffed animal. 

He shoved his shoes back on, jogging to the gate now. It was 11:34 and they’d stop boarding at 11:45. He couldn’t miss this. This was the one flight he couldn’t miss. After everything, he couldn’t mess this up too. He didn’t care how ridiculous he looked with his lanky arms and legs running through an airport at 11:34 at night. The only thing he cared about was the fact that if he missed that flight, he’d be missing you. This was it. The moment in every rom-com. The moment people write stories about. The moment people live their lives dreaming of having. 

This was his moment. 

He arrived at the gate at 11:43. Sweaty and out of breath, he shoved the boarding pass in the stewardess’s hands, impatiently tapping his foot as she scanned it. It was like she was doing it at an agonizingly slow pace just to torture him. 

“Enjoy your fli–“

He walked away before she could finish, finding his seat next to the window and flopping into it. The plane was quiet, the seat next to him vacant. But the box remained on his lap. He wasn’t going to put it down. He had to keep it, and you, close. 

The last time he was on a plane like this, a commercial flight, not the jet, he was running away from you. But now he was running towards you. The thought immediately made him begin to relax. He smiled, knowing that in five hours he would no longer be 2,789.1 miles away from you, he would be mere feet away from you. The thought was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. 

As the wheels left the ground, he suddenly realized that he had no plan. All he had was a box of memories, a rushed, confusing note, and an engagement ring he wasn’t even sure if he should use. 

What would he even say? What would he even do? He didn’t know where you lived, only where you worked. But would you even be working yet? You’d only just moved. And if you were working, was showing up at your job on your first day a good plan?

No. It was an awful plan, but it was the only one he had. He’d get there at eight. He’d wait in the lobby, not at your desk. He’d intercept you, beg you for five minutes of your time, and try to get it all across at once. 

It wouldn’t work. He just knew it wouldn’t. Maybe the elevator doors would open, you’d meet eyes, and then press the ‘close door’ button. Or maybe you’d grab him by the arm and yell at him, tell him he’s an idiot, have security escort him out. Or maybe he’d completely choke under the pressure of it all, and when he opened his mouth to speak no words would come out. He imagined every possible scenario, and it seemed that in almost none of them he’d ever get what he wanted. 

Except one. 

In one possibility, the elevator doors open, your eyes meet his and you both well up with tears. He holds his arms out, and you run into them and he holds you. He whispers ‘I love you’ into your ear, and you return the sentiment. You come home. Not to Virginia, but to the only home that you could ever know: him. 

He stared out the window, city lights disappearing as they climbed. His hands fidgeted with letter fifteen, but he knew he couldn’t do it here. He couldn’t do it at midnight, seven miles in the air, in a place full of people who didn’t know him and wouldn’t understand. 

The letter stayed closed as the stewardess lowered the lights in the cabin, Spencer’s eyelids following suit. 

For the first time in months he slept soundly, knowing that the next time he opened his eyes, it would be to see you. 

———

The air in Seattle is different. It’s cleaner, fresher, more temperate, but as Spencer left the plane he found it almost impossible to breathe. 

He was here, in this place, in your place, even after you hold him not to. That dreadful feeling of 

regret formed in his stomach quickly, but he shook it away. 

He wasn’t going to regret this. He couldn’t regret this. He’d only regret not trying. 

If he thought the streets were quiet at midnight, they were even quieter at two thirty in the morning. Spencer hadn’t counted in the time change when he scheduled his flight; he just knew he needed to be there as fast as possible. And now here he was, five hours closer to you and somehow still three hours away. 

It was a blessing in disguise. Instead of having three hours before seeing you in the lobby at eight am, he’d now have six and half. Six and a half hours to plan, to think, to find all the words he needs to say and remember them. 

But the minute his eyes saw the California king bed, he succumbed to the exhaustion that no amount of sleep could ever shake. 

He stripped his clothes off and crawled into the bed, passing out cold before he could even begin to think. 

————

The sound of his alarm woke him up too early, around five am. He groaned, making his way into the shower to stand under the scalding water. He stayed there for a while, begging his brain to make coherent sentences that used all the right words. He didn’t find them. He knew every word in the english lexicon, and no combination of them could ever express to you how sorry he really was. “I’m sorry” wouldn’t be enough. “I miss you” wouldn’t be enough. “I love you” wouldn’t be enough. No words, no actions, nothing could ever be enough to erase the past. 

He stayed there until his skin was shriveled and bright pink, sore and burnt. The feeling was welcome; it matched the soreness in his chest. 

He got out, and he checked his phone, which was at a higher than usual 50%. He saw seven messages from JJ and two from Hotch.

There was a case.

He groaned, “Not today.”

He didn’t come this far only to run back to the safety of his job. He didn’t come this far to prioritize his career over you; not again. 

He debated who to call for a moment. Hotch was who he was supposed to call to ask for days off, but he wouldn’t understand why he was in Seattle. JJ would be the voice of reason and tell him he was being a fool, tell him to come home; that it wasn’t worth it. The only person who really knew why he was doing what he was doing was Derek. 

“You better have a damn good reason for calling me at eight on a Sunday, Reid,” Morgan spoke, voice hoarse and sleepy. Spencer had woken him up.  

“You should be up anyway. There’s a case.”

Morgan groaned, “Really?”

“Yeah, really, and I need you to tell Hotch that I won’t be in for a few days.”

“Won’t be in? Why?”

Spencer paused for a moment, opening up the curtains and looking out at the city skyline in front of him, “Because I’m in Seattle.”

He heard Derek shift, and his voice go high in confusion, “Seattle? Reid, what’re you? Crazy?”

Spencer shrugged, “I think I might be.”

He wasn’t lying. 

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna go, that she told you not to,” Derek’s voice showed the concern he had for both of his friends right now. His concern for Spencer’s well-being and his concern for your sanity. He knew you were both being reckless, and it was going to get dangerous. People were going to keep getting hurt, and hurt, and hurt, and he’d have to keep picking up the pieces. 

“I don’t know how she’s gonna react to this kid.”

“You don’t think she’ll be happy?” Spencer knew this was a shot in the dark, the probability of a happy ending already so low. But if Derek confirmed his fears, the probability would be nearly zero. 

“I talked to her yesterday, Reid.”

“You did? When?”

Derek sighed, “After I left you.”

“What’d she say?” His voice was high and scared. 

“She said to make sure that you were okay. And to make sure that you didn’t get on a plane to Seattle. And what did you do? You got on a damn plane to Seattle.”

Spencer sighed, “I have to at least try, Morgan. Can you blame me for that? I have things I need to say to her.”

“And if she doesn’t reciprocate?”

Spencer gnawed on his lip, “Then I’ll fly back and leave her alone.”

“Good, you cannot keep torturing yourself like this, Reid. You can’t keep torturing her like this.”

“I know, I know. Just, tell Hotch I’m gone. Don’t tell him where or why, I don’t need anyone else to get wrapped up in this.”

Derek sighed, “Okay, but be careful Reid.”

“I’ll be fine,” He lied, and hung up the phone before Derek had a chance to respond. 

He stared at the city as the sun rose. His mind was stuck six months in the past, remembering what you felt like under his hands as you slowly danced in the morning light. For the first time in a long time, it was sunny. He opened the blue, velvet box and allowed the light to refract through the diamond, painting the walls in colors he hadn’t seen in far too long. The brightness of it all washed over him and he closed his eyes. He felt warm.

The hours ticked by at an agonizingly slow rate, the words he desperately needed still escaping him. Once the sun shifted and stopped beating onto his face, he checked his watch and saw that it was finally time to go to you. 

In addition to the time, the leather watch from letter three displayed the date. 

February seventeenth. 

Your due date. 

The jitters in his hands and eagerness in his chest melted away into a deep misery. 

He tried to see it as a sign, even though he doesn’t quite believe in it. The universe picked this specific day for a reason. It was the day your lives were supposed to change dramatically, and he was going to make sure of that. One way or another. 

He walked with the box in hand to the field office. He didn’t know why he brought it, just that he felt like he needed it. If for no other reason than that it was comforting to hold. It felt heavy in his hands, as if it was the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. 

He found the building easily and walked in. His eyes scanned the main lobby in search of you, but no one in the sea of faces was you. He made his way to the elevator, took a deep breath in, and pressed ‘up.’ 

For some reason he wasn’t nervous anymore. It was more like an adrenaline rush, his heart pounding out of excitement rather than fear. 

The elevator doors opened, reminiscent of the last time he was in an elevator like this one, and he let the doors close. This time, they opened and he was met with a bullpen that looked oddly familiar, but somehow still completely new. He’d been there before. He knew what the offices looked like, but now he was looking for more than where the coffee was or where the conference room was. He was looking for exactly where you’d fit into this place. Where was the missing puzzle piece that you’d perfectly fit into?

The only place he could think of was in him. You’d fit perfectly in the you-shaped hole in his heart. 

The doors started to close, and he stuck his arm out to stop them. He held the box firmly under his arm as he made his way out of the elevator. He looked up to where he knew your office would be. 

He just stood there, in front of the elevator doors, watching strangers who would become your friends mill around.

It felt like he was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. It felt wrong. So, so wrong. 

“Dr. Reid?” He heard from behind him, and the shock of his name made him turn around. 

“Hi!” The man said to him, “I wasn’t aware the BAU was coming today. What case are you working on?”

“Uh, no,” He said, turning back around and looking for you, “No, no case.”

“Well, then can I ask why you’re here?” 

“Y/N,” He whispered, and your name felt funny on his tongue, “I-I’m here for Y/N.”

He turned back to the man, “Y/L/N?”

Spencer nodded. 

The man checked his watch, “She’ll be here any minute. I can show you to her office if you’d like.”

The plan was already going awry. He didn’t want to sit at your desk, your coworkers’ prying eyes watching him, but it seemed he had no other choice. Silently, Spencer followed him, the anticipation in his body bubbling up. His heart was pounding as he got closer and closer to the moment. His moment. 

“You worked with her, right?” 

Spencer nodded, “Yeah, for about five years.” 

He wanted to say he did more than just work with you. He wanted to say that he didn’t just know you, he loved you. Loves you. 

Spencer sat in the seat facing your desk, the man behind him saying something, but the blood rushing in his ears drowned him out. The door clicked shut behind him, and he looked at the empty space. He stared at the desk. It was empty, spare a few files that had already been placed there, awaiting your attention. How would this be your desk now? Your desk was adjacent from his. Your desk was covered in post-it notes and reminders and picture frames and trinkets. Your desk was the exact right place for him to stare at you, and it not be weird. Your desk was where he’d hand you coffee. Your desk was where he fell in love. 

Your desk was at Quantico. 

Not here. 

He shifted the box on his lap, hearing the contents jangle around. That jangle had become his favorite song. He reached in and grabbed your name plate, from your desk two thousand miles away, and placed it on your desk right in front of him. 

The titles weren’t right, but the feeling was. If that desk was to be yours; it should look like it. 

He straightened it out, restraightened it, then straightened it again. The adrenaline had died down and his nerves were getting the better of him, his hands shaky and clammy. He felt like he might throw up. 

He had a plan that was viciously underdeveloped, and feelings that were too complicated to articulate. What was he even going to say? Hand you the letter? Why did he bring the ring? Why did he bring the box? How did he let himself end up here? 

He started to spiral, his brain making its way down a twisty, dark, rabbit hole. 

He found his hands the only place that seemed to center him lately, on a letter. 

The last letter. The final letter. The letter with “15” written across it. The letter he never wanted to open, because then that would really mean it was the end. 

It taunted him. He played with the seal, debating whether or not it should just wait; you’d be in front of him in fifteen minutes. 

But what if there were things in there he needed to know? What if there was some secret, hidden in the words that he’d need for this moment?

He tore the seal open and slipped out the final, tear stained letter. 

“Welcome to your fifteenth and final letter, Spencer Reid. So far you have read how we fell in love, and how we fell apart. I hope you enjoyed the roller coaster of emotions. I hope you enjoyed reliving the last three years of your life: the good, the bad, the heartbreaking. I know I enjoyed looking back at all the items. I enjoyed looking back at us, remembering why I fell for you in the first place, but also remembering why we fell out. 

But that’s just it; we’re in the past. And that’s okay. I want you to know that that’s okay. I’m okay with it, I am. But just because I’m okay with it doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. God, I miss you. I think I’ve missed you from the day that we first met. I think some part of me has always missed you, even before I ever set my eyes on you. And I think I’ll miss you forever, a piece of my soul and being belongs to one Spencer Reid. Take care of that piece, will you? 

There isn’t much to say in this letter. There’s no exact memory or point I’m trying to get across. There’s nothing left to say. I think I’ve said it all; I think I’ve said enough. 

Except one thing. 

The last thing I have to share with you, are the last two items in this (hopefully) now empty box. I’m sure you’re confused about them, so let me explain. 

I had them made for when she’d be born. In September I sent two spoons that we always ate our ice cream with to a blacksmith, and he melted them down and forged two rings.”

Spencer dug through the contents until he found the two rings. He delicately held the two matching silver bands between his fingers, one much bigger than the other. They were thin, a pewter gray color, and the inside of each one simply said, “home.”

He started to choke up, right then and there in your office. The one clearly meant for him slid down his ring finger easily, the one made for you stayed in his palm. It felt right, like the only reason he had hands was to wear that ring. 

“One for me, and one for you. I had them engraved with ‘home’, because you were my home, and I was yours. 

They were supposed to be symbols of our “union,” I guess. I’m not really sure what my intention was, I just knew that if we were parents, I wanted us to be bound together. Of course we’d be bound by our daughter, but I wanted something more. What I really wanted was to marry you. But these weren’t supposed to be wedding rings, but they also weren’t supposed to be nothing. I guess kind of like promise rings? I don’t know. Looking back on it, it was stupid. 

I forgot about them until they showed up in the mail a week ago. I took them out, put mine on, and it felt weird. It felt right, like it was meant to go on my right ring finger. But it also felt wrong because there was no birth to give them to you after, there was no special day to commemorate anymore. It felt wrong because you didn’t have the matching one on yours. It felt wrong because ‘home’ wasn’t you anymore. 

It was just, so, so wrong. 

I don’t know what you want to do with these, but you deserve to know that they exist. You deserve to know that I wanted to spend every day of my life with you. You deserve the world, Spence, you deserve more than this life has given you. You deserve more than I could’ve ever given you. You deserve the kind of happiness that makes your face hurt because you can’t stop smiling. You deserve the kind of love that makes your heart burst every time you see your person, the kind that spreads through your whole body and you literally cannot contain it. 

I had that. My love for you is the kind people write stories about, the kind that no love song can ever hold a candle to. The kind that’s all consuming. 

All-consuming. That’s you, to me, in two words. I lost myself somewhere in between the beginning and the end of us. You became part of me. And for a while, that was okay. I didn’t mind that half of my soul lived in your body, because when we were together, I was whole. 

But now parts of my soul still live in you, and I’m afraid I’ll never get them back. A piece of me will always feel like it’s missing, a piece that you and our baby took with you when you left. A piece that I will never get back, and I like to believe it’s a piece you’ll always be missing too. 

I guess that same missing piece is what makes us forever cosmically connected. 

And you know what? I think I’m okay with that. I hope you are too.”

‘No,’ he thought, ‘No, I’m not okay with that. I need to be connected to you in reality. I need to be connected to you here. I need you.’

“And I know it may seem like since I told you I still love you, and that I always will, that I want you to come back. 

I don’t.”

He was sure his heart stopped momentarily, panic immediately setting in. 

“I mean it Spence, I mean it. Don’t come. Don’t play the hero. Don’t be stupid. Don’t act out a scene from a romance movie. Don’t buy a plane ticket and come and try to get me back, because  I’m too far gone. We’re too far gone. Just please, if you do one last thing for me in this life, don’t come.

Please, I know you’ll want to. You don’t know how bad I want you to, but you just can’t. I don’t know what I’ll do if I see your face. I don’t know if I could bear it. I think I may completely fall apart. 

That, or I’ll see you I’ll fall right back in love, like nothing ever happened. I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for anything. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. 

And I know we’ll meet again someday, but that day isn’t today. That day isn’t tomorrow. That day isn’t next week. That day is far in the future, when the nature of our jobs unwillingly forces us together. I find comfort in the fact that I will learn to exist without you before that day. I need to learn to exist without you. I need to learn to exist without her. I need to learn who I am. 

Before I finish this last, short, tear stained letter I just want you to leave you with this:

You are a good man, the best man, and the world is a better place with you in it. Never stop being you. You are the most infuriating, headstrong, intelligent, determined, and spectacular person I’ve ever met. I was lucky that I got to spend a portion of my time on earth with you. It was an honor to love you, it IS an honor to love you, and it was an honor to be loved by you. 

These two rings represent the future we never got to have. A life that the parallel universe versions of us are enjoying. A life that I want, so bad, but will never have. 

I’m sorry, I love you, and I mean it. 

Xo. 

Y/N” 

He stared at the paper, his tears smudging the ink beyond recognition. 

“If you do one last thing for me in this life, don’t come.”

He cursed himself for waiting to read it. He should’ve read it before he got on the plane. He should’ve read it before he impulsively bought plane tickets. 

He shouldn’t have come. It didn’t matter how badly he wanted it, because you didn’t, and you’d always come before him. He dropped your ring back in the box, his still on his hand as he wiped away hot tears. He swiped the name plate off the desk, leaving it as bare and empty as when he got there. 

He stood and walked towards the door, before feeling the letter rustle in his pocket. He paused, grabbed it out, and hurriedly dropped it on the desk. 

He needed you to know that he came, but he also knew you couldn't see him. He needed you to know that he tried. He needed you to know how he feels. He needed you to know that you both had the same idea; you both wanted to spend every day of your lives together. He needed you to know that, even though you told him not to, he’d always be waiting for you. He’d respect your wishes of not seeing him, because he knew you were right. Both of you would just fall apart at the sight of the other. You were right the whole time. This isn’t healthy. This isn’t normal. Sane people don’t buy one way tickets. Sane people don’t drop everything to move across the country. 

Both of you were completely insane to think that in any universe, parallel or not, this would ever work. 

He stumbled out of the room, brushing past the inquiring faces and finding his way to the elevator. He couldn’t help but see the painful irony in him getting in another one to run away from you, but his finger wouldn’t stop pressing the down button. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” he whispered while simultaneously praying to whatever Gods exist that when those doors opened it wouldn’t be you. It was taking too long. He needed to be out of that suffocating place. He ran to the stairwell, practically fumbling down every step until he was out an exit door. 

He didn’t remember when it started to pour rain, but it made sense. This wasn’t day wasn’t meant to be sunny, it was meant to be dark gray with rolling thunder and lightning strikes. 

When he passed the threshold, ice cold rain immediately hit his entire body, soaking the letters and contents of your box. Soaking him to the bone. Soaking whatever was left of your lives. 

He pulled at his tie, desperately needing to breathe. The regret was suffocating him, and he couldn’t identify it’s source. Was it regret for coming? Or regret for walking out, again?

He stared up at the sky and he yelled. He screamed, all the pent up energy, all the despair and anger he had been holding his body leaving all at once through one horrific scream. 

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?” 

He half expected the sky to answer him, tell him to go back in there or tell him to go to hell. 

But it didn’t. 

What he got back instead was much more valuable, instantly calming him down.

It’d only been two days, and he missed the sound so much that hearing it brought tears to his eyes. 

“Spencer?” 

It was you.

-------

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[willowdove]

Matthais Helvar Meta

I just got done with the Six of Crows duology (Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom) and I feel like I have to get my thoughts all out on a page.  SPOILERS AHEAD, do not read if you don't want to be spoiled.  Also apologies for misspellings, I listened to the audiobook.

Oh Matthais.  I have a lot of feelings about Matthais.  On the one hand, "'My ghost won't associate with your ghost,' Matthias said primly" is the funniest line in both books. 

But, speaking as a woman of Jewish heritage, his Nazi analogue diatribes could be very difficult to get through.  Even though I liked his voice actor the most out of the bunch, I didn't always feel comfortable with what he as a character had to say.  I do appreciate that it takes time for people who have fallen into hateful ideologies to unlearn them, but it got to be overwhelming and exhausting to be in his head.  Especially after he had fully changed sides and embraced his love for Nina.  I didn't need him to constantly push down his bigoted opinions every other page.  

Also, in the beginning, the way he talked about his dreams of Nina?  How he thought about hunting and killing her, or kissing and bedding her, and either way she was docile and subservient and let him do it, wanted him to do it? Made my skin crawl.  It felt incredibly fetishistic and gross and I did NOT want to root for the romance that was clearly brewing.  (Also, why was Nina always mooning over him in the beginning? I know they had a history, but.  Him returning to loathing her and other Grisha with his entire being should really have been an instant turn off.)

Still, in the end there were enough good moments between him and Nina, and enough change in Matthais's internal monologue, that I warmed up to him as a character and to the pairing.  I am generally a sucker for an enemies to lovers trope, and even though this particular one was a hard ask, it did get to me.  He and the crew had such great banter; he was such a pillar of strength to them. And he adored everything about Nina.  He was always looking out for her, always there for her when she needed him.  They ended up so soft with each other, so openly affectionate, and that was refreshing to see in a genre where the romance usually only gets as far as the first kiss.  The way he helped Nina through her Perem addiction, and comforted her with his new understanding of his faith was beautiful. “Perhaps Jel extinguished one flame and lit another” nearly ended me, because here he was offering back the understanding and acceptance she had first given to him in a moment where she could no longer understand and accept herself.  I had been so devastated in Six of Crows when it seemed like he had turned cloak and given her up to the Druskelle.  Speaking of...

WHY DID BARDUGO GIVE MATTHAIS A REAL GRUDGE AGAINST GRISHA?!  When you are talking about genocide, the framing should never include a "but they had it coming actually for this reason".  I frankly don't care if it makes Matthais more sympathetic that Inferni burned down his farm, if it gives the conflict between Ravka and Fjerda more complexity- this part of it was not a war story where we should see that there was a human cost to both sides.  It was a genocide story, and genocides are not caused by real grievances perpetuated by the victimized groups, they are caused by irrational fear and scapegoating.  It should have been respected as such.

Now, with all that said, you might think that I am glad that in the end, Matthias died.  NO!  I am blindingly angry that Matthais died.  First of all, he didn't have to.  I didn't add anything to the story.  I've seen a lot of meta discussing that oh, well, out of everyone, he had to die because he's not a minority.  And yes I can agree, we are glad that bury your gays and fridge your women was not happening here.  But why did ANYONE have to die?  For realism?  While the crew pulled off some ridiculous stunts, I think Inej getting knifed and Nina suffering with Perem addiction and altered powers, and Kuwei needing to have his heart restarted with LIGHTNING was enough to prove that it wasn't without risk.  So no, I don't think it was needed for realism.  Therefore, it had to have been included to serve the end of his character arc.  But second of all, he made Nina promise to f8$()Q@&% go to Fjerda and de-radicalize his old comrades.  And that is so beyond the pale I can barely even.  Coherently say that IT IS NOT THE JOB OF A VICTIMIZED GROUP TO DE-RADICALIZE THE PEOPLE COMMITTING GENOCIDE AGAINST THEM.  IT IS NOT THE JOB OF A VICTIMIZED GROUP TO PROVE THAT THEY DESERVE TO LIVE.  That was f3&8@#&*^ Matthias's job, and he got to take the easy way out of doing it.

He should have been able to keep calling Nina endearments and holding her close.  He should have been able to go to Ravka and really get to know and respect HER culture the way she did his.  He should have been able to show Druskelle another path simply by being, but perhaps also by marching back to Fjerda and DEMANDING a new path.  He should have had a future where he had to live with his sins, like Pekka Rollins got to.  Matthais could have done so much more, and I wish we could have seen it.

[forever-rogue]

Whiskey takes medical leave due to a bad injury during a mission. Either he has to hire someone to be an assistant while he recuperates, or his lady friend offers to stay over and help out.

I hope you enjoy ;)

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Jack,” you sighed at the man as he tried to climb out of the bed for the umpteenth time, rubbing a hand over your tired face. Taking care of him had to be as bad as taking care of a child, if not worse. He ignored as he sat on the edge of the bed and let out a long, heavy groan. You knew he hated this, hell you hated it too. It wasn’t like him to need help and he rarely accept any, usually preferring to help others.

But this time was different. This time he was the injured one.

“You know I can’t stand to just sit around and do nothing,” he turned to look at you with an unreadable expression in his eyes. Was it anger? Self pity? Annoyance?

“I know, Jack,” you went to his side and put your hands gently on his broad shoulders, trying to get push him back into the bed, “but right now, you need to do just that. Doctor’s orders.”

“Was he even a real doctor, though?” he asked as you rolled your eyes at him. Reluctantly he obliged and laid back against the pillows, his lips drawn into a pout. You would have laughed at his ridiculousness if you hadn’t felt so bad for him.

“Jack, don’t be a grade a dick,” you raised an eyebrow as you tied up your hair, his eyes locked onto you. Your relationship with Jack was…interesting. It had started off as a completely out of the blue one night stand for the both of you, but that had quickly blossomed into a friendship, rather than a sexual relationship. Funny, you had always supposed, how these things ended up working out.

But you were almost inseparable now, always spending time together when he wasn’t on missions. You were okay with being friends, although you wouldn’t have minded more; but you weren’t about to pressure him like that. You knew it must have killed him internally to have to ask you for help. But he figured it was either you, or some random hired help to assist, and he’d much rather have your pretty face around.

“Darlin’, you know I’m just playing around,” you shrugged your shoulders at his response before grabbing the warm mug of tea and handing it to me, “I appreciate all your help, I hope you realize that.”

“I know,” you gave him a wink before sitting down at the edge of the bed, reaching for the cup you had made yourself, “you know I’d do anything for you, Jack. Even if you’re going to be a big whiny baby. Don’t you want to get better quickly?”

“Of course-”

“Then stop trying to fight me on everything and listen to what I’m telling you, cowboy,” you tried to be as firm as possible, but instead he just laughed a little, his dark eyes crinkling in the corners, before it turned into a cough, “apparently no laughing is allowed.”

“This is going to be miserable,” he sighed and you nodded, “but at least I’ve got such a pretty little peach helping me out. Oughta have me back and better than ever in no time.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to flirt with me, you old fool,” you snorted into your tea before setting it back down and reaching for his hand. You examined it closely, tracing a finger along the scratches and marks, as if willing for them to magically heal. He remained silent for a moment as he tried to read your expression.

“Is it working?” he asked after a few beats of silence as you bit your lip before meeting his eyes. It was hard to give him an answer - was it working? Yes. Should it have been working? Probably not. You were supposed to be just friends, but he always made it a little more difficult. Something about that sweet southern lilt and his damned brashness made it hard to deny your feelings for him. You gave him a small smile before patting his hand and setting back down.

“Do you want it to be?” you posed in return, trying to figure out where the two of you stood. You weren’t necessarily opposed to being more than friends, but didn’t want to push your boundaries either. But hell, the man already knew you inside out.

“Of course,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. You tried your best to hide the smile and that was threatening to break your face in half, knowing you were doing a horrible job. You tried to keep your head down, so he wouldn’t see your flushed face, but Jack was faster, putting a hand under your chin and turning your face up so you were looking at him, “if that’s okay with you. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“We fucked within hours of meeting each other,” you almost laughed, “a little flirting is definitely not going to make me uncomfortable.”

“I always have loved your boldness,” he admitted, “looks good on you. You were never like the other girls, never afraid to speak your mind.”

“Someone has to put you in your place,” you raised an eyebrow at him, putting your hand on his wrist, and pulling his hand away from your face, “but before you say anything you don’t mean, I’ll stop you here. I’m sure all the painkillers and everything else must be kicking.”

“I’m right as rain,” he insisted, “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“Mhmm,” you tutted at him as you stood up and crossed your arms over you chest, “we’ll give it a few days. If you’re still feeling the same way once your better and off of all the painkillers, we’ll talk about it. But until then, you need to rest and listen to me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he promised, tipping an imaginary hat at you. You chuckled at him before brushing a few dark locks out of his face, “I’ll be the best patient that anyone could ever have.”

“Somehow I have my suspicious,” you knew the chances of him just going along with everything you told him to do were slim to none, “now, why don’t you tell me exactly how you got into this position. And please, don’t leave out any details. I love hearing about your little spy missions.”

“Little spy missions?!” he clutched as at his heart as gave you a dramatic look, “I’m out here trying to save the world and here you are wounding my heart so.”

“Okay, okay,” you held up your hands in surrender as you sat back down on the edge of the bed, “I’m sorry, Agent Whiskey, please tell me in full detail how you managed to get these injuries in what was no doubt a heroic manner.”

“Okay, now you’re just being a brat,” his smirk was undeniable as you just shrugged innocently.

“Isn’t that what you like?” you teased with a raised eyebrow. Even if his little confession had come from a pain killer induced stupor, you figured that you might as well play along with it. What was life without a little fun, after all?

“You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

»»————-　♡　————-««

The next week and a half passed with relative ease. Jack had taken to listening to you, knowing that you were right and that if he wanted to get back into the field he should listen to you. You kept him company almost every minute of the day, and it got to the point where you were spending your nights in bed with him, tucked into his side as he dozed off, sleeping better than he had in months, despite the injuries. You liked a lot too; you just weren’t sure if you wanted to admit that to yourself or him just yet. Waking up, tangled with him in the mornings had become an intimate, almost sacred experience.

But, like all good things, your time as Jack’s pseudo-nurse had to come to an end. Unfortunately it came a lot sooner than you would have liked.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked as he found you staring out of his bedroom window and into the large expanse of his backyard. You shook your head as you were pulled out of your thoughts, finding him standing next to you, “come on, darlin’, I can practically hear the gears turning in your head. You’ve never been one for such silence.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, doing your best to avoid his eyes.

“Hmm…”

“You’re doing a lot better,” you remarked, amazed by how quickly all of his various injuries had healed. You had no doubt that whatever drugs he had gotten from the doctors at work weren’t exactly hospital standard, but somehow enhanced, “you really don’t need me for much anymore.”

“You’ve been a good helper,” he remarked, putting an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in for a side hug, “I have no doubt that such a speedy recovery would not have been possible without you.”

You gave him a soft smile as you tried your best not to get too lost in his touch, “I guess I’d better get going on home then. You don’t have a need for me anymore.”

“Don’t say it like that,” he chuckled, “I always need you, you’re my best friend, and closest confidant.”

“But you don���t need me here, to help you,” you reminded him.

“Sure I do,” he insisted, “do you remember what we talked about last week?”

Of course you did. It was burned into your mind.

“Remind me,” you said quietly as turned to face you.

“I remember saying something about flirting with you,” he said as you felt your heart start to race a little, “and wondering if you wanted me to you. And you insisted that it was all due to the painkillers.”

“And?”

“And it wasn’t,” he beamed at you, “and I’m still wondering if it’s okay to flirt with you. Because, darlin’, as much as I like being your friend, I’d like to be a little more than your friend…I don’t know how else to tell you, so I figured I’d just tell you straightforward. But, please, if I’m overstepping my boundaries at all, let me know. The last thing I want to do is to make you uncomfortable.”

“Jack…” organizing your thoughts in a coherent phrase was a lot harder than you had anticipated and you opened and closed your mouth a few times like a fish out of water.

Deciding that you weren’t going to be able to phrase anything too well, you put your hands on either side of his face before crashing your lips onto his, taking care not to aggravate any of his remaining injuries. It had didn’t long for him to reciprocate the feelings, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pulled you as close to him as possible. Only when you were desperate for some air did you pull back from him, beaming at him like he was everything you could ever want.

“I don’t think some flirting will make me uncomfortable,” you grinned at him, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time…again anyways.”

“Well, darlin’, I’ve been wanting the same thing,” he reassured, “so maybe…you could stay a while longer. There’s no reason for you not to, and I’ve got the space, and you know there are still things I could use help with, and it’s-”

“Jack, you’re rambling,” you cut him off with a quick kiss, which quieted him right up, “but yes. I’ll stay. I’d love to.”

[cruelfeline]

Well. It’s been a week and a half. I think I’ve recovered enough to put my feelings into coherent order. Maybe. So: Hordak’s reformatting.

I sobbed. Hard. Not at first, mind you. I’d prepared myself, you see? I knew it was going to be bad when he reunited with Prime. I expected humiliation, both emotional and physical. I expected cruel dismissal. I was ready for ridicule, beatings, jailing: the standard fare. I’m an incorrigible pessimist; I expected the worst.

But I didn’t know he could do that. I didn’t know that anyone could do that to Hordak. I didn’t know you could just.. just reach in and violate him like that. I didn’t know! I didn’t know that... that that horror was a possibility. That that was something that Hordak was risking.

But it just emphasizes how sick, how desperate Hordak is inside, doesn’t it? He must have known that this could happen. He knew his brother, what he was capable of. He knew, yet he prostrated himself and begged and pleaded and tried so hard to win that coveted favor back.

Look at this. Look at this goddamned mess. He’s wounded from the fight with Catra, suffering without the crystal properly powering his armor, not even able to stand, but he tries. He tries to convey his effort, tries to convey how hard he’s toiled to gain back this esteem he needs so badly. And it’s just nauseating to watch.

I know what he’s been through. Y’all know what he’s been through. The isolation, the chronic pain, the years of failures eating away at his meager self-confidence. The loss of Entrapta. We know how arduous it has been, how it’s culminated in this one desperate attempt to plead his case, and it’s nauseating to watch because while he’s on his knees, Horde Prime is just... unmoved.

Clean, cold, disinterested. Detached. For all of Hordak’s pained effort to impress, to make that connection, Horde Prime treats him like a passing curiosity, a little oddity to casually examine before ultimately deciding it unworthy. 

The juxtaposition of them is so jarring: Prime calm and impeccably groomed and nonchalant, Hordak a scruffy, bedraggled mess, positioned like a prisoner, like Glimmer, rather than like a proud general returning home. And it just gets worse as Hordak continues, as Prime starts to chafe at actions Hordak clearly did not have his permission to take.

This is where it really distresses me, friends and neighbors: this moment when Hordak truly realizes that he’s made a grave error, that Horde Prime sees his efforts not as faithful tribute but as repulsive heresy. The moment he starts to back-pedal, proclaim his devotion more and more frantically. This is where his eyes go wide, and he starts to tremble, and you can feel his heart start to race, panicked and thudding. I often wonder if he has an arrhythmia because of his condition and if he’s fighting syncope right now fighting to stay stable while pleading This is where the desperation peaks, because he knows what’s coming, doesn’t he? He knows what Prime can do. You and I are about to learn, friends and neighbors, but he knows.

He knows that Prime can violate him in a way none of us on this here planet Earth can fathom, because we can’t be plugged into, our minds read like ragged open books. But he can. He can sense the danger, sense the final crumbling of everything he’s worked for, the futility of his pleading. He can feel those vulgar hands on his face, caressing and probing, a warning of what’s to come. He knows what can happen, what’s going to happen, yet he can’t move away. He’s too wounded and too... too devoted. Too dependent. Those hands, that voice, that awful man are all his undoing, but he needs that deceptive touch.

And this is the moment where I honestly don’t see how people can’t understand what Hordak is, how they can continue to think him a simple imperial warlord. How can they think that when he’s brought himself to this? How could they think that when he could have just stayed on Etheria. He could have taken it over. He could have ruled unchallenged, millions of hapless victims at his feet, the most powerful man on a magical planet bent entirely to his will. He could have done that. He could have just not built that portal. He could have... he could have been that supposed warlord.

He could have been with Entrapta. We know now that he loved her, loved her enough that, for a time, this sick devotion to Prime had waned, and he might have even broken free. He could have stayed on Etheria, hidden from his brother, ruling all with Entrapta by his side.

Instead, he’s a miserably terrified, shaking wreck, doomed to destruction by this narcissistic horror, because it was never about ruling anything. It was always about filling that internal emptiness with the only thing that mattered: brother’s esteem. Brother’s pride. Perhaps brother’s equivalent of love.

But brother feels no such thing, appreciates no such thing, cares for no such thing. Brother, apparently, doesn’t believe his lesser siblings should have the free will, the gall, to do anything that he hasn’t personally approved. Our dear brother Horde Prime sees Hordak’s dedicated efforts and toil as an abomination. And so, we get to watch what Hordak was desperately trying to avoid: his erasure.

So that’s it. That’s the scene. What did I get from it?

I got the ultimate confirmation that, rather than being the warlord instigator of Etherian conquest, Hordak is a hollow, suffering thing so desperate for his progenitor’s validation, that he will march himself straight to his own death to get it. I got the knowledge that all of the misery on Etheria stems not from territorial ambition, but from deep pain.

And I got tears, friends and neighbors. As I’m sure y’all know.