#ojii-chan?

[cocotome]

Wahhh! A 14min video interview with Hirarin for hi character APPLe in Reverse:1999!!

In the beginning he mentions how he looked through images of the game and noticed there were a lot of cute girls. That made him wonder what type of character he'd be voicing. Then he was surprised when he saw it was an apple lol! He said he's voiced characters in games like this before but voicing an apple would be a first for him.

I love how even he was shocked that he'd be voicing a piece of fruit XD However, there are other inanimate objects that can speak like armor and radios so it's not so weird considering the game.

[mikuni14]

Vee being his flirty, smitten self 😍

Bonus: San's fantasy Vee:

[zeravmeta]

director...!

[tigresslanzhu]

At Every Hotel

Rosita: Clean up this mess, Johnny!

Johnny: What? Don’t we have hotel staff to do that for us?

Rosita: We can help them out wherever we can. There’s no excuse to decide that hotel time is lazy time, right, Meena?

Meena: Exactly! I don’t see a reason why we can’t clean up after ourselves.

Johnny: Meena! She’s brainwashed you!

Rosita: Uh, no! It’s called being a good girl and not giving people a hard time and behaving! You should try it sometime!

Johnny: I CAN’T BE A GIRL IN LESS THAN AN HOUR!

Rosita: Sheesh!

[wordsofelie]

🎮Walls

Kenma x gn!reader

Summary: Life is falling into place for you: a spacious apartment, a good job, a healthy routine. That is, until you meet your neighbour—and the man is an asshole.

Content warning: time skip setting, manga spoilers, angst with a happy ending, alcohol consumption, mention of vomit, avoided sexual assault, swearing

Words count: 7.9k

Life feels like it’s falling into place. You have a new apartment in central Tokyo, in a building you used to admire when you were younger—one that made your neck ache from staring up at it. You’ve also started your own company, opening an architect's office that has been rewarding and you’ve made yourself a name in the field.

“What about your love life?” Your grandma asks.

And there it is—perhaps the one area of your life you’ve been neglecting. Well, that and your social life in general. Your work takes all your time. On the weekends you’d rather work or go to the gym or meal prep. Anyway.

“I don’t have time.” You answer casually. You always answer that.

Despite hearing this response hundreds of times, your grandmother still doesn’t seem satisfied. She hands you a box of miso soup and a bag filled with fruits and vegetables.

You chuckle, “thank you obaa-chan.”

“Are you sure you don’t need ojii-san to help you move?”

She points to your grandfather, asleep on the couch. That one couch that looks older than you and that you’ve seen your whole life. You often complain about the several holes and stains on it, but deep down, you know you would cry if they ever decided to get rid of it.

You put on a polite smile, “I think he needs to rest.”

The bag of food is well settled in your bike's front tray and when you start riding, you take a last glance at your grandmother waving from her window. You smile.

It’s only an hour by train, one and a half by bike, from your grandparents’ to your new apartment. Now that you have enough money and don’t have to live in a cramped studio that oddly looks like a garbage room, and with the university loans finally paid off, you chose to stay nearby—to be close to the family who raised you.

Your parents moved abroad when you were in junior high and they gave you a choice, which was probably the only time in your life that they listened to your opinion. And you wanted to stay in Japan, stay close to the two people you loved the most in the world. Your obaa-san and ojii-san, in their eternal kindness, sold their house in the countryside and moved to Tokyo so you didn’t have to change schools. You never told them, you guess because you were too grateful for what they did, but you wished you had left this obnoxious city, you wished you had grown up in their old wooden house instead of that tiny two-room apartment they brought—probably worth a lifetime of their work.

And the funny thing is, no matter how much you dislike the city, you stayed—for university, and now for work. The gods have a strange sense of humour.

You reach your apartment faster than expected. Outside, a few cardboard boxes are waiting for you alongside a team of sturdy men to help you lift them. You want to believe you could handle everything yourself, but after the first three trips between the sixth floor and the moving truck, you are overwhelmed with humility.

And remember, now you have the money to pay for this type of service.

You’ve struggled enough when you were younger—isn’t it finally your time to enjoy life?

The movers are surprised when you hand them generous tips with both hands. They bow a few times in gratitude. You want to tell them that you know what it’s like to have physical and tiring jobs like theirs, your grandfather has been there too—carpenter, brick mason, plumber, gardener, selling fish on markets from early morning.

Once they’re gone, you start to unpack everything. You keep a notebook with you to note down what you need to buy—extra sheets, dishwashing detergent, another glass of wine (if you ever invite someone over, the idea makes you cringe a little because gods know when that will happen, you don’t cross out the word anyway).

The first evening in your new place is… special. It’s quiet, spacious, clean in your living room, everything that you’ve ever dreamed of. You decide to open a bottle of beer and turn on your computer.

You still can’t believe you have a proper room where you can work, an office at home. It’s beyond what you imagined when you graduated from university.

It’s 8 p.m on a Sunday but you think that preparing for the week ahead won’t kill anyone. So, you sit down at your desk and check your emails.

The calm only lasts half an hour.

The first scream rings out, startling you so much that you almost choke on your drink. It takes a few seconds for your heart to return to a normal rhythm.

It is unusual. Absolutely, not like the screams in films. It doesn't sound like a woman’s scream, nor like someone needs help. Still, you ponder whether you should take a look outside or not.

 You’re about to finish writing an email when you hear the second scream, followed by thud of a fist hitting a table. This time you’re convinced of two things: first that it comes from the neighbour next door and second, that neighbour is raging over something.

A million scenarios play out in your mind. The worst-case scenario is that someone is being hurt—perhaps a child or a partner. If that’s the case, you can’t stand by and do nothing.

Barely a minute passes before you find yourself standing outside the neighbour’s door.

You don’t know where the courage to stand here comes from because when it’s time to knock on the door, all this courage disappears. What if they are drunk? What if they beat you up in return? What is your company going to become if you go to the hospital? What if you never see your grandparents again?

“D’ya need something?”

A low voice coming from behind you asks and when you turn around, you’re faced with a tall man with dark hair.

“I-”

He smirks as he crossed his arms over his chest and waits for your answer.

“Are you a fan?” He finally questions when the silence stretches for too long.

You blink, confused. “I heard screams,” is all you manage to say.

The man's reaction is anything but predictable.

He bursts into laughter—a loud and weird laugh, that you decide not to comment on.

“Ah, Kenma is probably playing LoL again. I told him to quit. It’s bad for his heart.”

Every word is said too fast, too casually. “Kenma? LoL?”

“You’re the new neighbour?” The stranger ignores your questions. Maybe you’ve whispered them.

“I am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to keep it down,” he says, already turning toward the door.

“Thanks… I guess.”

“I’m Kuroo Testurou by the way.” He calls over his shoulder as he steps inside the apartment. You simply say your name in return before he adds, “have a lovely evening.”

And just like that he's gone and you're left here, confused.

At least the screams have stopped, and you know the name of the person next door. It’s better than nothing and you won't end in a crime documentary about a murderous neighbour.

You go to bed early that night, hoping that this was the last time you would get interrupted working.

It turns out, you get interrupted every evening. The wall separating your office from the neighbour room is paper-thin. It makes you crazy.

Some nights it’s screams of anger, other it’s just uninterrupted chatting. You can ever hear the incessant clicks of keyboard keys.

You want to convince yourself that you can handle the situation, but when you start having dark circles under your eyes, when you pour orange juice instead of milk in your coffee, when you don’t turn to the right street to go to your grandparents house and arrive an hour later to their lunch, your obaa-san starts worrying about your heath (both physical and mental health).

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve moved,” she informs you as if you didn’t know when you started being woken up every hour of every night. “And you’ve been acting weird, my love.”

“My neighbour isn’t the quiet type.” It’s the first time you explain the situation to her. You don't want them to burden them with your problems, but fatigue brings out some honesty in you and the words leave your mouth before you can register them.

Logically, she advises you to go and talk to them. “Be kind and explain calmly that you work from home and need to rest because your job is very demanding,” she says. She can’t help but speak with pride when she mentions your work, and you want to smile. But you don’t because all you can do with your mouth is yawn.

“I’ll go if they don’t stop.” She thinks she looks terrifying with her pink apron and her pointed finger. You get up and kiss her cheek.

“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”

You’ve depended on them your whole life, you won’t bother them again.

It’s strangely silent that evening and with a heart full of naivety, you believe you will finally have a good night of sleep. But before that, you need to work on a very important project, one in collaboration with the city hall, probably the most important of your career so far and that you won against renowned architects’ companies. The first sketch is done, and you can start doing the 3D model now.

That is until you hear the neighbour talk and talk and talk.

Enough.

You don’t even check your reflection in the mirror or bother changing into a decent outfit. You simply grab a jacket, put your shoes, and this time, you dare to knock on the door.

You must have been very insistent or perhaps the knocks were loud enough to drown out whatever music or phone call he was listening to—because after three or four sharp taps, he finally emerges from his cave.

The man is nothing like you imagined. Long hair with remnants of blond colouring, yellow eyes narrowed as if annoyed. He is not small but not as tall as who you assumed was his friend. His attitude reminds you of one of those nerd boys you avoided in high school, though you would bet he is around your age.

“Huh?” Comes out of his throat.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides when he doesn’t even greet you.

“Good evening.” You try not to bark. You need to be the mature one here otherwise he won’t be receptive. You’ve learned that from dealing with arrogant old men in your job. “I am your new neighbour; I live next door. It’s a pleasure to meet you but I was wondering if you could talk a little bit less...loudly.” You remember the points your grandmother has given you and it’s all you can think about (apart from insults and words you might regret), “I am working from home so it can be hard to focus with your chatting.”

His face turns into furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose. You're pretty sure you hear a sigh escaping his nose. He avoids your gaze and when he meets your eyes again, the annoyed stare has disappeared, and he looks blank again. He's unreadable.

“Sorry. I will be careful from now on.”

His words sound as scripted as yours. A knot in your stomach forms and the palms of your hands start to sweat.

Why in the world does this asshole seem annoyed when you’re the one who hasn’t been able to sleep and work for freaking days?

“Is that all?” He dares to ask.

“I hope it will be.” You threaten with pursed lips and your chin lifts a little.

“Fine.” He mutters and closes the door behind you.

Great. Your neighbour is a shithead.

The gods are unfair sometimes. Life is falling into place for you but they seem to have one last obstacle for you: him. Kenma.

A storm of questions keeps you wake that night, the main one being: what is this guy doing with his life?

Doesn’t he have a job? What is he doing of his days since he doesn’t seem to be sleeping at nights? And how can he afford an apartment like yours when he looks like he just graduated from high school?

Maybe he was born rich—unlike you. Maybe his parents are paying for everything and he just spends the days doing nothing and doing LoL?

What’s a LoL, anyway?

You search the term online and discover it’s a stupid video game. That doesn’t surprise you. Kenma seems like exactly the type to waste time playing video games all day.

You don’t want to play it stupid, but you can’t stop thinking about how detached he looked when you complained (nicely and respectfully). A part of you wants to make him pay, just a little. Your grandma would probably disapprove, but that's fair play, isn't it?

And so, during the day you start putting on music. Musical music, it’s the only genre that helps you focus when you work. You make your phone calls while standing right next to the wall separating you from Kenma. You even move your coffee machine into your office. The closer, the better, right?

Your little revenge lasts a week. You don’t want to be cruel—not that it would matter much, since you assume he’s jobless.

At first, he doesn’t seem to react, but the second you turn off the music and return the coffee machine in the kitchen, the sound of gunfire and monstrous roars make your walls tremble.

You invest in earplugs.

You don’t see him much—which is a good thing. Occasionally, you pass by him in the corridors or the lift. Neither of you speaks. A lazy look from him and a quick movement of your head to avoid his gaze are the only interactions you have. He always wears his hair in a half-ponytail and oversized jumpers, from a brand you don't know and has them in every shade of colour. You almost look up “Bouncing Ball Co.” online but decide you don’t care. You don’t care about anything related to this man. Really, anything.

The other neighbours, however, seem to like him. They smile at him, greet him warmly as if he wasn’t a pain in the ass who plays stupid video games at full volume. You conclude they’ve never had to share a wall with his gaming room.

When you complain about it to your grandparents over tea and sweet potato cakes, your grandfather suggests moving back to their house. Your room, after all, hasn’t changed a bit, with your old drawings and posters still hanging on the walls.

“They should fix the problem, coming back here won’t change anything to the situation.” She says while pouring you another cup of green tea, the hot drink feels good and warms you up, if only a little. “I’ll go talk to that Kenma boy.”

Your grandfather only shrugs, he never wins an argument with her.

“Please don’t,” you beg. Your grandmother does that thing she does when she’s lying—she smiles and closes her eyes.

“Whatever you want, darling.”

You try to stop the chaos by yourself. By trying you mean that you leave notes at his front door (some rather fiery when you’re not in the best mood, others more docile when you have been praised for your work by your peers.)

But the letters pile up, eventually covering the straw mat outside his door. One evening, you hear a child on your floor asking their mother why there are so many envelopes by Kenma’s door. The mother replies, “Oh, those must be letters from fans.”

Fans. This word again. Coming from Kuroo you thought it was sarcasm; the guy looks like he often uses sarcasm even though you don’t really know him, but now it really starts to make you wonder: who really is this man?

When your initial plan doesn’t work, you resort to a more direct approach. Every time you hear noise from the other side of the wall, you pound on it with your fist.

If that rude bastard can’t read a polite note (you fucking said “please”!), he’ll surely understand this.

The only thing keeping you sane is that you’re going away for work for a full week. The train ticket, the hotel, the food, everything is paid by your client and when you finally leave Tokyo you feel a wave of relief. The knot in your stomach that you’ve been carrying for days disappears.

You call your grandma to inform her you’re in the train now.

“Have a safe trip and don’t overwork yourself. Your worth is greater than any project.”

You smile softly, “I know. don’t worry.”

She’s about to hang up, but you interrupt by saying, “And please don’t go to Kenma’s in my absence.”

“Kenma this, Kenma that. It’s always his name on your lips these days.”

You’re glad the train starts moving, you blame the surprise of the movement for the slight skip in your heart, “Bye bye, I’ll call you when I arrive.”

The business trip goes well. You manage to make your voice heard and your opinion valuable. You meet a lot of other architects, some congratulate you for your work, other only glower at you. They envy your position. You’re young, you’re not the child of a well-known person and you still success in everything you undertake.

You meet a man of a year or two your senpai; he’s very polite, smiles a lot and seems genuinely interested in your ideas.

The absolute opposite of your neighbour.

By coincidence, he lives in Tokyo too, and you end up on the same train back. The discussion is easy, mostly about architecture, and you enjoy conversing with someone who truly understands the nuances of your job.

He offers to drive you home since his car is parked near the train station and even if you refuse at first, you finally agree. It’s better than calling a taxi, right? You’re still confused at the fact that you’re the person who sits in a taxi rather than watching them from afar.

You don’t see it coming, the approaches, the undertones. He suggests stopping at a bar, but you decline, you tell him you’re tired, and the more he talks, the more it’s obvious he didn’t offer that ride out of sympathy.

Your throat feels tight, and you start cursing yourself for trusting a complete stranger just because he does the job as you. How stupid.

You finally catch a sight of your apartment complex and even though you liked the hotel room and the calm of it, you’re suddenly desperate for the four walls of your place—no matter how noisy they can be.

“You can stop here,” you tell, perhaps a bit too loudly. You try to make the shakings in your voice away. “Thank you.”

He does as you tell, you’re about to open the door when a cold hand lands on your thigh. A shiver runs through you, and your legs seem paralysed.

“Don’t you want to stay a little longer.”

You can't meet his eyes. “I appreciate the invitation,” you absolutely don’t. “But I really have to go home.”

“Your boyfriend is waiting or something?”

You open your mouth to lie, but the tension in your neck and throat is too strong. In a sudden move, you open the door and babble a “thank you.”

The engine stops and you know he is looming closer to you.

“Wait,” you want to go faster but he whirls you around by taking your arm. “C’mon, don’t be shy. You were all talk on the train, let’s continue the conversation somewhere else. Or maybe you want to invite me over?”

The snicker that tugs at the corner of his lips makes you want to vomit. Just like with your neighbour, you’re done being compliant and if being polite doesn’t work then you might use violence.

“Ah, you’re home.”

You both turn to the voice. The lazy and unbothered voice. Kenma’s voice.

“I brought to make curry, is it fine for you?” He lifts a plastic bag while saying this.

His eyes flick to the man for just a second—brief, almost out of time—but the intensity in his gaze is enough to make him pause, and then, instinctively, take a step back.

“Let’s go,” Kenma tells you simply and you follow him.

He walks behind you, from the moment you step into the lift to when you finally reach your front door. Somehow, you feel safe.

Apologise, thank him. Your mind orders. But your hands can’t stop shaking and your throat is still dry.

“If you need something…” he starts but stops, his gaze shifts awkwardly to the side, as if seeking the right words. “Just knock. On the door or the wall. You seem good at that anyway.”

You’re left speechless when he closes the door.

It takes you a whole minute to find your keys and get inside.

It’s cold. Silent. Dark.

It’s strange how you suddenly feel lonely.

You’ve always dreamed of living in a spacious place like this; but the white walls, the too-cleaned surfaces, the too-tidy shelves are oppressive.

“Ah, you’re home.” Kenma said.

But are you really?

These four walls and you; they’re not warm, not lively.

You curl up in your genkan, your shoes still on, the light still off and you start crying.

You haven’t in months, or maybe in years.

Did you even cry when your parents left? When you’ve been mocked for wearing soiled shoes in school? When your so-called friends called you boring?

You find the strength to shower and crawl into bed. Kenma lets you sleep that night. You close your eyes wondering if he is thinking about you for you are thinking about him.

Kenma is away for the next week, and you wonder what he is doing. You don’t complain about the peace his absence gives you, but you also want to say thank you.

Thank you for two things; of course, for helping you with the man but also for leaving a bento of curry at your doorstep.

I made too much–Kozume Kenma

It is written.

Now you know both his name and family name.

Somehow, the thought makes you smile.

The curry isn’t really good–it’s too salty and the potatoes are too hard. It’s nothing like your obaa-san’s food. Still, you think it deserves an apology for being an asshole with him, not matter how fair you thought it was.

The clean plastic box is waiting for him in your kitchen, wrapped in a pretty furoshiki and when you hear keys and footsteps coming from outside a few days later, you rush out.

“Kozume-san,” you call for him.

“Hello there,” Kuroo answers in its place.

You only notice the tall guy at his side when he speaks.

“Good morning Kuroo-san,” you bow.  

“Heh?” Kenma raises an eyebrow.

“What? You’re surprised because I’m friends with your annoying neighbour.”

“Annoying?” You mumble and a “oops” escapes the dark-haired man.

“His words, not mine.” Kuroo clarifies, pointing a thumb at Kenma, who only sighs in response.

You clear your throat and hand Kenma the box, “thank you for the food. It was...convenient.”

Before you can finish the acknowledgement, Kuroo starts laughing, “convenient. Kenma, man, for gods’ sake, stop cooking.”

Your neighbour takes the box from you and clicks his tongue.

You don’t linger on the goosebumps his fingers leave on your skin.

“My manager said I should eat healthy food.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been telling you that for years, but you never listen to me. Anyway, we’re going out tonight, wanna come?”

You don’t realise he’s talking to you but the silence stretches for too long and his tilted head suggests he is waiting for an answer,

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Kuro…” Kenma mumbles and his shoulders slump.

You can't tell if he’s embarrassed or annoyed. He’s so hard to read, it almost upset you.

“Kenma won’t be there,” Kuroo informs as if he isn't standing next to him. “It’s gonna be fun. Apparently, you work a lot, it could be good for you, you know. It’s not just me, by the way, some old friends will come.”

“Okay.”

Kenma widens his eyes and Kuroo smirks. Both seem surprised, though you’re probably the most surprised here.

“Okay.” You repeat, maybe to convince them—or yourself.

“Great, I’ll see you at seven then.”

He grabs Kenma by the shoulder and leads him inside.

Your eyes meet yellow eyes one last time, and your heart skips a beat—or a thousand. Either way, it feels good.

It’s hard to focus on work that day. You keep thinking about what you’re gonna wear, what you’re gonna talk about. What if you make a fool of yourself? What if you’re boring?

Your forehead hits your desk, and a long sigh escapes your lips.

You get ready when it’s time, going for something comfortable and simple, and when seven rings, you find Kuroo standing in front of your door.

“There you are, shall we go?” He offers and though your eyes scan around you, you find no trace of Kenma.

Kuroo said it; your neighbour won’t come.

You knew that, and in lieu of relief, you’re disappointed. You ignore the reason behind it—it doesn’t make sense, but you feel it anyway.

“Sure, let’s go.” You say with a last glance at Kenma’s door, hoping it will open. When it doesn’t, you decide to follow Kuroo.

Kuroo’s friends are fun to be with. There’s Yamamoto, a bit too loud for your taste but nice, then there’s Kai, who’s interesting and makes you comfortable and finally Fukunaga, who is quiet and—something else. The four of them went to the same high school, one from the opposite district where you grew up. They tell you there are usually more of them but one of them is in Russia, another is doing a campaign abroad. Kuroo mentions the other ones, but you don’t remember all the names.

“We’ve got some pretty famous guys in the team,” Kuroo says with pride.

“Kenma the richest though,” Yamamoto complains, and you raise an eyebrow. So, he does come from a wealthy family, you conclude.

Two more join the group, Bokuto and Akaashi, and you can’t help but relate a bit to the latter, with his serious attitude and reserved nature, especially when Kuroo jokes that you’re both workaholics. You don’t deny the assumption.

The evening goes pretty well, faster than expected. You’re not too awkward and find yourself laughing at Fukunaga’s lines to Yamamoto and discuss literature with Akaashi.

You drink a little too much compared to what you’re used to and it’s almost 2 a.m when Kuroo offers to drive you home. The room is blurring, and you can’t refuse.

You sleep the whole way home, vaguely aware of the man helping you into the lift, and only realise you're almost in your flat when you catch the sound of Kenma's voice.

“I’ll take care of them,” you hear him say.

The next second you're pressed against him. His skin his colder than Kuroo’s but his scent is a mix between hazelnut and white musk. Your nose is drawn to his neck.

You don’t know how he manages to take your keys and remove your shoes, but when you open your eyes again, you’re on the couch and he is standing in your kitchen, pouring water into a glass.

“You’re being nice… again…” The last part is above a whisper.

He takes his time to answer, he always does that. “I’m not a brute.”

“I thought you were.”

“Sorry.” He apologises and despite the alcohol making your mind dizzy, your eyes widen and you sit up straight.

“I should be the one apologising.” You reply.

“Don’t be so loud.” He groans and hands you the glass.

“Oh, wanna talk about loud? Weren’t you the loud one when you played shooting games and LoL?”

“I don’t play LoL anymore,” he avoids your gaze.

“I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I tried asking nicely, but you wouldn’t listen or even look at me.” You let out an annoyed grunt, “just like now. You’re not looking at me right now.”

Your body moves on instinct, and inch forward, your nose almost touches his. His ears turn red, but you don’t flinch back. “Do I disgust you or something?”

When he finally turns, when his breath brushes your face, and the pupil of his yellow eyes dilate, you feel every single one of your muscles stiffen. You break the eye contact when your cheeks are burning up.

“You don’t disgust me,” he says but you've already forgotten the initial question.

“Thanks for helping me last time.”

He says nothing back and gets up.

“Drink water and go to bed.”

What happens next must have been a nightmare (you wish it was). But he’s one foot outside your apartment when your stomach twists violently, and you barely make it to the sink before letting your guts out.

It’s the first thing you remember when you get up the next day, Kenma helping you walk to the bathroom, helping you brush your teeth, putting you to bed.

You vomited. In front of your asshole neighbour. He helped you, cooked you food, showed you his kind side, and you vomited.

You’re nothing but shameful.

You want to hide in your bed and never get out of it. Maybe you should move out, sell your apartment and go abroad.

That would make your grandparents sad, though.

You sigh loudly, your head hurts but you still go to your kitchen to make yourself a coffee.

Being in this place reminds you of the night before and if you don’t want to drive yourself crazy pacing the floor, you decide to take your bike to go to your safe place.

Obaa-san notices it right away; the dark circles under your eyes, your bad mood, your incessant fawning—everything gives away your lack of sleep.

“Is your neighbour annoying again?”

Your heart races faster at the mention of Kenma, “what? No, no. It’s over, we found a… solution.” You lie through your teeth.

“What’s wrong? You’re not even eating your food.” She wants to serve you more soup, but you stop her.

You sigh, again, but tell her everything. When you’re done with the story, you see her brows furrow deeper and deeper.

“We didn’t raise you to vomit on people’s feet.”

Your stomach twists, “please don’t talk about vom—I’m embarrassed enough.”

“As you should be. Isao, let’s go.”

She calls for your grandfather and starts packing a bag of fruits.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going to apologise.”

You curse yourself and every single decision that led you to this exact situation. You’d rather quit your job than face Kenma and be forced to write excuses in front of your family.

It’s cruel, cruel, cruel.

You follow them anyway.

“Huh?”

“Kenma-kun,” your grandmother says. “Pardon the intrusion but we came as soon as we found out what they did to you.”

You look down at the floor, not caring if you seem like a child instead of a twenty-something-year-old. You just want this to be over—soon, soon. But then, Kenma chuckles, and your head lifts.

“It’s fine,” he says. His laugh is soft, so nice to your ears. You’ve never heard him laugh before, but now, you don’t want to hear anything else.

“Please enter,” he offers the three of you, and you finally step inside his apartment.

The curtains are closed but lights cover the walls. Purple, red, blue. The couch is huge, and the kitchen looks too clean to be used. It makes sense when you see boxes of takeout and instant ramen on the counter. At the back, you see the door to his gaming room—the one next to your office—open. You can’t count how many screens there are, and cables are scattered across the floor.

And it smells like hazelnut and white musk. You’ve never smelled something so nice before.

Why does it feel so warm inside? Why do you feel safe here?  

“I brought fruits, it’s nothing, but please accept it.”

You end up staying there for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing at all. You learn he played volleyball back in high school, and that he is two years younger than you. Your grandmother is peeling fruits, your grandfather is drinking the lemonade Kenma offered and he explains that he owns a sports company.

“What a smart boy,” your grandmother exclaims.

You don’t really know what “sports company” means. It could be a million things, and it’s certainly more complex than that. He probably simplified it for your grandparents’ sake.

“Our grandchild is also very smart. They have an architecture office and are the youngest-ever architect to work with Tokyo City Hall. Do you know the new hospital they’re building in the suburbs? They designed the plans and-”

“Alright, it’s almost time for dinner.”

You get up suddenly.

The sun starts to get down, and you only take notice of the time by watching the hour on your phone.

The corner of Kenma’s lips lifts a little and you immediately turn to your grandfather for his smile is too sweet for your heart to handle.

“He is a kind man,” your grandmother whispers to you when they’re about to leave.

“I know, I know.” You groan.

She pinches Kenma’s cheeks, “call us if you need anything.”

You would’ve guessed he’d hate physical contact, but he doesn’t complain. His features are soft as she says goodbye.

“Good luck with them, they seem tough, but they can be very sweet!”

“Oi!” You shout but they close the door behind them, chuckling.

You don’t want to face Kenma, don’t want to show him the embarrassment on your face.

“So… dinner?”

“What?” you turn a little in his direction.

“You said it’s time for dinner. Do you want to order something?”

The question makes you happy even if it leaves you puzzled for a few seconds. It seems like Kenma Kozume is full of surprises. And maybe that’s what you need, so you shrug.

“Why not.”

When he takes his phone from his pocket and starts ordering food, you smile widely and bite your lips.

A dinner leads to another, and another, until it becomes a routine. You come to his place, usually on Mondays because it’s his only free night. He shows you some of his games, you never beat him, and he laughs when you blame it on the controller.

You’re impressed by his skills and think that maybe he should become a professional.

You pretend to be upset when you lose, but deep down, you just want to hear him laugh.

Sometimes you cook something together, though you’re the one in control of the quantity of salt and the temperature of the oven.

And he listens to you ramble or complain about your work.

When he’s out of town, which happens more often that you thought, you start to go out more. You decide that it’s time to put more colour in your apartment, so you buy cacti, and carpets and frames. You long to draw again, like you used to, so you bring back your old pencils and sketchbooks from your grandparents’ house. You missed the smell of that cheap paper and ceder. Sometimes, you have a drink with Kuroo after work (alcohol-free; you won’t repeat the same mistake twice) and a coffee with Akaashi on the weekends. It's often quiet with him; he reads a book and you draw him reading.

When Kenma comes home from his trips, you welcome him with drawings of beautiful places you saw while he was away and good homemade food.

“Better than what I ate at the hotel,” he says, and you can’t help but smile.

You don’t really know where this friendship is going, maybe it isn’t meant to go anywhere, but it’s comfortable and deeper than any relationship you've had in years.

You had no idea what you needed before, but since he showed up in your life, it all became clear.

You still know little about him; he remains a mystery to you, and you can never decipher what he's thinking. But you enjoy being with him—that is.

There are some glances exchanged that last a bit too long, hands brushing against each other, words left hanging in the air as if they’re too fragile to be spoken aloud. It’s not enough to call it something more, but it’s also too much to ignore. Sometimes, it keeps you awake at night.

It's Christmas and you hate this time of year. It's cold outside, crowded in the streets and on top of that, it's the time when your parents return to Japan. Apparently it's important for them to spend time with the family, which you find hilarious, given that they've never been here for any of your birthdays.

You complain and groan about it to your grandmother; she’s used to it. It’s the same song every Christmas. She always stays quiet, and when she does, you know she agrees with you.

It would have been more fun to be with Kenma, you can’t help but think when you’re sitting at the table, half-listening to your father talking about his new project in Singapore. Instead of being here, you could be eating KFC on Kenma’s couch, playing Mario Kart (you’re almost as good as him now) until the sun rises.

Your brother is watching YouTube on his phone (isn’t 12 years old a bit too young to have a phone? Why did you have to wait until you were sixteen and get a part-time job to buy one that lasted until uni?).

You don’t realise you’re glowering over him before your mother calls for him, “Kengo. Turn off that video, please, we’re eating.”

“But it’s Kodzuken’s last live of the year, and he’s breaking his record.”

You roll your eyes and get up to help your grandmother in the kitchen.

“Who’s that Kodzuken?” You hear your grandfather asks from afar.

“He’s the best YouTuber and streamer. You know he has over 10 million subscribers on YouTube, and he sponsors volleyball players too. He’s like the best.”

“Let me see that fabulous man,” Isao chuckles. “But that’s Kenma-kun.”

The plate you’re holding almost drops to the floor.

“Yes. His real name is Kozume Kenma.”

You feel the gaze of your grandmother on you, and she’s about to say something, but your voice chimes in, and you take the phone from your brother’s hands.

“What the fuck…” You curse.

“What’s wrong?” Someone asks; you don’t even know who. You’re too stunned to answer.

“I-I’ll go wash my hands.” You excuse yourself and go to the bathroom.

You sit on the edge of the bathtub and tap his name into the internet.

There are articles about him, a YouTube and Twitch channel, and your brother was right, with million and millions of views; he even has a Wikipedia page.

Why didn’t you know that? Why did you assume he was a rich kid too lazy to work.

You don’t know why but you’re feeling betrayed. It feels like you’ve been lied to—which technically isn’t the case, but it feels the same.

Everything makes sense now: the fans, Yamamoto’s comment about him being rich, the mention of his manager and above everything the sleepless nights spent on his games talking, chatting, screaming. He was just working.

You feel extremely stupid for not connecting the dots before, but you also wish he had told you. Not that it would have changed anything in your friendship, but at least you wouldn’t feel like you’ve spent the last few weeks sharing most of your time with a stranger.

The anger you experienced when your first met him is quick to come back, even if it’s not for the same reason now. It’s not because he is too loud, but because he is too quiet.

Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe you don’t matter to him as much as he does to you. Maybe he’s not the stranger, but you are, and he just pitied you.

It’s a good thing your grandmother opens the door to come and get you, otherwise, you could have spent the whole evening making up scenarios and speculating on why Kenma never told you what he was really doing in his life.

You act like nothing happened when you sit back down at the table. Your brother has turned off his phone, and your grandfather keeps glancing at you. You stay silent until your parents leave.

"Don’t be mad at him,” your grandmother says when it’s time for you to head home.

You don’t promise you won’t be.

You do go home, but instead of your door, you stand in front of his. He’s probably still doing his live, but you knock on the door anyway.

When he opens, you can see the red in his eyes, probably from staring at the screen too long.

“What’s that?” You show him your phone.

“My… YouTube channel.”

He’s so unbothered, so unimpressed, it makes you want to cup his face with your hands and scream at him.

“I didn’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were doing this. You said you had a sports company.”

“I have a sports company. Why are you so upset?”

Kenma never asks questions, he usually just answers them and then listens to you talking, asking more questions. It leaves you confused.

“I know nothing about you.”

You feel your eyes getting wet and your throat tightens. Why are you so emotional when it comes to him? You hate how weak it makes you.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything. Everything, is the answer.

Your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What makes you laugh (apart from seeing me lose at Mario Kart). What films do you like? When did you start being friends with Kuroo? What's your happiest memory? Your saddest one?

“What do you think about me?”

Among the infinite questions rushing through your mind, this is the one you chose. Perhaps it’s the one you’ve wanted to know the most, the one that’s been eating you alive for weeks.

“I-”  He begins but stops immediately.

“Of course,” you turn around. Two steps, is all it takes to reach your door, but Kenma stops you.

When you face him again, you feel your blood rushing through your whole body, warming you up.

He’s avoiding your gaze, but his hand clings to yours and his face his red, from his chin to his ears.

“You’re interesting and it’s nice to talk with you… Your food is good. You’re passionate about your work and it makes me want to be more invested in what I do. You’re funny when you’re upset and you’re a terrible, terrible player.”

His grip loosens a little, and he straightens up.

“I think you’re great, a good person. Someone I like spending time with, someone I think of when I go to bed, and someone I miss when I’m away. I didn’t tell you about my job. Maybe because I assumed everybody knew me, well, at least everyone who uses social media. Maybe also because… you’re way cooler than me, and what I’ve done with my life is nowhere near what you’ve accomplished.”

You’re shocked, to say the least. It’s the longest you’ve ever heard him talk—he who never uses extra words, who makes minimal effort in everything he does—just bared his soul to you. He must be exhausted at this point.

You gulp loudly, and the only thing your mind can picture is you kissing him. So you do. One step toward him, a hand against his cheek, and your lips on his.

You fear he might push you, run away, and slam the door in your face. But instead, he kisses you deeper and his hands find your hair and the back of your shoulders and your waist.

You don’t know how long it lasts—one minute, forever. Your brain doesn’t seem to work properly, only your heart responds, and it screams his name.

Kozume Kenma.

One of you breaks the contact only to rest your foreheads together.

It’s awkward, but it feels right.

Someone passes by, one of your neighbours, and you both step back.

They greet you with a wide smile, excusing themselves for interrupting.

You clear your throat, “I-I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He says, not meeting your eyes.

That night when you go to bed, even though the sheets are cold against your skin, you think the walls feel warm.

“And so, if you want to marry someone, you just need to be annoying and insult them for being an asshole.” Kuroo explains matter-of-factly to Bokuto.

“I never said Ken was an asshole.” You justify.

You hear Kenma sigh.

“Well… at least not directly to him. But I thought it really hard. Maybe I wrote it in the letters I left at his door-”

“Love… they got it I think.”

“Right, sorry…”

“Arrrrgh, I’m so jealous… I want to have a relationship like you guys.” Bokuto scratches the back of his neck and groans loudly.

“Bokuto-san, if you love someone just tell them.”

“But Akaaashi, I’m not a poet like you. I can’t just write love letters and stuff.”

“C’mon, bro,” Kuroo interrupts. “Isn’t it great to be single? You don’t have to worry about making the other mad or sad or-"

“Kuro says this because he doesn’t want to be the only single guy here.”

“Oi! Kenma, if I hadn’t helped you conquer their heart, you wouldn’t have been able to get someone like them.”

“You helped him?” You rest your chin in the palm of your hand and look at Kuroo.

“He never told you? The night when you were completely wasted, two years ago, I was the one who suggested he take care of you. And the day when-”

“Okay, time to go. Your grandparents are waiting for us.” Kenma gets up and you can see Kuroo smirk from the corner of your eyes.

You’re about to tell him to wait, you want to know more about his friend’s story. But Kenma takes your hand and leads you outside, not caring about Kuroo’s comments about him being a coward and Bokuto’s complaints about nobody caring about his love life problems.

Once you step outside, you call for him.

“Huh?” He speaks. He never says more than that.  

“I love you.”

He kisses the top of your nose and whispers, “I love you too.”

a/n: the story comes from a dream i had, i woke up and knew i had to write it haha. hope you enjoyed it

elie

[fujoshirat]

When the Shouto Todoroki saves you and your kindergarten students at the aquarium during a villain attack, you can't seem to get him out of your head. Bonus: you're quirkless and he's a pro hero, so you live in two different worlds. The glue? His cute nephew that's obsessed with rocks and that just so happens to be in your kindergarten class.

In short: You've become obsessed, you suppose. But that's all right, you're not the only one that's obsessed.

WARNING: Todoroki family troubles (in the eyes of Kaoru); Kaoru's rock collection hyperfixation! Please note that this chapter is written in lovely, little, mature, and smart Kaoru Todoroki's POV ♡ (so the improper grammar is intentional I promise 😓😖)

Note! "Oji-san" refers to Shouto, Kaoru's uncle. "Ojii-san" refers to Enji, Kaoru's grandfather. "Baa-chan" refers to Rei, Kaoru's grandmother. "Oba-san" refers to Fuyumi, Kaoru's auntie.

Part 1! Part 2!

3 - Things That Kaoru Loves

Kaoru loves his oji-san. Oji-san was the most coolest, most specialist person he knows. He could make fire dance in his palms-so cool! And then FWOOSH-he can make ice appear too! Kaoru liked to pretend that he could do that. When he gained his quirk on his fifth birthday six months ago, he knew that he wanted to be just like his oji-san. He wanted to learn from his oji-san how to use his ice quirk. Sure, Kaoru loved his dad and wanted to learn how to control his ice from him too, but oji-san? Oji-san was ultra cool! Oji-san was friends with cool people too. He told Kaoru stories about Deku and Dynamite, about his ojii-san before he retired, about the super cool All Might!

Kaoru loves his teacher. Y/N-sensei always smiled at him in the morning and helped him tie his shoelaces. Y/N-sensei's voice was soft. She wasn't noisy like his teacher last year (so stinky and mean). Y/N-sensei smelled like the peaches (his favorite) at the store that his dad always takes him to so they have dinner. She didn't have a quirk, but Y/N-sensei was one of his heroes, too. When she would give him a piece of candy and a bright smile for completing his work correctly, Kaoru's tummy would feel warm and happy. Most of all, Y/N-sensei thought his rock collection was so cool. "Y/N-sensei, my oji-san got me a new rock." "Oh really? That's so cool! You should bring it for show and tell tomorrow!"

Kaoru loves his rock collection. On his fourth birthday, his dad gave him a little wooden box with a few shiny rocks inside. When he lightly shook the box, they made a clinking, rattling sound.

"Kaoru-kun, do you know what these are?"

"Rocks."

"Yes, but, their special rocks. Do you notice anything about them?"

Upon further inspection, the little boy noticed that they had swirls of color and shone like tiny treasure in the light. Each rock was different: some were smooth, some were jagged, some had multiple hues while others had only one vivid color. Since then, Kaoru's made it his mission to find more rocks. Anywhere he went->the grocery store, baa-chan's backyard, the beach->he would pick up a special-looking rock and add it to the little wooden box of treasures. He didn't care of some of the rocks he found were "dull" (that's what Taro-kun said, but he doesn't know anything about rocks). All of Kaoru's rocks had a story, just like how his oji-san always had a story to tell him whenever Kaoru saw him at his house. His oji-san sometimes brought him rocks too. He'd gift them to Kaoru for Christmas or after missions. Kaoru's collection had grown so big that his oba-san bought him a new box for his fifth birthday. Now, he could fit his newer rocks in plus his super cool new fossil that his oji-san got him when he went to America last month.

Kaoru doesn't understand grown-up stuff. He doesn't understand why baa-chan and ojii-san never hug like the grandparents on Bluey, or why he doesn't have a mom like Mio-san. He asked his dad once, when it was bring-your-kid-to-work-day at the clinic, but his father just smiled at him. "Papa's got his hands full with you and his clinic. Besides, you've got me and all of your family. Isn't that enough?" Kaoru thinks that it's enough, he loves his dad more than anything in the world. More than more than Y/N-sensei, more than his oji-san, more than his rock collection. However, that didn't quench his curiosity. He still occasionally wondered why he didn't have a nice mom to bring to the school play or put little notes in his lunchbox like his friends did. Dad was too busy to do that. He made yummy food and tucked Kaoru into bed and went to all of his school events, but his doctor job at the clinic sometimes took him away from Kaoru.

The thing that Kaoru doesn't understand the most is why his oji-san and L/N-sensei weren't together. They liked each other, right? Oji-san looked a little silly whenever he saw Y/N-sensei. His ears would turn red and he would stutter. Y/N-sensei would smile extra cheerfully and play with her skirt. That's how you knew that someone likes someone, right? Himari-chan taught him that when she was practicing her reading at school.

"Kaoru-kun! The book says that if someone likes someone, they turn red and stu-stu- uhm...How do I say this?" "Stutter?" "Yeah! And smile super bright!"

Kaoru's curious about the world around him, but it doesn't matter. As he takes a bite out of his strawberry ice cream, he looks up at his uncle, who's also holding strawberry ice cream. Oh well, he supposes, that's why he's only five.

.

.

.

But then, Kaoru gets the most coolest, genius idea ever for a five-and-a-half-year-old.

"Oji-san," he swallows some ice cream, "you should give Y/N-sensei a rock." The tall man's eyebrows lift slightly. "...A rock?"

"Mhm." lick. "Like the Adelie penguins." lick. "Adelie penguin boys give a girl penguin a rock because he loves her," he recites word-for-word, exactly what he remembers his teacher telling him. Shouto's cheeks flush red as he finishes his ice cream.

"How can you tell that I like her?"

Kaoru kicks at the concrete under his feet, continuing to eat his ice cream. "Your ears turn red and you start stuttering. And then when Y/N-sensei sees you, she starts smiling a lot and playing with her skirt, like oba-san does when she sees her boyfriend." The five-year-old can't help but grin when he sees his oji-san's jaw drop.

"You're... very observative."

"That's what Y/N-sensei says."

Shouto smiles at that. When he begins speaking again, his voice is gentle. "Kaoru-kun, it's more complicated than giving someone a rock."

The little boy finishes his ice cream, a small frown appearing on his face. "But why?" The pro hero hesitates for a second. His voice comes out softly, almost like a whisper. "It's not easy to tell someone how you feel, even if you really like them." 'But if Y/N-sensei sees a pretty rock, she'll be happy,' Kaoru thinks to himself. Scanning the few pebbles nearby, he absentmindedly picks up a smooth, speckled stone.

"Oji-san, what if someone else gives her a rock before you do?"

Kaoru's words seem to hit something in his uncle, because suddenly his eyes widen and his left side twitches. Shouto's nephew watches him take a breath before smiling again, reaching down to ruffle Kaoru's hair. He whines in protest: "Oji-san!" Shouto chuckles and crouches down to the little boy's level.

"You're smart, Kaoru-kun. You're a good kid. Don't ever change, okay?" The man's eyes wander to Kaoru's right hand, where the spotted stone rested. He quirks a brow at the sight.

"You should give her this rock, oji-san. She'll love it."

Shouto laughs warmly, eyes crinkling slightly and hand patting his nephew's shoulder. "Alright, I'll do it." Kaoru's eyes widen and sparkle, and he eagerly hands Shouto the rock. He jumps up and down excitedly, the most excitement he's ever shown in his life.

"Yes!"

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

Shouto loves his nephew. He doesn't think that his rock collection obsession is weird, he thinks it's cute (it gives him nostalgia about Izuku's All Might hyperfixation). Shouto's frankly impressed by how smart and perceptive Kaoru is. He definitely did not expect Kaoru to pick up on his crush on L/N-san. 'Am I that obvious??' Kaoru's a smart boy too. According to to Natsuo and the beautiful L/N-san, Kaoru's top of his class even though he doesn't like talking much. Shouto doesn't understand kids, but he understands Kaoru. He understands how excited the little boy gets when he finds the perfect rock. Shouto thinks-no, knows-that you're the perfect gem. You're caring, sweet, attentive, bright, positive, everything he thinks he lacks.

And maybe Kaoru sees your real beauty, too, because here he is, telling Shouto to give the most perfect woman a rock.

To treasure the finest treasure that he's found: you.

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

A/N: That's it for part 3! I hope you enjoyed it (˶◜ᵕ◝˶) Thank you so much for reading this part and the entire series so far!! I love love love the cutest little Kaoru Todoroki ToT It was a challenge writing the POV of a five-and-a-half-year-old, so I apologize for making him REALLY mature! I did envision him to be a mature and smart kid (like ShouShou <3), but I think I overdid it ><

Anyways! Thank you for your patience regarding this part and all of my works in general! I hope that the wait wasn't too long, and that this made up for it ♡\(´･ᴗ･`)

And finally: THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE FOR ALL OF THE LOVE AND SUPPORT! Parts 1 and 2 really blew up, Part 1 reaching over 300 likes! When I first made this account, I would have never expected to reach that many people. You all really make my days and I'm just so thankful for the positivity ദ്ദിദ്ദി(˃̣̣̥ᯅ˂̣̣̥) If you couldn't already tell, I am an amateur writer. I've been in this fandom and Tumblr for a LONGGG time, but have never found the motivation to write until now. Receiving this much love and positivity is really amazing and I hope to continue making good works and content <3

Just like before, I hope you look forward to the next part! I'll try to get it done as soon as possible depending on my schedule. If you'd like to be added to the taglist, feel free to let me know!

TAGLIST: ♡♡ @roseapov @brittanylikesstuff @stanseventeen @qardasngan @jastoo46 @kysoshir0

[tigresslanzhu]

No! The other guy was the pick-me in this situation!

Meena-Chan was just loving her grandpa!

Spot the difference (Impossible)

[askaceattorney]

Dear J'Luc K. Star,

I think Ojii-chan would be able to face all of them better than me.

I mean, he went up against the Reaper of the Old Bailey and a Judge that had committed a number of murders as the Minister of Justice under the nose of the country. I might've overthrown a dictator, but I don't think I could do what he did. He survived two world wars, for god sakes.

However, I don't know if I could really compare Edgeworth with Asogi-san other than... well... Edgeworth did gain inspiration of his looks from him. Other than that, I'd ask Ojii-chan.

(I suppose I could see it, but by the way Ojii-chan described Asogi-san, it's like comparing apples to oranges.)

- Phoenix Wright

[tempural]

hey, so I've been scrolling through your many websites and comics for quite a bit and I looove your work!!! but Just Girly Things brought me a question... why is it so that lesbians gravitate towards yaoi so often? I myself am one of those yaoi lesbians and it's fine of course, but it's got me quite confused because yuri is *right there* and yet it often falls completely flat for me while yaoi (and certain flavors of het) will tend to do the opposite. I have some vague speculations as to why that is, at least in regards to myself, but would love to hear your thoughts on it.

Oooh I actually have a comic/caption on my Just Gorly Things site that addresses the lesbian fujoshi thing!

Comic #23: Yucky!

Boys have COOTIES. Gorls ACTUALLY like stinky crappy hunched over old men, with depression, and terminal illness! There's quite a history of lesbians, fujoshi or otherwise, finding 'unattainable' men attractive alongside their usual gal pals. Whether that's older authority figures, far away celebrities, or cartoon characters, these guys often aren't considered real attainable partners by the mind because they will never be interacted with. Thus they're fair game for thirst! They're basically just Barbie dolls for the brain to play with. If you find this conundrum of attraction and sexuality confusing, take it up with the quandary of nerves we call the human mind. Or take it up with the growing number of fangirls online openly thirsting after (fictional) ojii-chans!

Also wrote this on fujofans..

There are various reasons why a woman might enjoy fictional male romance. They might be cishet women who are attracted to men. They might be lesbians who relate to gay themes. They might actually be transmasculine and relate to the depiction of men in BL. They might just like romance regardless of gender and sexuality. They may live in a joker Society in which women are objectified as impregnation machines and homemakers, and as such may want escapism from womanhood. That's all fine to me. All that matters is how one treats real people.

More yapping under the cut, this is another subject I have tism thoughts about:

For me personally, yaoi was a fun fake cartoon playground where I didn't have to think about the Societal things in a story about being a woman. But you can still make them experience some of those Societal things to process them in your mind in a controlled environment. See: old yaoi tropes like "sold into sex slavery", "oh no because i am small and feminine everyone wants to put their penus in my butt", and the abundance of long-haired crossdressing bishonen. You can treat yaoi boys as girls without them actually having to fill the expectations of girls. They're cute little dolls that you can dress up and do whatever to, they don't actually have silly things like gender and sexuality.

Hell, some of them may as well be girls :P That connects the modern memes of "babygirl-fying my old man". Maybe girls ARE attractive! Doesn't matter if that girl is considered a 69 year old dude by the rest of the world.

As for "why not just go to yuri?", there's a couple things that might make that harder for certain people.

Female characters are rarer than male characters in popular media, because popular media tends to be made by dudes who make dude characters. It's hard to make yuri when there's just one female character, and her character is just "the girl". (this is why I personally enjoy using my yuri beam to turn every character in a woman lmao)

(Do note that in female-centric shows where girls outnumber boys and are given basic personalities (Supergirl, Steven Universe, MLP, She-Ra), the yuri ratio is astounding. I do believe that fandom CRAVES the yuri, though the stats of some fic sites might place the overall popularity under m/m and f/m.)

Within fandom expectations, I have felt and seen other people of gay experience say that they're scared of the yuri fandom LMAO. I feel like you get get away with more dark tropes in popular yaoi, but if you depict bad things happening in a fake story to female characters, the fandom will go after your ass.

There's a very loud minority of like.. kink-critical yuri-heads that say that anything other than platonic handholding is reflecting patriarchy and the male gaze or whatever. Of course there's normal fans who just like looking at boobs too. But as with any subculture, the loud rude fans often get their way.

On the other hand, some people might feel a little bad about treating girl characters poorly cuz it hits too close to home���� Personally, I do prefer to write some more horrific things happening between boy characters, and almost never between a boy and girl. Girl-girl horrible stuff is more dependent on my mood...

If you live in a restrictive culture, and you're a girl lesbian reading about girl lesbians -- well that's just too obvious that you're gay. It's a little easier to stealth as a lesbian fujoshi cuz 'well girls just like weird yaoi regardless of their irl sexuality'. Your mom might not care if you're reading Black Butler cuz that's just anime boy stuff, but if you bring home Titty Succin' Strawberry Panic you're gonna ring some alarms because YOU could be the titty sucker.

Female Expectations strikes again - character design edition. In popular media and fanart, I often see a larger variety of body types in guys - from giant orcs to tiny twinks to fat dudes. Whereas for women, there's always that slight stabbing feeling that women are supposed to look and behave a certain way. Whether it's fitting into the cool flannel and carabiner stereotype, or the super femme princess school girl thing that's popular in coming-of-age lesbian stuff, it can be alienating compared to how boys get to be horrible goblins and ratty creatures. Compare to video game sexual dimorphism - sure I can play a girl and make yuri, but I HAVE to be a sexy booby butt lady? I already have trouble finding old man uke in yaoi, now imagine how hard it is to find old WOMAN uke with actual wrinkles and white hair! (thank you to everyone who feeds me with characters that are horrible goblin women and ratty girls and stupid girls and girls who are just girls without any expectations)

Please note that my experience with yaoi and yuri is mainly from the 'perverting pre-existing characters' point of view. I never really got into BL and yuri genre stuff that's explicit and 100% canon and established relationship. Hell even in my own OCs I don't do established relationships :P They'll be totally undeniably gay but also never be able to hold hands 😈.

I'm older now and can have fun with both yaoi and yuri AND even het 🤯 But I can still recognize some of my patterns - like the aforementioned yuri beam, rather than making yuri out of existing characters. I think I am more likely to make yuri ocs than yuri of existing characters even! I just like my own girls more than the girls that other dudes write 😃So I guess that's my own reason. You will probably have your own reason that you can figure out!

[moontheoretist]

Fel Ojii-chan... <3

[wannabepoeticischiya]

Weak

[ 06 ] — the line of idiots

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A loud, obnoxious wail shattered the tranquility blanketing the Gojo Estate, waking the few people still held by the warm embrace of slumber. The sun had yet to pass the skyline, hues of blue and orange painted on the canvas overhead, morning dew shimmering like gemstones as the first rays of sunlight refracted against them. A lone morning breeze swayed against the figures in the courtyard, ruffling the snow-colored threads perched upon their heads, and the fine silks adorning their body.

"OJII-CHAN, WHY? TAKE IT BACK!"

How it came to this, Satoru did not know. A few moons ago, until the midnight sun was directly overhead, he kept his eyes peeled, wracking his brain trying to figure out why his friend (still self-proclaimed) had yet to make her appearance despite the many, many days that have passed them by. At first, Satoru tried to maintain a positive outlook about it, repeatedly chanting to himself that (Y/n) was busy, that she probably had other errands to run but... what exactly can a seven-year-old be assigned to that would take her this long to complete? And why didn't his grandfather tell him anything about it?

So, the young Gojo heir came to the conclusion that perhaps—this time around—he took some things too far or that he never exerted effort on something his grandfather had told him to do. And this was the old man's way of setting his punishment for slacking off... by taking his only company away.

Nonetheless, he was not delighted. Oh, not one bit.

As a way to get back at the one who caused his misery, he clung to the back of his grandfather's kimono, wiping his snot and tears on the newly commissioned garment. Satoru's weight was not necessarily a hindrance for the experienced sorcerer, what was a bother was his incessant wailing and ridiculous pleading.

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME." He cried.

"As far as anybody is concerned, my dear grandson... yes, I actually can." The older man said, calmly. He was used to the young lad's tantrums, often just letting the boy tire himself out—which he would... eventually—but that didn't mean that it made dealing with the event itself a lot easier.

"NO! JUST TELL ME THAT YOU DON'T LOVE ME ANYMORE!"

"Child, you are being dramatic..."

Satoru's brain could not comprehend why this was happening. Still sagged against his grandfather's kimono and being dragged to the meeting hall, he tuned out all the tumult; pondering about the things he had done that just fell short of the Gojo Clan's expectations.

You're doing great, Gojo-sama!

What remarkable talent at such a young age!

Just a few more practices and you'll surpass even the greatest of masters! As expected of you, Satoru-sama.

He was doing just fine—excellent, even—according to the people around him. They smiled at him as though he would be the one to bring salvation into this monkey-infested world; praised him as someone would when met with an individual destined to be greater than everybody else. If they could, these people would have worshiped the ground he walked upon; built a temple in his honor.

Satoru bathed in their flowery sentiments. He reveled in the way they would grovel at his feet if he asked them to—and he did. The Gojo Heir would get a sick thrill out of others lowering themselves for him just so that he could step on them one by one. They would deem it a privilege—something to be grateful for even if it meant that they would lose their dignity and their entire identity altogether.

Still, no matter how much glory was served to him on a silver platter, it did not change the reality that they lacked sincerity.

Empty. That's what they were.

These people spoke words that he wanted to hear. Always the words of encouragement. Words that would get them to his good side. They were nothing but hilarious soliloquies sanctimoniously performed in front of the human they equated as a god but behind closed doors, wholeheartedly believed and made out to be a fool. All superficial flattery that hid their rotting desires inefficiently.

Idiot! You're doing it wrong.

That's what'll happen when you don't listen to instructions. Do it again!

Are you blind? It's right here. You see, this is what happens when you're so quick to use your mouth to complain instead of using your eyes to actually look!

The words of his one true friend (again, still self-proclaimed) were not any better. Most of the time they were insults, things uttered to purposely provoke him, declarations made in the heat of anger and annoyance. They cut deep, often leaving a trail of tears in their wake.

But they rang true.

Well, most of the time they did.

It was nice to be acknowledged for the things that you did, yes. To be praised for your accomplishments, no matter how menial or grand.

But over time, it does become overbearing.

To be free from flaws. For your actions to be compartmentalized as nothing less than righteous and just. To be so incandescently perfect, to be condemned to no more than a figure of false divinity.

Who could stand to bear such a fate?

Hypnotized to be kept in an endless cycle of perfection left him thinking he had no more room for growth.

If you get hurt, I'm not gonna help you.

Say it with me now, I did this to myself so I shouldn't complain.

Take my hand, stupid. On three, I'm going to pull you up.

But her words shattered the chains that bound him to the destiny he did not want to follow. All those tears he shed, the crevices scattered upon the meadows of his pride, forests of ideology burned to ash—even if he did not know the reasons for them at the moment, he would soon come to find that they happened because it would give way for a new him to come into being.

Even if (Y/n) would not admit it—which he doubts she ever would—but her declarations, no matter how much she coated them with anger and spite, to Satoru... they held more warmth and sincerity than what his entire clan could ever hope to gather beyond their lifetimes.

Satoru knew he could confide in them because (Y/n) did not want anything to do with him.

He knew that, of course.

Satoru would be an even bigger fool than what the elders believed he was if he tried to deny what was so painstakingly obvious...

That (Y/n) did not like him, and that she did not want to be his friend.

The Gojo Heir did not want to say that she was different because she wasn't. Naturally, no one wanted to be near him for fear of inferiority or endangerment, it was all a matter of what would come first, really. Even if it wasn't spelled out in big, bold letters, he knew that people only confided in him because they needed something. He knew that the only reason someone would approach him out of their own jurisdiction was because he was useful—because he had the six eyes, the limitless.

It never strayed far from that... and he doubts that it ever will.

(Y/n) did not want to be near him. So, regardless of her reasons... she was just like everyone else.

The only difference is that she stayed.

And that was more than enough for Satoru.

"OJII-CHAN!"

After that punishingly tedious task of walking to the meeting hall, Satoru had yet to cease his hold on his grandfather's robe; opting to bury his tear-stained face in them rather than to be continuously denied of a simple request.

Some would say Satoru got a little too comfortable with always getting what he wanted. His grandfather would agree, for he was facing the consequences of it first-hand. It was hard to say no to him.

"I PROMISE I'LL BE GOOD! I WON'T CAUSE YOU ANY TROUBLE FOR A WEEK—NO, A MONTH! PLEASE!"

The old sorcerer could do nothing but sigh for what seemed to be the hundredth time that morning at his grandson's relentless beseeching. He almost caved into that very tempting offer, almost. It seemed far too good to be true—too good to pass up. No crying house aids? No ridiculous stunts on the estate grounds? Peace and quiet not for a day, not for a week... but for a whole, entire month?

"Satoshi-sama," a call from opened shoji screens shattered the Gojo Head's impulse to agree, "they're waiting for you."

At the mention of other people's presence, Satoru's attention diverted from ruining his grandfather's clothes to trying to peek past the figure of the person standing in the middle of the way into the room.

"Wonderful."

The alternative meaning of Gojo Elder's statement was: Oh, thank the heavens! I didn't think I could stand another minute dealing with a whiny Satoru, not when he nearly caught me in that trap. He shuddered at that thought. His grandson could be devious if he wanted to be.

The servant moved away from the threshold, folding his knees, and bowing deeply to the prominent figures of the Gojo Clan.

Clothed feet thudded softly against the tatami flooring, sunlight streamed through the opened window panels, flooding the room with light dyed in a warm hue. The Gojo Elder stopped shortly in front of the two kowtowing figures awaiting his appearance, his grandson still absentmindedly tailing (dragging) behind him. The people who awaited his command wore the standardized hakama for household servants: a dull blue, loose top with sleeves that were held back by a white string, accompanied by gray ankle-length pants. They were simple clothing, really, every household aid wore them even...

"(Y/n)?"

And there she was, the person Satoru had been longing to see for the past two weeks, kneeling before him as though she was nothing but less than him. It seemed that Satoru would often forget that she was. But even so, he wanted to ask her so many things...

Are you alright?

Were you getting enough sleep?

Are you eating enough?

Where did you go?

Why did you take so long to come back?

Her hair, which was nearing the bottom of her spine when he last saw her, now only went a little past her shoulders; a little uneven. Anyone could tell it was done in haste. Clinging to the skin of her right cheek was a big, white plaster. At the littlest movements of her arms, Satoru caught a glimpse of a sliver of white cloth encasing her forearms. Bandages.

Did she get hurt... why?

Who... who would hurt you?

"Ah, I'm glad the two of you have made it." Satoru's grandfather seemed elated at the sight before him. As for why he was, the Gojo heir was yet to find out.

"Satoru, I'd like you to meet someone."

The older sorcerer ushered his grandson out of his hiding place, which proved to be a much harder task than what he initially thought would be just a simple nudge in the general direction of the newcomer, for the young boy stayed rooted to where he stood... which was directly on top of the hem of his grandfather's very stained, newly commissioned kimono.

Satoru's gaze remained on the apathetic expression painted on (Y/n)'s face, frozen. He wanted to ask her so many things, tell her all about the events that transpired during the time of her absence. 

But he just stood there like a statue.

"Satoru, this is Nagano Kiyu." The words his grandfather spoke fell deaf to his ears. It sounded as though he was submerged underwater, sinking deeper into the abyss as the breath in his lungs escaped him through the bubbles that would part from his lips. He had an inkling feeling of the next phrases that old man would say... and he was willing to use all his birthday wishes for his instinct to be proven untrue.

The young Gojo heir didn't think he was particularly indigent of (Y/n)'s companionship, he took what she gave him with open arms and had been grateful for every single one of them. So, right now... he didn't know what to make of it. Satoru, for once, did not know how to react.

"—this is Kiyu, Satoru's new... aide."

Not when her actions towards him breathed as though he was anything but himself like he was nothing more than a passing stranger.

(Y/n)... his friend, (Y/n)... was being replaced.

Why...?

The only one who's ever been true, (Y/n)... she was...

It was almost comical how every single person in the room took the news. Kiyu, the newcomer, had stars for eyes at the sight of the snow-haired boy. It didn't take a genius to tell that she had been dreaming of this moment for a long time. (Y/n), as per usual, looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but right here; the previously spotless bandage on her cheek now had little dots of red decorating it. Finally, Satoru, who was only informed of (Y/n)'s uh future short voyage just last night, had blanched at the change of plans; no one mentioned a replacement. All his begging to tag along with her had now looked as though it was all for naught.

The Gojo Head stood in the midst of it all, staring awkwardly at the outcome his information had brought.

Satoru tried to catch (Y/n)'s gaze. He wanted to see that familiar glint of haughtiness—even go as far as to make jokes of his own blind faith. He hoped that this was one of the lessons he needed to learn the hard way, you know... by shattering his hopes along with his heart completely. Anything but whatever it was that was approaching. But (Y/n), as she was, had found the floor a lot more worthy of her attention than him.

"Well? My boy, say hello to—"

The sound of his grandfather's sorry attempt at cutting through the tension snapped him back to retaliate.

"But Ojiichan, why?" Satoru's voice echoed within the four walls, loud enough that even if some of the screens were undone, his complaint hit the older sorcerer at full force. It was evident that the young lad didn't take the news all that well. And he was going to make sure that everyone else would suffer from it.

"Well, it's because (Y/n)-chan here—"

With her heart pounding desperately against the walls of her chest, (Y/n) darted her eyes to look at the Gojo Head, an impudent action for she was not given permission to raise her head, but the realization came a little too late.

A stinging feeling erupted from the base of her foot all the way to the back of her eyes, forcing her to keel over once more; reminding her of her place, where she stood amongst it all. (Y/n) wanted to protest. To have the Gojo Elder withhold just this fragment of information from his grandson—from Satoru. Yet her lips remained shut, bordered by the teeth she ground together.

"—has to go somewhere."

The young sorceress let her thoughts run freely. You didn't have to sugarcoat it. Tell him the truth. It didn't even register at first, the slip-up of the Gojo Elder, far too occupied with cursing everyone and everything that damned her to this fate. The news of her departure was not meant to be disclosed until the day after she actually leaves, for good reasons—and the mortified reaction of the white-haired creature a few paces from her had proven why.

"What...? Where?! Why?! OJIICHAN THIS IS UNFAIR!" He complained, a disbelieving tone at first before it transcended into frustrated, angry, accusatory yelling. "You told me it was only for a while! Why does (Y/n) need to be replaced when she'll only be gone for a while? Are you lying to me? Just—just tell me you don't care about me anymore!"

Why does he have to be so dramatic?

"Don't be sad, my boy... that is why I have arranged a temporary substitute for (Y/n)." The older sorcerer gestured to the new arrival, with half a mind berating his grandson for acting like a dimwitted fool who was heavily reliant on another.

Satoru took one look at the person now standing beside his grandfather, eyeing her from head to toe before saying a clear, hate-driven—

"No."

Stepping away from his grandfather and his stained garment, Satoru sat himself beside (Y/n), whose forehead still laid flat against the floors. He crossed his arms over his chest, superciliously craning his attention towards other mundane things.

Oh, he meant every bit of disrespect.

Satoru made it clear with his wordless response: either (Y/n) stays here, or he was going to make anything and everything harder than it had to be. He is a hard worker after all.

Deafening silence permeated the distance between the four people in the room, even the clamor of the workers preparing for the day did not pierce through the tension in the air.

"B-But Satoru-kun..."

Satoru whipped his head to face the one who had spoken, his sky-dyed eyes glared coldly and threateningly at the poor girl. "It's Gojo-sama to you." He snarled.

It didn't escape the young lad's eyes the way this Kiyu girl cowered away from him, he got that a lot, so it seemed. Satoru didn't mind. In fact, he was more than happy to put this servant back in her place, who did she think she was? Calling his name with so much unwelcome familiarity. However, what unnerved him so was the expression carved upon her face the moment her eyes strained to the floor.

What's there to smile about? Weirdo.

. . .

The sun began to hide behind the towering skyscrapers of Tokyo, painting the once azure sky with hues of pink and orange, dyeing the rest with shades of dark violet and ocean blue. A lone afternoon breeze swayed the trees to its melody, causing a few petals to drift toward the large estate bordered by well-kept gardens.

A thunder of footsteps echoed within the corridors of the Gojo estate accompanied by faint whispers of 'Go away' and 'Leave me alone'; answered by a very persistent 'No' and 'Let's have a sleepover'. (Y/n) ran through the hallways of the massive residence, careful not to break anything she could not afford to replace, chased down by what looked to be a bundle of blankets with feet and snowy-white hair.

"You two, please don't run in the halls!"

It baffled her so; how could that idiot even see? The sheets are practically taller than him!

Was the thought that raced through (Y/n)'s head as she turned the corner. She hurriedly slid her door open, eager to lose that demon-spawn hunting her down. Shutting it tightly, the young girl let herself fall to the floor... too tired to silence the incessant knocks on her doorway.

"(Y/n)?"

Silence.

"I know you're in there..."

(Y/n) deemed it futile to hide her snarl. After all, no one but herself could see that nearly unpaintable expression of annoyance plastered upon her face.

"You know I won't go away until you let me in!"

This idiot! Satoru could really be persistent if he wanted to.

"Oh~ is that Grandpa I see—"

And with that, the door opened with a bang. Satoru nearly jumped out of his wits as he heard a very noticeable crack come from the wood.

He stared as the girl looked from left to right, taking in the sight that the threat was empty and that if she were to put him in his place, she would not get in trouble right away. A wicked smile graced her face at the thought as she intimidatingly loomed over him.

Girls were normally taller than boys during this time of life but to Satoru, (Y/n) looked as though she would continue to tower over him like this for all eternity; like prey being stared down, ready to be killed at a moment's notice.

Satoru would've never admitted it out loud, but the sight of the older girl, up and ready to mutilate his body terrified him beyond existence.

"I—I'm—"

"You," she seethed, pointing a daunting finger down at the poor quivering boy, "I've had enough of you—don't make me peel off your face."

(Y/n) spread and hovered her fingers over Satoru's neck, all it took was a little more fire and the root of all her demise would be as good as memory. He did this. It was all his fault!

Looking at him had (Y/n)'s heart beating in an irregular manner, she felt the back of her eyes burn painfully at the sight of him, as though the scenery was being carved into them. The anger. At this moment, rang true for (Y/n).

This is exactly why you're being sent away, you ill-mannered brat.

How many more acts of disrespect did you think he was going to take from you?

This is what you deserve. Either you crawl out of there by the skin of your teeth... or die trying!

To her, he had no right to assert himself as a concerned friend when he—he was the one to—

"I just—I just wanted to spend time with you, (Y/n)! You're... you're leaving soon, aren't you? So, I—I just... wanted to..." Satoru found himself losing his script, the words flew out of his mouth so unceremoniously. He had it all planned out, what he was going to say, the right words that were sure to get him out of the gutter with this one but right now, it felt as though he was digging an even bigger hole for himself.

"I missed you, (Y/n)."

"And you're going away again when I only got to see you today so... I wanted to make up for all the time we spent apart... if you would let me."

It felt odd to ask for other people's agreement. Satoru was so used to taking what he wanted when he wanted, to be given something he wished for simply because he asked for it.

This time around, he didn't want to be like that. He feared that if he clung desperately to (Y/n), it would only push her away from him even more. So, he waited; told himself that no matter her answer, he would accept it. Satoru's eyes stared at the floor with such ferocity that he was sure he would burn through it if he kept at it for the rest of the night, which he silently hoped he wouldn't. No matter how many times the Gojo heir told himself that he would take any answer that (Y/n) would give him, the sorcerer in question, knew that Satoru did not want to be rejected. She could easily tell; it didn't take a genius to see that much. The way he braced himself as though he was going to get hurt, that alone gave it all away.

Because Gojo Satoru valued her thoughts of him more than anybody else's.

As (Y/n) took an intake of air to politely answer, her head craned to look at the person standing at the end of the hallway.

"Gojo-sama, supper is awaiting you in your sleeping quarters."

At the sound of that voice, the events that took place earlier today rushed back to (Y/n) at full force. It did not occur to the young sorcerer that she had been putting off thinking about it until she was left with no other choice but to confront the situation.

Much like the incident that transpired hours before, Satoru spared not a single breath towards Kiyu's direction, even after she closed the distance between them to a mere arm's length; preferring to keep his gaze settled on the person standing before him.

"You can have it. I'm not going there."

Satoru's short, seemingly sufficient answer was enough to snap her out of her momentary reverie.

(Y/n) didn't dislike her replacement. Nagano Kiyu's existence served as a constant reminder of her approaching departure, that she would be away from the creature before her even if she had to spend those moments walking between the borders of the living and the dead. Kiyu was tolerable—or so (Y/n) liked to tell herself—and her gratitude did extend itself to the person in question when in reality, it was only extensive enough to graze its recipient. (Y/n) was grateful that Nagano Kiyu would stand as that demon spawn's companion in her absence. However, what aggravated her was that look Nagano was giving her.

"Sa—Gojō-sama, you have to rest... we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow—"

The insolent expression painted on her face said it all: I'm going to take your job.

To be perfectly blunt, (Y/n) could care less. She'd be more than willing to hand over this horrifying task to Kiyu if she was so desperate for it. She was sure of it.

So why did her hand ache to crush that audacious hand valiantly reaching out to touch the Gojo Heir?

"Who said that I was going to spend tomorrow with you?" His head titled sideways, for the second time that day, looking to the servant who had so brazenly declared such sentiments. Satoru sneered at her in such a way that it almost looked as if he was daring Kiyu to finish her interrupted assertion.

"You low-class scum."

It felt as though the three of them starred in a theatrical performance where the world is the stage; left to be puppets tied to the script, actions controlled by a director they could no longer reach.

"You're just a liability. Taken in by my grandfather because you couldn't give anything for the world—who would ever want you? Filthy monkey."

Gojo's words echoed throughout the halls, ringing in the ears of the two servants. He forgets sometimes... that when he utters words to degrade Kiyu, they come right back to push his one true friend to the ground.

And for a pause not longer than a blink of an eye, (Y/n)'s heart breaks a little more.

To hear the words come right out of his mouth—from Satoru who had so boisterously declared to the world that they were friends. To see the mirror of herself in the person he was reducing to something less than human—to be reminded that during once upon a time, it was her who was at the receiving end of those harsh remarks.

(Y/n) didn't want to hear any more of Satoru's insults towards the innocent replacement. The older girl might as well stand in the shoes of Kiyu if she had to hear another insult come from Satoru; be the one whose eyes brimmed with a silver lining, the one whose cheeks were reddened, hair tangled from all the pulling and dragging, thrown across the floor from a hit so strong it would leave your face bruised for a long time. Might as well go back to that place, stay in the presence of that man.

There was no denying that Kiyo was bitter and held all sorts of envy towards her—that Kiyo was quick to anger, to covet the things (Y/n) had, to assume that she would be the villain standing in her way to greatness.

But was that truly a reason worthy enough to hold against the younger girl?

It wasn't.

Because Kiyu was mistaken—and because just like Kiyu, (Y/n) had once longed to find her purpose... to find something meaningful to do with the life she was allowed to keep.

And for a while, she thought she was lucky to have been given one.

After all, (Y/n) and Kiyu were on the same boat.

Just like Kiyu, (Y/n) was taken in by the Head of the household. And just as (Y/n) once was, Kiyu longed to find something precious to hold onto—to serve as an anchor in a world so tumultuous.

If Satoru deemed Kiyo worthless, nothing more than another burden for the Gojō clan to shelter... how would (Y/n) be any different?

So, she walked away.

Failing to lull the tremble in her breath or hide the shudder of her hands... leaving the pieces of her battered heart scattered across the floor, dying just a little more at the echo of his words, at the stain of tears on the mahogany ground.

. . .

Moonlight flowed like silver water through the opened window, shining down on the figure of a girl lying on a futon in the middle of the small room. A lone evening breeze waltzed in between the curtains, making them flow like waves crashing on shore. (Y/n) snuggled further into the warmth of her covers, recalling a faint, albeit unfamiliar voice, whispering in a soft, kind manner. Words that she could never quite hear nor understand.

(Y/n) didn't bother looking up or retaliating when she heard her door open for the millionth time that day.

The intruder was probably far too daft to notice that she wasn't even asleep anyway.

As much as (Y/n) wanted to crawl away when she felt something lay near her space, she couldn't... not even when she heard him whisper into the stillness of the night.

"... please stay a little longer."

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Satoru's grandfather, or any relative aside from Yuuta has no name so I'm just gonna make one up for the sake of the story. Also, hair length in this chapter may sorta be sometimes set... I hope you don't mind.

[dollfishu]

Best Ojii-chan ❤️❤️❤️

My Rough Translation:

Iruma: ...Huh...Grandpa....

Sullivan: Did I wake you up? Did I shake you too much, is it uncomfortable?

[cyllres]

Devil | JJK x Makima! Reader

Chapter 07

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the cold night air. The dim light of the hallway barely touched the edges of the deepening shadows inside the house. As you stepped into the warmth of your home, the stillness was interrupted by the urgent sound of Yuuji's voice.

"Imouto-chan," he called out, his tone sharp with anxiety. You saw him rush towards you, his face etched with worry. "I'm glad you're home."

His words were a rapid blur, each sentence a jumbled rush as he explained the situation. "Ojii-chan was rushed to the hospital, and I couldn't stay with him because I didn't want you to come back to an empty house. So our neighbors went with him." His eyes were wide, his expression torn between concern for your grandfather and the immediate need to convey this information to you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. The overwhelming sensation that had plagued you in the park was still there, pressing down on you like an invisible weight. Your breath hitched, and you felt a sudden sting in your eyes. It was only then that you noticed the wetness on your cheeks, the unmistakable evidence of tears.

“N/n… Were you crying?” Yuuji's voice softened, his eyes searching your face for an answer. His question hung in the air, cutting through the noise of his earlier explanation.

You turned to him slowly, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of the tears trailing down your face. The shock of it rooted you to the spot, and you brought a hand up to your cheek, fingertips brushing against the dampness. You had always prided yourself on your detachment, your ability to remain untouched by the storms of emotion that raged within others. But now, here you are, standing in your own home, crying.

Horrified, you recoiled from the sensation, as if the tears were something foreign and dangerous. This was a breach in the carefully maintained fortress of your control, a crack in the armor you had always worn so confidently. You couldn't understand it, couldn't grasp why your body had betrayed you in this way. The tears felt like a tangible sign of weakness, a loss of control that you couldn't afford.

"I…" you started, but the words failed you. How could you explain something you didn't even understand yourself? Your mind raced, trying to find a rational explanation, a way to regain your composure. But all you could feel was the raw, unchecked surge of emotions that had broken free from their confines.

Yuuji reached out, his concern deepening as he saw your distress. "Imouto-chan, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle and filled with worry. "What happened?"

You shook your head, stepping back from him. The distance felt necessary, a barrier to keep the chaos within you from spilling over. "It's nothing," you said quickly, your voice tight and strained. "I'm fine."

But the lie was obvious, even to you. The tears, the trembling in your voice, the way your body seemed to rebel against you—all of it betrayed the truth you were trying so desperately to hide. You felt exposed, vulnerable in a way you had never been before.

The dim light cast long shadows as you stood there, caught between the urgent news of your grandfather and the unfamiliar, terrifying sensation of tears. The silence stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the soft sound of your own breathing and the faint rustle of Yuuji shifting nervously in front of you.

Yuuji’s eyes were filled with concern, searching your face for answers you weren’t ready to give. "N/n… Were you crying?" he repeated, his voice softer, as if he was afraid of pushing too hard.

You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to regain control. The wetness on your cheeks felt foreign and wrong, a betrayal of the ironclad control you prided yourself on. In the back of your mind, you scrambled for a plausible explanation, something that could deflect his worry and give you the space you needed to collect yourself.

"Dust," you said abruptly, the word coming out harsher than you intended. You blinked again, rubbing your eyes for emphasis. "It must have been dust. The wind was strong outside, and it got in my eyes."

Yuuji frowned, his gaze skeptical. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he nodded slowly, though his concern didn’t diminish. "Alright," he said quietly, clearly unconvinced. "If you say so."

You forced a smile, hoping it would reassure him. "It's nothing to worry about," you added, trying to infuse your voice with a semblance of calm. "Let’s go see Ojii-san. We can’t leave him alone in the hospital."

Yuuji hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes lingering on your face as if searching for some hidden truth. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. We should go."

You turned away quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape his probing gaze. "I'll just get ready," you said over your shoulder, your voice steadying as you moved down the hallway towards your room. "Give me a minute."

-

As the door to Y/n's room closed behind her, Yuuji stood in the hallway, the faint click of the latch echoing in his ears. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly as he processed what he had just seen. His twin sister—always so composed, always so in control—had been crying.

Yuuji stared at the closed door, his thoughts racing. The explanation she had given, about dust getting into her eyes, seemed flimsy, almost laughable. He knew her too well; they had grown up side by side, sharing every moment and secret. He had seen her face danger without flinching, had watched her navigate the every moment with an unshakable calm. To see her break down, even for a moment, was something he never expected. It was like watching a statue crack and reveal something fragile beneath.

He paced the hallway, his mind replaying the scene over and over. The redness around her eyes, the faint tracks of tears on her cheeks—it was all so out of character for her. Yuuji couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, trying to cover up her distress with a hurried excuse. The sight of her like that gnawed at him, stirring a deep, unsettled worry in his chest.

Yuuji leaned against the wall, his eyes never leaving the door. He knew that Y/n was different, that she often seemed detached from the world around her. It was something he had always accepted about her, even if he didn’t fully understand it. But this…this was something else entirely. This was his strong, unflappable sister showing a side of herself that he had never seen before—a side that scared him.

“She’s lying,” he muttered to himself, the words hanging in the stillness of the hallway. “It wasn’t just dust.”

Yuuji could feel the knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. If she was lying about this, what else was she hiding? And why did she feel the need to hide it from him, her own twin? They had always been each other’s confidants, always able to rely on one another. The thought that she was keeping something from him was like a small, sharp pain in his heart.

As the minutes passed, he realized that pushing her for answers wouldn't help. They had to go to the hospital for their grandfather, and he trusted that Y/n would come to him when she was ready.

With a heavy heart and a lingering sense of unease, Yuuji turned away from the door and headed towards the living room to wait for you, leaving the questions unanswered for now. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

-

(endnotes: I'm really fucking sorry that this chapter was just based around yn just crying, originally this was part of chapter 06 but it for too long so i had to half it. Teehee. Anyways what do y'all think of yn? Comment down below or I would stop updating. (Jk) But so yeah, y'all ready for the canon? :333. if I ever see comments about 'bUt oH mAkImA iS nOt lIkE tHat, sHe'S emOtiOnLesS, cUnNiNg blah blah blah, sHe dOes nOt gEt aTtAcHeD' I'm gonna look for you and piss on you. Keep in mind that yn is in her puberty stage and her emotions are probably all over the place, plus I'm writing her in a way where she'd get emotions because emotionless characters are boring. :3333 plus, I want her to have a shit tons of flaw, aside from her attachment issues , she's gonna have control issues and W E A K N E S S , if y'all see any errors please oiint it out, its currently a one man show and i might be blind)

Kape?

[wistsandmagic]

MORE QUESTIONS!!! pick any ocs of your choice :3

1) Does your OC have a voice claim, if so who?

11) What was your inspiration for your OC?

20) If they fight, what's their weapon of choice?

25) Are they the kind of person who can't resist a good song? Can I catch your OC singing to themselves while they do the dishes?

26) What flower do you associate your OC with?

I think most of these are gonna be for Wonton, honestly. XD; 1. Yes, surprisingly! Ayaka Nishiwaki from the Japanese techno-pop band Perfume! She has the highest vocals and the 'cutest' voice, and that fits Wonton to a T. She isn't squeaky, she just has a higher-pitched voice than one would think, and when she speaks her words tend to flow more than you would expect from even a small truck.

2. .....a joke that Glyph made about how "One Ton" sounded like a TFA truck bot's name and my own opinion that the tiny kei trucks would make EXCELLENT little minicons. Add to that the fact that TFA is the continuity of Cartoon Logic and naming conventions are made up, Wonton was born. 20. The only thing Wonton's had to fight so far are the occasional tanuki and wild deer that try to get into Ojii-chan's garden. She doesn't know that Cybertron or the factions themselves even exist, she's never seen another Transformer. She was an Allspark fragment that was carried across the ocean and landed on the kei-truck that is now her altmode, and no one has been to Japan. As far as she knows she is the only one of her kind in existence. So...she's not exactly had to fight. That being said, her preferred weapon is dual-wielding a homemade broom and a garden rake. That usually scares anything that's in the garden off, and if it doesn't, she's really good at whacking things. (also you are getting a Tripwire for this one because. Reasons*

Tripwire is from Eterna AU, and he's one of the three Warborn bot kids (consisting of Bumblebee, Strongarm, and himself) that were on board the Ark when the Ark left Cybertron. He's the youngest of the three, but yes, he knows how to fight, and knows how to fight well. He had to learn, just like the others, in order to survive. His preferred weapon is actually a bow, and he's pretty bloody accurate with the thing, too. Like trick-shot levels of accurate. Really the only person who can still outshoot him is Hot Rod, and Hot Rod is the one who taught him how to shoot to begin with, starting when he was the equivalent of 5 years old, with a little baby bow he'd cobbled together with Wheeljack's help. Only reason Hot Rod ever got him to learn, though, is because he told Tripwire that Damus would be super proud of him when they got back to Cybertron for learning and not relying solely on his ability to short out electrical components with his scream. (Not that he was wrong, it was just also self-preservation since the kid did NOT have great control over the direction he shorted things out)

25. Wonton is, actually! She sings to herself quite often, and utilizes the radio in her cab to listen to music when she and Ojii-chan are working on the farm. They both enjoy it, though Ojii-chan has influenced her taste in music quite a bit. She likes traditional things and isn't really much for 'modern' Japanese music, though there are a few pop songs that she thinks are catchy. And yes, you can definitely catch her singing something to herself as she does dishes. Because she does actually help with the dishes, for one, and for two, singing makes things go by faster. (Dishes is a chore she doesn't enjoy.) 26. The Japanese lotus flower. Her original paint was designed to mimic the lotus, and she likes the colour scheme, so she's kept it. The lotus also symbolizes rebirth, which. Well. Can't really get more on the nose with that, now can you, considering her origins as an Allspark fragment bringing a truck to life. She very LITERALLY was 'reborn' as a Transformer.

[tigresslanzhu]

Not Entirely With It

Artica: Moon-Kun has too many bees in his bonnet!

Porsha: But think of the benefits! He looks cute in headwear and he’d get free honey!

[miano-oscarwilde]

Grandpaaaaa ❤️ now I'm really looking forward to seeing what happens in the Deviculum. I was waiting for the right emotion that will enchant me. Grandpa is beside Irubaby 🥺💕 family 💗 THEIR MASKS MATCH NOW!

"Yeah that's right he's my grandson and we'll wear matching features". Especially the big bird skull grandpa always wears around his neck became the inspiration for his mask and he also made his grandson wear it because whatever grandpa's family name is, Iruma will inherit it too?(please)

This was totally unexpected and I LOVE it.

Can't wait to see the part Where grandpa asks "how did you like the Deviculum iiiiiruma kun?" And Iruma is excited and says something "I have so many things to tell you ojii chan"