#or if its gonna end with him like running for president or something

[foreveia]

the leaders’ pact ⤨ sakusa kiyoomi

⨭ genre; college!au, friends-with-benefits to lovers

⨭ pairing; sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 12.7k

⨭ description; as it turns out, you and sakusa are the only people who truly understand just how much stress it is to run a student government, and well… you two find a way to blow off steam.

⨭ warnings; a lot of suggestive content, no graphic stuff tho sorry to disappoint this is Not smut, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i've decided sakusa is officially the most difficult person i've ever written abt which means y'all r gonna have to suffer through some horrible fics before i finally figure out the secret to kiyoomi. in the meantime, until i get to the level of being able to write him to my satisfaction, enjoy this part 2 of the asu trilogy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'don't wake me up' by mercer henderson

one.

Furudate University is, in one word, loud.

It’s one of its biggest charms, really—there’s something oddly comforting about being one in a crowd of thousands, about the constant hum of a campus that never fully sleeps. The lively debates over coffee-stained notes, the skateboarders who tempt fate on the cobblestone paths lining the central road, the professors who could be world-class researchers but still have to remind students to submit assignments in PDF format and not screenshots—it’s chaotic, it’s exhausting, and despite everything, you love it here.

That being said, at 1:47 AM, when you’re still in the ASU office drowning in a sea of unread emails and budget spreadsheets, you think maybe—just maybe—you should have picked a smaller school. One with fewer students. Fewer problems. Fewer reasons for you to be awake at this ungodly hour, questioning every life choice that led you here.

Because you’re the ASU president, and behind the lofty title is an overworked, drained, pitiful student who is really at her wits end, shoulder-deep in stupid complaints about the dining halls and unreasonable requests from faculty and alumni. And at this current moment in time, you’re stressed out about an event more than a month away, but already causing you significant problems in your life: the annual Spring Festival.

It’s a week-long ordeal, ending with a massive fundraiser gala that’s all dazzling lights and delicate floral arrangements; you spend half the budget on catering and the other half praying the student performers don’t ruin the atmosphere with an impromptu drum solo. It’s supposed to be the ASU’s shining achievement—proof that this student government is more than a glorified complaint department.

But right now? Right now, it’s a logistical nightmare.

And sitting across from you, flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading Terms & Conditions, is the only other person suffering through this hell with you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, ASU’s executive vice president.

Sakusa, who has been in this office with you for hours, sifting through the same mountain of paperwork, answering the same stupid emails, keeping everything in order with his obsessive attention to detail.

Sakusa, who somehow manages to look completely fine while doing all of this.

You have personally descended into full goblin mode. You’re hunched over your desk, hair slipping out of your bun, posture absolutely horrendous. There is a growing stack of empty coffee cups by your desktop and a pad of post-its covered with scribbled reminders and notes; your workspace is as much of a mess as you are right now. Sakusa, meanwhile, is sitting up straight, scrolling through his tablet with an air of absolute indifference, looking like he could walk out of here and into a corporate meeting without breaking a sweat.

You hate him a little bit for that.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.

“It is,” Sakusa agrees. “But that’s not new information.”

You glare at him. “Okay, but if one more person asks if we can move the gala to a rooftop venue, I might actually lose my mind.”

“They want a rooftop?” he asks, flipping to another page. “In April? In a city where it rained last year?”

“Apparently, ‘the ambiance would be breathtaking.’”

Sakusa stares at you. “The litigation would be breathtaking.”

“Right?” You throw up your hands. “I give it an hour before someone drinks too much and falls off the side.”

“Or before you push them.”

“...I’m not saying I would, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t.”

He hums, unimpressed, before pushing a document across the desk toward you. “Facility contracts,” he says. “Pick a venue so I can start drafting agreements.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against the table. “I can’t make any more decisions tonight.”

“Tough.”

“I physically cannot. I am a husk of a person.”

“Then drink some water.”

You lift your head just enough to frown at him. “Did you just tell me to hydrate? That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Fuck that. I need wine or something,” you huff, annoyed. 

Sakusa doesn’t even blink. “Then go get some.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “...That sounded suspiciously close to permission.”

“I’m not your parent.” He finally looks up from his tablet, arching a brow. “You’re an adult. If you want to drink yourself into oblivion because of a student event, that’s on you.”

That’s all the encouragement you need.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the office couch, the wine bottle freshly uncorked between you. Sakusa had taken exactly one look at the cup you found in the ASU storage cabinet (which had definitely been used for some underclassmen’s illicit party at some point) before deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.

Fine by you.

You take a long sip before passing it back, watching as Sakusa tilts the bottle back with far less hesitation than you expected. You almost comment on it, but then again—if anyone needs to drink, it’s him.

The office is dimly lit, the overhead lights flicked off in favor of the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The exhaustion weighs heavy in the air, mingling with the soft clink of glass and the low rustle of Sakusa flipping a page in his binder.

For a while, there’s just silence.

Comfortable, in a way.

And maybe that’s why, when you finally tilt your head back against the couch, wine warm in your veins and pink in the cheeks, you finally break it. “This job is killing me,” you mutter. 

Sakusa exhales, rubbing his temple. “Join the club.”

“You’re the only other person who gets it,” you murmur, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone else just sees the power trip. They don’t see the fucking bureaucracy, the politics, the alumni breathing down our necks. I swear to God, if one more administrator calls me ‘sweetie’—”

“They don’t respect us,” Sakusa says simply. “They never will.”

The words sit heavy between you. It’s the truth, the unspoken reality of student government. You have influence, sure. Responsibility, absolutely. But at the end of the day, you’re just placeholders—students playing pretend at running an institution that will outlive you by centuries.

And it’s exhausting.

Your eyes flicker to Sakusa. The furrow of his brows, the tight set of his jaw. He’s exhausted too.

You shift slightly, your knee brushing against his. He doesn’t move away.

The warmth of the wine lingers, but it’s not enough to explain the heat creeping up your neck. You tell yourself it’s just the exhaustion—just the absurdity of being awake at nearly 2 AM, drowning in bureaucratic bullshit with the only person who understands. But when you glance at him again, catching the way his fingers press absently into the label of the bottle, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on the floor for a second longer than necessary before meeting yours…

Something flips in your stomach.

A mistake, your brain whispers. A complication waiting to happen. You have to work with him. See him every day. Endure another semester of late nights in this very office, drowning in deadlines and bad coffee and biting remarks that somehow still feel like companionship. You don’t even want to think about what happens if this goes wrong.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your breath catches. You can hear it, the quiet sound in the stillness of the office. Your heart is an unsteady drumbeat in your chest, something traitorous stirring beneath your ribs. His gaze flickers—down, then up—his throat bobbing in a quiet swallow.

Then he moves.

His lips meet yours, firm and deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the sharp edge of tension snapping between you, unraveling all at once.

You don’t think. You just react, your fingers threading into his dark hair as he pulls you closer. The empty wine bottle slips from your grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the couch cushions, but you barely notice.

He’s warm. Solid. His hands don’t just grip your waist—they press, anchor, claim. A slow, deliberate pull, like he wants you here, exactly here. There’s something controlled about the way he moves, like he’s holding back, like he’s measuring every touch, every breath.

It makes your skin burn.

You shift, legs draping over his lap, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips as you tug him closer. When your hips roll against his experimentally, his breath stutters—a sharp inhale, his fingers flexing against your sides. The sound sends something electric through you, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and spreads outward, curling hot in your chest.

Your breath is ragged when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes dark and unreadable. He stares at you for a moment, something flickering across his expression—something unspoken, something dangerous.

“We shouldn’t—” he starts, voice hoarse.

You cut him off with another kiss, hands sliding under his shirt, nails skimming lightly over the firm plane of his stomach. He exhales sharply against your mouth, grip tightening—not just on your waist now, but your hips, your thighs, the fabric of your sweater bunched between his fingers like he’s trying to ground himself.

Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is reckless, a mistake in the making.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like one.

Right now, you just need this.

And judging by the way Sakusa exhales, tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail along his jaw, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, so does he.

two.

You wake up to warmth.

The blankets are too heavy, too soft; the pillow beneath your head isn’t yours, and the mattress is firmer than what you’re used to. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent, crisp and clean, and for a few blissful seconds, none of this sets off any alarm bells.

Then you shift.

And your leg brushes against something—someone.

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.

Sakusa is lying beside you, still half-asleep.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your brain kicks into overdrive, panic slamming into you at full force.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t blink—like maybe if you stay perfectly still, reality will reset itself and you’ll wake up in your own bed, like none of this ever happened.

You rub your eyes. Nope. No, you’re still here. In Sakusa’s bed.

Last night comes rushing back in fragments.

The office, the spreadsheets, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on you both. The frustration, the exhaustion, the bottle of wine. The way his voice had dipped lower, the sharp inhale when your fingers slipped beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you—deliberate, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

And, apparently, didn’t.

Your face burns.

You can’t do this. You need to get out of here. Right now.

Very, very carefully, you begin to inch toward the edge of the bed. If you can just get up without waking him, you can grab your clothes, sneak out, and pretend this never happened—

“You’re awake,” Sakusa mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You freeze.

His eyes are barely open, but there’s enough clarity in them to tell you that he’s fully aware of the situation. He blinks slowly, processing, before exhaling and rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, there’s silence.

You should say something. Address the elephant in the room. Acknowledge that, somehow, you and Sakusa Kiyoomi—the only other person in ASU who understands your suffering, who you bicker with more than you talk, who is supposed to be your goddamn vice president and right-hand man—woke up in the same bed.

Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“This is bad.”

Sakusa lets out a quiet, barely-there groan and turns his head slightly toward you. “I was hoping it was a dream.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

Another silence. Neither of you move.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, but now that the initial panic is fading, your brain starts working through the situation. Rationalizing.

You and Sakusa don’t even like each other. Okay, that’s not entirely true, but your dynamic has always been built on mutual endurance, on suffering together in the trenches of student government. Exchanging exhausted sighs over idiotic administrative emails and bitter remarks over ridiculous student requests.

This wasn’t… feelings.

It was stress. Overwork. Too much responsibility and not enough outlets to relieve it.

You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around yourself. “Look, let’s just… not freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life.”

“I always look like that.”

Okay, fair point. Still, you don’t miss the way his fingers are curled slightly into the sheets, tension lingering in his posture.

You take a deep breath. “Last night was a mistake.”

Sakusa’s gaze flickers to you. “Obviously.”

Something about the way he says it irritates you. You roll your eyes. “Wow, again with the rudeness.”

“I just mean it was inevitable,” he exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.

You blink. “Wait, you think this was inevitable too?”

He gives you a flat look. “We spend too many hours locked in an office together. We argue constantly. We both hate our jobs but are too stubborn to quit. We drink after meetings. Statistically speaking, this was bound to happen.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

You pause. Something about that statement makes something in your chest loosen just slightly.

He’s right. This isn’t romantic. It’s not complicated. It’s not some star-crossed bullshit. 

It’s just stress.

And you can work with that.

A thought occurs to you, a ridiculous, stupid, reckless thought, and before you can second-guess yourself, you say it out loud.

“We could do it again.”

Sakusa’s entire body stills. His dark eyes snap to yours.

“Not right now. I just mean…” You keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to stay composed as you shrug. “I mean, think about it. We’re both overworked. We don’t have time for relationships. This was just a way to let off some steam, right? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Sakusa watches you carefully, expression unreadable. “You’re saying—”

“No feelings. No complications. Just stress relief.”

His brows furrow slightly.

You lift your hands, palms up. “I’m just being practical. We both clearly need an outlet, and this was… effective.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “Unless you regret it?”

Sakusa exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before glancing away. “No.”

There’s something in his voice—something almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something. You decide not to dwell on it.

Instead, you grin, ignoring the way your heart picks up slightly at his answer. “So? Agreed?”

Sakusa’s jaw tenses. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark and considering.

Then, finally, he exhales. “…Agreed.”

You clap your hands together. “Great. Now, where the hell are my clothes?”

As you slip out of bed and start gathering your things, Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye. His expression is neutral, unreadable. Outwardly, he looks composed, unaffected.

But inside, something is twisting in his chest.

This is good. Logical. You’re too busy for anything more. He doesn’t do attachments. This is supposed to be simple.

So why does he already feel like he’s in trouble?

three.

For the first week, you and Sakusa keep it lowkey.

It’s surprisingly easy. Between the endless meetings, the flood of emails, and the general chaos of festival planning, no one seems to notice that anything has changed. You and Sakusa don’t act any differently—at least, not in ways that anyone would immediately pick up on. You still bicker, still throw exasperated looks across the office, still exchange sarcastic remarks whenever an administrator sends a particularly idiotic request.

But there are differences. Subtle ones.

The way his hand lingers on your back a second too long when he brushes past you. The way you glance at him when no one else is looking, catching the momentary flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The way your fingers graze when he hands you a folder during a meeting, a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt up your spine.

Still, you’re both careful. No one knows. And it stays that way—until a week later.

It’s late.

Too late for anyone to still be in the ASU office, but here you are, wrapping up an executive board meeting that somehow stretched two hours past its scheduled end. The festival is fast approaching, and the stress is at an all-time high. The VP of Finance, Futakuchi, keeps sighing loudly; Ushijima, the sustainability representative, looks entirely unbothered, and Kiyoko, the VP of campus affairs, has the expression of someone who desperately needs sleep but knows she won’t get any. Even the internal VP, Aone, who’s usually silent and stoic, rubs a hand over his face in a rare display of frustration.

The exhaustion in the room is palpable.

But eventually, mercifully, the meeting ends.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans, stretching out his arms. “I swear, if I get one more email about the catering, I’m deleting my inbox.”

“You can’t do that,” Kiyoko mutters, but she sounds just as tired.

“I can and I will.”

Ushijima nods thoughtfully. “That is not an efficient way to handle the problem.”

“Whatever, man.” Futakuchi waves him off. “I’m going home before I start throwing chairs.”

The rest of the exec board follows suit, shuffling out one by one. Within minutes, the office is empty—except for you and Sakusa.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts his laptop, methodically gathering his things. But you know him well enough by now to catch the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers flex against the strap of his bag. He’s tired, too.

And yet, he lingers.

Your heart is already hammering in your chest before you even fully process what you’re about to do.

You wait until the last footsteps fade down the hallway before stepping closer.

“Sakusa,” you murmur.

He looks up, expression unreadable, but you catch the flicker of something in his dark eyes before he schools his face into neutrality. “What?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie, pull him toward you, and kiss him.

He exhales sharply against your lips, but he doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch, and then he’s pushing you back, guiding you without breaking the kiss.

You barely register the click of the storage closet door as it shuts behind you.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not every night. Not every meeting. But often enough.

Enough that you start slipping into supply rooms and empty hallways whenever you get the chance. Enough that you stop pretending it’s just a fluke, stop pretending it’s just a one-time mistake. Enough that you start looking for excuses to stay behind after meetings, just to see if he’ll do the same.

The stress of festival planning only gets worse as the days tick down, but somehow, you feel... lighter. And unfortunately, you’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says one afternoon, arms crossed as he leans against the table. “What’s up with you?”

You blink at him over your laptop. “What?”

“You.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re… less miserable.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“I’m serious.” He narrows his eyes, studying you. “A week ago, you were two stress-induced breakdowns away from setting the office on fire. Now you’re—” He squints. “Weirdly calm.”

You scoff, looking back at your screen. “Maybe I just got better at coping.”

Futakuchi snorts. “Sure. And Aone’s secretly a stand-up comedian.”

Across the room, Aone looks up from his notes, blinks, then goes back to writing. 

Meanwhile, Ushijima watches you with mild curiosity. “It is true that you seem less fatigued.”

“Maybe she’s just sleeping more,” Kiyoko suggests.

Futakuchi smirks. “Or maybe she’s not sleeping.”

You choke on your coffee, the burn in your nose causing you to cough. Kiyoko swiftly hands you a tissue from her desk and sighs. “Kenji, please.”

“I’m just saying,” Futakuchi says innocently, shrugging. “She’s been spending a lot of extra time here after meetings. And so has Sakusa.”

You feel your pulse spike, but you force yourself to roll your eyes. “We’re working.”

“Sure you are.” Futakuchi hums. “Just seems interesting, is all.”

Ushijima nods, ever serious. “You and Sakusa have been in close proximity more frequently.”

You school your expression into neutrality, ignoring the way your face warms. “Noted.”

Futakuchi snickers. “That wasn’t a no.”

You pretend not to hear him.

Across the office, Sakusa is focused on his laptop, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. But when you glance at him, just for a second, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

A silent acknowledgement.

A secret you both share, that’s meant for you two alone.

four.

At first, nothing really changes.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The routine remains the same. Meetings, long nights in the ASU office, the occasional stolen moment in a storage room when stress becomes too much. You and Sakusa still pretend like this is nothing more than convenience—like it’s just stress relief, like it doesn’t bleed into the rest of your lives.

Except it does.

It starts small. You realize one day, midway through a meeting, that Sakusa’s been sitting closer to you lately. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, close enough that you can pick up the faint scent of his detergent. Close enough that when you pass him a folder, his fingers linger just a second too long against yours.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

But then, the conversations change.

It happens one night in the office.

You’re both buried under paperwork, exhausted but determined to finalize the last of the festival logistics. It’s late—past midnight, the campus outside empty and still. The only light in the room comes from your desk lamps, throwing soft, golden pools across the stacks of documents between you. The air smells like old paper and Sakusa’s coffee, a little burnt because he never times it right.

The quiet is comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of his laptop keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t ASU president,” he clarifies. “If you had never run for office.”

You pause, pen hovering over the paper. The thought has never really occurred to you. Student government has consumed your life for so long that the idea of not being in this position feels foreign.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I’d have more time to actually enjoy college.”

Sakusa hums, his gaze flickering to you. “So you don’t enjoy it now?”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just… exhausting. I feel like I’m constantly putting out fires. Like I’m carrying this huge weight, and if I mess up, everything will fall apart.”

For a moment, Sakusa doesn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, he says, “I get that.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“Volleyball is kind of the same,” he continues, eyes still on his laptop screen. “I love it. But sometimes, it’s a lot. The pressure, the expectations. Some days, I wonder if I’d still play if I didn’t have to.”

You study him for a moment—the tension in his posture, the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. It’s rare for Sakusa to talk about himself like this.

Impulsively, you say, “I could come to one of your games.”

His fingers still. He finally looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. “Why?”

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Because. You put up with all my ASU crap. I can support you, too.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhales and looks back at his screen.

“If you want,” he mutters.

But you see the way his ears turn pink.

After that, the changes keep coming.

One night, you fall asleep in Sakusa’s dorm.

It’s not on purpose.

You were both exhausted, drained from another grueling meeting that had stretched far too late. The weight of festival logistics, last-minute approvals, and endless emails had pressed down on you until neither of you could keep your eyes open. What was supposed to be a brief pause—a moment to catch your breath before making the trek back to your dorm—turned into you lying there, too tired to move.

You’d meant to get up. You really had.

But then Sakusa had tugged the blanket over you with an almost reluctant kind of care, his movements cautious, deliberate. His arm had settled around your waist, warm and steady, like he’d done it without thinking; his breathing had evened out against the back of your neck, deep and slow, and suddenly, the thought of moving felt impossible.

You don’t remember falling asleep—only that the next thing you know, soft morning light is filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, you forget where you are. The sheets smell like him—clean, crisp, something faintly citrusy beneath it all. The kind of scent that lingers, that sticks to your skin in ways you can’t quite shake.

You should get up. You should leave before this gets any weirder.

But then Sakusa shifts beside you, his grip tightening, just for a second. His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

“Go back to sleep.”

And, for some reason, you do.

The lingering turns into something more.

You start walking back to your dorms together after meetings, shoulders brushing in the cold night air. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you acknowledge the way Sakusa always seems to fall into step beside you, how his hands slip into his pockets but his body angles just slightly toward yours.

The touches that used to be quick, fleeting, become longer. His hand stays on your lower back when he passes by, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt. When you both reach for the same document, his fingers brush against yours, and he doesn’t pull away as fast as he used to.

It’s not just the physicality that changes.

He starts noticing things about you—things no one else does.

Like how he always makes sure there’s an extra bottle of water on your desk because he knows you forget to stay hydrated when you’re stressed. How he starts bringing you food when you work late, tossing it onto your desk without a word. Eat, he mutters, barely meeting your eyes. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.

And then there’s the morning after another late night in his bed.

You wake up groggy, the lingering warmth of sleep making you slow to realize that Sakusa isn’t next to you anymore. The room smells like coffee, and when you push yourself up onto your elbows, you see him standing by the tiny dorm kitchen, placing two plates of food on the counter.

You blink at him sleepily, confused. “Did you make extra on purpose?”

He doesn’t look at you as he plates the food, but you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

“You’re already here,” he says simply.

That’s all he says.

But when he sets the plate in front of you, something warm settles in your chest.

The first game you go to, Sakusa plays like his life depends on it.

You hadn’t planned on sitting so close to the court, but one of his teammates had insisted, ushering you into a seat with a too-knowing smirk. The energy in the gym is electric, the air thick with anticipation. You’ve never really watched him play before—not like this.

He’s already on the court when you spot him, stretching near the net. His head turns slightly, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something. His eyes pass over you once, then snap back.

For just a second, he falters.

It’s quick—so quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. The moment his gaze locks onto yours, his fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening.

Then, he exhales. Rolls his shoulders back. Locks in.

You’ve never seen him play like this before. Focused, sharp, completely in control. His serves are ruthless, each one hitting its mark with unwavering precision. Every spike is calculated, every movement fluid. The intensity radiating off him is almost palpable.

His team wins, of course.

Afterward, you wait for him outside the locker room, arms crossed, watching as players filter out one by one. When he steps out, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and his bag slung over one shoulder, he stops the moment he sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you play that well just because I was watching?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sakusa scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

But his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

You grin. “You totally did.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

And when you both walk back to your dorms later, shoulders brushing, his fingers graze yours before he pulls away too quickly.

You pretend not to notice.

That night, after another round of pretending this is just stress relief, neither of you move when it’s over.

You’re lying on his bed, your head turned slightly toward him, watching the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your skin. The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of students passing by outside and the rhythmic hum of the dorm heater kicking on.

You could get up. You should get up.

But instead, you speak.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” you murmur.

Sakusa doesn’t open his eyes. “What?”

“This,” you say, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to do this.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, just for a second. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

You swallow. “So why do we?”

Sakusa finally opens his eyes, looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something there—something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken yet unmistakably there.

You expect him to dodge the question, to brush it off the way he usually does. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you.

And you realize, in that moment, that you don’t really want to hear his answer.

You just want him to keep looking at you like that.

five.

A week before the festival, the networking event is in full swing. The banquet hall is filled with students, alumni, and faculty—mingling, exchanging business cards, and making polite conversation over expensive hors d’oeuvres. The hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of polite laughter—all of it blends into a constant, low-level buzz, the kind that starts to wear on you after the first hour.

And it has been an hour. An exhausting one.

You’ve spent most of it bouncing between conversations, smiling until your cheeks ache, engaging with donors who are all too eager to talk about their latest ventures. It’s tedious, but necessary. Part of the job. You, as much as you sometimes wish you weren’t, are the face of the ASU, and that means standing here, playing nice, keeping people happy.

Across the room, Sakusa is lurking near the back, a glass of water in his hand, his expression unreadable. He never cared for these kinds of events, and you’re not sure why he bothers attending in the first place. Maybe because you’re here. Maybe because it’d be more suspicious if he didn’t. Either way, he’s kept his distance all night, watching the room with the sharp, observant eyes you know so well.

You’re halfway through an exhausting conversation with a donor when someone sidles up beside you, close enough that the scent of his cologne—something expensive, overly strong—settles in the air between you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough self-assurance to set you on edge. “You look good tonight.”

You barely remember his name—Terushima, maybe? Some business major, someone who always carries himself like he’s the most interesting person in the room. He’s charming, in that forced, calculated way, and it’s clear he expects the same back.

You force a polite smile, instinctively taking a step back. “Thanks,” you say evenly. “Are you enjoying the event?”

He barely acknowledges your words. His eyes linger. It’s not overtly inappropriate, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—”

Before he can finish, a hand lands on the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You glance up just in time to see Sakusa step in beside you, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakably possessive. His fingers flex slightly against your waist—not hard, not urgent, but firm enough to ground you.

The guy’s smirk falters.

“Oh,” he says, glancing between you and Sakusa, processing. “Didn’t realize you were… with someone.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The air around him shifts, a quiet warning woven into the sharpness of his gaze.

The guy clears his throat, mutters something about catching up later, and disappears into the crowd.

Sakusa’s hand doesn’t move.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.

He exhales sharply, finally letting go. “He was annoying.”

You bite back a smile. “You’re grumpy.”

He gives you a look—flat, unimpressed—but there’s something unreadable in his expression, something tense, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You don’t think much of it. Not until later.

That night, everything feels different.

Sakusa’s touch is rougher than usual. Not careless, not cruel—just… more. Harder. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingers pressing deep into your skin, like he’s trying to anchor himself. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, laced with something unspoken, something desperate. Like something inside him has snapped, like he needs to prove something—not to you, but to himself.

You notice immediately.

The way he pushes you back onto the mattress, the way his body moves against yours, the way his lips chase yours with a kind of urgency you’re not used to—it’s different. There’s a tension in him that wasn’t there before, a weight behind his touch that makes your breath hitch. It’s not impatience, not exactly. It’s more like restraint fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

When he settles between your legs, when he pulls you against him like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers, you smirk against his lips.

“Someone’s in a mood,” you murmur, voice teasing, but there’s an underlying curiosity there too. A question you don’t quite ask.

He exhales sharply against your neck, a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts your chin up, kisses you harder, swallowing whatever words might have come next. And just like that, the conversation ends.

You don’t tease him after that.

Later, long after the room has gone quiet again, your breath is still uneven, your body still humming in the aftershocks of it all. The warmth of his skin lingers against yours, the feeling of his touch still imprinted in every place he’s been.

You expect him to roll away like he usually does—to shift onto his side, to put that familiar distance between you. Sakusa isn’t distant, not in the way that people assume, but he’s careful. Careful with his space, with his touch, with how much of himself he lets you see.

But tonight is different.

Instead of moving away, he stays close. One arm draped loosely over your waist, his fingers resting against your skin. His breathing is slow, deep, steady. When you shift slightly, his grip flexes—just barely, just enough to keep you there.

You blink, caught off guard.

Sakusa is guarded, meticulous, composed. He doesn’t do things without reason, doesn’t let his guard slip without meaning to. And yet, right now, he’s letting himself be close. Letting himself stay.

You watch him for a moment. His curls are messier than usual, some strands falling over his forehead. In the dim glow of the night, his features are softer, more open than they usually are. There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded, still half-lost in the haze of sleep—that makes something tighten in your chest.

Without thinking, you reach up, brushing the hair away from his face.

Sakusa’s eyes flutter open.

You freeze. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he exhales, his eyes slipping shut again.

You take that as permission.

Your fingers move again, slower this time, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, his shoulders relaxing beneath your touch. You don’t think he even realizes it, the way he melts into the warmth of your palm, the way his body unconsciously shifts closer.

A strange warmth settles in your chest. Something soft. Something quiet.

The urge to be closer to him—to feel more of him—creeps in before you can think better of it. And so you don’t think. You just act, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

Sakusa’s eyes snap open again.

He stares at you, startled, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“What?” you ask, amused. “I can’t kiss you?”

His brows furrow, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, “You never have before.”

The words sit heavy between you.

You blink, lips parting slightly. You don’t know why his voice sounds like that—soft, careful, like he’s treading over unfamiliar ground. You don’t know why it makes your heartbeat stutter, why it makes your chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

You swallow. “Did you… not like it?”

A beat of silence. Then, just as quiet: “No.”

Your breath catches.

He exhales, turning his face slightly into the pillow, but not before you catch the faintest hint of red blooming across the tops of his ears.

So you take a chance, leaning in again—this time pressing a softer kiss against his temple, then another against the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

And when you settle back down beside him, his fingers find yours, hesitant but deliberate.

Neither of you say anything.

You don’t need to.

six.

Sakusa isn’t paying attention at first.

He’s in the ASU office, sorting through the last of the Spring Festival budget reports while the others talk idly around him. The voices blend into the usual hum of conversation—background noise, nothing worth listening to. At least, not until he hears your name.

That’s what makes his focus shift, what makes his fingers still slightly on the paper in his hands. His head doesn’t lift, his posture doesn’t change, but his ears tune in before he can stop himself.

“Are you guys dating?”

Kiyoko’s voice. Calm. Casual. A simple question, but one that makes his grip tighten around the page in his hands before he even knows why.

There’s a pause—just long enough for something to stir uneasily in his chest.

Then you laugh.

“Oh, no,” you say, amused. “It’s not like that.”

His stomach drops.

The feeling is sharp, unexpected. Foreign.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like you’ve ever talked about this. It’s not like there’s anything to talk about. You both agreed—no feelings, no complications. Just stress relief.

Still, the way you say it—so easily, so effortlessly—it makes his throat tighten.

Not like that.

Not even close.

Sakusa forces himself to breathe, shifting slightly in his seat as he stares at the document in front of him. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to let it go, to shake off the strange weight settling over his chest. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The festival is next week. His schedule is packed. He doesn’t have time to dwell on things that shouldn’t even be a problem in the first place.

But for the first time in weeks, his brain refuses to cooperate.

The conversation continues around him, but it’s as if everything has dulled—like the words are passing through a filter, muffled and distant. All he hears is your voice. The casual certainty in your tone. The way you’d dismissed the thought so easily, like it wasn’t even worth considering.

Like the idea of being with him was ridiculous.

He exhales slowly, his grip on the budget report tightening until the edges of the paper crumple under his fingers. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease his hold, just stares down at the page as if forcing himself to refocus will make the feeling go away.

It doesn’t.

It lingers.

All through the rest of the meeting, as he signs off on expenses and finalizes last-minute festival details. As you talk to him like nothing has changed—like he’s still the same Sakusa you’ve always known, the one you don’t have to think twice about, the one who isn’t even worth a second glance.

By the time the meeting ends, he feels restless.

Then, later, you invite him to a party.

It’s casual—one of your friends is hosting, nothing too fancy, just a small gathering with drinks and music. The kind of thing you don’t usually ask him to go to.

“Come with me,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow as you both leave the office. “You never go out.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have time.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Sakusa, for once in your life, stop being responsible and just come have fun.”

But he shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”

You stop walking. Turn to face him.

“Why?”

The question is simple. Easy. You’re not even upset—not really. Just confused. Because he never used to turn you down before.

He hesitates.

He could lie. Say he’s busy, that he has too much work to do, that he’s too tired.

But that’s not the real reason.

The real reason is this: if he goes, he can’t pretend it’s not real anymore.

He can’t keep pretending this is just stress relief. That it doesn’t mean anything. That he doesn’t want more than what you’re willing to give.

Because if he goes, he’ll see you in a setting where you’re not just the ASU president, not just the person who collapses into his bed after long meetings, not just the person who understands him better than anyone else.

You’ll be you. Loud, laughing, electric.

And he’ll look at you, and he’ll want. And he can’t afford that, not when he already knows how this ends.

So instead, he meets your gaze and says, “I just don’t feel like it.”

Something flickers across your expression. It’s quick—so quick that if he wasn’t looking at you so closely, he might’ve missed it.

But he doesn’t.

He sees the brief drop of your shoulders, the slight shift in your posture. You don’t push. You don’t ask again.

You just nod once, tight and short, and say, “Okay. Whatever.”

And then you turn and walk away, sparing only a quick glance over your shoulder.

The moment you’re gone, Sakusa exhales, running a hand down his face. He tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wanted. That this is better.

But he feels like shit. His head hurts. He feels like he can’t breathe.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Sakusa wonders if he just made a mistake.

seven.

Sakusa starts pulling away first.

It’s subtle in the beginning. Little things.

You don’t notice it immediately—not with how chaotic the week leading up to the Spring Festival is, how much there is to do, how many fires there are to put out. The days are long, packed with meetings, last-minute approvals, and problem-solving. You’re too busy running from one crisis to another to really stop and think about it.

But then it starts becoming undeniable.

He stops lingering after meetings. Stops staying late in the office with you. Stops brushing his fingers against yours when he hands you documents, stops nudging your knee under the conference table, stops looking at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

And, most noticeably, he stops touching you.

That’s when it really sinks in.

Because you had started to grow used to it—the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way he’d reach for you without thinking, the way he used to pull you into his side when no one was around. It had become second nature, a quiet, unspoken thing between you.

You had never questioned it before, had never asked what it meant, because you didn’t think you had to.

But now? Now it’s like none of it ever happened. And you, despite all your reasoning, don’t understand why.

At first, you try to be patient. Try to tell yourself it’s just stress, that he’s just overwhelmed with work, that once the festival is over, things will go back to normal.

But then another day passes.

And another.

And another.

And suddenly, you can’t ignore it anymore.

The shift between you is undeniable. It’s in the way he moves around you now—distant, calculated, careful. In the way he answers you with clipped, impersonal responses. In the way he keeps space between you, never standing too close, never reaching for you like he used to.

You wait for him to snap out of it.

He doesn’t.

And when another day ends with nothing—no lingering glances, no easy, familiar touch, no warmth—you start to wonder if you imagined it all. If it had only ever been real for you.

So the night before the festival, you finally snap.

The office is empty, save for the two of you. The exec board has long since gone home, leaving behind stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and the heavy silence between you.

Sakusa is seated across from you, scrolling through his tablet, looking as calm and composed as ever. You, on the other hand, are vibrating with frustration.

You don’t know how to bring it up. You don’t know how to phrase it, how to put into words the mounting tension, the frustration, the confusion—the gnawing ache in your chest that has been growing with every passing day.

So you wait. You tell yourself you’ll wait for him to say something, to acknowledge the change between you, to explain why things feel so different now.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his tablet, grabs his bag, and stands up—just like that, like nothing is wrong, like he hasn’t been slowly pushing you away without a single explanation.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

“That’s it?” you blurt out.

Sakusa pauses, glancing at you with a frown. “What?”

“That’s it?” You stand, crossing your arms. “You’re just gonna leave?”

He exhales, clearly exhausted. “It’s late.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Silence.

He looks at you, expression carefully blank, and for the first time, you realize how much that pisses you off. How much you hate that unreadable look, how much you hate that he’s acting like he doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about.

Your stomach twists. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t… like I don’t exist.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” You take a step forward, your pulse racing. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “What the hell, Sakusa?”

He stays silent, staring at you.

You shake your head, frustration mounting. “You know what? Fine. If something’s wrong, just say it. If I did something, just tell me. But don’t—” Your throat tightens. “Don’t just shut me out.”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before you can place it.

Then, he says, “You’re overthinking it.”

You blink.

And then, you laugh—sharp, bitter. “Oh, I’m overthinking it?”

“Yes.” His voice is calm, infuriatingly so. “It was never meant to mean anything, remember?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Something cold settles in your stomach. You stare at him, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

He doesn’t even flinch as he says it, doesn’t even hesitate. Just looks at you like this is nothing, like the past few weeks have been nothing, like the way he used to kiss you like he needed it, like the way he held you close at night, like none of it mattered.

Like you don’t matter.

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Right,” you say quietly. “I forgot. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending things don’t matter.”

Sakusa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You should really leave. You should walk away before you say something you can’t take back. But you can’t—not yet.

So instead, you inhale sharply and take one last shot, your voice softer now. “Did any of it mean anything to you?”

Sakusa’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. His posture is rigid, his face unreadable. But he doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything you need to know.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. “Okay, then. If it doesn’t mean anything, then let’s just stop.”

Something shifts in his expression—something small, something almost imperceptible. But you don’t wait to figure out what it is.

You turn before he can say anything else, before he can twist the knife even further, before you can say something you’ll regret.

You’re the one who walks away.

This time, you don’t look back.

eight.

You pretend everything is normal.

Meetings are professional. Efficient. Painfully, excruciatingly polite.

Sakusa hands you reports with a clipped, “Here.” His voice is devoid of warmth, of the quiet familiarity that used to live there. You take them without glancing up, without acknowledging the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the impulse to linger. When you slide budget breakdowns across the table, you’re careful—so careful—not to let your fingers brush his, even by accident.

Once, you might have laughed together at the absurdity of this project, whispering half-serious bets about which department head would crack under the stress first. Once, you might have stayed late in the ASU office, shoulders brushing as you worked through spreadsheets in the dim glow of your laptop screens, stealing moments of shared exhaustion, shared silence, shared something.

Now, there’s nothing.

Now, there’s only distance.

It kills him.

At first, he thought this would be easier. That shutting you out would make it hurt less when you eventually drifted away. That if he built a wall between you first, he wouldn’t have to watch you build one later. He thought he was protecting himself.

But this—this is so much worse.

Because you’re still here, but you’re not his anymore.

And it’s all his fault.

You distract yourself with the festival. There’s no time to dwell on things that don’t matter, you tell yourself. Vendors need coordinating. Performers need confirming. Alumni need charming. A hundred little details claw at your attention, demanding focus, pulling you away from thoughts that ache too much to touch.

You throw yourself into the work like it’s a lifeline, like drowning in logistics and schedules will somehow silence the restless thoughts that gnaw at the edges of your mind. If you keep moving, if you keep planning, if you keep pushing forward, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t feel the weight of what’s missing.

And yet, the stress is worse now.

Because Sakusa used to help carry it.

He used to take half the burden without being asked. Without expectation. Just because he could, because he wanted to. Because he used to look at you and see someone worth helping.

Now, the weight is suffocating.

You feel it in the silence of the ASU office late at night, the way the empty chair beside you seems colder than before. You feel it in the exhaustion that clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. You feel it in the dull ache that settles in your chest every morning, never quite fading, never quite leaving you alone.

But worst of all, you feel it every time you see him.

He looks fine. Composed, indifferent, the same as always.

It infuriates you.

Because really, how dare he? How dare he act like nothing happened, like nothing changed? Like you weren’t tangled up in his sheets just days ago, like he wasn’t tracing circles against your skin in the quiet hours before dawn, like he wasn’t the one who pulled away first?

How dare he pretend you never meant anything, when he was the one who made you feel like you did?

You hate him for it. You hate him for leaving, for walking away. 

But more than anything, you hate that deep down, under your hurt, you don’t hate him. Not even a little bit. Not really at all.

Sakusa is miserable.

Volleyball used to be his escape. His sanctuary. The only thing that made sense.

But now, even that feels wrong.

Because before every match, before every practice, he used to look for you in the stands. It wasn’t even conscious—just instinct, muscle memory. A habit woven into his routine, as natural as breathing.

He knew you didn’t come to every game. But you did, a lot. Sometimes he’d glance up and catch you pretending not to watch him too closely, pretending not to care, even as your gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he’d meet your eyes, and you’d smirk, and he’d know—know that later, when the dust settled, you’d have some sharp-witted comment about his form, his plays, his post-game interviews.

But now, he looks, and you’re never there.

It fucking sucks. It ruins his whole routine.

It starts to show, too. His blocks are sloppy. His serves lack precision. His reactions are just a half-second too slow, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way the ball doesn’t quite connect the way it should, in the way the court doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And his teammates notice.

“You good, man?” Bokuto asks one afternoon, frowning after another off-target spike.

Sakusa exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though,” Hinata says, watching him carefully. “You’ve been playing like shit.”

Sakusa glares. “I’m not—”

“Ya are,” Atsumu cuts in, arms crossed. “And it’s not just yer game. You’ve been miserable for weeks. If somethin’s wrong, deal with it.”

Sakusa clenches his jaw. Says nothing.

Because what is there to say? That he’s miserable because of you? That he’s the one who ruined everything? That he made this choice, and now he has to live with it? That he doesn’t even know if you’d forgive him, even if he tried to fix it? That the only person who could make him feel like himself again is the one person who won’t even look at him anymore?

No.

He can’t say any of that.

So instead, he just exhales, picks up the ball, and mutters, “Let’s run it again,” and pretends like everything isn’t falling apart.

nine.

The festival, despite everything, begins.

It should be thrilling. It should feel like a triumph, the culmination of months of relentless work, late nights spent hunched over planning documents, and a hundred tiny decisions that should have amounted to something seamless, something grand.

Instead, it feels like hell.

Everything that can go wrong does. Vendors arrive late, throwing the entire setup into disarray, their excuses flimsy and their apologies meaningless when the delay sends a ripple effect of chaos through the carefully arranged schedule. The sound system glitches in the middle of the first student performance, transforming the singer’s voice into a garbled mess of static before cutting out entirely, leaving behind a stunned silence. Booths sit empty, their intended attendants missing due to some logistical oversight—some failure of coordination that has faculty members exchanging exasperated looks, their whispers dripping with disapproval.

You are drowning.

By the second day, you are running on caffeine, frustration, and the sheer willpower not to completely unravel. Your feet ache from hours of pacing across campus, your temples throb from the unrelenting onslaught of problems, and your patience—already stretched thin—is now nonexistent. The pressure is suffocating, bearing down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry alone.

And Sakusa?

He is just as miserable.

You see it in the rigidity of his posture, in the way his fingers curl into fists whenever another problem arises, in the exhaustion darkening his gaze. He moves through the chaos with his usual efficiency—quiet, methodical, unreadable—but you know him. You know him better than anyone.

And you know he is barely holding it together.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you mention how your interactions have been reduced to clipped exchanges, words stripped of warmth, spoken with as much distance as possible. Neither of you admit that this week—this godforsaken week—has been unbearable without the other.

Unfortunately, your executive board notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi announces, arms crossed as he surveys the two of you like a detective piecing together a crime scene. “Something is wrong.”

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, flipping through the latest stack of vendor complaints. The words blur slightly, but you refuse to let anyone see just how exhausted you are.

“I’m not,” he insists, undeterred. He gestures between you and Sakusa, who is seated across the room, fingers flying over his keyboard as he types with a level of aggression usually reserved for his worst enemies. “You guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual.”

“We’re fine,” you snap.

Kiyoko adjusts her glasses, her sharp gaze cutting through your defenses. “You haven’t smiled in days. You’re constantly on edge. And Sakusa—” she tilts her head towards him, “—hasn’t insulted Futakuchi even once today.”

“That’s actually a huge red flag,” Futakuchi adds helpfully.

Ushijima, ever serious, nods in agreement. “The dynamic of the team has shifted.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Can you all not? We have actual work to do.”

Aone, silent until now, observes the two of you with his usual quiet intensity. Then, after a painfully long beat, he gives a single, solemn nod. “Tension,” he murmurs.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

Futakuchi’s smirk is infuriating. “See? Even Aone notices.”

You don’t bother responding. You don’t even have the energy to argue. Instead, you gather your paperwork, shove your laptop into your bag, and storm out.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you’d see Sakusa watching you leave.

You hit your breaking point halfway through the week.

It happens during the alumni networking fair—the crown jewel of the festival, the event that was supposed to impress donors, alumni, and potential sponsors. The one you poured every ounce of your energy into perfecting, sculpting each detail with the precision of a master craftsman.

Instead, it crumbles.

A venue miscommunication leads to seating chaos, leaving guests aimlessly wandering, confused and increasingly irritated. The guest speaker’s flight is delayed, the catering company—despite weeks of prior confirmation—chooses now to re-verify their payment processing, and as if fate itself is conspiring against you, an administrator corners you minutes before the event, droning about “expectations for student leadership” and how “this level of disorganization reflects poorly.”

You can’t do this.

You feel it building—the pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything going wrong all at once. Your chest tightens, your vision blurs at the edges, and for the first time all week, you recognize a terrifying truth:

You cannot do this alone.

Then, before you can completely shatter, Sakusa steps in.

One moment, you are teetering, barely keeping yourself upright. The next, he is there.

He moves swiftly, seamlessly, fixing problems before you can even register them. He handles the seating issue with a few clipped instructions. He calls the speaker’s team, negotiating a workaround before you can even reach for your phone. He takes charge of the caterers, shutting down their nonsense with two curt sentences and a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

He moves through the chaos with the same unshakable precision he always has—calm, efficient, controlled. He has always been good under pressure, but this is different. This is not just problem-solving. This is something else.

And it hits you all at once: you miss him.

Not just the arrangement. Not just the late nights, the convenience, the way his touch had always lingered longer than necessary.

Him.

The way he always knew—knew exactly when you were on the verge of unraveling. The way he kept things from falling apart, even when you felt like you were. The way he understood you—truly, deeply, in a way no one else ever had.

And it is terrifying, because it is not just missing him. It’s needing him.

Sakusa realizes it too.

Not just that he still wants you, not just that ignoring you has made this entire week unbearable. Those things were obvious. What he realizes now is that none of this—none of the work, none of the stress—was ever what exhausted him.

It was pretending. Pretending he didn’t care. Pretending it was just an arrangement. Pretending he didn’t—

Well.

Pretending he didn’t love you.

And now, watching you—watching the way your shoulders finally loosen as you let him help, watching the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable when you look at him—he knows it is too late.

He’s in too deep. He’s always been in too deep.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even care anymore. He misses you too much to care. 

ten.

It’s as if the universe has finally gotten its act together.

For once, everything aligns. As if things have finally conspired in your favor, the remainder of the festival unfolds with an almost unsettling ease. No vendor catastrophes, no logistical nightmares, no alumni with their impossible demands.

Thursday slips into Friday, Friday into Saturday morning, each day a seamless rhythm of events ticking by without incident. Your executive board exhales in collective relief, tension unspooling from their shoulders. Your own pulse, which has been a metronome of stress all week, finally settles into something resembling normalcy. You even manage to sleep—five full hours, a luxury that feels like an eternity compared to the restless snatches of rest you’ve been surviving on.

And now, the final night is here.

The Spring Gala. The grand finale. The last orchestration of the festival—a beast of an event that had consumed endless planning meetings, countless revisions, and more compromises than you’d care to admit. And yet, somehow, impossibly, everything is running smoothly.

The ballroom glows with golden light, strands of soft illumination draped elegantly across the ceiling, casting a warm haze over the room. Candlelight flickers along the tables, their delicate floral arrangements arranged with meticulous care, petals unfurling under the glow like they, too, are basking in the perfection of the night. The gentle hum of a live string quartet weaves through the space, their melody twining through laughter and the quiet clink of champagne glasses. Students and faculty glide through the room in their finest attire, the men crisp in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and satins, everyone engaged in the carefully curated illusion that deadlines and responsibilities don’t exist beyond these gilded walls.

Everything is perfect.

And yet, your focus narrows to one thing.

Him.

Sakusa looks good. Too good.

The sharp lines of his black suit mold effortlessly to his frame, the dark fabric absorbing the ambient light, making him appear even more striking. His curls are tousled, just slightly, as though he had run a hand through them absentmindedly before walking in. He stands with practiced ease, scanning the room with the same sharp, unreadable expression he always wears—one that betrays nothing, yet you’ve always found yourself trying to decipher. And it’s infuriating, because you’ve spent the entire week meticulously avoiding the gravitational pull he seems to exert, trying not to let your eyes linger too long, trying not to remember the weight of everything unsaid between you.

But right now? Right now, he’s making it impossible.

Especially when his gaze finally lands on you.

It’s just a flicker—a second’s pause, a shift in his expression so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t already attuned to him. But you see it. The way his dark eyes sweep over you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The way something unreadable flickers in his gaze before he schools his features into careful neutrality.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to move, bridging the space between you with a measured ease you don’t quite feel. Every step feels deliberate, a careful choreography masking the unease curling in your stomach.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you say, tilting your head slightly, voice lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

Sakusa’s brow lifts—just barely, the movement almost imperceptible—but you catch it. “I planned half of this.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself in the face of his presence. “Yeah, but you hate these things.”

He exhales, his gaze sweeping over the grand spectacle around you as if only now acknowledging the elaborate display—the glittering chandeliers, the swirl of expensive fabric, the low hum of conversation filling the air like static. “Figured it would be suspicious if the EVP didn’t make an appearance.”

“Mhm.” You hesitate, just for a beat, before speaking again. “So… where’s your date?”

His eyes snap back to yours, something sharp and immediate in the way he looks at you, like the question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Your date,” you repeat, forcing nonchalance into your tone even as your pulse betrays you, drumming against your skin. “Someone as charming as you must have one, right?”

Sakusa’s expression flattens, unreadable yet telling in ways you don’t have the words for. “No.”

The single syllable lands heavier than it should. You had expected a different answer—assumed he would have someone by his side, someone who had effortlessly captured his attention in the time you had spent pushing him away. And yet, here he stands. Alone.

You don’t know why that realization makes your heart stutter.

“Well,” Sakusa says, his exhale quieter this time. “Neither did you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His gaze remains steady. “You didn’t bring a date either.”

“Yeah, because I was working.” You scoff, deflecting without hesitation. 

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that makes you feel like he’s seeing more than you intend to show. “Still.”

It’s just a single word, but it lingers, curling around you like an unspoken challenge, seeping beneath your skin, sparking something warm and restless in your chest.

Before you can unpack it, before you can shield yourself from whatever this is, he speaks again.

“Dance with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

Sakusa sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, like he hates what he’s about to say. “Dance with me,” he repeats, softer this time. “Since neither of us brought dates.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, trying to decipher the layers of meaning beneath the words.

Sakusa Kiyoomi—who loathes social events, who avoids unnecessary physical contact, who has spent the entire night lingering at the edges of the room—is standing here, asking you to dance.

And for some reason, against all logic, you say, “Okay.”

The music shifts into something slow, something delicate, a melody spun from soft strings and quiet longing. It doesn’t demand anything extravagant, only movement, only presence.

You expect him to be tense, awkward, but when his hand finds your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your dress with a touch more certain than you anticipated, there is no hesitation. His other hand finds yours, warm and sure, his grip anchoring. His movements are smooth, practiced, betraying a familiarity with this kind of closeness that feels at odds with the person you thought you knew.

You, however, are acutely aware of everything.

The warmth of his palm burning through the layers between you. The faint press of his fingertips against your lower back, light yet possessive. The scent of his cologne—crisp, clean, laced with bergamot and something deeper, something uniquely him.

And then there’s his gaze, dark and unreadable, flickering down to meet yours, searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

It’s too much.

And suddenly, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, quiet, hesitant, but real.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Sakusa blinks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “For what?”

You inhale, fingers curling against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the press of fabric and muscle beneath your touch. “For how things have been. For the way I acted. For… shutting you out. I really did miss you, you know.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I missed you too.”

Something in your chest loosens, a tether unspooling, unraveling the knots that had been holding you in place. But before you can fully breathe it in, before you can settle into the tentative relief of it, he continues.

“I just… couldn’t pretend anymore.”

You frown, caught on the way his voice shifts, the way something raw bleeds into his words. “Pretend what?”

Sakusa hesitates. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, his grip shifting as if trying to hold onto something unseen. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, like he’s forcing the words out before he loses the nerve to say them.

“That I didn’t care about you.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter, weightier—“That I didn’t… want more.”

The world tilts.

Your breath catches, your pulse tripping over itself, something dangerous and inevitable clawing its way up your throat. 

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. It’s like when you first kissed him in the office so many weeks ago: you, despite everything, just move—heedless, reckless, drawn forward by something deeper than reason.

Your lips find his in a collision of heat and longing, tentative at first—a question whispered in the language of touch, of all the words left unsaid, of all the moments spent waiting, wanting.

For a single, breathless heartbeat, the world hangs in stillness. A hesitation. A precipice. Then Sakusa exhales, a sharp, punched-out sound like he’s just had the wind knocked from his lungs, and something in him snaps like a wire pulled too taut for too long.

His grip tightens at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. His other hand finds the back of your neck, calloused fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just so as he deepens the kiss—no longer a question, but an answer.

The world outside of this moment ceases to exist. The only thing real is the warmth of his mouth against yours, the steady, insistent press of his body, the scent of him—his detergent, his cologne. He tastes like something intoxicating, something you want to drown in.

Sakusa kisses you like he needs to remember this very feeling, like this time away from you has been centuries rather than days—like he’s tracing the shape of your lips into the fabric of his being, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he so much as loosens his hold. There’s something achingly restrained in the way he moves, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—for far longer than he’s willing to admit.

And the thing is, you don’t want to let go.

Not now.

Not ever again.

eleven.

The final night of the festival is winding down, and the fundraiser gala is drawing to a close. The speeches are about to begin. The crowd falls into a hush, the hum of conversation quieting as attention shifts to the podium.

You grip the podium, clear your throat, and begin your speech. It's the usual stuff—thank-yous to the faculty, acknowledgements of the hard work that went into the festival, and a few light jokes to keep the atmosphere warm.

And through it all, he's there.

You feel Sakusa before you see him, his presence quietly grounding you. His hand brushes against yours just as you step up to the stage, a small, subtle touch that sends a wave of calm through you. It’s enough to settle your nerves, even if just a little.

The speech goes on. You focus, but in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the quiet weight of him standing beside you, unmoving but unwavering, just like always. Then, under the podium, his fingers curl around yours. The touch is light, hidden from the crowd, but it’s there.

Your breath hitches for a moment, but you keep going, squeezing his hand once in quiet reassurance. You keep speaking, maintaining your composure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Futakuchi freeze. His eyes flicker to your joined hands, and you catch the brief, silent exchange between him and Aone. Futakuchi’s soft exhale is followed by a rustling of bills, Aone accepting his twenty-dollar winnings without a word.

Across the room, Kiyoko watches with a knowing smile, her gaze flicking between you and Sakusa.

When the speech ends, the applause fills the room, warm and inviting. You turn slightly, feeling Sakusa’s hand slip away, but before it fully retreats, his pinky brushes against yours for just a moment longer than necessary. Your heart stumbles again.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans the second you step offstage. He throws up his hands in exaggerated relief. “Do you have any idea how painful it’s been watching you two not be together?”

You blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Kiyoko hums, setting her drink down. “He’s right.”

Ushijima offers a solemn nod. “It was inevitable.”

“You guys knew?” Sakusa asks, furrowing his brow.

Futakuchi scoffs. “Obviously. Everyone knew.” He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “You two always fit together, even before you realized it yourselves.”

Aone gives a single, affirming nod.

Kiyoko just shrugs. “You just took your time getting there.”

You glance at Sakusa, and to your surprise, he doesn’t seem annoyed. He’s not irritated—just thoughtful. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he exhales quietly. “Yeah. We did.”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment.

The gala lights shimmer above you, casting a warm glow over the ballroom. The noise of the crowd rises around you—the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, the soft notes of a song playing from the dance floor. The air smells of champagne and wax from the flickering candles, mingling with the floral arrangements around the room. But none of it feels overwhelming. Not with him beside you.

Sakusa stands next to you, solid and constant, just like he always has been. You glance at him again, noticing how the light hits his sharp features, how his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. He exhales slowly, and then shifts just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours—a small, silent reassurance.

The conversations around you—Futakuchi’s exasperated muttering, Kiyoko’s quiet amusement, Aone’s rare nods of agreement—become distant, secondary. In this moment, it doesn’t matter. Because here, with him beside you, you realize one thing.

You don’t have to hide. There’s no more second-guessing, no more wondering.

No more pretending.

You are here, beside him. And he’s here, beside you.

Sakusa exhales again, barely audible over the music. His fingers brush against yours once more—nothing more than a whisper of a touch. But the warmth it brings lingers in your chest, steady and real.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

The night goes on—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the celebration. The festival is over, the gala winding down, the world moving forward as it always does.

But for now, in this moment, standing next to him, you know something for sure.

You don’t have to walk alone anymore.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

⨭ closing notes; special thanks to @megapteraurelia for beta reading!! veryyyy meh abt this one so far but who knows lol. ngl i'm not a sakusa girl so i hope i did him justice if u guys have any suggestions for improvement pls let me know!!! btw i am working on smth lowk crazy so i may not have a new fic for a hot sec but when im back it'll be w smth SPECIAL

[asthroophile]

curtain call of the heart

i. caught in the spotlight

pairing brant x fem!reader, modern high school au, mutual pinning, childhood friends to lovers, might be ooc

(n); got inspired by ai i played with a few days ago, AND YES i couldnt help myself from writing this

summary: being friends with the theater club president means you have to accept the fact that you'll get dragged into acting in plays.

the final bell rang, its sound echoing through the hallways, marking the end of another exhausting day. students rushed out of classrooms, eager to escape into the afternoon, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of chatter and laughter. you, however, had a mission—get to the gate before brant could catch you.

"y/n!!!" you froze. oh no. you knew that voice anywhere.

slowly, you turned around, plastering on your usual awkward smile, only to be met with brant’s ever-confident smirk. his deep teal hair was slightly tousled from the afternoon breeze, and his vibrant magenta eyes were locked onto you with that playful glint. before you could react, he grabbed your wrist.

"caught you," he teased, tightening his grip slightly. “i knew you were gonna try and skip practice today, that’s why i got here before you could disappear on me."

you sighed. typical brant. always one step ahead when it came to dragging you into social situations.

“you know I’m not even in the club, right?” you muttered, trying to tug your wrist free.

“not officially,” he corrected. “but you might as well be. you are the childhood friend of the president. and besides,”—his smirk softened into something fonder—“i like having you around.”

your stomach did a weird little flip. you ignored it, "fine,” you relented, “but i’m just sitting in the corner, not participating.” brant grinned victoriously and practically dragged you to the theater room.

—

the room was already bustling with activity. the theater club members were either warming up their voices, practicing lines, or messing around with costumes. brant led you straight to the front, where a script was conveniently waiting on the director’s chair.

“alright, guys!” he called out, instantly commanding attention. “get in position. we’re running scene 5 today.”

you sighed in relief, about to slink off to the side when—

“y/n,” brant suddenly called. you looked up warily, "come here.”

your body stiffened. “why?”

brant grabbed the script and flipped through the pages with a casual ease before turning to you with a mischievous smile.

“you’re filling in for the lead today.”

your heart stopped. “WHAT?!”

the entire club turned to look at you, murmurs breaking out among them.

brant crossed his arms. “our lead actress isn’t here, and you do know the script by heart. you’ve been sitting through our practices for weeks, y/n."

“that doesn’t mean i wanna be in it!!” you protested.

brant leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “c’mon. just for today? for me?”

you hated how that sentence made your heart skip.

“...okay,” you muttered, snatching the script from his hands. “but if i embarrass myself, i'm never speaking to you again.”

brant chuckled. “deal.”

as practice began, you could feel the nerves crawling under your skin. but brant made it easier—always patient, always guiding you through.

at some point, the scene called for him to step closer, his hand barely brushing against yours. your breath caught as you looked up at him, really looked at him.

he was too close. his voice was softer, no longer playful but filled with something… deeper.

and for a second, the lines you had rehearsed in your head disappeared.

brant’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. the room felt smaller. the audience didn’t exist. it was just the two of you.

brant stepped closer, his usual playful expression softening. "y/n…" his voice carried through the empty seats, rich with emotion. "you have no idea how much you mean to me."

your breath hitched. this wasn’t real. it was just a script. but the way he was looking at you, the intensity in his eyes—it felt real. you were so caught up in the moment that you didn't realize that the coach had come in and seen what you two were doing.

“oh my god, did i just walk in on something??”

brant immediately pulled back, clearing his throat. “it’s just practice,” he said, though the slight pink dusting his ears said otherwise.

you, on the other hand, wanted to disappear. the members exchanged looks, smirks forming on their faces.

“riiiight,” one of them teased. “looked pretty real to me." brant shot them a glare. “shut up.”

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. you were never living this down.

next: ii. lines we can't say

© asthroophile 2025 do not repost, plagiarize.

[princessbrunette]

𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃a continuation from the rafe and puppy universe…(click me) ࣪

rafe doesn’t always treat puppy!reader so nicely. infact, sometimes she really tests his patience.

he drags you through the front door to tannyhill with a hand wrapped around your arm — thick gold rings wound round his fingers undoubtedly leaving bruises in their wake as he yanks you inside. you can’t keep up with his long strides, tripping over and having the eldest cameron repeatedly carry the entirety of your weight with his hand everytime you stumbled— wrenching you back to your feet.

whilst this occurs, he lectures you through grit teeth — at the end of his tether. “what’d i tell you huh? what’d i fuckin’ tell you ‘bout manners?” he asks and you’re not sure if it’s rhetorical, letting him march you up the stairs to his bedroom.

“its no big deal—” you hiccup through pained whines as you try to pull away from his stern grip, only making him tighten it.

“nah, nah — you knew exactly what you were doing at the country club. running that mouth when i — i specifically told you to behave today.”

there had been a very high class event, ward forcing rafe to take you along to get you accustomed to the kook-lifestyle after so long of slumming it at the other side of the island. you were ditsy, but not dumb — you saw the way the camerons looked at you, with pity — like you simply weren’t made for this world. thats why you got so attached to rafe, he didn’t pity you. it was tough love, so you assumed — the boy constantly lecturing and berating you but would be the first to save you from any potentially damaging or dangerous situations, and god forbid anyone spoke to you as poorly as he did.

the afternoon was unsavable from the start. you may have been responsible for the large chocolate fountain at the food table falling, you’d accidentally insulted the president of the country club to his face, you’d mistakenly smeared food on the back of rafe’s shirt, and when rafe was rightfully lecturing you for that — you bit him. you bit him infront of one of the important businessmen he had been trying to impress. you understood his anger for once, you’d messed up.

he tosses you onto his bed making you stumble onto it, turning around to watch the way the boy angrily rifles through his dresser drawers, furiously continue to ramble at you. “you know i’ve been saving this, yeah — saving this from when you really messed up. ‘cos i knew you would. you’re a pogue, and you’ll always be one. and — and i’ve been here, tryna look after the runt of the litter — and yet you still disrespect me.” he shakes his head and you watch forlornly, watching him find what he was looking for and begin to pull it out.

“well you wanna run that mouth? wanna— wanna bite me in public? i’m gonna have t’treat you like the dirty pogue puppy you are— okay? didnt wanna have to do this kid but you leave me no choice. s’gotta be me to discipline you, alright? c’mere.” in his hand, you instantly recognise to be some form of muzzle. like the type you’d see on a dog, but this time perfectly crafted to fit a female face. you’d had no idea where he’d got such a cruel item, he had to have had it custom made just to shut you up, a sick fantasy he’d been sitting on. you cower, and he’s unphased.

he undoes the buckles on the side so that he can put it on you, but not before yanking your hands to his belt and leaving them there. “undo this. you’re gonna wear this, n’then you’re gonna let me take what i want from you. a’ight? i’m in charge. you’re gonna learn your damn lesson whether you like it or not.”

you whine as you obey him, trembling fingers fumbling for his belt. the worst part about this, was that you couldn’t deny your arousal. the manhandling, the degrading — you were a sensitive girl, who had sensitive needs, but something about the boy you had such a crush on, the same boy who would deny reluctantly cuddling you to sleep when you had a bad dream that one time, treating you so mean was making your cunt ache with need.

“i’m not gonna bite, i just want to kiss again.” you wail weakly as he brings the muzzle to your face, scoffing out a chuckle that read directly as ‘fat fucking chance’. rafe had kissed you a few times. moments of weakness. he couldn’t deny his feelings for you but — well, actually yes he could. he did deny his feelings for you, and often too. he was head over heels and he didn’t like that.

“kiss? you— you think you deserve a kiss after the way you behaved today?” once the muzzle is fastened and you’re staring up at him with big watery puppy dog eyes, he finishes up with yanking off his belt and undoing his zipper, trying to ignore how your pitiful expression looked. rafe was mean but he wasn’t an idiot— he knows you didn’t mean to be the way you were. you were innocent, naive — but god if taking advantage of that didn’t get him off.

his heart twinges at the sorry look on your face so he flips you over onto your front on the bed, body sprawled out and bouncing from the force. “nah…” he answers his own question as he tugs your dress up your back to reveal your soaked through panties between trembling thighs. he thumbs at the wet patch above where your hole sits meanly, scoffing. “you’re gonna shut up and take this dick. maybe then you’ll get your damn kiss.”

[that-spider-fan-over-there]

BNHA 430: This wasn’t very “My Hero Academia” of you I’ll be honest—

Okay, where do I begin? Uh. So the story reached its conclusion. Congratulations, and all the best to Horikoshi-san for telling the story he wanted to tell for ten years, loved the characters, the little world he created after the cancellation of his previous works, I will cherish it for the rest of my life.

... but in my opinion: the last seven chapters were so bad- I don't think I can see this ending as anything other than a contradiction of what we were shown. Like, I thought we'd get a twist, everyone would be fine, something would change. I'm wearing the clown shoes already.

So, I'm just gonna treat this as a normal chapter, and not a final one, because I'll be here for days if I open this can of worms, which, I will not lie, is very bad (I'll open it at some point, not now.) I'm posting this on the.. 6th? Because apparently there's an announcement in the 5th and I don't wanna spoil the fun.

So, uh, under the read more are my thoughts on the ending, be warned I'm very, very negative about it.

*sigh* Oh boi, how killing the League made this go from an "underwhelming" to a "tone-deaf" chapter- I mean. Jesus fuck, leaving things open-ended don't erase the fact they can't make a single appearence to prove me wrong. And if they were alive, the last five chapters (and canonically eight years!) were a waste of emotions and keeping them hidden was a stupidly cruel move.

Funny, the narration is "people aren't equal but it's because of these differences that people find common ground to get along"- THE VILLAINS WERE KILLED OFF FOR BEING DIFFERENT BRO WHAT DO YOU MEAN- "if lending a hand and caring is being a hero then we all became the greatest heroes". Izuku, whatever you're drinking, I'm taking it and drinking it all by myself. You may have cared (which I can't even say for certain anymore). But Tenko died. On accident. Because you gave him OFA.

I liked the "Midoriya-Sensei" part... For 5 seconds. It's fitting, he loves learning stuff, he's good with kids, good for him. Until you say "it's only because his embers are gone". Then why use it as a tease for seven chapters only to just get rid of them at the end? Is running to Ochako really the last we get to see him use it? Not even as a part-time hero? (not that it matters at the end-)

Ragdoll works with the WWP, Tsukuachi was head strategist in the final battle, Hawks is the (H)PSC president, Aizawa is Aizawa. Why wasn't Izuku hired at an agency? Intelligence was a huge part of his character, yet the moment he was fully Quirkless again, he had to leave? Men truly aren't created equal...

"Cursed power", "blessing", "special" — the only thing special about OFA was being haunted by a guy whose brother was insane enough to hunt it down for generations. A Quirk's a Quirk; having multiple people/powers in one body isn’t special, Tokoyami and Shoto exist. Izuku was supposed to make it special using it on his terms. But I guess "meant to save, not kill" was a lie, as eight out of ten people who had it died. Nine out of eleven, counting BNHA: HR. Tenko died because his body couldn't handle the Quirk, but I guess Izuku isn't gonna think about any of it? Katsuki was right, I guess. OFA is a curse.

Spinner wrote a book (not a comic, guess he took offense to Izuku. Fair, actually). Mr. Compress got a panel, but no real mention of the LoV? They broke the status quo for months (in-universe), and after all of that, nothing changes? Did Spinner know about Tenko, how he became Tomura? And the people who will read it and pull an MLA? TomurAFO had followers, now he's a martyr a lá Re-Destro. I’m hoping Spinner didn’t commit suicide like Destro did.

Ochako’s expanding Quirk Counseling. Reform’s implied (it only said expansion), but Himiko still became what Curious wanted her to be: A cautionary tale. And I’m still asking how Ochako knows Himiko what went through, she only told Ochako she was hated because of her Quirk and how she loves. I wanna think she’s reforming it, but nothing else changed, why should I think she’s the exception? She might literally just think Himiko didn't get help, that's a cruel irony.

(At least she's seen as a hero on her rights… even if it took 429 chapters, messy writing with a shoved crush plot, her face looking like rubber seriously her face looks wrong to me for some reason and I don't know why, and still being a girlfailure recognized as a "caretaker", not a badass hero).

Shoji's travelling through Japan to solve discrimination and got a prize for it. No foundations or mentions of Spinner being the main reason he did it, just "standing atop those who rose up eight years ago", just solving it peacefully, you sure are, buddy. Like, I'm sure you are being successful but how exactly are you solving this? I mean, you "solved" the hospital fight by fighting Spinner with Koda and telling people to not defend themselves from others wanting to beat them up- Oh wait, time constraints, we can't elaborate how. I'm rolling my eyes.

Shirakumo showed the noumu state could've been reversed, yet Katsuki, who never killed someone aside from AFO (and that guy was gonna die anyway), fatally exploded him. I hoped it was a misunderstood panel but no. He died because he wanted to save Tenko. Even fucking Gran Torino was alive by the end of this. Why.

I think Shoto is the only main character I’m not really having a problem with (Ochako's ending required Himiko for it to feel somewhat complete. Sorry, Ochako). I’m weirded out that they mentioned the billboard using the guy whose life was ruined by it as an example, but other than that, he’s doing fine. Wish we saw him talking to his siblings though. But alas. No mention of Fuyumi and Natsuo. And Rei's with Endeavor. Fuck I take it back Todofam still deserved better.

Inko got so sidelined when Mitsuki and Masaru were in 424 for half a chapter, by the way. Just one panel for her, the protagonist's mother.

Schedules not aligning is one thing (I get it, my friends and I can't align ours anymore), but Class A not opening an agency together? They survived the same two wars. And you're telling me they wouldn't say "WE'RE WORKING TOGETHER AND TAKING MIDORIYA WITH US"? Also, where’s the "world where heroes have time to spare" when they look so busy? Were they understaffed or working as celebrities? (if someone says it was for the suit I will point out to the three nepo babies of Class A + Momo's Quirk, Katsuki’s a dumbass if he forgot that detail, I don't care if it's a surprise for Izuku).

We wasted pages on a kid that can throw plates from his hair. To tell him he can be a hero. Coming from the guy who had to stop working as a hero when he lost OFA. I'm not taking this parallel seriously.

I wish Izuku wasn't in "everything’s fine" mode until the end. We're really gonna leave him at "implied" mode, not confirm if his mental state's fine? Being open and emotional was an appealing part of him and now we just get “Yeah that’s just how it is”.

This one's petty and irrational, I know, but since I'm letting some of the steam out: I hate Izuku's new "protagonist that went through it" design; those face scars are my main complaint (the constant "FAILURE OF AN MC" reminder makes my eye twitch and I wish that was a joke, but also so many characters in BNHA got face scars, it doesn't even stand out), but "perfect necktie", normal, formal salaryman attire, his red sneakers are gone?! Where's the character highlights? The things that make Izuku stand out?

But hey: He gets to be a hero again! Not with skills, heart, intelligence, strength, in spite of Quirklessness. No, he has an Iron Man suit! That Class A paid billions for. The government should be paying the child soldiers- sorry, Class A and B (and Shiketsu and Ketsubutsu) instead, but all they get is a pat on the back. If the suit breaks down, hurts or kills him while in it? I'll laugh (Hatsume and Melissa worked on it? Oh it's gonna happen, I'm hoping). And Toshinori, what happened to him, did he hit his head when he landed on that building!?

Acts 1&2: Smiles cover his fear and reassure people, believed saving is about saving body and soul, wanted to help Tenko, only didn't because Gran Torino said it wasn't a good idea. Disliked people were being heroes for fame and not because it's the right thing to do, only used support items as reinforcement and a precaution, never as a full solution, even Iron Might was so he’d have a chance to fight, not a solution.

Act 3: If Tenko died smiling, it wasn't resignation, he was saved, even though he died. Didn't care AFO killed the Shimura - his mentor's - bloodline. Is fine with the billboards existing, even though it caused things like the Todoroki plotline. Now he's giving Izuku a suit, when the last time he did it himself, it didn't save him and his spine was almost snapped? Dude, what?

Also full disclosure, I thought he was paralyzed from almost getting split by the spine, but I guess he just had a bad back. Let's not discuss the trauma of almost being snapped in half and feeling your bones break so bad you set a record of how many screws were used, I guess.

... I. Hate BKDK's conclusion. Like, I apologize for this one being longer than the rest but I'm usually gravitating towards this dynamic and. It's actually so laughable how much I hate it. If the LoV had another outcome (or some deserved vindication at the very least if you're still gonna fuck them up with sudden deaths), I'd probably be overjoyed as a shipper w/o worrying too much. But if the LoV story ends in utter shit, then Izuku and Katsuki fail, and this mess is why I hate it:

Thematically, Tenko wasn't rescued, it wasn't a perfect victory because AFO still got away with what he did to him. Save to win, win to save were just nice words. "The End of an Era and The Beginning"? Nothing changed in the world they live in, and they don't stand out among other heroes (these are AM’s successors. And they aren't even important. How.) What "new era" is this, really?

Their resolutions, relationship rebuild? Offscreen, but Katsuki was the one with the Iron Man suit idea for Izuku and apparently that compensates for it. Because he’s the one who can solve all of Izuku’s problems now, not motivate him to be better anymore. It wasn’t even Izuku’s idea, it was Class A, and sure it’s a nicely condescending gesture. We’ve seen Toshinori barely come out alive even with one. That's a support item for a reckless little shit who will get himself killed.

Izuku barely batted an eye to any of the things he went through - losing his arms and/or OFA? Seeing Spinner's breakdown? Lady Nagant!? Katsuki or Tenko dying because of Izuku and OFA!? SOME INTROSPECTION?! IT’S BEEN OVER 100 CHAPTERS SINCE YOU’VE BEEN THE EMOTIONAL MC—

Katsuki's insecurities were pointless by the way! Izuku's empathy and heart never mattered, a Quirk was more important to be a hero in the end. YOU BULLIED HIM FOR NOTHING BUDDY- like. Shouldn't have done it at all, but now his own character development means nothing because his previous beliefs were the right ones. Changing for the better was pointless. Like Twice's death. Or Katsuki’s own death, since “Control Your Heart” meant nothing as well.

Izuku still remembers Tenko, but has he done anything about it? No one wants to remember him, Himiko or Touya. Spinner's book won't be taken seriously except for Tenko's followers, Mr. Compress was sidelined, Twice's death was pointless. They didn't change society, they've returned to the status quo. Pointless as Izuku losing his arms.

That fucking suit- Wow, he really couldn't be a Quirkless hero, the casual rivalry was just erased for an easy way out of their consequences, there's no catching up because Katsuki paid for Izuku a way to be a hero. Izuku doesn't get there because he still believes Quirks make a hero. This isn't heartwarming or romantic or whatever, Katsuki just proved he also didn't believe Izuku in the end, that he had to pay a way for him to be a hero.

And it ends with Izuku seeing Tenko's... Ghost? Hallucination? Vestige? I guess we’ll never know, because Izuku’s following his dreams again! Let's ignore he's doing this during class hours and he definitely should be in UA but who cares, he probably quit, we'll never know. Aside for lame BKDK/DKBK smut fics plots (tell me I'm lying, I dare you), being a teacher was clearly a inferior choice for him and he can't do both ignore Aizawa and Present Mic look at him being the world's greatest hero!

It just took 1 year of trauma, scars, following on his mentor's mistakes, losing the thing that "actually" made him be a hero, having the first (Katsuki) and the last (Tenko) people he tried to save dying because of his existence (one literally by his hands), proving anyone can be one! By ignoring the guilt of those you failed, give hands and sparing your thoughts, having superpowers and/or connections who'll give you a suit! And if they still "act out"? Then they deserved death no matter the valid points they've had and you gotta play jury judge executioner. Unless they decide to be quiet like a good entitled citizen.

Fuck this shit I swear- You could’ve had a BKDK proposal with a double spread handhold, and I'd still think Izuku's ending isn't earned. His "happy ending"— actually, hot take: BKDK crumbs are the fandom's "consolation prize" (ugh) for this ending. I feel cheated out my OTP (like. I'm shipping the version of them in my head, not the canon one 412-onwards because it's only gotten worse from there-), and for what? The League died, and it's the heroes' fault. I've held back because I genuinely wanted to believe the story was better than this, that the League would be helped, but fuck it, I've been asking this for seven chapters and two months: Why would I want Midoriya Izuku, of all people, to have a happy ending after this shit?

A story about hope bent itself over to give the protagonist an unearned happy ending, when it said it was for every character who wants to connect to that hope, who wants to give that hope. Izuku went from "wanting to be a beacon of hope and save people" to "talk about beacons of hope, but in the end, others are doing this better than you. You had none of the willpower to be one." He's not hope or unity. Act 3!Izuku is just a plot device, I feel nothing for his ending other than irritation, and I hate it because he was my favourite character. Lol, a very useless one in the end.

So. Yeah, those are my thoughts about the ending. I think. I don't know if these are all of them, hell, I might adding more to this post even months after. I feel horrible about hating it, but I've sat on this chapter for days and right now, not a lot can make me like it, especially with the timeskip, which made this "open ending" a rushed and incomplete mess. If you disagree with me, honestly, that is very fair. I'm glad for you if you liked the ending. I'm just disappointed, and wanted to share my opinions. (and I do have more stuff to say about it, and Act 3 as a whole, but I think I've been negative enough and I don't have the energy to talk about the entire arc at once).

But for the weeks I spent hoping this wouldn't slap a classic shonen ending in this catasthrophic mess and for making me feel like a dumbass after what we got in the end: Everything after 410 that isn't 421 and 422 is non-existent to me, this epilogue was a freaking waste.

Thank you for reading.

(EDIT.: Fixed some spelling mistakes and added a few more things because I can keep going on how bad this ending is. Also to just make one thing clear because of ship discourse: I am a BKDK shipper. But only until like. 405? 412 if I'm generous. Anything after that? Yeah, no, keep that shit away from me lol.)

EDIT 2: Got reminded this post existed and I've already talked about it, but to the Spider from the past, here's the update:

Society never changed at all and lobotomized MC chose being a teacher for future unemployment. Tomura's last words were used for romance bait with local monthly babysitting girlfailure haunted by Himiko. *opens up a wine bottle* But Shoto's doing fine, Touya wasn't done even more dirty and "Katsuki crash the car" memes are funny.

I still hate Izuku-Sensei. Busted Toshinori-wannabe, can't blame Toshi himself for not wanting to see an impostor walking like that's his son for too long.

[igetnosleep]

Rekindling

Sequel to "The Night we Met" another attempt at angst. mostly written in Leon's point of view set after RE: 4 remake in mind.

So some TW: Four pages of Leon picking you apart, Leon being needy (If you count that as a warning), thoughts of mutilation (Leon wants to get close to you but is unable to express himself properly), Anger, implied smut (I cannot write smut for the life of me), angst, some comfort but I take it from you.

Six years.

Six years since Leon had last seen you.

It felt so far away the memory of Raccoon City was ingrained into his mind like a brand.

Then they took you away had you relocated far away from him away from anyform of comfort. He wished he could have followed you at that moment and have you in his arms longer.

It felt like decades had passed since he saw you.

He wished he could pour everything out, rip his skin off and have the weight in his chest fall out bloody and ugly, but you couldn’t know that. He had to beg on his knees to make sure you didn’t end up like him. You wouldn’t have survived USSTRATCOM. He barely survived. You would have died.

Mission after mission, saving the president's daughter, the DSO decided to throw him a bone. Reward him for all of his hard work.

Now here he is finally, he gets to see you, standing in front of your apartment door. Not Sherry unfortunately, Simmons wouldn’t let him. “Make up your mind Golden boy, what's it gonna be? Think fast or I’m pulling my offer off the table.” He wanted to kill that man, jaw clenched as he accepted his superior's terms.

He steeled his nerves reaching up and knocking on your door staring hearing a dog barking and the sound of nails tapping against wood floors then scratching and more barking, you had a dog. “Coming!” your voice rang out as you unlocked the door and he was met with a determined pitbull sticking its nose past the door trying to get a feel on him.

You held onto its collar the large puppy with a powder face, sniffing excitedly as its tail whacked your leg. “Noooo don’t run off you’ll get me in trouble again.” You spoke gently, eyes trained on the pup. Slowly you looked up at him and your eyes widened in surprise, like you saw a ghost.

“Leon?” Your voice was confused and unsure. He gave you a small nod, his lip quirked up trying to give you some semblance of comfort. Your grip on your dog loosened giving it the chance to approach him, he offered his hand allowing for a sniff of approval and affectionate licks to his palm.

You had changed a bit, you looked skinnier, unfortunately, he missed the softness in your body even if it was brief how long he’d held you. You looked tired, you hadn’t been sleeping. Why did you look frail? 

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him, your eyes searching for something, a remnant of him from when you met.  The same man who had left you alone now thinner, cheeks sunken and heavy eyebags and dark circles. Hesitantly you touched his cheek watching him tense before forcing himself still.

Those blue eyes you couldn’t get out of your head dulled and tired. The back of your hand gently smoothed over his cheek and he sighed shoulders drooping, a hint of vulnerability. Leons hand coming up and grabbing yours pressing your hand against his cheek as he took a breath.

He needs more, more than just you touching his cheek. Morbidly he wished he could sink under your skin and feel your warmth, would you mind? Would you mind if he did that? You wouldn’t would you? 

Sink his teeth into your skin and rip your throat out, maybe claw his way into your chest and make a home next to your beating heart.

Your life felt too inviting. Your warmth all too accessible, willing, open for something like him always longing for something.

Then again. There was that fear. Fear of getting too close too fast, seeming all too eager for something more. He’d come out bloody and red staring back at you scared and confused. 

Your voice cut him out of his head. He blinked and hummed a small beckon for you to repeat yourself “Do you want to come in?”

You led him inside pouring both a cup of tea, chamomile, “Helps the nerves..at least that's what the lady down the hall told me.” you spoke almost in a daze, still surprised to see him there. You pour some honey and lemon into both mugs.

Silence felt deafening between the two of you, his eyes trailing the interior of your apartment, the dog lying peacefully on the couch cushions, he never took you for a dog person, the way the carpets seem to overtake the living room, how warm it felt in the apartment despite the air being at the coldest temperature known to man.

“How have you been?” It feels like a stupid question to you, but he knows it’s all you could think of at the moment, you weren’t social you could barely keep eye contact. Were you trying to go back to the night when you looked at him trying to find the puppy you met all those years ago?

It almost felt nice that you were trying to find something to cling to like how he’d started trying to take note of how you lived every detail to how you dressed was something he wanted to write into memory. You were an open book he held the highlighters and pens writing annotations on your pages underlining and highlighting the details that caught his attention.

You could barely peer into him. Leon felt like a blank journal, the cover beautifully decorated yet when opened held nothing, no words or details to keep note of, how he preferred it now, it wasn’t your fault. He reminded you of the ones you collected but never got the chance to use, he seemed torn and frayed, being through too much to know pages torn out secrets hidden between lines and invisible ink. He felt more like the blacked out lines you’d see in a government document. At least in the movies you’d seen but at this point you were sure it was the same.

A part of him felt angry you didn’t immediately know, you couldn’t get a read on him, see what kind of person he was now without feeling like you were intruding. The man in your living room is more of a stranger if anything rather than someone you thought was a friend.

Could you classify what you had as a grounds for friendship?

You hardly knew let alone understood what happened yourself.

Leon barely tried to acknowledge it, finding himself torn between wanting to acknowledge and longing to forget what happened even if it meant forgetting you sometimes.

He almost wanted to scream at you, resentment at the life you were living now like he didn’t make the choice to protect you. 

He bit back a scowl. Glowering from his spot. “Fuck you.” his mind supplied it was terrifying how it felt like it was creeping into his veins, anger, resentment.

You looked small under his gaze, did you regret it? Did you regret meeting him? Were you starting to regret letting him into your home?

He took a deep breath, the aroma of honey and lemon mixed into his cup easing his nerves. He needs to calm down. He’ll scare you if he keeps going on like this. You hadn’t seen him in years. You didn’t even know what he’d done for you. “And you never will.” 

It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. 

Leon knows better. He’s not his father. You’re not at fault.

“I’m..” he paused, debating telling the truth before shaking his head “I’ve been better.” you bit your tongue. Your cheeks flushed red as you rubbed your forehead. “Sorry..I just..You can’t talk about anything can you?” You were smart peeking into the cracks of his walls. He shook his head “No, sorry.” He looked down, somber hand coming up to rub his forehead. 

You sat in awkward silence, you weren’t used to the bitter tone on his tongue. You didn’t know what to say, what could you say? What could you do? His shoulders looked squared; he was guarded; rigid. 

His eyes narrowed and observed the area, what was he looking for? God fuck who knows something a hint that you had moved on that you were just fine without him. 

Resentment towards you festering in his mind despite him pushing it down but it clung to his gut unwilling to go away. Bitterness coated his tongue. You were scared one wrong move could break him and have him crumble like he was fragile. He wasn’t fucking fragile. “You have something on your mind?” He asked his finger tapping against the mug in his hands impatiently. 

You weren’t stupid, mostly just caught off guard by his behavior. Shifty eyes and rigid body language. Clear indication that he wanted to leave, to go back to wherever he called home.

“Sorry..I guess I’m still surprised to see you..” you apologized for your lack of words, it only proved to make him feel worse.

This meeting felt like a mistake. Everything about it felt wrong. 

Leon placed the mug down on the coffee table as he tapped his knee anxiously. “I should go.” Already getting up and moving towards your front door. You stared at him confused. He wasn't here for maybe a few minutes.

You didn’t want to leave it like this: a wordless exchange of nothing too much simmering under the surface too much needing to be said but fear and reluctance prevented them from being said.

“Leon.” Your voice was gentle trying to pull him away from his head “Are you..feeling up to a hug?” You asked, arms opening up in a curious invitation. 

For a moment he wanted to decline her out before he did something he would regret but he wanted to be selfish. He gave so much and let his superiors take so much of him it felt like there was nothing left to take. 

Just for a moment, let him have something.

Let him have this.

His arms wrapped around your shoulders, hands moving over your back slithering down and locking you in place while your hands hesitantly rest on his waist. Your hands were shaking at the unexpected contact not understanding how quickly he would change his demeanor. 

Leon nuzzled your neck, his hands clutching your shirt for a moment. He felt like he was reliving a good memory. A piece of heaven he thought was locked away from him his hands felt bloody, unclean, clutching your shirt.

You smelled nice. The scent of the soap you used was intoxicating a deep breath and he was ingraining it into his memory, his hands roaming down to your sides then up your shirt, feeling you jolt in surprise “Leon?” You voice surprised but not pushing him away cheeks flushed warm, almost burning feeling lips against your neck.

You pulled away staring at him eyes wide “Push me away. Please say something.” he murmured, his forehead leaning against yours. Your breath mingled with his while his fingers dug into your back pulling you closer with each moment of silence.

Your mind was racing, the sudden change the way he stared at you.

What the fuck?

Holy shit.

You were certain you might blow a fuse or burn out with how he was staring at you. What could you do? Say no? He did say that but the words weren’t forming in your mouth. Your name was rough on his tongue “Please say something.” he whined his voice cracking his hand coming up to cup your cheek his lips brushing against yours as you managed break out of your thoughts staring back into those pretty eyes of his ones you knew you could get lost in staring into for a long time if he allowed it.

“Keep going.” You gently urged your hand going over his thumb brushing over the back of his hand. He could get used to that feeling. His eyes darted down nudging your nose as he murmured, asking gently “Can I?” a small pause and you nodded allowing him to continue.

His lips were chapped desperate over yours. Your hands on his cheeks as you moved your mouth clumsily against his. “Bedroom?” he asked clumsily, he felt like a rookie again, legs wobbly as he guided you to where you spent your nights and mornings wrapped up in nothing but peace.

Need and desperation were the two emotions he felt during that moment. Being able to hold you to bring you close to the feeling you wrapped around him, his nails digging and clawing into your skin begging to be let in to be a part of your life without the blood and the fear, without the constant mockery or over reliance of his skills.

The morning after it was like he’d slept for the first time in a while, a proper sleep, no restless tossing and turning, no screams and vivid nightmares that came for his throat. Just sleep.

Leon breathed for what felt like a long time. Searching for you before wrapping his arms around you pulling you close his hand smoothing over your chest, a familiar heartbeat, a rhythm that made him relax with a scary realization.

He didn’t want to leave.

He wanted the warmth of the mornings and the cold nights wrapped under your blankets wrapped in you.

You.

You.

Fuck how long had he needed you?

How long did he need to be away before realizing that this was heaven. 

The pearly gates that he knew he’d be rejected from, He realized he gladly fall if it meant staying with you.

His hands were stained in blood staining your skin with his filth. He needed to make his place here. He needed you. He wanted you.

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck.

What was he doing? What was he thinking coming here? Back to you? Back to the memory he wanted to forget?

Leon buried his nose in the crook of your neck, screwing his eyes shut, reluctant feeling like a little kid after being told he had to go to school after summer break stamping his foot whining. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

He refused because he didn't want to leave. This was perfect. Everything about this was home. This was home. You were home. His nails dug into your skin drawing out a whine from you still asleep. This was only supposed to be a visit. He didn’t need to look at his phone to know he was expected back. 

Could he come back?

He wasn’t sure.

Leon stared at you, stirring in your sleep, blinking with bleary eyes staring back at him “You okay?” Your voice is still asleep but trying to stay up for him. “Yeah..go back to sleep sweetheart.” he kissed the crook of your neck while rubbing your arm lulling you back to a peaceful slumber.

When you woke up again, Leon was gone.

[demontruth]

Prison Time for Trump is needed and this Why...

Y'all, I just did the math (if I did it correctly), I just realized something Trump could get 136 years in prison!! Because each of 34 counts comes with a maximum of 4 years if the Judge decided that Trump should do them separatly boom 134 years! Which fingers crossed. I know that highly unlikely but still the thought makes me so incredibly happy!! However I do think the Judge should give 'No Longer Teflon Don' some prison time.

Here's my thoughts on that. Because no matter the amount of time it's gonna fuck with Trump's head psychologically, as I see it. He's gonna be put in handcuffs taken out of the court room, hopefully. Put on a prison bus, once again hopefully. He's gonna be taken to a prison, maybe it be white collar or please let be federal prison. They're still gonna take all this clothes from him and anything that he has like his expensive ass watch and everything else he has on his person. Then they're going to strip searching him, which I feel extremely bad for whatever prison guard that may end up having do that. Give that man bonus, no joke. That's gonna have to do that. But still just that experience is going to be humiliating and demoralizing which I'm sorry he deserves in my opinion. Maybe but doubtful it will teach him some humility. Then they're going to make him get into whatever color jumpsuit, may it be orange, oh please Jesus let it be orange! Then those he going have to put on those lovely prison shoes. Then they're gonna take his ass to a cell where he's gonna have a celly no doubt. Hopefully its someone that fucking dislike him strongly and not one of his MAGA asshole. And then they're going to close the cell door. That sound alone I would imagine would have a profound effect on him mentally. Because he's the arrogant, a narcissist, egotistical, sociopathic. In that prison he's just like everybody else. He's can't stand up there thinking he's the big man having all his loyal MAGA cult followers screaming and cheeringfor him. That's going to mess with him like nothing else. And put him on a level with what he considers common people is going to mess with him in a way that nothing else ever could. Because he won't get special treatment, the prison guards aren'tgoing to treat him better then the other prisoners shit they might treat him worse if he acts up. Ithink it's so important that it happens to this motherfucker. It's time he brought down to the level he deserves. The level he's been running from forever. Because has anyone seen him now? I have no by choice, just watching the news and of course he's all over the news. He looks so defeated, pathetic, sad, old, beaten, tried, as he would say zero energy. As evil as this may sound and I really don't care... I fucking love it!! Give more of it!!

Now we just HAVE TO DEFEAT him in the Presidential election!! Biden may not be what we want either but it better then a man that's going be hell bent on revenge on everyone that disagrees with him, but on trial, who still want to but him on trial. Remember he still has at least 2 more trials coming and if gets back in the White House he'll do everything in his power to squash them. He'll go after the FBI, the DOJ and every other agency that investigated him. He will literally go on a witch hunt! Don't be mistaken and don't be stupid enough to believe he will not go full Dictator if he gets back into the white house. Trump likes/loves power far too much either far actual prison time with more criminal trials down the road he'll use that power to make sure that don't happen. See the whole I want to President again is just a Red Herring, to distract everyone from his criminal trials and a way to make them go away.

Once again I'm saying something I've been saying since before Trump became President the first time omg I'm tried. But anyway. Trump doesn't give a flying monkey shit about anyone but himself! Not the us the American people, not our Foreign policy, not climate crisis, not gun control, not education... nothing!! The only reason his sides with the Conservatives is because they kiss his ass. I completely understand why us on the left will not. But it does put us in the position of Trump not doing that we need him to do. So as much as I hate this we should pick somebody on the left that would be willing to kiss his ass so hopefully he would start doing what we want him to do. And you have no idea how much that pains me to actually write that!

But we on the left need to start fighting like we did in the last Presidential election! Grass root efforts, hitting the streets, online, fucking everywhere, especially with swing voters! We have get Biden re-elected no matter what because this another election of our life times that will matter in more then just 4 year from now!!

[daraku-ou]

ok ok i wanna talk about this at length and not on twitter where i can say like three sentences but i think a lot about how femt will sit around and say how humanity is just awful and disgusting but theres SO many times he seems to be rooting for them. like here how he Let Leo Go. he just let him leave. "he said he didnt wanna play so yknow. He Left." and he yells about how Of Course Hes Not Gonna Kill Leo. leo was so important to stopping the second collapse and femt just let him leave and then when he explained this to despair who is like Dude Why Didnt You Kill Him Or Leave Him There femt seems to be pretty genuinely concerned about despairs wellbeing and. general depression.

then there's in the ova where it's most obvious. hes running around trying to stop this restaurant from being destroyed which Just So Happens to have libra in it. tells leo to forget he was ever there. "i dont need a reason to help them out" femt i am shaking u

and THEN !!! theres curious. curious is fascinating to me for several reasons but i think its really interesting that femt seemingly shows up for no other reason than to Get Curious. wants to take him home for whatever reasons (i have thoughts on this but its too much so maybe another post). but then they immediately start fighting and it really seems like femt is just trying to keep curious preoccupied, buying time for libra to do something. he doesn't really have any reason to get into a petty fight with curious. then when curious is about to attack steven and klaus, femt IMMEDIATELY gets eve and odd to attack him which leaves them in pieces, ultimately ending up letting steven klaus and chain get the upper hand. and then femt just Leaves.

AND THE CALAMITY AUCTION !!! my favorite femt scene. pretends to be the president to break klaus out of jail as hes the only one who can really do anything about whats going on. and later when hes revealed to be the "president" klaus is surprised that someone like femt would even bother to get involved, cuz why WOULD he get involved?? hes constantly saying how worthless humanity is but here he is, actively trying to help. this pisses femt off who attacks briefly but just. Leaves. Again. destroys all the cameras in the room too. god forbid he be seen trying to help out a bad situation

which brings me to the light novel!! as i've said i've been translating it and theres a lot of interesting things. femt talks about how he feels extremely isolated from humanity and when people try to get information from him he just cant understand why they would ever want to be him or have what he has, cuz he clearly has..... Lots Of Issues! it's almost like he's so worried about what will happen to humanity if he isn't there to save them or on the other side of that he has to keep. testing humanity or something. he puts them through his games but even libra admits that theres a line he wont cross. they prefer to deal with him over Other Threats because while hes mass murdering lunatic he still wont. you know. Kill Everyone. unlike curious. i think femt and curious are being set up as foils and i have lots of thoughts on this but theres just too much to say about those two...

tldr i think femt cares a lot more about those around him than he would ever let anyone know. yeah he'll murder hundreds of people but the second hes faced with someone in person that he cant just pretend is part of this vague crude idea of humanity he has in his head its like something clicks in his brain that this is a Real Person and now he suddenly cares. he seems to have this recurring idea of humanity killing themselves or being unable to save themselves which leads him to Extreme Violence and when he helps its like he doesnt want to admit that he cares in some way. hes constantly distancing himself from everyone and i think he should go to therapy <3

[brain-of-rain]

In other words, Kafka's between three hard rocks and has to find a fourth solution to escape it all. Typical Hibino Luck I say. I swear Kafka is Peter Parker sometimes with that luck of his.

Can't help but agree with you on how it went. But I can also see Daigo trying to stop or aid Soshiro in the fight, specially if the former is a no go when that canon fight happen between Kafka and Soshiro.

One good thing of being a giant is that he gets the best view to see it too, which most be something given how fast those two are. Hope the big guy don't get dizzy watching.

And I'm gonna sound so mean saying this, but I think Kafka ends up using Daigo as a way to escape, not sure how but something tells me Kafka managed to pull something out of sheer desperation and it works wonders on both men that allows him to finally escape.

The discussion Mina most have with both at base cause I think Mina don't want others to hear it specially with what Daigo has to say about the odd kaiju. The old man most likely notice something that Soshiro did not. Like the fact the new daikaiju seems to be trying its best not to kill the vice-captian. Not quite sure how Soshiro would take that fact.

I love the way you think! Diago would definitely be limited in how he could participate in the fight, given his size and speed compared to the other two. He would try to assist the vice president, although maybe not with his whole heart, still hoping for some peace and witnessing Kaiju no 8 actively trying to disengage. I think Diago would help the vice president because, technically, he is a weapon that belongs to the country/defense force and I can't see him fully betraying that based on a hunch. If he's ordered to fight, he'll fight. I really like the idea of Kafka escaping via Diago somehow. Maybe he does something so familiar that Diago tries to get the vice president to stop briefly, and he escapes in he pause. Or he just uses Diago's slower nature to run up his arm and disappear out of sight. The idea of a quick chase scene with the vice president and Kafka using Diago's arms, shoulders, and back as an environment is also so funny to me. I can see Mina berating them both so clearly lol.

[berrypass-de-murdler]

S-5 Death on the Quad

I smell a plot brewing

What's brewing in the plot

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

This kid’s heart is beating out of his chest as he takes heavy breaths and tries to settle himself.

KID: The future depends on it. The future depends on it. It depends on YOU! YOU, YOU FOOL! You’ll never do this. YOU’LL NEVER DO THIS!

Abalone hears the yelling coming from a shut dorm and gets nervous. 

The kid throws himself on the ground and sobs. Then he sucks the tears back in, and rises. It’s go time.

Slowly, he wanders the quad. He scans the students walking in and out of the buildings. None of them look right. There’s a girl with horns, ramming against a tree and yelling. She’s obviously not it. That kid spinning around with a frisbee and never actually throwing it DEFINITELY isn’t. He rolls his eyes. Why does everyone have to be so… dumb? Little does he know the world’s most beautiful sound is about to lace his ears.

LOGICO: EW!! THE FUCK! A DEAD CHESSBOXING COACH! WHY ARE THERE SO MANY DEAD PEOPLE?!

The kid turns toward the tiny gremlin, seeing a grumpy cyclops pout and rage. His face falls limp with awe, and his eyes sparkle like an entire galaxy. Could this be it? 

LOGICO: [point] YOU! 

The kid’s heart stops. He wasn’t expecting to be noticed so quickly.

LOGICO: AND YOU, AND YOU! GET OVER HERE! 

The others walk over too. It’s time for Logico to investigate yet another murder. Why does everyone have to rely on him? Why can’t someone call the police or something?

Logico first gets to the girl with the horns. She’s a cow, but an angry one, and bigger than a lot of the other students. The current president, Pine.

PINE: You better bet I’m gonna protect my position. NO ONE’s gonna take this spot from me! No kids, no coach, no NOTHIN’!

That’s already a big red flag, but unfortunately Logico has to examine the others for a fair trial. The frisbee kid is an unknown animal with a big orange hat called Tangerine. 

TANGERINE: I am going to be the first nonbinary person to graduate from this place.  KID: You’re not alone... My friend is also- TANGERINE: I SAID. I am going to be the first. And if I’m not? There will be hell to pay.

Logico doesn’t know the gender identity of the coach, so this is equally suspicious. The final suspect is the kid. He’s wearing a crop tank that says “BEST BOI”, a bright blue jacket, shorts, one earring, and socks with sandals. 

LOGICO: If you’re going to dress that hideous, why do you even bother?

Then he finally realizes how dirty that sounded. He notices that he’s wearing a specific ruby pin. He knows he’s seen someone else wearing it, but he doesn’t remember who. Is it a fraternity? 

LOGICO: Speak up, dumbass.

The kid can’t bring himself to muster a word. But he writes something down and shoves it in his face. It’s a collection of Roman numerals.

LOGICO: OH, SPEAK WORDS, YOU ABSOLUTE BUFFOON!

The kid has disappeared. Logico clutches his head. And then after feeling a creepy touch, he finds another note in his pocket.

“I = 1

II = 2

1 = A

2 = B

2”

An uncomfortable presence, but Logico decides to at least try following its words. And miraculously, it translates what that kid gave him. With this new knowledge, he figures out that the killer was Pine!

PINE: THAT FUCKER AIN’T GONNA STOP MY REIGN! I SWEAR TO GOD!

She runs away, and Logico looks up at the incredible statue in the center of the quad. Lord Graystone, the griffon who founded the school. Maybe one day he’ll be able to solve his murder, the greatest of them all.

The end! 

Well-dressed mystery boy? Lmao, no.

And cool fact - Cartoon Tangerine is s h o r t.

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

[dvasva]

I am not surprised she lost. And it sucks, it really does, but the writing was on the wall.

And at the end of the day, the reason she lost isn't cause of one minority group or another, its cause of her own actions.

She had every opportunity to do something her voter base wanted, and she refused. She could have maintained the 2016-2020 democratic stance on the border, the stance she ran on in 2020, but she decided to get rid of that and support trumpian policies. She could have had a firmer stance on supporting trans people, but she didn't and said that she would 'follow the law' (there are no federal laws protecting trans people). She could have made the slightest attempt to distance herself from Bidens overhwelming support of israel, a decision that made him so unpopular he was literally bullied out of running for president, but she didn't, instead reaffirming her dedication to Israel and the united states economic interests.

nah, she decided to go for.... moderate republicans? who consistantly vote republican down ballot even when on the outside they say they dont like the candidate? who might be some of the most consistant voters in terms of turnout, sure, but also in terms of who they vote for. They were always gonna vote for trump desite how far to the right kamala made her language, despite how desperately she was gonna court them. It was a stupid, losing battle from the start. moderate republicans are not loud like trump voters are, and they dont like how trump lacks decorum. But, they dont dislike his policies.

Listen, every single person who aggressively wanted people to vote for Kamala. All of the scared women, queer, black, hispanic etc folks who campaigned and hoped and told people to stop criticising Kamala for fear she would lose votes.

Kamala Harris losing is not your fault. It never was your fault. You'll be blamed for not working hard enough and in turn you'll blame the people who couldn't justify voting for Kamala because their families were dying in palestine, or who couldn't support Kamala cause she was building cop cities in their community, or who couldnt like kamala cause she decided she wasnt gonna aupport trans people who are now worried that support for trans people will become the blame for losing the election.

Kamala Harris losing was always the fault of nobody but her own campaign.

[reidsaurora]

hellohello i'd like to order a confetti cupcake with luke alvez and a hint of a "oh shit are we really doing this" kind of relationship/date whatever thank youuu

this is the cutest ever, i'm so happy with how it turned out! hope you enjoy 🫶🏻

"The Mistletoe Mishap" ~ L. Alvez

pairing: luke alvez x gn!reader

summary: "you'd be surprised just how seriously the bau took their christmas in july celebrations."

word count: 922

warnings: a couple swear words, mentions of food, a lil splash of sexual humor at the end, i think that's it!

genre: festive fluff ❤️✨️

extra notes: the icon in the collage is by @delicatejareau (edited to fit the theme of the collage a lil better) and the dividers below are by @anlian-aishang!

beta read by: @dungeons-are-too-cold (thank you, love!)

birthday bash | masterlist | ask box

🧁 Confetti Cupcakes - send me a character + concept/trope/au and i'll write you a blurb!

You'd be surprised just how seriously the BAU took their Christmas in July celebrations.

What started as Penelope bringing Christmas cookies to the office one day turned into watching Elf during their lunch hour, Secret Santa exchanges, and weekly contests to see who could show up in the ugliest Christmas sweater (Spencer was winning so far with his sweater made completely out of tinsel).

However, the one unfortunate part of Christmas in July was the mistletoe hanging over every. single. doorframe.

Sure, mistletoe in the workplace was awkward enough as it was, but it certainly didn't help that there was one person you absolutely couldn't get caught under it with.

You and Luke had been dating for a few months by this point and, thus far, you'd successfully kept it under wraps. But every time one of you stopped in a doorway, your heart began to beat so hard, you thought it would bang its way out of your chest.

Usually, you two found a way to keep enough distance that it would be almost impossible to pass under the mistletoe at the same time. But today? The last day of your Christmas in July celebration? Of course it would be the day you didn't.

You and Luke were the last two to show up at the round table room for lunch and a movie, which you'd gathered was Frosty the Snowman when you heard the familiar theme song upon walking in.

Your shoulder brushed something hard as you entered the room, and for some reason, you just knew it wasn't going to end well when you looked up and made eye contact with whoever else was under the mistletoe with you.

You attempted to make a run for your seat, but a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks. "Now, Y/N, you know the rules of mistletoe," Penelope reminded you from her seat. You should've known there wasn't a way out of this, not when Penelope Garcia, self-proclaimed President of the 'Christmas In July Club', was around.

The rules of mistletoe varied a little in the workplace, at least. Some people went for high-fives while others went for hugs. Emily had even gone as far as kissing Tara on the cheek one day, but no one dared to kiss anyone on the mouth yet. So, really, there was no reason to panic, right?

Still, you froze in place, your fight or flight mode clearly not having kicked in yet. Instead, your eyes met Luke's with a look that said, 'please save me,' your hands gripping your lunch bag for some form of stability.

Your chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm, your heart beating hard against your sternum. "Are we really gonna do this?" you silently mouthed up at him, your whole body on the verge of something close to a panic attack.

"Come on, you guys," Rossi teased, "If Boy Genius can high-five people under the mistletoe, you can too."

Chuckles erupted from your coworkers, but not from you nor Luke. Instead, Luke looked down at you, his tongue jutting out to wet his lips, and somehow, as simple a gesture as it was, the soft eye contact was enough to bring you out of your state of panic. You knew that whatever happened, whether he kissed you or not, and whether or not this kiss led to your secret being exposed, Luke had this, had you.

In one swift motion, he had both his hands planted on either side of your face. "Fuck it," he whispered, barely giving you a second to process the words before his lips were on yours.

His familiar scent fell around you like your own protective bubble as he kissed you, his hold on your face absolutely intoxicating. The taste of his morning coffee burned through you, your stomach doing a loop-de-loop at the sensation.

You knew as soon as he pulled away that all eyes would be on the both of you, but you didn't expect half of their jaws to be on the floor.

"Damn," Emily said, flabbergasted. "Is everyone around here getting laid except for me?"

Penelope was the next to speak, which was quite surprising, considering it looked as though her jaw was out of commission not three seconds prior. "Who knew Newbie could canoodle like that?"

Your face flushed as crimson as the sweater your colleague wore. "Penelope," you scolded her, your hands bringing your lunch bag in front of your face, covering the blush that had taken over.

Luke was having none of that, pulling the lunch bag away from your cheeks. "Y/N sure knows," he smirked before leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.

The blonde all but jumped out of her chair. "Is this a thing? How come no one told me about the thing? Why am I always the last to know about a thing?"

Luke tossed an arm around your shoulders, providing you with a sense of calm and comfort as you thought about your next words. "Technically," you started, "you're all the first to find out about the thing."

"Except Roxy," Luke corrected. "She pretty much knew it was a thing before it actually was a thing."

Next thing you knew, the girls were pulling you over to one side of the room, practically begging for details. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Spencer sharing a fist bump with Luke, a smile overtaking your face.

Oh, how they got on your nerves, but oh how, you loved the BAU.

-> taglist: @1234-angelika @drayshadow @alexxavicry @nomajdetective @cordyandbilliehavemyheart @darkloverfox @sammyrenae68 @cherrycandle @asgardprincess97 @gh0stgurl @randomwriter1021 @eddieharrington @danielle143 @esposadomd @reidselle @dungeons-are-too-cold @louderfortheback @reidsbookclub @cwritesforfun @cynbx @juismissing @captainchris-pike @lukeclvez

[19joo]

It took me a while (like, years haha) before gathering the courage to post this. I've been writing but I don't usually post them publicly. If anyone here has read til the end, please let me know how I did. >_<

Our Last Night

[MCxJake]

"Do you really have to go?", I asked Jake as he is preparing to leave our hideout and run from his pursuers.

He sat in the bed beside me, leaned in closer, and took my hands. "It's gonna be alright. I'll come back as soon as I can. Once we get this over and done with, I'm never leaving your side again. I promise." He gave me the most reassuring look he could. I can only do nothing else but sigh. I know him too well now to see the uncertainty he's trying to mask from his eyes.

We both knew at this point that a desirable outcome is far-fetched. Nevertheless, I chose to hold on. I needed to. Otherwise, I won't have any other reason to keep going.

It's not that I didn't see it coming. I just hope things had never gone to this. Now that Hannah is safe and sound, all that's left is Jake's freedom.

After the Duskwood ordeal, Jake told me everything I needed to know about him. Apparently, we live in the same country, which is currently being ruled by the most corrupt set of government officials. It all began with Jake discovering a sketchy deal between a certain governmemt official and a foreign pharmaceutical company, which turned out to be our country's president. One discovery led to another, and now their organization has obtained a concrete proof that this heck of a useless corrupt "leader" has manipulated the election results.

It was all going so well. Jake's discoveries has been made known to the public. People were enraged, and started demanding justice. However, this government is a difficult group to get involved with.

We are now fighting for our freedom, and we have never been this close. We worked so hard for this. I am willing to do anything, but losing Jake is just a price I just couldn't afford to pay.

Before meeting everyone, I was merely existing. I've been going through the motions for as long as I can remember. I waited everyday for my life to end, because I couldn't end it myself. My body felt like an empty shell moving on its own.

I remember just blankly staring at my bedroom ceiling, contemplating between getting out of bed or going back to sleep again. I reached to my phone and scrolled at the piling messages I haven't replied to in weeks when I received that text message from Thomas. I don't know what got to me, but the urge to reply at his message was strong. When I saw how desperate they were on trying to find Hannah, I decided to sign myself up. Better do something worthwhile for once in my life, I thought.

As we went further, I noticed things gradually changing. I couldn't point out exactly when, but days eventually stopped being as monotonous as they used to. For the first time in ages, I had something to look forward to. The hollow void inside me began to be filled up with a sense of purpose, most of which I can attribute to this hacker who, for some reason, I began trusting with my entire being despite not being able to know a lot about. I don't know how he did it. He is so enigmatic, yet familiar. Despite everything, I never really felt the need to know everything about him. That must have been me going crazy — but I didn't care. When it came to him, things need not to make sense as long as they felt right. I never connected with anyone else the way I did with him.

The day he went into hiding from his pursuers was the day I fully realized can't live again without him in my life. Right then and there, I was finally able to genuinely want something for myself. We could have stopped upon finding Hannah, but I want him to be something more than a stranger I met in the pursuit of trying to save another. I want to be by his side. At the back of my mind, I knew this madness would likely be the death of me, but I'd happily accept my fate if it meant I could be with him.

Damn it. I feel so powerless.

"Maybe this wouldn't have happened had I not been too greedy. Maybe this is me being punished for trying to get what I can't have." I sobbed. "It's not too late, Jake. We can still back out now." I pleaded.

"Don't be hard on yourself. I chose this. It's my fault you got into this mess. I know I might regret this, but I won't ever forgive myself for not even trying to fight for you — for us." His pleading eyes met mine as he pulled me into a tight hug. "Trust me, please?"

He kissed my hand. "Our time is running out. I have to go."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

[mjrtaurus]

More Monkey D Family headcanons to counteract the Urpi sadness from yesterday :,)

- Garp's Fist of Love does not exist in the Urpi canon or at least not in its usual state: it’s more like a quick jab in the arm or a knock on the head. What the kids really are afraid of is his noggies, he keeps teasing them, saying he’s gonna give them a bald spot!

- Urpi is no doubt one of those moms who just..doesn’t get Mother's Day. She'll say that she’s a mother everyday and having one day blocked out to acknowledge a yearly fact is silly. She does NOT understand that they just wanna pamper her a little. They’ve taken to making sure the cat is in her lap all day so she can be doted on for the day.

- Speaking on the pets!! The cat's name is Whiskers but everyone calls him Whisk, the vulture is named Javier Bird-em, the raccoon is Spikette and Camel is Camel

- Garp even joins in on the animal fun when he brings a retired military Labrador home one day. He is newly dubbed Bow after his favourite part of the ship and is a big old softie. All the other animals like to pile around him for group naps!

- None of the kids will hear any Once upon a times during storytime! They want stories of Kalgara and Noland and Shandian legends only! All attempts to deviate from their regularly scheduled routine will results in major pouty faces.

- Occasionally when they would call a super special night, Urpi will tell them a story about a nameless pair of daughters of Shandora. They always listen in a soft awe, not daring to make a sound lest they break the soft reverie cast over their mother.

- Family vacations at the beach! Dragon building elaborate sand castles (and also burying a napping Kuzan), Garp teaching Dadan how to windsurf, Urpi reading her book and sipping on a virgin piña colada! It’s easily one of their favourite times of year!

- On one of these beach trips the kids, full of jittery energy, run up to Urpi with hands full of slightly cracked shells. She doesn’t fully understand their hype until Dragon presses down on the apex of a shell and a jet of wind shoots out.

- None of the Monkey D kids like pirates. Dadan thinks of them as lesser bandits, Kuzan doesn’t like how they disrupt peace and the destruction they bring and Dragon is just straight up scared, the stories Garp tells him about his job are all told jovially but it still freaks the little guy out. Suffice it to say, meeting Gol D Roger for the first time was nothing short of complete chaos. (His uncle Roger era ended before it started)

- Urpi and Kuzan are coffee drinkers and are borderline hipster about their brews, Garp and Dragon are devout tea people, green tea specifically, with snacks of course! Dadan has no real preference between the two and thinks they’re all a little ridiculous for being so particular.

- Despite not having the Monkey D blood, Kuzan and Dadan certainly have that Monkey D appetite! Urpi is flabbergasted but doesn’t really mind. She does wonder occasionally if they’re really tasting the food though.

- While Nina loves her nephew dearly, she was a little skeptical about Garp with his time as a Marine and all but she trusts her sister’s judgement so she lets it go (mostly).

- Dadan occasionally goes to her parents to ask for advice on being a better older sister.

- Kuzan and Dadan definitely DIDN'T have a bet about who Luffy's other parent was…that absolutely didn’t happen…and Kuzan definitely didn’t lose it either-

- Garp & Urpi are the quintessential supportive parents! Sport tournaments, recitals, awards ceremonies, you name it! If their kiddos are involved, best believe you’ll find them in the front row!

- Urpi is also vice president of the PTA and has a very catty rivalry with its president, Eleanor. Bake sales for new equipment for the soccer team turn into something straight out of war zone or at least that’s how Garp describes it.

- The Strawhats meeting Urpi and feeling a sense of Deja vu with her warm eyes and wide smile, they’ve definitely seen that somewhere before…

- After being reunited, Garp and Urpi decide to renew their vows and throw a big party to celebrate! All their family and friends were invited and the celebration lasted at least 48 full hours.

Thank you for this meal, let me give you dessert!

- One of Dragon’s favorite treats is licorice root. No, not the candy. The root. Dig it up, clean it, strip the bark, chew on it. It’s as much of a stim as it is a treat, and Urpi introduced it to him. He gets teased by other kids for “eating” sticks, but you know what? The sticks taste good.

- Urpi once was subject to an attempted mugging while out getting groceries. She knocked the man over the head and lectured him for the whole ten minutes it took for authorities to get there and apprehend him. He looked thoroughly shamed.

- Garpi snores like a bear. If he falls asleep on his back, you can expect noise complaints from the neighbors. Urpi has a solution to this. Get up and grab herself a glass of water, come back to bed and then brush her night air chilled legs against him. Shuts him up real fast. Might have him on the floor in a heap, but it works.

- One of the only times Kuzan was ever openly not laid back about something was the time some local punks stole his bike. Dragon, who was on leave and visiting them at the time, took descriptions, tracked the punks- and the bike- down, scared the shit out of them with a lot of official and intimidating sounding Marine lingo, and stole the bike back. Nobody steals from his little brother!

- When Dragon first started dating, it wasn’t Garp or Urpi that those dates needed to worry about. It was Dadan. Dragon’s first ever heartbreak was from a guy that ended up being really shitty to him. Once Dadan found out, she broke his nose and told him if she ever saw him come around again it would be his fingers that got broken. Individually. Nobody hurts her little brother! Garp and Urpi couldn’t have been more proud of her.

[possessesnightshift]

i'm not an eloquent political speech person so im just gonna be direct about this

americans, please please fucking register to vote and vote for joe biden in november

and before you jump to whatever policy thing or weakness of his to counter this plea, just stop. it doesn't actually matter. trump is worse. trump is fucking so much worse

our job from here on out is not only to hold our noses and vote for biden, but also to convince all of our friends family and whoever else to also vote for him in spite of all of his flaws. yes all of them

we need to make the fucking argument that trump is so dangerous, the country would be better off with a drooling old genocide lover whose mental faculties are drying up faster than the sahara desert. we need biden voters to be keenly aware of his shortcomings and refuse to back down. there's no use in pretending biden is still sharp as ever or has this mass grassroots support (he does not). he sucks. he is probably the worst democratic candidate in the party's history.

don't care. trump is worse. he needs to be stopped from taking power by any means necessary. he needs to be STOPPED.

from a non-republican pov, democrats constantly leaning on the "but the other guy is worse" argument is frustrating as all hell. i certainly hate it myself. but what gets lost in the conversation is that the republicans are essentially so beholden to this principle nobody even notices.

i know plenty of small town midwestern republicans who were embarrassed to admit they voted for trump. they voted for him in spite of his nastiness and blatant buffoonery (not in spite of his racism bc they're likely ok with that) because he was on the republican ticket, and to them any republican is better than a woke liberal who wants to take away our gas stoves and force drag queens to read us stories at bedtime

so yeah i kinda don't fucking care at this point

biden is a laughably bad candidate for the election of 2024. any other time he could've run (including 2020) is completely different than now, when he's just too fucking old. so should we just roll over and let him lose? just for trump to finish his term, be biden's current age, and either run for a third term or just stay in power bc the supreme court is on his side and they've been preparing for this for decades? fuck that

actually i think a rotting, pulpy corpse would make a fine president compared to dumbass donald "reality gameshow host" trump. literally if biden dies the day of the election he's still got my vote because it is not for him

the left has to learn to have the tenacity that republicans have. we emulate the right in the worst fucking ways (e.g. closing the southern border for no reason) but we never emulate their pettiness. we never say 'i hate the republicans so much i will willingly vote for someone i kinda hate to spite their smug asses'

remember when trump used to be a joke? remember when he was a giant embarrassment? remember the memes about his illiteracy and his lack of awareness? (see 'covfefe' for more info) trump may have the means to become a brutal dictator, but he relies on people smarter than he is to pull it off

if trump continues to hype up his project 2025 and his fascist ambitions with the swagger and confidence of fdr running against herbert hoover, what does it signal to the rest of the world for that man to LOSE to a corpse with the stamina of a wet flounder? it could stop the fascist momentum in its tracks by associating it with weakness and incompetence (you talk up all this hype and you lose to THAT man?? i guess you must be full of shit huh)

these are fraught times. there's no way to get out of this without letting go of our ideals of a perfect candidate who responds to the political desires of the people. that candidate does not exist and never will

right now we have not just an opportunity to preserve our rotting democracy for a little longer, but something much more special. we can fucking put an end to the trump experiment once and for all. we can make trump wannabes like ron desantis scramble to dissociate their image from the toxicity of the trump administration. we can turn him back into a joke.

at this point im screaming into the wind. no person who isn't already voting for biden is gonna read this far. but i want these words to be here anyway because i think they have value. 2024, 2028, and 2032 are all going to be pivotal election years. we can't wait around. we have to act NOW.

vote rotting fish 2024. i will plug your nose with a clothes pin if you refuse to do so yourself...

[gorgon-goddess-of-chaos]

Halo

And a final one, for Halloween.

Angel!Jackieboy Man x GN!Reader, TW: blood, concussion mention, sword Words: 930

Upon entering the store, a large man bumps into you and makes you smack your head against the door. Your hands immediately go to clutch your head, knee hitting the ground as you try to get the world to stop spinning. Another man inside the gas station shop witnessed the whole thing, and comes running up to you.

“Are ye alright? Do ye know who t’e president is?”

“Your mom.”

“…y’know what, I’m just gonna go catch t’e fucker t’at knocked int’ ye.”

You swear as you get sat down by the cash register that you saw wings on his back and a halo above his head, making you wonder how badly you really smacked your head. The clerk makes a quick ice pack for you, helping you maneuver it into the goose egg forming on the side of your head.

“Damn, I should probably make sure you didn’t crack the door with how big that thing is. Holy shit.”

He provides you with something sugary then examines the door, only stopping when the two of you hear yelling outside. There’s a flash of light followed by a loud thud and a cut off scream, to which the clerk bolts out to go investigate. 

“Wh- what’s going on-?”

The angel guy who may or may not be an actual angel pops back in, stopping you from standing up before you end up falling over.

“Oi, don’t be too fast on yer feet t’ere, twinkle toes. He’s all taken care of.”

“The fuck did you do!?”

“Just a little bit of smiting. Just a little.” “Smite? Like the spell in D&D that paladins use?”

He just blinks at you, unsure if you’re being serious, or just seriously concussed. “Sure… anyways t’ere’s an ambulance on t’e way here. T’ey’ll check ye out while t’ey’re here.”

“I don’t need an ambulance, I’m fine!”

“Yer not, but I didn’t call t’e ambulance for ye.”

The clerk walks back in timidly, paled with blood on his hands. 

“I need to… wash my hands…”

The angel pays him no mind, if anything just creating distance between you and the clerk, shielding you with his wing.

“Are you an angel…?”

He turns back around, chuckling with a flick to his halo as he crouches down to be at eye level with you.

“I might be. Who’s askin’, cutie?”

It takes you a hot second to process his question, slowly pointing to yourself. He laughs a little at your confusion, moving your hair out of your face and readjusting your ice pack. When you just let it fall, he decides he’s okay holding it until the paramedics get to you. 

“Yes, I am an angel. One could even say I’m yer angel, but t’at’s not somet’in’ t’at I just go flashin’ around on my business card.” “Why.”

“Because usually, it’s a secret. Can ye keep a secret fer me?”

You nod, slowly taking the ice pack from him to hold to your head. He slides a sword from its sheath on his hip, a blinding blade that erupts into flames once exposed to the air.

“We each get one o’ t’ese. Well, a weapon o’ our choice. I wanted a sword, I t’ought it looked cool.”

He watches as the fire dances in your eyes, smiling softly at your fascination. The clerk comes back, and it seems like upon seeing the angel he becomes very afraid.

“Fuckin’- hold on.”

With a quick snap of his fingers, the clerk falls to the floor, immediately getting back up like nothing happened. He smiles at the angel, heading back behind the counter.

“So is there anything else I can get for you Mr. Aingeal?”

“No, this’ll be all. And please, call me Jackie.”

Jackie slides a card across the counter as he puts his sword away, gathering his bag of things before helping you onto your feet and out of the store. You see the man who pushed you splayed out in an empty parking spot with a decent pool of blood around him.

“Will he be okay!?”

“It’s just blood, he’ll get over it.”

The paramedics arrive shortly afterwards, checking you for a concussion and wheeling the man into the ambulance. When they deem that you’re just a little dazed with a nasty bump, they release you back to Jackie and speed off.

“Ye need help gettin’ home? I don’t want ye drivin’ while yer still ditzy.”

“Yeah… maybe…”

You honestly don’t even remember if you walked or rode your bike, but it wouldn’t hurt to have company. He walks with you, making sure you keep upright and talking. It’s thankfully a short walk, and he steps up with you to your front door.

“Oh, an’ before I go, I should let ye have t’is, since ye can see me now.”

He pulls a ring out of his pocket, slipping it on one of your fingers.

“It’ll make sure ye can see me all t’e time now. An’ maybe we can talk again?”

You stare down at the ring, watching the engravings on the simple gold band catch the light. A small halo with a pair of cherub wings.

“Yeah, yeah I’d like that. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, just doin’ my job.” You turn away to unlock your door, turning back around to say goodbye when he’s nowhere to be seen. There were no footsteps indicating him leaving, but the plastic bag of goods from the gas station rests where he once stood. You’re not even sure if you’ll believe yourself in the morning with what you saw.

[danses-with-dogmeat]

B is for -- Benny Gecko

Aaaaand here is the prompt for the good ole Ben-man himself! He's always a fun challenge to write for with his... expressive dialogue, lol. And this was no exception, but again, I think the randomized aspect of the prompt was being nice to me 😅

Anyway I hope you all enjoy!

And here is the 2k event masterlist, for your browsing pleasure!

--

Pair: Benny x g/n Six

Dialogue Prompt: “Remind me when I said I needed your help?”

Word: Believe

Rating: SFW

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 1.4K

“Baby?” Benny’s sleep-sore voice passed through the fabric of the lightweight bed sheets as he turned to face his partner in the darkness. “What you up to?” 

Six continued readying themself, the sound of shuffling bags, of zippers being pulled up, and buckles being done rang through the casino hotel room. 

“I’ve been up thinking all night, and, it's time. I've gotta just… end this.” 

Benny sat up at that, one hand wiping at his tired eyes as a confused expression settled upon his face. 

“End… what? This early in the a.m.? Angel, you must be guzzlin’ moon juice or somethin,’ you thinking about doing anything right now. Sun’s not even awake yet, what right have we got to be kicking around at this nocturnitus hour?” 

“I didn’t say we, Benny. You can stay here, I just… I can’t sleep thinking about this. Haven’t been able to for days, since we found out about House’s army in that bunker, about the dam and Caesar’s reinforcements coming in and the NCR President… I’ve just gotta do something about it now. Before it’s too late, before it’s out of my hands.” 

Benny blinked at them, the wheels in his head beginning to turn, still only processing half of all they said, but operating suitably enough for him to spit out a response. 

“Sure, yeah, sounds like a dream, sweetie-pie. I’d love to shove a stopper in it all too, just be able to stay here and make sweet music with you all the time. Get Yes Man fired up, override or delete or whatever it takes of that mummified millionaire and get our names up in lights, but… Can’t just be done in one night– ahem, morning. It’s morning, again, I forgot, cuz the moon is still dreaming up there..." Benny shook his head, sleep still tugging ceaselessly at his eyelids as he patted the still-warm spot beside him with one outstretched hand. "Why don’t we follow its lead, hm?” 

The bed shifted as Six took a seat at the foot of the mattress, and Benny found himself scooting closer, wrapping a hand around their waist and leaning one cheek on their shoulder. 

“Hmm, takin’ my advice for once, lovebird?” 

His head shifted as Six sighed, rising and sagging along with their shoulders. 

“No.” They told him simply, and Benny’s chest gave a pathetic little ache. “I can’t sit by and do nothing as war threatens all of New Vegas.” 

“We won’t be doing nothing, sweetcakes.” His hand rubbed over their back, in an attempt to smooth their ruffled thoughts through nothing but his touch. “Everything’s close to ready, an’ we still got the chip. House can’t do jack without that shiny piece of platinum, which means we’re in control here. Just waiting for the opportuneous moment, when our own tin-can-pal can safely transfer power over to us. Then, baby, then we make our waves, ya dig?” 

“Just because House can’t do anything with his underground nightmare, it doesn’t mean Caesar and the NCR are gonna sit and wait. Something has to be done about them now.” They stood up, wrenching their waist out of Benny's hold and leaving him to catch himself from toppling over where he’d been leaning against them. 

What the hell about what I’m saying isn’t getting through that cranium of theirs?

Evidently, it’s a thick cranium, that, he knew from personal experience, but…

Still, Six should know better than to run off like this, like chasin' wildflowers in the wind. As beautiful as the thought of it was, in reality, it was always gonna slip through their fingers.

They may be the fated courier who held the platinum chip, and his main squeeze, both were hefty titles, but they still could never hope to stop this war all on their own.

“So, what about tonight brought all these plans and schemes of yours to the head of the table?” 

Six zipped their rifle bag closed definitively, and he heard another sigh leave them. 

“It’s not just tonight, Benny, I told you. It’s been weeks, and I just… I can’t take it any more. I feel like they’re gonna make their move any minute, and I don’t want to be a waiting duck.” 

“That’s a weird way of putting it, sugar.” He scooched all the way to the end of the bed as he spoke, letting his feet swing over and hit the carpeted floor. “‘Sitting duck’? Wasn’t that it? What is a duck, anyhow?” 

“Benny–” 

“Dollface, just hold on a jiff.” 

“No, Benny. I told you. I’m leaving, you can’t stop me.” As his eyes adjusted to the dim of the room, and as pale sunlight began to lighten the blackout curtains hanging from the windows, Benny could see the way they swung their bag over their back and made to leave with a stubborn sorta purpose. 

They could never hope to stop this war... On their own.

“I ain’t gonna try and halt your moves, baby. If you’d listen, I’m about to tell you I’m coming with ya.” 

He stood up, and started towards the cabinet where he kept his suits. Benny didn’t need to look their way to know that Six was pinching the bridge of their nose, or maybe flaring their nostrils. 

He just does that to them, and he knows it. 

Doesn't mean they don't want him tagging along though. Deep down.

“Remind me when I said I needed your help?” 

Deep deep down.

“Don’t gotta say squat for me to know you want it. May not need it, that’s not really what I’m sayin’, but sure as nuka cola bubbles, you want it. Even if you don’t know that, I do, baby.” 

Six rolled their eyes at him. As he pulled on his clothes swiftly though, he found he didn’t much care. 

He does that to them too, he supposed. He has since they met him. Well, met him the second time, that is. 

“You really want to help me?” He expected there to be more humor in their inquiry, but no, it had more of a genuinity to it. Real curiosity bled through their words, and a lousy sorta feeling made itself known in Benny’s gut. 

“Look," He sighed as he paused his dressing, letting his button-up hang down half-done. "I know, so far, in this outfit I been about as useful as a deck of cards with no aces, or a brahmin with no legs, but baby, all you done for me? The dream we share? Never found a bloke or broad I could relate to more, never found someone to take me as I am the way you have, even through all the muck and grumble I’ve put you through.” 

Benny approached his partner once he’d pulled his iconic suit jacket over his shoulders, and grasped either side of their arms in his hands, pulling them close to look them in the eye. 

“And while I don’t like to analogize myself with the slimy, no good Robert House, I too, am a businessman, whether I like it or not. Got the dress here to prove it, too.” He gestured with one hand down at this checkerboard suit jacket. “And if I owe somebody a debt, I aim to pay it forward, ya dig?” 

Six bit their lip, looking away from him briefly before one hand reached out to touch their chin, drawing their eyes back to meet his. 

“An’ I owe you diamonds and pearls for all you done on my account. But I ain’t got all that, all I can say is… believe me. Believe that I wanna help you, that I’m gonna. And believe that I believe in our dream. Our New Vegas.” 

His hand on Six’s chin rose to boop them on the nose affectionately, and despite their determined look, a smile escaped them, passing right through to Benny as he reflected their relief at his words. 

“Alright.” They sighed, for the umpteenth time this early morning. “I’ll believe you, baby.” They leaned forward, and Benny grinned into it as their lips met his in a chaste little kiss. 

“But for the record,” Six said as they pulled away, much too soon by his account, “You’re no businessman, Benny.”

“No?” He turned his head to them as he finished buttoning up his shirt, moving towards the bedside table as he did, where his Maria laid in waiting.  

“Nah, you’re a conman.” Six practically giggled, and Benny couldn’t find the words to argue. He could only take his gun in hand, and follow them out the door they both set off to change the fate of the Mojave.