#or they hate you. it's kind of a universal thing for them

[bjlipss]

— i would love to go back to the old house;

★ synopsis: you and satoru make a promise to marry each other if you’re both still alone by thirty.

miyan’s notes: no curse au, no warnings, maybe some realness, just fluff and smut. wc: 3681.

you’re both seventeen, laying on the grass behind the school gym, where the sun’s dipped low enough to cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

it’s late spring—almost summer—and the scent of cut grass clings to your clothes, sweet and sharp. someone’s left a soccer ball abandoned a few feet away. the world feels lazy and endless, like nothing important could ever happen here.

you’re side by side, arms brushing but never quite touching, your pinkies just barely grazing sometimes when one of you shifts. satoru’s sunglasses are crooked on his face, and he doesn’t fix them. his white hair is fanned out messily over the grass, and there’s a blade of it stuck behind his ear. he hasn’t noticed.

he was dumped yesterday. you heard about it from someone else before he told you—his ex apparently said he was too much. too loud, too intense, too everything. it made you kind of furious, but you didn’t say that. you just sat with him today, like always.

your first real relationship ended last week. it wasn’t even dramatic. just two people slowly realizing they didn’t quite know how to hold each other anymore. still, it left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you’re pretending isn’t there.

he exhales, slow and dramatic. “you ever think we’re just… cursed or something?”

you snort. “that’s a little dramatic.”

“it’s me,” he says, turning his head toward you, and you can see the curve of a grin forming. “drama is my whole thing.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. he quiets down again, goes back to staring at the sky with a look that’s a little more thoughtful than usual. birds are flying overhead in little staggered v’s, and there’s a faint breeze brushing your skin.

then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, he says, “if we’re both single at thirty, let’s just marry each other.”

you blink. the silence after feels loud.

“what?” you laugh, eyebrows lifting. “what kind of pact is that?”

he shrugs, still looking up. “a realistic one. we already know each other’s worst habits. you can tolerate me. that’s rare.”

“you’re an idiot,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “but sure. yeah. a backup plan. solid.”

you mean it like a joke. like a throwaway thing. but then he turns his head toward you, and his glasses slide down his nose just enough that you can see his eyes—really see them.

“no,” he says. “i’m serious.”

you stare at him. he’s not laughing. there’s something oddly earnest in the way he says it, like he’s offering something fragile and important without realizing it. like a promise he doesn’t expect you to keep, but wants you to want to.

your heart does a weird thing. tightens. pulls.

you swallow. “okay. me too.”

neither of you says anything after that. the sun dips lower. the breeze picks up. the world moves around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that quiet stretch of time, young and bruised and hopeful.

your pinkies brush again.

this time, neither of you pulls away.

—

years pass.

at first, the promise is a soft, silly memory tucked into the back of your mind like a note in a locker you never emptied. you think about it sometimes—on your birthday, when your heart gets broken again, when you see a wedding invitation in the mail and wonder how people keep getting so lucky. the pact becomes a kind of quiet comfort, a lighthouse in the distance. not real, but there. always there.

you go to university. he does too. different cities, different people, different rhythms. you both grow into yourselves slowly, awkwardly, like plants reaching for light in the wrong season. you learn how to love better. how to walk away when you need to. how to be alone and not hate it.

you date people who are kind. people who challenge you. people who hurt you in ways that teach you something. some of them ask about him, the boy in the old photos, the one whose name still slips out when you’re tired or wine-drunk. you always brush it off, say he’s just someone from your past. nothing more. nothing to see here.

he dates too. once, you find out through a mutual that he’s seeing someone seriously—a girl who’s smart and sweet and nothing like you. it bothers you more than you want to admit. but you never say anything. you just keep your head down, push it away like you do with everything else that hurts. you’re happy for him, you think. you should be.

life moves fast, and slow, and fast again. you move cities. he changes jobs. there are stretches of time where you don’t think about him at all—and then suddenly everything reminds you of him again. a song he used to hum under his breath. the way someone else laughs. a white-haired stranger passing by on the street, so close to the version of him you remember but not quite right. the ghost of him lingers, not haunting you, but following you in the corners of your life.

and then, there are the moments when life tangles your paths back together.

—

it’s your friend’s birthday—an old classmate who’s turned their tiny apartment into a chaos of people and warm lights. the kind of party that’s too loud, too crowded, but you’re here anyway because it’s easier to go than stay home. the tension of being alone hits you in the chest as soon as you walk in. everyone’s happy. everyone’s with someone. everyone’s moving forward, but you’re stuck at some point in the past, lingering in the gap between where you were and where you should be.

you almost don’t go, tired from work, emotionally drained. but you show up, because something tells you to. maybe it’s because you promised yourself you’d stop running from things that make you uncomfortable. or maybe it’s just the weird way life works, pulling you toward the people and places you’re not ready for yet.

you’re standing near the kitchen, sipping a drink you don’t really care about, when you hear it—a laugh that cuts through the noise, familiar and unexpected. a laugh you know instantly, one that hits you in the chest like a familiar song. it’s a sound you haven’t heard in years, but it’s like it never left.

you turn, the crowd of people blurring out of focus, and there he is.

satoru.

he’s leaning against the fridge, talking to someone you don’t recognize, his hair a little longer, his shirt untucked, uncuffed. still so him, but also… different. his face is older, but still beautiful in that effortless way, the same white hair, the same sharp eyes that seem to know you even from across the room.

he sees you. he freezes. and for a second, it’s like time holds its breath.

“hey,” he says, voice soft, almost surprised. “you look…”

he doesn’t finish the sentence. but you hear it anyway. you look the same. you look different. i didn’t expect to see you here.

you smile like you’re not unraveling. like it doesn’t matter that your heart just skipped a beat. “it’s been a while.”

he hugs you then, warm and solid. it lasts a second too long. too much unsaid between you both, but it’s all there in the tension of his arms around you. the promise is still alive in the quiet air between your breaths. but neither of you mentions it.

he leaves before you do.

—

months later, it’s a late-night convenience store in tokyo. you’re tired, bleary-eyed, the kind of exhausted that comes from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. you’re reaching for instant noodles and a bottle of tea when you hear the shuffle of footsteps behind you. you don’t look, too focused on the shelves in front of you. but then you hear it—his voice, soft but unmistakable.

“you live around here now?” he asks, stunned.

you freeze for a moment. and then you turn.

there he is, standing in the aisle like he’s part of some strange dream. his hair is tied back messily, longer than before. he’s holding a bag of sour candies, blinking at you like he’s not sure if you’re real or if his tired eyes are just playing tricks on him.

“yeah,” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “just moved a couple months ago.”

“me too,” he says, a little sheepish. “just moved last week. tokyo’s a lot different from what i remembered.”

you laugh, and for a moment, it’s like you’re both seventeen again, standing in the hallway after class, talking about nothing. only now, it’s quieter. more knowing. there’s a little more space between you both, but you don’t feel it as much as you think you should. he’s still satoru, after all.

you talk for a few minutes, small things. the weather. work. how both of you somehow managed to end up in the same city again after all this time. his hair’s longer now, and so is yours. there’s something different about him, something worn into the lines of his face, but you’re still the same. you’re still the same. the realization hits you like a wave.

when you say goodbye, there’s a small flicker of something in his eyes. like he wants to say something else. something important. maybe you do too. but you don’t.

you both go your separate ways, the moment slipping away with every step, but neither of you forgets it. not really.

—

another year passes. you’re invited to a mutual friend’s engagement party. you don’t know it’s mutual until you arrive and see him standing on the balcony, glass of wine in hand. his back is to you, but you recognize the way his shoulders sit under the weight of the world, the way his posture softens when he’s trying to relax.

you hesitate. for a second, you think about leaving. about turning around and pretending you never saw him, never heard that familiar laugh or felt that same ache in your chest. but you stay. something inside you says that this is the time. that maybe, just maybe, the universe is ready for you to have the conversation you’ve been avoiding for years.

you walk over. he turns, and his eyes widen when he sees you.

“this is getting ridiculous,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “we keep showing up like we’re being summoned.”

you laugh, but it’s a little more nervous than you mean it to be. “maybe we are.”

you talk for fifteen minutes, small talk mostly. his girlfriend is waiting inside—he doesn’t say that, but you can tell. he’s polite, but distant this time. something in his eyes is different, more guarded than you remember. and it’s strange. it feels like a wall has gone up between you both, and you can’t figure out why. you want to ask, but you don’t. it’s not your place.

something tightens in your chest, a quiet jealousy you don’t want to feel but can’t help. so you excuse yourself early.

—

and then there’s the funeral.

someone you both knew in high school. someone you weren’t close to, but close enough to go. it’s raining—of course it is—and your coat is too thin for the chill. the crowd is subdued, the kind of heavy silence you only get at funerals. you stand off to the side, trying not to draw attention, but then you spot him across the crowd.

he’s standing alone under an umbrella, his jaw clenched. his eyes are cast downward, but when he looks up, he sees you. his gaze sharpens, like he’s unsure if you’re really there. but then he steps toward you, slow and hesitant.

you don’t speak much. just stand side by side beneath the gray sky, the rain soft on your faces, like a veil between everything that was and everything that could have been. you don’t know if it’s the weight of the moment or something else, but it feels like you’re both seventeen again, standing in that quiet space between friendship and something more.

afterward, when you’re on the train home, your phone buzzes. a contact name that hasn’t been on your phone for a while.

satoru: thirty’s not that far.

you stare at the screen for a long time, the words sinking into your chest like a stone. the promise that’s always been there, waiting for the right moment to be spoken. but now, in the quiet of your apartment, you don’t reply.

you think about it. about everything. about how he said it, softer than usual, quieter than you’re used to. you think about his eyes, the way they followed yours. the rain on his umbrella. the years that have passed.

you think about his voice, and you wonder if he remembers the exact words. you wonder if he ever stopped.

—

… you almost don’t go. again.

the invitation sits unopened on your counter for days before you cave, peeling it open with the tip of your key. you don’t recognize the name on the envelope immediately, but inside, there’s a handwritten card. a friend-of-a-friend, someone you once shared a table with at a dinner party, who remembered your smile. you had forgotten about them, honestly. but here they are, inviting you into their life, into their celebration. their quiet reminder that life moves on, and people keep finding their paths while you still seem to be standing still.

“it’ll be nice,” your coworker says when you mention it offhand. “dress up, eat fancy cake, forget your life for an evening.”

you smile. nod. pretend it’s not terrifying—the thought of being surrounded by people who’ve figured it out—who’ve found their person, their path, their place in the world. the thought of seeing them again—the ones who chose their someone. and you’re left holding only the pieces of a promise, one you had never quite stopped waiting on.

but you go anyway. because you said you would. because maybe, just maybe, it will be easier to let go of things you’re holding onto by showing up. by being there.

the venue is small and beautiful, tucked in a quiet corner of the city. ivy climbs up stone walls, winding their way to the second floor, the kind of building that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something important to happen. soft music spills out from the inside, cascading into the courtyard where the last rays of the day spill gold over everyone’s skin, turning them all into something fleeting, something perfect.

you wear a color you’ve always liked on yourself, something soft and simple, but still carefully chosen. it’s funny—how you’ve started choosing your clothes more for yourself than for anyone else. how you’ve learned to dress for the person you’ve grown into, not the one you thought you’d be. you smile as you check your reflection one last time. and then, you spot it—lipstick on your teeth. for the first ten minutes, you don’t know, and then someone kindly points it out, their laugh light and warm. you laugh too, grateful for the small kindness. you take a drink from a glass of champagne that’s almost too pretty to touch, as if it should be saved for something special, and for a second, you almost feel like you belong here.

you don’t know many people at the party. that’s fine. you’ve never been one to throw yourself into the middle of things. you’ve always been the one to drift at events like these, skimming the surface, smiling politely, offering a few words here and there, but keeping your hands folded in your lap when you sit, staying small, staying unnoticed.

you make it through the ceremony. the vows are sweet. you clap when you’re supposed to. you eat a few hors d’oeuvres, and when the music gets too loud and the voices start blending into a buzz, you slip away to the balcony. it’s quiet out here. the city hums beneath you, distant and untouchable. for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

and then you hear it—laughter. soft, familiar. close.

you turn, already knowing. already feeling the weight of it before you see him.

he’s standing a few steps away from the doorway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie a little loose like he’s just been letting the night happen around him. his hair’s still white—shorter now, messier, and there’s something about the way the years have softened him in places you never thought could soften. his eyes still hold that distant glimmer, the one you always tried to make sense of. but now, there’s something more grounded in him—something that matches the tiredness you’ve started carrying around yourself.

he’s changed. and he hasn’t.

your chest tightens.

then, like some invisible thread has tugged at his spine, he turns.

his eyes land on you.

and the world tilts, just slightly.

he goes still.

you don’t move either.

something deep in your ribs aches with how long it’s been, with how many almosts have collected between you over the years. so many moments where he almost looked back, where you almost said something, where life almost collided and made sense. but it didn’t. not then. and maybe not now.

his expression shifts—surprise first, then something warmer. softer. something like disbelief, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, one that you can’t ignore. maybe it’s a memory. maybe it’s hope.

“hey,” he says, stepping closer. his voice is quieter than you remember, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “i didn’t know you were coming.”

you swallow, suddenly aware of how dry your throat is. “me either. i didn’t know we had mutual friends.”

he lets out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. “of course we do. fate’s had a weird sense of humor since we were seventeen.”

you don’t say anything. you just look at him.

his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. he looks at you as though you’re someone he never quite expected to see again, and it feels like he’s seeing all of you, not just the parts he remembers. he’s still beautiful in that effortless way—how he’s always been—but now, there’s something real in it. something tired, something weighted, something that speaks of the years between. of all the things that have happened since.

you speak first. “you look good.”

he smiles slowly, his mouth curving up in that easy way that always made your heart trip. “so do you. better than good.”

you roll your eyes a little. “still laying it on thick, i see.”

“you used to like that,” he murmurs, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his voice dips, something nostalgic, almost like he wants to reach back through time and pull out the version of you that used to smile when he flirted. the version that used to think it meant something. “used to smile when i flirted.”

“used to,” you echo. but your voice is gentler than the words. there’s a quiet understanding between you now. something that was there before, buried beneath everything that has passed.

a beat passes.

and then he asks, almost cautiously, “are you still with anyone?”

you shake your head.

his eyes flicker, searching yours for something. for a sign. “me neither.”

your stomach flips.

there’s something there in his gaze—something that feels like an opening, like a crack where the past might slip back in. you both stand there, framed by the golden glow of the setting sun and the hum of music drifting in from the party. it feels like the air around you is waiting. like the universe has been holding its breath, waiting for this moment, just to see what you’ll do now. to see what the two of you will decide to do with all the time that has passed, with all the unspoken things between you.

“you remember,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “what we said, back then?”

you don’t pretend you don’t. you nod. “yeah. i remember.”

his hands slip into his pockets. he shifts a little, as though unsure of himself, and his eyes stay locked on yours. “at some point i started to think it was just a joke. something we said to make the world feel less uncertain.”

“me too,” you admit, the words soft and honest. “but it never stopped feeling real.”

he tilts his head, watching you, and you can feel the weight of everything hanging in the space between you. “i kept waiting,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “not on purpose. not always. but every time something ended, every time i felt alone again, i’d think—maybe we’re still heading there. maybe we just haven’t caught up to the promise yet.”

your breath hitches. it feels like the air is too thick. too much. too many years folded up between you.

“and now we’re thirty,” he says, a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips. “and you’re here. and i’m here. and i don’t want to waste more time pretending like i don’t want this.”

you look at him. really look at him. and suddenly, all the years, all the almosts, all the moments where you left too early or he looked back too late, they don’t feel like failures anymore. they feel like steps—each one leading you toward this. this moment. this chance to finally make good on something that’s been waiting.

you take one step now.

closer.

his breath catches when your fingers brush his, like he’s not sure if this is real, if it’s happening. And then, when you don’t pull away, when you stay there, your fingers lacing together as though it’s always been that easy, something shifts. The years that kept you apart, the missed chances, the long silences—they start to fall away.

you lean in.

and when you kiss him, it’s not loud, not dramatic, not bursting with fireworks.

it’s quiet.

it’s soft.

it’s like coming home.

it’s like finally keeping a promise you never really stopped waiting on.

[absdollievu]

Ruin me gently

bully!abby x fem!reader

Warnings: slight nsfw towards the end, public-ish sex

You hated Abby Anderson before you even knew what the word “hate” really meant. It started in kindergarten — she knocked over your juice box and called you a crybaby when you dared to tell the teacher. Her laugh was loud and mean and got under your skin like splinters.

That was the first time you swore vengeance. The first of many.

Every year, like clockwork, Abby made it her goddamn mission to ruin you.

In middle school, she got a growth spurt. You didn’t. Suddenly, she was towering over everyone — all muscle and swagger. She shoved you into lockers just for fun. Flicked your ears in class. You’d be mid-sentence, and she’d interrupt with some loud, stupid joke that made the rest of the room laugh. But it was never funny to you. Not once.

And high school? High school was worse.

You remember the locker room incident with surgical precision — a trauma branded into your teenage brain. You came back from the shower, and your clothes were gone. Completely gone. All that was left were your underwear, dangling from Abby’s stupidly strong fingers as she paraded them around like some kind of trophy.

“Look at this!” she had laughed, loud enough to echo. “The legendary cherished chonies — guarded like the holy grail.”

You wanted to die. No — you wanted her to die. And if you’d been even a little taller, a little stronger, maybe you would’ve launched yourself at her right then and there. But she was always bigger. Always stronger.

So you waited. Bided your time. And whenever the universe handed you a sliver of opportunity — when she tripped, or slipped, or even just dropped her guard — you hit back. Once, you managed to deck her right in the jaw during sparring. Your knuckles throbbed for days, but the memory of her surprise? Worth it.

She laughed then, too — blood in her teeth.

“You’re so fucking feral,” she said, almost impressed.

God, you hated her.

You hated the way she called you “runt” with that smug grin. Hated the way her biceps flexed when she pulled herself up onto fences. Hated that you noticed.

And you especially hated that part of you was obsessed. Not in a like way — fuck no. It was in your bones, how badly you wanted to wipe that smirk off her face. How you dreamed of pinning her, embarrassing her the way she did to you.

But it was impossible.

She was nearly five times your size, and she knew it. Weaponized it.

⸻

You hated Abby Anderson like it was your religion.

And it wasn’t just the shoving or the stolen clothes. It was how she never let up — how even when you were minding your business, she’d just appear. Like a goddamn curse.

“Hey, shortstack,” she’d greet you with a smirk, nudging your shoulder with hers hard enough to knock you off balance. “Grow an inch yet?”

You’d roll your eyes, jaw clenched. “Die mad about it.”

That was the thing: you didn’t run. Not once. Even when she got in your face, even when she pinned you against lockers with that smug, infuriating smile — you never backed down.

You didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

But then something… shifted.

It started small. Instead of just shoving you, she’d lean in close — close enough that her breath ghosted your ear.

“New shampoo?” she’d ask, mock-sweet. “Smells like strawberries and desperation.”

You grit your teeth and shoved her back, but she didn’t push harder. She just laughed, low in her throat, and walked off like she hadn’t just short-circuited your whole nervous system.

Then came the nicknames. Not just “runt” or “loser,” but new ones. Weirder ones.

“Sweetheart.”

“Bite-size.”

“Princess.”

The worst part? She only used them when no one else was around. Like they were private. Like she was claiming something.

And you—God, you wanted to scream. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way your stomach twisted or how heat crept up your neck. You especially didn’t like the way her eyes lingered on your mouth when you talked, like she wasn’t even listening to the words — just waiting for an excuse to say something filthy.

She was toying with you. She had to be.

So you started fighting back — not just with fists or words, but with venom dipped in sugar. Quiet digs, whispered jabs that made her raise a brow.

“Wow,” you’d say, eyes flicking down her arms. “All that muscle and still couldn’t open a pickle jar yesterday. Impressive.”

And she’d grin. Not angry — not even annoyed. Just… entertained. Like you were her favorite little game.

Sometimes you’d find her staring at you across the yard, arms crossed, head tilted. Not menacing. Just watching. Assessing.

The next time she shoved you, she didn’t slam you into anything. She just pressed you up against the wall, one hand flat beside your head, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You’ve got a mouth on you lately,” she said, voice quiet.

You scowled. “Must’ve learned it from you.”

Her smile widened. “That right?”

You didn’t answer. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

But when she leaned in — too close, again — you didn’t move. Not an inch.

And that silence between you? That was new. Electric. Heavy with something unsaid.

Something shifting.

And you hated it.

You hated how it made your heart race. You hated how your body stopped recognizing the difference between rage and want.

But most of all?

You hated that you couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d do if you finally shoved her back.

And meant it.

⸻

The locker room’s quiet — steam clinging to the air, the harsh hum of overhead lights the only noise. You towel off your hair, muscles sore, mind already halfway out the door.

You hear the door creak open.

You don’t have to look. You know that sound. Heavy boots, confident stride.

Abby.

You roll your eyes and mutter under your breath, just loud enough for your own satisfaction, “Here comes fun sunshine.”

You think you got away with it — until her voice slices through the stillness, sharp and amused.

“What was that?”

Your hand pauses mid-dry. You don’t look up. Don’t give her the fucking satisfaction. Just keep rubbing the towel through your hair like she’s not there, like her presence doesn’t light every nerve in your body on fire.

Silence.

Then the scuff of her boots moving closer.

You see her shadow shift, her voice lower, soaked in challenge. “Say it again,” she says, tongue poking into the corner of her cheek, eyes locked on you like she’s already got you pinned. “I fucking dare you.”

You finally look up. Her arms are crossed, her body close — too close — heat radiating off her like a furnace. That smirk’s plastered on her face like it was born there.

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Didn’t think you were hard of hearing.”

That’s all it takes.

She steps into your space, slow and deliberate, backing you up until your spine hits cold metal. Her hand slams against the locker next to your head — not touching you, but caging you in like prey, and making you flinch. Her body crowds yours, chest nearly brushing against your towel-wrapped skin.

You don’t breathe.

Her eyes search yours, flicking down to your mouth for just a second too long.

The smirk never leaves.

“You’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who shakes when I breathe on ‘em,” she murmurs, voice low and full of something that makes your skin prickle.

“I’m not scared of you,” your breath hitched

She leans in, lips inches from yours, the air charged and suffocating.

“No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not. That’s what makes this fun.”

Your heart is a jackhammer. Your fists clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms. Every instinct screams to push her, hit her, kiss her — and fuck, it’s all blending together now, tangled beyond recognition.

Her hand slides just slightly down the locker, fingertips brushing your side, making your breath hitch.

And then—

The door slams open.

Laughter echoes down the row of lockers. Someone shouting a joke, oblivious. Casual. Normal.

Abby freezes. Her hand drops.

She steps back like nothing happened — like she wasn’t just about to ruin you against cold metal — and flashes you a look over her shoulder. Not regret. Not even apology.

Just that same smug glint.

Her voice is casual, cocky. “Later, sweetheart.”

And then she’s gone.

You’re left standing there, towel slipping a little lower, skin flushed, chest heaving, fists still clenched — pulse roaring like a war drum.

Fuck.

You hate her.

You hate her so fucking much.

⸻

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet you like — not the silence of tension, but the calm hum of pages turning, low whispers, footsteps muffled by carpet. You’re curled into the corner of a table near the back of the library, thick book in hand, attention fixed. Peace. Finally.

Then the door opens.

And of course it’s her.

You don’t even need to look up. You can feel her — the shift in air pressure, the smug gravitational pull of her presence.

You don’t react. Don’t flinch. Maybe if you ignore her, she’ll go away.

Spoiler: she doesn’t.

Abby stalks straight past all the empty tables in the library and drops into the seat right across from you.

You lift your eyes just enough to glare at her over the rim of your book.

She’s slouched in the chair like she owns it — broad arms crossed, a slight tilt to her head like she’s bored. But her eyes? They’re locked on you, gleaming with trouble.

“Didn’t peg you for the reading type,” she murmurs.

You don’t bite. Just flip the page.

She grins wider. “What’s that about? Another teen fantasy about a sad boy with a tragic past?”

You sigh, slow and deep. “It’s about forensics.”

“Oh, sexy.” She says with her cocky tone that you absolutely fucking hated.

You finally lower the book. “Do you just wander around looking for people to annoy or is this a special service just for me?”

Her grin only deepens, dimples threatening to make her look charming — which is unfair, because nothing about her should be allowed to look soft.

“I only give this much attention to people I like.”

You scoff.

Then she’s up, and for a second, you think she’s leaving — until she rounds the table and drops into the seat next to you, thigh brushing yours.

Too close.

You shift, but there’s nowhere to go. Her heat is right there, all-consuming, and she leans in like she’s reading over your shoulder.

“What’s this part mean?” she asks, pointing at a diagram.

You stare at her. “You seriously care?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the p — and she grins again. “But you do. That’s interesting.”

You freeze.

That… wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t a joke.

You glance at her. She’s watching you — but not in that cocky, cruel way. She’s genuinely looking. Curious. Focused. And worse — close. Her breath brushes your cheek when she exhales.

“You’re smart,” she says quietly. “Kinda hot.”

You blink, pulse stuttering.

Then her hand is on your thigh, casual, like it’s always belonged there. Heavy and warm and intentional. You’re not even sure how it got there, or when you let her get this close.

“I could be nice to you, y’know,” she murmurs, lips dangerously close to your ear. “If you asked.”

You hate the shiver that runs down your spine.

“I’m not asking,” you whisper.

She hums low in her throat — a sound that vibrates through you. “No. You like it better when I take it.” You say with instant regret.

Her hand slides higher, slow, testing the waters. Her fingers graze bare skin above your knee, slipping under your shorts, just a tease. You suck in a breath and she smiles, lazy and full of hunger.

Your hand catches hers, stopping it. But you don’t pull away.

She leans in, voice like honey and heat. “What? Library’s too sacred for you?”

Her thigh presses against yours. Her lips ghost over the shell of your ear.

And fuck it — your restraint breaks.

You grab her shirt, drag her in, and your mouths collide in a kiss that’s messy and angry and needy. Her tongue slides against yours, claiming, demanding, and you meet her just as fiercely, biting her lip hard enough to draw a sound out of her throat that goes straight to your core.

Her hand’s between your thighs now, moving with confident precision, knuckles dragging along the seam of your shorts. You gasp into her mouth, and she swallows it like she’s starving. Starting the fast circles on your clothed cunt.

And then—

Footsteps.

Voices.

She pulls away instantly, lips red, pupils blown, hand retreating.

She exhales, glancing toward the aisle. Then back at you.

“Guess we’ll finish this somewhere else,” she murmurs.

And with one last smirk, she gets up and walks away.

You pause

What the fuck just happened

And most importantly

Why the fuck did you enjoy it.

⸻

a/n: OH MY GOD, kinda cringed halfway through this but I hope you guys enjoyed💕💕 part 2??

[dammit-tazmuir]

Oh VERY MUCH. All the Lyctors are so fascinating ofc but I feel like Augustine in particular often gets ignored, just lumped into the polycule / hateship with Mercy (without particularly exploring his role in all of it), and/or just kind of seen as an unlikable asshole with little beyond that. And like yes he is very much an asshole, but there's definitely more too.

To start, I think it's especially interesting to contrast him and Mercy.

On the surface, Mercymorn is a high-strung bitch who wears a lot of emotions on her sleeve and has basically been losing her mind for 10,000 years yet somehow still never run out. Augustine, on the other hand, "was the closest thing you had ever experienced to human plex", devoid of substance, wearing a friendly mask to hide that he's been more or less dead inside and too exhausted to give a fuck in millennia.

When we see them under stress or clashing, Mercy is more openly vulnerable, even if she might try not to be, and can get frazzled and scattered. Augustine tends to be more laser-focused and can be venomously aggressive. (Of course, when it's not each other that has them upset, they do also sometimes "take turns" with who's having a breakdown and have since pre-Resurrection, which is just fascinating in and of itself, but I digress.) ((Also ofc, in retrospect, knowing the main thing he was pissed at her about in that "you've made yourself unlovable" conversation was continuing Blood of Eden involvement, his knock it off before you get us both caught and killed attitude wasn't entirely unreasonable but ya know.))

But we have to look too at what's not said.

Mercymorn is constantly mean and critical, but rather than looking at what she's saying, looking at the subject matter reveals a very different pattern. The opposite of love isn't hate, it's apathy, and a massive portion of everything we ever hear her say is screaming how deeply she cares about people; she just chooses the worst ways to say it. She doesn't say "I miss my dead friends and I'm upset by the idea of you basically coming in to replace them," she says "You're not as pretty as [Cyrus/Anastasia]." She doesn't say "After all this time I'm still a medical professional and I'm appalled to see a patient in such abysmal condition," she says "Why are you people always such a curious mix of the competent and the completely deranged?! [...] Out of my way, you wretched, cack-handed children, and let me fix it." She does say "I watched Cassiopeia die" but also "I remember thinking, Lord, what will we do with your ceramics collection, there's so much of it..."

M—'s dying words in her first life weren't for herself, but begging them to please just take John alive. And of course, she says, "I wanted it to be me. I didn’t want it to be you. I didn’t want it to be you, Augustine, after all … the sin needed to be mine. [...] Millions of people … all those millions of our people … No, I had to do it. I am not very nice, Augustine, and I was never very good."

Augustine is constantly somewhere between flippant and cruel, but it's a similar deal. He brings Alfred up unprompted when Harrow asks him about himself, even going into detail. He's so tired and worn down by the monotony, but he clings to the past rather than look to anything truly new. He wants to give Harrow his favorite old recipes so she can get them interestingly wrong, but not to seek out new ones. His bedroom is warm, comforting, friendly, filled with books and tasteful paintings (how long do you think he's had the same ones?), with polished wood in a universe where wood has become a rarity. He goes for a tuxedo for the dinner party and Harrow notes that it's ancient, a historical artefact, and he waxes about the shindigs they used to throw, oh you should have seen them. Where Mercy's grief manifests as anger, Augustine's manifests as nostalgia.

And he's so genuinely profoundly tired of Mercy, but he knows her like he knows his own soul and the trust that comes with that in spite of everything cannot be replicated. Alfred's sword is sacred to him, and when he swears on it to keep Mercy's secret, she believes him.

In some ways, she's the more dedicated of the two. She was the one willing to take the plunge and kill the man they loved when she thought she had a chance, a plan that you have to remember began no less than 500 years ago. Their conclusion that John lied to them about lyctorhood wasn't why they turned on him, it just exacerbated everything. It wasn't about personal revenge. It was about ending the empire. She was the face and spokesperson with BoE. They always wanted to evacuate the (relatively) innocent citizens, but weighing probably less than 20 million people total against all shepherd planets, planets they killed, and all other people they would have gone on to conquer and colonize and destroy the livelihoods if not the lives of... It's hard to fault her for seeing that trolley and pulling the lever. She was the one willing to get blood on her hands to do it.

But then, as you say, Augustine is the one willing to say, no, we're not done. Even if it is too late to evacuate, we have to save who we can. Any survivors, anyone who was off-world, anyone left, because there will be people left and we have a duty to them. "Somewhere out there exists a home not paid for with blood; it won’t be for us, but it will be for those who have been spared. Babies always get born. Houses get built. And flowers will die on necromancy's grave." The unmarked grave line is one of my favorites in the series, but this one right before is also so good and deserves just as much recognition imo...

And then just in the interest of character analysis and because it is so very good...

Her throat was working. “Augustine—” The Lyctor took her silently in his arms: they held each other like children who’d had a nightmare and had woken in a fright. Just as silently, they detached. She said in a low voice, “He was right. There can be no forgiveness.” “Then let us not seek out forgiveness, but forgetfulness,” he said. “Bury me next to you in that unmarked grave, Joy. We knew that was the only hope we ever had—that we would live to see it through … and pray for our own cessation. Oh, we’ll still hate each other, my dear, we have hated each other too long and too passionately to stop … but my bones will rest easy next to your bones.” Augustine raised his head, for the first time, to look out at his frozen audience, of which probably the most animated member was Cytherea’s body, which my mum had completely abandoned.

The silent, mutually desperate and comforting hug. The way he was thinking about the people, the future, the next generations, yet for a few minutes within this room no one existed but Mercy. And the...

I hate you. I so deeply and genuinely hate you. The only person who ever might have irritated me than you was your Cavalier and you're a little bit her now too, just like I'm a little bit the person I loved most, thanks to her and to you. I will never stop resenting you, but there's a deeply familiar comfort in that resentment. You had the ability to piss me off on sight 10,000 years ago and you damn sure still have it now, and that's amazing. Almost nothing makes me feel much of anything anymore, but you do, and intensely, even after all this time. We've always hated each other and always worked well together despite it. There's a unique trust built by hating each other. I never have to worry about you lying to me. If you have a problem with me, you won't hesitate to say it. If you want to hurt me, you will, but you haven't killed me yet. You just proved you could turn me into mist with a touch but I'm holding you tight anyway because you won't. I know you too well. I look down on how easily you break under pressure, but when I need to, neither of us has to say a word. To swap places and back is reflex, second nature. I will gladly go decades avoiding you but I cannot imagine my life or death without you. I want to keep hating you for the rest of our lives, and I can think of no greater comfort in death than to lie forever next to you.

Sorry this is so long but aoiwjeoiagjaweg I LOVE AUGUSTINE. Just. God... Tamsyn Muir understands kismesitude better than anyone ever and that alone is enough to make me feral, but even beyond that. Even before the final chapters.

It's also worth mentioning his dynamic with Ianthe. Like yeah he got really impatient with her training after a while (and, you know, similar to Mercy's BoE stuff, that was a matter of "if you can't do this it might literally be the death of us" so there's that), and yeah in the end she saved John at the cost of betraying him (possibly for a lot of reasons but likely first on the list being she wasn't willing to risk John's death meaning Corona's death). But as much as she talks about how fawning is part of her plan, she also praises him to Harrow in private. As much as he's grateful for excuses to tell his nostalgic old man stories to anyone, Ianthe consistently eats them up and that's extra nice. As critical as he can be he also offers a lot of praise, and even if it's flippant it's still nice to hear, and frankly more recognition than most people give her. Mercy accuses him of coddling Ianthe with the concern he shows for her. Even after at best "letting" him get sucked into hell, Ianthe quotes him unprompted in NtN and speaks of him with reverence in The Unwanted Guest.

Lastly it's very worth looking at the House he founded. The Fifth's entire vibe. At Magnus and Abigail. At where that culture came from.

He's such a good and interesting character. ;w; And I really do hope so badly that it turns out people (or at least lyctors) can survive getting cronched on and dragged to hell, because G1deon and Pyrrha are the dual embodiment of discipline, heedless of trial. Mercymorn the founder of the Forgiving House, the House for salvation, no matter the cost, paid the ultimate cost for her attempt with "I forgive you everything, Lord..." And it really would be so nice to see the ultimate pinnacle of Five for tradition, and debts to the dead.

There's really something in how despite his hollow flippancy, Augustine was the only one of his generation who hadn't given up.

Cytherea would have personally killed everyone in the solar system and then God, trying to die. Mercymorn tried to do it the other way around, but she had the same end in mind. Augustine is the one who said no. No, there are people out there. Real people, to whom we have a responsibility, and to whom we owe a future. Until. You know.

[azz35]

TREE-HOUSE

Paige didn’t remember the moment the treehouse became her favorite place in the world. Maybe it was when she and her dad first climbed up the ladder, a bucket of nails swinging from his belt and that wide grin he always wore when he was building something for her.

Maybe it was the first time she was allowed to be there alone, sprawled across the wood planks with a basketball in one hand and the late summer light soaking everything in gold.

Or maybe it was when she saw her.

Yeah.

Definitely when she saw her.

-

That day was still warm with the breath of late August. The kind of day when the crickets hummed too loud and the air stuck to your skin like syrup.

Paige had just pushed open the creaky little door at the top of the ladder when she saw someone.

A girl, already sitting inside. Legs crossed. Sneakers off. Wearing a pale pink hoodie even though it was hot enough to melt sidewalk chalk.

She had dark skin and short black hair braided in two, and when she turned her head to look at Paige, there was just a soft single dimple smile.

Just one.

Somehow that made Paige chest feel warm.

Too warm.

Like really warm.

Paige had blinked, not scared—just confused. Curious. Always curious.

“Who are you?” the blonde asked.

The girl didn’t even flinch. “Azzi.”

Paige tilted her head, processing. “What are you doing in my treehouse, Azzi?”

It wasn’t a demand, not really. She wasn’t telling her to leave or insinuating it.

It was just a question.

Like the way she’d ask someone why they liked a certain color. Or why people hated sour gummies.

Really, how could they?

Weirdos.

“I like it.” She shrugged.

Like that was the only reason she needed. Like liking something was enough to make it hers.

Maybe it was.

Paige looked at her for a moment. Like internally deciding something important.

She hummed to herself.

Then she burst into a smile, a toothy one.

“Wanna be friends?”

Azzi’s smile came slow, soft, the dimple deepening on one side. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And that was it.

They didn’t shake hands (even though Paige suggest it). Or promise anything in blood like the girls in movies.

They just started talking. About anything. About everything.

And again anything.

Azzi said she liked basketball. No—loved basketball. Paige immediately declared her a kindred spirit.

They both hated pickles. Azzi had a weird thing for the smell of old books and Paige for the smell of sharpies.

Azzi laugh at her.

Paige pretended she was offended.

The blonde told Azzi about her mom’s spaghetti that always stuck together in clumps, and Azzi confessed she read books under her blanket at night with a flashlight because in her school they thought reading for fun was “nerdy.”

Paige snort

“It’s nerdy.”

Azzi roll her eyes.

Paige smile. “It doesn’t have to be a bad thing though.”

Azzi blink in shock. Like she never thought of it in that way.

She hummed

“Smart.”

-

Later that night, Paige told her mom about her new friend. “Azzi,” she said, grinning so wide it made her cheeks hurt.

Her mom raised an eyebrow. “Azzi?”

“Uh-huh. She was in the treehouse. She likes, no, loves basketball too!!”

Her mother just chuckled softly and wiped her hands on a dish towel.

Her mom didn't crash Paige's feelings telling her that there was no possibly way a girl could sneak there.

She didn’t ask questions. She just accepted it, like moms sometimes do when the universe gets weird around their kids.

-

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

And Paige? she grew even more inseparable to Azzi.

Paige would race home from school, drop her backpack on the porch, and climb the ladder two steps at a time. Azzi would already be waiting—always. Sometimes she’d have a book cracked open, sometimes a basketball spinning lazily in her palm. Always with that same hoodie. Always with that soft smile.

-

It wasn’t until two years later that everything began to unravel.

It started with the neighbors.

“Your stupid treehouse is on our side of the fence,” one of them snapped, arms crossed and voice sharp enough to cut air.

Paige’s dad tried to talk to them, but it didn’t matter. Some grown-ups didn’t like being wrong.

So the treehouse had to come down despite Paige’s protests.

The blonde cried when the first wooden board came loose. She sat on the porch, fists balled in her lap, trying not to watch—but unable to look away.

Azzi sat beside her, cross-legged like always.

“You can still come to my house” Paige offered, voice small and hopeful.

Azzi just looked at her and smile, the dimple one.

Paige chest flustered.

“We’ll meet again.” Azzi said, soft and simple.

Paige believed her.

She thought that by “again” she meant “tomorrow”.

But then Paige came from school, expecting Azzi in her house already.

Maybe Azzi wasn’t in the couch because she was hungry.

Reasonable.

Well maybe she wasn’t at the kitchen ‘cause she already eat.

Makes sense.

Or maybe she wasn’t in Paige’s room because she was gone.

Nah

Imposible.

Right?

Azzi never showed up again.

Just like that.

Not even a goodbye, like Paige meant so little to her.

-

Years passed. Alot of them.

Azzi's named stop lingering for a time in Paige's house.

Ever since Paige had knocked every door in the neighborhood looking for a two braid girl with a cute single dimple smile and soft voice.

Ever since Paige only found apologetically faces and a bunch’s of “never heard of her but i’ll be looking”.

It was that kind of rule you didn’t say but it’s already written.

No one talked about Azzi.

Never.

Until that one family dinner when her uncle thought that fifteen was enough age to hear the truth or joke about it.

“Remember when Paige had that imaginary friend? What was her name? Zazzy?”

“Azzi.” her mom corrected.

[watermelonlicker]

some harries and louies on twitter said they’d unstan them if larry was real 👀

well we already knew that, those fans hate each other. the closet is designed for them to have a large portion of those kinds of fans so it hurts them once they’re able to come out. why do you think we keep preaching and saying we understand why they’re still closeted and how coming out will not be easy for them in the slightest? how that is bcos of the people who put them there in the first place and those people need to be held accountable and taken out of this industry. their money and power cannot silence the public which is why they need the public divided. if the public was united so many artists who don’t want to play “the industry game” could finally breath and you know… not DIE due to how much they’ve been broken.

like i cannot stress enough that a lot of people’s views are not their own in the sense they are influenced by the media and it’s propaganda. look at harry’s treatment over the years and what they think of him.

when i talk about the music industry so extensively (like it’s the only thing on here im extremely serious about cos otherwise i’m mainly unserious) it’s bcos i want to help the non-larries, the lurkers, and my iwtv mutuals to understand what is happening to us and how the extremely toxic and harmful messages sent to us by hollywood bleeds into the minds of impressionable people. these fans who would unstan bcos larry have somehow managed to give us their entire truths (which they don’t owe us) but is a perfect example of that.

the larries of my era, the heartbreaking majority who are no longer here and driven out mainly due to fandom bullying and exhaustion, tried their absolute HARDEST to educate people on the horrific shit that goes on in the music industry and how it effects the masses and how it’s damaged the boys in the public eye.

this might seem like repetitive speak cos obviously larries consume this day and night but the majority outside the larrie bubble literally do not know a lot of things. take anna todd for example, if some of you don’t know her she is the author of the absolute piece of shit book series called “after” which gets its lashings now of course after the woke movement (and thank god for that) but in 2012/2013 it was extremely popular particularly in the 1d fandom bcos it was a known harry styles fanfiction. this grown ass woman wrote a story not only sexualizing him as a teenager but writing him as a character in her head that was abusive/toxic/manipulative/but sexy in the sheets etc. young girls read this thinking they were getting themselves a harry, thinking they could go up to him and harass him bcos it’s what he wanted and what he said when he loves us. and the thing is… it’s what people believe of harry to this very day. it is why there’s always screeching anons in our inboxes painting him as the villain constantly.

this image that was created for him, and it is a dangerous image, is the complete opposite of harry. a shy queer sweetheart in a long-term committed relationship. the naivety of the teenager is what is preyed on by hollywood and it has led to people always crossing the line with harry. anna todd was a reflection of how pr infects the masses and now she’s a goddamn millionaire profiting off the closeting of a queer man while painting him as the bad boy het loser of her story.

it is an endless mess that we have tried to untangle for harry, to get people to understand the real him, but ultimately nothing will be done until people open their eyes. it’s why he used the matrix imagery for as it was his biggest song to date. the aiw mv literally spoke on how we are in a simulation and harry was dressed in red cos he wants us to take the red pill and WAKE up but most will continue to take the blue pill and keep it moving so they can enjoy their artificial FAKE world to the detriment of him, and so many like him which allows his closeters to remain the masters of the universe. i’m crashing out now and idk why this is long as hell and so far from what you said but yeah… this is our reality and it fucking sucks.

also side note i hope the rumor that harry got a restraining order on anna todd is true BAHAHAHA.

[wizardlyghost]

being struck by a bout of alectopause insanity so here's my notes on why i love jod as a villain:

i love a character who tells you exactly who they are the moment you meet them, not in words but in their actions and the way they move through the world around them, and yet still manages to convince you they're someone else, right up to the moment when the mask drops and you realise that on some level you saw all the signs, you just didn't put them together because you wanted the lie to be true so bad. this is something that taz muir loves to do - just look at the explanation of every character's name at the back of each book - but jod is a great example of how this can be done subtly, through the dropping of diegetic hints that something is wrong with the picture.

there's often a degree of grace that a lot of people automatically hold for soldiers, rightly or wrongly; a voice of reason that says "it's overly presumtuous to automatically assume this person is a monster - extremely few people are able to single-handedly change the entire way their organisation operates, maybe this person is just doing the best they can with the information and power they have, it'd be unfair to blame them personally for all the crimes of everyone who's held their position for hundreds of years." but the thing is, that immediately falls apart if you consider for a moment that jod is the god-emperor of the universe, who has been personally leading the empire he built for ten thousand years. there are no predecessors to blame; there is no hierarchy that he is subject to; if he ordered his army to fall on their swords they'd thank him for the opportunity. putting any amount of thought into what is known about this guy's actions will immediately tell you that he's a villain, but the structure of the narrative keeps the reader so off balance with the unreliability of the pov character's perspective that you don't put thought into it, not until the end when it all comes into horrible focus.

it's honestly a masterful work of sleight of hand on the part of the author. like, our first direct impressions of the emperor are at a point where we the audience are distracted by trying to figure out what the hell is going on - what happened to gideon? what's up with harrow's hallucinations? bright lights, strange sounds, confusing new environments... and here comes a gentle, ordinary man, in the aspect of a kind father, to help us get on our feet. he's the god-king of an extremely militaristic space empire, he has an entire planet dedicated to vat-cloning child soldiers, he's wearing a crown of infant finger bones, but these are background minutiae, not so strange by the standards of the space necromancy setting that they draw too much attention, surely if we wait there'll be a reasonable explanation for all of this.

and before we can really switch our focus to any of these worrisome details, we're whisked away to the mithraeum. the bustling flagship is traded in for a remote fortress; the emperor renames himself as teacher; the difficult question of who exactly the empire is fighting against is superceded by the more dramatically existential threat of the ressurection beasts. never mind the glimpse of the man behind the curtain, harrow has more pressing problems to deal with. harrow's the crazy one, teacher's just a mildly ineffectual regular guy doing his best, what gaslamp?

idk where to finish this post. hate the guy love him as a character. can't wait for the last book to eventually come out.

[ancientnapdragon]

the most self indulgent svsss au i will never write is like a double reach-around cross-universe type shit.

Luo Binghe is the tragic villain of Pathetic Demon's Immortal Revenge (or some equally stupid name). LBH is the Qing Jing Peak Lord who was well liked and well respected by the Cultivation world at large; rumored to be the most powerful one like ever. Had a super tragic backstory and always came across kind if a bit self sacrificial and distant.

This and the story is all experienced through the eyes of the Scum Protagonist, disciple Shen Jiu. SJ ALSO had a tragic past and was saved by LBH before being taken into the Sect. But he's like. You know. SJ. So he has it out for LBH and doesn't trust him because SJ would never allow himself to change or get any happy ending.

It culminates into SJ taking every chance to secretly slander and tear apart his Shizun's reputation until finally LBH is like tried for all these crimes he didn't commit. LBH ends up having like a qi deviation and gets real quirky before it ends up this like epic battle where SJ finally kills LBH. And SJ like gets away with all these years of framing his Shizun for all this terrible shit he never did. It's the most beautiful story that Shen Yuan has ever read! Critically acclaimed, multiple adaptations, ect ect. This real deep cut into trauma and how it effects people and their perceptions of others and all this stuff. When the story closes out SY cries so hard he chokes on a meat bun and then fucking dies. And woah! he gets transmigrated! As SJ! Except, like, the System kinda fucks up. And instead of actually taking SJ's body over, he becomes like his twin? But this works, because now he has a chance to save his favorite character ever, LBH, from his tragic death! And maybe he can also help out some of the other well rounded characters who suffered because of SJ in the novel!

EXCEPT. EXCEPT.

THE DOUBLE HORSESHIT REACHAROUND.

Meanwhile, one universe to the left, another SY is dealing with this exact same thing. He's the twin brother of Scum Villain SQQ, the Qing Jing Peak Lord. He's working SO HARD, even with his System limiting him, to keep his 'brother' from blackening white sheep LBH in this shitty novel he fucking hates.

After finding some bullshit artifact from Airplane's shitty writing, some wife plot happens and SY activates it by accident. SQQ and LBH end up in the perfect spot to BOTH try and drag him out of it's range, only for both of them to get effected as well.

What it ends up doing is (somehow?) dragging Peak Lord!LBH and Disciples! SY and SJ into PIDW. So then they all just Spiderman Point Meme at each other. VERY IMPORTANT NOTES ABOUT THIS STUPID AU:

Disciple!SJ is just as, if not more, psychosexually obsessed with PL!LBH as canon LBH is about SY. More so, even. It's a 'if I can't have him no one can' type situation.

Both SY figure out pretty quick they're transmigrators and do their best to compare notes. Adult SY is pretty mad that he got stuck in the shittier story.

Both SJ like hate each other instantly. Somehow the 14 y/o is crazier and tries to pull off loony tune plots to kill his adult version. It never works.

Adult LBH and Child LBH have no idea what to do with each other. Adult LBH still ends up adopting Child LBH like instantly tho because he wants the kid to 'have a better life' than he did.

Adult SJ finds himself charmed by the sad wet dog aura that Adult LBH has and gets a crush on him. He hates himself for it. This is a factor in why Child SJ wants to murder him.

YQY is over the moon because now he has FOUR Shidi to dote on. Child SJ takes the most advantage of him because the other three are not really interested.

Child SJ ironically ends up being fantastic for Child LBH. Because Child LBH is kind of his Shizun, and no one can be mean to his Shizun except Child SJ. So he WILL break bully bones. Even if Child SY does his best to curb that.

Adult LBH is still half heavenly demon but he like hides it.

The underground Cang Qiong Fujoshi Alliance is going insane because of everything happening. This is like a perfect honeypot storm for them.

[technically-human]

Part two of the reverse verse is here! The reverse boys meet the original boys. They're not really getting along as well as I had hoped...

Again, this was a commission for @i-am-as-normal-as-you-are and they asked for angst/funny vibes... I think it's mostly just angst though. Oh, well...

Part one

[beatcroc]

homest[ar/uck] posting. this was meant to be supplementary to the gerome comic as him 'explaining the joke' but i uhhhhhh forgot.

i'm not much for crossovers in the the traditional sense, but it IS one of my favorite character exploration exercises to just go like 'if x media existed in this universe, who would and would not be a fan of it?'. and these ones are pretty notorious and always very fun to mess with for that and so here we are

[sergle]

There's something about like. A certain genre of posts / Online Opinions about insecurity/depression/misery/complaints that are so unhelpful that they wrap right around to being straight up hilarious. and it's the ones that are more or less written to the tone of "Feeling bad? That's gross!" Like, just so you know, don't voice your insecurities/ have low self esteem, because that's offputting! You're gross and weird. Don't be insecure about that, though. That would be stupid if you felt insecure about people disliking you for being insecure. Not attractive. You should be thinking about being as attractive as possible. You shouldn't make comments about suicide, even if you're suicidal! Keep those thoughts entirely to yourself. Make sure nobody around you knows you're thinking about this. It would Make Them Uncomfortable. It's better to keep these thoughts in your head where they can fester. Don't post OR talk to friends with complaints about you feeling miserable or depressed. Tbh people who are sad/upset a lot? Kinda a red flag! You are probably miserable because you're a bad person and you've brought this on yourself. If you don't have friends, it's because you're awful to be around. Easy! Solved the problem for you. And no, there is no nuance to this, got it? So, make sure to feel bad about feeling bad, but don't feel bad about it, because, well, that's just gross. And annoying! You might've wanted your brain rotted thoughts to be Peer Reviewed, you might have just needed to vent- you might've been hoping for some comfort, to get things off your chest. Well, don't! Don't talk about thoughts or feelings that are negative with your friends, you'd be burdening them and that's only meant for THERAPY. #SponsoredbyBetterHelp #MentalHealth like, DAMN. that's so helpful. you're so good at helping. I um really liked the part where these are all hard and fast rules that encourage keeping feelings bottled up and keeping your friends at arm's length. That's really funny of you.

[ranhert]

What you call shallow I call respectful, to the artist at least. Headcanons and shipping are supposed to be fun, but the only thing I've ever seen from the MHA fandom is insults and buzzwords being thrown back at people who don't subscribe to their headcanons or interpretations. Towards other fans AND Horikoshi. That's why I focused on the common 'ur homophobic' L take initially. I said obvious because it's stated rather plainly:

If Horikoshi wanted any of his characters to be anything that's not considered the societal norm in Japan (a VERY conservative and conformative country still), he would have said so already like he had already for those three, which in of itself is pretty daring with the way LGBT is taken in Japan IRL, but I digress. The fact that he hasn't and didn't says to me that no other character besides those three are canonically LGBT, and since these are his characters, that's the final word because the series is over. I don't really subscribe to the whole coding thing, a lot of them are based off of stereotypes (though I know not all of them are) but even still, personally doesn't sit right with me since it can be such a mixed bag. And in a fandom like MHA, that's basically blasphemy.

Izuku doesn't just blush or get flustered around Ochako, he does with multiple women on the show. He's never seen or even acts that way around any of the men, even in the bath scenes. Same for Bakugo. "That's literally the bare minimum for a straight ship to be valid: one or two awkward blushes and boom, no questions asked" and for gay ships:

Anyone can go through everything that Izuku and Bakugo do and remain close platonically or as (found) family like they do; I'm honestly surprised found family BKDK isn't more popular. Neither are a lesser form of love and it shouldn't be treated as such, as hated, or be overlooked as it does in fandoms or in general. And it shouldn't be seen as hate for the ship either, it may be unpopular but I've seen people on Tumblr, Instagram, Twitter, etc take anything non-romantic BKDK as hate towards the ship when the OP has tags that says "this is not hate".

I say insufferable fans because I've only ever seen threats, wishing bad health, doxxing, death threats, and things alike coming from BKDK shippers at Horikoshi because he goes against their widely accepted interpretation/headcanons and I had hoped that this sort of shit was left in the Steven Universe fandom when I first started getting into MHA. I haven't seen anything like that coming from any other popular ship personally, but then again, I could always be wrong. Honestly, I wouldn't find romantic BKDK half as annoying if it wasn't for the majority of its fans, especially on Instagram who have openly told me to stop shipping platonic/brotherly BKDK and to just ship them romantically and then to kill myself when I told them no. The way they treat anyone who doesn't see their headcanons as canon, with the ship or the characters in general is just wild, to put it lightly.

MHA is not a shounen-ai like Yuuri on ICE. Not accepting that how these characters interact with each other doesn't contribute to them being gay or even bisexual and that they aren't interested in each other romantically in even the slightest sense is not hate or intolerance, and it shouldn't be seen and treated as such. Because that's the kind of viewpoints that make casual anime viewers and readers of MHA turn away and give it its bad rep., which Horikoshi doesn't deserve. Only Horikoshi can confirm or deny which character is gay or not, and he has. Whether people accept it or not is not his problem and he shouldn't be harrassed for it, like how people and most BKDK fans did when he dropped 431.

If Hori ever does come around and says, "Yeah, Izuku/Bakugo/whoever else is (insert not straight sexuality and/or is not cis here)", then I'll accept it, no questions asked. Because that's canon and what came from the creator himself, and I prefer to stick to what the people who created their characters say over any fandom interpretation, headcanon, or reading any day. People can do it for Dana Terrace with The Owl House, so it can be done in kind for Hori.

"Let people have fun. Let people ship", those are some bold words, don't let the anti-proshippers hear you. And I'm not trying to convince anybody, just felt like giving my two cents.

I FOUND IT MY SIGNATURE POST ALIHERABLIHFBAELIHBALEIHBAE

No but seriously those of you who have been liking and reposting know EXACTLY what I’m talking about

— ❇️✴️

[lord-squiggletits]

Honestly it annoys me that pride, ambition, and generally having a big ego are always villainous/evil-coded personality traits because personally I think if you genuinely are a prodigy at what you do you are 100% within your rights, perhaps even deserving, of flaunting your skills and being proud of the fact you can do something that only a small fraction of other people can do. Is it even ego at that point if you genuinely are as good at your field/skill as you say you are? Are people not aware that becoming a prodigy at something is something that takes lifelong sacrifice and practice sometimes to the point of giving up on having a normal life, relationships, etc even potentially destroying your own health???? God I fucking hate how pride in your own skills and ambition are so villain coded all the time. As if it's evil to want to be good at something and be recognized for what you rightfully earned

[anderfels]

anyone that puts ratonhnhaké:ton and "boring" in the same sentence is not to be trusted. do not trust them.

[hsslilly-blog]

sebastian failing a class because he's terrified of hunt is a good bit and this time it's not even that man's fault

[killuaisaprincess]

4 U

“Killua, no, no, I’m not mad. Of course, you can buy yourself stuff. That’s why I’m paying you.”

Gon gently lifts Killua’s chin.

Killua’s eyes are filled with tears, and he has a smudge of jelly near his lips.

Gon smiles softly.

Cute.

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

I'm thinkn.. what does ps8 Kuron and Lance's relationship look like after lance wakes up? of course Kuron is Lance's Little Guy TM but also they never really got the chance to truly bond and become friends, and now Kuron is. y'know. being Kuron.. and lance is full of grief and trauma and also The Horrors

i feel like at first its gonna ba at least a little awkward lol

It'll be really fucking awkward for both of them indeed!! But not nearly as awkward. The timeline and the story ideas are not clear but like i feel like there is some shit going on during Lance wakes up and he takes a long time (maybe i'll bring my quintessence ideas for this? Maybe) and when he wakes up he isnt exactly There at first. So like by the time Lance wakes up, Kuron has already had a lot of his character development

And yeah Lance and Kuron is a bit complicated relationship cause like i have said Kuron is grateful for Lance for actually saving him, but also he's a bit angry and most importantly confused cause just why? Why all this? Why now? How did you? What happened to you? And just this confusion that is plaguing since he got his new body.

Meanwhile Lance genuinely cares about Kuron but also is y'know. Busy. Not to mention Lance kinda expected Kuron to be like he was 'used' to be, or rather the rosy eyed version that was Kuron was 'a sweet sensitive guy who can do no wrong and Did Not deserve That' (which isnt wrong but also) (also same with Allura)

But this is something that can be talked out, and it might take some time and development for both of them but by the end i think it's just hugs and a big healing moment for both of them and it would be like a promise to bond and stuff

That being said this isnt exactly final, cause like i said i am still trying to figure out the timeline and story plot and everything so this is very much going to change