#really someone you should not make enemy's with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangdokja · 12 hours ago

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This Valentine’s, your heart might be the last thing you give away.

❤︎ Synopsis. This Valentine’s, four enemies are about to learn that love isn’t sweet—it’s twisted, obsessive, and definitely not the happily-ever-after they were hoping for. Between roses, revenge, and unexpected affection, survival may just be the most romantic thing you’ll experience.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Various x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella: Valentine's Special. Red Roses, Black Hearts - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 10,609

♡ A/N. I don't really like celebrating Valentines Day. Not really my thing nor do I care, but it's alright. It's not like I hate it. I'm more of… it's just there. That's it. wdym it's too early. Well it ended up becoming a series, so… shiz. Still debating whether I should go unrestrained horror or dark humor psychological style... who knows. Also, since my friend doesn't like Caleb, I can officially create LaDs Caleb content.

Valentine’s Day.

The dreaded season of saccharine, mass-produced romance, where the air reeks of cheap perfume and artificial chocolate, where every single person you know—whether it be classmates, coworkers, or that one annoying neighbor who plays obnoxious love songs at full volume—suddenly acts like they’ve ascended to a higher plane of existence because they have the privilege of holding clammy hands with another human being.

It is disgusting.

And you, well, you would rather gargle bleach than partake in this glorified corporate scam of a holiday.

It’s not like you’re bitter about being single—no, that would imply you even wanted to date in the first place. Your aversion to real-life romance isn’t a quirky personality trait or some cute little eccentricity. It is a deeply ingrained, visceral disgust, an allergic reaction that sends metaphorical hives across your soul whenever someone suggests that you, you, might want to experience “love.”

No. You don’t want it. You don’t need it. And you sure as hell don’t need a day dedicated to parading around in pink and red like some kind of overgrown toddler hopped up on love hormones and mass-market capitalism.

Of course, none of this means you aren’t completely obsessed with romance in fiction. But not just any romance. No, your tastes are far more refined—sophisticated, even.

You don’t waste your time with vanilla, run-of-the-mill love stories about two people meeting in a coffee shop and awkwardly flirting over lattes. No, you prefer your romance with a side of psychological horror, a dash of violent obsession, and an unhealthy dose of possessiveness.

That’s right. You read—and write—male yandere content.

Fictional love? Amazing. Real-life love? Revolting.

There is a fine line between passion and psychopathy, and you would rather be dragged to the depths of hell by an obsessive, controlling, morally bankrupt fictional man than even consider the prospect of holding hands with a real person.

You’ve built an empire of anonymity, a carefully curated online persona where you unleash your deepest, darkest, most unhinged thoughts onto unsuspecting readers. Nobody knows your secret, and nobody ever will. By day, you are the quiet, aloof, slightly unsettling individual that people cautiously respect but never truly understand. By night, you are a prolific creator of stories so deranged that even the most experienced horror fans would hesitate before clicking on your masterlist.

It is a beautiful life. A perfect life.

Except for the fact that, no matter how hard you try, you cannot escape the insufferable assault of Valentine’s Day.

The pink. The flowers. The terrible, terrible poetry plastered across every store window. The couples who think they’re being subtle with their PDA but are actually one step away from engaging in unspeakable acts right in the middle of the sidewalk.

It makes you want to die. Or kill. Either works.

Even your professors, the very people who should be upholding the sanctity of academia, have succumbed to the plague. There is an entire essay prompt dedicated to writing about the meaning of love, and you can already feel the bile rising in your throat at the thought of having to regurgitate some sappy nonsense about “soulmates” and “eternal devotion.”

You stare at the prompt. The prompt stares back at you. A staring contest between two soulless voids.

You could write about how love is a chemical reaction, nothing more than a biological impulse designed to ensure the continuation of the species.

You could write about how love is an illusion, a social construct perpetuated by media to manipulate lonely people into believing they need another person to feel whole.

Or… you could write about him.

The perfect man. The kind of man who would rip out his own heart and place it at your feet as an offering. The kind of man who would kill for you. Die for you. Stalk you from the shadows, leaving behind cryptic, bloodstained notes that would send shivers down the spine of anyone who wasn’t completely deranged (which, unfortunately for your mental stability, you absolutely are).

The kind of man who only exists in the realms of fiction, where love is not soft, nor gentle, nor kind, but something dark, twisted, and entirely consuming.

You smile.

Your professor is going to need therapy after reading your paper.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, you have a yandere fic to update.

────────────

You live in the comfort of your room, tucked away from the world, basking in the glow of your screen. The outside is a horror show, a grotesque landscape of expectations and human interaction that you’d rather not partake in. You could stay locked up forever, hunched over your laptop, writing the most depraved, spine-chilling, erotically twisted stories known to mankind—and you would—if not for her.

Her.

The bane of your existence. The one force of nature capable of tearing you away from your self-imposed isolation.

Your best friend.

You’re not entirely sure how it happened. You’re certain she just decided one day that you were her responsibility, like a stray kitten she picked up off the street and forced into domestication. You didn’t agree to this. You didn’t want this. And yet, here she is, constantly invading your space, forcing you to experience social interaction against your will.

And the worst part? She’s a pervert.

Not just any pervert. An extreme pervert. A monstrous, unholy abomination of a pervert.

You, despite writing the most detailed, graphic, heart-stoppingly intense smut known to man, feel absolutely nothing. Your readers foam at the mouth over your work, leaving you comments that range from awe to pure degeneracy. Meanwhile, you sit there, dead inside, typing out the filthiest, most depraved acts with the same level of emotion one might have while compiling tax documents.

But her? Oh, she eats it up. Devours it. Worships it.

She texts you at ungodly hours with things like:

“BRO. BRO. THIS SCENE?? THIS SCENE??? I’M GOING TO PASS OUT.”

“You’re lying to me. There is NO WAY you’re a virgin. NO WAY. YOU HAVE TO HAVE DONE THIS BEFORE.”

And your personal favorite:

“HOW ARE YOU NOT HORNY RIGHT NOW. EXPLAIN.”

It’s exhausting.

She has no shame. She’ll read your work aloud while you’re trapped in a car with her, watching your soul leave your body as she dramatizes every sinful act with the enthusiasm of a Broadway actor. She’ll corner you and demand explanations for why a character moaned a certain way, as if you have an answer other than, “I don’t know, it just sounded right.”

Your dignity is in shambles.

And what’s worse? She can make anything sound perverted. Anything.

You could be eating a slice of pizza, minding your own business, and she’ll somehow turn it into an innuendo. You could be talking about the weather, and she’ll find a way to make it sexual. The sky is looking a little gray today? “Yeah, just like the color of my soul after that last chapter you wrote. That ruined me. That made me feral. I’m in shambles. You’re a monster.”

You sigh deeply. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve sighed today.

You’re sitting at your desk, typing away, trying to ignore the looming presence behind you. She’s reading over your shoulder again, eyes scanning the screen at an inhuman speed. You can feel her judgment. It’s suffocating.

Then she lets out a dramatic gasp.

“Oh. My. Damn.”

“No,” you say, preemptively shutting her down.

“You did not just write that.”

“I did.”

“That’s illegal.”

“It is not.”

“That should be illegal.”

“You’re overreacting.”

She grabs your shoulders and shakes you. “HOW ARE YOU NOT SCREAMING WHILE WRITING THIS???”

You blink at her, unamused. “Why would I scream?”

“Because this is HOT. I’m sweating. I’m disoriented. I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

She grips your arm. “You’re a menace to society.”

You turn back to your screen, continuing to type as if she isn’t having a crisis right next to you. You’re used to this. It happens every time. You don’t know why she keeps acting like this is new information.

She groans, falling back onto your bed dramatically, arm draped over her forehead. “I don’t understand you. You have the power of God and degeneracy in your hands, and yet you feel NOTHING.”

“I’m here for the horror,” you remind her, voice monotone. “The thrill. The psychological torment.”

She sits up. “And the sex.”

You scowl. “I don’t care about the sex.”

“You write it really well for someone who doesn’t care.”

You shrug. It’s true. You do write it well. It’s not your fault that you have a gift. If anything, it’s a burden.

She narrows her eyes at you. “So you’ve never felt even a little bit—?”

“No.”

“Not once?”

“No.”

She exhales, long and suffering. “You’re broken.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“I have to be. You need a keeper.”

You roll your eyes. “I need to be left alone.”

“NEVER.”

She launches at you, wrapping her arms around you in a suffocating bear hug. You try to pry her off, but she’s strong—unreasonably strong. She’s always been like this. The kind of woman who could probably snap a grown man in half but still giggles at cute animals. The type to offer sage, older-sister advice to people in need, only to turn around and read the most degenerate smut imaginable.

You give up, slumping in her grasp. You’re used to this, too.

She rests her chin on your head. “So, when’s the next chapter coming out?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble into her arm. “Whenever.”

She gasps. “That’s not good enough.”

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You pause. Your eye twitches. “You say that, but it feels more like you’re holding me hostage.”

“Same thing.”

You sigh again. The longest, most suffering sigh known to mankind.

There is no escape.

────────────

The moment you agreed, she clasped her hands together like a demon about to perform a blood ritual.

"I knew you’d come around, my little goblin," she cooed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on steroids.

You stared at her, deadpan. "I want you to know that I have never hated myself more than in this moment."

She ruffled your hair like you were a golden retriever puppy who just learned how to sit. "And yet, you agreed. Love that for you. Love that for me. Love that for us."

You wanted to die. She could probably arrange that, but she was having too much fun watching you suffer.

———

This all started three days ago, when you were sick at home, curled up in bed with a fever, blissfully unaware that your best friend was about to declare war on your social ineptitude.

Somehow, against all logic and reason, you had a friend group. Well, they were more like her friends, and by extension, you were just there. If they were a pack of wolves, you were the black cat perched in the distance, watching, unblinking, knowing full well you were above the food chain nonsense.

That was until some idiot decided to open his mouth.

"Dude, why does she never go out? What, is she scared of people? I bet she’s never even been on a date."

Your best friend paused mid-drink, setting her bottle down with a slow, deliberate motion that sent warning signals to every single person at the table.

"The fuck did you just say?"

The guy shrugged, completely oblivious to the incoming hurricane. "I mean, no offense, but she just gives that, y’know, scary, reclusive serial killer vibe."

Silence.

Then, your best friend let out a laugh, one of those fake, manic laughs that made her seem like she was about to flip the entire table over. She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something deeply, deeply unholy.

"Oh, bet? You think my best friend—my personal goblin—is just some socially inept cryptid? You think she can’t get a date?"

The guy snorted. "I mean—"

"No, no, no, shut up. Shut the fuck up. You just declared war, asshole." She slammed her fist onto the table. "I will have her slaying at prom, and when she does, you’re gonna take your L like a little bitch."

"Dude, chill—"

"No, no, no, fuck you. I’m gonna make her so hot that when she walks into prom, everyone’s gonna be like ‘who’s that mysterious goddess’ and you’re gonna sit there in your crusty ass suit looking like an extra in a high school romcom."

The whole table was silent. She downed the rest of her drink like a shot, wiped her mouth, and pointed directly at the poor bastard.

"Watch me."

———

"No."

"Oh, come on, it won’t be that bad."

"No."

"Just a little blind date."

"No."

"Okay, what if it’s not a date? Just an interaction. A social experiment. Like putting a chimp in front of a mirror to see if it recognizes itself."

You stared at her, unimpressed. She beamed.

"No."

"You wound me," she sighed dramatically, flopping onto your bed as if her soul had been shattered by your sheer refusal to entertain her bullshit. "Do you not want to broaden your horizons? Experience life? Have someone fall madly in love with you and offer you their fortune?"

You turned your head ever so slightly to glare at her. She grinned.

"No."

"Babe. Babe." She sat up, crisscross applesauce. "I need you to at least leave your house before I have to start smuggling you vitamin D supplements like a shady drug dealer."

"I get vitamin D from my phone."

She looked personally insulted. "That is the saddest shit I’ve ever heard."

"Then leave me alone."

She gasped, clutching her chest. "Betrayal. Backstabbed. Left for dead. I hope you know this is going to be war."

———

And war it was.

The next day, she was outside your house. 7 AM. Dressed like a fucking FBI agent. Sunglasses. Black suit. Earpiece.

"Ma’am, step outside the vehicle."

You shut the window.

The next day, she showed up at your job. (You didn’t even tell her where you worked. She just knew.)

"Hey, babe," she greeted, all smiles and sunshine. "What time do you get off? There’s someone I want you to meet."

You turned and walked the other way.

The next day, you were grocery shopping. She cornered you in the cereal aisle.

"Surprise bitch, bet you thought you’d seen the last of me."

You gripped your basket tighter.

"You will go on this date."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "What if they’re rich?"

You hesitated.

Her grin turned victorious. "I knew it, you little capitalist gremlin."

"I will set this entire aisle on fire."

"And that’s why I love you, babe. Now, let’s talk outfits."

────────────

You stare at the massive stack of papers in front of you like it's a corpse that just plopped onto the dinner table. A thick pile of documents, neatly arranged (a feat you did not think possible for her), bound together with an actual fucking paperclip.

"Alright, bitch," your best friend announces, slamming her hands down on the table with enough force to rattle your soul, "we're finding you a man."

You want to die.

"I really don't think—"

"Shut up."

"But—"

"Shut. Up." She slides the first page in front of you with the precision of an executioner. "Now, look at these premium selections. Hand-picked by yours truly."

You glance at the first paper. It lists a name, age, occupation, social status, and what appears to be a 'Yandere Rating' out of ten. Your soul attempts to astral project.

"Why does this have a yandere rating."

"Because you love that toxic, possessive, I-would-murder-for-you shit, don't act like you don't. I read your stories, bitch."

You close your eyes. "I never should've told you about that."

"You didn’t. I found out."

"Even worse."

She ignores you, shuffling the papers with the excitement of a game show host. "Okay, let’s see. This one—absolute beast. Ultra-rich, emotionally stunted, crazy in the head but hot. Probably gonna pin you against a wall and tell you he can't live without you within the first three dates. Very murder-y. A solid 9.5/10 yandere rating. Thoughts?"

You blink. "That sounds terrible."

She cackles. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Bitch, I will expose your AO3."

Your face remains neutral, but internally, you’re already calculating how quickly you can erase your existence from the internet.

She slaps another paper onto the table. "Okay, next up—he's got a crime record."

"Absolutely not."

"Listen, listen, it's not murder, okay? It’s just minor felonies. Some fraud, a little blackmail, typical rich people crime—he’s clean otherwise."

"I literally don't even want to date."

"Yes, and yet here we are." She flips through the stack before pausing, then, without hesitation, crumples an entire sheet of paper and tosses it into the trash. "Nope. This one's ugly."

You exhale slowly. "You’re judging a criminal less harshly than an ugly man."

"Priorities." She shrugs, as if this is the most obvious fact in the world. "If they're gonna be toxic, they have to be fine as hell. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

"I don’t think that’s how—"

"Ohhh, this one!" She practically vibrates as she holds up another paper. "Listen. He’s possessive, dominant, completely depraved, but he’s got the money to spoil you rotten, and he’s super hot. A high-quality psycho."

You press your fingers to your temple. "This is literally a human trafficking scenario."

"But he’s rich."

"So is Jeff Bezos."

"Exactly."

You stare at her. "Do you even hear yourself."

She leans forward, her grin sharp. "Yes. And I stand by it."

You take a slow, deep breath, contemplating your life choices, then glance at the remaining stack. "Are all of these just different variations of ‘hot psychopath’?"

"No. Some are just regular psychopaths."

You stare at her. "...How did you even get these?"

"Connections."

"What connections?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No."

"Good. Now, next on the list—" She pauses, frowns, and immediately chucks another paper into the trash. "Nope, too soft. You’d step on him, and he’d say ‘thank you.’"

"Just kill me."

"We need balance!" she insists, gesturing wildly. "You’re emotionally dead inside, so we need someone who can handle that without crumbling into dust. If we throw in another doormat, it’s gonna be pathetic. What you need is someone who can keep up with your depressing ass and also fuck you stupid."

You violently choke on air.

"You’re deranged," you rasp out.

She merely grins. "And yet, you’re still here listening to me."

"Because I literally have no choice."

She slaps a new document in front of you. "Alright, final one for now. Listen to this. Business empire, genius, emotionally bankrupt but functional, probably into some nasty shit but looks good in a suit."

You eye the paper. "This sounds like a corporate mafia drama waiting to happen."

"Exactly. And we both know you’d eat that shit up."

You don’t answer. She doesn’t need you to. The smirk on her face tells you she already knows she’s won.

She leans back in her chair, utterly self-satisfied. "So. Who’s it gonna be?"

You stare at the remaining stack, then at your best friend, then at the way your soul is currently floating ten feet above your body.

"You know what," you mutter, defeated. "Just pick for me."

Her grin is positively diabolical. "Oh, bitch, you’re gonna regret that."

You already do.

────────────

You sit slumped over in your chair, staring blankly at the absurdly thick stack of documents your best friend just dumped on the table like she was presenting the results of a scientific breakthrough. You have suffered long and hard for this moment. And by suffered, you mean you had to endure watching her go through an entire lineup of would-be suitors like some kind of overenthusiastic auctioneer while you stared into the abyss, hoping it would finally stare back and drag you into eternal peace.

But here you are, still breathing, against your will.

“Alright, after an excruciatingly thorough vetting process, four candidates have survived. I know, tragic.” Your best friend sighs dramatically, as if the whole ordeal was emotionally devastating for her. It wasn’t. She’s enjoying this. You know she is.

She pushes the first file toward you, tapping it twice. “Now, before you say anything, I already know what’s on your mind—‘But aren’t they all just cliche tropes ripped straight out of a questionable romance novel?’”

“That is not what I was going to say,” you respond, monotone.

“You were thinking it,” she accuses. “And okay, fine, I admit it—yes, they’re cliché as hell, but trust me, darling, these are the closest to your… preferences. Or at least the closest you’ll get.” She leans forward, a glint in her eyes that spells danger. “Trust me. I can tell.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I don’t have preferences.” She ignores your comment.

"Alright, bitch. Four finalists. Four potential future providers of dick and distress." She claps her hands together with a grin so smug it should be illegal. "I know you don't give a single fuck, but I need you to understand that these are the best options available to your pathetic, unromantic ass."

You stare at her. "I hate you."

"Love you too, dumbass. Anyway." She dramatically flips a folder open. "Before you start bitching, let me clarify something. These guys? Technically, not yanderes."

You blink. "Then why am I here."

"Because they're the closest match to your degenerate tastes. Trust me, I can tell."

You press a hand to your forehead, contemplating if slamming your skull into the table would grant you the sweet release of unconsciousness.

Then you let out a long, slow sigh, resigning yourself to the inevitable. "Just do it."

She smirked. "You always make it sound like I'm about to execute you. But fine. Let’s start with the first one."

———

She yanked the first folder open and dramatically shoved the profile in front of your face. The rich prince, the untouchable student council president, the golden boy.

You glance at the file. His extracurriculars are a cursed list of everything you despise: fencing, business management, charity events, and what you dread most, hosting school galas.

“This motherfucker. Top of the hierarchy, heir to a ridiculous empire, and so disgustingly charming he could probably get away with tax fraud in broad daylight. He’s a genius, annoyingly good-looking, and has an ego the size of the national debt. Basically, a walking privilege check.”

You just stared at her. “I hate him already.”

“I know, right? That’s why you’ll get along so well. He’s the type to flirt with you just to piss you off. Loves playing the fool, but make no mistake—he’s got a god complex that even Jesus would side-eye. He’s also obscenely rich, so if nothing else, you can mooch off him. Plus, imagine the sex."

You immediately regretted breathing. “I don’t want to imagine that.”

She gave you a pitying look. "It’s okay, I’ll imagine it for you. I’d say he’d be the type to pin you down with a cocky little smirk and make you beg just because he can. The kind of guy who teases you for hours just to see how long you last before you break." She tilted her head in deep thought. "Yeah, he’d be insufferable about it. But you like a challenge, so it works."

You were considering launching yourself out the window. “Next.”

“Fine, fine. Now, this one’s fun.” She slapped open the second folder.

———

"The delinquent. Your classic bad boy. Most famous troublemaker in school. Absolute bastard. Arguably a feral animal with human rights."

You glance over the profile. Multiple suspensions, record-breaking number of detentions, rumors of gang affiliations. The worst part? Top physical scores, zero effort in academics, still passing with minimal attendance.

You stared at the profile. “Why does it say ‘once bit a teacher’ under notable achievements?”

“Because he did.” She snickered. “This guy’s a walking crime waiting to happen. Fights just for the hell of it. If a fire breaks out at school, he was probably involved. I don’t think he even knows what rules are. But the man is sharp. He’s the kind of guy who will break someone’s nose and walk off whistling. Imagine the sheer lawlessness of your dynamic.”

"Why."

"Because he's a menace. A hot one. And if you're going to be dead inside, at least let someone else do the thrill-seeking for you. Plus, look at these notes on his dating history—nonexistent. He's a territorial little shit who probably wouldn't even let you look at other men without giving you a possessive death glare. He'd fight a guy for breathing the same air as you."

You rub your temples. "Isn’t that just primal jealousy?"

"Yes. And it’s hot. And just imagine the sex,” she cooed.

“No.”

“Listen, this is important. He’d be rough, no doubt. Fast, reckless, all adrenaline. Probably the type to take you in places that are very much not legal or appropriate. And he’d absolutely mock you about everything. If you blush, he’s got ammo for years. You’d hate him, but in a fun way."

You wanted to detach your soul from your body. “Moving on.”

———

She snorted and opened the third folder. “Alright, this one’s different. The intelligent doctor and artist. A rare combination of someone who can both kill and heal you.”

You stare at the profile. High-level intellect. Medical prodigy. Specializes in surrealist paintings. No known scandals. Speaks in a way that makes people question their mortality.

You peered at the profile. “He seems... disturbingly normal compared to the others.”

“Oh, no, he’s not,” she assured you. "He’s just the quiet kind of unsettling. Genius intellect, ridiculously composed, and there’s something really fucking off about how serene he is. The kind of guy who watches people like they’re puzzles he already solved. He’s patient, calculated, and definitely has secrets you do not want to find out.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you muttered.

She grinned. “But wouldn’t he be hot about it? You’d think you were safe, and then bam—suddenly you’re alone with him, and he’s looking at you like you’re a rare artifact. He’s the type to say the most poetic, devastating shit in bed. Imagine him whispering some existential nonsense in your ear while ruining you. Tell me that wouldn’t be the most intense experience of your life."

“I refuse to answer that.”

“Anyway, he’s refined, patient, and he has the aura of someone who would casually sketch you while you’re sleeping.” She sighs dreamily. “Also, I have a strong suspicion he has some absolutely filthy thoughts beneath all that cold intelligence. You know the type. The ones who look all deep and poetic but actually have the most deranged kinks.”

Your soul leaves your body. “I don’t need to know this.”

She pats your shoulder. “You do.”

“I really don’t.”

———

“Boring ass,” she muttered, flipping open the last folder. “And finally, the academic. Your intellectual equal. Top scholar, scientist in the making, will probably end up running some research institute and using it for shady experiments."

You glance at the file. He’s at the top of every academic competition. Scores are beyond perfect. Cold, logical, reclusive.

“He’s the most similar to you,” she says. “Which is either really good or really bad.”

“Bad.”

“Good.” She smirks. “Because that means you two could theoretically hold an entire conversation just arguing over who’s smarter.”

“A fellow miserable overachiever. Fantastic,” you deadpanned.

“See? That’s why you’d get along. He’s practical, logical, and absolutely ruthless when it comes to proving a point. He’d challenge you constantly, and you’d hate how much you respect it. I guarantee your conversations would either be deep philosophical debates or petty arguments over who’s right about something stupid. And the sex—oh, the sex.”

You dropped your face into your hands. "Please stop."

She ignored you. "With him, it would be clinical, controlled, and ridiculously efficient. He’d make sure every move is perfectly calculated. You’d think he’s cold, but it’s just because he’s too fucking logical. He’d be treating it like an experiment on your responses, and you’d be left questioning if he actually cared or was just collecting data. Kinda hot."

You slowly exhaled, staring into the abyss. “Why are you like this.”

She shrugs. "Because I care about your sex life. You’re welcome."

She then grinned, patting your shoulder. “Now, who’s your pick?"

“I’m picking death.”

“Death isn’t an option.”

“Neither is any of this.”

She gives you a sickeningly sweet smile. “Oh, bitch. You underestimate me.”

────────────

It starts with a sigh. It always does. A deep, long-suffering exhale that feels like it drains a year off your lifespan as you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Your best friend? She’s laughing her ass off.

“Let me get this straight,” she wheezes between snorts, nearly doubling over from how hard she’s laughing. “All four of them—every single one—you managed to piss off all of them?”

“Yes,” you say flatly.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

She gasps, clutching her chest like you’ve personally stabbed her. “Not important?! The four most powerful, well-known, and untouchable guys in the entire school—wait, let me correct myself��the four most untouchable guys in the entire damn city hate your guts, and you didn’t think that was important?”

You blink. “Not really.”

She howls. Actually, physically howls. She slaps the table, wheezing between fits of laughter, practically sliding off her chair from how much she’s losing it. You just watch, unimpressed.

“Holy shit,” she finally gets out, wiping a tear from her eye. “Dude. You’re the worst.”

“I’m really not.”

“No, you are.” She takes a deep breath. “Alright, hold up. I need to hear this one by one. From the beginning. How the hell did you manage to make enemies with all of them?”

You roll your eyes. “I wouldn’t call them enemies.”

“You wouldn’t call them enemies,” she parrots. “Because you don’t have any social skills. Everyone else would.”

“I think they’re just being dramatic,” you deadpan.

“Uh-huh.” She leans forward, grinning like a wolf about to hear some premium entertainment. “Alright, out with it. How’d you piss off the prince first?”

You sigh. Again. You should start charging for this.

────────────

You weren’t one to talk to people. It wasn’t a matter of shyness, or even preference. You just didn’t see the point.

Words were tools, necessary for survival, but beyond that? Completely overrated. People wanted to chat, to laugh, to bond. They wanted connection. You wanted quiet. You wanted them to stop existing in your general vicinity. So you did what you did best: you stayed out of their way.

It worked.

Until it didn’t.

────────────

The day you made an enemy of the most powerful student in school, you were just trying to turn in a form.

It was a simple task. A direct, no-nonsense mission. Enter the student council office, dump the document on the desk, and leave. No engagement necessary. No unnecessary eye contact. You even timed it perfectly—right when the council president was known to be out, probably hosting another insufferable pep rally for an event nobody cared about.

Except he was there.

And he was lounging like a self-satisfied deity, feet kicked up on the desk, twirling a pen in one hand while flipping through paperwork with the other. The sight alone was annoying. The sheer audacity of a person to be so… obnoxiously present. Fluffy neat hair, bright eyes, a grin that looked like it had never known a moment of humility. He radiated untouchable, almost divine levels of confidence.

He looked up. And in that moment, you knew.

He recognized you.

“Ohhh,” he mused, dragging out the sound. “If it isn’t the human black hole.”

You paused. Blinked. “What.”

“You know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely, “you just kinda suck all the joy out of a room. Like a void. A really cold, dead void.”

You tilted your head. “...Are you trying to flirt with me?”

His grin widened. “Are you into that?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

You stared. He smirked. The paper in your hands crinkled slightly as your grip tightened.

“I need to submit this,” you said, monotone, lifting the form like an offering to some insufferable god.

“I’m not taking that.”

You blinked again. “You’re the student council president.”

“Exactly! I delegate. That’s the secret to success, y’know?”

Your eye twitched. “Your name is literally on the submission instructions.”

“Well, yeah, because I like the attention.”

You inhaled slowly. Deeply. Somewhere in your head, you heard your best friend’s voice narrating your own life: And this was the moment she seriously considered homicide.

“Fine,” you said, dropping the paper onto his desk, “then I’ll just leave it here.”

He reached out lazily, grabbed it, and without breaking eye contact, slowly—painstakingly—shoved it off the desk.

The silence that followed was almost religious.

You stared at the fallen paper.

He stared at you.

“I’m not picking that up,” you said.

“Neither am I.”

Your fingers twitched. He smirked. The room temperature dropped several degrees. For a long, long moment, neither of you moved. It was a battle of sheer, unbreakable will.

“...You’re so mad right now,” he said, delight dripping from every word.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

You did. You really did.

The silence stretched. A battle of wills.

You were still standing there, staring at the paper on the floor, while he sat back with the self-satisfaction of a man who had never known loss.

“C’mon,” he drawled, chin propped on his palm. “I know you wanna pick it up.”

You said nothing. You just stared at him with the deadest, most soulless gaze known to mankind. He looked back, and you could see the amusement glowing behind his bright, insufferable eyes.

You exhaled through your nose.

Then, without hesitation—without a single wasted movement—you picked up his cup of hot chocolate and, with the precision of a surgeon, dumped it directly on his head.

A rich, dark cascade poured over his fluffy, previously immaculate hair, dripping down his forehead, staining his pristine uniform. It was perfect. It was artistic. It was poetic justice, crafted in under three seconds.

He froze.

The room went completely, utterly silent.

You, however, weren’t done.

Swiftly, efficiently, you pulled out your phone and snapped a photo. The flash illuminated the scene in sharp, unforgiving clarity.

Dripping hair. A stunned, slack-jawed expression. Hot chocolate soaking through the fabric of his blazer like a crime scene.

You took a second, longer look at the picture. Then, with an air of complete disinterest, you saved it directly into your drive backup.

His shock hadn’t even caught up to him yet. His brain was still buffering.

You calmly turned the screen toward him, showing him his own humiliation.

“If you mess with me again,” you said flatly, “this is going on the school forum.”

He blinked once. Twice. His expression twitched. And for the first time, you saw it—an actual, genuine crack in that unshakable confidence.

It lasted a fraction of a second.

Then, slowly—so, so slowly—his mouth curved into something new. Not the usual cocky grin. Not the smirk of someone who thought he had the entire world wrapped around his little finger.

No.

This was something else.

A slow, wicked, positively unholy grin.

Like a beast just realizing it found prey worth hunting.

“Ohhh,” he breathed, eyes gleaming with something both predatory and exhilarated. “You are so much fun.”

You tucked your phone away. “Glad you think so. I hate you.”

“Liar.”

You turned and went to leave, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

But, just as you reached the door—

“You’re gonna regret this,” he called, voice deceptively light. “I’m a very petty person.”

You paused. Glanced back.

Then, in the most monotone, unimpressed voice you could muster—

“So am I.”

As you exited the student council room, you heard the faintest sound behind you—low, breathless laughter.

Like someone who had just discovered their new favorite game.

────────────

The second one, you met him in detention. Because of course you did.

Technically, you weren’t even there for anything interesting. Not for fighting. Not for vandalism. Not for anything remotely impressive. No, you were here because a teacher had asked for your opinion, and you—being a natural-born social disaster—had given it.

“‘An archaic relic of bureaucracy that produces nothing but misery and debt’ is not an appropriate way to describe the school’s education system,” your teacher had snapped.

“Would you rather I say it’s good?” you had asked, genuinely confused.

Apparently, that had been the wrong answer.

So here you were. Sitting in the back of the room, arms crossed, eyes blank, waiting for time to pass like a medieval peasant awaiting the guillotine.

And then he walked in.

You immediately clocked what kind of person he was. He carried himself with the casual arrogance of someone who had never followed a rule in his life. Tattoos peeked out from under his uniform sleeves, his tie was nowhere to be seen, and his uniform was barely recognizable as one. He had the lazy stance of a guy who made teachers question their career choices and a presence that made people instinctively shrink back.

Unfortunately, you weren’t people.

His gaze landed on you like a predator spotting an unsuspecting rabbit.

Except you weren’t a rabbit. You were just... unfortunately here.

He strolled over, dropping into the seat beside you, his body language loose, confident, exuding the kind of energy that made authority figures reach for blood pressure medication.

“New?” he asked, his voice a slow drawl, eyes flicking over you with open curiosity.

“No.”

His smirk widened, sharp and lazy. “You talk like a corpse.”

“And you talk too much.”

That made him pause. Just for a second. Like he was recalibrating. Then he grinned, the expression laced with something both amused and dangerous. “Not many people have the guts to talk back to me.”

You blinked. “I don’t have guts. I just don’t care.”

He let out a short laugh, a low, considering sound. “Huh.”

You returned your stare to the front of the room, hoping that was the end of the interaction.

It wasn’t.

“So, what’d you do to get stuck in here?” he asked, propping his chin on his hand like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“Answered a question.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

You nodded.

His frown deepened. “You mean you ran your mouth.”

“I answered honestly.”

“Yeah, ran your mouth.”

You sighed. “Are you always this insufferable?”

His smirk stretched, sharp with amusement. “Only when I’m interested.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Wow. I’m honored.”

“You should be,” he shot back, grinning.

You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the front of the room. Not that there was anything interesting up there—just a barely functional projector and a wall clock that seemed to have stopped in 1973.

Silence. For a glorious ten seconds.

Then:

“So, what’s your deal?”

You inhaled slowly through your nose. “I don’t have a deal.”

“Everyone has a deal.”

“Well, mine is not talking to annoying people.”

“Guess you’re breaking your own rule then.”

You turned your head, making a show of staring at him with dead, soulless eyes. “Lucky me.”

His smirk widened. His chair creaked as he leaned back, stretching like a particularly smug cat. “You know, I don’t usually take an interest in people like you.”

“People like me?”

“Yeah. Tiny. Mouthy. Clearly incapable of winning a physical fight.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t just poison you instead.”

His laughter was sudden, sharp-edged. “You’re funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he said, still grinning. “That’s what makes it funny.”

You sighed, returning to your previous strategy of ignoring his existence.

It didn’t work.

“So, do you just piss people off for fun, or is that an accidental talent?”

You didn’t look at him. “Why? You feeling pissed off?”

“Nah.” A slow pause. “Not yet.”

Something about the way he said that made you glance at him again. His smirk had cooled into something else—something harder, more assessing. You’d known from the second he walked in that he was bad news, but now you could feel it, thick and tangible, like a storm about to break.

Still, you weren’t one to back down.

“I could try harder,” you offered.

His eyes darkened, something flickering behind them—something you probably should have taken as a warning.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured, tone deceptively light. “Go ahead.”

You tilted your head, considering. Then, you shrugged. “You’re a walking cliché.”

That got a reaction. His smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp-edged stare.

“Excuse me?”

You gestured vaguely at him. “The whole ‘too cool for rules, bad boy with authority issues’ thing. It’s exhausting. You should at least try to have a personality.”

He stared at you, expression unreadable. Then, in a disturbingly calm voice, he asked, “You ever been hit before?”

You blinked. “Not recently.”

He exhaled, tilting his head back. “God. You’re fucking annoying.”

“You started this conversation.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, “biggest mistake of my life.”

“Wow. Must be nice if this is the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”

His jaw twitched. For the first time, he actually looked pissed.

Good.

Unfortunately, that also meant he was now visibly debating whether or not to knock your teeth in.

Your eyes flicked to his hands—bigger than yours, calloused, flexing slightly, like he was restraining himself. He was taller, broader, a lot stronger than you. You weren’t stupid. If he actually decided to swing, you were probably going to die.

But hey. What’s life without a little risk?

You met his glare head-on. “Are you about to hit someone half your size?”

He tilted his head, exhaling slowly. “Thinking about it.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He actually growled, low and irritated, and you barely had time to register the movement before he was shifting forward, one hand reaching out like he was about to grab you—

And then the door creaked open.

“Alright, detention gremlins,” the teacher’s voice drawled from the front of the room, “keep your murder attempts to a minimum.”

You didn’t even blink, just turned lazily in your seat as if you hadn’t nearly gotten your face rearranged.

He, on the other hand, pulled back immediately, exhaling sharply, clearly forcing himself to relax.

The teacher shot him a look. “Sit still, delinquent.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t say anything. He just slumped back into his chair, arms crossed, eyes flicking briefly to you.

You met his stare.

Slowly, you smiled.

His fingers twitched.

This was going to be fun.

────────────

For the third man, the first time you met him, you were sitting in a hospital bed, staring at the white ceiling, contemplating your existence and whether or not you could convince the nurses to let you leave early. The fluorescent lights hummed a dull tune, matching the flatlined rhythm of your enthusiasm for life. You didn’t even want to be here. The injury wasn’t even that bad. But the moment you’d said, “It’s fine, I can still walk,” and then promptly collapsed, the people around you decided that maybe you weren’t the best judge of what counted as ‘fine.’

And that’s when he walked in, the doctor assigned to your case.

Tall. Elegant. His every movement controlled with the same level of care you’d expect from someone painting the Sistine Chapel, even though all he was doing was picking up your chart. His black-gloved fingers trailed over the paperwork before he flipped it open, eyes skimming your medical history like he was reading a novel he had already figured out the ending to. Cold, calculating, and frankly, a little theatrical.

You stared. He looked like the kind of person who’d be the main villain in a psychological thriller.

“You have a concussion,” he said, his voice measured, precise.

You blinked. “Oh.”

There was a pause. The kind that stretched a little too long, like a piece of gum being pulled between fingers. He looked at you. You looked at him. Then, with the kind of energy that could only be described as ‘well, I guess I have nothing better to do,’ you muttered, “Neat.”

He blinked, once. A slow, unreadable gesture. “I wouldn’t describe a traumatic brain injury as ‘neat.’”

“Well,” you deadpanned, “I would.”

Silence. He adjusted his gloves, movements smooth, unhurried. You were pretty sure this man had never rushed anything in his life. The air of quiet, detached arrogance practically radiated off of him in waves.

“You seem disinterested in your own well-being,” he observed, as if he were commenting on the weather.

You tilted your head, expression blank. “And?”

His brows barely twitched, but you swore you saw a flicker of something behind those eerily calm eyes. Like a candle in a dark room. Something minute, almost imperceptible. A single frame of a horror movie before the jump scare.

Then, without a word, he set your chart back down and began his examination, his touch careful, professional. You sat there, letting him check for signs of worsening symptoms, feeling absolutely no inclination to make this easier for him. He had the air of someone who rarely got rattled, and for some reason, that made you want to rattle him.

So when he was checking your pupils with a penlight, you stared unblinkingly into his eyes and said, “You look like the kind of guy who has a hidden art studio where you paint unsettlingly lifelike portraits of people you find interesting.”

He paused.

The light flickered over your eyes as he considered you. Then, calmly, as if answering a normal, everyday question, he replied, “And if I did?”

You shrugged. “I’d say you’re pretty bad at hiding it.”

Another pause. Then—so brief it could have been a trick of the light—the corner of his lips twitched upward. Amusement, buried beneath layers of restraint.

He pulled back, setting the penlight aside. “I don’t have a hidden art studio.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s exactly what someone with a hidden art studio would say.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

His gaze flickered over you, assessing, weighing. “Difficult.”

You smirked, feeling a spark of something sharp and insubordinate curl in your chest. “Only with people who think they have me figured out.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you with an unreadable expression, as if deciding whether to be irritated or intrigued. You had a feeling he wasn’t used to being challenged. People probably either feared or revered him, treating his words like gospel. You, on the other hand, had the distinct urge to annoy him purely because you could.

The tension stretched between you, coiling like a taut wire. Then, with an air of finality, he turned away, retrieving a prescription pad and beginning to write. “I’ll be keeping you for observation.”

Your eye twitched. “Why?”

He didn’t look up. “Because I suspect if I let you leave, you’d immediately do something to worsen your condition.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then promptly closed it when you realized he was absolutely right. Damn it.

“You can’t just hold me hostage in a hospital,” you grumbled.

He tore the prescription from the pad, setting it aside. “I’m your doctor. I can.”

You glared at him, but he remained entirely unbothered, like a marble statue in a white coat.

For the first time in a long time, you had the distinct feeling that you’d just met someone who was actually going to be a problem.

And judging by the glint in his eyes when he finally met your gaze again, you had a sneaking suspicion he felt the same way about you.

────────────

The fourth guy?

It started with a test. Not just any test. A national-level competition meant to determine the brightest academic minds of the generation.

You sat at your desk, filling in the answers with mechanical efficiency, while the only other student in the room doing the same was him. The top scholar. The prodigy. The golden boy of academia. He who must not be named because if you ever say his name out loud, you might actually vomit.

The two of you had been at this for years. Competing. Spiting. Resenting.

The rivalry was so intense that your parents had to be physically separated at parent-teacher meetings, lest they start arguing over whose kid deserved to be hailed as the superior intellectual. The problem was that neither of you ever pulled ahead definitively. Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. Sometimes it was a tie, which was the absolute worst because it meant the war had to continue.

The one thing you both silently agreed on? No one else needed to know.

So in public, you two were strangers. A nod at most, a passing glance, like two ships in the night. But the moment you were alone? The gloves came off.

And today, the moment came in the form of a single test result.

You finished your exam a fraction of a second before him, slamming your pen down triumphantly. He, sitting at the desk beside you, slowly turned his head to look at you, expression unreadable.

You smirked. He narrowed his eyes.

Neither of you spoke.

You both already knew what this meant.

It had always been like this. Subtle gestures. Microexpressions. Entire conversations conveyed through a single glance. And this time, your glance said:

That’s right. I beat you by 0.2 seconds. Cry about it.

His glance, in return, said:

You think this means anything? You’re delusional. Enjoy your fleeting moment of victory while it lasts.

You both turned in your papers and walked out without a word, maintaining the illusion that you had no connection to each other. That was, until you reached the hallway.

“You look extra dead inside today,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Yeah, because I had to sit next to you.”

He scoffed. “I make you look alive by comparison.”

“You make me wish I was actually dead.”

“Touché.”

And that was it. That was your normal conversation. Because no one else knew, it was always like this—just pure, undiluted antagonism with an undertone of reluctant respect.

But the moment you stepped outside where other students could see, you both went back to pretending the other didn’t exist.

———

The problem with childhood rivals is that you know too much about each other. He knew about the time you threw up in second grade because you drank three chocolate milks in one sitting. You knew about the time he cried in fourth grade because he lost a chess match to a five-year-old. These were secrets that, if revealed, would destroy either of you instantly. And so, an unspoken truce existed: Mutual Assured Destruction. If one of you fell, the other would go down as well.

But that didn’t mean you had to be nice to each other.

The school’s annual debate competition was proof of that.

You weren’t even supposed to be on stage today. The original competitor from your class had gotten sick at the last moment, so your teacher shoved you in as a replacement. And, of course, standing across from you at the podium was none other than him.

“I see fate continues to curse me,” you muttered, gripping the microphone.

“Likewise,” he replied, adjusting his tie.

The topic? “Should academic rivalries be encouraged?”

He was on the pro side. You were on the con side.

The sheer irony nearly made you laugh. But the moment the debate started, it was war.

He argued that competition drove people to improve, citing numerous studies. You argued that it created unnecessary stress, pointing out various psychological reports. He said rivalry forged discipline. You countered that it led to burnout. Back and forth, your arguments clashed like swords, neither side yielding. The audience watched, captivated, unaware that this was nothing new to either of you.

It wasn’t until the Q&A round that things got personal.

One of the judges asked, “Do either of you have experience with an academic rival?”

You and him made brief eye contact. A single second of hesitation.

Then he, ever the smug bastard, smirked and said, “No, I don’t have a rival. No one has ever truly been on my level.”

Your eye twitched. Oh. Oh, he wanted to play it that way? Fine.

You smiled, saccharine sweet. “Oh, same here. I’ve never met anyone who could actually challenge me.”

The audience laughed, completely oblivious to the nuclear warfare happening in your minds.

You won the debate by a narrow margin. He took it in stride, shaking your hand like a good sport, but you both knew this wasn’t over.

It was never over.

———

Years of this. Years of pretending. Years of knowing that he was the only person who could truly get under your skin, and vice versa.

And yet, despite everything, despite the constant battle for dominance, there was a grudging acknowledgment: neither of you would have been as good without the other.

But you’d never say that out loud.

Not unless you wanted to lose the war.

────────────

Back in the present, your best friend is still wiping away tears of laughter. “I swear, you’re cursed. Only you could turn four of the most powerful guys in this school into your sworn enemies without even trying.”

You sigh. “It’s not my fault they’re all easily irritated.”

She grins. “Enemies-to-lovers speedrun?”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

But she just smirks.

Because honestly? The way things are going, it’s inevitable.

———

You take a deep breath, leaning back in your seat as you finish recounting the absolute disaster that was your past. "So, yeah. That’s how I managed to piss off the entire unofficial ruling class of this school without even trying. It’s not my fault they’re all allergic to basic human interaction."

Your best friend? Oh, she’s wheezing. Bent over. Completely losing it.

You just stare, dead inside.

"I cannot believe you," she chokes out, clutching her stomach. "Four. Not one, not two—four of the most powerful guys in this school are now your sworn enemies. I swear, you’re a walking curse. A divine anomaly."

You sigh, propping your chin on your hand. "See, this is exactly why they can’t be the choices."

That only makes her laugh harder.

"No, no, no, you don’t get it," she wheezes, slamming a hand on the table. "This is why they have to be the choices. Like, this is fate. This is math. The sheer statistical improbability of you randomly antagonizing the four most dangerous guys in school without even trying—"

"—Means they’re going to murder me in my sleep, not fall in love with me," you interrupt flatly.

She shakes her head, eyes gleaming. "No, no, no. This is the setup for the best enemies-to-lovers arc I’ve ever seen. This is gold. This is poetry. This is—"

"A death sentence."

"—A story unfolding before my very eyes!" She gestures wildly. "Four. If it was just one, okay, sure, maybe it’s just bad luck. Two? Fine, you have a talent for pissing people off. But four?" She leans in, deadly serious now. "That’s fate."

You stare at her, unimpressed. "You’re literally using the fact that I’m universally despised as an argument for romance."

"And I’m right."

"Objectively false. I can present multiple counterarguments—"

"Oh, I bet you can," she interrupts, grinning. "And you know what? They’d all be wrong."

You cross your arms. "Fine. Let’s debate this logically."

She cracks her knuckles. "Bring it."

"One: They hate me. Like, actively hate me."

"Great foundation for romantic tension."

You scowl. "Two: I have no romantic interest in any of them."

"You say that now."

"Three: They have power, money, and influence, and could absolutely ruin my life at any moment."

She smirks. "Oh, so they could ruin your life. But haven’t."

You narrow your eyes. "Yet."

She shrugs. "Or maybe, deep down, they’re already obsessed with you."

You groan. "That’s not how real life works."

She leans in, voice smug. "Then explain why none of them have done anything too serious to you yet. With the power they have, you should’ve been completely crushed by now. But instead? They’re keeping you around. Engaging with you. They want your reactions."

You hesitate for a fraction of a second.

She grins, sensing her victory.

"Don’t even start," you mutter.

She tilts her head. "Too late. You are the main character in an enemies-to-lovers story, and I will see this through."

"Over my dead body."

"Listen, if it happens, it happens. I’ll be there at your wedding, sipping my champagne, telling everyone, ‘I told her so.’"

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I am never telling you anything ever again."

But she just laughs. Because she knows.

And that’s what terrifies you the most.

———

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. "This is bullshit."

She grins, clearly enjoying your suffering.

Your eyes drift to the side, landing on a thick stack of papers—her so-called research. A Frankenstein’s monster of printed profiles, handwritten notes, and stapled-together disasters. This is what she’s been using to "help" you find a so-called suitable match before she apparently decided to scrap the entire thing and make your life a living hell instead.

You reach over and pull a few sheets from the pile, scanning them briefly. Your eyes land on someone near the bottom of the stack. Someone you haven’t met. No noted incidents. No mortal enemies. Just a generic, normal guy with no apparent psychotic tendencies.

"Alright," you say, holding up the page. "This guy."

Your best friend leans forward, glancing at the name, then immediately scoffs. "Him?"

You nod. "Yeah. He looks the most normal, statistically conquerable, and unlikely to plot my untimely demise."

She groans, tilting her head back like you’ve personally offended her. "Are you serious? This is the blandest option in the entire lineup. This is, like, choosing plain toast at an all-you-can-eat buffet."

"Exactly," you say, unfazed. "I don’t want a disaster. I want stability. Normalcy. Someone who doesn’t have the power to ruin my life."

She gestures dramatically. "And this is what you land on? A literal NPC?"

"He has a face. He has a name. That’s already enough for me."

She smacks the table. "That’s bare minimum! You’re literally picking a filler character when you have the Final Four right in front of you!"

"And I’m perfectly fine with that," you say, deadpan.

"No, no, no. You don’t get it." She leans forward, voice firm. "You cannot settle for Generic Background Character #12. Look at the narrative potential! The power struggle! The development!"

You sigh. "I am not a character in a novel."

She smirks. "You keep saying that, and yet, the evidence continues to pile up against you."

You roll your eyes. "Look, just because I have bad luck doesn’t mean I have to indulge it." You tap the paper. "This guy is a logical, safe choice."

"Safe choices don’t make history."

"They also don’t make headlines for scandals, criminal activity, or blood feuds."

She groans again, slumping in her chair. "You are so frustrating. You have four absolute powerhouses lined up, each with the potential to make your life an experience, and you want—what? A guy whose biggest personality trait is that he’s 'nice'?"

"Yes."

"Disgusting."

"Predictable."

"Boring."

"Stable."

She narrows her eyes at you. "You are dodging fate so hard right now, it’s embarrassing."

"I am making logical decisions so hard right now, and you refuse to acknowledge it."

She smacks the table again, exasperated. "I’m not saying you have to date them! I’m just saying you should at least consider them before you throw yourself into the void of mediocrity!"

You cross your arms, staring her down. "And I’m saying you are severely overestimating my ability to survive a romantic entanglement with any of them."

She grins, tilting her head. "Or underestimating their desire to keep you alive and entertained."

You pause.

She smirks.

You scowl. "No."

She leans back, victorious. "Just saying. It’s gonna happen."

"It is not."

She winks. "We’ll see."

────────────

The next day starts off normal. Or at least, as normal as it can be when you’re still recovering from the previous night’s argument with your best friend. You’re just trying to make it through the school day without incident—low profile, no chaos, just peace.

And then your phone buzzes.

You glance down, expecting something trivial. Instead, you see a message from an unknown number.

Unknown: You owe me for last time. Meet me after school. Don’t make me come find you.

You blink. Stare. Read it again.

There’s only one person you "owe" anything to in the eyes of certain individuals.

You: No.

No response.

Your phone buzzes again. Another unknown number.

Unknown: Be at the café near campus at 4. I already told them you’d be coming. Don’t embarrass me.

Your eye twitches. What.

Buzz.

Unknown: I assume you have no plans. I’m picking you up at 6. Don’t make me wait.

Your stomach sinks. There is no way. There is no way.

Buzz.

Unknown: I’ll be outside your place at 7. Don’t even try to run.

You slowly, slowly lower your phone.

You already know who's responsible.

Your best friend. Your traitorous best friend.

You whip your head around the classroom, eyes locking onto her immediately. She’s sitting at her desk, chin propped up in her hand, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t just orchestrate your demise.

She knows.

She feels your glare.

And she grins.

You stand up so fast your chair nearly topples over. You’re going to kill her.

────────────

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sheepispink · 2 days ago

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Hesitancy ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི COD MASTERLIST

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Lt ghost x baker, civilian!reader

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི fluff, hurt/comfort, slight angst, reassurance

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Chapter 7 of Sweet as Sugar series

a/n: currently posting this half delirious at like 3 in the morning. #very confused and want to sleep but i cant. Its ok, enjoy chapter guys thanks u

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——————

A few slight problems had occurred whilst Simon was on deployment, the biggest one being that you had completely forgotten he even went.

For two days you waited patiently for him to arrive, starting to grow more and more upset until your father reminded you, saying he saw him off. You couldn't exactly be mad—he did warn you he’d be going—but it was just so incredibly boring when he couldn't even text you. So you waited; for the first week you managed to fend it off, the second was a little harder and by the third you were debating whether you should join the army. Cleaning up your shop just didn't feel right without him there with you; it was like missing a piece of your heart. You thought you were going crazy, you’ve never missed someone like this before—not that there was anyone to miss usually. But this, it was an unbearable ache in your chest, and you were starting to worry this was some kind of dangerous attachment.

He has returned now, and has kindly texted you to confirm that thus unintentionally quelling the turmoil in your chest. What were you supposed to say though? That your thoughts have been filled with him since he left? You weren't exactly sure if he was even interested in you too— what if he only saw you as a friend? Men of his job were not exactly known for their affectionate sides, and you couldn't help but believe you’d be asking too much of him to be a person like that for you. Especially with the way your heart thumps, he probably thinks you're insane with your attachment— you’ll only drive him away at this rate.

On the other hand, Simon still hasn’t sent the message.

In fact, he’s staring at your texts right now as he lays back in his bed. It’s almost two am, another barrage of memories had shaken him from any traces of sleep he had attempted to get today, and almost as if instinct, he reached for his closest connection to you. This message seemed impossible to send though. Not because he didn’t want to, but for some reason he was slightly scared. He wanted to do this the right way, make sure this all went smoothly, and you didn't feel pressured in the slightest— hell he’d be caught off guard if he received that text. Though, now something else concerned him even more than that; it could end up ruining everything if he didn’t try to understand and fix the issue straight away.

You were acting weird, in a way that was really different. He didn't feel like he was allowed to interfere, to demand an answer for your shift in behaviour but in a way he owed it to you. If you weren't doing okay, he wanted to know; especially after your fathers words, he had to try to help. For the past two days you were far less chatty than usual, only giving him a few stray answers that don't really represent yourself like your responses usually do. In a way, you reflected the subject back onto him, like you’re afraid of talking about yourself even a smidgen. From excitable first texts, you now only responded to his, rather than bringing up your usual random thoughts. It reminds him of someone being restricted to speak, like they shouldn't speak. He’s all too familiar with that notion: keeping quiet since you know too much, afraid of an interrogation and the enemy destroying everything you didn't know you loved until you’re hanging by nothing but your efforts, watching your vision fade.

He blinks the gruesome image away, pushing himself up to a sitting position as he rubs the deadweight beneath his eyes with the roughness of his palm, groaning. Not everything was as serious as an interrogation and torture; he knew there was no way you could possibly be anxious like that, but still, the thought of you feeling uneasy around him was the worst thing to imagine. It was different, really different, to know someone outside the cruel reality he lived with. You had no idea the extent his enemies would go to, the people they’d exploit just for an ounce of power—how unforgiving the people in this world would be. And so, you were free. There you went, not bothering to think twice when someone had a photo of your face and unbothered when a customer whispers into their phone. Most importantly, you were so incredibly kind to anyone who came in, allowing them a little piece of your heart.

He wasn't jealous, no, Simon knew well the man he’d become when he put on the mask. In a way, he felt like he could talk to you more—you always had so many things to speak about. With the other soldiers here it was the typical topics; missions, intel, nightmares all the time, and whilst he wasn't bored by his comrades, he sure was far more interested in what you had to say. In a way, you were his little slice of life, telling him about the latest movies that came out, some crazy scandal or something as simple as a new crisp flavour you were fond of. When was the last time he cared about a band going on tour? Probably never, but he sure did now, searching for any tickets available for all your favourites. This was more than a breath of fresh air, nor a turn of a leaf—no you had peeked into his dreary life, with your wide grin and excitement, brightening his life enough for his heart to feel aches for different reasons.

His team’s lucky it’s Saturday, else he would’ve cancelled his last evening training to take the drive down to the little Welsh town he now only associated with you. It doesn't take him long to drag himself through his tasks for the day before eventually taking that drive down the winding road to where your bakery is. It’s right on the corner of the little plaza that’s been growing livelier as the cold starts to fade out again.

You’re wiping down the tables, almost closing time since you close early to pack up for Sunday. The bakery isn't open then, used for preparation for the week ahead even though your parents usually handle that. He pushes the door open, the bell jingling above the door as your sweet voice calls out to him as per usual. “Sorry, we’re closed right now—” You begin, before promptly lifting your head, eyes widened in surprise when you realise it’s him standing there and not a customer trying to get a last minute coffee.

”Oh—Simon..?”

Lord, he can't stand the way you visibly stiffen when you see him, trying to push out the thoughts running in his head to interrogate you, unable to grapple with the idea of having information not in his grasp. No, this needs to be taken carefully, but still— are those dark circles beneath your eyes?. So he was right,something is on your mind that needs to be let out.

“You need a break, don’t you?” He walks over to you, gently reaching for your sleeve and giving you plenty of time to back away if you so wish. “C’mon, we haven't talked in a while.” His voice is gruffer than it should be, and he can tell it catches you off guard as well, since you’re more accustomed to his calmer demeanour. It’s not Simon’s fault; he can’t help it when you’re clearly running your mind into the ground thinking too hard. “It’s not.. I—”

You try to argue but follow along without much reluctance, watching as he walks behind the counter to grab your coat, slipping it firmly over your shoulders before buttoning it up. Once he’s sure you’re warm, he leads you out, locks the bakery door with the keys he knows you keep in your left pocket, and continues to squeeze your wrist as he leads you towards a nearby restaurant. Wordlessly he seats you at a secluded table, before moving towards the counter. Your favourite soup is placed before you whilst he holds his usual black coffee, angling his chair towards you as he leans his elbows on the table. Every move of his is calculated, unintentionally too, attempting to make himself look all the more intimidating, so the victim gives in easily. “You’ve been acting strange recently, what’s wrong?” Just from his tone you can clearly tell he’s raising an eyebrow at you and you cannot help but crumble beneath his gaze, hands fidgeting awkwardly on the table as your eyes flicker between the soup and him.

“It’s really stupid… but i.. I had a bad dream.” That makes his curiosity peak, his chair scraping the tiles as he shifts a little bit more.

“A nightmare?” He probes, confused by your words and how it could affect your actions.

“Of a sort..” your fingers continue to intertwine together absentmindedly, nervous and slightly intimidated.

“I dreamt that you.. You got angry and shouted at me—” You begin, and he cuts you off, a pit of guilt sinking deeper into his gut as the words ring through his head.

He was stupid to think for a second that someone as messed up as he was could be anything of use to a sweet girl like you. He’d only ruin your life, make you hurt in ways you shouldn’t because if he was just normal, like everyone else, you wouldn't be terrified of that. “Hey, listen..”

You quickly cut him off, hands frantically waving in the air as you shake your head quickly. “Wait!” He hadn't let you finish your sentence and your squeak made him stop, letting you finish. “I was rude to you, in the dream. I snapped at you, and even when you tried to help I just grew worse.” You let out a long groan, hiding your face in your hands as you sit there and sniffle pitifully.

“You snapped at me? You could scream at me, I wouldn't care.” He says, confused and still convinced you’re afraid of him shouting and even potentially getting physical with you. He knows he doesn't look like a saint, especially since he allowed you small glimpses of his scarred face. Likewise, he just hopes it’d never come to this, for him to continue the cycle the men in his ancestry began.

“That's the problem.. I feel like I’m deceiving you— like I'm being so nice, and you think I'm that perfect person all the time. I can just get so irritable sometimes, and I won't explain why to you, and then I'll hurt you.”

His throat bobs softly as he swallows, starting to see that you have somehow stemmed from a similar branch of his. Although his was rougher, perhaps he was too stupid to think only he could experience guilt like this. A rose could have just as many thorns as a vine, it seems. His gloved hand gently tugs your chair closer to him, thankful for the fact practically no one is near your table. “It isn't fair on you— for me to act like that..” You mumble out, knowing it sounds silly compared to the things he probably deals with on the daily. But in reality, he had perhaps pressured you too much with his own glittery perception of you, unintentionally undermining your struggles.

“It was a dream for a reason, love; it won't come true.” He hums, gently pinching your cheek between his thumb and index, loving the way your lips purse so softly as you look up at him and he drops his hand again.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well..” He starts, taking a sip of his coffee as he slings an arm loosely around the back of your chair and brushing your shoulders in turn. His eyes glancing off into the lights beyond the windows that decorate the trees with tiny sparkles. “You just warned me now, didn't you? So, now I know that you get a bit snappy when you’re overwhelmed and I can accommodate for that. You’re not some villain for that. It’s called communication, sweetheart.”

You blink up at him, probably expecting him to call you crazy for not being able to control yourself all the time like he did, and well everyone in your life.

“So, I can just tell you all my flaws.. And you won't mind? Even though I still get anxious crossing busy roads?” He chuckles at that, rubbing your shoulder with the palm of his hand and nodding, unbelieving that you thought he’d only turn you away.

“Yes, of course you can. I’ll even tell you one of my own. Military life can be a little unpredictable.. y'know? So I’m often shaken awake at two am and I have a feeling I might end up randomly texting you at that time..I don't expect you to wake up and reply, so don't even think about killin’ your sleep for me.” He chuckles as your lips part in surprise; then again, even he didn't expect he’d find solace in his nightmares just from your menial discussions. You’d laugh alongside him when he complained about the crappy rations, or even when he told you about something stupid he was thinking about. He tells you about some good movies he had watched, only because Soap forced him to, and you give him some recommendations of your own; though not before watching his that night, and giving your own opinions. It’d been a while since he’d even opened up with someone, and you made it feel okay.

“If it's on a weekend, I’ll wake up. It won't bother me, promise. If it’s not, I’ll reply first thing in the morning, okay?”

You’ll argue with him, but he still does really believe you’re the perfect person despite some stupid flaws you think you have. But of course, you seem to take them pretty seriously so he’ll do the same. It’s weird how you suddenly make him feel better about his own worries about himself too, the usual ache in his chest dissipating just a smidge. “Well how about you finish that soup before it gets cold, hm? I have a feeling there are a few more things you have on your mind and I think it’s about time someone helps you sort them out.”

—————-

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Taglist:

@hidden-treasures21 @bieberismysoulmate @gallantys @tessakate @galactict3a @krispymagazinepizza-blog @silas-aeiou @kupids-arrow @enfppuff @oydan @keytofu @vogueprincess

#cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #ghost x female reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost fanfiction #cod x y/n

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aventurineswife · 14 hours ago

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I suddenly have a thought what if aeon! Reader is interested in amphoreus👀? when aeon!reader hear about this planet/world aeon! Reader want to visit this planet. But in human form, because you know aeon's form is so huge than a planet and so the people won't feel intimidated by reader.

Maybe aglaea feel something strong or devine is appear in amphoreus because of her golden treads.so, she inform the crysos heir about this, thinking of stronger enemy is appear but its just aeon!reader who want to know about this planet (aeon! Reader is just forget to hide their aura).

They are exploring the amphoreus, and heard about the titans and crysos heir. After hearing the story about the crysos heir, I have 2 diferent thought , here is my thought:

1. if aeon of fate! Reader have a kind heart, they will feel bad that they can't give the crysos heir a good fate, maybe they just hoping they can give it to the crysos heir but, giving the crysos heir a fate full of happy thing without the sad thing happened, will broke the balance that hooh try to maintain(because you know, story of life without bad things happen is not exist 😢). So aeon of fate! Reader don't have a choice but to give them that fate.

2. If aeon of fate! Reader don't have a heart or don't care at all, they just ignore it and thinking its just their responsibility to create fate for living beings just as Hooh told them to do, the type of someone like "oh,you have a problem? Its okay, as long as its not my problem" And maybe they will leave faster after that, to continue doing their task making fate for other living beings.

Maybe the crysos heir meet aeon!reader in their human form and have a talk with them

Thats all, I hope you understand what I'm saying because I'm not expert at english 😅

Oh, this is such an interesting concept! The idea of an Aeon of Fate visiting Amphoreus in human form, unintentionally making Aglaea and the Chrysos Heir wary, is such a fun setup. It’s got mystery, divine intrigue, and a little bit of bittersweetness, depending on how Aeon!Reader reacts to the heir’s fate.

I love both of your ideas for how Aeon!Reader could respond. If they have a kind heart, it makes sense that they'd feel guilty about not being able to give the Chrysos Heir a happier fate. Even if they want to help, they know that fate must remain balanced. Maybe they linger longer than they should, watching over the heir, quietly hoping things will turn out okay despite the hardships. That quiet struggle—knowing they could change things but shouldn’t—is so compelling.

On the other hand, if Aeon!Reader is more detached, I can totally see them treating it as just another duty. They visit, observe, and leave without getting emotionally involved. Maybe they even find the heir’s suffering interesting in a purely analytical way—like, “Ah, yes, this is how mortal struggles shape history.” It would make their brief interaction with the heir feel almost eerie, like meeting a god who could change everything but chooses not to.

Either way, I love the idea of the Chrysos Heir meeting Aeon!Reader in their human form, completely unaware of who they really are. Maybe they talk about fate, suffering, or the weight of expectations, and Aeon!Reader—whether kind or indifferent—gives them a cryptic yet meaningful response before disappearing. Imagine the heir realizing much later who they actually spoke to!

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #hsr x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #aglaea #aglaea hsr #aglaea honkai star rail #hsr aglaea #amphoreus #chrysos heirs

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mooneeswrld · 2 days ago

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𐔌 . ⋮ enemies to lovers prompts .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

“I hate you.” “Funny. That’s not what you whispered last night.”

“You really think I’d betray everything for you?” “I think you already have, and it terrifies you.”

“Move over.” “There’s barely any room.” “Then stop breathing on my neck.”

“We’re trapped in here until morning, so can we at least try not to kill each other?” “No promises.”

“You’re shivering.” “And? That doesn’t mean I want your help.” “You’re going to take my coat whether you want it or not.”

“You’re hurt. Let me see.” “It’s nothing—” “Shut up and let me take care of you for once.”

“Who did this to you?” “Why do you care?” “Because—because I do, alright?”

“Stay behind me.” “I can handle myself.” “I know. But let me do this for you.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” “Because for the first time, I don’t know if I want to fight you or kiss you.”

“You don’t get to just walk away after everything.” “Then tell me to stay.”

“I thought you hated me.” “I wish I did.”

“You always do that.” “Do what?” “Look at me like I’m a puzzle you already know how to solve.”

“You don’t have to like me.” “That would make things easier, wouldn’t it?”

“You keep staring.” “I’m just trying to figure out what’s so special about you.” “Let me know when you do.”

“If you’re waiting for me to say thank you, don’t hold your breath.” “Please. As if I’d waste my time expecting gratitude from you.”

“You’re insufferable.” “And yet, you’re still standing here talking to me.”

“Tell me this isn’t a terrible idea.” “Oh, it is. But you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

“You should go.” “I should.” “But you won’t.”

“You’re hurt.” “I’ll survive.” “That’s not the same as being okay.”

“I don’t need your help.” “I didn’t say you did. But I’m here anyway.”

“You’re not as terrible as I thought.” “Careful. Someone might think you actually like me.”

“It would be easier if I hated you.” “Then maybe you should try harder.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” “That’s the problem—I think I do.”

#̩̥‧̥‧̥ ‧̥˚̩̩̥͙·✧— moonee help #writing prompts #dialogue prompts #prompts ideas #writers on tumblr #writersofinstagram #writing inspiration #story ideas #writeblr #enemies to lovers #enemies to lovers prompts #rivals in love #slow burn romance #forbbiden feelings #writing #writing romance #prompts #fanfiction

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davi-doo · 1 day ago

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On Cardinal Lawrence/Lomeli's Neutrality

Now that I almost finish the novel, I want to talk about this particular element of Lawrence/Lomeli character, which was elaborated at length in the book.

When I watched the movie, I noticed how in the beginning, Tedesco was rather friendly towards Lawrence, despite his apparent close association with the former pope and the liberal party. It was clear that the patriarch of Venice was firm in his traditionalist values, and wouldn't bother to extend pleasantry to those he knows have the opposing ideas and thus present themselves as his enemies. And yet, he not only greeted Lawrence warmly upon his own arrival but also welcomed the dean to his table and spoke earnestly during the first meal they shared at the conclave.

We know in the book, Lawrence character is originally an Italian (the name, Lomeli). This partly explains why Tedesco is willing to invite the dean into his "Holy Roman Church circle jerk", but it's not the only reason. The change of Italian Lomeli into the English Lawrence doesn't take away the meaning of Tedesco's initial affability. Let me tell you why.

As the dean of the cardinal college, Lawrence/Lomeli is the second most senior cardinal, only after the pope. There have been other posts that pointed out how much responsibility and "soft" power he has within the Curia: he's like the "manager" whose work seem mundance and invisible to himself and many, but in its absence everything might go up in flame.

Someone of his position is also aware of many secrets. Just during the welcoming hour of the conclave, he casually looked at the incoming cardinals, his colleagues, and thought to himself about all their little contribution to the church, their role in its inner politics, and so many allerged scandals. It was just a memory practice to him but oh shit, he holds all those detailed informations in his weary old head.

Naturally, Lomeli/Lawrence had been serving the pope and the church, it's his duty to protect their reputation despite all flaws. We all know how his obsession with maintaining neutrality fueled his inner turmoil, how he blames his moral weakness for his straying from faith. But it was largely the intricate systemic corruption, or rather erosion, that happened within the Curia. One that can be felt by the heart and not fully understood by the mind. One that manifested in each time a cardinal scolds "Oh don't be naive.".

Coming back to Tedesco, I believe he gave Lawrence/Lomeli the benefit of doubt, that he may be swayed to the traditionalist values, given his neutrality. Lawrence/Lomeli viewed his neutrality as a virtue, while the outsider viewed it as leniency, or even complicity! Tedesco's love language is mansplaining. I'm not joking! It's written in the book that Tedessco identified his followers as those who will sit and listen to what he has to say.

The cherry on top? When the pope passed away, Lomeli/Lawrence was the last among the senior cardinal to be informed. And yet, he himself suggest he should make a call to Tedesco, for the sake of formality. Something something "He deserves to know", except that Tedesco already knew through his inner people. The dean's liberal best friend and not so liberal colleagues can only look at him like "welp, he is really like that".

To conclude, this is not a hate post but just me making sense of the character's subtle interactions. And damn, you really should believe people when they tell you who they are, stand up and leave the fascist table like Lomeli/Lawrence did or be known as one of them.

#conclave #thomas lawrence #jacopo lomeli #cardinal lawrence #cardinal lomeli #cardinal tedesco #goffredo tedesco #analysis #losing my mind #this novel is so funny I swear

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tastytoastz · 1 day ago

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Ork names are so intressting but also leave me so confused.

In Ghazghkull's book and in the enemy of my enemy there are examples of orks naming themselves which would make sense, they do something or find a quality they have and name themselves after that like Finds-Bullets-He-Has-Not-Lost.

This also however raise a question, what are they named before they pick one? In Ghazghkull's book he's refer to 'stripling' a lot which could be used as a place holder name which would work as an ork so young might not bring themselves much attention and there for won't need to be pointed out in a crowed.

But ork names in themseleves are so confusing if you look ever slightly too long at them like:

Klawz: One word name, no last name given or hinted towards. But a clear comment on his apperance and a thing in itself

Taktikus: Probably based on the word 'tactics' but is in itself not a real word (however given some slack as he's a blood axe and like humie things). No last name given.

Gargaz teefgrabba: clear first and last name seemingly, the last name is a description of actions he does. (also his first name might be the combination of "garg-az")

Finds-Bullets-He-Has-Not-Lost: Might be a translation thing but in general a long name. Also like Gargaz has a clear explanation of something he does in their name.

Ufthak Blackhawk: Blackhawk??? Not really in itself a descripiton of what he does or has done, why did he chose this??? Unclear if his first name has meaning.

Grotsnik: Lone word, but is combination of the ork words grot-snik aka Grot-kill or grot-cut (a low gotich translation would most likely be 'grot killer' or 'grot-cutter, or they-who-cut-grots etc).

Grod Irongob: Okay what is even happening here??? Grod, like the same word for favorite enemy and best friend? Okay someone was named klawz so I guess it’s a bit the same. Iron-gob??? A combination of a human word and ork word? Okay, why not ,once again also a blood Axe so they get some slack as they’re part of the human fanboy clan. (also, they i'm pretty sure never is mentioned even wanting or having a grod so...)

It's also a bit confusing with translations given by orks, like, why does Biter feel the need to explain Bullets name but not Grotsnik's? Ufthak also once translates his own name, but only translate the Blackhawk part? Does it mean his first name has no meaning?

Is it that last names are "common" so they need to set a word before it to be able to tell the diffrence, like there are orks that share names like "da slayer" which is the name of two orks (Nogrub da slayer and Urgok da slayer), but with orks liking variety this should be rare. If their first name has no meaning do they just put togheter a bunch of syllables they like?! Does ork have like “common names” or do they make up all their names themselves like is Ufthak a common name like Bob is a name for a lot of people or did he make it up himself?! Do they all have last names but just don't use them/say them? Are there common names and those that have them need to get a last name??? Is it a clan thing??? WTF are the rules??? IS IT JUST VIBES??? (Most likely).

#I wish ork language in general had more information #tbh it's probably a combination of vibes and what the orks just like...Wants to be named but trying to actaully see a structure of rules is #and intresting thought experiment #warhammer orks #warhammer 40k

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gz-missfit · 1 year ago

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So with Phil ending stream and that event dying down I wanna talk about him.

And especially with how good of a decision it was from Cellbit to make him a fellow head of ther order.

Let me explain

So I'm gonna try and string this along but the basis I'm building on is that Phil is a center. Not just figuratively but also literally! Remember before the Favela and Spawn become the meeting places? Yeah his home was the point people would meet at, his doors were always open and his waystone was the one ingrained in people's muscle memory when a meeting or communal location was mentioned.

But Phil's also been a communicative center, he's a loner usually, mostly getting dragged along by tubbo or fit for some events.

But he's reliable! And people know this about him. They hear how a single father of 2 has carried the life of these 2 kids in his own, they've heard how Tallulah and Chayanne are the best behaved eggs due to him, they see him casual help people out etc. Phil's known for kindness and help when needed but people who don't know him don't realize there's so much more to him! Fit and Tubbo for example are the first 2 who are aware of this. Fit trusting Phil with literally everything because he knows how capable he is and Tubbo knowing Phil's capabilities in a way where he respects him heavily. And I don't even need to mention how Etoiles is aware of Phil's combat abilities.

Now why did I say that he was the perfect addition as a head of the order? Because he proved today that he is behind everything the order is about. He is a much needed cog in its machine, he's not a head investigator or strategist but he's someone they need to allow this.

Baghera wanted to investigate? Phil stopped trying to look around, focused on helping her clear mobs, gave her all his paper and kept an eye on her while calling to her to make sure she could collect evident when her inventory got filled. He's ready to put his own curiosity and knowledge aside to let others thrive.

Pierre needed a fighter when mobs swarmed him? Phil stood between him and the mobs, being a calm voice amongst panic, standing in Etoiles footsteps as protector and filling them well.

Roier wanted to stay and risk his life because he wanted more information? Phil will stay too, he's not leaving anyone behind even if it could cost his own life and he'd do it again.

Forever is acting weird and trying to brush worries off? Then Phil will worry even more and make sure he knows that Phil's someone who will be there whenever he's needed.

There's so many moments like this, Phil putting himself aside to let others thrive, becoming a support fighter for Etoiles, a teacher for tallulah, an investigator for Cellbit.

He's someone that island needs without them realizing it because he's a quiet constant hum but important! Like a humming of well working machines in a busy factory. Or the humming of bees in a thriving garden full of animals. He's quiet and not always noticeable but he's proof that things are working and okay, the backbone of it.

This is why this trust of Cellbit in him to call him a head of the order is so important for me, and especially Phil promising loyalty and trust to Cellbit cause it may sound basic but those who don't know Phil don't know how much Phil's loyalty truly means. How much his promise of it is an honor to someone because Phil's whole moral compass and trust is based on proof. If you can proof to Phil you're capable and put your money where your mouth is then he'll go through fire for you, and he's promised that to Cellbit, knowing fully well it's a promise he'll keep.

Phil's factual and logical, he's a grounding force when needed and someone who will fit himself into a role that needs to be filled. He's a support, a warrior, a investigator, a distraction etc. He's not focused on his own goals even if it hurts him to put those aside, if he sees potential in supporting or letting someone lead he'll do just that. He's so fucking observant and it's such an important trait not many islanders have to the same level he does. He watches with protective eyes and sees things most people don't. Ironically enough you can see this in his photographs a lot! He's a watcher an observer and acts based on what he sees.

Basically today, that little bit where they went into the new office where forever was taken, was proof of what Phil is needed for. He's not required, he knows that much, but he's important for the community of that island. He's important for letting others thrive. He's what the head of the order is, what they represent. Trust in eachother and letting people thrive in what they're good at while helping them in any way he can.

#qsmp #qsmp philza #character analysis #i just love him so much #hes so important and #really someone you should not make enemy's with #cause he has like that whole island #who trust him with at least something #and who'd be on his side without a doubt #void mumbling

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mishy-mashy · 9 months ago

Text

Kudo is actually such a kind, soft-hearted guy that had to toughen up because he cared too much

He looked at AFO's rule, and even though he was weak, he had that glint in his eye that has been referred to as the "will of a hero" to oppose him. A hopeful glint shared with Midoriya, Bakugo, and Hawks

He even parallels Hawks when they talk about that particular look in their eye

From a glimmer in the eye, to which eye is shown, how much of the face, a similar angle of the face, and placement of text questioning the existence of that light,

He stormed to kill Yoichi with Bruce, but couldn't, once he saw the state Yoichi was in. Even knowing he was the enemy, he still reached out his hand and never let go, even when they were running

When Yoichi died, even though they'd only been together for two months, Kudo still cried and froze up.

This is a reaction from a man who repeatedly used lives as a stepping stone for his own goal.

Kudo said himself, that victory was life, and defeat was death. He had killed and seen his friends killed over and over, but still cries when it happens again. And to someone he only knew for two months, at that.

Kudo gathered allies under his cause, and they were loyal enough to die for him. Bruce cries (still smiling tho) facing AFO, tried protecting Kudo when he froze up at Yoichi's death, and we see all Kudo's comrades dead in the end. Maybe Bruce was suicidal when he went to face AFO, knowing he'd die, but most of his comrades (and Kudo) were already gone. Their cause was snuffed out, but the will persisted.

Kudo is a bit like Aizawa.

A bit crass and blunt, doesn't like beating around the bush, but he can clearly see what kind of person you are. He's not openly kind, but you know he cares so much, but has also lost too much once. He's seen his friend(s) die, and shouldn't it have been him in that spot? Shouldn't he have died instead, but was forced to continue living for that dead person's sake?

His speech about why we call Abilities "Quirks", recognizing people's intent over raw power is the real power. (Ch 369)

He's blunt and goes straight to the results rather than beat around the bush, but it doesn't mean his heart is frozen and he doesn't care about you. (Ch 408)

He cares so much, and that's why he has to do so much. (His whole Resistance thing, figuring out how Yoichi's Factor works to make sure Yoichi and his will can live on in some way)

He recognizes that Midoriya isn't driven by duty, but that he genuinely adores Quirks too much. (Ch 414) He could look at Midoriya, read that immediately, and even though he looked through his memories, Midoriya's character was his takeaway. Not that Midoriya is an idiot for letting himself be stepped on, or that this kid was bullied, but that Midoriya could see the goodness in others.

Like how Aizawa saw that Midoriya was relying on the reason [It can't be helped] whenever OFA broke his bones and told him he can't always break himself just because he could be fixed (Midoriya's recklessness that showed itself on the first day of school). He called out something that was an underlying, innate belief to Midoriya, that was so normal to the teen, and no one else had brought up as wrong to him.

The first thing they perceive is a person's character.

When Aizawa tied up Midoriya on the first day of school, he wasn't telling him off over his Quirk destroying him being a PR thing or too gruesome for the public. It was out of the fact that his Quirk shouldn't destroy him, because it's dangerous for Midoriya.

Aizawa came off antagonistic, but he was looking out for Midoriya. He didn't want him to keep breaking his whole arm, he didn't want him to get stuck in the mindset that he had to get hurt to use his Quirk, he was looking out for his wellbeing from the start. A kid he didn't know personally until that day.

Kudo did a similar thing. He turned his back, and refused to help, because they were putting their hopes in a delusional boy who would go too far. When the vestiges realized their gathered Abilities and Quirks were letting Midoriya have the freedom to do as he wished, Kudo already knew, only saying "His path is the right one". He could relate to having to run full-sprint to see your goal realized, even if everything opposed him, but didn't want Midoriya to go through that same path alone.

If he were alone, he'd be like Nagant. He had to have comrades to be like Kudo, able to continue and stand for their beliefs, but having comrades to fall back on, or pull him back when it's too much. That's why he follows up in that moment with, "But, if there's something Midoriya does need..."

Kudo and Aizawa could see themselves or their comrades in others, and knew how to approach those character flaws that were normalized to others and said person.

Kudo could see others for who they were, and I think it's this, and his caring nature, that he gathered so many allies with him. He knew when to be blunt, when to show kindness, that the truth hurts but needs to be seen, was actually very logical and witty, and when to step aside and let people do their thing, even if it wasn't the best move (like saving All Might). Because that was what was best for that person.

It's not like people would join someone so wholeheartedly without conviction and being left unseen by that person. So many people were willing to die with and for Kudo, and Bruce believes in him so much.

When All Might's vestige was fading and becoming more solid, Kudo had to look away. They knew it meant All Might was dying in the real world.

Kudo was telling Midoriya not to intervene with Gearshift there. But once he saw All Might genuinely dying out, he couldn't look at him, and kept quiet. He stopped hanging onto battlefield logic of necessity, shut up, let Midoriya do his thing, and it saved All Might. It saved Midoriya from seeing his idol die in front of him, and Kudo didn't have to see another ally die beside him.

The chapter is literally called [We Love You All Might!!]. Even if it's just meant to focus in Bakugo and Midoriya, and only has 2 exclamation marks, it can't discount the world is watching. The vestiges care about All Might too.

When the vestiges come up with the plan to forcibly transfer themselves to deal damage, Kudo volunteers himself as the test dummy. Sure, he backs it with a lot of reason too, but he didn't want anyone else to go first as a test drive

He, with a Gearshift Ability that resembled a manual car, was the test drive. Ha ha pun- *gets shot*

En tried going first. Kudo rejected him, saying he would go first.

"Part ways with Gearshift [me], and you'll be free of the crippling recoil too."

Too. TOO.

KUDO JUST WANTED TO GO AND BE DESTROYED FIRST. HE PUT THE FREEDOM OF RECOIL DOWN AS AN EXTRA BONUS SO THEY'D AGREE WITH HIS CHOICE.

I'd cut the image so it looks better, and I can use Bruce's words elsewhere, but this is an image limit, so,

- Kudo refused to let anyone else go first. This was before giving reasons to convince them he should leave first

- En gives reason to why it can't be Kudo. Kudo just says, "Listen." and reminds them of now.

- Look at Kudo's face when he says that. The guy knows what he's doing when he cuts off En, and would probably be a horrible liar. He might as well be pulling this out of his ass.

He's said "The world will end" "You have to or else" "Five minutes" "You're going to die" a few times in this fight already. DUDE STOPPP

(Terrible liar and a guy who purposely eggs you to torment? What a great friend he would be [yknow, when u make ur friends freak out by being ominous or reminding them of stuff. Like Toast to Lilypichu in a game of Observation Duty])

- "Too."

- Bruce's trust in him, but knowing when to pull Kudo back from going too far

Also, when he's transferred, he smiles to Midoriya. He knows he's about to die again, but the last thing he does for Midoriya is

1) Take away the recoil of his existence as a Factor on the boy

2) Reassure him that it's okay, so it doesn't weigh on his conscience

Even if only in thought, STILL!

KUDO LOOKED SO PROUD OF MIDORIYA!

I bet Kudo is suuuch a sentimental fool

> [Be me and watch your new friend die]

> [I have Yoichi's Factor]

> [It's like I carry his will now]

> [Have a glint of opposition in my eye that drives the Demon Lord and my comrades (Bruce) crazy]

> [Hey Bruce, let's figure out how it transfers]

> [Bruce's common sense VS my rabid ideas]

> [I win]

> [Bruce was unwilling the whole time and still ends up with the Factor]

> [The Factor is named One For All, after something in Yoichi's favorite comic book series]

> [We pass it on to the future to carry forward]

> [Even as everyone else and me dies, I make sure Yoichi and his will are safe from his Demon Lord brother that locked him up]

> [Decades later, my sweet vaulted friend reminds me of when we met]

> [I turn around and give my whole-hearted support to believe in some 15-year old boy because Yoichi believes in him too]

SEN - TIM - ENT - AL!

When Shinomori was stolen by AFO, Shinomori pushed everyone away before they could really notice the invader. Kudo called out for him.

Everyone is in shock, but I don't think it's a mistake that the text bubble calling out for Shinomori is pointing from Kudo.

All For One made it through and is ready to steal them, but the first thing Kudo did was call out for the one at the very front.

[On the post I made that mentions Shinomori pushing everyone away] What if Kudo wasn't pushed away? What if this was him at the front, realizing the danger and turning around, but being unable to do anything for Shinomori when he saw?

Like Bruce, Kudo communicates. He doesn't expect you to just follow or understand him. He actually lays it out and makes sure you keep up.

He explains

- the transfer of vestiges, and why he should go first

- his Quirk

- why Quirks are Quirks

- reports to Midoriya what's happening and what's next

- to Yoichi why they couldn't trust in a delusional boy. In a way that wasn't Bruce's roundabout "we lived in a terrible era and a leader gathered us"

When En panics, he barks at En to keep up. By barking at him, rather than any other way he could've used his tone, it shuts up En in his frantic babbling. Kudo also lets Vestige Might put in his thoughts to understand better, and uses it.

Eye reflection. Kudo can really see people for who they are, and understands others, and himself.

I can't repeat the pics cuz image limit, but look at previous panels here. For example, Kudo saying Yoichi's will lives in him, and when AFO reflected in his eyes

It's something I learned from Re:Zero. When a person in reflected in one's eye, something something that person can see the true core of you, of what you really are underneath everything. The eyes are the window and mirror [glass] of the soul. I finally see the true you.

AFO never reflected anyone.

But Kudo reflected AFO when the man accidentally killed Yoichi. He saw that AFO wasn't seeing anything, so later, Kudo smiled and mocked AFO at his own death.

"Yoichi?"

"He's gone."

"You killed him, Demon Lord."

And AFO hated that reminder.

Kudo was reminding him of what the truth was. Kudo saw it himself, and AFO blocked it out from the get-go. Kudo already knew what AFO was, what he was seeing, what he was doing to himself by blaming Kudo instead of himself.

And then, Kudo's eyes reflected his own hand when he realized Yoichi's Factor was in him.

Kudo clearly saw himself, and in himself, Yoichi. Nothing distorted it. It really was a clear mirror.

He really perceived Yoichi's will was living on, and was right. Otherwise, his eyes wouldn't have shown it.

Kudo was right about AFO. It's even implied back when he and Bruce had their backs turned; Kudo knew what AFO's real goal was. That was back when AFO preached unity and division under him.

Kudo could always see right through AFO. He really understood people from the start. And he never tried making up truths to justify what he was seeing, facing it head-on.

Kudo's lying about the world being black and white.

Kudo and Bruce saw the world as black and white. This was mentioned in the void.

Kudo also says, "Victory meant life. Defeat meant death."

But it's the Resistance. It's when Japan and the world was at their lowest. The world wasn't black and white; there's lots of gray.

Kudo and Bruce would've seen this. Kudo even admits that there's gray, just not directly.

Kudo says Yoichi knows, how he killed and trampled so many lives, to get back at AFO. He knows it wasn't right, or an amazing choice. Later, he says that when your back is against the wall, you have to make callous judgements. These hint at gray moments.

Kudo and Bruce have faced and been in the gray. But it's too hard to make the right choices, and there are times there is no right answer.

Historically, soldiers would convince themselves the enemy were monsters. They wouldn't be able to fight and kill them otherwise. They wouldn't be able to live with themselves without believing in this so badly.

Kudo and Bruce had to have been the same way. They were Meta Humans [Monsters] in a time they were viewed as diseased humans. The monsters were real. And they had a Demon Lord. Kudo and Bruce literally dressed up as soldiers.

Even if they were monsters to society, being Meta, Kudo and Bruce were still human. They knew this. The ones who tried believing in only black and white were inhabitants of the gray itself.

But they have to protect themselves. Kudo is so adamant that the world is only black and white, because he can't stand the gray. What it makes him do, what it means, that he's too weak to do anything.

Yoichi is an example of that gray area. The mortal enemy's younger brother, was actually locked up and sickly. He's just a comic book nerd. And it humanized the other side Kudo opposed so vehemently.

Kudo says victory is life and defeat is death. And Yoichi asked why he reached out to him then. He reminded Kudo of that gray area, and Kudo opened up.

Kudo might avoid the gray area because it's a matter of the heart and a moral dilemma, but it's what makes him human. When there's no right answer in the battlefield, he decides on his feelings instead.

He wishes the world was black and white, because it'd be so easy. But it's not.

Yoichi reminded him of how entering that gray area led to OFA ("when you reached out your hand to me"), and it had been the best choice in the end. The gray area is real, and Kudo's left a bare man with only his emotions when he's there.

Kudo is actually really kind and understanding. He's too soft for his own good. Thanks if you made it this far, I hope it makes sense (tag and image limit)

#KUDO IS UNDERRATED NEEDS MORE CONTENT RECOGNITION HES THE KINDEST WITTLE BOY EVER #my thoughts #i think ppl who write resistance stuff should also consider that not everything was black and white #there will be moral arguments where you cant decide. and the resistance has faced those sorts of things where There Is No Right Answer.#kudo is really kind tho. exactly because he cares so much he does all these things and tries to harden himself #but like exoskeletons work - its only an armor to protect the soft squishy insides and keep them from drying out #i woke up and had to put this stuff down #me: *picks up a sentence note in my fic notes* *puts it down here and elaborates*#the line was in relation to putting down stuff about the vestiges to remember dynamics #[Kudo is the kindest despite appearances]#kudo seems like he would be fiercely protective over ppl he cares about. exactly because hes seen so many of his comrades die over and over #kudo #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #spoilers #ofa #one for all #bruce #bruce is the meme of “*chuckles* I'm in danger” and its just. Kudo w/ his new crazy idea chasing him down with Gearshift and Yoichis Factor #hikage shinomori #en tayutai #yoichi shigaraki #ive been thinking he was kind for a long time but never elaborated why. if u look at his actions words and thoughts it all makes sense #theres underlying kindness in there. he wants to be kind but the world would scorch him if he didnt have a stick up his ass #also adding on to the prev tag of kudo and fiercely protective- because in their times comrades were everything. otherwise you were alone #the world sucks resources are limited and youre a diseased human [Meta]. but you have someone willing to walk with you.#also about the [Kudo is the kindest] note among the vestiges- i dont think any of the other vestiges would do what kudo did #calmly volunteering himself rather than it being in panic. extending a hand and saving what shouldve been his mortal enemy. yknow

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