#some of these shows have been going for over a decade!!! like what !!!

[bigification]

Hey there would you like to try out these special perfumes? I can guarantee you will feel like a muscle daddy without even need to lift any weight. Some minor physical changes are just slight side effects don't worry about it.

"Some minor what? Sorry it's loud in here, I couldn't quite hear what you said."

I get on my top toes, trying to get closer to your level so I can hear you better.

"Some perfume? Oh... sure I might as well if it's free."

I grab the small black bottle of perfume and spray it on my wrist to test what it smells like.

"Oh god, that smells awful. Is that... sweat?"

I cough as the pungent smell engulfs me. I violently rub my wrist to get rid of the smell, but it only seems to be getting stronger.

*RIIIIIIIIPPP*

The sound of fabric ripping distracts me from the smell. The sound came from my sleeves, which are now torn to shreds.

"Is my arm... bigger than before?"

I poke and prod my now rock solid biceps as they continue to grow. I stare for a few seconds, mesmerized by the sight of my arms swelling, but I snap myself out of it.

"What is happening to me?"

Why am I growing? Why do I reek? Why can't I remember how I got here? All questions that are running through my mind. I can't think about that right now though. My clothes feel so tight.

*TEEEEAAAAARRRRRRR*

The sound of fabric tearing once again echoes around me. I look down to see my shirt has fallen to the floor in pieces, leaving me shirtless. Not that I mind showing off my bod, I've been hitting the gym so I could show it off. Wait, hold on a minute, I don't go to the gym. I look down at my swelling pecs and wonder how they got that big, and when did I get such a ripped six pack. It's because I earned it at the gym. Yeah, of course I go to the gym every day.

"I'm having trouble thinking, but I must've just had a sick workout if I smell like this."

I giggle to myself, breathing in my own stench. Of course I'm proud of it, it's a sign of hard work dedication.

*POP!*

I watch as the button on my fly flings across the room. It distracts me from admiring my upper body. My thighs expand until my jeans are bursting at the seams, and I feel the pressure build as my ass perks up. It doesn't take long for my jeans to also end up on the floor in pieces.

"Why does this feel so good bro."

My now massive man hands slide down my crotch as my once average dick starts to grow. Adding inches by the second, it sticks straight up past my belly button. Finally settling at a monstrous 10 inches long and as girthy as a pop can.

*SNAAAPPPP*

With comic timing, my feet burst through my shoes as they grow from a modest size 10 to a hulking size 16. But the euphoria of watching my muscles expand in front of my eyes is interrupted by a sudden lethargic feeling. I'm not as spry as I was in my twenties. Wait no, I'm in my twenties now. Well that can't be right, I just celebrated my 45th birthday. Who gives a fuck how old I am if I'm built like this.

"I gotta check these gains out bro."

I turn to the mirror beside me, and flinch when I see my reflection. My face... it's different I think. I run my hand through my thinning hair and over my five o'clock shadow. It feels so new but so familiar. The square jaw, wide nose, and wrinkles show the years, no, decades I've worked to have a sick bod like this.

"You like what you see, son?"

My gruff voice echoes around the room as I start to show off my bulging muscles. I love showing off to pipsqueaks like you, you're the perfect height to stare at my muscle tits. Don't feel bad about it, most guys are.

"You got something for me? A cigar? Nah bro, that shits not for me."

I would never put poison like that in my body unless it made me bigger. My body is a temple. But... now that you mention it, I am kind of craving a cigar right now.

"Damn that shit smells kinda good tho. It's a Cuban cigar? Give me that."

I snatch the massive cigar from you and stick it into my mouth.

"Got a ligh-"

I'm interrupted as you pull out a match.

"Old fashioned, I respect that bro."

I take a deep breath in, really letting that smoke settle in my lungs. I don't smoke often, so I gotta make the high worth it. Though something feels different this time, I can feel the smoke coating my lungs.

"What is happening? Side effects?"

I look at the bottle of perfume and see written in bold, "Do not smoke or take any drugs while using this product." I continue reading.

"Side effects may include; weight gain-"

I feel my stomach drop as I'm reading it. I look down in horror as I see a distended muscle gut where my abs used to be.

"Hormone imbalance."

My pecs swell into a pair of man tits that hang over my gut and my nipples perk up, making them impossible to hide under a shirt. My ass also widens as it becomes more soft and rounded. Worst of all, I feel my balls shrivel up like prunes. I quickly grab a pair of gym shorts that are conveniently resting beside me. Not many men are 6"6 and 300 pounds like me, how lucky that there was a pair of shorts that fit me.

"Excessive body hair."

I can feel an intense itchiness as my once hairless body is covered head to toe in a thick forest of salt and pepper hair. Especially around my chest and gut. I can also feel my five o'clock shadow grow into a bushy goatee and mustache.

"Male pattern baldness."

A cold sensation engulfs my head as my hairline starts to rapidly recede, even more than it already had. My hairline moves further and further back until I'm left with a strip of short and thin hair on the back of my head.

"Addiction."

My body suddenly feels drained, like I have a severe fever. I instinctively pull my cigar to my mouth and take a deep breath in. The smoke fills my lungs, and just like that I feel great again.

"Why are you still staring, kid. You really want a piece of all this?"

I grab you by the collar, letting you smell smoke off my breath and the sweat from my skin.

"Only real men can handle me. So why don't we fix that."

I yank you closer to me before pulling out the perfume and spraying it into your face. It makes me smile when you try to brush away the pungent fragrance.

"The smell will grow on you, son."

[bearforcecaptions]

The lights flickered again.

They always did when someone new arrived. That soft, pulsing glow that ran through the walls, like the place itself was exhaling in anticipation. I leaned against the squat rack, waiting. I didn’t know how long I’d been here—days, weeks, years? It didn’t matter anymore. All I knew was that when the lights pulsed like that, someone else was about to walk through those doors, confused and scared, their life about to be rewritten.

This time, the man who stumbled in couldn’t have been more out of place. Middle-aged, thin, with the kind of stooped posture that came from decades of working hunched over desks or shelves. He was wearing a gray cardigan over a button-down shirt, neatly pressed khakis, and polished loafers that echoed slightly on the gym’s smooth floors. He carried a leather satchel in one hand, clutching it like a lifeline, his wide eyes darting across the mirrored walls and rows of gleaming equipment. He looked like he should have been walking into a library or an academic conference, not… here.

“What on earth?” he muttered, his voice low, trembling. He stood frozen for a moment, taking in the scene—the endless rows of dumbbells and machines, the clinking of weights as the other men in the gym worked through their routines, completely oblivious to his arrival. The mirrors reflected his thin, nervous frame a thousand times over, distorting him until he seemed swallowed up by the space.

I pushed off the rack and crossed my arms, watching him. It was always the same—panic first, then denial, and finally, acceptance. But everyone fought it differently.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “You lost?”

He spun around, startled, his satchel swinging slightly. He was older than most of the people who showed up here—maybe mid-forties, with thinning brown hair streaked with gray at the temples. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made his pale blue eyes seem even more anxious. His face was lined, but not unpleasant, though it had that soft, academic quality that suggested he’d spent more time reading than living.

“I… yes, I think so,” he said, his voice shaky. “I was just leaving work, and I—” He paused, frowning. “This isn’t right. Where am I?”

“You’re in the gym,” I said simply, gesturing around us. “You didn’t mean to end up here, did you?”

“No, I…” He trailed off, looking around again. “I was leaving the library, locking up for the night. I stepped out the back door, and then… I was here.” His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It never does,” I said. “But you might as well put that bag down. You’re not going anywhere.”

He frowned, clearly not understanding. “What do you mean, ‘not going anywhere’? There’s always a way out.”

“Not here,” I said, leaning back against the rack again. “Every door leads back to the gym. You can try them all if you want, but it won’t make a difference.”

His mouth opened to argue, but he stopped himself, looking at me like he thought I might be messing with him. I didn’t bother explaining further. It was always easier to let them figure it out for themselves.

He did. For hours, or maybe it was minutes—it was hard to tell. He tried every door, every hallway, every nook and cranny of the gym, even peering behind some of the machines like there might be a hidden escape route. Each time, he ended up right back where he started. I watched him, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable moment when he’d realize there was nothing else to do.

Eventually, he slumped down on a nearby bench, his satchel abandoned on the floor. His cardigan was hanging off one shoulder now, his button-down damp with sweat from all the pacing. He looked defeated, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“I don’t understand,” he said, mostly to himself. “This is impossible.”

“It’s not about understanding,” I said, walking over. “It’s about accepting. There’s nothing to do here except work out. Sooner or later, you’ll start.”

He gave me a sharp look, like I’d insulted him. “I don’t belong here,” he said, his voice firming slightly. “I’m a librarian. I haven’t set foot in a gym in years.”

I shrugged. “You’re here now. And there’s nothing else to do. So unless you want to sit and stare at the walls forever…”

He didn’t answer, just looked down at his hands, his thin fingers twitching slightly. After a long pause, he stood up, walking over to one of the machines with a hesitant, almost resigned air. He stared at it like it was some alien contraption, his head tilted slightly. Then, cautiously, he sat down and gripped the handles.

The first push was awkward, his arms trembling as he tried to move the weight. He was clearly out of his element, his movements shaky and uncoordinated. But he kept at it, his jaw tightening with determination. He didn’t look at me again, too focused on the machine.

The changes started slowly. At first, it was just his posture—his shoulders squared as he worked through his reps, the slump in his back disappearing. His movements became smoother, more confident, as though his body was remembering something it had never known. His arms, once thin and weak, began to fill out, the first hints of muscle appearing beneath his pale skin.

His cardigan slipped off completely at some point, forgotten on the floor, and his button-down shirt started to cling to his torso, the fabric tightening as his chest began to expand. He frowned, tugging at it absently, but he didn’t stop. His khakis were next, the legs stretching taut against his thighs, which were visibly thickening with each push. By the time he moved on to the free weights, the khakis had morphed into gray Nike sweatpants, snug around his growing legs.

I watched as he grabbed a set of dumbbells, his hands gripping the metal with more confidence than before. His biceps swelled as he curled them, the veins in his forearms becoming more pronounced. His button-down had somehow transformed into a tight maroon T-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders, the sleeves straining to contain his growing arms. The hem rode up slightly, revealing a set of abs that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

He paused mid-rep, frowning as he caught his reflection in the mirror. “Is it just me, or do I look… different?” he asked, glancing at me.

I smirked. “You’re changing. Everyone does.”

“What?” His voice wavered slightly, but he didn’t sound as panicked as I’d expected. He turned back to the mirror, his eyes narrowing as he examined himself. “I mean, I do look better, don’t I?”

“Sure,” I said. “But that’s not all that’s happening.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. He flexed his arm experimentally, a grin spreading across his face as he admired the way his bicep bulged. “I haven’t looked like this since college,” he said, his tone lighter, almost excited. “No, I’ve never looked like this.”

The lights flickered again.

They always did when someone new arrived. That soft, pulsing glow that ran through the walls, like the place itself was exhaling in anticipation. I leaned against the squat rack, waiting. I didn’t know how long I’d been here—days, weeks, years? It didn’t matter anymore. All I knew was that when the lights pulsed like that, someone else was about to walk through those doors, confused and scared, their life about to be rewritten.

This time, the man who stumbled in couldn’t have been more out of place. Middle-aged, thin, with the kind of stooped posture that came from decades of working hunched over desks or shelves. He was wearing a gray cardigan over a button-down shirt, neatly pressed khakis, and polished loafers that echoed slightly on the gym’s smooth floors. He carried a leather satchel in one hand, clutching it like a lifeline, his wide eyes darting across the mirrored walls and rows of gleaming equipment. He looked like he should have been walking into a library or an academic conference, not… here.

“What on earth?” he muttered, his voice low, trembling. He stood frozen for a moment, taking in the scene—the endless rows of dumbbells and machines, the clinking of weights as the other men in the gym worked through their routines, completely oblivious to his arrival. The mirrors reflected his thin, nervous frame a thousand times over, distorting him until he seemed swallowed up by the space.

I pushed off the rack and crossed my arms, watching him. It was always the same—panic first, then denial, and finally, acceptance. But everyone fought it differently.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “You lost?”

He spun around, startled, his satchel swinging slightly. He was older than most of the people who showed up here—maybe mid-forties, with thinning brown hair streaked with gray at the temples. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made his pale blue eyes seem even more anxious. His face was lined, but not unpleasant, though it had that soft, academic quality that suggested he’d spent more time reading than living.

“I… yes, I think so,” he said, his voice shaky. “I was just leaving work, and I—” He paused, frowning. “This isn’t right. Where am I?”

“You’re in the gym,” I said simply, gesturing around us. “You didn’t mean to end up here, did you?”

“No, I…” He trailed off, looking around again. “I was leaving the library, locking up for the night. I stepped out the back door, and then… I was here.” His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It never does,” I said. “But you might as well put that bag down. You’re not going anywhere.”

He frowned, clearly not understanding. “What do you mean, ‘not going anywhere’? There’s always a way out.”

“Not here,” I said, leaning back against the rack again. “Every door leads back to the gym. You can try them all if you want, but it won’t make a difference.”

His mouth opened to argue, but he stopped himself, looking at me like he thought I might be messing with him. I didn’t bother explaining further. It was always easier to let them figure it out for themselves.

He did. For hours, or maybe it was minutes—it was hard to tell. He tried every door, every hallway, every nook and cranny of the gym, even peering behind some of the machines like there might be a hidden escape route. Each time, he ended up right back where he started. I watched him, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable moment when he’d realize there was nothing else to do.

Eventually, he slumped down on a nearby bench, his satchel abandoned on the floor. His cardigan was hanging off one shoulder now, his button-down damp with sweat from all the pacing. He looked defeated, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“I don’t understand,” he said, mostly to himself. “This is impossible.”

“It’s not about understanding,” I said, walking over. “It’s about accepting. There’s nothing to do here except work out. Sooner or later, you’ll start.”

He gave me a sharp look, like I’d insulted him. “I don’t belong here,” he said, his voice firming slightly. “I’m a librarian. I haven’t set foot in a gym in years.”

I shrugged. “You’re here now. And there’s nothing else to do. So unless you want to sit and stare at the walls forever…”

He didn’t answer, just looked down at his hands, his thin fingers twitching slightly. After a long pause, he stood up, walking over to one of the machines with a hesitant, almost resigned air. He stared at it like it was some alien contraption, his head tilted slightly. Then, cautiously, he sat down and gripped the handles.

The first push was awkward, his arms trembling as he tried to move the weight. He was clearly out of his element, his movements shaky and uncoordinated. But he kept at it, his jaw tightening with determination. He didn’t look at me again, too focused on the machine.

The changes started slowly. At first, it was just his posture—his shoulders squared as he worked through his reps, the slump in his back disappearing. His movements became smoother, more confident, as though his body was remembering something it had never known. His arms, once thin and weak, began to fill out, the first hints of muscle appearing beneath his pale skin.

His cardigan slipped off completely at some point, forgotten on the floor, and his button-down shirt started to cling to his torso, the fabric tightening as his chest began to expand. He frowned, tugging at it absently, but he didn’t stop. His khakis were next, the legs stretching taut against his thighs, which were visibly thickening with each push. By the time he moved on to the free weights, the khakis had morphed into gray Nike sweatpants, snug around his growing legs.

I watched as he grabbed a set of dumbbells, his hands gripping the metal with more confidence than before. His biceps swelled as he curled them, the veins in his forearms becoming more pronounced. His button-down had somehow transformed into a tight maroon T-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders, the sleeves straining to contain his growing arms. The hem rode up slightly, revealing a set of abs that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

He paused mid-rep, frowning as he caught his reflection in the mirror. “Is it just me, or do I look… different?” he asked, glancing at me.

I smirked. “You’re changing. Everyone does.”

“What?” His voice wavered slightly, but he didn’t sound as panicked as I’d expected. He turned back to the mirror, his eyes narrowing as he examined himself. “I mean, I do look better, don’t I?”

“Sure,” I said. “But that’s not all that’s happening.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. He flexed his arm experimentally, a grin spreading across his face as he admired the way his bicep bulged. “I haven’t looked like this since college,” he said, his tone lighter, almost excited. “No, I’ve never looked like this.”

The lights flickered again.

They always did when someone new arrived. That soft, pulsing glow that ran through the walls, like the place itself was exhaling in anticipation. I leaned against the squat rack, waiting. I didn’t know how long I’d been here—days, weeks, years? It didn’t matter anymore. All I knew was that when the lights pulsed like that, someone else was about to walk through those doors, confused and scared, their life about to be rewritten.

This time, the man who stumbled in couldn’t have been more out of place. Middle-aged, thin, with the kind of stooped posture that came from decades of working hunched over desks or shelves. He was wearing a gray cardigan over a button-down shirt, neatly pressed khakis, and polished loafers that echoed slightly on the gym’s smooth floors. He carried a leather satchel in one hand, clutching it like a lifeline, his wide eyes darting across the mirrored walls and rows of gleaming equipment. He looked like he should have been walking into a library or an academic conference, not… here.

“What on earth?” he muttered, his voice low, trembling. He stood frozen for a moment, taking in the scene—the endless rows of dumbbells and machines, the clinking of weights as the other men in the gym worked through their routines, completely oblivious to his arrival. The mirrors reflected his thin, nervous frame a thousand times over, distorting him until he seemed swallowed up by the space.

I pushed off the rack and crossed my arms, watching him. It was always the same—panic first, then denial, and finally, acceptance. But everyone fought it differently.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “You lost?”

He spun around, startled, his satchel swinging slightly. He was older than most of the people who showed up here—maybe mid-forties, with thinning brown hair streaked with gray at the temples. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made his pale blue eyes seem even more anxious. His face was lined, but not unpleasant, though it had that soft, academic quality that suggested he’d spent more time reading than living.

“I… yes, I think so,” he said, his voice shaky. “I was just leaving work, and I—” He paused, frowning. “This isn’t right. Where am I?”

“You’re in the gym,” I said simply, gesturing around us. “You didn’t mean to end up here, did you?”

“No, I…” He trailed off, looking around again. “I was leaving the library, locking up for the night. I stepped out the back door, and then… I was here.” His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It never does,” I said. “But you might as well put that bag down. You’re not going anywhere.”

He frowned, clearly not understanding. “What do you mean, ‘not going anywhere’? There’s always a way out.”

“Not here,” I said, leaning back against the rack again. “Every door leads back to the gym. You can try them all if you want, but it won’t make a difference.”

His mouth opened to argue, but he stopped himself, looking at me like he thought I might be messing with him. I didn’t bother explaining further. It was always easier to let them figure it out for themselves.

He did. For hours, or maybe it was minutes—it was hard to tell. He tried every door, every hallway, every nook and cranny of the gym, even peering behind some of the machines like there might be a hidden escape route. Each time, he ended up right back where he started. I watched him, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable moment when he’d realize there was nothing else to do.

Eventually, he slumped down on a nearby bench, his satchel abandoned on the floor. His cardigan was hanging off one shoulder now, his button-down damp with sweat from all the pacing. He looked defeated, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“I don’t understand,” he said, mostly to himself. “This is impossible.”

“It’s not about understanding,” I said, walking over. “It’s about accepting. There’s nothing to do here except work out. Sooner or later, you’ll start.”

He gave me a sharp look, like I’d insulted him. “I don’t belong here,” he said, his voice firming slightly. “I’m a librarian. I haven’t set foot in a gym in years.”

I shrugged. “You’re here now. And there’s nothing else to do. So unless you want to sit and stare at the walls forever…”

He didn’t answer, just looked down at his hands, his thin fingers twitching slightly. After a long pause, he stood up, walking over to one of the machines with a hesitant, almost resigned air. He stared at it like it was some alien contraption, his head tilted slightly. Then, cautiously, he sat down and gripped the handles.

The first push was awkward, his arms trembling as he tried to move the weight. He was clearly out of his element, his movements shaky and uncoordinated. But he kept at it, his jaw tightening with determination. He didn’t look at me again, too focused on the machine.

The changes started slowly. At first, it was just his posture—his shoulders squared as he worked through his reps, the slump in his back disappearing. His movements became smoother, more confident, as though his body was remembering something it had never known. His arms, once thin and weak, began to fill out, the first hints of muscle appearing beneath his pale skin.

His cardigan slipped off completely at some point, forgotten on the floor, and his button-down shirt started to cling to his torso, the fabric tightening as his chest began to expand. He frowned, tugging at it absently, but he didn’t stop. His khakis were next, the legs stretching taut against his thighs, which were visibly thickening with each push. By the time he moved on to the free weights, the khakis had morphed into gray Nike sweatpants, snug around his growing legs.

I watched as he grabbed a set of dumbbells, his hands gripping the metal with more confidence than before. His biceps swelled as he curled them, the veins in his forearms becoming more pronounced. His button-down had somehow transformed into a tight maroon T-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders, the sleeves straining to contain his growing arms. The hem rode up slightly, revealing a set of abs that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

He paused mid-rep, frowning as he caught his reflection in the mirror. “Is it just me, or do I look… different?” he asked, glancing at me.

I smirked. “You’re changing. Everyone does.”

“What?” His voice wavered slightly, but he didn’t sound as panicked as I’d expected. He turned back to the mirror, his eyes narrowing as he examined himself. “I mean, I do look better, don’t I?”

“Sure,” I said. “But that’s not all that’s happening.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. He flexed his arm experimentally, a grin spreading across his face as he admired the way his bicep bulged. “I haven’t looked like this since college,” he said, his tone lighter, almost excited. “No, I’ve never looked like this.”

I didn’t bother correcting him. The changes were already affecting his mind, his memories shifting to accommodate the new reality. It was subtle at first—almost unnoticeable. He still responded when I called him Richard, but there was hesitation, a faint flicker of confusion in his eyes, like the name didn’t sit right anymore.

By the time he moved on to another machine, the transformation was undeniable. His maroon T-shirt was no longer sitting properly—it had somehow ridden up, the hem tucked under itself and pulled halfway over his head. It clung to his neck and bunched around his upper arms like a makeshift cape, the fabric framing his now-sculpted chest and sharply defined abs. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care. Instead, he focused entirely on the mirror, admiring the way the overhead lights highlighted every groove in his torso. His pecs looked impossibly firm, rising and falling with each slow, deliberate breath.

The silver chain had appeared around his neck at some point, its polished links catching the light with every slight movement. It sat just above his chest, glinting in the mirror like it had always belonged there. His sweatpants clung tightly to his thighs, emphasizing their powerful bulk, the fabric stretched taut over legs that had once been scrawny. The waistband sagged low on his hips, revealing the elastic band of Calvin Klein briefs. Even the brand seemed to match the newfound confidence radiating from him.

He caught me staring, pausing in front of the mirror with a cocky grin. “I look good, huh?” he said, flexing one arm and glancing between me and his reflection.

I frowned. “You’re changing, Richard. This isn’t—”

“Who’s Richard?” he interrupted, letting out a low, amused laugh. “Man, you’re weird.” He shook his head, turning his attention back to the mirror. His hand ran through his hair, which was now thicker, darker, and styled into soft spikes. His face had become smoother, younger, his jawline sharper. A shadow of stubble darkened his cheeks and chin, perfectly trimmed, as if he’d spent hours grooming it. But I knew better—it had just appeared.

“Richard is who you were,” I said firmly, stepping closer. “You don’t have to give in to this.”

He didn’t even glance at me this time. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said absently, adjusting the chain around his neck. His biceps bulged as he moved, the veins in his arms standing out against his tanned skin. “You’re kinda bringing down the vibe, bro.”

“Bro?” I repeated, incredulous. “You’re not—”

But he’d already moved on, grabbing a set of heavier dumbbells. I watched as he curled them, his movements slow and deliberate, his grin widening with each rep. His muscles swelled with every lift, as though the weights were sculpting him further, refining every detail of his physique. I could feel the gym working on him, reshaping not just his body but his mind.

I tried to get through to him again a little later, when he’d moved to the leg press. He was loading plates onto the machine with a kind of thoughtless ease, his movements mechanical but confident. “Richard,” I called, louder this time.

He glanced over his shoulder, frowning slightly. “What now, dude?”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “You can stop. You can fight it.”

“Fight what?” He laughed, shaking his head as he sat down and braced his legs against the machine. “You’re not making any sense, man. I’m just… doing my thing, you know?”

“This isn’t who you are!” I snapped, frustration boiling over. “You’re a librarian. You don’t belong here.”

He hesitated for just a second, his hands gripping the bars of the machine. Then he grinned, his teeth gleaming white. “Librarian? Nah, man. I’m not… I mean, that doesn’t sound right.” He pressed the weight, his quads flexing powerfully. “Besides, look at me. This is who I am. Always been, right?”

“No, it’s not!” I insisted, stepping closer. But he wasn’t listening anymore. His focus was entirely on the machine, on the weight, on the burn of his muscles. He grunted with effort, his sweatpants riding lower with each press, exposing more of the waistband of his underwear.

Our conversations grew shorter after that. Every time I tried to talk to him, he seemed more distracted, his attention entirely on his reflection or the next set of reps.

“Hey, Richard,” I said again one day—if it was even a day. Time blurred together here, and it felt like I was stuck in an endless loop. “Do you even remember where you came from?”

“Uh, sure,” he said without looking at me, his voice vague. He flexed in the mirror, adjusting the way his shirt hung around his neck. “Came from, like… somewhere, I guess. Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It does matter!” I said sharply. “You’re forgetting yourself. Can’t you see that?”

“Dude,” he said, finally glancing my way, his tone exasperated. “I don’t get what your deal is. I feel great. I look great. Why would I care about… whatever boring stuff you’re on about?”

“That ‘boring stuff’ is who you are,” I said, but I could already tell he wasn’t paying attention. He was busy pulling his sweatpants lower, angling his body in front of the mirror to admire his abs. The smirk on his face made my stomach churn.

“Looking sick, right?” he said, gesturing at his reflection. He glanced at me like he expected me to agree, but when I didn’t, he just shrugged and turned away.

It didn’t take long after that for him to stop talking to me entirely. My attempts to reach him were met with vague grunts, or, more often, complete silence. He became just like the others—completely absorbed in his workouts, his reflection, the endless pursuit of perfection. He spent hours—if hours even existed here—lifting, flexing, adjusting his chain or his sweatpants. Occasionally, he’d let out a low, satisfied laugh as he admired his progress, but he never spoke to me again.

I watched him for a long time, that familiar mix of anger and helplessness twisting in my chest. The man who had walked into the gym—the librarian clutching his satchel and looking so out of place—was gone. In his place was another meathead, all muscles and vanity, his mind as sculpted and empty as his body was powerful. He didn’t even glance my way as he moved from one machine to the next, lost in the rhythm of his routine.

And I knew, eventually, the lights would flicker for him. But until then, he was just another mindless body in the gym, endlessly lifting, endlessly transforming.

[blitzwhore]

Hello! I'd like to ask if you've seen the post with the screenshots that says Stolas inflicts his own torment by going with Stella's whims despite having more power and prestige than her. There is a rebuttal, of course, but someone else also added that the reason people think as the screenshot says is because the writers didn't put enough emphasis and reason on the hold Stella has over Stolas and his fear of her, as well as the fact that her apparent uninvolvement with Octavia makes his reason to stick with her seems very weak. They do put an intriguing essay on how the fear of Stella for Stolas could have stand out more.

Personally I think that he's probably desensitised and numb to her after with Paimon as well and the image of a nuclear family is a must for both society and daughter. Perhaps we'll have more answers in s3. What do you think?

Drink water regularly, may a good week come to you.

Hi! I haven't seen that post, no.

When I see posts arguing about the quality of the show's writing I almost always ignore them, because I'm not interested in discourse and I want my blog to be a place that's fun for me and others to scroll through. I don't want fandom wank and 'criticism of the show' on my blog because I go into fandom spaces to have fun, not to get angry. So if I'd seen that post, I probably would've just sighed really hard and kept scrolling.

That being said, because this ask touches on a subject matter that is extremely personal to me, I'll bite and share my personal opinion, which is that the writing is perfectly executed exactly as it is. Helluva Boss is a show for a mature audience—it says so at the beginning of every episode. That doesn't just mean "hey, there's sex and drugs in these episodes". It also means, "hey, some heavy themes are going to be handled in this show, and we're not going to hold your hand and walk you through them. It's up to you to use your media literacy and critical thinking skills to pick up on the things we're going to show you".

And maybe it's because I'm an abuse survivor myself and I know exactly what it feels like to go through decades of abuse, and maybe other viewers' interpretation of Stolas' character is completely different, but... I personally had zero trouble picking up on Stolas' motivations, fears, and emotions, or on why he made each decision at each turn throughout the show.

I'll put the rest of my answer under a cut, because it's personal and rambly. But in short: yeah, I do agree with what you said at the end of your ask.

1. "He's more powerful and has a higher status than Stella, so he's inflicting his pain on himself by not standing up to her"

So there's this thing called learned helplessness, and, fun fact, it is heavily linked with PTSD and depression.

"(...) Learned helplessness occurs when someone repeatedly faces uncontrollable, stressful situations and does not exercise control when it becomes available. They have “learned” that they are helpless in that situation and no longer try to change it, even when change is possible." (source)

It's not about the power and capability to control the situation Stolas actually has. It's about the power and control he feels he has—which is none. Zero. He says this to us constantly. "Owl in a cage", "you have no choice", "my entire life's been written in stone, he taught me that I could choose".

He was told since he was a kid that his duties, his marriage, his life trajectory were non-negotiable. He never knew a life outside of his palace—his gilded jail. He doesn't know what we as the audience know—that there's a whole world out there where he can build a better life for himself with people who actually love him—because he's been raised to be a pawn in a game much bigger than himself, and he knows it. I don't need (and don't want) the show to spoonfeed me this fact. It's spelled all over his character if you know how to see it.

2. "Stella's hold of Stolas and his fear of her aren't emphasised enough in the show"

Stella literally tries to hit him at the end of The Circus and looks shocked and taken aback when he grabs her wrist to stop her. I don't need them to show me Stella hitting Stolas 15 times in order to know she's been doing it.

He hugs himself and makes himself small, walking away to remove himself from the situation as quickly and quietly as possible, when Blitz starts yelling at him in The Full Moon. I don't need them to show me Stella yelling at Stolas 20 times to know she's been yelling at him for years. We've seen her yelling at him in Loo Loo Land, in The Circus and in Seeing Stars. We know it happens. We know it always has.

I also don't need them to tell me that repeated physical and verbal abuse causes a victim to become extremely afraid of their abuser and causes them to be triggered by anything and anyone that makes them feel unsafe, because I've lived it in my skin. And I know plenty of people who watch the show who are not abuse survivors, and they're also able to see that Stolas is behaving like any abuse victim exactly with zero support would act.

In the moment, he freezes and flees. He makes himself smaller. He gets away from the situation in any way he can. He "keeps the peace" to keep the abuse to a minimum, doing anything and everything to please the people around him because that's the only way he can feel some semblance of control. ("Yes, if that's what Blitzy wants" / "Do you like it when I talk to you dirty?" / just him sheltering Octavia from his suffering to be the perfect parent for her, and give her everything she could ever want and need, going as far as making promises he couldn't keep).

In the long run, he becomes hopeless and drowns in guilt. He assumes he probably deserves what's happening to him, and thinks it's his own fault that he's so affected by the abuse for being too weak to stand up for himself. He blames himself for not being good enough for the people around him ("I'll believe him, and not the voice that says I'm not enough"), and mentally berates himself for being a coward and a failure, and for not knowing how to put an end to his suffering. He turns to passive (sometimes active) suicidality because that's genuinely the only way he can see of getting back control over his own body and life. ("When I'm gone you'll be okay" / "I'll give my life to clean your slate" / "I don't care what they fucking do, I'm seeing Octavia" / "do it, pussy").

3. Stella's uninvolvement with Octavia makes Stolas' reason to stay with Stella seem very weak

I... Look. I can't be the only one who grew up in a broken family, and surrounded by plenty other broken families. Kids, especially small kids, can't rationalise that family relationships don't always work out and sometimes divorce is the best option for everyone involved. Especially not in this society we live in, where divorce/separation are seen as a failure, and children are (at least passively) taught that divorce is their fault.

Stolas knows all this. He doesn't want Via to feel like she's growing up in a broken house, which is what separating from Stella would accomplish. We also don't know if Stolas would've kept custody of Octavia had he divorced Stella when Via was little. But it's very likely he didn't want to risk leaving Via alone with Stella, even just half the time. Especially not when Octavia has been having nightmares and crying over the mere thought of being abandoned by Stolas. Divorcing Stella would very likely result in Octavia feeling abandoned by him.

I don't know, man. I feel like I don't even have the right words to reply to this point. I still remember being 8 and sensing that something was very wrong with my parents and feeling like it was my responsibility to fix it, or else my world would end. Stolas tried his best to protect Octavia from feeling this way, from feeling responsible for anything that happened between her parents. He just wanted her to be happy. The only way he could do that was by playing 'happy family' in front of her so she could grow up carefree. He tried his best to give her enough love that she wouldn't feel the absence of her mother's love. I really don't know what else to say to this.

If you want media to spoon-feed you its themes and hold your hand as it shows you what each character is going through, then... I don't know, man. Stick to media that does that. There's media out there that genuinely does this really well. Heartstopper, for example. The Hunger Games, in a way. But maybe think twice before diving into adult media meant for mature audiences and criticising it for wanting you to be a mature viewer. Maybe it's just not for you.

Anyway. I'm gonna drink water now, please drink some water too if you're reading this (included, but not limited to, the asker). Hope you all have a nice day ❤️

[hollowflight-propaganda]

I think it's time I change my bio to say it's been 11 years since I started to watch Ninjago.....

Gosh. Where's my senior discount on the lego sets, huh?

[theprincessandthepie]

ough. just watched some fanvids that got me thinking about an old fandom of mine.

[jojotier]

currently going mildly insane over this tropey manwha bc the way the worldbuilding is set up the main saint of the goddess just has 9 platonic ultrapowerful soulmates who are spiritually bound as her knights, protectors, generally share a bond deeper than romance or family, driving all parties to ecstasy at merely being able to know each other, but the narrative is more interested in getting into the saint's conventional heterosexual romance so there's not nearly enough time actually spent going into the Implications of the soulmates thing

[ms-demeanor]

I understand that vaccines are proven to work and are a great advancement in our medicine, and also that homeopathic remedies don't work, but don't they work on the same principal? Why does one work and the other doesnt?

They do not work on the same principle.

I can see how vaccines look like a "like treats like" situation, but in homeopathy "like treats like" is a kind of magical thinking.

Let's take an example from Chicken Pox, a virus for which there is an effective vaccine and for which there is a common homeopathic treatment.

Chicken pox infects people once, and it is extremely rare to get a second case because once you have had it, your body forms persistent antibodies against the varicella-zoster virus. When I was a kid, they didn't have a vaccine for this, so kids mostly got chicken pox once and it ran around whole schools and that was it. It's a virus that is fairly minor in children, though it can cause dangerously high fevers. Adults who get chicken pox typically get much sicker than children who get it, and it can lead to permanent harms like infertility in adults who get it. Because it can be so dangerous, we don't want people to risk getting it, so we vaccinate.

The way the vaccine works is that it takes a weakened form of the virus and introduces that into the body of a person with a healthy immune system. The immune system responds and the person who got the vaccine may get some minor symptoms, like a headache or a slight fever, but it will be nowhere near as severe as getting actual chicken pox would be. Because the immune system was exposed to the virus and responded, it now has antibodies against the virus that recognize the virus and respond immediately before it can start replicating in the body. If a person who has either previously had chicken pox or who has been vaccinated against it is exposed to the chicken pox virus, their body uses those antibodies to react to the virus and protect against a systemic infection.

Are you familiar with Star Trek? It's kind of like the Borg. You can't use the same attack pattern against the Borg multiple times because if you do, they'll recognize the pattern and will be able to defend against it. The virus is the attacker, and your immune system is the Borg. It knows what it's looking for and won't let anything get through its defenses.

Homeopathic remedies don't seek to prevent illness or provoke an immune response, they seek to cancel out something that is happening in the body.

For chicken pox, which produces itchy red bumps, homeopaths use Rhus Tox - a dilution of poison ivy, a plant that causes itchy red bumps if you encounter it in nature. The Rhus Tox didn't cause the chicken pox, it's not given to prevent the virus, it's from a plant that is completely unrelated to the virus that happens to produce some of the same symptoms as the virus when you touch it.

They don't even think that the Rhus Tox will provoke an immune response from your body like actually touching poison ivy would, they're attempting to use an unrelated compound (that is so diluted that it isn't even present in the preparation) in place of your immune system to attack the itchy red bumps.

So I'm going to go over this in a few brief points:

Vaccines are preventative ONLY, they are not a treatment for illness or symptoms of an illness

Vaccines work by introducing your immune system to a partial, weakened, or dead virus so that your immune system can form antibodies against that virus and prevent that virus from replicating in your body when it is later exposed to a whole/strong/live virus.

Different vaccines have different levels of effectiveness and produce different lengths of immunity; this is for a number of reasons, but if you get a measles shot as a kid you may only ever need one booster, while you need a flu shot every year and a tetanus shot every decade. All of them work the same way, though: they show your immune system what a virus looks like so that your immune system can kill the virus.

That is why immune compromised people sometimes can't be vaccinated, or why vaccines don't work as well for them or may need higher doses or more boosters. Because they don't have a healthy immune system, weakened viruses like the ones in the chickenpox virus might be too strong for their immune system to fight, and even if it doesn't get them sick, their bodies may not be able to produce enough effective antibodies to protect them from the virus in the future. That's part of why it's important for as many people to be vaccinated as possible; the more people who are vaccinated, the harder it is for viruses to spread, and vulnerable people like immune compromised people or babies too young for vaccination won't be exposed to deadly viruses.

Homeopathy, on the other hand, aims to treat symptoms of an illness that a person is already experiencing.

Homeopathic treatments do not aim to provoke an immune response, they aim to cancel out a symptom with a cure.

Dilution is a very important part of homeopathy, with homeopaths claiming that the more diluted a preparation is the stronger it is. This is simply incorrect; I don't know how to make a more logical explanation of that, it is just wrong that less of a substance causes more of a response.

Homeopathy says "like treats like" and that may seem like using a vaccine with a weak virus to prevent infection from a strong virus, but their version of "like" is different - Rhus Tox (poison ivy) is supposed to be "like" chicken pox because both cause itching. Rhus tox is also supposed to treat PCOS, erectile dysfunction, uterine prolapse, sunken eyes, nausea, and backache. "Like" can have an extremely broad meaning in homeopathy, which should be cause for suspicion.

Here's a paper that compared the immune response of college students given homeopathic "vaccines" against a control group and against a group of students who were given standard medical vaccines. The control group and the homeopathic group both did not have an immune response in titer tests, while the vaccination group did have an immune response, demonstrating that they had protection from the vaccinated viruses. It's a pretty good demonstration both of how effective homeopathy is (not at all) as well as how to set up a fair and ethical study to look at the effectiveness of different kinds of treatments.

[selfcarecap]

MUSE [L.H.]

Logan Howlett x reader

summary: Logan would never admit it to anyone, but over the course of his long life he has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. He hasn’t done it in years, maybe even decades, but he’s struck by inspiration when he meets you. Of course, no one can know that Wolverine draws, so he does it in the dead of night, sliding anonymous envelopes with the finished drawings of you under your door. When he sees how much you love them, he wonders if you could also love the person behind them. 

warnings: smut 18+ but with an actual plot for once (brief m masturbation, oral f and m rec, unprotected piv sex, kind of accidental (but consensual obv) facial; pet names: bub, baby, good girl, princess), soft!Logan but he won’t admit it, also soft!reader, fluff (although the summary makes it sounds a bit more dramatic than it is tbh), implication that reader has curly hair, implied mutant/X-men!reader, (obviously the pic doesn’t represent the envelopes Logan uses lol he’s not doing all that)

word count: 7.3k

also i feel the need to say something about the fact that it’s Hugh Jackman’s birthday today lol so uh thanks for being huge jacked man and for giving us our Logan yay <3 | gorgeous divider by @plutism

It’s everything Logan is the opposite of – he would never tell a soul – but over the course of his long life, Logan has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. It’s not really him, but he did have a phase or two.

When he meets you, he hasn’t even thought of picking up a pencil in years. Ever since you’ve been at the mansion though, Logan’s fingertips twitch with the urge to start sketching your features every time he’s with you. It gets hard to ignore after a few days.

He waits until he’s known you a few weeks, there’s no way in hell he’d ask if he could draw you. He’d probably embarrass you by asking, and embarrass himself by admitting he’s into fucking art. That’s not him. 

Except, well, sometimes it is, when he’s inspired. And you’re nothing if not inspiring. 

He gives in to the urge to get out pencil and paper again, waiting until everyone else has gone to sleep. The first few drawings are shit, he feels like they’re almost an insult to you. It’s not that he’s accidentally drawing you ugly, it just doesn’t look like you. So he practises. 

Logan Howlett sits down at night to practise drawing. 

He picks out a few other things to draw then, to ease the pressure that comes with drawing the woman he… is friends with. Yeah, you’re a friend. And he totally knows that you’d never go for someone as rugged as him, that’s for sure. You deserve much more. So much more. 

But after a few nights he feels more confident in his drawing skills again, but still, as much as he can picture you in his mind – he can do that absolutely perfectly – he’s not too sure he could really draw you accurately.

So he gets Rogue to show him how goddamn fucking Instagram works so that he can look at some of your pictures and use them as a model. 

He doesn’t know what you’re doing to him; you’ve got him using social media.

He can’t believe it, but the first time he seriously attempts to draw you, it’s perfect. It’s a small drawing, not even as big as his palm, capturing your gorgeous face. He thinks of adding another few lines to your eyebrows, or to your hair or another small one to the outline of your lips, but he doesn’t want to mess with it. 

Logan hates how drawing makes him overthink, but he loves how it feels to create something other than violence with his hands for once – something that may even be the opposite. 

He hides the drawing in between the pages of a book, and hides the book under a pile of random clutter on his desk that not even he would normally spare a glance at. But when he lies down to go to sleep, he gets all the stuff out again and gets out the drawing. He wants to see it again. And he can’t leave it there anyway, what if the pressure from all the items on top of it smudges it? 

But he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He can’t really have a drawing of you sitting in his room. What if someone sees? Then what is he gonna do with it instead? 

He finally lets himself think the thought that’s politely been waiting to be allowed into his brain from the moment he decided he might take up drawing again. 

He could give it to you. 

Logan knows his drawing isn’t objectively a masterpiece, but if he’s proud of it he has to acknowledge that that probably means it’s at least decent. And you’re definitely the type of person to appreciate something like this. It’s weird admitting to himself that he’s even proud of what he’s drawn; he’s done so much in this world, who cares about a little drawing? 

The only thing is that Logan isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to see this side of him. To see the side that has him staying up until 3AM to finely trace the lines of someone’s eyelashes and cheekbones and lips, the side that makes him feel calm inside. 

He knows it’s stupid to hide but he just can’t. He decides he’ll leave the drawing in your room in an envelope, maybe a pink one to show you it’s not a creepy threat but meant as a sign of adoration, from someone who couldn’t resist but try to recreate your beauty. He won’t write his name on it, he just wants you to have it. 

Sappy motherfucker. 

He puts the small drawing back into the book and carefully pushes it between his mattress and the bedframe to protect it during the night. God, who even is he – protecting a tiny piece of paper? He groans at himself as he turns around to go to sleep. 

He dreams of making a thousand drawings of you, with you as his live model. His muse. 

You’re his girlfriend in his dream, he thinks. 

He’s sitting in a chair in your room, drawing you as you tell him about your day. You’re lying on your bed on your tummy, elbows propped up to support your head. You’re gently kicking your feet in the air behind you, wearing nothing but a t-shirt of Logan’s, some silly graphic socks, panties with little cherries on them, and a bright, bashful smile as Logan attempts to capture your glowing features in a sketch block he’s dedicated to drawings of you. 

He wakes up with morning wood. 

Logan is no stranger to jerking off with you on his mind, so he spits in his hand and slips it beneath his boxers, stroking himself as he thinks of you. He imagines you on top of him as he jerks his cock, imagines you under him, or with your legs around his head, or you between his knees on the floor. He cums quickly and hard, leaving his boxers wet and sticky.

He goes for a run after he’s dealt with it and picks up an envelope on his way. He’s doubting himself but he knows he has to just do it. He’d doubt himself even more if he pussied out – a grown man who can’t even slide an envelope under someone’s door. 

So Logan mans up and, like an idiot, kisses the fucking drawing before he puts it into the envelope. He licks the edges of it to close it and writes your name in the most anonymous handwriting he can muster and adds a little heart. 

It’s soo stupid. 

He makes sure no one is anywhere near your bedroom, walks up to your door, and slides the envelope underneath. Except he didn’t check if you were in your room. As soon as the envelope disappears beneath your door, he hears a short creak from your bed and your soft footsteps. 

He hears the small and adorable noise of curiosity you let out – a confused hm? – and then he quickly and quietly makes his way down the hallway. He hears your voice about ten seconds later, an intrigued hello? as you open the door, but you don’t investigate further, closing the door behind you. 

Logan’s heart is beating so fast. He’s never doing this shit again. 

He’s antsy all day, waiting for some type of reaction from you. Except you don’t know that the drawing is from him so he’s probably not even getting one, and he can’t conspicuously come to your room the same day you receive an anonymous drawing of yourself. 

It’s also when the insecurity settles in. Maybe he should have added a few more lines or started the entire drawing anew. Who does he think he is pretending to be an artist? 

He shakes those thoughts off as he starts training with the punching bag in the gym. It’s not something that he necessarily needs to train, but it gets rid of some of that pointless energy. This isn’t him, worried about some lines he drew on a piece of paper – a scrap of a paper, really. Who cares about something like that? Certainly not him. 

He sleeps dreamlessly and wakes up the next day disappointed that he didn’t get to dream about being your boyfriend again. God, what are you doing to him? Making him think about being boyfriend and girlfriend. He’s pathetic. You’re a friend and nothing more, and that’s fine. You probably don’t like him like that and he can deal with that.

-

He’s not even thinking of the drawing anymore, truly, when he walks into the kitchen the next morning. It only comes to mind when he sees you, alone in the kitchen, leaning over the counter to scroll on your phone, your weird green coffee (“it’s Matcha, Logan”) next to you as you stir it mindlessly with a metal straw. 

“Hi,” you look up with one of those sweet smiles of yours, but redirect your attention to your phone. 

At least you don’t immediately say something like hey, you know that drawing you slid under my door? It was so ugly I threw it away. Since when do you even draw? 

Not that he was worried you would or anything. He hasn’t been thinking about it. Obviously. Why would he? And he knows you would never expect that it’s him; that’s the only reason he did it. He never would have given you the drawing if he thought you could have even the slightest inkling that Logan would be someone who draws. But he still wants to know what you think of it. 

“You want some toast too?” You ask, putting your phone down and turning to get some bread. He sits down at the other side of the kitchen counter and as his eyes flicker to your green drink (he still doesn’t get it), he sees it. 

“Is that–” my drawing, he almost said, “What is that?” He pretends to be confused, drawing his eyebrows together, trying his best to look inquisitive, “No toast by the way, thanks.” 

You have one of those clear phone cases, filled with a bunch of tiny pictures and stickers (and is that your credit card?). But wedged in front of all of those is Logan’s drawing. 

“Did you draw it?” He asks. 

You turn around, giggling, “No, I don’t draw. And anyway, I wouldn’t be drawing pictures of myself. I got it in an envelope under my door yesterday, photocopied it because I was scared it would bend in my phone case. I don’t know who drew it.” 

“Secret admirer?” 

Smiling, you say, “I don’t know. I won’t get my hopes up. But the person must definitely be fond of me to draw me like that.” 

“Like what?” He asks, unsure if he’s about to be offended. 

“I don’t know, just, so beautiful. I’m not saying I’m not pretty or anything, but this looks… I don’t look like that. I wish I did. I can’t believe someone actually sees me like that. It’s stupid but I….” You trail off and, conveniently, the toast is done at the same time and you move on to that. 

But Logan won’t let you, “What’s stupid?” 

You turn towards him with a shy smile, “I’m embarrassed.”

Logan stays silent. He can’t seem too pushy and draw attention to himself, but his silence makes you confess.

“I cried when I first saw it yesterday. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. And it’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received, for someone to perceive me in such an artistic way.” 

Logan makes a noise of satisfaction and smiles, asking you to pass your phone so he can look at it more – pretending it’s his first time seeing it. If you think that way about it, maybe the three more lines he was going to add aren’t that important after all. 

The problem is that it makes him want to draw more, his stupid heart melting at your reaction to something he made– no, created. 

-

After a week, he figures he has to give in. Drawing another picture of you is on his mind twenty-four seven. 

It doesn’t help that he still catches you staring at the copy of it in your phone case lovingly more than once a day and you’ve put the original drawing in a special little frame on your nightstand. He thinks he’s sappy for drawing it but he doesn’t think the same of you for enjoying the drawing. 

This is for you. It’s not about him. He’s not an artist or anything like that, he’s just doing something kind for someone he cares about (which is honestly sappy enough but he tries to ignore that). He’s usually more of a silent carer but maybe that’s why he likes this. He’s not making it a grand gesture, not making it a thing that he’s the one drawing for you. It’s just for you to enjoy. 

He’ll just make this second drawing and silently put it in your room, and he’s the last person you’ll suspect. 

But of course now that he knows it means something to you, he can’t get anything right. He draws your hair too curly, then not curly enough. He draws your nose too big, then too small. Your eyes end up crooked. He can’t erase too much because it’ll look sloppy, so even the drawing he gets almost perfect, he ruins with a few final additions at the end. 

It takes him an entire month for the next drawing, and it feels more like him that it’s been making him so angry that he couldn’t get it right at first. Maybe he had the wrong picture of artists. They’re always talking about pain, aren’t they, and that’s what he experiences too (over a drawing. Who is he?). 

He takes another few days to keep track of your routine, to monitor when you’ll be in your room. He can’t have it be as close as last time. 

He ends up doing it in the evening. There’s a time after dinner when most of the team stays together to watch tv, just talk, or play some games. It’s normal for some of you to wander off, come back or stick around a bit longer. It won’t be suspicious if he leaves for a few minutes and comes back.

Logan wants nothing more than to follow you when you say that you’re going to your room for the night; he wants to see your reaction. But he can’t. All he can do is go up to his own bedroom fifteen minutes later, lingering in the hallway longer than he needs to.

Just as he’s about to give up and go to sleep, you walk down the hallway, coming back from the bathroom.

“Logan!” you call all excitedly when you see him, and his heart skips a beat. Do you know the drawing is from him? 

“Look,” you take his arm and pull him to your room, “I got another drawing!”

He breathes out in relief; you don’t know it’s from him. He smiles when you hold up the drawing, already framed.

“Were you expecting to get another drawing?” he teases.

“Noo, but the frames came in a pack of two. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Logan looks at how your eyes sparkle, how proudly you’re showing him this drawing. All the work he put into it was definitely worth it. It’s another picture of your face, this time from a new angle, and with your hair styled differently, curls coiled another way from last time.

Logan clears his throat, remembering to keep up his act. “It looks good.”

“Good?” you take the frame from his hands defensively, “It’s beautiful.”

He chuckles, “Sorry, I don’t know much about this type of thing. It is beautiful though.” He’s looking at you instead of his drawing.

“It is. And you don’t have to know much about art or drawing to see how pretty this is. I still can’t believe someone would take the time to make these for me.”

Logan remains silent instead of saying what he wants to tell you. Of course he would take that time for you – and you don’t even know how much time it really took him. If there’s someone who’s worth it, it’s you.

Seeing your pleased smile at something he made for you, he decides he’s never going to stop drawing you.

-

He’s on a roll for some time. He’s better at drawing again now that he’s getting in practice, and he makes five drawings of you within the next weeks. Logan watches the collection of them on your nightstand grow fuller, along with your smile that somehow gets bigger every time you tell him about a new drawing.

It’s a wonder you haven’t caught on yet, but you don’t seem particularly interested in snooping around to find out who it is. You respect the person’s privacy, but you’ve confessed to him that you’d still love to know. 

“I won’t try to find out who it is. I won’t push it if they don’t want me to know… but, I mean, anyone would want to know, wouldn’t they?”

You’ve adopted the nickname of ‘secret admirer’ for this mysterious ‘they’, after Logan used the term about ten times. You were reluctant at first, because the person isn’t calling themself a secret admirer – you’d just be putting words in their mouth. But after seeing how much more beautiful the drawings get each time, you’ve accepted and admitted that, okay, yes, the person must be an admirer.

Your secret admirer Logan is particularly proud of his latest drawing, excited to bring it up to your room tonight. 

But this time he’s sloppy. He’s stayed for a few post-dinner card games with the team, and it’s risky, because you’ve been saying that it’s your last game for the last two rounds. But he also knows that you always say that, and never mean it.

Logan gets up to leave, and he hears Scott convincing you to play just one more round.

It’s stupid, really, risking it like that. Even if he’s gone from your room in time before you come upstairs, you could easily guess that it’s Logan. He’s the first one leaving the round tonight, so your first assumption could be that it was him.

Maybe subconsciously he wants to get caught. He’s seen how you light up at every drawing, and no matter how much you respect your admirer’s anonymity, of course you want to know who’s dedicating so much time and work to drawings of you. Of course it’s crossed your mind that the person isn’t just doing this because they’re a good friend. They’re drawing your face because they think it’s beyond beautiful.

Logan doesn’t really know why he hasn’t told you yet that he likes you. He’s good at flirting, and he’s attractive – he’s not blind. But with you it’s different, there’s a bigger risk, for the both of you. The older he gets, the harder it is to open up to yet another person. You’re friends, and you talk about personal things, but confessing that he’s in love with you is different.

Not to mention this stupid recurring dream he keeps having, in which you find out it’s Logan who’s been drawing you, and suddenly your opinion of the drawings changes. You don’t like him back like that, and suddenly the drawings feel creepy if you think about him staying up late drawing your face.

He rolls his eyes at himself and gets the thought out of his head, taking the small envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans, smoothing his hand over it. He looks around, making sure no one sees him.

Logan bends down to slide the envelope under your door as usual, but one of the corners of the paper catches against the wall, and he quickly opens it to check the drawing isn’t damaged. His heart is beating so fast, he feels stupid. 

He can hear footsteps, still far away, but he can hear them. Logan messily licks the edges of the envelope to close it back up, but it’s not sticking. He can’t decide between shoving it under the door like this or leaving now and bringing it back the next day. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage now.

Then he hears it. He miscalculated how far the footsteps were.

“Logan?”

He turns around slowly, and it feels like the world has frozen.

You come closer, looking at him and then at the letter that he must’ve dropped. It hasn’t made it under your door yet.

He says something before you can, “I’m delivering for someone else.”

“Who?” you ask, bending down to pick up the envelope. If he wasn’t petrified, he’d enjoy the view of you bent over in front of him.

He breathes. He can’t have anyone taking credit for his work, for his art (you called it that recently, he would never). But his heart is beating so fast he doesn’t know what the fuck to do or say. 

This is exactly why he never wanted to do any of this. He’s making a fool out of himself and that doesn’t usually happen, especially not over a piece of paper. Logan is confident, cocky even, he can admit that, and has no idea how to deal with things like being nervous; he never has to. This really isn’t him.

You don’t wait for an answer and look at the envelope. You open it so carefully, gently taking the drawing out with your fingertips. You’re treating it with so much care he immediately feels better. Again, this isn’t for him, it’s for you. (Well, it’s for him too but it’ll take him a while to admit that). 

He’s drawn your smile this time. You were happy in most of the drawings before, but he focussed more on the eyes, and your lips only ever tugged up in a slight smile. 

This one is a full-toothed grin, mid-laugh. 

You two were drinking last weekend. He barely felt it but your tipsy, giggly mood was contagious. He couldn’t imagine himself feeling any other way but blissful when you’re happy around him. 

It started when Logan made a casual comment about something silly Scott was wearing that night, and he had you giggling. He wanted to immediately hear that angelic sound again, of course, and so he gave you every joke about your shared friends he could think of – all light-hearted, but he was still glad you two were alone. 

It was the stupidest joke of all that made you really laugh, some dumb comparison between Xavier and Caillou. You probably wouldn’t even giggle at it anymore now, but in the moment it was so funny you almost spat out your drink from the deep belly laugh he drew from you, holding onto his bicep so you wouldn’t fall over as tears formed in your eyes from how hard you were laughing. He wanted to engrave the image on his soul. At least he got your smile on paper.

You look up at him now, eyes filled with tears. 

“You drew this?” you ask.

He nods softly. He can’t say it but he hopes the drawings convey how in love with you he is. 

Suddenly, Logan feels like his heart has stopped beating.

You’re kissing him. 

You’ve leaped up, wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, and now your lips are on his. 

He feels your mouth falter, probably because he’s being a fucking idiot and not kissing you back. Logan places his hands on your waist to pull you further towards him. Then his brain finally catches up and he can do what he’s wanted to for so long. 

He takes your chin with two fingers and angles you so you can kiss him easier. He closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your soft, warm lips against him. You’re soft and warm all over. Your top has slipped up over his fingertips at your sides, and he slides his hands further around your back to support you against him even better. 

Logan’s tongue pushes at your lower lip, and you let out the sexiest, tiny moan of surprise as you part your lips for him, granting him access. 

His tongue touches the tip of yours and from then on your cravings intensify. You feel your way over his muscular shoulders, his big biceps and over the hard planes of his chest. When you’ve had a good feel there, your hands grip his shirt in desperation and Logan gets even hungrier for you. He gently bites at your lower lip, but then you shriek into his mouth and squirm out of his grasp. He opens his eyes wide. 

You grip Logan’s forearm for support when you bend down in a panic, picking up the drawing you just dropped. You let out a big breath of relief when you see it hasn’t been damaged. 

“You made me drop it!” You slap a hand to his chest; it doesn’t actually hurt and it’s not meant to, but it leaves a pleasant tingle behind instead. 

“I didn’t do anything”, Logan laughs, and you shake your head at him with a smile.

You take him into your room where you make him sit on the bed while you stare at the new drawing in awe. “I didn’t know you draw”, you say without taking your eyes off it.

“No one else knows.”

You pretend to zip your lips, smiling, “It’s our secret.” Logan can tell that you like that. He likes it too. It feels much better to share a secret with you than to be keeping one from you.

“I’ll only draw for you anyway, so there’s no point in telling anyone else.”

“You’re really good. I love the drawings.”

Logan gives a satisfied hum at your words, “You inspired me. Can’t have you walking around all pretty and not expect me to try and recreate it.”

You straddle Logan and hover over his lap to hug him, “They’re the best thing anyone's ever given to me. Do I really look like that?” You say the last question more quietly, and Logan wraps his arms around your sides, careful not to bump your hand that’s still holding the drawing.

“You’re more gorgeous than anything I could ever capture, but I think it comes close. I didn’t change anything about you to make you more beautiful. I couldn’t if I tried. I just tried to draw you as accurately as possible, that’s why it’s so beautiful.”

“I really love it,” you say again, happily staring at the details of the drawing. Hearing you say the word love so much tempts Logan, but he doesn’t want to move too fast. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you. He does, however, want to kiss you again.

Logan carefully takes the framed drawing and puts it on your nightstand. You push your mouth against his before he can initiate the kiss, and he grins against your lips.

You don’t know how to put your feelings into words, so you’re kissing him instead. He pulls you down so that you’re not hovering over but sitting on his lap, and the mood immediately shifts to something different. Logan doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but if you’re ready then he’ll take anything he can get.

Your chest is pressed against Logan’s, and you can feel the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. You may or may not be pressing your boobs against his body on purpose.

“God, baby, I’ve waited so long for this,” he says, already breathless, as his hands trail down your back, leaving goosebumps behind.

“You’ve waited long?” you raise your eyebrows, grinning, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the day I met you.”

You see the look in Logan’s eyes changing as he bites his lip, “Who says I didn’t want the same?”

You giggle, “Why did it take us so long?”

Logan chuckles, readjusting you so that you’re even closer to him, “I was too busy to actually talk to you, just been starin’ at you so I could draw you.” His cheeks have the faintest red tint, and you kiss them, hugging him.

You whisper into his ear, “Then it was worth the wait. And anyway, it’s not talking that I’m interested in right now.”

He pulls you back to look into your eyes, then at your lips. “Where do you want me?” he asks. You giggle slightly helplessly; you weren’t entirely prepared to have a man like Logan at your mercy like this tonight.

“You can do whatever you want,” you say softly, kissing him.

Logan’s lips are hungry against yours, strings of spit falling between you two, but he pauses the kiss to lie you on your back. “Wanna eat you out,” he husks, “Been dying to know what you taste like forever, bub. Can I?” He reaches for the hem of your top, and you nod so that he can pull it off you, admiring what’s underneath. 

“Sometimes I make myself cum imagining that I’m going down on you,” you confess somewhat shyly, but you figure he’s been so vulnerable for you that you can share a secret too.

Logan smirks, and pulls off his shirt, “Maybe we can make your dream come true then.”

You move to sit up, but he insists on eating you out first. You both take off all your clothes, staring at each other with huge smiles on your faces for a few moments. You’ve never seen Logan this happy.

“Look at you, baby. So pretty,” he leans down to kiss your lips, then down your neck, all the way to your legs. He spreads them, lying down between them as he all but drools at the sight of your wet pussy.

You get nervous all of a sudden. “It’s been a while,” you tell him. He looks up, taking your hand, enveloping it completely in his much bigger one.

“You sure about this? We can wait,” he gently kisses your knuckles, and a warmth spreads in your chest, slowing your heartbeat down a little.

“I’m sure,” you nod, and Logan comes up again to kiss you. The head of his hard cock catches against the space above your clit, and you both look down between your bodies. When Logan looks back up at you, his eyes are desperately begging you. You place your hand on his head, threading your fingers through his hair as he moves down your body.

“Such a pretty fucking pussy,” he mumbles into your thigh, kissing you there. You giggle, getting comfortable, your hand never leaving his hair.

Logan starts eating you out, his tongue gentle but determined against your clit.

“Taste so good, baby. Even better than I imagined.” You hum at Logan’s words, already feeling yourself come undone with his mouth on your wet pussy.

You sink further into the mattress when he starts sucking on your clit, licking into your pussy like a man starved every few moments, and your thighs squeeze around Logan’s head, and it’s even better than in his fantasies.

“Feels really good,” you tell him, pulling on his hair to stop yourself from moving too much, and Logan moans against your skin. Hearing your words motivates him even more, and he pushes two fingers into your wet pussy. He curls his fingers, rubbing up against that spot that makes you see stars.

Your back arches as you cum, Logan’s lips wrapped around your clit as your legs push harder against his head, and all he does is moan, revelling in the feeling.

Logan doesn’t stop licking your pussy until you’re tugging his head away by his hair, and he comes up for air with a grin on his face. You smile back, pulling him up to kiss him. You give yourself only a few seconds of recovery time before you make him sit down. You know you’d never have enough strength to actually make him get into a different position, but he lets you.

You push him onto his back, getting between his legs. You’re blinking up at him all prettily when you ask, “Can I suck your dick? Please?”

Logan huffs to himself because he can’t believe how hot you are, can’t believe that this is really finally happening. He tells you yes – he has no more words to describe how badly he wants this – and he watches you wrap your pretty lips around his cock.

It’s hard to grasp that it’s really you doing this right now – the woman he’s been into for so long. His cock is in your mouth and you look so gorgeous with spit running down from your lips, and all he can think of is all the dirty drawings he can now make of you, if you’ll let him.

He closes his eyes when you take him deeper, enveloping him with your warm, wet mouth. “Good girl,” he whispers absent-mindedly, too gone to say much more.

You’re not using your hands as you suck his cock, your spit trailing down on him, and you’re so eager. But it’s also late, and he sees you getting tired, eyes blinking slower as you pause to catch your breath every few moments. He also sees the determination in your eyes, and the absolute want, but he doesn’t want you to exhaust yourself. 

You look so sexy all fucked out, strings of spit connecting your mouth to his cock as you pull away another time, giggling up at him shyly when you realise that he’s noticing you getting tired.

“Just need a second,” you wipe your mouth, out of breath, and it’s not that you’re not incredibly hot like this, but he still wants to fuck you tonight and he’s not sure that will happen if you keep going.

“C’mere, baby,” he says, reaching out his hand.

“Huh?” you ask, taking his hand nevertheless.

“Get back here, baby. I’m gonna fuck you now, alright? Don’t want you tiring yourself out.”

You let him lift you and put you on your back, but you pout, “Wanna taste you.”

Logan grins, “I’ll cum in your mouth, princess. Promise.”

You smile at his answer, satisfied, so you lie back down, pulling your legs up to your chest. His cock looks huge as he jerks himself off between your legs, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you squirm.

“Don’t know if I can take you,” you bite your lip. You’re not entirely sure if you mean it or not. You definitely want to try.

“We’ll make it fit, baby, we’ll make it fit,” Logan assures you, leaning down to press a kiss to your mouth, a mix of your wetness and his precum between your mouths. You feel his cock at your pussy, “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” you nod desperately, letting him push his cock into your pussy. He pauses after a few inches, but you wrap your legs around his waist more tightly, and he goes deeper.

“Y’okay, baby? You can take it, right?”

You nod, unable to form words with your pussy stretched like this, a combination of pleasure and pain between your legs – but it’s infinitely more pleasure.

“That’s right. You’re my good girl, hm?” He kisses along your neck as he bottoms out, and you both moan when he’s got his cock fully stuffed inside you for the first time. He pulls out slightly when you whine at the stretch, but you scratch down his back to get his attention.

“I can take it,” you tell him, and you watch the look in his eyes darken.

He begins to fuck you, the pain subsiding more with every thrust into your wet pussy. You can barely take him, but it feels good. With your slight tiredness, you feel like you’re floating on cloud nine. 

You can’t believe that Logan – your super hot friend Logan who you’ve been fantasising about for so long – is fucking you. He not only feels the same way about you, but he’s been your secret admirer this entire time, taking hours and hours out of his day to make you smile. You’re the only one he wants.

And now he’s fucking you, fucking you well, and you feel so warm inside, not just from the sex but you feel warm in your heart, because of Logan’s care.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking a hand down your face when he notices you’re not entirely present. You nod happily, smiling up at him, and you can’t talk because you feel so good.

“Good, that’s good, bub, but let me know if it gets too much,” he says as he starts rubbing your clit, watches you nod while he’s fucking you so well, and he’s so big and so deep inside of you, “Squeezing me so tight, baby, feel so fucking good.”

You cum suddenly, letting the warm pleasure flow through your body as Logan keeps fucking you through it, rubbing your clit in just the right rhythm.

“That’s my girl, taking it so well,” he moans, breaths stuttering. You slump against the pillow after a few moments, with a soft smile on your face, and Logan pulls out.

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” he jerks his cock, and you sit up on your elbows immediately, looking him in the eyes with a smile as you stick out your tongue for him. He promised.

Logan moans when he cums, painting your face in his release, jerking himself off. He holds your head in place with his other hand, aiming for your mouth but you’re making no effort to catch his cum there.

“Such a pretty fucking face, princess, ’m cumming all over it,” he rasps, shooting more ropes of his cum all over your cheeks, jacking off onto your face.

You open your eyes when he’s done and breathing heavily, and you smile up at him. You open your mouth, taking the head of his cock between your lips to suck off the last drops of cum.

“Look at you, baby. Look so fucking pretty with my cum all over your gorgeous face.”

You hum, pulling your mouth off him and licking your lips, tasting his salty release. You brush a finger over your cheek, sucking it into your mouth to taste him more. Logan kisses you then, the flavour of himself mixing between your mouths.

He cleans you up gently, carefully wiping your face with a baby wipe and kissing every inch of your cheeks afterwards. You take his face to kiss him properly, and if you didn’t seem so tired Logan would be ready for round two immediately.

“Next time you could try to actually cum in my mouth,” you tease, making Logan grin.

“Sorry, baby. Got too excited. Couldn’t focus on asking you again if it was okay.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your lips.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I liked it.”

Logan grins, “Oh I could tell you liked it, baby.” You lightly slap his chest as you giggle, pulling him in for another kiss.

You cuddle for a while, not saying much because you don’t have to. You’ve both waited for this for so long that you’re just enjoying the moment, enjoying that it finally happened.

You slip out of his arms to sit on top of him. You’re in nothing but panties, the blanket bunching around your hips. You lean your hands against his chest as you tell him more about how much the drawings delighted you. And Logan cares, of course he cares to hear that, but he’s also just a man seeing the woman he’s into naked for the first time still. 

You become quiet when you realise that he’s not listening, and you giggle, “Distracted?”

Logan grins, “Just a little fucking bit, baby.” His eyes don’t leave your body, and you laugh as you bend down to kiss him. He grabs your ass, kneading the flesh. When you slightly sit up again, your tits are near his face, and he can’t help himself. He cups your breasts, playing with your nipples, making you hum.

“I should draw these,” he looks up at you, “Should draw every perfect fucking inch of you.”

“You wanna?” You adjust how you’re seated in his lap, and you feel that he’s already half hard under you again.

“Maybe after I’ve fucked you again.”

You smile, feeling yourself growing wetter on top of him.

“Tomorrow,” he continues, and your smile drops.

“But you’ve got to get more familiar with the inspiration, right? If you’re going to draw me.”

“That’s true, baby. But I think you’re too tired.”

You smile bashfully, ignoring how your eyelids were drooping shut just a few seconds ago, “Okay, but then I’ll have more energy for tomorrow.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiles, pulling you off him to cuddle you again. He tucks you in and kisses your head. 

You turn to your side, taking one of the framed drawings and looking at it for a while. 

Logan watches you looking at it, and the sparkle in your eyes never fails to make him feel all warm inside. “Now that you actually know about it, I don’t have to draw you from memory anymore. I can study my muse in peace.”

“Aww, I’m your muse?” you beam.

“Of course you are, princess. You’re the only reason I’m drawing again.”

“I love your drawings so much.”

Logan clears his throat, and looks at you. “Well, I love you. So, I think that went into them.”

You look at him, pouting and then kissing him. “I love you too,” you say into his mouth. He grins against your lips, pulling you closer to kiss you some more. He can barely grasp that you just said that, but he’ll have enough time soon to comprehend how lucky he is. 

For now, he takes your hand, and asks, “The question might be redundant now, but do you wanna be mine? Be my girlfriend?”

“I’m already yours.”

Logan grins, takes you in his arms, and you’re still cuddling when you’re both drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

P.S. reblog with a comment and let me know your favourite moment/what you liked to get a drawing from Logan under your door tonight and a facial <33

gorgeous divider by @pommecita

[asidian]

A little heartbroken by the news, not going to lie.

But I'm going to keep creating for this fandom, because the characters have made a place in my heart, and I suspect they'll stay there for a good long while. This show and the fandom have been such a joy to partake in during a really rough time in my life, and I appreciate that more than I can say. I appreciate all of you who make the fandom what it is, too.

I guess in the end, Season 2 gets to be whatever we make it. So you know what? Let's all share our Season 2s. Nobody's going to stop us or tell us we're wrong.

So here we go. The Season 2 in my heart, in no particular order:

Desire shows up and puts Charles Rowland through the absolute wringer. He is losing his entire mind, he wants Edwin so bad. This boy has 17 different crises and finally a realization that he has been head over heels for some decades and he is just an idiot, actually

Payneland confession and a first kiss

They get Niko back from the Neitherlands. She's some flavor of undead, and she is having a grand old time, actually

Jenny sets up a butcher shop in London and goes on a date that doesn't try to kill her. With the Night Nurse

Crystal has a corruption arc with David buried in her soul-tree soil and at first they don't realize what's going on, but in the end the boys find a way to go into her heart-space and help her resolve the problem

The boys dance on-screen with some of those skeleton choreography dances

Mick mysteriously also has a shop in London. It straddles time-space and also realms. The characters are all ????? but no one ever figures out wtf is going on with that

Tragic Mick saves the day like a big damn hero with a bazooka like in the comics

The Cat King is around, generally being his trickster self, causing problems for funsies. He dies again and comes back as a fluffy white cat with glam white fur clothes

Charles gets kidnapped somewhere and Edwin has to go and save him. It's very dramatic and parallels S1 Ep7

Monty makes a showing in crow form. He has so many cute bird mannerisms. He gets fluffy in the London cold

The boys return to St. Hilarion's. They find their respective remains and come to terms with their deaths. They decide that, however tragic their deaths were, it led them to the only place they'd want to be: together

Crystal and Niko lay the boys to rest side by side, under the same headstone

[mv1simp]

Slow Down♥️

Max Verstappen x Driver!Reader (SocialMedia!AU)

I’m so down if you’re ready, I’ll show you if you let me, girl (she said fuck me like I’m famous, I said okay)

You and Max Verstappen are very well known in the media, for having one of the most volatile rivalries in the sporting world. But Ferrari’s Princess and Redbull’s Mad Max send shockwaves through the paddock when your PR teams confirm you’re officially dating. The public have a hard time believing it…until your sex tape gets leaked on Twitter a month later. Social Media!AU

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, trying my hand at a SM! AU for the first time!!, dom! Max and switch! Reader, size kink, sexism, max being a feminist king

Everyone always said there was a thin line between love and hate. Frankly, you find it to be sexist bullshit, rolling your eyes everytime some interviewer or your friends or trainer would make some sly comment about so what’s going on between you and Max, with a suggestive wiggle of their eyebrows. Nothing, just him trying to run me off the track repeatedly and giving me 4 bruised ribs in Singapore when he clipped me illegally, you say with an annoyed tone. You know that if you were a man, and not the first female driver in decades in F1, you wouldn’t be getting randomly shippedwith all the drivers. And for gods sake, Verstappen off all people was the most laughable idea. The man was either being a violent menace on the track or an immature twelve year old off it, you think vehemently. You two had stayed well out of each others way in your Haas seat last year, with you leading the mid pack in the suboptimal car but Max remaining well out of reach at the front of the pack. But this year, you’d earned yourself a Ferrari seat and were ecstatic to finally be able to compete for a WDC.

That was, until you and Max Verstappen suddenly started to keep getting caught in each others crosshairs. What started as polite indifference between two coworkers blew up into a PR frenzy, with you and Max completing for the top step in the podium every race weekend. He thought you a reckless driver, getting lucky in a rocket ship this year and trying to sink her claws into something she can’t handle. You thought him over arrogant, a man who couldn’t handle losing to a girl, his fragile ego unable to handle losing a 4th WDC to a Ferrari driver who was only in her second F1 season.

And then, two months out from the end of the season, everything changed between you and Max. On a night out in Monaco with your friends, celebrating being home from triple headers, you’d had the unfortunate experience of being cornered by some drunk, sexist creep who thought he was entitled to touch you. He’d been stronger than you expected, pinning you in a dark alleyway and you just when you starting to freak out, Max of all people practically threw the guy off you. He’d angrily spat at the drunk to pick on someone his own size or he’d break his jaw next time, before leading you to his car with a gentle hand. Normally, you found Max’s far larger frame to be annoying, another way for him to intimidate you when he glared downwards. But that night you couldn’t help but be grateful for the muscular, tall man and his attentive blue eyes as you willingly follow him with wide, doe eyes.

The ride home had been silent, you nervously clutching the large sleeves of the hoodie Max had given you from his backseat. And when you’d thanked him for his help, saying you appreciate him looking out for you even though he hated you, he looked at you with genuine surprise. I don’t hate you, he’d said. Well, I suppose we have had our differences on the track. You snickered at this, muttering that’s one way of putting it. Max chuckled, making you peer at him curiously as you’d never heard him do that in your presence. He was actually very handsome, you noted, without an angry scowl on his face or that Redbull helmet covering him. Then you tell your tipsy brain to shut up because where the hell had that thought suddenly come from?!

But really, I think you’re a pretty amazing girl off the track, Max continued. It must be hard being the only female driver, but you always have something good to say to the dumb interview questions you get. And I’m not going to stand by and let any woman be felt up by some creep. Even if it’s the Princess of Ferrari, he adds with a smirk. You rolled your eyes at this, stepping out of his car as you reach your apartment. And when you offer him his hoodie back, he tells you to keep it. You can use it to stay warm at the next race - it’s Brazil, very rainy. Did I mention I’m called the rainmaster, incidentally? You burst out laughing at his lack of subtlety, and he smiles at having distracted you, making the scared look in your pretty doe eyes from earlier disappear. Fuck off, Verstappen, you giggle, and for once your words have no real bite.

By the time your second F1 season is over, and you’re receiving your trophy for the world championship at the Prizegiving Gala, the first female to do so, you and Max Verstappen have became good friends. Maybe something more, from all the time you’ve started spending together off the track gaming, playing padel, and going out drinking. You were far too afraid to ever say something to him, knowing the media response to the first female driver dating a fellow driver would be absolutely brutal. Besides, you had no idea if Max remotely felt the same way about you - his type seemed to be pretty models, not aggressive drivers who spent half her time plotting his downfall.

You’re surprised when he finds you at the after party, late into the night, where everyone is too plastered to note that the fallen Redbull champion is taking the winning Ferrari Princess to a private level on the yacht. If you think I’m going to apologise for breaking your winning streak, you can try again, you announce dramatically as you grin at him, 5 drinks in and pink lips loosened, letting him know you were jesting. Wouldn’t have it any other way, Princess, Max hums, coming to stand so close to you that your heart rate quickens when you feel warmth radiating from the taller, muscular driver. Besides, I’ll be taking the cup next year, anyways. Enjoy the high while you can, he says in his Dutch accent, all cocky.

You let out an outraged gasp at this, forgetting how close you two already are as you step towards him, accusing hand pressed against his firm chest. But before you can say anything, Max’s gorgeous blue eyes drop down to where your manicured nails are touching his pecs. And then he looks down further, to where your plush tits have pressed up against his abs, your cute red corset minidress pushing your cleavage up temptingly. There’s no mistaking the dark desire that swirls in his intense gaze as he looks back into your wide doe eyes. And then he’s leaning in, finally, you think, and then your brain wakes up and you remember who’s in front of you. We can’t, Max, you say breathlessly, dazed by how attractive he looks when turned on. Why not, the Dutchman demands, cocky as usual. You don’t want this, Princess? His large hand brushed your jaw, tilting your face upwards when you try to look away. Your breath hitched from the contact, and you’re sure he can feel how fast your carotid pulse is beating. It’s-it’s not that I don’t want to, you say with a blush, making a pleased smirk appear on Max’s lips. But I’m the only female driver on the grid, the public would tear me apart if they found out I hooked up with another driver on the grid-

Fuck what anyone else thinks, Max says passionately, the familiar spark of defiance in his eyes. I know the fallout from something like this would be much harder for you as a woman than me, and I waited till after the championship fight finished. No one can contest you didn’t win the cup with your own sheer skill. But now that it’s finished, I can’t hold back anymore. Your jaw drops from Max’s heated confession, never having guessed the handsome blonde would reciprocate your buried romantic feelings. And I don’t mean some one night stand or summer fling, he continued boldly. I want to be your boyfriend, I want you all to myself properly.

You must have had too many G&Ts, you hear yourself say distantly, cause you’re not even a little bit cute and shy like you normally are off the track, Verstappen. He smiles gently, knowing you were using humour to deflect from the swirling emotions within you. Maybe, he murmurs, bending down to rest his forehead against yours. Or maybe you look so fucking gorgeous in this red dress I knew I couldn’t hide how I feel anymore. When he feels your hand graze his chest, pulling him just a bit closer, he knows what you want. Pressing the gentlest of kisses to your glossed lips, he pulls back to make sure you still wanted more.

But he didn’t need to have any doubts, because you’re staring up at him sultrily, desire having darkened your own wide, doe eyes. This time you’re pulling him back onto your lips, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders so that there’s not even a millimetre of space between you too. He groans against you as the months of tension come to a head, the two of you languidly exploring each others’ mouths with your tongues.

Even if you’d woken up the next morning regretting your decision, there was no way you could turn down Max’s offer of a relationship. Because even if you had still hated him, the sex that night on the yacht has been so incredibly mind blowing, by far the best orgasm you had ever experienced, that you knew you’d never meet anyone who could fuck you so perfectly again. So you hesitantly said yes, let’s try this for real, Max over a late hungover brunch the next morning. The rest had been history - the two of you had spent the last 7 months in a secret relationship, not wanting the chaos of the media to ruin your relationship before it could even start properly. Max has proven time and time again you’d made the right decision saying yes, being the perfect boyfriend, dedicated to all your needs and wants, spoiling you endlessly and making you laugh whenever you had a bad day.

Sometimes things were hard, of course. Like when you two had tensions during a race, your private relationship doing nothing to dampen the competitive spirit you both shared. But you’d both make up after, whether it be with a long debrief and strategy talk on how to avoid an incident next time - or your personal favourite, some angry make up sex. Like you’d suspected, Max was an absolute sex god and you two enjoyed a very healthy sex life, exploring each others kinky preferences. So when you’d have to be away from each other for long periods, busy with planning and meetings at your separate team bases, your boyfriend came up with a solution once the nudes and phone sex didn’t quite hit the same.

Filming yourselves during sex seemed like a certain recipe for disaster, given how famous the two of you are and the consequences of anything got leaked. But the temptation was too great as weeks drag on without the touch of your boyfriend - so you agreed, just this once, to try it out.

Well, that had certainly been the plan. But the video had been so so nice to watch again and again anytime your pussy ached for Max that you can’t resist making more. And then last month when your teams had finally given the okay for an official announcement on your relationship, and the media response had overall been surprisingly positive, you two get too comfortable and Max accidentally sent the video over DM to you, instead of the encrypted chat you normally use.

And that was when shit hit the fan.

No, Max, go away, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anyone ever again! The blonde Dutchman sighs he leans his head against the closed bathroom door with a worried expression on his face. You’ve locked yourself in his Monaco penthouse’s bathroom for the past 4 hours, not coming out despite how much he’s pleaded. Please, schatje, he tries again. I know it’s bad, but we’ll get through it together. Twitter had already banned any links of the video and both your PR teams are doing damage control and so many of the grid drivers and journalists were calling out the website that had leaked the tape. Please, I just want to see you, you can’t be locked in there forever and reading all the stuff online alone.

When you don’t reply, only sniffling through the door, he sighs again and slides down the door, making himself comfortable. A few minutes later he hears the door unlock and your red, crying face peeking through. Oh, schatje, he croons soothingly as you drop down into his arms and bury your face in his thick neck. He rubs soothing circles along your back as you sniffle that Everyone’s saying such horrible things, Maxie. How am I going to face going on the paddock ever again?

He reassures you firmly that you two would go hand in hand, united on the paddock with your heads held high, because you’ve done nothing wrong. He’d been doing the media game a lot longer than you and knew this scandal, like everything else, would get blown over with time. After your quiet sobs settle with his comforting words and tight hug, you pull back to look at him and apologise for shutting yourself away and not checking in on him. It’s your leaked tape too, you say anxiously. How are you feeling about it, baby?

He eases your concern again, telling you honestly that in the grand scheme of things, although it was a little mortifying he’s had worse in the media. Besides, it’s gonna be satisfying to crush whichever little fucker leaked the vid, he says vehemently. Any anyone who’s saying any bullshit sexist comments about you sleeping your way into F1 or anything is getting hit with a defamation lawsuit from legal, he declares, making your heart swell from his protectiveness. You still aren’t convinced, though. Are you sure, Max? I remember in that particular video, you can’t see much of my body but there’s definitely a lot of shots of your…

Dick? Your boyfriend finishes with a deadpan expression, That’s fine. Besides, I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. You know the hashtag Verstappen’s third leg is trending on Twitter now? You giggle at his nonchalance, making Max smile at seeing you cheered up. You’ve finally having processed what happened enough to maybe see a bit of humour in it. True, I suppose it could have been worse, you muse. The Las Vegas video could have been the leaked one. Imagine how batshit the fans would have gotten if they saw the handcuffs were for you, not me. Max laughs genuinely, blue eyes looking fondly at your mischievous expression. The familiar Ferrari fire he adored was back in your own pretty doe eyes.

Or worse, the Barcelona one, you tease as you lead him to the kitchen to start making dinner. Scrolling through hundreds of posts and spiralling was calorie consuming work. I think Twitter would have shut down if they found out Max Verstappen likes being called daddy in the bedroom.

Your boyfriend’s face goes adorably pink as he stammers at your unexpected roast. Hey-hey now, schat, that was just one time okay? You’d just accidentally said it and it caught me off guard-

You grin playfully, giving him a kiss on the cheek because he looked too cute to resist. Sure, baby, so off guard you lasted 5 seconds after that. His face goes even pinker, reaching the tips of his ears now as he shyly looks away. For all his fierceness on the track, you loved how sweet the Dutch Lion was off it. Giggling, you put him out of his misery by handing him a knife and tell him to get to work chopping the tomatoes. You knew no matter what came your way, you would be fine with Max by your side.

—————————————————————————

A/N: okkk so what did u guys think at my first attempt at a social media AU ahaha. You know I love to yap I fear I included too many Twitter screenshots, I ALWAYS GET CARRIED AWAY. Anyway this was super fun pulled me right out of my writers block!!! Hope u enjoy xx

[mondaymelon]

₊⊹ … ALMIGHTY DRAGONLORD K'UHUL AJAW AND TWO CLUELESS MORONS | kinich x gn!reader

— in which ajaw tends to interrupt kisses. and ruin moments.

— this took way too long to get out, winner of this poll w 458 votes .. includes pre + post getting together, kinich does bite , i love ajaw

recently, the little pixelated... thing that called itself "almighty dragonlord k'uhul ajaw" had proved to be quite troublesome.

and it wasn't just in your love affairs with malipo kinich; ajaw took it upon himself to make not a single second of your day silent.

"i'm nOT forigiving you for this you... you... you- aGH, NEVERMIND! you're literally HOGGING kinich's attention so like.. screw off already!!"

needless to say, it seemed that ajaw was a jealous individual. you'd heard a thing or two about him from kinich, though rather.. unsavory things: irrelevant tidbits, a nonchalant little comment of "i forgot to mention, he'll take over my body when i die, so he constantly wishes for my misfortune."

oh yeah, like that was totally normal.

then, perhaps ajaw's jealousy wasn't unfounded — you "owned" kinich more than he ever would, lol. funnily enough, the way the two of you had met was purely due to ajaw, so if anything, he didn't have the right to complain.

from what kinich told you later on, he had been on some bounty mission for a troupe of ragtag saurian poachers, and had swung by to check grappling indents on the cliffside when ajaw spotted an adventurer scaling the rock. doing what he does best — causing a celestial fuck of a racket — he hovered over, preaching about how "real adventurers don't use equipment" and to "drop everything to show your bravery" ... after a proper talking to, kinich met with you to convey a formal apology.

at the time, you didn't know such a professional relationship would develop into something more.

"he's bothering you again? i'll scold him..."

kinich's voice was quiet, his head settled in your lap, one hand gently circling your wrist. you slowly ran a hand through his hair, released from its typical headband-style. soft, it was fluffy to the touch, and you heard kinich hum in content, bringing his hands up to caress your face — a silent request for a kiss.

and how could you resist? there was something in that gaze that seemed so pleading, so intimate-

"you ICKY ICKY LovEBIRDS !! FOR THE LOVE OF- GET A ROOM!!"

kinich withdrew his hands with a scowl, lips pressing into a thin line. "... read the room, ajaw."

"this almighty dragonlord is not going to witness a k-kis- grOSS, i can't even SAY it...!!"

"..."

kinich seemed to consider something, very briefly.

then, he grabbed the sputtering pixel-dragon forcefully, smothering ajaw's face with a gloved hand. watching in awe and feeling thoroughly entertained, you heard indignant shouts grow muffled.. and just like that, ajaw shut up for the first time in over a decade. historical.

your lover leaned forward, angling his head to the side to press a chaste little kiss into your neck. like he had flipped a switch, he grazed his teeth lightly against your skin, nipping at it first, though not hard enough to draw blood, then biting at it.

"ouch, are you trying to leave a mark? what's with you?"

"shush." he spoke with his face flush to your neck, kissing a small trail up your neck and onto your jaw as if in apology. "i'm merely claiming what's mine."

and there ajaw floated, suffocated and forgotten. "..hell, are those two SERIOUSLY making out ?? when im literally rIGHT HERE!?"

(a/n) ajaw is so detestable i love him if possible i think id want to pinch his pixel cheeks. anyway "so call me maybe" is up next w "so cradle these wings" after, they were supposed to be sorta related but i don't the release order matters so :p

[ tags: ] @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu-archive, @falors, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader,@fiannee, @aether-darling, @aioniela, @avensuersa, @dainsleif-when-playable, @intpessimistic

( dm or comment to be added ! i might miss ur comment so just to be sure, leave a comment on the actual masterlists page on my pinned ^ ^ )

[running-with-kn1ves]

Satin Pillows To Cry On

CW: coercion with money, age gap(7 yrs), transactional marriage, obsessive/yandere behavior

gn! reader

﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀

You’ve got nothing else, no one else to rely on. 

‘You’re something he bought to keep from growing old.” 

Your clothes are worth small countries. Your cars stacked in 3-level garages. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls hanging from your wrists and ears, satchels made of endangered animal skins, different shoes for each day of the year. 

Your boyfriend of three years spat at your feet when you told him what you were doing. 

“His money can’t love you, not like I can.”

The wedding was only two months away when you broke up with him, told him you couldn’t live in his broke-down apartment anymore, that you couldn’t live with debt trailing wherever you went. You went so far as to make him hate you, to tell him that you never wanted to see him again, that you never loved him, that he better not bother showing up to the wedding. You didn’t want him there, you never wanted to see him again. 

“You’re lying to me; he’s making you say these things, he’s using you against me! You’ve known him what-- two seconds, and you’re going to marry this man?! He’s nearly a decade older than you!” 

Seven years of an age gap or not, he was still a thousand times more independent, wealthy, and a safer choice than your boyfriend. You weren’t some fresh college student new to the world, you had graduated over two years ago, still finding no luck in getting a stable income-- forget about whether or not it was in the field of your degree. 

You left in a single day, fitting all of your scavanged belongings into one of your fiance’s awaiting cars. You left anything worth of value with your ex-boyfriend, knowing he’d find more use out of it than you would. You would even leave the rest of your things there if he could find use for them, but you knew they’d just be one more painful reminder of your betrayal. 

He did as you said, not showing up to your wedding, staying clear, never appearing in your line of sight since the day you left. It made it easier…. For both of you that way. 

And now you were happy-- well, maybe not happy, maybe not even content, but you were… safe. You had everything you needed: a working car, a stable job that you felt productive in, a clean and comforting house to come home to, a spouse. Sure, maybe you didn’t get your new job yourself, or your house or your car-- but did that really matter, in this economy? Who wouldn’t trade their life and their independence for this kind of wealth?

And your husband… he wasn’t all bad. He might have only wanted you for the sake of having you at first, like a new jewel or the latest technological invention. But he was doting and caring in his own way. Maybe just a tiny bit too invested in you, in your schedule and who you talked to. A little too hateful towards your ex-boyfriend, the one who had you before he could. But everyone had character flaws, and on good days you could distract him from his grumpy mood and stress and obsessive behaviors by being the loving and oh so perfect spouse you had trained yourself to be ever since he asked to marry you. 

“Colder than all that gold…” You repeated in your mind, the words your family whispered to each other at your wedding reception only a few feet away from you. 

That was over six months now, though… the honeymoon phase never existed, you rarely saw your husband except for his midnight appearances back from the office, and whenever he would whisk you away for a weekend vacation to savor the time he had with you. For someone more sophisticated, much wealthier, and dare you say handsomer than the average man-- you were surprised to find he didn’t have a line of divorces behind him. 

No; he said, he had been “waiting for you.” whether  you or he knew it, he understood right from the moment of meeting you that you were the one he’d have for the rest of his life, even if it killed him. That severity… scared you. But in a sick sense, it made you feel relieved. Forever? This could be yours, forever? Your family would never have to struggle again, you would never have to worry where your next meal came from?

“I cleared your schedule until tuesday; we’re going to the isles. A mini vacation, you might call it. Get your things.”

He was cold, that was for sure. But, was he any worse than your ex-boyfriend, especially when he was offering you an expensive experience on top of that?

“All right..” You acquiesced. 

And now, you lied sunken into the bed feeling his loving, hot breath on your navel. Going so sweetly slow, so oddly and uncharacteristingly lingering with his touches as he gazes into your eyes. You didn’t like this; didn’t like that when he was cherishing you, making love to you, holding you so intimately, he was appearing… like a husband should. Where did he get the nerve to ignore you everyday, to have hardly any time for you, only to come back and beg for your love when it was convenient for him? 

But you keep your mouth shut, like you should, if you want to keep eating breakfast in bed, keep wearing silk robes while watching the view of the ocean outside your window.

“So beautiful…you’re like a work of art, the kind no amount of money can buy.” 

That was funny, hilarious even. Enough so to make you cry. 

A familiar face passes by the slightly ajar door to distract you, likely one of the housekeepers leaving for the night. But you swear the man’s figure reminds you of someone from your past, someone you loved and left for good. 

Your husband brings back your attention by placing a gentle kiss to your temple, blindly undoing the clasp of the necklace he bought you.

“I’m so lucky… so lucky to have been the one to catch you, forever. No one could’ve done it, not without what I have.”

He wanted you to kiss and caress back, but sometimes lying still was just enough. It was enough for him to witness you, basking in the glow of everything you wore from him, lying in the Egyptian cotton sheets he paid extra for, your body molded to the diet his personal chefs cooked. 

Even as he pushed a knee between your legs, traveling from your navel to your stomach with open-mouthed sucks and kisses in the rawest form of affection, you couldn’t help but turn your face deep into the pillow. So soft, the soft purple shielding your eyes from his tender gaze.

You might’ve given up love, given up everything familiar and those who you’ve cared for-- but at least you had satin pillows to cry on, and the finest jewelry to wipe your tears with. 

[phantomrose96]

I'm thinking about Tumblr Live again and ruminating on WHY it's such a huge flop and I think I've figured it out: They've completely refused to make it a tumblr feature...

By which I mean (begrudgingly goes to unsnooze Tumblr live) this:

^This is meant with zero insult or derision to the people above, but these are absolutely not Tumblr users.

Every single thumbnail I've ever seen for Tumblr live seems to say "This is for clout!" "This is for a thirst trap!" "This is for influencers!" "This is for Tiktok wannabe stars!" "This is for showing your pretty filtered face and reaping what people on Instagram and Tiktok are desperately chasing!"

I'm remembering that Reddit has (or had) livestreams you could tune into like this. I've tapped into some. Ones I remember offhand include:

a guy just wandering around downtown in his city silently showing people the streets and stuff

a guy streaming his attempt to beat the last level of Celeste

a guy streaming his dog he was petting

And that, that was Reddit. That was undoubtedly just regular Reddit users going "oh stream feature? yeah okay. here's my dog." "here's my video game." "here's my street corner in Prague."

And when I think of all the recent successful Tumblr features, they're all things that correctly tapped into actual Tumblr user interests. Blaze had people go "haha yeah here's my dog." "here's my advertisement for a horse lawyer (lawyer who is a horse)." They let us buy crabs because, fuck it, crabs. The blue checkmarks were funny. Polls turned into the fandom brackets people have desperately wanted to make for a decade+. I'd wager the merch that calls on old Tumblr memes is at least decently successful.

If Tumblr Live wanted the chance to be successful, it should have been angled toward Tumblr users. "Here, you can livestream your cat if you want." "You can livestream yourself working on some fanart and chatting." "You can livestream yourself going bird watching because birds are your hyperfixation and you can identify them all by their song to all your followers who want to tune in for bird facts."

But Tumblr Live has never tried to be that. It ONLY seems like it wants to be a Tiktok-clone, Instagram-clone, clout-chaser baited-hook trying to pull converts over from Tiktok/Insta/etc who are trying to grow their influencer brand, which Tumblr is lethally hostile to.

(And ALL of this is only touching on the concept behind what's happening here. I haven't even touched on the third-party streaming service and questionable data protection.)

Like fine, I guess I get it from a business model of trying to grow your userbase--since catering to your existing userbase doesn't pull in new meat. But this will not work. Because anyone, tumblr-native or not, trying to grow themselves as an influencer will NOT find success here. This place is not a place of honor. No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. Nothing valued is here. What is here was dangerous and repulsive to us. We will not watch your Shein haul stream.

[quasi-normalcy]

Just struck by the fact that, in 2018, climate scientists posted a dire warning that the Earth had just twelve years to cut greenhouse gas emissions to avoid catastrophic global heating. There were protests; demonstrations. We have now breezed through more than half of that time, with nothing to show for it but millions of more tonnes of CO2 wasted on crypto mining and AI scams. The world nears the sixth mass extinction in its entire geological history and oil production is near record highs.

Struck also by the fact that, in 2020, there were mass protests against police murders of Black people; like, mass mass protests. "Defund the police" they said. "Abolish the police." Police budgets are up. Black people still get murdered by the cops en masse.

And then, this past year, there were massive protests against the genocide in Gaza. There were occupations of university campuses, there were protests outside of the institutions that enabled the mass murder in Palestine. Macklemore did a song about it, a good one. And the genocide continues apace.

On issue after issue, you can see the same pattern. Surely the massacre of children at Sandy Hook would drive sensible gun laws! Nope. Surely outrage over the Rana Plaza collapse in Bangladesh would drive changes in labour practices! Nope. Surely the #Occupy protests in 2011 would drive wealth redistribution! Nope. Surely the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico would drive better environmental regulations. Nope. Surely the 2008 financial crash would drive regulation of the stock market. Nope. Surely the record protests against the US Invasion of Iraq would move the needle, even a little bit. Nope. Over and over and over again, we see the capitalist elite (let us be frank) raping the world, over and over and over again, we see mass outpourings of rage and disgust in the streets, and over and over and over again, we see them shrug it off, fuck their mistresses, and go golfing.

And then, some guy who may or may not be named Luigi goes and shoots an insurance CEO to death. And suddenly they can't shrug this off. Some companies back down on their plans to make health insurance in the USA even worse; we're treated to panicked editorials in elite publications talking about how celebration of the murder showcases our culture of moral decay (as if this isn't a society that has been either denying or actively celebrating the most well documented genocide in history for the last 15 months; as if there aren't near daily shootings in American schools, occurring so often that they barely even make the news anymore; as if the dead CEO hadn't presided over a company that spread misery and death for the millions as a matter of business as usual); companies beef up security, hide the names of their CEOs. There is, in short, an actual response (though it remains to be seen how it will play out in the long run, but still an actual response). Decades of mass, peaceful protest, and they just ignore it. One guy with a gun, and suddenly it's the end of the fucking world.

What lesson are we supposed to draw from this?

[envy-of-the-apple]

Rewound Infinitely

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Part one: Infinite Rewind

Synopsis: A decade later, Gojo has finally caught up with you. Weddings take a lot of planning.

Word Count: 8.6k

(Warnings: flashbacks to gore, not healthy trauma coping, thats all tho! pretty wholesome compared to last time)

Some things about him had changed within a decade, while others stayed the same. 

Even taller than you last saw him. His hair has been styled, no longer ivory chaos. You can't see a single blemish or mark despite the decade of fighting curses. He's as flawless as the first day you met him. No glasses; the entirety of his blue keeps you still.

You've seen this Satoru before: Suguru's memories, with glassy eyes, ruffled ivory hair, and an empty expression. Seeing such beauty yourself when you're standing right in front of him, it's breathtaking. 

Even the lights of Tokyo couldn't compare to him. 

You say nothing. You can't. Your mouth is dry and pointless. You're not even sure where to even begin. In front of a God, your insecurities pile up all over again. Is he disappointed by you? How could you explain everything that you put him through? Your mouth opens, you think you're about to speak: an apology, a plea, anything-

"—You're late!" 

His hands reach up to squish your cheeks together. It was so unexpected, you squeak. 

And Gojo Satoru is pouting. 

It's a wave. The ocean of anxiety, guilt, and fear crashes into the shore. You feel nothing but indignant rage at the brat who clearly hadn't matured one damn bit. 

"I'm not late!" You hiss back. "If anything, you're the one who's late. I was—"

You're cut off by his laugh, light and happy. 

He isn't offended by your outburst; he's overjoyed about it. His cheeks are dabbed with pink, and his lips are so wide that he's showing his teeth. Your anger wanes when he pulls you into his chest, arms circling around you. You can smell his cologne when he buries his face into your hair. 

"There you are. Finally." He melts into you like butter. "I missed you, Greeny." 

His voice is soft, quiet, and sincere. You can't do anything but hug him back, allowing him to sink.

"I missed you, too." You whisper.

He hums. Apart from the wind, it's quiet. He's clinging onto you as though he's afraid once he lets go, you'll disappear forever. His behavior is justified. You were constantly meddling with his life before whisking away. Just this once, you allow him to keep you within his reach, letting the cat catch the canary. 

"This is sweet 'n all. But we're actually getting late." He mutters. "Also, we gotta do something about your clothes." 

"Hm?" 

One moment, you're atop the Tokyo Skybridge; the next, you're standing in an upscale boutique. 

Satoru skips away from you. Meanwhile, you're frozen, brain scrambling to catch up with what happened. Teleport. He can teleport now.

"Mr. Gojo, sir." A voice calls. An older woman smiles at him. 

He gives her a casual wave before gesturing over to you. "Mind giving this one a dress? It's a black-tie event. We don't have a budget." 

The woman turns to you with a smile. "Of course, sir." 

What?

Dazed, you pliantly follow the woman into the back of the boutique. Her hold on you is gentle as she ushers you through the hall with one hand on either side of your shoulders. When you look back, Satoru is waving with a wide grin. The door shuts behind you. 

"Do you have any preferences?" 

You turn back to the woman. She's still smiling. You can't tell if it's genuine or customer service. Perhaps both. 

Did Satoru not like what you're wearing? When you look down, it makes sense. Your time on the tower wasn't kind to your hair, not to mention your clothes. This morning, you'd just thrown on the first thing you saw. 

This morning. That felt like centuries ago. 

She's still waiting. You give a trepid smile. 

"Anything," you say, "anything as long as it's cheap. I'm not exactly swimming in cash." 

She gives a confused look. "Oh, but Mr. Gojo is paying, isn't he?" 

Was he? You had no idea what was happening, much less what he had just said. She returns to her usual smile. 

"If you have nothing in mind, let's see here..." 

Some time later, your usual clothing was removed and replaced by something satin and long. It was a pretty dress that fell right to your feet. A set of women also flitted in and worked on your hair and face, putting everything back in your face so that you looked more human and less cryptid. 

"What do you think?" She asks, looking at you through that mirror. 

Pretty, you looked pretty. But when you looked closer, no amount of make-up could remove that look in your eyes. 

When you step back out, Satoru is waiting with a tapping foot. 

"Finally!" He exclaims, standing up. He doesn't acknowledge the dress, probably because he's seen himself in better. "Thanks, Hana. Okay, let's go." 

"Go?" You prod. "Go where? You—you still haven't told me what you're even doing—" 

It's no use. He grabs your hand, instantly warping you away from the boutique. 

You're outside. There's people everywhere. In the distance, you can see a crystal glass dome. The sun was still in the sky, which was strange because you remembered watching a sunset not too long ago, unless you weren't in Japan anymore. To prove it to yourself, you check your phone location. Yakima, Washington. What the fuck.

Was this some type of torture, him flitting you from continent to continent, all in a ploy to punish you for something? You give him a pleading look. 

"Just tell me what's going on—" 

"Nuh-uh." He grins. "It's a surprise! Besides, you'll figure it out soon enough. Now, I gotta' go. Stay here, be good, and find the panda!" 

And then he's gone.

You always knew he was insane, but this is ridiculous, even for him. To leave you in the middle of nowhere, that asshole.  

There is no one you recognize in the crowd, but they are all walking towards the dome, so you meekly follow. What did he say? Find the panda? It had to be a metaphor of some kind, or perhaps there was a panda statue you needed to wait under. 

And then you see a panda on two legs walking and talking with a group of teenagers.

Seriously, what else did you expect? 

Feeling like you've just aged five years, you approach the group. Including the animal, there's five. They all look like 14-16 years old. You feel like you're in high school all over again when they glance over at you. The girl looks particularly unimpressed. 

"Hi." You look at the panda. Maybe it's a really good costume because no one else looks shocked. "Satoru said I should find you...?" 

One of them seems to get the code. The one with black hair and puppy eyes perks up. 

"Ah! Are you 'Greeny'?" Did he tell everyone about that nickname? Didn't you tell him it was supposed to be a secret? Though, it doesn't really matter anymore. 

"It's not my actual name." You say before introducing yourself. 

He gives a nod. "Okkutso Yuta." He bows. What a polite kid. "This is my friend, Inumaki Toge." 

The kid with half his face under his scarf gives a wave. You smile. 

"Just Maki." The girl steps in before she gives you a once-over. "I like your dress." 

"Oh, thank you!" You say happily, "I love yours as well!" 

She looks away, but you have a feeling she has a hard time taking compliments. 

"I'm Panda." The panda fucking says, and no, it isn't a costume, but you're too tired to ask at this point. "Nice to finally meet you." 

When the final kid says nothing, Panda reaches over and wraps a furry hand around his shoulder. 

"And this is Fushiguro Megumi! He's shy." Panda says cheerily. The boy flusters under his weight. 

"Get off." Fushiguro gripes. 

"Don't mind him." Maki rolls her eyes. "He's just throwing a tantrum because his sister couldn't make it, and he's gonna have to socialize with people instead of hiding behind her." 

Fushiguro glares, but he doesn't respond to that. He just gives you a nod, and you decide these are good kids. At the very least, they're all way better than that brat Satoru. 

"So, why are we waiting out here?" You ask, peering around. 

"The doors haven't opened, yet," Okkutso kindly relays, "we're just waiting out here until everything is set up." 

"If they're taking this long, then they should at least ask for help." Maki crosses her arms. "We've been waiting out here for at least thirty minutes." 

"At least there's food." Panda tries to assuage. 

"Salmon," says Inumaki. 

"They're serving salmon out here?" You give him an incredulous look and he waves his arms around. 

"Bonito flakes." Inumaki says. Okkutso tries to come to his rescue. 

"Inumaki can't speak anything but food items because of his curse-" Maki quickly yanks him down by his collar frantically. Fushiguro is whispering something in his ear. You watch them go back and forth before it clicks. 

"Does it have something to do with his technique?" You ask, curiously. 

They stop squabbling. 

"Oh, our bad. Sorry 'bout that." Panda gives a sheepish grin. "We didn't think you'd know about jujutsu sorcery 'cause...well. Your cursed energy is really low." 

"Super low." Maki agrees. 

"Salmon." 

"Even lower than Maki's." That earns Panda a punch from her. 

"Thank you," you dryly say, before you turn back to the building. 

"What's going on in that place anyway?" 

They all give you an odd look before they look at each other. Did you say something wrong?

"Did Gojo-sensei not tell you anything?" Okkotsu asks. 

You allow yourself to leak some bitterness. "Satoru just dropped me on the sidewalk before teleporting away. He never tells me anything.

"That sounds like him." Panda nods. 

"Idiot," Maki says.

"Such an idiot," Fushiguro says, and now you feel bad for Satoru.

"Our sensei's getting married today." Okkutso supplies. He points at the dome. 

You don't get why you didn't realize it sooner. You knew these kids, at least Okkutso, Maki, Panda, and Inumaki. They all showed up on the very last day Geto Suguru died. Okkutso, in particular, had fought and defeated Suguru. 

These were Gojo Satoru's students. 

You think back to the last time you saw Satoru. He didn't look like a groom, but he's an eccentric guy. You wondered what kind of person would put up with him for the rest of their lives. You pitied them. 

"Oh." You frown. "His wedding? I—I would have at least brought a gift." 

"I don't think he'd mind," Panda said, "besides, you didn't even know!" 

You still felt a bit guilty. 

"We didn't bring anything either," Fushiguro states, and it helps just a tiny bit. 

"When the ceremony begins, you can sit with us," Okkutso tells you, "we're supposed to keep an eye on you, anyway." 

"You're not talking to a dog." Maki grunts. 

"Oh no I—I didn't mean to be offensive!" Okkutso backtracks. "It's just—well, Gojo-sensei's been talking about you for a while, and we want to make sure everything goes smoothly and we were all really excited to meet you so—" 

He keeps rambling like that until Inumaki pats his shoulder. You laugh, amused. 

"I wasn't offended or anything." You tell him before his words sink in. "Wait, Satoru talks about me?" 

"All the time." Maki responds, an edge to her voice. "'Greeny this', 'Greeny that'." 

"We usually tune him out when he gets like that," Panda says, "honestly, we didn't even think you were real until just now." 

"I always thought 'Greeny' was an inside joke Gojo-sensei and Haibara-sensei had," Okkotsu admits. 

Something warm bubbles in your stomach. 

"So," Fushiguro speaks, "how do you know Gojo, anyway?" 

You didn't know the story Gojo told them so you simply keep it vague. 

"I knew him as a kid." 

It's Panda who gets the most excited about this. 

"Really? What was he like as a teenager?" 

"A brat." You instantly respond, and then you think a little more. "But I don't think that ever changed." 

They ask you a couple more questions about Gojo's high school days. You oblige, thinking this as payback for how Satoru dropped you here without saying anything. You don't know how long you spend out there, airing out Gojo's younger days while his students get increasingly giggly. 

Okkotsu is the one who notices the crowd is moving. 

"I think they opened the doors." He smiles. "Let's go, everyone." 

You follow behind Maki, admiring the architecture. It's a grand building. Sparkling crystal glass lets the sunlight bleed in. The decoration was something else entirely. Small white flowers adorn the chandelier, and they cascade down the edges. Ice sculptures of angels greeted the guests. Live music was already playing. Satoru knows how to plan a wedding. 

Maki finds you all seats. You sit next to her. Fushiguro follows you. Okkutso, Inumaki, and Panda take the seats behind you. While you wait for the guests to settle down, you pass your time, waiting for the students to bicker with one another. From your assumption, it looked as though Maki, Panda, and occasionally Inumaki butted heads with each other. Okkutso often served as the timid referee, trying to get everyone to calm down, which almost always made things worse. Fushiguro just elected to ignore everything. 

"Are they always like this?" You lean over to whisper to him. Fushiguro gives a tired nod. 

"Every. Single. Day." He's saying this from experience, but at least you get a show. 

Everyone settles down eventually. The kids grow quiet when the music starts to swell. The indoor lights dim. It's starting. 

You've never been to a wedding this grand before. There was a live orchestra. Women and men were dressed in baby blue, gently strumming away their cellos, violins, and violas. 

It's how you miss Satoru's entrance. He's already standing on the altar by the time you look back. He's changed into something more formal. The suit and green tie fit him. A perfectly put-together beauty. As though he can sense your stare, he catches your eye and winks. 

But why was he already up there? Shouldn't he be—

"Sensei's coming!" Okkotsu whisper-yells. Inumaki hushes him.

Everyone turns to face the door. You do, too. 

Your heart stops when you see him. 

It's all there. Black hair, but it's longer this time around. Of course it is, he's had years to grow it out. He's tall, he must've grown since highschool. 

You don't think you're breathing when you watch him walk down the aisle. The music is low, barely loud enough to hide the click of his heels. He takes his rightful place beside Satoru, his best man. Satoru gives him a nudge, and Suguru shakes his head fondly. 

Everyone turns to see Shoko's entrance. You should too, but you keep staring at him. How much he's changed since high school. How much he's changed since he waltzed onstage wearing a priest's outfit, filled with nothing but empty hatred for those he viewed as weak. 

But he's not wearing that twisted monk costume. His eyes aren't dull and dead and bitter. There's no sickly faux smile on his lips.

Today, Suguru looks like the happiest man on Earth. 

His eyes are wide and eager and sparkling purple beauties. He's 27, but he looks younger. The lines of exhaustion and heartbreak aren't so prominent. And you—and you—

You just sit there, watching as Shoko walks up to the altar, watching as they stand as bride and groom. His daughters, adorned in pretty blue dresses, stand right behind him, smiling so hard you're sure it hurts. The priest speaks. They say their vows. You can't hear a single word. It's like you're behind a glass wall, and you can see him, but you can't feel him. 

 When they kiss, everything comes back. The crowd celebrates. Satoru ruffles Himeno's hair. Nanako smiles wider. Behind you, Inumaki and Panda sniffles. Okkotsu hands them a tissue. 

"It’s pretty." Maki comments. Fushiguro gives a hum of agreement. 

ⴵ

Satoru finds you and the kids when you're waiting for the reception to start. 

He appears behind you with a cheery, "And how are my lovely students holding up?" You almost spill your drink in shock.

"Sensei!" Okkotsu chirps. "Where's Geto-sensei and Ieiri-sensei?" 

"Shoko's around; Suguru's taking a break," Gojo answers with a grin. "If you don't mind me, I'll be stealing this one for a sec." 

He doesn't wait for an answer, steering you away by your shoulders. You look behind you. Panda waves. Fushiguro just looks even more upset. You wave back at them regardless. 

"I can't believe you put your students out on babysitting duty." You tell him. "And what's with this wedding? There's no alcohol anywhere." To make your point, you take another sip of your apple juice. 

"We have kids here. Kinda' have to make it alcohol-free," Satoru says. 

"The bartender could ID them." You suggest. 

"You think teens who fight curses daily wouldn't figure out how to get around that?" He grins. You frown at his frustratingly good response. 

“What’d you think of them?”

“Hm?”

“The kids.” He urges. “What’d you think?”

Your brows scrunch. You have no idea what he means by that. Eventually, you take a breath.

“I like how...close they are.” You eventually say. “The bond they share. They care. I think each one of them will be good sorcerers.”

He’s silent, and you think you might have misunderstood his question.

“I learned that from you,” Satoru says, “keeping them together, making sure they can grow, get stronger, together. You were always so insistent on that, back then. I’m glad you were. It was one of the best things about you.”

You stare at him. Really stare. You’ve never heard him sound so genuine, so sincere before. You look into his crystal-blue eyes, wide and earnest. Part of you wants to take a picture, so you could keep it forever.

Eventually, Gojo successfully drags you to a less crowded area of the party. He looks around. 

"Hm, he should be around here somewhere...?" Satoru hums to himself. 

"Who?" You ask. That question answers itself. 

Haibara Yu is waiting a little ways ahead. By now, the sun was starting to set. His brown hair turned gold. Gojo eagerly hurries you forward as he calls out to him. You stumble, still lost at what you're seeing. 

"Guess who I brought?" Gojo sweetly sings, Yu-Haibara, he hasn't let you call him Yu yet-tilts his head.

He smiles, confused. "Oh? Hello!" He says cheerily. "Who's this?" He asks to Gojo. 

"Guess," Gojo says. 

Haibara stares at you, and you decide to give him a hint. 

"Brocolli head?" 

He gapes. It's almost the same reaction he had last time. Last time, when you had to convince him to kill you so you could go back in time to save Satoru.  

"No way." He gasps. "Greeny?"

 He doesn't remember. He wouldn't, why would he? Still, it's nice to see the innocence on his face, rather than the pain you saw last time. Right before he snapped your neck. 

You think he was crying the last time you two saw each other. 

In this timeline, Haibara is hugging you so tightly you think your head's about to explode. 

"It's really you?" Haibara says, but his bear hug muffles his words. "“—I—I can’t believe it? It’s actually you! I thought I’d never see you again even though Satoru said we'd see you again one day, and—and then suddenly you pop up outta’ nowhere—not that I’m complaining— but—”

"Haibara." You plead. "You're suffocating me." 

"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry." He lets you go, and your lungs inflate again. "I—I'm just so happy! And—and you're a girl!" He says it like it's the most surprising thing about this whole revelation. Maybe it is. 

Satoru is always needy for attention and whines as always. 

"Wait, you two came up with a code word?" He complains. "That's not fair. We never did that." 

"I mean, it was Haibara's idea." You point out. "You should be smarter next time." 

That makes him frown even more. You laugh. 

"Yu." Haibara suddenly says. 

You turn to him. 

"My friends call me Yu." 

It's nice to know that no matter what timeline you're in, Yu will always remain stagnant. 

"Okay, lover boy," Gojo says with a not-so playful bite, "keep your eye on this one for me, okay? Gotta' go do more best man shit." 

Satoru's gone once again. You look at Yu. 

"He's been running around since I got here." You tell him. "Does that man ever rest?" 

"Nope." Haibara grins, before taking your arm. "Follow me; you should meet a couple of people." 

He leads you through the crowd. You spot the teens moping about out of the corner of your eye. Panda and Inumaki seem to be in a push-up competition. Maki is egging them on. You wisely decide not to disturb them.

Yu drops your hand to wave to someone. There's no need for any kind of introduction for these people. 

Riko and Misato Kuroi smile at you first. Miss Kuroi's aged beautifully since you last saw her. Wispy silver hair knitted seamlessly into brown strands. She never got that chance to grow gray hairs last time. You're staring so much it might be rude. 

"Yu?" Riko asks and you think you're about to break because they know each other. "Who's this?" 

"Uh, this-" Haibara chokes before looking at your awkwardly. Right, he doesn't know your actual name. 

Come to think of it, Satoru doesn't know either. He never bothered to ask too. Probably on purpose. Ass. 

You smile and politely introduce yourself. It takes everything within you not to scream and hug them both because in this timeline, they don't know you. They never did. 

But you can change that now. 

"Hello!" Riko beams. "I'm Kuroi Riko, but just Riko is fine! And this is my mom: Kuroi Misato." 

She says that so plainly, like that had always been her name, like Miss Kuroi had always been her mother. You wonder how long it took for those two realities to become her norm. Or maybe it hardly took time at all. 

"It's wonderful to meet you." Miss Kuroi states before she tilts her head. "May I ask how you know the couple?" 

Haibara jumps in for you. "Um—actually, this is Satoru's date!" He fumbles. 

You do a double-take. No, you technically weren't Satoru's date. But you technically entered the wedding with him. And he was the one who 'invited' you. Fuck, you were the brat's date. Damn it. 

"Ah." Nanami cuts in for the first time. "So, you're the one Gojo won't shut up about." 

His accusation sounds like Maki's, but less harsh. You wonder if he has a favorite student. 

Nanami looks the most different from his high school counterpart. A new haircut, less slouchy, more tall and refined. He blinks at you, slow and calculating. 

Sheepishly, you laugh. "Yeah...that's me....sorry." 

"Don't be rude, Kento." 

Ieiri arrives with a soft smile and painted features. She's changed out of her glowing gown, sticking to something small yet perfectly elegant: a short white dress that curls ever so slightly at the ends. Riko's the first to hug her, ecstatic. Ieiri hugs her back, too, because they've become friends in this timeline. The circles under her eyes are less prominent. Her smile looks more real. This isn't the timeline where she's had to bury her friend; it's the timeline she's allowed to marry him. 

"Congratulations," you say politely once everyone is done cooing over her. She smiles at you, the way a stranger would. 

Then, her head tilts. 

"Sorry," she hesitates, "do we know each other? You...feel familiar somehow." 

Ieiri was the first person you met when you activated your technique and returned to the past for the first time. She was the one who calmed you down, kept you grounded. In a way, you owed a lot to her. 

Looking at her, you can see why Suguru kept her cigarettes in his pocket. 

You shrug. "I must have one of those faces." 

The attention turns back to her, her beautiful dress, pure and white and beautiful. You feel Haibara stare at you. You shake your head at him. It wasn't the time. Maybe it never will be. 

"This really is a beautiful wedding," Mistato says when the conversation reaches a pleasant lull, "I can't imagine how much it cost." 

She shrugged. 

"Probably a fortune, but I let Satoru deal with the numbers." 

Misato looks confused, and Ieiri laughs. 

"He paid for everything." She gestures to the venue. "Suguru and I didn't have to fork over a single cent. It's the least he could do for being a pain in the ass for 12 years." 

Damn, you knew he was rich, but you didn't know he was rich rich. Maybe you should consider being nicer to him. If you ask politely, perhaps you could get him to pay off your car loans. 

"I'll get him to pay for my wedding too." Riko proudly says. 

"He'd probably do it, too." Ieiri nodded along. "He offered, just like that. The only thing he was hellbent on was the date." 

"The date?" You echo. Ieiri shrugs, messing with her laced sleeves. 

"Said it absolutely needed to be on December 24th. Something about spirituality. I never listened to that guy's rants." 

It comes to you immediately, but you're pushing it away. No way. Satoru wouldn't. There isn't a chance in Hell he would have convinced his friends to have the biggest day of their lives on the same day you were supposed to meet him. 

No, of course, he would do that. Ass. 

"So, how do you know Satoru?" Riko asks you. When she realized how rude it sounded, she backtracked. "I—I didn't mean anything by it! It's just...the guy only knows five people. When he spoke about bringing someone along, I thought he was joking." 

"Same here," Nanami says. Haibara stifles a laugh, and you realize all of Satoru's friends think he's a loser. 

Friends. Back then, he only had one of those. 

"Um." You toss Haibara look. He shrugs. "We met a few years ago! But we just recently reconnected." That's close enough to the truth. Good enough. 

You remember your blunder. You sympathetically look at Shoko. 

"I'm so sorry I wasn't able to bring a gift," you say, "I was blindsided. Satoru barely gave me enough time to get ready." 

You laugh, and you're hoping they laugh it off too. They don't, instead Shoko, Nanami, Riko, and Misato look at you. Then, they look at each other. 

Nanami speaks first. He clears his throat.

"Did Satoru....abduct you?" 

"What?" 

"That sounds like him." Misato sighs, more exasperated than anything else.

Riko nods along with her. "We tried to teach him. Where did we go wrong?" she laments. 

Haibara and Shoko laugh as you desperately try to defend your not-date date because he didn't actually kidnap you, but he did bring you here against your will and started dragging you along like some toy, but it's the context about that that matters. You wished they could've had a bit more faith in him. Poor Satoru. 

It ends eventually. Ieiri excuses herself. Riko and Misato go too. You stay with Yu and Nanami, watching as they get into increasingly petty arguments. It’s hilarious how quickly Yu is able to bring the usually staunch and serious Nanami down to his level.

Sometime later, you find yourself roaming the balcony. The party roars on indoors, laughing, talking, cheering. It was chilly outside, you should go back in within a few minutes. You just needed a break from the action.

The sun had already gone down, by then. You were somewhere out in the country. The buildings sparsely dotted the horizon. There were no artificial lights. It meant the stars could shine as brightly as they wanted to, with no one to stop them.

You hadn’t seen Satoru in a while. You had no idea where he’d run off to. It didn’t matter; you knew he’d eventually pop out of a box to harass you again.

But now that you had space for yourself, you needed to think.

You rest your hands over the rail, looking up at the stars. There were so many out tonight.

You fixed the future. You changed everything. Does that mean you still needed to tell Satoru about the past timeline?

You promised him answers the next time you two met. You promised him an explanation. He waited ten years for that. You pinch at the fabric of the dress.

This future that you carefully built, crafted with your own hands. It’s delicate, a glass castle.

It’s justice, but did that make it right?

“Want one?”

The voice makes you jump.

He stares at you, leaning against the rail. Purple eyes, mirroring the starry sky.

You knew these eyes, for a while, they used to be yours.

You stare at him. Then, you stare at the cigarette in his inviting fingers.

Your fingers twitch.

“No—no, I’m fine.” You smile. “Actually, I’m trying to quit.”

“Ah.” Suguru says, lighting it up before bringing it to his lips. “Shouldn’t tempt you, then. Pardon, what’s your name?”

You can hear your heartbeat. It’s loud, right in your ear. You wonder if he can hear it too. Are his curses around? Can they smell it? Your blood? Are they still as ravenous as the last time, eager to tear and fester and eat—

“It’s Greeny,” you say, “you can call me Greeny. ”

He hums in approval.

“Geto Suguru,” he says, “though I’m pretty sure you already know that.” You both share a huff of laughter.

“My fiancé quit a few years ago.” Suguru starts, mentioning the cherry-red cigarette. “Thought I’d follow in her footsteps, but here I am.” He shrugs before he winces.

“Wife, sorry.” He corrects. “I still can’t believe it.”

The monsters come out to play their song. You close your eyes, forgive Suguru, and you die once more.

You smile at his tone. He sounded like that 12 years ago, when he was still just a kid. Full of soft wonder.

“I’m guessing you’ve been planning this for a long time?” You ask.

He shrugs. “Shoko did most of the work. This is all thanks to her, really. Unfortunately, I was too busy managing the school.”

“I heard you were a principal?” You prod.

Suguru nods, “Our current one recently retired. I’m trying to follow in his footsteps.”

You think of Principal Yaga, the one with sunglasses and a stern expression. He looks a lot like Nanami in some areas. But he acts more like Suguru than anyone you ever knew.

And you knew Suguru; you knew him as well as yourself.

The screams start up again, and you forgive Suguru. 

“I can tell you’re already making him proud,” you say, “I met your students. They’re good kids.”

He smiles, soft, gentle. Those used to be your smiles.

“They are, aren’t they?” He repeats back, “some of them had a rough beginning, but it all worked out somehow.” He hums. “I’m glad.”

His daughters, the ones standing beside him as he kissed his wife, wide eyes and even wider grins. They didn’t have the darkness in their faces. The bitterness. Like they did in the last timeline.

You were glad, too.

This death is a lot more painful than the others. 

The curse that's holding you is more intelligent than its predecessors. It keeps you alive, tearing at your skin, feasting on your flesh. Blood is everywhere. You scream until it rips out your vocal cords. It's almost a mercy to just die. 

You forgive Suguru.

“It sounds like you’ve had personal experience with that sort of thing.” When he looks at you, you quickly say. “Your eyes. I—I can see it. I’ve always been good at that sort of thing.” You knew Suguru. His eyes matched yours.

He doesn’t look offended. Suguru takes a minute, reaching up to his black locks. He removes the elastic, pretty black hair falls down his shoulders He’s grown it out since high school. It reaches his waist.

He eases himself back onto the rail, looking up at the stars. You follow.

“Yeah, I do,” he’s saying, “I think I know what it’s like being them at that age. Alone, isolated, slipping down a rock. Drowning, but no one can see it.” Ingested. Exorcised. Ingested. Exorcised.

“When I was younger...it was really hard. Some days, I was so full of hate and anger. The pain was a lot. Sometimes, I had this despicable idea that it was someone else’s fault I was like this. Someone innocent.” He laughs, bitter.

“And, on those days, I would often feel something.”

You look at him. Suguru doesn’t stare back, eyes lost in the stars.

“Sometimes, it’d be a voice. Other times a small nudge on my shoulders, pushing me in the right direction. Once, it was a hug, keeping me from doing something that would’ve changed my life forever. And it would be just a bit more bearable, like I wasn’t so alone.”

You can feel your heart in your throat. Your fingers grip the railing.

“What did you think it was?” You expect hate, disgust. You want to give yourself a reason.

You forgive Suguru.

He takes a moment, coming back from heaven. His eyes find yours.

“I’m not sure.” He admits. “I’m not religious, but I always liked to think of it as—”

An angel. A hand of God. A higher power. It doesn’t matter what Suguru said, you knew what he meant.

A part of you always wondered why Suguru would return to Jujutsu society, when he wanted nothing more than to run from it. You expected him to retire. Instead, he took the reins of the beast, wrangling it down. Now, you get why.

“That’s why you’re a teacher now,” you say, “so you could be the same thing for your students.”

He nods, and you think of Maki. You think of Okkutso. You think of Panda. You think of Fushiguro. You think of Inumaki. Suguru must have been there for Maki, even when her own family wasn’t. Suguru must have helped Okkutso control his technique, being the only one who could. Suguru, must have made these kids better than they ever possibly could’ve been. Fighting for them instead of against them.

“Sorry.” He blinks. “I—I didn’t mean to get so sentimental. It’s been years since I thought about my own highschool years.” He laughs, voice full.

“You’re just...really nice to talk to.” He hums. “I don’t think I can explain it but it’s...familiar somehow.”

You look at him. He’s older, but in some ways, he hasn’t really changed. Even now, when you look at him, you see a reflection of yourself.

“I can see why he likes you.”

“Who?” You ask when he brings you back from your thoughts.

“The idiot.” But he says it so affectionately, so lovingly, you can’t help but smile. “I saw him dragging you around earlier. Sorry about that. I would’ve stepped in but...” He trails off, thinking.

“It’s been a while since I saw him like that.”

You hadn’t noticed anything about Satoru. He smiled just as brightly as he did in highschool. Now, you wonder if this was the first time in a while Suguru had seen that side of him: carefree, no longer The Strongest.

It hurts. It hurts so much. Blood seeps into the pavement. You can hear the curse laughing. It sounds like him.

You forgive Suguru. 

“Are you and him…” he trails off.

“No.” You laugh. “No, I’m his….childhood friend. We just haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Oh?” He tilts his head. “How long has it been?”

You decide to be honest. “Ten or so years, give or take?”

He whistles.

“No wonder he’s bouncing around like a yipping puppy,” He says, and you can’t help but agree with the analogy.

“In any case.” He leans over the railing. His cigarette is down to its last embers. “I hope you stick around. A friend…I think he needs more of those more than anything.”

You stare at him. Those purple eyes. You can see what Shoko sees. You can see what Satoru saw all those timelines ago. They only ever saw the light, the gentleness, of Geto Suguru.

You are the only person in the world who knows him.

He’s killed people. He’s killed you. No matter how much logic or justification or pain was involved, the blood of the innocent is still sticky. It still drips across the pavement, scarring the sidewalk in red. It still hurts.

When Suguru would kill you, you’d force yourself to forgive him. You needed to die without regrets, because the pain of hatred builds up, you’ve seen it happen firsthand.

But now that you’re free, what Suguru did to you wasn't fair. Just because his innocence was taken away doesn’t give him the right to take the lives of others. It never gives anyone the right to murder. You keep telling yourself that this Suguru and that Suguru were different…but they weren’t. Not really. The look in their eyes matched perfectly.

He’d do it again, in the right conditions.

And yet.

You forgive Suguru.

You can’t judge him. If there is a God, maybe Suguru will have to pay for the crimes he committed all those timelines ago. You can’t save Suguru from that. But to you, the debt is paid.

Besides, you’re too tired to hate him. And you won’t allow yourself to fall into the same cycle he struggled to break free from.

You look into his eyes. Then, at his ring. You smile. 

And that's enough.

“I will,” you say, “I will.”

Then, as two parts of a whole, the two of you stare at the stars for a little while longer.

ⴵ

The reception was nice. A fancy dinner, you can’t remember the last time you ate something. The speeches were beautiful, especially Shoko’s. You swore you saw Nanami shed a tear, but you never said anything about it.

You saw a glimpse of white hair in the crowd before the first dance began. Stunning music. The couple must have practiced for months. Bride and Groom, husband and wife, held hands and looked at each other like they were the only ones in the room.

Megumi stood beside you, watching Ieiri and Geto sway to the music. As though the kid could sense him, Megumi’s serene face sours. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when there’s a tap on your shoulder.

“Cute, huh?” Satoru starts, mentioning at the dance. “It didn’t look this put-together in the beginning. Shoko gave him a ton of bruises,” he says with a shit-eating grin.

You frown. “Shouldn’t you be doing something else than gossiping about your friends?”

“I am! I’m checking up on my son!” And then he turns to Fushiguru. “Megumi!”

“No.” Fushiguro instantly rebukes.

“Don’t mind him.” Satoru chides. “He’s going through an angst phase.” Fushiguro rolls his eyes, but he shifts just a tiny bit.

“Y’know, he was actually supposed to be the flower boy, but he refused. Such a shame, the pictures would’ve been something else.” Gojo sighed and now you’re convinced they aren’t father and son.

“That was never going to happen.” Fushiguro says, and as if he thinks you’re naive enough to believe Satoru, he glances at you. “Never.”

“Of course not.” You crack a smile.

You watch as Ieiri descends into a graceful spin, Geto taking the lead. When he tips her over, your eyes soften.

Gojo leans over; you can feel his breath in your ear.

“Next year.” He whispers. “For us, it’ll definetly be next year.”

You jerk away but he’s already skipping off, having the audacity to call out a cheerful ‘toodles’.

“What did he say?” Fushiguro questions.

That’s what you wanted to know, too, but you were so tired, and the night was so long, and you couldn’t bother to get out your Gojo translator and figure it out.

“The same stuff he always says. Nonsense.” You decide on. Fushiguro takes the answer.

“I don’t understand how he has all that energy.” You mutter, watching Satoru disappear through the crowd.

“I thought he’d get better with age, turns out I was wrong,” Fushiguro says.

“I wanted to ask,” you start, your eyes still on Ieiri and Geto, “how do you know Gojo? Aren’t you still in middle school?”

“Everyone knows Gojo. He’s pretty famous in the jujutsu world.” Fushiguro shrugs. “But personally...he’s my benefactor. Took me and my sister in when my parents left.”

You look at him. And you feel like an idiot.

He’s the spitting image of his father. Sharp cobalt eyes. Black hair. Fushiguro Toji is all over the young man.

Gojo Satoru, the one who killed the sorcerer killer, took care of his enemy’s children.

“What?” Fushiguro asks when you’re smiling

You shake your head. “No, no it’s nothing.”

Satoru told you that you’re the one who taught him about the importance of bonds. But you think he should take some of the credit too.

ⴵ

Eventually, everyone gets on the dancefloor.

It’s a mess. Absolute chaos. Panda and Inumaki are trying and failing to do the waltz. Maki and Okkuttso are lightly swaying to the music. They’ve managed to get Fushiguro up there too. Though, he doesn’t look extremely happy.

The adults are even worse. Apparently, the retired principal Yaga is a pretty good dancer. You think one of them found alcohol, because Haibara looks absolutely wasted. He’s swinging his arms around, almost hitting the other guests. Nanami is trying to get his attention, but the guy wants none of it. When Haibara catches your eye, he wildly waves in clear invitation.

You smile back, but you shake your head. You think he’s about to come up to you, but something else catches his eye, and he’s grinning at a very irrated-looking Iori.

You were sitting on a chair, just people-watching. It was a nice break from everything. To listen to the music, lightly tap your feet, play with the frill of your dress. You weren’t really in the mood to dance.

Besides, you weren’t technically invited here anyway. It’d be rude to just burst on the scene.

“There you are! Been looking all over for you!”

You don’t have to look over to see who it is. Satoru slumps down in a chair next to you.

“Greeny, you gotta’ do something about your cursed energy. It’s so weak. Like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“Thanks,” you say dryly.

“Always happy to help.” Satoru beams, and then he glances over at the floor.

“We’re dancing after this song, by the way.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s so cute you think you have a choice, Greeny.”

You frown. “There’s no point in calling me Greeny anymore. Unless you still don’t know my name.”

“I do, but it doesn’t matter,” Satoru says arrogantly. “You’ll always be my Greeny to me.”

You roll your eyes. Even now, he’s a brat. You thought all these years would mellow him down just a tiny bit.

“So,” you start, “are you done with your ‘best man shit’?”

“Yup.” He announces. “Now, I can sit back and enjoy the show.”

You smile, but you can still feel the butterflies in your stomach. He’s been running around so far and it’s given you time. Now, that he’s free, it means you two have to talk.

And you aren’t sure if you truly want to.

You flex your fingers.

“Um, how have you—”

“Stop.” Satoru interrupts. “Let’s not make this awful, Greeny.”

You nod immediately, relaxing. His voice gets softer, after that.

“I’m glad you chose that color,” he says, “I was sorta’ hoping you would.”

You look down at the dress. A deep green. You hadn’t even thought about the color, the boutique lady had basically thrown it at you.

The shade of Satoru’s green tie matches your dress. You can feel your smile again. Typical.

“I’m glad I did too,” you honestly say. And then, you continue to fiddle with your fingers. Ultimately, you decide to just bite the bullet.

“I thought you’d be mad.” You finally say, words jittery and unfocused. “Angry at me for...for what I did.”

He’s silent, and you feared that it was all true. The laughs and the jabs were all a facade.

"I don’t think I was ever mad." He responds, staring into the crowd. "Hurt, yeah. Then, it faded into something that stung everytime I thought about it, and then...something else. And now, I know it's a waste to get mad because you're finally here now. With me." 

His tone pitches upwards as he reaches over to painfully pinch your cheek. 

"'Sides, I know you can't escape me anymore, Greeny," Satoru cheerfully says, "Now, I know your face, your name, and with little effort, I could probably find your address, your social security-" 

"Okay! Okay!" You pull away, rubbing your cheek. Damn, he's scary. "Threat acknowledged." 

"Good!" He straightens himself back up, and you find yourself slumping again.

“I am sorry, though,” you say, “for leaving like that. I...I always wished I could do that a bit differently. You deserved better.”

“Don’t do that.” He shakes his head. “Don’t blame yourself for only doing what you could. It eats at you, Greeny. It really does.” He sighs, leaning forward in his chair.

“You deserved better too,” he says back, voice barely above the music, “I always had some regrets about those years. I thought I could’ve done more to help you, back then.”

There it was again: selfishness, the urge to do good to others while retaining that greed. You supposed you taught him that.

You put your face in your hands.

“Even though, you dragged me here against my will, I feel so guilty being here.” You complain, hoping it’ll lighten the mood. “You should apologize to everyone because I crashed the party.”

Satoru scoffs. “What are you talking about? Everyone loves you!” He exclaims. “Look, Yu’s ecstatic. Riko won’t stop gushing about you; you even have Nanami’s approval! I don’t even have that!” You roll your eyes, sinking back in your seat.

“Besides, you needed to come. You needed to see it.”

“See what?” You ask.

“This.” He points to the venue, the ballroom full of glittery whites and sparkles.

“Look around, Greeny. Look at all the people you saved.”

Haibara and Riko are dancing together. Two dead children finally had the chance to grow up. Misato speaks to Nanami. Beautiful gray hair, eyes that aren’t so tired. Shoko sparkling in her dress, and Geto—

The same day he was supposed to die, Suguru was getting married.

“Thank you.” When you look at him, Satoru is staring right at you. His sea eyes give everything and more.

“Thank you for saving all of us.”

Your heart skips, then just stops completely. You can’t cry, you won’t not here, not on such a happy day. But your eyes are stinging. And Satoru is turning blurry.

And then, like Satoru always does, he ruins the moment.

"Did you just fall for me a little?"

His head tilts. That same mischievous, irritating smile lights up on his face.

You relax, laughing out of disbelief. When you speak, your voice is barely scratchy. "You're so full of yourself; it's actually a little cute." 

"You think I'm cute?" 

"Did you hear anything else that I just said?" 

"I heard you think I'm cute,” Satoru responds proudly, and you doubt he’d ever let you hear the end of it.

“And besides! Today is supposed to be a celebration for you too!” He exclaims.

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” Satoru says proudly, “you did it! You became a fully-fledged sorcerer. Considering your low CE, you might pass as grade four, but when I talk to our new principal, I’m sure he’ll make things right. Get ready to join be and him in the big leagues.”

You could read between the lines. Satoru wanted to tell everyone. You think a while ago, you might have agreed, but...

“Can...Can I quit being a sorcerer?” You ask. “I’m tired.”

He takes a second. Some of you wonders if he’ll try to talk you out of this. It’s more beneficial for him if you stay as an asset to the jujutsu world. How many people’s lives will be saved by a technique like yours? To be able to go back in time again and again and again. To die again and again and again.

“Someone once told me that it’s okay to be selfish every once in a while.” Satoru looks at you, eyes like lilies once again. “I won’t fault you for it. I don’t think anyone will.”

When you try to smile, it feels wobbly.

“That person sounds smart.”

“Nah.” He grins. “An idiot, actually. Way too oblivious.”

You laugh, despite the insult.

“Quit,” Satoru says when it’s quiet again, “do whatever you want. But...you can’t run away, okay? I won’t let you.”

It’s barely a touch. His hand reaches for your fingers. You’re the one who grabs it.

“I won’t.” You promise. “I won’t.”

He’s satisfied with that. You can tell when he squeezes your hand back.

You look at him, and you decide you won't tell Satoru what happened in the last timeline.

There's no point. It wouldn't do anything but shatter everything he worked so hard to make. Why would you break the glass when you could just add concrete, make it stronger? You saved everyone. A few white lies here and there just keep this future safe.

And you know this Satoru. If you told him, he'd carry that burden with you like the soldier he was. You don't want him to do that. You don't want him to have the same look you see in your own face. One last sacrifice.

When you come back, Satoru is shifting in his seat, uncrossing his legs.

“So...about that dance?”

“Ugh, fine.” You stand up. “One dance. And if you do anything embarrassing, I’m leaving.”

“Clearly, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He grins, standing up himself.

He doesn’t release your hand for the rest of the night.

You don’t mind.

(When you disappear again, Maki’s the one who finds you.

By then, it’d been long into the night. Shoko and Suguru were already gone, off to their honeymoon in the Maldives. Riko, Misato, and most of the students were sleeping off the night. Maki, his most diligent student, was helping the remaining adults pack up the venue.

She’s dragging chairs away when she grunts in Satoru’ direction.

“By the way, your date’s sleeping outside.”

Ah, you were on the balcony. No wonder he couldn’t find you. Satoru needed to do something about your cursed energy. What’s the point of having six eyes when he can’t even find the one person who’s evaded him for a decade?

You’ve completely passed out. Slumped over on a chair, head bent at an angle that could not be comfortable. Satoru knows he should feel bad. He dragged you around the entire night like a ragdoll. This was partially his fault.

He can’t really blame himself, not when you were finally here.

It still feels like a dream. Being able to hear your voice, not Suguru’s, not Yu’s. Your touch. Your eyes. Your face. Your laugh. For years, he’s wondered what it sounded like.

Reality beat even his perfect daydreams.

Seeing you up there on the Tokyo Skytree. The wind pushing your hair back and forth. It was breathtaking.

Even the lights of Tokyo, couldn’t compare to you.

He leans down, lips at your ear, voice low because he’s too prideful to let anyone else hear, not even you.

“I know it’s too late, but you looked really pretty tonight.”

You say nothing, but you shift, murmur something in your sleep. It’s all he needs.

He ditches the clean up party, taking you within his arms. He thinks he says something to Yu, but Satoru doesn’t really care if he heard. Right now, he only has one priority.

Tonight, he’ll sleep on the hotel’s pull-out sofa while you snooze in the luxurious queen-sized bed. You’ll probably be mad in the morning, something about how you should’ve taken the couch, but he doesn’t mind your mindless acts of selflessness.

He’s waited a decade. He deserves to keep you.

And he knows you won’t fault him for being selfish one more time.)

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

LMFAO what are these cable tv writers ON