#telling children abuse is normal and good for them

[agentrouka-blog]

Respectfully, Do you even realise you are not the minority in this situation? Sure, some people have pushed their hate for Jewish people to extreme levels, but just looking at the map, Israel is not the victim here. Innocent civillians in Palestine, including children, are dying slowly every day. As a Jewish person, you should know what it feels like to be discriminated , and sadly this is a case of victim turning abuser with Israel. Have you even tried to analyse the situation critically outside your biases? Can you not see that this "rise in antisemitism" is most of the time people speaking out saying you can't defend what Israel is doing? Sure, even if it isn't "their native territory" is it then justified to fucking wipe them out like a smidge on the map to reclaim it???

I am not Jewish.

The fact that you assume I am is pretty telling, because the utter indifference toward what you so glibly describe as

Sure, some people have pushed their hate for Jewish people to extreme levels

by the non-Jewish vast majority has been terrifying to me. People shrug off attacks all over the world against Jewish civillians just trying to live their lives, or worse they try to justify it as political action or as something the perpetrators just can't help.

Have you even tried to analyse the situation critically outside your biases?

Have you? I'm not the one trying to press a complex and decades (centuries) old, deeply protracted problem into a simple frame of good and evil or "victim and abuser". (Nice, trying to turn the history of antisemitic persecution into a teaching moment that Jewish people just failed to learn from.)

Come back when you can explain to me how hunting Jewish children in Berlin, pelting them with rocks in London, violating them in France or burning their facilities in Australia is helping children survive in Gaza. I'm sure it's going to be riveting, seeing how me sharing (a very few) posts calling out antisemtism already provoked you into going "but Israel!!!!"

Stop trying to pretend away or ignore the very real and terrifying danger people face just for existing as Jews everywhere, and maybe I'll find your humanitarian concern credible or consistent. As it is, I'm seeing a hypocrite coming into my Inbox to complain that I am sullying their feel-good morally pure middle eastern political cause with dirty dirty nuance. For asking them to care about maybe addressing that negligible issue of hatred of Jews being "pushed to extreme levels" (as opposed to the normal and acceptable levels, I presume).

[clairewritesfanfics]

(more) Mark Grayson Variants as Husbands

Characters: Cap Mark, Full Mask Mark, Maskless Mark, Shiesty Mark, Sinister Mark, Viltrumite Mark

Cap Mark

The hot husband who gets hit on by everyone. He knows he has a pretty face and has a more detailed skincare routine than you. He is vain and takes great pride in his physical appearance and can be quite the charmer when he needs to be. 

While he likes the attention, he never entertains them. He has eyes only for you after all.

He’s a gossip, too. He knows everything about everyone in the neighborhood, likes to spill the tea while you two are in bed. 

One of the Marks who can cook better than their partner, or at least, without destroying the appliances. He loves feeding you. Gives you snacks almost every two hours. You blame him for your weight gain, but he can’t help it. You’re so cute when you’re eating.

Full Mask Mark

Yearns for a simple, peaceful family life. His biggest dream after marrying you is to give you children, not because that’s “the mission,” but because he genuinely wants to be a good father. 

Because he is (lovingly) a momma’s boy, the two of you spend holidays with Debbie. You don’t mind because hello, it’s Debbie.

He tries so hard to honor his commitments to you, but he is still so soft-hearted, he couldn’t just ignore a little girl crying because her balloon was stuck in a tree or a sweet old lady crossing the road. He is always late to your dates. He always feels guilty, but you reassure him each time, because he was almost never late to the important things.

Almost because he was late once and lost you completely.

Maskless Mark

Total introvert. His friends and teammates don’t worry when he doesn’t look at the messages in their group chats or see him outside of work. He genuinely would rather spend his free time with you, alone, in the house.

Strong cat dad energy. You two adopted a stray momma cat once and he used to sleep on the floor next to her when she was too tired to move.

He wants to learn to cook, but don’t let him. He will set off the fire alarms. One time he tried to make you lasagna and you came home to find fire trucks surrounding the house while your husband hugged a big fat cat and her kittens by the driveway.

Shiesty Mark

A total manchild, but beneath all that roughness, he’s thoughtful and devoted. 

When you express disapproval of certain habits, like leaving the toilet lid up when not in use (gross) or drinking the milk straight out of its carton (again, gross), he will pout but won’t do it ever again.

He is extremely protective, they all are compared to normal, well-adjusted people, but this one will fuck up anyone who looks at you the wrong way. He tends to get angry on your behalf, too, like when you tell him about your abusive boss or annoying co-workers.

He is a touch fiend and always has one hand on you. It doesn’t have to be sexual, sometimes he just likes the feeling of your bare chest and the fat of your thighs between his fingers.

Sinister Mark

Quite the romantic, also super competitive. He laughs at humans who get divorced, because in his eyes, that makes them failures. But that’s not to say that he approves of idiots staying together while they destroy each other. Divorce is funny, but pretending to be in love? That’s downright pathetic.

Love is supposed to be fun, but he also knows that it’s about effort. This man doesn’t believe in letting the flame die. He will bring you flowers everyday after work without fail. He will open doors for you, carry your things even when they’re super light, buy you chocolate, and take you to dinner every week, and it doesn’t have to be fancy, maybe you prefer McDonald’s over a sushi restaurant, that’s cool with him.

Despite his own philosophy, he actually doesn’t expect you to treat him the same way. Just agreeing to spend time with him and accepting his presents are more than enough. All he wants from you is to always have you by his side until the end of time, is that so much to ask?

Viltrumite Mark

Awkward and naive, but always willing to learn. 

Due to his upbringing, he is the typical will fix the problem for you type of guy, which can be annoying when you just want to vent. On the bright side, he is a straightforward fellow. He may not understand why you get mad or frustrated when he offers you solutions, but he will do his best to go against instinct when you tell him your feelings.

He is an attentive husband who quietly helps you around the house. He doesn’t keep track of the chores and just does it when he can, for example, when you leave one used mug in the sink (you swear you’ll deal with it when there are more dishes) he will wash it without saying a word. 

Despite, or perhaps because Viltrum does not share Earth’s marital customs, he was one of the Marks most eager to marry you. He could not picture life without you, and he would sooner bite his tongue off than think of you married to somebody else.

MASTERLIST Husband Headcanons for Emperor Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Omni-Mark, Prisoner Mark

[psychoticallytrans]

There's this idea, fairly common in society, that mental illness is for teens and up. Children are happy little creatures, generally, right? Sometimes they're abused and the trauma can make them mentally ill, but that's not common.

There are two fundamental problems with this attitude. One, it's incorrect to assume that trauma is the only reason a young kid can be mentally ill. Two, trauma is more common than people think. I'll be covering the first problem in this post through the lens of my particular experience.

Where I live, you can be diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 18 years old. You cannot be diagnosed with bipolar disorder as a minor. This poses a problem because my age of onset was in first grade, roughly six years old. Because of the fact that I was very young and new to the world, this was also the age of my first suicide attempt. Thinking I wouldn't be able to pass a spelling test genuinely felt like something worth trying to die over. So, I ate some hemlock, since I'd read about Socrates being killed with it. Luckily, I ate western hemlock, an unrelated species, and just felt kind of sick.

I'm not recounting that for fun or pity. I'm recounting it because children with mental illness are in genuine danger because they have little to no experience with managing their emotions, have little to no concept of the idea that their life can change and improve, and are dismissed by adults. I told a teacher that the test made me want to die, though not that I'd attempted to, and it was brushed off as little kid hyperbole. If I had used a method that was effective rather than one I thought would be, I would have been dead at six years old.

I would not receive medication that worked even a bit for another two years. I would not receive treatment for bipolar disorder specifically for ten years, and that required my PCP fudging the reason for the medication because she was afraid I would die if she didn't, and diagnosis was still two years off at minimum. I received a formal diagnosis at age 19, thirteen years after onset.

But surely that's uncommon, right? This story is a huge edge case, right? I actually have no idea, because age of onset and age of diagnosis are massively conflated for most disabilities. Policies like the one in my area that restricted bipolar diagnoses by age can artificially raise the age of "onset", in my case by thirteen years. The general idea that children are somehow immune to mental illness can also delay diagnosis by several years, perpetuating the idea that young children can't be mentally ill. The data on when people start experiencing mental illness is inherently skewed upwards, and I frankly don't have a good estimate on how bad that skew is. If anyone does have that data, please chime in.

Listen to children. If they're saying they're sad all the time, that they don't care about anything, that they don't see a future for themselves, those are signs of depressive symptoms. If they say that tests make them feel sick, that they can't do anything because they're scared, that they can't breathe and freeze up, those are signs of anxious symptoms. Many children talk about imaginary things, and that's just fine, but slip in a question or two about them to make sure that the kid is just playing, and not experiencing psychosis.

Children are new to the world and vulnerable, and they don't know what's normal and what isn't. They need people who are more experienced watching out for problems they might be having, and listening when they talk about having problems. If you can, try to be the person who perceives them, and tells them that things can be better.

[pruneunfair]

Tropes in manhwa are awful yet people still defend them

I'm in a bad mood right now so what better way to release all that pent up anger by ranting on what can ruin a good story.

1: Slavery being inserted only for cheap plot and slaves being demonized as obsessive/greedy monsters for "not knowing their place"

Theres nothing wrong with wanting to insert slavery in your story AS LONG as it's not just cheap plot to make your MC look "better" by buying from a single to all of the slaves because let me tell you this: there is no such thing as a good slave owner, you cannot morally own another human being. A lot of manhwa like to have slavery be a part of their plot completely ignoring that just because the MC goes "wow this is terrible" doesn't make them a good person after they buy a slave.

Remarried empress does this with its villian Rashta by pushing the notion that she's being greedy for not wanting to stay in poverty so Navier won't suffer because apparently a slave wanting what the silver spoon mouthed nobles were born into is so terrible not to mention they justify slave owners and slavery in general as a punishment for criminals (neglecting the fact that children can be sold by their parents)

The villainess has fun again justifies a child slave being bought by the lead and he becomes an obsessive shouta love interest, fans continously justify by using the ancient lolicon excuse "he may look young but he's actually 99182823 years old!"

In divorcing my tyrant husband, Robelia buys 30 slaves and the only 2 that consistently show up have no other personality other then "we love you FL we will worship you till the end of time!"

There's a damn manhwa out there literally called the order of slave breeding and even when a story tries to do this correctly such as VADTD with Penelope being portrayed as a bad person for what she did to Eckles, fans have been so deluded by the idea that FL's buying slaves is "girlboss" that they think Eckles should be grateful to be Penelopes "pet"

2: ML's murdering innocent people after one guy hurts the FL

I already made a specific post about it before and I'll say it again: all this does is make your male lead/father figure look like a horrific monster. While you could say it's because its a medieval kingdom (objectively that is true that they would do this) manhwa and OI is the same place where despite in those times taking a mistress was considered normal they still view it as cheating and "how could you pick that slut when you have such a perfect wife!? 🤬" in most stories. So yes, modern morality is still inserted within these tropes. While I can get it's a way to show that the man in questions loves the FL so much he's willing to go to such lengths to protect her I think just mutilating the guy that actually did the sin would be enough because try imagining yourself as a faithful servant who was amazing at your job getting brutally slaughtered by the Emperor because your boss attacked his daughter or lover.

Into the light once again does this with Aishas dad murdering all the relatives and close friends of a count that tried to kill Ysis and Aisha, Aisha doesn't seem to care despite being in a situation where she was wrongfully executed in her past life.

Remarried empress does this too. After Navier is nearly killed by Krista's brother, Heinrey tortures and kills the dad and slaughters the servants of the zemensias. I can't remember if he also murdered the remaining family members but I wouldn't put it past him.

3: protagonist centered morality

Protagonist centered morality is the biggest indicator that a piece of media is dealing with a mary sue FL. Whatever the protagonist says is right is immediately morally correct. This is actually used to justify the last 2 examples with "it was for the FL!" Things like slavery, murder, workplace abuse, union busting, pedophilia, and being a POS to your loved ones are all justified if the protagonist finds a cheap way to justify it and you HAVE to agree with her because her backstory is very tragic 🥺. Protagonist centered morality also ruins the chance for good characters since the FL herself never has to grow as a person so she stays the same exact thing as she was just with more enablers and random characters will be treated as villains even if they aren't actually wrong about being suspicious of the Protagonist or calling out her behavior. It twists the narrative in such incomprehensible ways that you don't even know what your reading anymore. I can't even list all of the manhwas that do this given how many there actually are so I'll just list some that are at least self aware there Protagonist is awful/morally grey or isn't even a bad person but they still have flaws that can be pointed out

Villains are destined to die

My in laws are obsessed with me

Not sew wicked step mom

Depths of malice

The villainess turns the hourglass

Beware of the villainess.

4: villains being dumbed down to make the lead look smarter

This is unfortunately another common staple often used as a quick way to make the FL look smart and witty but is that really hard to look smarter when everyone else around you is an idiot? Not only does the FL not have to put in actual effort to best her enemies but you just start to pity the villain for basically being a punching bag. Dimwitted villains aren't always bad in fact they can be some of those most entertaining characters no matter much they lose but that only works when they are meant to be seen as a goofy character that your not supposed to take seriously. Villains that are written as extremely childish and stupid but your still supposed to treat them as serious antagonists on the other hand are just annoying since you wonder how the protagonist even got killed by them in the first life if they're so stupid.

Isabella de Mare while admitly having a good reason for being dumbed down (she's a teenager in the 2nd life so it's reasonable she wouldnt be as smart as her adult counterpart) is still a joke of a villainess who keeps flipping back and fourth from a snot nosed whiny brat to a mastermind only at convenient opportunities when the plot needs conflict.

Mielle from the villainess turns the hourglass was first portrayed as extremely conniving as she arranged for Arias downfall in the shadows but in the second life she fails at every scheme she has even though she has Emma and Isis to help her out.

Ragibach is a literal demon possessing the body of another woman with the goal of setting demons loose on the word to start another human vs demon war and she succeeded in that the first time, the devastation was all there so clearly she has to be a formidable antagonist right? Well no, she's another case of being dumbed down further and further so Keira can succeed and while they do understand some plot holes such as Ludwig not trusting her as much in the second life it doesn't change the drastic character change from evil genius to bumbling idiot.

In short: dumbing down your villains so your lead can look smarter is essentially going to give the equivalent of a hydrogen bomb vs a coughing baby.

5: feminine women being demonized as basic "other girls" sluts

Okay this one isn't nearly as terrible as the others on this list because we all love the good old "a demon makes itself look beautiful to deceive humans" kind of villain, in fact as you probably know by me by now, white lotuses are my favorite kinds of character and even in media outside of manhwa I always find myself drawn to angelic villains but it seems like this is less of that and more of "Oh those are all the other girls who just want a man to save them, look at how much better my badass rich boss babe is for working for herself while taking all of their men at the time 😎" in manhwa. As soon as a traditionally feminine girl shows up, comments are already calling her a two faced bitch and half the time protagonist is already skeptical of her. This is the opposite of what being a feminist really is, a real feminist wouldn't be putting down other women just because they dress with more pink with bows and skirts and while I do think for most manhwa this is unintentional I do wish that we could have more characters like Psyche, Helena, Athy, and Jennette that prove that being overly feminine doesn't make you a backpedal on feminism. This doesn't make the badass or sexy fl's bad either, it just means they can co-exist.

An angelic villain should be treated as evil for being a well calculated schemer, not because they have a light colored color scheme

6: toxic relationships being romanticized as good

You know for a large community that claims to be about girl code a good chunk sure likes to look the other way when it comes to toxic relationships as long as the abuser is "hot" and theres always the terrible excuse such as "he has trauma!" Or "he doesn't know how to show his love normally!" No just no we aren't doing that here. Cry or better yet beg has this problem with not only the narrative claiming that Matthias graping Layla is okay because she actually loves him and doesn't know it but a large part of the fanbase also defends it, the same goes with try begging, a manhwa written by Solche who also wrote cry or better yet beg and once again despite Leon being an abuser everyone's ready to justify his actions because he's just a soft little boy who ends up falling in love with Grace awww 😍 (what the hell?) Everyones all about not justifying abusers because they had a sad past until it's the "sexy" male leads with daddy issues.

7: maid slapping

This shit isn't asserting your dominance as a boss bitch it's just work place abuse. This trope has gotten so out of hand of being justified by narratives and readers that there is an entire webtoon called this isekai maid is forming a union that's all about criticizing twisted manhwa tropes that get brushed off with maid absuer being at the biggest one. It's funny because a lot of people complain that Isekai maid union villainizes the nobles too much but they never ask the same questions when a OI is demonizing maids as greedy and lazy in order to deserve a beating. This doesn't just stop at hands either it can escalate to threats of mutilation just to assert dominice which is absolutely sick. Most of the time these leads used to be office workers or terminally ill patients, they know how terrible it is to be treated like garbage by their superiors yet they continue to absue every maid who isn't getting on their knees for them. Most maids in real history would not mistreat a noble even if they were the most hated in the house and even if they did they'd be fired without a letter of recommendation so why can't the FL's just fire the rude maid if they care about dignity so much because I'm pretty sure getting violent with a maid isn't very dignified either.

8: disgusting age gaps

Very similar to #6 but in this case while the ML/FL isn't a cruel monster to their partner it doesn't change the fact that grooming and pedophilia is still a crime worthy of life in prison. You'd think "oh no way, this can't be justified can it?" You'd be wrong. Now I belong to house of Castillo thankfully has a larger fanbase of people who think that a relationship between a girl who got groomed by her knight is bad but in cases like into the light once again a lot of people like to say "Well Aisha is technically 28 so it's fine!" When it really isn't since Aisha is still mentally 14. Taming my ex husbands mad dog is another one that does this with Reinhardt grooming a 16 year old boy and its apparently meant to be "cute".

9: claiming a character as unattractive yet giving them a perfect body and appreance

I just think this is a major cop-out since there's time where they want to make a realistic story yet also wanting a fantasy fufilment. I don't think its a coincidence that the only woman in tears of a withered flower that yout supposed to support is a Victoria's secret model body type. Even though she's meant to be an overworked exhausted 33 year old woman being mocked for losing her beauty she sure as hell isn't drawn that way, the only other women around hae soo are all women with smaller boob's and in general more common body types that are either classed as stupid or jealous that Hae soo is so beautiful that all the attractive men want her

how about we don't pit all the women against each other for once? And let's especially not villainize other women because their jealous they could never be have large boob's and tiny arms+waist at the same time?

10: the commoner protagonist actually being a noble rich person all along

Look I know most of us had loved those "the hated child is the lost princess" GLMM but we need to drop it because it's kinda disappointing that the nobody who had to work their way to the top is actually a secret magical princess who had royal blood in them all along. While I did think the villainess turns the hourglass was a pretty decent read I was super disappointed finding out that Aria was of noble descent all along. I liked seeing a commoner protagonist for once and it really felt like it was critiquing the idea that all commoners and poor people who want nice things like the nobility are greedy animals. Something similar can also happen with certain saintess manhwas that decide to twist itself into "the villainess was the true saintess all along!" And I'm just sitting here thinking "well there goes the hope that you didn't need the super duper rare power to be a strong character"

I feel way better now after writing all this.

[mononijikayu]

start a war — gojo satoru and nanami kento.

Satoru exhaled, tilting his head, a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips, but his voice was quieter than usual. "Be better, huh?" He let the words hang in the air before nodding, something unreadable in his eyes. "Alright, then. Guess I better not disappoint, huh?" There was a flicker of something in your expression. Perhaps it was relief, or maybe something gentler than that. But he didn’t care to know. Instead, he lets himself drown in the small, knowing smile you gave him. "No, I don’t think you will. After all, your eyes tell."

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: nsfw! (not safe for work), possibly triggering themes - please beware!, afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, unrequited romance (for now), fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, falling in love, long-term relationship, marriage, healing, age gap (reader is 12 years older than satoru), physical abuse, mental abuse, parental abuse, domestic violence, retaliation, violence, abuse, emotional abuse, emotional distress, injury, blood, bodily fluids, fighting, mental health issues, loss, hatred, resentment, trauma, depression, desperation, domestic life, confessions, distress, cheating, cutting off family members, escaping, profanity, toxic relationship, drama, depression, bitterness, children, mention of various forms of abuse, mention of violence, mention of blood, mention of bodily fluids, mention of trauma, depiction of various forms of abuse, depiction of violence, depiction of various forms of abuse, actor! nanami, actor! gojo, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 20k words

NOTE: it was hard to write this part of the series because satoru's life was really hard. i hope i was able to portray it well enough, and with good care to the sensitivity of the content. in some ways, the only wonderful thing in his life is his mother and reader. please beware. if you cannot read it yet, you can opt out from this part. your well-being is more important to me. i hope that if you can read this, please know that i love you. and if you are going through what these characters are going through, i just want you to know i'm here for you and i support you. i love you all so much, please keep safe!!! see you in the next one!!!

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the good life ― masterlist.

taglist: @not-aya, @nanamin-chan, @qualitygiantshoepsychic, @funicidals, @zanzie, @poopooindamouf, @darlingken, @lillycore, @prosypepper, @sukioyakio, @harrie-fic-center, @yoonseokerist, @midnight-138;

TWENTY YEAR OLD GOJO SATORU THINKS HE’S USED TO IT. This was just his normal life, the accursed life he’s forced to live. He hated it, to be sure. And he thinks it's the worst outcome for any human being to live and breathe such suffering. Yet here he was, in the thick of it. He felt ever so abandoned by what god there exists on the other side.  

The beatings weren’t the worst of it when it came to his father, he thinks to himself. Gojo Satoru could take the blows, he’s known he could since he first felt the blow. He had learned how to brace for them, how to keep his face blank, how to shove the pain somewhere deep enough that it barely registered anymore.

But his poor, defenseless mother—she was the one who suffered the most. And she was too fragile to endure it, too weak to even shout or whimper or even to fight back at all. The illness had already made her frail, had stolen the color from her cheeks and the strength from her limbs. Yet destiny made her suffer more.

Satoru hated it.

He hated the way she still flinched whenever his father, drunk and staggering, raised a hand as if to strike. Hated the way her lips parted on instinct, whispering those same, rehearsed apologies—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—for things that were never her fault.

Hated how she still, somehow, found the strength to step between them, shielding Satoru when he was the one who bore the brunt of the man's wrath, even when she could barely stand herself.

"Stay back," she would murmur, her voice trembling but her arms unwavering as she held them out in front of him. "Please, Satoru. Don't say anything."

But it was never that simple. It never was.

Because what Satoru hated most—more than the stench of liquor that clung to his father, more than the bruises he had long stopped counting—was the way his hands trembled. Not from fear. No, never from fear. It was rage. Hot, blinding, and useless.

His small fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to strike back, wanted to scream, wanted to do something other than stand there, helpless. But he knew what would happen if he did. It would only get worse for her.

"Don't look at him like that, my son." she pleaded one night after their father had finally collapsed in a drunken heap. Satoru hadn't said a word, but she could see the fury simmering beneath his pale, glacial eyes. "You know what happens when you—"

"When I what?" he snapped, yanking himself away from her touch. "When I make him mad? When I make things worse? As if that bastard needs something to fuel the fire. As if he needs a reason!" His voice cracked, his breath coming out sharp and uneven.

"Satoru, please—"

"Stop telling me to let it go!" His vision blurred, his whole body shaking. He wanted to punch the walls, to scream until his throat was raw. "You let him do this! You always let him—"

Her slap wasn’t hard. It didn’t hurt. But it stunned him into silence.

For a long moment, she just stared at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, hands trembling just as much as his were.

Then, in a voice so soft it was barely a whisper, she said, "What else am I supposed to do?"

Satoru had no answer.

And that was what he hated most.

Almost as much as he hated having to hide the bruises from Yaga Masamichi when he was still in high school.

That was when it was most prominent.

Satoru had always been strong—physically, mentally, in every way that mattered. But sometimes, no matter how much strength he had, the anger got the better of him. That’s why the bruises happened. That’s why, some days, he’d roll his shoulders and feel the ache buried deep beneath the skin, why he’d clench his fists just to remind himself that he could still fight, even if he didn’t. Even if he couldn’t.

But Yaga wasn’t stupid.

Satoru knew the man saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he moved, the occasional wince he couldn’t quite suppress when sparring. Maybe it was the way he sometimes showed up to class with a faint shadow of a bruise peeking out from under his collar, or the times he kept his sunglasses on longer than necessary, even indoors.

And yet, Yaga never pushed.

Never asked.

Not directly, anyway.

"What happened to your wrist?" Yaga had asked once, his tone casual but his sharp eyes betraying his concern.

Satoru barely spared him a glance, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Training accident, teach." he said easily. A half-lie, but a lie all the same. “Just held the baseball wrong. You know how it is.”

Yaga didn’t respond right away. Instead, he studied him, gaze heavy in a way that made Satoru’s skin itch. But still, he didn’t push. "Be more careful next time, Satoru." was all he said before walking away.

And that was how it always was. Because Yaga Masamichi knew. He wasn’t born yesterday. knew that Satoru wouldn’t tell him the truth, even if it was obvious. Knew that if he did push, Satoru would just deflect, turn it into a joke, act like it didn’t matter.

Even now, years later, long after graduation, Yaga still checks up on him, whether it be a phone call or a text. Although, sometimes he tries to go himself. But that doesn’t always happen. Still, he tries to do what he can.

"You and your mother are eating enough, right? If not, I’ll send over some food there."

"Don’t overwork yourself. I know you’re taking care of your mother, but take a rest."

"You know you can call if you need anything, right?"

Satoru would just grin, waving him off. "I’m not a kid anymore, Yaga. I’ve got it handled."

But some nights, when the past was a little too close, when the phantom ache of old wounds lingered longer than it should, he wasn’t sure if that was a lie. He wasn’t sure he was actually alright. He wasn’t actually sure that he didn’t need anyone.

Geto Suguru also always noticed. And he expected nothing less of him. He was his best friend after all. He knew him better than most people, even his mother, even Yaga. Even now, years later, when they hung out like nothing had changed, Suguru’s sharp purple eyes never missed a thing.

Satoru had always been good at hiding things, even when he was a kid. All of his pain. All of his anger. All of the bruises that littered his skin like evidence of a war he couldn’t fight back in. But Geto Suguru always noticed.

Satoru would catch him staring sometimes when they were kids, when they were still teenagers. He could feel the burning gaze at his wrists, at the faint marks barely visible beneath the cuff of his uniform. His expression would darken, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose.

"Let’s take him down, Satoru. You and me, we’ll get it done. You’ll be freed from the bastard." he’d say, voice low, simmering with conviction. "Let’s beat him together. Just tell me when and where. I’ll help you."

And good gods, Gojo Satoru wanted to.

He wanted so badly he could taste the urge on his tongue, could feel the violent, reckless need clawing up his throat. He wanted to see his father afraid for once. He wanted to watch him flinch like his mother does. He wants him to bleed like he does. He wants him to feel powerless, to feel like a wounded animal, to feel so weak that he begs for mercy.

But he couldn’t. Not without consequences. Not without leaving his mother in that house alone, with no one to protect her. Not without making things even worse. So he gritted his teeth, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and told Suguru those words he hated — No, not yet.

Geto Suguru never liked that answer. He never did.

"Not yet?" He clicked his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes—dark purple, burning with frustration completely bored into Satoru like he was the idiot in this situation. "And when, exactly, is ‘yet’? When he puts your mom in the hospital? When he finally does something you can’t fix?"

Satoru hated it when he talked like that. Hated how blunt Suguru was, how easily he put words to the thoughts that already haunted Satoru’s mind. Like he was saying something Satoru hadn’t already thought of a thousand times over. His hands clenched into fists in his pockets. His headache from the pressure of his own barely contained rage. 

"I said drop it, Suguru." he bit out, voice sharp, final. “Please.”

And for all that Suguru was stubborn, he did.

At least out loud.

But his silence was never truly silent.

It lingered in the way his jaw clenched, the way his fists curled tight at his sides, the way he always positioned himself just a little closer to Satoru than before, like if he couldn’t do anything yet, he’d at least be ready for when he could.

But his silence spoke louder than his words ever could. The way his jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists, the way he didn’t meet Satoru’s eyes—it said everything. He wanted to fight for Satoru in a way Satoru couldn’t fight for himself. But Satoru wouldn’t let him.

Couldn’t let him. Because Suguru had parents who loved him, a future ahead of him that didn’t have to be ruined by a single act of revenge. Gojo Satoru wasn’t about to take that from him. So he swallowed his pride and his rage and let things continue as they always had. Until the night they didn’t.

Until the night his father came home drunker than usual. Angrier than usual. Until the slurred curses turned into the sound of something shattering. Until he heard his mother’s voice. It was a tone too soft, ever still and trembling, barely a whisper beneath the fury. 

"Please… please don’t—"

Satoru was on his feet before he even realized it. The room spun around him as he moved, his vision tunneling, his pulse hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. His nails bit deep into his palms, his whole body rigid, every muscle locked in place as if his own rage was the only thing keeping him upright.

Not yet, he had told Suguru. Not yet, not yet, not yet.

But maybe ‘yet’ had just arrived. Maybe this was it, maybe this time, he can’t help it. Because he couldn’t let it go this time. Because he didn’t want another time. The floor felt too far away as he took his first step. The air in his lungs burned as he took his second. 

His father’s voice—deep and volatile—spat something cruel, something his mother didn’t deserve, something he didn’t fully hear over the roaring in his head. Then another crash. A gasp. A whimper. And that was it. The last thread of restraint snapped. Satoru moved.

He was down the hall before he could think. The door was already half-open, the dim light from the kitchen spilling into the hallway, casting long, warped shadows across the floor. The smell of alcohol was thick in the air. It was pungent, suffocating, clinging to everything.

And there he was. His father stood over his mother, his chest heaving, his broad shoulders rising and falling with every breath. She was curled against the cabinets, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders trembling. A broken plate lay in jagged shards near her knees. Her hands were thin, delicate. And they were shaking. Satoru immediately saw red.

"You bastard." His own voice barely sounded like his. It was low, seething, vibrating with something ugly and raw.

His father turned sluggishly, narrowing bloodshot eyes. "What did you just—"

Satoru didn’t let him finish. His fist connected before he could think. A sickening crack echoed in the air, and his father stumbled back, knocking into the dining table with a grunt of pain. But Satoru didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think.

He hit him again. And again. As hard as he could. He let himself push until his knuckles split, but he didn’t feel it one bit. The only thing he felt was the satisfaction of watching his father fall, of watching him struggle to push himself up, dazed, stunned.

"That feel good?" Satoru’s voice was almost a snarl. He barely recognized himself. "You like that? Huh?"

His father groaned, trying to sit up. "You—"

Satoru grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back down onto the floor. "Say it again." 

His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling so fast he thought he might explode. His hands were still trembling—just like his mother’s had been. "Say something else."

His father didn’t.

For the first time, he actually looked afraid.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t sure how long he would have stayed there, fists clenched, heart pounding, eyes burning with something violent and unforgiving. If not for his mother’s voice.

"Satoru… stop." Her hand wrapped around his wrist—small, fragile, barely a touch. But it cut through him sharper than anything else.

He turned, and she was looking at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears. She shook her head once. Not like this. Not yet. Satoru’s hands dropped. His father coughed, groaning as he pushed himself onto his elbows.Satoru forced himself to step back. To unclench his fists. To breathe.

His mother was already moving, kneeling down, pressing a cloth against his father’s bleeding lip with trembling fingers. And Satoru hated that. Hated how, even after everything, she still cared. He turned on his heel and walked out, fists still shaking.

Maybe 'yet' hadn’t arrived after all.

But it was close.

He was so close to the end of it all.

IT WAS A NICE DAY TO BE OUTSIDE. Perhaps that’s why Yaga Masamichi asked to meet today. The quaint little café was tucked away on a quiet street just outside Metropolitan Tokyo, the kind of place that had probably been there for decades. 

Faded wooden tables, the hum of an old espresso machine, the occasional clink of ceramic cups meeting saucers. It smelled of roasted beans and nostalgia, of things unchanged even as the world outside moved forward.

You arrived a few minutes early, slipping into a seat by the window, where the late afternoon sun slanted through the glass in golden streaks. The café was quiet, the kind of place where the scent of roasted coffee beans lingered in the air, where soft chatter mixed with the gentle clinking of porcelain cups against saucers.

You ordered a matcha latte and a croissant. The hunger from the long drive gnawed at your stomach, and the heat of the sun had left your throat parched. You figured Yaga wouldn’t mind. He was never one for small courtesies anyway. If anything, he’d probably just grunt in acknowledgment before ordering his own drink, something plain and bitter, like he always used to.

It had been years since you last saw Yaga Masamichi. The two of you had grown up in the same small town, running barefoot through the narrow streets as children, getting into scrapes, building forts out of old cardboard boxes. You lived just a few houses apart, the kind of proximity that turned familiarity into something close to kinship.

But life had a way of pulling people apart. He left for university in Kyoto. You stayed behind, tethered to the countryside, where the same roads led to the same places, where the seasons changed but everything else stayed the same. Well, that was until you had married Kento. 

Yet even then, you knew he was in Tokyo for a while before he moved back to the countryside to go and teach. Even then, you and him never talked again after that. There were no hard feelings, no dramatic goodbyes about all that. It was just a gradual drifting, like leaves floating down different streams. That was how it went sometimes.

Still, when he called out of the blue, his voice was exactly the same. Gruff. Familiar. Straight to the point. You thought to yourself that he hasn’t changed one bit. Perhaps that touched you quite a fair bit. At least one thing, someone from home didn’t change one bit.

"Can I meet you?" he had asked, no preamble, no idle pleasantries. "I have something to ask of you."

“What about?” You asked him in return.

“Just come meet me. I’ll ask you then.” He says, almost too bluntly. “It’s a matter that is too serious to express over the phone.”

There was something in his tone, something weighty, something that made you pause. Yaga Masamichi had never been the type to reach out unless he had a reason. He could have all these years. But he had now. Which means it must be that grave. 

So you agreed. And that’s why here you were. The matcha latte was warm in your hands, the foam swirling lazily on the surface. You took a sip, savoring the earthy sweetness, your gaze drifting out the window. A moment later, you hear the bell above the café door chimed.

You heard those heavy footsteps you could not recognize.  You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Sometimes, there are just going to be people, no matter how many years pass, who still carry the same presence. 

You could feel the presence of a man who had seen too much, carried too much. He was broader than you remembered, the weight of responsibility settling into the set of his shoulders, the firm line of his mouth. But the moment he sat down, the tension in his posture told you this wasn’t just a casual reunion. Nor did he waste time with pleasantries.

“There’s a kid, [name].” Yaga said, folding his hands over the table. “His name is Satoru. I used to be his teacher in high school.”

“What does this have to do with me?” You gave him a confused look.

“It has everything to do with you.” He retorts, almost too gruffly. “I know it is.”

“I’m going to need more details about this, Yaga.” You sighed at him, leaning slightly into a slouch. “I didn’t drive all the way out here for nothing.”

“You didn’t drive here for nothing, I assure you.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Then start talking.”

“He’s got talent—unreal talent. The kind that only comes around once in a generation. If he had the chance, he could be something great.” He exhaled slowly. “But he doesn’t have that chance.”

You frowned. “Why?”

Yaga’s jaw tightened. “His home life is… bad. His father refuses to support him, and he’s abusive, to both mother and son. And Satoru won’t leave because of his mother. It’s been a year and a half since he finished high school, and he still hasn’t gone to college. He’s stuck, [name]. And I don’t know what to do.”

You leaned back, processing the information. A gifted kid, burdened by circumstances beyond his control. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard a story like this, but something about the way Yaga spoke. It was low, deliberate, with the weight of frustration and something close to guilt , it made this different.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked.

Yaga met your gaze, his expression unreadable. “Because I think you’re the only one who can help him.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“I don’t know your husband Kento.” Yaga admitted. “I only knew you.”

His voice was quieter now, the weight of old memories pressing into the space between you. He exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic cup in front of him, a steady, rhythmic sound. Like he was trying to piece together the right words.

“And if there’s anyone who can get through to that kid, who can guide him toward something better… it’s you.” His dark eyes met yours, unwavering. “You value education. I knew that since we were kids. And I know that because of what happened, you would want someone like this kid to succeed.”

What happened, huh. The words sat between you like a ghost, unspoken but present, heavy in the air. All the sudden those memories came crashing through to you, almost instantaneously did all those words, all those feelings, all those moments came to you in crashing waves that swallow you whole.

You purse your lips, leaning back slightly, fingers tightening around your own cup. “How would you know that?”

Yaga hesitated, just for a moment. Then, in a rare moment of quiet sincerity, he leaned in slightly. “Because I know you.”

“We haven’t met in nearly fifteen years, Yaga.”

“That doens’t mean you haven’t changed, about this especially. I know you don’t want this kid to be twenty forever and not have anything.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried. “I know you want someone else to have more.”

You felt it in your chest, in the space between your ribs, in the parts of you that had tried to move on from the past but never quite managed to. You took a deep breath, your hands unsteady as your eyes rose to meet his.

“I know you would want this kid to have something more than what you had, [name].” Yaga said to you, pleadingly. “So help me. Even just this once.”

And just like that, you understood why he had come to you. This wasn’t just about his student. It was about you. About the road you had walked alone, about the chances you never had, about the years spent trying to carve something out of nothing. Yaga knew that weight. He had seen it all those years ago, and now he was asking you to take that pain and turn it into something good.

He was asking you to give this kid a future. And the worst part of it,  you weren’t sure you could say no. You sighed once again, dragging a hand down your face. The café felt smaller all of a sudden, the air heavier. You glanced down at your untouched coffee, watching the steam curl and fade into nothing.

“You’re asking a lot of me, Yaga.” you murmured.

“I know.” He didn’t try to sugarcoat it. He never did. “But I have no one else to turn to. I know you are the only one who can make it happen.”

A part of you wanted to refuse. To walk away before this tangled you into something you weren’t prepared for. But Yaga knew you too well. He knew exactly where to press, which words to say to keep you in your seat.

You tapped a finger against the table, thinking. “Tell me more about him.”

A flicker of something crossed Yaga’s face, and you could only guess it to be some sense of relief or even perhaps gratitude. But it disappeared just as quickly, when he started to think about the student he cared so deeply about.

“As I said, his name is Satoru.” he started, leaning forward. “He’s already twenty years old. Supposed to go to college years ago, but his father gambled away his money to drink and other shit vices. And his mother’s a housewife. So, there’s no luck there. Doesn’t help that he tries to work, but it doesn’t help much when he’s too overprotective of his mother.” Your frown became prominent. “That’s horrible.”

“The kid’s too proud to ask for help.” Yaga sighed with exasperation. “He’s smart as hell, but he’s got no direction. I’ve done what I can, but he needs more than just a teacher looking out for him. He needs someone who understands.”

“Understands what?” you asked.

Yaga’s gaze was steady. “What it’s like to be left behind.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest. You clenched your jaw, looking away. The past had long since scarred over, but there were some wounds that never fully healed. You knew exactly what he was implying, and you hated that he was right.

Still, you forced out, “And you think I can do something for him?”

“I know you can.” Yaga’s voice was firm. “I know that if you meet him, you’ll see what I see. A kid who’s got everything he needs to make it but no one who’s willing to fight for him. I know maybe you could be that someone.”

You let out a slow breath. You weren’t sure if you wanted to get involved. But you also knew this—if you walked away now, you’d never stop thinking about it. “Where is he?” you asked, finally.

Yaga allowed himself the smallest smile. “In the countryside town I’m teaching in. I can try and convince him to meet you, if you want to. But it would take some time for me to convince him. I promise, though. I can make it happen.”

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “I can’t meet him yet.” you say, voice quieter than before. “He might reject me and all of it outright. It’s best to rein him in slowly. So we don’t overwhelm him.”

Yaga doesn’t react. He just watches you, the way he always has—patient, steady, waiting for you to say more. But when you don’t, he nods once, accepting it for what it is. You exhale, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out a pen. 

The napkin in front of you is thin, the paper rough under your fingertips as you begin to write. The ink bleeds slightly into the fibers, but you don’t stop. Numbers, details, instructions. It has everything Yaga needs to make sure that the young man has some options. When you’re done, you push it toward him.

“Arrange a meeting when the time is right, when you’ve reined him in.” you murmur. “But in the meantime, he’ll get this.” You nod toward the napkin. “This is for him.”

Yaga picks it up, scanning the details. He doesn’t speak, but his brows furrow slightly. You know the exact moment he realizes what he’s holding. “This is a lot of money,” he finally says, looking up at you.

You shrug. “It’s from the money I saved over the years by myself, before my marriage. Much of that is my investment. But I don’t need it…..you know my husband cares for me more than I can imagine. You can use this. I’ll talk to my accountant.”

“That’s not the point, [name].” Yaga says, voice edged with something unreadable. He sets the napkin down but doesn’t let go of it. His fingers press into the paper, thoughtful. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to.” Your voice is calm, but firm. “Besides, you were the one convincing me to help him, weren’t you? I doubt he’ll leave without his mother. This would be enough money to bring her with him. And for them to be comfortable for a while, until he could find some work to help with his day to day with his mother.”

Because it was never about Yaga’s student. Not really.

You weren’t thinking about some youngling in his twenty year of life, or how he was with too much potential and nowhere to go. You were thinking about yourself at that moment. You were thinking about your own young self, the echoes of grievous youth. You who were still waiting, still stuck, still waiting for something, anything, to change and happen. 

You lean back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest. Yaga is now watching you as you took your time, still collecting yourself. The café feels quieter now, like the weight of the past has settled into the walls, pressing against your ribs.

“I’m not saying he has to take it, Yaga.” you say after a moment, your fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “I’m just someone who helps. I can’t force it on him. That’s up to you. To him.”

Yaga says nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and scrutinizing. “....I know.”

“Give it however you see fit.” You lean back slightly, crossing your arms. “Tell him it’s a scholarship. Tell him it’s a loan. Hell, don’t even tell him where it came from if you think it’ll make him stubborn.” A small, knowing smirk flickers at the corner of your lips. “But if he’s as smart as you say he is, he won’t waste the opportunity.”

A pause. The café hums around you. There were still those muted conversations, the hiss of steaming milk, the faint clatter of dishes from behind the counter. Yaga doesn’t answer you right away. But that was understandable. And you did not care.

Instead, he stares down at the napkin. The one with the scribbled details, the promise of a future written in ink. His fingers curl around it, calloused and rough, before his eyes lift to meet yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something unspoken. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to say no. Or maybe he’s just trying to understand why you’re doing this. 

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. His large hands moved carefully as he folds the napkin—not rushed, not careless. A deliberate gesture. When he tucks it into his pocket, it’s with the same quiet reverence as someone securing something fragile.

“…Thank you.”

The words are gruff, edged with hesitation, but sincere. You offer a small nod, a silent acknowledgment that you both understand. Neither of you says anything else. Some things don’t need to be spoken out loud.

“Now, are you hungry or not?”

“Why are you suddenly asking now?” Yaga snickered, leaning against the bench.

“Just order before I change my mind about paying.” You rolled your eyes, drinking your matcha drink.

“Alright, alright.”

HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY. Gojo Satoru sat across from Yaga, legs sprawled out, arms folded, the usual cocky glint in his eye replaced with something harder to place, something wary. His foot tapped against the leg of the chair, a steady rhythm, like he was keeping time with an unseen clock.

“So let me get this straight.” His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it, sharp and suspicious. “Some random person I’ve never met, who doesn’t even know me but someone who knows you, just up and decides to pay my way? Like, what, I won the lottery and no one told me?”

Yaga didn’t react. He just exhaled through his nose, already expecting this reaction. “Yes.”

Satoru snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Thanks, Yaga. I needed the laugh.” 

He slumped back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the edge of the desk, acting like this conversation was nothing more than an annoyance. “Alright, joke’s over. What’s the real reason you called me in?”

Yaga said nothing. Instead, he reached for the folder at the side of his desk, sliding it across the surface with a practiced patience that only made Satoru more irritated. He didn’t move to take it, just eyed it like it might bite him.

“I managed everything already, just like your benefactor asked me.” Yaga said, voice firm but calm. “Tuition, housing, living expenses—it’s all handled. All you have to do is decide what you want to do next.”

Satoru could not help but just stare blankly at the folder like it was a trick, like if he touched it, the illusion would break and the rug would be pulled out from under him. “This isn’t a joke, Satoru. I promise you.”

Something in Yaga Masamichi’s voice made him stop. The usual sarcasm sitting on Satoru’s tongue dissolved. Slowly, he sat up, planting his feet on the floor before dragging the folder toward him. His fingers drummed against the cover for a moment before flipping it open.

Inside, neatly arranged, were the details like Yaga said. All the bank transfers, the college exam forms, rent agreements, even a breakdown of potential career paths. It was all there, structured and waiting, like a road laid out ahead of him.

His throat felt dry. No one had ever done something like this for him before. Gojo Satoru wasn’t stupid. He knew how the world worked. Nobody gave something for free, not without expecting something in return. His grip on the folder tightened.

“Who?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

Yaga didn’t hesitate. “Someone who understands.”

Gojo Satoru could feel his jaw suddenly tense. That wasn’t an answer. But the way Yaga said it, the way he looked at him, Satoru knew he wasn’t going to get anything else. So he just lets it go for now. He frowns.

He clicked his tongue, snapping the folder shut. “And this benefactor, they don’t want anything back?”

“No.”

Satoru scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Yaga’s expression didn’t change. “Believe what you want.”

Satoru leaned back in his chair, spinning the folder between his fingers before tossing it onto the desk. Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about the fact that someone out there had seen him, had looked at his life, his struggles, and decided he was worth helping. That thought made his chest feel tight, like a weight pressing down on him.

He’d spent years clawing his way through life, telling himself he didn’t need anyone, that he could handle it on his own. And yet here it was—help, handed to him on a silver platter. No strings. No conditions. It pissed him off. Because it meant he had no excuse.

Satoru clicked his tongue again, running a hand through his hair. “So all I gotta do is choose, huh?”

Yaga nodded. “Yeah. Pick your university well.”

For a long time, Satoru just sat there, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers. He could feel Yaga watching him, waiting, but the older man said nothing. He had learned, over the years, that pushing Satoru never worked. Eventually, Satoru leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He tapped his fingers against the folder, once, twice, before exhaling sharply.

“You know what this feels like?” he asked, voice lighter than the tension in the room. “It feels like one of those scam emails. ‘Congratulations! A long-lost prince has left you a fortune! Click here to claim it!’” He gave Yaga a dry look. “Should I be worried about malware?”

Yaga didn’t smile. “No one’s scamming you, Satoru.”

Satoru hummed, glancing back at the folder like it might suddenly disappear. “That’s what a scammer would say.”

But the joke fell flat, and he knew it. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to look at this too closely. Didn’t want to pick it apart and realize it was real. Because if it was real, then he had no excuse not to take it. His fingers curled around the edges of the folder.

Yaga, always patient, spoke again, his voice steady. “You don’t have to decide today. I just wanted to tell you.”

Satoru let out a breath that almost sounded like relief. Almost. “I feel a but coming in here.”

But then Yaga added, “But you do have to decide, eventually. Don’t let this go to waste.”

And just like that, the relief was gone. Satoru tilted his head, expression unreadable. “And if I say no?”

Yaga shrugged. “Then you say no.”

Satoru narrowed his eyes. “You’re really just gonna let me walk away from all this?”

“If that’s what you choose, then yes.” Yaga said simply. “That’s what your benefactor said.”

That was the part that unsettled Satoru the most. His whole life, every choice had been made for him, by his father, by circumstance, by a world that didn’t care whether he sank or swam. And now, suddenly, he had control. He didn’t know what to do with it.

Satoru dragged a hand through his hair, sighing dramatically. “Man, I hate this.”

“Hate what?”

“This.” He waved vaguely at the folder, at Yaga, at the whole damn situation. “This whole ‘I get a say in my future’ thing. It’s stressful.”

Yaga’s lips twitched slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Satoru clicked his tongue, then stood abruptly, snatching the folder off the desk. He tucked it under his arm like it weighed nothing, like it wasn’t the single biggest decision of his life. He looked at his old teacher with complex eyes.

“I’ll think about it, Yaga.” he said, already turning toward the door. “I promise.”

Yaga nodded, as if he knew that was the best he was going to get. “Alright.”

But just as Satoru reached for the handle, he paused. “…This person.” he said, without turning around. “The one who did all this.”

Yaga waited. “Yes?”

Satoru’s grip on the folder tightened. “Are they gonna want to meet me?”

Yaga considered his answer carefully. “They’re leaving that up to you.”

Satoru let out a small scoff, shaking his head. “Figures.”

And with that, he walked out into the cold winds of the evening, the weight of the neatly pressed folder pressing against his side like a decision he wasn’t ready to make. Not yet. But maybe soon.

HE TOLD HIS MOTHER ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. In some ways, Satoru knew he couldn’t keep this from her. Something this big, how can you keep it to yourself? Someone else needed to know. And he knew his mother was that person.

The folder sat in the dim glow of the kitchen light, thick with opportunity. With a future. With escape. But his mother hadn’t touched it. Instead, she sat across from him, hands curled around a chipped ceramic mug, knuckles pressed white from how tightly she held it. She hadn’t taken a sip in minutes. The tea had gone cold.

“Satoru, my son….” she murmured, shaking her head, her voice brittle. “You don’t know these people.”

He had expected this. She had always been careful, wary of kindness, of luck. Of hope. “I know Yaga, though.” Satoru said, his voice controlled, steady. “And I know this is real.”

His mother exhaled, slow and tired. “For you, it is.” she whispered. “But to me, I’m still not sure.”

The words sank in like a blade between his ribs. Satoru sat still for a long moment, his heartbeat in his ears. For a while, he had told himself that if he ever got the chance to leave, he’d take it without hesitation. No second thoughts. No regrets.

But that was before he had something to lose. Before the idea of walking out of this house meant leaving her behind. Guilt curled in his stomach, sick and twisting. He had spent his entire life watching his mother weather the storm of his father’s anger. Taking the worst of it. Absorbing it so Satoru didn’t have to. He couldn’t pay her back for that. He couldn’t undo it.

But he could do this.

“Come with me, mom.” he said.

His mother’s head snapped up, startled. “What?”

Satoru met her eyes, clear and unwavering. “Come with me, to Tokyo or Kyoto. Wherever I end up going to school.” he repeated. “We don’t have to stay here.”

She blinked, like she hadn’t even considered it. “Satoru—”

“I mean it, mom.” he said, leaning forward. “You don’t have to stay with him.”

Her fingers trembled. “And go where?” she whispered.

Satoru swallowed. “Anywhere but here. There’s enough money for the both of us.”

She let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “It’s not that easy.”

His jaw clenched. “Maybe not, mom.” he admitted. “But staying here? That’s not easy either.” His voice dropped, lower now, pressing. “That’s never been easy.”

His mother flinched, looking away.

Satoru stared at her, his chest tight.

For years, he had tried to convince himself that his mother was fine. That his father’s anger had only ever been directed at him. That she could handle it. But he knew better. He had seen the bruises she covered with long sleeves in the summer. Heard the way her voice shrank in his father’s presence.

He had never asked why she stayed.

Because deep down, he already knew.

“You don’t understand, Satoru.” she whispered. “We can’t just—”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “Then make me understand.”

She exhaled shakily, pressing the heels of her palms against her forehead. “I don’t know how to leave.”

He reached across the table, his movements slow, deliberate, as if any sudden motion might scare her away. His fingers found hers, cold and trembling, and he covered her hand with his own. A silent reassurance. A plea.

"We’ll figure it out, Mom." His voice was softer than usual, a stark contrast to the steel in his grip. He needed her to believe him. Needed her to trust that there was a way out. "Just come with me."

She didn’t respond right away. Her fingers twitched beneath his, hesitant, unsure. He could feel the slight tremor in them, the way she curled them ever so slightly, as if she wanted to hold on but couldn’t quite bring herself to. Satoru swallowed hard. He knew what she was thinking. Knew that years of fear, of habit, of hope that things might still change were keeping her frozen in place. 

But she didn’t pull away. And that was something. For now, that was enough.  He squeezed her hand, just once. Gentle. Certain. A quiet promise. The quiet admission struck something deep inside him. Because he understood. For so long, he had felt like that, too.

His father had built a cage around them. One with invisible walls, lined with rules, punishments, expectations. They had learned to navigate it, to survive inside it. But now, for the first time, there was a door. And Satoru wasn’t walking through it alone.

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his own. “We’ll figure it out, mom.” he promised. “Just come with me.”

Her fingers curled slightly under his, hesitant, unsure.

But she didn’t pull away.

And for now, that was enough.

The night they left weeks later, the house felt heavier than usual. Like it knew it was being abandoned. Like it was trying to hold them back. Like it doesn’t want to be left empty with that crude, brutish and miserable man. But Satoru does not care. He does not want to be here anymore. 

Satoru stood in the dim hallway, bag slung over his shoulder, heart pounding like a drum in his chest. His mother was in front of him, clutching the strap of her own bag with white-knuckled hands. She hadn’t moved in minutes.

“We should go, mom.” he murmured.

His mother didn’t respond. She was staring at the walls, the floor, the furniture—like she was trying to memorize them. Like she was trying to convince herself she could step away from it all. Satoru swallowed hard. He understood.

Because for years, this house had been their whole world. Their cage, their battlefield, their suffocation. Every argument, every bruise, every silent dinner had seeped into the walls. This place had shaped them, broken them, kept them trapped. And now, they were about to leave it behind.

Satoru reached out, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. “Mom.”

She flinched, eyes darting at him. For a second, just a second, she looked terrified, she looked just as much exhausted. Not of him. Of the unknown. Of a life that is now going to be separated from the brutal one she had been forced to live.

“I don’t—” Her voice cracked, her throat working around the words. “Satoru, what if this is worse?”

Satoru inhaled sharply. That fear she felt, he knew had felt it too. The doubt. The what-ifs. The voice in the back of his head that told him maybe it was better to stay where things were familiar, even if familiar meant unbearable.

“Then we’ll deal with it, mom.” he said firmly.

His mother let out a shaky breath. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.” Satoru interrupted, stepping closer. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “I know what it’s like to be afraid of leaving. To think that maybe… maybe this is all we get. Maybe we just take it. Live with it.”

Her chin trembled. “I just….”

“But we don’t have to.” he whispered. “We don’t have to live like this.”

His mother looked away, blinking rapidly. “This is my home, my son.” she murmured. “This is all I knew.”

Satoru’s chest ached. “No, mom. It’s not your home.” he said quietly. “This is just a house where bad things happened. It was never your home.”

Her breath hitched. “.....It’s not my home?”

“No, mom. It’s not.” Satoru pressed on, voice soft but unwavering. “Home isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s not supposed to hurt. We can find something better. We can make something better. We’ll build a home together.”

His mother squeezed her eyes shut, one hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright.  Tears were forming at the edges of her eyes, her body was shaking. He was losing her. Panic rose in his throat.

“Mom, please.” he begged, voice cracking now. “I can’t leave you here.”

She exhaled sharply, her entire body trembling. Then, slowly, she turned back to face him. And for the first time in years, there was something in her eyes other than resignation. Something fragile. Something afraid. Something hopeful.

Satoru reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Come with me, mom.” he whispered. “I’m begging you.”

His mother’s grip was weak at first, hesitant.

Then, finally, her fingers tightened around his.

And she nodded back at him.

Satoru exhaled, something breaking inside him. Relief, gratitude, something bigger than all of that. He squeezed her hand once before letting go. She followed him to the door. She hesitated for only a second before stepping outside. And for the first time in years, she didn’t look back.

HE HAD A DIFFERENT PERCEPTION ABOUT THIS CITY. But it would seem that Tokyo city was quieter than Satoru expected. He thought the city would be overwhelming, suffocating with its neon lights and endless streams of people, but standing in the doorway of their new apartment, it was the silence that struck him first.

No shouting. No breaking glass. No heavy footsteps signaling trouble. Just the low hum of traffic outside and the soft creak of the floorboards as his mother hesitantly stepped inside. It didn’t feel real to him.

“Welcome home, you two.” Yaga said from behind them, setting a thick folder onto the kitchen counter. “I take it you’re getting along well with this apartment?”

“Yeah.” Satoru turned to him, still adjusting to the idea that this was happening. “I guess.”

He wasn’t dreaming, right? 

His father wasn’t about to yank him back with an iron grip, right?

 His mother lingered near the window, fingers ghosting over the curtains like she didn’t know if she was allowed to touch them. Like any second, someone would come and tell her this wasn’t hers to have. Yaga didn’t push her. He just motioned for Satoru to sit at the small, round dining table. Satoru hesitated before finally doing as he was told.

“Alright, let’s go over everything. Now that you got into Tokyo University.” Yaga exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. He flipped open the folder, tapping a few neatly stacked documents. “There’s quite a bit.”

“Looks like there’s quite a bit.” Satoru says, looking at the binder.

“Your tuition has been taken care of in full. All you have to do is choose your major and register for classes. Everything else, the apartment, utilities, and monthly expenses, and your mother’s health check ups….it’s also been covered. It surprisingly fits for one year from the money we got, so it’s going to be fine.”

Satoru’s hands clenched on his lap. “It still sounds like a scam, even when it's done already. It just still feels unreal.” he muttered.

Yaga snorted. “Yeah, well. I’d be suspicious too, if I wasn’t the one who pushed for this to happen.” He leaned back in his chair, studying him. “But don’t worry. Like I said, your benefactor doesn’t want anything from you, Satoru.”

Satoru frowned. “That also still doesn’t make sense.”

Yaga’s expression softened. “It does, knowing your benefactor, it truly fits.” he said. “Though your benefactor reminded me to tell you to study well, and take care of your mother.”

Satoru blinked, caught off guard. “That’s it?”

Yaga nodded. “And that you go to college, everyday. No classes missed.”

Satoru let out a sharp breath, disbelieving. “That’s really it?”

Yaga’s gaze was steady. “That’s really it.”

Satoru looked down at the folder, at the proof of everything Yaga was saying. His mind raced, trying to find the catch, the fine print, the part where this all fell apart. But there wasn’t one. There wasn’t anything that has been faulty throughout.

Someone—some ridiculous stranger—had decided to give him and his mother a way out. A fresh start. And all they asked in return was for Satoru to live. To be something more than what his father had tried to reduce him to. The realization settled into his bones, heavy and overwhelming.

His mother let out a shaky breath from the window. “I don’t know how to thank them.” she whispered. “This is just….”

Yaga gave a small, knowing smile. “Then don’t, Mrs. Gojo. Really.” he said simply. “Just live well. That’s enough of a thanks to the benefactor.”

Satoru swallowed past the lump in his throat. For the first time in a long time, he believed it. And for the first time in his life, he thought—maybe, just maybe—he had a future. One that was finally his own. 

The apartment felt too clean. Satoru wasn’t used to that. Everything in his life had been messy. Broken things that never got fixed, stains on the walls that told a story of fights and silent suffering. But here, the walls were smooth, the floors unscuffed, and the air smelled like citrus, like someone had actually cared enough to prepare this place for them.

His mother still stood by the window, staring out at the Tokyo skyline, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked so small against the view. Like she wasn’t sure if she belonged there.Satoru ran a hand through his hair and turned back to Yaga, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach.

“So what now?” he asked, his voice flat. “I just… start over?”

Yaga leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “That’s the plan.”

Satoru scoffed. “Yeah, because it’s just that easy.”

Yaga exhaled through his nose. “No, it’s not.” He met Satoru’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “But you’re not alone in this. You’ve got support now. You’ve got options.”

Satoru hated that word. Options. It had never applied to him before. It had always been one way, his father’s way, and if he fought against it, he got beat down, literally and figuratively. But now, he was standing in a place that wasn’t his father’s house. He had a bed that wasn’t covered in cigarette burns. A kitchen where nothing had been thrown in anger.

It was real. It was his. Satoru stared at the papers in front of him, his chest tight, his breath uneven. This wasn’t a dream, wasn’t some fleeting hope destined to slip through his fingers. It was happening. After everything, after years of feeling trapped, after nights of clenched fists and swallowed words—he was finally here.

This was the start. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white, tension coiled in his shoulders like he was bracing for a blow. For something to go wrong. For someone to suddenly take it all away. Because that’s how it had always been.

He had learned young that good things never lasted. That the rug was always waiting to be yanked from beneath him. That every step forward came with a price. But this time, there was nothing in his way. No one to stop him. No one told him he couldn’t.

He forced himself to exhale, to relax his fingers, to release the quiet fear clawing at his chest. Across the table, Yaga sighed, watching him with that same gruff patience he always had. He gestured toward the stack of documents, the official letterhead, the crisp edges that made it all feel so real.

"Your next step is to register for school and pick your classes," Yaga said, voice steady, even. Then, with a pointed look, he added, "Take your time picking what you want to do—just don’t waste this chance."

The words settled heavily in the air between them. Satoru swallowed, nodding once, fingers tightening over the papers like an anchor. No. He wouldn’t waste it. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t do anything like that. 

Satoru ran his fingers over the papers, the weight of them heavier than it should have been. His throat felt tight, but he forced out a scoff, masking the unease gnawing at him.

"Tch. You think I’d waste it?" He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head just slightly, forcing a smirk. "Come on, Yaga. Give me some credit."

Yaga didn't blink so much as blink. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed. "Credit is earned, not given." His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "You might be smart, but that doesn’t mean you’ll do the work."

Satoru clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. "You sound like an old man."

"And you sound like a kid who doesn’t know what he’s getting into."

Satoru narrowed his bright blue eyes at him. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Yaga exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Look. Just don’t screw this up. That’s all I’m saying."

Satoru glanced down at the papers again, his fingers tightening around the edges. "I won’t."

This time, he meant it.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS WAS UNREAL. Satoru never thought he would make it this far. The Tokyo University campus stretched around him, grand and sprawling, filled with students who looked like they had always belonged here. It felt strange to walk among them, knowing that just a year ago, this had been nothing but an impossible dream.

But it was real now.

He had passed.

He was here.

Satoru kept his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his fingers curling into the fabric as he walked alongside Yaga. It had been Yaga’s idea to come with him, but Satoru had wanted it too, though he wouldn’t admit it. He’d never been the type to need someone by his side, but maybe, just this once, he didn’t want to do this alone.

They walked in silence for a while all around the campus, the low hum of student chatter filling the air, the occasional bike rolling past on the paved paths. Then, the question that had been burning in his mind finally slipped out.

“Hey, Yaga.”

“Hm?”

They walked side by side, the hum of the campus life surrounding them. The air was warm, thick with the scent of pavement after rain, and the late afternoon sun stretched golden fingers across the rooftops.

Satoru shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture loose, but his mind wasn’t. Something had been gnawing at him ever since Yaga handed him those papers, ever since the weight of opportunity settled on his shoulders.

His voice was quieter than usual. "My benefactor—I gotta ask." He barely glanced over, keeping his tone casual, as if the answer didn’t matter. "Who is it?"

Yaga didn’t respond right away. Instead, he slowed to a stop, his gaze drifting toward an old stone wall covered in ivy. The thick vines sprawled across the surface, swallowing cracks and imperfections, twisting like they had been there forever. Satoru frowned, stopping a step ahead of him.

"Oi, what are you—"

Yaga let out a slow breath, like he was considering something. And then, finally, he smiles. "She’s your benefactor."

Satoru’s breath stilled.

He turned, following Yaga’s gaze.

And then he saw you.

You stood just past the wall, near the entrance of the university, bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. The light caught in your hair, casting a soft halo around you. You weren’t looking at him—not yet—but the moment Satoru’s eyes found you, something inside him went still. 

At twenty years old, for the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru thought he had seen an angel. 

But it wasn’t just that you were beautiful.

It was something else. The way you carried yourself—poised, yet approachable. The quiet kindness in your features. The steadiness in your stance, like you had already decided you would stand by him, no matter what.

And you had. Without even knowing him. A stranger had given him everything. The weight of it settled in his chest, unfamiliar and heavy. For the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo had no idea what to say. His fingers twitched. His breath came in slow and careful, like he was afraid that if he moved too suddenly, this moment would shatter.

You turned then, your eyes finally meeting his own, and something deep in his chest twisted. How was he supposed to look at you, someone who had saved him, someone who had believed in him when no one else had—and pretend this was normal?

For the first time in years, Gojo Satoru was completely, utterly speechless. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do with the emotions overwhelming him. Gratitude. Disbelief. Hope. It had been a long time since he had let himself hope for anything.

And yet, standing here, staring at you—he thought, maybe, just maybe, he could start. Silence settled between them like a held breath, thick with things unspoken. Satoru stood frozen, his mind caught in a whirlwind, unable to process the weight of Yaga’s words. 

She’s your benefactor.

You. The woman standing just a few steps away, the one who had made all of this possible, who had given him a chance at something better at freedom without ever meeting him. For the first time in a long time, Satoru didn’t know what to say.

Yaga let out a slow breath, watching him carefully before speaking again, this time with something unusual in his voice. A heaviness. A lament. “When we were kids, you know she was amazing.” Yaga said, his tone quieter than usual. “She was the smartest person I knew.”

Satoru blinked, caught off guard by the way Yaga’s voice softened, like he was speaking of something precious, something lost. “She studied here, years ago,” Yaga continued. “One of the brightest. The kind of student that professors remembered. The kind of person you just knew was going to change the world.”

Satoru’s eyes flickered to you, searching your face for something, for what, he didn’t know. But you didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, as if you had long made peace with the past Yaga was unraveling. “But she never got to graduate.”

Satoru frowned, his grip tightening in his pockets. “Why?”

Yaga hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. “She became a mother.”

The words landed like stones in Satoru’s chest. “What?”

“She became a wife.”

Satoru’s stomach twisted. There was something unspoken in Yaga’s words, something heavier than what was being said. A life that had been rerouted, rewritten. A future that had been sacrificed for something or someone else.

“She had dreams, y’know?” Yaga said, his gaze distant, like he was looking at something only he could see. “Dreams bigger than this place could even hold. But life had other plans.”

Satoru swallowed hard, a strange, unfamiliar ache settling in his throat. Yaga exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “And yet, even after all these years….” he said, looking at you now. “She's still the same.”

His voice grew firm, looking at you. “Still looking out for others before yourself. Still giving when you’ve already given too much. But how much is that a life, [name]?”

Satoru clenched his jaw, something tightening in his chest. “I….”

“She wants you to live, Satoru.” Yaga’s voice cut through the air like a quiet, unwavering truth.

“To become someone she couldn’t be.”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “Me?”

Yaga nodded at him. “Yes, you. She wants you to be free. In a way she couldn’t. So make everything count.”

That word. Free. It echoed in his mind, sharp and relentless, like it had been waiting for him to hear it all his life. He had never been free. Not from the weight of his family’s name. Not from the bruises hidden beneath his sleeves. Not from the suffocating feeling of being trapped in a life that had been dictated for him before he was even born.

Even now, even standing in this place, even holding proof that he had made it here, a part of him had still been waiting for it all to be taken away. Because nothing had ever truly been his. But then—there was you.

The woman who had given him a future, even when you had never met him.

The woman who had believed in him, even when no one else had.

The woman who had looked at his life—the one he had been struggling to survive in and decided he deserved something better. 

Satoru swallowed hard, his throat tight, his fingers twitching at his sides. He looked at you again, really looked at you this time. And in your eyes, he saw something he hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Hope. Not just for him, but for what he could be. You had given him a choice. A chance. A way out. A way forward. A freedom he had never known. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid to take it.

HE HAD TO BE HONEST, IT STARTED WITH CURIOSITY. A passing thought, a simple question. Who was she? The woman who had saved him, a stranger who had given him everything without asking for anything in return. Yaga had said you were the smartest person he’d ever known. That you were meant for something great.

And Gojo Satoru, who had spent his life feeling like he was meant for nothing, couldn’t shake the thought. So he started searching. At first, it was just your name. A quick lookup on university records, old archives, things easily accessible. But what he found pulled him in deeper, past the point of idle interest, past the point of stopping.

Because you weren’t just smart.

You were a prodigy.

A force of nature they couldn’t handle.

Your name was everywhere, overwhelmingly so. There were the old scientific papers, articles praising your research, university newsletters featuring your achievements. There were awards, national recognitions, competitions where you had left everyone else in the dust.

Satoru scrolled through it all, page after page, eyes scanning through words that felt foreign to him. Chemical reactions, molecular structures, theories he didn’t even pretend to understand. But you had understood them. And not just understood them—you had mastered them.

He clicked on a video link without thinking.

And then—there you were.

Gojo Satoru sat back, stunned.

The screen flickered, grainy from age, but the image was clear enough. You were sitting in a brightly lit lecture hall, across from an interviewer, your hair tucked neatly behind your ear. You looked younger here, maybe barely twenty, but your eyes were sharp, your expression alive.

And when you spoke, Satoru stilled.

“This is what I love about science, you know?” you said, your voice confident, steady. “It’s everywhere. It explains the world. It connects everything—every living thing, every reaction, every change. It’s a miracle, it is life!”

You smiled, leaning forward slightly. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Something in Satoru’s chest twisted. He had never cared about chemistry. Had never cared about formulas or reactions or any of the things you were talking about. But watching you now, the way you lit up, the way you spoke like the world was something worth understanding, for the first time, he got it.

There were more videos. Clips of you working in the lab, hands steady, movements sure. Interviews where you spoke about research projects, your words quick, excited, spilling over each other in your enthusiasm. Moments where you laughed, bright and uninhibited, so full of life it made his breath catch.

You were dazzling. Not just beautiful, though you were, effortlessly so but brilliant in a way that made it impossible to look away. You were more than that. You were a diamond in the rough, among all these people. Among all mortals surrounding you, you looked like a passionate, genuine and wondrous goddess blessing all with your presence.

But then, the more he dug, the more he couldn’t find anything anymore. Everything, all of it had stopped. The records, the videos, the awards, all of it ended at a certain point. No graduation announcement. No further research. Just bitter cold silence.

Satoru sat there, staring at the screen, his fingers curled into his palms. Because he knew why. You have become a mother. And then horridly, a wife. And your future, the one that should have been limitless had been cut off, rerouted, swallowed by a life that wasn’t yours alone anymore.

Satoru exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the strange weight in his chest. Who were you now? Did you still dream of the things you once wanted? Did you still love chemistry the way you had back then? Did you regret any of it? Or did you look at him—the boy you had chosen to help, the one you had given this second chance—and see something of yourself in him?

Satoru didn’t know. But for the first time in his life, he wanted to. And that realization hit him with startling clarity. This wasn’t just gratitude. It wasn’t just admiration. It was something deeper. Something consuming.

And Satoru, who had never cared much about anyone outside of himself, felt an unfamiliar pull toward the woman who had changed his life before he even knew her name. He didn’t think he could ignore it.

It didn’t stop after that first night. If anything, it only got worse. Satoru found himself thinking about you more often than he wanted to admit. At first, it was just curiosity. He told himself that. Curiosity was all well and dandy.

But curiosity didn’t explain why he kept going back, why he kept watching the same videos over and over, memorizing the way you spoke, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved.

Curiosity didn’t explain why he started reading about chemistry, things that had never interested him before. Just to understand the things you had once been passionate about. Just to know what your world looked like.

Curiosity didn’t explain why he noticed the way your voice softened when you spoke, the way you carried yourself with quiet grace, like someone who had spent too long in the shadows of what could have been.

It didn’t explain the way his stomach twisted when he thought about everything you had lost. The way it ached. The way he wanted to—Stop, Satoru, this is madness!

He cut the thought off before it could form, running a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. This was ridiculous. You weren’t some mystery to be solved. You weren’t a puzzle for him to piece together.

You were just a woman. A person. But the more he learned about you, the harder it became to see you as just that. Because you weren’t just anyone. You were someone who had been larger than life, someone meant for something extraordinary. And yet, when the world had taken that from you, you hadn’t broken. You hadn’t let it turn you bitter.

You had chosen to help him. And Satoru who had spent his life feeling like no one had ever truly seen him suddenly realized that he had never really seen anyone either. Well, until now. Until you. Until you haunted the narrative of his existence.

He didn’t know when it shifted, when the fascination became something else. Something deeper. Something sharper. But he knew it the moment he caught himself watching an old video of you late at night, long past the point of exhaustion, long past the point of excuses.

The screen flickered, your younger self smiling, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you explained something about chemical bonding. Satoru wasn’t even listening. He was watching your hands.

The delicate way you gestured, the way your fingers curled slightly when you were deep in thought. And he wondered, suddenly, what it would feel like to have those fingers traced against his skin.

His breath hitched. The thought came unbidden, slamming into him with the force of something undeniable. And that was when he knew he was in trouble. Because this wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was something more to him. It was something surely more consuming than any other drug in this world.

And Gojo Satoru, for the first time in his life, wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop it.

GOJO SATORU WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE. He wasn’t even supposed to be in this part of the university today, but his feet had carried him here, as if drawn by some invisible force. And then he saw you.

You stood near the entrance of the new science wing, speaking with one of the department heads. You weren’t smiling, but there was something almost wistful in your expression, something he hadn’t seen before.

For a moment, he just… watched. It had been one thing to see you in old interviews, to read about you, to trace the remnants of the brilliant woman you had been in the past. But here, now—he could see you in real time.

And you were even more mesmerizing than he had imagined.

Satoru had spent years perfecting the art of reading people. It was second nature to him, the way he could pick up on subtle tells, unspoken thoughts lingering in the way someone shifted, the way their eyes darted or their fingers curled.

And what he saw in you made his stomach twist. You looked like someone who had built a life out of moving forward, like someone who had made peace with the things they had lost. But deep down, buried beneath the layers of composure, he saw it.

The quiet grief. The remnants of a dream abandoned, tucked carefully behind the way you stood so still, the way your fingers brushed over the edge of a desk as if testing its reality. They were all there under the surface.

Something about it unsettled him. Because he knew that feeling. That hollow ache, that quiet longing for something just out of reach. And for the first time in his life, Satoru wanted to know what it would take to bring that spark back into your eyes. What it would take to make you look at him. So he stepped forward.

“You seem important here.” he said, voice light, teasing.

The words made you turn toward him, your gaze settling on him in a way that made his pulse stutter. For a moment, you simply studied him, bright blue eyes, white hair, a sharp grin that hid far more than it revealed.

He saw the way you hesitated when you looked at him for the first time, quietly searching his face as if trying to place him in a category of familiarity, but he knew you wouldn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

“Not at all.” you finally replied, shaking your head. “Just someone who used to study here.”

“Ah, I see.” he hummed. “So, an old-timer.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Not that old.”

But Satoru had already noticed the way you shifted, the way your fingers curled slightly against your palm. You didn’t talk about the past much, did you? You didn’t let yourself linger in what had been. And yet, you were here. Still standing in the middle of a building you had helped fund. Still tracing the echoes of who you had once been.

“What’d you study?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Chemistry.”

“And did you love it?”

Your eyes flickered to him again, as if the question had caught you off guard. Satoru held your gaze, waiting. He wanted to hear you say it out loud. He wanted to know if it still burned somewhere inside you.

“I did, I suppose. I fought hard to get there.” you admitted, voice softer now. “It was my passion, once.”

Once.

Satoru didn’t like that word.

Didn’t like the way it tasted in his mouth.

Because passion wasn’t something that simply faded. It was something that lived inside you, something that clawed its way back to the surface, no matter how deeply you tried to bury it. And maybe that was why he was standing here now. Because, somehow, you had become his passion.

“Still passionate about it?” he pressed, tilting his head.

You hesitated. And then, after a moment, you exhaled. “Some passions never really fade.”

Something in him tightened, he couldn’t point out which. Gojo Satoru hadn’t been expecting you to say that. He hadn’t been expecting the way those words would settle inside him, threading into something deeper.

“Passion’s a funny thing.” Satoru murmured, his voice carrying a lazy sort of amusement, but there was something deeper beneath it. Something steady, something careful. “Sometimes, even if you try to leave it behind, it finds its way back to you.”

Your beautiful bright eyes flickered toward him, searching his face, as if trying to figure out why he had said that. Satoru held your gaze, refusing to look away. You purse your lips into a flat line, lowering your gaze.

For a moment, the world around him faded—the distant hum of students talking, the soft footsteps echoing down the hall, the chatter of professors discussing research grants and department budgets. None of it mattered.

Because right now, it was just you. And for the briefest second, he thought maybe you felt it too. That quiet pull. That strange, undeniable gravity between two people who, by all logic, should have never crossed paths—should have never been drawn toward each other.

And yet, maybe they always had been. Your fingers flexed slightly at your sides, a barely-there movement, but Satoru noticed. He noticed everything about you. The way your lips parted just slightly, as if you wanted to say something but weren’t sure if you should.

The way your eyes darkened with thought, with something unspoken, something he was suddenly desperate to know. It made his chest feel tight. You inhaled slowly, as if steadying yourself. And then, after a pause, you exhaled, offering him the smallest nod.

“Maybe you’re right, I suppose.” you murmured.

Satoru’s pulse jumped. Maybe he was. Maybe passion wasn’t something you could just let go of. Maybe, no matter how much you tried to bury it, itt would always find its way back. And as he stood there, watching you, he wondered if the same could be said about people.

If some people, no matter how different their worlds were, would always be pulled toward each other in the end. If you and him would be one of them. You let your serene face relax and echo towards him, a warm smile on your lips.

“You should keep doing well.” you told him, your voice soft but firm. “You should be better. Be what I couldn’t be.”

Satoru expected those words. He had heard them before. Albeit, it was all phrased differently, maybe, but the meaning was always the same. Be strong. Be smart. Be the best. But coming from you, they felt different.

They didn’t feel like there was a demand. They felt like a hope. And when he looked at you, he saw something in your eyes that made his breath catch. It was emotion, all too raw and unguarded, flickering behind the composed mask you always seemed to wear.

It was something he didn’t quite understand yet, but it made his chest feel tight, made his hands curl into fists at his sides. Because for a fleeting moment, he thought that maybe you wanted this for him. Not because of obligation. Not because of charity. But because you saw something in him. Something worth saving.

Satoru swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to ask why you were all about it. You would surely have all the answers. Why did you care? Why did it sound like you were speaking from experience? But he didn’t.

Instead, he just held your gaze, letting the moment stretch between you. Letting it settle in his bones. And for the first time in a long time, he thought that maybe he did want to be better. For you. He would do it for you.

Satoru exhaled, tilting his head, a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips, but his voice was quieter than usual. "Be better, huh?" He let the words hang in the air before nodding, something unreadable in his eyes. "Alright, then. Guess I better not disappoint, huh?"

There was a flicker of something in your expression. Perhaps it was relief, or maybe something gentler than that. But he didn’t care to know. Instead, he lets himself drown in the small, knowing smile you gave him. "No, I don’t think you will. After all, your eyes tell."

And Satoru didn’t know why, but those words settled deep in his chest, warm and steady. Like for the first time, someone believed in him. Really believed in him. And damn it all, he wasn’t about to let that go to waste.

Not when it was you.

HE WAS SMART, HE KNEW THAT MUCH. But Gojo Satoru never thought he would take this high level of academics seriously. School had always been something he coasted through, excelling without much effort, relying on his natural intelligence to get by. But after meeting you, something shifted.

He wanted to understand you. And what better way to do that than to follow the same path you once walked? So, when it was time to declare his major, he chose to do something in science like you once did.

He told himself it was logical to do so. After all, chemistry was the foundation of so many things, from medicine to engineering, and it held the promise of a stable future. But deep down, he knew the real reason.

He wanted to be closer to you. He wanted to see the world through your eyes, to grasp the passion that once burned inside you, the same passion that had led you to this university years before him.

He sat in the same lecture halls where your name was still spoken with admiration by professors who remembered you. He read the research papers that bore your name, tracing his fingers over the printed words, imagining you writing them.

And with every experiment, every late-night study session, every moment he spent poring over chemical equations, he felt like he was reaching for something greater than himself, it was like he was reaching for you. 

He excelled. Of course he did. 

When Satoru Gojo set his mind to something, there was no other outcome. His professors saw potential. His classmates envied his effortless brilliance. He passed every exam, aced every project, and by the time graduation came, he had done exactly what he had set out to do.

He had become someone worthy of your world.

But then, life had taken an unexpected turn.

It started as a simple favor for a friend. A photographer had been searching for someone striking, someone who could hold the camera’s gaze and make people stop and stare. Satoru just happened to fit the description.

He agreed to a photoshoot, thinking nothing of it. But then, the offers started coming in. Even his mother was surprised at the amount of calls their apartment would get in all hours of the day. It just didn’t feel real at all.

So many entertainment and modelling agencies started to reach out. Many other brands wanted his face. Directors saw something in him, something beyond just his looks. They saw presence. They saw charisma. A raw, untapped potential waiting to be shaped into magnificent talent.

One commercial turned into another. One guest appearance led to an audition. And before he even realized it, his life had changed. He was no longer just a graduate with a science degree. He was now a highly paid, well beloved actor and model.

The world had taken notice of him, and for the first time, he wasn’t just a shadow chasing after your past. He was someone people looked at. Someone people admired. And maybe this path would bring him even closer to you.

Because science had allowed him to understand the person you were before. But being in this world, it would give him a chance to be part of your world now. To stand in places you might see him.To become someone you might watch on a screen, unknowingly letting him into your life.

He wondered if you ever turned on the TV and saw his face. If you ever lingered for a moment, thinking he looked familiar. If, by some twist of fate, you’d be drawn to him the way he was to you. Maybe, you’ll see him and find him handsome too. 

Satoru had always been a genius. He knew that since he was young. And now, he had a new goal. One day, you’d see him. One day, you’d notice him. And this time, he wouldn’t be just another face in the crowd. He would be someone you couldn’t ignore.

IN SOME WAYS, HE KNEW HE WAS WHAT EVERYONE WANTS TO BE. That’s why Gojo Satoru had always thought the world revolved around him. Not in an arrogant, boastful way—no. To him, it was a simple fact. People noticed him. They always had. Whether it was his height, his striking looks, or the sheer force of his presence, he had been born to be seen.

And yet, for the past few years, there was only one person he had truly wanted to be seen by.

You.

Everything in his life, his choices, his career, his calculated steps forward, all of that had been made with you in mind. So it was ironic—cruel, even—that the first person to truly look at him and understand him in years wasn’t you.

It was Suguru Geto.

This is how it happened.

Gojo Satoru had only been in the entertainment industry for a short time. He had deviated from his modelling career to step into the realm of films and TV. So, when he found himself on the set of Jujutsu Kaisen, a high-budget, highly-anticipated TV project that had the entire industry buzzing.It was just something else entirely.

He had taken the role on a whim, after finishing a film he had just done, where he played the second lead. When this script came to him, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse,his agency said it would cement him as more than just a pretty face, that this was his ticket to becoming a household name in acting.

But the moment he stepped on set, he felt it. That eerie pull. 

That flicker of déjà vu. And then he heard the voice. Smooth. Familiar.

“Didn’t think I’d see your face here.” Satoru turned—and there he was. Geto Suguru.

It had been years. Years since they had last spoken, years since they had laughed together, plotted together, ruled their high school together. And now, here he was, standing in front of Satoru, dressed in costume, script in hand, just like him.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Satoru muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

Suguru smirked, tilting his head just slightly, the way he always did when he was amused. “What? You think you’re the only one who could make it big?”

Satoru rolled his bright blue eyes, but for the first time in a long time, he felt something unfamiliar clawing at his chest. Warmth. He had missed him. Even if he’d never admit it out loud. The past had never really let go of him, after all. And apparently, it never let go of Suguru either.

Satoru scoffed, shaking his head as he looked Suguru up and down. “Tch. Didn’t peg you for the acting type.”

Suguru’s smirk only grew, effortlessly slipping back into the same ease they once had, like no time had passed at all. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who follows directions, but here you are, holding a script.”

Satoru clicked his tongue, flicking the script in his hand. “Who says I’m following them?”

Suguru huffed out a quiet laugh, shoving his own script under his arm. “Some things never change.”

The words settled between them, heavier than they should have.

Because some things had changed.

Too much time had passed. Too many things had gone unsaid.

And yet, standing here now after years apart and now together face-to-face, Gojo Satoru felt the past pressing against his ribs, demanding to be acknowledged. But neither of them said it. Not yet. They knew better than to open those can of worms right now at work.

Instead, Suguru cocked a brow, shifting his weight onto one foot. “So? Are you in this for real, or are you just here to piss off whoever’s in charge?”

Satoru grinned, all sharp edges and mischief. “Can’t it be both?”

Suguru let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course.”

The tension of the past still hummed between them, but before Satoru could throw out another quip, a murmur rippled through the room. New voices. New energy. Satoru’s ears picked up on it before he fully registered what was happening as those whispers, low and curious, voices murmuring came just a little too eagerly.

"That guy’s here."

"You mean the veteran actor, high above on the cast list? Yeah, I heard he finally showed up."

"Took him long enough."

“I thought he wasn’t going to accept! Isn’t he too big of an actor?”

“Well, I heard his kids liked the manga. So he said yes.”

Gojo Satoru exchanged a glance with Suguru, the amusement in his friend’s lilac eyes shifting into curiosity. He didn’t know who this guy is, well at least because he hadn’t worked with him just yet. But then someone called out his name, and the second it reached Gojo Satoru’s ears, everything inside him stilled.

"Nanami Kento, yeah, that’s him!" someone else muttered. "You know, the one from 7/3 entertainment? The biggest in the country! The guy’s supposed to be a genius. No wasted effort, precise, focused—completely different from the usual loudmouths we get here."

Satoru clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “Oi, I can hear you, y’know.”

The group of staff whispering nearby stiffened, but one had the guts to glance at him and smirk. “Yeah, we know.”

“Maybe you should shut up before I report your behaviour as unprofessional.” Gojo says to them, quieting them down.

Suguru chuckled under his breath. “Sounds like you’ve already got competition.”

Satoru huffed, flipping his script open lazily. “Please. No one outshines me.”

Though it wasn’t obvious, Satoru could feel the blood rushing in his ears. That name he had only ever seen in passing, in small interviews, in articles that always started with the same words. He hated it. He hated him.

“He’s the husband of that famously well renowned scientific philanthropist!” One of the other staff, who was just walking in, was squealing. “I don’t know her name, but I know him! Guys, isn’t he handsome?”

He frowned at those words. He didn’t want to hear the rest of it. The world around him suddenly evaporated. All Satoru could feel in him was genuine grievance, his blood boiling. All he could see was the man standing a few feet away from him. His blue eyes narrowed.

Gojo Satoru barely registered the rest of the conversation people were making all around him. The voices around him became little more than background noise, a dull hum against the rush of blood in his ears. Nanami Kento.

The name alone had already irritated him, but that—husband—that word sent something hot and unpleasant curling in his chest. His fingers clenched tightly around the edges of his script, creasing the paper.

"I don’t know her name, but I know him!"

That sentence alone nearly made him scoff aloud. Of course they don’t know her name. Because that’s how people were. They saw what was convenient. They chose the parts of the story they wanted to acknowledge.

And apparently, the part where you had built your own legacy, where you had worked and sacrificed and given away more than you ever got in return, that didn’t matter as much as the man standing in front of him now.

A man Satoru already despised without even knowing him. 

Suguru, ever perceptive, must have noticed the shift in his expression because he leaned in slightly, voice low. "You good?"

Satoru didn’t answer.

His bright burning gaze was locked on Nanami, standing a few feet away, exuding that air of quiet composure that only made Satoru’s irritation flare hotter. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. How could it ever be fair?

You who had given so much to the world, you who had shaped his entire future, you who had stood by him when no one else had were now being reduced to a nameless mention in passing, a footnote in someone else’s story. A footnote in your husband’s story.

And Satoru hated it.

Hated everything about him.

Before he realized it, he was already moving.

Satoru held the handshake for a second longer than necessary, testing, searching. Just waiting for some kind of crack in Nanami Kento’s composure. But there was nothing. Just that same, steady gaze. Unbothered. Detached.

Like he wasn’t even worth reacting to. Satoru could feel his teeth grinding behind his ever-present smile. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like him. But he had played this game before, so he kept up the act, slipping effortlessly into the role of the easygoing junior.

“Man, it’s kinda crazy, huh?” He let out a breathy chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “I always figured we’d cross paths someday, but I didn’t think it’d be here.”

Nanami regarded him for a moment, expression unreadable. “You know of me?”

Oh, he was going to play it like that, huh?

Satoru clicked his tongue, withdrawing his hand as he stepped back. “What, you think I don’t read? You’re pretty famous, y’know. Brilliant actor. Great reputation.” He paused for a beat before adding, “Husband of a certain famous scientific philanthropist…..I think her name is [name] [last name], wasn’t it?”

Nanami looked at him, bewildered for a while. But he gathered himself and smiled. “My wife no longer uses her maiden name. But I’m glad you know of Mrs. Nanami’s endeavours.”

That irritated him a lot. “Oh, of course, who wouldn’t, Nanami–senpai! I attended Tokyo University like her. Same department too.”

“Is that so? That sounds good. I’m sure she will be happy to hear about it.”

“Of course, it would make her feel glad that your kouhai knows her efforts for the world.” He smiles at him, tighter than ever before.

For the first time, he saw something flicker in Nanami’s expression. It was brief, barely perceptible. But it was there. And Satoru felt something sharp twist in his chest. Because that meant Nanami knew.

He knew exactly who Satoru was talking about. He knew exactly what he had just implied. And still, he didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look uncomfortable. Instead, he simply adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and replied evenly. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Satoru’s fingers twitched. “Of course, Nanami–senpai. Send my regards to her.”

Nanami gave him the same smile he wore on his lips. “Of course, Gojo–san. I’m sorry if I must cut our conversation for a little while. I have to go meet the other staff.”

“Oh, by all means, Nanami–senpai.”

Suguru, watching from the sidelines, let out a low whistle. “Damn, he’s good.”

Satoru shot him a glare before plastering on another saccharine smile. “Well, let’s get along, yeah? Nanami–senpai.”

Nanami gave a polite nod. “Of course, Gojo–san. Let’s work well together.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. Gojo Satoru turned away first, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stalked toward Suguru, his fake smile dropping the moment Nanami was out of sight.

“I hate him.” he muttered under his breath.

Suguru smirked. “Yeah. I could tell.”

Satoru’s jaw ached from how hard he had been clenching it. The entire interaction had felt like a match, a careful spar between two people who knew exactly how to play the game—who knew exactly what wasn’t being said.

And Nanami Kento had won.

Effortlessly.

Satoru could still hear the measured tone of his voice, the practiced ease with which he had responded. There had been no cracks in his composure, no hesitation in his words. Even when Satoru had practically thrown her name between them like a live grenade, he had remained completely unshaken.

That pissed him off more than anything.

His fingers flexed at his sides before curling into fists again, his nails pressing into his palms.

Suguru, walking beside him, snorted under his breath. “Relax, Satoru. You’re about two seconds away from blowing a blood vessel.”

Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension. “He’s so fake.” he muttered, voice dripping with distaste. “Did you see that? The guy didn’t even blink.”

Suguru hummed in agreement, tilting his head slightly as he glanced back toward where Nanami had disappeared. “Yeah. That’s years of practice, man.” He smirked. “Gotta admit, though—he handled you better than most people do.”

Satoru scoffed. “Yeah? Let’s see how long he can keep it up.”

Suguru chuckled but didn’t comment. He knew Satoru too well.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

THIRTY SIX YEAR OLD ACTOR GOJO SATORU KNEW ALL ABOUT THE SECRETS. But so did everyone else. Everyone kept talking about it left and right. It was in hushed whispers at the bars, murmured conversations over coffee, and knowing glances exchanged in crowded rooms. The scandal had spread like wildfire, unstoppable and all-consuming.

But despite the way they all feigned shock, despite the polite gasps and the disapproving shakes of their heads, not a single one of them was truly surprised. Because they all knew. Behind those shocked faces they put on their faces, they all knew.

They had always known, in some way or another. Some had turned a blind eye, while others had carefully looked the other way, pretending not to see the cracks forming long before they splintered wide open. But they weren’t eager to say that shit out loud. Not because they cared about Nanami Kento, not because they thought it was a tragedy. No, because it would mean looking in the mirror and seeing their own sins reflected back at them.

They had their own affairs, their own secrets buried beneath perfectly polished lives. None of them were innocent. Behind all the kindness they showed in public, behind the poised smiles and well-mannered words, there was something ugly lurking beneath the surface. Self-preservation disguised as moral superiority. They condemned him in private but would never dare speak too loudly, lest their own skeletons rattle too close to the surface.

But Gojo Satoru, he didn’t give a damn about any of that.

Gojo Satoru had never been one for morality in the way others saw it. Right and wrong had always been concepts that bent to his will, things he decided for himself. If it came down to it, he would choose his people over everything else. And you, you were his person now.

He didn’t care whether the scandal ruined Nanami Kento. Whether the man’s reputation was torn apart, his name dragged through the mud until it was nothing but a whispered warning among society’s elite. He didn’t care if Nanami lost everything, if people looked at him with disdain, if his legacy turned into nothing more than a cautionary tale of betrayal and selfishness.

Nanami Kento could have burned for all Satoru cared.

What mattered to him, in the end, was you.

What mattered was whether the wreckage left behind would consume you whole, whether the weight of it would press down on you until you couldn’t breathe. Whether it would leave you broken in ways no one else could see.

And now, years later, it was all out.

The whispers had turned into full-blown conversations, the judgment had spread like wildfire, and you were caught in the center of it all—left to pick up the pieces of a life you no longer recognized.

Satoru saw it in the way you carried yourself. The exhaustion in your eyes, the way your shoulders curled inward, as if you were trying to make yourself smaller, as if you wanted to disappear altogether. He saw the way your fingers trembled slightly when you thought no one was looking, the way your breath hitched when the silence stretched too long.

You were hurting. 

That was unacceptable.

If it were up to him, he would have razed the world to the ground to keep you from feeling this way. He would have turned every judgmental whisper into a scream, made every onlooker regret ever daring to look at you with anything but reverence. He would have made sure that the world never dared to hurt you again.

He would start a war for you if it came down to it.

He would ruin everything if it meant that, in the end, you could smile again. That you could be happy again. Because the world had taken too much from you already. And if it refused to give back what it stole—then he would take it back himself.

And that’s what he has been doing for a while now.

The horrible scandal of Nanami Kento’s long-time affairs had finally come to light just a few months ago. But with the powder keg of the media lighting the way, the news spread like wildfire, and with it came the whispers, the stares, the quiet judgment that hung in the air like smoke.

You found yourself in a secluded park in Tokyo, far away from the murmurs of the city. The sky was grey, the air crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. You sat alone on a weathered wooden bench, arms wrapped around yourself as if to hold everything in place. But the weight of it all pressed too heavily against your chest, and before you realized it, silent tears had begun to slip down your face.

The crunch of approaching footsteps barely registered until a familiar presence settled beside you. A quiet moment passed before a handkerchief, white and neatly folded, appeared in your periphery. You hesitated before looking up, eyes red-rimmed and weary.

“Why are you here?” your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

Gojo Satoru smiled, an expression that wasn’t quite teasing but not entirely gentle either. “I took a walk.”

A scoff left your lips weak and watery. You took the handkerchief from him and dabbed softly at your damp cheeks, the fabric soft against your skin. The sight of you crying and hurting broke him inside. 

“I’m sorry. This is just….” you murmured. “I was just—taking a walk, and then—” You gestured vaguely, at the empty space around you, at the quiet solitude you had craved until it swallowed you whole. “And now I’m crying.”

Satoru shook his head. “It’s fine. Take all the time you need.”

The wind rustled through the trees, sending a shower of golden leaves to the ground. You stared at them as they scattered across the pavement, as fleeting as everything else. Satoru didn’t say anything else, didn’t press or pry. He simply sat there beside you, watching the world turn as you slowly pieced yourself back together.

He watched you closely, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your fingers clenched around the handkerchief as if trying to hold yourself together. He saw the exhaustion in your eyes, the weight pressing down on you, and it made something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Satoru Gojo was not the kind of man who fixated on things like guilt or grief. But when he looked at you, he found himself caring in a way that unsettled him. He didn’t care about Nanami Kento’s downfall. He cared about making sure you didn’t fall with him. 

You inhaled shakily, the crisp autumn air filling your lungs. It felt sharp, grounding, but not enough to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. You tried to calm yourself down but you could feel everything overwhelm you over and over again.

“I should be angry all the time. I know I feel it deep inside me.” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I should be screaming, breaking things—something. But I’m just… tired.”

Satoru hummed in acknowledgment, tilting his head slightly. “Anger takes energy.” he said. “And you’ve spent too much of that just keeping yourself together.”

You let out a breathy laugh, humorless but not entirely empty. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The silence stretched between you again, but it wasn’t suffocating. It was steady, unhurried, like the wind threading through the trees. Gojo Satoru never rushed you. That was the thing about him. He was the strongest, the fastest, the sharpest from what you heard from everyone. 

And yet somehow, as he sat beside you, all you knew was that he knew how to slow down when it mattered. He knew how to feel the grief of someone who doesn’t know what to do at their own pace, while he sits there with them.

Your fingers smoothed over the handkerchief in your lap, tracing the embroidered edges. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?” you muttered, voice barely above the wind. “To grieve something that wasn’t even real.”

Satoru shifted, resting his forearms against his knees. He glanced at you, his usual smugness absent, replaced by something quieter. “It was real to you, [name]-san. I mean, twenty five years is a lot.” he said simply. “That’s enough. So don’t think its foolish for you to grieve.”

You swallowed, pressing your lips together to stop them from trembling. That was the cruel part, wasn’t it? It had been real to you. The version of Nanami Kento you had trusted, had believed in — he wasn’t there anymore. Because you knew he hadn’t been truly real.

And yet, he had been real in your mind all this time, in your memories for nearly twenty–five years of your life. And now, that version of him was gone, leaving behind nothing but the cold reality of what he had truly been.

You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before exhaling through your nose. “How do you do it?”

Satoru raised a brow. “Do what?”

“Not let things get to you.” you said. “You act like nothing ever really touches you.”

For the first time since he sat beside you, Satoru looked away. His gaze flickered to the sky, to the golden leaves dancing in the breeze. “I don't,” he admitted. “I just don’t let people see it when it does.”

You turned to him fully now, surprised by his honesty. The world only ever saw Gojo Satoru as untouchable, a man who laughed in the face of pain, who carried his burdens with infuriating ease. But here, in this quiet little corner of Tokyo, you caught a glimpse of something else.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, your voice softer now.

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression shifted. “Because you let me see it.” he said simply. “And I figured I could do the same.”

The wind picked up again, a chill brushing against your skin. This time, Gojo Satoru moved . He was reaching out, hesitating for only a moment before pulling the scarf from around his neck and draping it over your shoulders. He hesitates for a moment before wrapping it on you.

“Take all the time you need.” he repeated. “But don’t do it alone.”

You looked down at the scarf, the warmth of it settling around you. Slowly, you pulled it tighter.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel quite so cold.

“I wanna take a walk.” You whispered to him.

“Then, I’ll join you.” He says to you, with a soft smile on his lips. “Come on.”

You eventually stood up from your position.

The two of you walked in silence, the rhythm of your steps uneven at first, but slowly syncing into something steady. The late afternoon light filtered through the thinning branches, casting dappled patterns on the pavement. A chill hung in the air, and you pulled your coat tighter around yourself, gripping the lapels as if to ward off more than just the cold.

Satoru walked beside you, hands in his pockets, his presence a quiet but constant force. “Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked, his voice measured, free of expectation.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around his handkerchief. The scandal had unraveled like a slow, agonizing wound. The world had always seen Nanami Kento as a man of honor, unwavering in his principles. But now, that image has shattered. Affairs. Years of them. All the women that go through those hotel doors.

Secrets hidden so well that even those closest to him had never suspected a thing. Yet you knew. And you had held it all together. He was your husband. He was all you knew. He was your only safe zone in a world that tries to thrust you forward into the wiles of danger.

You swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

Satoru hummed, as if considering. “You don’t have to say anything, you know.”

But there was something in his voice, something knowing, as if he understood the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say. “I thought I knew him very well.” you admitted, your voice quieter now.

“Not all people show their true face.” Satoru huffs softly. “Sometimes it takes time to really know them.”

“All this time, I thought…” The sentence trailed off, unfinished, swallowed by the ache in your chest.

Satoru exhaled, tilting his head back slightly as he walked. “People aren’t always who we want them to be.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s a poetic way of saying I was an idiot.”

“Not an idiot. Never that. You’re too smart for that.” he corrected. “ But even smart people can lose with people they trusted.”

You stopped walking, your gaze fixed on the path ahead. Fallen leaves scattered at your feet, swept along by the wind. Slowly, you turned to look at Satoru. His usual carefree expression was absent, replaced by something softer.

“You don’t have to say that.” you said.

“I’m not.” His tone was firm. “I want to defend you. Even from the depths of your darkness.”

The words settled between you, heavier than the autumn air. A lump formed in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might cry again. But instead, you took a breath, deep and slow, and nodded. Satoru, ever patient, simply resumed walking. You followed.

“Where are we going?” you asked after a while.

He grinned, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “No clue. But I figure if we keep walking, we’ll end up somewhere.”

You shook your head, but for the first time in days, the corners of your lips lifted, just slightly. Maybe he was right. Maybe you didn’t have to know where you were going just yet. Maybe, for now, moving forward was enough.

And so, you walked.

The two of you wandered through the quiet streets, the city humming softly around you. Tokyo never truly slept, but here, away from the main roads and blaring lights, everything felt muted. It was like the world had given you a small pocket of peace.

The wind carried the scent of autumn, crisp and tinged with the faint aroma of street food from a distant stall. Your steps were slow, unhurried, as if neither of you wanted to break whatever fragile moment had settled between you.

After a while, Satoru spoke. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You shot him a sidelong glance. “Says the guy who barely stops talking.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “Fair. But I mean it. You keep everything in here—” He tapped his temple lightly. “And in here.” His hand hovered over his chest.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Not everything needs to be said.”

“Maybe. But sometimes, saying things out loud makes them a little less heavy.” He stretched his arms behind his head, tilting his face up toward the sky. “That’s why I talk so much. The words don’t pile up that way.”

You hummed, considering. You weren’t used to this at all. Someone trying to understand you, someone willing to sit in your silence without pushing too hard. Then, without warning, Satoru stopped in front of a small vending machine tucked into the corner of an alleyway.

He turned to you, expression unreadable. “Pick something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Pick something.” he repeated, gesturing toward the machine. “Doesn’t matter what. Just choose.”

You frowned but stepped forward anyway, scanning the rows of drinks. It was full of those massive cans of coffee, bottles of tea, fruit juice in bright packaging. You hovered over a random selection and pressed the button. The machine whirred, and a moment later, a small can of hot milk tea dropped into the slot below.

Satoru went ahead and carefully retrieved it for you, the warmth seeping through his fingers as he handed it over to you with a small smile on his face. Then, he pressed a button himself, and a second can clattered into the tray.

“You’re being weird about this.” you muttered, accepting the drink.

“I’m always weird.” He cracked his open with a quiet pop. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He took a slow sip, then met your gaze. “You didn’t think about it.” he said simply. “You just chose.”

You frowned, staring at the can in your hands. “And?”

“And…..” he continued as he closed his drink with its cap. “Sometimes, that’s all you need to do. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You don’t have to know where you’re going, or what’s next. Just—” He gestured at the vending machine. “Pick something. Keep moving. One thing at a time.”

You looked at him then, at the way his usual arrogance had softened into something quieter, something just for you. And for the first time in days, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d be okay. You would be alright again.

You popped open the can and took a sip. 

It was warm. Sweet. Comforting.

Satoru grinned. “See? Not so bad.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered.

You stared down at the can of milk tea in your hands, the warmth seeping into your fingers. A thought crossed your mind, and you huffed softly, shaking your head.

“I should’ve paid for all of this.” you muttered. “I’m older than you, after all.”

Satoru stopped mid-sip, blinking at you over the rim of his can before bursting into laughter. It was loud, unrestrained, the kind that made passing strangers glance your way. You frowned, watching him with mild irritation as he wiped at the corner of his brightly lit eye.

“What’s so funny?” you asked.

He grinned, rocking back on his heels. “You. Acting like that makes a difference.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” you argued. “Seniority matters.”

“Oh, come on.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Can you let me be a gentleman for once?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You? A gentleman?”

“Shocking, I know you’ve seen it on the TV.” he said, smirking. “But I have my moments.”

You stared at him, the teasing glint in his eyes, the effortless way he carried himself, and sighed. “Fine. Just this once.”

Satoru gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “Oh no, what an honor! I’ll cherish this moment forever.”

You nudged him lightly with your elbow, but your lips twitched despite yourself. He was ridiculous, but in a way that made the weight in your chest just a little easier to bear. He bumped your shoulder in return, his grin softening. 

“See? It’s not so bad letting someone take care of you once in a while.”

You didn’t answer right away, instead looking down at the can in your hands. Maybe he was right. Maybe, for once, it was okay not to carry everything alone. “…Thanks.” you said quietly.

Satoru didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t tease or push. He just took another sip of his drink and smiled. “Anytime.”

“I appreciate that.” You whisper back to him. 

And so, you kept walking, the night stretching ahead of you, open and uncertain—but somehow, a little less lonely. But at the very least, it’s not a road that makes it hard for you to breathe. Instead, there was warmth. There was tenderness. And there was care.

After nearly half of your life, you found someone who understands.

You finally made a genuinely good friend.

“You’re my first friend in maybe twenty years, you know?” 

Satoru looked at you, surprised. “That’s how long it’s been?”

“Well, when you’re a mom and a wife, your life revolves around them.” You sighed, drinking your drink carefully. “I don’t think I’ve had a life in a very long time. Well, one that’s reflective of myself, at least.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet but heavy. "You're my first friend in maybe twenty years, you know?"

Satoru stilled, his usual playful demeanor momentarily giving way to something softer. He turned to you, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. “That’s how long it’s been?”

You let out a slow breath, staring down at the can in your hands, the condensation slick against your fingers. "Well, when you're a mom and a wife, your life revolves around them."

The confession sat between you, raw and unfiltered. You hadn't meant to say it, but now that you have, it felt like the most honest thing you'd spoken in a long time. It was like you hadn’t been yourself for a long time.

"I don’t think I’ve had a life in a very long time." You took a careful sip of your drink, the warmth grounding you. "Well, one that’s reflective of myself, at least."

Satoru didn’t speak right away, and for once, you were grateful. He didn’t offer meaningless platitudes or empty reassurances. He just listened. You exhaled, rubbing your thumb over the rigid aluminum of the can.

 “You spend so much time making sure everyone else is okay—your kid, your husband. You wake up every morning thinking about what they need, what will make them happy. And somewhere along the way, you forget that you had a life before them. That you were a whole person before you became someone’s wife, someone’s mother.”

Satoru hummed, tilting his head slightly. "And now?"

You hesitated. "Now… I don’t know." You gave a short, humorless laugh. "I’m still trying to remember who I was before all of this."

Satoru took a sip of his drink, watching you carefully. “Then maybe that’s the whole point.”

You raised an eyebrow. "What is?"

"Finding yourself again, like this." he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Not as a wife, not as a mom. Just… you.”

The thought settled deep in your chest, unfamiliar yet not entirely unwelcome.

Satoru nudged you lightly. "And lucky for you, you’ve got your first friend in twenty years to help."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Yeah, because you’re so qualified for the job."

“Hey, I’m an excellent friend,” he said, grinning. "And, as of today, your official bad-decision supervisor. So, if you ever want to do something a little reckless, a little fun—you know who to call."

You rolled your eyes but found yourself smiling despite everything. "Noted."

And just like that, the world felt a little less lonely.

Yet if you could have known, you would hear something else.

You would hear someone’s heart skipping a beat in joy.

epilogue

Nanami Kento wasn’t the kind of man to let emotions overtake him. He prided himself on restraint, on control. That’s what he always has been. Measured, precise. He liked thinking that he was a clear cut above the rest. That’s what allowed him to be what he was after all this time.

Even when the scandal broke, when his name was dragged through the mud, when the whispers turned to accusations and the life he had so carefully built came crashing down—he had endured it all with quiet resignation.

He had accepted that he was the villain in this story.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

The photo was simple, just an ordinary snapshot, but to him, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. You, sitting on a park bench, looking at something out of frame with a quiet, almost hesitant smile. The late autumn afternoon sun caught the strands of your hair, casting a glow over your bright beautiful features. 

And beside you, Gojo Satoru, wearing that ever-present smirk, his body angled toward you as if he had been caught mid-conversation. His arm rested casually along the back of the bench, close but not too close. Just enough to make it clear that he was comfortable beside you.

Just enough to make Nanami Kento realize that he no longer had that privilege. At least not without you looking at him with such disgust. At least not without you pushing him away from you, caging him with the distance that never once existed in these past twenty–five years.

His breath felt shallow. He tried to convince himself it was just a coincidence. Just a fleeting moment captured in time. But the longer he stared, the harder it became to ignore the way his chest tightened.

He knew you. Knew the way your smiles had dimmed over the years, knew the exhaustion that had settled into your bones from carrying the weight of a life that had begun to feel more like a duty than a love story. He had seen the way you had started to shrink, piece by piece, until the person he fell in love with felt like a ghost within the home you once shared.

And yet, here you were, looking like someone he hadn’t seen in years. Someone lighter. Someone freer. Someone who no longer belonged to him. Someone who is slowly falling out of love with him.

His hand curled into a fist beside the phone, jaw tightening as a thousand memories flashed through his mind. The long nights he had spent making excuses. The lies. The guilt. The quiet moments where he had felt you slipping away and had done nothing to stop it.

And now, Satoru was the one beside you.

Nanami had always seen him as reckless, arrogant, a man who treated life like a game. And yet, in this single image, Satoru looked at peace. And worse—so did you.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He had no right to feel this way, but it didn’t stop the anguish from settling deep in his chest, pressing against his ribs like an unbearable weight. He exhaled shakily and turned the phone face down on the desk.

There was nothing he could do. No words he could say that would erase what had been done. No way to go back in time and fix what had already shattered. All he could do was sit there, alone in the silence, realizing that the thing he had feared most had finally come to pass.

You were learning to smile again.

And it’s not because of him.

It was all his fault, it was all his doing.

But he wasn’t going to just sit back and let it happen.

Nanami Kento had always believed himself to be a rational man, a man who weighed his choices carefully, a man who never let emotions dictate his actions. He had convinced himself that he was in control, that he could accept the consequences of his own mistakes with dignity.

But this was different. It was one thing to lose his reputation. One thing to become the subject of hushed conversations and pointed stares. He could endure all of that with the quiet resignation of a man who knew he had done wrong.

But losing you?

That was something else entirely.

He wasn’t going to let it happen.

His fingers clenched around the edge of his desk, the tension running through his knuckles, through his entire body. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He knew he had hurt you, but you were supposed to be his. You were supposed to be the one thing in his life that didn’t slip through his fingers.

And yet, there you were beside Gojo Satoru, smiling like you hadn’t smiled in years. Nanami gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let it happen.

He had spent twenty-five years loving you. Building a life with you. Living a life where you both were content and happy with your children. His mistakes doesn’t mean he was going to lose you. You said it yourself, you would never leave him. You would only stay with him.

And if Gojo thought he could just step in and replace him, if he thought he could steal you away, that he could make you forget, then he was sorely mistaken. Nanami Kento had fought for a lot of things in his life. His career, his dignity, his carefully built reputation.

But none of it had ever mattered as much as you. And he would fight for you. Even if it meant tearing the world apart. Even if it meant going to war. Even if it meant becoming someone you could never forgive.

Because he could endure being hated by you. He could endure all of the silence, the grief, the suffering. He could endure your anger, your resentment, your rage. But he could not and would not ever endure losing you.

Not to Gojo Satoru.

Not to anyone.

Not ever in this life.

It was till death do part, after.

[frudoo]

I’m so soft for Simon today y’all.

Warnings: Slight angst—lots of crying. Hurt/comfort. Brief mentions of abuse but nothing specific. Overuse of italics lmaooo. Fem!Reader. Simon is sad :(

“Love?”

Simon’s been quiet ever since the two of you left the Garricks’ house. Kyle’s wife had cooked a lovely dinner, and afterwards everybody moved to chat in the living room. Your friends’ kiddos had been climbing over you and loving on you all night, jumping in your lap or begging you to play games with them. That’s when you noticed your husband’s frown—you had just assumed his social battery had run out, but looking back now, none of the signs were there. No short temper, no irritability, no desperate glances over to you trying to convey that he was ready to leave. Now, as you both lay in bed, he speaks for the first time in what feels like hours.

“Yeah, Si? Everything okay?”

He sucks in a deep breath, and you frown. Your husband has never been one to hold his tongue. It makes your heart pound with worry as you reach over to turn your bedside lamp on. Before you get the chance to turn and face him, he wraps his burly arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. You gently raise your hand to scratch the back of his head, fingernails grazing his scalp.

“D’you ever regret marryin’ me?” His voice is so small, carrying the weight of uncertainty and the fear that you’ll tell him exactly what he’s expecting to hear, to break him further.

Your fingers stall their movements and you forget how to breathe all of a sudden. Simon’s breath is labored against your neck, too hot to be normal, too wet to be anything other than the telltale sign of him about to break down. It’s a rarity that he cries, but when he does, it’s the most excruciating thing you can imagine. You can feel his pain like it’s your own. The second his first teardrop falls onto your skin, you finally turn to look at him.

His deep brown eyes are far too glossy for your liking, long blond lashes clumped together by morsels of liquid lies his brain forces him to believe.

“Never,” you frown, rubbing the tip of your thumb over the cleft separating his top lip. “Oh, sugar, what’s brought this on?”

“Y’deserve better than me,” his voice breaks mid-sentence, raspy and raw. “Someone who can- who can make y’happy. Give y’things tha’ I can’t.”

You lean forward to nuzzle your nose against his, gently locking lips with him in a short, tender kiss. You sigh into his mouth, uncaring of the snot and spittle that runs down his face. You’re just about there with him.

“You do make me happy, Simon Riley,” the whispered promise gently whisks across his face like an autumn breeze, refreshing yet not enough to calm his racing brain. “You’ve given me everything I could ask for and more.”

“No. You’ve… you’ve had t’make too many sacrifices f’me, and I don’t deserve tha’. I fucked y’over, and- and stomped on your dreams.”

“Simon, you haven’t-”

“You’d make such a good mum.”

Your mouth snaps shut, teeth grinding together from the sudden motion. Motherhood is a soft spot for you, and he knows it. When Simon first brought up the idea of marriage, he had made it clear that he didn’t want kids—too much risk of him ending up like his father, he explained. It broke your heart, but the thought of living a life where he wasn’t yours hurt far worse. In favor of being his wife, you pushed away the desire to have children, counting on being an auntie or something equivalent to your friends’ little ones.

You bite your lip, trying to blink back tears. He’s just saying this out of hurt.

“Seein’ y’with Gaz’s kids jus’...” Simon trails off, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “You’re so sweet with ‘em. Fuckin’- you- you’re perfection, lovie, and you’re settlin’ for a monster like me.”

The tears don’t cease this time. A weak sob rips from your throat, and you dig your nails into his bicep to make him listen.

“You are not a monster. Y-you’re the love of my life,” your lip quivers, hurt evident in your tone. “I married you because I love you, Simon. Because I see what’s beneath the surface. You’re gentle, you’re caring—Si, you’re beautiful. You’re a good person, even if you can’t see it. I see it.”

“I wanna see it,” he murmurs, swallowing hard. “Wanna be better f’you.”

You shake your head softly, a sad smile stretching your lips as you wipe your tears. Pressing your forehead against his, you intertwine fingers with him.

“You’d make an amazing dad.”

It’s Simon’s turn to tense up, squeezing your hand a little tighter but not near enough to hurt—it just proves to you further what a sweet person he can be, that he is underneath his Ghost persona. You’ve never met Ghost, Simon absolutely refuses to let you see the side of him that the rest of the world does, but you know in your bones that even he wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head.

“Love, no, I-I can’t- no. I couldn’t live w’myself if… if I-”

“The fact that you’re so afraid of doing anything wrong is what makes me certain you’d be incredible,” you interrupt, pulling back to look at him sternly, although the fondness that hides in your eyes softens the blow.

“Wha’ if I end up hurtin’ ‘em? Get mad at ‘em and- and I hurt m’own child,” he gasps softly, nervously rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

“Bullshit. You would never. Si, you couldn’t even bring yourself to kill the moles in our yard, and you expect me to believe that you could lay a hand on a—your child?” You scoff, cupping his scarred face in your hands and moving to straddle him.

“Lovie, m’not a good man,” he frowns, leaning into the soft warmth of your palms. “Got m’father’s DNA-”

“Stop that. You are nothing like that man. I don’t give a fuck what it is you do out on the field, but you have never once brought it into our home,” you huff, hands shaking slightly. “You know the difference between your enemies and your family even on your worst days. That’s more than you could say for your father.”

Your skin is tacky with his tears that continue to fall even when he’s rendered silent. Gently, you redirect his arms so that they wrap around your waist, warm and sturdy.

“I know you’re scared,” you whisper, tenderly rubbing his temples with your thumbs. “But have I ever lied to you?”

“Never,” Simon admits quietly, sniffling.

“Then believe me when I tell you I’m not lying now. You’re a good man, Simon Riley—to me, to your friends, and you will be to our kids. I swear it.”

He’s stubbornly avoiding your gaze, and you can tell he’s genuinely thinking about it. Gently, you press a kiss to the tip of his crooked nose.

“Let’s go to bed, hm? Sleep on it, baby,” you suggest, nuzzling your face into his neck.

You feel him nod and pull you down so that you’re laying on top of him—a comforting blanket of love that he needs you to remind him he deserves. He reaches over to turn your bedside lamp back off again, reveling in the cool darkness that engulfs the two of you.

“I love you,” he mutters, tracing random patterns along your back with his calloused fingertips.

“I love you more, big guy.”

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hey Gator, it’s the anon who wasn’t doing great a few days ago. Something really scary happened on Wednesday but I’m doing a lot better, took a few days to relax, I’m catching up on some stuff. I just wanted to tell you that I’m doing better, so your advice does help!! Also if you could give some HCs for Viltrumite mark, I don’t really mind which one, I’d love it!!

Viltrumite Mark Grayson x male reader 

Headcanons 

Hi anon, im sorry something bad happened, but happy you are doing better now. Have some viltrumite Mark headcanons, sorry it took a bit.  

I like to imagine that viltrumite Mark is one of the older Marks amongst the variants. Him, alongside Prisoner Mark and Flaxan Mark. 

Being one of the older Marks also means hes one of the strongest, but also most levelheaded when it comes to battle and viltrumite work in general. 

I have a headcanon, that he was born on earth, lived there for a bit, but gained his powers early, but not so early that he was completely brainwashed, like Moustache Mark.  

Viltrumite Mark would still have memories of his mom, of being a normal human, but he has lived much longer under the viltrumite empire. 

 At the time he was so weak he could do nothing but submit and go along with it, and now hes older, but so numb to it all, that he doesnt go against the status quo.  

This also means he speaks in a very flat tone and has a bland expression for the most part. Noticing his feelings can be a challenge at times, as hes so used to hiding them, and just not feeling things. 

You notice through small stuff. Like the small twitches in his brow, pull at his lips, or when he crosses his arms and fiddles with his fingers. Its almost impossible in the beginning, but you learn, and he opens up with time. 

Being one of the older Marks also means that his vilrumite biology is more visible, and stronger. The human DNA is overwritten completely over time, and so his body starts changing. 

This means he runs hotter, has a longer and smooth tongue without tastebuds, doesn't have fingerprints, heals quicker, and he's the smallest physically,,, down there. 

This isn't actually because he's the smallest, it's just that viltrumite biology wants to draw his vulnerable parts back into his body, and he hasn't fully reached the point where it's completely sealed inside his body just yet. 

Having lived so long under a horrible leader, forced to do so many bad things, Viltrumite Mark would search out comfort and safety, without truly realizing. 

He wouldn't express it much, but Mark finds comfort in submitting to his partner. It doesn't even have to be anything sensual, just him pledging himself to them gives him a sense of purpose. 

Maybe it's a result of many many years of being more a tool than a person, of always having to mind his status as a halfbreed and where he stood compared to his superiors. 

Here he didn't have a choice if he wanted to bend his knee to them, but with you, he gets the choice. You loving him and treating him kindly also helps, because this is the first time he has given himself to somebody, and it hasn't hurt. 

Is it horrible that I think he has at least one or two children in his original universe? Specifically with Anissa.  

It would have been her way of showing him that she was superior, and that he was just a tool for the empire and for true viltrumites like her. 

In the end, Mark would have killed both her and the children when he became strong enough, this would be one of the few killings he took great joy in committing, drawing out Anissa's death for as long as possible. 

This would cause the quiet Mark variant to be cautious when you first started showing him affection, even if he arches towards it like a sunflower towards the sun. 

It feels like it's too good to be true, so he would be mistrusting in the beginning, keeping his distance and maybe even striking out like an abused cat. 

Until he realizes that he actually feels comfortable and safe with you, that he can be himself, and be allowed to exist as Mark, not whatever title the viltrumite empire gave him. 

You allow him to be human again, after he's almost completely forgotten how. 

Hes still pretty cold and cruel at times, but never towards you.  

Mark would have extremely little care for humanity though, after he's wiped out so many planets and lived so long, then humanity feels like nothing more than specs of dust int he grand scheme of things. 

He would step up and help though, if you were in danger. Nobody else matters to him in that regard, but because you are from earth and like it here, then yeah, he will help when Mark absolutely has too. 

[divinerapturesys]

Welcome to my Ted Talk about AsPD, or Antisocial Personality Disorder, which the internet likes to coin as sociopath 👌🏻 if you don’t like long infodumps about stigmatized mental disorders from someone who is diagnosed, move on.

Quick toxic rundown: People with AsPD are generally characterized as emotionless, violent, manipulative abusers who kill animals and like to make other people their bitches. The biggest pet peeve we have is the emotionless, sadistic and abusive generalization.

Personally, we are highly neurotic, with highs and lows of: depression, frantic drive, self abuse tactics, chronic fear, lapses of rejection, overwhelming over-analyzation, grey area thinking, false goods and false bads, ultimatums, obsessive compulsive behavior, harsh self demands, and irritability.

AsPD is a disorder that is caused primarily (according to current research) by trauma and abuse in childhood; most notably being emotional neglect and absent caregivers that cause a child to have emotional shutdowns and repression episodes in an attempt to self soothe. Primary caregivers who do not bond with their children are also a factor. Children learn how to behave from those around them. If a primary caregiver is emotionally distant and unavailable, children will learn that is normal behavior and that’s how people are. If a primary caregiver does not provide empathy and sympathy during moments of distress and fear, children will learn that aloofness and disregard of others feelings is normal behavior. If a primary caregiver does not keep a child safe, children will learn that they should not prioritize their own safety or the safety of others. You can find my follow up post regarding this here.

Neglected and abused children often act out trying to get attention and help, often acting out in bad ways because they lack the ability to articulate what they’re feeling and what is happening to them. The pipeline for AsPD typically is: Oppositional Defiance Disorder as a child, Conduct Disorder as a teen, AsPD as an adult. There are a lot of warning signs cueing that AsPD is becoming a risk for development, but often kids do not have a support system to help negate it as it’s their support system that is usually a factor in its creation.

Being AsPD is like being an emotional La Croix 70% of the time. If you’re depressed, then it’s like someone in the other room has depression and is telling you about it. The other 30% of the time, if you’re depressed, your brain doesn’t understand how to handle it so it’s an ultimatum between doing something drastic to remove the Trigger or ignoring and dissociating for days on end.

People with AsPD are very good at ignoring things. Honestly it’s problematic as fuck but it’s not hard to ignore major issues when you just, don’t care. It’s not in the terms of being cruel or making ourselves not care, but the fact that finding the emotional willpower is so far out of our feasible reach we don’t do it. This causes us to piss people off because we don’t have the capacity to care as much as they want us to, even if we can and do to an extent.

Think of it this way: empathy/sympathy is a deep tub of water that everyone has. They can easily fill their measuring cup for the needed amount of empathy without any issues and it’s easy for them. People with AsPD don’t have a tub of water. We have shallow skillet. When we try to dip our cup to fill it, we can’t, it always comes up short and it is difficult to get any water in it as there is no room for the cup to dive. Our ability to care is limited because we do not have the same emotional resources everyone else does.

❌ False Positives & False Negatives ❌

I operate on what I’ve learned are called false positives and false negatives. These are things that are trained into the brain from an early age based off of childhood trauma and other factors. False positives are a distorted version of why we do something to help ourself and for our own good, meanwhile a false negative is something we do because it’s a threat, or based out of fear.

❌ Some of my false positives:

- It is good to be afraid of nothing

- It is good to adapt to someone’s personality if they are stronger than you

- It is good to isolate yourself

- It is good to be a silver tongue because you can get into any place you want

- It is good to become a social chameleon and shape yourself to whatever those around you need/want most, because then you have no chance of being abandoned

❌ Some of my false negatives, which can explain the false positives as well as core beliefs:

- it is bad to be afraid, if I am afraid then I am vulnerable and it can be used against me

- It is bad to be emotional or show concern for others emotions because they do not care for mine

- It is bad to be able to be exploited, because I believe it is everywhere

- It is bad to allow myself to be bored, because boredom begets bad thoughts and no one can or wants to help me when I spiral

- It is bad to not shape yourself to the social circle, because people quickly grow tired of those who do not match them perfectly and being discarded means I failed

My core beliefs can be viewed as the root for the false positives and negatives, because they are based on the core of trauma, abuse and neglect. They come from patterns and instances that make someone with AsPD become the opposite of what they experienced:

- eat or be eaten

- If I don’t show that my bite is worse than my bark, I will be taken advantage of and I must remain on top because the ones on top are safe

- I must look out for myself because nobody will do it for me

- It doesn’t matter what happens to me, therefore it doesn’t matter what people think of me

- If I cannot do something well, then I should not do it at all

- If you are dependent on others for emotional and mental well being, you are weak, therefore I must isolate myself to avoid becoming codependent and a burden and useless

- If I can handle the stress of a situation better than everyone else, therefore I will keep the problem (financial, emotional, mental, etc) to myself to reduce chances of being abandoned due to failure of perfection

People with AsPD are hard to get along with. We often:

- are always anticipating a fight

- lack respect for authority

- ignore social structures to an extent

- tendency to lie if it’ll lessen punishment or if we feel the lie is more acceptable than our actions

- limit social support because it’s wrong to be dependent on others

- have an inflated view of our own importance — which turns into a self ridicule for believing someome like me could be found important to others —

- can be rude and inconsiderate of others feelings somewhat unintentionally

- are unable to read the correct social cues in relation to empathy towards people and animals

- am constantly confused by others dependence upon empathy and inability to make desicions from logic based standpoints

We can’t speak for everyone who has AsPD, nor are we saying that no one with AsPD is capable of being a murderer/abuser etc. but we are saying that y’all need to stop automatically classifying someone as a certain “type” as soon as you know about their disorder.

One last thing I do want to point out is that it is not uncommon for people with AsPD to derive some sort of enjoyment in causing harm, doing something illegal, hurting someone or animals, etc. This entirely stems from lack of environmental control as a child. Being able to control what happens to others or being able to control the things you say or do that hurts someone else is a hefty high to get addicted to; it soothes the underlying itch of not being able to control your own trauma and abuse, so in turn you push these behaviors onto others and enjoy it because it gives you a sense of power and control. Some people with AsPD do genuinely love hurting others, and some enjoy hurting others when they believe it’s deserved or their ire has been stoked. Some enjoy causing pain to those they think deserve it, and others don’t care who they hurt as long as they feel like they’re in control of the situation.

Hope this have some insight into AsPD 🤙🏻 if y’all have any questions, shoot.

[whateversawesome]

Spy x Family Ch. 109: Is Donovan Desmond an Alien?

No, he's not.

Although Endo could go the "alien" route, given the story, I doubt that he will.

The human mind is fascinating. So, a better explanation for Melinda's declaration is that this is the way she's dealing with her fear. It's not normal to be scared of her husband; she knows that. So, what would be a good reason to be afraid of him? Of course, that it's not really him, that he's an alien!

Her mind is trying to protect her. Anxiety is a way to protect us, and a lot of the times the mind throws strange fears and phobias to distract us from the real problem. In this case, it's her marriage. She's clearly in an abusive relationship and she wants out, but probably she can't divorce that man because of many reasons.

My guess is that Donovan Desmond changed after the war and because of that, their marriage deteriorated to the point of becoming an abusive relationship.

Before, I used to think that the marriage between Donovan and Melinda was a marriage of convenience, but now I think there was affection between them. It's hard to accept that someone you love has become abusive, so Melinda, who is into the occult, probably found an explanation (or more like a justification) for it. It's easier for her to think that someone she loves is an alien than for her to accept her husband is violent towards her and their children.

A lot of her mental health problems would probably be solved by a divorce, so she wouldn't be under her husband's control. However, given her status and the times (divorce was not very socially acceptable back in the 60s), she probably thinks divorce is not an option. On top of everything, her children are in the middle of it.

It's a complicated situation.

About Twilight

A good therapist would never tell their patient what to do. Their job is to help the person see the things they cannot see, and to empower them to make the best decision for them.

Twilight is not a therapist but he is a smart man. I think that he'll be capable of seeing what's behind Melinda's alien theory. The question is: what will he do with that information?

The most convenient thing for Operation Strix would be a reconciliation with Donovan Desmond. That would be the fastest way for Twilight to finally reach Desmond. However, that would also put Melinda at risk. Twilight is a spy, but he's also a human being, and most importantly, someone who has gone through domestic abuse as a child. So, I would like to think that even if he feels tempted to push Melinda into a reconciliation, he won't.

But, we'll see...

[fishnapple]

Relationship Green flags/ Red flags

This list was a part of another post but I want to make a separated one for it, to serve as a reminder, for myself, and for anyone who needs it. I will update the list if I think of anything more to add.

Green flags

When the couple is also best friends with each other

When they're genuinely curious about each other

When two people walk side by side, not one in front and one behind

They protect each other in front of other people no matter how wrong the other person is (not counting abuse or other legal crimes), but still be able to see the wrong doings clearly.

When both partners put the other's well-being at the top of their priority list

When the first person comes to your mind when you want to share something good or bad is them

When there's a spark in the eyes when they look at the other person

Listen attentively when the other is talking

Ask how you feel

When both can feel comfortable being honest (able to voice their concerns, worries, fears, hidden dreams, aspirations etc.)

Encourage and support each other towards betterment

Celebrate each other's happiness

Keeping their words

Willingness in solving problems

When both are willing to compromise and work together/to face the ugly sides of the relationship or of the self and the other person/ to communicate/ to learn

When both are proactive in the relationship, taking turn to suggest fun things to do, where to go, what to eat etc

All kinds of virtues like honesty, patience, kindness, loyalty, respect, etc. (not just towards you only, but to others in general also)

Love children

Love animal

Consistency: putting in a consistent effort, not being wishy-washy

Fun & humour

Feeling safe in each other's presence

Respect for boundaries and consent

Emotional compatibility

The feeling of being at ease with each other & trust (you can have all the above but without these two feelings, it's kind of meaningless)

and many more.

Red flags

When one is talking and the other is looking elsewhere

When one is in front while the other is behind

Being judgmental and opinionated, about all kinds of topics

Criticising the other person's taste, hobbies, habits constantly. Especially in front of other people.

Calling names (not the cute endearments)

Cruelty & Violence of any kind (obviously)

Silent treatment (refusing to communicate)

Inconsistency

Being avoidant, ghosting (at this point it's not a red flag, it's an ending)

Empty promises. NATO (No Action - Talk Only)

Condescending

Tell you what you're feeling

Unwillingness to compromise/ to understand, unequal effort, one-sided conversations

Lack of care for the well-being of the other person

Lack of appreciation for the other person's achievements and success

When you're low on their priority list ("I will have time for you after I'm done with this or that, after I met with my friends and other important people in my life")

Feeling like you have to tip toe around the other person

Feeling like you have to do something to get the other's attention

Asking the other person for permission to do something like buying something, meeting someone, going somewhere (I'm not talking about getting consent to do something with each other or getting something related to the other person, it's about decisions that normally one can make independently for oneself)

Jealousy & possessiveness (the idea can seem attractive on paper but the reality is usually not)

Demanding to know every secret, every password, getting access to every personal space of the other person

Lack of respect for boundaries and consent

Passivity (waiting for the other to initiate, never initiate anything)

"Why are you doing this to me?", victim mindset, constant blaming

Dating someone while thinking that person is not attractive or up to one's level or vice versa, thinking that person is way above one's level (the idea of "level" is damaging, both ways of thinking can bring illusions, unrealistic expectations and power imbalance)

Lack a healthy sense of self

and many more.

[stackslip]

something else re the idea that abuse can only be intentional is that in the case of child abuse, especially the abuse of disabled kids, often the way structures and societal expectations are set up mean that parents are not only encouraged to abuse their children, but might be punished and considered bad parents for not doing so. how many parents of high support needs and non verbal autistic people are told that they're bad, evil parents for not restraining or punishing their kid enough? are actively encouraged to put them through extremely abusive and harmful programs like ABA for their kids' "own good" and for the rest of the family's wellbeing? how often are families who dont have resources expected to punish and harm their kids when they struggle in public, because they should be "disciplined" and to not do so is considered neglect or harmful for the child? when teachers, therapists, social workers all tell you that your child is a certain way and you're an irresponsible parent for not having unlimited resources or support, and/or for not "correcting" that behaviour in ways that inherently mean violating the child's autonomy or putting them through harm, what do you do or say? you hurt your child. it is abuse. it is awful. the harm to the child is real. and yet it's what's considered normal or even good, and not doing so might mean losing the little support or resources you have access to try to understand and help your child.

this isnt defending abusive parents of disabled parents or their actions btw. im just saying that the way the whole system is set up not only allows or enables abuse, but portrays it as the right thing to do

[bnhaobservation]

BNHA IS NOT A WORK OF SOCIETAL CRITICISM AND ITS MESSAGE IS NOT REALLY ‘OUT OF JAPAN’ FRIENDLY

When I got into BNHA, the general impression was that it was a manga doing societal criticism. When this seemed to clash with the ending people assumed BNHA lost his themes/messages. However, after long research to me it seems BNHA has more or less kept up coherent messages/themes, but, WAY TO OFTEN, they do clash with the idea other countries have of how things should be handled.

Examples (in an extremely short, overly simple and vaguely ironic way):

BULLYING

General expectation: bullying is bad/evil and should be blamed and punished, not enabled as it’s extremely damaging for the victim who will/might need support to overcome it so society should stand tall against bullying.

BNHA: bullying is due to a character flaw/weakness the bully must overcome and it’s an overall private business between him and his victim who has to overcome their trauma by (getting a Quirk) and standing up to the bully, showing they’re as good as them and don’t deserve bullying.

SCHOOL

General expectation: School is the place where we teach and help you to overcome your problems

BNHA: School is the place where we point out your problems, overcoming them is your additional problem. (All Might didn’t tell Midoriya his Quirk would break his bones when used but let him ‘figure out’ how to deal with it, U.A. keeps on setting up challenges the students have to overcome without telling them how, be it Aizawa telling Midoriya to figure out how to use his Quirk without hurting himself, All Might having the students play Heroes and Villains without telling them how FIRST or asking Midoriya to shine at the sport festival without working out a strategy and so on…)

ARRANGED MARRIAGE

General expectation: bad, people should marry for love or, at least, affinity, not because a family wants money and the other wants a baby machine with specific characteristics. That marriage shouldn’t have taken place.

BNHA: not great but since she agreed to it there's not a real problem… *shrug* and since the marriage exists, it will continue. Why should she want divorce anyway? Enji is better now.

EXPECTATIONS ON CHILDREN

General expectation: very bad, a child should be born out of love and let free to pursue his own interests, not forced into a career path to satisfy his parents’ ambitions.

BNHA: absolutely fair and society will pressure/expect you to fulfill your parents’ ambitions, follow in their footsteps, but good parents normally don’t force their child if he has other wishes for himself.

DEALING WITH GRIEF, ABUSE, NEGLECT, WHATEVER

General expectation: a victim needs support because they’re in a bad mental space and this can lead them to also do wrong things for themselves or the others. They should seek support and people around them (society) should offer it to them.

BNHA: suffer in silence without bothering anyone and man it up so as to be a Hero. If you lash out you’re a Villain and you need to be punished. Society doesn’t own you a damn thing.

PARENTS PRIORITIZE WORK OVER CHILDREN

General expectation: they shouldn’t their obligations to their children comes first.

BNHA: totally fair but this shouldn’t lead to neglect children. They should be strong enough to also take care of them so as to insure they’ll become productive and well adjusted members of society. Neglecting works though is a BIG NO, works comes first.

ANGER

General expectation: it’s fair to be angry if you get hurt or mistreated and act in response to it even though you shouldn’t break law.

BNHA: you can only get angry on the behalf of OTHERS and, in this case, you can stand up to the person who did the hurting. Otherwise you’ve to work a way to handle it.

ABUSIVE TRAINING

General expectation: abusive training is still abuse and therefore bad and needs to be stopped and the abuser to be punished.

BNHA: abusive training is not recommended but it’ll surely make you stronger. Yes, it might give you psychological problems but overcoming them is your problem. Besides, come on, you want to be a Hero, don't you? How do you think you can become one if you can't put up with it? Just say you agree to it and we won't call it abuse anymore.

PRISON, ESPECIALLY WHEN VIOLATION OF HUMAN RIGHT IS INVOLVED

General expectation: a bad place which needs reform otherwise it can’t help prisoners to become better people.

BNHA: do we want to talk of the heroic jailers that inspire their sons not to get angry (by telling them people in jail is animals)? People of course gets reformed otherwise they’re just bad people and no one will care about their human rights being violated except for the political party tied to Villains. Also, good people, given the possibility to get out of prison (by means of escaping or by legal means) would still choose to stay in prison.

SAVING

General expectation: saving means saving someone’s life and soul.

BNHA: just the soul is enough. Killing can save the person killed after all. If you’re so against killing, there’s jail and legal sentencing to death.

MURDERING ESCAPING PEOPLE

General expectation: it’s wrong and who did it needs to be punished.

BNHA: it’s right so no punishment but not nice.

CHILD NEGLECT

General expectation: you neglected your child so he has problems and he’s taking them out on society. You’re a horrible person and you need to be punished/jailed and your poor child needs help.

BNHA: you didn’t teach your child not to make troubles for us? You’re as much of a horrible person as your child. We hate you and we’ll jail/kill your child.

ABUSIVE HUSBAND/PARENT

General expectation: divorce, taking away kids and jail are recommended.

BNHA: put up with it until he changes his mind, then stay with him. Forgiving him is expected.

ARRASMENT OF GIRLS

General expectation: kick him out of the Hero school

BNHA: how fun, how hilarious, how getting girls can totally be a heroic motive!

RACISM

General expectation: it’s wrong and something should be done against it, it should be openly despised especially by whose who have public relevance. People have a right to speak up against it if they’re victims of it.

BNHA: there’s racism? We didn’t know, and you shouldn’t let us know or make us uncomfortable so wear a mask and don’t get angry about being a victim of it because if you do you’ll make us upset and we’ll handle you worse. Pretend nothing is wrong, put up with it and it’ll go away. Eventually.

SOCIETY IS DEEPLY FLAWED

General expectation: society needs reform.

BNHA: society is fine, IT DOESN’T HAVE TO CHANGE or feel bad, however if you show us you try your hardest at killing the bad guy we’ll be inspired to act nice too. Maybe also make a counseling so as to help who society would mistreat to better fit in society.

ORGANIZATION IN POWER COMMIT EXTRAJUDICIAL MURDERS TO COVER UP CRIMES

General expectation: this is very bad, it requires arrests and internal investigation, possibly closing the organization

BNHA: it’s fine, we’ll just change the president.

HAVING CHILDREN WITH YOUR WIFE WHEN SHE DISAGREES TO IT

General expectation: it’s spousal rape! It’s a crime! It needs to be punished.

BNHA: it’s fine even though it might affect negatively your wife and your other children.

RANKING PRESSURE PEOPLE IN NOT ACCEPTING TO COME SECOND OR IN GIVING UP TO TRY TO COME FIRST

General expectation: ranking is bad, not everyone can be the best but if they tried their harder this doesn’t make them less.

BNHA: let’s keep the ranking and expand it to other jobs!

WE USE THE WORD HERO NO MORE FOR A PERSON WHO IS ADMIRED FOR THEIR COURAGE, OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENTS, OR NOBLE QUALITIES BUT FOR WHO HE’S ADMIRED FOR THEIR AMAZING PAY, STRENGTH AND SOCIAL POPULARITY

General expectation: either let’s just change the job’s name to ‘special cops’/’Quirk cops’ or demand people who use it will go back on having noble values.

BNHA: let’s do nothing as deep down who become a Hero for status and money or chasing strength and girls is deep down deeply heroic and will rise to show it, eventually.

I could go on and on but, I think, you get the idea.

The problem it’s not that many of those are horrible messages… it’s that many of those are based on beliefs/laws Japanese people have/had and so the story doesn’t even bother to counter them.

BNHA isn’t a work of social criticism. It doesn’t aim to have its characters to actively CHANGE society, not in the way they just tackle society’s problems and try to change things. Bad things in society exist the same way as earthquakes. The story isn’t trying to find a way to stop earthquakes, it’s telling people they’ve to accept they exist and how they’ve to behave when they strike.

It’s a work that sees that society is the way it is and this causes people problems and fundamentally tells them they should man up and deal with them without getting angry but overcoming them and be better people. If society is inspired or not… well, that’s just up to it.

In fact in the story there’s extremely little done by the characters to drastically improve things on a general level, actually there’s just Quirk counseling (which works not on society but on the kids who might grow up mistreated by society for their Quirk and lash out at it), a general attempt at inspiring kids at being focused on other works which aren’t the Hero ones, a Hero (Shouji) getting a ‘peace prize’ for deciding to peacefully solve conflicts involving Quirk discrimination and a spreading of niceness because seeing Midoriya ‘do his best’ at murdering Tomura somehow inspired (some) people to do their best at being good (= nice) citizens… and, if I’ve to be honest, things like Quirk counseling and Shouji’s efforts, while likely ALWAYS planned, were overall poorly set up.

We can see that while Quirk counseling and Quirk discrimination were mentioned through the story, Uraraka was never involved in Quirk counseling before chap 430 and Shouji never let us know what he had in mind before chap 371. There’s not a real effort in involving the readers in those topics, they just lie in the background.

BNHA takes society problems as obstacles Heroes has to endure and overcome, not as things they’ve to solve or at least improve so as to create a new society. If you come from an abusive family, if you’re bullied, if you’re discriminate, you just endure and then go on with life trying to be a better person. Because things are hard Midoriya extends a helping hand but that’s it. He didn’t mean to produce a spread in niceness that’s not really niceness but more civil responsibility, he just happened to inspire people. Midoriya becomes the greatest Hero because he did his best to defeat a Villain, not bullying, racism or whatever of the above and the fact that he DID HIS BEST, inspired others to DO HIS BEST at being citizens of their own country. That’s it. That’s all there is.

Yes, the kids will be better people than their predecessors which will help things but that’s different from trying to go and change society actively, society just changes because it’s ‘inspired’ (and, apparently, because kids are taught how to deal with their problematic Quirks without going on a rampage).

And, that’s probably not a message that sits well with people from many different countries because we have a different take on many societal problems BNHA raises… as in we would jail many people who were committing such things, not accept sometimes people do those things for... reasons. To us they're just criminals, Villains same as the ones the kids fight... but in Japan they didn't break any law.

Credits when it’s due, BNHA is also in a way an outdated work. Laws in Japan are changing so they too aren’t accepting some things anymore but BNHA does little effort to keep up with time… if anything in some cases it changes things for worse.

I guess it should have been up to the editors to help Horikoshi stay in line with the changing times so that problems would be tackled differently compared to how they could be tackled 10 years ago… though, credits when it’s due, I saw works dated 1990/93 which tackled some of BNHA societal problems in a way that was more critical and modern than what BNHA does… but that’s because discussing societal problems was their main goal. In BNHA they’re just the setting, not the topic so, I guess, no one saw the point of tackling them which is a pity.

I think the story could have been a lot more cooler if it has tackled the issues it mentioned instead than using them just to set up the characters… but, of course, that’s just me.

[jimblejamblewritings]

On Wyll and Astarion

This is actually not going to be about fandom racism in regards to Wyll or a content comparison (although those are very valid posts that should always be looked at). I was thinking about why in canon of the game, no matter what some people insist, Astarion and Wyll hit it off right away and are very good companions. Like they should have a constant distaste of each other as monster vs monster hunter but they don't.

I think it's because Astarion sees his mortal self in Wyll and Wyll very quickly understands how Astarion became the person he is today because it's a path Wyll is starting to go down. Follow me...

I don't think Astarion was a corrupt magistrate. Personally, even if a particular scene involving Ansur didn't lend evidence to my thought, I would still think this. Corrupt magistrate becomes monster and learns better after being abused is so boring. Tired trope, yawn, next. I think it's compelling if Astarion did his job perfectly. Not that he was a good person -- he's perfectly normal in his mortal life, not too good and righteous but not bad either. And that's the problem.

Astarion as a magistrate refuses to let his personal anecdotes, life experience, or bias enter his courtroom. He's there to administer the law and that is all he will do to a fault. He cannot be swayed by anything even when he probably should. If it is against the law then it is against the law. He will dole out the proper punishment and that is that. If you want to appeal then you do it through the proper legal system and he will hear you out because that's his job. But he doesn't want to hear anything outside of that.

(more below the cut)

You stole bread to feed your family? Petty theft and not malicious, pay a fine or spend a few days in jail. You broke something in someone's store but can prove it was an accident? Buy the broken item and the store owner needs to get out of his court. You think someone stole your customers through defamation of your business? No proof, no witnesses, then he doesn't care if your ledgers show a significant drop right when the other business opened. A follower of the law so rigidly that it's a fault.

However, in most cases, people that come into his court simply complain and move on because he's never been corrupt. Until the Gur and Cazador. The Gur have been noticing their children going missing and have great reason to believe it's Cazador. (Astarion isn't Cazador's first spawn but one of his firsts so probably the 2nd or 3rd spawn created so all the children being taken are from the one or two spawn created before him).

Astarion agrees to listen to their case because missing children is a big deal. Both the Gur and Cazador are in court but Astarion doesn't give a shit about the tense courtroom, he will have decorum and they will get to the bottom of this. But there simply isn't enough proof that it is Cazador. There's not really any proof aside from the missing children. Astarion won't simply dismiss the case because there are still missing people but he won't call for the arrest of Cazador either. He tells the Gur to come back with stronger proof of either Cazador or the real criminal if not him and he will listen. He tells Cazador that he isn't off the hook just yet but not about the Gur... about potentially incorrectly filed ledgers.

Cazador knows between the Gur on his trail and Astarion's intense way of being a magistrate that he might get caught. But he knows how to kill multiple birds with one stone. He needs to be rid of the Gur on his trail in court, he needs to stop any looking into his ledgers, he needs Astarion gone, he also needs a new spawn now to continue his ascending plans and -- well -- Astarion happens to be a very pretty elf.

So, Cazador lets one Gur child go. Except they're enthralled. They tell the Gur all the lies Cazador wants them to believe, including that Astarion is being paid off to hide the crimes of who stole them. The Gur know where Astarion lives. It's not exactly a secret because he has no need to keep it a secret. So they attack him for what they (understandably) believe he has done. They leave him for dead in his home and get out before anyone can notice and send for city guards. They're sure he'll bleed out with how badly they mangled him.

That never happens. Cazador was simply a street away, waiting for them to leave. He needs Astarion to invite him in to turn him. But in the elf's state of delirium from the attack and the bloodlust, he doesn't even register how it's suspicious that Cazador doesn't just help him right away but has to ask can he come in and help him. Astarion unknowingly invites him in and invites the bite. This also colors why he's so rude about the Gur. Yeah, it's a bias and a prejudice because as far as he knows, they jumped him for nothing and are horrible people.

Fast forward through the years of abuse and lack of autonomy all the way up until the nautiloid. Astarion has learned that following the law exactly got him in this mess. Being a good person isn't real because good people (like Cazador who saved him) always want something and will turn bad in the end. Not a single god, good or evil, cared to help him so he should stop praying. And punishments don't always fit the crime -- down to the fact that some people get punished for a crime they never committed -- therefore all criminals should be punished to the highest degree to deter them and others.

When he meets Wyll, the only thing he can see is an idealistic version of his mortal self. Wyll is so determined to bring justice, serve the law to criminals. While Wyll is more into the good and heroic of it, they both had the same goals. Except Astarion already knows how that ended. Yet, Wyll is so sure of himself and optimistic that Astarion can't help but like him even if he no longer believes in any of those things.

Then we have Wyll who we already know has similar views to mortal Astarion. And in real time, we see Wyll learn the same lesson Astarion did all those years ago in regards to Karlach. Really, Wyll learned this lesson awhile ago when his dad cast him out but he was so young and didn't see it as such. But in reality: Mizora is his Cazador. His Dad is his Gur. And becoming a tiefling/devil in looks is his vampirism.

Wyll's entire world view is shattered when he spares Karlach. He understands Astarion now. But also, a beauty of it is that Wyll will never get as dark in his thoughts as Astarion because he has the vampire. He sees Astarion improve and start to somewhat believe in his old mortal view through this adventure with their companions who are trying their best. He sees Astarion accept that good does exist in the world every time Tav/Resist!Durge refuses to give up on him. And Wyll knows that it means he's right. Good and heroism does exist and because of that Wyll can start to accept the shit that happened to him because he already has confirmation that he'll be fine and make it out in the end.

And I really like that so many of the companions are mirrors to each other or puzzle pieces for each other. The way Wyll and Astarion work is one of my favorite companion mirroring.

[mint-8]

Platonic Yandere Grandparent x GN! Reader

- Yandere Grandparent whose life was monochrome and seamlessly endless. Waking up every day for the same routine, work, eat and sleep. Some socializing here and there and spending time with their family, but not feeling any sort of true happiness or enjoyment from it.

- Yandere Grandparent who simply followed what school, their parents and peers told them. Study, get a good job, marry and have a child or two.

- Yandere Grandparent who might not have been the best parental figure to their own kids, perhaps abusive? Negligent? Absent? What about their spouse? Perhaps leaving them all the housework, childcare or money making?

- They weren’t even that interested when their children married. Not really caring at that point of their lives either, just waiting for the inevitable death to come to them and, perhaps then, it would be more entertaining.

- Yandere Grandparent whose life was finally given color and light the moment their eyes landed on you, their first grandchild. They weren’t excited when they got the news, just curious. What a pay off it was to endure the nagging of their spouse and the annoying traffic to find little, chubby adorable you in their offspring’s arms.

- Yandere Grandparent who truly smiles for the first time when your eyes open and you smile at them! Their eyes watering a bit when they get to hold you for the first time, and refusing to let go when you hold one of their fingers in your soft baby hand.

- Yandere Grandparent who felt love for the first time ever and who promised that they’ll look after you, in this life and the many new ones to come.

- Yandere Grandparent who visits practically every day to visit their little niece and spoil them with affections. From treats to toys to cute clothes, they would happily spent all their savings to give you a smile.

- Yandere Grandparent who insists to their children to continue to go out for some dates with their partner! You two are so young after all! And don’t you worry about their little niece, for Yandere Grandparent will happily look after them! It doesn’t matter what their own spouse says, their opinion is irrelevant to them and they will have no problem ignoring them if necessary.

- Yandere Grandparent who secretly wishes their kids turn out to be abusive so they can be your legal guardian and keep you all for themselves! Oh, and their spouse too, of course. As long as they aren’t too much of a pain.

- Yandere Grandparent who is so, so, so happy that whatever higher deity out there gifted them a living proof that happiness is real and that they can actually love like a normal person. Well, their definition of normal, of course.

- Yandere Grandparent who is overbearing and it’s pretty much involved in every single thing you do. They attend every recital, show, competition and event that you might be involved in! Always bringing their special camera for their special album of memories of you and with your favorite drinks and snacks on their bag as a little treat.

- Yandere Grandparent who offers a heavy amount of financial support to your parents so that you can go to the best schools or have the best tutors available. They don’t want you to suffer in this horrible world like they did! So let Gran-Gran decide the best and easiest path of success for you! They know what they are doing.

- Yandere Grandparent who tells you so many stories about their lives and gives you the best advice they can offer, as well as 100% support in whatever thing you want to do or are interested in! That includes siding with you in every possible argument between you and your parents.

- Yandere Grandparent who knows that they will definitely die before you, but are willing to prolong that due date the most they can. And who will leave their entire inheritance to you, so you’ll have a happier life.

- Yandere Grandparent who, at their last moments, smiles at you while holding your hand and muttering a final “I love you, sweetie…” before peacefully dying.

- Yandere Grandparent whose soul will continue to protect you even in the afterlife, for even death itself will never be able to break the bond of love they always had for their adorable niece.

[fairyysoup]

it will come back

part two

a.k.a. sever the blight (eddie's version)

pairing(s): werewolf!eddie munson x fem!milkmaid!reader

summary: As May Day approaches, you find yourself running into Eddie, and succumbing to his charms, more and more.

cw: smut, heavy petting, fingering, frottage, denied orgasm, public sex, getting caught, alcohol consumption (both eddie and reader), a bit of humiliation, teasing, tons of flirting, eddie munson's Big Meaty Claws, jealousy (by reader), eddie being a flirtatious shit all around, slight enemies to lovers beat here, some kind of historical fantasy period, fairytale au, descriptions of scars, mentions of abuse, reader is a servant to an abusive master

a/n: Happy May! I wrote this in a complete stupor and woke up and it was almost 8.0k words, so there will be a part three. I also wanted to get this done yesterday, but that's not how the cookie crumbles. Alas.

The lyrics that Eddie sings in this are from a traditional English folk song, commonly called "As I Walked Through the Meadow." There are variations on the lyrics, but this is the version I used here.

MY WORKS ARE ALL 18+ MINORS DNI

The man from the creek is being thrown out of the tavern in the center of town.

You know because you’ve been watching since he went inside. Except, if anyone were to ask, you’d say you’re simply watching the ripples on the mud puddles on the dirt road in front of the building. They’re fascinating, you’d insist. They say you can see your future in them.

You’d noticed him going in as you were stepping out of the haberdashers. You knew it was him from the wine red of his blouse– it’s a rich color, like you’ve never seen on a garment worn by anyone in town, and certainly not by someone claiming to come from the woods. The last time you saw him, nearly a month ago now, you forgot to ask him where he got something so richly woven and colored, in such seemingly good repair. You contented yourself with a single lie: you didn’t want to know. 

You also figured that you would likely never see him again. That this so-called Eddie Munson was probably better off disappearing back into the woods and staying there. You’d never seen him in town before, and you certainly didn’t expect to see him there any time soon. He doesn’t exactly fit in with the rest of the townsfolk; people who work the land, who own it, who sow it. His rich red wine doesn’t fit into the bland suedes and dull grays of your neighbors. 

No– no, with his wild, curly hair and bright, rosy cheeks, he definitely doesn’t look like anyone who belongs in Havensfield. He belongs in a storybook. He belongs in a fairytale you tell to little children, to send them to sleep with something larger than life in their minds. Just like you haven’t been able to sleep a wink without thinking about him and his troublesome smile and sparkling eyes first. 

It’s as if he has you under some sort of spell, unable to move on but remaining steadfastly in place with your mind only revolving around him. You figured it was probably best to spend the coin he gave you and get it out of your system, so maybe you can get rid of the one physical thing that reminded you of his existence.

But here he is, in the flesh and very alive, and being tossed into the mud puddle you had been gazing into, spraying droplets of dirty water off in every direction. A cacophony of laughter rings out from the open door of the tavern– a barkeep angrily wipes his hands on his apron, snarls something at Eddie, and disappears back into the building, the door slamming shut behind him.

The town has erected a maypole in the square for the May Day celebration in just a few days. The marketplace is normally hectic during the festival. Shopkeepers will set up their stalls, the place will be decorated with garlands of flowers, and for days at a stretch one can hardly get their errands done for the amount of chaos going on in the place. That’s why you did your shopping today, rather than waiting for the festivities to begin.

You didn’t expect this.

You haven’t moved from your spot in front of the haberdasher’s. You don’t know if you should– you look this way and that, wondering if anyone is going to approach him, or if everyone else instinctively gives him a wide berth. The people on the street continue about their business like they haven’t seen him, like he isn’t there. You wonder if it’s some unseen force of nature that keeps them away. Does some magic spell exist to make him undetectable to anyone but you? Or are you just the only one stupid enough to get close?

He just sort of lays there in the mud, staring up at the sky. You assume he’s drunk. Why else would he have been thrown out of the tavern? Drinking them dry, getting unruly, starting fights… Yes, you should go on about your business. 

Your hand fists in your skirt, the color of barleycorn. Such a drab color when compared to his deep red, like the flow of blood from a wound. Just as you had feared, it draws you in like a moth to a flame. You lift your skirts and step carefully across the muddy town square, until your feet toe the edge of the puddle he lays in. 

“Do you… need help?” you ask when you peer down at him. From this angle, his eyelashes fan across his cheekbones in long arches, fluttering like fairy wings. 

“My Lovely Lady of the Creek!” He croons wistfully up at you when you pass into his field of vision. “We must stop meeting this way.” 

“Which way is that?”

“With me on my back in a bunch of water.” He smiles at you treacherously, in that way he does. Like he’s privy to a joke that you’re completely unaware of.

“Well, are you just going to lay there like a dead man in the road? Or would you like help?” Your hands are on your hips, the small basket for your purchases wiggling precariously on your wrist. 

“You really should be more discerning about who you offer to help,” he lectures as he heaves himself up to sit. Muddy water sloshes up towards your shoes, and you scamper back before they can get wet. “Lest I begin to get the wrong impression.” 

“I don’t recall ever offering you help before,” you point out. 

“Right,” Eddie says after a moment, his eyes sweeping along the road. He looks unsure, as if he doesn’t know what to ask for, if he wants anything at all. “You… could help me over to the well?” 

Your eyes follow his to the well in the center of the square. You shrug, and then brandish your hand at him. 

Eddie looks at it thoughtfully for a moment before placing his hand into yours. His hand engulfs yours in warmth, his long fingers stretching up and around your wrist. A flush bursts beneath your skin from where his touch hits, spreading up your arm and into your chest.

You’re going to catch fire, you’re sure of it.

Instead, you just help him to his feet, trying not to slip in the mud, yourself. Eddie staggers, sways back towards the porch of the tavern. You lunge forward to catch him before he can fall over again, and you snatch him around the waist without much thought. His arm plops down onto your shoulder, and your basket bats against his hip, the contents shifting inside.

You’re so close now. He smells like pine and whiskey, and his body is warm. So warm that you’re surprised he isn’t sick in bed. 

“How much did you drink?” you ask him, your voice choked as you heave him towards the well. You don’t want to think about his body pressed against yours, his arm hot around your shoulders. He’s looking down at you with an impassioned gaze that you don’t want to match. You fear that if you look up into his face, you will. 

“No more than usual,” he murmurs. His hand reaches out and grabs the stone ring of the well once you get him to it. He kneels on the step of it, starting to look a little green in the face. 

“You smell like the tavern floor,” you tell him frankly, raising your hand to push his hair away from his face. 

“Well, I was just laying in a bunch of piss and shit, so.” Eddie raises his head and gazes up at you, wide-eyed, when you press your hand to his forehead. 

“And you’re much too hot,” you assess, watching his eyes flutter at your appraisal. “Don’t you dare get sick in the well. I have to drink out of that.”

“I need water,” he grumbles, and pulls away from your hand. He tries to stand, and fails.

“Stay,” you tell him firmly, planting a hand on his shoulder. Eddie pouts, watching as you place your basket beside him and step up to the well to fetch him the bucket yourself. 

Like a child who’s just been given a present, Eddie’s eyes fall to your basket. “What’s this?”

“My shopping,” you grunt with the effort of cranking the wheel to lift the bucket from the well. 

“Ooh– stockings?” 

You turn to glance at him, and see that he’s lifted the cloth from the basket to peek at the contents inside. He’s pinching your new stockings between his two fingers, pulling them out with a gleeful expression on his face.

You could kill him. “Put those back,” you hiss, letting go of the handle of the wheel. The crank spins backward, and down in the well, the bucket hits the water again with a loud, wet splash.

“Silk stockings, no less,” Eddie continues, ducking away from your swiping hand as he begins running the smooth hosiery over his knuckles. He seems to have gotten his second wind– no longer staggering, nor looking green in the face, he scampers around the well while you chase him. “Now how could a milkmaid afford such finery? It couldn’t be… no, I shant say–” 

“Give it to me now,” you snarl at him, rounding the well after him. You hadn’t wanted him to see them– hadn’t wanted anyone to see them. It’s not something that you could have gotten yourself, on your own pay. The Master or Mistress would assume that you’d stolen the money, and punish you for it. Obviously, any stranger seeing them would be improper.

And Eddie… Well, he knows exactly how you got your hands on them.

“Could it be… a silver coin?” He giggles like an impish little sprite, his feet working faster than his mind. “Given to you by a handsome, charming, mysterious stranger?” 

Eddie turns to look at you, holding the silken fabric up to his cheek to feel its softness. The sight of the gesture, him pressing his cheek against your undergarment, makes you see red. 

“You little demon–” You lunge for him, but he jerks away, barrel rolling across the opening of the well somehow without managing to fall in. He lands on the other side with a noisy plop, laughing hysterically, and you continue rounding the well to get to him. “Your hair is unsightly and you smell like dirt and you’re as vain as you are vexing and I would rather try to climb the maypole than call you charming!” 

“Well, you’re correct on most accounts,” he tells you, still trying to slow his laughter. Eddie lifts the cloth on your basket, still containing a bread roll and a new wooden comb, and begins carefully folding the silk stockings into a neat bundle. He tucks them back into the basket primly, while continuing, “But I would love to see you try to climb a maypole. Mine has been known to be good for such uses–”

“You’re despicable.” You snatch the basket away from him and step away from the well, turning your back to him without a goodbye. 

“Maybe so,” Eddie replies from behind you. “But you’re still curious, aren’t you?”

You stop. You shouldn’t, but you do, and you know it’s a mistake the minute you turn and see him already standing, not swaying in the slightest, and beginning to crank the wheel of the well to fetch his own water. 

With a scowl, you watch his arm work the wheel until the bucket rears up over the lip of the well, and he lifts it onto the edge. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, like he expected you to have walked away, and he smirks. “Ohhhh, she’s curious. You know what they say about curiosity.” 

Your skin prickles as you’re uncomfortably reminded of your last meeting with Eddie. “You’re much too fond of your idioms.”

“They’re idioms for a reason,” he replies frankly. With the water bucket steady on the edge of the well, he pinchest the front of his blouse and begins untucking the tails from his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” you snap, appalled, as he lifts the hem of his blouse to expose his belly.

He pauses, looking at you dubiously. “I have to wash my shirt.”

You bluster, “In front of the whole town?”

“Who’s looking?”

Who, indeed? You finally think to take in your surroundings, and you notice that the town square has cleared since Eddie was thrown out of the tavern. Aside from the occasional passerby, no one is lingering, and certainly no one is watching Eddie as he peels the muddy fabric from his skin. 

“You’re the only person in this town who deigns to speak to me. I thank you for that,” Eddie says, not unkindly. “But you should know that it makes you a rose among thorns. That isn’t necessarily a good thing.”

“How is that not a good thing?” you ask, feeling his eyes rake over you just before he pulls his shirt over his head. You see a flash of pale skin, and avert your eyes so swiftly it nearly makes you dizzy.

“Roses tend to be picked,” he tells you simply, as if it’s obvious. “Careful who you show your colors to.”

Your face heats against your will, while your eyes remain locked on the building across the way and not on him. At least, not until your curiosity wins out, and you steal a glance at him. 

Eddie dunks his dirty blouse in the bucket, splashing water down onto the stone step at the base of the well. The muscles of his arms flex with the work, and his hair spills over pale shoulders, rosy at the collarbones. He has pictures drawn on his skin with black ink– mythical creatures you learned about as a child, which denote power and magic. Surrounding the images on his skin are scars, old enough that they’ve gone pale, but their raised appearance indicates that he’s seen his fair share of danger. Hair trails down his chest and to  the curve of his stomach, then disappears beneath the line of his trousers. Your eyes trace the trail of it, lingering on his waistband as you wonder how far down it goes. 

He must feel your eyes on him, because he glances up at you. You immediately rip your eyes away, but it’s too late. He’s already seen you looking– seen you staring. 

Eddie grins, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “If it pleases you to look, then look.”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t looking,” you say, with more than a hint of pride, turning your nose up a bit for good measure. 

“Of course,” Eddie muses, a wicked smirk still on his face. “And neither was I.” 

He meets your eye with a heated gaze that makes goosebumps break out across your skin. His eyes are two black coals, burning at you from just a few feet away. They slowly move up and down your body, until he sets his jaw and turns back to the bucket. He lifts the red blouse from the water and wrings it out, casting droplets of water down his forearms.

You watch them travel along his pale skin, your eyes tracing the blue veins and sinewy muscles of his arms. And that’s when you notice it– the cloth tied around his wrist.

It’s pale pink. It has a slight brocade pattern to the weave. It’s one that your Mistress had no use of, and when she decided she didn’t want the cloth for anything, you took and dyed it yourself with rose petals, and turned it into a blanket for your bed.

It’s the same cloth that you tied to the injured leg of the wolf in your dream, all those weeks ago. But it wasn’t a dream, or it couldn’t have been– the end of that very same pink blanket is still frayed from the tear of the fabric.

“Where did you get that?” you ask him sharply, marching forward. He startles, drawing back just a bit, his eyes glancing you up and down in alarm.

“Get what?” he says coolly, though his manner doesn’t reflect his tone. He’s backing away from you, holding up his hands like you mean to attack.

“This.” Far too bold for your own good, you snatch his wrist in your hand. Eddie gazes down his nose at you as you yank his wrist up near your face, twisting until the pink brocade glints in the overcast light of late April. “Where did you get this cloth?” 

“In the woods,” he says simply. 

“This is from my bed,” you hiss at him, your eyes narrowing as your hand tightens on his arm. Beneath his overheated skin, his pulse pounds against your fingers. You feel it like the beating of a thousand drums. “I don’t believe you. Where did you get it?”��

“I told you,” Eddie repeats slowly. “I found it hanging from a tree. Thought it was pretty, so I kept it.” His face betrays no emotion now, almost strategically so. Where alarm once was, there is nothing. No hint of hesitance, or mischief, or cunning. Just a blank slate that you have no way of reading. 

Your eyes flick between his face and his arm, trying to connect the dots. That’s when you notice the mark as well– among the otherwise pale, older scars that riddle his torso and arms is a long, jagged gash on his bicep. It arcs across his skin and appears to have been from a deep wound. It’s raised over and scarred, but still bright in color. New.

You’re wondering if your mind is playing tricks on you. It’s improbable that the scar on his arm is the one you patched on the wolf a month ago. You refuse to believe such things; you don’t believe in wolf-men, in fairytales, in silly superstitions.

You release his arm. You still don’t believe him– not when he so quickly went from being startled, to suddenly showing no emotion at all. You don’t trust him in the slightest. It seems to you like he’s hiding something, but you don’t know what. You don’t believe he’s anything other than a man. You can’t honestly say that you believe he’s evil, or that he means you harm, but you still wouldn’t lay your life down to fend for his honor.

And that cloth. You would bet your life that the fabric wrapped around his wrist came from your bed, dyed by your own hand, tied around the wounded leg of a wolf on the last full moon. But you can’t dispute that what he says is true. So you step back, and you fix him with a steely-eyed gaze that you know would make even the roughest of men shake in their boots.

“Good day, Mr. Munson,” you say, and he looks surprised that you even remembered his name. “I hope that I never see you again.”

“Making a wish like that is unwise,” he replies mildly, turning back to the bucket that he has perched on the rim of the well. “Unless you have a coin to toss in the well for it. Silver, maybe?” 

Your cheeks burn hot, and you turn away from him. He infuriates you so much. You can’t recall a time when a man affected you so badly. 

“Right. Because you spent it,” he observes, taking your silence as a quiet relent. “I’ll sleep well knowing that my coin was spent on a pair of beautiful stockings. Excellent craftsmanship, by the way. The weave is immaculate. Feels like spun gold.”

“Go to Hell,” you mutter, finally turning away from him, for good this time. 

“As long as I know you’ll think of me when you wear them,” he tells you as you walk away, “I’ll die a happy man.”

You pause. For a moment, you think of turning back to him, telling him to shove that exact thought down his stupidly pretty gullet. But you don’t. Thankfully, you have the reserve and the self respect to set your shoulders and leave him there, rinsing his soiled blouse there on the edge of the well.

You still didn’t ask him how he got a blouse so fine. You doubt that he would tell you the truth even if you did. All you know is that he stays with you, haunting you, rolling through your mind the way he rolled across the mouth of the well, until your hand lands on the gate to your Master’s property.

You can’t afford to have him occupying your thoughts. You can’t afford to be so distracted– you don’t even want to think about what may happen if the Master learns that you’re on your way to being smitten with someone. Someone young and beautiful and, from what you can tell, not running a farm with indentured servants on it.

And when exactly did you go from wanting him to disappear into the woods, to being smitten with him?

On May Eve, you get just enough of your chores done for the Mistress to not find any excuse for you not to attend the festivities. With your hands tight on a woven basket, you set off with a group of young milkmaids from down the lane, bearing torches, to collect flowers from the meadows and woods. 

Bringing in the May is one of your favorite customs, mostly because it’s practiced by the young people of the town. You don’t have to worry about being watched by the town elders. There’s an air of being chosen by someone; the more popular girls in town get flowers laid on their doorsteps in abundance. You’ve never been left flowers, but each year you hold out hope that someone, anyone, will leave them for you. A gesture– you’re wanted. 

There’s music in the air. Groups of young men and women laugh and dance, and the meadows are dotted with the little blooms of fire at the ends of torches as flowers are gathered. You’ve already indulged in a certain amount of floral spring wine and honey cakes, lulling you into a sweetly tipsy, giggly mood. There’s magic in the air– you can taste it in the humidity, the moonshine, the salt of sweat and earth.

“There aren’t enough flowers in the meadow this year,” one of the girls in your group complains, tromping through the high grass. 

“This isn’t the only meadow in Havensfield, Victoria,” says another. 

“I’ve seen more growing by the trees,” you offer, holding out your basket for one girl to toss a few measly primrose blooms in.

The other girls stop. You look around in the low torchlight at the appalled expressions on their faces. 

“You can’t just… go into the woods,” the one named Victoria objects. “There’s… there’s fairies. And wolf-men.” 

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes while the other girls balk. “You can’t honestly tell me that you believe those old wive’s tales. You know the elders only tell those stories to keep us from going into the woods to fuck.” 

A few snickers rise up with the smoke from the torch. “It’s true, I saw Katherine Plack sneaking through the woods with Scotty Raker two nights ago,” says a short girl beside Victoria, nodding sagely.

“And what were you doing in the woods, Hyacinth?” the girl holding the torch says, slugging Hyacinth on the shoulder. 

The girls dissolve into laughter, while you suck on your lower lip and gaze toward the trees. It can’t be that dangerous, if Eddie claims to come from in there… somewhere. You imagine a cozy little cottage in the woods with a well beside it, tucked away, hidden from town. You imagine him chopping the wood to make it, himself. You imagine his lean frame and strong hands holding an ax, the drawings on his skin highlighted in the filtered sun through the trees as he swings the blade–

“I’m going to go see,” you announce abruptly, your voice nearly cracking. You’re nodding to yourself, looking like an idiot while you fumble to pick the basket up and set it on your hip. “Yep. That’s what I'm going to do. You all can stay here if you want.” 

“But, there’s no light,” Victoria insists, pulling her hair back away from her face with a condescending expression.

“Moon’s almost full, I can see just fine,” you snap back. Honestly, what does it matter to her if you go into the woods? “I’ll be back.”

Hyacinth calls something about “girding your loins” after you, but you’re too far away to really pay it any mind. The grass grows taller by the trees, and you hop over the creek into a wide bed of bright yellow marigolds. They wiggle in the slight spring breeze, lit with just enough moonshine for their color to show even in the dark.

“Beat that, Victoria,” you mumble as you set the basket on the ground. Methodically, you begin picking them, choosing the biggest blooms, the ones with the most immaculate petals. You’ll decorate your small cabin with them, and fashion garlands for the town square with the rest. 

As you wander over to another bed to collect some more blooms, you hear singing, following the tune being played by the pan flute across the meadow. It’s an old folk song that most of the people in town would know, and you hum along mindlessly as you pick the flowers at your knees. 

“As I was a-walking to take the fresh air, The flowers all blooming and gay, I heard a young damsel so sweetly a-singing, Her cheeks like the flowers in May.” 

It’s a young man’s voice, coming from somewhere in the trees, low and rich, and quiet enough that you don’t think it’s meant to be heard by anyone else across the meadow. Tipsy, you smile to yourself, not thinking to look for the source of the voice, but just appreciating the sound as it travels on the breeze.

“Said I, ‘Pretty maiden, and how came you here, In the meadows this morning, so soon?’ The maid she replied, ‘Why, to gather some May, For the trees they are all in full bloom.’”

As your fingers stroke along soft flower petals, humming along under your breath, you glance over your shoulder towards the meadow, where flaming torches dance like woodland spirits in the night. Laughter follows the music and the raucous cheering of the other groups of May-goers, dancing and collecting their own greenery and flowers.

The rich, velvety voice filters through the trees, ever quieter, but even closer than before. You look up just in time to see the source of the voice move just beyond the treeline, and then he appears, leaning against the trunk of a great pine, close enough that you can see the deep wine red of his blouse, and the wicked smirk on his lips.

“I said, ‘Pretty maiden, shall I go with you Through the meadows to gather some May?’ ‘Oh no, sir,’ she said, ‘I would rather refuse, For I fear you would lead me astray.’”

You could swear that Eddie’s eyes glow nearly red at you in the moonlight, his teeth sharper than you’ve ever seen them as he grins at you. The lace at his collar is untied, disheveled, falling open to reveal one of the inked pictures on his skin and his dark chest hair. 

“Climb any maypoles today, princess?” he asks you after a moment of your staring at him, like you’ve seen a ghost.

The question sets your skin aflame. You sit back on your heels, giving him a caustic expression, despite the way your heart flutters at the sight of him. It’s the eve of May, your lurid mind thinks, tracing his outline among the trees. Anything could happen. 

“I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again, Mr. Munson,” you retort, imagining that he won’t be affected by your words in the slightest.

He isn’t. “Ah-ah, you said you hoped that you wouldn’t. But you didn’t toss a coin in the well, therefore, your wish was never going to be granted. Rules of nature, sweetheart.” He wags a finger at you. “And enough with that ‘Mr. Munson’ business. You remember my name, don’t you?” 

“Eddie,” you say quietly, not sure why you feel so shy when you do. Probably because, up until now, you’ve been firm in your false belief that you’d never give him the time of day. It seems it all depends on whether or not you’ve seen him shirtless, first.

“Good girl. I knew you were paying attention.” Eddie smirks at you then, sowing the seeds of your detriment right there. He stands poised, and then bows low as he says, “So, pretty maiden, shall I go with you through the meadows to gather some May?”

You consider quoting the song right back to him, but you figure that it’s probably what he expects you to do. So instead, you sigh and shrug your shoulder at him. “As long as you promise not to crush them in your big meaty hands.” 

Eddie’s mouth drops open in shock, an impressed smile curling his mouth up at the corners. He barks a laugh. “That’s not how the song goes.” 

“Well, the song ends with them kissing and then getting married in the morning,” you point out, with a roll of your eyes. “So, forgive me for not adhering to the lyrics.”

“Also, my hands are not meaty.” He smirks at you ruefully, his face half bathed in moonlight. He leans towards you, “I’ll tell you what is, though–”

“If you’re about to mention your maypole again, I’m leaving,” you snap, glaring at him in the dark. He snickers, but says nothing, instead preferring to start gathering marigolds. “Just how did you manage to find me again, anyways? There are hundreds of people wandering the meadows tonight. How is it that you keep managing to run into me and no one else?”

“Oh, I can sniff you out in a heartbeat, princess. It’s one of my many talents.” The flowers are dwarfed by his hands– his long fingers pinch the stems delicately, offset by the size of the silver rings he wears on them. You admire them, watching them glint in the moonlight, the tendons in his wrist flexing and his skin pulling tight over veins and knuckles. The heavy metal clicks as he works. You’re about to comment on them, when you watch what said fingers are doing with the flowers.

He takes one, and loops the stem around another, creating a loose knot that lets the tails sit alongside each other. He repeats the process slowly, building a chain of bright marigold blooms, while he hums idly and shoots you a heavy look from beneath his lashes. “Ah. So you’re not afraid to look, now. That’s good to know.” 

You tear your eyes away. The tips of your ears burn with embarrassment at having been caught staring, yet again. “Have you any shame?” 

“Not a hair of it.” 

Eddie holds up a finished crown of flowers, grinning at you. He places the circlet of blooms on your head, and as he draws back, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“And I crowned her my Queen of sweet May,” he sings at you, more of a coo than truly carrying a tune. “The most beautiful one in all the land, of course.”

“From princess to queen,” you muse, trying not to show how quickly your heart is melting. “I’m sure you must think that endears you to me.”

“I’d like to think so,” Eddie admits, leaning ever closer to you. You can see the reflection of the moon in his eyes, glinting vaguely red– you can smell honeyed wine on his breath. His voice drops even lower in register, until it’s just barely above a whisper. “I hope so. Tell me I’m wrong, sweetheart.” 

“I think,” you murmur just as quietly, letting your eyes drop indulgently to his parted lips. They’re so plush and inviting, they’re right there. You need only let yourself bend an inch and you could kiss him. You breathe in, “I think…”

Your hand falls softly to the basket of flowers beside you.

“I think your hands are egregiously meaty.”

You lift a handful of marigolds and smash them into his mouth, making him splutter and fall backwards. You cackle, flinging yourself in the opposite direction, scrambling up to run away. You swear you got some of them in his mouth; you can hear him coughing and spitting them at the same time as he laughs.

“I’ll get you for that!” You can hear him leaping up to chase you, and the prospect makes your heart pound in your chest, your blood rushing hot beneath your skin. You’re sure that it will be easy for him to catch you– you’re hoping for it, really.

You duck between the pines and into the trees. “Come sniff me out then, if you must!” 

You hear his laugh from behind you, almost sounding dark and menacing. Your hair stands on end, but your feet carry you through the trees, running even though you feel as though you’ve been struck by lightning. 

His feet pound the earth behind you, his laughter dancing on the breeze and combining with the music from the meadow. Beyond the trees, your contemporaries dance and make merry with the coming of summer. Here, in the woods, you run from some indeterminate end– one that you have an inkling of, like the barest traces of a memory, but you can’t quite make it out yet. 

Eddie’s hands snatch you by the waist, and you yelp. Heat bursts beneath your skin where he touches you through your bodice, whirling you around until your back hits the trunk of a tree. 

Your breath catches in your throat, heart pounding, chest heaving. Eddie is so close, and the air around you buzzes with energy and magic, as if the very trees themselves were singing. 

“You little minx,” Eddie muses, his voice rumbling low like thunder. “Just need me to chase you, is that it?” His eyes truly do shine red, you don’t think you’re imagining it– each time they catch the light of the moon, or a torch burning far off in the meadow, you see a glimpse of that subtle iridescent red of a forest creature in the dark glinting back at you. 

“I think you’re a spirit,” you whisper, the words light and airy in your throat as you try to regain your breath. “I think you’re one of the Fey. You can’t be real.”

Eddie has you caged in against the tree– one hand on the trunk beside your head, one on your hip. You don’t want to be anywhere else. “Oh, I’m very real, sweetheart. Shall I show you how much?”

His forefinger traces the line of your cheekbone, down the side of your face, to your jaw. You want it bad. You want him and anything he’ll give you– throw you to the ground, take you as prey, the lot of it. You won’t be married in the morning, but tonight all things are possible. 

You turn your face and drag your lips across his knuckles, half-gone in your desire. You barely even register the look on his face; eyes wide, lips parted in awe, like he’s never seen anything like you before. Like you confound him as much as he confounds you. A match made in heaven. 

Eddie catches your jaw in his fingertips, holding you like you’re made of glass, and he crashes down into you. He tastes of cherry wine, as rich and deep as the color of his blouse, which you fist in your hand to tug him closer. 

“Please,” you whisper against his lips. It falls like a sigh into his mouth, and his hand tightens on your hip momentarily before gathering your skirts. The fabric flutters as he pulls at them, tugging them up just enough to disappear beneath the hem. 

Your breath quickens. His hand makes contact with your thigh and you think, Oh fuck, this is really happening. 

Eddie’s finger’s pause on the breadth of your thigh, just above your knee. His forefinger strokes downward, passing over your garter strip and feeling the weave of the silk before he cracks a self-satisfied smirk at you. 

“Nice stockings. Get them recently?”

Your eyes narrow with false gravity, your nose scrunching. “I’ll kill you.”

His smirk stretches into a grin, and he scoffs a little laugh that flutters across your lips. It feels like a kiss. “Dying between the legs of my beautiful Queen of May sounds like a good way to go, actually.”

His hand drags hotly up your outer thigh, and the touch nearly burns you to your core. Eddie’s thumb presses against the skin just at the juncture of your leg, and you press your lips together to bite back a moan from coming out. Everything between your legs is tense, and pulsing, and turning feverish the longer he just pets at your skin and tugs your leg up to rest against his hip. 

His fingertips dig into the curve of your ass and the moan escapes you; high pitched, needy, embarrassing. You’re hot all over and you feel like you might die if he doesn’t touch you– you have a mind to tell him so, too, when Eddie dips his head and bites at your earlobe. 

He dips his finger between your folds, tracing one forefinger up the seam of your cunt, and you swear you could nearly scream. Flesh that is too hot and too sensitive bursts alive with feeling. His finger is drenched, your legs shake just from one touch. Is this what it always feels like?

“Oh, baby,” he coos as you whimper into his neck. His lips move slowly along your skin. Each move of his finger, just teasing you gently, dragging so slowly over your clit that your back arches and you keen long and high. “That’s it. This is what you needed, isn’t it?” 

You let out a pitiful squeak, nodding your head like you may explode rather than answer. He strokes you firmly and then gently, watching your face, studying your expressions. It’s so much and it’s not enough, not nearly enough to settle the throbbing in your core. 

“Please…” It’s the only thing you can come up with, the word bubbling up out of your throat before you can make it make sense. “Please.”

“‘Please’ what?” Eddie tilts his head. His pale skin nearly glows in the moonlight, the red in his eyes shining for a split second. “Please… here?”

His finger circles your entrance, prodding but never quite dipping in all the way. It’s just enough to make you see stars, just enough to turn you nearly insane. 

“Oh my God,” you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders and gripping at his neck. 

Eddie hums, letting you feel the gentle touch for a few more seconds before it’s gone. You could cry. There are tears in your eyes– you could sob, throw a tantrum. You don’t think it would make him change his mind either way.

“My hands are too big, though, aren’t they?” Eddie shakes his head, mirroring your pout in a condescending manner that makes you want to smack him. Then he cracks a smirk, and you know he’s just being mean. “Mhm. Big and meaty. Too much for a sweet little thing like you. I wouldn’t want to break–”

You snatch his wrist through your skirts and bring his hand back between your legs. No preamble, no begging– this time he hisses, and you sigh with relief as you grind down onto not just his fingers, but his entire hand. 

“You’re not disappearing on me this time, Munson,” you nearly growl at him. Your tongue lavishes his skin, his long neck providing just the right amount of area for you to indulge in. 

“I would have stayed,” he gasps out when your teeth find a particularly tender spot under his jaw. “I’d have stayed if I knew you wanted me to.”

“I want you to,” you say, and you wonder if you’ll regret it in the morning. But the morning seems so far away right now, and his hand feels so good between your legs, and you don’t quite understand how you could regret anything that makes him look at you like that.

“Don’t– You can’t talk to me like that,” he whispers, and his eyes shine like rubies in the night as he gazes at you in awe. “You should know better than that.”

You do know better. But still, you tell him, “Stay,” and it’s like a dam has been broken. You know that you’ll never get rid of him now, and you don’t really want to. You want him to make a home in your chest, right against your heart. You want him to always touch you like this. You want him to always look at you with that same reverent gaze, like he’s just looked upon divinity.

Eddie crowds between your legs and his hand leaves you, but his thigh remains in its place. His leg presses tight to your core, the rough fabric of his trousers not nearly as warm as the touch of his hand, but just as erotic. You rock forward mindlessly against his thigh as he takes your face in his hands– one wet with your arousal– and kisses you breathless. His lips move over yours softly, and then passionately, until you take all that passion and feed it back into him twice over.

You lose track of time. The stroke of his tongue against yours, your hands in his hair, his firm thigh between your legs, all brings you to the edge of oblivion. You squirm against him and he chuckles against your lips. He knows what you want. He’ll give it to you, you know it, you know that he will–

And then a twig snaps. Someone calls your name just through the trees, and then, fucking Victoria breaks through the bushes just in time to see you jump and squeal, having to clutch at Eddie’s shoulders to keep from falling over when he spins around to see who intruded on your precious moment.

“OH! I’m so sorry– I thought–” Victoria fiddles with a long lock of her hair, twisting it idly before tossing it over her shoulder. You’re sure you look disheveled, with Eddie’s crown of marigolds slowly unweaving itself in your hair. It’s obvious to her what you’d been doing– Her eyes rake up and down Eddie’s frame, standing halfway in front of you like a shield, his chest heaving, a dark spot on his trousers where his thigh had been pressed between your legs. “Well, you said you were going to be back, and we thought you’d gone missing…”

“I was in the middle of doing something,” you tell her bluntly.

“Understatement,” Eddie mutters under his breath, and you knock your elbow against his back.

You ignore him. “I thought you didn’t want to go into the woods?”

“Well, that was before we thought you… disappeared.” Victoria looks from you to Eddie. “Who’s this?”

“Something.” Eddie grins at her, sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight breaking through the trees. “Sorry I stole her away from you. We were actually just having a fascinating conversation about when it’s appropriate to disappear– you could join us if you want?” 

Eddie glances over his shoulder at you, and smirks a bit at the expression of complete and utter envy on your face. You don’t want anyone to join. You don’t want to share him. You want him all to yourself. You want to grow on him like ivy until no one can see him but you. You want to hold him close to your chest and keep him there for eternity, and then some. 

“Oh, no, I–” Victoria blushes. She half-turns, like she wants to run away from the conversation entirely. “I just wanted to let you know that we’ve collected all the flowers we need, so… we’re going back to town. You can stay… if you want.”

You want to throw a fit.

She ducks back into the bushes quickly. Eddie is quiet for a moment, listening to her footsteps through the grass, before he turns to you. 

“You were jealous,” he teases, leaning towards you with that stupid self-aggrandizing grin.

Your face grows hot with anger and embarrassment. “You did that on purpose.” You shove him bodily, so that he stumbles a bit to the side, and he snickers. “I can’t believe you. She could have said yes to that.”

“Nah, she was too bashful. I knew she wasn’t gonna take me up on the offer. She wandered into something she wasn’t ready for.” Eddie leans up against a tree, smiling at you with a more resigned expression now. He looks you over, like he wants to burn the image of your kiss-bitten lips and rumpled dress into his memory. After a moment, he meets your eye again. “You should go. Get some sleep before the festival tomorrow.”

“But I–” You flounder. You just made so much progress, and now you’re just back where you began. You shouldn’t be proud about it now– not after he nearly took you to pieces with a single touch. Not when you can still feel the sharp edge of an orgasm pressing at your core, wanting to force its way out but with no way to get there now, and every look at him makes it press that much harder. “You know what– I don’t even know what I expected.” 

You march off towards the tree line. You have to find your fucking flower basket. You have to go and make garlands and slap together some bouquets for the festival tomorrow. You have to pretend like you aren’t dying inside from the disappointment.

“Princess.” You turn to him. He isn’t smiling anymore, he just looks disappointed as well. He glances up at the moon, and then back to you. “It’s a full moon tomorrow. Best not to go near the woods, okay?”

“Don’t tell me you believe in those stupid wolf-man stories, too,” you snap, beyond aggravated.

“Just promise me,” Eddie bites back, his eyes shining dangerously in the moonlight. “Promise me that you’ll stay in town. Don’t come near the woods. Drink, be merry, have a good time.”

“And you?” You feel a bit humiliated and desperate, vying for his time and attention– but you want it. You want it, you want him, more than anything, but you have a feeling you won’t be getting what you want, yet again. “What about you?” 

“I’ll find you,” he says firmly, and then lowers his eyes. Softly, he amends, “I’ll always come back to you.”

[ilikekidsshows]

As someone who grew up in poverty, the pretence that Chloé was never a victim of abuse because she’s rich sounds so incredibly moronic to me for two reason.

First, privilege cushions oppression and abuse but does NOT erase them. In my life I’ve had to deal with a lot of tone-deaf rich kids whose petty complains screamed first world problem, but guess what? None of that was about being abused and neglected. No I don’t want to hear about your daddy refusing to buy you a new car. YES I want you to speak out if they’re neglecting and/or emotionally abusing you. Children as a class are severely ignored. They do not have agency even if they are the richest people on the planet, because that money belongs to their parents who can take it away from their child at any given moment. This is also the reason why André being lifted of any responsibility for the way Chloé was raised is such bullshit, but I digress.  

Now to reason number two – I’m under the impression ML pats itself on the back for its supposedly eat the rich message. This is part of a bigger problem which is the inability of the writing crew to show rather than tell. Marinette life is SO normal, right? She only happens to go to school with the richest kids in town and to be the daughter of the people who run the most appreciated bakery in Paris and to be in touch with several famous people and—

You get it. You cannot “This is just a kids show!” your way out of this because either ML teaches important lessons or it’s not supposed to be taken seriously. You can’t randomly decide which is it based on what’s most convenient to you. That’s not how it works. So yeah, sure, Chloé (and Adrien and Kagami and Félix) is rich, but the other characters are never shown to struggle financially and are if anything the sons and daughters of pretty important people. The only time Marinette has money trouble is when we find out her parents were saving up to send her to Shangai, but that’s pretty normal. A normal family can’t just think “Sure, let’s fly to another continent” and do that the day after. ‘Cause you know, money. 

That still doesn’t mean Marinette is struggling financially. She has a lovely home and a perfect family – that’s so much more many people, me included, can account for. So what, Marinette’s trauma doesn’t account for anything because she’s privileged? Is this the logic the ML fandom was fed and thought “Yeah, sounds pretty good to me!” What is this show’s problem, really. 

---

Miraculous wants to have its cake and eat it too in terms of many things. The writers often include contradictory elements into the show, which is why every detail is important to the “larger picture”, unless it isn't, in which case the show is really simple and there's no need to pay attention to details and fans are just overthinking things. There's a reason actual media analysts avoid this show like the plague now; there's no reward for paying attention because the writers arbitrarily contradict themselves in several episodes, often more times than once in the same episode even. The whole “Adrien apologises to Marinette for what happened with Lila thing” is extra confusing because of the constant contradictions.

The crew are also incredibly cowardly when it comes to actually saying something. We have a blatant allegory for racism when Roland opposed Tom and Sabine’s interracial marriage because they used “rice flour” in baking, but the writers deny this was an allegory when people bring it up. The crew are only comfortable saying something “political” when it's the most milk-toast, fence-sitting take imaginable. As I’ve pointed out before, their idea of a “green episode” was the mayor shooting trashcans into space, which was basically the show going: “don't litter!” Poison Ivy in the nineties was bolder.

That said, of course Miraculous isn't going to tackle the complexities of privilege in any meaningful way. In their eyes, you're privileged and evil if you're telling your rich parents to buy you stuff. Ignore Marinette getting a whole-ass scooter and a trip to Shanghai, because she didn't ask for those things so she isn't privileged. She's a good girl who deserves nice things, unlike Chloé, who's mean so her dad buying her expensive gifts to make up for neglecting her emotionally makes her privileged and evil. The writers want the no-care life of being well-off for all their cast, and even play around with the glamour of wealth several times, so any attempt at a "eat the rich" angle is ultimately insincere.

In addition, the writers still insist on vindicating the rich white men who even create the problems in the green episode, which just makes this mess even more confusing. Because the writers are stanning Gabriel and André, we get the actual businessmen intimidating anyone beneath them socially, the ones who actually own the wealth, treated more sympathetically than a teenaged bully whose dad buys her nice things, sometimes after she asks but often without her asking. Of course, considering Gabe's from rags-to-riches background (wildly exaggerated, considering his parents are still small business owners), you could think the creators are only critical of "unearned" wealth, if it wasn't for the Marinette Exception.

There's also the aspect of how the writers seem to only count wealth as a privilege after it passes a certain threshold, and otherwise they ignore the topic of wealth completely. Considering there isn't a single character in this series that's shown financially struggling even temporarily, there clearly isn't anything definitive (read: potentially upsetting) to be said about class privilege. Frankly, I think Chloé is the primary target of the "eat the rich" angle specifically because no one can argue someone who's never worked using her father's money to one-up her peers and screw people over is not privileged. It's, as I put it, the most milk-toast, fence-sitting take on wealth privilege imaginable. "Being a jerk about being wealthy is bad!" No shit, Sherlock. Good job, clown crew.

There's also the element of Marinette's special treatment, of course, since we still can't argue Marinette is working for the money she's spending since the people spending money on her are her parents, grandmother and boyfriends, while Marinette never mentions using her potential commission/babysitting money for anything (although I don't think they even discuss her payments for these jobs which just proves how meaningless they are). Marinette is never shown spending her own money on screen, but we repeatedly see other people use money for her benefit. Chloé is the only other character shown to get paid for like this, but for her, it's a sign of her undeserved privilege and being spoiled, while, for Marinette, it's more of a perk that she totally deserves.

The way Marinette's exception is presented reads like Miraculous is trying to sell you on the notion of "inherent goodness". If you're a good enough person, everything you do, is good or a forgivable mistake. This is the double standard they apply to Marinette when compared to anyone else, because only Marinette is good enough to reach "inherent goodness" levels. She is the goodest kid in the world according to Santa Claus himself, the greatest Ladybug ever according to Jeanne d’Arc and the best version of herself according to Sublimation. All of this means that Marinette is inherently good so she can never do anything that's really that bad and she deserved all the perks and praise.