#that no one else believed that was his greatest desire

[sangrefae]

thinking about how in senshi's journal he mentioned that laios collapsed from exhaustion after falin woke up and it was confirmed she was alright. I am always ill about the touden siblings and their relationship but this fact keeps me up at night

[acid-ixx]

ch.5 pt 1: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, typical implications of trauma and emotional neglect, allusions to self-harm.

you had always been a good kid.

you didn't have a consistent a plus, and you most certainly don't always win awards, let alone shower in a streak of gold medals and thick paper announcing your spot as first place. you're not the picture-perfect kid aunties will brag about and compare their other children to. you're not always refined, as a child born into the streets of gotham, bound to be rough around the edges—

but you were good.

and your momma always told you every night, in her hushed whispers and cuddling arms, after her sweet lullabies harmonizing with the hums of your broken fan, that it's alright if you're not the greatest; as long as you're good.

she taught you manners, to always respect everyone around you, your elders, strangers, even children your age, because blessings always come in the form of good faith if you're kind.

you believe her, of course you do, she's the only person you had in your life, the only person you needed. you should've never desired for anything else; what else could you wish for if not her love and presence only?

she's enough for you, and you're enough because she tells you too, with her siren-like eyes softening when she gazes at you with only love encrypted in her eyes, her once seductive smile plastered all over wanted posters now beaming with joy at having you in her arms rather than inauthentic pursuits of attracting men around her.

you always followed through with her words, because you love her and it's no doubt that she loved you more than enough too, too much that she had to continue on with her prostitute lifestyle to provide for your little family, too much that it was the reason why she had to be killed off in the first place.

because of her, you chose to be kind, you chose to lower yourself, to never raise your voice higher than those around you, to be humble, and to never show when you're at your limit, even to others closest to you other than your mother.

you remember so little of her the more you age, you grasp on straws just reminiscing on every moment spent with her.

"a good kid," she says, her voice almost a tantalizing memory threatening to drift away, "won't finish first, but fate will always make sure that they never finish last. so choose to be good, alright, baby?"

"yes, momma," your reply came in curtly, tiny fingers playing with the ends of her hair, without moment's hesitation, or doubt in the meaning of her words.

because her words are god for someone like you, because she is your mother who always knew what's best—

because she is your mother, and you may not like her for who she is as a person, for all the wrongs she did in the past before throwing it all away to raise you; but you love her either way, and follow whichever path she leads you to like a little duckling...

a good kid doesn't finish first, but they'll eventually get what they always wanted, right?

even if they wait for weeks, months, years; fate will find a way...

so why can't you have you have what he have right now?

why, just why, are you always finishing last?

why can't you receive the same attention tim did when he was first introduced?

elegant, poised, a rich boy with millionaire parents who had so much to spend, standing proudly and confidently at the doorstep of the manor, as if he had already belonged the moment he stepped foot into the staircase. thirteen year old, older and taller than you, better than you.

the memory is still clear as day, because it was the same day you had bothered alfred to update you on your offer to hang outside in the gardens with your father, only for the butler to look down at you with the same sympathetic eyes and tired smile, retelling you in his familiar excuse that bruce is busy.

'papa is busy,' the words echo in your brain in a mocking tandem, you wish to bang your head on the kitchen's mahogany doors at another attempt rejected. you wish to rip at your hair like you always do. but you can't, you just can't because alfred is in the same room as you, aged hands patting the delicate strands atop your head. you feel disappointment, you always do, then it's shame; shame because it's always alfred who has to witness your bated breaths and spilling tears at another day wasted alone—!

shame because this always happens, it's like bruce never wanted you in the first place; he probably doesn't even think you exist.

but of course, your young brain reasons, your father's always busy when it comes to you, only you.

his timetable consists of mourning his dead son, handling wayne enterprises and juggling his philanthropist career. when will you ever be worth enough that he places you in the same pedestal as all his other obligations?

and back then, you thought every night he spends missing are nights spent with multiple women— back when you've not known of his identity.

yet the point stands still, his missions do not relate to whatever situation stands before you now.

why?

why is it him to who answers the door to tim, the young boy's piercing blue eyes looking up at your father in a challenging gaze? whilst you stand, restlessly in a corner at the scene that unfolds before you. why is it him, who at first makes bruce hesitate, yet still take in the boy holding the camera, hand on his back to guide him inside, as the boy speaks cryptic words you couldn't fathom as you watch behind arch of the living room?

your blood curdles, heart starts to pound out if its gilded cage, and you feel your body buzzing in pure, unadulterated envy, the sole emotion you feel clawing its way into your vision; you see green, you can't see anything else but the scene before you. shaky breaths, blurry vision, balance barely stable as alfred could only offer a pat on your back and his pitying gaze on you.

no words, not even comfort, the manor seems dark again, everything feels as if it's closing into your body and devouring you whole.

why, why, why?

the questions circulate, the memories resurface all the time at just how easy it was for tim, just how he didn't even need to beg to have your father, yes, your father to keep his eyes on a boy whom he have only spoken once in his lifetime.

tim doesn't need alfred to relay a message, he doesn't even need to hesitate being in the same room as the man who seems always a mile away from you, who could never look down even when your fingers come up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, just like how you did with your mother's hair, all in the name of getting him to see you.

but you're not tim, you're perfect, you never will be.

it hurts, everything hurts when a stranger, someone like tim had the opportunity to talk to bruce, you never had any—!

even if you're always good, even if you always tried to succeed in your academics, your extracurriculars, your everything, even if you always try...

... the moment timothy jackson drake stepped into the manor, the moment his shining blue eyes, almost twinkling like yours when you've been first introduced, stared analytically at the man you called father, was the moment it piqued his interest; was the moment you knew that being good doesn't equate getting what you always wanted:

the attention of a father who chose to cope with grief in another new robin partner instead.

to be bruce's child first, rather than an afterthought later.

ever since then, ever since tim came into the picture, it was harder to gain bruce's attention. even alfred was divided between you and your seemingly divine... brother who just decided to take your place, who will soon be bruce's third child, erasing your name off of his memory.

being good was not enough, being great didn't even compare— your mother's words seemed easily overshadowed by the gnawing jealousy at just how wonderful your new brother is, at just how similar he is in regards to bruce, but different and also infinitely better than you.

it was the first crack in your fragile, glass heart after it had been wrapped in thousands of bandages from the heartbreak of your mother, it was the first rip at the seams at the already lacerated wounds that emotional neglect has left you.

from the days, weeks, months, you couldn't recall, trying to form some sort of interaction with bruce, dick and now even tim, instead of having alfred be your medium of communication.

from the cold, rainy nights spent with just your thin blankets and fading memories of your mother to soothe you from the nightmares that relishes in your fear.

imagining what it's like having your father speak words of assurances in a dull, almost alien-like tremor (you've never even heard his voice up close before...) comforted you at first, but now it became thousands of hushed whispers wishing you were never born in the first place if it meant your trepidation would end.

and it would've been better, the dread that buzzes restlessly under your skin could've been satiated if tim had even the decency to acknowledge your presence. but just like bruce, god, just like dick who had easily accepted the smart, academically talented boy as his own sibling— you're still amounted to nothing to be even considered worthy.

good, but not enough, not worth the effort of being greeted every morning, not worth the time spending small talks with. even dick, the athlete who once promised to ditch some patrols in bludhaven in passing moment's as an excuse to swat you away, have now opted to bother the newest addition to the family, forgetting that it was you who idolized him the most—

even if it was tim who met him at the carnival first, before dick's parents had died, going as far to dedicate the entire act for the boy— it was you watching him through the broken down television too, legs swinging back and forth on your springy, dusty couch as you doodle him doing stunts, talking to you because he meant the world to you too after you realized he was considered a brother to you.

tim met him first, yet you did so too, but as his younger sibling instead...! so it's unfair, it's unfair, everything is so unfair. tim and his stupid fucking goals of helping your father cope, your father, not his, his parents are alive, your mother is gone, goddamnit—!

it's all unfair. your mother says the world treats good kids like you right, so why...?

... what else could he want? what else does he want to take away from you?

and how could you blame him...?

he was perfect in the sense that you aren't. he was what bruce needed: a reliable pillar of support, stubborn enough to deal with the stress piling up with the loss of his second child, qualities that couldn't be seeked in you even if anyone tries their hardest to squint past that once wide-eyed, vulnerable exterior of yours.

all they could see is a broken child, but not of their own. they could offer you sympathy, pity at just how terrible your past came to be, but that's what every child of gotham goes through. not even witnessing your mother's last gulps of breath would be unique enough to pique their attention. they couldn't possibly see you being part of their family, never.

you learn quickly, that the world has always been unfair, that sometimes, your mother's words aren't always right, not always the best. you need to be better than best, but you couldn't.

so you still chose to be good still, because what else could you do? who else could your identity be outside of the morals she had taught you?

that's who you always are—

that's who you always will be.

always the lesser one. always the forgotten muse and the unspoken poetry.

because that's what good people are, always belittling themselves for others, always allowing the bigger people to step on them like ants. to crush on their hopes and dreams like the crumbs of bread that spill onto the sides of a pavement.

tim is a good person, it was why he wanted to help bruce in the first place, but you couldn't also forget the fact that he's the perfect son for bruce too— that's the main difference between you both. you're worlds apart. he's naturally smart, almost flawless both physically and mentally, and helps slowly but surely fill the hole in bruce's heart unlike you who realizes that you'll only deepen it instead.

and you're a good kid, you're his good child, you wish you were his kid.

you're kind but never the greatest, talented but not good enough.

and that's who you'll always will be.

just a person defined by their worth, by the words of their mother. just a kid with nothing more than a smile to offer, no matter how strained the side of your lips are, no matter if the tears threaten to crawl out your eyes like spiders the longer your presence get ignored—

you're good, but you'll never be good enough.

... so what made you better now? what made you worthy now that all their eyes are now on you?

you wish it was easy to answer, but life's always unfair to a good kid like you.

has anyone ever noticed why the wayne manor has been so dull lately?

why don't the blooms stand so prideful in the gardens nowadays? surely, alfred's green thumb could fix the problem, but it's been months and the most eminent scent that fixes upon their nostrils could only be obtained if they sniff hard enough to smell fresh flowers amongst the scent of mud after rain or wet concrete.

why does titus seem so down these days? damian tried to play tricks with him; his beloved pet only replied with a loud, high-pitched whine in reply and lay languidly at velvet carpets with a bone on his slack jaw. his owner noticed how his tail seemed to wag less the more the days passed by. and damian isn't stupid, but he notices how titus, with the addition of alfred the cat, would often frequent sniffing and lay on a spot damian's familiar with; one he's sure a certain rival of his would only sit upon whenever they'd hide from him.

why have there been fewer homemade baked treats in the pantry? hell, they seem to lessen every single day someone opens the pantry. wasn't it alfred who baked them? was there a thief who had been stealing, or was the steady decline not mere coincidence? nobody else took a hobby to baking, since they've all been frequently absent, prioritizing their patrols and mostly taking the cookies and crinkles at the end of their shift, munching on the treats all for themself. alfred hasn't definitely been taking a break and refuses any offers to, yet the lack of goods was noticable, and whenever alfred bakes, it doesn't quite share the same sugary, or savory goodness the past deserts have been sporting.

why has there been silence, one that so ominous, for months? dick swore he'd often hear someone conversing through doors with alfred. at first he assumed it would be tim, or cass, but with how feeble and meek the voice was, yet talkative and light with an accent he's sure he heard from bruce. yet he dismissed the implication of another presence in the room. but as of current, he misses that strange voice that speaks of stories about highschool drama and friends for terrible influences.

has the rooms been lacking of music lately? tim frequents the soft, buzzing hums his hyperactive form hears from across the living room or near the fireplace's burning embers. sometimes he'd be lulled to sleeping whenever he hears specific melodies. he'd listen so often that he even managed to recognize his favorite tunes with just a single note, eyes slowly closing every time he's in close proximity with that unknown voice, conditioned to finally sleep like a pavlovian dog. tim has been losing sleep these days, eyebags frequent in his eyes. he misses the music, he misses his only saving grace during restless nights with even energy drinks and bitter coffee being ineffective.

why has the dust been collecting off the bookshelves of their library? whenever jason visits the library, there would always be fingerprints he'd find on certain books, one he'd pick up and come to enjoy reading. some were collections of series, others being short novels. the ghost that graces him these recommendations, who sometimes even brings new books, hasn't been in the library for months now, and he's skittish the more he visits the manor each time. the library was his sanctuary for all the moments he'd have fights with bruce, or felt too deep into his traumatic anguishes. the tastes he shares with this lone stranger who visits the library at different lapses than him was now gone, and he's noticed the anger that pangs deep in his chest every damn time dust has been collected off of books, with no fingerprint in sight.

just, why has it been so silent lately? both physically and figuratively. no music dawns their ears, no hinge of the fridge being heard throughout the night, or at least the faint mutters of an unknown whispering.

these were all unsaid questions buried deep in the minds of the people under the roof of the manor. now the only things they could feel were the heavy knocks of the rain on the window and the cold sensation of tiled floors on their already covered soles.

it wasn't noticable by chance, but it could be felt by everyone, both inhabitants and visitors.

and the answers lie simple: it's a secret.

they're the deals you make when you want someone to keep their mouth shut close, they're the things you swear your life to to never confess upon. they're the unsaid statements which helped torment a certain child under the roof of an already lonely and ghostly manor.

sometimes, secrets don't take in the form of someone making one up, but rather, it takes in the form of an unspoken agreement, a pact with your surroundings, an untold promise with nature or the things around you.

you were never particularly secretive with your talents, for arts, baking, or anything that takes in the field of creativity. you kept to yourself, and don't bother anymore to annoy your family to look upon a sketch only to be dismissed, or to taste the treats you hide by a pantry for later consumption; but you loved it still whenever alfred gave you the creative liberty to stroll around the manor to decorate the bleak place into a less melancholic version of a gothic abandoned house by the forest, left with only the legacy of a long-standing family.

it was just, you never find it necessary to tell anyone why there's a charcoal portrait of alfred hanged in one of the uncrowded hallways, or why the colors of the walls change momentarily, or why certain colors of flowers were more present by the garden than other colors— so maybe you could consider that a secret.

and it made you feel less lonely, if even by a fraction. yet you don't know it, but your acts of service to the manor was what made the family enjoy their stay a bit longer, was what made them appreciate the backdrop of a new wallpaper they had thought alfred had chosen, or find the designs of resin furniture adorable.

you don't know it, but you were what made mundane living enjoyable for those who seek to relish in the sheer feeling of adrenaline instead.

when you were first taken into the manor, you were the reason why all their senses were stimulated. tiny, malnourished you couldn't keep your toes in place once you've been exposed to a new, more bigger environment.

back then, the manor carried this atmosphere of darkness, a reflection of bruce wayne's grief after his beloved parents' passing away from his arms. yet you took that pain, and turned it from its bleak, grayish colors, to an intimate, fluorescent glow. a soft, bright light emits from one of the random rooms, with custom-made beads dangling about and glow in the dark stickers that litter the room. it was one not too blinding to the eyes, and felt warm like the touch of a mother to their crying child.

your cooking of sweet treats were the ones they often like to fight over. it was through alfred's secret recipes he bestowed upon you, and your own alterations for your baking, that the kitches would always smell of cinnamon, brown butter, and caramelized sugar. it was because of you that you made the manor smell sweeter, more homey, like what would've smelled of an apartment during christmas eve. you've made them associate the kitchen with both famous, foreign, and local recipes that they came to love. steph loved it whenever she'd stumble upon a cookie decorated with purple, cass finds the ribbons on some cupcakes cute, associating it with ballet.

every time bruce, tim, or dick needs a place to destress, they often visit rooms with sweet humming or the occasional singing. it was sometimes gibberish, others with lyrics, yet pleasing to their ears all the same. it reminds them of their mothers' singing, whenever they'd knit or praise their precious jewelry. it makes bruce's stiff posture slacken, finding that odd voice sometimes sharing his talking habits through the lyrics they sang. dick would always sing along, feeling as if he was back in time with his mother playing with his hair as she sings circus music, and tim would close his tired eyes, laying his head on his hand as he dreams pleasant scenarios for once in his life.

although you never once felt any of their embrace, they've certainly felt yours in their hearts, minds, and sometimes even their body; a spiritual connection they've felt with you without even knowing it. the last time damian touched you was when he pinned your wrists to your side. and even if he tried his hardest to ignore the raging beat of his heart, screaming at him to release you from the tight cage of his grip, he refuses to. out of sheer anger and petty spite, or the desire to feel the skin of his sibling who struggles to let go from his hold, he doesn't know. but he certainly does remember how your palms lack callouses unlike his does, and how warm your touch felt, even if blazing with cold sweat from his threats.

he had remembered the smell of your sweat and even the taste of your tears by accident and committed it to memory.

it was through your indirect care that everyone felt loved and cared for, and find themselves enjoying the sweet, small moments of living within what was once a stuffy manor holding painful memories.

and nobody knows why — with the exception of dick, bruce, and damian now — that despite the batcave being filled with the entire family, it felt empty all the same.

well, not entirely empty, but bleak with color. every hue remained gray in their eyes, the pipe leaks were eminent, heavy breathing was evident all throughout. no music catched on to their ears, and they all remain skittish and rigid.

it seems as if everyone has catched on, that they're all holding their breath together as the leader of the group, batman, looks around to do a silent head count.

after all, he told both dick and damian to update the family that this meeting is urgent, and no one shall even bother ditching, or else they wouldn't get to the bottom of your disappearance without all the help they could receive.

in a race to get you, they need to burn off all resources or god help bruce because he'd run himself crazy searching for you.

alfred doesn't want that happening, but he understands.

you're important, and no one could dispute that fact. after bruce had gone through your all your diaries, your sketchbooks that he had to pry away from damian's possessive hold, and the box of belongings that you left that he stashed away in his office— he knew he couldn't just leave his child out in the streets of gotham.

you're his child, and a damn child of his means his responsibility. either he likes the obligation or not, it's his duty to protect you from the harm of living in such a dangerous city. and you're certainly not a vigilante, he'd already ran through multiple recent investigations before everyone came rushing down to the batcave to confirm you're not connected with any bad guys; which was good, and bad news.

that means you chose not to undergo the same, dangerous path jason chose, or rebel like damian, yet at the same time you must've been incapable of self defense.

and he knows that even if you fight with normal moves; without his guidance against a gallery of brutal villains out to destroy batman or anyone related to bruce, you're dead meat. bruce doesn't want you dead. the only times he wants to hold you in his arms were the ones unconnected to you laying limp with your last breath, no. he wants you alive, and well, and safe from harm.

his precious baby, his treasure. he wants to see your face in one piece, and he wishes cradle you in his arms. just because you're over eighteen doesn't mean he's fully lost you. he's your father, first and foremost, and your hero second.

that's why it's imperative that everybody follows his orders now, with the primary order being that everyone, under the guise of currently not holding a mission, is required to be in the batcave within the first thirty or forty-five minutes of the announcement. no, there's no excuses that should be said, or buts. this meeting is a priority meeting, and as vigilantes who fight for the safety of their city's citizens, they know not to disobey.

and as family members related to bruce's precious second youngest, it's an obligation for them to care as much as bruce, dick, and even damian does for the search of your disappearance.

though apparently, jason couldn't get that message, and didn't bother to update through comms over where he's at the opposite side of gotham, his devices turned off after he had recently gone off in a rebellious tangent yet again about bruce's refusal to mercilessly slaughter the deserving ones.

he'll lecture his second child soon after he reports to bruce, mentioning your safety on the line while at it, but right now?

right now he needs to address the elephant in the room: the overbearing anxiousness and antsiness everyone collectively feels, bruce's stern eyes replicating the anger, the surge of energy he feels to exact vengeance on every crime that litters the street, the same urgency he felt compelled to drown upon right after his parents have died right in front of him.

whilst alfred's knowing ones stare at each and every one of the culprits of your disappearance, all a direct reason why you had left in the first place.

someone sighs, and it's not bruce who speaks up first amongst the crowd of vigilantes.

"so what now, father? are we all just going to stand here, or are we going to address the main issue? or do you want me to be the one who brings them back home? i wouldn't mind finding them before all of you do."

"this is not the time to be... you, damian, we're all....we all need time to think." it was dick who spoke next, with a sense of urgency, as his eyes that tried his damn best to stare at damian softly, with a smile to accompany it, immediately plasters itself back on his phone, spamming your phone with messages damian was sure were all about him begging for you to take them all back. without any fights, without any hesitation.

ever the pacifist, one would think. but everyone could see wide blue eyes, glinting at the screen. begging for mercy for such a lost case, tears nearly rimming his eyelids, lips bitten raw as blood drips down his quivering chin.

cass could read his movements, she knows he's mad. but not even a master of body language is in need to know just how much dick's rage emanates off his body.

fingers clenched on his phone, teeth gritted as he spoke, eyes frantically searching through messages, scrolling up, then down, as if he's waiting for something. for someone no doubt.

tim deduces that the person they're focused on for this urgent meeting was the same person dick was trying to text. 'must've been related or close to us if it means it's this important for everyone to be involved.'

he'll look through dick's phone later to solve the itching case, his fingers twitching to whip out his side in the batcave's screen and make a new case file.

but he chose to ignore it for now, they all do, each one focusing on their primary worries.

"who's them? wait— what even are we gonna talk about?" duke's voice rang loudly through the cave. it at least broke through the tension, bruce's tense shoulders sagging in relief then suddenly reverting back to its old, rigid pose.

everyone noticed the action. they're trained individuals after all.

barbara flinched through her seat at the sight of the man, with her hands readily available to type at the keyboard. though her eyes stay glued at batman, looking deeper and noticing his fervoured state.

it's as if he is lost in thought.

and with just how much thoughts were racing in his mind, it's easy to drown. to get lost in that mirage of memories trying to link an image of you to anything he tries to remember. even now, bruce wants to see your face first and foremost. he wants to see an image of you sleeping in your tiny, creaking bed, and to erase any of those memories to replace it with new luxuries he could provide you in life; a comfort you should've been blessed with the moment you entered the double doors of his manor.

his string of pearls, his little treasure.

"(name). they left, and i need all of you to listen to me, now. rebuttals later."

when bruce spoke up, gruff and domineering, with no room for anyone to speak back, all eyes were now on him.

dick throws his phone across the room, ignoring the shatter of the pure, aluminum branded back of it. his foot was jittering, and his voice was as ready to command orders with bruce.

blue eyes stare, vicious and hungry, impatient at its prime. with the addition of damian's green, squinted ones, and bruce's stern glare, thundering and clouded.

it was a spectacle to witness the same emotions coursing through their veins. as if they're one and the same; vultures feeding off the feeling of need and urgency to actuate what seems to be an already brewing plan on the trio's part.

the rest, unknowing of what had just occurred half an hour ago within your bedroom, listens.

they ignore the gnawing feeling of intuition, of something, right at this moment, going wrong, just to hear bruce's explanation, with dick and damian butting in.

they listen, fascinated about you being bought up, a name so foreign yet familiar, a mystery in their eyes despite having met or seen you occasionally; a glimpse of you running through hallways or painting in the garden.

they listen, and all the individuals let deep, feral emotions fester within them the longer they allow their ears and their mind to devour the words dick says, all syllables a symphony of praises towards you, each vowel accentuating his favor.

they listen, and learned.

whatever happened within the batcave, is also a secret.

you have your own secrets. they have theirs.

except, yours were discovered, and they choose to let emotions brewing deep in their hearts as obscured within public view.

tim wants to search for you, steph joins in on his sentiment too. barbara's already at it whilst she types and listens in on bruce's words, cass ponders about your invisible presence and just like bruce, tries to think of memories of you stumbling by her, and duke just as much attempts to picture your face and remembers something sentimental; one he'd ponder on later once he's alone.

now they all know your secrets, not everything, but a semblance of it. they discover their neglects, and acknowledge the consequences. why throughout their stirring arguments, they all couldn't find your handmade night-lights that they like to look at during the dark, or smell the baked crusts on your home-made pumpkin pie recipe, or the humming of random music through the halls.

because you've never once visited the batcave—

and it was the only room not graced with your courtesy, care, passions, and love.

they listen to bruce's plan, yet they ignore the growing dread.

they ignore why jason is radio-silent all throughout too.

instead, they focus on you, trying to reminisce on old, buried memories they at least spent with you. good ones, not the ones containing your meek begs, and heartbroken gazes. or the ones where you stood in the corner of a room watching them talk. or the times where you all had dinner together and you're left in the wake of silence despite the chatter filling the dining room.

... and once they couldn't muster anything up, they figured on creating new ones instead.

warm.

this place feels so unnaturally warm, that it seeks shelter under your skin. warm, yet welcoming at the same time.

...where are you?

your bleary eyes slowly open, blinking gradually, squinting out the streaks of white in your vision. it's always a hassle to wake yourself up. sleep has never been peaceful for you: always awoken by nightmares, or tormenting paralysis, sometimes mere insomnia causes you to lay awake and sweating in your tiny room. and your dreams always has to involve your family, one way or another; of course it's always about them, they've been your only source of life despite never being there for yours. but now? now you feel like you've had a complete 9 hour cycle of sleep, with no hint of fatigue in your body.

you've never had any proper sleep. ever since you saw... you saw her dying that it never registers within your mind just how deprived you are of rest, constantly haunted by memories you wish you just could... forget. but you couldn't, not when your beloved mother is the only precious reminder you have in life to stay alive.

your arms, arms that were always sore, in twisted positions, bruised and with faded scars from all the times you felt too impulsed to hurt, the only way to forget the mental torment you've gone through; now lay atop cozy sheets with no pain bared, no extra sheen of sheen on sweat. your fingers stretch, you caress the pillows your head lays on, cold to the touch against your warm, uncrying face.

it feels nice, feels crisp against your skin. your ears don't burn and you don't feel the need to flip your pillow to the colder side.

a yawn slowly escaped your lips. you lick them, they're not chapped, nor dry. they don't feel bitten, nor streaked with blood. you lick again, there's no familiar sting, nor the taste of blood that seeps against cracked skin.

'this is strange.'

you feel unusually relaxed, your breathing's oddly steady. there's no scent of smoke and pollution invading your nostrils, no shadow of doubt cloaking your mind.

you don't feel like dying today.

it feels so nice, the weather's so weird... pleasant. but this? it's not normal, gotham has never felt so quiet today. there has never been a time where you wake up feeling so... human. this is not routine. you're not used to this. god, everything's so strange and yet...

it's been so long since you last felt like you were... home. wispy streaks of particles dance under the soft light that beams outside of crooked, wooden windows. it casts an angelic glow on your surroundings, unlike the shrouded darkness you're accustomed to.

your eyes do a double take, churning mechanically at an angle where you can clearly see the glass panes.

"hm?" windows that always fog up with polluted specks of dust, now clear, and bright as day. it feels like the sun is kissing your skin through the light that enters the glass, you feel the at ease as your bones crack comfortably, and your muscles stretch without ache.

and you...

you're laying in a thick mattress that buries you in deep burgundy sheets. blankets wrapped around your body like a welcoming hug, you're reminded of your mother yet again.

your heart thumps rhythmically, not erratically this time, no— you've never felt so invigorated. it's been a while since you slept in a comfortable bed, in a comfortable setting, with a comfortable atmosphere. not the sound of blades hit your ears, nor the honking of cars, or ringing of phones. wherever you're laying didn't feel stiff like cardboard back in your apartment, the pillowcases are cool to the touch. your clothes don't encase you uncomfortably tight, there's no random thread that persists on irritating your skin.

it feel so oddly peculiar, so comforting, and you want to cry.

you feel light, airy even. there's nothing but the buzz of empty warmth that encapsulates your entire body. you're not used to this, this disgusting feeling of comfort, you don't think it's real.

only one response enters your mind, the only thing you're accustomed to.

'i don't deserve this.' your thoughts drown you into a deep sea of anguish, but the dichotomy of comfort and pain stirs you into satiating confusion. this is the first time you felt blessed, the first time you wish you were good enough to feel like you're worthy of deserving such goodness in your life.

suddenly, you feel like crying, but no tears escape your eyes, and your heart refuses to beat out of its cage. you're in a trance that refuses to release you from its comforting hold.

the hazy tune of birds chirping snaps you out of your deprecating reflection of your life.

when you squint and look out the windows once more, you make out a faint reflection of green, dominating the entire view second floor view of what is supposed your home.

for the first time, you don't feel fear reminiscing on that earthly shade of color.

you're in a... forest.

your nose picks up on the scent of the damp, green, grasslands. your eyes makes out the scenery outside, droplets of water slowly dripping on tall leaves, the rivulets travelling from blades of leaves to nourished, wet soil. it produces this stimulating smell, one you haven't been able to experience for months living in the polluted air outside the windows of your apartment.

petrichor.

you don't know what, or how, or why this is happening.

all you know is common knowledge, something perceived through senses and observations. you're in a cottage, yes, the interior layout is filled with personal trinkets you know you would've bought with money if you even had it, and furniture suited to both you tastes and your mother's... but otherwise, nothing else.

other than memories of a fantasy you shared with your mother, back when you were innocent to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and its merciless passions.

"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 23.

i remember one conversation i had with my mother.

it was about something related to where would we choose to live if we had the choice. she asked me that, out in the random, and that took me by surprise to say the least.

huh, during that time, i never knew her intentions for my answers.

i answered her sincerely, told her that, well, i wanted to live in a comfortable cottage, with two floors and a spacious bedroom for me, with hers right beside mine; so she can keep all the monsters away when i got too scared living by my own.

i wanted fairy lights strewn on the roof of my room, and matching glow in the dark stickers of stars and constellations with hers, just like the ones we have in our quaint apartment. i told her it wouldn't be complete without the mini figurines on top of raspberry colored cabinets, the ones that i loved to collect whenever we thrifted at stores, and most importantly the picture frames of us together.

she giggled at my reply, and told me it was such a 'me' thing to choose what i had said. but i retorted and told her she'd choose the same thing. and she said i said what exactly was on her mind.

thinking about that memory now, i feel warm despite the fact that bruce forgot to attend another parent-teacher conference again this week. every memory of my mother... tugs at my heart, both painful and nostalgic. i miss her.

if my momma was here, she wouldn't even hesitate to pull out of whatever side hussle she had for a job at the first second i'd mention something about my school. she always prioritizes me as her only child. it makes me feel special, and loved, and cared for— i haven't felt that in a long time. i won't lie that alfred's presence helps but a mother's love precedes all essence.

i love her so much. i wish i never took her for granted.

now that i think about it too...

if my momma was here, we could've been in that cottage right now, living our lives, carefree, without nothing to worry us. whether it'd be food in our plates or money to pay the bills. we'll always be happy with mushroom foraging and sitting by the warm fireplace i pictured, with her homemade hot chocolate by the table. she'd be nestled beside me, keeping me warm. that's enough to make me happy, enough to dismiss the heaviness in my heart as i write this.

i wish we were at that cottage right now, forever actually. i don't need a big family, all i need is my mom. and sure we'll have some arguments along the way but it wouldn't be as bad as, well, damian threatening to draw his sword on me and stab me at the heart every second i made him mad, which is always...

funny thing is... fuck, i never noticed how she was saving up money and starving herself whilst simultaneously keeping me well-fed so she could pursue my dreams of actually getting a cottage. i was so oblivious to everything that i just, i never noticed that she was earning all this, to build my dreams, so we can escape from gotham and live new lives with each other by our side.

she was doing all this, for the sake of my comfort, my happiness, my everything. she lives her life with no breaks, and retired from her previous job as a... sex worker just so i can live normally, so i wouldn't be ashamed of being her child, of seeing her as my mother. she was everything i needed in my life. she sacrificed, and i took it for granted.

and i wanted to scold her so badly; doing this for such a lost cause as me. it hurts to think about it now.

so what if i wanted a cottage? what about it if i'm now living with my father, huh? i don't care about living comfortably at all, if that meant i didn't have mother by my side, to support me, to actually love me, then what is a house all worth for??? all i wanted and needed was her, just her. and they took me away from my mother.

my mother.

your heart breaks at the seems whilst you write that faithful night, the grip on your pen near to leaving dents on your finger. if it draws out blood, then so be it. your handwriting turns unintelligible, strokes not knowing where to end. what once was clean, white sheets of paper now crumpled by your despair, by the tears that escaped your eyes, by your fists balling at the paper, all your emotions boiling down to mere grief.

if bruce mourns for jason, you do so too for your mother.

yet you continue to write, and write, and write. it's the only medium of comfort you have, the only means to treasure memories long gone, heartaches and comfort all a coagulation of your retreat to the real world.

if dreams can come true, then you wish the fantasies of your mother being with you comes alive, that she'd be by your side, taking your pen away from your hands, kissing your sweaty forehead and matted tresses, assuring you she's fine. she'll smile with crinkling eyes, and set your quivering hands to a stop, then wrap you in her arms, shielding you away from the burden of living without her.

if you were her flower, then she is your hearth. the only warmth you'd feel in such a cold manor, the only one capable of dipping her hands into your chest, taking your beating heart, and melting off the frigid locks that kept your love in place ever since her death.

only then can you say that dreams do come true, only then can you rest; close your eyes without praying for a dreamless slumber, without nightmares, without swords piercing your body, or the dismissive turn of your family's back on you.

but if dreams do come true, what does that say about nightmares?

only reality can tell.

or you can tell.

at you current state, seated restless on your tiny room with barely any illuminated moonlight guiding your tired body, tormented by both past and future, writing endlessly on journals soon to be forgotten— wouldn't that be considered a nightmare? to be subjected upon unwanted isolation, from the very same people who promised their lives to protect lives such as yours.

your family, your father, brothers and sisters. through empty promises alone; all enough to destroy you inside out.

talentless, worthless, out of place.

yet even if your diaries were all torn apart, pages seeping with both blood and tears, you still write.

you write, and you continue through your endeavors. what once were fond memories were the same monsters chasing you through barren halls and empty rooms.

after all, it's the only way to honor her passing, even if it kills you all the same.

you continue, wiping at your sullen cheeks, and brushing away ripped strands of hair; pen inseparable from stubborn, swollen fingers.

now i'm living here, in this big manor, with nothing going on for me. i have alfred, and he's like a father figure right after mom, but it doesn't change anything... it doesn't change the grief i feel, the sorrow, the unwaning depression. nothing. i couldn't even get myself to stand up from bed because i'm so fed up with everything.

if i didn't try so hard in the first place, i would've never been left this destroyed.

i want to give up, i want to die and just disappear off the face of earth. no one would notice, and at least after i die, i would be reunited with her— but I can't. why?

i have to remind myself everyday. i just can't give up and let all her efforts go to waste. she doesn't want me dying, earlier than her age, too. she told me i couldn't just let go so easily, that life is beautiful if you try to find its hidden beauty. i'm still trying to find meaning in all her wise words, i can't just take her honor for granted, especially since i know that despite everything, she has her own anguish and regrets.

does she regret having me?

right now, i feel a spark of motivation. she's been saving up, just for me, and i want to honor her memories at least. if i can't feel like home in this manor, then i'll make myself a home. to honor her, and to build upon both our dreams.

i don't know when, or how i could even engage in this impossible goal. but for momma? i'll do anything for her, even if it means working myself to death. because at least that means proof that i tried, and she'll be proud of me in the afterlife. god, i hope she would be.

we'll get that cottage soon, momma. i promise."

thinking about it now, that was ten entries right after your breakdown during your birthday. it was at a period of time where you fully accepted that you'd never be loved by your family, that you never belonged, and matured just as quickly after taking a break from writing self destructive diaries.

you sigh, looking down at your clenched palms and indenting fingers on skin. you really wish she was here. it could've made everything better, you would've been better if she was by your side.

a knock ensures before your door, and that alone snaps you out of your thoughts. you jump in shock yet feel no pang of panic in your heart, but before you could reach out to defend yourself, the door opens after the prior knock, and your...

your mother enters.

angelic, glowing, beautiful.

she's decorated in a white dress, with a pearl necklace decorating her neck, glinting like diamonds, soft in its assertion. like an angel, rather than the devil she's portrayed to be in the newspapers she hid from you.

she looks beautiful, as always, breath-taking to the point it makes you wonder how you share the same genes as her.

but her beauty now precedes her beauty from when you last saw her bleeding in the cold tiles of your apartment. now, she looks old, yet ethereal. wrinkles flecked her skin, her eyes drooped at the lids, her hairs displayed streaks of white in some areas.

you've never seen her like this.

she had you very young, and you've lost her young. yet she looks as she's rebirthed now, living yet aging like fine wine.

she is happy, and content with her smile, and looks at you with a radiant grin, smile marks on her sunken cheeks, like you mean the world, walking towards your seated form as she hugs you weakly, yet lovingly.

warm, like the spring's gentle blooms, like the feel of petals rubbed against your fingertips.

you're caught breathless.

"momma...?"

beauty that is true, that is honest, and speaks of history. beyond the barriers of photos you see in her at her prime, when she was known as a 'man-eater', a lustful creature that steals from rich to survive.

you've never lied when you said your mother is always going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

at least, in your eyes. because if she objectively was, then your father could've, should've stayed with her, for the sake of his pride and reputation at the very least. he could've had her by his side, even through a loveless marriage, if it meant it ensured her safety.

you dismiss the bitterness the brews inside you, and opted to focus at the strange, yet welcome circumstances beforehand.

your hands find a way to wrap around her crouched figure, fingers lingering on the once sinewy bones of her spine, now healthy even through the sagging skin.

"my baby..." you look up at her, her hands holding your head so tenderly, cradling you side to side.

"momma..." she kisses your forehead, then both your cheeks, and takes a seat beside you. when she did, you felt a surge of energy and warmth burst throughout both your body and heart. for once, you felt giddy, solitary confinement all but a dream in this fantasy land.

you don't let her hands go for even a second, fearing this moment will be taken away from you. there's warmth emanating off the fingers intertwined with yours, you wish this moment never ends.

the questions that almost left your silken throat took hesitation. you just can't ask why she's alive, where you are and why you're here in the first place; for fear she'll be taken away from you, that you couldn't see her beyond the conjured and brief memories you had of her.

you wish to cry once again, this time, you let out a small hiccup and feel saliva bundling on the back of your mouth. she hums in resounding worry, her other hand swiping away at the hair covering your wide eyes. the softness in her eyes doesn't falter, and she hums a familiar lullaby: one that triggers nostalgia, that reminds you of the days spent without electricity in your tiny apartment with her lighting a candle just so she could read you another one of your favorite stories, huddled beside her.

the last you've heard of her voice, it was parched and inaudible. she always sacrificed for you, and drinkable water was a privilege in the shady parts of gotham.

"you're probably wondering where you are and why we're here, aren't you, sunshine?" she cuts her singing off abruptly, your eyes snap open to look up at her through your eyelashes.

"... y-yeah," your reply comes in, voice barely whisper. unsure and insecure of where this conversation will go, you chose to bury your head in her shoulder. she smells of ripe strawberry and cherries, unlike the mixture bold perfumes mixed with the stench of booze she comes home with after another night of restless endeavor. yet you don't acknowledge the memories of the past, you're here with her now and it's all that matters.

"where are we, mom? am i... dreaming? please, i- i miss you." this time, your tears come out in a steady stream, but your throat doesn't constrict in itself, and you don't feel the urge to rip at your hair at anymore.

now you're just terribly sentimental rather than bitter. no more was the jealousy that aches, or the panic rushing through your veins. it's just you and your mother, and the memories of her passing that buries you at the hilt of your sadness.

"well... you're in the realm between life and death, my little angel," she states with lidded eyes, as if it is a matter of fact. her hands move to scratch your scalp, she hums and swings your crying body side to side, akin to a mother cradling her newborn baby.

you felt particularly reborn, the sudden change affecting you more than you'd like to admit. the light outside your window casts her in a sheen of white, glimmering like rays of the sun, or like the twinkle of the moon.

even if she was old, and grey and wrinkly, she's always been ethereal.

and you're convinced that she's the angel instead.

"you've been through a lot, haven't you?" her questions brought you out of your tearful stupor, she brings her lips to kiss at your forehead and wraps her palms on the sides of your face, wiping away at the waterworks refusing to cease.

all you could do was nod, and feel the warmth reflecting off her body, transferring all to you. even in the plane of death has she always been generous.

"i-i... i don't want this to end, momma..." you utter, gazing at her ever-smiling face. there was a faint translucency in her body, as if her form is slowly disappear. and for a second, you feel fear that she'll disappear. fear that dissipates just as quickly when you hear her heavenly chuckles.

"...baby, i'm here with you right now in because i want to remind you to choose the path to live. it's too early to die right now, it's too early for my baby to join me in the afterlife." her words are too complicated to comprehend with how muddled your thoughts were, her saccharine actions feel like a forbidden touch, and you just couldn't comprehend why, just why does she want you to live...

when there's nothing else left for you in the realm where she's not around.

"but i... i don't understand...? why can't, why can't i be with you, mom—?"

"because unlike me, baby, you have so much to do. i've nothing left of me to offer when i died, baby... at least now, at least you'll find that you're still always loved, even when i'm not with you."

she cuts you off with a hush, pinching your cheeks before another wave of tears and quivering hiccups escape your befuddled body.

but you can't afford to let her go a second time, you can't go back—!

you don't want to be back in that damning structure you call a manor, you don't want to watch your father from a mere corner shrouding himself in the pits of darkness you know you couldn't carry, you don't want to return to begging for dick's attention as he turns a blind eye, you don't want the pitiful stares from tim when he's in the same room as you, or duke, cass, and steph's hushed whisper whenever you pass by, plans being made without your knowledge, without acknowledgement of your presence. you don't want to be blamed by damian for even being born in the first place. you don't want anymore uncelebrated and silent birthdays anymore, or milestones celebrated with just a fucking cupcake and a pat on your head...!

you want your mom, you don't want your other family, not anymore...

even if... even if your disappearance paved the way for a new shift in interests in your family's mind, even if you're now unknowingly the center of attention after months of the manor's solitude without you; just like you had always wanted— you're tired, and you've long since given up and grown from selfish and unrealistic desires of a completely healthy family.

if you could even call them that wretched title.

if you could even consider them as one like how they never did you.

the tears return just like the pain you were temporarily barred from, now it's a waterfall that threatens to throw you off of your escape from the reality of life, stinging your eyes and falling on crumpled sheets as your fingers grip uncontrollably for a sanction of control. from what? from the fear that now is the moment that you'll truly never see her again, not even in your memories.

"... momma, please, stay—!"

but right before you could reason out, desparate words crawling and jumping out your heaving chest and into the spiraling room, right before you could beg her to stay closer with you with her flickering warmth for just a second further as her body slowly dissipates from her hold on you, as your vision darkens and you hear that faint, familiar murmur of gotham's bustling motorcycles and alleyway screaming—

her last words, full of assurances, just like the day she tucked you in that little closet and made you promise that you'd stay silent for her, sacrificing her life just so she could protect you; it grounds you into your spot, restless, broken, and chasing unsaid words to tell her before you lose her once more, and destroys any and all hope for complete, and utter happiness you forced yourself to truly believe.

"... i love you, my sweet angel. be good for me, alright...?"

and just like that, your eyes blearily open to find itself into a completely foreign surrounding yet again.

and this time, it is real and unwanted.

'jason todd, a good soldier,' were the words marked and engraved on his tombstone. buried under the healthy soils of the manor, he felt as if his presence was forgotten all the same.

it was true, he was a good soldier. always obedient, always listening and mirroring bruce's orders, even though he grew up in the ratty streets with a drug-addicted mother and an abusive father, when he was picked up by bruce and lead into the vigilante life with the beaming potential to combat even dick; jason was always the good kid, who, even if he became a tad bit rebellious on the years garnering on teenage life, died honorably for the safety of his biological mother who betrayed him.

jason todd, always the boy portrayed as a warning sign for all the future robins, always the child remembered as just that: a soldier of batman, the kid of bruce who died unfairly; the truth of his death, the truth of joker's fucked up foil to destroy the bat's mentality even further all for a good laugh, hidden beneath restricted case files and bruce's suppressed emotions— all left unattended, just for him to be replaced by another new robin; a telltale signal that felt like bruce was trying so hard to repair the broken fixtures jason left behind.

the implication itself felt as if the world is laughing at his heroic acts, never acknowledged beyond the faults that lie on his stubbornness; a learnt trait all robins grew into once they've been taken in bruce's care.

he must've never been a good kid if life decided to take him away, when his youth was at an all time high, when all he wanted to do was meet his real mother, and to save her even when she had left him to die with explosives laid beside his beaten body.

was it his fault that all he ever wanted to do was to make his father proud? what was wrong with being a hero, being robin with his magical passions?

jason was never the spiteful man everyone assumed him to be. he was never rebellious, or thirsting for vengeance, or came to hate bruce as much as what everyone else thought of when they'd first hear his name.

even when he was revived in that sunken pit of hell, nineteen with a seventeen year old soul, feeling his once lanky body too tall, too big for him to flex his fingers, to kick with his now muscly legs, crying and screaming under all the madness of forcefully having his soul be reunited with his body after two years of peaceful rest.

and when he had returned to his senses, when he discovered that there were two new children running around the manor, one a product of a one-night stand, the other donning the identity of a new robin, did jason become the spiteful image everyone imagine the young boy came to be from when he was just an impulsive teenager.

becoming alive once more, reliving betrayal after betrayal, watching in the background: never the full story, but enough to feel like he's been replaced— it became his sole duty to torment, to do to criminals what has been done to him, just to teach the bat that his moral code was flawed, was what caused a thousand other souls to be lost under the hands of the puny joker.

all this, just to feel a sense of right in a life constantly wronging him.

yet under all the blood-soaked jackets, the aluminum amoury, under clenched teeth and resentful, dead blue eyes stood a boy who loved. who stole tires to provide for his small family who never truly loved him: a father who beats at his body nightly, a mother who dismisses him in favor of her favorite substances. who read books of all genre— classic his all time favorite, jane austen his beloved author, he loved school, loved learning, jason always came home with an A+ in all his subjects, eternally grateful despite the years of betrayal, of heartache, of shredded photos and shattered picture frames.

who advocated his young life fighting crime, kicking ass beside his vigilante partner and a man he came to call his dad, even though he had all the opportunities in the world to turn rotten like the crime infested streets of gotham. because he was a good kid, too, and a soldier the next.

he was never the violent kind. he was the kid who loved above all else. idolizing dick, bruce, all the good people in the world with shining ambitions that should've never been stained so early. he even told bruce he always wanted a little sibling to care for. he wanted to teach another young, unfortunate child what it's like to share kindess in this shithole of a city.

jason todd was a ball of pure joy, loved by bruce to the point his father could've never moved on from his death, never acknowledging the next traumatized child that came after him, and also tim, too, who he always mistakenly call by jason's name.

jason couldn't see beyond the surface of what he knew, masked by hatred for what had become after two years, questions spiraling hid head that accompanies a darkness he never knew could shroud him like a cloak. bruce used to hide him under his curtain of a cape back when he was a small, manourished kid, his vision overtaken by pure black; but now the older version of him knew what true darkness is like without needing his vision disrupted.

death feels like eternal darkness, a void that devours your vision of all colors, no physical form, no thoughts, but unmoving with the feelings grounding you in place, like hell. and with the shadow of doubt that he was never truly cherished by a man he loved to call his father, that no vengeance took place after his death, jason couldn't fathom the pain greater than what he experienced in that cold, dark warehouse; spending hours hoping that he'd be saved.

how long did it take for bruce to replace him? days, months, weeks?

how long did it take for bruce to move on? was he just an afterthought to the man? was he just a good soldier in bruce's eyes?

and why, just why, does he also blame himself for his own doom? for being stubborn enough to pursue chasing after a clown smarter than him, why does he

... if he had never died, things would've never escalated that far, it wouldn't have created a domino effect that ruined not only his life, but his angel's too.

if he had never died, you wouldn't be bleeding in his arms like he did too in bruce's.

... except unlike him back then, you want to simply die now.

jason's passing was not only his guilt or bruce's, it also marked the start of your treacherous journey of thirteen and a half years living in silence, in fear and in constant yearning after your mother's death, for a love so passionate from bruce like the one he gives to all his other children but you.

for a love he had given all up for jason that he never had any to spare to you.

bruce never gave you what you wanted, what you practically needed. all in favor of mourning the passing of his second child, his son who achieved more than the levels you knew you'd never reach. you were never the desirable child, because as good as you were like jason, as nice as you could be, or talented— nobody could replace the hole that jason left within bruce from when he left the world.

you both were good kids, but jason was infinitely better.

when you were first introduced to the manor, jason assumed you and tim replaced him, he watched secretly after his resurrection, with grim prayers for your downfall 'cause he couldn't attack you like he did tim in the tower because of your civilian status, your involvement towards batman was close to zero.

you were a young child, you knew nothing, and he hates you.

he regrets hating you.

all because he hates seeing himself in those young, glinting eyes. he never realized what he felt was fear, fear that someone like you could end up like him, when he had first obsessively did research on your buried past. your world could've been so easily destroyed by the tips of his finger and he had done so mercilessly until it was too late.

he really hated you at first, but he couldn't do anything to hurt you without trespassing the manor and triggering all the signals and alarms he's sure have been updated by the new, puny little robin. he hated you so much for reasons he couldn't pinpoint, blinded by sorrow, and grief, and every piling resentment built on years of animosity he should've only directed only towards bruce, and never someone as innocent, as uninvolved as you.

you, who he calls his angel after the years of torment you've unknowingly and obliviously suffered under him.

but he was so angered, the darkness in his mind clawed him deeper in a frenzy for revenge, that it overpowered the empathy he felt for when he first saw you, standing alone in the kitchen room with an apple in your hand and a blunt knife in the other. not ready to defend yourself at the sight of him, not even pointing it at him, but inviting the man to eat with you your favorite abomination of apple slices and peanut butter— as if you didn't care about the gun in his hands and the window cutter in the other.

you didn't understand why it was so easy to ignore you. it had been years since you have talked, let alone find yourself staring at a person, that you never cared for your safety as long as it meant that... well, you could have someone to finally talk to, with your parched throat from all the moments of unuse, excitedly addressing him as mr. ghost.

he couldn't do anything, couldn't even stare at you for longer, so he ran away at first glance, and failed to see the heartbroken sigh from you agter and the tears that welled up having your hopes raised up only to be shattered once more.

that sight of you standing under the moonlit night triggered conflicting feelings within him– but it was always the strive for vengeance that took over his life, didn't it? even though meeting you bore solid evidence that you were none the wiser, that you didn't deserve anything coming from you; it was through his sheer dedication to destroy all things cherished by bruce that he never once realized that you were merely nothing to bruce— that he ruined an innocent person's life over nothing.

he resorted to praying for your demise if it meant he couldn't physically hurt you. he focused on tormenting you indirectly before the fire in his raging heart was eventually extinguished.

he was the man you see by the hallways, the monster you thought raptured knocks on your window in the middle of the night, the reason for why some of your old childhood toys would be missing eyes, had loosened stitches, or had their stuffings removed and displaced somewhere hidden you couldn't reach.

a cryptic message that made you run and bury your head in alfred's suit, asking the old man to spend the night with you after another one of your toys was ripped apart. a reaction that made jason scoff at your immaturity; as if the inner child in him wouldn't react the same way.

you were only a few years younger than tim, despite arriving in the manor before him, and jason was stupid enough to assume you had been raised well by bruce that you'd be mature at your age, he was such an idiot to think that you wouldn't be as emotionally affected but rather paranoid of the sudden paranormal activity surrounding you. that the cookies you baked were all left to be crumbs, after just leaving them to cool off for a few minute, the pens you used for journalling wouldn't have gone missing— he thought surely, you'd be broken mentally...

but never this... emotionally.

what he didn't expect were breakdowns right after, hair pulling, the biting of skin and panic attacks after panic attacks.

wide eyes staring at the ceiling, perspiration on your skin clinging on to blazing bedsheets at the lack of ventilation, sporadic breathing, bleeding scratches on your skin like a wild animal.

you cry like one, unashamed of how loud your sobs were for such a parched throat, at how long you've been wailing alone whilst hugging your too-little body, eyes closed and misty, as if it would rid you the images of your wrecked bedroom and missing journals.

yet jason never stops to wonder why no one had came running in your room to save you from destroying yourself even further.

he never wondered nobody bothered to acknowledge your crying every night, continuing on his tangent to destroy everything you loved just to prove a point, that you couldn't be worth the effort for bruce to care enough about, despite the internal conflict he felt ruining an innocent kid's life.

and he didn't even need to prove anything, because you were never worth anything. the longer jason went on without bruce's acknowledgement, the more everything felt wrong, the more he felt like whatever he's doing is torture, not retribution.

he's terrible for what he'd done, and slowly resigned to watching over you instead to ensure you'll slowly calm down after months of his monstrous presence looming over you.

but the damage was already done, and you're left to even smaller, shattered pieces.

and here he is now, watching as you bleed out in his arms, crying and babbling at the pain, yet begging under your breath to "please, please don't call batman, don't call bruce... please leave, please, please, please don't do anything stupid, jay..."

whilst pushing him away, as if scared of him, as if you'd rather death than... than to see bruce dismiss another relayed message regarding you.

even if you're dying, you refuse to undergo the same pain of neglect. even if you're dying, you don't wish to ruin their movie night plans just because you were stupid enough to drink yourself to near death to distract yourself from dick's messages.

all because you've taught yourself that you're never worth the wait, and jason takes blame in partaking the destruction of your optimism.

under the flickering light of the lamppost, your swollen eyes and snot-ridden nose don't pose the same satisfaction he felt when he first ripped your plushie apart, not anymore. all he felt was dread now, that you're bleeding, his angel is bleeding and everything happening is very much real.

he feels a hidden awe, too, at just how ethereal and warm your body feels, despite the light leaving your eyes, the fight slowly being replace by another one of your panic attacks. he holds you still, and stabilizes your body with his strong arms to prevent anymore bleeding, despite the wobbly legs and your losing consciousness.

jason couldn't afford to let you die in his arms, he couldn't fathom just how much he misses your presence.

and now he realizes just how much he hates it when you fear him throughout the entire procedure of calming you down. how you shiver in his gaze, how he feels the pricks of your goosebumps against the thick fabric of his gloves.

you never once feared him when you first met him, it was through your lack of it that he bonded with you, keeping the torment he put you through a secret. even though he makes short and sometimes brash comments with his unfiltered mouth, you'll always find joy in his words because he was the only decent guy around the manor, despite his presence being scarce and sometimes nonexistent.

you cherished him, and god, he never knew how much he cherished you too.

but now you're sobbing and mumbling incoherently about how you wish it was never him who saved you, that it could've been someone else, or you prefer to be left rotting in the damn corner, dead and discarded, if it means it wouldn't be him saving you, for damn reasons he doesn't even know.

why do you hate him so much now...? why does his precious angel look at him in a tearful daze, all desparate to push him away despite the soreness of your body, despite the blood dripping from your lower stomach all the way down to the floor in a swirl of nauseating crimson mess?

why does he see himself in you?

why does he see the same broken child who chooses to care for others than themself?

as much as jason hated to admit it, as much as he said he never wanted to die for the sole reason that he cherished the moments with his father at most—

jason wished he could've turned time back right now, at this instant. he wished he could've been stronger, could've been far more resistant of that damn explosion, that he never was stupid enough to fall for one of joker's traps—

if it meant he wouldn't be suffering from the gripping ache on his chest, from the dreaded claws you call paranoia at the sight of your ice-blue lips and dimming eyes from all the blood loss, your arms still trying to push him to a considerable distance despite him wishing to hold you oh-so tightly, as his fingers, shivering from a familiar panic he felt, try to wipe away at the river of tears collecting at the edges of your dirt-stained chin and wobbly lips, his helmet pressed atop your forehead as if to reassure you, mostly himself that you'll all be alright—

that you wouldn't go through the same route as him, scarred and traumatized after this moment under the moonlit night that watches jason wrap his gloved palms on the back of your neck despite the remaining fight and adrenaline in your body, the other bulky mass of muscles under your feet.

the polluted air bares witness to his hasty breaths, the protective hold that refuses to let go, body automated to run to his motorcycle, stepping carelessly on the bloody carnage of the alleyway's floor (they deserve torture after what they put you through, hell, he'll make sure their burial will be damning to both the police that failed to search you even though they were in close proximity to where you screamed, and the other related lackeys involved in this wretched smuggling crime), to bring you to doctor leslie for an immediate surgery.

jason hopes that instead of hate, you'll still feel a semblance of any remaining love for him instead of aching nostalgia after all this time.

he hopes you could forgive him as it is only now that he realizes how vulnerable you truly are, that despite jokingly calling you his guardian angel, he should've been the guardian, the knight, the man who protects you from all evil as what he calls his morals to be.

why were you even out in the first place? just why were you absolutely wasted? why, why, why does the image of your resigned, and tired eyes the only thing flashing and looping in his mind, filtering out the speeding motorcycle cutting through wind and traffic lanes, ignoring red lights and the loud beeps of the other vehicles before him, the pump of engines similar to the wild beating of his heart, as he speeds through shortcuts after shortcuts to take you to immediate treatment before it was too late.

he takes short breaths, too aware of his surrounding, too deep in thought, he couldn't waste any moments thinking about anything but his angel.

he wishes he could've changed so many things. but you couldn't change the past anymore, you couldn't change the grueling form of torture you call silence for a child who wanted the same type of love bruce had for when jason was alive, who had to deal with the aftermath of jason's death.

and now, as the ripe age of eighteen, still too young, and still bleeding, at the mercy of death.

it never occured to him just how interconnected your lives were together. just how much it was through his passing that affected your life.

he was the first brother who saw you without the need for your cries of attention every lonesome passing of time in the ghostly manor.

and you were the first who stared at him through tear-stained cheeks and diluted irises. not out of fear, not out of haste to warn other members of his growing family of jason's (a stranger in your eyes, no less, with armoured chest plates and a crimson helmet glinting mercilessly in the dark, lightless room only illuminated by the wretched moon, with guns loaded with bullets in his holster) sudden trespass within the kitchen windows, not out of every negative emotions he expects of you; but out of sheer shell shock that someone had finally caught you through your nightly sneaking.

out of genuine whiplash of someone finally looking at you eye-to-eye, head faced to one another, your cold fingertips pressing against the swell of your eyebags from restless nightmares and anxious paranoia triggered from academics, as if to tell yourself that this was all mere hallucination.

you matter so much to him, even if he tries to overcorrect his sins, trying his damn best to notice your presence whenever he visits the manor, even if his brash words sting your heart sometimes, even if he couldn't properly show you affection he should've given you—

it's not enough.

it was never enough, that even his gentle words spoken to you whilst he speeds through his motorcycle felt entire foreign. that despite unconscious and limp on his body, you're still flinching and the tears couldn't have enough time to dry. jason could've done so much more for his precious little sibling, he could've been the best older brother in the world like he promised himself to be back when he was an oblivious little child, just like how he sees you right now.

everything he did was not enough, but the doubts that circulate his mind didn't fester in his mind much anymore; because he turned it into motivation, he looks at you through the mirror of his motorcycle, vulnerable, aching with the need for affection (that he could provide, he could give to you infinitely...!) and transforms the regret into motivation.

to be better, to be the one you look up to, not with thoughts of how or when you'll be able to spend time with him, but with confidence and preference for his time. that he'll be the first you choose to look for.

jason promises you his undying loyalty, to protect you from the danger of this world, to savor the light and the warmth that emanates off of your presence. despite the heartache you felt because of him, because of all your tormentors— you were still kind, like an angel who had fallen from grace, but chose to grace the world instead with their remaining salvation.

if you manage to survive throughout it all, through the surgery and the anaesthesia-filled stitchings, with jason's scarred hands wrapped around your fists, daintier compared to the muscles in his. if by the end of this night, jason would have you alive (he will, he'll refuse anything else, even if it takes you being resurrected in the lazarus pit, then so be it) in his arms and resting peacefully in his apartment and not under bruce's roof, out of respect from your sheer insistence that you'd rather anywhere but the manor.

jason swears on his life that he'll make it up to you.

he'll be better for you, for his angel, to atone himself for all the sins he committed upon you.

and even if it means ripping the world upside down at its seems, even if it takes decades for you to feel comfortable within the confines of his arms, unlike the dread that claws at your body earlier, pushing him away, pushing your older brother away— he's willing to undergo even the same torture from joker if it means making up to you.

as long as he has you in his sights.

all this, just to see the fear in your eyes replaced by genuine happiness at the sight of your big brother, ready to do anything for you the moment requests spill out from your benevolent lips and gleaming eyes.

you truly are his saving grace, his angel in disguise.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 14,200+ words. no beta, we just cry. "i am good, but not an angel. i do sin, but i am not the devil. i am just a small child in a big world trying to find someone to love." it's a quote that inspired this half of the chapter partly. apologies to anyone if jason seems a bit religious here??? he's not, but i'm trying to establish connections on why he even calls you that nickname in the first place (and totally not me relating it to the flashpoint comic where he becomes a priest 😭). again, bit of a boring chapter, but no hate please haha, instead leave comments if you enjoyed reading it!!! more interactions = more content.

there are many lyrics and song references scattered about the paragraphs, can you guys spot it all for me 🫦? i'm a musically inclined guy, and there's also lots of not implicitly stated songs too, i lost count honestly. tysm for all your patience, because writing through my hectic schedule is honestly a struggle.

as stated, there are a lot of jason todd and mc parallels, i love hearing you guys' thoughts about me expanding upon this. they're very different but also share so many similarities, and i like to explore deeper on every character just to make the yandere element more obvious and distinct.

and like my previous announcement too, please please please do not copy off the scenes i wrote. although my writing is mid, it doesn't mean it should be stolen word by word or the entire scenarios or scenes i've written should be taken in and written into your own fanfics too. my potrayals of each and every characters are a bit more unique takes too (i like to make myself believe), so as much as possible, please credit me. i appreciate you all 🩷

yet again, leave comments, interactions, what you think of this chapter (but not too critical comments, or pure hate please). idk what to feel about my writing, i hate it a lot sometimes but oh well! merry christmas, this is my early gift for all of you guys and for the second part, i'll try to post as soon as possible (i need to generate more spotlight to ensure they get equal attention ofc).

taglist: @neerathebrightstar, @ghostdoodlen, @prince-nikko, @daisy-spot, @strawberryglass, @h0neybun-was-here, @confused-they, @weirdcore-fantasy, @mystyque234, @marssthings, @notwhoy0uthink, @aliengutzstuff, @lilyalone, @luffyadolover, @punpunsonny, @lazyemmy, @questionthegrapevine, @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu, @winter-world, @zavavas-dungeon, @budijojo, @altruisticbeauty, @dopepursebasketballplaid, @the-holy-pigeon, @red-phantom-0, @em-draws14, @thypplover, @cens0r3d-blog, @yl90, @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch, @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo, @flyingpansaurus, @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog, @rogueofbullshit, @earlqurl, @dotomuses, @sheep-from-rad, @tsuniio, @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o, @radiantharu, @iwasveronica, @kdjhubby, @ashstwin, @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2, @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink

[shegetsburned]

❝ a man of honor ❞ w. kento nanami 𝜗𝜚.

BRIDGERTON AU⌇

• — dearest reader. this author finds herself bearing the most curious of news, for it isn’t without surprise that the viscount nanami has caused ruckus amongst the young ladies of the ton, upon his arrival. gracing us with his presence, he has not yet announced himself eligible for this social season and, i believe, does not intend to do so. but doesn’t love find itself in the most peculiar of places when one least expects it? • — a/n. let’s just say that bridgerton has, yet again, a hold on me, also, i am in no way an historian nor a perfect writer but i do hope y’all can enjoy this different little piece.

.nsfw.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who, despite himself, had found the need to return to london for a matter of affair and is set on departing as unbothered by the social season as he was when he first arrived.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who has never taken his social standing lightly and knows he’ll be the object of many desires considering his status as a seven and twenty years old unmarried man. described as a man of honour, suited for the finest lady, but buried in his work and duties.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who attends most balls, making quick appearances here and there and avoiding hungry mamas at all costs, partially hiding in the gardens or engaging in business conversations with other suitors, always eager to return to his chamber. that was until he found the most beautiful excuse to not participate in any courting competition and declare himself ineligible to the ton. you.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who had found you hiding in the very same place he was, that night. a very debutante, who didn’t feel yet a need to marry. you had approached him in need of advice, not in need of a husband. you knew who he was but had no intention nor expectation for any kind of courteous exchange. you just wanted to know how he was successfully avoiding many of his greatest admirers without breaking a sweat.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who did not give much thought to the both of you talking at first, it was easy and the conversation never felt forced. you did feel like a breath of fresh air. you had attracted attention amongst the men of ton quite easily with your gorgeous smile and attentive gaze, which kento had immediately noticed but when you felt like he was really listening to the words you uttered, you became quite acquainted to the viscount’s presence.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami whom you had invited for dinner with your family and was confirmed to be quite the gentleman everyone said he was. well, at least, that’s how he appeared before your family. from across the table, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. the way you parted your lips to eat or placed your mouth so carefully around the gorgeous glass to drink hypnotized him. your warm smile and laughter were music to his ears, therefore most of his attention was directed towards you.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami whose thoughts becomes dreams in a matter of weeks. your body draws itself in his head. every time you graze his shoulder with yours, his heart flutters. he’s almost ashamed to admit that he’d rather sleep than awaken alone in his bed when he’s been having the most indecent dreams about the gorgeous debutante he’s unable to have. your words resonate in his sleep until they become pleads and moans he wishes to hear.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who despite his title, his honor and even his words, became aware of the fact that he wanted much more than being friends with you. although he didn’t want to burden you with his occupied life, he couldn’t help but boil when one curious man came to your encounter, asking for a dance. you weren’t a fool and quickly noticed the viscount’s name written all over your dancing card moments later. you did wonder how it would look to the eyes of everyone else, but he surely didn’t care.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who has privatized your company not only by dancing with you all night during the ball but also by inviting you to his estate in london. it wasn’t long before you realized how occupied he was but also how he tried his best to escape your chaperone and have you all to himself in his bureau.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who loathes the thought of not having you close to him. he had offered no ring nor promises, yet here he was, teaching everything your mama hadn’t. taking away every ounce of purity you once displayed to every other eligible suitor with his careful hands. you could still feel his lips along your neck and his hold around your waist hours after the act.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who truly believes he is a man of honour, even with your legs parted for his hand to explore your most sensitive places with your naked back against the walls of the library of his estate. the sound you make, he wished no other men to hear when it graced his ears, hurrying his movements and developing the most intense of needs. he trailed your back ever so gently to detach and remove your gown with such delicacy it made your whole body shudder.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who, despite engaging in such shameful activities, roams around you, just as before. having eyes only for you and ignoring every little distraction that came his way. the rest of the ton surely did wonder how the most anticipated pairing of the season will officially come to be. many questions lingers in one’s mind when two individuals such as yourselves spend so much time together. had he purposely made you wait to attract the other suitors’ attention and find you as desirable as he did? had he already compromised your integrity and claimed you for himself in secret? he did fancy himself the gentleman, so why hadn’t the big question been asked already?

surely, you did know it wouldn’t be the last time you’d be able to call him "my lord" and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time he’d be able to look at you in the eyes and call you his lady.

© shegetsburned 2024 please do not repost/edit/or claim my writing as your own.

[risestarkiss]

Being Baby Blue

Rise Ramblings #313

Leonardo Hamato is…an interesting individual.

As a middle child, he doesn’t have to shoulder the responsibilities of the oldest, nor is he fawned upon or babied over like the youngest. Therefore, he ends up having more of a lackadaisical approach to life.

In his free time, instead of training like Raph, Leo can normally be found reading comic books.

And for good reason! Someone has to be up on the latest issues of Jupiter Jim and his space odysseys.

But, other than being a Jupiter Jim superfan, who is Leonardo Hamato?

If you ask Leo, he's...*takes out a list*: “Primetime,” “First,” “The Best,” “Number One,” “The Champion,” or some other iteration of all of the above.

...Huh. Anyways...

Of course, the first thing Leo would tell you is that he's the team's "Face Man."

As the "Face Man," he’s the one that turns up the charm when they need to schmooze their way out of, or into, something.

He's the face of the group! It's a very important title, right?

Well, in this scene with Hueso, we learn what Leo really feels about his place on the team.

"There's no team with just a face man." "I'm nothing without them."

Hmm. If he thinks that he is nothing without his brothers, then what's the deal with all of this "Number One" and "Champion" talk?

I believe that Leo is exhibiting a form of Reaction Formation.

Reaction Formation is a primitive defense mechanism that involves transforming one's unacceptable feelings or emotions into the opposite.

"Solicitude may be a reaction-formation against cruelty...romantic notions of chastity and purity may mask crude sexual desires, altruism may hide selfishness, and piety may conceal sinfulness."

Leo has been creating these grandiose titles and this larger-than-life persona for himself as a means to cope with his feelings of insecurity, his anxieties, and combat his self-deprecation.

Gee, forming a larger-than-life persona to counteract their suppressed feelings also reminds me of someone else we know…

But, I digress...

Behind the fabrications, his insecurities, who he pretends to be, and who he wants to be, the real Leo is still on display, starting as early as the first episode.

He's attentive, he understands the team's strengths and weaknesses, he assesses situations, he comes up with great plans on the fly, and he is a voice of reason.

These are all the characteristics of a great leader.

However, something happens when he’s actually appointed as such.

There he goes again. He's cocky, arrogant, and act's as if he's unphased even by the prospect of loosing his brothers. If this is Reaction Formation, then what is he trying to mask with these behaviors?

Previously, he was masking his insecurities, his anxieties, and his self-deprecation, but with the faces he pulls when he thinks no one can see them, I want to say the newest emotion is fear.

He is terrified of being the leader and floundering under his new responsibilities. He's scared of the consequences of his actions, and what those consequences may mean for his brothers. However, instead of voicing his insecurities, or communicating with his team, he doubles down and falls back into old habits.

The "Face Man" persona is turned up to an 11, and things get worse and worse until...

His greatest fears have been realized.

He has failed as a leader. He has failed his brothers. He has failed to stop the invasion, and they are all going to die because of his failures.

Now he's faced with the harsh reality of his own mistakes, thus he finally faces himself.

"It's scary to be responsible for the lives you protect, your team...your family. But we do it anyway because that's what it means to be a hero."

He may be speaking to Raph, but he's talking about himself.

His words are his true feelings, the same feelings that have been holding him back this entire time. By opening up, he's able to surrender to himself and let it all go.

And it's the breakthrough we all have been waiting for.

What Leo doesn't know is that through letting go, he's able to become the true face of the group he is destined to be.

He's the face of hope.

Update: This post now also exists in video form. 😌💙

○○○○

Previous | Being Big Red

Next | Being Purple ○ Part One • Being Purple ○ Part Two • Orange, Baby!

Finale | Being Hamato Yoshi

[biboomerangboi]

My friend was watching the show for the first time and they brought up a misconception that I think we see a lot in fandom. So I want to talk about The Gamblers Den and specifically this scene in particular:

My friend genuinely wondered what Hua Cheng would do and then when they heard his explanation they were even more confused:

They basically messaged me saying, wait Hua Cheng would have made the bet. He bets people’s lives and some how Xie Lian is okay with that. How???

And to anyone else who’s thinking the same thing or falling for the Demon King vibe Hua Cheng is trying to sell here I am here to tell you, you have all been duped.

What’s import to understand is that Ghost City actually came from making one of Xie Lian’s ideas work:

Xie Lian is talking about a specialised market here, a place where the common people couldn’t just stumble into without reason and that’s what Ghost City is and The Gambers Den is the foundation of it. While Xie Lian didn’t say hey go gamble, Hua Cheng is taking a risk and playing into his greatest strength and then showing of for his crush is the most dramatic way possible when talking about it.

For Hua Cheng the house always wins! Literally. Or at least what he wants the bet to be will always happen. His luck is just that good. If the gambler wins it’s genuinely because Hua Cheng let him.

In the Den he is acting as Judge and Jury with Xie Lian as his moral code but he can’t just turn down the deals. If he does then these people could go to less safe options (looking at you Qi Rong) to get what they desire which negates the reason he built Ghost City in the first place.

Hua Cheng has to let these people play by his rules if he wants to follow his Gods wishes. So he has to be creative and look at loop holes, phrasing and Xie Lians most important teaching finding the third path.

For this moment specifically giving the options I think Hua Cheng would have taken the 20 years of his daughter’s life. Why you may ask? Well the phrasing is easier to manipulate. While the eradication of his competitors is pretty well laid 20 years of his daughters life is pretty vague.

Option 1) Hua Cheng could take her away from her shit father and put her in an apprenticeship and marry a man of her choosing since her hand is now her own to decide since Hua Cheng doesn’t want it.

Option 2) She has to work in Ghost City for 20 years and is married to Yin Yu in name only (because Hua Cheng can’t have a wife at all or he won’t win Gege) then gets pleasantly divorced and giving a severance payment after 20 years.

Option 3) He could decide life is a vague term and after she dies she has to spend 20 years in Ghost City and matchmake a future marriage between her and another ghost.

Option 4) He could decide what she has to do with the next twenty years of her life which could include an actual good marriage and education. Where she has to worship his shrine and be only his devotee for 20 years.

Option 5) He can literally say I’ll collect when I decide and never cash in.

He can do anything because the wording is so fluent and for Hua Cheng debater and Civil God Killer it’s probably easy. He’s not a demon king, he’s a crafty trickster spirit basically a fae lord.

He’s playing the system and he’s winning that’s what Xie Lian figured out and why he supports it. He knows Hua Cheng well enough even back then to trust that he would make the right decision because he believes in Hua Cheng and he’s right too.

[silverthehedgehogcharacteristics]

Silver the Hedgehog Key Characteristics

Strong Sense of Justice: Silver is a righteous hedgehog of justice that is outraged by suffering and devastation. Seeks to settle scores(Sonic Forces, IDW Sonic) to get back for those that have been wronged and make evildoers pay for what they’ve done. Is very confrontational because of this as he has zero tolerance for injustices or things like breaking promises and will quickly take on anyone or anything to right wrongs and help those in need, however “His wish is to maintain peace, not to eradicate evil”(Sonic Channel). Silver wants to become a hero because it means being someone that can “protect smiles”(Sonic & Silver).

Optimism: Silver is an optimist and embodies hope just as Sonic embodies freedom. He always looks to a brighter outcome, does not give into despair no matter how dire the situation and believes “There’s always hope as long as you don’t give it up”(JP Sonic Forces quote). Inspires hope in others during dark times(Sonic 06 last episode, Sonic Forces, helping Elise through her performance anxiety in Otherworld Comedy) and spreads happiness during peaceful times as he is said to engage in Cheerful Activities after the historical change in 06(Sonic & Silver). If he is down it does not take much to bring him back up(Sonic Rivals 2). Silver has a positive way of life that inspires people and makes them want to cheer him on(Sonic Channel).

Kindness: Silver is an Altruist with a strong desire to help others and is always thinking of someone else’s happiness rather than his own(Sonic & Silver). Silver wants to “protect smiles” and make people happy because he grew up in a world filled with despair. His altruism is the source of his mission and the only thing that can make him break from it as he can’t say no to a sad face or ignore those in need. Silver actively does things like serving apple slices(Wallpaper Comedy 2022) and giving gifts as Santa(Sonic Pict) because his greatest joy is seeing smiles. Silver put the spirit of the pilot Renzo to rest by pretending to be an airplane for him in Town Mission 4. Silver is selfless and acts for others, he has no regard for his own safety and is willing to sacrifice himself without even thinking(Sonic Comic Pumpkin Trigger). When Eggman attacks in Sonic Comic Act Final Stage, Silver instantly acts to shield everyone.

Honest: Silver is a pure and genuine person that is very Forthright, Straightforward and Honest to a fault to the point of being blunt. He can’t tell a lie, wears his heart on his sleeve and has an “Honest, unpretentious and kind demeanor”(Sonic Channel Staff Column). Silver is very humble and does not think of himself as a hero(Sonic & Silver). Silver is an Enhancer(someone that is determined and simple, never lies, hides nothing, is straightforward in their actions and thinking, whose words and actions are often dominated by their feelings and is very focused on their goals),

Brash: Silver has a brash and flippant personality that is even more brash than Sonic’s(even Sonic says Silver has an attitude in Sonic Rivals). Silver is so straightforward and honest that he is also rude and blunt. He has no filter and will call you an idiot to your face if he thinks you’re an idiot and is so direct that he can often ignore manners and social customs(06 NPC dialogue, Sonic Rivals series). Silver is very snappy, abrasive and sarcastic, being quick to insult or sneer at any opposition(06, Rivals series, Riders Zero Gravity, Olympic Games, Eggman’s theme park in Colors DS). Has a confident, somewhat smug attitude about his abilities and is very Competitive(almost fights Blaze when they start one-upping each other over who could deal with Orbot and Cubot on their own in Colors DS). Silver is said to have Mischievous Side(Sonic Channel Commemorative Illustration series). Silver is Headstrong(almost fights Blaze when she treats him like an amateur in Otherworld Comedy) and can be quick to start fights for both serious and petty reasons(Colors DS, Rivals series, Jet and Bowser Jr in Mario and Sonic, Infinite in Forces). Silver is very ill-mannered in general which is more apparent in Japanese where he has various informal rude mannerisms including using “Ore”(informal masculine “I”), “Anta”(Impolite “you”) that signifies he speaks bluntly, pointing directly at people he speaks to(confrontational gesture) and crossing his legs while sitting(roughly the Japanese equivalent to putting your feet on a table). Silver is rash and impolite in contrast to Future Trunks. Silver’s blunt rudeness, honesty and overall traits are the complete opposite of Eggman Nega’s over-politeness, deception and overall traits. Despite this however Silver is still outgoing and approachable.

Naive: Silver has a black and white perspective and is innocent in his ideals. Expects people to believe him when he says he’s from the future or explains outlandish situations simply because he knows them to be true(Which causes people to not believe him). Sometimes takes things literally and doesn’t understand jokes but has an angry “What’s so funny” attitude when he doesn’t understand things(Says “Yes, why?” when Espio asks “you want me to believe that?” in Sonic Rivals 2 and “What’s so funny” when he didn’t understand people what people were laughing at in Otherworld Comedy). Silver is young and immature according to Shun Nakamura.

Emotional: Emotionally immature, unregulated and unfiltered. Sometimes Silver tends to deal with things too head-on because of the strength of his feelings, or he tends to take everything on himself, which can make him reckless and rash/impulsive(In the Japanese version of 06 Blaze describes him as running wild rather than insecure). Short-tempered, easily angered and has a wrathful temper like Blaze. Gets indignant when people don’t listen to him(Sonic Channel) and punches things when he is frustrated(06, Mario & Sonic series). Feels joy and rage loudly but sadness and contemplation quietly. Silver is generally High-Spirited, puts his all into what he gets invested in(I’m giving this everything I’ve got!). Can get carried away or needs to be calmed down/held back when he gets riled up. Silver is hot-blooded and rash while Sonic and Shadow are calm and cool(Sonic & Silver Sonic Channel story).

Peace: Silver lives and fights for World Peace. Silver is devoted to peace because he hails from a hellish ruined future that was filled with darkness, devastation and suffering. Silver has great empathy for the state of both people and environments so devastation saddens and upsets him while beauty and prosperity leaves him breathless. Blue Skies and Smiles are especially important to him, blue skies make him feel at peace, and he can’t help but smile when seeing smiling faces. The quills on Silver’s head are patterned in the shape of a Japanese Red Maple Leaf which represents peace and prosperity.

Sentimental: Silver is also very Sentimental. He finds great beauty in nature and serenely appreciates both the wonders of the world and the little things that most people take for granted. Silver enjoys sightseeing and going on journeys(Sonic Colors DS, Olympic Games, Sonic Pict) because of this. Silver relaxes and chats with his friends during downtime(Sonic & Silver). Silver has a somewhat wide-eyed curiosity and likes seeing cool and interesting things(“Interesting”). Silver feels serene and at peace when seeing nature, happiness and prosperity. This side of him ties into his peace themes due to his ability to appreciate beauty and serenity which the Momiji/Japanese Red Maple also represents.

Fighter: Fought and struggled for half his lifetime(possibly since he was Cream’s age) through the disaster future(Sonic & Silver). Silver hails from an extremely hostile environment filled with darkness, large Iblis enemies and constant disasters. He has high aggression because of this and has very intense determined expressions and aggressive body language with constant fists even during competitions or just tasks he's focused on. Silver has angular sharp pointed eyes like Sonic’s other rivals which represent intensity and danger in character design. Shadow describes Silver as a Fighter in Team Sonic Racing. Silver is extremely powerful being able to evenly physically fight Sonic and Shadow to a standstill in 06 and the Rivals series, and repeatedly destroy both the gigantic Iblis and small armies by himself in 06 and Sonic Pict. Silver both Enjoys Fighting and has an Instant fight response when surprised in Sonic Generations. Silver “sometimes calls forth great power without mercy”(Sonic Channel).

Determination: Silver has relentless Determination that allowed him to fight through the apocalyptic future. Doesn’t give up easily(got exact hedgehog apple slices after 40 tries). Has no regard for pain/massive pain tolerance(Kept fighting undeterred after being kicked in the head by Shadow and skipped across the street like a rock by Sonic in Generations and endures excruciating "pain beyond description” caused by his powers in Sonic & Silver). Silver is bold and undeterred by any threat(says “We can take them all on!” when facing Eggman, Knuckles and Rouge in Rivals 2 and “I’ll just destroy him everywhere at once” when facing Solaris in Sonic 06) as he fought against disasters and large Iblis monsters in dark dangerous environments from a very young age and throws himself at every enemy from Iblis to Infinite without hesitation, even if they are stronger than him.

Straight-to-the-point mentality, hates distractions and petty details(Doesn’t care what the plan is called, only that it works in Forces). This can make him impatient towards things that get in his way or waste time. Silver is Goal Focused(even during things like competitions he says the Jade Ghost Wisp is the only item he likes because it lets him disappear and focus on racing in the Team Vector interview). Takes things much more seriously than Sonic and sometimes gets mad at Sonic for not taking things seriously or messing around(JP TSR, Sonic 4 Panel Manga). 

Silver is very direct and Proactive as he spent most of his life trying to defeat Iblis and find out how his future came to ruin when no one could tell him how and actively investigated Dodon Pa and Eggman in Team Sonic Racing.

Silver is pragmatic and somewhat ruthless. Opens both his fights with Sonic in 06 by trying to sneak attack and snipe Sonic with psychic energy balls. Has fought dirty by playing possum to hit Sonic in 06, snuck past Soleanna guards to get to Radical Train in 06. Mugs Tails in Sonic Rivals 2(he’s okay with stealing), has no qualms with fighting kids like Tails or Bowser Jr. Leaves his enemies to die even if they beg for life(Sonic Rivals 2/IDW Sonic). Has the “get-it-done” mindset of Future Trunks and will do whatever it takes to save the future.

Challenger: Enjoys challenges and ways to test himself(Sonic Colors DS, Mario & Sonic Series). Makes steady efforts to train and improve offscreen(Sonic Channel Comedy). Silver is a very skilled person that takes offense to being treated like an amateur(Otherworld Comedy) and is able to do various jobs around Soleanna(06 Town Missions), become a delivery boy(Sonic Pict), a butler, a top class ice skater, and a genius skating coach(Sonic Channel) and has sharp shooting among the best in Soleanna’s 1500 year history. One of his catchphrases is “I’ll take you on”. 

Intuitive: Silver sometimes deduces things that other people do not and every central game role Silver has from 06 to TSR is about him searching for truth and he has successfully figured out the schemes of Eggman and Eggman Nega before anyone else each time. Silver can be very sharp, perceptive and crafty; he figures out Eggman Nega’s disguises by noticing small details in his mannerisms in Sonic Rivals, intuits Blaze trying to control her great power when seeing it for the first time in Sonic Channel and changes his fight with Sonic into a race to collect Chao instead to advance his mission in Sonic Rivals 2.

Often shown/implied to like Apples(he ate apple flavored calorie bar rations in the 06 Iblis future according to Sonic Channel Sonic Pict) suggesting they are his favorite food. Apples also symbolize sweetness, beauty, and hope for prosperity in Japanese and Jewish culture.

Lives in the good future the same way Blaze lives in the Sol Dimension when not in Sonic’s time(spends most of his time there as he doesn’t get to see Sonic very often according to Team Sonic Racing). Also implied to live in Soleanna(He was originally going to be named Venice simply because he lived there, implied to live there in Sonic & Silver and Otherworld Comedy Act 4 Sonic Channel stories).

[lurochar]

Bad Habit

So I recently read somewhere that Alastor pulls out his hair as a stress reliever? Not sure if it's actually canon, but I thought it was interesting, so here we are!

---------------------------------------

You feel bad, guilty.

Horrible even.

It is why you are currently sitting on Alastor’s bed, waiting for him to come back from wherever he had disappeared into the shadows.

It was okay, Alastor had given you permission to come into his room and the magic that served as his room's lock allowed your presence inside, despite how uncomfortable you felt being in the room regardless.

It hadn't been the first time you had turned down his offers of protection, companionship, and whatever else you desired. If you wanted, he would grant it to you.

Was that worth your soul?

You were scared, terrified even though Alastor assured you again, again, and again that he would never abuse your soul and it would be his greatest treasure. Hell, he had even written a contract of rules on himself pertaining what he could and couldn't do to your soul.

And tired of being frightened by this overwhelming strange one-sided courtship, you fled.

You weren't sure why Alastor allowed you to flee to begin with, perhaps he was giving you space to sort out your thoughts, but you had unconsciously glanced back towards him when you did run.

You had never seen such an expression like that on Alastor’s face before.

You couldn’t get that expression out of your mind and so, only a few hours later, you found yourself in the last place you wanted to be: Alastor’s bedroom.

Still, you couldn't describe that expression.

Irritation, anger, vexedness, longing, agitation, hunger, stress?

It floored you that Alastor could even feel so many of those emotions considering you knew his background. It stunned you even further he felt them for you since you believed he was interested in you because you were the only female deer demon – the only doe – in his territory.

Was Alastor interested in you beyond your demonic characteristics?

You jump when the shadows in the room flicker around and Alastor materializes, clearly taken back by your presence as he takes a step backwards when his red eyes land on you.

You stand from the bed, ready to apologize. “Alastor, I'm sorry about tod–” You pause, eyes widening when you notice something. “Y-your hair…!”

A large chunk of his hair is missing. It looks as though it's been torn out.

“Did you get into a fight?!” You quickly move towards him to get a better look, vaguely noting Alastor’s smile is tight and he almost resembles a trapped animal with his tense posture. “Are you hurt anywhere else, Alastor?”

Alastor stares down at your sweet concerned face and almost lets a sigh escape him. “I am fine, my dear Doe.” He resists the urge to bristle defensively when you try to get closer to where his hair is torn. “I did not go on a rampage today.”

You blink. “If… if you didn't fight anyone, what happened?” You looked back to his hair and winced. It looked painful.

Alastor’s smile widens to grotesque proportions. “I did this to myself.” His eyes watched you heatedly as you stumbled back in shock at his confession. “It's a bit of a habit, you see. I tend to rip out my hair when I'm feeling stressed to the point that even slaughter will not relieve it.”

Your ears drop.

“I never thought you would run from me, dearest. Now tell me,” Alastor’s hands are creeping up towards his head as his eyes cloud with fervour, “why are you so afraid of me?”

“Alastor!” You rush forward, clumsily pressing yourself against him and grabbing his hands with yours before he can tug at his hair again. You lace your fingers with his longer ones, feeling your face burn hotly as your body shook nervously. “W-why do you need my soul? Can't we do it all without me giving you my soul?”

Alastor tightens his fingers around yours. “I admit I am a complete novice in the area of… romance,  but is it not a romantic gesture? I would give you my soul if I were able.”

You couldn’t help but to laugh and Alastor raises a brow. “If that's what you think, then you have thousands of spouses already, including Husk.” You snicker again when Alastor’s eye twitches. 

“Husker.” Alastor utters in disbelief. “My spouse?” He looks as though he just swallowed rotten meat.

“Romance can be almost anything if the partner appreciates it.” You smile. “A flower. A walk together. Dinner with each other. Stargazing. Anything really as long as you enjoy their company.”

Alastor raises your hand slowly towards his lips and you shiver (and not from fear) as he places a gentle kiss on the back of your hand. “My lovely Doe, would you care to accompany me on a walk in my bayou?”

Your face softens as your eyes move towards Alastor’s missing chunk of hair. “As long as you come talk to me when you get to that point again. I don't want you hurting yourself, especially over me.”

“It's not a big deal, Darling. My hair will be grown back by tomorrow morning.” Alastor lets out a hum at your glare. “But I suppose I can if you wish.”

As long as he got his sweet Doe in the end.

[joemama-2]

the sound of you | ch. 1 new face, new race

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ pairing : gojo x fem reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ synopsis: what happens when a man who uses intimacy to numb his pain collides with a woman who sees vulnerability as her greatest weakness? a storm of desire, denial, and shattered hearts. you never imagined someone like him—magnetic, self-assured, and emotionally closed off—would enter your life. worse, you never expected to crave him in return. but fate has a cruel way of stitching together souls that should never meet, dragging you both into a spiral of unspoken truths, unresolved wounds, and a connection that feels more like a curse than a blessing.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tags/warnings: slowburn, angst, fluff, sexual content, mentions of trauma, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, blood, miscommunication, alcohol, drugs, opposites attract, manipulation, mentions of bullying, death, smut, insecurity galore, selective mutism, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, modern au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ wc: 12.5k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ status: ongoing

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ series masterlist < next chapter

Sometimes, you feel like you’ve been taxidermied.

It’s a sort of here and there thought, but one you have quite frequently in the past few months. As a joke, you entertain the idea that you’ve been stuffed with some really soft pink stuffing, on display for your murderer (aka: your taxidermist) to look at in awe whenever he passes by. You’re probably placed on the highest shelf, behind tough glass and labeled “My Most Prized Possession”. Your murderer most likely stops and stands for minutes—maybe even hours on end just admiring his beautiful work.

Being admired from afar feels more comforting than being murdered and stuffed to live an eternity of still motion.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re not dead. You’re not even still. You’re here, breathing, blinking, existing. Living. If that’s what you’d even call this state of being—where silence becomes your only companion and time stretches on in sharp, endless intervals. You wonder sometimes if he thinks about you—your murderer. Does he imagine you now, a neat and quiet version of yourself, perfectly preserved and tucked away where no one else can reach? Did he know, even then, how deeply he’d leave his mark? How thoroughly he’d hollow you out, leaving you more object than person? Of course he did.

It’s easier to imagine it that way, isn’t it? Easier to think of yourself as someone turned to glass, smoothed over and sealed shut, rather than acknowledge the fractures your murderer left behind. Easier to believe the silence is yours, not his. That it’s you who has taken up residence behind that invisible barrier, rather than admitting that someone else built it for you.

Sometimes, you wonder if he’s still proud of his handiwork.

Your therapist once told you that silence isn’t the absence of sound—it’s a choice, an act of power. But it doesn’t feel powerful when you’re here, sitting alone with the weight of your thoughts pressing into your chest, nursing your usual morning cup of tea. It doesn’t feel like a choice when the words twist themselves into knots inside you, stuck behind walls you’ve never been able to climb. It feels, instead, like a kind of stillness you can’t escape.

It wasn’t always like this. You remember a time when your voice felt whole, unbroken, like the summer wind passing through your window. Back then, you used to laugh with abandon, a sound so natural it felt like breathing. You remember because it’s impossible to forget what was taken from you.

Your murderer took that from you. Not all at once, of course—he wasn’t that kind. He dismantled you piece by piece, word by word, until you were something new. Something smaller. Something that fit in the palm of his hand, ready to be admired and forgotten at his convenience.

You close your eyes against the memory, swallowing the bitter ache that always follows it. You think you might be okay with being admired, so long as you never have to see him again.

You should probably stop thinking. You have to leave for work in fifteen minutes. A teacher assistant position at the nearby kindergarten. If you had asked your high school what you would be doing in the future, a teacher would be the last on the list. Of course, you cherish children. Their little laughs and curious questions bring you a warmth and joy that’s hard to find nowadays. The head teacher, Emi Inoue, is a wonderful older lady.

You love your job. Sure you’d like it if it paid more, but it’s better than any retail position.

Besides, working with children has given you a better sense of empathy, compassion, and patience. Something you desperately need in child care.

The crispy air flies past your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Wearing a long, but modest skirt. Paired with a simple long sleeved shirt, your lanyard hanging around your neck, covering your shivering body with the only coat that offers you enough warmth. You should probably go shopping sometime soon again.

The train station isn’t far, luckily. A soft song playing from the buds lodged in your ears, hands stuffed in your pockets as you and other working civilians of Shibuya. Within ten minutes, the train makes its stop. The doors slide open and you make your way inside. Most of the interior is stuffed, presumably so considering its rush hour and people need to get to work. Luckily, you manage to find a tiny clearing—standing the entirety of the forty minute ride.

You keep a tight hold on the silver bar, forcing your body to stay in place and not jolt around as the train continues on. The vibrations of the train hum beneath your feet, a rhythmic reminder of your path forward. The soft song in your ears competes with the muffled chatter and occasional announcements over the intercom. Your grip on the silver bar is firm, fingers chilled despite the warmth of your coat. Around you, people shuffle in and out at each stop, their movements mechanical, heads bowed over phones or staring blankly at nothing in particular.

The man beside you adjusts his briefcase, brushing against your arm, and you instinctively shrink further into yourself. You’re not a fan of the close quarters, but it’s unavoidable during rush hour. You remind yourself this ride is temporary, that the crowded carriage is just a bridge between here and there. That doesn’t stop you from moving a few inches away.

Outside the window, the city blurs into a wash of concrete, neon signs, and fleeting glimpses of people starting their day. A quiet sigh escapes you as you press your shoulder closer to the cold pole, grounding yourself against the lurching movements of the train. Forty minutes feels like an eternity when you’re standing still, surrounded but untouchable. The song in your earbuds shifts, a gentler melody now, one that tugs at memories you’ve tried to push away. You shake your head slightly, trying to focus on the present—the sway of the train, the weight of your bag, the familiar tightness in your chest that you’ve learned to ignore.

At least no one asks questions when you’re quiet. Silence is an art form here, unspoken but deeply understood. It wraps around you, offering a small comfort in the chaos of a city that never seems to stop moving. The train jerks to a stop again, this time more abruptly, and the woman in front of you stumbles. You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing hers as you steady her. She mutters a quick “thank you” without meeting your eyes, and you offer a slight nod in return before retreating.

The moments bleed into each other, a series of starts and stops, until the train finally announces your destination. You weave through the crowd as the doors slide open, stepping onto the platform and into the crisp air again. It bites at your cheeks, but you welcome it. The world outside feels a little freer, even if it isn’t really.

As you make your way toward the stairs, your gaze falls on the station clock. Still on time, at least. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, tugging your coat closer to your body as you join the river of people flowing upward. Another day, another destination, another silent step forward. You can do this.

A buzz vibrates in your coat pocket. Picking out your phone and turning it on, the name Ieiri is posted, followed by a message. A small smile forms on your lips as you unlock your phone and go to your messages.

Ieiri:

Breakfast.

And it’s a picture of a lot cigarette between her two fingers, a plate of white rice to the side.

You sigh, eyes rolling lightheartedly as you type back a response:

You:

Not healthy, do u have groceries?

Ieiri:

Nope

You:

Then we’ll go together

Ieiri:

Lol it’s fine, Y/N

You shake your head, stepping out the way of an older man who seems to not care about watching where he’s going.

You:

We’ll go

Is what you end with, locking your phone again and putting it back in your pocket as you enter the gates of the school. The staff and teachers politely greet you. With a wave and smile back, you walk to the familiar room of Room 132. The children aren’t here yet, Mrs. Inoue and you using this time to set up the room for the upcoming day.

The classroom smells faintly of chalk and the citrus cleaner the janitors must have used the night before. Room 132 has always been a small but cozy space, its walls decorated with colorful posters, crayon drawings, and motivational quotes in blocky fonts. You glance around, taking in the comforting familiarity of it all.

Mrs. Inoue is already there, humming softly to herself as she arranges supplies on one of the low tables. She’s always been the early bird between the two of you, her energy a steady constant in the whirlwind of your mornings. “Oh, good morning!” she greets cheerfully, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I was wondering when you’d get here. It’s chilly out, isn’t it?”

You nod with a small smile, shrugging off your coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. The warmth of the classroom is a welcome reprieve from the biting air outside, and you take a moment to savor it before moving to help her.

“We’re going to need extra paper for the art project today,” Mrs. Inoue continues, gesturing to a nearby shelf. “And maybe an extra set of paints too. You know how much they love to mix all the colors together into one big muddy mess.”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward at that. It’s true—your students have a way of turning even the most structured activity into pure chaos. But it’s the kind of chaos you don’t mind. You grab the supplies she mentioned, setting them out on the tables in neat, colorful rows. The work feels methodical, soothing even, as the room slowly comes to life with the promise of the day ahead. “Do you have the attendance chart?” Mrs. Inoue asks, her voice breaking your focus. You hum, retrieving it from your bag and handing it to her. “Thanks! I’ll get started on marking the seating arrangements.” She pauses, glancing at you over her shoulder. “By the way, are you feeling okay? You seemed a little out of it yesterday.”

You hesitate, the question catching you off guard. But Mrs. Inoue doesn’t push; she never does. Her tone is light, her expression warm, like she’s offering you an out if you need it.

“I’m fine,” you say finally, your voice soft but steady. She nods, accepting your answer without prying further. The silence that follows is comfortable, punctuated only by the faint sound of the heating system kicking on. Soon, the time will come where the students start trickling in, and the room will fill with laughter, chatter, and tiny voices calling your name.

For now, though, it’s just you, Mrs. Inoue, and the quiet promise of a new day.

Before you know it, there’s the tiny patter of feet against the floor, followed by excited screams of “Good morning, Mrs. Inoue! Good Morning, Ms. L/N!”

The noise floods the room like a wave, and for a moment, you're almost taken aback by the sudden shift. It’s always like this—the children bounding in with that infectious energy, their little faces lighting up with excitement. Their voices blend together in a sweet chorus of greetings as they run to their seats, eager to start the day. You smile softly, the weight of their energy lifting something inside you. “Good morning, everyone,” you reply, your voice silky but clear enough to be heard over the commotion. A few of them pause mid-stride, turning to beam at you as if their morning isn’t complete without that small exchange. It’s a ritual, a moment you’ve come to cherish despite everything else.

One of the kids, Ayumi, shyly tugs on your sleeve as she passes by. "Ms. L/N, I drew something for you!" Her small, crinkled drawing of a smiley sun and a big flower is presented with a proud grin. You bend down to meet her, taking the drawing gently and nodding in appreciation.

"Thank you, Ayumi," you say with sincerity, tucking it into the pocket of your apron for safekeeping. She beams, pleased by your reaction. The other children are settling into their seats now, the others still hanging up their tiny backpacks. The noise slowly dying down as Mrs. Inoue begins to go over the day’s schedule. You move to your desk, organizing your own materials for the upcoming lessons.

There's something comforting about this routine, about how predictable and grounded the children's excitement makes the world feel. Even if you don't speak much, even if the silence weighs heavily on you some days, in this room, with these kids, you feel like you belong.

The chatter resumes as they prepare for the first activity, but you don't mind. In this space, you're safe. The world outside might be noisy, chaotic, even isolating—but here, in Room 132, it’s just a quiet promise of another day.

The kids here, they’ve accepted that. Sometimes they ask the blatant question like why are you so quiet or if you don’t like talking. Each time, you regard them with a low chuckle, carefully explaining that you talk when you have to.

“But don’t we always have to talk, Ms. L/N?” One of your students had asked, head tilting in confusion.

Your lips upturn warmly, the question never getting easier to answer, but you’ve grown used to it. The innocence in their voices, their genuine curiosity, makes it harder to simply brush it off. You leaned down to meet the little one’s gaze, the child’s wide eyes watching you intently.

“Well,” you began, choosing your words carefully, “sometimes, I don’t need to talk to show that I’m listening, or that I’m here with you." You paused for a moment, glancing around at the other children who are now focused on the conversation. "Talking isn’t always the only way to communicate, is it?"

Some of them nod slowly, processing the idea, while others remain puzzled, unsure of how to make sense of the concept. It’s a delicate thing, explaining the layers of silence to young minds who are still learning the value of words.

"I still listen to you," you continue, pointing to your ears, "and I still care about what you say. But sometimes, I choose other ways to show that." You then tap your heart lightly, a gesture that seems to make sense to them, one that they can latch onto without needing to understand the deeper complexities.

The student who asked the question, Haruto, looks thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs. “Oh, okay! So you don’t always need to talk. You just…know?”

You nod, offering him an encouraging smile. "Exactly. Sometimes, knowing is enough."

They all seemed content with that answer, the conversation naturally shifting as they returned to their work. But you can’t shake the feeling that the question lingered in the air long after the words had left their mouths. It’s a reminder that, even in a room full of children, the silence you carry is still something to be questioned, to be examined.

But for now, you’ve found your peace in their acceptance, in their unspoken understanding. And that, you think, is enough.

It’s around seven in the evening now. Shoko and you walk into the grocery store, side by side as she pushes a small cart. You’ve gotten on your friend multiple times now about her less than savory eating habits. She’s a smoker, so you try to give her enough leeway.

But still. She tends to neglect herself at times, and being the good friend you are, you’re there to correct that when you see it happen. Of course she helps you out too for your own situations.

The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead as you and Shoko make your way through the aisles. The store isn’t too crowded, the hum of casual chatter and the occasional squeak of shopping carts filling the air. She lazily steers the cart, her free hand stuffed into the pocket of her jacket. “You know, I could just order takeout for the week and call it a day,” she says, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

“You could,” you reply with a knowing look, “but then I’d have to come over and lecture you about how your fridge only ever has beer and instant noodles.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“I have to be. Someone has to keep you alive,” you frown, reaching out to grab a bundle of fresh vegetables from the shelf. You toss it into the cart, earning a groan from Shoko.

“Do I look like someone who knows what to do with broccoli?” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to her words.

You sigh softly, grabbing another item and placing it beside the broccoli. “You don’t have to know. That’s what recipes are for.”

She pauses, leaning against the handle of the cart as you pick out a loaf of bread. “You’re too good to me, you know,” she says after a moment, her voice softer now.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, you’re the only one who cares enough to do stuff like this. Dragging me to the store, making sure I don’t waste away on convenience store snacks…”

“That’s what friends are for,” you reply simply, grabbing a pack of her favorite tea and dropping it into the cart.

She huffs a quiet laugh, pushing the cart forward again. “Yeah, well, remind me to return the favor next time you’re in a rut.”

You don’t say anything, but the smile on your face speaks volumes. The two of you continue down the aisles, the easy rhythm of your friendship filling the spaces between the mundane task of grocery shopping. It’s a small moment, but one that feels steady, grounding. By the time you reach the checkout line, Shoko’s cart is filled with a mix of healthy staples and a few indulgent snacks she managed to sneak in when you weren’t looking. She leans against the counter as you both wait, glancing at you again. “Thanks, really,” she says quietly, her tone carrying more sincerity than before.

You offer her a small nod, your way of saying anytime.

Shoko was the first person you met when starting to work in Tokyo. It was by random, on a sunny Saturday morning while completing your usual coffee run. The memory of that first meeting still lingers vividly in your mind, even after all this time. Shoko had been standing at the counter, her hair slightly messy, dressed in scrubs under an oversized hoodie, clearly on a break or just off a shift. She had glanced over at you while waiting for her coffee, and for some reason, she struck up a conversation—a mix of casual observations and dry humor that somehow coaxed a rare chuckle out of you. And honestly, you weren’t used to people like her—confident but not overbearing, witty without being cruel. She wasn’t trying to force you into anything, just filling the space in a way that felt oddly reassuring.

It became a regular thing after that, running into her at the same coffee shop every Saturday morning. Slowly but surely, the encounters turned into an unspoken tradition. She’d do most of the talking, and you’d offer her your quiet company, which she came to appreciate more than she’d admit. Though most of the conversations were spent with her own voice filling the air, you would still find it in you to acknowledge her. At first, she was put off. She’s not exactly the loudest and most extroverted person, either. But with you, she realized the silence was nice. Comfortable even. Like a break of fresh air after a busy, busy day of an OBGYN.

As of now, she’s the only one you find yourself spending time with outside of work and home. You like the simplicity. Now, years later, the dynamic hasn’t changed much. Shoko remains your anchor in Tokyo, a constant presence who understands your silences better than most. It’s not perfect—she has her moments of self-destruction, and you have your walls—but it works.

It took a while for you to open up to her, and once you did, she welcomed every incident, every emotion, every hesitation with open arms. She’s the kind of friend who knows when to push you to eat something or when to leave you be, when to crack open a beer (even though you don’t drink, making your own virgin margarita) with you in silence or pull you out of your shell for a late-night convenience store run.

In a way, she’s your best friend. You haven’t said that part out loud yet, even if you two have been friends for about three, almost four years now. But you think she knows, she has to. Neither of you really like the labels, and you’re fine with just being Shoko and Y/N. Neither of you needs to put a name to it, this friendship. It exists in the spaces between words, in the easy routine of your grocery trips, the casual texts about nothing in particular, and the quiet understanding that you’ve got each other’s backs.

As the two of you leave the store, the plastic bags swinging from Shoko’s hands, she glances over at you, smirking. “So, what’s the verdict? Did I pass the responsible adult grocery list test?”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Barely.”

She nudges you with her elbow, her grin widening. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You help her out the bags into the trunk of her black Mazda CX-5. Once that’s complete, you head into the passenger seat, her the driver's seat. She starts the engine and pulls off the curb, driving the route back to your apartment. The music of her playlist plays for a few minutes, the two of you speaking no words. At the third red light, she clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “Hey, so I’m meeting up with some friends this Saturday night at Speakeasy. I was wondering if you wanted to come. You don’t have to, but it’s just an offer if you’re not busy.”

You glance out the window, watching the city lights flicker past as her words hang in the air. Speakeasy—a bar with dim lighting, soft music, and a reputation for being both lively and intimate. It’s not the kind of place you frequent, but you know Shoko wouldn’t ask unless she thought it might be good for you. Still, the idea of stepping into a crowded room full of strangers makes your chest tighten slightly. You turn your head to look at her, the faint glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across her face. "Who’s going to be there?" you ask, your voice barely louder than the music playing from her speakers.

“Just a few people I went to med school and high school with,” she replies casually, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Nothing too crazy. You’d like them, I think. They’re not the obnoxious kind, well maybe only one of them. But I don’t know if he’ll be there.”

You hum in acknowledgment, weighing the decision. You know Shoko wouldn’t push if you said no—she never does. But there’s a part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to try something new. To let her world blend into yours for an evening. “I’ll think about it,” you say finally, giving her a small smile.

Shoko glances at you briefly before focusing back on the road, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s not a no. I’ll take it.”

The light turns green, and the car lurches forward. By the time she pulls up in front of your apartment, the decision still lingers in the back of your mind. Shoko leans against the steering wheel, her eyes glancing over at you as you gather your things. “Don’t stress about it,” she says softly, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. “But, you know… it could be fun.”

You nod before stepping out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. Eat well.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she calls after you as you close the door.

As you head inside, you can’t help but replay her words in your mind. The thought of going out, of meeting new people—it feels daunting, but not entirely impossible. For now, though, you’ll leave it as something to consider.

“Wakey, wakey.”

The sound of a woman sleepily groaning sounds throughout the room, to which Satoru is internally celebrating because he won’t have to resort to other methods (hitting her with a pillow or snatching the—his—blanket off her body, or if he really wanted to be obnoxious, playing a loud sound of an alarm clock in her ear). Her eyes blearily open, seeing his lower half initially, but they travel up to his face. He’s already staring down at her with a smile that’s all too cheery for…..eight in the morning.

“W–wha–”

“Guess what it’s time for. Any guesses?” He uses his fist as a fake microphone, humming with his eyes pointed to the ceiling in faux thought. A second of silence passes before he continues. “Ah, nothing? Well, I’ll give you a hint. What starts with an ‘L’ and ends with a ‘E’?”

Seriously, this is not what she was expecting first thing in the morning. “I—huh….?”

“Errr, 500 for time to leave?” Satoru lowers his pitch of voice, mimicking another person speaking. “Correct!” He returns back to his own tone, but once he sees the woman is still laying down in the same position on his bed with that confused expression that’s starting to get a little on his nerves, he rolls his eyes dramatically and sighs. “Get up.”

She gasps as he lifts her up by her arms, not too rough but still enough to jostle the sleepiness away from her senses. “Ah! Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” Satoru is practically dragging her out to his room and to the front door. He’s tempted to yank his shirt off her body, but then she’d be left naked. And Satoru isn’t that much of an asshole. With his free hand, he rips the door open and practically pushes her out. She stumbles and turns around to face him.

“Had a good night and all, but sorry, I don’t like visitors. Get home safe, yeah?”

He closes and locks the door in her face just as she opens her mouth. He can faintly hear her complaining on the other side, to which he rolls his eyes again and mumbles a small “dramatic” under his breath, before stalking over to the kitchen with a hum to make his breakfast.

And so, he moves in relative calmness, seemingly already pushing the situation out his mind for room for his delicious pancakes topped with copious amounts of syrup and sliced strawberries. Oh, but don’t forget the powdered sugar he layers as the final topping, served with a glass of cool orange juice. His mouth is practically watering as he sits down at his table with the plate in front of him, begging him eat me, eat me. Satoru has never had good self control, so he gives into the silent pleading and instantly devours at a speed that should honestly be concerning for him.

The rest of his house is empty and quiet, save for his slobbering. But it’s always silent. After all, he is the only occupant, savoring his alone time. It’s why he kicked out that woman. Sasha? Or maybe Sarah? He forgot already. This is what most of his mornings consist of, anyway. So yes, in conclusion, he’s very used to this little routine he has going on.

The list goes like this. First, make stupid decisions and come back with a woman around your arm. Fuck her good, wake up the next morning and not regret it, but rather remove any traces of the mistake as soon as possible. Once that’s over, eat breakfast, head to your in-home gym to do his routine workout. Clean up and see which one of your friends you can bother. Oh but how could he forget work. Right, so work while you’re bothering people. Sleep and repeat. Luckily, he doesn’t have a lecture until 11:30.

He doesn’t always bring a woman home, but if he had to say how many times a week he does, he would only say three. Which really isn’t that much, he tells himself. Because there’s times where he doesn’t even sleep with them. Either he suddenly gets a weird pre-nut clarity, the sex isn’t good just only one minute in, or they start drunkenly crying to him about whatever mid-life crisis they’re going through.

To which he scoffs and rolls his eyes and promptly kicks them out.

Some would—do—call his lifestyle bad. Unhealthy. Whatever, he thinks. He’s a grown man, he could literally do whatever the hell he wanted. He’s clean and gets tested regularly, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? His friends try to get him to stop this stupid and reckless path he’s going down, but it almost always ends in him shrugging them off and continuing anyway.

Satoru likes the freedom, the ability to do what he wants without some bitch in his ear complaining about how ‘you need to stop this’. He has money, a good house, looks, smarts, everything. Really, he’s the full package. Satoru is a fairly happy-going person, he likes control. But when other people try to take that away from him, it almost sends him into a state of anger. Even if it’s out of love or whatever they say it’s for, still. He likes having control over himself and his life. So, who do these people think they are trying to tell him otherwise? They’re just lucky he’s smart enough to walk away before he says or does something he’ll more than likely forget. He doesn’t regret much, but one thing he does and always will regret is hurting those he holds close.

You could say that’s part of the reason he engages in so many of these little hookups and flings. No strings, no emotional attachment, nothing. He doesn’t have to worry about saying or doing the wrong thing because he’ll never see them again after this. They’ll be gone first thing in the morning, then he’ll have the rest of the day to himself.

What doesn’t sound better than that?

He spends the next hour in his gym, trying to rush a bit so he still has time to freshen up before his lecture.

The ringing of his phone cuts him off just as he’s in the middle of his third set of pull ups. He almost doesn’t answer, but with a stolen glance at the screen of his phone with the name and contact photo plastered on it, he sighs, but continues on with his pull ups. “Alexa, answer the phone.”

“Accepting a call from ‘sugurupoo’.” Alexa replies back in her usual monotone voice, it almost makes Satoru laugh at the stupid name he set years ago.

“Satoru, where are you right now?”

“Why?” he grunts out, laughing. “You lookin’ for me?”

Suguru sighs. “I thought we were having a quick bite before our lectures.”

“Ah,” Satoru hums, setting his feet down onto the ground, wiping his forehead with a rag. “Right, I forgot about our little date.”

“First, it’s not a date. And second, you’re an ass. I’ve been waiting for you to show up for twenty minutes now.”

Satoru chuckles, the sound light and teasing. “Twenty minutes? Damn, I didn’t know you missed me that much.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Suguru bites back, though his irritation is softened by the familiarity of their banter. “Where are you?”

“Gym,” Satoru replies, tilting his head to glance at the clock on the wall. “Lost track of time. You know how it is—getting these gains takes commitment.”

“Unbelievable,” Suguru mutters. “You’re bailing on food to flex in front of a mirror?”

“Not just a mirror,” Satoru retorts, grinning. “There’s a crowd, actually. They love me here.”

“You mean your delusions?” Suguru deadpans.

Satoru laughs again, stretching. The sound of his joints popping audible through the phone. “Fine, fine. I’ll head out. You still at the café?”

“Yes,” Suguru says sharply. “But I’m not waiting all day for you, so hurry up.”

“Relax, I’m on my way,” Satoru says, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t eat without me.”

“I’m tempted to,” Suguru mutters before hanging up.

Satoru grins to himself, heading upstairs to the main house. He’s late, sure, but it’s not like Suguru hasn’t come to expect that by now. If anything, it’s part of the charm of being friends with Satoru Gojo—or so he likes to think.

He does a quick shower, changing into a pale blue button up with black slacks to match. A pair of black shoes and his glasses and he’s out. He beeps his Porsche 911 Turbo S in blue, nonchalantly sliding into the drivers side and heading off to the meeting spot with his friend. Using his right hand on the wheel, his other rhythmically tapping against his car door to the beat of the music playing.

In just a few minutes, he parks in two spots and steps out of the car, his sunglasses glinting in the afternoon light as he locks the doors with a press of his key fob. The Porsche chirps in response, drawing a few passing glances from people walking by. He adjusts his neat button-up, tugging at the cuffs to loosen them slightly, and strides toward the café with his usual air of confidence.

The door jingles softly as he steps inside, scanning the room for Suguru. It doesn’t take long to spot him—seated near the window, his long hair tied back, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him.

“About time,” Suguru calls out as Satoru approaches, his tone half-annoyed, half-amused. “Thought you might’ve gotten lost.”

Satoru grins, sliding into the seat across from him. “Me? Lost? Never. You’re just impatient.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re forty minutes late. I could’ve eaten and left by now.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” Satoru says, leaning back in his chair, legs outspread with a smirk. “Because deep down, you enjoy my company too much to leave.”

Suguru rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, instead pushing a menu toward Satoru. “Order something and spare me the theatrics.”

Satoru picks up the menu, glancing at it briefly before setting it down. “I’ll just get the usual. No need to overthink it.”

“The usual being half the menu?” Suguru asks dryly.

“Hey, a man’s like me gotta eat,” Satoru says with a shrug, flagging down a waiter with an easy wave.

As they place their orders and settle into the familiar rhythm of conversation, Satoru can’t help but feel a sense of ease. Despite his tendency to push boundaries—and Suguru’s patience—their friendship remains a constant, grounding him in a way few things do.

“So,” Suguru says after a moment, leaning forward slightly. “How’d last night go for you?”

Satoru laughs, shaking his head. “How do you think?” Pointing to a faint hickey hidden under the collar of his shirt.

“Right,” Suguru says, sighing. “You really have no restraint, you know? You can work at eight in the morning but still stay out until three the previous night.”

“Finally, someone gets it,” Satoru replies, grinning.

Suguru exhales but can’t hide the small smirk tugging at his lips. “Did you at least shower before coming here?”

Satoru flashes him another grin. “Don’t I smell delightful?”

“Like regret and bad decisions,” Suguru rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee.

Satoru laughs. “C’mon, live a little. I had a great night, and now I’m here, ready to be the best company you’ve ever had.”

Suguru watches him for a moment, shaking his head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” Satoru quips, popping the piece of muffin into his mouth as soon as it’s placed in front of his best friend by the waiter.

The other man scoffs but doesn’t argue, instead pushing the plate closer to Satoru. “You’re paying for your own food, by the way.”

“You are so not a gentleman.”

“Not to men, I’m not.”

“So if I were a woman, you’d act charming and like a true man?”

“Hah, you fuckin’ wish.”

“I do,” Satoru replies easily, checking the time on his phone. An hour and a half left.

His friend ignores that remark, crossing his arms as he sets his drink down. “Hey, so are you going to the thing on Saturday?”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, head tilting. “The thing?” he echoes, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Suguru. I get invited to a lot of things.”

Suguru exhales sharply through his nostrils, clearly unamused. “The gathering at Speakeasy. Shoko mentioned it. A bunch of us are meeting up there.”

“Ohhh, that thing,” Satoru says, dragging out the words like he just remembered. He tilts his head the other way, tapping a finger against his chin. “Depends. Who all’s gonna be there?”

“The usual crowd,” Suguru replies. “Shoko, a few people from her med school, some others I think you’ll tolerate.”

Satoru smirks. “Tolerate? You make it sound like I’m hard to please.”

“You are,” Suguru shoots back, his tone dry. “But Shoko insisted on inviting you, and for some reason, I agreed.”

“I’m honored,” Satoru says, placing a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “Fine, I’ll come. But only because I like to make these things interesting.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Interesting how?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Satoru replies, flashing a mischievous grin.

Suguru shakes his head, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Just don’t embarrass us. Or yourself.”

“No promises,” Satoru says, already imagining the chaos he could stir up.

“She did say something, though.” Suguru adds on. When Satoru hums back in response, looking back down at his phone, he continues. “She said under no condition are you to flirt with her friends. She wants everyone to have fun, not stop you from making pass after pass.”

Satoru snorts, barely looking up from his phone. “Shoko said that? That’s rich, coming from someone who thinks ‘fun’ is chain-smoking on the balcony and pretending she’s in a noir film.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his coffee. “Don’t deflect. She’s serious. She doesn’t want you turning her friends into your next dating pool.”

“I don’t date, Suguru,” Satoru replies with a hint of bite, finally glancing up. “I simply... entertain.”

“Exactly her point,” Suguru mutters, crossing his arms. “She knows how you are, and she doesn’t want her friends stuck in your web of ‘entertainment.’”

Satoru leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, his grin widening. “She’s scared they’ll fall for my charm, huh?”

“No,” Suguru says flatly. “She’s scared you’ll get bored, and she’ll have to deal with the aftermath.”

Satoru feigns a hurt expression, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No faith in me at all. I’m deeply wounded.”

Suguru glares at him, unimpressed. “Just… promise you’ll behave. For once.”

Satoru waves him off with a lazy grin. “Fine, fine. I’ll be good. But you know, if someone approaches me, that’s not really on me, is it?”

Suguru groans, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” Satoru says, flashing him a wink before returning to his phone.

“Starting to regret it.” Suguru mumbles under his breath, lip downturning into a frown. He analyzes the white haired man across from him for a silent moment. Watching his smile and small chuckle at something stupid on his phone. He can only hope Satoru will keep his word, truly. Suguru sighs, rubbing his temple as he leans back in his seat. "You know, Satoru, sometimes I wonder if you take anything seriously."

Satoru looks up from his phone, his grin unwavering. "Of course I do! I take having fun very seriously. It’s a full-time job, you know."

Suguru just shakes his head, huffing through his nose. "You’re exhausting."

"And yet," Satoru starts, pointing a finger at him, "you keep inviting me out. Makes you wonder who’s really at fault here, huh?"

Suguru’s frown deepens, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrays him. "I keep hoping one day you’ll surprise me. That you’ll actually act like an adult for more than five minutes."

"Hey," Satoru says, feigning offense. "I can be an adult when it matters. Just because I choose not to all the time doesn’t mean I don’t know how."

Suguru gives him a long, scrutinizing look. "Saturday night. That’s your chance to prove it. Shoko’s giving you one rule. Can you handle that?"

Satoru leans back, tossing his phone onto the table with a dramatic sigh. "Alright, alright. I promise, no flirting with her friends. Cross my heart, hope to die." He even makes a little "X" motion over his chest for emphasis.

"I’m holding you to that," Suguru says, though there’s still skepticism in his tone.

Satoru flashes his trademark smile, full of mischief. "Relax, Suguru. I’ll be the picture of self-control. You won’t even recognize me."

Suguru utters under his breath, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You’ve been debating Shoko’s offer since she told you about it. That was on a Monday. It’s now Friday evening, having just come back from work. The light above displaying its warmth highlights your figure sitting at the lone kitchen table. Well, not exactly lone.

While you’re munching on a platter of rice and fish, your cat is doing the same across from you. Obviously not rice and fish, but her own cat food.

Your calico cat, aptly named Cinnamon, is a picture of elegance wrapped in mischief. Her predominantly white coat is a clean canvas, dotted with splashes of fiery orange and sleek black, creating a tapestry that seems almost deliberate in its beauty. Her left ear is entirely black, contrasting with the orange streak that runs like a comet across her back.

Her sharp green eyes glimmer with curiosity, a mix of jade and lime hues that shift in the warm kitchen light. They’re always watching—whether it’s the flick of your fork, the twitch of your fingers, or the way you lean into your chair, Cinnamon observes it all with the wisdom of a feline who believes she’s the queen of her small domain.

Her paws, delicate and white, tread lightly across the linoleum floor, though they’ve certainly caused their share of chaos when batting pens or half-full glasses off the table. She has a fluffy tail that curves like a question mark, often brushing against your legs as if to say, Don’t forget I’m here.

Despite her mischievous streak, Cinnamon’s coat is always soft to the touch, her fur holding warmth like a freshly baked loaf of bread. And whenever you reach out to pet her, she leans into your hand, her purring a gentle hum that makes the loneliness in your little apartment feel less heavy.

She’s only two years old, having rescued her off the street after a particularly snowy day. She was so small in your hands it was adorable. After her first visit to the vet, you discovered she had been born deaf.

Along with Shoko, Cinnamon had become your anchor after moving to the big city all alone. She was a reminder that you’re not really alone. And while you wish she was granted the right to hear your soft coos and praises, your touch is something that means just as much.

After observing her movements, you look back down at your food. It would be nice to go. Maybe you can make some new friends, get out of your shell for once. You’re 29, but mentally you still feel like you’re in your early twenties. You never really experienced the fun people do at that age. Partying, clubbing, one night stands, waking up on a random person’s couch.

Although sometimes you’re glad you didn’t, the thought still pokes and prods at your subconscious from time to time. Including now. You seriously can’t keep living like this. Seriously, people your age are married and having families. For example, your brother.

You can’t say you hate clubs if you’ve never even gone. You can’t say you hate meeting new people if you rarely even do that. It’s just your own set of insecurities and self doubts that keep you chained to the dungeon of your own mind.

You wonder, sometimes, if it’s easier to stay locked in that safe space of isolation. No one to disappoint, no expectations to meet. It’s so much quieter in your head when you're alone. No judgments, no glances, no questions that you can’t answer.

But then, there’s always that nagging thought, that whisper in the back of your mind. What if you’re missing out on something better? What if there’s more than just the silence you’ve grown comfortable with?

Don’t you deserve some redemption? Not every person on this Earth is a horrible human being.

It’s a familiar battle—the pull between the comfort of solitude and the yearning for something beyond the walls you’ve built. You’ve never been the outgoing type, never the one to seek attention or jump into the spotlight. Yet, part of you wonders if you could change that. If you could be someone who takes risks, someone who shows up for the moments that matter instead of hiding from them.

Shoko. Speakeasy. She’s been inviting you out for months now, but this time feels different. Maybe it’s the way she worded it, or the way she’s been extra persistent, almost as if she can sense that something in you is on the verge of breaking out. But even now, you hesitate. The voices in your head, the ones that keep you quiet and safe, they whisper louder. What if you’re out of place? What if you don’t belong there?

You tap your foot nervously, staring at the plate of food. You’ve been meaning to take that step outside your comfort zone...and yet, there’s still that part of you holding you back, like a tug of war between the unknown and the familiar.

Maybe Saturday is the night you finally take that first step. Or maybe it’ll be another moment of hesitation, another night spent wondering what could have been.

But it’s up to you to make that decision. And the more you sit here and hesitate, think of the what ifs, the harder the decision is becoming. So, with a burst of courage, you rip the bandaid off. No going back.

Your fingers work quickly at your phone screen, typing out:

You:

What time Saturday?

The minutes that pass are spent with you tapping a palm against your cheek, lightly reprimanding yourself. Why did I do that? Now I have to go! The second you get a text back, you’re not sure if it’s dread, anxiety, or a hint of excitement.

Same thing.

Ieiri:

9pm, see you there :)

The night buzzed with an electric hum as Satoru pulled his jacket tighter around himself, stepping out of the sleek black car that parked a few feet away from the club’s entrance. Speakeasy was alive tonight, its neon sign casting a soft glow onto the crowd gathered outside, the faint bass of the music vibrating through the pavement.

He adjusted the collar of his jacket, tossing a quick glance at the line of people waiting to get in. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, but the energy in the air was sharp—anticipatory. Nights like this were his playground, and Satoru never missed an opportunity to enjoy himself. Suguru had texted him earlier to remind him—no, warn him—not to mess around. Shoko’s words were practically seared into his memory by now: No flirting with her friends.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t behave. He just didn’t see the fun in restraint. Still, tonight was about more than just him. He figured he’d at least try to make an effort—for Suguru’s and Shoko’s sake, if nothing else.

Sliding his sunglasses up into his hair, he smirked at the bouncer, who gave him a nod of recognition. Being Satoru Gojo had its perks. He breezed past the line, feeling the envious stares of the waiting crowd. The heavy door opened, and he was hit with a wave of heat, the thrum of music, and the low chatter of voices layered over it all. Inside, the club was alive—dim lights reflecting off polished surfaces, laughter and conversation mingling with the music, and the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the air. He scanned the room, his sharp blue eyes catching on familiar figures near the bar. The DJ was currently playing—what he assumed—early 2000s American music. Not his exact favorite but hey, he actually loves Usher.

The second floor is where Suguru said everyone would be. Making his way up the stairs, he sees that Suguru is already there, leaning casually against the counter with a drink in hand. Shoko sat next to him, her head tilted as she laughed at something he’d said. She noticed him first, her gaze locking onto his before she gave a small, knowing wave.

Satoru sauntered over, seeing the other people Shoko invited, mainly women. his usual swagger in his step, his grin firmly in place. “You miss me?” he asked, sliding into the seat next to Suguru.

“Like a hole in the head,” Shoko deadpanned, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Suguru shook his head, handing Satoru a drink. “You’re late. Again.”

“Fashionably,” Satoru corrected, taking the glass and raising it in mock salute. He leaned back in his seat, letting his gaze drift across the upstairs area. Seemed Shoko went all out, securing a VIP section. It was the same as always—music, drinks, strangers exchanging fleeting glances. Yet, there was a flicker of something different tonight, something he couldn’t quite place.

“So,” he started, swirling the drink in his hand as he turned back to his friends. “Where’s the party?”

Shoko rolled her eyes, her tone dry as she replied, “The party’s right here, Satoru. Try not to ruin it.”

He laughed, leaning forward, his grin widening. “Oh, come on. When have I ever ruined anything?”

Suguru and Shoko exchanged a look, and Satoru rolled his eyes. Tonight was shaping up to be interesting, even if he had to behave. Or at least pretend to.

“Shoko!” One of her friends, visibly drunk, rushes up to her. “The girls and I are doing shots, c’mon!” With a giggle, Shoko is promptly dragged away to the side, a circle of women forming as they ready themselves for the shots they’re about to force down.

After mindlessly sipping, he finishes his drink. Standing up with a small grunt, looking around like he’s scoping the place. “I’ll be back.”

“Satoru.” Suguru replies in that knowing tone of his.

“Relax,” Satoru laughs, nudging his friend’s foot. “I’m behaving. You said I couldn’t flirt with her friends, but they’re not the only eye candy up here.”

Suguru sighs, already regretting his decision to let Satoru tag along. “Just don’t start anything stupid,” he mutters, leaning back against the bar as he watches his friend disappear into the crowd.

Satoru navigates through the sea of people with ease, his height giving him an advantage as he scans the room. The music thrums in his chest, the bass almost matching the rhythm of his pulse. He doesn’t have a plan—not that he ever does—but there’s always something, or someone, that catches his eye.

He moves toward the edge of the dance floor, his gaze flitting between the moving bodies, the glowing bar signs, and the scattered tables filled with groups of friends or couples sharing drinks. It’s not that he’s particularly looking for anything tonight—he just enjoys the thrill of seeing what, or who, might cross his path. As he leans casually against a nearby column, his attention is drawn to a table in the corner. A group of women sits there, laughing and talking over cocktails.

Bingo.

“Hi there,” Satoru approaches the woman on the side, leaning in slightly like he’s trying to make sure she hears him over the music. “You’re very beautiful, are you here all alone?”

The woman startles slightly, her eyes widening as she looks up at him. For a moment, it seems like she’s unsure if he’s even talking to her, her gaze flicking to the nearby group of women. But when she realizes he’s fully focused on her, her cheeks flush a faint pink. “Oh, um,” she stammers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I’m with my friends.” She gestures vaguely toward the table, where the other women are chatting animatedly, seemingly unaware of the exchange.

Satoru grins, “I can tell that much, but I mean are you here with a guy?” He asks, shifting his weight casually as he leans an elbow on the back of her chair.

She lets out a nervous laugh, clearly flustered but not entirely uncomfortable. “I—uh—no, no. Do I know you?”

He tilts his head, his grin widening as if her question is a challenge. “Not yet. But I think we can fix that.”

It’s smooth, calculated—the kind of line Satoru’s used to throwing out without much thought. He doesn’t expect every woman to fall for it, but he knows how to work a room, how to read someone’s body language and play his cards just right.

Suguru’s voice lingers in his head, a faint reprimand. Don’t flirt with her friends. But this woman isn’t part of Shoko’s circle, and besides, Satoru never said he’d stop being himself. “So,” he continues, his voice low and teasing, “are you going to tell me your name, or am I going to have to keep calling you ‘the prettiest girl in the room’ all night?”

The woman lets out a soft, breathy laugh, the kind that tells Satoru she’s not used to this kind of attention—or at least not from someone as bold as him. She glances down at her drink, swirling the contents nervously before finally looking back up at him. “It’s Mayumi,” she says, her voice light and uncertain, as if she’s still deciding whether or not she should be engaging with him.

“Mayumi,” Satoru repeats, tasting her name like it’s something rare and exotic. “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” He leans in slightly, his tone dropping just enough to feel intimate without crossing a line. “So, Mayumi, what brings you here tonight? Celebrating something? Or are you just here to escape the world for a little while?”

Her lips curve into a shy smile, her fingers brushing the edge of her glass. “My friends dragged me out,” she admits. “They thought I needed to… loosen up, I guess.”

“And do you?” he asks, one brow quirking as his grin turns playful.

“Do I what?”

“Need to loosen up.” His voice is teasing, his gaze unwavering as if he’s trying to read every flicker of emotion on her face.

Mayumi looks away, her smile fading into something more subdued. “Maybe,” she murmurs, her tone quieter now. “It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like this.”

Satoru straightens slightly, his grin softening into something that almost looks genuine. “Well, then,” he says, extending a hand toward her. “How about we change that? Dance with me.”

She stares at his hand like it’s a foreign object, her expression a mix of hesitation and intrigue. “I—I don’t know,” she stammers. “I’m not really a good dancer.”

“Lucky for you,” Satoru says, winking, “neither am I.”

He wiggles his fingers invitingly, his confidence infectious enough to make her laugh again. After a moment’s hesitation, she places her hand in his, letting him gently pull her to her feet.

“See?” he says, leading her toward the edge of the dance floor. “You’re already loosening up.”

She shakes her head, but the smile on her face tells him she’s starting to enjoy herself. As they step into the sea of moving bodies, Satoru glances over his shoulder, his eyes catching Suguru’s across the room. His friend’s expression is a mix of exasperation and amusement, shaking his head as if to say, Of course you couldn’t resist.

Satoru smirks, mouthing, I’m behaving, before turning his attention back to Mayumi, the night stretching ahead with endless possibilities.

This continues on for at least two more hours. Mayumi is sweet and all, but so are her friends Raya, and Mina, and Sera. He’s a little more tipsy than he’d like to be, but he’s not driving tonight. Besides, he’s a lightweight, he should’ve been more calculating on his drink count. Oh well, not like he has work tomorrow. Just some grading and emails from students trying to raise their grade and kissing his ass.

He laughs about it, even with his arm around Ai, his half empty drink in the other. Bright eyes glazed over, cheeks undoubtedly red, and a lazy smile permanently etched on his face. However, his nose twitches subtly, when a sudden scent invades his nostrils. Satoru remembers being praised by his teachers and schoolmates for his outstanding senses that it was almost scary sometimes.

The little thing, he hears. The smallest item, he sees. And the faint scent, he smells.

It’s weak at first, weaving through the layered smells of perfume, alcohol, and sweat. But it’s distinct—a soft, clean scent, almost like fresh linen mixed with something sweet and floral. But it also smells like marshmallows, like a cozy night in front of the fire. His nose twitches again, and his lazy smile falters for just a moment.

The scent is out of place here, where everything feels loud and brash. It’s quiet and grounding, tugging at something deep in his hazy, alcohol-soaked brain. He tilts his head slightly, scanning the room without meaning to, his arm still loosely draped around Ai’s shoulders.

“Satoru?” Ai’s voice pulls him back, light and teasing. She tilts her head to catch his eye, her glossy lips curving into a playful pout. “You still with me?”

“Hmm?” He blinks, looking down at her with an easy grin that feels more automatic than usual. “Of course I am. Where else would I be?”

“Hard to tell sometimes.” She giggles, poking his chest lightly, but he’s already tuning her out.

The scent lingers, wrapping itself around him like a thread pulling taut. It shouldn’t matter. It’s probably just some random person passing by, someone’s perfume or shampoo. But something about it makes his chest tighten, a strange warmth blooming there that he can’t quite place.

Without even realizing it, he’s scanning the room again, his gaze sharper now, cutting through the dim lighting and flashing neon.

“What are you looking for?” Ai asks, her voice tinged with curiosity, but he doesn’t answer.

Because suddenly, he sees her.

You’re standing near the bar, posture reserved, and gaze focused on something—or maybe nothing—in the distance. You’re not really dressed to stand out, outfit simple and understated compared to the glittering ensembles of the crowd. But it’s her, and for some reason, he knows you’re the source of that scent.

Satoru’s grip on his drink tightens, his fingers flexing around the glass as he watches you. You don't look like she belongs here, not in the way others do. It’s like you’re not trying to be seen, not angling for attention. And yet, somehow, you’re all he can see. All he can smell. He’s biting on his lip now.

Ai’s voice snaps him back again, sharper this time. “Satoru, are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively, finally pulling his arm away from her and setting his drink down on a nearby table.

“Where are you going?” she calls after him, but he doesn’t answer.

His feet are already moving, carrying him toward the bar, toward you. The closer he gets, the stronger your sweet and addictive fragrance gets. And Satoru craves sweet things. He’s inhaling and inhaling, like he’s trying to get every trace of it lodged in his nose, in his being. With one final, strong whiff, he leans against the bar next to you. Subtly and smoothly.

You still haven’t noticed him. With a peer down at your drink, its dark fizziness tells him you’re not a drinker.

Play it cool, play it cool. But it’s hard to do that when he wants to shove his face in your hair.

“Not much of a drinker, huh?” Satoru says, his voice smooth and casual, just loud enough to cut through the music.

You glance up, startled at first, then wary. Your eyes meet his—blue, bright, and annoyingly self-assured. He leans on the bar like he owns it, a boyish simper on his face as if he’s done this a thousand times before.

You don’t answer, not right away. Instead, you turn back to your drink, fingers lightly tapping the glass.

Satoru doesn’t let the silence faze him. He tilts his head, studying you with an almost curious expression. “Let me guess,” he continues, undeterred. “It’s root beer. Or maybe cola? You seem like the cola type.”

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of your lips, but you quickly press them into a thin line. He catches it anyway, filing it away as a small victory. “Ah, not a talker, huh?” he presses, his tone light and teasing. “That’s okay. I’m great at one-sided conversations. People say I have a gift for it. I have a lot of them actually.”

You take a slow sip of your drink, clearly trying to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. He leans in just slightly, not enough to invade your space, but enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.

“Come on,” he says after a moment, his grin softening into something almost genuine. “What’s a quiet little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

This time, you turn to him, your eyes narrowing slightly. The question lingers in the air, and for a brief moment, it seems like you might answer.

But instead, you just shrug.

Satoru blinks, caught off guard by your lack of response. Then he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

You glance at him again, and he swears there’s a hint of twinkle in your gaze before you look away.

And just like that, he’s hooked.

“There you are, I thought you ditched me.” A familiar voice suddenly appears, Shoko walking up to your other side and putting her arm around your shoulder. When she spots Satoru next to you, a small frown forms. Pulling you closer to her side slightly. “Are you bothering her?”

He huffs. “Pfft, what? No, I’m making conversation.”

Shoko raises a skeptical brow, her arm tightening around your shoulder as if shielding you from him. “Right. Making conversation,” she echoes, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

You glance between the two, feeling the tension shift in the air. It’s not hostile, but it’s clear Shoko isn’t thrilled with his presence. Satoru smirks, clearly unfazed. He leans casually against the bar, tilting his head in that annoyingly confident way of his. “Relax, Shoko. I’m not here to scare off your friend. I’m just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” she repeats, her frown deepening. “Your version of ‘friendly’ usually ends with someone giving you their number or regretting their life choices.”

He puts a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Ouch. You wound me.”

Shoko rolls her eyes, her fingers lightly drumming against your shoulder as she looks at you. “You okay?” she asks, her voice softer now, her concern evident.

You nod, offering a small smile, though your hands instinctively grip your drink a little tighter.

“See? She’s fine,” Satoru cuts in, flashing Shoko a triumphant grin. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Yet,” Shoko mutters under her breath before pulling you gently away from the bar. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s find a quieter spot.”

Satoru doesn’t try to stop you, but his eyes follow you as Shoko leads you across the room. His smirk lingers, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it—curiosity, maybe even intrigue.

“Friend of yours?” he calls after Shoko, loud enough for you to hear.

She doesn’t look back, but her reply is sharp and to the point. “Off limits, Satoru.”

For the first time that night, his grin falters slightly. Off limits, huh?

Now, he’s really intrigued.

Throughout the time left, he’s busying himself with chatting up other people, even giving a small kiss to this one named Yua (he thinks that’s her name). He’s on his last drink of the night, feeling more breezy by the second. But even as his attempts at having a good rest of his night aren’t exactly failing him, he can’t stop himself from sending glance after glance to the direction Shoko whisked you away to.

You’re with her other friends that are still here, though standing against the wall in an awkward position that makes him laugh to himself.

Shoko’s trying to include you, but it’s not that easy.

The way you stand there, clearly out of your element, is oddly endearing. It’s a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the club and the people surrounding you. Shoko’s doing her best, gesturing animatedly as she talks, trying to pull you into the conversation with her friends. He can tell she’s trying to make you feel included, but it’s not really working. You offer a polite nod or a faint smile every now and then, but your body language screams discomfort.

Another sip. Another glance.

What is it about you that keeps pulling his attention? He’s met plenty of people tonight, charmed them, entertained them, even kissed one. Yet here he is, more drawn to the quiet person hiding against the wall than the vibrant partygoers vying for his attention.

“Earth to Satoru.” Yua’s voice cuts through his thoughts, her hand waving in front of his face.

“Hm?” He turns to her, blinking as if snapping out of a trance.

“You okay? You’ve been zoning out,” she teases, leaning a little closer.

He offers a crooked grin, shrugging. “Yeah, just thinking about how long I’ve been here. Probably time to head out soon.”

Yua pouts but doesn’t press further. “Can I com—“

He downs the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass on the bar before pushing off it. His gaze drifts toward you one last time, watching as you glance down at your drink, clearly counting the seconds until you can leave.

Off limits. Shoko’s words echo in his mind again, but the mischievous glint in his eyes says otherwise. “See you around,” he tosses to Yua as he starts to walk away, the pull toward you stronger than the haze of alcohol in his system.

And you can feel him approach, trying your hardest not to look over because if you don’t, then maybe he won’t actually do it. However, you’re proven wrong. Your lips threaten to downturn into a displeased frown at his persistence. Can’t he take a hint?

Shoko’s too busy taking another shot, because if she wasn’t, no doubt she’d be shooing him away again like he’s a stray dog staring at a piece of meat.

In a sense, he is.

“You like dancing?” He asks, having to lean in closer to your ear in order to be audible over the pounding bass of the throwback music. An opening, you think to yourself. If you say yes, he’ll ask you to dance with him. If you say no, he’ll still probably try to dance with you.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Instinctively, you step a half foot back, awkwardly holding your glass of coke in your hands. The drink feels stabilizing in this environment, giving you something to do with your hands. When you see the grin on his face, it almost makes you want to call back for Shoko like she’ll save you. You shake your head and look back down at the black fizzles.

His head tilts, eyebrow raising up slightly. “You wanna learn?”

Again, you give your head a small shake.

His lips purse into a confused, almost disappointed frown before he dramatically sighs. Leaning up against the wall beside you. You can feel the way he—either accidentally or purposefully—brushes his hand along your arm. Once more, you put a hint of distance between you two.

It feels so awkward, so unbelievably awkward. You’ve seen him converse with practically everyone up here, but why is he so stuck on you? You’re not even reciprocating anything, but he hasn’t left you yet. In your mind, you’re counting down the minutes till when it’s socially acceptable to go back home. In his mind, he’s trying to piece you together. From the looks of it, you’re like a puzzle.

And he’s always loved puzzles.

Finally, he sighs. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low but clear, enough to cut through the noise of the club. “You know, you’re not fooling anyone, right?”

You glance up at him, confusion clouding your features. He doesn’t give you time to respond. “You keep looking for an exit,” he continues, his tone not mocking, but almost thoughtful. “It’s written all over your face. You came to hang out, but now you’re just trying to get through the night without standing out too much.”

You blink, slightly taken aback, suddenly feeling the need to protect yourself. “I’m not—”

He cuts you off with a raised hand. “It’s fine. Everyone does it, really. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know more.” You open your mouth to protest, to dismiss him, but before you can get the words out, he adds with a tilt of his head, “Or maybe you’re just scared of the spotlight?”

The word scared sticks in your mind, gnawing at your thoughts. You’re not scared—are you? Sure, you don’t like being the center of attention, but that’s different. Isn’t it?

Satoru watches the subtle shift in your expression, the way your gaze darts away from his and then back to your drink, and he knows he’s got you. You’re curious, even if you won’t admit it. “Just one dance,” he adds suddenly, his voice teasing but not pushy. “You don’t have to say yes if you really don’t want to. But you’re missing out.” The chuckle that follows leaves you even more curious. He’s teasing, of course. But maybe there’s some truth held to his words.

He’s waiting now, watching you, his grin growing wider at the faintest flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. You’re not the easy pick, and that’s exactly what’s drawing him in.

However, you’re saved by the bell. Almost literally.

“Alright everyone, Speakeasy is beginning its closing! Please head out of the nearest exit! Thank you and we’re open again tomorrow, same time!”

The voice of either the manager, DJ, whoever runs the club emits from all the speakers. You breathe a small sigh of relief, drinking the rest of your coke and placing the glass on the table. Satoru’s hand reaches out, as if contemplating touching your shoulder, but you’re already alerting Shoko of your departure.

“I’m so glad you came, did you have fun?” Shoko asks, drunkenly smiling and hugging you. When Satoru hears your lowered chuckle, a weird punch-like force is delivered to his gut.

“Mhm, thank you for inviting me.”

“You know you’re always welcome.” She pulls back, examining your face. “Driving back?”

You nod in response.

“Okay, be safe. Text me when you get back home.”

“You too.”

Her smile turns more genuine, planting a platonic kiss to your cheek before letting you go. You zip your jacket up, adjusting your purse strap on your shoulder and head to the stairs.

“Hey.”

God damn it. You hesitate for a moment whether to keep walking or answer him, but you’re too kind-hearted for blatant ignorance. So, you look over your shoulder to see the white haired man that’s been pretty much bugging you this entire night. He steps closer, hands shoved in his pockets. “Before you go, I’m Satoru.”

And now he’s introducing himself to you. You feel even more wary. You don’t want him to think this means anything, but you came out for a reason. To attempt to break from your hardened shell. Besides, it’s just your name. “Y/N.”

The corner of his lip tilts up, revealing a small dimple on his cheek. The sight makes you warm. “I like that.”

Satoru studies you for a moment, his eyes playful but softened, a sharp contrast to the usual teasing energy that surrounded him. You can’t help but notice the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to read every part of you. But the warmth that spreads through your chest at his compliment is undeniable. You didn’t expect it. Most people would’ve just moved on by now, given how you’ve been brushing him off. “Y/N,” he repeats, his voice low and almost contemplative. “Nice name. Fits you.”

You can feel the slight tension in the air, that quiet moment between you two, and despite your better judgment, something about him is… disarming. His presence, the easy confidence he exudes, is like a soft pull on your composure. It makes you hesitate longer than you should. After internal debate, you nod briefly and continue walking back to the stairs. Again, his voice calls out to you. “By the way, I love the way you smell.”

Your steps falter, face contorting into confusion. What an odd compliment for someone you don’t know. Without turning around, you tell him, “Thank you.” Hurrying your steps so he doesn’t try to stop you again and with that, you’re out of his sight.

Even though you only muttered a few sentences to him, Satoru feels a strange sense of curiosity. Curiosity mingled with determination. He smiles to himself, drinking the last bits of his drink before heading off too. A thought reverberates throughout his mind like a drum, even when Suguru is patting his shoulder goodbye.

He wonders how long it’ll take to get a girl like you in his bed.

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[bellsmess]

Whenever someone calls Charles Rowland straight, an angel dies.

What straight guy tells his best friend who just confessed to him that there's no one else – no one – he would go to Hell for. And that they have forever to figure out what that means. You don’t get his repressed bisexuality like I do!

Even modern bisexuals (I may or may not be speaking from personal experience) are oblivious to the fact they're bi because heteronormative roles are so engraved in our minds. When you're attracted to other genders, it's easy to miss a same-sex crush, only then to realise that oh, it wasn’t just admiration, it was attraction.

Charles, having grown up at the height of the AIDS crisis, with an abusive and probably homophobic father, killed by racist bullies? That would make anyone repress any gay feelings. Especially if you experience crushes on people with a different sex to you.

Charles sees Crystal and takes his chance. He's enamoured with this smart, strong-willed, pretty girl who can see him not only in a physical sense, but pays attention to him. He longs to be loved. Then he says the infamous "That sounds alot like you, doesn't it? Maybe that's why I like her so much" line. What an icon. And he compares himself and his best friend to the greatest love story of all time, Orpheus and Euridyce's.

When Edwin confesses to him, he doesn't rule out the possibility of returning these feelings. He knows they're already devoted to each other. They've already had 30 years of companionship and solving cases together.

"As long as I have my best mate and a case to solve, I'm good."

Being with Edwin is simple. They solve cases, help others, run away from Death. It's a simple existance. Charles gave up eternity to be with Edwin, because he was kind to him when he was dying. Charles finds him fun, wants to protect him, knows that Edwin is a kind and good person. One that Charles wants to be.

"Bad guys don't worry about being bad guys. And you, Charles Rowland, are the best person I know."

Crystal's role is very important in changing the dynamic between Edwin and Charles. Not only because Charles falls for her, but because she opens them up. She digs out their repressed feelings and trauma. Charles finally deals with his dad's abuse, his happy-go-lucky mask falls. She points it out to Edwin. Charles kept it up so well because Edwin didn't press it, but Crystal does. And Charles finally lets himself process what happened to him, and how that affects his relationships.

Charles never saw genuine love between his parents, and that affects how he views relationships. It impacts how he forms them, too. But he's a loverboy, he longs to be loved, he falls easily. Why wouldn’t he fall for someone who stuck to his side for 30 years?

Crystal and Monty's roles mirror each other – they help the boys figure out their feelings and desires. Crystal makes Edwin jealous that there's someone else Charles cares about in the same sense he cares for Edwin. The Cat King helps Edwin discover desire, Monty – genuine love. As Charles' and Crystal's relationship kickstarts (albeit ends as quickly) and Monty persues Edwin, he discovers the depth of his feelings.

"These complicated feelings that you have? They're for Charles."

I would love to see their wants explored more in the future season(s, hopefully multiple). Charles giving into desire with Desire of the Endless' guidance? Yes please.

I simply cannot believe that anyone would doubt Painland/Payneland endgame. They're everything to each other. They're a constant presence, reassurance, and love. Platonic, romantic, it doesn't matter. Their bond is so deep and genuine that immortal beings see it and leave them be, in the afterlife they chose for each other. Their love is so deep it transcends planes: from mortal plane to Hell, it leads Charles to Edwin. Charles is not Orpheus, when he turns around to hear Edwin out on the staircase from Hell, he manages to get him out. And they have literally forever for each other.

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO …

Pairing - Cillian Murphy x fem!reader

Warnings - No warning, the disgust!!! Fluff with a side of angst, I’m shocked… cheesy as

Word count - 2.4+

The day had been exhausting. Cillian, who expresses the importance of sleep, was unable to keep his eyes shut last night in the luxurious king size bed. Usually the award shows were just a part of the job, never taken as seriously as working on the project. But this was different, he had never experienced the honor of such recognition by the industry he adored. Everyone was hyping him up and secretly it terrified him even though he acted unphased. 

Humble, was the word you’d use to describe Cillian. The most modest man in Hollywood, never believing that his work is exemplary. Always reflecting on what else he could have done to be better. It was a guilty desire, to want to win it. He had already won all of the other major awards, but what if he managed to fall short to this?

Likewise to him, you remained awake. Merely embracing him as you two laid in silence. You kept him at bay, he wondered what he did to deserve you. Feared the embarrassment of what you’d think of him if he didn’t win this last one. 

He threw up in the morning. It was all getting to his head. These were the parts he hated most about this job. The expectation on his back now. All eyes were going to be on him tonight. Not to mention the reporters. At all of the award shows they tended to ask insensitive questions about your relationship. 

Your relationship with Cillian was certainly controversial. Age gaps always were. Neither of you ever intended to fall in love, but denying that spark of attraction felt like a major crime.  

At first, you both tried to make yourselves believe it to just be casual. To merely get those urges out of your system. Neither one of you intended on making the encounter romantic or innermost with each other. However, by the third date, it came to light in your senses that this was real. 

The dating stage was a rollercoaster of emotions. Filled to the rim with doubts of if you both would be able to make it work. Yeah, you’ve dated some real questionable guys. But a 20 year age difference was never a bridge you expected to cross. Despite the hesitance of this intangible factor, you two just couldn’t view a future without one another anymore. 

Slowly, you both tackled your insecurities of becoming public to your loved ones. The hardest were your parents, even though there was still a bit of an age gap, Cillian was closer to their age than yours and it was a judgment they couldn’t avoid. It took some time, but as they watched your eyes blossom at the sight of him they knew it was real. 

The public would never know how you brought Cillian out of his despair. A man of privacy he was, hardly anyone knew how toxic his first marriage was. How bad his mind had become after years of trying over something that was long dead cold. With how he had given up hope on ever feeling loved by another again. Most days he felt like a man trying to find a pin in a haystack. 

Dating Cillian taught you the value of privacy and wellbeing. Behind the closed doors, your relationship was paradise. You had never experienced a relationship that wasn’t followed by the media. It was all that you had ever known. But this, being able to focus on him and not on how the world perceived your relationship had changed your whole perspective. 

When the news broke that not only were you dating Cillian Murphy, but pregnant, the backlash was astounding. However, you both had the approval and support from your inner circles and that was all that mattered. You had a shotgun wedding in Ireland with a small number of attendees. It was the greatest day of your life until you gave birth to your daughter, Aisling. 

He looked so charming as you watched him dress in the hotel room. He was laughing nervously a lot, trying to talk about things other than the ceremony. 

You didn’t blame his distress. Years ago you were in the same affair. It was your hardest role and greatest accomplishment. Portraying a woman at her lowest point in a society that she felt she didn’t belong. By the end of production, a part of you felt like you were her. When you were nominated for Best Actress, you were filled with gratitude and honor. But also couldn’t help but to think at the back of your head if you really deserved this. A part of you didn’t feel worthy to be running with your fellow nominees. The anxiety rose inside of you everytime someone asked what would you do if you won? 

But, when the presenter announced your name, the wave of acceptance consumed you deep into the ocean. Everything you had ever done had led to that moment. There was no need for you to secretly bring yourself down. You have pushed your mind, body and soul for this project. The gratitude had overwhelmed you as you accepted this recognition. 

Watching him on the red carpet, you could see right through him. The illusion of confidence mixed with the gratitude of accolades. He wanted the night to be done with, there was nothing more that he wanted to do besides be at home with you and Aisling. It was the first time Cillian had attended the grand event and you observed him look around in awe in the ceremony room. The whole time you had held onto his hand tightly as the big four without hurry finally rolled over. 

“And the Oscar goes to…” Brendan Fraser paused as he opened the envelope.

Time froze over, your iron grip on Cillian’s hand as you stared immensely. There was this clock ticking in your head. Your emotions were masked as Cillian had a stern expression. You could sense how anxious he was with being in the running for the greatest honor.   

Despite the distance, you ever so clearly saw the look that lit in Brendan’s eyes and knew immediately. His gaze looked up to Cillian as he announced his name to the world. A radiant smile grew on Cillian’s lips as the audience started cheering for him. 

He acknowledged you promptly, his blue eyes soft as he leant in to kiss you. After a small exhale of relief, you wrapped your arms around his body and kissed him passionately. His forehead pressed against yours for a few seconds, but it felt like hours. The noise drained out and you both forgot where you were. It was just the two of you. When Cillian opened his eyes again, his gaze was met with your undying smile of bliss. 

The track for Oppenheimer was playing as Cillian slowly let you go and embraced his fellow cast members You were clapping your hands together uncontrollably, your eyes welled with tears of joy as you watched Cillian make the short journey to the stage.

Emily embraced you, you exhaled heavily against her as you were still feeling the overwhelming sensation against your skin. It was all too much to take in, you could see his photo up on all of the screens, the cheers were running down to your ear drums. It felt like deja vu from years ago when you were in the exact same spot. 

He shook all of the presenters' hands. Sharing a few words with each of them individually. The audience were still on their feet as Cillian looked down to the golden prize in his hold, his mouth dry as he struggled to think of what to say. 

The crowd was standing in awe for him. Cillian laughed nervously, his expression overwhelmed and shocked at what was occurring. He has never even dreamt of this moment, never believing he’d be able to make it. His hand trailed over jaw as his eyes took in everything. He waited for the audience to silence themselves but realized that they wouldn’t be doing it on their own any time soon. 

“Um, I’m a little overwhelmed. Thank you to the Academy” Cillian started, his eyes roaming over the room. The crowd came to silence. “Um, Chris Nolan and Emma Thomas, it's been the wildest, most exhilarating, most creatively satisfying journey you’ve taken me on over the last 20 years. I owe you more than I can say. Thank you so much” Cillian expressed his gratitude to them. His mentors, the people that trusted him dearly with many of their successes. 

There was such little time. Shockingly, Cillian hadn’t prepared himself for this moment, despite everyone telling him that even though the competition was scintillating, the Oscar already had his name written on it. Of course he had summed up a few words to say, people to recognise. But the shock had drowned his thoughts. 

“Every single crew member, every single cast member on Oppenheimer. You guys carried me through. All of my fellow nominees, I remain in awe of you guys, truly” Cillian acknowledged, his eyes darting around the room to look for his fellow nominees. 

He truly was in admiration of them. The pair of you had watched all of the nominated films and Cillian couldn’t help to be even in applause of them, but also intimidated by them as award season had rolled over. 

“I wanna thank my incredible team. Ah, big shout out to Craig Bankie!” Cillian grinned. “Brendan Murphy- Brendan Murphy, Mary Murphy. Who are currently taking care of my baby girl back in Ireland. Aisling, my darling, daddy loves you so much” He smiled purely into the camera. 

There was a pause as he blinked heavily. His gaze found its way back to you so lovingly. CIllian stared at you in awe. Even though you were at a distance from each other, he could see you so perfectly. His perfect woman, wife, lover.  

“Oh” he breathed out, tilting his head up the slightest bit. “And there’s a woman” he professed as he closed his eyes dramatically, taking in all of the emotions he was feeling. 

Some of the crowd couldn’t resist screaming out in excitement. Your hand pressed against your mouth as you slowly shook your head in disbelief. 

“Yeah” he said to himself as he nodded his head, eyes still shut. “A woman. Who I love” Cillian vowed, his eyes finding you once more. Cillian breathed out your name as he watched you enchantedly. “You’re the love of my life, and I owe everything to you. You’ve kept me sane throughout this whole process. I wouldn’t be up here without you. This award, it’s for us. I love you” Cillian commended, giving you an angelic smile. 

The crowd roared in exhilaration. The camera focused on you and your teary eyes as you were shaking your head in disbelief and happy embarrassment. 

“I’m a very proud Irish man standing here tonight. So…” Cillian smiled as he raised his award into the air. The crowd cheered as he could feel the privilege of honoring his nationality. “You know, we made a film. We made a film about the man who created the atomic bomb. And for better or for worse, we’re all living in Oppenheimer’s world. So I would really like to dedicate this to the peacemakers everywhere” Cillian finished with a satisfied nod. “Go raibh mile maith agaibh!” He raised the award one final time as he spoke his native language and took a step back from the microphone. 

The music began as Cillian winked to you. Everyone stood up again as they all applauded him, many eyes were on you as well. He engaged with the past winners as they all walked off stage. People congratulated you for landing such a romantic man and you couldn’t argue with them if you wanted you. 

You kissed him passionately in the elevator, the buzz of the champagne you shared in the ride over giving the pair of you slightly too much confidence. Cillian was chuckling slowly as you both looked at the award in his hand. The doors dung open and you were cheered by the guests in the venue of the afterparty. 

A snort left Cillian as he noticed a tap of Guinness at the bar. Neither of you could refuse a pint of it. The night rolled on with many congratulations, drinks, photographs, hand shakes, embraces and conversations on what an achievement this had been. No one would be able to guess how exhausted Cillian truly was. But the adrenaline was still pumping through his blood stream and it wasn’t stopping anytime soon.  

As the music blasted and the dance floor filled with highly tipsy people, Cillian confidently pulled you onto it. His arms wrapped around your body as he swayed you to the music. The two of you smiled gleefully, intoxicated with the moment and built up emotion over these past few months. Even though the lighting was dark, you could see the crooked smile on his lips. 

“Let’s have another” he proposed into your ear. You hummed and looked up to him. A heavy laugh left your mouth as you turned your foot to the bar but he stopped you. “No, no” he laughed. “Another baby” he clarified. 

“You only ever wanted one” you brought up. It was unsure if he was being serious, or merely caught up in the moment. 

“I’ve been wrong” he admitted, swaying you perfectly to the beat of the music. You hummed confidently, a sparkle in your eyes, the thought of a baby boy with his eyes coming to mind. “You’ve brought me out of my hardest moments. I know I tell you this all the time but woman, you mean everything to me. Your support, advice, guidance and love is all I’ll ever need to live a fulfilled life. You’ve taught me so much which has benefitted not only my career but happiness and spirit in life. I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say or show you” Cillian confessed. 

Innocent embarrassment made you shake your head towards him. He just had a way with words that made your heart swoon over him, even when he was drunk. A long, gentle kiss connected you together once more. This was life, the happiness you both could share together. Not the expensive outfits, fancy cars or grand events. It was the emotions and feelings intertwined as one between two bodies. 

Cillian had made history tonight, but you were forever to be his grand prize in life. 

[heroes-among-us-all]

A Perfect Match

summary: Chisaki isn't looking forward to meeting his soulmate, at least not until he discovers that you are Quirkless.

tags: soulmate!au, fluff, fem!reader

It’s just so annoying. Even though he’s lived with it all his life, Chisaki swears he’ll never get used to seeing that godforsaken timer counting down. It’s always there, in the corner of his periphery, and it only ever disappears when he shuts his eyes and lets everything fade to black.  

A soulmate mark. That’s what it’s called. People have different variations of it—some know the first words their soulmate will ever speak to them, some have a red string tying them to their soulmate that only they can see, and others, like him, have been stuck with a timer since birth that tells him how much longer until he meets his soulmate for the first time.  

And based on how much time is remaining, it looks like he’ll be meeting his soulmate today.  

Chisaki isn’t excited. If anything, he’s dreading the encounter, and he just wishes it would hurry up and be over with. At least then, the timer will disappear, and it’ll be one less thing grating at his nerves. He doesn’t believe in the phenomenon of soulmates, he has no desire for trifling matters such as love, and for a man who loathes being touched, he can’t imagine it would work out anyhow.  

Much of the day goes as planned. He helps Pops with some paperwork, cleans up the office to keep all those pesky germs away, and Chisaki briefly wonders how he’ll even meet you, since he intends on staying home all day.  

“Chisaki,” Pops suddenly says. “Would you mind going out into town and buying me a few things? I wrote a list of what I need.”  

Ah. So, that’s how.  

“Of course,” Chisaki nods, and he puts on his jacket before slipping his shoes on by the door. “I’ll be back soon. It won’t take long.”  

Seriously, it really won’t. Regardless of the fact that he’s going to run into you, he has no intention of staying and chatting. He’s going to reject you right on the spot. Soulmates aren’t real, anyways. What a stupid notion, to think that someone’s greatest love can be predetermined.  

Chisaki adjusts his mask more tightly, then steps outside. He reaches the store quickly enough, and although he hates having to touch things that countless strangers have laid hands on, his gloves provide him with a thin layer of protection from all the filth.  

He tracks down everything he needs at a steady pace, and as he reaches for the very last item on his list, someone else reaches for it at the exact same time.  

Immediately, Chisaki recoils, and he manages to avoid touching a stranger’s hand. But right as he’s biting back the urge to grimace, he realizes that the timer—the same timer he’s had all his life—his finally disappeared.  

Ah.  

So, it’s you. Chisaki turns his head to the side and finds himself looking at a young woman, who is staring back at him wide-eyed and breathless. He has a pretty good idea of what’s going on in your head. You must have realized it, too.  

After more than two decades, he’s finally met his soulmate.  

You’re pretty. Chisaki can at least admit that much. You have nice features, you dress in a way that suggest you care about your appearance, and you have a pleasant, clean scent, which means that you take personal hygiene seriously—thank god.  

But all that being said, Chisaki still has no desire to strike up a relationship with you. He doesn’t enjoy being around people. He can’t even bear to touch people, not counting Pops, who is his family. Not to mention that he’s part of the yakuza, and from what he gleams, you seem to be an average citizen.  

There’s just no reality in which this would ever work out.  

“U-Um,” you stammer, visibly nervous. “Are you...? I mean, um... it’s you, right? You must be my... soulmate.”  

It’s a bit endearing how flustered you are, and for a moment, Chisaki feels slightly guilty about what he’s going to do.  

Still. It’s better to tell you the truth now rather than let you get your hopes up. 

“The timer,” Chisaki nods. “I have it too. Well, I did have it. Up until a few seconds ago, at least.”  

A smile blooms across your lips, and it tugs at his heartstrings a bit, because goodness, you really are adorable.  

“I knew it!” you beam. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this is really happening! I’m so excited! But I guess that was pretty obvious, haha. Sorry. I’m going to try to calm down now, but it’s just—this is just so—”  

Chisaki raises a hand. “Before you say anything else, I need to let you know that I have no interest in pursuing a relationship with you.”  

It only takes a second for your expression to sink. 

“...what?” you mumble softly. “But... we’re soulmates. I thought that means we’re supposed to be together for the rest of our lives. I didn’t mean that we should start dating right away, but at the very least, if we could start by getting to know each other...”  

“I’m sorry,” Chisaki says. “I don’t have much interest in romance. I prefer to keep to myself, and frankly, I’m not even sure I believe in soulmates. It all seems far too convenient. It was nice meeting you, but we’ll have to leave it here.”  

By the looks of things, you’re on the verge of tears. Chisaki isn’t a very emotional person, but he can’t fault you for getting your hopes up. This must have been something you’d been looking forward to for many, many years. If only your soulmate was someone else. It’s a pity. You seem like a very nice woman, and he hopes that you’ll find happiness one way or another. Just not with him.  

You swallow hard, just barely managing to hold back your tears. “I... understand. I’m sorry. I came into this with all these expectations, but I never stopped to think that the other person might not have been as excited as I was. I guess I was just really hopeful. I’m Quirkless, so... people have always thought less of me. I figured my soulmate would like me no matter what, but we’re pretty much strangers, so I don’t know what I was thinking. Anyways, I’m sorry again for bothering you. I’d ask your name, but it would probably just make the whole thing more painful.”  

You turn to leave, but in that moment, Chisaki’s eyes have gone completely wide.  

What did she just say?  

“Wait!” he cries out, and you reel to a halt, surprised by the outburst.  

Now it’s Chisaki’s turn to swallow. The roof of his mouth feels dry and uncomfortable, and he worries that perhaps his ears deceived him. 

“You’re Quirkless,” he breathes. “Is that... really true?”  

“I’m not sure who would lie about something like that,” you chuckle weakly. “It’s not exactly something to be proud of.”  

Wrong. You don’t even know just how wrong you are.  

In a world teeming with filth and sickness, those who haven’t been contaminated by the Quirk pandemic are a rarity. People like you are unblemished and pure, and... 

Shit. Chisaki is starting to believe that soulmates might be the real deal, after all.  

“It’s okay not to have a Quirk,” he says, and it’s insane how fast his heart is beating now. “No. It’s better not to have a Quirk. I much prefer it that way.”  

You press your lips together. “Are you making fun of me right now? Listen, I said I was sorry for bothering you—”  

“I’m not making fun of you. I’m being completely serious. Quirks... I’ve never liked them. Just the thought of them makes me sick.” He pauses, inhales sharply to collect himself, then lets out a heavy sigh. “The reason I turned you away is because I thought it would be impossible for us to have a relationship. I break out into hives the moment anyone touches me. I distance myself from people, and the thought of being intimate with someone has always repulsed me. And Quirks are largely to blame for that, because Quirks are a mutation. A disease. That’s why I didn’t think we had a chance. But now that you say you’re Quirkless... I’m starting to think differently.”  

You arch a brow, and it’s clear that you don’t understand where he’s coming from. Fuck. He hopes he isn’t scaring you off. He’s finally, finally found someone who he has an actual chance of being with, and he doesn’t want to ruin this.  

“If you don’t mind... would it be alright if I held your hand?” Chisaki asks breathlessly.  

Once again, you stare back at him in confusion, but it thankfully doesn’t look like you’re opposed to it. You reach out a hand, slow and hesitant, and at the same time, Chisaki peels off on his gloves, letting his skin breathe free.  

When your fingers meet his own, he lets out a soft gasp. Not out of disgust, not out of apprehension, but out of sheer relief.  

No hives. No uncomfortable tightness in his chest.  

You aren’t sick like the rest, which means he can touch you to his heart’s content.  

Chisaki would have liked to hold your hand for much, much longer, but out of fear of scaring you off, he reluctantly lets go and gives you some space.  

“I just wanted to confirm something,” he mumbles. “If it’s you... I’m able to touch you just fine. I don’t get sick. It looks like we’re soulmates for a reason.”  

The look in your eyes is far from judgmental, and when you finally muster up your next words, Chisaki can hear a little hiccup catch in your throat. 

“So... you really don’t mind that I’m Quirkless?” you ask.  

“Not at all. It’s just the opposite. I feel comfortable around you precisely because you’re Quirkless. That must be why we were fated to meet. Because we’re a perfect match.”  

Chisaki has never flirted a day in his damn life, but something he said must have tickled your fancy, because you blush and shyly avert your gaze.  

“I was really worried there for a moment,” you mumble. “It sounded like you wanted nothing to do with me.”  

“I’m sorry,” Chisaki frowns. “I was too quick to judge. I’m very particular about certain things, and I thought there was no chance. But I was mistaken. And if you’re still open to it... I would love the opportunity to get to know you better. Starting with your name. Would you mind telling me your name?”  

“I’m [Name],” you reply, and you flash him another bright, genuine smile. God, he swears he’s already fallen in love with that smile.  

“It suits you. I’m Chisaki. Chisaki Kai.” He takes a moment to think it through, and then, he does something he’s never done before in public.  

He removes his mask so that you can see his entire face.  

Your eyes widen. “Oh, wow. Chisaki, you’re so handsome! I didn’t realize my soulmate would be so gorgeous. Now I can’t help but feel self-conscious by comparison...”  

“I appreciate the compliment,” he chuckles. “But you’re beautiful. I thought so even before I found out you were Quirkless.”  

He watches, with great delight, as you blush yet again. You’re just so adorable. He never thought he would be thanking his lucky stars for having a soulmate mark, let alone one that caused him endless frustration for more than twenty years, but here he is.  

“I was going to head straight home after running some errands for my old man, but how about we sit outside somewhere and chat for a while?” he asks hopefully.  

Your smile returns, this time, wider than ever.  

“Sure!”  

As it turns out, Chisaki doesn’t get back home until much, much later, and he finds Pops waiting for him with his arms crossed.  

“Chisaki,” Pops frowns. “What was the hold-up? You’re usually so efficient when it comes to these things. I was expecting you back hours ago.”  

Normally, Chisaki would have apologized at great length for inconveniencing Pops. He is, after all, the man that brought him and raised him as his own. He loves and cherishes him, and will do anything in his power to repay him. 

But right now, Chisaki is up in cloud nine.  

“I met my soulmate,” he says, setting the shopping bags down. “Sorry, Pops. We got to talking for a while.”  

“Oh?” Pops lifts a brow, and tries—but fails—to hide his smirk. “But I thought you said you wanted nothing to do with them. You told me you didn’t believe in such things.”  

“Well, I changed my mind.”  

“I’ve never known you to be the type to do that. You’re stubborn to a fault. But I’m not complaining. It sounds like you’ve turned over a new leaf. So, then, tell me about this soulmate of yours.”  

For the second time that same day, Chisaki removes his mask—and it’s so that Pops can see his ear-splitting grin.  

“She’s perfect.”  

[nottobehornyonthemain]

Ok, it’s actually very simple.

Will is the protagonist, but he is not the hero.

Jack Crawford is the hero and he is fundamentally good.

Jack Crawford’s enemy is Hannibal Lecter, but he doesn’t know that because he thinks his enemy is the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal is not always the Chesapeake Ripper, but no one else is allowed to be, because to take someone else’s place is Rude.

Bedelia DuMauier is not Rude by Hannibal’s standards, so she believes herself safe, and she is until she takes Will Graham’s place, then she joins Randell Tier and Francis Dolerhyde, in making Will Graham feel as though he is not Unique, then she is fair game to be hunted.

Hunting is different from fishing because the concepts of Stalk vs Lure.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs is a Stalk, and Will kills him as such despite the fact that Will is actually a Lure, but so is Abigail. Will is god, but not Jesus, except for when he’s Abigail. Hannibal is the Devil except for when he’s god.

Alana and Abigail both make deals with the Devil, which they know will eventually lead to their deaths, but Alana isn’t divine, she is always human, so Hannibal looks more human when she’s with him, but Will looks less human when she’s with him because she accentuates where he fails.

Will is a dog, but he isn’t a dog at all, he’s a wolf.

Margot is a horse but she isn’t allowed to run free until she’s a human, but she is not divine, nor is she good or evil, which is why Alana gets close enough to break her curse.

Mason is a pig amongst pigs, and is not even fit to be eaten, unless it is by something as vulgar as himself.

Gideon stole someone else’s identity, so he was forced to watch and partake in the systematic deconstruction of everything that made him himself.

Hannibal is the Wendigo, because the Wendigo is his true nature, but he is not the Stag, however sometimes the Stag is the Wendigo, because the Stag is a representation of the relationship of two people and Hannibal is never really Will, even when he’s pretending to be, but sometimes Will is Hannibal, and sometimes they’ve become too conjoined to tell apart.

Miriam Lass is Jack’s greatest failure, because she was an innocent he threw into the jaws of a monster, and she came back forever broken, but then Jack’s greatest failure was Bella, who was not a failure at all, just someone he couldn’t save, which to him is the same, although her loss is without spectacle or bloodshed, and then Jack’s greatest failure was Will, first in not believing him, and then in ignoring all evidence in order to believe in him out of guilt, but not trust.

Fredrick Chilton strips away the dignity and autonomy of others, so he gains the gift of an identity he tried to pawn off, and the destruction of his own body while he survives to bear the next indignity.

Freddie Lounds speaks truth, but she also lies, and is often believed.

Hannibal lies and is believed, but he also speaks truth and is not.

Will lies through not telling the truth, the deepest truths he speaks are ignored until it’s too late even though he is expected to know all truths.

Molly is no one and nothing, until Will, and then she is alone in a world of monsters.

Hannibal desires attention, and to be admired for being clever. Will has the ability, but he doesn’t have the initial desire because Hannibal does not interest him.

Will does not have a desire to be understood, but he does desire to be seen as unique.

Chiyoh has mastered the balancing act. She can kill, but does not overkill, has been manipulated, but not blinded, understands, but does not overstep into claiming to know, she can see violence as love, but she understands the abnormality of that, so she survives and gets to walk away without a scratch on her.

To love is to accept death, whatever form that takes, your partner’s, your own, those your parent has caused, or the ones you have caused.

It makes perfect sense that the most absolute form of love is to cause death by your partner’s side, and wish for both of your deaths in return.

[asunflowerana]

Salmon - Inumaki Toge

summary: you always wanted to meet your soulmate; you just didn't thought he would have to save your life along the way.

warnings: soulmate!au, comedy, curse appearance (nothing frightening), and some good old fluff.

“Finish your soup, _____, you don't want to faint in front of your soulmate.” Says your grandmother, trying to persuade you to eat another portion of her still-warm pumpkin with ginger soup.

She’s been using this tactic since you were four, and to her delight, sooner or later you’d end up lifting your spoon and serving your empty bowl again. You can’t help your heart’s greatest desire, yearning for the day you’ll finally find the person who, according to other people’s experiences, will brighten up your whole world.

It sounds almost like something out of a fairytale, your destiny tied to someone especially made it to love you. To be honest, you wouldn’t believe it if it weren’t for the bold letters embedded on your wrist since the beginning of your life. The “soulmate brand”, as your grandmother once explained — the literal first words your soulmate will say to you. Each person has it somewhere on their skin, and nothing, absolutely nothing, can erase it, as the mark is part of your entire being as much as your beating heart is. 

“Will you grant me this dance? ” is your grandma’s brand, the first words your grandfather said to her after gazing for a long time at the prettiest woman he has ever seen around the neighborhood festivals.

And the brands are varied, but they usually make sense for a first meeting, from simple “Hi” and “Excuse me”s, to “Would you like some coffee?”. Well, most of them are understandable, but there are some not-very-funny cases, like yours, that they’re completely senseless.

“Salmon” hides under the long sleeve of your shirt. 

What does “salmon” have to do with all this? Why not something simpler, like a “nice to meet you”?

You’ve created so many theories over time, trying to find a logical scenario where this would be a first-thing sentence. Maybe your future partner is a cook, and he’ll prepare you a Baked Salmon; or maybe he’s a fisherman, trying to sell you one of his late products; or maybe, you’ll work as a waitress at a seafood restaurant, and he’ll just order the best fish of the restaurant. Sometimes you laugh at yourself, just imagining one of these scenes actually happening.

You know that finding soulmates takes time, but if you could only get a hint. Almost all of your friends already found their partners, so why haven’t you? You sincerely don’t care about appearance, or culture, you just want to meet your “universe’s best gift” and understand why the heck his first words to you is a marine fish.

Months pass by, and still, nothing comes your way. You can count on hope, and move forward with your life.

As you finish your second bowl of soup, you wish your grandma a good day and pack your purse to head off to the library two blocks away. The historic building is the best place to spend your autumn afternoons, sitting on a comfy armchair with a book in hand and a tasty hot chocolate along the way. However, your oasis received an interesting addition in the past weeks: something, or rather, someone, has been catching your attention. You don’t know the new customer’s name, but from what you’ve observed (stared, to be frank), he enjoys a lot of mythical books, and prefers to sit alone at a table. 

You know you shouldn't be spending time trying to take note of someone else’s life, but there’s something about him that attracts your mind and takes your eye's attention off the book. It could be the fact that he always wears his coat’s collar up to his mouth, his intriguing grayish hair, or the shape of his beautiful purple eyes that perfectly match his face. 

Okay, maybe you’re noticing too much. 

Sometimes you catch yourself daydreaming about a date with him. He seems like someone polite, even if you never heard him speak. But you don’t have the courage to start a conversation with him, he’s just so… focused on his reading, you wouldn't want to intrude. And besides, a guy like him probably has a girlfriend already.

You return to your previous reading, and by the middle of the sunset, you leave for your house. Grandma said she was going to the supermarket early, so you weren’t surprised to find the place empty when you entered.

But you were surprised when you spotted a finger on the dinner table.

As an instinct, you grab the white porcelain vase from the shelf near the doorway and use it as a protection, your gaze scanning every spot of the living room, and every room of the house. You frown, not finding anything broken or messed up, and the windows are all closed. How did a human finger get on the dinner table then? As far as you know, your grandmother only collects shells.

You type 911 on your phone, anxious by the whole creepy situation, eyes, and ears alert to any signal. While the call is on hold, you approach the table to inspect the unknown finger: It isn’t fresh or dripping with blood, but it strangely looks well-preserved, not marks of degradation. A wave of shivers runs through your body.

“What’s your emergency?” A female voice says through the call.

“Hi, I-”

In one second, your body is thrown hard against the wall by an incomprehensible force. The hit is all your senses can figure out, the sudden pain increasing on your right side while potent dizziness takes over your brain. Fallen on the wooden floor, you take the last of the strength that remains in your muscles to look for what hurt you.

You immediately wish you didn’t make that decision, for you wouldn’t face the haunting creature staring in your direction. A monstrous black shape slowly approaches you, a mouth full of sharpened teeth, and a single lifeless white eye glazed at your form. It mumbles unfamiliar words as it levitates above the floor, a horrid sound that makes you tremble in pure panic.

Is this how you’re gonna die?

Suddenly, you hear the sound of the window breaking into dozens of glass shards, caused by a human form that lands inside your house. You swear, from a quick glimpse, that is the library man five feet away from you, but maybe you’re too dizzy to actually see right. Scared, your eyelids close, and you can only hear the sounds of furniture falling and the creature’s terrifying shrieks. It’s a vivid nightmare, one that you can’t wake up from, but that fortunately ends.

You only open your eyes when you feel two warm, human hands gently holding your shoulders, filling you with the hope that the creature it’s gone. Your gaze widens at the face of your savior.

“It’s you.” You whisper, and unknowingly to you, your sentence is exactly the same words embedded in Inumaki’s wrist. His eyes widen as he realizes it, being able to contemplate the unnatural glow that comes out of your being, the glow that only soulmates can find. 

He found his soulmate.

“Salmon.”

And so did you.

a/n: not gonna lie, this is probably my favorite creation so far. hope enjoy it and giggle with it as much as I did.

© asunflowerana 2024 — all rights reserved.

[spitdrunken]

notes: Valentino being Valentino (AKA horrible), abusive ‘relationship’, manipulation/lovebombing, uneven power dynamics, loss of agency, heavily dubious consent + implied noncon, physical abuse. Essentially details the progression of how Valentino might go about pimping someone out. He's really not nice in this, be warned!

The issue with Valentino is that, when he wants to be, he can be very charming. No one wants to sell to a person who slaps them around from the very first day, right? To Valentino, first interactions are an art he has perfected and, while he cannot see very well, he does have an eye for the pathetic, and desperate. From the very way someone carries themselves, and how they speak, he can tell who would be the easiest. To discover amongst these people a few so-called ‘diamonds in the rough’, and have them bend to his every desire, is the part of his job that he takes the greatest satisfaction out of.

Perhaps you are new in Hell, the finer details of the realm entirely lost on you, unaware of Valentino’s reputation. Or you truly have nowhere else to turn to, and you decide to take your chances, the idea of fame, money and, most of all, a bit of certainty, is too appealing. Maybe you’re aware of both his reputation, and exactly aware of what kind of guy he is, and you are chasing the kind of relationships you had while alive. Living here has affirmed all of your worst beliefs about people. To be with someone who is certain to hurt you, is easier, more familiar, than someone who might… And, hey, if he’s rich, that helps too, right?

Regardless of your circumstances, Valentino would know how to make you feel special. Hell is violent, unpredictable, and truly lives up to that. Time spent with Valentino in the lavish, beautiful places he hangs out in, almost makes you feel like you aren’t in Hell at all. Sure, maybe he’s a little strict about the kind of clothes you wear, but he’s always so full of praise when you do listen. The gifts he gives are perhaps a little gaudy, but all of them are incredibly expensive, and it includes a phone of the newest series. He tells you so that it’s so you never have to leave him hanging again! And while he laughs at it like it’s a joke, and you do too, it’s the first time something in his expression truly makes you feel uncomfortable.

And wouldn’t it feel good, wouldn’t it make you feel powerful, to have a man who is so famous and powerful, who could practically have anyone, to have set his eyes upon you? While almost anyone would be a little suspicious at first, with time, perhaps you begin to believe him. Maybe you really are special, maybe the rumours about him are true, or maybe they’re not, but they don’t apply to you. You’re the exception. You- You have to be. Otherwise, what’s going to happen to you? You try not to think about it too hard, try to ignore all the talk about him that never stops going around. On social media, the stuff said about him is mostly positive. …Any negative comments you see about the Vees in general, disappear faster than you can blink.

All the while, you’re unaware of the mixture of pity and envy the other demons working for him look at you with. Oh, how they wish they could still believe there was anything good about the demon you’re standing next to. If only they still had hope for a better future. They know exactly what is going on, but even if some might want to give you a warning sign, the punishment that would be dished out for it far outweighs anything else.

You don’t see any of his employees often though, not in this stage, nor the next. Valentino prefers to keep his whores from fraternizing with each other. From his own personal experiences, his early days of being in this business, there is nothing that builds bonds between people like a common ‘enemy’ like him. He wants all of you isolated, and most miserable you can be, in all honesty.

It is exactly the moment that you start feeling a bit more secure about things, that the cracks start to show. He’ll start pressuring you into doing a shoot for Velvette. Those gifts you got you were reaaaally expensive, baby, you know that, right? You kind of owe it to him, is what he tells you. Some pictures might seem harmless enough, but once you’ve given him an inch, Valentino will never fail to take a mile. His requests become more and more pressing, his demands more and more explicit, until any ‘affection’ left in his tone has long since gone cold.

After that, you’re essentially just treated like the rest of his whores, and the exact same treatment. He’s cut you off from any support system you had left, has you living in a company-owned building and, possibly, has you under contract. Where the hell else are you supposed to go? You’d live on the streets if you were to leave now, completely to the mercy of whatever demon might stumble upon you. Now that you've featured in a couple of Valentino's films, it's safe to say that the fame you once might have desired, now becomes one of your biggest burdens. ...You know exactly what people will do to you, given the chance.

If you bring up the kind of things he used to say to you, about how special and important you were, he’d actually laugh at you right in your face. What the fuck? You can’t be serious. You actually believed all of that bullshit? Regardless of your response, it’s likely to make his temper flare, resulting in a punch to the face that knocks you backward a good couple of feet. I’ve got bitches begging to be touched by me, to even be looked at by me. You ungrateful whore.

Unfortunately for you, practically anyone who gets too closely involved with Valentino meets the same fate.

[fumifooms]

Analysis of Laios’ succubus and theories on what it means - deep dive on Laios’ desires in human connections

Laios’ succubus is a very odd incident. I have some particular interpretations of why it was Marcille, and why things went down the way they did.

We know that a succubus shows what one desires, stated in canon as “an alluring form”; yes often in a romantic or sexual sense, as seen with Chilchuck’s succubus being entirely set on looks and seduction, meanwhile Marcille’s does have a focus on chivalrous noble demeanor as well, showing romantic behavior and personality. BUT with Izutsumi we also see that the liaison doesn’t have to be romantic or sexual at all, either, in Izutsumi’s case it’s a familial bond she craves. So perhaps we can say that the succubus exploits a desire based on connection, in whichever form that takes. Marcille wants an emotional connection foremost(which is also reflected in how it’s a character she knows very well and not a stranger. Perhaps romantic.), Chilchuck wants pleasure(a simple pleasure not unlike alcohol, perhaps such a connection is free of the more risky or unpleasant parts of a relationship, he doesn’t have to worry or to think and can just let himself go. Sexual.), Izutsumi wants a mother figure that can offer her warmth and comfort with who she doesn’t have to be tough (Familial), and I believe Laios’ is platonic and centered on his desire to have people with who he belongs and can be himself with…

But Laios’ case is more complex, it has layers. The thing is, even if Laios wanted to have someone able to turn him into a monster—which it didn’t even have to be, could straight up have just been a monster with such powers—, it didn’t have to be someone he knew. You could say the succubus wanted to disarm Laios’ suspicions with someone he knew and that was nearby, but the succubus seem very direct in every other case, simply appearing with someone’s greatest appearance even though both Marcille and Chilchuck were fully on guard and the succubi knew it. "Believability" isn’t an important factor. No, his succubus being someone he knew was important. It being Marcille was important.

There’s a TLDR at the end of this if you want to cut it short. For everyone else, strap in everyone, if you don’t know me hi I’m Fumi and I made this 3k words long analysis and theorizing bc I am autistic much like the character in question and I think this is both fascinating and has a lot to say. In this I offer both platonic and romantic reasonings and I do go rather in depth in Laios’ psychology and relationships to dissect what ever could this damn cryptic event MEAN. Spoilers for the succubus chapters obviously and also the last few arcs of the series so… Spoilers for the series as a whole!

—

So attraction wise it’s kinda unsure where Laios stands. He does sort of logically list off aesthetically pleasing traits of the orc’s wives, but besides that… Not really, or he never voices it anyways. He and Marcille never share like “omg you’re pretty” moments or anything. Senshi gets more compliments than either of them through the series lmfao. Maybe Laios is asexual, maybe he simply doesn’t show outwardly his attraction much or even maybe isn’t self-aware about it, regardless… Laios HAS implied preference for Marcille’s looks in the past. With the orcs, he said that “tallmen like long ears”. Laios’ shapeshifter of Marcille has her hair down just like her succubus, which by Kui is explained to be because she had it down when she revived Falin and it really marked him, though it could also be interesting to see it as his mental image of her as her most authentic self, I’ve seen it theorized that it’s a preference too but I think that’s disproven. But of course the most damning evidence itself… The succubus scene. It could have been anyone else in the party, certainly Senshi shares Laios’ interest in monsters much more already. We shouldn’t discredit the way Laios was blushing madly once she revealed she was a monster, that made her more attractive to Laios for sure, but he still wouldn’t have reacted that way if it was just anyone. The contexts are very different, but we can compare it to how Laios reacted when Lycion turned into a wolf man in front of him for instance. Laios certainly doesn’t act that way with Izutsumi- and it’s confirmed like a page later that he does see Izutsumi as a monster already. AND!! Laios starts blushing madly BEFORE she says that she can turn him into a monster- and we can safely assume that the blush isn’t out of simple fluster but out of desire/infatuation since he clearly wants her to bite him in the next page and his blush does not relent at all.

There’s something we could say about Laios’ liking of Marcille being born out of companionship rather than aesthetic attraction, on familiarity and intimacy. As members of the same party they’ve spent a lot of time together and we’ve seen that Laios trusts in her and relies on her for her skillset and avice. If Laios’ interest in her developped more naturally and gradually, valuing the familiar bond they have, I don’t see why he’d be acting all blushy and lovesick every time they interact or whatever, which is the explanation I have for Marcille genuinely being Laios’ most alluring form but him not freezing at the sight of it. That could also be a reason why he physically rejects succubus!Marcille instinctively, because something about her feels off or different (which is sorta the most direct interpretation of the scene, since Laios’ first thought is that it can’t be Marcille and must be a monster).

 [Edited in: Oh my god. The picture above is the last page of the dullahan chapter, chapter 57, a chapter that centers around Laios and Marcille’s relationship through flashbacks as Laios is on the brink of death and sees his life flashing before his eyes (he remembers how they first met, etc, which is also interesting to note that on the brink of death he reminisces about her the most). The last page of that chapter, more or less the thesis of the chapter in which we see Laios opens up about the real reason he and Falin go dungeon diving to her after them having a rough meeting but she turns out to also have an interest in dungeons, has Laios go "she starts out frowning but she ends up smiling! Wether its’s about eating monsters or about me :)”. That chapter is the one right before th succubus chapters. Laios’ most alluring form wasn’t “just” Marcille, it’s a SMILING Marcille. Which is why the succubus had such a weird and off demeanor right away (which gets knocked off once it doesn’t work and becomes a more Marcille-like Marcille)! It was only focused on smiling because it was the angle it was working from.

Oh my god it makes sense. It’s a direct narrative link, it’s as explicitly put with its story structure without Kui just stating it, besides, you know, the many times Laios says how precious her smile is to him. He’s like “I love her smile” and right next chapter the succubus is like “yes this is what he likes seeing most”. But… This also does mean that the focus might be less romantic, like Marcille’s significance doesn’t diminish, but then the alluring form might be less about her and more about the smile itself. About having a friend who looks at him like that, about someone who smiles after eating monster dishes or surpassing obstacles together… Or it can actually be so much more romantic. Like, maybe the smiling Marcille doesn’t work is because well, it’s not like Marcille, she wouldn’t just be smiling like that and behave like that (esp since his musing is about how her smiles are sort of “earned”, that she doesn’t smile right away but it’s sort of like a rewarding sight when she does). So then the most alluring form of Marcille doesn’t work because she doesn’t convincingly BEHAVE like her. His most alluring form isn’t a Marcille-lookalike, it’s her as a whole. More on the succubus shifting/switching in its approach later.]

Anyways.

Where was I. Ah yes, “It could have been anyone else in the party, certainly Senshi shares Laios’ interest in monsters much more already.” But then that’s the point isn’t it. I think Laios’ succubus being Marcille is because his wish isn’t so much focused on her, or on becoming a monster, but on not being alone. On being understood. On having others finally share his interest. On not only becoming a monster, but having someone to share that with. A trusted friend, a companion, or a lover, it matters little in my interpretation, the bedrock of it stays the same. And this is why it’d be someone he already knew instead of someone new, because it’d defeat the point, and it was maybe Marcille because she’s the most vocal about finding monsters disgusting: it’d have finally been a shift in her that she now liked monsters. And again this brings back to when he talks about her smile, when he says that she starts out unhappy with eating monsters, but ends up smiling by the end of it. Her smile itself represents that though first impression or reflexive dislike, someone can turn around and end up liking it anyways, it’s hope for his interests to be liked and perhaps for him to be lovable as well, that it’s possible to be accepted.

But I do think it would be a mistake to say that there’s absolutely no romantic interest, that it’s plainly platonic or another kind of interest misplaced and idealized in her. What we saw with the other succubus is that they 100% act in ways that the person desires, sure Izutsumi’s start attacking after a while, but that was after pushing them over the edge, and succubus Marcille wasn’t being agressive nor did she have a reason to be (even when she could have with Laios’ choking, she didn’t turn to violence, so she was 100% still in seduction mode). Ultimately the goal of the succubus is to make physical contact to be able to suck their essence, but the way they go about achieving that is tailored to the individual’s desire, Marcille’s kissed her hand and Izutsumi’s offered a hug.  The succubus can identify and embody complex desires, often subconscious ones, shown with Izutsumi’s. They go straight to it without complex subterfuge either. Chilchuck’s succubi were very direct because that’s what he wanted, Marcille’s was courtly because that’s what she wanted, Izutsumi’s offered motherly comfort and affection because that’s what she wanted, and Laios’ is Marcille attempting to kiss him. Let that sink in.

Laios why are you choking the supposed key to your heart?

Ok so the theory that Laios’ desire is to have a deeper companionship from an existing companion is pretty tame and surface level I’d say, but strap in… The way Laios reacted violently to Marcille trying to kiss him is VERY interesting. The first thing he thinks about is that she isn’t Marcille so she must be a succubus, then confusion at to why it’s her. He’s even afraid of what the others would think, feeling… Shame? With how he imagines Marcille would be horrified that he likes her that way. Fear of rejection?

But no no, what interests me is the shift that the succubus makes. It seemed very confident at first, went straight in, but when overpowered shifted the direction it was going in- shifted from a desire for Marcille to a desire for a monster Marcille and whatever deeper desire that hides. But??? Succubi did not make mistakes as to what someone wanted thus far, possibly that has never ever happened before by human records. Could the succubus truly have miscalculated what Laios desires? It’d be hard to imagine that the succubus would misunderstand what type of companionship someone wished for or what approach to take, since it’s done complex cases before too, Izutsumi being very much in denial before it & at first. In Izutsumi’s case, even with her complex feelings over it and her two souls desiring different things, the succubus did not miss its mark, and ultimately it was having a second soul for who the succubus wasn’t alluring that allowed her not to be frozen to the spot. But with Laios the succubus fully switches strategy.

The thing is that succubi don’t usually need to switch strategies, because the form and approach they take always work and always leave the victim frozen. Izutsumi bypassed this because of her two souls, but was still frozen and struggling to reject the succubus at first. And yet? Laios did. A succubus’ victim is supposed to be instantly frozen, and yet Laios acts on instinct and defensively agressive as soon as his reaction time allows. And well, it’s hard to really come to a logical conclusion as to why, since we have no idea of what rules can override a succubus’ temptation besides multiple souls… C’mon regular Marcille can’t be the winged lion/kenksuke’s desire bc of the loose hair being Laios’ mind-Marcille we’ve gone over this /hj Although, since it’s confirmed that the winged lion was watching with the dream Laios gets induced right after, maybe he’s what allowed Laios to be moving? It’s possible that it’d have frozen him otherwise, even if Laios with his full rationale wouldn’t have accepted the kiss faced with supernatural allure he might have gotten paralysis from being overwhelmed, similarly to how if Chilchuck had his full rationale he wouldn’t allow a woman like his succubus to kiss him (he’s always stayed faithful to his wife even after 4 years of separation, give the guy his earned credit). Getting somewhat offtopic, but something to say about how if that’s the case once again the theme of ‘irrational desire you crave vs what you truly want/need’ that is present throughout the manga would be reflected.

My best guess however on why Laios reacted so quickly and forcefully is: trauma. The more recent arcs with Laios suggest that Laios has deep-seated trauma over humans. He dislikes humans as a whole, that was like, pretty much stated, though perhaps exaggerated. As a kid he fantasized about monsters wiping out human towns. We know Laios has been ostracized for most of his life by others, in his village and in the military, and beyond social rejection it’s shown he got beaten in group too and it was implied that it happened regularly. But damn, disliking humans to the point of wanting to be a monster and murderous genocidal reclusive envies and all of that stuff? That is massive trauma, massive identity & belonging issues and hint at massive trust issues.

So then, the negative reaction could be because of Laios’ deep trauma with humans. Because of trauma getting activated, not due to a miscalculation on the succubus’ part but due to a contradicting dislike of the desire that makes the form inherently and straight out of the gate un-alluring, Laios’ repression being so strong that he’s able to affect his own desires in that way, or an instinctive defense response to the trigger (a human).   Even though Laios hides it well, once again recent arcs (and some other moments) make it clear that Laios still has some innate dislike of humans, which in canon is a term that all races like elves fit in. He has a bias against them, perhaps even an innate distrust of them. Who knows how aware he is of it, or how much control and will he has over it. What if Laios reacting agressively to it was his defense mode tied to this kicking in, a survival and security instinct, stopping any possibility of Laios wanting a romantic relationship with a human? Any chance of that human getting close and being hurt by it, either rejected or stabbed in the back? It’d then make sense if Laios is unaware and doesn’t understand his attraction to Marcille then, if it’s a sort of self-made blockage, denial. And that’d make full sense with how, when Marcille is suddenly a monster, then all of Laios’ reluctance is gone and he’s fully enthralled, all that it took was taking away that one blockage for Laios to be utterly charmed. It takes away the trigger element, humans, and replaces it for something safer. A desire for connections, but connections with people that are ‘safe’, people who also don’t fit in with society, who are part of his interest in monsters, who would accept and understand him. I think that Laios does desire human connections, specifically, but can’t allow himself to pursue them either from conscious or unconscious trauma, so though he does desire it he can’t accept that he does/can’t accept the relationship even if it’s handed to him on a silver platter.

Conclusion

The succubus’ shift could then be either that it switched from one wish, a wish for Marcille, to another, a wish for companionship in monster-liking, or that it stayed on the same fundamental wish, but had to improvise with the new information (that Laios is human-averse)(not bc it didn’t exist previously but bc it wasn’t manifested) to take out of the equation the thing that was holding Laios back (from giving in).

But well, the fact that the rest of the party is included does lean towards the former, but in any case that doesn’t erase all I’ve spoken about, all about how Marcille is 100% the focus of this whole thing. It could still be a bit of both. But it is interesting that he worries about the party’s reaction to seeing his succubus being Marcille, and when she shifts into monster Marcille he *still* worries about the others: “b-but what about the others?” He’s a mess, with his most alluring form seducing him, and he still has a shred of resistance in him to question how the others would react, and it’s only when she says that they’re already monsters too that he truly gives in. Is he really so afraid of ostracization? Of losing the people he cares about due to judgement? Then the mention of the others in the party can simply be something the succubus added on top to unlock another “blockage”, the same way she added Marcille being a monster on top of the basic premise of Marcille; Take out the immediate dismissal of humans first, and then the fear of loss and judgement from other friends so Laios can finally stop worrying and give in. That worry/framing I’d say makes the latter more credible, because it’s not the premise of the alluring form but an extra.

In the end, like the recent arcs kind of spell out, the thing central to Laios’ character is less so a love for monsters and moreso a dislike for humans, and this is what this puts on full display.

Laios’ most alluring form is Marcille, a human that doesn’t understand his interests and thus him, and regardless of everything else that Marcille is, that is so traumatic to him that all of his being immediately rejects it.

—

Thanks for coming to my ted talk! I’ve spent so much time thinking about this and wording and rewording this same train of thought, also it’s the end of my college semester and I’m going crazy

Tldr: My personal fav theory for Laios’ succubus is that Laios really values Marcille’s smile a ton like it’s often mentioned, and that’s what his most alluring form centers on. I’ve got a ton of different interpretation on the why it’d go for a kiss? Since it tailors its approach to the person’s desires, but obviously something goes wrong with Laios’, which is really interesting because even with Izutsumi who resists because she has 2 souls so one part of her can always remain unaffected, the succubus hit bullseye on her most alluring forms. But regardless of that, I think his desire for Marcille (either her or what she represents, wether as a platonic ideal or something else) isn’t wrong/untrue perse, but that Laios has such a complex with humans and intimacy and connecting with others that his defense mode kicks in and that’s when the succubus has to shift into a different, safer desire: one that doesn’t involve humans but that still shows connections and acceptance and belonging. Also Laios realizes that it isn’t Marcille when she goes in for the kiss, which if his allure for her is based on familiarity since they’re friends and all could make sense that it’d break him away from it, or since it’s a liking based on familiarity he doesn’t freeze, or maybe it’s because the winged lion has its eye on him. I think that’s so much more likely with how Kui makes even her jokes be character moments or at least consistent, and also with the tension of the scene, than just the scene being a gag about how Marcille doesn’t mean much to Laios actually.

I think there’s a lot to be said about why Marcille is special to Laios, why her smile means something to him, etc, and I don’t think saying Marcille is special to him is exaggeration or reaching at all. Laios, Marcille and Falin are the golden trio, she’s the deuteragonist, she’s the only other character in the main party whose goal in going back for Falin is Falin and who has a bond with her and Laios outside of being coworkers, in post-canon they live together, happily, in the anime’s ending they’re emphased on by dining out all three together... I could go on.   Marcille has the benefit of being very trusted by Laios, not only with the time they’ve spent together but how she was Falin’s friends first, the person he himself feels so protective of and has been so consistently ostracized throughout her life. Marcille represents a positive odd one out that’s like, the good example of "humanity can be good and safe and warm actually".  Which is a big reason why imo Marcille is like, the secondary protag and with Falin they form the golden trio. She’s central to the story in many ways including making Laios see that humanity is worth saving and sticking with, but that’s a topic for another analysis. One such reason is how his first meeting with her went: it started really badly but ended with her coming around and unexpectedly sharing their interest in dungeons, which made him and Falin open up about the real reason they go dungeon diving, perhaps for the first time. There is just so much that goes into it but Laios seems generally very expectant of rejection: in the climax chapters after he transformed back as a human and was hiding out in the woods, pre-canon in an extra where we see him battling himself on if he should suggest eating monsters or not. But another one, the one I truly want to bring up in this post, is how genuine Marcille is! And funnily enough, how dramatic she is, and how her elf ears change position depending on her emotions. Like, let me compare her affectionately to a dog for a second, but dogs move their ears and use whole body language to communicate, and I think that part of Marcille, really strong emoting, with her ears and body language on top of her often dramatic facial expressions, reassure him. Like ok, maybe he can’t tell when Shuro and Kabru would lie to him, but Marcille? She wears her heart on her sleeve and her feelings on her whole self. And that takes away some of the stress and trauma he has with humans, explains why her smiles would “put him at ease”, doesn’t it?

I don’t remember wether I’ve mentioned this somewhere or just in my reblog linked at the end of the post, but while at first I thought the succubus going for a kiss on the lips heavily implied a romantic desire in Laios,  now I have a couple different theories on why the succubus would have gone for that approach. I think the most likely is that, if the principal allure of his succubus is her smile, the succubus is like "as long as he sees her face right up until i can suck up his blood and he passes out I’ll be gucci", so it’s not about the kiss but about him seeing her face all the while until the very last moment, so he stays charmed.

Btw chapter 34 explores Laios’ relationship with touch too imo, and we see that he is uncomfortable with touch to some degree, very unsure and hesitant and tense. I feel like it’s something more shown in a bigger picture sense with his whole struggles with humans and extras, than just in any one page so go reread the beginning of that chapter if you want I’d say, but putting a page below as example anyways. I think it’s notable that it’s a character moment shared with Marcille too, she acts sort of like a bridge to humanity with social propriety and being extroverted in many cases. In the chapter Chil and Marcille point out how awkward he is with touch, but he learns to be casual/comfy enough about touch to do healing magic with her (something that was also enforced through him having to practice magic on Marcille turned to stone, he got a lot of touch exposure and magic practice done in those days. Dammit Laios, MArcille and touch is worthy of a whole analysis of its own). She’s just like, his human comfort zone, even if they aren’t that close at least at first, besides Falin he has literally like no friends and I think that itself shows how he doesn’t fit in well socially and that it’s a significant struggle for him. But yes what I was saying here is I believe there’s setup for him recoiling from touch like he did with the succubus (due to an instinctive aversion to touch made especially intense due to the succubus’ oddness and forwardness).

I have even more theories and rambling on details on the succubus here in a reblog, but unless I want to put in some pictures of Laios repressing himself around others and such I don’t think I’ll be touching this post again in a while

[seelestia]

⟡ to set one's self aflame. (do it all for love.)

⎯ how protective are they of you? how do they protect you and how do they like being protected in return? { s for security ノordered by @phantovia! }

RESERVED FOR! ꒰ character ꒱. lyney ft. gn!reader. { 1.5k words wc }

FLAVOR! ꒰ genre ꒱. fluff & sprinkles of lore angst, established relationship.

TOPPINGS! ꒰ tags ꒱. lowkey a character study made poetic (???). mentions of self-destructive habits, also pls don't smile at lyney bcs he's weak in the knees for u.

BAKER’S NOTE! ꒰ thoughts ꒱. thanks for the req, yona! i got to appreciate this silly guy all over again thanks to u ‹3 ik ur acc is already archived so i hope this made for a nice tribute. pls take care of urself & have a good life ahead 🫂

© seelestia on tumblr, june 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

lyney is protective to a concerning extent. the instinct of an older brother, maybe?

there is some sort of irony to be found in it all since the reason he protects to a 'concerning' extent is out of concern in the first place.

behind his show of brilliance, you consider yourself lucky enough to have witnessed a side to lyney that his audience wouldn't have guessed; that he is a worrier in every aspect of the word. whether for his family, for you, for his friends or for others he comes across that are plagued by misfortune - if all that worry were to come in the shape of dimes, he'd already have an abundance of them to share with the entire nation of fontaine.

but he has no choice, does he?

his background is not a clean slate nor is it a display of sunshine and rainbows resembling his magic shows. lyney's hands are tainted, covered by his gloves as a measly means of self-solace. he has to worry. associating himself deeply and intimately with another is a risk on its own - comparable to dragging someone else down into the murkier depths with him. he can never do that, never has the courage nor the heart to.

(but fortunately for him, you've always been braver than most.)

. . .isn't that why you offered your hand, your trust to him first? he swore to never let you down from that day on.

easier said than done, however.

the house of the hearth operates within the shadows but as for its foes? some also prefer to dwell in the dark and some move in broad daylight. no matter what it is, they all require the same precaution: for him to keep his guard up at all times. every child has been trained by “father” to know that but you're an innocent, tied to this precarious matter merely due to your connection with him.

(“i don't regret anything,” you told him but he didn't look into your eyes, conflicted. you couldn't tell if he believed you or not.)

how was your day? have you eaten? you look sad, did something happen? — all these little questions are a way for him to show that he cares, that you're important, that you're his responsibility and he'll be there for you.

bound by both guilt and love, lyney promises to keep you safe. from whatever kinds of threats there are; whether it be fools with nefarious schemes or even an insect you're too scared to touch, he'll keep you safe all the same. so please, don't hide from him if you're dealing with something. it's better to let him handle it. . . right, correction: the two of you can handle it together.

(truly, his desire to protect can both be his greatest strength and most formidable foe.)

the way lyney protects is through self-sacrifice, granting peace in exchange for destruction of the self.

since the very beginning, lyney has grown used to seeing the world through the lens of a protector.

he recalls the old times where he and lynette loitered the streets in ragged clothes and the only refuge he could provide her with was his hand. it mattered not if he was freezing cold from the rain. . . as long as his little sister was protected, comforted by whatever warmth he had left - it's alright. to do that wasn't an option then, it was a necessity.

to sacrifice himself is a habit. it's easy to adopt but not at all easy to discard.

in lyney's eyes, burdens often seem as if they would be lighter upon his shoulders than they are on another's - but this is only wishful thinking. only meant to convince himself that pain shall eventually lose its harsh bite the more he bears it. “well, has it?” if asked, he cannot give an answer. regardless, that alone is enough of a justification for him because he can't bear the thought of doing anything else; to stand idly by, to be utterly useless.

if he has the means to protect others, why wouldn't he do so? even if he wears himself down to the bone, he’d do it again. akin to a bright flame lit in a hearth, lyney envelopes those near him in a blanket of warmth - and if the blaze threatens to flicker, he'd simply ignite a piece of himself to prevent it from diminishing into futile cinders. he won't let it happen.

(but little does he know that even cinders still serve a purpose. they exist as proof, a sign that his sacrifice has never been in vain.)

in return, lyney feels protected by simply knowing that you're happy (and your acknowledgement of his efforts).

let's call it an innate principle that belongs to a magician; he wants to see smiles on the faces of others. “a smile weighs much lighter for your face to carry compared to a frown, no?” he joked to you once, tapping gently on the corner of his lips with a grin. it was said with a light heart, but you knew he meant it deep down.

(he always does so much, only to ask for so little in return.)

you were not so cruel that you couldn't even grant him that, so you smiled. genuine and grateful. “. . .thank you, lyney,” you said. he fell quiet then. had the wind been knocked out of his lungs or had the world stopped spinning? he thought he saw stars in your eyes, but that couldn't possibly be true. the sun glaring down at him from behind the clouds above remained unmoved.

not like it mattered, anyway. his poor heart was far too occupied with you to care about the answer. “o-oh? you're welcome. . .” lyney blinked, multiple times, dazedly.

gratitude is not a foreign concept to him; he often receives it from an audience member, a lonely elder he briefly chatted with, a fellow member from the house of the hearth — so, just what makes it different now? perhaps, it's because he knows that you've beared witness to his heart that lies deeper within.

that you see right through him, that you're thanking him for who he truly is, although he no longer has a definite image of “self” from the countless white lies piling at his feet like a tower. yet he finds comfort in it, in the way you hold his sullied hands so kindly. he isn't wearing gloves this time. strange, lyney had never imagined transparency to be a feeling so benevolent and cathartic.

no matter what thoughts are buzzing in his head or what ache tugs on his body, they can pester him as much as they'd like - with one swift recall of your smile, lyney feels as if he can banish them even if momentarily. they'll come back sooner or later, he knows, but is it cowardly of him to find solace in that brief respite?

when lynette taps on his cheek to wake him up in the morning, when freminet knocks on his door to deliver something, when other siblings flock around him to welcome him home, or when you come to visit him after a long day — those worries disappear — but even if he already knows that they will make their inevitable return. . . perhaps, everything will be okay.

(it has to be, he tells himself.)

“did something happen yesterday?”

your lunch with a certain feline girl in front of hotel bouffes d'ete kickstarts with a simple question. but the abruptness of it all wipes away the content look on your face and replaces it with a frown.

the tea in your cup reflects your reflection as much as it does your perplexity. lynette lifts her own teacup to her lips, composed while you're lost in thought, confused.

“lyney went home with a wide smile on his face yesterday,” she elaborates, humming either at the tea or at the current matter she's recalling. perhaps, even both but you aren't sure yet. “while this wouldn't be an odd occurrence, i thought there must've been a special occasion to warrant a smile that wide.”

ah. the realization dawns on you in gentle waves. he said something that prompted a smile out of you yesterday — the exchange of a kind “thank you” from your side and a flustered “you're welcome” from his — not that smiling is a rarity around him, hardly, the one thing magicians do best is attract smiles.

your gaze drifts down to stare at nothing in particular. fond memories filled with the face of a familiar magician swims before your eyes. “hm. . . it must've meant a lot more to him than i expected,” you mumble to yourself. in your eyes, you'd think the look on your face represents the paradigm of nostalgia but in lynette's eyes, you look like a madman smiling to yourself so intensely.

“not you too,” she lets out a resigned sigh, placing down her teacup. “smiling to yourself like that. . .” she shakes her head in a disappointed manner, “you and lyney must've been rubbing off on each other these days.”

“maybe a bit too much,” lynette adds, but there is a ghost of a smile on her face this time around.

you can only smile sheepishly.

— thank you for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated.