#that was absolutely devastating to me and it's a thing i struggle with and i want to be angry about it but i dont know how to be

[myobsession]

"Franca gazed at the lobotomized Psychiatrist for a few seconds before sighing.

“Sometimes, we’re still too naive. We might even think of ourselves as the protagonist.”

Lumian knew that “we” referred to the members of the Curly-Haired Baboons Research Society."

I feel like this is the main reason I really love the fact that Lumian is our protagonist in the second series. Every epoch was almost completely dominated by a trasmigrator and our last series revolved entirely around the thoughts and feelings of a lonely transmigrator. But in the second series, our main protagonist is a true native of the era.

He is someone who finds themselves deeply entrenched in the midst of secrets, gods, and transmigrators without having the background that any of these people have. He did change after meeting his transmigrated sister, but he grew up with the same morals and viewpoints as his fellow natives. He believes in the gods and is in awe of their powers and might. He is someone who can hold back his curiosity in matters because he grew up in an environment where knowing too much will literally kill/corrupt you. He thinks transmigrators are a bit silly and naive but also powerful and full of unheard knowledge. He's a normal guy of his era that got caught in a shitty situation but grits his teeth to keep moving forward. He is a boy who has been stomped down by fate numerous times but still retains the light of hope in his heart. And I think that was something really needed in this series.

Excerpt From

Lord of the Mysteries: Circle of Inevitability, Volume 3: Conspirer, Chapter 409

Cuttlefish That Loves Diving (爱潜水的乌贼)

[noblest-roman-of-them-all]

Contemplating the concept of "potential" when it comes to intelligence and realizing how heartbreaking Logan's "Dreams come true, that's news to me" line in the Crofters Musical.

[pumpkinrootbeer]

Something that really hits like a gut punch the older I get, as someone whose been actively suicidal the majority of my life, is how fucking. Young Sam is in the original 5 seasons. If it ended as originally intended, Sam never would have made it out of his 20s and I can't accurately describe how sad that makes me

[anpanman95]

now that I got he appreciation post out of the way I’ll yap about what I loved the most about this whole scene because was a fucking masterpiece.

1. He looks fucked out and I’m going insane. His heavy breathing was blasting through my headphones and, although that is something that usually annoys me during these scenes, it was done carefully and tastefully. It felt natural and real, not overplayed, not overkilled, but raw and perfectly genuine.

2. Anyone else devastated by the absolute adorableness of this moment? Just me? This was such a cute short thing that casts light into their relationship. They’re both actually very carefree people, always have been, even if Jack had a hard time coming back to his true self. This moment felt so intimate and relaxed. From trying to make the other submit, playfully and sensually, they both pause here and quickly take a breather to gauge each other and decide how is this going to happen before Jack takes the lead again. These are truly Jack and Joke.

3. Wall slamming. It’s one of the cliches I absolutely devour. Ever since episode 1 I knew they would be the kind to do this. I knew their NC would be like this. They want each other too much, they’re gonna take and take and take.

4. No awkward stripping. Just desperate. The moment characters strip have always felt so unnatural for me. This was done hastily and they stumble and it doesn’t look pretty because it shouldn’t. They have wanted each other for too long for them to wait another second in getting themselves naked. Joke is so desperate he struggles with taking Jack’s shirt off and he doesn’t care nor slows down. It adds on the realness of it all.

5. More wall slamming. Dear god I’m unwell. No further words.

6. He was stupid hot for this. They are possessed. As they should be. There’s tenderness and roughness at the same time in their movements and touches, casting light on the fact they love each other but are desperately hungry for each other’s body. They never let you forget that, not once.

7. Did you hear my screams? I was not expecting that. What I’ve seen happen many times on BL NC scenes, is that there is a high contrast done in between the couple when it comes to portraying desire. Usually it’s only one of them that is more vocal or physical about it, while the other takes it and follows. Yin and War have mentioned they don’t want their characters to stick to one dynamic, and it shows a lot in this whole scene. They both are perfectly capable of taking the lead, they both want to take the lead, they both want to submit. They are equals. And that’s always gonna be that way.

The power play, the switching, the rolling in the sheets, the CONSENT, the loving looks, the gentle touches, the rough touches, the pauses, the desperation, the desire.

they did it all. not one single thing missing.

they deserve nothing less than a standing ovation.

yinwar, you did it again

[lylian333]

~Yandere emperor x reader~

warning: read at your own risk, traumatizing, dark historical shits, noncon, force, many misunderstandings,sexual harrest , angst ,age gap, everything here is quite insane, historical au, he's fucking crazy, killing, insults, English is not my first langue(if there's any warning I didn't put, tell me)

words:2180

(this is not my art I found it on Pinterest, and in the comment section it's said that it was made by AI so💀)

~~

Princess (y/n) Laurier has been best friends with Princess Alyssa Everett since you both were just 6 years old. You both have many things in common, such as interests, opinions, and much more.

You both would usually hang out around each other's kingdom; you don't have any issues with her except with her father, Emperor Edward Everett. He was the hottest, most handsome man you have ever met, and you still do now.

You have had a huge crush on him that felt like butterflies inside your stomach since the day you met him, but he always has that emotionless face and rarely smiles unless at his wife, your best friend's mother. You know this from Princess Alyssa; she would complain about how cold and serious he is.

You still ignore those and try getting to know him, but he just looks annoyed or just straight-up ignores you, but you ignore it and still continue liking him. Not only that, you're not the only one; it's obvious that everyone that has met him, females and even males, all drool for him.

You still have some sense in you, and you also have to respect the Everett queen and Princess Alyssa since she is your best friend. You can't just let some love ruin the relationship you both had. You can't. She is like a sister to you. She helps you when you're confused; she protects and defends you when you were getting laughed at; she is there when you needed someone the most. It's not worth losing a relationship like this, and so your liking toward his father slowly dies down.

But things change when you grow up and start having features and curves and in the end, you become a gorgeous woman, many people are jealous of you even Princess Alyssa confesses to you about it and some desperately want you. You reject all of them since none of them are worthy of you, and you're disinterested in them.

Your intense gaze and soft complexion, with your structured face and striking presence, are on par with an iconic beauty, paired with the warmth and softness in your expression, which are very delicate. You would struggle to not look at yourself when there is a mirror.

You still have some feelings toward Emperor Edward, but you manage to hide it and be able to not think about him when talking to him.

The worst thing that could have happened was that the Queen of Everett died from childbirth while trying to give birth to the heir to the throne, but it went to a disaster. It was devastating news to hear from everyone.

The emperor was absolutely devastated and even despised the child. From that moment on he would never talk to anyone unless it was part of a duty, but other than that he would ignore the servant's advisers and even his own kids, which left Princess Alyssa depressed since she had to bear her mother's death, her father's coldness, and the baby boy that her mother lost her life to.

That week she came crying to you when you came to visit her and attended the funeral of the Everett Queen death. You decide to stay at Everett Palace for a few months before going back to Laurier Kingdom.

You promised Princess Alyssa that you'd take care of her and her baby brother, and so you did. After all, back at your kingdom and your family, you have 6 siblings, plus you, and you are the third eldest, which makes you the middle You have experience with babies after the experience of you sibling that you swear are more naughtyer when you take care of them.

In those months of staying, Emperor noticed that you had to take care of the baby boy and Princess Alyass when he found you singing a lullaby for them to fall asleep.

At that moment something in him awoke, something dark, horrible, and disgusting. He knew this was wrong, but who was there to stop him? Not even himself could do that.

From that moment on, he would try getting close to you and getting to know you better; by that, he would call you into his office or into his chamber. When talking, he would get close to you, too close, to the point that he's invading your personal space by burying his face in your hair, breathing in that sweet, gentle scent, or sucking and biting your earlobe.

You knew this was wrong. You both knew this was wrong, but you guys still continued. Your brain keeps telling you to stop and that this is your best friend's father, but your gut tells you to continue. For your best friend Princess Alyssa's sake.

At one of those meetings, you confess to him that you don't want to continue these "meetings" to respect your best friend Alyssa and her baby brother Prince James.

But when he hears that you swear you could feel the air getting tense and his face looks tense as well, and with clenched fists, he looks like he could kill someone that might have been you or others.

He then pushes you onto his office desk and forcefully rips your clothes off. All you can remember that day was just horror, pure fucking horror. It haunts your dreams, memories, and everything that you see that can somehow be related to the day you and he were together.

The cherry on top is Emperor Endward sends an arranged marriage to your kingdom between you both; you pray that your parents would reject this offer, but no. Instead, they accept it and send you a letter telling you the reasons that this could help our kingdom very much and this could give you a better future and more, but all you care about is that you're trapped with him. They also added in that they would be unable to see because of the distance of the two kingdoms and that it is time to set you free.

Oh, how you wish it were true to let you spread your wings and have your own freedom.

You hated everything, mostly yourself. You hated yourself for not being more alert and not telling anyone, not even your own family or close ones; you—you can't even describe the feeling that you're feeling at that point. You quite literally were disgusted by yourself.

You cry all day long to the point where Princess Alyssa hears it and finds you, and you vomit out all the things that happened while still crying. You wish the earth could just eat you whole, make you disappear from the earth, from this world, from this life.

You keep pressuring yourself that this is your fault for days till your hair has a few strands of white hair that you have noticed.

The wedding was within the week, and you both got married and wed. That very day and night of the "honeymoon," he slams you against the bed carelessly and forcibly spears open your legs with his hand while another pins both your head on top of your head.

You whisper near your ear,True to be told, I have actually noticed that since you were just a little girl, you always had a crush on me, so technically you wanted this to happen, so don't cry like last time, dear."

Your eyes go wide when you hear that he actually noticed. He knows that you have no words—absolutely no words.

That night was as horrible and traumatizing as the night you both had together. Princess Alyssa personally tries to help you escape; even after the marriage, she still supports you, even knowing the fact you are technically her stepmother.

But she accepted you, and you were quite stunned at how she handled the situation. Even though it was like hell, she still helped, whether by holding you while you were crying or whatever she was still there. It felt like she was starting to take care of you instead of you taking care of her like how you first promised.

In one of the many attempts of you trying to escape and her helping you with it, you both were caught, and Emperor Edward decided to punish you by isolating you and sentencing Princess Alyssa to be beheaded, his own daughter.

And you were forbidden to give her any visits after the situation. You didn't get the chance to even give her the last hug or talk or anything, not even a goodbye. You even threatened to kill yourself if he didn't allow you to see her, but he just laughs at you and tells the guards to throw you inside a dungeon where there's nothing, not even a window, so you have to rely on the fire outside.

Just like that, she's gone forever. You cry for days and refuse to eat, sleep, or even drink. The king himself has to personally force-feed you so that you don't die. You even scream and beat him as hard as you can in rage whenever you see him, but he just stands there, not unbothered. You might as well think that he doesn't even care or feel anything anymore, no remorse, no nothing, just disgusting lovesick eyes looking at you.

"I just can't get enough of you, love~"

Your life goes on until you have had enough, like enough one more year of this. You seriously don't think you want to be reincarnated into another life. You desperately want to feel things instead of being trapped in the shared chamber all day long, only allowed to go out to the garden for 1 hour to get fresh air with a few ladies in waiting and your own trusted servants near you to keep being aware of you and make sure you're not doing anything harmful to yourself or escaping.

You came up with the stupidest and most shameful idea. You decide to frame yourself for cheating on Emperor Edward and confess to him that you cheated. Making up fake clues for others to notice and gossip about, but the emperor refuses to believe it, so you told him personally.

"I cheated on you, Edward."

"You must be joking, dear. How would you even be able to do that, hm?"

but you just keep repeating the sentence, "I cheated on you."

This makes him overthink and triggers him, and he ends up struggling with you to death in the process. You still keep repeating the sentence, which forces him to grip your neck even harder till you are no longer breathing—not even a single movement, just soulless eyes staring straight.

When he realized that it was too late and there was no turning back, he let go of your neck, and you collapsed onto the ground, dead. He kneeled down next to you; finally, at this moment, he felt guilty for everything. He reflected on the things he had done to you, the amount of damage. Why didn't he think about this earlier? Maybe that could help him.

No, it's your fault for cheating on him. How dare you filthy women cheat on an emperor that has done everything for her sake? To this day he still blames you, but part of him does regret not caring what you felt and thought. He only treated you like a toy, a glass doll that would easily be broken. But he just couldn't help but love you with all his might, even if it meant hurting you.

He tried to keep your body from decomposing and rotting and would soak you in water to slow down the decomposing. He even went mad and brought you to the throne room for events, dressed you properly, stuffed you with cotton to keep you looking more alive, and said to others, "My wife is doing well; look at her, she's such a sleepy head; look at her sleeping, hehe…"

Sadly, eventually, he had no other choice but to finally bury you because your body was decomposing and smelling really bad. At the funeral, he gives a speech on how she was in his life and how he can't believe she died before him from 'sickness' and oh how sad he was and how he saw her glowing up into an elegant woman and more.

Prince James also gave a speech about how you try helping out, that he always sees her as a mother figure, and how (y/n) has always tried her best. He was innocent in all of these; as well, he even balled his eyes out when he found out that you died.

At the very last moment of seeing your face, he cupped your cheek one last time.

"Oh, how much I will miss you oh how I wish that I could go with you as well, but it's fine you don't need to worry love In my will, when I die, I'm going to be buried right next to you." He says that while chuckling while feeling remorse.

~~

omg, there are so many things I want to comment on but erm yeah this is how it is??? it could have been worse

[crystallakec]

HI CRIS....cried a little while drawing this and cried a little more while reading your tags. thank you for leaving these it means so so much to me and I wanted to talk about him a little more😭

even if I want to believe, it's already too late.

[noira-l]

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: You were a prodigy, destined for greatness, until one mistake cost you everything- your powers, your legacy, and your father’s pride. Now, powerless and adrift, you wait for your father's decision on your fate, unsure if you’ll face exile, servitude, or something worse. A shadow of who you once were, you push everyone away, drowning in the weight of your own failure. Then there’s Gojo Satoru. Your rival, your tormentor, and the last person you expect to care about your fall. But instead of mockery, his gaze carries something else - something you can’t bring yourself to believe.

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 — teen!gojo satoru x f!reader

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 — heavy angst

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 — mdni, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, prodigy!reader, reader is from clan, rivals with benefits, mention of sexual intercourse, hate sex, depiction of complicated relationship, loss of technique, hurt, mourning (pain, grief, regret), depression, self-doubt, changing body, depiction of loneliness, reader pushes everyone away, jjk clans are shit, family abuse, long term manipulation, smoking, drowning, failed attempt of self-destruction (gojo saves reader), reader goes no contact, reader becomes maiko/geiko later on.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 — 11 k

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 — this is the longest list of warnings I have ever written, congrats to me (kidding). I don't know if anyone will like it. I know it's dark, very unhealthy and absolutely depressing. It's not good, and I don't recommend anyone to act in the way depicted in this fic. It is possible that I will remove it in the future. If you are struggling with such issues, I would highly encourage you to talk to someone you trust about it. However, I want to thank everyone who chooses to read this.

𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

It really wasn't difficult to avoid.

You could've waited literally two seconds.

You could've let the assistant check the area as he should after the mission.

You could've not searched the area yourself.

You could've notified the assistant that you had found a cursed object, in the shrine debris.

You could've waited for the assistant to come up to check with you.

You could've not approached the cursed object.

You could've not picked it up. You could've been smarter.

Maybe if you were - you would still have your powers.

Your technique had been everything they claimed it to be. Rare, devastating, invaluable. It wasn’t just a skill - it was a mark of distinction, the proof of your place in a centuries-old legacy. The elders whispered of its rarity, marveling at the precision and control with which you teach yourself to wielded it.

They called you a prodigy, the one destined to elevate the clan to greater heights.

The weight of those expectations had always been crushing, but you bore it with a silent, unyielding resolve. You had to. You had no choice.

But there was another side to this. You wanted to bore it. You wanted to shush all the gossip, all the rumours that might suggest that you can't do something. Besides you found yourself enjoying this kind of powers

The whispers about your gender - about how being a woman might complicate your ability to lead, to fulfill the role they expected of you - only hardened your resolve.

You would prove them wrong, all of them, you told yourself.

But you also wanted your father's approval.

Your father was the only thing close to you. Your mother died in childbirth or left with a lover, you never knew which version was the truth. As a child, you never thought about it, the truth is, everyone around you only mentioned your father, how you should be his pride, his tribute and how you should do everything to make him feel content about you.

This propaganda worked.

And this mindset became an integral part of you.

His approval wasn’t just your goal - it was your oxygen, your sustenance. His rare moments of pride were your reward, and his disappointment - your greatest fear.

You could hear his voice in your mind, the way it would brighten ever so slightly when you succeeded "Good. This is good. Keep this up." those words had kept you going through grueling hours of training, through sleepless nights spent honing your skills to perfection. The bruises, the pain, the exhaustion - they were nothing compared to the glow of his approval, the fleeting light that told you you were enough, if only for a moment.

But his eyes also dulled with such terrifying speed when you stumbled, even slightly. A poorly executed maneuver, a delay in judgment during a sparring session, a lapse in control, all of it was met with silence, with the cold weight of his disappointment pressing down on you like a vice. It was in those moments that you became acutely aware of your imperfection, of how fragile his pride in you truly was.

This however had shaped you into a perfectionist, a creature of cold calculation.

Training became part of your life, your identity. You lived for the applause of the elders, for the murmured praise of the clan, but above all, for the fleeting flicker of pride in your father’s eyes.

He had once told you, long ago, when you were too young to fully understand his words, that you were his gift "Special, rare." he had said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it since "A gift I received at your birth."

You had clung to those words, replaying them in your mind whenever the pressure became unbearable. They were your anchor, your proof that you mattered, that you were loved - not as a daughter, perhaps, but as something far more valuable, something exceptional.

But in a perspective - you weren't the only exceptional thing in this world.

Even before you understood what rivalry meant, you had been told, over and over, how your birth ranked second in significance.

The second most talked thing.

The first? Him.

You had grown up under the long shadow of a name: Gojo Satoru.

A boy born with unparalleled power, eyes as vivid as the summer sky, whos very existence shaked the foundations of the jujutsu world. While your family whispered of your technique with cautious pride, his family declared him the strongest before he could even speak.

Comparison was inevitable. You were prodigies, both of you, but where your brilliance was honed through discipline, his was uncontainable, raw, and overwhelming. You were rare - he was the one.

You still remembered the first time you saw him. You couldn’t have been more than six, dressed in formal robes too heavy for your small frame, the silk scratchy against soft skin. The clan meeting was dull, filled with stiff adults exchanging words that meant nothing to you. But then, in the corner of the room, you felt a presence - bright, piercing, impossible to ignore.

When you turned, his eyes met yours.

Wide, unblinking, and startlingly blue, they stared at you like they could see through your skin, through your bones, through everything that made you, you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile or nod - just stared, like he was trying to decide if you were worth noticing at all.

Even then, something about him annoyed you.

As you grew older, the comparisons became sharper, louder. Clan sparring matches became a regular event, a spectacle for the elders to evaluate their bloodlines. You, Gojo, Kamo, that Zen’in heir, and a handful of others were pitted against one another under the guise of "training." But you all knew the truth. It was a game of dominance, of proving which clan held the strongest future.

Gojo made it a point to be insufferable.

"Chicken fights." he had once sneered, grinning as he sat perched on a rock like a king addressing his subjects. You had just beaten one of the Zen’in cousins, a victory that had left your father smiling faintly in the audience. But Gojo’s voice cut through the cheers "That’s all this is. You flap your wings, you strut around, but it doesn’t matter. None of you will ever beat me."

The others ignored him, too smart - or too scared - to engage. But not you.

"I’d rather be a chicken than a brat with a big mouth." you’d shot back, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your chest.

His grin widened, and for a moment, you thought he might actually take you seriously. But then he laughed - a loud, obnoxious sound that echoed through the sparring grounds "Cute." he said, hopping off his perch and walking past you like you weren’t even worth his time "Let me know when you’re ready to play with the big kids."

Now, years later, the rivalry had followed you into Jujutsu High, where it seemed impossible to escape him. The same classes, the same missions, the same suffocating aura of superiority that surrounded him wherever he went.

He was a little different. Not in the way you’d imagined someone "different" might be - quiet, mysterious, unassuming. No, he was loud, arrogant, and so assured in his strength that it bordered on unbearable.

The fire you’d felt as a child, that relentless desire to outdo him, to prove yourself, had cooled over the years. But it hadn’t gone out. Instead, it had transformed into something sharper, something a little colder - a blade honed not just to cut him down but to carve out your own space in a world that refused to see you as anything more than a shadow cast by his brilliance. It wasn’t just about beating him anymore. It was about standing on equal ground, forcing him - and everyone else - to recognize you as something other than second best.

You tried to take it slow, to ingore him.

Gojo didn’t make it easy.

He had a way of getting under your skin that no one else could. Just a glance from him could set your teeth on edge, that wide, knowing smirk playing on his lips like he was already ten steps ahead of you. He mocked you constantly, his words sharp and teasing, always laced with that infuriating arrogance that only he could pull off.

Every encounter was a contest, every conversation a challenge, every moment spent in his presence a battle for dominance.

You danced around each other endlessly, an intricate, unspoken rhythm that neither of you could break. One moment, he’d set the direction, leading with a cocky ease that seemed unshakable - the next, you’d outpace him, forcing him to catch up, to adjust to your steps.

The dance extended into every aspect of your lives. Missions became opportunities to one-up each other, to prove who was faster, sharper, more capable. Training sessions were wars of endurance, each of you pushing harder, refusing to yield until exhaustion forced a truce. Even on days off, when most people would relax or recover, you found ways to compete - whether it was sparring, aruging or something as mundane as seeing who could stack the most chairs before they toppled over.

His attention was relentless, his focus always sharp and unyielding. He discounted you with every other word, mocking your efforts, analyzing your achievements as if he were the ultimate judge of your worth. His words - arrogant and biting - were no better.

"Trying to catch up to me again? Good luck with that, shortcake."

"Don’t trip over your own shadow while you’re chasing me."

"Nice job today, small fry. Almost makes me feel like you’re worth competing with."

Each message was a spark, igniting the fire that drove you to prove him wrong, to show him - and yourself - that you were more than capable of matching him. To the point of beating him.

Neither of you ever held the upper hand for long - one day his victory, the next yours. The score didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that the fire between you never burned out, keeping you locked in this endless, maddening dance.

And maddening was pace of his hips that were thrusting into you every other day. The old floor, even with a layer of training mat, would creak under his powerful movements.

Both of you decided after some time that your dispute had to be settled by other means, so you challenged each other to a duel where there were no rules and all moves were allowed. It usually ended with the two of you meeting in the old training room after class, to resolve a conflict you were currently having. The winner was the one who first knocked his opponent finally to the ground.

Differently these encounters ended, sometimes he was the unbeatable winner, pounding you into the floor, bending you at every possible angle, whispering sweet nothingess and words of mocking encouragement to your ear, making tears drip down your flushed cheeks. Sometimes it was you who won, pinning him to the floor, bouncing off his hips in a frenzy, one in which you commented on how loud he was, how crying and pathetic he looked - words that were meant to degrade him, were just making his glimmering eyes roll back. Eyebrows raised and stupid handsome face twisted in a sigh so beautful that you would end up with the lost of insults after a while.

He won last week. Your asscheeks painfully pounded into the mat material, as your hands clasped tightly on his shoulders, creating scars that were meant to affect him, but only seemed to make him whine even more. Laughing breathlessly at your attempts to hurt him, as if he wasn't the one leaving rudely visible red marks on your neck that poke through uniform.

He'll probably laugh about winning his final match, too.

Because there will never be any again.

Everyone tried everything to undo the effects of what had happened - to remove the curse. When this proved impossible by the specifications of the object you touched, which could be called a trap, they at least tried to restore the flow of your cursed energy. This, too, proved to be a failure.

You’d told yourself, at first, that it must be temporary. That the connection to your technique would return, that this was just a setback. It had to be. Something so integral to your being couldn’t just vanish - it was part of you, wasn’t it?

That was you, right?

But each attempt proved fruitless. Every meditation session, every exercise, every attempt to summon even the faintest flicker of cursed energy - it all ended the same way: in silence, in emptiness.

The denial fueled your determination, pushing you into training sessions that bordered on self-destruction. You traded your technique for raw physicality, throwing punches at the training dummy until your fists bled, the skin splitting open as you struck again and again. And again. Sweat soaked through your clothes, mingling with tears you refused to acknowledge as they streamed down your face.

You screamed, raw and guttural, into the empty training field, but the sound brought no release, only exhaustion. You never shouted like that, never cried like when you fell on the ground and realised it was all pointless.

One conclusion came from your attempts.

You had been crippled.

"Maybe if I had a son, he wouldn't have made such a foolish mistake." the words clung to you, searing through the phone’s receiver like acid. Your father’s voice, sharp and cold, cut through the fragile thread of composure you had been holding onto. The regret, the disappointment, and - worst of all - the indifference. He didn’t even sound angry, just tired. Tired of you.

Your throat burned.

"Father, please..." but you didn’t know what you were asking for -mercy, understanding, or perhaps the impossible: forgiveness.

"You've squandered everything." his voice was steady, unaffected "Centuries of legacy, your birthright, your technique - gone. Do you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done?"

Do you? You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak. Your thoughts swirled into a vortex of self-loathing, replaying the moment over and over again.

"We'll talk later when I decide what to do with you." and just like that he hung up.

That was it. No comfort. No acknowledgment of the years you’d given, the sacrifices you’d made, or the countless moments you’d bled and bruised yourself into perfection. The line had gone dead with a finality that echoed through your chest like a hammer strike. His voice - so cold, so detached - ingered in your mind, cutting deeper than any curse could.

You set the phone down on the desk, your hand trembling slightly as you withdrew from it, as though it might burn you if you held on any longer. The chair creaked faintly beneath you as you sat motionless, staring at the wall opposite you.

You wanted to apologise to him, to beg his forgiveness for your mistake, for your stupidity, you wanted to cry on his shoulder, to apologise - again - that you had let him down. But he just wasn't interested. He was no longer interested in your perspective.

You, simply didn't interest him.

That room was dim, the shadows thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint glow of a single overhead light. It wasn’t enough to fully illuminate the faces of the elders who stood before you, their disapproval palpable, their voices sharp and cutting as they dissected your situation. Each word they spoke dug into your chest, stripping away what little pride you had left.

You were stripped off the title of a prodigy.

They called you a dissapointment now.

You became an example.

A cautionary tale.

The damage has already been done.

People tried to reach you. Geto, Shoko, Nanami - even Yaga made an effort to draw you out of your spiral. But their words felt hollow, meaningless. What could they possibly say that would fix what had been broken? They didn’t understand. How could they? They still had their power, their purpose, their place in this world. You didn’t.

He was on mission overseas, so maybe the information about your state didn't quite reach him yet. Not that you cared if he made contact.

He would probably just laugh at you anyway.

Of all these people Geto, had tried the hardest, his presence quiet but persistent. He tried to be there for you. But there was no you inside.

He’d sat beside one day, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. His touch, once an unremarkable soft gesture, now felt heavy - too heavy. You realized then just how much strength he had, how much stronger he’d become while you had only weakened. His grip, once equal to yours, now dwarfed it.

"You’re still here." he’d said softly, his voice careful, measured "That matters the most."

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, but they couldn’t penetrate the hollow void inside you. Instead, you’d turned away, muttering some excuse to just leave.

You didn’t want his pity. You didn’t want anyone’s.

You didn't believe that anything else mattered to anyone except your gift. Not after everything that happends.

So you let yourself sink in that conviction.

Your own reflection became that a stranger. Each glance in the mirror revealed another part of yourself fading away. Your muscles, once taut and defined from years of rigorous training, softened, weakened. Your face, once bright with determination and pride, dulled, the light in your eyes all but extinguished. Even your posture changed, slouching under the weight of your defeat.

You avoided mirrors after that. It was easier not to look at yourself, not to see the person you’d become.

The thought of him haunted you. He was the only person who had not yet spoken about your situation. You could almost hear the laughter that would spill from his lips when he found out.

He’d won, hadn’t he? He will be happy that you lost.

Not through a sparring match or a test of strength, but through your own stupidity. He wouldn’t even need to lift a finger - your downfall was self-inflicted. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He’d probably make a joke of it, something biting and sharp, something that would leave you hollowed out even further. The idea of facing him, of hearing his voice, made your stomach twist - but you kinda wanted him to say somthing to you.

Although you were sure what his reaction would be.

By early autumn you became a ghost of the person you’d once been, a shell going through the motions. The world felt distant, muted, as though you were walking through a haze. The wind carried the crisp scent of leaves, the air beacme sharp enough to sting your lungs as you exhaled. Your student status was taken away by higher-ups, they decided that sending you on a mission was pointless. Just like you. The peak of your skill now was ability to see a curse, not to fight one.

You could do whatever you wanted, so you went to all sorts of faraway places.

You’d grown used to the isolation. It was easier not to see anyone, not to hear the pity in their voices or feel their lingering stares. Geto had tried, tried and tried. Staying with you whenever he could, but even his presence, as steady and grounding as it was, felt too heavy. He tried talking to you, but your mind seemed closed to his willingness to help and his affectionate tone. You weren't a person who knew how to accept help from others, no one ever taught you that. Even if you appreciated it, you didn't know how to show it. And the truth was - you couldn’t bear the weight of his concern, couldn’t summon the energy to reassure anyone that you were fine.

Because you weren’t fine. You were no longer yourself.

That was the only thing that had mattered.

You wanted to disappear into the nothingness that seemed to have taken root inside you. You wanted to stop existing in a world where you no longer had a place, where the purpose that had defined you all your life was gone.

But instead, you thought. And thought. Alone, in the dark, your mind was a relentless spiral, turning over every moment, every decision that had brought you to this point.

You never really faced your fears before, you realized.

This and many other thoughts stirred in your head like a swirl, twisting your perception of reality.

You were walking through the school gates, the crisp golden leaves crunching under your boots. The sun hung low in the sky, its light casting long shadows across the pavement.

You really didn’t expect to see him.

He was back.

Snow-white hair catching the sunlight, posture impossibly relaxed, as if the weight of the world didn’t touch him. He walked with that characteristic ease, the kind that could embarrass a hundred men without effort. His phone was pressed to his ear, and you could hear his laughter even from a distance - light, careless, the kind of laugh that had always annoyed you.

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t notice you. Of course - why would he? You didn’t even have the faintest trace of cursed energy anymore. You were just a random person, a shadow of who you’d once been, just a presence walking aimlessly on a pleasant autumn afternoon.

You kept your hands buried in your pockets, eyes fixed on the path ahead, determined to pass him without incident. Without one stupid comment. Without one look into that judging eyes.

You realized you weren't ready to face him. A whole range of emotions came up in you: anger, anticipation, sadness, wanting, resignation, longing, but most of all - shame.

But then his gaze fell on you.

You could feel it before you even looked up, the weight of his attention, sharp and unmissable. His eyes flicked over you once, casual and dismissive, but then he froze. Head snapped back in your direction, and the expression on his face shifted so quickly it almost startled you. Satisfaction melted into pure, unfiltered shock.

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t have the strength to deal with him, with his taunts, his smirks, his cutting words, his blue eyes. Not now. Not ever. You moved past him without a word, steps steady and deliberate, though your heart pounded in your chest so much.

You will let him enjoy his win in your silence.

"Oi!" his voice cut through the air, sharp, insistent "Stop you - Wait!"

You didn’t turn around. In fact you didn’t even flinch. Instead, you reached into pocket, pulling out the battered pack of cigarettes Shoko had handed you weeks ago. You lit one with a shaky hand, the ember flaring briefly before the smoke curled into the air. You inhaled deeply, the bitter taste grounding you as you kept walking.

Gojo stood frozen, watching you disappear down the path. He tried calling after you couple of times, louder each time. But he didn't run after you. Six Eyes scanned your silhouette with dangerous precision, noticing every small detail that had changed. The slump in your shoulders, the sharpness of your cheekbones, the dullness in your eyes. The lack of a slightest trace of cursed energy.

What the hell happend to you?

He hadn’t seen you in weeks, but the person walking away from him now was unrecognizable.

You weren’t just tired. You weren't yourself.

You came back hours later to pack your belongings.

The weight of tomorrow hung heavy in your chest, suffocating and inescapable. Your father’s decision loomed over you, its implications gnawing at your already fragile sense of self.

You decided to take a walk, one last time over the terrain you knew and loved so well.

You didn’t want to think about what he might have planned for you. You didn’t want to imagine the hollow life that awaited you, stripped of your identity and power. But the thoughts were relentless, swirling in your mind as you walked, each step taking you farther from the dormitory and deeper into the forest.

Would he make you a servant? Marry you off to someone important, someone who could salvage what little value you had left? Would he exile you to the far corners of the clan, where you would live out your days in quiet obscurity?

The possibilities churned in your mind, each one heavier than the last.

For weeks, you’d been coming here, searching for something in that reflection. Searching for the person you used to be, the prodigy who had stood tall and proud, who had been her father’s pride and her clan’s future. But all you found was a ghost, a shadow of what you once were.

The night was quiet, perfect for the last one here, the air heavy with the crisp scent of fallen leaves and damp earth. A pale moon hung in the sky, its light casting silvery ripples over the world, softening the edges of reality.

You crouched down, as you approached the edge of the water. Your hands brushing against the damp grass, and stared into the lake’s surface. For a moment, the sight of your reflection startled you, as it always did now.

You closed your eyes, for a brief moment, the quiet of the forest enveloping you. A faint rustle of leaves, the distant call of nightlife and the soft lapping of water against the shore - it was all so achingly peaceful. And yet, it offered no comfort.

The lake held no answers, no revelations. Just the same distorted reflection, the same fractured image of yourself.

The reflection there was faint, distorted, but still recognizable. You could make out the curve of your jaw, the hollowness of your cheeks, the dim light in your eyes that once burned so brightly. You stared at yourself, unblinking, searching for the person you had been.

But you were gone.

...

What is the point of all this?

The question came unbidden, as it had so many times before. It's not like you're usefull to anyone. Your whole life has been based on being a sorcerer, the next clan head also, but not being just a human. You don't know how to live a normal life - you don't know if you even want to live one.

You thought about the weight of your father’s expectations, the years you had spent chasing his approval. You thought about the countless hours of training, the bruises, the exhaustion, the fleeting moments of pride that had kept you going. And you thought about the emptiness you felt now, the void left behind by the loss of your technique.

It's all been bringing you to one conclusion for some time: you are nothing without your technique.

This is a painful truth that you had to accept some time ago.

You had the feeling that the water was looking at you - offering a hideout.

You moved, taking one hesitant step forward.

It won't be that bad, right? Everything is better than facing the consequences of your own stupidity.

Another step joined the previous one, your feet touching the cold surface. The smell of wet grass and vegetation wafted through the air.

You’d left everything behind on the shore. Your jacket, hoodie, and shoes - they lay in a silent heap, abandoned like everything else in your life. You won't need them anymore.

The water was cold. Icy. It cut through your skin like shards of glass, wrapping around you with an unforgiving grip as you plunged deeper and deeper into the darkness. The shock of it made your muscles tighten, but you didn’t fight it - not at first. You let the weight of the water pull you down, let the emptiness consume you.

Everything was dark, impossibly so, swallowing everything in its depths. You couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything but the cold pressure against your skin and the burning in your chest as your lungs screamed for air. You let yourself sink further, closing your eyes against the suffocating blackness.

And yet, your mind wouldn’t still.

Thoughts came rushing in, unbidden, like a flood breaking through a dam. Every memory, every failure, every moment of doubt and despair surged to the forefront. The weight of it all pressed down on you, heavier than the water, dragging you deeper into the abyss.

You had thought this might be the solution. The way out. An escape from the suffocating spiral of your existence. But as the air in your lungs ran out and your body began to betray you, survival instinct kicking in, you realized there was no escape. Not from the memories, not from the pain, not from yourself.

Your limbs flailed, your arms slicing through the water as you tried to fight against the primal urge to breathe. Your body betrayed you, forcing you to the surface even as your mind screamed to let go, to give in.

Just a little bit.

But it was too late. The water felt thick, heavy, an impossible barrier keeping you from the surface. Your lungs heaved, desperate for air, but all they found was water. Cold, bitter, unrelenting water that filled your chest and drowned your last desperate gasp for life.

The memories came in flashes, fragments of a life that now seemed so far away. The pride in your father’s eyes the first time you mastered your technique. The sound ofm Geto’s gentle laugh on a quiet afternoon. Shoko’s quiet. The way Gojo’s voice had always irritated you, his smirk a constant thorn in your side.

They all felt so distant now, like they belonged to someone else. Someone who wasn’t a failure. Someone who still mattered.

And then there was the weight of the other memories - the shame, the disappointment, the voices of the elders as they condemned you. The coldness in your father’s tone when he told you he’d decide what to do with you. The emptiness that had consumed you in the weeks since.

You felt your body shutting down, your vision darkening as the water enveloped you. Your limbs grew heavy, your mind hazy. The struggle became a distant thing, like a flickering light fading out.

And yet, in those final moments, as the water pulled you under completely, one thought rose above all the others, sharp and unrelenting:

You are a failure.

Gasp.

The world returned to you in gasps and violent coughs, water pouring from your lungs as your chest heaved painfully. Your body felt like it had been ripped apart, the freezing cold of the lake still clinging to your skin, but the sharp sensation of something - someone - holding you brought clarity in a rush.

You blinked against the blurriness in your vision, barely able to make out the figure above you. His white hair was plastered to his forehead, the sharp strands dulled and dripping, and his electric blue eyes were wide, filled with a mix of fury, fear, and something raw. His hands trembled as they held you, but his grip was firm, refusing to let go.

Him.

You coughed again, turning your head as water spilled out of your mouth, your chest burning with each labored breath. Reality slammed into you like a punch: you were on the shore, cold earth pressing against your back, and he was the reason you were still here.

"No." you croaked, the word scraping against your throat like sandpaper. Panic surged through you, body reacting before mind could catch up. You twisted violently, shoving against him with what little strength you had left, trying to escape the strong grasp. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be saved.

He didn’t let go.

"Stop." he growled, his voice low and strained. It wasn’t the teasing, mocking tone you were used to. This was different. Commanding, almost desperate.

"Let go of me!" you shouted, your voice cracking as you thrashed against him, the fight in you born not of strength but of pure, unrelenting despair "Let me go, Gojo!"

"No." his grip tightened, his hands locking around your wrists as you tried to claw at him. You jerked and struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger, and even without your powers, you were nothing compared to him. The realization hit you like a dagger to the chest, sharp and agonizing. You couldn’t even free yourself. You couldn’t do anything.

"Stop it" he snapped, voice cutting through the chaos as he pinned your wrists to the ground, forcing you still. His weight loomed over you, his breath ragged and uneven as he glared down at you, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn’t meet.

You froze, your body trembling beneath him, the fight draining out of you as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. The only sounds were the quiet lapping of the lake’s waves and the harsh breaths between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. His chest rose and fell rapidly, droplets of water sliding down his face, hair wet. His grip on your wrists loosened slightly, though he didn’t let go.

"What are you doing? What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice rough and low, each word laced with something you couldn’t quite place. Anger? Fear? Pain?

You turned your head away, refusing to meet his gaze "You shouldn’t have stopped me."

His grip tightened again, his fingers trembling as they pressed against your skin "Stop you -" he cut himself off, his jaw clenching tightly as he took a shuddering breath "You’re such an idiot."

You wanted to scream at him, to shove him away, to make him understand that there was nothing left of you worth saving. To let you go and withered. But the words caught in your throat, tangled with the grief, anger and despair that had been building inside you for so long.

"What are you doing here? You've been following me?" your voice sharp despite the hoarseness from the water you’d just coughed up. You glared at him, still pinned beneath his weight, wrists trapped in his hands.

Gojo’s expression flickered between irritation and something you couldn’t quite place - concern? No, that wasn’t possible. He raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with his usual brand of mockery "No. Better -what were you doing here?"

You turned your face away, refusing to answer. The moonlight glinted off the water, its calm surface a contrast to the chaos swirling inside you. You could feel his eyes boring into you, Six Eyes missing nothing.

It didn’t take long for him to piece it together.

His grip on your wrists tightened, just slightly "You should have known better." he said, his tone shifting, lower now, more serious "With all that negative energy bottled up, you could’ve attracted a curse."

You snorted bitterly, the sound harsh and raw "As if I’m not already a curse."

His lips turned into a thin line, glimmering eyes narrowing as he leaned closer "Don’t say stupid things." what you said wasn't stupid, he was stupid for coming here and saving you.

"You are stupid for saving me." the words burst out of you, cracking, unrestrained.

The admission hung in the air, raw and cutting, and you hated how much it revealed. You hated how much he could see now. You felt as if he had caught you on something. Not only at this desperate attempt to avoid your fate, but also at being vulnerable. His face was so close now that you could see every drop of water clinging to his white long lashes, you could also feel the intensity radiating from him like a physical force.

"I told you not to say stupid stuff." he said, his voice low and biting, each word hitting like a hammer "You’re dumb enough as it is."

You wanted him to leave you alone.

You growled in frustration, your movements wild and erratic as you struggled against his grip, you tried to kick him, but to no avail "Let go of me, you asshole!"

"No." his response was immediate, tone resolute.

Can he listen to you for once?

"Fuck you!" you hissed.

"You already did!" he barked, his voice cracking through the tension like lightning.

You froze, the retort you’d been about to throw back dying on your tongue. That was an answer you didn't expected. It made you pause. Well...

Gojo sighed, a sound of exasperation tinged with something softer, something almost like… care "You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?" he muttered "But I’d rather deal with that than lose you."

What?

No, you must have overheard, he would never say such a thing to you.

You would almost believe those softly sparkling eyes, that looked at you in a way that it felt anxious. Well, almost, because you knew exactly who was saying those words to you. You scolded yourself for this in your head.

"Why the hell are you here?" you demanded an answer on dodged question, voice shaking with both anger and something dangerously close to despair "Did you save me because you were afraid you’d lose your favorite object of derision? To mock me? To laugh at how pathetic I’ve become?"

His eyes widened briefly, the accusation catching him off guard, before narrowing again in frustration "Do you seriously think I’d waste my time saving your sorry ass just to mock you?" he shots back "God, you’re so full of yourself sometimes."

"Then why?" you spat "Why did you saved me?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze shifting to the side, avoiding yours entirely. You could see the tension in his jaw. But he still said nothing. As the answer was too much for him to bear. He was about to speak, but he noticed the way you shivered violently, the cold catching you again. The soaked fabric of your clothes still clung to you, and the sharp autumn air made it impossible to stop trembling. Gojo changed his mind.

"I’ll let you go now." his voice lower, less biting "Get dressed - but no stupid actions."

His grip on you eased, and he moved back just enough to give you space, though not far enough to let you out of his reach. He stayed seated on the damp ground, watching your every move with an intensity that made your skin crawl. He didn’t trust you. Not yet.

You listened, you didn't have a choice now.

You crawled toward the pile of clothes, hands shaking so badly that it was difficult to grab anything properly. You stripped off your soaked shirt and pulled on your hoodie in a hurry, not caring whether he saw or not. You were too cold to care about modesty, too angry to care about anything else.

He also got dressed, buttoning up his sweats and putting on his jacket. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating, until his voice broke through.

"Why do you act like a moron?" his words were sharp, almost accusing, but there was something beneath them - a tremor of genuine frustration. Not a trace of his previous gentleness.

You didn’t answer, keeping your focus on zipping up your jacket, your movements jerky and uneven.

He grabbed your arm suddenly, firm but not painful "Oi, answer me!" his voice rose, the intensity of it cutting through the cold air.

You snapped your head up, your eyes blazing as you glared at him "The hell do you want?"

All you wanted now was to escape to a warm room and cry.

His grip on your arm tightened for a moment before loosening slightly, but still there, his expression flickering from serious to worried to confused "Why... why did you want- " he struggled for the words, frowning "Why did you want to end it all? It’s stupid, this logic is idiotic even for you."

You growled.

"What’s dumb is that you don’t understand it." you shot back, your voice sharp, almost venomous. The anger bubbling inside you was the only thing keeping the cold at bay. You wanted to get up, but his grip kept you down.

"The stupid thing is what you’re doing." he countered, his voice rising again "Do you think your death will change anything?"

That was enough for you.

"Great!" you shouted, pulling your arm free of his grip and stepping back, your chest heaving as emotions boiled over "If I’m so fucking worthless, then let me die, for fuck’s sake!"

Shock.

Pure, undeniable shock.

Those vivid blue eyes of his, so infuriatingly piercing, widened. Eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but no words came out. It's as if he doesn't believe you just said that. As if he just realised the seriousness of the situation. You saw his chest start to rise faster, not sure if from the cold…. or from panic.

"I don’t want you to -" he started, his voice breaking slightly, even softer than before.

But you crossed your limits.

"You won, okay!?" you cut him off, voice sharp, loud and trembling. The words spilled out of you like a flood, raw, unrestrained "You can rub my face in your victory now! I don’t care anymore! Torment me, mock me, laugh at me - now’s your time!"

His eyes narrowed, confusion clear as his brow furrowed "What?"

"Do it! Now’s the time where you can laugh all you want, insult me all you want - because now, at least, you have a reason!"

"I- " he tried to speak, but you wouldn’t let him.

"Tell me what a failure I am!" you suddenly cried "Tell me how I mean nothing, how all my efforts have gone to waste, how I’m worthless! Because now, at least, I’ll admit you’re right!"

"Stop-" he started, but his words fell flat against the force of your pain.

"Tell me how all your life you knew you were better!" you shouted, hands shaking as you gripped the sleeves of your jakcet "Tell me I’m an idiot, that I’ve always been dumb! Laugh in my face, mock me, just finish me! Say all the things you’ve been thinking, all the things you’ve wanted to say - just say it!"

Your voice broke completely, the words tumbling into a sob "You can finish me..." you choked "Come on. Just… just do it!"

This was to much, you felt so so much.

He was so disoriented. You could see this by his reaction.

"Because I'd believe you'd laugh than suddenly care what happens to me." you chocked.

Silence.

Tears blurred your vision. You were done pretending to have any pride left. You've had enough of everything. You didn't understand his reaction, his sudden tenderness confused you, everything was so wrong. You just wanted to get back to normal, when you - and everything had it's place.

But no, suddenly the world has turned - you don't have your technique, your father will probably disown you, and your rival and bully is suddenly trying to be nice. You don't want to be here anymore. You don't know how to find yourself in this world and you don't know how to talk about it.

It's humiliating to cry in front of him, you know it, but you don't care. You let it all out, just like the water from before.

He just stared at you, eyes wide, jaw tight. You could barely see through the fact that you sobbing next to him, hiding your face and bringing your legs to your chest.

"No." he whispered.

You blinked at him, raising your head, confused "What?"

"No." he repeated, louder this time, his voice firm but trembling "I’m not going to mock you."

You let out a loud bitter laugh, shaking your head "Of course not. Because you don’t even have to, do you? I’ve already done it for you."

"That’s not-" he cut himself off, shortening the distance between you "You’re wrong."

"About what?" your voice breaking again "About being a failure? About being nothing? Tell me what part of that is wrong?"

"All of it." he confirmed, voice steady now, glowing eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart clenched "Every single word. You’re not nothing. You’re not a failure. And I swear to God, if you say that again, I’m going to-"

"To what?" you challenged "Save me again? Drag me out of the lake and lecture me about how I should see the bright side of losing everything? Spare me the pity, Gojo. I don’t need it."

"It’s not pity!" his voice ringing loud, showing that emotions were also building up inside him. Unexpectedly, two large hands moved to cup your face, forcing you to look at him, to stare at two glowing blue dots "I’m not here because I pity you. I’m here because-" he faltered, voice catching as his breath hitched, his thumbs brushing against your cold, damp skin "Because I care."

The silence that followed was deafening. You froze, your face dropping as the weight of confession hit you like a tidal wave. He wonders if you know how much it cost him to tell you this directly. You, you wonder if what he says is a joke.

He... what?

His hands stayed on your face, steady despite the way they trembled slightly "I wanted to talk to you." the voice that came out of him was so quiet, so full of affection, that it was almost nothing like his "I started looking for you as soon as I got back from the mission. I wanted to... I don’t know, do something. Anything."

You burst out laughing bitterly, the sound sharp and raw in the stillness. It felt absurd, impossible. Gojo Satoru, your rival, the person you’d been compared to all your entire life, the one who mocked you, humiliated you endlessly, competed with you relentlessly - suddenly was caring about you?

You don’t believe him - because how could you?

For so many years, he had been the same infuriating presence in your life, treating you with an air of superiority and, at times, outright disdain. His words had cut shar, leaving wounds you’d carried silently for years.

There wasn’t a single thing he hadn’t laughed at. Your hair, he’d compared it to the end of a broomstick. Your smile? He’d once called it a donkey’s grin - or whatever the Japanese equivalent it was, delivered with his trademark smirk that made you want to slap it off his face. Your taste in music? "Cheesy pop thrash" And your clothes? Oh, that was his favorite target "Are you dressing ironically?" he’d asked once, tilting his head with mock curiosity "Or is this a social experiment I missed?" It didn’t stop there. He even mocked the way you walked once, calling it "Too stiff, like you’re auditioning for a role as a wooden puppet"., the way you ate "You attack food like it owes you money." and even the way you carried your books "Why are you holding them like that?" he’d said, mimicking your grip dramatically "You're so weak that you can't hold them properly?"

So yeah, it was laughable.

He may have saved you and you may want to believe in what he says, but you are just not able to.

Can you really blame yourself?

Well, kinda, because you were the one making out with him every other day. You might have believed that he liked your attention, that he might have wanted you - but you wouldn't believe that he wanted to care about you.

You reached up and pulled his hands off your face, your cold fingers brushing against his quite warm ones "Don't give me that. What could you supposedly do?" you asked, voice dripping with disbelief and mockery. The cold seeping back into your body now that his touch was gone

"Anything." he said, his words still tumbling out, almost frantic "Talk, sit with you, I don’t know - something. I- " he stopped, his own frustration bleeding into his voice "I don’t know." his eyes were so pleading.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to stop the tremors as you looked away "Don't bother." voice low, void of fight "Doesn't matter now. My father is picking me up tomorrow."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I have heard too many versions, all from different people, of what my father supposedly planned that - that I don't know..." you paused, the lump in your throat growing unbearable as you forced yourself to say these words.

You wanted to say that you were afraid, that you didn't know what to do, that you felt you had let everyone down, that nothing made sense to you now.

That it was too much.

That you didn't allowed yourself any form of comfort.

"I know one thing, though." you hesitated, the weight of your next words heavy, but you looked up, meeting his gaze with trembling resolve "I’d rather die now, than live my life as a clan failure."

He growled, frustrated, as if nothing is working on his favour. As if he was breaking.

"Who cares what the clan thinks? Who cares about anything they say?" Gojo’s voice rising, desperate and insistent, his words coming faster now, blabbering "They’re a bunch of old fools who don’t know what they’re talking about! You are more than their expectations. You are more than your technique. You are - "

Maybe he wanted to comfort you that way or maybe he wanted you to believe his tale of him 'caring about you'.

But you had already made up your mind.

Gojo knew that you might not believe him in what he was saying now, he knew, that you would be angry with him for all that he has done- you were right - you should be. What he didn't predict, however, was that you would know him well enough to know this one hidden truth about him.

What you say now will leave a mark on him for years. You frowned, voice totaly sure of the words you're saying.

"Don’t preach to me about things you don’t even believe yourself."

You hadn’t spoken since that night by the lake.

Not when you were picked up, your father’s silence mirroring your own as you sat stiffly beside him, staring out the car's window. Not when he informed you of your new path with the cold efficiency of a man making a business transaction.

Your age wasn't very favourable for this, admittedly - you should have started your training as a maiko a long time ago, wanting to become a geiko. However, your father, using his connections, found a place that will accept you for training. He found an okiya in Kanazawa that from now on - will be your temporary home.

You didn’t fight him. You didn’t speak at all. You have done enough.

The years that followed were grueling in their own way, though nothing compared to what you’d endured before.

Training as a maiko demanded a different kind of perfection, a complete transformation of body and mind. The disciplined, precise movements of martial arts you had once mastered - were now replaced by the elegant, deliberate grace of traditional dance. Every step, every turn, every motion had to flow with effortless beauty, concealing the pain and time it took to perfect them.

You hated every second of it.

Your figure changed over time, slimming down in ways you hadn’t anticipated and curving in a few other places. You "got smaller", your once powerful frame softening into something more delicate, more feminine. Your reflection in the mirror became even stranger - a porcelain doll painted and adorned to please others. Gone were the rugged hands that once wielded cursed tools, now they held fans, makeup brushes, creating beauty where you once brought destruction.

The contrast was unbearable.

You missed the fight, the passion, the adrenaline, the raw exhilaration of your old life. Sometimes, as you trained with the fan, your body betrayed your mind, instinctively slipping into the stances meant for a sword. For your lost technique.

Every day felt like a reminder, a performance, not just for others but for yourself, as if pretending long enough might make you forget what you had lost.

But it didn't.

You never completely left your old self behind; the memory of that person remained vivid, etched into your mind. Recalling the past -missions, getaways, trainings, fleeting moments of triumph and connection - became a daily ritual. Nostalgia and grief intertwined, two of many companions that you had learned to live with, their weight both comforting and unbearable.

Despite it all, he kept reaching out to you.

Gojo’s messages came daily at first, long, rambling texts filled with details of his day - missions, strange encounters, little jokes he’d picked up along the way. He sent pictures of things he thought might make you laugh: a badly drawn doodle of you scowling, a ridiculous meme, a cursed object that looked suspiciously like a poorly designed toy. Each message carried a tone of casual insistence, as though he were trying to prove his point - that he cared. Or perhaps he was trying to reshape your relationship, to turn you from the rival he mocked constantly into something else, maybe - a friend.

Eventually, the messages slowed. Whether it was his own frustration, the demands of his life, or something else entirely, you didn’t know. You didn’t care to know. Cutting yourself off from him, from everyone, was the only way you knew how to endure.

At some point, you stopped reading them altogether. The weight of shame pressed down on your chest, suffocating any inclination to respond. You couldn’t face him - or anyone from your past. The person they knew was gone, and what remained of you was too broken, too hollow, to withstand their judgment or pity.

Your thoughts spiraled endlessly, dragging you deeper into a pit of self-doubt. You convinced yourself that no one could possibly care for who you were now - powerless, dull, and unremarkable. What was left of you wasn’t worth saving, and surely, he had to see that too. Eventually, you were certain, he would stop trying. And that thought, as much as it pained you, felt like the only mercy left.

Sometimes, you’d catch yourself hovering over his messages, tempted to open them. The thought of catching a glimpse of the snippets of his life - once so intertwined with yours - felt like a small, guilty comfort.

But no, you didn't do it.

Years just passed, and the day of your Kurokami, the ceremonial debut marking your transition to full-fledged geiko, arrived. Your father had spared no effort, inviting everyone of importance - every known clan in the jujutsu world, their representatives gathered on the sprawling estate for a grand celebration steeped in tradition and political maneuvering.

It wasn’t about you. It was never about you.

This was a spectacle, a carefully orchestrated display of your father’s influence and connections. Each guest, each detail, was part of a greater plan to cement alliances and further his ambitions. You were just another piece of that plan, an accessory to his power.

The highlight of the evening was the final dance of a maiko, the moment of transition - a symbol of beauty and accomplishment in its purest form. But it wasn’t your dance. It wasn’t you, his daughter, he didn't even introduce you.

No, you were just a dancer now.

You entered the stage in silence, your heart slowing as the soft glow of the spotlight bathed you in its warmth. The muted chatter of the crowd faded into an expectant hush, the weight of hundreds of gazes pressing down on you. The air felt thick, heavy with the unspoken demands of the evening. The elaborate kimono you wore seemed to amplify that weight, its intricate embroidery shimmering under the light. Each layer of fabric, from the trailing hikizuri hem to the opulent obi tied with meticulous care, felt like a chain binding you to the role you were expected to fulfill.

The role that you didn't like.

The adornments on your hair - a delicate array of golden combs and jade pins - added to the strain, each piece glinting like a reminder of the perfection demanded of you. Even the subtle fragrance of incense clinging to your garments seemed to emphasize your place in this performance: a symbol, a display, but never a person.

Your movements, however, betrayed none of your inner turmoil. You moved with the fluidity that had been drilled into you for years, every step and turn perfectly calculated. The soft clack of your lacquered sandals against the polished wood echoed through the room, a rhythm as precise as the dance itself. Each motion was a testament to your training, your arms flowing gracefully as though carried by the air.

And then you saw him.

He’d changed. A lot. The years had shaped him into someone sharper, more refined, though the essence of him - remained unmistakable. His snow-white hair was still its signature mess, but it seemed more intentional now, as though he’d taken the time to style it. The glasses he wore were different, darker and sleeker, framing his face in a way that gave him an air of maturity you weren’t prepared for. Somehow, impossibly, he seemed even taller.

Even more handsome.

You couldn’t remember every detail of his face - time had eroded those memories - but some things stayed vivid. You remembered his hands cupping your face that night by the lake, trembling and warm despite the chill. You remembered the look in his eyes, desperate, as if trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. Those moments had etched themselves into your mind in ways you hadn’t dared to revisit.

Is it bad that you missed seeing him?

At first, his expression was unreadable, his lips slightly parted as though he’d been caught mid-thought. His usual cocky smirk, the one you had come to know and despise - was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a stunned stillness to him, an uncharacteristic vulnerability that made your chest tighten. Those piercing blue eyes, always so vivid, widened as they traced your figure.

You could see the faint flicker of recognition in them, the way his gaze darted across you as if trying to reconcile the person before him with the one he had known.

You couldn’t glance at him as much as you wanted to, though the urge tugged at you with every turn, every delicate gesture. The temptation was a steady hum beneath your practiced composure, but you ignored it.

Whatever he felt, whatever you felt, didn’t matter. Not here. Not now.

It was the longest performance you've ever done.

When your it ended, the room erupted into applause, a symphony of polite enthusiasm filling the grand space. Guests turned to your father, their compliments flowing freely, every word dripping with veiled flattery.

"What a remarkable performance, truly exquisite." one elder said, nodding with approval. He said this loud enough that you could hear him.

"Master, your planning is unmatched." said another, their tone measured and calculated "A brilliant highlight for the evening."

But not him.

He didn’t join the chorus of praise. He didn’t clap. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there, silent, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that felt like it might swallow you whole. The weight of his gaze burned hotter than any ovation, lingering on you as though he were trying to reach across the distance, trying to say something without words. Maybe something like - look at me again.

You didn’t dare to do this again, too afraid to face him, to face the reality of all you’d ignored: the messages you’d left unread, his attempts to connect with you, his clumsy, awkward texts filled with jokes and small glimpses of his life. You couldn’t bear the thought of the weight in his gaze reflecting those unanswered words, those years of silence between you.

Instead, you kept your head high, your back straight, your movements precise as you exited the stage. You didn’t need to see his face to feel his disappointment - or his persistence. It lingered in the air, following you even as you stepped out of the light.

© noira-l | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, or redistirbute my work without permission

[nanamiscocksleeve]

ok, so I'm really thirsty about the new quadbanner like everyone else, and I really don't know how to request this, but can you write something about Zayne's how he pulling down his zipper, telling us how it would be enough.. tysmm 😔

I think we've all been thirsty since the quad banner came out. I'm like what am I doing with my life, can it just be the 31st already 😩😩😩

Just The Tip

You're struggling. You loved being called a good girl but Zayne made it so hard to be worthy of receiving that praise. Even now. His instructions were simple. Lay naked on the bed and do nothing. No restraints, no punishments. He was trying to make it easy for you. But at the moment it felt like even the simplest things he was doing were making you dangerously close to snapping.

You'd lain there as he'd teased your nipples, working the little buds into aching peaks, and you'd gasped and tried not move as he'd gathered slick from your dripping core and stroked it onto your delicate, swollen, clit, his smoldering eyes darkening as you'd tried to control the building need rising within you. The promise of an orgasm hung in the air but you became careless; one tiny miscalculated action of bucking your hips, and Zayne had stopped, leaving you tingling and bereft.

You'd watched with desperate eyes as he circled around the bed, coming to a halt near your head, wearing a sexy smirk that sent a rush of arousal into your core. "Tch. You make it so hard to praise you, you know? I gave you the most basic of instructions. It appears lying still and doing nothing is too much to ask of you."

Devastated by his lack of approval, you give him your most rueful look, trying to appear apologetic, then whimper as he forcefully grasps your chin, his mouth covering yours as his tongue sensually enters. The wet slip of it against your tongue has you melting, becoming heady from the taste of him as your pussy throbs almost painfully from the lack of stimulation.

Withdrawing, he pushes away hair from your face, cupping your cheek almost tenderly. "Well since it appears you're doing the bare minimum, unfortunately, that's all I can give back to you."

You watch with wide eyes as Zayne opens the zipper of his slacks, and tugs them down along with his underwear, letting his cock spring free, thick and already swollen with arousal, a bead of precum visible in the slit. You almost groan at the sight, imagining how good it would feel to have him fuck you into the mattress, his hot meat stroking your slippery inner walls. You almost forgot that Zayne was not rewarding you at this moment.

He huffs, then positions himself between your spread legs. "Did you really think I was going to let you have all of this?" You let out a small gasp as you feel his tip breach your entrance, pushing in slowly, each minor inch moved making you feel like you might lose your sanity. You try to stay still, letting him do as he pleases, then let out a noise of disappointment as he withdraws. He repeats the process over and over until your arousal has dribbled onto the sheets, making an absolute mess, your mind in a sexual fog.

Zayne's tip is covered with your fluids that have leaked over his velvety column, and he prepares himself to enter again, and the pathetic look of helplessness on your face almost makes him laugh.

"What're you looking at me like that for hmm? Did you think you'd get more with your poor behavior?" He rests his tip halfway inside your canal and stops, feeling the hopeless little clenches of your walls on his cock, as though it eas trying to suck him in further.

"I think that's enough for now." Zayne pulls out completely and you give up, crying out in protest. He chuckles as your reaction before tucking himself back neatly into his pants, fixing his shirt and running his fingers thorough his barely disheveled hair. He offers his hand to you, and you take it, perplexed, and let him help you sit up.

"Get your clothes back on. Yvonne will help you make another appointment. Use that time to work on your discipline and maybe I'll reward that behavior."

© nanamiscocksleeve original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

[mapis-putellas]

𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓/𝑨.𝑷𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔

The apartment door slammed open with more force than usual, startling you from your spot on the couch. You'd been halfway through icing your sprained ankle, already in the middle of a grueling recovery stint that left you both restless and frustrated. Alexia's sudden arrival immediately grabbed your attention, but it wasn't just the noise that alarmed you—it was the way she looked.

Her blonde hair was plastered to her forehead, and her kit, still damp with sweat from the game, clung to her frame. Her face was pale, eyes wide and red-rimmed, and the unmistakable sight of tears streaking her cheeks made your heart drop. She was upset—no, absolutely devastated. You could see it in the tremble of her hands and the way her chest heaved as she stood frozen in the doorway.

"Alexia?" you called, voice rising in alarm as you shifted to sit upright despite the dull ache in your ankle. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

She didn't respond immediately, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for something before landing back on you. When she spoke, her words came out in a frantic, tear-choked rush.

"I cheated," she blurted, her voice breaking completely on the last word.

You froze, the weight of her confession slamming into you like a ton of bricks. Your brain scrambled to make sense of the situation, but her words left you momentarily stunned. Alexia stood there, visibly shaking as she started rambling, the usual lilt of her accent thickened by her panic. Her English, already limited in normal circumstances, was now an incomprehensible jumble of words as she struggled to explain.

"I kiss…the other team...on, no! No, not all!" she stammered, throwing her hands up in frustration as if physically trying to force the words out. "Some—no, one. The lips!"

Your heart sank further as her jumbled explanation only made things worse. You couldn't think of anything to say, couldn't even begin to process what you'd just heard. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating, as Alexia's tears started anew.

"I go," she said as she took a step backwards, her voice trembling as she wiped at her face with the back of her hand. "Pack... my things."

She turned sharply, disappearing down the hallway toward your shared bedroom before you could even think to stop her. You were still frozen, her rushed words replaying in your mind on a loop. The mention of lips, the devastation in her voice, her complete certainty that she'd just destroyed everything between you, it all made your chest ache.

Your phone buzzing on the coffee table pulled you from your stupor, and you quickly grabbed it, blinking down at the screen. Ingrid's name flashed across the display, and you picked up immediately, too desperate for clarity to question why she was calling.

"Hey," Ingrid started, her voice cautious but urgent. "Listen, I'm calling about Alexia. She left the stadium in a state, and I'm guessing she's with you?"

"She's here," you replied, your voice faint and shaky. "She said... she said she cheated."

There was a brief silence on Ingrid's end before she sighed heavily, a mix of exasperation and disbelief. "Okay, let me explain," she said quickly. "It was an accident. She was congratulating one of the players on the other team—typical double cheek kiss. But she got distracted when Mapi shouted something at her and... well, their lips brushed. Barely. It was nothing, but Alexia freaked out immediately."

Relief washed over you like a wave, almost knocking the breath from your lungs. "Wait, that's it? That's what happened?"

"That's it," Ingrid confirmed. "It wasn't even a real kiss. The other player laughed it off, but Alexia's been a wreck since. She wouldn't stop saying she needed to tell you."

You let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension in your body finally easing as everything clicked into place. "Thank you, Ingrid."

"No problem," she replied, the dial tome filling your ears as she hung up.

You let out a deep sigh of relief as Ingrid's words sank in. Alexia hadn't really cheated. The accidental brush of lips had been just that, an accident, no malice or betrayal attached. Your heart, which had felt ready to fall through the floor minutes earlier, now thumped with a mixture of relief and sympathy, because you knew now that Alexia had internalized her mistake as something much bigger than it was. She didn't deserve to feel this way, especially when she was the most loyal person you'd ever known.

Shoving your phone into your pocket, you hobbled toward the bedroom. The door was half-closed, and you could hear soft sniffles coming from inside. You pushed it open gently, stepping in to find Alexia perched on the edge of the bed. Her head was bowed low, shoulders shaking as she struggled to zip her kit bag through her tears.

"Alexia," you called softly.

She didn't turn to look at you, her hand fumbling with the zipper. "I go," she said hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "I... cannot stay.”

You crossed the room quickly, lowering yourself onto the bed beside her. Her bag was only half-packed, clothes stuffed in at odd angles, as if she'd been in too much of a rush to care. She still wouldn't meet your eyes, her hand tightly fisting the material of one of the shirts she was in the midst of stuffing into the bag.

"Alexia," you said again, placing your hand over hers to still her frantic movements. "Stop for a second."

She froze at the contact, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the shirt tighter.

"I talked to Ingrid," you continued, your tone calm but firm. "She told me what happened."

Alexia's head shot up, her wide brown eyes meeting yours for the first time. There was a flicker of hope in them, but it was overshadowed by the deep sense of guilt that had clearly taken root. "She tell you?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"She told me everything," you confirmed, squeezing her hand gently. "And Alexia, you didn't cheat."

Her brows furrowed in confusion, her lips parting as if she wanted to protest but didn't know how.

"It was an accident," you explained, your voice steady. "You got distracted, and your lips brushed. It didn't mean anything, and I know you didn't mean for it to happen."

"But... lips," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Yeah, your lips touched," you admitted with a soft smile, "but it wasn't a kiss, not really. Not the kind of kiss that means something."

Her face crumpled, and tears welled in her eyes again. "I'm so sorry," she choked out, her voice breaking as she dropped the shirt to cover her face with her hands. "I never want hurt you."

"I know, baby," you murmured, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her close. "I know you'd never hurt me. It's okay."

She leaned into you, her body shaking with quiet sobs as she clung to your shirt. You rubbed soothing circles on her back, pressing your lips to the top of her head as you let her cry it out.

"It's okay," you repeated, your voice soft and reassuring. "You don't have to keep punishing yourself. I'm not mad."

She pulled back slightly, her teary eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt. "De verdad?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"De verdad," you assured her with a nod, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I'm not mad, and I'm not upset. I love you, Alexia. Nothing's changed."

Her lip quivered, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. "But... I feel bad," she admitted quietly.

"I know," you said gently, tilting her chin up so she'd look at you again. "But you don't have to. You didn't do anything wrong." You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, almost as though you were trying to wipe away the reminder of what had happened.

Alexia’s gaze flickers between your lips and eyes as if trying to gauge your sincerity. Then, slowly, she nodded, leaning back into your embrace with a heavy sigh. You tightened your hold around her, resting your cheek atop of her head as she sniffled softly into your shoulder.

For the rest of the day, Alexia was glued to your side. She followed you around the apartment like a shadow, her presence a constant reminder of how much she wanted to make it up to you, even though there was nothing to make up for.

"Do you need water?" she asked at one point, hovering over you as you propped your ankle up on the coffee table.

"I'm fine, baby," you replied with a small smile.

"Food? Blanket?" she pressed, her hands wringing nervously.

"I don't need anything, cariño," you assured her, reaching out to tug her down onto the couch beside you. "Just sit with me, yeah?”

She nodded obediently, curling up against your side with her head on your shoulder. You could feel the tension in her body, the way she was still holding herself too tightly, and you pressed a kiss to her temple in an attempt to soothe her as you held her close.

"You're not in trouble," you reminded her softly, your fingers brushing through her hair. "You don't have to keep trying to fix something that isn't broken."

She let out a shaky sigh, her arms tightening around your waist. "I just... I want you happy," she murmured, her voice muffled against your shirt.

"You make me happy," you replied easily, tilting her head up with a gentle nudge beneath her chin so she could see the sincerity in your eyes. "Even when you're being dramatic and overthinking everything."

Her lips twitched into the smallest of smiles, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

"You're silly, mhh?" you teased, brushing your thumb over her cheekbone.

"Sí," she agreed softly, her voice laced with a hint of amusement. "Pero... tuya."

"Yes," you said with a grin, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Mine."

The rest of the evening passed quietly, Alexia's clinginess turning from guilt to simple affection as the tension between you eased completely. By the time you both settled into bed that night, her head resting on your chest and her arm draped across your stomach, the events of the day felt like a distant memory.

"I love you," she murmured sleepily, her voice barely audible.

"I love you too, baby.” you replied, your fingers tangling in her hair as you held her close.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan

[gemsalive]

re: that HEFTY siffrin sweep on id5’s isat favourite blorbos poll — this might sound silly but i do actually think it’s kinda fascinating that isat, as a game so inseparably steeped in (for lack of a better way to describe it) queer fandom culture, managed to so completely sidestep the common Fandom Phenomenon that i suspect was behind the poll in the first place by creating a main character that is also overwhelmingly the fan favourite character for once.

obviously there are any number of factors we could point at to explain the extent to which siffrin nomiddlenames nolastnames manages to grab people and absolutely not let go, but personally i think one of the most interesting ones to consider is the one specific to the medium — that is, how siffrin subverts the “silent blank slate video game protagonist” archetype in such a way that happens to be primo brainrot breeding grounds.

like, when a video game dev makes a silent protagonist it’s usually a bid to maximize immersion by closing the aesthetic distance between player and character as much as possible, right? which is especially true of rpg video games — players find connection in the generic, as that is what gives you the freedom of motion to insert yourself into the story in whatever unique shape suits you best. you are your character and your character is you.

(as ever, post ran long. yall know the drill. tossin in a quick header pic before thoughts on blank slates & blorboification continue under the cut)

and then you’ve got siffrin, who is expressly pointed out to be the taciturn type; who when initially giving the player exposition about their journey so far doesn’t seem to hint at a life or history or even really any motivations outside the journey; whose every thought and action is narrated in second person so as to keep tracing and re-tracing the connection between him and you.

even their design — all darkless and shapeless, bundled up in that big cloak, as if an invitation for you to fill it in with whatever lets you relate to them most! at this point they are their own character for sure, but they also have enough very clear parallels going on with the silent protagonist archetype to feel more than accidental.

of course, as you keep playing you start to recognize that his blankness is much, much more than just a grab at immersion; his apparent lack of backstory, itself a fundamental piece of backstory. this is where he flips dramatically in the player’s perception from “generic vessel for story delivery” to “thoroughly multidimensional character trapped within endless torment nexus custom-built to target and exacerbate all his very specific worst traits rooted in very specific traumas”.

yknow, the good stuff !

but by then you have also been playing enough to be feeling the effects of the thing isat’s design does best of all. i’m talkin bout that ludonarrative lockstep baby. every piece of isat’s gameplay is designed to make you feel what siffrin is feeling — you understand by now that he is not a stand-in for you, but all the same you share in his frustration, his grief, his rare moments of joy and the subsequent heart-in-your-shoes devastation when that joy is inevitably poisoned — and through it all, the desperate grasping for anything new — all as if they were every bit your own.

so in this way the connection is maintained, even if you were someone for whom siffrin’s particular traits & struggles might not otherwise cause you relate to them at all if you had encountered them elsewhere, in a setting where you weren’t actively controlling them as a player. siffrin still gets to carry all the “just like me fr” impact of the blank slate protagonist in the tropes he embodies and in the game mechanics’ design, while totally free to evolve completely into his own character and keep you relating to closely them all the same. now toss back in the fact that said traits & struggles very much ARE of a flavour that a great many people Would Tend To Relate To and just like that you’ve got a perfect storm cookin.

too individual and compellingly written to be an empty vessel for plot delivery. too closely connected with the player’s emotional state to be a story observed impassively from the outside. he has 92 mental illnesses and for the low low price of free u can give him yours to carry too. nobody is doin it like him. congratulations on your well-deserved nose sniffrin nomiddlenames nolastnames <3

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt ── s. jy (sneak peek!)

↳ summary ── struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you.

↳ pairing ── jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon, bestfriends!enha]

↳ genre ── idol!jake, friends to lovers!au || fluff, angst, crack

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hai everyone, the freaking turmoil & HOLD this fic has on me,,,has me writing til 8AM in the freaking morning because CLEARLY ─ i have unspoken issues . anyways here's a teaser of my recent hyperfixation that i'm sharing with the world. at the rate i'm writing this every night (& morning), it should be out soon (hopefully) :3 also this snippet i decided to include is my attempt at angst...i hope yall enjoy !

also send me an ask/comment if you'd like to be tagged !!! <3

snippet under the cut!!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

“Y/N.” 

His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled hum of music and laughter seeping from the party you should've escaped from a long time ago. You stop in your tracks, swallowing hard before turning around.  

Jake stands a few feet away, his usual easy confidence replaced by something raw, almost broken. He looks disheveled, his hands clenching at his sides as though they're the only thing anchoring him.  

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low but unsteady. 

You stomach twists, but you steel yourself, "What do you want, Jake?"  

You shift your weight and instinctively cross your arms, a defensive barrier between you and the boy you spent too long letting into your heart. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability in them makes your resolve falter. 

He takes a hesitant step towards you before exhaling shakily, running a hand through his hair.  

“I—I messed up tonight. I didn’t mean to...," he trails off, his words fumbling, his eyes searching yours in desperation.  

"...to completely ignore me all night? Make me feel like nothing?" You finish for him, your quiet voice breaking despite your attempt to stay composed.  

"No. God, no. You're not nothing," he says quickly, his voice faltering on the last word. "Y/N, you matter so much to me."  

“Well it definitely didn't feel that way,” your voice is barely audible, but you finally look up at him, the hurt bubbling to the surface. “After everything you said—promised, everything we talked about…” 

"I know, I just—" he hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes a tentative step closer, his movements slow and careful, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he gets too close. "I was nervous." 

"It’s been so long, and I didn’t know what to say, how to act. I wanted to get it right—to make it perfect—but instead, I just—" he stops, dragging another frustrated hand through his hair. His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way that once made your heart flutter, but now only adds to the ache in your chest. 

You let out a hollow laugh, the sound foreign even to your own ears, “Well, congratulations, Jake. You managed to mess it up anyway.” 

“Please,” he looks devastated, his hands trembling at his sides. “Y/N, please don’t think I don’t care about you. I do. More than you know. I just—I don't know how to do this. I panicked and I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."  

You look at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears as you take a shaky breath, “Then why was...why was she all over you tonight? Why didn’t you stop her?” 

He falters, his shoulders slumping under the weight of your question, “It wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t,” you echo, the words spilling out in a rush now, each one cutting deeper. “I should've known. Let me guess, she wants to get back together, right?"  

Jake's silence is deafening, and it immediately answers your question. He opens this mouth, but nothing comes out. The way he looks at you—eyes wide and filled with regret, lips trembling as if searching for the right words—confirms everything you’re afraid of. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, a shaky breath escaping your lips—the sound caught somewhere between a sigh of realization and a choked sob. No matter how hard you try, the wall holding back your emotions cracks under the weight of it all. The doubts you've tried so hard to bury suddenly resurface, crashing over you suddenly, each one carrying the sting of every insecurity, every fear you’ve ever had about this moment, about him. Your chest feels tight, your heart splintering under the realization that everything you were afraid of might be true. 

"Jake, I can't do this," you whisper, shaking your head. "I can't be the person you lean on while you try to figure out what you want."  

"No, no—Y/N, I do know what I want," he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to step closer. "And it’s you. Always been you, Y/N. Everything I said before—I meant it."  

His words hang heavy in the air, the faint echo of the party music filtering through the cracks in the door and into the quiet hallway. You look away, refusing to let him see your tears finally spilling over.  

"You promised," you let out softly. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You said you'd prove that I could trust you, that I didn't have to be scared. You knew I was worried, Jake. And you hurt me anyways."  

"And I swear I meant every word I said. I still do," Jake says, his voice desperate. He steps even closer, his hand reaching out and brushing yours, but you pull back before he can close the distance. "You have to believe me. Please, Y/N. You're the only one I care about."  

You shake your head again, the tears now freely slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts, "I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Jake. I wanted to, I really, really did. But tonight..."  

Jake’s face falls, the weight of your pain crashing into him all at once. His lips tremble as he struggles to hold himself together, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. This was the first time seeing you in so long, and this sight of you—broken because of him—cuts deeper than he thought possible. His voice is barely above a whisper, raw and pleading, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I—God, please. Please give me a chance.” 

You look at him—at the boy who's become your safe space —and all you feel is the ache in your heart.  

"I can't do this right now, Jake," you finally let out a deep breath and take a step back. "I think I just need space."  

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His breath hitches as if your words physically hit him in face, "Y/N..." 

Your phone suddenly buzzes, a text from Jungwon letting you know he's outside. You glance down at it, then back at Jake. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart screaming at you to stay, to give him the chance he's begging for. But your head knows better. 

"I have to go," you murmur softly, turning away before the tears threaten to spill all over again. You force yourself to keep walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to look back—to let him pull you into his arms, where you wished so desperately you belonged.  

Frozen, Jake watches helplessly as you walk away, his chest tightening with every step you take. Everything feels like it's caving in, regret clawing at him the more he sees you walk further away. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words fail him, silenced by the weight of his own mistakes.  

The hallway falls into a haunting silence, broken only by the faint echo of your retreating steps, a cruel reminder of what he's just let slip away.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

not my usual style of light-hearted crack...but sum of the other parts are still very rom-commy bc im sucker for dat shtuff :3

let me know if you'd like to be tagged !

<3, addie

[kenananamin]

Baby please (negative, be positive)

Let me break our hearts for a bit. I think we’ve all seen the other side of this where Nanami is… very excited for the process of children, if you catch my drift lol but what about the other side? What about when there’s a large amount of negative tests followed by fertility issues, and the partner feels every single overwhelming emotion about their body and their struggle? Note: If you have struggled or are struggling with fertility, this may not be for you. I have other fluffier/cute/positive posts and so many great accounts have amazing stories, so take care of yourself and maybe read those instead. I’ll immediately follow this up with a cuter post <3 If you know anyone who may be struggling, be the help they may need and start by simply listening. I am aware from experiences with close family and friends that fertility issues do not always have a happy ending, but this fictional story will end as a hopeful one. If you decide to read this, thank you. If not, I’ll see you on the next post babes 🖤 Warnings and tags: nanami kento x fem!reader, fertility issues, sad, angst, comforting nanami, hopeful and happy ending ~3.0k words

You lay in bed in a fetal position in the darkness of your home. You curled your body as much as you could as you let the tears fall. You were tired of the loud sobbing and your body and throat could not handle another sob. But the tears did not stop. You felt a wet spot underneath your head and you shift your head forward to avoid the cold spot. When you finally think that the tears are running out, you hear Nanami’s car pulling into the driveway. You drag the bed throw to cover yourself and wipe the new tears. You weren’t scared of Nanami’s reaction, he had held and taken care of you after the past tests, but you were scared of any underlying disappointment.

“God, I’m trying. I’m trying, I’m trying,” you let out one last sob before Nanami enters the house.

You hear the key enter the lock and you quickly wipe your tears and cover most of your face with the blanket. You hear his every movement and you can almost see exactly what he’s doing as he moves around the house.

It was not uncommon for Nanami to come home to a dark house. He knew you were a napper and he actually enjoyed waking you up after making dinner. Something about your sleepy eyes while eating dinner and sighing after each delicious bite made his heart flutter. One of the smaller things you did that he absolutely adored. He turns on the hallway light and peeks into the bedroom to see you in bed in the dark. The house feels colder than usual so Nanami turns on the heater and heads into the room to put a thicker blanket on you. He rubs and kisses your hair before heading out and closing the bedroom door enough to only leave a sliver opened.

Nanami grabs extra clothes from the laundry room to change before heading to the kitchen to start dinner.

As Nanami quickly glances into the trash after throwing out veggie scraps, he notices the familiar blue box and the tips of two sticks peeking out. He feels his heart stop for a second, but reaches for a napkin before digging into the can to move the box to read it. Another pregnancy test. Nanami reaches for the test sticks and immediately sees one single line on the first and one bold ‘Not Pregnant’ on the second. His heart rate speeds up and he immediately wants to run to you but he’s reminded of your devastation the last time you got a negative. He had never seen you so upset and had to convince you to let him call your manager as your emergency contact to let them know you would be out for the next couple days. Nanami puts the sticks back and covers the tests and box with the napkin and vegetable scraps. He turns off the stove and washes his hands before heading back to the room.

Without the hallway light on, you could not tell if the door was fully opened or closed. You didn’t care either way, you just wanted to be in the dark and not face Nanami yet. You moved the blankets over your head again to return to your safe space. You begin to take slow deep breaths, slow inhale, slow exhale. Slow inhale, slow exhale. Slow inhale, slow exhale. It is not the quietest breathing exercise so you cannot hear Nanami slowly open the door and walk into the room. He sees the familiar sight, a bundle shaped like you with the blankets moving to the sound of your breathing. He softly puts a knee on the bed before crawling over to you. The movement on the bed stopped your breathing completely and you hoped, no -- you prayed, that you didn’t forget to cover the tests.

“My love,” Nanami says just above a whisper before softly wrapping himself around you, while making sure he does not burst your bubble within the safety of your blanket. He feels your body shudder once his arms are completely wrapped around you and gives you a moment to calm down. Once he feels your breathing even out again, he taps on the blanket and asks if he could come in. You loosen the grasp on the blanket and he slips underneath to hug you from behind.

You thought you had finally run out of tears, but feeling Nanami’s arms around you and his scent so close for the first time that evening, you felt them gather again. Thank the heavens that it was dark and he was not facing you because you felt your face contort in a terribly painful way followed by the loudest sobs to have ever left your body. Nanami pulls you in unbelievably close, as close as he would when your anxiety left you shaking and desperate. You start writhing in what feels like emotional agony and he pushes his entire body weight to your back, pinning you down. It was something he had learned to do after years of being together. You would jokingly call Nanami your human weighted blanket but you were thankful that he could detect when you needed to feel him.

“Two years, Ken, two fucking years,” you let out between sobs, “why can’t I do it, Ken? Why can’t I--” Your words cut short.

“Shh shh, no no no, baby, please. Not you, I’m sorry, please don’t think that. We can do it, there’s more we can do,” Nanami rubs your arms and kisses your neck and shoulders, “Please, I promise there’s more. It’s ok, it’ll be ok. We’ll be ok.”

Nanami wasn’t sure what he was saying, and to be honest, he knew he would say anything that could help you. But what would? He didn’t know what exactly to say after so many negatives. On the other hand, you weren’t exactly sure what you wanted to hear after so many negatives.

Time flew by underneath that blanket. Nanami had eventually moved the blanket down to let you breathe cool air after a layer of sweat covered you. He ran his fingers through your hair to try to cool you down and shushed and hummed against your skin while he still held you. You could feel your back and his front wet with both of your sweat and the spot underneath your head drenched with a much larger spot of your tears.

You don’t know what time it is and you don’t even have the energy to tilt your head up to look at the clock. All you know is that you have finally stopped sobbing and there really was nothing left inside you. 

Nanami moves the hair from the nape of your neck and plants the softest kiss. “Let’s take a break.”

You turn in his arms, eyes wide and thinking, a break? From this… from us?

He could see the gears turning and panic in your eyes before hugging you again from your side and saying, “No no, baby not that break. Never. Never never, I promise. I mean from the tests. Let’s stop buying and taking any tests. Let’s toss any extra ones around the house, too.”

Your heart knew that Nanami adored you and would not leave you, but your foggy brain that was convincing you that you were not enough left you thinking he would leave. The thought lasted a second, but the panic was unbearable.

You shift to face Nanami and tightly hug him. So tight. He felt as if you were hugging him in fear of him running away. He knew of "men" that would leave their partners after fertility issues and he detested every single one of those disgusting beings that dared take space as a bag of bones roaming the earth. He could never leave you, especially for something nobody had any control of. He loved you, adored you, and with or without certain possibilities, he wanted to be there with you.

Nanami planned to see your crows feet and smile lines deepen. He wanted to retire as soon as you both could and travel to see everything together. He wanted to look at your joined hands and notice the sun spots and new wrinkles. He wanted to see your entire face wrinkle and your steps become slower. He wanted to dance with you in the middle of the kitchen and feel your heartbeat match his. He wanted it all and he needed to remind you, even if it wasn’t with words at that exact moment. Nanami hugs you back like he had before in response to your own bone-crunching embrace.

You feel defeated, but loved by the man that said ‘I do’ to you and promised everything for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, and in sickness and in health. You finally nod to his request.

———

You wake up early that morning with the driest throat and what feels like the world’s puffiest eyes. You look at the clock: 4:52am. Nanami is beside you, but you see he fell asleep in a sitting position against his pillows with his laptop on his lap. You feel a small towel beside your head and reach up to feel a folded cold towel. Nanami would always put a cold towel over your eyes if you fell asleep crying. The cold towel didn’t happen often, but it seemed like he always knew what to do even if he didn’t have the words to help at that moment. Your clothes had been changed to a large shirt that you had stolen from Nanami when you lived separately, but he let you keep.

You sit up to remove the laptop from his lap and gently lean him down to bed. As he’s shifting his body, the touch pad is slightly moved and his laptop is turned back on. You turn your head to avoid your sensitive eyes looking at the bright light and turn down the brightness. You look at the screen to decide if you should just close the laptop or shut it down. The tabs… the tabs surprise you and your heart breaks the more tabs you read.

How to deal with fertility issues

How to help sad wife

How to distract sad partner

What is egg retrieval surgery

Adoption process

Recommended income for adoption

Malaysian vacation homes for rent

Best time to vacation in Malaysia

Along with the searches, Nanami had a note opened with notes from every single tab.

The man sleeping next to you… loves you. You would do anything for him and he would scour the world and pick up brick by brick for an answer to any of your problems. You lean down to kiss his temple, “I love you, Kento. So fucking much.”

———

Seven months later, you get curious and tell Nanami to bring a test after work. He's hesitant and asks if it’s a good idea. After several months in therapy and extra doctor visits, you feel like you can handle any result. A negative would be like facing your biggest fear and you needed to overcome it.

Nanami rereads your texts the whole afternoon, and again when he’s at the pharmacy looking for the tests, and again when he’s in line to pay. He only hands you the small box after a big hug and deep kiss, and suggests you take it after dinner in fear of you not eating after seeing the result.

After a distracted dinner, you take the tests and leave them on the bathroom counter. You walk out the restroom and sit on the bed with Nanami. He wanted to be inside the restroom with you but despite being married and knowing each other’s secrets, that was one line you just could not cross. Your husband had no other option than to wait outside the door.

Nanami turns his whole body to you and reviews the exercises your therapist had given you both to work through the next result. You intently listen and follow his lead until the timer finally goes off. You both look at each other, scared for the next event but relieved to finally hear the beeping. You stand first and hold out your hand for Nanami.

You cover the test from afar as you close the gap and tell Nanami to count to three. One… two… three. You quickly move your hand to see the two tests.

You stare and stare, and Nanami’s eyes have never gone wider. You can see him looking back and forth frantically, waiting for your reaction. You screech, not yell or scream, a straight screech that could compare to the latest dinosaur feature film. Your hands cover half your face and sobs immediately break through. Nanami hugs you and picks you up from the floor. 

“Ok ok ok, doctor, umm, we need to go to a doctor, ok? That's what he told us to do.” you nod frantically, still sobbing, and wrap your arms around your husband. 

——— 

The doctor is happy to see you in his office for a different reason this time. He confirms the result with another test at the office and for the first time in a long while, the nurses lead you and Nanami to a room with a big ultrasound machine.

Nanami tightly holds your hand as the cold clear cream is spread on your tummy. There is no visible difference that you or Nanami could see but you were both very fucking nervous despite the home and doctor’s results. The doctor takes a second to spread the cream and look around. After what seems like an eternity, the doctor confirms that you are over halfway on your first trimester and points to the smallest blob on the screen. 

Nanami’s legs give out and literally falls to the chair pulled for guests. His breath is heavy. He trusted the tests before, he really did believe those positives, but hearing it from the doctor's mouth in that room, seeing what was on the screen and where he knew you were in the best hands — his relief was unmatched. He had never felt such relief, happiness and an overwhelming sadness for what you had to go through.

He covers his mouth with one hand while he lets his tears fall for the first time in front of you since your wedding. His other hand still tightly holds your hand and he moves his forehead to touch the side of your stomach, where he knows the product of your love and effort will slowly start to make its home.

You lay on the chair with your arm folded on your face, crying loudly with the same relief and joy when Nanami stands back up and carefully moves your arm down to kiss your face. He starts at your temple and moves to your cheekbone, then nose, then eye, then forehead, other eye, lips, cheek, and temple again. He holds your head close to his chest and you wrap your remaining arm around him. After so many visits to this clinic, so many negatives and so many tears of sadness, you were finally able to cry for a completely different feeling.

You both lean to see the screen, the barely visible blob making you laugh but you lie your head back down and let yourself imagine a scene of a mini you and Nanami.

———

30 weeks, one 20 hour birth and an emergency C-section later, Kento holds your tiny girl. She had been rushed to the NICU shortly after the birth and you and Nanami were left scared in the OR. One of the nurses tells you that she is alright and they need to check her more since she was a preemie.

You wake up from a nap later that evening in your recovery room and see a shirtless Nanami holding your baby by the room window. He'd become so intrigued by the skin-to-skin contact benefits with a baby and promised himself he’d do anything for a closer bond with her.

Without him knowing you were awake and listening, you hear him tell the small bundle that is a sleeping baby girl, “b/n, you are so loved. We’re going to love you forever. I'm going to adore you for as long as I can and more.” He gently brushed her hair and continued, “I have so much to teach you, to show you. I love you, I'll give you everything, I promise." He lifted her and leaned down to kiss and stroke her cheeks, "my girl, my sweet girls — I'll do anything for you and mommy, I swear.”

You lean back smiling. Your body aches and the pain is incomparable to anything you’ve felt before, but you are happy. Whether it was in that hospital room as a new unit of three, or in your own living room relaxing with your husband alone, you would be happy.

Nanami turns around and sees you awake. He flashes the biggest smile and walks over to the bed with your sleeping newborn. “I love you, y/n.”

“Forever.”

[apricotgojo]

—★

gojo is definitely a munch.

he could stay in between your legs for hours on end if it were up to him, just eating you all up - all because he’s practically addicted to your taste and the sweet sweet sound of your whiny voice telling him how good it feels, begging him to keep going right there.

You’d be minding your own business, doing your make up before you went out and all of a sudden you feel his big hands reaching over to caress your thighs while you’re in your chair.

“shh - don’t mind me baby.” he’d whisper in the crook of your neck , nose tickling you as he peppered soft kisses along the sensitive skin - knowing its making your body shiver with every peck. “keep getting dolled up f’me.”

little whines of protest always leave your lips but with the way your legs spread open so easily for him as he got on his knees and situated his face right between your plushy thighs it was evident that what you were saying wasn’t what you actually wanted.

He loves the way your breath hitches in your throat as he licks a long stripe up your clothed core - hips automatically moving forward to get the most out of it.

“you look so pretty.” he’d hum against your pussy - his voice sending vibrations across your entire body.

he loves watching you struggle to put on your lipgloss as he plunges his tongue in and out of you - and if you dare to stop he’ll look up at you with those piercing pools of crystal and say,

“i told you to keep going, didn’t i?”

by the end of it you’d be squirming in your chair, muttering his name over and over again to stop while he keeps your legs up with his hands, tongue harshly flicking your pulsing, sensitive nub over and over again, overstimulating you after your orgasm.

The same thing happens when you’re making coffee in the morning.

one moment you’re rubbing your eyes and yawning as you watch the golden liquid pour out into your favorite coffee mug and the next moment you’re leaning against the kitchen counter, one hand gripping against the cool edges to keep yourself up and the other tangled in the messy, white locks situated between your thighs, tugging gently at them.

and he was really fucking good at it too.

he knew exactly how you wanted it - he knew exactly what do to make your knees wobble and your thighs squeeze around his head.

he knew exactly what to do to make you cry out his name and make the cutest noises.

“mmfh ~ be quiet or else im gonna cum in my pants” he’s mumble against your pussy followed by a small chuckle.

and you loved watching him eat you out too ~

he never broke eye contact - always staring up at you with dark, half lidded, fucked out eyes. and fuck he looked absolutely devastating whenever he came up to kiss you.

his snowy hair all disheveled and messy, his lips glossy and red, cheeks tinted a rosy red and his chest heaving up and down as he grabs your cheeks with one hand and forces his tongue between your lips - all so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

he gives you a small smile as he caresses your cheek with his thumb, dimple popping out on the side of his cheek.

“C-can i please go down again baby?” his voice gets so whiny too when hes all fucked out like this.

He looks at you with pathetic, pleading eyes as he begs to go down between your legs again - begs to make you cum and squirm for him again “please baby, n-need to taste you one last time”

he was a fucking addict - both of you knew that.

and although your body is numb and your mind is so fuzzy from coming so much that you cant even muster up a singular thought - your legs spread open for him once again.

but how could you possibly say no to your munch?

ᡣ𐭩

a/n - asks are open btw teehee

[maryangelex]

Please, please, please.

I am requesting an Ex!husband John price/ Fem!reader, where they divorce and he’s absolutely devastated by it, grovels and upset that he lost the love of his life, and then years later by circumstances are in force proximity with each other and have to deal with communicating all their grievances and then bam heated smut and pent up frustrations at each other, and then get back together.

Thank you so much and I really appreciate you! But it’s also okay if you skip my request :)

a/n: anon how could i possibly leave this delectable prompt unanswered!!?!?!?! i have literally been saving this one for almost last because i need to use 110% of my prune brain its so amazing. one thing about me is...im a whore for ex-husband!price *clutches pearls* im sorry for making ya wait, i hope you love it!!!

this is gonna be a long one!

c/w: ex-husband!price, make-up sex, forced proximity, quickie, against a wall, p in v, creampie, john price yearns for his pretty wife

It hadn't been easy, no divorce is easy, really. Much less when it was something you didn't really want to do, but more so saw yourself as needing to do. The nights without John had gotten too lonely, his side of the bed had gotten too cold. You thought the times he was back would make up for the times he wasn't. When John came back from deployment it felt like a coin toss: sometimes it was your honeymoon all over again, but other times he was cold and distant.

You had two kids in tow; two kids that needed their father. You were a wife that needed her husband just as much. You don't blame him for not being there of course. After all, you owed it all to him; all you ever wanted he got for you, he provided you a house to raise your children in, to grow old in. He gave you nothing but unconditional love. That's what made everything harder when you decided you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't keep hoping he'd come home to be his normal self every time just to be met with the shell of the man you fell in love with.

You knew it wasn't his fault, you knew his line of work. But having to be alone the majority of the year plus having to still be alone when he was around had gotten to you, it had become too much. And John knew this. When you told him through sobs and wails that you couldn't do this anymore, that you felt hopeless and alone and like this was the only remedy, he understood. He had packed his things and left without a fuss, leaving you the house and renting an apartment barely a drive away. He tried to make it as simple as possible, arranging to stay with the kids every weekend and more if you needed time for yourself. His silence and compliance to separate felt like more of a dagger in your chest than the reason to separate to begin with. You wished he had fought for you, that he had yelled at you and argued with you to stay and fix this.

Little did you know that when he found himself in the empty single-bedroom apartment he rented himself he did nothing but cry like a neglected child for hours until his eyes stung and couldn't physically push out any more tears. John Price was a man made of stone and yet he found himself clutching his chest as he sobbed for his wife nearly every night and every lonesome morning. He kicked himself for not fighting for you, as well. He blamed himself for having to come to this in the first place, for leaving you alone and not knowing how to cope well enough to be the very best of himself when he came back from grueling missions. For not being able to look you in the eyes after losing a man, for not being able to open up to you and cry like this in front of you when he needed to let it out of his chest, for not making love to you like a tending husband should at his wife's every whim.

He felt like the consequences of choosing his career had finally caught up to him, and losing you was his penance.

The two of you finalized your divorce quietly and without struggle, feeling like it only drove the knife deeper into your chest. You settled on the kids seeing John every other weekend and he'd be more than welcome back home to be present as their father. Because that was the thing about John: he may have not seen himself as a good man (not good enough for you, for sure) but you both knew he was the best father your kids (and you) could ever ask for.

It's been a year since your divorce; John had been living in his separate flat whilst you and the kids stayed home. He'd come every week, and take the kids every other weekend. Now your oldest's birthday was a few days away and who were you to deprive him of coming? After he had been doing such a good job at not crossing your boundaries, at being a loving father and giving you every bit of warmth and kindness and love that he gave you when you were still together...the more you listed these things the more your heart ached and you doubted yourself. The more you realized you still loved him.

On the day of your kid's birthday, he made sure to get there extra early to help you set up the place. He bought the necessary supplies, picked up the cake from the bakery, and set up the chairs and balloons. Hell, you barely lifted a finger. And of course, he was more than happy to do everything and anything for you with that cheek-pulling smile of his. As the party went on and the house filled with guests and wild kids running about, you scrambled around the house to make sure no one needed anything. That's when John intervened.

"Everythin' alright, hon? Been runnin' round the house like mad," his voice was sweet like honey as he entered the garage, where you were taking out can after can of soda from the spare fridge and into the cooler with ice you brought with you. You didn't turn to look at him as you sighed in exasperation, but you could feel John just a few steps behind you.

"Just making sure everyone's got something to drink...the sodas've run out in the cooler outside and--"

"Everyone's havin' a good time, love," John cut off your rambling with a light chuckle, the rumbling of his voice making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He interjected by taking the cooler from your hands "Let me get that for you," he said, lifting the heavy plastic for you. You sighed again and brought the back of your hand to rub your forehead. You finally looked up to meet his eyes, which were gazing at you with so much adoration it made your stomach twist.

"John..." you started, and he responded with a furrow of his brows and a silent question. "Please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like you still love me," you blurted, and the beat your heart skipped let you know you physically regretted saying that, instantly.

John's lips pressed into a thin line as he paused for a moment in silence.

"I do still love you," he confessed. You shook your head in disbelief and scoffed.

"John, please, it's our kid's birthday," you dismissed as you turned on your heel and made your way to the door except-

Right, you now remembered why it was a rule in your house this past year to not close the garage door: the lock was busted. You gripped the knob firmly and gave it one, two, three harsh tugs, hoping to somehow force the door open. You banged the door with your fist in frustration, hoping maybe someone heard it on the other side but all you heard was the music playing on the other side.

"Let me have a go," John said, placing the cooler down and tugging just as harshly, even slamming his shoulder against it to see if it would budge, but nothing. You and John were trapped in your garage. You let out a groan and a quiet curse as you pinched the bridge of your nose with a hand on your hip.

John placed a hand on your bicep. They were cold from the ice but the squeeze and rubbing of his thumb on your skin was filled with warmth.

"S'alright, take a breather, hon," he said tenderly, "they'll miss us soon enough to come lookin' in here."

You nodded as you stepped away from his touch. You never stopped John from still using terms of endearment for you, it never felt like a big deal. You were frustrated from the party, the perfectionist in you wanting nothing but to give your kids the best party, and now you were locked up in the garage. To make matters worse, you were locked up in here with your ex-husband who just said he still loves you.

"I meant what I said, love," his voice was barely a whisper but it still brought you out of your thoughts.

"John..." you warned.

"No, I mean it," his tone rose, firmer this time, "I still fuckin' love you, baby."

"Well, it's too late for that now, isn't it? You're gonna make an effort now, John, a year later?"

John was silent, pleading blue eyes gazing at you, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

"You didn't fight for us, John. You didn't fight for me." your finger pointed to your chest firmly as you looked back at him with tear-filled eyes.

"I know, baby, I know," his voice shook in his throat, "I should've fought for us... I should've been a better husband to you, better dad for the kids I-- I should've just been there."

You were quiet as you choked on a quiet sob, the tears escaping down your cheeks.

"I haven't stopped loving you for a second, my only regret in life is not having fought harder for you, having let go of you so easily - fuck," you watched the tears prick his eyes as he stepped closer to you. His palm came to cup your cheek and his thumb wiped away the tear staining your cheeks.

"I failed you. I just...please, baby, I just want one more chance to be a better man for you... I just want my girl back." His tone was soft as if he was reciting a prayer kneeling at a pew. His other hand came to the other side of your face, tucking your hair behind your ear before it cupped your other cheek alike.

You sobbed and brought your hands up to his wrists, shaking your head lightly, knowing all you really wanted was to forgive him despite your denial.

His forehead pressed against you as he whispered once more, "Please, baby..."

"John..." you tried

The tip of his nose rubbed against yours, "Please," he repeated, "be my pretty wife again...be mine again, yeah?" His lips brushed against yours and his hands were firm on your cheeks. You sobbed one more time before his lips pressed against yours, slotting together like two pieces of a puzzle. And fuck, you melted as your lips met.

His lips against yours just felt so right; they were your husband's lips, after all. They were made for yours and yours were made for his, that's why you knew you were so perfect for each other. The way he kissed you made your chest break into a million pieces because you just missed him so much.

The hold on his wrists became limp and you didn't resist - you couldn't resist his kiss because you wanted it so desperately, you've wanted it for this entire past year.

Your mouth moved with his, lips clashing and caressing against each other, teeth clicking together with the force of your desperate kisses, your tongues hungrily pressing their way into each others' mouths. John's hand slid to the back of your head, fingers snaking into your hair and raking through your scalp. You hummed into his mouth at the feeling.

Your hands slid up his back, balling into fists over his shoulder blades and gripping the fabric of his shirt as if you'd lose him again if you didn't hold him firm enough. You held him impossibly close to you as he did the same, your bodies familiarly molded to each other.

You felt John step forward as he still kissed you, backing you up into the nearest wall and it made the heat in your core ignite like a bonfire. When you felt the cold wall against your body, you pried your mouth away from his to gasp a breath but it wasn't half a second later before he captured your lips again. His hands slid down the frame of your body, pawing at your chest and curves before eagerly bunching up the skirt of your dress around your hips. You scrambled to his belt, clumsily and hurriedly doing your best to unbuckle it and undo his pants.

He scoured under your dress to tug your underwear down your thighs with messy urgency. His lips sloppily and wetly trailed up and down your chest and neck before finding their way back to your mouth.

Your hand palmed his hardened length through his boxers and he groaned into your mouth. One of his hands took hold of yours and stuffed it in his boxers to stroke his aching cock as you both panted between kisses.

"All yours, darling," he groaned as he guided your hand stroking his cock, "forever fuckin' will be yours."

And you whined at his words, or maybe at the way his other hand snaked between your legs, fingers wetting themselves with the slick pooled between your folds before pressing into your hole. He pumped his fingers in and out, making you reminisce on how those thick digits have made you feel so good in the past.

You moaned his name like a prayer, pleading for him to fuck you because you needed him. You've needed him for a fucking year and couldn't wait a second longer.

John would give you anything and everything, he always has. So he wasted no time in removing his fingers from your pussy, coating his cock in the slick they collected, and using his other hand to hike your leg up around his waist.

You braced yourself against the wall and with your hands against his shoulders as he practically lifted you off your feet and insert his girthy, swollen cock inside of you. You moaned unabashedly at the way he split you open as he bottomed out.

"So perfect...my perfect wife," he breathed, "made just for me, baby." His fingers dug into the flesh of your thigh and you were sure it would bruise the same way your nails clawing through his shirt were sure to leave crescents on his skin.

John pumped his cock in and out of you slowly but firmly for a few strokes before picking up the pace. His rhythm was relentless as he fucked up into you, pistoning his hips and making your skin clap against each other.

You threw your head back as you whined and moaned at the feeling of the head of his cock bullying against your cervix. Thank god for the music outside.

John hiked up your other leg, wrapping both around his waist as he fucked you against the wall hard and needy. His eyes looked deep into your teary ones, not breaking away to not miss the gorgeous sight of his pretty wife getting fucked by him after so long. He moaned at just the look on your face, at the way your walls gripped him like a vice.

"Look at you... never lettin' go of somethin' so beautiful," he practically slurred, his rhythm becoming sloppy and desperate as he chased his high, and he knew you were close too.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and took his mouth into another starved kiss. Your hands tugged at the hair on the back of his head and you let him fuck you with the same longing and desire as the first time.

You chanted his name between breathy moans as you climbed up to your climax. John was a mumbling mess of endearments and sweet nothings as he kept thrusting hard and sloppy into your squelching pussy.

"I love you, John," you choked out through tears, not knowing if it was from the pleasure he was giving you or from the overwhelming emotion being with your husband again was making you feel.

"I fuckin' love you more, dove," he accentuated his words with thrusts until he felt your walls clamp around his length and watched as you wailed and sobbed out more moans, sending him into his own climax with just a few more pumps shortly after. You were sure you'd bear him a third child with the way his cum seeped out of you.

He rested his sweat-coated forehead against yours as you both panted. You were a flushed mess against the wall, limbs liquefied and throat raw. John slowly let you down with the utmost care in the world, gently holding you up on your feet like you were a delicate porcelain doll.

You held each other close as he peppered soft kisses on your face, the same way he'd always done after sex when you were married. John Price, always the gentleman.

You basked in the afterglow as you gazed at each other, love filling John's wide dark pupils. It was hard for you to hide the smile that tugged at your lips and it made John chuckle, thumb rubbing your cheek lovingly.

Then, you heard the rattling of the door and you quickly stood up straight and collected yourself up on your feet the best you could. Kyle, or Uncle Gaz as your kids coined him, and the other two men had burst through the lodged garage door.

"Oi, how long you two been locked here?" he questioned.

"Aye, we been callin' youse for half 'n hour," the Scott quipped behind him.

John scolded them for not acting quicker if they were so worried, and scowled at the way the younger two had shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. He dismissed them as he picked up the cooler, which was now more full of water than ice, and shot you a look.

You chided at his smirk with your bright red cheeks.

"This mean I can move back in?" he teased.

"We'll see, John" you fought back a smile.

[overnighttosunflowers]

Once again I essayed in the tags of something a few weeks ago and have been meaning to pull it out into its own post, and I guess there's no better time than twelve hours before we see Bell's Hells again:

It absolutely breaks my heart that after Imogen has spent all this time agonizing over whether to trust her mother, it's come to this. Because I can so easily imagine that guilt is going to tear Imogen apart. She's the one who didn't tell her mom to come with them to Exandria, worried about endangering herself and the Hells and the world by doing so, and instead she abandoned Liliana to this fate. In the weeks since, you can see her agonizing over that choice. She's been moving in the direction of the one she didn't make then: to trust her mother. She told Liliana she loved her. She let herself get Power Word Stunned by the Matron's facsimile. She stood in the top of Caleb's tower wondering if that trust was dangerous, if she would ultimately doom the world by wanting a mother. And then none of it mattered. She didn't doom the world. She doomed her mother instead.

That's not what happened. But it's how she's going to blame herself, I think.

And it kills me, because like so many of the things Imogen destroys herself with guilt about, it wasn't her responsibility. Liliana chose to leave. Liliana chose to stay gone. Liliana has been dwelling on a version of her child that doesn't exist anymore, and she fell so deep into a cult to protect that long-ago child that it took her months of Imogen begging and begging and begging to realize that her daughter was a person and not just an idea. That she was hurting that daughter more than she was protecting her. And that the way to save her was to listen to her. And she was so unmoored and lost by then that she looked to Imogen to make her choices for her—looking to her daughter the way a child looks to their mother.

None of that is Imogen's fault. None of it.

I have a deep well of empathy for Liliana—who has not been a good mother, but whose daughter wants more than anything to let her relearn it now—but Liliana is where she is because of herself. And I know that even if Imogen is somehow able see that, if she's able to feel at all angry at or betrayed by Liliana alongside the guilt and grief, she'll feel even more confused and guilty and agonized for it.

But, god. All Imogen has ever wanted was a mother. And she deserved to have a mother who stayed, who loved her plain and simple in that quiet-life way she wants to be loved. She deserved to have a mother who prioritized the daughter in front of her in over the abstraction in her memory. And she deserves to have a mother who will come out the other side of this, not because Liliana intrinsically deserves that, because Imogen wants to give her a second chance.

How devastating, then, to get this different version of a mother she deserves: one who will, for her, face and maybe fall to the danger she's created.

Because ultimately, that's the reason the Hells had her stay on Ruidus: it wasn't just about trust, it was about where she could help. And she has. And now her story might be bookended by doing things for Imogen that break Imogen's heart.

Anyway, what I want more than anything for Imogen to get to save Liliana, and hold her close, and cry on her, and yell at her. I want her to get to have a mother who's in a position to do small things for her, not just awful sweeping ones. And I want Liliana to have the opportunity to struggle with how she can earn the second chance her daughter has given her. To learn how to be a mother to a real live daughter and not a memory.

I don't know if Liliana deserves that. But Imogen does.

Liliana left Gelvaan for Imogen, and in doing so helped doom the world. Liliana stayed on Ruidus for Imogen, and in doing so she might've helped save it.

Maybe one of these echoes has a mother who dies for her. And maybe one has a mother who lives.

[lunarriviera]

yet another shen yi meta [uts2 spoilers]

hi hey hello everyone i continue to be tormented with obsessive thinkings about s2 Shen Yi so i must holler about them/him some more, feel free to stop reading if you have not watched through approximately episode 11 which is where i still am. it's taking me longer to watch because i keep pausing to rewind/screenshot and/or weep in anguish about Him and What He Is Going Through. and how NO ONE IS PAYING ATTENTION. or insufficient attention. cf. Ryan Gosling in the Papyrus sketch screaming WELL IT WASN'T!! ENOUGH!!

[more. much more. behind the cut]

let's start here, with shen yi's artwork. in this scene he competed with AI to paint a chosen image and, surprising exactly no one, he won, partly because he's brilliant but tbh mostly because AI art is garbage and always adds dolphins, rainbows, and hands with six fingers.

but here's the thing: is no one going to question this? does anyone think to themselves "ah yes, shen yi is absolutely the BEST person in the world to make a painting in 30 minutes that depicts, quote, a lonely man on a beach." so here is this miserably hunched, despairing figure, surrounded by murky howling early-picasso blue, LOOKING IN FACT QUITE A LOT LIKE SHEN YI HIMSELF—even dressed like him (in the snowy white and dainty pastels he seems to favor this season)—and not a single person thinks: huh, wonder if this guy's okay?

in fact s2 seems to be repeated evidence of the fact that shen yi is Very Much Not Okay, and yet no one is really paying attention. he supports everyone else emotionally and they all seem to assume he either a) has no emotional blowback to deal with, or b) can deal with it himself unaided somehow. (through painting, maybe? but have you seen what he's painting lately? e.g. monstrous abusive parent figures, in some kind of breathless fugue state during which he can psychically hear lines from someone else's traumatic childhood?) he goes to li han's house to help her, which is so like him, and he says:

oh! you might think. well, maybe he will self-disclose a little? tell li han about some of his own personal difficulties that he's had to overcome, just to bond with her, get her to open up? HAHAHA ARE YOU NEW HERE, of course he doesn't, he just listens to her while she sobs out her tragic backstory, gives her a tissue, relates her struggles to a vaguely terrifying metaphor of his own device about a sealed room filling up ineluctably with floodwater, then smiles and takes her out for pizza. (totally unrelated but wow the product placement is heavy-handed this season. xiaomi! pizza hut!)

since we're talking about the li han case, consider this moment, too, when he interprets someone's house-person-tree drawing. does no one ever think, "for someone who talks constantly about love and connection, how interesting that shen yi has no family, refuses to date in very pointed and deliberate way, and lives alone with a cat."

shen yi knows all about love! never shuts up about love! constantly dispensing bromides about what real love should be like! and wakes every day ALONE from horrific guilty nightmares ft. creepy small girl in blood-red dress, pls will no one help this man pls he's drowning.

couple more bits and then i swear to god i'll shut up i'm starting to feel really stupid. but first consider this little story, in three parts:

"an image of despair" um okay well…technically it's just a dead body, albeit after a fairly grisly stabbing, but sure go off i guess

2. du cheng: wow even for you that was unusually poetic and weird

3. also du cheng: back to investigating the murder i guess [wanders away]

this kind of thing happens again. and again. either no one notices assorted horrified/devastated expressions on shen yi's face (in the way of classic extradiegetic reaction shots, where the camera sees them—we see them—but none of the characters onscreen do) or, when du cheng does notice, he's immediately distracted by his actual job, and/or the fact that he doesn't really know how to help his partner, because lbr he has all the emotional intelligence of a pony.

one more mini-story in three parts, and then i really will put a sock in it:

shen yi: why, what did i do. why are you looking at me like that

2. du cheng: bc you just lied your whole entire face off with alarming unsettling proficiency, since when are you that good at being dishonest

3. shen yi: hehe

in an earlier episode we also saw shen yi shouting at a suspect in the interrogation room, so convincingly that afterwards du cheng admits, you scared me. lol! says shen yi in carefree manner, i learned that from you! haha! agrees everyone, and they go about their business.

but ghastly things keep happening to and near him. at least once per episode, shen yi makes a face like this, because people are jumping off cliffs in front of him or abruptly smashing things with hammers or just lashing out with all kinds of antisocial behaviors in his vicinity:

to be fair, he has other expressions. for instance he also repeatedly employs his patented creepy ruthless smile, of the "i am going to fuck you up" variety, an expression reserved especially for criminals:

as well, i'm also leaving out all the ridiculously adorable/domestic scenes with him and du cheng, in which they share candy, roast each other about assorted nonsense, briefly co-parent a child, and, you know. are just generally disgustingly married. but that's a different meta.

also, admittedly du cheng does SAY things. he says, "are you still having trouble sleeping," he says "do i not care about you?" and "don't push yourself so hard" and "if you run into troubles, don't try to take them on alone." (i am sparing you all these screenshots since this is a meta about shen yi but trust me i have carefully accumulated every single shred of evidence in which du cheng is protective.) but, as frequently as du cheng expresses concern, he also just keeps clapping shen yi on the shoulder in a brotastic way and then strolling out. which i fear is just not going to be adequate. ("i don’t think this is literally papyrus. maybe that was the starting point but they clearly modified it?" "well whatever they did, IT WASN'T!! ENOUGH!!")

i leave you with two final images of shen yi, seen here continuing to be very much Not Okay, and to quote the bernie meme, i am ONCE AGAIN ASKING YOU, drama, is anyone going to care enough about this man to stop him going over the edge of the cliff with Evil Art Critic Eugenicist Moriarty Weasel Man? because he will, he will do it. because he's lonely and he's misunderstood and he's—

[cane comes out and drags me offstage]