#this was mad fun thank you for the ask anon

[slattlicker]

bf schlatt who hears the shower turn on from his office and then claws at the door like a cat trying to get in with u like doesn't even have to be sexual he just wants to hang out

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * enter at your own risk ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you just want a shower in peace. your boyfriend sees that as a challenge. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the beloved anon who asked for feral, door-scratching schlatt—you are the reason this domestic chaos exists. thank you for inspiring what is possibly the most unhinged home infiltration fic i’ve ever written. i had too much fun.

warnings: contains brief sexual language · light nudity (non-explicit) · shower intimacy (clothed & unclothed) · lockpicking for romantic purposes

enjoy the madness (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

✧✧✧

schlatt's editing.

headphones on. chair creaking. mouse clicking. he's halfway through cutting a VOD when he hears it.

pssssshhhhhhhhhh.

the water.

his whole body goes still.

he pulls one ear of his headset off. freezes. listens.

pssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh.

the fucking shower.

he's out of his chair before he can think, socks skidding on the laminate floor as he yanks open the office door—

and it doesn't budge.

"what the hell?"

he jiggles the knob. locked.

he rattles it again, harder this time, but it doesn't give. and it's not just the lock—he recognizes the sound. the weight. something's blocking the other side.

"babe?" he calls. "did you—did you lock me in?"

no answer.

only water running.

"are you fucking serious?"

he shoulders the door once. twice. no good.

then he sees it: a slip of paper under his keyboard.

"shower’s hot. i’m hotter. earn it, loser."

his jaw drops.

“you bitch.”

he looks around like the solution might present itself, then clocks the window latch.

"NO FUCKING WAY."

✧✧✧

he lands hard in the backyard. limps for exactly two steps before shaking it off like a wounded soldier and busting in through the sliding glass door.

and that’s when he sees it.

the hallway.

it’s covered in legos.

he stops. stares down at them. at the vibrant plastic warzone sprawled across the floor.

“BABE?” he yells. “WHY DOES THE HOUSE LOOK LIKE A WARZONE?”

you shout back sweetly, “I AM BUSY!”

“you freak,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s praying for strength.

he takes off his socks. gingerly tiptoes through the chaos, wincing every time he so much as brushes a block with his toe.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??” he screeches.

"BOYS WHO BREAK INTO BATHROOMS GET BOOBY TRAPS," you call faintly.

"YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY??"

"I THINK IT’S EARNED."

he clears the final plastic piece and steps onto the first stair—

and his foot slides.

“OH MY GOD—”

his hands catch the railing, whole body jerking as he slips half a step down. he slams into the wall with a thud, heart jackhammering.

he looks down.

green.

slippery.

goopy.

✧✧✧

“you slimed the stairs?!”

“YOU SHOWED ME HOW TO MAKE IT,” you shout from upstairs, smug and shameless.

“FOR CONTENT, NOT MURDER!”

“IT’S NONTOXIC!”

“THAT’S NOT THE ISSUE!”

he drags himself up slowly, clinging to the railing like a soldier in a war film. every step squelches.

“you’re sick,” he grits, “you need professional help—”

“YOU NEED TO LEARN BOUNDARIES.”

“IT’S A SHOWER, NOT A FEDERAL ASSET—”

“IT IS WHEN YOU CAN’T STOP JOINING ME.”

he gets to the top.

then he hits the next obstacle.

the couch. full block. right at the top of the stairs.

✧✧✧

he groans. loud.

“I HATE YOU!”

“YOU LOVE ME!”

“I LOVE YOU, BUT I HATE YOU!”

he runs at the couch.

shoves it an inch.

"WHAT IS THIS, A BOSS LEVEL?"

you cackle.

he throws his weight into it. it moves an inch.

he groans. backs up. takes a running start, even on the tiny landing.

he throws himself again. again.

he squeezes through, breathing like a man post-marathon.

✧✧✧

bedroom door?

locked.

“baby, please—”

"YOU DON'T EVEN LIKE SHOWERS."

"I LIKE YOU IN THE SHOWER."

he fumbles for his keychain. tries the master key. it works.

but the second he opens it, a full laundry basket tips over, spilling a mountain of clothes onto him.

"WHAT THE FUCK, BABY—"

“LAUNDRY’S DONE! YOU’RE WELCOME!”

he fights his way free. throws a towel off his shoulder like it insulted him.

he stares at the en suite like it personally wronged him.

“one more door,” he mutters. “one more fucking door.”

he tries the handle. rattles it.

locked.

of course it’s locked.

✧✧✧

“baby.”

no answer.

he knocks, dramatic. rapid. like a cop.

“baby, open the door.”

you call back, chipper: “no!”

“Please?”

“you’re not allowed in here.”

“i’ve earned it. i’ve been through hell. i nearly died.”

“you slipped on slime,” you yell. “that you taught me to make.”

“that’s not the point!”

“what is the point?”

“that i’m cold. and bored. and unloved.”

“should’ve thought of that before you tried to barge in here and watch me shave my legs like it’s a live documentary.”

“you do it so gracefully,” he says, smacking the door gently for emphasis. “it’s like poetry. i get misty-eyed.”

you groan. “you’re not coming in.”

he lowers his voice, sultry. dangerous.

“what if i said i was already hard?”

a beat.

“liar.”

“…okay, not yet. but i could be.”

“mmm, no. stay that way. let it build character.”

“you locked me in my office like a dog.”

“because you follow me like one.”

“because you’re my favorite person!”

“so stop breaking and entering every time i try to shower!”

“let me in!”

“NO!”

a silence.

then—

he sees it.

bobby pin on the dresser.

a sign from god.

he grabs it, kneels down, muttering the whole time. “you wanna be weird? i can be weirder. you wanna play games? i’ll win.”

click.

the door swings open.

steam hits him in the face like judgment. his hoodie’s halfway off one shoulder, sweat-darkened and twisted from shoving the couch. his pants are slipping down his hips. and—most baffling of all—there are two socks dangling from his collar like weird little trophies.

you whip around, wet hair slinging water everywhere. eyes wide. scandalized.

“how the fuck did you—”

he holds up the bobby pin like a trophy. “shouldn’t leave these in arm’s reach, sweetheart.”

you gape. “you lockpicked me?!”

“you locked me out!”

“YOU DO THIS EVERY TIME—”

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”

“YOU HUFF MY SHAMPOO!”

“IT SMELLS LIKE VANILLA!”

you throw your hands up. water splashes the tile. he stares at you like you’ve hung the stars.

and despite everything—despite the slime and the barricades and the actual breaking and entering—

he smiles, sheepish. crooked. boyish.

“…can i come in?”

you glare. “you already broke in.”

he lifts one sock from his collar, flings it over his shoulder like it’s a cravat. “but now i wanna do it respectfully.”

you squint. “you’re literally glistening.”

“from love,” he says.

“from sweat.”

“i worked to be here, babe.”

“you stormed the house like a castle!”

“it was booby trapped like a castle! i sprinted through legos. scaled slime. breached the couch blockade. took a laundry avalanche to the chest—”

“because you can’t stand being away from me for twenty minutes.”

he points at you. “EXACTLY.”

you blink. “that wasn’t a compliment.”

he steps closer, hand pressed over his heart. “i’m not here to argue. i’m here to apologize. to reflect. to recover.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“i need this shower.”

you snort. “you’re not getting in.”

he pouts. “baby—”

“no. this is my time. you had your chance. you blew it when you exited your office.”

he raises both hands in surrender. “okay. okay.”

a pause.

a beat.

his eyes flick to your shoulders.

to the steam curling around your skin.

to the droplets rolling down your chest.

“…what if i just stand nearby and—”

“nope.”

“i won’t even talk—”

“you never shut up.”

“i’ll just lean in the doorway—”

“you’re already in the doorway!”

“you’re so mean,” he groans, collapsing against the wall. “i risked my life for you.”

“you risked sweaty pits and a bruised ego.”

“same thing.”

he watches you rinse shampoo from your hair. watches the soap slide over your collarbones.

his breath hitches.

“please?”

you sigh, long and exaggerated. “fine.”

“YES.” he strips faster than a man possessed. hoodie gone, pants kicked off, socks flung into oblivion.

and when he steps under the spray—sweaty, smug, slightly traumatized—he melts on contact. like all is forgiven.

“this is so much better,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “you’re warm. the water’s warm. we’re warm together—”

you slap a wet hand to his mouth.

“no narrating.”

he nods. licks your palm.

“EW—” you yank your hand back, spluttering. “you’re disgusting.”

“you’re mean,” he says again, grinning like he just won something. “i already almost lost my big ass feet to legos and then you slimed me.”

“you weren’t supposed to make it this far!”

“oh, sorry for being determined.” he rolls his eyes, ducking down to press a kiss to your shoulder, shameless. “maybe if you didn’t look so good covered in soap, I wouldn’t have risked it all.”

your laugh snags in your throat when he presses closer, steam curling around your bodies. his chest is slick with sweat and shower mist, all heat and pressure as it presses to yours. his hands trail down, fingers splayed wide over your ass, thumbs dragging slow, reverent.

you try to pull away.

he doesn't let you.

he noses along your jaw, teeth brushing just beneath your ear. “you taunted me,” he breathes. “you trapped me.”

his lips ghost across your throat.

“you baited me.”

you can feel him now, thick and hot against your thigh. and fuck, he’s hard—not from touching, but from chasing. from wanting.

his voice dips.

“so what now, baby?” he whispers, low and dangerous. “i followed every stupid rule you laid out. now i’m here. wet, bruised, and hard for you. you gonna keep pretending i didn’t earn this?”

✧✧✧ bonus ending ✧✧✧

you stare at him.

beat.

then you shrug.

“yeah,” you say. “i think i’m good.”

he blinks. short-circuits. “wait—what?”

“you got your shower. that’s all you wanted, right?” you lather your shampoo again. “hot water. quality time. no betrayal.”

he stares at you, slack-jawed.

“you’re fucking with me.”

you glance down at his dick, smug. “i mean...you wish.”

his mouth drops open. he looks between your face and your hand—the one now methodically working shampoo into your scalp, totally unbothered—like he’s witnessing the collapse of civilization.

“you’re a menace,” he breathes. “an actual war criminal.”

you hum innocently. “non-combatant, actually.”

he runs a hand down his face, water dripping from his lashes. “i scaled a slime-covered staircase for this.”

“and look! now you’re clean.”

“i lockpicked a door—”

“you stole my bobby pin—”

“—and you’re telling me this was the endgame?!”

you flash him a smile so sweet it’s practically a death threat. “sure is, soldier.”

he groans. drags a wet hand down your back, smearing soap as he goes. “you’re lucky i love you.”

“mmhm. and you smell like apples now.”

"you bought a new scent, too?!" he glares. “that is unforgivable.”

“hey, if you’re really mad…” you lean in, kiss the tip of his nose. “you could always go shower alone.”

he stares at you. slow. offended.

then he clutches his heart, dramatically. sinks to his knees like he’s been mortally wounded.

“tell my story,” he gasps. “tell the world how i died, balls heavy and heart broken.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re fine.”

he rests his cheek dramatically against your thigh, arms looped loosely around your hips.

“this is how i go,” he mumbles. “this is my legacy.”

“naked in the shower while your girlfriend does her routine?”

“betrayed,” he clarifies. “by my lover. and what was supposed to be vanilla shampoo.”

you snort, dragging your fingers through his damp curls.

he sighs again. but softer, this time. more relaxed. his eyes flutter shut as your fingers move gently through his hair, massaging his scalp with a quiet tenderness that betrays your earlier cruelty.

“you’re lucky i haven’t kicked you out yet.”

“no you won’t,” he says, eyes still closed, voice lazy. “you love me.”

you pause. your hand rests lightly on his temple.

“…yeah,” you say, soft. “i do.”

his eyes crack open.

“…wait. does that mean i get a blowjob now?”

you shove him backwards.

he slips, yelps, and lands on his ass with a wet slap.

“worth it,” he wheezes, grinning up at you.

[gods-favorite-autistic]

nonbinary fig and transfem bigender gorgug are things that can be so real. what other gender hcs would you like to speak of?

Long hc post so this will be in bullet point form!!

(minor fhjy spoilers!!)

Enby Fig and bigender Gorgug 10/10 no notes

Ayda researches nonbinary people so hard once Fig comes out to her and sends Fig so many articles

Fig reads them all and takes notes <3

Transfem Adaine is so tragic with Aelwyn and her parents and adgeasresd

Aelwyn paid for Adaines estrogen using their parents money but never told her

Adaine knits all of the bad kids their pride flag

Pangender Cass. That’s it that’s the headcanon

Riz Gukgak transmasc detective

His mom would absolutely buy his T if he asked but knows how expensive it so he refuses

He uses a lot of home remedies (a lot of *checks google* legumes in the Gukgak household)

The second Riz comes out to Fabian he insists on paying for Riz’s T

Does NOT wear his binder correctly

Called Fabian in literal tears when he noticed he was starting to look like his dad

Ok enough sad hc’s. For now.

TRANS JAWBONE TRANS JAWBONE TRANS JAWBONE

T R A N S R A G H T R A N S R A G H

Mary Ann starts calling Gorgug her partner and Adaine immediately starts working on a spell to make a cowboy hat appear on Gorgugs head every time she says it

Bigender. Bisexual. Biclass. 🎵Bye bye by-

I think it’d be a little bit funny if Kristen was the only cis one but she/they demi girl Kristen is just too strong

For pride month Kristen convinces Adaine Fig and Ragh to get up at 12:01 am June 1st to spray paint Mordred Manor the trans flag

They also. Set fire to Bobby Dawns car

Fig makes it their mission to look as androgynous as possible but not in a ‘no gender’

In a ‘double d tits and a 5 inch bulge’ type way

They appear at the end of Garthy O’Briens bed one night to ask for tips like the cryptid they are

Kristen comes out in virtually the same way she did the first time just way more drunk

They whisper it to Adaine and Adaine is just like “Kristen last week you googled ‘how to tell if demigirl’ directly in front of me and then told me what you were googling when I asked”

Kristen’s just like oh. Then they throw up

For transfem Fabian Mazey (also transfem because her) figures out she’s trans before Fabian does but doesn’t try to like push her out of the closet because she knows that won’t help

She does however try to like nudge her in that direction by like sending her transfem memes and getting her to try on Mazeys dresses (read a fic where Fabian tried on Mazeys dress and I loved it so much) and stuff like that

Transmasc Fabian comes out to Riz when Riz comes out to him

Kristin assigns themself binder boy (Ragh Fabian and Riz) duty

Also known as showing up in each boys room 8 hours after she finds out they had a binder on and beating them with a pillow until they take it off

Usually Riz

Kristen shows up in his doorway he’s immediately sprinting out the fire escape as fast as he can

Jawbone has top surgery scars on his untransformed body but you can’t see them on his usual half and half body (they are still there)

Fig keeps casting dream to show up in Bobby Dawns dreams with a nonbinary flag

[dootznbootz]

Hi!! I love your blog and I’m enjoying your Odypen headcanons and theories very much! I recently started reading the Iliad so I’m new to all this and I just want to know your opinion on smth. In song 1, lines 135-140 Agamemnon mentions the bride prizes of several Achaean leaders, including Odysseus. Obviously nothing else is mentioned, no name, just that he has one, too. What’s your take on that? Any headcanons? I honestly hate the whole cheating discourse around him and I don’t want to add more fuel to the fire because in the Odyssey he was clearly a victim!! I would just love to know what you think about this particular thing in the Iliad. Considering the historical and cultural context, having a bride prize was normal in war (albeit awful from our modern standpoint). But Odysseus is a very interesting and complicated character so this could go in many different ways with him, and in any case it doesn’t really change my opinion on his love for Penelope. Thank you! :)

Thank you so much!!! That's so kind! And I'm so happy you're reading the Iliad! I hope you enjoy it! I'm so happy you're enjoying my silly and I DO have many thoughts about it! :D

And very good that either way, it doesn't change your opinion on his love for Penelope. My opinion/interpretation regardless of those lines, that should ALWAYS be the interpretation that people have of Odysseus.

So idk if you've seen my Aspec OdyPen silliness yet and/or my "Odysseus is a half-eunich from the boar". BUT those are my headcanons. (which I can delve into further later)

but I'll go over the canon evidence now. :P

(disclaimer: Slavery is a fucked up thing regardless of the circumstances. this is in no way excusing any of it)

So IDK which translation you're reading, but as someone who's read multiple versions...Some just say "Prize", and with the "it" and "something". I...didn't really see it as a woman and/or specifically a concubine.

Let Achaeans give me another prize, equal in value, something I’ll enjoy. If not, then I’ll take a prize myself by force,                                   something from you or Ajax or Odysseus.

(Book 1, Johnston)

Let the Achaeans find me a prize in fair exchange to my liking, or I will come and take your own, or that of Ajax or of Ulysses; and he to whomsoever I may come shall rue my coming.

(Book 1, Butler)

But if they do not give me such a gift, then I will seize your own prize or Ajax’s or Odysseus’ and carry it away, angering whomever I visit.

(Book 1, Heumann)

So to ME, (I do not know what the actual words said mean) I take "Prize" of "something of equal value" and/or just a slave.

As yeah...My Odysseus is aspec (basically Pen-romantic/Pen-sexual), I kind of plan to WRITE it personally as a bit of a thing with "Grab one of Odysseus' slaves, he doesn't use them as concubines."

And with Odysseus being the one to transport Chryseis, I have it where it's a bit of "I'll go bring her to her father. Take any slave you wish from my tent if you must. I don't care."

Agamemnon dragged a swift ship down the shore, chose twenty sailors, loaded on the oxen, offerings for the god, and led on fair-cheeked Chryseis.          Shrewd Odysseus shipped on as leader. All aboard, they set off, carving a pathway through the sea.

(Book 1, Johnston)

(Also with Ajax and his girlfriend/bride prize, I think this kind of made him extremely worried. My Odysseus and Ajax have "special beef" even BEFORE the war but they are fine about it by the war. Odysseus not only doesn't have a concubine or slave woman he's attached to but he also was helping a bro out in a way lol.)

And Odysseus is a king and a piece of shit. It's horrible but it feels in character for my lil asshole to basically use pretty slaves in trading. "Hey, you like lighthaired girls, yeah? Well, you have that really pretty silver-studded sword...I want it. Would you like to exchange?"

I want to make it clear that I'm not writing like this or interpreting this in the way of "UwU Odysseus is too of a good boy for that." as that feels icky to try and "make everyone else shitty to make him 'better'". It's literally because Odysseus is just simply LIKE this. He has basically no libido/sex drive if Penelope isn't around. (I'm keeping this as safe for wormlings as I can so I'll leave it at that.)

An old wip post explains it more but I'll also put the wip itself here to kind of explain lol

My Odysseus is a "pretty boy" as he is in canon as well, and he hates when people make moves on him.

BUT these are just MY headcanons and/or what I plan to write, while I just don't really vibe with Odysseus being with folks willingly other than Penelope I have big gay for her. I live vicariously through Odysseus. I love her so much I can't stop others and other people COULD find evidence of Odysseus being with others if they truly wanted.

[ratinayellowbandana]

Hi! Number six of the drabble prompt list, and if I may suggest, with a sad jealous Laudna.

hi! I'm sorry this one took a few days. I um. got a little carried away with it again. these were only supposed to be like 500-word prompt fills, and this is uh, slightly more than that. so I hope that's ok.

for those who don't want to find the prompt, it was: "You just didn't look for me." naturally I went ep 64 with a healthy splash of canon divergence, some good old-fashioned hurt/comfort, and pate as a thinly veiled metaphor.

length: 2k

~~~

Laudna whirls on her, snaps, “We looked for you. And the others. Every fucking day.” She holds Imogen’s gaze, holds her piercing stare until Imogen tilts her head. “You just didn’t look for me,” she whispers. 

Imogen steps forward, quiet but insistent. “No, sweetheart, no, we did. I did. Every day.” She does not reach out, afraid, not of Laudna–never of Laudna–but of herself. Of what she might do if given the chance at the wrong time. Her heart pounds an unsteady rhythm.

“I want to believe you,” Laudna says. She toys with the brass ring on her left hand, twisting it around her finger anxiously, twin snakes coiling. “I do, truly, it’s just…” 

Imogen studies her, searching for answers in a frame both foreign and familiar. Laudna is pale and gaunt, cheeks drawn in, though that’s hardly unusual. Her stringy dark hair lacks luster in the eerie light of the red moon, crispy and clumped together in places by something Imogen can’t identify. Cast in the long shadows between buildings, Laudna is on edge, ready to claw and screech and lash out with those wicked talons if provoked. She is wild, and she is beautiful, and she is frightened.  

“I understand,” Imogen speaks slowly, gently, distinctly aware of each word’s weight. 

The others are still in the inn, consorting in the tavern. The Hells and their new friends, chatting, laughing, and drinking the night away, simply happy to be home. Introductions were made, and tales of grandeur waited to be spun. 

Laudna had been unnervingly quiet after the initial elation wore off. Her hands remained folded in her lap or picked intently at the skin around her nails. Pâté’s silence was even more concerning. He had been coaxed out of hiding in Laudna’s hair with the promise of scratches and nudged his beak into her wrist until she began stroking his greasy fur. 

She spoke when spoken to, adjusting in her seat and responding eagerly when prompted. The moment the attention shifted, though, her forced smile would drop. Every so often, she sent a furtive glance in Imogen’s direction as if to ensure she was still there, then looked away just as quickly. Exhaustion crept at the corners of her eyes, and her gaze would fall to her lap whenever the conversation turned to the adventures in Wildemount. 

The group from Issylra hadn’t said much about their travels, but Imogen gathered their transplantation had not been as, ah, pleasant wasn’t quite the right word. Illustrious, maybe, Imogen considered, fussing with a seam on her new dress. Laudna’s blouse was tattered and stained with a thick substance that did not match her ichor’s usual viscosity. 

Laudna had stood abruptly, muttering something about air, and disappeared outside. After making puzzled eye contact with Ashton, who tossed his head at the door and sighed heavily, Imogen followed her. 

She had found Laudna around the corner, curled into herself against the wall of the Spire by Fire. A feral thing, hardened and reshaped by whatever circumstances found her while they were apart. 

She has not calmed yet, and Imogen is reluctant to curb the swell of emotion that has Laudna dangling by a thread. She is tangled in it, ensnared in a knotted web, and Imogen is unsure how to extricate her. She is all jagged pieces and raw edges, a tempest of fury and loss that Imogen cannot rely on her mental connection to unravel. Laudna is something of a mystery to her now in a way she has never been, and it’s all Imogen can do to not toss her circlet to the winds. 

Instead, she waits. 

Laudna is muttering to herself, tugging at her clothes. Pâté flaps about her head, wings of sinew and bone making an abominably wet sound Imogen hadn’t realized she’d missed. The tip of one wing tangles in Laudna’s hair, and she swats at him irritably, sending him tumbling through the air until he manages to right himself. Imogen extends a hand, and he flies to her, settling in her palm on his hindquarters. He gives a disgruntled shake, and his wings squelch back into his body, tail coming to rest around his paws. He peers up at Imogen, then looks back to Laudna.  

“I tried,” he croaks in that gravelly way of his, and Imogen strokes his disgusting little head with one finger. 

“I know,” she assures gently. He could be referring to any number of moments across a lifetime, a few weeks, mere seconds ago. She sets him on her shoulder and feels pinprick claws pierce the fabric of her dress for stability. Crass and wretched as he is, Imogen can’t find it in herself to hate him. He is an extension of his maker, creepy and ungainly and off-putting, so Imogen must love him a tiny bit. She scratches under his chin, ignores the feeling of magic-touched bone, murmurs, “Thank you for keepin’ her safe.”

“Boss didn’t have the best of times without you.” He pipes up, a little rueful, in a manner Imogen assumes is meant to be quiet. Laudna, only a few feet away, catches it.

“Pâté,” she snarls. He squeaks and tucks himself into Imogen’s collar. 

“He’s just confirming what I had already guessed,” Imogen defends, an attempt at lightness that doesn’t quite land. “It’s not his fault you haven’t told me anything.” 

“He ought to have stayed in my head. Then he might leave well enough alone,” Launda warns. 

“You don’t mean that,” Imogen counters calmly. 

Laudna spits, “He should have stayed dead.”

“Hey.” 

She huffs a sardonic, dry laugh. “Not everyone deserves second chances.” 

Imogen inhales sharply.

There it is. 

“Laudna…” She softens. She cups Pâté protectively. His fur oddly damp against her skin. She takes a cautious step forward. 

The pieces begin slotting into place, building the frame for a jarring picture of something severe enough to reopen this old wound. 

The fight sapped from her limbs, Laudna slides her back down the wall until she sits in the filth and dirt of the alleyway with her knees drawn close to her chest. Imogen winces as rough stone drags across jutting bone and paper-thin skin. 

“Are you… Do you want to be alone?” She asks–because what else can she do?– and half-fears the answer. 

Laudna’s head jerks up, and something Imogen can’t decipher flashes in her eyes. After a moment, her head shakes minutely, and Imogen lets out a relieved sigh. 

Tense silence leaches from the pores of the building’s rocky exterior.  

“We tried to find you all. Every day. We didn’t–we didn’t know where we were. Where anyone was, and–” Laudna breathes at last. “Orym was… was angry. Vengeful. And Ashton…. He was our friend.”

“Ashton?”

“I hurt him,” Laudna continues as if Imogen hadn’t spoken at all.

“Hurt who?” 

She shudders. “I killed him, not Prism.” Inky tears well from eyes pressed shut. Her voice is impossibly soft, hollow, seeming to ask, Do you hate me yet?

The narrative is convoluted at best. Imogen fruitlessly attempts to splice together the fragments of memory slipping through Laudna’s teeth like snowflakes, to arrange them into a cohesive whole among the scraps she gathered at the table. The Issylra group returned rattled, apprehensive and tense, but this is deeper. Laudna is shaken. 

“Wasn’t he a member of the Ruby Vanguard?” 

“He was confused, just like the rest of us. Angry at the gods.” Laudna’s eyes flicker to the glowing red moon. Her fist, clenched in her hair, tightens. “And I killed him.” 

Imogen steps closer. “We’ve all killed people.”

Laudna shakes her head. Her voice hardens once more. “I don’t begrudge you the shopping or fraternizing with royalty or, or whatever else it was,” she says lowly, “But we didn’t have that. We didn’t save a toy store or home-cooked breakfasts. We spent every moment fighting to get back to you. And now,” she swallows, “we must reckon with the cost.” 

She is utterly exhausted; Imogen can see in the dim light. Although bone-weary and at her wits’ end, Laudna’s elegant cheekbones curl with shadows that twist and hide in her skirts. Hunched and fearful as she is, Laudna is still hauntingly beautiful. Something warms in Imogen’s chest. 

“You did what you had to do to survive,” she says, “No one can fault you for that.” 

“I’m sorry.” Laudna’s voice breaks, fracturing in tandem with Imogen’s heart, and she sobs. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Laud, no–” Imogen crouches next to her, yearning to touch, to take Laudna in her arms and bite and hiss and growl at anyone who dares approach. She restrains herself, carefully plucking Pâté from her shoulder and setting him on the ground between them. He turns to her skeptically as if to say, Really? After what she said? Imogen nudges him in Laudna’s direction. He sniffs, beak in the air, and ruffles his fur before bounding to Laudna’s ankles and putting his weird, cold little dead rat toes against her shin. She ignores the pawing fragment of her soul, ashamed. 

“I’m sorry,” Laudna mutters, “I must seem…I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” 

Laudna begins incredulously, “I–”

“You survived,” Imogen reiterates, “against gods and people powerful enough to destroy them.” She sighs, “I sent you a message every day, you know? Sometimes more than once, if I’m honest, ‘till my nose bled and Deanna had to patch me up.” Imogen offers a half-smile. “All I got was static. I just had to hope you were out there, somewhere, lookin’ for me, too.” 

Laudna looks as if she might melt into herself, refusing to look at Imogen. Her shoulders shake, and she confesses with a gasp, “She’s back. I brought her back.” 

Imogen’s blood chills, but her tone remains neutral. “Who, Laud?” 

At last, Laudna meets her gaze, eyes wide and wet and horror-struck. “Delilah.”

The name hangs between them like a stone ready to drop and shatter and bury itself into their flesh. Searing rage erupts in Imogen’s veins. 

“I’m sorry,” Laudna shrinks back, “I’m so sorry. To all of you. You all gave so much to–to find me. And–”

“It’s not your fault,” Imogen interjects.

“–and I wasn’t…I was weak. I lost control.” 

“Laudna,” Imogen cuts her off with the steely calm of a thunderstorm on the horizon. She cannot afford to process this now, not when Laudna is trembling in an alley. Not when Laudna, unmoored and terrified, needs her to be an anchor. No, Imogen will save her questions and unfiltered anger, for another time. A time when Laudna is safe and warm and at no risk of coming unraveled in her hands. When Laudna is in a place to know Imogen’s wrath is not, could never be, directed at her.

“Laudna,” Imogen repeats, because she cannot bear the thought of her not understanding, “this is not your fault. None of this.” She does reach out, then, offering a lifeline should Laudna choose to accept it. She does, hesitantly, as if waiting for Imogen to recoil. Her fingers are cool, bird-light against Imogen’s red-scarred palm. Laudna seems to notice at the same time.

“Imogen,” she exclaims, words still tear-tinged and quivering, “your hands. They’re–are you alright?”

“Oh, they–they don’t hurt, usually. Promise. I’m fine.”

“I should have–I’m sorry, I suppose I was–”

“Laudna,” Imogen interrupts again, not unkindly, “please.” 

It’s then that Laudna seems to notice Pâté clawing his way up her skirt. She scoops him up and holds him to her, murmuring apologies into his fur.

“‘S’okay, boss,” he rasps, squished against his maker’s chest, “I can’t hold a grudge.”

They sit like that, hand-in-hand, hand-on-rat, until the easy stroke of Imogen’s thumb against Laudna’s has smoothed out the worst of the jagged edges. Until the tension falls from Laudna’s spine and she relaxes into Imogen’s touch. 

“The others are surely wondering where we’ve gone.”

Imogen shrugs, snorts, “There’re so many people at that table I think they’d hardly notice two missing.”

“Still,” Laudna says, “we ought to get back.”

“Do you want to?” It’s her choice. It always will be if Imogen can help it.

Laudna considers. “I think I’d rather like to hear the end of Chetney’s story from the Savalirwood.”

“Oh gods,” Imogen groans, flushing at the memory, “no, you don’t.” 

“Fearne and Deanna, hm?” 

“Best to let them tell it.”

[melverie]

you know that pic with the guy who looks crazy and in the bg there's a bunch of red strings connecting papers on a board together? you rn

I mean it really does feel like it anon

[asteria7fics]

20 and 15

20. Hopes for seasons going forward and specific episode tropes you’d like explored?

Honestly? I think it’s redundant to say but I really hope we get lots of episodes where the kids are just… being kids, and their shenanigans snowball into something bigger. Those are hands down my favorite episodes.

….I also really want them to talk about K-pop, though I know they never will. It would just tickle my brain (*ﾉヮﾉ)

15. Favorite special and why?

It’s Post Covid. Do I even need to explain why?

Truthfully, I tend to weigh my “favorites” with this show on how much they made me laugh. I’ve had a good laugh with all of the specials, but there’s just something about listening to Cartman pound his wife that just sent me into the stratosphere. Both specials are fucking insane and I love them.

[gremnda]

Grem I am not ok too it’s ok I’m actually crying as I type this!!! We can cry together right. Right.

- Mossii

mossii i havent been this distraught about mc rp since the last dsmp lore drop. so incredibly unwell but we'll get through this.... it's gonna be okay i'm holding your hands it's gonna be okay

[hershelchocolateart]

can you draw yourself any more obnoxiously

SURE CAN!

[samantha-and-her-chaotic-desires]

You ever have a dream that gets you so mad you actually start attacking things in real life? Cause last night I dreamt I was in a figh and just started bitting my opponent, only to wake up and realize I was actually biting my Ivy plushs leg, I felt so bad, IM SORRY IVY!!

NOOOOO OH MY GOD. BUT YES, I FEEL YOU.

Your Ivy plush is a trooper O7

[opticsel]

i saw the tags about mazeway and i've never ever read it i need to know what makes it so bad you've got me curious

okay fucking BUCKLE UP then, cause you’re in for a treat! since I legally cannot do anything by halves (adhd) get ready for an essay of a post methodically breaking down everything that sucks about this book so you never need to do yourself the disservice of experiencing it. if you happen to like this book and had a great, fulfilling time reading it, that's great! feel free to tell me all about how i'm wrong and why, because I did not :) spoilers ahead, all ye who enter here, although once again NOT A BOOK RECOMMENDATION !!!!

(i will say there are some actual recommendations at the end though. if anyone feels like scrolling for approximately seven years)

a little meet-the-author before we begin: jack williamson was born in Arizona in 1908. actually I say Arizona, but at the time Arizona wasn't a state yet- it was still a territory. his career as a science fiction writer started when he was 20, and he is (rightfully) considered one of the deans of sci-fi. along with writers like isaac asimov, williamson was among the writers who developed a lot of the new-wave concepts and tropes that are common today.

Mazeway was published in 1990, when our beloved author was 82. It is 262 pages long, and has 43 chapters. It was supposed to be the first in a series, and a second book was allegedly drafted, but from about this time to the end of his life Williamson flitted from project to project, which means several of his later books are also the first in a series which was never written. By then Mr Williamson was getting old and, according to my dad, "kind of losing his mind," which. With how this book ended I could definitely see that being true! And personally I am very glad this one ended up being a stand-alone.

Let me start by saying that this book is not all bad, it's just an overwhelming majority bad. Solid 83% bad. This actually makes it more frustrating, because those little nuggets of light in the darkness give me a glimpse into what the book could have been, and honestly it could have been pretty good. Actually I know you came here to hear about why this is NOT a book recommendation but I'm going to start with what I liked and get to the terrible steaming shit piles later.

First off, the concept for the overall main plot is pretty interesting. I couldn't engage with it as much as I would have liked (for Reasons), but the pitch my dad gave me when he recommended it to me made it sound like something I would like. In broad strokes, we follow a young human man named Benn who lives on a space station located somewhere far from earth. Despite the fact that humanity was rescued from earth after the skynet collapsed, the intergalactic alliance/organization taking care of them doesn't consider their species a part of the alliance, because they have never had a member of their species successfully complete the Game of Blade and Stone (henceforth referred to as the Game), so obviously they are incompetent and can't be allowed to make their own laws, have their own government, decide where to work/live, etc. Of course Benn decides that he is going to to go the planet Stone where the Game is held and compete so humanity can become a valued member of intergalactic society. And yeah by now in the year of our lord 2024 this is a story we've seen some version of a hundred times before, but 35 years ago it was a fairly novel concept, and tbh I am a simple bitch. It takes very little to get me intrigued.

Second, the magic/technology system. It was terrible, actually, and not a system at all, just kind of a collection of words that meant things and let people do stuff like fly through the vacuum of space. I still kinda liked it, though, and I feel like it had a lot of promise. It's technically not magic since it's biology-based and relies on made-up laws of made-up physics, and I love when creatures have special biological features that let them do magic-adjacent things, so even if I was annoyed by the way it was explained, I mostly enjoyed it. If you're a physics guy in any capacity it definitely feels like it was created by a guy who had no idea what he was talking about, but Williamson was solidly not a scientist, so I'm giving him a little grace here (for now, at least).

I also really really liked Williamson's aliens; very few of them were humanoid or even anthropomorphic, and one of the main species, the Hydrans, remind me of a fucked up Mr potato head in that they are a sort of lumpy blob that can just. create and move features across their bodies at will. Another was literally just a collection of particles working together like an amoeba. One of my favorites is Wing, who "was a thin triangular being with stubby tentacles jutting from her three corners. Her numerous eyes made a belt of bright black gems around a shining crown that bulged out of her slate-gray flatness." And Williamson clearly thought a lot about his aliens, because we get a lot of information about cultures and reproduction and relationships for a few species- mostly for the Hydrans, since they're a bit part of the story, but there's a few others we get a quick peek into throughout the book. Insert 'i just think they're neat' meme here and give me more freaky non-anthropomorphic aliens in media you cowards !!!

And... that's about it. That's all I liked about this book. General concept for the plot, some of the magic system, and the aliens. Calling that 13% of the book might be too generous but whatever, I'll give some extra points cause I really did love the aliens a lot.

Now, when I look for a book, I'm looking for a few key things. I need an engaging and coherent plot, well-rounded characters, and a satisfying conclusion. Honestly, I'll sacrifice plot for good characters, because if I can't connect with the people on the page, I don't care what they're doing. Sounds simple enough, but again, I am a simple bitch.

And yet, somehow, despite the apparent simplicity of my request- SOMEHOW this book managed to not tick a SINGLE ONE of my boxes. NOT ONE. In fact this book just decided it hated me specifically and needed to personally victimize me at every turn, because SOMEHOW it managed to do the OPPOSITE of those three simple things.

We'll start with characters, since that's my big thing. They were shit. They were bland and infuriating and had no consistency. Benn, who is supposed to be our knight in shining armor that we support at every turn, is literally the flattest fucking white bread ass male lead I've ever had the misfortune of encountering, to the point where I'm convinced has got to have been a self-insert. The other two protagonists- who I haven't even mentioned yet- were just as bad; one of them, named Don Diego Bolivar, was kind of (??) the villain, complete with some concerningly racist undertones, and the other, Roxanne Kwan, was the Sexy Woman With Knife that this era of sci-fi was obsessed with. Even though she's supposed to be cool and strong, she's about as useful as Benn is, and mostly spends the book being creeped on by Bolivar. She does not kill him even though she totally has the skills and would have been completely justified in it. None of them do much in the book other than react to whatever wacky circumstances they manage to find themselves in, and while it was annoying how little any of them knew about anything, it was infuriating how little motivation any of them had to actually learn the things they didn't know. To me, that's a sign that Williamson didn't bother figuring out most of the mechanics of this world, which is unfathomable to me as a writer whose favorite part of writing is worldbuilding.

Next let's touch on plot. Oh, you thought I liked the plot? WRONG. I liked the concept for the plot, and I was really hoping it would blossom into a beautiful story. Unfortunately, Jack Williamson apparently cannot write something comprehensible to save his life. Every single sentence was overwritten, forced to run on and on until all it could do was collapse from exhaustion and finally die. Core concepts were introduced in the last 10 pages of the fucking book, and multiple things happened for literally no reason. There were several plot threads that felt like they should be wrapped up and then just never were, which means I was just confused forever. Even if there had been more to the series, there were way too many things to smoothly bring them all into the second book. Character motivations were often dumb, convoluted, or just straight up never explained.

And Jesus fucking Christ, the pacing of the whole thing- or rather the lack thereof. The end of the book tried to make up for all the time wasted on flowery prose by whizzing through multiple plot points at a dizzying speed. We were constantly being thrown around through space and time- We're on this ship! No, we're on this planet! We're doing this thing, but actually it's time for a random unrelated flashback that will do nothing except confuse you, both now and later when some obscure half-remembered detail is brought up and you have to flip back to chapter 7 to figure out what the fuck is being talked about! Sometimes this would happen in the middle of a scene, which was always jarring. There was one instance early on where Roxanne finds her father's dead body, and instead of continuing this scene and preserving all the yummy built-up tension, we jump away to our favorite white boy Benn and get four pages establishing a b-plot that will never be resolved, and then go back to Roxanne at the exact same moment we just left off. Why did we leave?? To ruin the atmosphere and confuse your reader?? If so, great job! So much of this book was just me screaming What are you doing!! and then suffering some more.

Also, just as a quick aside- remember how the book is 262 pages and 43 chapters, which comes out to ~6 pages per chapter? Yeah. Since there wasn't enough happening already, every chapter the perspective changes between our protagonists, and most of the chapters don't even hit that magic page count; most land between 2 and 3. This could be fine, except that our dear author has apparently never heard of developing a character's voice, so all three of them sound exactly the same: flatter and drier than a stale Triscut, and with infuriatingly little knowledge about how the world around them works.

Back to the magic again, because I have more to say actually. Unlike a lot of other new-wave sci-fi writers, Williamson wasn't a scientist. That's why I gave him so much room with his shitty not-magic system, which I'm now going to explain to you just a little bit. He uses the phrase nanionic forces, which is the manipulation of sub-atomic particles called nanions, which are smaller than quarks. At the nanionic level, we reach a "horizon of reality" where nanionic particles flicker out of existence and back again, a trillion times in a trillionth of a Terran second. If that doesn't make sense, cool, it doesn't really matter, that explanation will never be brought up or expanded on again. But I really like the idea of a species that moves by interacting with a sort of "negative" matter so to speak, and I wish we had gotten a better explanation for how it works.

Like nanionic particles/forces, the skynet is also based on a real or theoretical scientific concept which is then heavily modified. This time, instead of something small, it's based on something big- a Dyson Sphere. Instead of surrounding a star, the skynet surrounded the Earth's outer atmosphere in a grid-like pattern. What did it do? Great question. People lived up there; in fact, most people seem to have lived up there, and the ones who didn't were all poor and stupid. There were elevators that connected it to the earth and let people move between the surface and the skynet. It maybe harvested energy from the earth like a Dyson sphere would do to a star, but it's not... really clear. And it will never get clearer, because when the skynet fell to earth, most people died, and the ones who didn't just don't ever talk about it. There doesn't seem to be a reason for that; I really think Williamson just didn't want to go to the effort of actually expanding this incredibly important aspect of his book whose destruction is directly responsible for everything that is happening rn. Interesting choice imo but only one of us is a best-selling author, so okay. Whatever.

But these examples showcase a pitfall of Williamson's: for some reason, he didn't do his research, whether because he didn't care or he didn't realize he needed to. Like, at the time, research was difficult. The internet didn't exist. You couldn't just pull up the wikipedia page on quarks or the Dyson Sphere. But it would have been so easy for Williamson, because all he needed to do was ask his friends who did know about these things. All the big-name new-wave sci-fi authors were friends, and they all worked closely together, and a lot of them were scientists, and all he would have had to do would be send a letter or, shit, pick up the phone, and he would have all the answers he needed. So he had the resources, he just chose not to use them, and his work suffered for it. And I fucking suffered for it reading his work.

Now, about that ending. Oho, the ending.

At the end of the book, Benn, Roxanne, and Bolivar find themselves in front of the judges of the Game (yeah they all end up competing don't worry about it). Benn has forfeit in order to be rescued after Bolivar threw him into a river, but he is still presented to the judges with the rest of the contestants in the ceremony where they learn whether or not they have successfully passed the trials of the Game. None of the three humans passed, and all three of them are ordered to immediately return to their home planets. Bolivar (who I did not understand was the villain until I read this section for the third goddamn time) does some stuff that essentially boils down to appointing himself as the ruler of Earth/the Sun Corporation, proclaiming that the other contestants who didn't pass are now considered citizens of the Sun, and threatening the judges and the entire alliance with his uber-powerful robot/EMP, in that order. In order to stop him, the judges arrest a bunch of people, and then. And then.

And then Benn looks into the robot's eyes and becomes the universe.

No, really. In chapter 43 of this godawful fucking book, Benn hears the voice of a great malicious entity called Conqueror in his mind, and then he falls into the darkness before time and space and experiences the birth of the universe as Conqueror itself. He, as Conqueror, watches stars and planets form, and chooses to be kind instead of evil, and coaxes different species to meet each other between the stars. He watches the skynet fall, and mourns for all the creatures that died during its destruction. And that sounds beautiful, right?

...Right?

I wish I could tell you the end of this book was beautiful and profound. I wish I could tell you it made up for all the overwritten bullshit I had to slog through. I wish I could tell you it made everything worth it. It did not. Instead, after 257 terrible, grueling, exhausting pages, this ending felt more like the book spitting in my face and telling me to take my hopes and dreams up the ass, because somehow this is what saves the day: Benn Dain making eye contact with the evil (???) robot. On accident.

How? Great question. Saves from what? Wouldn't you like to know, weatherboy. Actually, I have many questions, all of them unanswered. What is Conqueror? Is it the universe? How did Benn become it? Why? Is that the robot's scary magic power- it gives you a trip so good you become a great cosmic mass and experience all of time? And what narrative purpose does this serve (outside of magically defeating a villain we have barely established)? Because as far as I'm aware (and I should be fucking aware at this point, having just read the entire book), at no point during Benn's journey was one of his objectives "learn what happened to the skynet". Also, again, how the fuck did that defeat the robot and/or Conqueror???

If someone put a gun to my head and told me to think of a conclusion to this story that makes less sense, I would not be able to. I wish I could, because at least the fact that it could have been even worse would be a silver lining to this shitshow of a book, but alas.

I'm sure at this point you're asking yourself, Finn, why did you even bother making it this far? Why didn't you DNF it the moment Roxanne's common sense shriveled up and died? Well, I would have loved to do that, but unfortunately I read this book for an essay worth 40% of my term grade, and we had already submitted our reading lists, and we were required to submit a reading log for every book on there. I was locked into reading this book whether I liked it or not. And good for you, isn't it? Because now we can all sit here together and have a grand old time listening to me complain by request on the internet. Joy.

OKAY I just woke up and I have a fever of 102 and I feel like absolute shit. let's finish this fucking POST so I can be FREEEE

That's the end of the book, but we still have shit to talk about; namely, racism and misogyny. This book treats POC and women like total shit the entire time, and that's honestly why I'm so adamant that this isn't a recommendation. Problems with characterization and plot and worldbuilding- those are all subjective. I'm sure somewhere out there is someone who would love this story and all of the things I consider flaws. But I cannot in good conscience tell people to read it with the way these topics are handled. I'm not going to try to get too far into it because it's been a couple years since I actually sat down and read the book, but I did skim it in order to write this, so here are the obvious things that jumped out at me. My brain is mush rn so I'm probably gonna miss stuff but you'll get the gist hopefully

Bolivar's mother is specifically stated to be from Ecuador, and the town she's from is described as a "squalid barrio." She fakes an ID so she can work as a prostitute somewhere in the skynet, and that's where she meets- and promptly has an affair with- Bolivar's father, who is a wealthy businessman. She dies when the skynet falls, because she's working in a nightclub at the time. Bolivar himself is prone to bouts of violence and rage, has no loyalty to anyone but himself, and is a power-hungry egomaniac. He's also a creep to Roxanne on several occasions, flirting with her incessantly even after she has told him multiple times to stop, and even tries to coerce her into sleeping with him when they are forced to share a hotel room. The other Latino character is treated no better; he's a fairly minor character, but upon meeting him Roxanne immediately has a Bad Feeling and doesn't trust him. She turns out to be justified in this when he kills her father and his best friend and leaves her in the desert to die. He and Bolivar are similar in many ways: they are both violent and serve only themselves. The only obvious difference is that Julio speaks Spanish constantly, in that jarring way that monolingual people write bilingual characters, where random ass words and phrases are sprinkled in with little care to whether or not it makes sense. I don't feel like I have to explain to you why these things are problematic, and frankly I don't think I would do a very good job if I tried rn, but, like. Oh my god.

Now, let's talk about the ladies. Benn's mother shows up for like two scenes, talks about how cool her husband is, talks about how cool her son is, and then is never mentioned again. She barely exists. There's nothing to say about her except point out how little there is to say. She's one of two women in the entire book, the other being Roxanne. Roxanne has her own problems, mainly inconsistent characterization and very little narrative purpose. She has two reasons to exist: one, to be the heir of the Sun Corps, since she's a Kwan, and they were like the ultra-rich bastards who owned the skynet or something, and two, to save Benn's life when Bolivar throws him off a cliff into the river. That is- and I am not exaggerating here- the one and only thing she actually does in the entire book. She has none of her own motivations and just ends up following Benn or Bolivar around, thinking vaguely about how hot they are, and being otherwise useless. Her skills also disappear when it's convenient; for example, she gets bad vibes about Julio, implying that she's good at reading people, but then when she meets Bolivar she doesn't get any bad vibes from him at all. She's a fantastic hunter, good enough that she earned the nickname Cheetah when she was young, but she still isn't able to kill Bolivar when it counts. Again, many problems. my whole body hurts and I'm mad and I want to be done and you're smart. Misogyny bad send tumble

That's finally it!! I'm finally done ranting!!! I'm gonna go take a goddamn nap!!!!!! Fuck this book to hell and I hope this sated your curiosity. don't read this, read, like, Set My Heart to Five (Simon Stephenson), which I read right after and is still one of the best, most moving things I've ever read, or, if you're interested in something new-wave, Decision at Doona (Anne McCaffrey) or Caves of Steel (Isaac Asimov) are both really great choices. If you're not super into sci-fi, Tamora Pierce is a really good fantasy author whose mcs are all well-written badass ladies, and Redwall (Brian Jaques) is a fun adventure with little animals. Just basically what I'm saying is please do not read this book. bye

[solidwater05]

Unrelated anon, the Exigency keeps referencing nuclear war and at one point it kept repeating "MAD" in morse code, which stands for Mutually Assured Destruction which is a principle in nuclear war where if you nuke certain countries they and their allies will nuke you back and your allies nuke their allies and the world will probably end as a result, so I think it might like war. Not sure.

Yeah but it also said an entire paragraph consisting only of 'my skin is melting'. If it ever liked war, it definitely stopped liking it the second it got attacked

[gloomwitchwrites]

You introduce your husband as your "boyfriend" to annoy them.

Anon! This prompt has me screaming! I really enjoyed writing for this one because it's such a fun idea. Sure, our 141 boys might be a little mad that they aren't being called by their proper title, but you know they'll just love punishing you for it.

I went a little different with this one. Instead of introductions, I made it so that reader is constantly referring to them as "boyfriend" in public settings. Depending on the situation, introductions wouldn't make sense if it was with friends, family, or coworkers because they would likely already know that they're "husband" and not "boyfriend." So I changed it up a bit in that way!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, non-descriptive mentions of sex, fade to black, brief dirty talk

Word Count: 1.6k

ao3 //main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon shakes his head and you roll your eyes.

“We can ask someone for help,” you suggest, scanning the massive wall of televisions.

Simon grunts and crosses his arms. “No.”

Sometimes Simon’s stubbornness is cute—even sexy—but right now you’re just annoyed with him. It makes you want to stir up trouble, to cause a little chaos just for the fun of it. Pouting, you turn, eyes narrowing to find an associate of the electronics store. When you spot one near the HDMI cables, you take off, not caring if Simon follows.

“Excuse me.”

The man’s head perks up. “How can I help you?”

You gesture behind you, your hand smacking into Simon’s chest. “My boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend?” growls Simon, but you ignore him.

“—can’t decide on a television.”

Simon is not your boyfriend. He’s your husband. But he’s being stubborn, not making a decision, and you want out of this store.

Shifting, you place one hand on Simon’s large bicep, grinning like you haven’t done anything at all. Simon’s hand immediately grabs your ass, squeezing hard. A warning. One that you ignore.

“I can help with that,” replies the associate. You glance at the man’s nametag. Jim.

“Thank you so much, Jim.” You lean against Simon, giving Jim your best smile. “Getting this guy to commit to anything is so hard sometimes, ya know?”

Jim makes a noncommittal noise as he walks toward the wall of televisions. You start to follow but Simon’s hold on your ass tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Simon leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

You elbow Simon in the side but it’s not hard. He lets go, keeping close to you as the two of you follow Jim over to the televisions. Standing back, you watch with glee as Simon is forced to talk to Jim. You stay out of it, but notice Simon’s gaze switching to you every so often.

You already know what he’s thinking. He’ll likely want to punish you, and sometimes those punishments are so sweet.

Once Simon selects something and the two of you are at the car, there is no safety net. Simon shuts the trunk and then you’re pressed against the car, your body trapped between it and Simon’s massive form.

“Boyfriend?” he accuses.

You shrug. “What do you mean?”

The growl in Simon’s throat comes out a groan. “Get in the car.” He lightly slaps your ass as you open the passenger door.

As you start to slide in, Simon’s hand returns, this time slipping under your skirt to find your thin, lace underwear. He tugs sharply, ripping the fabric.

“Simon!”

He stuffs the underwear into his pocket. “You don’t need these.” You feel your face growing hot.

Simon shuts your car door and walks around the driver’s side, hopping in. He reaches out, placing one large hand on your bare thigh. It roams upward, squeezing, sending a shiver of lust up your body to make your head spin. “When we get home, I’m fucking that boyfriend nonsense right out of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’m so sorry, but this isn’t what my boyfriend ordered.”

Kyle frowns and glances up from his phone’s screen. That’s your voice he hears, but the term of address isn’t right.

Boyfriend. Not husband, as it fucking should be.

Kyle glances in your direction but you’re not looking at him. You’re smiling sweetly at the barista behind the counter.

“It should be hot. Not iced. I might have messed up. I’m so sorry. I can pay for another.” You raise your hands in a placating gesture but the barista doesn’t appear fazed at all.

“No biggie. Keep that one. Won’t take me more than a minute or two.”

“Thank you so much.” You glance at Kyle, and your smirk tells him all he needs to know.

You’re being a tease. You’re doing this on purpose. The drink order is wrong, and you’re using this as an excuse to poke at him.

Kyle locks his phone and casually slides it into his pocket. Do you think you’re going to annoy him by doing this? Maybe. The little smirk on your face tells him that’s entirely what you have in mind.

But the joke is on you. Doesn’t matter if you refer to him as “boyfriend,” because all it’ll earn you is a punishment.

As the barista slides the new drink across the counter to you, you thank them profusely. “Thank you so much. My boyfriend will really appreciate it.”

The barista only nods and turns back to the espresso machine.

As you approach with the coffee, Kyle gentle removes the drink from your grasp.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head like you have no idea what he’s on about. “What?”

Kyle laughs and snags the other drink from your hand. With shock on your face, he strides up to the counter. “Can you set these aside for us? Be right back.”

They only nod and continue working. Kyle snags your wrist and drags you to the little hallway that curves out around. There are a few private corners in there, and the hallway itself opens up into the nearby bookstore.

Kyle checks the handle on the unisex bathroom. Finding it unlocked, he draws you inside.

“Kyle,” you hiss, but he’s not having any of it.

Kyle engages the lock and presses you up against the door.

“You owe me an apology,” he says.

“For what?” Kyle tuts, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Get on your knees,” he murmurs, undoing his belt buckle with the other hand. “Apologize with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

John Price

John leans back in his chair, agitation irritating his spine.

House hunting isn’t something he’s particularly excited about. He is happy that it’s with you, his wife, but the tediousness of it all is exhausting to him. John would rather have you select a few places to tour and then be done with it all. Money isn’t the issue. He just wants you to find a place you like and the two of you can go from there.

He’d live in a tent if that’s what you want.

“My boyfriend isn’t all that picky.”

Boyfriend? John is tugged from his inner musings by your voice and that term of address. Boyfriend. Why the fuck would you call him that? John isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your goddamn husband.

You reach out, planting a hand on his thigh. You squeeze softly as you always do when you’re trying to reassure him, but John frowns down at it, and then looks up at you. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the realtor, completely ignoring him.

John licks his lips, considering whether to correct you or not, or leaving it up to a simple mistake, but you do it again.

This time, John didn’t mishear you.

Your hand squeezes his thigh again and Price rests his hand over yours. His fingers enclose your palm and he holds firm. You glance at him and John shoots you his best warning look. You don’t even react. Don’t event blink.

No. He’s going to correct you. He is absolutely fucking correcting you.

The realtor pivots the computer monitor. “I think any boyfriend would agree that these are excellent selections.”

That’s fucking it.

Price shoots up from his seat, keeping a tight grip on your hand. “I need to speak with my—” John pauses, swallowing down his annoyance. “Girlfriend. Privately.”

The realtor shrugs, smiling, but John is already turning around, dragging you out the door. Outside, the stuffy, summer air does nothing to soothe his annoyance.

“Boyfriend? Fucking boyfriend?” John crosses his arms over his chest, looming over you.

You shrug. “What’s the problem?”

“Behave yourself,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Or what?” you ask in mock innocence.

So, this is what you want. John understands the moment the words leave your mouth. You’re fucking teasing him. Fine. He’ll make you learn.

“We are gonna go back in, thank the kind woman for her time, and then we’re leaving.”

“No. I want to stay.”

John leans in but he notices the way you glance away from him and back, clearly flustered. “Good girls don’t play games.”

“Funny,” you reply, head tilting slightly. “That as my boyfriend you have any authority over me.”

John pivots, blocking the view of the front door from you. “I will bend you over that bench so fast, wife.”

“You won’t,” you stammer.

John arches an eyebrow and you visibly swallow. “Want to test me?”

You pout, and then playfully shove him in the chest. “You’re terrible.”

As you turn for the door, John grabs your waist pulling you close. “You started it.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“My boyfriend and I are redesigning our bathroom.”

Johnny’s attention splits. The associate showing him floor tiles is a distant thing. He might be talking about the newest ones on the market, but Johnny is no longer interested.

Did he just hear you right? Did you just call him boyfriend?

“That’s wonderful,” comes a reply, and Johnny notes an older woman talking to you near the laminate flooring that mimics wood. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” you wave at him, a smug smile on your face.

Boyfriend? Johnny is your fucking husband.

“Sir?” prompts the hardware store associate. “What do you think of these?”

Johnny grunts. “Fine. We’ll come back.” He waves the man off and starts for you even as you continuously refer to him as your boyfriend.

You’re doing it on purpose. You’re doing it to annoy him.

And it’s fucking working.

Johnny saddles up beside you, snaking his arm around your waist, pulling you taut against him.

“This is the boyfriend,” you begin, smiling.

“Husband,” corrects Johnny, flashing the same devious grin. He holds up his left hand, showing off the simple gold band. “Happily married to this one.”

The older woman’s eyes round.

“She likes to joke,” continues Johnny. “Come on, love. Better get home.”

Johnny easily guides you away. He leans down, whispering. “You little terror.”

“Bite me,” you reply.

“Oh. I will. Everywhere. When we get home.”

[wendichester]

Drunk Anon is back again. Might start using this emoji (🍸) to let you know who I am

Apparently, when I get drunk, my face goes full on resting bitch face without me realizing it. My friends swear I give them this intense, soul-piercing stare like I'm silently judging their life choices. Meanwhile, I’m just vibing thinking I look completely normal. It’s gotten to the point where they refuse to tease me because they’re either convinced I’m seconds away from throwing hands or just too intimidated to risk it.

I desperately need this for a drunk!reader drabble with either Dean or Sam, or both. It's up to you who you think fits better for this. Thank you in advance and have fun❤️❤️

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧ vibe check: failed,

summary. you have the most terrifying resting-bitch-face the winchesters have ever seen and they don't know how to deal

pairing. sam + dean winchester x drunk!reader genre. kinda crack

wordcount. 736

notes / warnings. hi again babes!! you can totally go with the 🍸 emoji 😙 // mild language, ridiculously bad communication, protective dean, shitting-his-pants sam, fluffy ending, you're tipsy and unknowningly terrifying

You don't remember when the tequila started tasting like apple juice. But at some point, you blinked and everything was warm and wobbly and vaguely glittery. Which is fine. You're good. You're great. You’re a cool drunk. Chill. Relaxed. Soft girl hours.

So why is Dean looking at you like you just threatened to stab the perfect leather seats of his Baby?

You're slouched on the couch in your motel room, nursing a half-melted cocktail with one leg tucked under the other, swaying slightly to the beat of the old rock song humming from the radio. You’re feeling yourself. A little buzzed, a little cozy. And the Winchesters are here. What could possibly be wrong?

“Dude,” Dean whispers, nudging Sam with his elbow. “She’s doing it again.”

Sam frowns. “Doing what?”

Dean discreetly jerks his chin toward you.

Sam turns. Freezes. “Oh. Shit.”

Because there you are, giving them the most intense, deadpan, soul-excavating stare either of them has ever received. It’s the kind of look a judge gives someone who just pleaded “not guilty” after being caught on seventeen security cameras.

“Do you think she’s mad?” Dean whispers.

“I don’t know,” Sam hisses back. “I haven’t blinked in a full minute. She hasn’t moved.”

You, meanwhile, are sitting there vibing. Thinking about how pretty the motel light looks through your glass. Absolutely no thoughts of murder or judgment—just the vague inner monologue of “I should get fries” playing on repeat.

Dean clears his throat. Carefully. “Hey, sweetheart… uh… everything okay over there?”

You blink once. Slowly. And say nothing.

Dean’s grip tightens on his beer like he’s preparing for impact.

Sam shifts nervously. “You, uh… you feeling alright?”

You tilt your head. Still silent. Still blinking like a lizard on a warm rock.

Dean leans toward Sam. “She hates us right now. I know that look.”

“She looked at me like that once when I forgot her coffee order,” Sam mutters.

“I thought she was gonna knock my teeth out.”

“I still have nightmares about it.”

You finally speak, voice calm and syrupy. “Why are you both whispering like I’m about to snap?”

Sam nearly drops his drink. Dean chokes on his beer.

“What?” you ask, frowning. “I’m just sitting here.”

Dean stares. Sam stares. You blink again.

“Babe,” Dean says slowly, “you are sitting there like you’ve got a hit list and we’re both on it.”

You squint at him. “I am not.”

“You so are,” Sam says, nodding frantically. “You’ve been staring us down for fifteen minutes like we’re on trial for crimes against your whole blood lineage, specifically.”

You stare. Again. They flinch.

Dean raises both hands in surrender. “Okay! Just—tell us what we did.”

“What you—?” You sit up. “Oh my God, I’m just vibing. I didn’t say anything because I was mentally dancing to Fleetwood Mac and thinking about how much I love you two idiots.”

Sam’s mouth opens. Closes. “That’s… not what your face was saying.”

“I thought I looked normal!”

“You looked like a Bond villain about to order someone’s execution,” Dean says flatly.

You stare again, eyes wide in mock-offense. “Do I have a resting bitch face?!”

Both brothers immediately go silent.

You narrow your eyes. “So that’s a yes.”

Dean winces. “It’s more like a… resting powerful woman who scares me in a sexy way face.”

“Dean.”

“Okay, murderous judgmental angel face, that’s the best I’ve got.”

Sam coughs. “You genuinely scared me. I almost texted Cas for backup.”

You throw a couch pillow at him, which lands with a soft thud against his massive chest.

Dean watches it all, then crosses the room, kneels in front of you, and rests his big warm hands on your knees.

“I don’t care how scary your face gets,” he says gently, teasing glint in his eyes. “I’m still gonna kiss it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Even if I glare at you like I’m plotting your demise?”

He grins. “Especially then.”

You melt. Just a little. “Fine. But if you ever flinch again, I will glare on purpose.”

Dean leans in. “Kinky.”

Sam groans into his beer. “I’m leaving. You guys are unwell.”

You’re still drunk. Still kinda glowing. But now you’re curled in Dean’s lap with his arms wrapped around you, face nuzzled into your hair like you’re not terrifying at all.

You hum to yourself, finally speaking the sacred truth: “I told you I was just vibing.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[pyjamacryptid]

Oh I thought you were shipping the bbc versions because a post you reblogged had the x version tagged, glad that’s not the case & thank you for explaining ^^

Lol I had a feeling there was context behind why you asked but I couldn’t fathom what, because I certainly don’t ship them, in bbcm or otherwise 😆 I thought “I may as well infodump about arthuriana like the nerd I am”.

I can totally see why you were confused, though! I’ve been in the same boat lol

The use of the [blank] x [blank] tags have confused me so much recently, if I’m being honest, especially on gifsets and stuff like it. Because when I was first learning fandom etiquette, lingo and what-have-you, the x was equivalent to a / (slash) and indicated a romantic ship. On the other hand, the & (ampersand) indicated a platonic relationship.

After a while, I’ve kind of gathered the ‘x’ is being used, kind of, as a huge umbrella symbol for pairings in general (no matter the relationship)??? Maybe? At least with gifsets etc on tumblr. Idk I’m still a little confused tbh because I still see the X used as I originally learned how elsewhere, all the same. So, with it no longer having an exact definition, I get a little lost lmao. I can imagine there’s likely an archival/tagging reason behind it but I can only guess.

Anyway, yeah! Thank you for sending an ask to clarify before anything else and I’m always happy to answer! 🥰

EDIT:

Because I feel it’s important to say, I just wanted to add that fandom’s use of language and shorthand is open to change like any language is. For example, Spock and Kirk’s romantic ship was (and still is) referred to as simply K/S. Now, it’s also known as spirk. So, from what I’ve seen on Tumblr lately anyway, it’s very likely that the use of the ‘x’ in place of a slash is changing and is no longer definitive to only romance, like it used to be. Also, some people may just not be aware of the meanings behind fandom shorthand too! Always a possibility. Fandom’s always growing and changing and you don’t exactly get a manual at the entrance lol

[b0nten]

HOW ARE BABIES MADE?

[SYNOPSIS] ˚⁀➷｡ ran, rindou, sanzu, takeomi, kakucho, mikey and izana being asked by their children how babies are made.

[NOTES] ˚⁀➷｡ reader is implied to be fem, reader is called “mother”, “mommy” etc. this was so fun to write!!! thank you anon for requesting <3 also, i used tenjiku&bonten characters but everything’s taking place in the final timeline.

RAN is definitely the type to try to explain the entire thing, without any second thoughts whatsoever. He’d definitely hear the question, and open his mouth but before gets to say ‘sex’ he feels a book flat against his head. “what do you think you’re doing?” you whisper-yell from the kitchen, curry udon long forgotten on the stove. “explaining to your daughter how she spawned into the world?” he answers, dodging another decor item that you aimed toward him. upon asking, dramatically and over-exaggeratedly of course, so offended because he just doesn’t know what he was doing wrong, you just stare at him. “we agreed to tell her when she’s 14. she doesn’t even know boys have dicks and you want to explain the entirety of sex and how it goes to her? do you even know how it works?” he sighs, defeated, “let’s go eat, sweetheart, i think i made mommy a lil mad.” he says, picking up his daughter, “that last part was uncalled for, by the way.” “suck it up, mr. club owner. ”

meanwhile, RINDOU simply freezes: “daddy, how are babies made?” what? excuse him? oh my lord, he did not expect this to happen this early. why the hell is his five year old son asking him about coital activity, right when you’re not around? fuck him (himself), fuck this situation, fuck you for not being around right now (both figuratively and literally). “you see! when… uhm.. when two people love each other and they kiss, they make a baby!” he mentally face-palms for what the fuck he just said. “so you can’t kiss girls until you’re twenty-one, yeah?” finally, thankfully, his phone rings, and thank the heavens it’s you. “oh my god, y/n—” “rindou, what did i just hear on the baby cam?” “haha, my love! funny story!!!!”

SANZU just goes feral. he’s having a fucking anxiety attack or whatever so he just texts you while your daughter asks her daddy about how babies are made.

TAKEOMI plays it safe, using the infamous stork. “and it just comes flying?” “yeah, it carries a little basket with its beak and gives it to us!” he smiles, playing into his baby girl’s fantasy. “you sound just like my parents.” you smile and his gaze averts to yours, from his seat on the living room carpet. “well, your own stories inspired me, because, to be honest, i was about to shit myself.” “daddy!” the little one yells, stretching out her palm, “1000 yen!” and her father exasperates “god put me out of this misery of only being an atm, you’re just like your mother. ow! what’d i deserve that punch for?”

KAKUCHO handles it like a pro. “papa.” one of his little girls walks up to him, younger twin following her right behind. “yes, pretty girl?” he straightens his back and crouches down, still sitting on the couch. “how are babies made, papa?” the shyer one asks and his face drops for a split second. “i promise to tell you when you’re older, right now it’s classified information!” he jokes, and the girls giggle. “now… who wants to watch doraemon!!” he does the jazz hands and the twins jump into his lap. not long after, you sit down next to them. “if i didn’t know any better, i would have said you rehearsed those lines from the moment you were born.” you laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. he wraps an arm around you, chuckling, and kisses the crown of your head.

if there’s someone (who thinks they’re) escaping this question, it’s MIKEY. “ ‘tou-chan, how are babies made?” blond locks spin toward him, and the big eyes of his daughter look him up and down. “ ‘tou-chan?” she says again, a bit annoyed. mikey sacrifices the motorbike races he’s watching and looks back at her. “ask ‘kaa-chan, i’m not really good at biology.” he smiles when she jumps from her place and runs into your bedroom, where you’re blow-drying your hair. confident that he’s just dodged a bullet, manjiro returns to his priority — the tv. moments later you storm in, hair half wet, still in your bath robe with the kid in your arms, visibly furious. he knows he’s dodged a bullet but is about to get hit by a cannon.

IZANA is at the dining table doing some paper-work for tenjiku and you’re watching tv when your oldest marches into the kitchen, determined. “daddy.” the blond looks up, eyeing back at the spitting image of himself. “yes?” he answers, and you also look back to see what’s going on. slamming a big book on the table, the toddler points to the cover “how are babies made?” you burst out laughing and your husband snatches the book away, making you laugh hysterically. “where’d you find this?!” he questions, and his forehead is already soaked with sweat and he wants to bury himself into the ground. “your office.” he can’t believe his five year old son walked in there and just so happened to find this book: effective positions for baby-making. his cheeks redden and he scans the room to find you and request your help, but he’s greeted with the sight of you rolling around on the living room floor, trying to calm your laughter down. yay.

[chuluoyi]

✎ attraction

- gojo satoru x reader

to think it started with your crush on his best friend...

genre: high school!gojo being a menace, jealous!gojo but he doesn’t realize it? enemies to lovers, fluff, gojo begins pining on you

note: thank you anon who asks for gojo falling in love with a first year! i added some spice though haha

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Back in 2006—

There was this tiny weeny part of Gojo that was like... questioning, how did his best friend Geto Suguru catch your eye, whereas he didn’t? Like, at all?

"I want Geto."

"Hah?" Gojo arched a righteous brow, swiftly turning your way—feeling the stings of irritation gnawing at him. "What?"

You shot him a look. “I said, you suck and I’m lamenting that I’m paired with you instead of Geto for this mission.”

Once upon a time, you did hate him for obvious reasons as other people do. He was obnoxious, boastful and overall grating on your nerves.

Well, actually, “hate” would be too strong of a word, so probably “dislike greatly” it is.

“Ehh, Suguru? With you?” Gojo glanced at you, purposefully scrunching his face into a mocking sneer. “No way. Absolutely not. Incompatible. I won’t give him my blessings.”

“Who are you to grant blessings?” you hissed with a bulging vein of frustration. “And no, it's not what you think! I—” you wanted to kick yourself for stumbling over your words, “—I just respect him in a way an underclassman would!”

Gojo let out a strained laugh.

To him, you were this cute little junior who looked funny when mad. Riling you up was on his daily to-do list, and poking fun at your obvious crush on his best friend was supposed to double the fun, until it made him wonder despite himself... just what exactly did Suguru have that he apparently lacked, leading you to always follow him with your eyes, whereas you spared him with nothing but glares and sharp retorts?

You didn’t exactly hide your feelings. Whenever Geto was nearby or greeted you in the mornings, you'd blush like a tomato. It was silly, because Gojo was sure his best friend’s type wasn’t a girl as skittish as you—surely, it must be someone as vivacious as Inoue Waka.

He knew you were doomed to fail.

"I suggest you go pick up some slack," he teased. "Better if you don't become a dead weight while assisting him in missions, no?"

He knows. Really.

"...do you know that there are only three things I can't stand here?"

"And those are?"

But...

"Your stupid glasses, your Limitless—and you."

He was still irked, regardless.

"Well, poor you, then," he shrugged, shit-eating grin on his face. This time he pushed his luck. "Do you know that you're nowhere nearing Suguru's type?"

Scratch that. You hate him. You turned to him with a reddened face, and it wasn't because you were blushing.

"I'm going by myself!" you declared, seething. "I couldn't care less about what you're about to do—I'm finishing this and going home!"

With that, you you marched towards the haunted house, paying no heed to his taunts behind you.

You felt a wave of embarrassment washing over. Gojo always messed with you and normally you would chalk it up as one of his shits—but this time, you didn't appreciate how he touched on that sore spot of your not-so-hidden infatuation with Geto. So what if you weren't his ideal type? He didn't have to be mean!

But soon you regretted leaving his side, as a monstrous cursed spirit quickly chased you out.

Gojo was still outside, bidding his time. He merely huffed when he heard you screaming in fear.

He was ready with a jab. "Well, well... Look who's running back into my arms—"

But his smirk quickly fell when he saw the cursed entity was apparently way beyond your level. You ran out—no, by some idiotic impulse of survival, you actually leapt out of the two-story window and almost fell flat on your face and broke your bones, but before then, he sprung to action, catching you, wrapping one arm on your waist.

You were grateful you that you weren't doomed—until you felt yourself dangling mid air in his hold... like a cat.

"Gojo!" you wailed. "I'm going to fa—!"

Oh, but Gojo was convinced that this was his moment to shine. He directed a smirk your way as the bright blue mass in his hand totally caught your attention. With one swift flick of his hand, he muttered the mantra for Blue, and exorcised the cursed spirit in one go.

He marveled at his own show of power—and hoping that somehow, you would too. Then, he placed his hand under your knees, repositioning you in a princess-carry, and the way your gentle curves nestled snugly in his arms sparked some intriguing thoughts in him.

Your wide, crystal-clear eyes gazed at him with such wonder. Red tinted your cheeks. The corners of his mouth curved into a winning smile.

It was at that exact moment when he realized it: he wants you. This funny girl who often made his day, he wanted you to look at his way too.

...but goddamnit, you like Suguru.

"Well, not that scary now with me around, isn’t it?" he boldly announced, and your amazed expression immediately turned into a cute frown.

"Thanks," you blurted, still with rosy cheeks and looked frazzled, but then you realized the state you were in his arms. "But—put me down!"

"Ehhh, I will if your feet can reach the ground!"

Who cares if you like Suguru? As he burst into snickers and you screamed at his face, Gojo Satoru decided then and there—in that spring of 2006—that he would make it his mission to win you over. To make you his.

And years later, not only he achieved that but also so much more—a ring on your finger serving as the testament to his success.

Epilogue

"Yaga-sensei," Geto sighed wearily. "Can I be paired with Shoko, please?"

"Geto-san, wait, please—" you frantically tried to explain, glaring at Gojo in the process. "I'll do my best so—"

"You're such a bother, even Suguru doesn't want to go on missions with you," the white-haired clown remarked with an evil grin. "Right, Suguru?"

"No, Satoru—"

"Well, but if it's me, I'll gladly mentor and teach you though~"

"I don't want you! You're so insufferably annoying!"

"Yaga-sensei, can I please get paired with someone else—"