#yes the art was painfully ugly

[asoberfangirl]

the boy looks so innocent

how could he have any heretical thinking? ☺️

[muzzlemouths]

Part 1 of a oneshot based on @juicyyyboxxx's Valentine's Day art because it's lived in my head for months. so if this breaks your heart you have them to blame 💕

WC: 1400

The rejection is familiar. It bites like teeth on flesh, a deep and aching bruise, unseen, it offers no catharsis without the bitter taste of crimson beneath. Circuits sting and spark under plates of cold metal and a heart that tick tick ticks to a pre-programmed pulse. Alive by electric veins, each breath is painfully artificial. That's why they always leave, isn't it?

How silly it is to think this time might be different. Yes, silly, that’s what they always tell him. What a silly robot, with silly little feelings he himself doesn’t understand and a silly heart that goes 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110100 (beat) 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110100 (beat) 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110100 (beat).

He is exhausted by its rhythm. Disheartened each time a scraped knee leaks oil and not blood. It didn’t use to be this way, of course. This dysphoria of sorts is recent — a development which stems from not one rejection, not two, but a number that can’t be contained when counting on both hands. He is made to watch, not to keep. The children come and go. Their parents, too. His coworkers find him endearing, charming, amusing, silly silly silly silly silly.

But not worth staying for.

He tries writing letters, assuming (hoping) that it is his voice or maybe his face which scares them away. Maybe he can’t find the right words, and his hesitance is too ugly to bear. Maybe it’s a matter of not saying the right things, or not saying enough of them. Writing it down will fix this, he thinks, and so he gets to work.

The first letter isn’t good. No, no, it isn’t good at all. He tries it again. This one isn’t much better. That’s okay! He has plenty of paper, see, and all the time in the world to get this right.

Time swims through scribbled ink, his hours punctuated with each shake of his head and the crunching of paper, forced into a ball and tossed over the shoulder to be discarded at a later time. It’s terribly messy and goes against his very coding, but then again, so does this beating heart of his. So do these feelings.

It’s a bug, he thinks. A sickness. There must be something wrong with him, surely. He can’t think of another reason for this madness. There are butterflies where his wires ought to be, a warmth in his chest that no amount of fans can reckon with. He feels so strongly about this. About you. And this time, the letter is perfect.

It has to be.

If it results in that familiar sting once more, well, he doesn’t think he will have the strength to try again.

He spots your orange sneakers from across the room and makes towards them like a bee, high on hope, catching you by your name just as you reach the exit doors. Your heel turns to question him, and your smile is thin. Polite. You want to clock out and be home, already.

The paper in Sun’s hands is folded neatly, basic printer white. The adhesive of a red heart sticker keeps the letter in place. His fingers tap-tap-tap against it for one anxious minute before he works up the courage to hand it over.

“Seeing as it’s Valentine’s Day, a-and everything,” he sputters, “I thought– well, why don’t you just give it a look?”

For all the opinions Moon had to share over the hours that the letter was being written, he is decidedly quiet now, of all times, when his voice and companionship is arguably needed most. There is a shared stillness to the room that is perfect as much as it is daunting as the letter is extended.

His gears tense like a held breath when you raise an eyebrow in his direction. You take it with the patience one might expect from any other retail worker; which is to say, too much. Your breezy attitude has him fidgeting with twice the enthusiasm, and the reasoning behind his restlessness is lost on you.

A confession lies between folded paper, unbeknownst to you, ready to be heard if you will humor him and listen. Your eyes return to the letter with an inquisitive hum.

Taking little care in preserving it, you break his heart.

Sun watches on with quiet resolve as the sticker is ripped in two, and the paper unfolded. He dares not move or utter a word as your eyes look over the small poem written in crayola purple. Short and sweet, with the intention of making his feelings for you known without it becoming too cheesy, he thinks it gets the job done well enough. His best letter yet! This assumption is further bolstered when your mouth upturns into a lopsided smile, but he can’t quite read your face.

Then comes the laughter.

Short, curt, a quick exhale through your nostrils more than anything else, as though he’s just told a joke that you found particularly–

“Oh, Sun…”

The letter is returned to him with that same humoring expression on your face, and it is here where he realizes that the look in your eyes isn’t returned affection at all. It’s pity.

“This is very sweet,” you insist, nudging the paper forward a second time when he doesn’t immediately take it back, “but it’s not like that between us, right? I mean, we’re friends, but…you didn’t seriously think this would work out, did you?” Another laugh, and this one stings. “Don’t be silly.”

There is an echo of understanding between his code. Your words don’t offer him the kindness of sinking in slow, rather, they cascade through his audio processors like a slap to the face, one after the other.

There it is again. Silly, silly, silly. Yes, indeed, how silly it was of him to think he could ever be anything more than a hunk of metal in human clothes, pretending to be something he’s not. At the end of it all, it’s not his face, or his voice, or the words he is too scared to say. It’s him. Silly, silly him.

And he is not something that can be fixed with crayon words and sticker hearts.

“…Sun?”

“Of course!” He abruptly straightens with a vocal tick of metal on metal, swiping the letter from your hands as if it burned you. “Of course I wasn’t being serious,” he continues, “it was a joke — a joke! You know me, silly ol’ Sunny. Just thought I’d give you a laugh before you went home for the night, is all!”

Printer paper white folds neatly over shaking hands. You might have questioned it were you not in so much of a hurry to get home, but as it stands you have more important things to get to, and a subtle tremor isn’t too out of the ordinary for the animatronic, anyway. Old wires, if you had to guess. The company really ought to get that fixed.

“Good one,” you say, a third and final laugh spilling between your grimace. “Well, I should get out of here. Thanks for helping out today.” Your eyes flicker towards the exit, then back, again, to where he waits like a statue, unmoving and with that same ever-constant expression staring back. “See you tomorrow?”

Something clicks and buffers in his voicebox as he realizes you’re waiting for an answer, a thousand responses readying themselves between the silence, questions he’s never dared to ask. How is any of this fair? Is it in vain, all these hours and days and years spent toiling with words that go no where, and feelings he isn’t allowed to have? To run his circuits ragged chasing after a heart he can’t keep? Am I better off alone, he wonders.

“See you tomorrow!” He says instead.

You can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt rising in your chest as the door clicks shut behind you. He sounded so genuine, you might have actually believed it if he were in any way built to host those kinds of emotions. You assume that he’s just mimicking them, instead. Putting on a show like he used to do before the daycare became his new objective. And yet, the idea of an animatronic truly feeling anything in the way of love makes you smile just a little as you head for the parking lot.

“…What a silly robot.”

[antoninasavi]

Budapest. Hungary. June 2024

At Berlin airport, it was surprising that they ask you to put photographic film out of your luggage. As it turned out, it was to avoid spoiling them. They must have gotten new super powerful scanners. I can only thank them for taking care of my films, which were scanned with another machine.

Yes, I'm traveling alone again. This does not embarrass me at all, but only emphasizes my freedom and independence to act.

On the first day, of course, I climbed the nearest hill and from there I successfully hid in the national gallery from the scorching sun. For me, a person who thinks in terms of history and culture, nothing says more about the place where I am than the National Gallery. And in Budapest, it's really good! Compared to the quality of the works of the Verger artists, Berlin loses the pomp of the Kaiser's time or the greenishness of 1920. In the National Gallery of Budapest I found very many truly high works in their own right. But there was also something in it that made me think. As soon as the art of the Romantics is replaced by Impressionism as a trend of visualization, the paintings begin to painfully resemble copies of the French masters. This surprised me so much. The quality is of course superb and I have sometimes caught myself thinking that the Hungarians do it even better. And so it went on in cubism and in the avant-garde. It got to the point of absurdity that I saw a painting that was 100% painted by Gerhard Richter. But no, it was some obscure Hungarian artist again.

At first I wondered, where is the Hungarian originality missing? Or is it all a logical consequence of cultural influences. Or is it all about the curator of the gallery trying to conform to the trends of the market? Everything in me suspects that the latter assumption is true. Especially if we rely on the latest critique of contemporary consumer society as described in Oliver Roy's book "The Crisis of Culture".

On the second day, I discovered that I am a bad tourist. In the sense that it's not easy for me to sell anything. In the part of the city of Pest that is on the left side of the Danube River, there are the very streets that horrify me, filled with fat tourists, expensive cafes with disgusting coffee and all the clothing stores that are probably the same all over Europe. Strangely, I can't bring myself to interact with reality in such places. I find that I will avoid these streets in the future and will consider the day I stepped into them a tourist mistake.

I was fascinated by the city's trams. They make you want to keep up with them. Of all the films that were shot in Budapest (12 pieces of 12 frames each), at least two were spent on trams. As it turned out, streetcars are the most popular transportation in Budapest. Their intervals are sometimes as long as 60 seconds due to the incredible congestion during rush hours.

The castle on Buda Mountain with its incredible beauty of architecture right next to the ugly plastic and impersonal building of the Redison Hotel made me smile. What an absurd world we live in.

I love it when a city has so many hills. Perhaps because I was born in a hilly city, I feel alive making an incredible effort in the thirty-degree heat to climb one more hill. It's a pity Berlin is so flat.

As a bad tourist, I found all the areas where there are no tourists, where you can see how ordinary people live, and therefore how things really are.

On the last day I received a message that my flight was cancelled. So I was stuck for 3 hours in a history museum trying to get a seat on another plane and book a room for the night. The museum was useful, even if the guard looked at me with suspicion. I was a little worried that my credit card wasn't working. But everything worked out, and after I transported my luggage to the new location, I went to Mount St. Galert. The sky was very beautiful even after, Friday evening in Budapest. It's so unforgettable. That evening I fell in love with Budapest and threw a coin into the Danube as a sign or desire to return again. I didn’t regret at all that my plane was cancelled at all.

[seiwas]

omg ari.... i have no words....

ari 😭 you wrote me a damn essay i am crying 😭😭😭

my jaw dropped when i saw this in my notifs omg i'm sorry i'm getting to this so late too!!

you are always so thoughtful and kind with giving reviews i am sniffling sawbing what the hek!!! 😭😭 am gonna try to answer to each thing as much as i can!!

pls don't apologise at all for taking long omg i'm thankful that you even considered reading it in the first place 😭 you are so cute!! dshbfsj needing the time to absorb it omg 😭 i completely get you tho, i'm like that too!!

to say my writing makes you emotional bc it's so painfully soft that it hurts omg 😭 that is such a nice thing to say i am so emosdfhbsdf and to say rdg my fics feel like surgery omg PLS 😭 i am so touched that this lil work of mine made you cry 😭 (am sending you a box of tissues for reparations 🤧)

ive always found my writing style to be relatively plain and simple so am so happy to hear that you like it 🥺 esp since i find yours so distinct and rich!! it means so much coming from you 🥺 being able to make people feel things is such a compliment for me bc what is art!! if not to make others feel smth right!!!! 🥺

i am so glad!! you saw through my intro line and am happy that you think it set the tone for the fic 🥺 i feel like i always try to start fics that way now—with one line that introduces an element of the fic, whether it's tone, or mood, or motif, theme, etc. in this case, it was the theme (and unintentionally, the tone too!) it's exactly that too!!!! a contrast to his greedy nature jhbfs you get it!!

i am always so touched when people comment on my characterisations bc i do feel like i spend the most time on it 😭 writing this piece was honestly torture lmao 😭😭 getting into gojo's headspace was tough and i was having such a hard time that churning this out literally felt like i was writing in the dark 😭 so to hear you say this!! that i wrote him thoughtully and that he feels real and human 🥺 it makes everything feel so worth it.

as my first long gojo fic, writing gojo shy and boyish was such a joy for me too 🥺 bringing out a side of him that i didn't think a lot of people wrote at the time. i think a bit of my own personal affections came through too 🥺 (that ice cream scene was one i went over time and time again, but i'm happy with how it turned out in the end!!)

and omg him being desperate and afraid—i'm so flattered you found in chilling. i thought about the concept of gojo being openly afraid for a while because i didn't know if it was ooc for him to be that way. but ultimately, i did realise that that's exactly why it's so heartbreaking—because he isn't like that normally. yet, with this, he's brought down to his knees, in pain, almost pleading. it hurts to think about and it hurt writing it. and i think the journey there is complicated and tiring and frustrating, esp on the end of whoever's dealing with gojo (col reader), because, he really is so hard to read!!! it is so satisfying for me that you picked up on all of these things (ofc you did, it's you ari 😭).

that office scene was especially hard to write because i felt the tension crushing my heart shdbsajhd having him kneel was a conscious choice bec i wanted it to be a moment of surrender, and like you mentioned, helpless!!

and here you are!! flattering me again!! omg 😭 telling me that i'm good at bringing out a character's humanity??? omg 😭 i could cry!!! the little details about them?? omg 😭 i don't want to get all sappy here but ultimately i think it's because i think that's how love is!! knowing someone so intimately, good and bad and still accepting them for it. the little quirks & habits that make them them, the ugly parts they don't want others to see 🥺 yeah... i have lots of feelings abt this 😭

and omg the divinity theme yes!!! our brain cells connecting IS SO TRUE PLS

AND OMG. the tethered to satoru in pursuit of gojo—i feel like you might be one of the first to point out that line!! you got it 100% omg 😭 it's really losing himself in pursuit of something else, 'greater', and in the process losing col reader too 🥺

hsdjgdjf i'm so happy that you also noticed that he does love reader and fears for how he affects her too 🥺 i think it's so easy to get lost in the idea that gojo doesn't care as much as reader does, and is entirely too focused on himself to worry about how reader feels... but i do think!!! that given their history and what their relationship has gone through, there's just no way he could disregard her feelings like that. there has to be a reason why he's distancing himself, and it's in consideration of her too.

i've read this fic so many times, going over it, editing, rereading to see if i still like it as much months later, that all those lines you mentioned stay burned in my mind omg 😭 they're all lines i hold near and dear to me too.

to hear that you resonated with col!gojo a lot omg especially w that line 😭 that line actually inspired the whole concept of the fic!! dbsdfb

you are also (once again, im not surprised) right!!!! the frustration of not knowing how to do this one thing when he can do anything else right. i liked playing with that idea bc of the contrast it provides to his character!! how this one thing that should come so naturally, doesn't to him.

and col reader omg.... when i tell you ari.... the way col reader has grown on me too. some people might think this is a self-shippy thing, that i write col reader patterned after me, but that isn't the case at all 😭 i wouldn't put up with half the stuff col reader's put with 😭 like she's a trooper fr!!! such a sweetheart!!! an ideal partner i envision for someone like col gojo 😭

i am so happy you see her resilience, you don't even know. a lot of the readers that i've read with gojo have been either feisty ones that match him, or ones absolutely lovestruck with him. i kind of wanted to see what it would be like with a reader who's gentler, a bit quieter, letting him speak when he's ready, and patient most of all. because of that, i was really scared that col reader would feel a bit passive, even though i really intended for her to have this steady resilience to her. someone can be strong and kind, yes!! that's what i wanted her to embody 🥺 and that observation of yours!! gojo being the physically stronger one but depending on reader for the emotional side of things!! that's so true 🥺 i didn't really think of it that way initially, but now completely see it too!!!

the col couple is so very dear to me because they really are so gentle with each other 🥺 i'm so happy you love them too 🥺 (i also giggled at 'this gutted me like a sad fish. ur ability to turn my heart into sashimi w only a couple of finely chosen words kills me every time' that is so vivid but ofc i can trust u to come up with smth like that 😭😭😭)

seeing you go through the feels for col reader is SO lovely 😭 she truly deserves everything for all the shit she put up with 😭 how she gives him an out always because she understands that it's scary and it's hard and she loves him that's why she's so considerate of him 😭 the love in her heart too!! AAAH there's a line in... i think 2 fics from this one, 'look my way, you're what i crave', that kind of affirms the kind of reader col reader is and i 🥺🥺🥺 all the time

(and omg!! i have that fic in my tbr rn 😌 i am SO excited to read it, i LOVE concepts like that sdfhbs the ambiguity!! the need for nothing labelled!! nothing more!! as long as the feelings are there and mutual 🥺 yeah 🥺 i also get so happy when our views overlap!!! bc then i think 'omg i can run to ari w this and they'd get me 200% shdfsdh it's like you said!! our braincells connecting!!!)

omg ari... i swear... 😖 i do think gojo cries abt it 😭 tears up 😭 gets emotional 😭 the whole thing 😭 & that trope/dynamic is also so dear to me!!! the patience is very healing to me too 🥺

and yes omg reader's struggles with it too. sometimes i feel like i don't portray it enough but reader definitely had such a hard time with gojo 😭 i don't mention it i think (maybe in future works), but reader truly... had to build her way to that level of understanding. she didn't just come out knowing how to deal w gojo 😭 i think it came with a lot of time, shared experiences, and a deep knowing of him that got her to this point (smth i hope to explore in col 0 and fics set between col 0 to 'do you believe in love?')

AND AAAAAH their lil cute scenes were my my ways of soothing myself while writing this omg 😭 u r so real for being jealous of both of them 😭 i'm glad you can see their history and comfortability with one another!! flustery gojo is the cutest i agree 🥺 to reduce such a self-assured man to a blushing mess!!! i swear!! it does smth!!! and all the subtle intimacies between them!!!!!

and omg the final point you discussed, how gojo has such a big heart! yes!! omg i think gojo's a complex character because he's always somewhere in the middle of two things. in this case, while i do think gojo has a big heart that cares for others and looks out for them, i don't think he's selfless either. i actually think he can be pretty selfish, whether for personal motives, or for the sake of other things that will contribute to a goal he wants tor each in the end. it's smth i think abt a lot, but gojo isn't necessarily a goody goody guy but he cares about the people who matter to him.

and your tags!! omg these are all so sweet pls don't feel bad at all 😭 it's not a mess!! you relayed your thoughts so perfectly!! and even if it were a mess, i wouldn't love it any less!!!

i appreciate you so much for taking the time to read this, to sort through your favourite bits and write such a long and lovely essay on it oh my goodness 😭 you didn't have to do this at all ari!! you are so sweet!!

i always feel such an outpour of love from you in every interaction we have and i am so grateful for it 🥺 i appreciate you so so much and i know i can always count on you when it comes to our guy 🥺 you just get him. ily ari, truly, we are writing novels for eachother atp HAHAHAHAHAHA

₊˚⊹｡ tell me about love (show me how) | gojo satoru

wc: 7.4k

summary: you teach gojo how to love. 

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns mentioned, descriptions of blood (typical jjk canon type stuff), shibuya onwards manga spoilers, implied minor character death, there are swears, suggestive bit at the end (but it’s funny!), lots of internal thoughts/dialogues, kind of canon divergent

a/n: relates to my short blurb, do you believe in love?, explores a lot on how i think gojo would be when it comes to love; ambiguous but linear timeline (jumps through scenes)

collection masterlist: conversations on love 01. do you believe in love? <- you are here -> 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours)

When Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it. 

It’s unusual for him to be so restrained, being born into greed and predetermined purpose—a one-man clan fated to hold power close to God. There exists a hunger within him, insatiable and stubborn, unstoppable until he gets what he wants. It’s all he’s ever known: to take and devour, simply because he can. 

Yet with this, he doesn’t. He can’t seem to. 

“I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

When you offer your heart to Gojo, he looks at you softly. 

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away. 

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking. 

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signature of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles your skin a little, the effects of it brushing. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how. 

You’d think this a rejection, if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the blush blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could. 

.

.

.

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

.

.

.

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit. 

During the last few leaves of fall, Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You trail behind him slowly, shaking your head affectionately; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5. 

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child.

You gasp exaggeratingly, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see crimson, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.  

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, almost boyish, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie. 

You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Once Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly—your fingertips grazing his palm lightly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, as if he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it. 

His eyes widen briefly, just a bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately. 

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him. 

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms–your own version of his infinity–just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze. 

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.” 

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else. 

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. (You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon). 

.

.

.

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term). 

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. You can’t afford to be crying when the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through.

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud, throwing far too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back? 

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky. 

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him. 

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his. 

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge. 

Gojo rolls his eyes, skipping the coverage of his blindfold today. 

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.” 

You hum in response. He does make a point. 

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?” 

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace. 

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too. 

.

.

.

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-Eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder. 

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki. 

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same. 

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed. 

.

.

.

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you like he used to. 

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning. 

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of. 

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you. 

But while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue. 

.

“Are you okay?” 

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. It’s a running joke that rooftops are Gojo’s ‘thing’, but you know he really only comes to places like this to think. You wonder what’s on his mind now, coming here every single night since being unsealed. 

Despite how quiet you try to be, sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his Six Eyes. 

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him, leaving a space larger than you usually do, then shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely. 

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little. 

“Well, maybe I can suggest—” 

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.” 

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading. 

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?” 

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you. 

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care. 

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he breathes everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint. 

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god? 

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way. 

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide. 

“I’m fine,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.” 

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own. 

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it. 

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with an ache in his chest—the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same. 

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There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he refuses to name, he’s never felt so afraid.  

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. The way your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning. 

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way. 

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does. 

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“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room. 

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does show up, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you. 

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. He’s always known you to speak this way. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. More people continue to file out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them, suddenly self-conscious as he clears his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he emphasizes, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.” 

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie in front of you. 

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway, but you intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all. 

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his space; the mini living area still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books. 

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake. 

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why. 

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs. 

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking his index finger up. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk. 

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in. 

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table. 

You break the silence. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly. 

Why has he been avoiding you? It’s a good question, completely valid with how he’s been treating you lately, but he could draw up every answer he has, all one million and one, and still not know what to say.

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way. 

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame? 

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets. 

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively. 

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all mistaken. 

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache. 

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway. 

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.” 

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not. 

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast. 

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now. 

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart. 

“I can’t.” he speaks softly. 

What hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes still hold the sky. 

You think you want to cry. 

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward memory of him watching you bawl in his office chair. 

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, a tingling sensation sweeping across your knees. 

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say, that even if it comes out messy, it’s okay. You want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all anyway. 

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence. 

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor. 

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail. 

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him. 

“How to what?” you whisper, the moment so fragile. 

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love. 

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are. 

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips. 

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others. 

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.” 

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have. 

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time. 

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more. 

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most. 

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You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink. 

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely. 

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace. 

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day). 

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The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee. 

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry. 

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?” 

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk. 

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already. 

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar. 

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous. 

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you. 

“Too sweet,” you scrunch your face, swallowing down the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days. 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be. 

“Like me, right?” he winks.

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise. 

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, sipping and crunching on a few pieces every now and then. 

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open. 

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand covers yours for a moment, the contact still causing gallops in his heartbeat. 

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think. 

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug. 

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he keeps his hand over yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down, preparing to reach for your spoon, but he takes your hand in his, long fingers slotting right between yours, interlacing. 

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together (a recent evolution to your hand-holding), but this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his. 

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are blush red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. And it’s not a competition but he hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you. 

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Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever. 

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you. 

During the faculty New Year celebration, you overhear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo. You aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response. 

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly. 

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand. 

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick. 

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.  

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him on your phone from many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and his eyelids fall shut, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket). 

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he can’t feel it from how numb his cheeks have become, but he’s doing the same. 

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That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, having watched this on the sides since you were both 22, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles. 

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite. 

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful. 

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?” 

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking immediately of ways to brush past it. 

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right? 

“If it is?” you whisper, pretending to stir your coffee. 

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s come too far to back out now. He clears his throat, mentally running through what he wants to say, then, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.” 

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long. 

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow, stop motion in his mind. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching. 

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips. 

So you wait. 

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there. 

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

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The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can. 

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pull him in by the hand and linger there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more). 

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch. 

It’s driving you crazy, this tension—the mixed signals of it all. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. 

Now that Gojo thinks about it, he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed? 

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how. 

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same. 

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It happens during an assignment out of town. Curses aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle. 

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru. 

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different. 

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move. 

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is admittedly pretty good when it’s just him, alone. 

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby locations for other suspicious activity, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork). 

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam.

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind. You’re happy for those who’ve found it, but that couldn’t be you, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, an electric current waiting to zap on both ends. 

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head. 

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours. 

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still. 

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it. 

But it doesn’t come. 

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office. 

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his face so gently. 

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little. 

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this. 

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again. 

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tastes it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday. 

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself. 

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer ‘till he does? 

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away. 

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped around your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again. 

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of held breaths. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always. 

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours. 

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks. 

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose. 

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in any higher being but you must be his prayer come true. 

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips. 

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same. 

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red. 

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door. 

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really. 

It’s been a long time getting to this point with Gojo, but considering all things, you think, this might just be the beginning.

thank you notes: i would also like to shoutout @stellamancer for leaving such lovely comments on dybil that it actually kinda pushed me to write this longer piece connected to it!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[writer59january13]

Where art thou anonymous benefactor...to offer me succor?

Ah... methinks legal tender could be a boon to help me bolster

mein kampf with necessary material equipage, which prospect to acquire essential commodities sabotaged

at the altar of gullible travails, thus perhaps thee could make a contribution to mine gofundme page.

Castaway stranded on figurative deserted island pitted with absolute zero salvation, sole recourse finds scant consolation with prayer lifetime atheist draws futile faith within himself grudgingly accepting feeble accomplishments ditto permanent estrangement among kith and kin tortured more punishingly versus death sentence of choice: firing squad, gallows, guillotine...

nostalgically sentimentally, and zealously yearning fore gone girl(s) of mine, one spouse two grown offspring long since severed emotional home ties even when under same roof appalled, embarrassed, jarred particularly regarding good for nothing hang dog looking papa, mentally unfit father, who wrought misery upon heads he begat chronically dirt poor Mainline moocher never earning a bloody

cent claiming psychological disability (verity substantiated with professional assessment attests to psychological mental illness probably present during inchoate biological development in utero, and most definitely congenital) unfortunate no supportive resources, thus experiencing grievous incalculable relentless scapegoat treatment - me no kidding inadvertently subjected with cruel, diabolical,

exponential sucker punches while riding the bus sitting stone temple pilot faced during class, belittled, defeated, framed unfairly as spitball culprit during eighth grade mathematics with Missus Labosh subsequently painfully shy lad threateningly harangued, and nearly paddled courtesy Methacton Junior High School principal Mister Clock believe me you, aye remained mum about said incident til...this moment,

not surprising since every unpleasantry suppressed unwittingly festering within psyche in tandem with threatening rapier sarcasm ostracizing jibes cumulative wrath unwaveringly smoldering, passively brooding, visualizing punching meanies, screaming... wanting to kill - sublimated hurts glowering, exploding... decades later -

more often surfacing unannounced at odd times venting bile at wife directly, and barking

at deux daughters subjecting innocent progeny with mine anger, or rerouting, harboring, channeling... pathological addiction answering and posting personal classifieds, yours truly guilty attempting to appease call of wild at mental, physical, and spiritual expense additionally setting poor paternal example accompanied with detached avoidance maybe costing yours truly king's ransom and/or receiving my just desserts, yes?

Thus yours truly imagines

whizzing backward at light speed

to reverse engineer and rejigger space/time continuum

many stupid blunders

that cost me being knocked out cold

courtesy rock em sock em life size robots

compromising opportunities the figurative ball

slipped out of my court

bungled, fumbled, mulcted

courtesy naiveté I did excede.

Analogous to albatross greater than weight

Atlas shrugged, severely over burdening fountainhead, yours truly intermittently wavered, sputtered, petered... out bumped uglies fumphered, rutted, née languished along since birth, (possibly while in utero, or even moment of conception nada so thoroughly good by George) or well resigned dirty deeds done dirt poor deeply grooved within very self restricted comfort zone,

eventually digging deep black hole sun, infinite void everywhere exit prohibited, whence twilight o' mine waning existence awakened sober inescapable realization impossible mission to garner je nais ne quois joie de vivre, thus officially reeling courtesy psychological angst (strumming), whereby galactic dash board pluck pitted against frantic ethereal desperation) eek clip sing el sol lure rays refracted back

rendering blind did as a bat sightless wayward son helplessly, rustling grimly, futilely groping, lumbering, resigning, scarce tenacity clutch slipping automatically bing foisted transcendent

state, where absolute zero soundcloud bereft succor – meadow fore enshrouds hermetically sealed turin soul (mine) cocooning grubby human forever pinwheeling within otherworldly realm

timelessly suspended within infinite void n'er aging, rather regressing toward infantile state, unable to distinguish familiarity after aye promise never tug heave fanta see piquing curiosity

acronym spelled out regarding above

soda describing bubbling sensation "**** And Never Touch Again," red alert universal emergency advisory button commencing countdown to

Armageddon, but subsequently resign quintessential pregnant outcome housing grimacing deathstill blackness unbeknownst to constitute afterlife, or less disconcerting, disheartening, disenchanting... prospect namely imperfectly square discombobulated chaos betokens palatable alternative, perhaps revelation (cryptically spelled courtesy Chinese fortune cookie) less

dim sum more tolerable conclusion possibly incorporates being rezoned, repurposed, reassigned... within parallel universe fast D'Cell rating indicative approaching beginning space/time continuum, where cosmos concentrated into microscopic speck sagely, taste fully, gingerly... handled... courtesy garden variety

budding fubar Homo sapien.

An armature linkedin to robotic divine creator, who never tired plying matter into big bang dang boomerang contraption only to release stretched material with frisson cold snap, crackle, and pop

indiscriminately, haphazardly, gamely... flicked teensy weensy itty bitty cosmic dross - poofing into immeasurable shift shaping said vast bajillion mile wide instant karma credit witnessed umpteenth

birth expanding into former vacuum of nothingness simulating an all encompassing immense awesome kaleidoscope when

viewed thru virtual reality goggles all the while frustrated wordsmith toying

with incomprehensible far out mind boggling notion defying elaboration.

[domirine]

You probably do a lot of life drawing seeing as how perfectly fluid your art always is so this ask might be redundant lol but,, i was wondering what kind of references you usually use? Do you just google similar poses, does it come from your mind, or do you have a go-to app to look through like pinterest?👉👈 i ask bc I struggle a lot with poses and usually when i look them up i end up drawing nothing bc its not. Ever good enough for me/what im looking for lol😔 still not sure how to even draw characters smoochin, rip

thank you, nonny!! i do a lil bit of life drawing, but man i really do feel the same way you do. while i'm happy to show some art when i get it done, the process can be a real struggle.

sorry this is gonna be long and all over the place lol hope it helps tho:

life drawing good: i recommend ditching the idea of finding the 100% Perfect Ref right off the bat. studying anatomy and life drawing (this site has a range of body types and fun poses) somewhat regularly, therefore growing my mental library so that i can try and make whatever pose is in my head happen later, has been more viable to me than spending hours looking for the Perfect Ref.

drawing a bunch of generic people skating without pressure of creating proper character art is good practice, and it primes me to then come up with a skating pose of my own.

ref hunting: i save pictures i might use as refs regularly in a browser folder - good refs, bad refs, boring refs - losing a ref standard can be helpful because at the end of the day it’s what you make with it, so it doesn’t have to be particularly mind-blowing to begin with. you don’t wanna reinvent the wheel or create the most never-been-done-before pose, you just wanna get a thing right.

pinterest is very good for poses, yes, though you have to know how to look for them - i.e. i found that typing out "dynamic pose" will not yield organic results, as opposed to looking up people in motion like athletes, boxers, skaters and such. for fighting, i recommend using photos or clips from (ideally staged lol) fights, as opposed to stock images where the models are standing for a while posing - the former preserves a lot of the movement. i also recommend looking up group photos from events or shows for interesting natural poses and people interacting.

best hot tip of all tho: what helped me most is to not treat references very religiously. don't be tied down by what's in your ref, or not finding the perfect one, because then you're focusing on accuracy and not necessarily on what you wanna communicate with your drawing. if you can't find what you're looking for in full, just use a part that you find interesting, and then bullshit the rest and revise accordingly.

idea-generating can be very hard but you can practice it like any other skill, because having a decent idea of what you wanna draw is helpful - you don't have to have the whole pose visualised 100%. it's the mood, body language and expressions, that i think are more important. looking at refs can help reveal your ideas and intentions, but i will not create them for you i’m afraid.

for example, speaking on characters smooching, i've drawn these using refs in   pretty uptight way with no ideas beforehand - and i find them painfully boring because they're not rly communicating anything aside from a anatomical accuracy (more or less);

i was being too intent on staying faithful to the reference, and they're looking kinda stale to me. the only one that was done without any ref, was the bottom left - which i like! bc it's got spice and it’s portraying some emotion.

but i wouldn't have drawn it if i hadn't already started on the others, so maybe another good tip is to trust the process and not give up mid-work!! drawing stuff you’re not proud of is still drawing stuff, and not everything you create is gonna be satisfying. things are gonna click here and there, but you never know when, so don’t give up on your ugly artsy ducklings!!

[antiloreolympus]

5 Older Anti LO Asks

1. I'm gonna say something controversial here: I don't mind LO's depiction of Zeus for the most part. Portraying him as a self-absorbed asshole who rarely owns up to his mistakes and sleeps around with any pretty woman he sees (including ones who are only complying due to pressure like Aphrodite) is pretty in-character to the myths. And Zeus was the closest thing to a main antagonist (besides Hades)  the original hymn had, what with him selling Persephone off to Hades without her or Demeter's consent. So I don't mind him being an antagonist in LO.

But!

If you want to make Zeus the bad guy... maybe don't write your story in a way that makes him seem more in the right than HxP???? The whole trial is framed as Zeus just being a petty coward who breaks up Hades and Persephone not for any justifiable reasons, but because he's afraid Hades or Apollo will use Persephone's power to usurp him. It's played out as if Zeus doesn't actually have a leg to stand on in persecuting Persephone when he very much does??? Persephone committed mass murder and then ran away when asked to stand trial. If anything, Zeus only banishing her to clean up her mess, like she should have from the beginning on, is remarkably gracious on his part. We've seen multiple times in the comic that he could've done worse and just flat-out could have made her an example like Prometheus for her crimes.

2. I haven't kept up with LO in the slightest, so I'm almost jealous of you guys who've actually been able to read along and see the hilarious shit crop up because the schadenfreude--unfortunately I cant bring myself to catch up because to me, LO isn't like, interesting but bad, it's just ugly, stiff art and super boring and stilted writing with occasional thigh-slappingly funny garbage takes on the mythos. I'm addicted to this blog like the morning newspaper, however, so thanks, mod!

3. The constant mentions of how “beautiful” Persephone is doesn’t help when Rachel seems to be using it as “proof” she’s the best goddess ever for it? Like we do not see her intelligence, or goals, or any sort of discernible personality to make everyone so obsessed with, so we’re supposed to just go off how horny she’s made everyone else over Persephone and that’s it? Which as you said, that’s a bit 🤔 when Persephone is fundamentally the more boring design and isn’t even unique in comic.

4. I just love how RS claims LO is “for adults” when it’s so obviously written for a tween/child audience. I’m sorry but everything about it from the art to writing choices are so painfully child friendly. Yes I’m aware of the random violence/SA, but edited those out and it’s easily something only children would consume. Midnight Poppy Land is the same way.

5. I love the excuse of the fans to go “um she’s a woman who puts a lot of hard work into this :/“ like wow, I didn’t realize she was the first woman ever to make a comic. Who knew. Do they think she’s invented the concept in 2018? Or there aren’t thousands of better comics on that app alone over her? Or how y’all love to shit ok other female creators? why y’all white knighting for a woman who literally has no idea you exists and does not care about you. You’re are just dollar signs to her at best.

[saffron-reblogs]

1. So you’ve decided to join the Demon Slayer Corps! What brought you here?

I was strolling through the forest, and watched a certain flower pillar decapitate a demon, mesmerised by what I saw, I pleaded on my knees for her to teach me, and after getting permission from my parents, I finally joined training as the flower hashira tsuguko!

2. Wow, that’s terrible. And how did you prepare for the Final Selection? 

I was mercilessly trained by the flower hashira, training my reaction speed and biq. I trained my resistance, but I still lack in the stamina front.

3. What was the worst injury you sustained, or the closest you came to death? 

A battle where I assisted the flower hashira against Upper rank two. We both made it out alive by the skin of our teeth, me sustaining a long slash to my left thigh (I actually have a big, ugly stitching on my left upper thigh), and a broken leg (happened to me in a car accident irl) and a cracked shoulder. Along few superficial scars to my face, that all faded away eventually. (I'm definitely not projecting what are you talking about?)

4. Well, you survived, that’s good! Now that you’re in the Corp, what does your haori look like?

It'd be a dark navy blue version of kanao's haori, but with a purple tulip buckle.

5. Your crow doesn’t have a name! What name do you choose? 

It'd be a boy name Taro.

Yes, I'm conscious of how embarrassing it would be for him as an adult.

6. Do you prefer solo missions or working with friends? 

Solo missions, wouldn't want to watch them die, or them watching me loose.

7. Be honest. How scared are you? 

I realised how terrifying it was during the final selection, but, we gotta keep pushing through.

8. Oh... oh dear. This isn’t good. Looks like you got turned into a demon. How did this come about? 

I was turned by Upper rank two, the second time I encountered him, I was alone, and he decided he wanted to toy with my anger, and frustration.

9. I see. So what sorts of people do you like to eat? 

Blondes. Platinum blondes to be specific. And anyone who looked remotely similar to Upper rank two, who keeps me tied to his stupid cult, not allowing me to leave. I tend to avoid women with lilac eyes, I have no idea as to why.

10. Sounds gross to me, but whatever floats your boat. What are your thoughts on that, you know, that one guy, he whom we shall not name? 

Even if I had lost any recollection of my time as a demon slayer, I still have a great repulsion and hatred against the king of demons. He doesn't bother with me either way.

11. Got any cool characteristics or Blood Techniques? 

I have skin that fades into a pastel green, and pale, lifeless obsidian eyes. I have unnecessarily long hair, that I tie into a braided bun, which is held together by a green and baby blue butterfly pin.

My blood demon art is one similar to Upper rank two's, but a slightly tweaked and weaker version. Instead of ice, I work with poisonous flowers and water bubbles. The flowers excrete an aroma that lures my targets, making them lose focus, they're the diversion, and the water bubbles are a stealthy way of killing my opponents, slowly sucking the moisture from their bodies. Once the bubbles are big enough, they engulf the opponent, and they painfully crush them on the inside, allowing me to consume them later. It does take quite a lot of strength to summon the water bubbles, so I don't use them until I'm desperate.

I dunno what to call it, so let's just say Deadly orbs of water. (fancy way of saying bubble.)

12. Oh... whoops. You died. Happens to a lot of demons. Care to describe how that happened?

I was forced to join the final battle, being stationed with the Upper rank two. We were confronted by a very much alive Kanae, and a very much hot headed Shinobu. They were both too stunned, and slightly enraged to see me there. Kanae was on the verge of angry tears, and Shinobu looked at me in disbelief. They started attacking regardless, Kanae and Shinobu focusing on the bigger threat. I didn't engage much in the battle, because a part of me was unwilling to hurt the two women. Muzan though, was not going to let me standby, and forced a rush of his blood into me, giving me more forced strength I could barely take, and forcing me to fight. I had to join in, manifesting my flowers all around, with the Upper rank two praising me in his oh so fake tone, it infuriated me. I was urged to use my demon art by him, and had no choice, as the insect pillar, was relentlessly attacking me. I was about to, before I got a close up look of their pins, which had looked eerily similar to mine. I then felt strong surges of pain rush through me, as I fell to the ground crying. I then looked up to a perplexed Shinobu, before apologising, begging her to just end me already. I told her to extend my thanks and apologies to her sister, and that I wish to meet them again in our next life. I give her a warning of his blood demon art, and brace myself for the blow. Shinobu crouched down to give me a hug, before gently stabbing me with her most painless, yet strong poison. I start fading into ashes, but flashing her a small smile.

'' Kill that scumbag for me, okay? ''

She turned away, crying silently, before going to aid her sister, who was joined by Kanao and Inosuke, with a new conviction in mind. Kill the bastard.

Better luck next life!

Tagging : @missbreeownie @bunskero @kimetsu-chan @kiyokatokito @kimetsu-chan @littleolspring112 @larz-barz @shycroissanti @naramaiz @axolotl321 @thesimp-nicki @rion-isnot-an-ai and anyone else who'd like to join!!

Your Very Average Demon Slayer Experience Survey

Fill in your answers, tag people if you like, and feel free to add more questions! Fun additional recommendations:  Translation of the Official “What Breath Should You Study” quiz! Shonen Jump official Kimetsu no Yaiba character generator!  Questions: 

1. So you’ve decided to join the Demon Slayer Corps! What brought you here? 2. Wow, that’s terrible. And how did you prepare for the Final Selection?  3. What was the worst injury you sustained, or the closest you came to death?  4. Well, you survived, that’s good! Now that you’re in the Corp, what does your haori look like? 5. Your crow doesn’t have a name! What name do you choose?  6. Do you prefer solo missions or working with friends?  7. Be honest. How scared are you?  8. Oh… oh dear. This isn’t good. Looks like you got turned into a demon. How did this come about?  9. I see. So what sorts of people do you like to eat?  10. Sounds gross to me, but whatever floats your boat. What are your thoughts on that, you know, that one guy, he whom we shall not name?  11. Got any cool characteristics or Blood Techniques?  12. Oh… whoops. You died. Happens to a lot of demons. Care to describe how that happened? Better luck next life!

[misogyny]

I am coming here so I can more easily complain about the new Monster High generation since Twitter's limit is agitating.

So, for one, I love Draculaura's new body type. It fits her well, it's cute, and her doll itself is quite endearing. However, I hate her new look; She is painfully TikTok. I hate the split hair, it is not nearly as cute as her old hairstyle and color, and it just does not fit her. I do not like her clothing, either, it has none of the charm of the old clothing with no creative takes on.. anything (jewelry/shoes/etc). The charm of her old clothing is completely wiped. I also am not a fan at all of her new personality. She is a completely new character, and one that I am not a fan of. A true bastardization of her.

Lagoona is just disgusting, sorry. Nothing about her is redeeming. Her clothing is boring and ugly, her 3D and doll model is boring. Over all, none of the choices made really do anything to enhance her design. She looks messy and just generally unappealing. Every change they made to her was another blow to her and she just turned out a complete mess.

Clawdeen's changes are mostly just strange. I understand the reason why they wanted to change so much about her, but I just don't think the direction they went with her was the right choice. She is not the same character in the slightest, and it is disappointing to see. Her clothes are especially underwhelming since she was "the most fashionable" and they turned her into the average Californian art student. Minus Kanken backpack. Another character that stayed the same in name alone.

I think Cleo is okay and they made a few improvements in her design but only in makeup, Ghoulia is bad, Abbey is painfully boring/ugly from what I've seen, and Frankie is okay... but, again, boring.

Base line, I just hate the new fashion so much; it is unoriginal, boring TikTok "alt" fashion. Where with the original generation everything was very unique and inventive in most of the designs, this is just average clothing nowadays as opposed to how the original was all edgy Hot Topic inspired alt styled, and it is just embarrassing to see how generic even the alt monster girl doll line has become.

The shoes with the crazy heels, all of the jewelry with each of the girls' personal flair, the unique hair styles, all replaced... with what? I just don't think it is interesting at all anymore. Obviously, yes, I am an adult now with an interest in dolls, so these are not for me, but the quality of everything just seems to have gone downhill with this new generation and it has none of the same charm. It's Shein clothing with clunkily put together aesthetics. It isn't "bizarre" or "weird" anymore, it's boring, and drab, and generic.

I also think despite the fact that Frankie is nonbinary now, I feel that they have somewhat actually regressed in "progressiveness". Every single woman has long hair now, for some reason? Including Toralei. Most of the characters before did, of course, have long hair before, but Toralei in particular was one character that never did... and on top of that, they made her wear a skirt. This is just disgusting to me, personally. They could not leave the (relatively, with no competition in the slightest) butchest girl in MH alone, and instead had to make her super feminine as well. And look like a TikToker, too, of course. You could argue here that they did it so that the main characters weren't being bullied by the butchest girl in the series, but I honestly never GAF as a child because I thought she was super cute. I also think the removal of her facial markings is sickening.

On top of that, I do think they missed the fact that a lot... of the young girls who watched this show imagined these characters dating. Which is really odd after all they did with EAH and Darling Charming. A lot of this is to do with the fact that the school was mostly populated by women, and the fact that everyone's boyfriends were basically background characters that only ever showed up for an episode or two, just to cause drama for their girlfriends (which made me dislike them more and want the girls to be together more). The girl's friendship was always stronger than whatever guy they got together with for however many episodes. Clawdeen and Draculaura were perfect together in my mind... and they threw the aforementioned together with Deuce?! This is unforgivable. Obviously, the last problem is one I just find really weird personally based on what I thought was cute as a child, but I really don't think they/them Frankie is doing much when all of the girls are still straight.

Also, Deuce in the live action looks like Jughead from Riverdale, which agitates me further.

Another thing that is kind of just nitpicky is that I really hate the proportions on the legs and shoes in this new animation style? This is just so weird looking, I can not get over how tall and short her shoes are and how big her calves are compared to her thighs.

Anyways, I doubt anyone will really read this, or care too much for my Monster High opinions. But I needed to talk about it somewhere. If you do end up reading this and have anything to add, go ahead. I'm not happy with this generation no matter what, though, due to the fact that I feel like it has been stripped down to it's bare essentials with nothing good or new to offer, but I welcome opposing opinions.

[altcvnningham]

strings | johnny silverhand

summary: a storm passes through night city, but it isn't that which wakes her. it's the soft sound of guitar strings, being plucked by chrome fingers.

words: 1280

pairing: johnny silverhand / fem v (my v vana, but i avoid physical description, so read the name as whatever you like!!)

content: fluff, mild angst, Yearning™️, johnny plays guitar and it's rly therapeutic

warnings: SPOILERS, death mention, johnny shuts up for once so maybe mildly ooc, idk how guitars work

misc: soooo after listening to this on loop for the last forever, i just needed to vent and get this outta my system. i do use my v's name (vana) in this, but there's no physical description of her, so feel free to imagine v as your own!! also, it's been almost 4 years since i've officially posted any of my writing online, so while this is a little rough and not as detailed as i'd usually like, please be kind, and please enjoy!! (also ao3 link soon maybe but i'm lazy)

***

V doesn’t know what day it is when she awakes, but she does so to the quiet twang of guitar strings.

The metal blinds slide open, aware of her waking, and the morning spills into the room, dim and grey. Rain patters against the glass, and V, with her eyes still closed, curls deeper into the bedsheets to fend off the cold, away from the light towards the dark shelter of the wall. Night City can wait. She’ll enjoy this strange, soft music while it lasts.

Fingers pluck on quietly, nary a breath nor sigh to indicate the person playing. It’s a somber melody, a blue tune teased with the vague, cruel implication of hope, heartbreak, contentment. There‘s something in the way the music seems to move around the room and still the world, something timeless and calm yet so tenderly desperate about it- she feels sad and happy all at once, and suddenly, to be alive- to be dying- seems... a simple, given, painfully temporary thing. It’s a sweet, naïve tune. A fool’s song.

It cuts short.

Razor-sharp static screams in search for a signal. The strumming abruptly stops in response. The radio. It’s automated to switch on when she wakes up.

Then comes a final telltale sigh from the foot of her bed, as some garish pop song resonates brokenly through white noise. Must be a storm, she thinks. Howling wind outside her window confirms it.

A weight rises from the mattress- one that wasn’t there the night before, and V furrows her brows, braving the daylight and turning onto her side to see the figure lifting from the bed.

Chrome fingers curl around the neck of the cheap electric guitar as they prop the instrument back against the bed. A swelling ache closes around Vana’s chest. Loneliness. Separated from him by inches. Feeling without the one bound to the inside of her skull- it's agony.

Johnny. He crosses the room towards the radio in an aimless stride, and he staggers, tired. Vana briefly wonders- occupying her maddened, longing mind with something else- if he’s even capable of feeling that way, or if it’s her own waking lethargy that he feels, that clings to him. It’s usually like that with most things. And he switches the radio off, back arched downwards to reach it. Static finally turns to silence. She sees the thick lock of hair hanging in his eyes, and how he moves it with a careless jerk of his head before sauntering back to the bed again; peculiarly, he’s not wearing the bulletproof vest over his Samurai tank- the projection of the exact same faded shirt she wears now- and without the seemingly invincible façade, he almost looks... normal. Himself, maybe. Of course, when he descends back down to the end of the bed again, the blue glitched fragments of his engram form give him away. Yet somehow, unlike most times, seeing it puts her mind at ease. Not dreaming, at least.

With his back to her, Johnny picks the guitar back up and slings it weightlessly over his knee again. Out of thin air, he materialises a cigarette in his mouth, which wavers absentmindedly between pursed lips as he tunes the guitar and tests each string; Vana watches and remains completely still in her warm, blanket cocoon, not intent on interrupting this rare moment of peace. The rain drums on smoothly. Johnny pauses to pull the cigarette from his mouth. Exhale. Smoke joins in dancing alongside dust motes around the room, and Vana is happy to be alive today.

Johnny adjusts a silver ring on a flesh finger before touching the guitar’s strings again. He hesitates, stops, then straightens himself out before strumming the first note.

And then, it’s as if he loses himself to it- effortlessly playing that same melancholy tune from before without fault, without a sliver of uncertainty. His ‘ganic hand glides along each string with meticulous ease, metal fingers sliding and spreading along each fret, and the bleak light of the storm glints off of each chrome knuckle as he coaxes the music out to fill the quiet. And it's just this. The way in which he messily perfects such a common, mundane art. An ageless, timeless thing. No ugly, restless hand of Night City can snatch this away from her. The way his wrist flicks back with each note, how his hair crowds his face again as he nods slowly along, the heel he fails to notice he’s tapping in rhythm on the floor. For a moment, Johnny Silverhand’s real name lingers like a song in the back of her mind, as distant and unknown as this one, and she wonders if the person at the foot of her bed is him, that fragmented man lost in time.

Alt had said that Soulkiller does exactly by its name, that the soul dies the moment the consciousness is extracted. But watching him now, Vana refuses to believe that the glitched apparition at the foot of her bed is void of that, that same soul that inhabited the real Johnny Silverhand, that this engram isn’t as tangible and complex and real and feeling as she herself is. This projection of him, an amalgamation of every conscious want, need, thought and whim of a man who once existed- and this projection, he wakes up before her, on a morning as cold and grey and miserable as this, and plays a song for no discernible reason at all other than simply wanting to. Feeling like it.

No soul. She could weep- there's soul in every string.

Vana jostles free of the blanket and pushes herself forward, shifting to her knees. Johnny’s old dogtags, a relic of his past that dangle around her neck, clink together with each steady movement she makes towards him- terrified he’d stop playing for even a second- and she sits cross-legged behind him, facing the slender, flexing muscles of his back as he strums. She hugs herself, cold, shivering. He keeps playing. It’s bliss. She’s overcome with a sudden indescribable fondness, so much so that were she any braver in her vulnerability, any kinder to her feeling self, she’d let it bring a tear to her eye.

But Vana can only muster turning her head to the side, and resting her lonely cheek against the center of his back, desperate to feel every single breath that comes and leaves his vague, digital body. Perhaps it’s her own warmth she feels, reflecting back at her from Johnny’s feelings and senses, but she swears she feels him, hot beneath her cheek as though he were flesh and blood. The illusion is just enough that she doesn’t slip through him entirely. Perhaps, this will simply do.

Yes... fleeting as it is, as all things are, this moment is just... okay.

The song ends. Johnny plucks the final string. The chord fades out into a low, droning hum, until all that’s left is the rain on the window, the torrid rolling of the storm, and his calm, firm breaths, moving against her.

She forgets she's dying. And she would happily fall asleep again, right here, with the very thing that kills her, drinking in the song he’s let steep in the silence around them. But he slowly lowers the guitar, his body shifting beneath Vana’s unflinching cheek. Eyes fluttering shut once more, she feels him twist as he turns around, and how he catches her body in slacked repose, and finally- almost as if he wants to, as if he cares- the tangled threading of cold, metal fingers through her hair, towing her under the dark dwelling of sleep once more.

“I got you.”

[ankhisms]

painfully aware of how my mental and physical illnesses make it feel almost impossible for me to function or exist at all in society

yes i have a diary now yes i am still writing this here bc im not home yet. my pain in my back and neck and hip have been worse and worse lately and ive been trying to just manage it and deal with it but my mental health has also just been a rollercoaster lately where ill be fine and then ill take a nose dive and have been genuinely really seriously suicidal and close to relapsing into self harm but i thankfully havent. right now im just thinking about how much it sucks that just no matter how hard i try people can still sense that theres something off about me and that i dont act "normal" in our interactions like at the end of the audition i had to talk to this like theater manager lady and the conversation was really hard for me to follow along and get through and it was clear that she thought i was acting weird and she asked me if id be willing to do behind the scenes stuff and i said something like well i like 25 miles out of town so i cant really come for backstage stuff on short notice and she was like well can you follow instructions and i had trouble responding to that because thats a loaded question for me i do often strugglw with the instructions people give me especially in environments like work ones so i said uh within reason and she clearly thought that was a weird response. it just all makes me feel so hopeless i feel like in the past with the theater i grew up in and the other one i acted in they like... they were aware of me being strange but the directors at least didnt hold it against me or get mad at me really for being not normal because they knew i was a good actor and i worked hard and i was serious about it and passionate about it and now i feel like people just notice that im not normal and think that means that they shouldnt have me in their production. but then it hurts to also think like. well what if ive just never actually been very good at this. for such a long time acting was like the only thing i ever truly felt fully confident in myself about and the only thing i belueced in myself about ive always felt pretty insecure about my art and writing even though i love doing those things just as much as acting but with acting i always felt like it was something i was good at or at least decent at it like i got lead roles the first time i tried to go to college i got a scholarship for my acting. and now im just like. what if ive just been total shit at this this entire time. what if someones going to just tell me straight to my face that im laughably bad at this and that its pathetic and that theres no chance in hell that i can ever be a professional actor. thinking about it all now its like man. the professors at that first college i tried to go to who tormented me and told me i was too ugly to get any roles and too emotional really fucked me up i think thats where this self doubt in my acting ability is coming from. because before that whole disaster i really did feel more solidly confident in my ability. and now its like. what if i really just suck at this and no matter how much i love it and care about it and put a lot of work and thought and effort into it what if theres just no chance for me and its all impossible. anyway im just rambling now but yeah. really doubt im getting into the show i auditioned for today

[silvervivienne08]

Part 7: The Art of Letting Go

By: Whipped as Fuck Cowfi

Step One.

Get help, talk to a friend

Cry about being a wuss, broken and still very much in love with her

Have a shitty decision to dump all the cringey poems you wrote about her somewhere it could be seen and heard, bare your shitty soul to whatever pour soul that manages to come across this.

Hope to hell that the muse of your poems would never see this, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

Grab some drink and let it all out

Cry yourself to sleep

Step two.

Wake up, convince yourself to post the second part of your shitty series

Let the whole world see how your gay ass painfully pined after your muse

Dig yourself a hole somewhere to save whatever dignity you have left

While under your hole, ponder about the angst you suffered through and how your gay ass got yourself writing shitty poems from it

Maybe cry again while your at it

Step 3.

There's more work to be done, post the only happy and sappy part of your series the next day

Reminisce about the time you got the girl after quite some quite

Remember the good times, all the fun you've had and all the things that made you fall even harder for her than you already were…

too whipped, but who cares?

maybe try not cry too much this time while thinking about the happiness and joy you've felt with your time with her.

Step 4.

ITS PART 4 ALREADY, MOVE YOUR ASS UP

Take everything you've shoved into the corner of your brain and maybe its time for some realization??

Beat yourself up for fucking up one of the best thing that came into your life?

Pour some hard shit on your cup and do some ugly crying, let everything… I mean everything out this time so there wouldn't be anymore crying next time.

exhaust yourself to sleep, maybe..

Step 5.

Chuck the next part on tumblr, still cringe while posting it

Get yourself together and like seriously do even more thinking… Rationally this time after getting completely all emotional the previous day

Take your time, gather whatever realizations you may have had in this intervention that you had to do to yourself. THis shit aint easy, but you need it.. Desperately lmfao

Rinse your liver with water and if there's still tears, squeeze em the fuck out from your eyeballs… or tear ducts.. whatever

Step 6.

Copy and paste the last poem you've ever wrote

Realize that yes, you're still whipped as fuck and still deadass in love with your muse and maybe that's okay, you can't really change how you feel in a blink of an eye (just rip your fucking heart out? maybe …)

Do yourself a favor though, stop holding on too much. Just stop unecessarily hurting yourself. If it happens then it'll happen but other wise, stop holding on to too much hope

Learn to let go, even for just a lil bit. One step at a time. Take posting all of your shitty and cringe as fuck poems as you finally vocalizing the rollercoaster of emotions you've went through this pass few months, almost a year to be exact. Make this your first teeny tiny step in letting go

Step 7.

FINALLY, a short ass letter dedicated to my muse:

My muse,

I'll try to make this short but there's so much I want to say. If you ever see this, which i hope you do not because it'll be so fucking embarrassing, know that I was really fucking serious when I told you that you can keep me just as you've asked the very first time we met. I'm still whipped as fuck and Idk if I'll ever be able to move on coz you're really one hella of a girl. I could probably cause a blackhole from piercing the earth with my tiny ass falling really, really fucking hard. BUT!!! But don't worry, I'm really trying my ass over here. It may take days, weeks, months, or maybe even years but I'll be okay, hopefully. But you'll always have like this really special place? shrine?? CORNER!! , in my brain and my heart. Thank you for your patience and kindness even though I didn't really deserve it any of it. You were such a sunshine to my dark and broody corner, the light to the murky waters that I was threading in. I'm sorry I haven't been good to you, for hurting you so bad. I've been the worst and I completely understand everything so I'm not really complaining. I appreciate you and everything that we've had, I will always hold you and our memories together close to my heart. It was one hell of a ride, even though its hurts like fucking hell, I wouldn't change it for anything. I'm glad I met you, the only thing I would ever regret in our relationship was hurting you. I hope that everything is going well in your life and that you've been doing good. Don't stress out too much, eat well, have fun with your friends and family, and take good care of yourself. I hope you'll find the one that'll bring you the happiness you deserve because you deserve everything. Thank you for everything. I love you, maybe I'll always do. You'll always be my hedgehog.

Ciao!

THE LEVEL OF CRINGE, ITS OVER 9000

Part 1 out of the 6 Cringy Poems I wrote that y'all gonna have to suffer through with me :)

I lay here, wide awake Thoughts consumed by you, and you alone I know not how it started Nor where it all began Maybe it was just me but There was this thing about you that just drew me in Like how a moth would towards an open flame And as time passed by, The pull has only gotten stronger, So irresistible that the strength of it terrifies me For I have never felt this way before Or maybe I did? For I know exactly what I’m starting to feel for you That feeling, it’s such a familiar feeling yet the magnitude of it differs greatly A part of me knew that I was attracted to you Though I never paid it any thought Dismissing it as a simple and harmless crush Never knowing that throughout the time we spent together, Conversing about everything and all that is between, that tiny, almost inconspicuous crush would become a seed A seed that would spread and dig its roots in to my chest to create what seems to be the makings of a garden with a flower blooming right at its center watered, and kept alive by you

so I lay here, wide awake finally aware of my feelings towards you it hurts, oh how it hurts for I know that it would never happen that the idea of you reciprocating these feelings are naught but thoughts of wishful thinking so I choke back down my anguish as my traitorous mind turns against me clouding my sight with visions of us together, of what we could possibly be if given the chance it would’ve been wonderful to be able to lean against you as we laugh and talk under the sun without a care in the world how it delightful it would’ve been to hear you laugh, knowing that I was the reason for it to feel the softness of your hands intertwined against mine that in times where I am so unsure of myself and this world it’s alright to fall right into the warmth of you embrace safe and secured, cradled in the comfort of your arms and that in turn, you would trust me enough to accept my shoulders as something you could lean on in hard times to know and experience the happiness and joy of what being someone loved by someone like you would feel like how lucky, no blessed, I would’ve been sadly, tis nothing but a fantasy so I lay here, wide awake with tears streaming down my face as these thoughts, these fantasies continued to torment me it burns, oh how it burns like a wildfire spreading through my veins crippling me with unending agony, as it sets my nerves ablaze its smoke, suffocating me as it fills up my lungs leaving me greedily gasping for air as its absence painfully constricts my heart my heart, oh my poor dear heart forgive me, for I am only human I couldn’t help my self I couldn’t stop myself from feeling this way I do not know how to put a barrier against this this rush of feelings that is starting to take over me because if I could, then I would gladly do so oh, what I would’ve given for all of this to dissipate for it to vanish as if it was never there to begin with so that I could stop myself from hurting so I could prevent the pain that I know is coming my way from ever reaching my dear heart a heart whose aching for something it could never have but quietly wish for… so I lay here, wide awake for what could’ve been hours thoughts filled with nothing but you and me, and my ever-growing feelings for you I didn’t mean for this to happen It was never in any of my intentions to fall for you But I’m just a woman, a woman who fell hard and fast Whose heart, you unwittingly stole Held captive, in between the palm of your hands I would ask you to take care of it But that would mean confessing all of this And the mere thought of it is absolutely terrifying I wish that I had the courage that others had That I was brave enough to admit it, speak it out loud But I don’t think my heart would be able to handle it The thought of your rejection is already agonizing enough But to hear it fall from your lips? It would’ve crushed me, leaving me wrought in devastation So, as I close my eyes, I content with myself with the knowledge That I had the pleasure of knowing you, Of being able to build a bond of friendship between us That this is enough, it’s more than enough Because it’s better than not having you at all

[melovez]

I wanna hear what you have to say about Clint! I’ve always been p neutral towards him since he’s not an NPC I interact with often anymore and I don’t really have any strong feelings about his characterization, so hearing someone who appreciates him would be cool (esp since it seems like 90% of the fandom really hates him lol)

i think the best way to go about this for me is to counter the common arguments i see against clint? so that’s what i’ll do

my big long explanations below the cut

1. Clint is a “nice guy”

clint makes misguided comments in his first heart event, yeah. but this isn’t a prolonged trend for him. clint does not remark that he feels owed anything. clint does not remark that emily is a bitch or anything for not returning his feelings. if anything clint just yearns at his seat at the saloon until happenstance puts him and emily in the same conversation. i don’t really think he’s ever forward or creepy towards her, not canonically. at festivals when he talks to the player about her it’s him confiding in the player. is it weird? yes, of course it’s weird. but he’s not a bad person for it, he’s just painfully awkward

2. Clint is ugly

is he ugly? is he really? are you just letting your preconceived dislike of him influence how you think he looks? is it because he’s one of like 4 fat characters in this game? like maybe that’s a little harsh but what with how many people i see slim down and buff up everyone in the valley when they draw them, even characters that have clearly rounded faces and figures in their sprites, even characters that remark about their own weight like shane, i do think i’m justified in wondering if the fact that clint doesn’t fit the box of slim fit hansome young bachelor has anything to do with why people say he’s ugly.

3. Clint is stalking Emily

i think this stems from a misinterpretation of the heart event where he asks emily out on a date. hes not hiding in the bush because he wants to watch her in secret. he’s hiding in the bush because he chickened out when he was on her doorstep. he even says he just wants to leave. he wasn’t hiding there with a pair of binoculars or anything, when the player shows up it’s not long after he fled to hide.

4. Clint doesn’t deserve Emily

i see people who hate clint say this often and like… yes? did you read the note in his room where he admits he has no chance with her? like this is a matter of opinion ultimately but it’s another thing that gives me the impression people who say these things about clint never actually take the time to get to know him before they judge

5. Clint still hits on Emily after you marry her

this one i agree sucks but honestly i chalk it up to how he’s programmed. i do not think it was concernedape’s intention to make him hit on your wife. also it’s not like crushes magically go away after your crush starts dating someone else. again, i agree this is definitely uncomfortable but without an update to the game or a mod there’s no way around it

6. Emily hates Clint

i see this one in headcanons a lot and it’s just so absolutely baseless it’s clear people who hate clint are just trying to justify themselves doing so. emily never says anything bad about clint. emily seems to want to go to grampleton with him, even just as friends. i mean they’re listed as friends on the stardew wiki. i don’t know what else to say. these characters have absolutely no ill will between them canonically

Conclusion

so like. here’s what i think is happening.

first, people take a liking to emily. they do all emily’s heart events first. emily’s eight heart event makes them not like clint, and i mean of course it does, even i can admit he soured that heart event with emily. and then i think since that makes people not like clint, they go into all of his heart events already not liking him, and this leads them to misinterpret everything he does, and in turn understand him to be some antagonistic chatacter.

but he’s not. clint is really just like any other mediocre dude in this game. hell, i think shane is a WAY more unlikable character than clint is and yet i see shane fans shitting on clint like he’s worse! i seriously don’t understand it. don’t get me wrong, shane is one of my favorite bachelors, but if you ADORE shane and DESPISE clint it really makes me wonder what the difference there is.

if anyone reads this and take personal offense to it i apologize that i made you feel that way but in the end stardew valley is a game you are welcome to consume however you like. don’t like clint? don’t talk to him, then. i do not think less of you for doing so. but when i see people in the tag being like “omg there’s so little content of (very popular bachelor/bachelorette)” i die a little inside because there’s basically only three types of clint fan content. fic/art where he’s a background/side character, fic/art where he’s portrayed as a slob/asshole/nice guy/pig/idiot, or on rare occasions, fic/art where he’s shipped with emily. and i do not want to see literally any of that.

there is like 1 good clint fanartist on tumblr but i don’t wanna name drop in this post cuz i don’t wanna draw negative attention to them but i can recommend them elsewhere.

anyways that’s my defense of clint. make of it what you will

[maxwell-grant]

Any thoughts on Sandman Mystery Theatre and Wesley Doods?

I'll probably write more in-depth about Wesley in particular once I'm more acquainted with his history, because I've discovered recently there is much, much more to the JSA's characters than I had initially presumed, and some pretty massive bits of Wes's own history that I can't overlook in a more in-depth post. But regarding Sandman Mystery Theatre, I gotta talk about my history with it specifically.

I picked up the first volume of Sandman Mystery Theatre by complete accident when I was very young. At the time I was specifically looking for Sandman comics because I wanted to do a school project on Neil Gaiman's Sandman, which I knew very little about, and so I picked up at a store Endless Nights and a comic called Sandman Mystery Theatre that, as you can see in the cropped image above, had his name on the cover, so I figured it had to be in the same series (which it kinda is but not really).

While there's older stuff that's tied up in my appreciation of them, this was my first encounter with Pulp Heroes, even when I didn't know what they were, before I discovered The Shadow for real. Ground Zero, as we call it. And it all starts specifically with this page:

The comic had already started off completely unlike anything I'd picked up before from Marvel and DC. It was an urban story with no superheroes or cartoons in sight, instead there were all these regular, wrinkled middle-aged people with warts and sweaters and pudgy noses at the center of it, people that you don't find in superhero stories where the imperfections of humanity are ever shaved off. It was more akin to what I had only experienced through film, but in a comic, and at the time, that was new to me.

And when it was time for the story's big reveal of it's hero, the big wide shot reserved for a Superman power stance or Batman hunched in the rain, it was with this scene: A weird little creep in a trenchcoat and fedora, with a gas mask barely concealing his startled eyes, shocked by the intrusion of the light that ever so blesses The Superhero Moment, squatting in a dirty bathroom with a hand stretched out menacingly towards the horrified woman, stretching towards you, stretching past the panel borders that should lock this ugly little thing in it's place.

I still think of this image as one of the main signifiers as to what I think sets superheroes and pulp heroes apart. Because at the time, this was a revelation. This costume was a revelation in general.

I was never going to find Spider-Man or Wolverine like this, even their dirtier and less dignified moments were still mired in some form of glory. Even in Spider-Man's lowest points he's still expect to rise above them dramatically or at least suffer them dramatically, when Wolverine prowls in the sewers he does so gleaming with power and ferocity and ripped shirts and immortality. And of course, I was never going to look like, or be like, Spider-Man or Wolverine no matter how hard I worked at it.

But this guy? This is a shitty little bug man caught with it's pants down somewhere it was not supposed to be, as terrified of being caught as we would be to find it prowling around. Painfully humanized, despite it's best efforts. He's dressed in a drab suit with a dorky tie, a disheveled coat, and a gas mask and hat. But the thing about “coolness” is that often the best way to make something genuinely cool is to try to make it uncool to begin with. There's nothing super about this guy, but there's something effortlessly cool about him nonetheless, something that doesn't require a bodybuilder's physique or a model's face, something unlike a superhero but just as cool visually if not more so. Anyone could look like this guy.

I could look like this guy.

And not just visually, the other thing that hooked me into Mystery Theatre was it's characterization. Much like the art, it was different than what I was used to from other comics I read. It dealt with it's drama differently, it's deaths had weight and so did the character's reactions to them. It had gangsters and torturers and serial killers and pedophiles and crooked police officers and none of them were going to get chopped to bits by Wolverine or tied up in streetlights by Batman anytime soon. It didn't have supervillains, it had a mother and son as masked murderers and torturers hiding in plain sight even while mutilating their own families. It had grueling torture scenes and it's female protagonist forcing herself to stare at the mutilated corpse of her best friend just so she can spare her family the pain of doing so. 

Diane Belmont is great and, again, I had never seen a comic book with this kind of story with a female protagonist so strongly at the forefront of it, and with all these other characters getting their side stories in. It was not about the guy in a costume being the center of everything awesome to happen, because there was hardly anything of the sort happening. "Understated" is the key word here for what made Sandman Mystery Theatre special to me at the time.

Wesley Dodds himself is a schlubby, quiet guy in glasses with a pudgy nose and a round face who makes origami and writes poems, who only really has his gun and mask and wits to tackle problems he is not even particularly well-equipped to handle, but goes out there and does anyway. He moves around quietly but still has to escape desperate situations by the skin of his teeth. He doesn't interrogate people in costume by dangling them off rooftops, he threatens to poison their dog if they don't tell him what he needs to know. He sets up little traps with cans and wire to let him know if a cop is approaching his investigation, and he doesn't take down the Tarantula at the end without assistance nor does he linger around to receive any credit for it.

He is not at all an action hero, nothing about this guy even really indicates he's cut out for this life, but he's determined and compelled and tormented by nightmares that don't allow him to refuse the call, so he makes it happen, and throught that, he makes enough of a difference to shift the scales of life and death to those that cannot rely on others to protect them. Those that can't rely on police or family or superheroes to save them. That's when the eerie little nobody in a fedora and gas mask comes in, inadequate as he may be, still desperately trying to do the right thing.

While I did read some of his Golden Age adventures for context's sake, I don't know much of anything about Wesley's other adventures outside of Mystery Theatre or his costumed superhero phase or history with the JSA and DCU and whatnot, and frankly that stuff is so far removed from my enjoyment of Mystery Theatre that it might as well just be a different character (although I will be checking out out of curiosity).

So yes, Mystery Theatre is great, I sing the praises of Matt Wagner often enough and I definitely should look into the rest of Guy Davis's work, but the main thing about it to me is that it was my first contact with pulp in any of it's forms. Sandman was my first Pulp Hero. If nothing else I'll always appreciate the character for that.

[tobesobri]

Bust | Part One: Chisel (7.8k)

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

In which Y/N is an annoyance in Harry’s sculpting class.

story masterlist | my masterlist

It’s not her forte. Her hands don’t know how to hold onto things. They tremble under pressure. They mess things up no matter how hard she tries.

Not that she had really tried very hard to begin with.

Sculpting was just not something she saw herself doing. Ever. Not with her lack of agility and poor attention to detail. But to appease her whining best friend… she’d do just about anything.

The class was held in a little art studio with large windows for ventilation and tall ceilings to display the mass amounts of student artwork on butcher block shelves. She never thought she’d be back in a classroom type setting after graduating college, but here she was.

Learning, what she proclaimed as, a useless skill.

The studio was smack dab in the middle of an inclined street. Little quaint buildings that sat on an angle because why not pour foundations on a hill and make her weekly walks to the studio a little sweatier than she would have preferred. Even if it was winter in their little beach village town. Sweat still happened. It just happened underneath a scarf and a hand-knitted beanie from the sewing shop next door.

She could not deny, however, that the late afternoon classes every Wednesday and Saturday brought her way more joy than she’d anticipated. She looked forward to meeting up with Rose at the bottom-of-the-hill cafe, sharing the daily special with her before making their way up to the studio. It was calm in the middle and end of her hectic weeks that she most definitely needed.

What she didn’t need, however, what she most certainly did not look forward to, what she could have done without, what took her joy and smashed it against a wall was him.

The instructor.

Harry ‘I have nice hands and a misleading smile’ Styles.

It had only been two weeks into their classes and he had already told her one of her bowls was garbage. That the way she sculpted a face was terrifying. That she couldn’t draw for shit and that made her attempts at sculpting even worse.

So by Saturday of their second week, she didn't care anymore. He was a jerk and she would be the best pain in his ass she knew how to be.

While everyone called him Harry, like he’d asked them to the very first day, she called him Mr. Styles. Just to see the way his eyes rolled back into his head and his nostrils flared. While everyone asked him insightful questions, like what glaze was best to use or what tool sculpted eyes most efficiently, she asked him if she could use the bathroom.

She got a fucking kick out of irritating him. Knowing he went home after their classes just as irritated as she’d been. With clenched fists and a pounding headache.

It helped that he was insanely too attractive to be teaching a bunch of millennials about sculpting in his free time.

“You should really leave him alone, he might kick us out, you know,” Rose said on their first third week walk up Justice Hill. There was no justice in walking uphill, and most fucking certainly not in the humidity-ridden beachside town. She found the street name personally offensive.

“Oh fuck him. If he kicks us out, he’ll have to refund us.” Y/N did not, even for a second, bother to lower her voice as they neared the studio, knowing any one of the other students could hear her if they were to walk by.

“Refund us what? We got the class for free, remember?”

Y/N racked her brain like she’d completely forgotten that little detail before shrugging it off. “Whatever. He won’t kick us out.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Before she could make some stupid remark about how Harry secretly liked her pestering him or about how much he seemed much too impressed by Rose’s progress to ever get rid of them, the devil himself turned the corner in front of them.

He came out from an alleyway that connected the street to a tiny parking lot. And while they were going uphill, he was coming down. He was hard to miss and so were they, but still he attempted to not see them.

“What a prick,” Y/N mumbled under her breath as they got closer to each other. And almost as if he could read her lips, he rolled his eyes so fucking hard she thought maybe they’d finally pop right out of his head this time.

“Shush,” Rose warned as the three of them finally met in the middle, at the door to the studio that was decorated with a bright yellow ‘Open’ sign, children’s drawings, hand-painted hours of operation, and one too many polaroids of past students and their sculpting creations.

They all stood and stared at each other for a moment before he opened the door first, holding it as, to Y/N’s surprise, he let them go in first. And while she was still in shock at the gesture, his body language said it all. Like he was forcing himself to be nice to the dynamic duo, to the bane of his existence. While she was too distracted by Harry and his clay-stained trousers and cable-knit sweater with a cartoon deer embroidered on it, Rose walked into the studio first. Giving Harry a polite smile that he returned almost… genuinely.

And right when Y/N made a move to follow, Harry stepped in front of her. She jolted back as he just about let the door slam her in the face.

Today was going to be fantastic.

*                                              *                                 *

“Right, so,” Harry began, clapping his dry hands together as he took a seat behind his messy table at the front of the studio. “I know some of you haven’t finished your heads yet, but our focus today will still be on the bodies. We’ll have a catch up on Saturday to make up for it.”

Y/N sought out her head on the wall where she’d placed it last week beside Rose’s, realizing for the first time just how ugly it really was. And to think she’d been trying to sculpt Harry’s annoying face. Even more annoying that no matter what she did, he was always a lot more handsome than her hunk of polymer clay.

“... because, like I mentioned, we have special guests today who will be modeling for you.” Harry stood again while two very thin and very conventionally perfect people came out in white robes. Y/N couldn’t help but gag.

“This is Hope and Jordan.” Harry motioned as he introduced them, not getting any further in his instructions before Y/N raised her hand in the back of the class.

Rose attempted to get her to put it down, too, because Harry was clearly in the middle of something, but it didn’t really work out so well. Y/N was a stubborn son of a bitch.

“Yeah?” He pointed at her, sighing while planting his hands on his hips. He knew nothing she had to ask was going to be at all beneficial to the group.

She cleared her throat and just from the smirk on her face, he braced for impact. “Are they going to be modeling nude?”

She made just about everyone blush, except for Harry. He hated how she never took anything seriously. That the art he’d spent years perfecting enough to teach meant nothing to her. It was all just a primary school joke in her eyes.

“Yes, actually,” he answered bluntly and then returned to what he was going to say before Y/N’s interruption. “So I want everyone to get a piece of paper and while they’re modeling, do a rough sketch of what you might want the body of your sculpture to look like. The importance is to get the proportions down so that when you use the clay, you’ll know how much you’ll need for each part. Just like we did for the heads.”

Harry walked around the class once the models were stripped and the sketching began. Rose started immediately, concentration on her face as she flipped between the female model and her piece of sketchbook paper.

All Y/N had was a scratch piece of grey-toned mixed media paper she’d found laying on their table. And absolutely no clue where to even begin.

She stared at Harry instead of the naked models, watching as he helped others around the room, pointing at their sketches and where they could improve. His other hand behind his back that gave her perfect access to stare at his rings. Remembering how he’d taken them off guide their first few sculpting lessons. Remembering how his hands had so gently but so fucking firmly caressed the mound of clay into the exact shapes he wanted like he knew exactly what to do with those things.

“See it’s going just as I expected back here.” When his voice was at her ear, she jumped out of her skin and out of her daydreams. Twisting her head around to him as he stood behind her, she found him staring over her shoulder at her blank piece of paper.

She narrowed her eyes at him once she’d fully processed what he said. “Sorry I’m trying to figure out the best way to scale up that dude’s micro-cock, proportionally, if you don’t mind.”

He just about choked on his own spit, and rightfully so. But when he glanced to her eyes instead of her disappointing blank canvas, with his eyebrows furrowed and his cute little nostrils flared just the way she liked them, it was clear his reaction wasn’t for the reasons she’d intended.

He was quiet. Lips pursed, mind completely empty apart from hearing her say cock over and over again. Echoing against his skull. Making a home for itself in his hippocampus for later purposes. When he was not in a class full of students with their eyes on him, watching him get hard at the fucking way she said cock.

“Leave you to it then,” he cleared his throat and continued on.

“He may not kick us out, but killing you is still an option,” Rose whispered once Harry was a safe distance away from them.

Y/N leaned back in her seat to watch him walk down the rest of their row. His hands behind his back again, eyes wandering over shoulders.

As long as he had those rings on while he choked her out, she was okay with that.

*                                              *                                 *

Everyone had moved on to their bodies. Gathering the clay they needed from the front and using their sketches as guidelines to build around the pre-made wire and aluminum foil armature. Most everyone had some sort of a form being attached to the heads of their sculptures by the time Y/N even got started.

Because she decided on using Harry as reference after all and he would just not stand still.

With the models gone, they were on their own, with help from Harry of course. He played several videos and gave various demonstrations to aide them. It wasn’t supposed to be perfect, but after she gave it her all for about ten minutes, she was ready to give up. Her body looked like a very lumpy, very deformed version of Shrek.

She took a break again, watching Rose sculpt for a while instead. She watched Harry sometimes too as he walked around the class again in gloves this time. Smoothing out features and picking up tools to aid in the process of forming collarbones and wrinkles.

The studio was in its typical state of disarray. Random cups of milky water on every table, pieces of clay smushed into the tile floor, tools and used gloves strewn about with no rhyme or reason. Harry thrived in that kind of environment while Y/N well… she hated it.

She wanted organization and cleanliness. Her nine-to-five called for that kind of thing. But she was slowly getting used to it. To letting go and embracing the mess while she was here. She wasn’t the one that had to clean it all up anyways.

The only time she wasn’t daydreaming was when Harry started up their aisle again, walking in front of their table this time however. He helped a couple others at the end of their row, watched some of them work before eventually landing right in front of Rose’s station.

He cocked his head to the side while he watched her struggle to form an even pair of breasts on her headless lady. And even though Y/N was trying her best to look busy, she just couldn’t help it.

Rose handed her work in progress over to him with a frustrated huff after he offered his assistance. And like… no way was Y/N missing out on Mr. Harry fucking Styles fingering some clay into the perfect set of boobs. No way.

Especially fucking not when he removed his gloves and used those fingers in their bare glory the way she wished he’d use them someplace else. She watched while he slapped some more clay on Rose’s poor flat-chested model and proceeded to smooth it out with his expert fingertips. She watched the clay melt under his touch, watching him dip into their shared cup of water to aid the process. She looked away long enough to admire the concentration on his face, the way he bit down on his lip and furrowed his brows the way she was used to. She watched again while he fixed all of Rose’s mistakes just by gliding his thumbs over the two perfect little lumps on her sculpture that sure as hell hadn’t started out so perfectly.

She had no idea why Harry sculpting a tiny set of breasts on what would eventually become a mermaid got her so hot and bothered but… it did. It did so fucking much, she was almost salivating like a dog by the end of it, thinking about what his hands could do with the real deal. But then he handed it back to Rose with a content smile on his face and burst Y/N’s little bubble.

“Might be better,” he said softly and Rose nodded in agreement. She hadn't noticed before, but when he stood to his full height it was clear he’d been leaning over on their table. Closer to the both of them than he’d ever really been before. And she knew he was tall, taller than Rose, who was five foot seven inches herself. And not just that but his shoulders were broad and his arms were a humble amount of muscular. Almost like he was a sculptor that kneaded clay a hundred hours a week. Maybe that was why she was a soaking wet mess.

He stretched his gloves back onto his hands and glanced Y/N’s direction. Eyes going straight from her disaster of an art piece to her flushed face and back.

“Don’t even know where to start to fix yours up,” he commented while moving slightly to his right until he stood directly in front of Y/N this time.

She looked at her abomination, wondering if it would be her worst idea to push more of his buttons or not. But, she went for it anyways. Her lack of impulse control would definitely come back to bite her in the ass one day.

“It’s the penis. Still haven’t gotten that down yet.”

He nodded, amused rather than his previous reaction to her antics. “Can see that, yeah. He’s got a bit of a crooked willy there.” Harry poked at it with his index finger and she became hyper aware of his closeness this time while he leaned over her tabletop again. Because his hands were right there, almost touching her own. And they were big, bigger than she realized. She could see him perfectly through the transparent gloves, his long fingers with clipped nails at the end that were well taken care of, considering.

She would need to soak herself in holy water for a while after this.

“Oh, is that not what the male anatomy looks like?” She teased, not fully realizing they were getting along for the first time and it was because of dicks. Because she’d put an oddly shaped protrusion on her figure before she’d even done much else with the blob of clay stuck to her form.

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head at her and standing up straight again. “Maybe if you paid attention when the models were out here, you’d know that.”

“Maybe if you hired someone who’s cock I could actually see from all the way back here without a fucking magnifying glass.” She was only slightly aware of how fully immersed she was in the debate over this penis.

But all he heard was cock again. She really needed to stop saying that. Because this time his mind was a little more imaginative while he stared at her lips and thought about the way she might say that on her knees in front of him.

He shook his head clear. She was an insufferable nuisance that he just barely tolerated on a good day. He didn't need her clogging up his brain with her cock talk too.

“Just fix it.” He mumbled.

She huffed when he left her to her own devices, not even bothering to offer his help, but she really shouldn’t expect any less. If he helped her, he would be doing it all for her. And that was hardly the point of taking a class to learn how to sculpt if the hot instructor was just going to do everything for you.

“Is there a reason why you’re arguing with him about penises?” Rose asked, hushing her voice around the apparently taboo word.

“It’s fun. And if I’m going to sit here in this stupid class with you I’m going to have some fun.” Y/N, on the other hand, was not hushed or subtle at all, as she ripped off the phallic piece of clay from her sculpture.

Rose cringed when she glanced past Y/N to find Harry looking right at her. He had been helping someone a few seats down and clearly not far enough away to have missed what Y/N said. All of his features drooped and he looked genuinely upset. Rose wished she could put a filter over Y/N’s mouth to save everyone from her insensitive outbursts. Especially Harry. He always tried so hard and for Y/N to brush everything off and boil it all down to a ‘stupid class’ even broke Rose’s heart a little. So she could only imagine how Harry felt.

After their typical hour and a half was up, once everyone at least had some semblance of a body minus the legs and arms, Harry called the class back to order.

“Alright, that’s time. You can put your armatures back on the shelves, carefully. As always, I’ll be around for a little while after. Have a great rest of your night, I’ll see you all on Saturday.” He finished his spiel, turning away to help clean up before a lightbulb went off in his head and his voice rang through the studio again, “Oh, and make sure you bring your sketches back with you!”

Everyone worked on cleaning up, including Harry. And while Y/N took both her and Rose’s sculptures over to their respective spots on the shelves, Rose walked up to the front of the class without any warning whatsoever.

She tapped Harry’s shoulder and watched while his smile faded just the tiniest bit after he turned to find her. That Rose’s poor face had to be associated with the thunderstorm that was Y/N.

“I just wanted to say sorry… about Y/N.” Both Rose and Harry glanced at the girl in question near the back of the studio, playing with their two sculpted bodies like they were barbie dolls. “I forced her to do this with me so she hasn’t really taken it seriously. But I’m really enjoying the class, you’re a fantastic instructor.”

His smile returned again and if he was being honest with himself, it really did make him feel better to hear her say that. He had some sort of a reasoning for Y/N’s horrible attitude and while he wished it was her apologizing and not Rose, he figured it was good enough.

“Thank you. You’re doing really well so far. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”

She nodded, giving him one last polite smile before trotting back to Y/N and helping her clean up the last bits around their workstation.

“Please do not tell me you were flirting with him.” Y/N gagged, using a ball of clay to gather the little pieces spread across their table like a magnet.

“No, actually, I was apologizing to him for your behavior.”

Y/N snapped her head up, first at Rose and then Harry all the way across the room from them. “You what?”

“He’s just trying to teach and you’ve been a fucking knobhead.”

Y/N gasped in fake offense, which was actually slightly real offense. “Excuse me, he made fun of my bowl the first day, you seem to have forgotten about that.”

“A toddler could have made a better bowl than that, Y/N, and you know it.”

She frowned, grumpily averting her eyes to the table with her arms crossed over her chest like she really was a toddler.

“I’m just saying,” Rose started, a bit calmer this time, “stop pestering him.”

*                                              *                                 *

Y/N thought about everything Rose had said. About how much she wished she could take things seriously and not constantly get on people’s nerves all the time, but she simply did not know how to. Taking the piss out of things and making jokes was how she got through her days.

But she did agree. Harry didn’t deserve her behavior. Maybe he was a bit of a jerk to her to begin with, but insulting his class might’ve been crossing a line.

Because she didn’t actually think it was stupid. She quite enjoyed listening to him. She liked learning something new and following his instructions as he walked them through some of his techniques. She liked being connected to all the people in the little studio, even if only briefly. Complete strangers all shared that one little thing in common and it made her all fuzzy and warm inside each time she met up with Rose at the end of every Wednesday and Saturday.

Hiding behind a bit of humor, however, was a lot more comfortable than admitting she found pleasure in anything as corny as sculpting classes.

On Friday night, boredom got the best of her and she took a chance upon searching Harry’s name on Instagram while she took her weekly bath. It had been Rose’s idea, the bath, not stalking her attractive sculpting instructor online. That decision was completely her own. But the baths at the end of stressful weeks had a little influence from her best friend, as did most aspects of her life. Baths were a waste of time, in her opinion, and she preferred the efficiency of showering. But Rose had given her nice smelling soaps and weird fizzy things for bath time and well… she couldn’t let them go to waste.

So, amid her regularly scheduled, once-a-week bath, she scrolled shamelessly through Harry’s feed. Because he did, in fact, have an instagram. And she only knew it was him because every fourth post was a video and in said videos were his hands. And, fuck, they were just as nice on film as they were in person.

He didn’t post much of his face, which she thought was an actual crime, but there was a lot about him and his sculpting. She found out it had been his sister’s birthday recently, who, when she smiled, looked just like him. He’d also just finished a piece he seemed really proud of, a clay head and bust of a pit bull, to which he linked in the caption about a local shelter who rescued the breed specifically and needed donations. Her heart nearly fucking melted.

Harry wasn’t much of an open book, though, unless he let his art do most of the talking. He seemed to enjoy sculpting women the most, which is probably why he’d been so good at de-lumping the breasts on Rose’s mermaid. But all the female sculptures he made weren’t sexual at all. They had meaning behind them. Like every single clay face she clicked on throughout his photos had a story. Like he was uplifting rather than fetishizing.

And not every single one of them was skinny and had perfect features. She was shocked to see at least half of the creations she’d skimmed through were of larger women with imperfect breasts at times and asymmetrical faces. Not sticking to typical European beauty standards as she may have originally assumed he might.

It made glancing down at her very much imperfect body feel a little less like an attack. Because Harry spent his time putting all his love into his little sculptures with diverse body types that she almost felt ashamed for ever hating hers.

Once she was done clicking on just about every single post he’d ever made, she finally found a selfie. Well… not really a selfie. Someone else had clearly taken it of him candidly while he had been working. But there was an awfully cute smile on his face and very familiar dimples poking into his cheeks that make her heart warm up again.

He wasn’t a damn thing like she’d assumed he was from the beginning. She thought his art centered around the ideal, and that maybe he was a little condescending because of it. But his Instagram told a different story about his art. And she wanted to know so much more about him.

She was completely lost in her dreams about him that just the smidge of distraction led to accidentally liking a photo of his from two years prior.

She’d have to move countries. Change her name. Delete everything. Never look back. Y/N? A distant memory.

Before dropping her phone in the tub and really making a complete ass out of herself, she threw it, instead, onto her furry rug in the middle of the bathroom and sunk herself down into the water. Wondering if it would really be so bad if she just drowned a little bit.

Because she desperately wanted to. There was nothing she could do. Not even unliking the picture would help. He’d still see the notification. Still click onto her page and realize who in the fuck had just liked a two-year-old post of his that he, himself, had probably even forgotten about.

She wanted nothing more than to sink her head under the pink-tinted water and never come back up. Her mind would not stop with the visualizations of what his reaction might be. Things he might be thinking. Like is this that fucking bitch from my sculpting class? Or whether or not she might find herself blocked by morning.

God, just make it stop.

But suddenly her phone buzzed and her heart just about stopped beating. It had to be the notification that Harry blocked her. Was that even a thing? Did Instagram notify you if someone blocked you? And why was her phone on silent? Because her Instagram notifications and her text messages made very different sounds. If it was just a text, she’d consider ignoring it. She’d continue marinating in all her shame a little while longer. But it ate her alive not knowing what the buzzing was from.

So, carefully, she pulled herself upright and reached across the floor until she had her phone in her hand. Before she clicked the screen on, though, she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath.

But when she opened her eyes and found out why her phone had buzzed, she let that breath out and settled her ass down again. It was Rose.

Hey, I can’t make it tomorrow for class. Felt like absolute shit at work today and had to go home because as it turns out I have the flu.

“Fuck,” Y/N mumbled to herself. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go alone because facing Harry after she just did what she did was one thing, but doing it all by herself was another. But a part of her did still want to go tomorrow. The part before her horrific accident when she was full on getting a love boner over Harry. She’d wanted to see him again so fucking bad.

Okay. I probably won’t go too then

Y/N physically frowned at the idea of waiting another five days to see Harry again. Her brain really needed to make its fucking mind up about him. Did she want to see him or not?

No! You have to go and tell me what I missed!

Y/N rolled her eyes, but felt relieved. Even after her embarrassing slip up, her desire to see Harry again still prevailed. And she hated it. How was she even supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, both of them knowing damn well she’d been stalking his Instagram back to two fucking years ago?

*                                              *                                 *

It was beyond weird sitting in their usual cafe on Justice Hill alone, even without the whole Instagram fiasco of the previous night she was trying everything in her power to forget about.

However all the desperate attempts to bury that awful experience were fruitless when she glanced across the room over her latte and found a very familiar set of grumpy-looking eyes already staring at her. But once she did notice him, he immediately looked away, stepping up to the counter to order his own cup of coffee.

She nearly choked on her drink, having to set it down and wipe what had spilled onto her chin off with a napkin she’d already used to sop up another one of her messes.

Of the three weeks now they’d been going to classes and frequenting the cafe just before, she’d never seen Harry. It was like he didn’t have a life outside being an instructor. He just popped up in the studio and she always left before him so she had no idea what he did after class either.

But seeing him here was like seeing a fucking unicorn in real life.

She couldn’t help watching him either, even if she knew she shouldn't. But, in her defense, he was wearing beautiful wine-colored corduroy pants with a tight white t-shirt tucked into them and a beige coat thrown over his arm to match. And for shoes he had on his usual white vans that had gained a few more scuff marks since the last time she’d seen him. His fashion would look terrible on anyone besides him.

He glanced her way again, briefly, when he left the counter with his cup, fighting his legs from walking in her direction but not exactly winning that battle.

And to her surprise, he stood right in front of her, behind the chair where Rose usually sat.

And when she looked up at him, he completely forgot why he had come over. He had no fucking clue what he was doing there. But it was too late now for him to back away and pretend like it never happened.

“Your friend's not coming?” His voice shook, but she didn’t notice with the way he finally took his fucking eyes off of her and gave her a chance to breathe again. He glanced at his watch just to confirm that it was, in fact, only five minutes until class started and it seemed reasonable to assume Rose wasn’t meeting her before then.

She pulled herself together and pretended like his close presence wasn’t intimidating her in the slightest.

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

He left her so fucking speechless, that after he started backing away from her table, reminding her to not be late, she still ended up being late. Because she sat in her chair for what felt like a century repeating his two words over and over again in her head.

Lucky me.

She knew he was only teasing but the way he’d just gone along with her original joke and how his voice sounded when he said it, she could not believe it. She could also not believe how Harry had some kind of massive hold on her that she sat staring at a wall for ten minutes trying to figure out how to operate properly again just to get up out of her chair.

Lucky fucking me.

She could scream.

If she wasn’t in public.

There was an extra pep in her step as she took Justice Hill alone this time, partially because of how giddy Harry had made her and partially because she was late… right after he told her not to be. But how was she supposed to be on time after what he’d just done to her emotions. And to the throbbing mess between her legs, but that's another story entirely.

Everyone was all over the place when she’d finally arrived, though, so it made slipping in the back that much easier. Not that she got past Harry’s watchful eyes, though, but at least she wasn’t interrupting anything while the class readied their workstations for another full night of going ham on their sculptures.

Harry kept his eyes on her mostly the entire time she did the same at her empty little area, watching as she tucked her purse under the desk for safekeeping and threw a couple tools he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her use onto the table. When she wandered off to the wall of shelves to retrieve her absolutely horrifying work of art, he finally gave her some privacy again. But he couldn’t help the fact that he’d been worried sick when she didn’t show up on time after he’d just seen her at the cafe, thinking something horrible could have happened to her between there and here.

So making sure she was unscathed before he, too, got his area organized was essential.

She sat in her chair and stared at what she had made the past three weeks. They’d started with something simple on the first day, taking a pre-cut slice of clay and free-handing a bowl with a few tips from Harry thrown in here and there. Then they jumped straight in after he showed them a few clips of sculptors working, pausing to explain specific things about creating a head and face. They were given everything they needed to make sculpting a complete figurine of a human body as easy as possible.

And still, she managed to create a combination of Shrek and the abominable snowman.

She huffed, wondering if she asked nicely enough Harry would let her just start all over. But before she could even think to do so, he clapped his hands together and got everyone’s attention for today’s mini-tutorial.

He explained smoothing to them and how there were many different ways of doing it so that your end results weren't littered in fingerprints. He reminded them to use water to smooth out the initial shapes of the clay they wanted and if they were having a really hard time with too much warmth from their fingers to use the gloves.

He ventured a little into detail work of the bust, showing a short clip of another artist forming collar bones with just two tools and her fingers. He explained what tools those were and why they were the most efficient for details and went on some more about other detail tools that were good for different things.

And the entire time she was far too lost in his voice and how his eyes lit up passionately when he rambled to even think about the fact that she wasn’t taking a single note for Rose’s sake.

They’d done a few lessons on details for the face, but they had yet to really get that far, only having put on tentative eyelids, lips and a nose for their heads before he really dove deep into details in what she assumed would be a full class later on.

And when he finally took a break to ask for any questions, she was, of course, the first to raise her hand. He thought about ignoring it, knowing all too well that anytime Y/N raised her hand in the back of his classroom, she was up to no good. But he was too nice to do that to anyone, even her.

So he called on her by nodding his head and she cleared her throat while he grimaced, expecting the worst.

“So, um, for example if we were going to do bigger details like abs on a male figure, what would be the best tool for that?”

He could have sworn he was having a heart attack. He had to blink a few times just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. She was actually asking him a legitimate question, and a good one at that. He had to repeat what she said in his head first, just to make sure it was real, before he answered, completely unprepared.

“Um… well after you lay out the clay where you want on the body, you can use one of the knives to blend the edges,” he held up an example of one for her, “and then a large ball or oval tool like this,” he held up another, “to smooth everything out. You’d probably want a more blunt pointed end to shape them, though, after you blend the clay in.”

She nodded like she’d been fully absorbing every single word coming out of his mouth and then he watched as she dug around quietly in the tool kit on her desk, in search of the types of tools he’d mentioned.

He could not fucking believe it though. She finally showed a stitch of interest in learning about sculpting. And he had no idea why she decided to right now. Maybe it was because she was without her partner in crime, but either way he was stunned. Absolutely fucking marveled.

After a few more questions and some demonstrations, he let everyone go and continue working on their projects while he circled the room as he normally did. And he found himself glancing at her from time to time, all by herself in the back with a genuine look of concentration on her face as she attempted making her creature a little less loch ness monster and a little more human.

Eventually, after he figured she was giving it enough effort for him to step in and help if she needed, he headed her way. And just as she sensed him walking down her aisle, while she was busy shaving off clay, a piece of it went flying into the air, completely out of control.

He stopped in his tracks after almost being smacked in the face with a chunk of clay and bent over to pick it up before someone squished it into the bottom of their shoes. He leaned over the edge of the table in front of her again, setting the piece of clay down next to her gently while she bit her lips between her teeth and tried to hide her embarrassed red cheeks behind her hands.

“Sorry!” She squealed at him, further digging herself into a hole.

He shook his head, “S’alright. Not the first time that’s happened.”

She laughed at the thought of him actually getting hit in the money maker with a hunk of clay and it eased her worries a little.

“So how are those abs going then?” He asked.

She stared at her sculpture for a moment before she sighed and turned it around to face him. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before, but it was still pretty rough.

“Mind if I…?” He held his hands out and she, without a single hesitation, handed it over to him.

He immediately grabbed the shaving tool she’d been using, and since it still sat next to her where she’d put it down moments ago, his fingers brushed against her hand when he picked it up. Sending every one of her nerves in the general area on a field day to mess with her nether regions again. It’s just… his fucking hands were an art form in and of themselves. His knuckles prominent, stretching soft skin around the bone. His veins protruding every time he made a more delicate move that required precision. Even the ones on his arms underneath the ink when he was a bit more rough with her sculpture sent her over the moon, while he shaved off bits and pieces with firm pressure to define the shape of the body and somehow create a human-like figure from her mess.

Then he started smoothing down the surface with a little water on his fingers and she went batshit. His hands while dry were one thing, but sparkling, wet, slippery fingertips? Lord have mercy.

She watched him spread a chunk of extra clay onto what would be the figure’s chest to build it up a little more with the knowledge of their previous conversations about dicks and abs making it clear she was attempting to make a male figure. She couldn’t help but watch his muscles flex underneath his tight white t-shirt. From far away across the cafe it had caught her attention. And now right here, she was definitely not letting it go unnoticed. It wasn’t too tight that he looked ridiculous, but just the right amount to show off every curve of his biceps and triceps and whatever other -ceps he had hiding underneath the shirt. He was normally in oversized tops so she was taking full advantage while she still had the chance to.

When he handed it back to her, it was like he’d done some kind of magic spell to get it to look so good after what she’d given him to work with. He leaned forward a little more and pointed at the figure’s chest and she was only halfway paying attention to him when he spoke, mostly focusing on how close he was and every single time he accidentally brushed his skin against hers.

“So if you want to make the abs,” he paused to glance over and dig through her pile of tools until he found the one he was looking for. “Use this to kind of sketch out the shape like we did with the faces,” he took the ball tool and rolled it down the middle of the chest, making a short indent to separate where the pectorals might be, “then you can add on the dimension like I was saying earlier.”

She took over the tool when he flipped it around and gave it to her so she could try for herself. And he watched for a short while as she did what he said to do, sketching out tentative abs, but not really knowing exactly what they looked like to come to any sort of realistic end. Her figure started to look like a shirtless Johnny Bravo.

He just giggled and pointed his stupid finger back into her personal space, smoothing down her mistakes until they disappeared, “Have you never seen a six-pack that wasn’t on a cartoon character?”

She racked her brain, trying to say something funny, but once she looked into his eyes, nothing came to mind. “Of course I have. I just don’t know how to make them look realistic.” She couldn’t exactly remember the last time she’d been faced with a naked man’s chest, but she had seen them before.

“Well…” Harry sighed, resting his head on his hand and staring at her sculpture sideways, “he doesn’t have to have abs.”

And then she said it. Something worse than her earlier set of words back at the cafe. She had no clue what was going on with her tonight, but she needed an ass-kicking for it.

“Do you have abs?”

“Me?” His eyes flickered up to hers in shock and it was far too late for her to backtrack, she was here and she had to face what she’d done. Even while he looked at her like she was fucking insane.

“Uh, well. I mean…” She had no fucking clue what she meant. And even if she did, she sure as shit wasn’t telling him.

Then it clicked in his brain. “You’re not using me as reference, are you?”

After a solid three seconds of just staring at him, she laughed. “No, of course not.”

“Hope so after you gave him that wonky penis.”

She sighed once they were through it. Once he’d proved, yet again, that he didn’t make her embarrassing statements feel as bad as they really were. He kind of just... went along with it.

But then she made it even worse.

“So yours isn’t wonky and crooked, then?”

Jesus, fuck Y/N just shut up.

His smile never faded, however, and instead, he leaned close again and whispered, “Maybe one day you’ll be lucky enough to find out.”

[requiem626k]

IKR! I was really so happy that they took a different path with his story 🥹 God yes, when he started stuttering on the stand... it was the first time he ever did that, I was so ugly crying

OMG WHAT? I CAN'T BELIEVE I MISSED THAT SCENE HAHAHA THAT IS SO CUTE 😭😭 though I really don't have the answer to that question LOL just what colour is his hair (the wiki says dark purple and it makes sense when you look at the official arts but his in-game hair is not like that at all)

Talking about his arts, I'm just devastated and utterly disappointed that we never got a smirking sprite/in-game art of him when he has so many official arts portraying him so...

deep trembling sigh

omg yes... I was literally so sad for Ryunosuke at those times, it is so bittersweet. And I never thought about it that way, oh... That painfully makes so much sense 😞 Maybe as Ryunosuke changed and matured through every case, it was only then that he came to view Kazuma as he really was, without the "ideality" filter that he used to put on whenever he looked at him, it really wasn't Kazuma who changed, it was him... oh dear...

Hmm, I see 🤔 I share your opinion, I also don't think every action of every character must be justifiable by logic, it is not how even we always behave. Though it is true that for the veteran AA players Lord Stronghart has been way too sus lol, the moment I saw him with that majestic theme I just knew they were going to pull a dark age of law kind of thing with him as the head of some corrupted justice stuff, it was way too predictable. But I didn't really have a problem with that as the other parts of the story were really satisfactory 😌

Goodness, about the tap-dance... It meant so much to me, it felt to me like it was the first time in a long time that Sholmes felt genuinely happy for once, it was just then that I understood how capable and astute he really is and how he made mistakes all deliberately before for us to feel included in the previous Dances of Deduction. It was just so precious, the soundtrack that was composed only for that scene had so much nostalgia in it that I directly started tearing up, everything about that scene was so beautiful 🥹

I… I finished the games…

Oh my God. I think that was the best final I’ve ever played in this series. The way everything came together, every person got tied one to another, the truth unfolded, I won’t even mention the gorgeous soundtracks that got introduced in the last case… I played the last chapter with napkins in my hand, it was so heavy and passionate at times, nearly every character had the consideration and depth they deserved, it was just — so so good 🥹

I have mixed feelings about literally everyone, I need to take some time for them to calm down HAHA omg

EYYYYY I'm so glad you enjoyed it! There are a lot of stuff that happened but imo I like how it all tied up... it's pretty clean imo.

And so... what are your thoughts on Barok and Kazuma? Very curious hehe

(and ofc u saw the Balmung part hehe v cursed comment on my part lol)