#filed under > headcanons

[carlislefiles]

arrangement | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento ╰►an arranged marriage is about the most cliché thing he can possibly think of, and it sounds like a terrible idea...that is, until he's actually married to you, and he can't bring himself to have any regrets. 14.9k words

a/n: you could say that this maybe got a little out of hand...but I'm not mad about it. not all of these are arranged marriages exactly, but that's the gist of it. toji's is more of a fake dating type situation, and geto's is like an arranged marriage that he, himself, arranged...so yeah. warnings: cussing, kissing. enjoy <3

fushiguro was a man of few qualities. in fact, if you asked shiu, he’d list three. he never missed a shot, he never got attached, and most importantly, for the right price, he was game for just about anything. typically, he was not in for the long con, wanted to get in, get out, and get paid. so when the job came along—pretending to be someone’s boyfriend—it was almost laughable. not his style at all. yet here he was, locked into a contract that demanded exactly that.

pretend. it was a performance he resented, a role he hated, but shiu had been patient enough to explain it to him repeatedly: this was a means to an end. not real. just business. but toji didn’t buy it—not fully. because the moment he laid eyes on you, the daughter of some scummy, power-hungry politician, it twisted something inside him he wasn’t ready to name.

you weren’t what he expected. you were old enough to navigate the world, but still naive enough to be prey. the endless attempts on your life were proof enough of that. your father, a man with enemies in every shadow, had made you a target, and toji had been hired to keep you alive until the storm passed.

he’d met your father only once—gruff, oily, desperate for protection he couldn’t buy outright. toji accepted the contract with a smirk. this one was different.

usually, he didn’t do long jobs. no dragging out, no strings attached. but the payout? it was obscene, something that promised security beyond the next paycheck—a small fortune just for keeping you breathing. that stack of cash was going to buy him a new life, one where he could afford to be indifferent about everything except what he wanted.and if pretending to be your boyfriend was the price of admission, so be it.

your first meeting was terse, clipped. toji was even more curt than usual, and shiu couldn’t help but chuckle behind his back.

“you’re really off your game,” shiu had joked later. toji had ignored him, the corners of his mouth tight.

you stood there—calm, unshaken—like you had nothing to lose and everything to prove. you were beautiful, yes. but more than that, you radiated a strange kind of quiet strength, a composure that unsettled toji in a way he didn’t expect. “thanks for taking the job, fushiguro,” you said, voice steady, no hint of fear or awe.

“toji,” he corrected sharply, cutting you off. he wasn’t fushiguro—not in this arrangement. he was toji. no room for formalities here. without waiting for a reply, he brushed past you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bringing only the bare essentials.

goddamn it. he liked you. not in the way a man liked a woman—no, that was messy and complicated. but there was something disarming about you: your kindness, your fire, the way you didn’t flinch when he entered the room. you looked at him like he was just another obstacle to push past, and that unnerved him more than it should have.

toji made it clear he wanted distance. he stayed holed up in the guest room, insisting it was for his work. he spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the apartment—scanning for bugs, tracking suspicious activity, watching every visitor, every shadow.

but the truth was, it felt less like a mission and more like a sentence. because every morning, like clockwork, you were there before him, bustling in the kitchen. breakfast for two.

after a few days, you’d nailed his preferences with unsettling precision—the exact way he liked his coffee, the times he preferred to eat, even the small details like his favorite cuts of meat or the way he liked his eggs. he wanted to hate it. but the smell of your cooking, the warmth of the apartment, the sound of your soft humming as you worked—it all chipped away at his resolve.

you were as distant as he was. there was no warmth between you, no awkward stammering or false smiles. you were indifferent. and yet, that indifference drove him mad.

every day, he fought the urge to speak to you beyond what was necessary, to tease you, to make you laugh. you were so impossibly beautiful, and he wanted to see that smile break free, even just once. but you kept him at arm’s length—refusing to drop the formal “fushiguro,” insisting on driving yourself everywhere, rejecting his protective offers with a calm defiance. he wasn’t sure if you hated him, or just didn’t care.

nights were long and sleepless. toji barely closed his eyes, watching every movement in the apartment like a predator. but he noticed you didn’t sleep much either—likely haunted by the fear of waking to a blade at your throat or a gun pressed to your temple.

he could tell you rested easier since he arrived, but the tension was always there. you didn’t trust him. not really. shiu told you toji would do anything for money—risk his life, bleed, even die. but that hardly settled the gnawing doubt.

toji acted like he wanted nothing to do with you—cold, distant, biting in his sarcasm. he mocked your home décor, your pet cat, anything he could to needle you. it was a poor mask for his growing frustration. you took the jabs without flinching, without returning fire. you wore your stoicism like armor. you were thankful he was there—at least that much was true.

even without a job to keep you busy, you filled your days. you read constantly, devouring books with an appetite that surprised toji. you crocheted—something toji never expected to find charming, but watching you work the yarn through your fingers, calm and methodical, was strangely captivating.

you cooked. and you cooked well. thrilled to have someone to share your experiments with, you kept a little tally card ranking each dish by how much you thought toji liked it. reading his face was a challenge.

toji was the kind of man who’d lick his plate clean whether it was tasteless congee or the finest kimchi dumplings. but over time, you learned to notice the small tells: the flicker of raised eyebrows, the twitch of scarred lips that almost became a smile, the way he’d sometimes devour leftovers—or refuse them. when he refused, you packed the extras and brought them to nearby shelters or friends who appreciated the meals.

to keep the act going, you’d introduced him as your boyfriend. your friends were terrified of him, whispering about the intimidating figure who shadowed your life. you swore up and down he was a gentle giant.

toji, of course, thought you were a fool to leave the safety of the apartment. one of the few real conversations you had was an argument about your refusal to stay locked away like a caged animal. “I already quit my job,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to be reduced to some doll playing dress-up in one of my father’s luxury apartments.”

he admired the fire simmering beneath your calm exterior—the kind of fire he could light and feed, even if it never quite broke free. “‘forced’ to quit your job? poor thing,” he said dryly. “you act like that’s a punishment. I don’t get paid unless you survive past the election. after that, you’re free to do whatever you want.”

you didn’t listen. and he secretly loved that. he was afraid of what that meant—that he was falling for you. your calm, measured strength, your quiet rebellion. you sneaked out one morning, slipping away in the shadows just as the farmer’s market came to life nearby. toji found you—not with anger, not with a scolding, but slipping silently behind you within half an hour. his eyes scanned the crowds like a doberman on a scent, glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance your way too long.

for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the armor—something almost like care. that was when things began to shift. you were no longer just the charge, the contract, the obligation. you were becoming...a companion.

he learned the way you smiled when something amused you, how your laughter was low and genuine. he noticed the way your brows creased when you read something that caught your attention. he was no longer a stranger in your life.

if either of you had been honest, you would’ve admitted he had become something more than a bodyguard. he was your boyfriend, just like the contract had stated. he held your hand during quiet walks through the city—“to keep up appearances,” he grumbled, though no one was around to see. he steered your grocery cart, picking out the items you requested while you focused on your list. 

slowly, he became a part of your world. and maybe, just maybe, you were becoming a part of his…and that’s why, the morning you don’t wake up beside him, toji’s chest tightens with a cold, gut-wrenching panic.

gone are the days when you slipped out before dawn, tiptoeing past his guarded watch like a ghost avoiding the light. now, when you wanted to leave, you asked—sometimes even insisted—that he come with you. but this morning? there was no note, no whisper, no quiet footsteps fading down the hall. you were gone.

the ransom letter was a savage slap in the face, but what truly shattered him was how it was addressed—not to your father, not to some faceless politician, but to him. toji fushiguro. shiu drove him to the location marked on the letter, but the drive was silent except for toji’s grinding teeth and shallow breaths. when they arrived, toji didn’t hesitate—didn’t bother with pleasantries or playing along. he threatened shiu, razor-sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

toji didn’t have the ransom money. hell, he never planned on handing over a single cent. his plan was razor-simple: get you out—alive. the killings were brutal, cold, almost automatic, each one a step closer to you.

when he finally found you—trembling, bruised, but breathing—everything else faded. before you could even speak, before you could protest, he scooped you up without hesitation.

“put me down,” you tried, voice shaky but determined.

“no.” his voice was low, sharp, no room for argument. “you’re not walking out of here on your own.”

you tried to push against his chest, weak but insistent. “I’m fine. really.”

he shook his head, voice cracking with something close to desperation. “doesn’t matter if you’re fine or not. I thought you were dead.” he buried his face in your hair, arms locking around you like a cage—safe, fierce, unyielding. “I’m not letting go. not until you’re somewhere safe.” your protests faltered, swallowed by the pounding of your heart and the steady thrum of his. he carried you away from it like you weight was nothing, like he was happy to be carrying it, and he was. 

the car ride home was thick with unspoken tension. shiu squirmed in the driver seat, clearly baffled by the strange dynamic between you two. toji’s eyes were dark, wild—furious and scared, all at once. he wasn’t just angry. he was terrified.

back in your apartment, everything shifted. toji was softer. he cleaned your wounds with care—gentle hands tracing away dried blood, questioning your well-being even when you insisted you were fine.

“no,” he scoffed. “you’re not fine. you’re still here because I didn't let those assholes finish the job.”

that night, he refused to let you cook, ordering in some regrettable takeout that neither of you touched with enthusiasm. he watched you like a hawk—every blink, every shiver, every quiet breath—until exhaustion finally pulled you under. when you finally climbed into bed, he didn’t leave.

“you don’t have to stay, toji. the guest room’s just twenty feet away.”

his voice was rough, low, and thick with something raw you hadn’t heard before. “yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I was twenty feet away when you got taken.” he sank into the chair you’d barely noticed before—one you kept mostly for decoration—and didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.” no explanations. no promises. just presence.

after that day, everything between you changed. toji became something more than a hired gun. he became your boyfriend—not just in name, but in every small gesture. you talked—really talked—for the first time. about his past, the ghosts he carried, the scars left by a wife he’d lost in ways no one understood. about your father, the political games, the betrayals and backstabbing that left you both hollow in different ways.

you showed him your recipe ranking card, and he smiled—rough, rare—and corrected your assessments.

“onigiri, a couple weeks ago? that was the best I’ve ever had,” he admitted, voice a little softer than usual. “make it again. please.” he’s teasing, but you don’t laugh, in fact his plea roots itself deeply and seriously in your chest. 

he bought you little trinkets—simple jewelry he wanted to see you wear, something to remind you he was here. he offered his hoodies when the nights got cold, and you accepted, feeling the warmth of something you hadn’t known you needed.

movie nights became a ritual—mostly his favorites, gory horror flicks that had you curling into his side whenever the blood spilled a little too vividly, and he teases you mercilessly, even though he secretly loves how you tuck your face against his chest like you trust him with the darkest, ugliest things.

the election came and went. your father won by a landslide, just like you both knew he would. toji was off the hook, free to retreat back to the hellhole apartment he called home—or whatever ramshackle place shiu could find for him to crash in.

but your guest room sat empty, pristine, a silent invitation. besides, life here had its perks. the soba and udon cart just a few blocks away. shiu close enough to catch him if needed. you insisted he stay. at first, it was a joke. then it became a hope.

and finally, it became something more. one night, as you rambled about the neighborhood—the quiet streets, the friendly shopkeepers, the little park bench where you liked to read—he cut you off with a kiss. soft, deliberate. the kind of kiss that said everything without saying a word. “I’m staying,” he murmured against your lips. and just like that, the guest room wasn’t empty anymore.

there were murmurs, and not the kind geto could afford to ignore.

at first, it amused him. the whispers that he’d never taken a woman before—never so much as kissed someone in earnest, never truly let another person into his personal sphere. as if he cared. as if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. he wasn’t here to play house. he was building a world. a new age. a godhood. but over time, the whispers festered. they didn’t remain idle gossip passed around bored followers in temple halls. no—rumor became narrative, and narrative became belief. and belief, to geto, was currency. worship was leverage. if the people started to think he was unloved, undesirable, even unworthy…well. that was bad for business.

his presence had always demanded respect, but lately it had been drawing more pity than awe. so, he considered the simplest solution: take a wife. the logic was clean. appearances mattered. to the world, he would become a man desired. a man chosen. it didn’t need to be real—he just needed a woman who looked good on his arm and knew how to smile through a lie. he could force it, if he had to. plenty of women in his ranks would drop to their knees for him without hesitation. he could choose any one of them, claim her, and that would be that. but they were...unimpressive. all of them. pretty, yes. devoted. but empty vessels. parroting back doctrine without a shred of understanding. suguru geto was not going to be associated—married—to someone who couldn't hold his gaze without asking permission.

so he remained single. untouched. unbothered. until manami pointed you out. you were not one of his. you were not a sorcerer, not even particularly spiritual. but you had just graduated with a degree in some intimidating branch of mathematics, and you carried yourself like a woman who knew things. not just facts—but people. the way your eyes scanned a room before entering. the way you paused, mid-sentence, like your mind worked in algorithms and not emotions.

you were not beautiful in the way the others were. you were devastating. geto watched you once. then again. then again. and suddenly he found himself doing something he hadn't done in years: considering. he didn’t want to kidnap you—though, in a different life, that might’ve been easier. no. if you were to be his, you had to come willingly. even if only for show. but what was he supposed to say? hello. I'm suguru geto. I run a violent, weird cult and believe most of humanity is a disease, and wish to wipe them out, you included. be my wife? hard sell.

so he softened. slowed down. approached carefully. he befriended you. as much as he could. coffee in crowded cafes. long, quiet walks filled with philosophical debates you didn’t know you’d win. you challenged him in a way that was neither aggressive nor flirtatious—it was natural. and he hated how much he liked it. you weren’t enamored with him, and that made you perfect. you weren’t trying to impress him, and that made him obsessed.

he knew it wouldn’t last. his time was stretched too thin. his followers were waiting, watching, wondering. he needed a solution. so he made you a deal. marriage. in name only. three to five years. no romance, no expectation. he would cover your expenses. you would live in his home—technically. your own room. your own space. all he asked in return was attendance. appear beside him during select gatherings. smile. nod. pretend. that was all.

you were skeptical. overthinker that you were. he liked that about you—until it made him afraid you’d say no.

then, the night of a morale-boosting celebration—one of those ornate, incense-slick parties filled with silent devotees and powerful investors—you showed up. you didn’t just walk in. you showed up. hair done up like it was sacred. a modest but stunning dress. jewelry glinting like devotion. your nails were painted. your perfume was intentional.

you approached him in full view of the gathering and—without asking—kissed his cheek. your lips lingered long enough to let the room talk. then you leaned into his ear and whispered, soft as sin: “I’ll accept your deal.” he had expected relief. instead, he felt desire. not lust. not even love. something worse—attachment. interest. a dangerous craving for something he couldn’t control.

he spent the rest of the evening parading you through the room, introducing you as his girlfriend—wife, if you corrected him, which you often did—with a quiet affection that bordered on convincing. he watched you charm donors, engage with scholars, maneuver conversations with calculated grace. you made him look like a fool in comparison, and he adored you for it.

the transition was quick. you moved into the estate. brought only what you needed. your room remained tidy. you were unobtrusive, like a guest in a museum. but your presence lingered in the air. a forgotten book on the table. a mug with lipstick at the rim. a scarf that smelled like soap and morning.

you played your role flawlessly. sat beside him with quiet loyalty. held his arm with a lover’s grace. you never slipped. not once. and the cult loved you. they bowed to you with more devoutness than they ever offered him. they brought you flowers. confided in you. hung on your words. you didn’t ask for their worship, but they gave it freely.

where geto commanded with doctrine, you ruled with kindness.

and slowly, the rumors changed. no longer was he the pathetic, untouched false prophet. no. now he was something else—something enviable. a man with a sharp, elegant wife who had chosen him. how else could he have pulled someone like you?

it was late—close to midnight. the halls of his northern shrine were quiet, flickering with the low, golden light of oil lamps. geto had wandered them without thought, seeking nothing. just movement. restless in the way only men who are too full of feeling and too empty of peace can be.

that was when he heard your voice. faint, from around a stone corner. not afraid. but strained. he paused in the shadow of a carved pillar, half-hidden, half-listening. a higher-level follower—one of the more politically useful but spiritually hollow types—stood speaking with you. no, not speaking. lamenting.

“...he’s too harsh. too rigid,” the man sighed. “I’ll be honest, the only reason I've stayed loyal to this place is because of you. you make this place livable.”

a pause. your reply came short, clipped. “thank you.” but then—colder. “that said, you misunderstand him. suguru acts out of necessity, not cruelty. if he wanted a cult full of weaklings, he’d put on a softer face. but he doesn’t. he wants people with purpose. with power. that takes force.”

geto froze. heart in his throat. you weren’t defending him out of obligation. you were…angry. angry on his behalf. “he’s not heartless,” you continued, voice steady, razor-sharp. “he’s strategic. he’s smarter than most of us combined, and the weight he carries would crush you if you tried to bear it for even a day. he’s a better man than you think.” something twisted in geto’s gut. something old and bright and dangerous. because when the man laughed lowly and leaned closer to you—too close, with a smile too familiar—it turned to a spark of rage.

“still,” the man murmured, “you could’ve done better than him.”

you stepped back. your discomfort was visible, even in your silence. you didn’t like this. you didn’t want it. that was enough. geto stepped forward, quiet as death. “go home.” the man startled. his mouth opened, closed again. geto’s presence was ice. his voice, quieter now, more final: “don’t speak to my wife again.”

there were no threats. no violence. but he left shaking. you stood stiff, looking down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“you didn’t,” he replied. “I did.”

but his gaze lingered, almost intimate. you had defended him. without being asked. without reward. not for appearances—but because you meant it. he left that night different than he arrived. something in him had shifted. whatever tether had been holding him back, had been convincing him this was just strategy—just performance—had frayed completely.

from then on, geto became yours in the quietest, clearest of ways. he skipped council meetings to sit with you on the back balcony, legs crossed beneath him as you braided his long hair with gentle, idle fingers. he abandoned tactical briefings just to listen to you explain some theorem he didn’t understand but loved watching you describe—so alive, so sharp. he no longer held court after dark. his evenings belonged to you.

he didn't care that his men muttered about how soft he’d become. that his enemies started whispering about how domesticated he looked. that his public image had cracked around the edges. he let it.

you were the first good thing in years that didn’t ask him to be something else. and in turn, he stopped trying to resist the pull. he watched you build a quiet life within his temple walls—still working, still learning, always hungry to understand more. you weren’t ornamental, you weren’t submissive, and you weren’t easily impressed.

you just…were. and that was enough.

he began to crave those soft weekend mornings, when he’d find you sitting alone on one of the garden benches, knees to chest, reading something complicated. your brows drawn, lips slightly parted in thought. he’d sit beside you, close but not intrusive, letting his fingers trace soft lines into the skin of your arm or thigh. a grounding ritual neither of you questioned anymore.

he picked wildflowers from temple paths and tucked them behind your ears with complete sincerity. he carried you inside when you fell asleep near the water, curled into yourself like some forgotten nymph, his coat draped over your shoulders.

he loved you. he hadn’t said it. but everyone could see it. and you? you were falling, too. gently. undeniably. it was in the way your head tilted toward him when he entered a room. the way your hands lingered longer when brushing against his. the way you now wore rings on both hands, but only one mattered.

your place in his home grew permanent in the most quiet, irreversible ways. your clothes in his wardrobe. your slippers by the door. your hum in the kitchen. your toothbrush beside his. you weren’t pretending anymore, and neither was he.

so it made perfect sense—though it still managed to break him completely—when one night, as the stars hung low over the lake and the house had gone still, you kissed him. you were brave. braver than he’d ever been. your lips were soft but certain, trembling only slightly as they pressed against his.

geto froze. and then he shattered. he kissed you back with something dangerous in his chest. hands braced on either side of you, mouth rougher now, panting against your skin. he pressed you gently against the wall, reverent but greedy, overwhelmed by how long he’d waited.

“my wife,” he groaned between kisses, as if the words hurt to say.

now that you were his—truly his, not just in title but in breath, in blood, in shared silence—geto stopped pretending he was anything less than obsessed with you. he became…possessive. not in the loud, showy way. no, he didn’t flaunt you. he didn’t drape you in diamonds or have you paraded at his side. he didn’t need to. you existed in his life, and that was enough to shatter his composure completely.

he stopped bringing you to cult gatherings as often, no longer sat you at his right hand during meetings. not because he was ashamed—god, no—but because the sight of other people bowing to you stirred something ugly in him. pride, yes, but also jealousy. they looked at you too long. they took too much from your softness.

his wife—and oh, how the title ruined him. he said it constantly. unnecessarily. gleefully. he used it to tease you, smirking with lazy smugness every time your cheeks flushed. “my wife,” he whispered as he kissed your shoulder. “my wife,” as he untied your apron in the kitchen. “my wife,” while you argued over chess strategies and he let you win anyway. it was annoying. it was adorable. you loved it.

and yet, despite his ease with you, despite the quiet comfort you brought him, geto still had moments where panic gnawed at the edges of his ribs. what if you wanted more? what if the lake and the shrine and his terrible world were not enough for you? what if you grew restless, and one day you left?

he tried to hide it, but one evening—when the sun had nearly dipped beneath the horizon and the air smelled like moss and the lake shimmered silver—he broke. you were sitting beside him on a blanket, curled against his side, wearing one of his old black robes like it belonged to you (and it did). the world was quiet. softly spinning.

“I can let you go,” he said suddenly. you looked at him, a little startled.

“if you want,” he added, slower now, like the words hurt. “you don’t owe me anything. this arrangement...I never meant for it to trap you. if you want to leave—truly—I’ll make it safe for you. I’ll fund your life for as long as you need. no one will follow. no one will stop you.”

your gaze didn't leave him. you let him finish, then reached out and took his hand, weaving your fingers through his. you leaned your temple against his shoulder. “if I wanted to leave, suguru,” you murmured, “I would've.” silence stretched between you, sweet and thick and tender. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” he didn’t reply at first. his throat closed around something too raw.

but then he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and letting himself breathe again. you could feel the way he exhaled—like the weight of the entire shrine, of the whole world, had finally left his shoulders. he held you tighter.

satoru had spent years pissing off the higher-ups, mocking them behind closed doors, disobeying orders with a smile, and tossing out their thinly-veiled demands like yesterday’s trash. they’d long grown tired of his antics, but tolerated them, because gojo was, after all, the strongest. untouchable. unmanageable. unmarried.

they’d been pushing for a union for years—someone respectable, traditional. a woman from a noble clan. quiet. pretty. powerful enough to birth the next heir of the gojo line, obedient enough to stay in her lane. it sickened him. the very thought of shackling some poor woman to the political machinery of the jujutsu world—to him—felt inherently cruel. he refused, outright and loudly.

that is, until he met you. you showed up quietly at jujutsu tech one spring, a new instructor assigned to teach close combat. fists only. you didn’t wield a flashy cursed technique. you didn’t brag or posture. you taught students how to survive with grit and knuckles and instinct.

he noticed you before he even realized he had. at first, it was just curiosity—how you held your ground in the staff meetings, how you always sat by yourself at lunch but never looked lonely. you were strong. maybe not gojo-level strong, but you moved with precision and power, and your presence commanded attention. still, what struck him most wasn’t any of that.

it was your kindness. you weren’t sweet in the obvious way. you weren’t a pushover. but there was something about you—gentle when you didn’t have to be, encouraging even on your worst days. the students adored you. nobara would go on and on about how much more she liked you than any other teacher, looking pointedly at gojo. yuuji would recount everything you’d taught him during training, as if the other first years hadn’t been there. megumi liked you, too, of course in his own secretive, soft way. 

and gojo? he was smitten. not instantly. it happened over weeks. months. you disarmed him with every passing day. he kept expecting you to hate him like utahime did. to pity him like nanami sometimes did. but you didn’t. you laughed at his jokes. called him out when he deserved it. you treated him like a person, not a weapon, not a myth.

he hadn’t planned to say anything at the next clan meeting. but when they started in again about marriage, the words just tumbled out. “wouldn’t it be hilarious if I married the new combat teacher?” he said it like a punchline. a grin tugged at his mouth. a joke. sort of. not really.

the elders pounced. unorthodox, yes—but at least it was something. they took it seriously. they liked the idea. you were respectable enough. and if this was what it took to get satoru to do what they wanted—fine. a quiet, pretty wife with discipline and strength. acceptable. they brought it up to you the next week. not as a suggestion. as an order.

gojo had never felt guiltier. he told himself—swore to himself—that if you so much as hesitated, if you looked the slightest bit hurt or uncomfortable, he’d call it off immediately. but you didn’t. you said yes. calmly. clearly. like it was just another mission. and being married to satoru gojo didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

the wedding was beautiful. lavish to the point of discomfort. you’d never been given anything like this. flowers, silks, gold-dusted food. the dress alone was enough to make you feel like a stranger in your own skin—white and flowing, clinging in all the places gojo tried so hard not to look at. he kept close to you, but not overly so—hands tucked behind his back, smiles offered gently. he didn’t want to make you feel like a prize or an ornament.

the ceremony wasn’t for you. not even for him, not really. it was for them. for the elders, for the world, for the headlines. you said yes because that’s what good sorcerers do. and gojo—well, gojo made it as bearable as possible. sweet, funny, thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect. 

then came the house. if the wedding was unsettling, his estate was something else entirely. a mansion outside the city, all glass and high ceilings, polished floors that felt too clean to walk on. he gave you the grand tour, pointing out rooms he hadn’t been in for years.

“I forgot this one even existed,” he muttered as he opened a study lined with books. “seriously, I don’t know who’s been dusting in here, but I need to give them a raise.”

the kitchens were fully staffed. cooks, assistants, spotless fridges full of delicacies you didn’t even recognize. you nearly cried. when he asked what was wrong, you couldn’t quite answer. the kindness? the extravagance? it felt too big, too much. you’d never had luxury before. never had ease.

he showed you to your room across the hall from his. you gasped softly. it was bigger than your entire apartment had been. the walls were still mostly bare, the bedframe stark—but the potential shimmered. “I’ll fill it with anything you want,” he promised. “you want books? a piano? anything. say the word.”

you laughed, and something clicked in his chest. from that moment, gojo made a quiet, private vow: he would spoil you. gently. endlessly. just because he could.

you lived together, so time together became natural. you woke up at the same time, got ready side by side. his showers were long and theatrical. your mornings were quiet and fast. you tried to help in the kitchen—couldn’t shake the guilt—but satoru stopped you every time. “I hired them,” he said softly. “they’re paid very well. let them do it for you.” you nodded, but it still sat heavy in your chest. you’d never had help before. never been allowed to relax.

but you still felt it—that looming question. why me? you weren’t from a notable clan. you weren’t docile. you didn’t bat your lashes and whisper behind silk fans. you weren’t a perfect wife.

and yet, gojo couldn’t stop watching you. couldn’t stop thinking how lucky he was to have you in his orbit. so he started to shower you in praise. a constant stream of warmth, tucked into jokes and winks and soft murmurs.

“you look radiant today, wife.”

“you’re too good to these kids.”

“your students love you, y’know? but not as much as I do.”

every compliment made your heart skip. still, after months, you felt like a guest in his home. so he asked you out on a date. “come on,” he said one evening, spinning his chopsticks. “let me take you out. one night. for real. if we’re gonna live together, we might as well know each other, right?” you hesitated. but you agreed. and the restaurant…oh, it was a mistake.

the building shimmered. the valet line alone made your stomach twist. you’d checked the menu before leaving—it cost more than a month’s groceries. you were dolled up, but you didn’t feel like yourself. this wasn’t your world. this wasn’t you.

you stood on the curb, heart hammering, sure he’d regret this the moment he saw you. and then he did see you. and gojo forgot how to breathe. god, you were beautiful. he wanted to bottle the image of you—eyes wide, shoulders drawn in shyly, that tiny uncertain smile. you didn’t know what to do with your hands. you looked like you wanted to run. and he never wanted to make you feel that way.

“you look stunning,” he said, not joking for once.

you flushed. “you don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not–I'm not saying it because I have to,” he says, earnestly, a little disturbed at the suggestion. “I’m saying it because I want to.” your embarrassment and joy at his words was too strong for you to form a response. 

dinner was…perfect. he talked too much. you listened, soft and smiling. you talked a little, about work, about your students, about your favorite kind of bento. he leaned in closer, listening like you were the most important voice in the world. and you felt it. slowly. you felt it. safe. wanted. not as an object. not as a sorcerer. but just… as you.

you laughed when he told you about a mission gone wrong—accidentally setting off a cursed trap that dyed his hair slightly green for two days. he laughed when you mimicked yuuji’s horrendous battle stance. the air between you shifted.

you felt beautiful under his gaze. he felt peace in your presence. by the time dessert came, you forgot how uncomfortable you’d been. by the time the bill came, you forgot how small you’d felt. by the time he walked you to your room that night, you forgot this had started as anything less than real.

“goodnight…satoru.” and down the hall, in a room big enough to hold his loneliness, satoru lay awake and smiled to himself. she called me satoru. like it meant something.

from the moment you said goodnight, something in gojo shifted. he stopped pretending. not just to the elders. not just to the students. to himself. whatever arrangement had brought you together was irrelevant now. because for him—fully, totally, undeniably—it was real.

he’d fallen for you. maybe slowly. maybe all at once. but it had happened. irrevocably. irreversibly. and now, he woke up each morning and counted the ways he was doomed. he told himself he’d wait. however long it took. however long you needed. because he thought—maybe, just maybe—you were starting to fall, too.

he saw it in the soft smile you gave him when he drove you to work, lingering just a second longer than necessary before getting out of the car. he saw it in the note you tucked into his coat pocket during your lunch break: “I’ll be home late, meeting with ijichi and yaga. don’t wait up <3” but of course, he waited up. you were worth losing sleep over. he saw it in the mochi balls you left in the freezer when you went on overnight missions. the ones in his favorite flavor—always yours to begin with, now his because you decided so. he saw it in how you leaned into him, instinctively, when some kyoto teacher tried to talk over you at a summit. as if his presence was the only shield you trusted.

gojo had spent his entire life being a weapon. an asset. a symbol. he’d been used, revered, feared—but never once had he been treated like someone who could be loved. until you. you made him feel gentle. and he clung to that feeling like salvation.

he took you on dates like his life depended on it. maybe it did. dinner, of course—often too fancy, always too expensive. but also quiet walks through the countryside, boots crunching on leaves, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. hikes through the mountains, where he’d tease you with sweets at the summit and watch you roll your eyes, breathless and pink-cheeked in the cold.

big sorcerer galas, where he let you coo and tsk and fuss over his migraines he’d get from not wearing his mask, massaging his temples with warm hands while whispering, “does that feel better?” god, how could you even ask that when it was the best thing he’d ever felt? he was putty in your hands, melting fast—and happily.

there were smaller dates, too. the kind that mattered more. little bookstores tucked in tokyo alleys. underground musicians he knew you liked. libraries where he’d watch you run your fingers down spines and mentally note every title you paused at.

to be loved, he realized, was to be known. so gojo satoru made it his one goal in life: to know you.

he asked questions constantly. what’s your favorite color? your favorite season? favorite book? favorite breakfast food? have you ever broken a bone? what was your worst day of high school? you answered shyly at first, then more easily. he remembered everything.

a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers appeared in your room every week. he didn’t just read your favorite book—he devoured it. then cornered you in the kitchen to discuss every plot twist like it was the most pressing political scandal of the year. your laughter sounded like home.

you were still humble. still quietly unsure. still never asked for anything. but you’d stopped flinching when he gave you a compliment. stopped shrinking when he spoiled you. you didn’t encourage it exactly—didn’t clap your hands and beg for more—but you didn’t recoil anymore either. you took his love in slow, careful sips, as if trying not to choke on it.

gojo noticed. and he cherished every bit of it. he never said it aloud, but his chest had been torn wide open and stuffed full of sunshine. if you turned off all the lights, he’d glow in the dark.

and maybe that’s why, on one chilly night, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. you were walking the gardens outside his estate. slowly. almost aimlessly. your pace had slowed to nothing. you were bundled in his jacket, too big on you, sleeves swallowed by your hands. the air was crisp. stars overhead. silence between you.

then you turned to him, voice quiet. “thank you…for this life.” he froze. you kept going. “I know you could’ve had anyone. I know the higher-ups have been trying to marry you off for years. I know I'm not…” your voice cracked. you looked away. “I just hope I've been good enough.”

satoru felt something dark and furious twist in his chest. he didn’t speak. he grabbed you. one hand cupped your cheek. the other slid around your waist. he kissed you like he’d been starving for you—because he had. you kissed like that for a long time. breathless. desperate. full of everything unsaid.

when he finally pulled back, you were dazed. warm. his forehead pressed against yours. “I asked for you.” your breath caught.

“I asked them to pick you.” his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I didn't know how else to have you.” his words poured out in a rush. “I’m sorry if it felt like a lie, I swear I didn't mean for it to. I just—I didn’t want to trick you, I just didn’t think I could ever actually deserve you. you’re so good. you make me feel—human. and I let you think you weren’t enough when really I'm the one who’s not—”

you didn’t let him finish. you grabbed his collar and kissed him again. fierce. certain. real. that was your answer. and it was more than enough. satoru couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his married life knowing you. 

ino had spent the better part of his life proving himself. becoming a grade 1 sorcerer under mentor recommendation wasn’t easy—especially not when you were once the kid with the fake glasses and something to prove. it took years of training, fighting, and swallowing his doubts like medicine. and when he finally got that promotion, that recognition? it felt good. really good. but short-lived. because the higher-ups didn’t care much for individual merit. not really. they cared about bloodlines, continuity. legacy. the survival of jujutsu society through children—preferably from the strongest, the best, the most ‘respectable’ clans.

it was gross. he knew it was gross. but still...he couldn’t deny it. that fantasy had always lingered at the edges of his mind. the dream. a sweet, beautiful wife—someone soft and kind, who called him honey and kissed him on the cheek and left sticky notes on the fridge. kids, loud and messy, who ran through the hallways with little paper talismans and toy weapons. a small home. a big one. didn’t matter. just a life—one that didn’t end with his cursed energy bleeding out on some battlefield.

he loved his job. he really did. loved helping people. loved protecting them. loved being useful. but that kind of love had a cost. and ino, even as young as he still was, could feel it gnawing at him. he was 15 when he became a first-year at jujutsu tech. since then, every second of his life had gone toward climbing the ranks. he didn’t go to parties. didn’t have dumb high school crushes or hold hands under lunch tables. didn’t go on vacations or have summers off. he had given everything to this life.

so, when the elders called him in at twenty-one and handed him a marriage file? he didn’t fight it. maybe that should’ve bothered him more than it did. maybe it would’ve, if he hadn’t opened that folder and seen you.

just a photo. a passport-style headshot. it wasn’t much. but even in that sterile little image, you were gorgeous. it kind of knocked the air out of him. he wasn’t sure if it was just the whole you’re gonna be my wife thing making him feel a little delirious, but… you looked like the kind of woman who was already out of his league, and now—somehow—he was marrying you.

the rest of the file gave him a little more context. you were the same age. same amount of years in the field. smart—really smart—according to your transcripts (which made him laugh; what did test scores have to do with being a good wife?). from a small, quiet clan, not big or flashy, but deeply respected. strong, too. you had dozens of successful missions under your belt and several commendations.

too perfect, he thought at first. like they’d just built you in a lab to be everything he’d ever wanted. maybe that was a good thing. maybe someone like you could pull him together. soften his sharp edges. keep him steady. he didn’t want to get too excited—didn’t want to start imagining too much. but… it was hard. hard not to imagine holding your hand in public. hard not to imagine brushing his teeth next to you. falling asleep next to you. maybe even…waking up next to you with his arm still around your waist. god, he was down bad and he hadn’t even met you yet.

you didn’t meet until the wedding. he hated that part. hated that this was how you had to meet. through obligation and duty, instead of something romantic. you deserved more than this, he was sure of it. but then you walked down the aisle, and all his guilt vanished. because it wasn’t dread that hit him. it was awe. it was you, you, you, you—and nothing else.

your dress was simple, elegant, and you wore it perfectly. hair down, soft curls tucked behind your ears. your expression calm and polite, even though he could tell—just from the way you kept your hands folded—that you were a little nervous. you kept your gaze down for most of the short ceremony, only glancing at him once or twice. he didn’t mind. he was looking enough for the both of you. god, he hoped you couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

the ceremony was short. civil. boring, honestly. just enough formality to appease the elders. your family didn’t come. he didn’t ask why. he didn’t have much family of his own. maybe that was for the best. it made the moment feel smaller, more intimate. quieter. like the two of you were slipping into something private and precious, away from the noise of sorcerer society.

you answered every question like it had been rehearsed. like you were saying your lines. and ino got it. you were doing what you were told. just like him. it made something in his chest ache. he couldn’t let himself get too attached. not yet. but when the ceremony ended, and your hand finally found his—light and gentle in his palm—he knew he already was.

the house was new. small, not flashy, tucked into a sleepy neighborhood on the edge of tokyo. not too far from the school, but far enough that the city buzz faded into birdsong and the occasional neighborhood dog.

it wasn’t much—two bedrooms, a little backyard, warm hardwood floors—but to ino, it felt like everything. because you stepped inside and smiled. you ran your hand along the kitchen counter and said, “this is perfect.” and you meant it.

he showed you around room by room, stumbling over his words sometimes, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager on his first date. but you… you seemed so at ease with him. more open than you had been at the ceremony. you laughed when he opened a closet and found a wasp’s nest. you gasped when you saw the backyard garden that had come with the property.

you already trusted him, somehow. that’s what it felt like. and ino was desperate to protect that.

he put all the furniture together by hand. dragged in chairs and tables, assembled bedframes with sore wrists, then unassembled them and reassembled them when you decided they’d look better in the other room. he didn’t mind. in fact, he’d never been happier to bruise his thumbs with an allen wrench.

every night that week, the two of you cooked dinner together. sometimes you sat in the kitchen and read while he worked. other nights you danced around each other in your socks, making curry and rice and bickering playfully about how spicy was too spicy. you seemed to be very fast friends. 

you didn’t know it yet—but he was already in love with you. quietly, fully. 

one night, over dishes still warm from rinsing, you told him. not in many words. just a whisper, quiet as steam rising from the sink. you hadn’t known what to expect from him. you’d been so afraid. that he would be cruel. controlling. that he’d treat you like something owned, expected things from you without asking. an heir. obedience. silence. you’d been prepared to be treated like an asset, like you always had. a sorcerer first. a woman second. a person last. you didn’t say much more. you didn’t need to. ino didn’t say anything, either. but it hit him like a curse to the chest.

first—guilt. heavy and hot in his gut. not because of anything he’d done, but because you’d been made to think your whole life would be like that. that someone like him—who wanted so badly to be good, to be gentle, to be enough—could be feared by someone like you. that someone must’ve made you believe you weren’t worth softness, safety, or kindness.

then—grief. quiet, cold. the ache of watching someone you care about shrink into themselves. the sadness of knowing you’d walked into this marriage bracing for pain. expecting commands, demands, rules, punishments. he hated that for you. hated every memory that must’ve taught you that love came with conditions.

and finally—relief. thick and sharp. like taking a breath after holding it underwater. because he could be safe for you. he was safe for you. and more than that—he wanted to be. you weren’t scared of him now. not when you sat beside him at dinner. not when you touched his hand during movies. not when you smiled sleepily at him from the couch like you weren’t afraid of anything at all.

you trusted him. and it made him want to weep with gratitude. so he didn’t speak. he just kept drying the dishes. handed them to you gently. let his fingers brush yours. and in that silence, in that fragile, wordless space—you relaxed. for the first time in your life.

and so did he. because even though takuma ino was silly and light-hearted and maybe didn’t always say the right thing, with you…he didn’t have to prove anything. he wasn’t just a sorcerer. he wasn’t just a husband by contract. he was someone who could love you, and that, he realized, was the best thing he’d ever be allowed to do.

things were perfect in a way that made takuma nervous. not the kind of nervous he got before a mission or when he had to answer to gojo or yaga. not even the kind of nervous he felt the first time you’d stood across from him at the altar, calm and unreadable while he’d practically vibrated with anxious energy. no, this was different.

this was the kind of nervous that crept in after you realized everything you wanted was already in your hands. because life had never felt this full before. this bright. this good. and he had you to thank for all of it. ino had once hoped—naively, maybe stupidly—that being married to someone strong and serious might whip him into shape. that his new wife would be strict, sharp, practical. that she’d mirror the same steely, polished professionalism expected of a grade 1 sorcerer’s spouse. maybe she’d keep his head on straight. help him level up in the ways that counted: promotions, reputation, rank. make him better.

but then you came along—and takuma forgot what he was trying to be better for. because with you, he didn’t think about sorcery at all. he didn’t think about his technique. or how long it had been since nanami had last given him a nod of approval. or how many cursed spirits he’d banished in the last six months. none of that mattered. 

all he could think about was you. how much he liked you. how soft you made him feel. how he woke up every morning wondering how he could make you smile that day—how he could earn your happiness, and keep it. he knew the nature of arranged marriages in jujutsu society. they were never designed to be tender. they were contracts. strategic. binding. and he didn’t even want to think about the consequences he’d face if you ever left him—professionally or personally. but it was never about that. not really.

he didn’t want you to stay because of the contract. he wanted you to stay because he couldn’t go back to being alone. to being half-human, half-weapon. to measuring his worth in mission reports and scars. he couldn’t stomach the idea of being someone you used to live with. someone you used to care about.

and the wildest part? you didn’t live like that. not anymore. it was subtle at first, but ino saw it. you’d come from a house of rules, strict and sharp-edged. you were disciplined to the core, trained to put others first, to perform, to be perfect. but now…you were learning how to live.

you slept in sometimes, you ate the sweets you used to avoid, you laughed at terrible puns. you took ino on suspiciously date-like outings to coffee shops and farmer’s markets, dragging him past flower stalls and baked goods, eyes gleaming like you’d never been allowed to enjoy them before. and best of all—you never treated him like a sorcerer.

you never asked about his technique. never seemed impressed by his grade or reputation. you asked how his day was. you packed his lunch and left notes. you let him talk, vent, joke, ramble. you saw him. just him. not the title. not the rank. just takuma. and it wrecked him.

one evening, you told him—quietly, hesitantly—that you were thankful. that you didn’t know how you got so lucky, ending up with someone who was kind to you. you stumbled over the words, which wasn’t like you. you were usually so composed. but you admitted that maybe…in a different life, things would be different. the marriage wouldn’t have to be fake.

the words made his blood buzz, like he'd been holding his breath for months. without thinking, he grabbed you—not harshly, just urgently. like he needed to anchor you to the ground. like he was scared you'd float away the second you said it out loud. and then, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue since the moment he met you, he said: “it was never fake for me. from the moment I saw you, none of it was fake.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed. and then, slowly, carefully, you reached out. wrapped your arms around your husband. leaned in close. and kissed him, because isn’t that what married couples do? and takuma kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed to.

……

the house was louder now. a little messier. there were fingerprints on the glass doors and juice cups in the sink, toys left halfway through elaborate adventures on the living room floor. someone had drawn all over one of his mission reports in crayon. he hadn’t even been mad.

because when he looked up and saw you—hair pinned messily back, laughing in the kitchen as you tried to scoop rice into a bowl while a toddler clung to your leg—he felt something in his chest swell so big and full it was a wonder it hadn’t broken open yet.

this was his life. you and the kids. a house full of soft chaos and unshakable joy. days that started too early and ended with little bodies asleep between you, mouths slightly open, cheeks warm with sleep. he’d never been so tired. he’d never been so happy.

takuma had once believed love would cost him something. that having a family would be another weight to carry. one more duty. another thing to fail at. but he’d been so, so wrong. this—this—wasn't a burden. this wasn’t something to carry. it was the thing that carried him. being a father was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

it changed everything. his priorities. his pace. he still took missions, still wore the badge of grade 1 with quiet pride, but he said no now. he turned down the ones that felt wrong in his gut. he left the field when he was injured. he let others take the high-risk ones. because his wife—his wife—mattered more than any of it.

he watched you now from the doorway, one arm lazily braced above the frame, eyes half-lidded with love as the kids scrambled around your legs, yelling something about dinosaurs and bugs and an impending tea party. you scooped the youngest up without missing a beat, balanced them on your hip like it was second nature. it was.

and takuma thought, not for the first time, god, she’s perfect. not just beautiful, though you were that too. but good. kind. strong. warm in a way that softened the sharpest corners of his soul.

he’d once been so scared of responsibility. now he wanted it. he wanted to be your husband. their dad. he wanted to be the one who made dinner when you were tired, who helped with math homework, who kissed bruised knees and told bedtime stories that got increasingly dramatic just to hear the kids laugh.

“I ever tell you,” he said, padding into the kitchen, voice soft as he slid behind you and kissed your temple, “that this is all I ever wanted?”

you leaned into him, eyes tired but bright. “every day,” you teased.

he grinned. “good. I’m not planning on shutting up about it.” and he meant it.

because he had everything now. a home. a family. you. and takuma—once a lonely, overworked, people-pleasing sorcerer who thought praise and promotions were the only proof he was doing something right—finally understood what it meant to live a life worth protecting.

choso was new to sorcery—but even newer to being human.

when the summons arrived, a scroll sealed and stamped in the language of tradition, yuuji and gojo were quick to explain that the higher-ups loved to play god. force alliances, breed lineages, shape the next generation of jujutsu society like clay in their gnarled hands. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” gojo had said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “they’re just bored aristocrats in robes.”

but choso hadn’t said no. not because he felt obligated—he barely recognized authority as it stood—but because…well, he thought it sounded kind of nice. sweet, even. romantic. yuuji had explained marriage to him in simple terms. a lifelong bond. partnership. someone who could be your best friend. a person who chooses to love you every day. it made choso's chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

he wasn’t even sure he could reproduce. half-curse biology was a tricky thing, and he didn’t care to explore it. but still—if it was just for looks, as gojo and yuuji insisted, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he’d get to wear something nice. eat cake. smile at someone pretty. maybe he’d get to try being romantic.

yuuji was wary on his behalf. protective. he didn't want some power-hungry clan girl using choso's status to claw her way higher up the jujutsu hierarchy. but when they met you—quiet, trembling, kind—you shattered every cynical assumption they’d had. you weren’t from a flashy family. your clan was small and conservative, one that preferred tradition and silence to showy skill. you bowed politely. you smiled nervously. you never raised your voice, never met their eyes.

choso didn’t say much on the day of the wedding. he was stunned into silence, not out of fear but from sheer sensory overload. the ceremony was extravagant, as expected, but to him it felt like magic. he wore a tuxedo for the first time. had his long hair carefully styled by a jujutsu tech assistant. yuuji stood proudly beside him, trying not to cry. there was music, too. food and flowers. a big, beautiful cake.

and then there was you. he couldn’t look away from you. your dress. your skin. the way you held your breath when your eyes met his. you looked like something out of a storybook. choso didn’t know how to be subtle, so he didn’t even try. he stared. wide-eyed. awestruck. you looked like you were glowing. he told yuuji every thought that crossed his mind after. “she smells nice,” “her dress was soft-looking,” "Is it okay to think my wife is pretty?” yuuji begged him not to say any of that to your face. not yet.

the car ride back to your new home was silent. you sat stiffly beside him, your hands folded in your lap like you were bracing for impact. choso stole little glances at you—then long ones, staring openly when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

you noticed. you kept waiting. bracing. wondering when the act would drop. you’d been raised in a home where men didn’t love. they owned. where girls were groomed to say yes and smile and open their legs whether they wanted to or not. where being married meant being silent, and scared, and useful.

but choso just stood at the threshold of your new home, turning slowly, taking everything in. the wallpaper. the strange furniture. the cozy rug. he pulled out his phone and texted yuji: “do I say something now?” then he turned and gave you a smile—shy, awkward, but genuine.

you waited. your fingers trembled in your lap. you waited for the barked orders, for the dragging hand, for the crack of authority to echo through the house. but choso only asked you softly where you wanted your boxes placed. said your name like it was something delicate in his mouth.

he talked a little that first night, though he wasn’t good at it. told you he liked your hair. that he liked the house. that it was weird but fun to wear a tux. that he was sorry if he seemed strange, he just… didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. you didn’t say much in response, mostly nodded. you couldn’t believe it. couldn’t believe that this wasn’t a trap, a test, or some cruel prank.

“kamo—” you started.

“call me choso,” he interrupted gently, his gaze sincere. “please. I—I prefer that name.”

you nodded, unsure. your voice caught in your throat. you wanted to ask a thousand questions. do you know what marriage means? do you know what you’re supposed to do with me? do you know what’s expected of you—and of me?

but you said none of them. afraid that speaking the words aloud might summon the monster.

that night, you made dinner. a modest meal, more ceremony than sustenance, just something to ground yourself in normalcy. choso ate all of it. every bite. said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “yuuji once burned ramen,” he told you proudly. “he tried so hard. it was still crunchy.”

you laughed, just a little. you didn’t know it yet, but choso would hold that sound in his chest for the rest of the week. days passed. stilted. quiet. hesitant. but safe.

you began to relax in the space. your steps no longer tiptoed. you cooked more meals. choso started asking, shyly, if you’d mind packing his lunch when he left on errands. “only if it’s not too inconvenient,” he’d say. you nodded. of course, you told him. I'm here to be useful to you, choso. he didn’t answer right away. something about the way you said it unsettled him. useful? he didn’t like the sound of that. like this marriage was about what you could for for him. 

yuuji gave him advice. told him to take you out. “like a date. a real one. show her you like her.” choso brought it up clumsily. you said yes instantly—so instantly it felt like a reflex. “you don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” choso told you earnestly, head tilted like a confused dog. "I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

that was the moment the fog began to lift. you realized, in a single breathless moment, that choso wasn’t a monster waiting to strike. he wasn’t a master. or a soldier. or a shadowed curse. he was just a man. a little lonely. a little confused. a little smitten. a man who liked you and happened to be married to you.

"I want to,” you said. and choso’s hands shook with joy as he texted yuji, "I think she likes me now!!!!” he planned a clumsy little date. you wore something pretty and he complimented it three times before you left the house. he took you to a movie (a romcom, because you said horror was too scary), and halfway through the popcorn he whispered, “this is the best day ever.” you laughed, but he meant it.

the next week, he tried to cook for you. it went terribly. the dumplings were a mess. half-burnt, lopsided, falling apart before they even reached the plate. choso looked crushed by it—slouched at the stove, brows furrowed like he’d disappointed you. but you didn’t mind. you were quick to move beside him, murmuring a soft reassurance as you grabbed the pan, fixing what could be saved with steady hands and a bit of seasoning. you plated them neatly. made them presentable. and when he took his first bite, he looked at you like you’d performed a miracle.

there was praise in his eyes. gentle admiration. “you’re so great,” he told you, with hearts in his eyes. “you’re so good at everything.” you flinch a little at the praise, like you’re not sure what do with the weight of it on your shoulders. choso saw it—how your fingers trembled just slightly. how your eyes dropped to the floor. how praise seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with it. that quiet, guilty way your shoulders curled in. he noticed how you smiled without meeting his gaze. how you moved around him like he was a fragile bomb, unsure of what might set him off. he didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong—but he knew, with the kind of certainty that sat heavy in the chest, that something was wrong.

“are you…afraid of me?” he asked, gently. the idea made him sick. the last thing he wanted was to be feared, especially by someone like whom he liked so much. “why are you always so—careful?” the question hung in the kitchen like smoke. it wasn’t an accusation. it was a genuine wonder. because he didn’t understand why someone as soft and sweet as you looked at him like he might break you.

you opened your mouth—but nothing came out at first. then you sat down at the edge of the dining table, fingers clenched in your lap, eyes wide with something older than fear. something deeper. something that lived in the bones. and you told him. not with rehearsed clarity or poetic structure—but with a raw, unraveling honesty. stammering, halting words. a truth that had been carved into you over years.

it didn’t come out like a confession. it wasn’t a story with a beginning, middle, and end. it was bits and pieces, torn at the edges. the heaviness of your silence as it cracked open into something trembling. shame. memory. fear so deeply rooted, it had shaped the way you walked, the way you thought, the way you braced yourself for touch that never came.

marriage had never meant safety to you. it meant control. obedience. pain. you’d grown up watching women disappear inside themselves, reduced to what they could provide—bodies, labor, silence. you’d watched the world turn cruel inside the walls of a home. and somewhere along the way, you had decided that love was just another kind of wound.

choso listened. still and unmoving, like if he breathed too loudly it might scare the truth back inside you.

"I'm sorry,” you said finally, a knee-jerk apology you didn’t even realize you were offering. "I'm so sorry if I ever seemed cold or distant or strange, or-or if I ever made you feel…I don’t know—I just…” you turn your head away, unable to bear the immense weight of his silent gaze. "I'm so sorry,” you whispered again, this time into the stunned quiet. "I know it’s not fair to think that of you, and I feel awful about it, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know someone like you existed.”

his jaw was tight. his eyes shined. "I don’t want you to be useful,” he said. "I just want you to be happy. if I do anything—anything—to make you feel small or scared, I want you to tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll change it. I'll stop whatever it is.” a pause. then, with a breath like a prayer: "I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.”

the change is subtle. so small it almost passes by unnoticed—but choso sees it. it’s in the way your steps don’t hesitate beside him anymore. the way you reach for his sleeve when you’re nervous. the way, when the conversation around you grows too sharp, too loud, you lean into him rather than shrinking away. once, your posture around him was all calculation: poised, perfect, prepared to endure. now it’s something gentler. closer. unafraid.

you trust him. choso can feel it in his bones. and he holds that knowledge like a precious thing—tender, breakable, sacred. he doesn’t take it lightly.

when you stumble, he catches you. he never lets you apologize for it. when an event grows too loud, too bright, too much, he doesn’t ask. he just finds your hand, leads you out, drives you home. quietly, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy for him. because it is.

he likes driving you places. likes when you sit in his passenger seat and pick the music. likes the way you hum under your breath at red lights. likes treating you to dinner—ramen, sushi, pancakes at midnight—anything you want. it’s not about being traditional. he just wants to be good to you. provide for you. make sure you never go without, not while he’s around.

you become friends—slowly, then all at once. laughter starts filling in the gaps between awkward silences. shared jokes and quiet routines. the way he always brings you tea in the morning, even if he doesn’t drink it himself. the way you always double the recipe when cooking, setting his plate down before he even sits.

he didn’t understand, not really, what the people  meant when they said “marriage.” but now he does. it’s this. this quiet companionship. this soft joy. this life. 

he still has his quirks. he’s blunt to a fault—awkward, painfully honest, and occasionally a little too literal. romance doesn’t come naturally to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. he compliments you like it’s as natural as breathing.

“you are so beautiful.” “you’re the prettiest girl I've ever seen.” "I love it when you smile.”

sometimes he’ll say it in passing. midway through folding laundry. after biting into a dumpling. while you’re brushing your hair and not even looking at him. you smack his arm with a smile. tell him not to flatter you so much. but it’s not flattery to him. he doesn’t even register it that way.

choso doesn’t know how to flirt. he doesn’t realize there’s any performance to it. he just says what he thinks, exactly as he thinks it. and that’s what gets you most of all—how sincere it is. how uncalculated. no charm, no strategy, just choso, all wide-eyed and genuine and completely unaware of what his words do to you.

you begin to soften around him like melting snow. he notices the warmth in your gaze before you do. you start sitting closer to him on the couch, letting your knees touch. you start making his favorite meals without asking. you brush lint off his collar without realizing it.

he never stops doing his part. always careful, always patient. gives you space without ever making you feel alone. when he brings you to meet yuuji for the first time, he pulls his little brother aside beforehand and tells him firmly—“no yelling.” he knows loud men rattle you. keeps you far away from gojo on principle.

you cook for yuuji often, and his grumpy little friend megumi. choso eats every meal like it’s a holiday. thanks you every time. you tell him it’s nothing, that it’s the least you can do. he always disagrees. you don’t owe him anything, he says. you never did. but it still means the world to him.

one day, you’re walking together through tokyo. it’s sunny, but not hot. crowded, but not unpleasant. you’re talking softly about the bakery you want to try around the corner when you feel it—his hand, slipping into yours. like it’s normal. like it’s always been that way. you look down, blinking. he doesn’t even seem to notice, just keeps walking like it’s the most casual thing in the world. you glance up at him, a question forming. he catches your expression and offers, plainly, “yuuji said couples do that.”

you laugh—a real one, bright and unfiltered. then you squeeze his hand and lean in, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. he glances down at you, curious, smiling faintly. and you say, in the softest, most conspiratorial whisper—“did yuuji tell you what kissing is?” choso trips over a crack in the sidewalk. which answers your question well enough.

marriage had always been part of nanami's plan. not a romantic dream, not some wistful fantasy—but a goal, like anything else. stability. consistency. someone to build a life with. someone to go home to. someone to care for, to take care of. he never imagined love would come easy—nothing ever had—but he'd always imagined it would be real. earned. honest.

just…not like this. not arranged. not forced. not signed and sealed by the higher ups with a polite congratulations and a subtle reminder of the responsibility now placed upon his shoulders.

he put it off for years. every time the elders insisted, he declined. until gojo—with his reckless, star-bright optimism—went through with it. and somehow, shockingly, it worked for him. so nanami caved. signed his name where they told him to. said yes when they gave him your name. figured at worst, you could be companions. civil. polite. friends, even. you’d both maintain your dignity. your distance.

it didn’t have to mean anything. and then he saw you walk down the aisle. and every thread of logic in his head went up in flames.

you were breathtaking. not in the overdone, romanticized sense of the word—but truly, viscerally. the kind of beautiful that made him sit up straighter. that made his pulse spike with guilt. your dress hugged every curve like it was made to provoke him. your face unreadable, your lips soft and untouched, your eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. you looked like someone from a dream he hadn’t dared to admit he’d had. and he knew, right then, that friendship was off the table.

he was so screwed. so he did what he always does when emotions run too high: compartmentalized. stuffed it down. locked it up. told himself this was a marriage in name only. that he would be respectful. dutiful. distant. he would not touch you. he would not think about you. he would not ruin you with the weight of his own desire.

and then you spoke to him—softly, sincerely, asking if he needed anything. if there was anything you could do to make this easier on him. and you smiled at him like you meant it. like you didn’t mind being here. like maybe you were hoping for something.

and nanami felt sick. not at you—never at you—but at the situation. at the system that placed you in this position. at the knowledge that somewhere along the line, someone taught you this was your role. to ask what he needed, to offer yourself up for service like some kind of dutiful wife on day one. he told you—firmly, perhaps too firmly—that he expected nothing from you. and he meant it. but the way your face dropped still haunts him.

because you had hoped, hadn't you? not for love. not for anything improper. just for connection. for kindness. to not be alone.

you told gojo, apparently. quietly, in confidence. that you didn’t think nanami liked you. that maybe you’d done something wrong. of course gojo told him. "she feels like you don’t like her," he said, shamelessly stirring the pot. "which is crazy, 'cos she’s great."

"you’ve met her twice, gojo. and don’t talk about my wife." nanami’s voice was sharp, clipped. but the words lodged like a knife in his chest. he’d wanted to be honorable. restrained. a gentleman. but somehow you’d taken his distance as dislike. his silence as coldness. he couldn’t let that stand.

so he changed. slowly, carefully. he didn’t get any closer physically—still maintained his boundaries, still slept on the edge of the bed if you even let him in the room at all—but his efforts became more intentional. his speech softened. his tone warmed. he held doors. he asked about your day. he remembered things you said.

still, he never once commented on your appearance. not your hair, which always looked soft and neat, not your perfume, even when it made him dizzy. not your lips, even when you bit them while reading, which drove him mad. because he didn’t want you to think that was all this was. he wouldn’t reduce you to something superficial. wouldn’t treat you like a trophy. wouldn’t make you feel small.

but it was hard. so hard. because you were gorgeous. and kind. and funny, though you kept that part guarded. you were sharp-tongued and prickly and far too used to fending for yourself. you flinched under the smallest bit of praise. frowned when he complimented your cooking. got visibly uncomfortable when he opened your door or pulled out your chair.

"you don’t have to do all this husband-y stuff," you’d mutter, half-under your breath. he only smiled at that. yes, he did. you didn’t understand—this wasn’t performance. he wasn’t playing a role. he wanted to be good to you.

so he started smaller. made it subtle.

not "I bought this for you,” but "I picked up this chocolate. couldn’t finish it all, if you want some.” (he could finish it. he didn’t even like chocolate.) not "I booked you a trip,” but “there’s a train to takahama saturday morning. I remembered you said you liked coastal cities.”

you didn’t realize it was spoiling. it didn’t feel like spoiling. it felt casual. convenient. but it wasn’t. nanami had a hand in everything—softly, quietly, never drawing attention—but always thinking of you. always.

and still, you didn’t see it. because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that you weren’t meant to be treasured.

that night, on a checkered picnic blanket under low evening light, you finally told him. you didn’t look at him. you were chewing a fancy pastry he bought just for you, one you’d insisted he didn’t need to get, and between bites you murmured, like it was nothing—"I don’t really deserve any of this. you’re amazing. this whole thing feels like a joke. I mean…I'm nothing compared to you."

and nanami put his pastry down. very calmly, very clearly, he said, “don’t say that again.” you blinked. unsure if you’d heard him right. “you deserve everything,” he said. “and if you’ll let me, I'd like to be the one to give it to you.” you swallowed hard. "I know this marriage may not be the realest thing,” he continued, softer now. “but you are. you’re real. to me.” and for once, you didn’t argue.

you just looked at him. like you believed him. or maybe like you wanted to. nanami is the perfect husband, or he can be. if you’ll just let him.

you remain a bit uncomfortable, even after that. nanami can tell. you’re polite. grateful, even. but still not used to the spoiling. still flinching at the painful sweetness of his attention. like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. like you’re afraid he’ll stop.

but that only makes him more determined. he thrills at the sight of you eating sweets—how your eyes flutter closed for just a second, how you savor every bite like it’s a secret. he keeps a mental list of every flavor that makes your face light up.

he notes how you smile up at him, surprised but pleased, when he casually drops a quote from your favorite book into conversation. and how you hover near him at sorcerer gatherings—not because you have to, but because you want to.

you’re starting to like him. maybe even trust him. but not nearly as much as he likes you. as he loves you. the realization hits him quietly one evening, like most important things do. another sorcerer gala. he hates them. has always hated them. the showboating. the politics. the noise. but now…he attends them all. with you on his arm. his wife.

you, dressed in silk and sparkle, laughing under low chandeliers, letting him spin you gently on the floor like he might break you otherwise. you, with one hand in his and the other around a flute of something bubbly, looking every inch the vision you were on your wedding day.

he’s never believed in much. but “my wife” becomes scripture. biblical. he says it like a prayer. at meetings. at missions. at dinners. 

“my wife likes that brand of tea,” he says absently in meetings, pointing to the box someone brought in for the breakroom, as if it’s a credential that matters.

“my wife read that book,” he murmurs during a mission debrief when some sorcerer brings up philosophy, and then—because he can’t help himself—adds, “she said the ending was overrated, but the prose was lovely.”

he says it everywhere. your name, your title, your presence. it becomes his rhythm. his grounding. he clings to it like scripture.

my wife this. my wife that. my wife likes her soup just a little spicy. my wife hates when it rains and she doesn’t have an umbrella.

my wife once said she wanted to see fireflies again. so we’re going. end of june.

he knows you like the back of his hand. not because he memorized you like a task—but because loving you is the only thing that comes easy in a world that’s never been kind.

gojo teases him endlessly. nanami doesn’t care.

he’s proud. reverent. and somewhere along the way, you stop pulling away. start leaning in.

it’s not immediate. not dramatic. but slow. cautious. earned.

you start to accept this scary thing called love.

and then, maybe—maybe—you start to give it back.

it all falls apart (or falls together) after one of gojo’s absurd, over-the-top parties. you’d worn a sleek, fitted dress. something clingy and dark. your hair up. makeup soft and devious. you looked like danger and desire and everything he could never let himself want.

and nanami—poor, tired, utterly smitten nanami—was a little bit drunk. not much. just enough that his restraint began to crack.

you’d said something innocuous in the hallway. something about the night winding down. how your feet hurt. how you were ready to go. he didn’t even think. "you are so beautiful."

and you froze. you turned to him slowly, lips parted. eyes wide and owlish. “you think so?” you asked, quietly. like you didn’t believe it. like you couldn’t. "I thought…maybe you didn’t.” of course you thought that. he never said anything. never allowed himself to say anything. and now it hits him—how confusing that must have been. how his constant restraint had read as indifference.

and it ruins him. he fumbles through the silence, reaching for the right words. of course I think so. I always thought so. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. you seemed so unsure. so tense. I didn’t want to reduce you to that. I didn’t want you to think I married you for that. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t— you grab his jaw with both hands and kiss him. you kiss him like you mean it. like you’ve been waiting. like you know. and nanami kisses back like a man starved. like he’ll never get another chance. like he’s finally, finally allowed to touch the thing he’s been revering from afar.

from then on, he’s yours completely. he was yours before, too. you just didn’t know it. but now—now he doesn't hide it. not from you. not from anyone.

he brings you lunch during your breaks, walking all the way across campus in the middle of a meeting because he knows you forget to eat when you’re busy. he holds your hand like it’s second nature, like it was always meant to be there. he kisses your temple, your cheek, the inside of your wrist when no one’s looking.

he sleeps in your bed now. it wasn’t even a conversation. you’d dozed off after a movie on the couch, legs tangled up in his, head heavy on his shoulder—and when he carried you to bed, you tugged him down with you. he hasn’t left since.

he pulls you in every night, strong arms wrapped gently around your waist. breath warm against your neck. he mumbles half-dreamed things into your skin. sometimes it’s your name. sometimes it’s I love you. sometimes it’s just the kind of sigh that sounds like home.

he calls you his. always. because you are. and now, you let him. let him love you out loud. let him spoil you, lift the weight off your shoulders, remind you daily how precious you are. even if it still makes you blush, makes your eyes dart away shyly—he just coos and tuts and kisses your forehead like he’s got all the time in the world. and he does. because he’s not going anywhere.

you make plans for the future now. soft, easy ones. weekend trips. new paint for the kitchen. a second bookshelf. someday, maybe, a little house by the sea. you're no longer just wife and husband in name—you’re partners. best friends. completely, helplessly in love. and nanami does not take that honor lightly.

you belong to each other. that’s the difference. that’s what changed. it’s not just he calls you his. you call him yours. your person. your constant. your kento. he doesn't just love you—he lets you love him. completely. and you do.

you bring him his favorite coffee when he forgets breakfast, tug him away from his desk when he’s worked too long. you fold his ties and kiss his forehead and leave little notes in his wallet that say things like buy eggs and also I adore you. he blushes every time.

you don’t just call him your husband anymore. you call him your best friend. and he calls you his everything. because you are. and this—this life you’re building together—it’s all either of you ever could’ve asked for.

[holy--milk]

to all the people saying that XL would've been able to save xianle if it hadn't been for JW's interference... shame on you. my boy didn't ascend at the age of 17 out of pure unwillingness to deal with court drama for y'all to claim that he would've been able to single-handedly solve a massive political and economic crisis.

[newtabfics]

Bully/Degenerate Itto x Nerdy/Secret Pervert Fem!Reader Headcanon School AU.

Degenerate Itto who loves to bully you. He likes teasing you for being a bit quiet nerdy girl. You're just such a pathetic, meek thing.

Degenerate Itto who only goes to the library to read some manga and cut class. He doesn't have anywhere else to be so he might as well read some comics in the library right?

Degenerate Itto who hears the soft whimper and follows the noise. He hears your voice softly and peeks around the corner. He sees you at one of the tables, head resting on it as you're twitching and writhing.

"Hey. The fuck is wrong with ya shortie?" He asks, approaching you and frowning at your flustered face as you push yourself against the table a bit.

Degenerate Itto who knows the gesture all too well and pulls your seat back. It doesn't matter how fast you rip your hand out from under your skirt, he can see your slick on your fingers.

"Oh damn, Shortie. You're a nasty pervert. Touching yourself in the school library."

He grabs your wrist and pulls your fingers to his mouth. He licks and shivers as he tastes you, licking your fingers clean and smirks at your flustered expression.

"C'mon. My car. I can make you feel so much better than your fingers."

Degenerate Itto who knows how to eat pussy. He's got you laid out in his backseat with his huge arms locked around your waist. He's holding you in place as he slurps loudly, thrusting his tongue as he licks out your orgasms.

Somewhere in the background, you swear you could hear AC/DC playing and want to roll your eyes at the stereotype that he is but instead your eyes roll to the back of your head and you're sobbing and moaning as you grip his hair and rock your hips against his mouth.

His dick is throbbing under his jeans as he grinds against the seat, desperate for more than just eating you out. He's whining and moaning into you.

"Fuck, nerd. You're so tasty. They should make a candy that tastes like you," He hummed. "So many guys would be buying it, hoping to taste you."

Degenerate Itto who laughs and pulls back right as you're about to come and palms himself. He looks to you and asks, "Can I fuck you now? I really wanna fuck you but...shit. Baby, I think I might break your little pussy."

Degenerate Itto who gets pussy drunk and keeps pumping you despite how many times he's already made you come. He's addicted. He's so fucking hooked on you as he feels you squeezing him.

"Oh my fucking god yes, Baby!" He moans, gripping your hips tight as he makes you ride him harder. "God yeah. Look at you. Riding my dick like a little bitch in heat. You're so fucking sexy like this, Shortie. That's it. Milk that cock. Ride that cock cuz it's the only cock you're ever gonna think about again, right? Yeah?"

Degenerate Itto who pumps you full and buries himself so deep, he swears he feels your cervix. He probably was now that he thinks on it.

Degenerate Itto who, after you've come down from the high and he's helped clean you up, doesn't hesitate to get Plan B.

"I mean, it's my fault for fucking you out. I got a little carried away."

Degenerate Itto who asks you on a date after.

[insextras]

Little headcanon that erik and lorna sometimes cause auroras when using their powers heavily, erik's being more red-purple and lorna being basically entirely green

[just-jayy]

Asterix is a bachelor bc he's aro ace

[hoboblaidd]

The Evanuris’ mind/will domination is so insidiously terrible and I wish it got more weight in both Inquisition and Veilguard. That moment Mythal overrides the will of the Inquisitor/Morrigan is terrifying, though moreso by implication than anything consequential that happens in the game. By Trespasser it’s a nice little buff that makes combat a bit easier. Elgar’nan’s mind domination has a little more time to shine, especially in the codexes and the Bellara/Neve situation. Ghilan’nain overwriting the Wardens’ wills in Horror of Hormak is appropriately awful. Then there’s the interesting wrinkle of Anaris using emotional influence to assert his will with Cyrian.

And then of course, there’s Solas’ manipulation of Rook’s shock/grief to make Varric manifest.

I wish we got to sit with that horror a little more. It’s so fucked up.

[thedemonscrawler]

Theory: Ruin built Eclipse specifically to save Solar

(alternate title: Ruin SAVES Solar... with ECLIPSE?! in VRChat)

Okay so, we know the drill, yes? Solar came from one of the dimensions Ruin targeted, and as a result died. I believe (though I'm not 100% certain, its been a year and a lot of fanfics) that Ruin claims he tried to save Solar from this fate, and failed.

And thinking over the timeline of events... I believe him.

So Ruin was already in 'our' dimension when Solar moved in, but he was in the middle of his whole 'bad guy' phase at the time. Tbh? I don't think Ruin and Solar ever met prior to Ruin being 'cured'. Thus, it's not unreasonable to assume that Ruin had no idea where Solar had come from, only knowing he was another dimensional refugee-- until Solar's Moon showed up, on December 15th.

Now Ruin would have a dimensional signature for Solar. Now he would know that Solar is from one of the targeted dimensions.

Crap.

See, despite what Ruin did, I sincerely believe that he's against the idea of harming others. His beef was with the Creators, and only the Creators-- everyone else was unfortunate casualties. And here's Solar, who is nice, and reasonable, and probably the most stable person in this whole dimension, who also escaped a very shitty situation to settle down in his new home.

And like, if you can't save everyone, you try to save at least one, right?

On December 21st, Solar gets knocked out in the West Arcade, in a move we now know was Ruin copying his source code. Source code that he used to build a very specific animatronic.

On December 26th, as a slightly-late Christmas present to us, Eclipse returns.

Now of course, the implications are that Ruin was putting the final touches on his plan, and he needed a new distraction for Moon since Blood Moon had skittered off to lick their wounds. And Eclipse sure as shit works for a distraction, no matter if he's behaving or going wildly off script.

But you read the title of this post, so what if there was an additional reason? What if Ruin was more or less done with the plan, but upon realizing that Solar would be wiped out as well, he decided to stall for longer? If he made a copy of Solar's code specifically in an attempt to see if it was possible to alter it enough to not be targeted?

And he did stall, for as long as he possibly could. Molten Freddy is proof of this-- Molten was cobbled together from a supersoldier project by his Creator and sent off to get the person who was targeting their dimension. Ruin had been discovered, and he had to act now.

So yeah, my theory is that Ruin made Eclipse as a distraction while he worked on some way to save Solar, who he had just learned would get wiped out. And unfortunately he failed, and throwing away the entire plan (and as a consequence, every single dimension) for a single person is, admittedly, a really tasty plot for a fanfic, but not a reasonable action at this point.

So he pressed the button.

[petitsdieu]

A  PEAK  AT  WHAT’S  INSIDE  HARA'S          .    .    .          02.     bag   /   purse. 𝑎 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠 𝑡𝑜 @imbricare 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛!

1 ... fruit like physalis / ground cherries, cloudberries, rambutan. 2 ... a lady's folding fruit knife. 3 ... freshly harvested edible pearls. 4 ... belarilian/french oyster shucker. 5 ... two seashells converted into a lipstick compact. 6 ... edible flowers like jasmine, roses, unefois. 7 ... jewelry like a ring when remembered to take off before swimming. 8 ... something unexpected and often found like sea grapes / latok.

[killemwithkawaii]

Okay but how sweet would it be for Sally and Kim to have a (slightly awkward, but) wholesome friendship after he gave her that bird pic huh how fuckin cute would that be??

Sal and Kim Friendship Headcanons-

[CW: Unsanitary, bullying, weapon, mentions of murder and death, in-game themes]

>On the day everyone finds out Mrs. Packerton had died, Kim gives Sal the last of the bologna she has in the cafeteria walk-in because she knows how much he and his friends liked it. Sal is touched by the gesture and somehow manages not to gag while thanking her for it.

>When Sal goes through the lunch line, he and Kim always exchange pleasantries and have short chats about the birds in the courtyard, current school events, the latest episodes of popular TV shows, etc.

>Kim insists on giving Sal extra big helpings of food and will scold him if he doesn't finish what she scoops onto his tray.

"You are a growing boy Sally, you must eat so you can become big and strong! Now, go sit and finish before bell, or you get BIG BROCCOLI with NO CHEESEY SAUCE for dessert tomorrow!!"

Sal finds it a little irksome, especially when he's already stuffed to the gills, but does his best to comply because it admittedly feels nice to be subjected to a bit of motherly doting once in a while.... (Push comes to shove, Chug is always happy to help him make those last few bites disappear.)

>If one of them is absent due to sickness, the other takes note and worries. (Kim, because she can't help but be a bit of a mother hen over Sal, and Sal, because he fears the D.O.G. has claimed another person in his life as a victim.) They always expresses their concern and relief when the absentee returns to school.

>They empathize with each other regarding their respective deformities/disabilities and the othering they both experience because of said conditions.

Kim understands feeling self-conscious about appearances, as she's very sensitive about hers, but encourages Sal to be proud of who he is and to not be afraid to knock some sense into those who say otherwise (to do this, she suggests utilizing a sock full of pennies. "Is lunch money that helps you keep your other lunch money! 😉").

Sal always sticks up for Kim any time one of the other students mocks her appearance, whether she's around to hear it or not. ("Kim may not be a looker, but at least she's not a rude, shallow asshat. Hope you REALLY LIKE the crustiest corner of the mac and cheese tray, cuz that's what you're gonna be eating every Tuesday until summer break. 🤷‍♂️")

>When his senior year is coming to an end, Kim gives Sal an old and obviously well-loved birding book as a graduation gift. The handwritten note on the inside of the cover reads:

Sally,

Spread your wings and fly like the birdies!

Your friend,

Kim

(P.S. Keep eating your veggies, you will grow soon!)

While Sal doesn't really use it, he keeps it on his bookshelf as a memento. He pages through it occasionally to look at the nice pictures and to do a little reminiscing about one of the precious few positive experiences he had while attending Nockfell High School.

>After the Addison Apartment murders, Kim is one of the few people who steps forward to be a character witness for Sal during his trial. Despite all the evidence against him, she insists that Sally is a

'... kind, smart, sweet boy. He cause mischief, been in some rough and tumbles, yes, but he NEVER MURDER anyone!! Kim is SURE about that!!"

Ultimately, her testimony was discredited by the prosecution for various nitpicky reasons, but Sal appreciated her vouch of confidence all the same....

[mysticbeaver]

Influenced by Kevin's bike passion, Rolf rides a motorbike around town with Victor or Wilfred in the sidecar

[ask-wheatley-core]

If you could go back to earth and travel anywhere or do anything once, like a one-wish type of situation, what would it be?

Ohhh, hm... Augh, alright, alright, honestly - I'm just gonna say it - you'll love this: if I could go anywhere and do anything... I'd go to London - to see the inside of the Spice Bus. You know the one, yeah? From the movie? Spice World? This - nervous laugh - ringing any bells? At all?

Listen - the thing's a technological marvel, innit? Normal bus on the outside, right? Only the size of a bloody house on the inside! I mean - each Spice Girl practically has their own room - it's absolutely mental! Insane! Shouldn't even be possible!

.  ⋆. *⋆ .  ⋆ ⦿

[carlislefiles]

domesticated | nanami kento ╰►nanami was born to be a husband—measured, attentive, impossibly good with his hands—but more than that, he was born to be your husband. he keeps a bullet journal, folds your laundry with surgical precision, and makes you tea just the way you like it. and as sure as you are that he’s perfect, he’s still determined to prove it to you, every single day. 7.3k words

a/n: a couple nights ago, I plagued my dash with thoughts of housewife!nanami and I will continue to do so forever and ever. if there are no nanami stans, I'm dead...but who am I kidding, there will always be nanami stans. gonna have to fight all of you for my man :[ also I'm thinking of doing a part two to this.....maybe like a sunday type vibe where reader has the day off....let me know your thoughts on that. warnings: embarrassing amounts of fluff, kissing, cussing, brief allusions to sex.

the alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. sharp. it always does. nanami never changed it, never wanted to. that hour—early, quiet, untouched—was his. a small thing, a leftover ritual from a life that used to feel like it belonged to someone else. once, it meant gritting his teeth, dragging himself into suits and subways and glass towers built by people who didn’t even know his name. another day. another spreadsheet. another serving of silent resignation to a world that didn’t care. it’s hard to believe he lived like that. harder still to believe he accepted it.

he doesn’t like to think much about the man he used to be before he met you. it’s not that he’s ashamed—he knows those years carved him into the man he is now. and now, well...now he’s yours. and that changes everything. because back then he was exhausted. hollowed out. sore in places he didn’t know could ache. and now...

now he’s something else entirely. now he’s a teddy bear stuffed with love and golden light. now he’s weightless, floating from room to room with no burden but joy. now he’s a sunbeam slicing through dusty blinds—warm, unhurried, soft at the edges. now he’s a worn sweatshirt straight out of the dryer. the favorite. the one that always gets picked. now he’s a breath finally released. a pause between footsteps. the part of the song that makes you close your eyes. now he’s a well-read book with creased spines and scribbled margins—flawed, loved, and endlessly reread.

he’s happy. deeply, undeniably happy. the kind of happiness he used to believe was just propaganda. nobody was really this content, were they? and yet. and yet. and yet. nanami kento is living proof.

he moves to shift under the blanket, but then he remembers: you’re here. pressed close. your arms looped around him, soft and certain. you’re holding him—again. and he lets you. he's always been a big spoon kind of man. still is sometimes. there’s something steadying about it, something protective. now though, he indulges you. indulges himself, too. years ago, maybe a younger version of him might’ve thought being held like this made him look weak. that version of him was a fool. now, being cradled by your smaller frame feels like the highest honor. a sacred trust.

he has irrational fears sometimes—irrational but persistent. little thoughts that creep in at 6:02 a.m. when the world is quiet enough to let them whisper. that maybe you’ll leave one day. for someone else. someone who knows your favorite candle scents without being told. someone who cooks your comfort foods without asking. someone who loves you the way nanami does. but those thoughts don’t last long. they can’t.

because every morning, no matter how you fell asleep or what kind of day you had, nanami wakes up like this: in your arms. somewhere in the middle of the night, without fail, you always roll over and reach for him. it’s never intentional. it’s never showy. it’s just instinct—your body choosing him over and over again. and it sparks something in him every single time. besides, nanami doesn’t think anyone else could love you like he can. not really. he’s made it his life’s work. his calling. and no one else gets to touch that.

you’re still asleep. peaceful. you’ll stay that way for at least another thirty minutes if he lets you. he always tries to. sometimes you stir, bleary-eyed and half-dreaming, whining for him to stay just a little longer. and every single time, he does. without hesitation. he’ll curl back around you, press slow kisses into your hairline, trace half-shapes against your back through the fabric of your sleep shirt.

he’ll watch you. just for a little while. just until the next breath, the next blink, the next alarm. because there is no word—no language—for the way he feels about you when the light is just beginning to bleed into the room and your arms are wrapped around him like he’s your home.

he would stay there forever. but duty calls. eventually, he has to slip out of your arms. you make a soft noise of protest in your sleep, half-whine, half-murmur, and he stills for a moment—just to watch your face settle back into peace. then he tugs on a worn t-shirt and pads downstairs, still in the pajama pants you love so much.

the infamous ones. the soft navy plaid pair, a little threadbare at the waistband, stretched just enough in all the right places. you claim they’re evil. you swear they cast a spell on you. you’ve clung to his back like a koala over them, muttered threats into his neck, taken full bites out of his shoulder muscle, a woman possessed. he claims he wears them because they’re comfortable. “worn in,” he says with a shrug. but the truth? nanami is a simple man. a man of taste. and if wearing a particular pair of pajama pants means you ogle him like he’s a limited edition photo card, then yes—he will wear them every damn morning for the rest of his life. is it so wrong to enjoy being desired by your wife?

he never really considered himself…attractive. he knew what he looked like. tall. built. decent face. good hair, on good days. but that wasn’t rare. plenty of men fit that description. what made him special? according to you? everything. you say he’s ‘the hottest man in the entire fucking world.’ and while nanami still finds that declaration hard to believe, your constant, shameless, adoring attention has slowly started to rewire something inside him. he doesn’t flinch at compliments anymore. doesn’t second-guess the way you look at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. he’s learning to believe it. to believe you.

the kitchen is still dark when he steps in, and he keeps it that way for the most part—only flicking on the light above the stovetop. you’re a deep sleeper, but he’s always careful. gentle. quiet. always respectful. the espresso machine kicks to life with a low whirr, a noise that would’ve startled you awake in the beginning. now? you’ve learned to tune it out. it’s part of the soundtrack of your mornings. a promise in mechanical form.

before nanami, your mornings were bleak. he knows. he’s seen the evidence. you used to crawl out of bed like it was punishment. pour bitter, watery coffee into a chipped mug and pretend it helped. eat a protein bar that tasted like packing material. maybe a questionable piece of fruit if you were feeling ambitious. lunch, if it existed, was often cold leftovers. a bag of chips. a vending machine soda. nanami clocked those bad habits early on. but it wasn’t until you lived together that he could finally do something about them.

now, breakfast is an event. your coffee is never just coffee—it’s the best thing you’ve tasted that day. every morning. he experiments. plays with flavors like he’s crafting love letters in liquid form. homemade blueberry syrup. chocolate cold foam. cinnamon and nutmeg dusted on top just the way you like. he’s memorized your preferences, your allergies, your little quirks. he rarely makes something you don’t like. not just because he’s perfect, but also because he pays attention.

most mornings, he keeps things simple—something warm, something satisfying, something you can eat quickly but meaningfully. a sit-down breakfast is non-negotiable. even on your busiest days, he insists on it. you protest sometimes. you’re in a rush. but he always slows you down. this morning, he’s feeling a little indulgent. leftover homemade butter. pancakes, fluffy and warm. chocolate spread. whipped cream. a handful of fresh berries arranged just so, like a café plate.

you’re going to whine. complain. say he went overboard again, that he doesn’t need to spoil you like this. that you would’ve been fine with toast. he won’t have it. spoiling you is his mission. his hobby. his calling. the high he chases every day. the utter bliss it gives him, knowing he's taking care of you and satisfying you, is like a narcotic. no, better than drugs. nobody even needs drugs, he thinks. they just need a wife. too bad he has the best one, huh?

he moves around the house like a whisper. clean. efficient. at ease. the space is warm, soft, lived-in. he decorated, of course. you squealed when you saw it—pointed out the little touches that screamed nanami. the minimalism, the elegance, the occasional absurd indulgence (like the handcrafted ceramic fruit bowl that cost more than your cart battery when it fizzled out). he cleans constantly. you praise him constantly for it. you love the fresh sheets, the gleaming sink, the way he folds the towels just right.

he doesn’t care much about the structure itself. but what it represents? that matters. this is a home. one he built with you. one he wakes up in and thanks the stars for. he’s had money. he’s lived in a penthouse before—cold, glassy, and forgettable. but this house? this ordinary, wonderful house? this is the dream.

and speaking of dreams—he still can’t believe how lucky he got with yours. you work for a media group. graphic design. a career he could never do, but one he respects deeply. you make good money. more than he ever did. and that doesn’t bother him. not even a little. if anything, he’s proud. stupidly, ridiculously proud. you could afford to work less. but you love what you do. you light up when you talk about projects and deadlines and clients who “get it.” he loves that. loves you.

whatever makes you happy. that’s his mantra. his north star. happy wife, happy life. happy wife, happy life. happy wife. happy wife. happy wife. and you are happy. endlessly. still, he questions it sometimes. your happiness. it creeps in on the stairs as he heads back up with a warm mug of tea. iced coffee is coming—it’s non-negotiable, your fuel—but it’s not warm, and you are always so cold in the mornings. cold and grumbly, buried beneath the covers like a goblin in a hoard of soft blankets, protesting life and light and everything in between.

he gently shakes you awake. a groan. a flail. you throw the covers over your head and threaten to go feral. if you don’t get up now, you’ll be rushing. he knows it, and so, as gently and patiently as ever, he coaxes you into sitting. there’s a quiet apology in the way he touches you—soft fingertips at your wrist, a thumb brushing your temple. he presses a kiss to the crease between your eyebrows, then ghosts his lips over your eyelids like a benediction. 

this used to trouble him. all of it. when he first moved in, this—you—was a source of constant, gnawing doubt. if waking up early made you this miserable, then you shouldn’t do it. he would’ve kept working every day of his life if it meant you could sleep in forever. his pretty, sleepy, grumpy wife. as long as she was happy. but he knows now. that’s not what you want. not what you need. and nanami is good—painfully good—at knowing the difference.

you sit in bed, blinking slowly. your hair a mess. his warm presence anchoring you like gravity. it’d be so easy to curl back up and drift off again. but you can’t. you won’t. you’ve got things to do, and you’re already shifting upright. your eyes open—and there he is. the love of your life in the flesh, holding your favorite tea in one hand and looking at you like you invented sunrise.

you’re a strange pair, really. half your life is spent in a slow, sweet argument about how incredible the other one is. you tell nanami he’s everything. he tells you you’re perfect. you shower him with praise; he worships the ground you walk on. it’s silly. it’s true. it never gets old.

he hands you the tea without a word. ginger and lemon, naturally. you curl your knees up to your chest and sip, bleary-eyed, not ready to speak yet. he just watches you, something aching and fond tugging at the corners of his mouth. then he moves around the room—quiet but efficient. he flips on soft lamps, avoiding the harsh overhead light you hate. of course he remembers that. he remembers everything.

“what do you have going on today?” he murmurs, his voice the low, calm timbre that makes you feel safe even in chaos. you mumble something about a meeting—ceo of another media group, something high-profile. they want you to design a billboard. then you’ll be in your office most of the day. there’s that frustrating nonprofit commission you’ve been chewing on. you sigh, already tired. but excited, nonetheless.

nanami already knows all of this. of course he does. but he still asks. because he wants to hear you say it. you’re not naturally forthcoming. you’d rather listen than talk, and rambling feels like overstepping. you get embarrassed. feel like a burden. he adores when you ramble. top five favorite things. maybe number one.

your voice, soft and lilting like a melody. the way your brow scrunches when you explain something complicated. the unfiltered rage you hold in your soul for adobe. that one coworker who “should legally be banned from computers.” your excitement over color theory. your pride in your designs. if he didn’t ask, you wouldn’t say it. so he asks. every morning. every night. every chance he gets. just to hear you talk. just to make you smile.

eventually, you slip out of bed, tea finished, and make your way to the bathroom. your morning routine is precise. mouthwash, brushing, flossing, double-cleansing, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen. like a dance you’ve rehearsed. nanami watches, leaning in the doorway, equal parts enchanted and reverent. he loves this about you. these little rituals. these ways you care for yourself.

yes, he lives to care for you. would happily do everything for you. but he treasures these moments when you do it for yourself, too. and you’re used to his affection by now. at least, mostly. he’s worn down your flustered protests, your half-hearted deflections. even when you mumble “you’re being too nice,” cheeks pink, he never stops. there’s no such thing as “too nice” for you. you deserve everything. he’ll give you everything. and then he’ll find a way to give you more. for now, he settles for a kiss on your cheek.

he stays nearby while you do your hair and makeup. watches, quietly admiring, as you transform. he finds something unspeakably beautiful in it—this act of femininity, of self-care, of artistry. it stuns him, every time. you’re so pretty. and he gets to watch. (he’ll watch you at events, too. galas. weddings. fundraisers. you, dolled up and radiant, chatting easily with someone across the room—and he just stares. eyes full of nothing but awe. “you are so beautiful,” he’ll say for the billionth time. "I could stare at you all day.”)

when you finish, you meet him in the closet. he’s already dressed—business casual, of course. slacks, loafers, a soft button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, collar open just enough to make your heart skip. he doesn’t wear the full suits anymore, not unless the occasion demands it, but the polish is still there. he can’t help it. decorum is in his blood.

he’s laid your clothes out on the bench by the mirror. slacks, a soft t-shirt, your favorite warm cardigan. comfortable, professional, just the right amount of cozy to help you survive a long day. you smile a little at the sight. he always remembers what you like—what makes you feel like you.

and then, the final touch—he pulls your heels down from the shelf. the black iriza pumps with the red soles. you don’t even have to ask. he kneels without a word, sliding them onto your feet with a reverence that makes your chest ache. his hands move with the same tenderness he uses to handle fine china or you when you're sick—like the smallest gesture carries all the love in the world. he meets you at your lips. it’s not quite chaste, but not quite enough to start anything either. a kiss meant to ground you. linger. set the tone for your day.

you give him a peck on the cheek in return and step back. he watches as you grab your purse, a cute little thing that holds next to nothing. “doesn’t it match my shoes perfectly?” you coo, spinning once in the mirror. nanami nods solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching. indulging you, as always. adoring you, as always. indulgent; smitten. pleased. you say that he spoils you with his praise. but you’re not spoiled. not to him. you’re treasured. treated as you should be.

back in the kitchen, you raise an eyebrow at the breakfast. you shoot him a mock-glare and sit down. no protests today. not out loud, anyway. you’re feeling pampered again; overindulged. and you’re sure he’s done too much. but you know better than to say it—because if you do, you’ll get The Lecture™. the one where he insists this is nothing, that you deserve every sunrise, every meal, every ounce of tenderness he can possibly offer. that spoiling you is the bare minimum, and it’s his honor to do it.

so today? you just eat. quietly. gratefully. and nanami watches, content beyond words. this—you—are all he’s ever wanted.

breakfast is a sweet, simple ritual—one of nanami’s favorite parts of the day. a quiet, shared slice of time before the world starts demanding things from the two of you. he’s already eaten (he always eats early), so while you sit at the bar, nibbling through your pancakes and trying not to rush—because you know it bothers him—he turns to your lunch. some days it’s leftovers. on those days, he makes you vow—swear on our marriage, he’ll say with a solemn expression—that you’ll microwave it properly, and actually eat it. but today, you’re in luck. today, he’s making your current hyperfixation meal: a stacked sandwich, piled high with all your favorite toppings, neatly layered on his homemade focaccia.

nanami was always a good cook. phenomenal, really. but his bread? his bread should be on display in glass cases, under soft lighting, guarded by museum security. he doesn’t share his recipes—what would be the point? no one could replicate them anyway. sourdough, ciabatta, baguette, rosemary focaccia. every loaf tailored to your tastes. he bakes for you more than he eats it himself now—not because he doesn't enjoy it, but because he enjoys you enjoying it so much more.

your reactions are what he lives for. the way your eyes widen like you’ve just tasted heaven. the soft, delighted groan that leaves your throat after the first bite. the dramatic proclamation that this one is the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life, even if you said the same thing yesterday. he shrugs off the praise on the outside, but inside, it settles warm and heavy in his chest. he stores it away. cherishes it.

once the sandwich is wrapped and tucked lovingly into your lunch tote, it’s time for nanami’s least favorite part of the morning—sending you off to work. he heads out to the garage to turn on your car. always does. makes sure the seat warmers are on, the vents are blowing gently, not too cold. stepping into your car always makes him a little dizzy—it’s the smell. concentrated amounts of you. your perfume, your lotion, your very presence soaked into the upholstery. it’s intoxicating.

he lingers there for a moment, eyes closed, just breathing you in. but there’s still time left in the routine, and he won’t waste it. you’ve finished rinsing your plate in the sink by the time he’s back inside. he tuts disapprovingly as he comes up behind you. “what did I say about doing the dishes?” he murmurs, already plucking it from your hands.

you pout up at him, mock wounded. “can’t help it. felt like contributing to society today.”

“unacceptable,” he replies dryly, kissing your cheek. “that’s my job.” you don’t fight him. you know better. nanami’s house rules are immovable forces of nature.

he double checks that your wallet is tucked into your little purse, the one that holds absolutely nothing of practical value but “matches your shoes so well,” as you put it. he slings it over your shoulder, leads you out the door, opens the car for you. you stop him there. plant him against the frame of the door. grip his collar and pull him down into a kiss that curls his toes. and then, wickedly, as his lips part just slightly, you drag your tongue over his bottom lip and murmur against it: “oops. must’ve had some whipped cream on me still.”

he stares at you like you’ve punched him in the brain. pink starts crawling up his neck, staining his ears, his cheeks. his lips part again, just barely, like he might ask for more. you only giggle, smoothing your thumb across his flushed jaw before pressing one last kiss to his lips. every time you touch him like this, it’s as though he’s starved for it. like the barest flicker of attention from you has to sustain him for weeks. like he still can’t believe you’re real.

you shower him in love and kisses and praises, and he soaks it all up like he’s afraid one day, you might run out. as if being loved by someone like you is a miracle he hasn’t earned, but somehow still gets to wake up to every morning. once, nanami read a quote that said, "I don’t argue with my wife’s decisions—because I'm one of them.” it was supposed to be a joke, but it was the god-honest gospel truth to nanami. he considered framing it. tattooing it on his arm. maybe carving it into the headboard. because you choosing him? that’s a daily gift he never takes for granted.

he watches you slip into your car, watches the way your hand waves lazily as you reverse out of the driveway. watches until your taillights disappear down the street. and then he lingers in the cold morning air just a little longer. the scent of your perfume still clings to his shirt. the ghost of your kiss tingles on his lips.

eventually, he shakes it off. there’s bread to make. floors to sweep. emails to answer. he’s got things to do. just as he’s locking the door behind him, something catches his eye on the kitchen counter. your lunch. you’d forgotten it. of course you did. he exhales slowly through his nose, already imagining the soft lecture he’ll give you later about rushing and forgetting things and the vital importance of eating lunch. but for now, he just picks it up with a quiet sigh and a shake of his head. looks like he has lunch plans after all.

—

the rest of nanami’s day, much like his morning, is timed—methodical, efficient, and executed with care so precise it almost feels reverent. early on in this new dynamic, when you had finally—finally—worn him down enough to convince him to quit his job, nanami had struggled with an unshakable guilt. he felt…lazy. like he wasn’t contributing to your shared life. as if quitting the corporate world had somehow made him lesser.

you had nearly smacked him across the head when he confessed that. nanami kento? lazy? not contributing? he was the single most productive person you had ever met. you reminded him, loudly and passionately, that not every contribution needed to be measured in income or tasks completed. that there was deep, meaningful work in taking care of the life you'd built together. that he had always deserved softness, too.

he still had his moments of doubt. but now, he channeled them into what he could control. order. care. precision. he kept a bullet journal—the kind that could convert a disorganized soul on sight. it was pristinely kept: straight lines, color-coded tabs, neat boxes to check off with a smooth black pen. unlike your own journal, which was...more interpretive in nature. your diary had concert tickets and fruit stickers tucked between pages, long-winded odes to nanami’s biceps scrawled next to rants about fictional characters and lipstick swatches. his was a blueprint for the day. yours was a fever dream. and yet he loved it—loved you—so deeply he didn’t dare change a thing.

his emotions didn’t need pages. he had you. his heart belonged in the way he folded your socks. today’s list was written last thursday. he’s already ahead of schedule. he starts upstairs, stripping the bed of sheets and the three extra blankets you required to feel comfortable. he throws them in the washer with your favorite lilac-scented detergent. he preps the next load before the first one even starts, separating laundry with care bordering on scientific. the previous night’s load, already dry, is folded and put away with mechanical precision. your blouses are ironed, sleeves crisp and ready for the week ahead.

while in the closet, he notices a pair of your heels—scuffed. he doesn’t hesitate. out comes the polish and buffer. by the time he’s done, they’re immaculate. he dusts the bedroom. cleans the bathroom. reorganizes your skincare and makeup for ease of access. the candle in there—burnt down to a stub—is replaced with one of your favorites: citrus and basil, a fresh brightness even in the dead of winter. the paperback on your nightstand, left open and face-down with its spine bent (a sight that used to make him wince), is now neatly bookmarked and placed beside your pillow.

nothing escapes him. every corner of your shared home is touched by his hands, cleaned and maintained and tended to with quiet, devoted affection. he doesn’t consider it "work." this is care. this is love, made manifest in folded sheets and citrus wax. 

he moves to the kitchen next. washes the breakfast dishes. wipes the counters. sprays lavender mist into the air and lights another candle. before he met you, before he moved in with you, nanami never imagined living like this. his concept of a “successful life” was sterile and metallic—money, penthouse, cold glass towers. but the first time he stepped foot into your place, with its stained-glass lamps and chaotic blanket nests and dangerously excessive candle collection, something in him shifted. this wasn’t just a place to live. it was a home. and now, it was his home. and just like he took care of his wife, nanami took care of his home.

later, he works out. of course he does. it keeps him grounded, focused, sane. you fawn over the results with a delight that still manages to surprise him, like you don’t expect him to blush anymore when you bite your knuckle and ogle his arms. he runs in shorts that you once called “illegal” and a t-shirt that sticks to his back. sometimes he runs shirtless. not in public. he has standards—and no audience but you is worth the scandal.

saturdays are his favorite. when you run with him, taunt him, throw yourself on his sweaty back with zero shame. when you lick salt off his collarbone and call him “dangerously edible.” he laughs. he’s also suffering. in a good way. he shakes the thoughts away. focus.

he heads to the farmer’s market, cloth bags in hand, route already planned in his head. he stops by the bakery stand to talk flour ratios and rises with the vendor, who recognizes him by name now. he pauses at the humane society tent. doesn’t linger. you’ve been begging for a cat lately. he’s trying to stay strong. then he sees a fluffy calico curled up in a little ball. he looks away immediately. nope. not today. he is not getting a cat today. he steels his resolve and walks home. 

more laundry. more journaling. he plans meals for the week—one of his favorite rituals. he lets himself feel a little smug. everything is under control. until he walks into the kitchen and remembers. your lunchbox. still on the counter. he sighs. picks it up. you’d texted him only five minutes earlier: "I forgot my lunch :[ I was so looking forward to that sandwich.” silly, silly girl. of course he’s going to bring it to you.

he drives over with a small smile and zero annoyance. if anything, he’s grateful for the excuse. you meet him at the curb with a radiant grin, hopping into the passenger seat like he’s your getaway driver. you’ve taken off your cardigan, and your hair’s been pulled up, exposing your neck and arms and that glint in your eye that always makes his pulse skip. and the heels. those damn heels. he has to focus very, very hard to not to stare. but he does anyway. 

you devour the sandwich right there, humming your approval with every bite. he hands you the water bottle from the cupholder. “drink,” he says gently.

you groan, “ugh, why do you have to be so responsible all the time, kento?” but you’re smiling, and he’s helpless against it.

he shrugs. “one of us has to be, sweetheart.”

you make a pleased little sound and lean against his shoulder. he allows himself to bask. twenty minutes in your presence is enough to refill him for the rest of the day. you’re a goddess, and he’s your humble servant. he’ll take crumbs. he’ll take your leftover lip gloss and soft laughter and “accidental” thigh brushes when you shift in the seat. you kiss his cheek before hopping out. he doesn’t start the car until you’re out of sight.

he turns to the passenger seat. it still smells like your perfume. then he sighs, spots the lid to your water bottle left sitting in the cupholder, and smiles. old habits die hard. you will forget something everywhere you go. he’ll scold you about rushing later. for now, he’s just happy.

when nanami returns to the house, it’s still home—but still, without you in it, it feels hollow in a way he tries not to think too deeply about. the air is quiet. still. you’d only just kissed his cheek twenty minutes ago, but already, he misses you. he tells himself not to dwell. still, the ache settles low in his chest, familiar and persistent. he doesn’t like being idle, not when he starts thinking too much. not when his thoughts turn to things he doesn’t want to name—irrational worries about not being enough, about you waking up one day and deciding this isn’t what you need anymore. you work so hard, after all. you make things happen. you move the world. and he...keeps the spice rack alphabetized.

you’ve never said anything to make him feel this way. on the contrary—you’re painstakingly kind, endlessly reassuring. you’d never be disappointed in him. never shame him for slowing down, for stepping back, for choosing a life that’s softer, more deliberate. but old wounds whisper, and nanami is a man who has always been his own harshest critic.

what he doesn’t understand—what you’ve tried to tell him a hundred times in a hundred ways—is that you need him now. that somehow, you lived an entire life before him, but you can’t remember how. that your husband taking care of you, anticipating your every need, keeping your life from falling apart in all the ways you don’t have time to see—that’s what gets you through the day. how did you ever survive without him? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t let himself linger on that either. instead, he works.

he deep-cleans the stovetop and the oven, scrubbing every crevice with focused determination. he pulls out the spice rack and reorders it—alphabetically, then by cuisine, because he’s a perfectionist and you love that about him. he’s printed custom labels for everything: cinnamon (ceylon), smoked paprika (hungarian), za’atar (imported). he wipes down the insides of drawers, then fixes the loose one that’s been catching lately. he replaces the kitchen faucet filter and oils the front door hinges. updates the home maintenance log tucked neatly into a drawer.

by the time he starts prepping sourdough, the sun’s slanted low across the floor. it filters through your stained-glass lamp and turns the kitchen gold. this recipe’s new—something he found in a baking forum he checks occasionally. different hydration ratio, different shaping method, new blend of flours. a hint of citrus in this one, something he knows you’ll love. it won’t be ready until tomorrow—good sourdough can’t be rushed—but he smiles as he preps it. he can already picture you breaking off a piece with your fingers, humming in approval. the thought alone makes him light up. nanami is quietly, blissfully happy. and he has you to thank for that. and thank you he will.

he starts dinner next—something you’d offhandedly mentioned craving earlier in the week, half-asleep, your voice muffled against his chest. you probably don’t even remember saying it. he does. of course he does. he listens like that. cares like that. knows you like that.

he times it perfectly. dinner will be hot and plated at exactly 5:30 p.m.—early, yes, but nanami insists on an early evening for your sake. he wants you in bed by 9:00 sharp on weeknights. you hate mornings. you don’t need to be more sleep-deprived. not if he can help it.

now, finally, he allows himself to sit. he sinks into the couch with a book—something dense and intellectually satisfying, a translated work of eastern european literature with tiny font and no chapter breaks. he’s got one of your throw blankets draped over his lap, soft and mismatched against the clean, minimal lines of the living room. he reads. he also checks your location. not obsessively. just...periodically. casually. he tells himself it’s practical. safety-oriented. (he’s lying. he just misses you.) he checks the time. he reads a little more. checks again. his finger taps the edge of the page, eyes drifting to the soft glow of his screen. you’ll be home soon.

he’s stirring the soup on the stove when he hears the garage door shut, then the sound of the front door opening. “namiii, m’home,” you call, voice lilting through the house. it makes his chest ache, in the best way. you sound so lovely. so tired. so his. he could cry, just from the way you say his name. and silly girl—he already knew you were home. he clocked it the second you left the office. still, he abandons the pot on the stove and strides to the front hall.

he meets you at the door, takes your purse from your shoulder and hangs it neatly. then he bends down and kisses you until your knees go soft and your sighs melt right into his mouth. you always make those sweet, airy noises when he kisses you first, like you’re surprised every time. he could do this for hours. sometimes, he does. but for now, he pulls back and drops to his knees—again—a quiet echo of this morning’s ritual. he slips your heels off, cradles them delicately in his hands, and then lifts you into his arms before you can protest. you squeal, whining with a sleepy pout, "I can walk up the stairs, nami…”

you always call him that when you’re sleepy. he loves it. but still—he just clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “let me.” he’ll take care of everything for his billionaire wife. after all, you’ve made him the happiest little househusband in the world. he’d do anything for you.

he sets you down gently in the bedroom, tucks your shoes into their rightful place in the closet, and fetches your favorite comfy clothes. you’re starfished on the bed, face-down, groaning into the freshly washed sheets like they’re heaven. he starts the shower—hotter than he can stand, just how you like it—and presses a kiss to your temple.

“dinner will be ready when you’re done,” he murmurs. he loves when you’re freshly showered. loves knowing he’s taken care of you, start to finish. you work so hard. you give so much. and now, he gets to make you clean and full and soft.

sometimes you eat at the table. on warm nights, out on the balcony. when you’re sick or sad, he brings dinner to the bed and ignores how it messes the sheets. he’ll wash them again anyway. but tonight? tonight, you’re affectionate. you tell him you missed him. that it didn’t matter that you saw him at lunch—because you missed him before that, and after that. you curl up in his lap while you eat. spoonfuls of warm soup, every bite met with praise: so good, incredible, he’s a genius, a chef, a miracle worker.

this is the part of the evening where you praise him endlessly. he used to try and cut you off, tell you he was just doing what needed to be done. that you deserved it. that it wasn’t a big deal. he doesn’t stop you anymore. not when your voice is that sweet. not when you pepper kisses across his face and tell him how good the house smells, how excited you are for tomorrow’s bread, how you need a vacation just to spend every waking second with him. you call him handsome, strong, perfect. you say you’re desperately, stupidly, irremediably in love with him. he squirms. he blushes. but you’re not teasing. you never are. that’s what makes it worse. you’re sincere. honest. brutally so. and you won’t let him wriggle out of your arms without hearing it.

after dinner, while he’s still tucked into the chair, you slip away—quiet as a mouse but not quiet enough. you make it all of five minutes into doing the dishes before he appears in the doorway, arms folded, already displeased. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to. he walks over, firm but unhurried, and before you can launch into your rehearsed defense—“just a few plates, I promise, nami, let me help—”—his hand closes gently around your arm and turns you. you barely register it until your cheek is pressed into his chest, until his warmth surrounds you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed. 

and just like that, you’re undone. your shoulders slump. your arms go limp. your whole body sighs in defeat—but it’s a sweet kind of surrender, the kind that only he can pull from you. all at once, you're smaller. sleepier. soft and warm and in love. he smells like spices and soap. the soft cotton of his shirt holds your temple. his fingers are moving slowly across your back, soothing little circles. you cling to him out of habit, cheek smooshed against his sternum, the tension melting from your limbs.

“this is a dictatorship,” you mumble. he hums. noncommittal. he knows it is. you’ve called it that before.  “you’re gonna get burnt out,” you say, quieter now, words thick with sleep and guilt. “you’re gonna wear yourself out doing everything…”

his chin rests against the top of your head. "I won’t.”

“you could let me do some things,” you say, even softer. "I can wash a dish, y’know. fold a towel. vacuum. occasionally.”

his arms tighten just slightly around you, like he’s afraid you’ll try to wriggle away. "I know you can,” he says. “but I like doing this for you.” you try to argue again, but he shushes you gently with a kiss to your hairline. “let me take care of you,” he whispers. “just tonight.” it isn’t just tonight. you both know that. but you nod. because the truth is, you don’t want to fight him on it. not really.

it’s his devotion that tames you. his steadiness. his quiet pride in being the one you trust enough to collapse into. and it always gets you like this—pliable, drowsy, obedient in a way you aren’t for anyone else. you press your forehead harder into his chest like you’re trying to fuse into him. and oh, how he loves that. how he craves it. he rocks you slightly as he finishes the dishes. you stay wrapped around him the whole time, arms slung around his waist, your head bobbing with every slow sway. the sounds of running water and clinking porcelain fade into a background lullaby. rosy-cheeked. hair slightly tangled. a sleepy, beautiful mess. “you’re gonna spoil me,” you murmur, avoiding his loving gaze. 

he brushes a speck of dust off your collarbone, kisses your temple. “that’s the plan.” you huff and roll your eyes and…you believe him. because with nanami, love isn’t loud. it’s offered. it’s kneeling to take off your shoes. it's soup on the stove and tea by the bed and holding you steady when you’re too tired to hold yourself up. it’s never asking you to earn it. and your soft, trusting surrender? that’s the gift you give him back.

he lifts you up onto the counter like a child, still damp from your shower, skin warm and lotioned, hair pulled back, fuzzy socks on your feet. he cleans the kitchen around you while you swing your legs, watching him. he preps your coffee setup for tomorrow, gets out your favorite breakfast tea. he thrives in this.

and the whole time, you tell him everything. your meeting. the nonprofit update. the best and worst parts of your day. he listens, attentive and quiet. he sees your tiredness and tries not to let guilt creep in. this is what you want. what makes you happy. you’ve told him that a million times.

you go on a walk. the sun is still hanging on, soft and golden. you ask about his day now. he tells you—about the farmer’s market, the old man he chatted with, the cat he saw loitering around the humane society’s tent. you beg for the cat. promise him the world if he lets you bring it home. he almost gives in. he will, eventually. “...I'll think about it,” he says. he’s been thinking about it. he’s always thinking about what you want and how he’ll find a way to give it to you. 

back home, you smell like lilacs and wind. he heads upstairs to grab your book and favorite blanket while you brew tea. normally he’d insist on doing it for you, but you’re focused, content, and he can’t bear to interrupt. you bring him a cup of his usual—unsweetened chamomile. yours is sugared and creamy, bright and warm. just like you, he thinks. you hand him his cup with a smile that nearly undoes him.

then you both tumble to the couch, legs tangled. your feet over his lap. book in hand. forehead resting on his shoulder. you read like that for a while. your eyes start to close. eventually, you whine—don’t wanna go to bed yet, wanna spend more time with him. but he’s heard this before.

he takes your cups to the sink and guides you to the bedroom—not carrying you, not tonight. you’d fuss and push at him, and he doesn’t want to risk the tears. you cry sometimes when you’re too tired and he overwhelms you with love. he can’t take that. it breaks him. so he’s gentle. calm. steady.

he changes into your favorite pajama pants and cradles you close. your hair is dry now. he runs his fingers through it. presses kisses to your temple. whispers sweet little things. how much he loves you. how proud he is. how you’ve given him everything he never dared hope for. you always say he does more for you than you do for him. he ignores that. he doesn’t believe it. you give. every day. every hour. and he will spend the rest of his natural life giving it all back.

he’ll make you sourdough french toast in the morning. ginger-lemon tea. it’ll be a new day, and it will be good. he holds you tight as you fall asleep, tracing your back exactly how you like. you’re out within minutes. he stays awake just a little longer, arms around you, nose tucked into your hair. when the alarm goes off in the morning, your arms are wrapped around him. just like always.

screaming crying throwing up. nanami is my husband, I scream as they carry me back to my white, padded room.

[skuntank]

Love Cynthia having exhausted-to-her-core doctorate student who wears pajama pants to the convenience store at 4am energy but also still managing to not only have hope, but trying to impart hope upon those around her

And not in the toxic positivity way, either. I see her being someone who is perhaps inclined towards being cynical and jaded but is actively working on being someone who can find the good in things even if it doesn't always feel like it comes naturally to her and she stumbles from time to time. More than anything I see her being someone who is just startlingly realistic in how she sees things. Not sugarcoating anything but also not being blunt and negative in the way that shuts people down (unless they need to be shut down, then she can absolutely bring down the pain with no hesitation).

A part of her personality that really strikes me is how supportive and motivating she is to the player, she is someone who genuinely wants to see you grow. And helping you cultivate your success and progress does not always come in the form of sappy sweetness, sometimes the tough love approach is necessary, but ultimately she gets a lot emotionally out of helping to nurture better things in others and the world around her

Depressed bitch energy yes, but also depressed bitch who wants to better herself and live a better life and see those she cares about live a good life, too. A sad bitch who works hard and I really want to see it pay off for her even if it's a rocky journey

[ninjagirlstar5]

Ok we know primal's opinion in Green becoming cronically online but what IS her opinion in BLUE being a nether wart addict and an alchemist

I've actually talked about this before with my buddy on Discord, so I'll just elaborate on some of those, Primal's opinion on alchemy, Blue's role in the group, and some of the headcanons I have for her values.

While Blue is more of a pacifist and only fights when he has to, he's still the medic of the group through his alchemy. Medicine was something he was far more interested in than fighting, unlike his twin, Green, and Primal respected both of their wishes when they were little. She taught him how to heal cuts and bruises, what plants and herbs work best for certain types of injuries, and how to make medicine. I headcanon that Primal believes that being strong is important, especially in her way of life, but so is being smart, and she values a person's role and function to a group rather than whoever is the "strongest" as an individual. While Blue doesn't like fighting (unless he had to), he could still be helpful by providing help through his growing knowledge in medicine and healing their family, having the role of a doctor. Primal saw his little spark of interest and tried to nurture that as he grew up until Blue and Green went missing. So she sees the value of Blue's healing potions from his alchemy.

That being said, it would also depend on how Primal would see buffs and debuffs when it comes to Minecraft's alchemy and potion system. So I decided to form my thoughts out on this by comparing Blue's alchemy to The Box scene in AVA S3 since both have similar uses, just with different methods (Blue's potions offer buffs for allies and debuffs for enemies, which can be carried around, while The Box can be used to enhance victim's abilities while downgrading and taking away Chosen's powers amongst other things in an enclosed area). My friend and I talked about how the Mercs may feel about The Box scene from what we could tell from their body language on Discord, and I personally headcanon that Primal wouldn't really be in favor for it. She considers victim using The Box to boost her abilities and take away Chosen's powers to be cheap as she's all about the hunt and reaping the rewards after a long and hard fought battle. However, it doesn't mean she looks down on trickster tactics either since she knows that just strength alone won't allow you to catch your prey, you need to be smart about it as well. If creating traps and doing "dirty" tricks is more efficient in capturing, stopping, or even killing your prey, then by all means go for it. She'd do it herself in a heartbeat, too. It's why she wasn't against using the glitch bullets from the hoverbikes or the taser guns that the rest of the Mercs used even though she never used one herself. Primal understood that Chosen would be near impossible to capture without them due to his powers and it's her job to take him in, as that's what RocketCorp (a.k.a. victim) ordered her to do. So she'll do what's necessary for the job, for the group, but prefers her own weapons if she feels like she could accomplish a task without RocketCorp's tech. And initially, she chose to remain silent about her displeasure on victim's use of The Box since she can tell that Chosen is a fighter despite all of his running and avoiding direct fights with the Mercs, and would decimate anyone that would get close without the proper restrictions. victim couldn't get her answers without them and she can't exactly judge her for that. Even when she finds it unpleasant to watch victim purposely and slowly strip Chosen's of his abilities and even used them against him multiple times with Agent's help in a situation where he had no way of escaping in the first place (probably), she accepted that it was necessary.

And then victim takes out the memory device and slaps it onto Chosen's face, and Primal's feelings go from "this is disturbing but necessary, so I'll just take the time to sharpen my weapon in case anything goes wrong" to "oh you just wanted to do this, not because you needed to do this." Because the minute that device is used, Primal would see how unnecessary it was for victim to torture Chosen in that way since she could've just debuff their powers, tie them down to the chair, and then slap the device on almost no problem to find the information she seeks. Chosen was already captured prey. victim probably didn't need to go as far as she did, not with the memory device she has on hand. So Primal would find it distasteful after all of that. Not to mention how it would most likely backfire on them later since beating someone down doesn't necessarily mean they would just give in. If anything, it may do the opposite and give Chosen the incentive to fight back even harder the next time they get a chance. "If you beat a dog into a corner, don't expect it won't bite back" kinda thing.

Unlike her feelings towards The Box, though, I think she'd be far more accepting of Blue as an alchemist due to it's usefulness as a role. As mentioned earlier, she'd respect Blue as the medic of the group since that in itself is an important role to take. A group can't function well if none of them know how to heal themselves up properly and can end up succumbing to simpler injuries and sickness as a result. So Blue's role as the medic would allow his friends to recover and keep doing what they need (or want) to do. As for the other alchemy potions, while she'd probably find it cheap, she can't deny that these offer their own benefits when it comes to a fight or hunting down prey even. Hell, if the kids end up in a situation in over their heads and have to fight for their lives, Blue can easily sway the battle into their favor with his buffs and debuffs and Primal isn't going to scoff at something that can protect her children's lives and boost their chances of survival. So she'd ultimately respect Blue as the medic, and would file his "ability to think outside of the box with his potions" under trickster tactics that she accepts as a suitable form of fighting.

As for Blue's netherwart addiction, Primal...probably doesn't understand their need for it. Mostly because netherwarts don't offer any benefits, not even to appease hunger, and they would need to brew it into their potions in order to create the base of buffs and stuff, not, like, eat them. And when Blue tells her about the events of AVM S3 and how their addiction was used against them TWICE to lure them into a false sense of security and essentially get them out of the way, Primal would probably start intervening at that point since it becomes obvious it's a weakness that has been exploited more than once. But she's probably not very successful at first since she wouldn't have the knowledge on how to deal with addictions and tries to get him to stop altogether before learning that being forceful about it isn't going to help Blue and would need a softer, understanding approach to the whole ordeal and the underlying reason why they're addicted to netherwarts beyond just "they think it tastes good." (It probably doesn't help that Green and the rest of the CG kinda just...accepted that Blue is addicted to the stuff and end up enabling them by just doing nothing about it. Hell, they cheered when Fake Blue proclaims that they found their netherwarts when they first "reunite" back when the Witch was introduced. I know it's just a running gag in the show itself and is part of Blue's character, but it's a little...concerning...that his friends (and his twin brother, in my headcanons) aren't trying to help them get off of this stuff.)

Primal is trying her best to help Blue through his addiction, but she also...just doesn't know how. So she'd probably have to ask someone else for help, like Hazard or even Ballista.

[insextras]

Headcanon that Kurt is so agile and flexible because he did inherit mystique's shapeshifting and that is one of the few expressions of it

[cant-icle]

Hello Canticle! I'm glad to see you're back, your fics are some of my absolute favorites! (I go back and reread them pretty often still, even though I'm much less active in the p5 fandom nowadays)

For the 90 degrees meme, may I make a request for A Rusty Knife? I've always wondered what the context behind the cupcake delivery is, if his friends sent them to him or he ordered them for himself?

(p.s. I love the Implications to the fact that it happens in late November, that's a very nice detail that I don't think I noticed before)

It's not unusual for Akira to be called up to the office at this point. There's a fair bit of confusion with regards to his schedule; Shujin was so far ahead of Yasogami in terms of material that there's next to nothing for him to do in classes. His teachers have supplemented his material with university prep materials but even then, his time with Makoto's studying drills make it a breeze.

The counselor works with him, has him sit and mess with prepwork in his office during some of the classes that he's outpaced too much. But that's usually later in the day. This is a period he usually spends tapping along Morgana's back and trying not to fall asleep.

The front office staff look just as confused as he does when he steps into the office area. "Kurusu-kun," one says, gesturing towards the counter, "someone has delivered something for you."

He turns.

Well, damn, they sure have. Someone's thoughtfully unpacked it for him and everything, he can see the packaging discarded off to the side.

There's a small white box, about his forearm in length and half again in width and height, and emblazoned with the Wilton's logo on it! Not only that, there's a small floral arrangement that has Rafflesia stamped all over it, he'd recognize his flower-sensei's handiwork anywhere. He steps forward just long enough to catch a whiff, the flowers still fragrant and crisp even after their long travels, and plucks a small card from where it's tucked between the greenery.

Akira-kun, it reads, this should be early enough to bring a little joy to your day! Please enjoy these cupcakes and know that we all would rather you were sharing them with us back here in Tokyo. We miss you!

Haru's name is signed with her signature flourish below. Akira doesn't even try to hold back his grin at the post-script-- P.S.-- please wait until you've finished them before you tell Ann, as I know she will be quite jealous!

He sends a picture to the group chat immediately, of course.