#i continue to survive out of spite

[aceaxeaxis]

Not dead, survived bike accident but got a gnarly fucking concussion. Ran into a dork riding one of those stupid fucking... overboard things.

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

I cannot emphasize enough how much everything In-ho did during his time in the games was in service of breaking down Gi-hun. Every glance, every story, every comment was incredibly and deliberately calculated.

His first interaction with Gi-hun immediately places the blame on Gi-hun for the games continuing: "I pressed the O because of you." He also explicitly asks for Gi-hun's help on behalf of the group. This sucks Gi-hun into being a mechanism of the games themselves (not just a player, but one telling others how to play) while robbing him of his agency to do so: whereas he was confident in helping during the first game, because it was his choice, In-ho's request forces him to share about the Dalgona prematurely, and he then has a nightmare about misleading the players. This also leads to many players becoming hostile when the game is not Dalgona, which--who could have guessed?--In-ho jumps in to stop. He orchestrated the situation so that Gi-hun would feel maximum pressure and guilt, before In-ho himself relieves it to build trust between them.

Then there are the introductions. In-ho uses Gi-hun's name before they are introduced, which may have been a genuine slip, but was very likely intentional given his response. In-ho's method throughout the games is to parallel and associate himself with Jung-bae, Gi-hun's only actual friend (he saves him during the merry-go-round games; he eavesdrops on Jung-bae's conversation with Gi-hun and directly uses the "get me a soju" line from that conversation to subconsciously build Gi-hun's trust in him during the firefight). So when he uses Gi-hun's name, he says he does so because he heard Jung-bae doing it, and Gi-hun allows him to continue--this creates the first of the links between them. But then, when they are properly introduced, In-ho laughs that "Seong" just means "last name;" in doing so, he implies to those who don't know him that Gi-hun may not be telling the truth, and in context of their conversation (focused on the significance of their names) highlights how Seong Gi-hun is "no one special." He's just an everyman.

Another reason that "slip" was almost certainly intentional is that In-ho is very deliberate about showing moments of weakness. His breakdown during the Six-Legged Race was designed to both further stress Gi-hun (and if Gi-hun had failed, they were in the very last groups present, so they could have been selectively spared as needed) and to strengthen their bond, as Gi-hun got to "encourage" In-ho; then In-ho helped Gi-hun and the team win by kicking with him the final time. Even cheering along with Gi-hun while the other teams went was in service of cementing their connection; and, any time a team failed, In-ho got to observe Gi-hun's reactions under the guise of empathy. In-ho may have felt some genuine emotions while cheering or comforting Gi-hun, but they aren't to be trusted.

That's particularly true because of his biggest "weak" moment: telling Gi-hun why he is in the games. The show confirms, when Jun-ho finds the winner file, that In-ho actually did join the games years before (from his family we know that it was because of his wife's illness), and that he won them himself. So he isn't lying about the details of his personal story--and he even gets emotional--but it is, once again, all in service of ensnaring Gi-hun and earning his trust. In-ho is not faking all of his emotions, but he is controlling and weaponizing them, which is why none of his apparent fondness for Gi-hun can be trusted. He uses his emotions as a tool, rather than being affected by them.

The ultimate result of this manipulation is that Gi-hun is made to feel that everything that happens is his choice (even the things he didn't choose). From the beginning, In-ho has ascribed his choices to Gi-hun. Throughout the games, there are several moments where In-ho explicitly has Gi-hun choose for him; other times, In-ho suggests an approach and Gi-hun shoots it down, and In-ho always coalesces. Gi-hun gets to have "his way." But "his way" doesn't seem to work, and he, like the rest of the players, is changed by the games. His final plan, as In-ho forces him to face, involves a sacrifice of some for the good of the many. Only after he admits this (through his silence) does In-ho agree to help. Then, during the firefight, when Gi-hun tries to give In-ho the ammunition he risked his life to get, In-ho asks, "Are you sure?" Gi-hun's choice to trust In-ho leads to him running out of ammunition earlier, forcing his surrender; meanwhile, In-ho still "dies," and Jung-bae is shot in front of Gi-hun's eyes. None of Gi-hun's choices made things better--they made it all his fault. He is left with the blame, as the Frontman (who is In-ho! And always has been!) tells him point blank.

But none of Gi-hun's choices have really been choices. They have all been based on lies, within a system that uses the information they have to actively orchestrate events against him. The same is true of the players in the game; their choices are not free, because their circumstances (largely caused by unfairness in the world) have trapped them. The baseness they resort to is not what they would do if they really had the choice, and some are even able to choose virtue within the hellscape, but over and over, the system facilitates the dominance of cruelty. And In-ho, the personification of that system, targets Seong Gi-hun, the "Everyman," to make him submit to it--to make him choose to believe that there is no other way.

[starlightkun]

having a 36 hr migraine, class tonight that is mandatory bc we're doing a mock divorce trial worth 20% of our grade and ends at 9pm, and everything else.........oh i need to sleep

[a-friendly-dumpster-fire]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Link & Rauru (Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom), Link & Steward Construct Characters (Legend of Zelda), Link & Link's Family (Legend of Zelda), Link - Relationship Characters: Link (Legend of Zelda), Rauru (Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom), Steward Construct Characters (Legend of Zelda), Link's Mother (Legend of Zelda), Link's Father (Legend of Zelda), Link's Family (Legend of Zelda) Additional Tags: Angst, Friendship, POV Link (Legend of Zelda), POV Rauru (Legend of Zelda), Artificial Intelligence, Grief/Mourning, Link Makes a Friend (Legend of Zelda), Ethics Debates on Artifical Intelligence, exploration of humanity, Author Cannot Tag for The Life of Them (This is a Cry For Help) Summary:

LINK: Have you ever died before?

THE CONSTRUCT: I am a construct, Link. We are not born, and we cannot die.

[The campfire whimpers and sputters. They both turn to stare at the empty husk of another deceased construct rotting nearby.]

THE CONSTRUCT WHO IS NOT BORN AND CANNOT DIE: …we cannot die in the same way our creators did.

LINK: But surely it must be similar.

THE CONSTRUCT: I wouldn’t know. Can a machine die like a heart stops beating?

[novthirty]

OUT OF BOUNDS | you get isekai-d into the N109 zone

— pairing: sylus x non-mc! reader

— synopsis: you land in the world of love and deepspace. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of his personal secretary. wc: 3.8k

— tags: isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, pining, slice of life, birthdays, holiday season, reader is not the main character, boss/employee relationship

— edit: i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here.

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open!

It was just your luck to be walking home from a 7PM class on a desolate road, only for a vehicle to swerve and crash into you. The impact is like a sledgehammer to your body as you hear the crunch of glass and the snap of bones. This is it, you think, as the world around you blurs into nothingness. 

—————————————————————

You wake up in a hospital bed, where you promptly have a panic attack from the IV attached to your arm. You desperately thrash against the nurses’ hold, trying to remove the intrusive line from your body, but it’s no use as your injuries and the numerous drugs hamper your movements. You hear muffled explanations— inaudible to your clouded mind— before they decide to sedate you. You drift back to sleep. 

Sometime later, you wake up again, this time with the IV detached and a familiar face sitting by your bedside. You laugh, thinking you must be in some sort of dream or coma-induced hallucination. Because why was Sylus, a love interest from Love and Deepspace— the game you’ve been obsessed with for the past few months— sitting beside you? You say as much, and the only response he deigns you with is, “Did you sustain brain damage on top of your other injuries?”

You shake your head at the absurdity of your delusions, quickly falling back into a medically-induced sleep. Things should be back to normal when you wake up.

—————————————————————

Newsflash: they weren’t. Days passed, and you gradually had to accept that whether it was reality or not, you were gonna be stuck here until you figured out how to go back to the normal world. Sylus visits you from time to time, the strange girl who landed in his backyard and claims to be from another world. It turns out that the place you’ve woken up in is not a hospital, but Onychinus’s medical ward.

When you’ve healed enough to be discharged, you have nowhere to go. So you turn to the only person you’re familiar with in this world.  

You had been a college student, just months away from graduation before you found yourself here. It fills you with spite, how everything you’d worked hard for was taken away in the blink of an eye. But you push the bitterness aside, offering whatever skills you have to Sylus so he doesn’t kick you out. You know that this world isn’t kind, the N109 Zone one of the worst places you could have ended up. A normal civilian such as you wouldn’t survive here alone. Though you don’t have much to contribute to a criminal organization, you’re grateful when Sylus offers you the job of his personal assistant. 

Although you don’t have much work experience, your previous internships and methodical nature help you to excel at this job. Never has the leader of Onychinus been so…. organized, his colleagues around him observe the stark change in the following months. You whip him up to shape, scolding him when he arrives late to meetings, making sure he actually calls back when he says he will. His business partners now call his office to be greeted by a chirpy voice, “How may I help you? Oh, Sylus isn’t here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

He had initially given you this job as more of a placeholder role, so you can occupy yourself with the illusion of real responsibility while he investigates his suspicions about you. Where did you come from? Who sent you? And most importantly, how did you manage to infiltrate his base right under his nose? But his investigation leads him to the simple truth: there was nothing on you. It’s as if you materialized from thin air. No records, no blood ties, no evidence of your existence before you walked into his life. 

But if reincarnation can be fact, and dragons more than legends, why deny the possibility of other realities? This, more than anything, makes him inclined to believe your claims. 

Besides, you’ve proven yourself to be… useful, he supposes. Although the fear he instilled in his business partners was enough to put them in their place, he now had you to act as a buffer to their complaints and concerns, handling matters that were beneath him. You easily adjust to his nocturnal schedule; you’re like a little crow chirping at his shoulder at all times of the day, reminding him to leave on time for meetings, to eat three meals each day (even going so far as to ask his preferred meals to inform the chefs in advance). You physically force him out of his office the moment noon hits in an attempt to prevent him from overworking, “Sun’s up, boss. It’s time to hit the sack.” 

Your office is connected to his, although it's less a room and more an alcove he cleared away when he gave you the job. You have a small desk, a fluffy pink swivel chair, and a shelf covered in the trinkets you spend your salary on. (Another thing you have in common with Mephisto, he notes to the ever-growing list.) He finds amusement to idly watch you during his downtime, twirling the strands of your hair and chewing your pen as you talk on the phone about weapons shipments and insuring someone who lost a finger in an operation. 

Contradictory to his initial expectations, you prove yourself in a professional capacity and cement your place in the ranks of Onychinus.

—————————————————————

The first surprise is truly when the clock strikes twelve on April 18, and he enters his office to find a cake on his desk. Decorated in black and maroon frosting, it’s topped with his name in crooked cursive and a crow-shaped candle to boot. Moments after, you stride in from behind with Luke and Kieran, all carrying gifts and wearing patterned party hats, singing a terribly off-key rendition of the birthday song.

“Happy birthday, Sylus! Make a wish!”

He blows the candles (and wishes for the only thing he truly desires). 

“Do you like the cake? The chefs helped me decorate it!” You say as you slice it into even triangles, giving him the largest one. Mephisto is perched on your shoulder, with his own red party hat, as you feed him small bites of your own slice. (The resemblances between the two of you are truly uncanny). The celebration is a silly endeavor that lasts no more than an hour before he kicks everyone out of his office. But try as he might, he can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day. 

When May comes, you rope him into the preparations for Luke and Kieran’s birthday. Due to your incessant nagging, he’s since discovered your shared digital calendar— complete with monthly, weekly, daily, and hourly agendas— and chosen to ignore it. “The calendar exists for you to be on time,” You seethe whenever he steps into his office late, the little shit smirking as if you didn’t just rearrange his schedule to hell and back for that one hour-long meeting he missed. However, that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from any festivities you force upon the household. 

The twins’ celebration is a significantly more chaotic affair than his, involving a two tiered cake and a booking for a laser tag arena, and ending with a trip to the medical ward. Despite the casualties, it’s the most fun Luke and Kieran have had since they joined Onychinus. (Fun that wasn’t self-orchestrated, at least). 

Your presence brings a liveliness to his found family, something that grounds you all in this high-paced line of work. A presence that, little by little, seeps into his life to the point he can no longer imagine living without it.  

—————————————————————

When he finds you on a cold midnight in November, sitting alone on the kitchen island with a puny cupcake and a candle, he asks you what the hell you think you are doing. 

“Well, it’s just a birthday. I didn't feel the need to have a lot of celebration this year." The answer is nowhere enough to appease him, especially given your grandiose efforts to celebrate literally everyone else’s birthday. So, you admit to him, “I felt a bit sad, I guess. This was my last year of college. I had so many plans for before my entry into the workforce… and now, I can't really do any of them.”

Without missing a beat, he asks, “And what were those plans?” 

You list off the various places you wanted to visit, the items you were supposed to cross from your bucket list this year. As you reminisce on old plans, you split the cupcake with him and bid him goodnight, returning to your office to catch up on work. 

When you wake up at 5 PM later that day, it’s to streamers and balloons in the living room. 

“Happy birthday!” Everyone in the house cheers as you enter the room, decked out in all sorts of party favors. Even Sylus, who was notoriously un-festive, is wearing a cone-shaped party hat striped with your favorite colors. 

What follows is an impromptu day-off for everyone in the base (you feel an oncoming migraine thinking of how you’re going to readjust Sylus’s schedule). They bring you to Linkon City, your first time visiting since your arrival, following an itinerary that matches your original plans to a T. 

Sylus is upset that you’ve kept the date to yourself for so long, but more than that, he’s angry at himself for not bothering to ask. So he does his best to make up for it in the final hours of your birthday. Throughout the evening, he drags you to every activity that had been on your wishlist, lavishing you with all sorts of presents on the way. It’s a little too much. You’re not used to being spoiled, not used to treating yourself without deserving it first, and you tell him as much. 

He tips your chin upwards with a feather-light touch, his gaze unreadable as he asks, “And who says my lovely secretary doesn’t deserve the world at her feet?” 

The atmosphere shifts, the effortless ease at which you interact with him dissipates into stutters and heated stares. You ride home on the back of his motorcycle, finding yourself flushing despite the winter chill in the air. It’s a comfortable silence, yet your heart is thumping loudly against your chest. Does he hear how he makes you feel? You wonder. 

Before he retires to his bedroom, you place a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for today,” you whisper before shutting the door behind you. 

—————————————————————

From then on, things are significantly more… tense, between the two of you. What were once casual interactions turn tense with every brush of your fingers, with every meeting of your eyes across the room. He's always lavished you with the sweetest of pet names; darling, little bird, sweet girl. You assume it’s just his speech pattern, given what you had known of him from the game. But why does it make your heart race every time he refers to you with such terms of endearment? Why does it fuel your delusions of having something more? 

—————————————————————

It comes to a head during the week of Christmas, where you once again strong-arm him into having your festive way at the Onychinus base. 

You were appalled at their lack of holiday spirit for the previous years, “How can you run an organization like this?!” So you drag your boss out to the nearest Christmas tree farm. “You’re rich enough to afford a real one,” You decide definitively. He rolls his eyes but drives you there anyway. 

Each night on the week before Christmas goes similarly. The moment your work is done for the evening, you drag the whole house into some sort of festive activity. Decorating the tree, baking a gingerbread house, making eggnog. Holiday tunes fill the Onychinus base 24/7 and for once, Sylus finds that he doesn’t mind. Not when he sees the way you dance to yourself when you think no one’s looking, the way you know the words by heart and hum them under your breath. But he doesn’t participate much, mostly checking in and making a sardonic yet supportive comment before returning to his work. 

One evening, he decides to bring his work to the living room while you’re setting up the tree. It was a great source of amusement to see you struggle on your toes to place the ornaments, hoisting yourself up on whatever surface was available to you. But even he found it a bit too pitiful to watch you struggle to place the star, too vertically challenged to place the finishing touch. Couldn’t you just get a ladder? “Let me help you,” His breath tickles your ear as he grabs your waist and lifts you up. 

You squeal, holding tight to his arms and kicking at the air beneath you, “Sylus, what the fuck! Put me down!”

“Place the star, darling. While I'm still being nice.” In the end, you call it a team effort, despite his only contribution being his role as a human ladder. 

—————————————————————

You’ve been very festive and cheery the whole week of Christmas, so it disturbs him when the eve of the 25th arrives and you’re downtrodden. A shell of your typical self. He's never seen you like this before— absentminded and listless, it takes you a whole minute to realize he’s calling your name for the grand Christmas dinner you had insisted upon. You open presents with everyone in the early morning, smiling and thanking at the right cues, but he can tell your heart’s not in it.  

After the gifts have been given and the wrapping paper cleaned up, he takes you to the rooftop to ask what’s wrong. 

And so, you bare your heart to the only person who holds enough of it to break it. 

It’s a bittersweet Christmas for you, the first one you’ve ever spent away from home. For the first time since you were whisked away to this surreal world, you speak of your original life. Your family. Your friends. Your dreams. A fragile boundary that you haven’t touched with anyone here, for it hurts too much to speak of what you left behind. Of what was taken away from you. 

And it is here, underneath the midnight sky where he tells you of his search for the other half of his soul. He speaks of a similar homesickness, resonating with how out of reach home feels for you right now, as he’s waited what seems like a millennia for the person he calls his. 

You already know, of course, that sooner or later, he will meet her. This world was once your favorite game, and you had shed tears at their loss, at their cursed fate. You stay silent, listening to the tragic tale from the man himself. The affection in his tone as he speaks of her— his sorceress, his soulmate— makes you hurt for this man, for the trials he’s endured in the name of true love. But it is also a bitter reminder that you have no place by his side. 

—————————————————————

On New Year’s Eve, he doesn’t even give you the chance to feel homesick. The moment the sun goes down, he takes you on a joyride to Linkon City, bringing you to a cafe to have dinner together and sightsee the various festivities for the holiday; making sure you don’t even have a moment to feel sad. 

He brings you to the tallest building in the city, for the best view of the sky when the fireworks show starts. Despite the chilly air, his hand is warm in yours, clutching it in a tight grip as he wades through the crowd of people who had the same idea. You find a secluded corner where the two of you sit down and sip your milk tea, talking about your new year’s resolutions. 

“I don’t do resolutions,” He waved a hand, unimpressed. “If I want to change an aspect of my life, I won't wait until the start of a new year to do so.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” You stick your tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes, but he’s internally pleased with how well he’s distracted you thus far. “My resolutions are always the same. Exercise more, eat healthy, and save money!”

“Dear, there is a private gym back home that you haven’t touched even once,” Your heart flutters at the word home. A word that brings you melancholy most of the time, but now fills your heart with a sort of domestic bliss.

“Well then, it’s perfect! I'll have no excuse not to start tomorrow.” 

He shakes his head in fond exasperation. Your eyes are glued to the magnificent colors soaring through the sky, legs bouncing in time with the countdown. But unbeknownst to you, his gaze is entirely on you. 

When the clock strikes midnight, you jump to give him a hug. “Happy New Year, Sylus!”

He cradles you in his arms, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, “Happy New Year.”

—————————————————————

As the months pass by, you grow more accustomed to the harsh edges of your new job. It's not exactly the first job you had envisioned for yourself; you had once hoped to start somewhere more in line with your aspiring career, somewhere you could make use of your degree. But plans don’t always work out. What you do is unorthodox, but it’s fulfilling and allows you to live in this dangerous world from a safe vantage point, almost like dipping your toes into a ten feet pool. 

That doesn’t mean you’re completely sheltered from all the dangers of the job, however. Given the type of clientele you handle, more often than not, you’re faced with threats of being maimed over the phone when you can’t give somebody what they want. Each time, Sylus promptly takes over and matches their energy twicefold with a more heinous, yet very real threat.

The worst days are post-missions, when you have to witness your newfound family return bloody and bruised in the name of Onychinus. You become conditioned to waiting with a first aid kit and a change of clothes for Luke and Kieran, immediately patching up their wounds. But Sylus— you almost think he’s invincible, with how he returns from even the most high-risk operations without a scratch. 

That is, until one night when he walks through the front door, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. His evol is working overtime to knit his skin back together, but the blood still pools beneath him on the marble tile. You stay by his side through the night as he recovers, listening to deluded murmurs about a time long past, and an ever-so-familiar name. 

You grip his hand in yours throughout the night. But it’s not your hand to hold. 

—————————————————————

Over the span of a year, you become one of Sylus’s closest confidants. He treats you with all the gentleness and care in the world, revealing to you a softer side of him that you knew existed in the game, but that he rarely ever showed to anyone else. You feel honored that he trusts you with these facets of himself, but you also feel guilty. 

Because what Sylus doesn’t know is that he was your favorite. You, a student facing burnout in your final year of university, began to cope with a game suggested to you, subsequently becoming engrossed with one of its newest characters. His soft treatment of the main character, juxtaposed with his violent nature, had drawn you to him. Your heart had fluttered at every tender moment, each call and text message, each appearance in the main story. You had foolishly indulged in the delusions of romance with a fictional man. 

When you landed in this world, there was a cognitive dissonance as you came to terms with the difference between the 2D character that lived on your phone screen and the living, breathing person in front of you. For a while, you were too focused on your new situation to even think of the implications of the fictional character you’d been crushing on being in close, real proximity. He had not trusted you, either. You could practically visualize his defenses in each interaction, as he contemplated what to make of you. 

At the time, you thought that by now, surely you would have woken up from this coma-induced hallucination already. Surely you would have woken back up to reality. But as you grow to accept that the situation you’re in is real, and the likelihood that you may be stuck there for the foreseeable future— before you knew it, he had crept into your heart. 

You don’t know when it started. All you know is that his presence in your life is more than the surface-level distraction it once was in your reality. No, Sylus— the living person who comforted you on the saddest birthday you’ve had, who indulged your demands for a Christmas celebration, who makes your heart race like no other— has you wrapped around his finger. He could ask anything of you, and your heart could do nothing but surrender to his whims. 

But in the back of your head, always lurking, is the distant reminder of the main character. The vivacious hunter whose life is tied to his. The other half of his soul. There’s no chance you could ever come between something destined by the universe itself, so you yield in the face of their cosmic love. You shove away your feelings and resign yourself to finding a way back home, desperately, before this world forces you to lose a love you never had a chance at. 

—————————————————————

What you don’t know is that he’s desperately blocking off every potential lead back to your world, not wanting to face a reality where you are not in his life. 

He finds himself conflicted, because his soul is tied to her. His sorcerer, his soulmate, whom he has yearned for for what feels like a millenia. But here you are, his lovely secretary, the woman who forces him into mundane festivities and stays by his side even in weakness. The two images war in his head; the dragon roaring at how distracted he’s become from searching for his mate, and the man, falling fast and hard for a woman from another world, brought to him by pure fate. A love born out of an unexpected connection. 

His search for his long-lost love continues, but alongside it are his attempts to tie you down to his world, to keep you in his grasp. Because he cannot, will not, live without you.

He will watch the world burn before he lets it take his love away again.

—————————————————————

So, the two of you continue in this cycle of push and pull, of moving closer but not close enough. You live in a limbo, desperately searching for ways to get home before the main storyline catches up to you. Haunted by the narrative, you two move in and out of each other’s orbit, just out of reach. Just out of bounds. 

—————————————————————

like and reblog if you enjoyed!

i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here (comment there if you’d like to be tagged!)

[mysweetvalentine1111]

Back on my edging sylus bullshit.

Sylus is not a weak man.

He's sat through agonizing interrogations without breaking a sweat, survived eons of pain and misery without crumbling, broken his own bones out of pure spite in order to survive.

Anyone who knows him knows that there simply no breaking the leader of Onychinus.

Well, that changes tonight.

You're behind him, his back to your soft, supple chest as you reach around him, leisurely stroking his length.

The first few minutes were easy, his breathing had barely even changed as your hand moved up and down his shaft. He'd even taunted you.

"I'm getting bored, sweetie. Surely you can do better than this, hm?"

But now you were almost two hours in, and his resolve was crumbling.

"Sweetie- hah—" His eyes squeezed shut as his peak was ripped away from him once more. Droplets of sweat rolling down his flushed chest as he heaved, hands fisting into the sheets so tight he feared the silk might rip.

"Breathe, Sy. You're doing so good." You crooned against his ear, making his entire body shudder as a choked whine escaped him. You let out a soft laugh, squeezing the base of his swollen, needy prick. His hips bucking up into your touch to chase the friction.

That's the thing, you were breaking him, but you were doing it so fucking sweetly that he wanted more, he wanted more of your sweet praises, more of your sweet kisses, more of your sweet touches.

Sweet sweet sweet sweet-

"Sweet mother of god-!" He hissed, damn near whining as your hand started moving again, the friction making his sensitive cock feel like it was on fire.

"Ffffuck- fuck, oh my fucking god, baby-!"

He threw his head back against your shoulder, no longer having the energy to muffle his sounds as breathy pants and needy moans escaped him. His legs shaking violently as the knot in his lower stomach continued to build and build-

"Shit, shit, fuck, baby please let me cum- I just wanna cum-!"

He didn't care how whiney he sounded, he couldn't. Not when you were looking down at him with that sexy fucking smile like you just won the damn lottery.

"Hmm, I dunno." You hummed thoughtfully, like you weren't being so fucking cruel by edging him like this. "I don't really think you've earned it." You grinned evilly.

"No- no, baby cmon, I'll buy you anything you w-want- o-oh God. M-make your favorite every night, let you ride my cock till I cry just– fuck!"

His attempts at negation were cut off when you pressed your thumb against his slit, a sharp keen escaping him as his head fell back, eyes rolling back in his skull at the delicious pressure.

Sylus bit his lip, hoping to muffle the outright pathetic whimpers and moans escaping as he looked up at you with large, glossy eyes.

"I'll let you cum," You started, which was almost enough to make him finish right there. "But only if you keep your eyes on me, okay? No looking away."

He cheeks flushed, but he nodded regardless, breath coming out shakily as you started moving your hand again. Slowly at first, then gradually speeding up as he got more and more desperate.

Despite how badly he wanted to screw his eyes shut and bask in the feeling of your hands on him, he kept his eyes locked on yours, even when your free hand began to tug and pinch his poor, sensitive chest.

His eyes became glazzier and glazzier, his mouth falling open as his body started to tremble.

"C-close-" He managed to rasp out, your touch wiping his usually brilliant mind of any coherent thought.

"Mm, good boy.." you purred, nuzzling your nose against his and tugging at his lower lip with your teeth, the action threatening to make his eyes roll back.

Those simple words and the soft, adoring look in your eyes pushed him over. His mouth opening but no sound coming out as his body trembled violently through his orgasm, eyes completely glazing over as you milked his poor cock dry.

After several long, agonizingly pleasurable seconds, he went boneless in your hold, gasping like he'd just run a marathon, entire body wrecked and shaking.

Yes, there was no breaking Sylus.

At least until now.

[oh-no-its-bird]

Jokingly thought to myself "Kakashi got a sharingan pass bc the Uchiha like him" which turned into "dumb au where the Uchiha just really like Kakashi for some reason (clan stuff??)"

Which then turned into two separate fic ideas where either Obito survives and Kakashi is a hot commodity for the Uchiha (much to Obito's displeasure, he has dibs you guys go away what the fuck!!); or a kid era fic where the Uchiha take one look at Obito's eye in his head and go "DIBS!! DIBS!!! THIS MEANS WE HAVE DIBS!!!!" and just violently adopt him

Anyways:

Really stupid 'Madara adopts Kakashi after Sakumo's death' AU where Madara never left the village and continues to live as a very grumpy old man.

He adopts Kakashi partially out of spite for half-Hatake!Tobirama + the Hatake were very old Senju allies so spite for that too. Plus a little bit of "damn, another once strong clan wittled down to nothing"

(The fact he never left means Tobirama died at a much later date and also made Kagami hokage)

Madara is visiting Tobirama's grave just to go "get fucked bastard, I stole your nephew, he's mine now." (Ignoring the fact Tobirama probably would have quietly approved anyways)

Obito is around and hates Madara with an inexplicable burning rage and the feeling is mutual. Madara has beef with this literal 11 year old and it's embaressing for both of them.

Obito just has another reason to be mad about Kakashi's general existence (why does the old man seem to like HIM???? What the FUCK????) Obito doesn't know whether he should be telling Kakashi to stay away from Madara or Madara from Kakashi. He does both.

Also Madara and Tobirama were like DEFINATLEY gay together but it was kept behind closed doors and also they continued to hate on eachother in and out of the bedroom. They had the energy of a married couple who regularly gets divorced and remarried like 3 times a month. Everyone hates them.

Madara regularly goes to cuss out Tobirama's grave when mad ab something, then ends his rant with a quiet, begrudging, "miss you, bastard."

Just in general mad bitter old guy Madara harassing the general Konoha population as equally grumpy, 9 years old and almost as bitter as he is Kakashi watches

Kakashi is going to grow up to be an even bigger bastard than canon, thanks Madara!

Eventual obkk where Obito realizes if he marries Kakashi one day Madara will be his dad and he almost seriously considers just. Not.

Is it really worth it. Is it REALLY worth it. Before he sees Kakashi smile or smthn and goes FUCK ok maybe it's worth it.

[merakiui]

LONELY ESTATE.

sunday x (female) reader cw: nsfw, marking (hickeys), slight possessiveness from sunday, alcohol/intoxication, toxic exes, adultery, background marriage of convenience, an au wherein most of the canon is ignored in favor of plotless smut, all you really need to know is that sunday is still hopelessly whipped for you note - you and sunday are over—have been for many years. all it takes is one drunken mistake to rekindle a dangerous flame that should have been extinguished long ago. or: sunday invites his ex to his wedding. that goes about as pleasantly as you can imagine. // listen to cailin russo's 'lonely estate' if you would like extra vibes!! :D

If there’s one thing that trumps Sunday’s detestation of you, it’s his unshakable sense of duty towards his station. He takes immense care to craft a respectable image for the public, meticulously weaving words and actions together to become a pristine and untouchable chrysalis. Almost like a marble statue, perfection sculpted in his likeness. When you were dating, he used to echo the same advice: “A pleasant impression impacts one’s reputation and, by extension, the organization, occupation, and company one chooses to keep. You would do well to remember that.”

And remember you have.

It’s been eight years since you broke it off with him, but even now you hear his voice ringing loud and clear whenever you aren’t up to par with the standards you set for yourself. What can be worse than the voice of your own harsh critic? A voice that sounds remarkably like your ex-boyfriend, much to the consternation of your peace, and he’s so very keen to scrutinize every detail of your life.

You were hoping to save yourself a run-in with him, but the world (and Sunday) hates you. By the good grace of an invitation, you find yourself attending his wedding as a mostly unwilling guest. And it’s only because you’re doing the same thing he does: save face, lift your reputation, network—a brutal cycle.

That birdbrain was your initial thought when you skimmed the words cordially invite you to the wedding of Sunday Oak, and you immediately felt scammed somehow. He went and got married before I could, and now I have to sit in the audience and congratulate him. Gross.

So now you’re here, having sat through the ceremony and an obnoxious amount of platitudes, artfully dodging questions of, “You look familiar. Where do I remember you from?” You’re wearing a skin that’s only semi-immune to self-importance and schemes: a strapless black dress that wraps around your body like a smothering embrace. A matching choker is fastened around your throat. You don’t have glittering gems and pretty pearls, so costume jewelry fills in for what’s deceptive enough to pass as opulent authenticity.

This is the type of wedding that makes the headlines. Massive news for a massive event! Powerful people strut about and mingle in the ballroom beneath a coruscating chandelier, preening like peacocks when their feathers are smoothed out with obsequious flattery. You don’t fit in with anyone here. It’s another world—a world you’re relieved to have left behind all those years ago.

That was always the crux of your dynamic with Sunday. The imbalance. Different worlds. Different values. Different, different, different. And not the kind in which you make it work, fitting together like imperfect puzzle pieces in spite of difficulty—that love conquers all nonsense. Rather, it was the type of difficulty that’s reminiscent of oil and water. An impossible mixture.

No matter what, nothing seemed to blend. You’d melt into each other, but the physical and emotional amalgamation wouldn’t stick.

The fact of the matter? Sunday was primed for success ever since his and Robin’s adoption into the illustrious Oak Family. On the other side of the coin, you were primed for struggle and survival. For a litany of temporary work, a galactic hole wrenched open in your heart since your first failure, and as a result you continue to climb an unsteady ladder in search of a way to slice that pesky prefix off. Steady. You want to know what that’s like. At one point, you thought you wanted to know that bliss with Sunday. Not anymore, though.

This world is suffocating and reeks of too-expensive colognes that cloy like rot, and it’s bright in here—a blinding sort of light that sears through your eyelids to chisel away at your irises. You can’t endure another minute here.

I’ve played my part, you think, performing a sly sweep of the room. I applauded with the audience, I left my gift with the rest, and I’m telepathically sending good vibes. Time to make my grand escape.

You weave around a marble pillar, confident in the curtain call, only to stop short at the sight of an old nuisance standing just beyond the cluster of people cluttered between you—literally and symbolically, forever worlds apart. And grand your escape would have surely been had he not had the conscience to look your way at that exact moment. You watch as he excuses himself from his previous conversation, and then he’s maneuvering seamlessly around the crowd like a shark fin cutting through deep blue. They part with ease, offering him smiles and congratulations in succession.

Before you can think of running, he’s standing right in front of you.

“Miss (Name), good evening.”

“If it isn’t the man of the hour!” You flash more teeth than lip when you smile, the worst fake you’ve ever tried to force. “Congrats.”

Amusement crinkles the corners of eyes. “Are you enjoying the party? I must say it’s an unexpected surprise to see you here.”

“Coming from the guy who put me on the list, I highly doubt that.” You pluck a champagne flute from a passing waiter and school your temper into rehearsed refinement. “But it’s a very nice event, yes. I’m enjoying myself.” And then because you can’t help it, “The most handsome man in Penacony—married. Wow! Big news. What a dream. So happy for you.”

Every word is spoken with great strain.

Lifting the glass to meet ruby-red lips, you hold his aureate stare and take a long sip from the fizzy beverage. It crackles at the back of your throat in an explosion of aromatic alcohol. Sunday studies this display with a strange intensity, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and then he settles on the lipstick staining the rim of the glass. Despite his phlegmatic placidity, a mask measured to muddle the manipulation lying just beneath the surface, you’re trained in Sunday’s tactics. If there’s anyone who can navigate these sides of him—the control and coercion, every unsavory facet—it’s you.

He breathes out a gentle laugh. “You’ve never possessed a penchant for dishonesty, especially not the successful sort.”

And if there’s anyone who can see through to your very soul, perceptive to a point, it’s your ex. He knows all of your best and worst qualities just as you know all of his, and much like the symbolism in wearing all black to a wedding celebration you’re a stain on his past.

It was a first relationship that was swiftly swept under dozens of metaphorical rugs. And if you’re ever brought up in conversation it’s always the angelic, can-never-do-anything-wrong Family head with his undesirable ex-girlfriend. 

“Look, this has been cute—all of this.” You gesture with your glass. Liquid gold almost sloshes over the rim. If any speckles your outfit, you can’t tell. The droplets are devoured by the dark void of your dress. “But I have places to be. Congrats again on the wedding.”

With a casual wave of your hand, you swivel around on your heel and take one step forward. His next words freeze you in place.

“Sardonic as usual. How could your most lovable trait slip my mind?” There’s a catty edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. Childish, almost, as if your very existence brings out the immaturity from all those years ago. Perhaps it’s still there and, rather than maturing, he just learned how to hide it. “How keenly you flee.”

Your fingers tighten around the slim stem of your glass, and for a beautiful moment you picture Sunday’s neck in its place. And then the spell breaks and you’re left to pivot sharply, a monstrous sneer cutting into your cheeks.

“Funny. If I recall, someone once said it’s what I do best. I guess I’m living up to the legend, huh, Sunday?”

“Nothing if not predictable, even at your most troublesome. It is as endearing as it is frustrating.”

“Ugh. Don’t you have a new wife to cozy up to? Or people to let stroke your ego? Go bother one of them. I’m not in the mood.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that. As host, it would be poor manners on my part to neglect a guest.”

The way he pronounces guest makes you think he wants to swap the word for a more fitting title, one that rhymes, but he refrains from doing so. Still, the hidden description brands itself onto your brain. Pest. Pest. Pest.

That’s all you really are to one another nowadays. A pest from the past. Thankfully, the feeling is mutual.

“Aren’t you oh-so-considerate?”

His smile does not add any shine to his already lightless eyes. To stave off the awkward, near-nuclear tension, you down the rest of your champagne. Sunday’s focus drifts once more, lingering squarely on your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. You take notice of this and level him with a stern frown.

“Don’t jeopardize your marriage by being so obvious, or you might find yourself in the early stages of divorce. Be careful, birdbrain.”

As you brush past him, you catch his mumblings.

“As if I would fall for such blatant temptation. It’s simply unbecoming. Reckless behavior befitting that of utter fools.”

With that, Sunday flattens nonexistent wrinkles on his perfect suit and steps back into the crowd. You beeline right for the refreshments. If it’s a party on the Oak Family’s Credits, you’re determined to depart with a stomach full of fancy food and bubbly beverages.

No harm in letting loose tonight, you think. No work, no worries, no obligations. It’s a Sunday. Make the most of it before Monday.

Hours later, clutching a plate piled high with tiny cakes and skewers of cheese and fruit, you sway out of the ballroom. Diffidence cast aside, your body warm and wired with a giggly sort of inebriation, you stagger-walk until the music and thunderous din of too many conversations flushes out into a distant muffle. It takes a few more turns and a silly moment of mistaking your left from your right before you realize you are not nearing the exit. Instead, you’re just putting more space between the outside and yourself.

It’s quiet and cold in this hall, peaceful like the grave. Shadows settle in corners and beneath curtains. Maybe you’d find yourself unsettled if it weren’t for the snacks in hand. They distract you from any encroaching haunts.

The Oak Family Manor is more labyrinthine than you remember, but then it’s been years since you stepped foot in these walls. 

“Damn. Where the fuck is the exit?” you mutter, licking buttercream from your fingers. “This stupid house…”

Your surroundings tilt and blur in a dizzying splotch of color and shapes. You set your plate down on a half-moon table and grab at the wall for support. The motion of the world seems to settle momentarily like aquarium gravel sinking in a fishbowl.

And then a gentle voice slices through eerie tranquility: “Miss (Name), you’re lost.”

Forcing your eyes open, you cast your gaze over your shoulder. He looks like pure light in his white suit, a comparison that instantly sours in your stomach and darkens the drunken innocence scrawled on your face.

I must be in Hell if this is what they’re calling an angel.

“Oh, it’s just you.”

“I’m flattered by your heartwarming greeting. Even when you’re three sheets to the wind, you always captivate me with your…unique ways of interaction, to put it lightly.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” Straightening yourself out, you cover the distance to reach him, heels clicking in time with your heartbeat, and jab a manicured finger at his chest. “You…”

With the tattered remains of your pride on the line, you refuse to admit your tipsy brain led you to who-knows-where inside your ex’s house. So instead you stare until the beginnings of a wry smile play at the corners of his mouth. He seems thoroughly entertained with your ineffective attempt at feisty intimidation. Wobbly as your legs are, you stand your ground and poke at his chest. The right words will come to you eventually. You’re sure of it.

Sunday’s slender fingers wrap around your wrist, preventing you from barraging his pristine suit with your immature prodding.

“Well?” he encourages. “You were saying?”

You examine his features for a long time—longer than what would be considered normal if you had your wits about you—and throw your head back to groan.

“You’re so irritating and you never shut up.”

“And you are stubborn to the core, hopelessly so. Shall I continue listing more of your flaws just as you have demonstrated them, or would you like a chance to defend yourself? I’m certain eight years is more than enough time for adequate self-improvement, but judging by your current state it appears nothing’s changed.”

He cuts you down with such a soft, matter-of-fact tone. You understand better than anyone why the absurdity of marriage could never apply to you and him.

Now properly irked, you try to pull your wrist free. Mischief curls his smile into that of a self-satisfied smirk. He holds firm—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep you still. If you weren’t so drunk, you’d realize he’s not really trapping you at all. It’s the type of grasp that would loosen immediately if you put just a smidge of force into ripping yourself free, and even then that would make your non-struggle appear laughable and feeble.

“Shouldn’t you be nicer to your guests? As a guest, this sort of behavior is simply unbecoming from the host,” you complain, mimicking him to the best of your ability.

“Well, I find it’s similarly unbecoming for a guest to carelessly overindulge and wander aimlessly in areas she doesn’t belong. That is to say, Miss (Name), it’s not very nice to explore a house without the homeowner’s permission. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not my fault your house is dumb and big!” Puffing your cheeks out in a petulant pout, you finally tear your arm away. There’s no resistance on his part. “Just show me the exit and I’ll be out of your life for good, and we’ll never have to put up with each other again.”

With a tut, Sunday shakes his head at you like you’re a particularly stupid child who’s missed the lesson in a lecture. It’d be worse if he waggled his finger in your face and left you with an equally pettish, “Nuh-uh.”

“Or I could resolve to leave you here, disoriented as you are, to wander my house like a little lost, liquor-addled mouse.”

“Oh, please. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sadistic…” The rest of your grumbling dies on your tongue. “Whatever. I don’t need your help.”

You intend to storm off and search for the exit on your own, but vertigo catches up to you and drags you back to a more humble stage. Again, you cling to the wall to steady yourself. Only unlike before you can’t bear to stay on your feet and so you slide slowly down the wall to sit on the ground, your legs folding up into your chest. With a defeated moan, you rest your forehead on your knees and pray for the world to stop twirling.

“Go back to your hoity-toity party and your pretty wife and your fancy food. I’ll find my way out.” You shoo him away with a limp hand motion.

Sunday remains silent, but you know he’s still there. You can feel his presence like a splinter wedged under your skin.

“You can hardly walk, let alone lift yourself off the ground. You’re about as stable as a baby bird learning to fly. Where exactly do you think you’re going to go in this state?”

“Home,” is your flat reply. And then you lift your head to peer at him through your lashes. “What do you care whether I can walk or not?”

Sunday crouches to your height to closely observe your glazed eyes, the part of your lips, the rise and fall of your chest. A cautious calculation passes over his face, waltzing elegantly through gold hues to form a pinched frown beneath his nose. A stagnant beat stretches between you and him. You know that blank slate of a look, inscrutable to even the most experienced detective. He’s practicing his words in his head, deciding which is an appropriate response. As his former partner, you’ve got a leg up on anyone hoping to solve the enigmatic Sunday. It’s a blessing and a curse.

“I don’t care. Not particularly. But it would be irresponsible to leave a guest—my ex-girlfriend—dead on her feet in a dark hallway. It wouldn’t look very good for me or the Oak Family.”

“Riiight. How could I forget? Always reputation first for the oh-so-flawless Head of the Oak Family.” A smirk sits slanted on your face. You tilt your head at him, coy. “No one’s gonna care about me. I’m not famous or rich or part of some influential family. Don’t pretend like it matters.”

I don’t matter. Not here.

Having taken umbrage at your remark and all that is left unsaid, he draws back. There’s a noticeable shift in his demeanor. Gloomy, maybe. Brooding? You can’t place it, but somehow you’ve nudged a sensitive subject.

“Perhaps my initial assessment of your character was lacking. You’ve an infuriating proclivity for getting under my skin. You always have—even now when you’re at your most vulnerable, you remain a perpetual pain in my side.”

“You sure don’t mince your words.”

His wings rustle, feathers and feelings ruffled. “I should commend your talent.”

“Gee, how nice. Hollow words from a hollow man. I’m honored.” But then you turn serious—or about as serious as you can get when you’re stupid-drunk—and lower your voice conspiratorially. “You should get back to your party. Won’t look very good if someone catches prim and proper, married-man Sunday with his ex in a dark hallway, all alone. Think of the ruuumors.”

You giggle because it’s funny. Not really, but it kind of is. Just a little.

What is funny, though, is the way Sunday stiffens, his jaw clenched tightly in disapproval. There’s only so much pushing he can take before he falls, a perfect statue chipped away and crumbling.

He kneels directly in front of you. “Do you intend to start a needless disagreement, or is the alcohol doing that for you?”

“Dunno.” You lean in closer without thinking and challenge him with a grin. “Wanna find out?”

Inches apart now, this newfound proximity doesn’t immediately dawn on you. Sunday hesitates, very obviously working out the underlying meaning to your snark.

“You would be ill-advised to play inane games with me, Miss (Name). I’m inclined to be merciless on account of the trouble you’ve caused and will inevitably cause should you continue this charade.”

“That makes two of us,” you whisper, shrugging off the thorny threat twined through his words. “Because I play to win.”

Acting purely on inebriated impulse, you grab hold of his suit and yank him towards you. Sunday stumbles and reaches out with his palms to catch himself against the wall. You close the gap and smash your mouth against his, leaving Sunday so stunned, in fact, that he can’t seem to function for a flickering moment. As if something in his brain was rewired when you touched him. There’s a sliver of hesitation, a brief separation, but then his hands peel away from the wall to seize your hips. The rest of your startled gasp is swallowed when he drags you closer, his reciprocation feverish and fervent, as if he’s waited ages to fulfill this fantasy.

Surprise slides into sensuality. You grab at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, your lips meshing sloppily. Your lipstick smears in the process, but the messy state you must surely be in doesn’t cross your mind then. Nothing truly does when your teeth click together and he licks into your mouth like he’s trying to taste the syrupy secrets at the back of your throat. 

In an effort to have an iota of control over the situation, half-mad with barely suppressed desire, Sunday hitches one of your legs around his waist and presses inward, his body caging you against the wall. The sudden shift in position leaves you scrabbling for a new handhold, and your fingers dig into his previously smooth suit coat, now half-shucked, his shirt wrinkled and coming untucked. You jerk away to catch your breath.

Neither of you says anything, choosing to challenge the other with a scary amount of vehemence. Yours is notably dazed, drifting down to the way your clothed bodies connect. Sunday’s attention is pinned solely on your bedraggled appearance—your mouth, to be precise, and then your eyes. Your fascinating, fervor-glazed eyes.

Sunday snaps back to himself when you palm at the tent in his trousers. His wings fold in front of his face, as if to obscure his flushed expression. An impish grin blossoms on your lips.

“This is a first. You didn’t cum right away. With your weak dick, I would’ve thought you’d be a mess already.”

He looks at you, unimpressed by your vulgarity. “That was many years ago. I do believe I’m due for some level of leniency.”

“You’re the only guy I’ve ever known who cums from kissing. So easy,” you tease, hooking your arms around his neck to coax him closer. “It’s cute. The only part of you that’s honest.”

He does not deign to offer any sort of defense. Instead his hands wander over your thighs, hiking your dress further up to expose the plush, bare skin beneath. 

“Troublesome,” he chides and rocks against you, to which you respond in kind by grinding down against him. The friction leaves both of you shuddering. So close, yet still so cavernous. “Quite the corrupting influence.”

“Am I the best corrupting influence you’ve ever had?” you ask around a giggle.

Sunday exhales through his nose. “The worst. But also the most tempting.”

Somehow that sends a bolt of giddy energy through you, and you lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth. In your wake, a faint lipstick print is stamped onto pale skin. Sunday’s mouth falls open in silent protest. Something seems to register in his brain then because his awe slithers away into a stormy sort of disapproval. As if this mark is somehow worse than everything else the two of you have done.

“Messy. Always so messy,” he gripes.

“Oops. Sorryyy,” you whine, drawing the empty apology out. Gently, you take hold of his face and scrub it away with your thumb. Enticed by the smudges on your own lips, Sunday stares.

“Don’t apologize. I’m certain it looks quite striking on me.”

“Does it? I think it looks better on me. Red’s not really your color.”

He parts from you only momentarily to slide his gloves from his hands. Like the tide, he returns to meet your shore. The heat of your bodies is volcanic, and his hands sear your skin when he roams with ravenous fingertips. As if this is the only opportunity he’ll have to explore territory that was once charted. As if you might slip between his fingers like crystal-clear water in an oasis. Like you’re nothing more than a fleeting dream.

His mouth at your ear, he murmurs his taunt, “You’re right. The color of passion suits you well.”

“Less passion and more anger whenever I think of you.”

Laughter rattles in his chest. The snipe isn’t nearly as backhanded as you wanted it to sound. The syllables and semantics are slurred, scattered like raindrops fogging a windowpane.

“I ought to do something about that messy, misbehaving mouth of yours…”

“Yeah? And what’re you gonna do?”

“A few things come to mind. Care to guess?”

“Surprise me.”

His hands settle above your waist, almost folding over the expanse of your stomach. If he wasn’t so shackled to his restraint, you’d think he’d grab hold of your dress and yank it down to reveal your braless breasts for his starving eyes. Somehow he manages to reel himself in and chooses to greedily explore the slope of your neck and shoulder instead. One of his hands reaches up so that he can hook his fingers around your choker.

“There is beauty in simplicity. A pity it seems to decorate you so naturally. I could offer you a far more exquisite collar and then you would be unmistakably mine,” he murmurs, mouthing at sensitive skin like it’s an old habit he can’t shake. Maybe you’d tug his wings in admonishment for remembering all of your weak zones, for the mewl that’s ripped from your throat is so pornographic it has both of you taking pause.

“Stop… Stop talking.”

Sunday hums and consoles you with a playful nip to your neck. Warm, moist kisses trail along the length of it until he locates another spot—the same one he once lavished with love many years ago when you were both young and dumb and exorbitantly affectionate in private. You turn your head to offer more of your exposed neck. While he sucks at your bare shoulder, moving steadily over to your collarbone once he’s pleased with the bruise bitten into a previously unmarked canvas, you grab at his jacket. Sunday shrugs out of it with minimal difficulty, and the article is cast on the glossy floor in a forgotten heap.

Your breathing grows shallow, spotted with the occasional moan. They’re soft in Sunday’s ears, tickling like the very feathers protruding from behind his ears.

“More… Keep going,” you whine, hooking your other leg around his waist and yanking him closer. You grind against him, desperate to feel more of him. “Please, Sunday…”

His hands halt beneath your dress, and he lifts his head to study you, caught off-guard by your pleading. And then his features smooth out with surprising fondness.

“Of course,” he whispers around a gentle chuckle. “For you, my dear, I would do anything.”

Your legs are adjusted so that he can lean over you with ease, and when he captures your waiting lips in another hedonistic kiss you drag him down so that he can melt into you on the floor. Something sticks then. A sentiment unearthed. You’re not sure what it is.

You don’t get to find out, for the night and its pleasures finally catch up to you and the intoxication pulls you deeper into the shadows of unconsciousness.

The afternoon sun is high in the sky when you finally emerge from dreamless slumber, your body tacky and gross. Rubbing the crust from your eyes, you roll over onto your back and glance at the ceiling. Crapulence drapes itself over your heavy form like a shroud. In fact, you feel dead as you lie there on the bed, in an unfamiliar room that feels more like a morgue despite its homely furnishings.

And then the realization sinks into the marrow of your bones.

The ceiling. The bed. The silken sheets. The room. None of this is in your home and it wouldn’t be.

This isn’t your home.

Slowly, you sit up and feel the cushy mattress beneath your palm. Despite the fog clouding last night’s events, you manage to wade through most of it to reach a worrying conclusion.

Calm down. It could be worse.

You got drunk. That’s an easily proven fact, if the hangover currently kicking your ass is worth anything.

You tried to leave the party, but you took too many wrong turns and found yourself lost. You remember that because the journey filled you with so much irritation. So many memories etched onto the walls of that mansion—memories you were hoping to never revisit.

You ran into your ex-boyfriend, and he said something about mice or mazes… It’s so hazy, but whatever it was you’re sure it was nonsense.

And then…Sunday.

And then Sunday.

Sunday.

In a panicked rush, you pat yourself all over in search of any sign—an imprint or a mark or a scratch. Hell, even a scent! You sniff at your wrist and arm as if you’re going to find him there. Evidence of something very, very bad. You’re still wearing your panties and your dress isn’t in tatters on the floor. That’s a good sign.

“Fuuuck!” you hiss, grabbing at your face.

I hooked up with my ex. With my married-man ex! 

It could be worse? Correction: It is worse.

Before you can wallow in your internal self-flagellation any longer, a knock at the door breaks your concentration. Your heart drops down to your stomach. Scrambling like a headless chicken, you gather bunches of the duvet and hold them protectively in front of you. Fluffy defense.

Should I pretend to be asleep? Dead? Should I jump out this window and make a run for it?

“Come—” you cringe at the rustiness of your voice and clear your throat— “C-Come in!”

Please don’t be Sunday. Please don’t be Sunday. It’s a Monday, so it can’t be Sunday. Please, please, please.

The knob twists and the door opens, revealing the last man you want to see right now.

He stands in the doorway, simply watching you, after which he steps inside and shuts it behind him. His unsmiling features are much too impassive for you to discern anything other than perfect neutrality. Silence thickens in the room, and if it could take on the characteristics of smog you’re sure it would choke you. Awkwardly, you curl your fingers into the blankets and meet his cloudy stare.

You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat, or maybe that’s his heartbeat. Maybe both of your hearts are going at speeds so wild their resonance is an echo of a war drum. You’ve no idea what to say. Should you feign ignorance, pretend none of this happened even though it so clearly did?

This is bad. This is so bad.

Seconds stretch into minutes. You think you might have to break this ridiculous staring contest, but Sunday beats you to it.

“You’re finally awake. I was beginning to wonder how long you’d stay bundled up in bed.”

There’s a trace of exasperation. You understand what he’s really trying to say: You’ve overstayed your welcome. Make yourself scarce.

And he doesn’t need to be cordial anymore. Not when you’re both accustomed to the other. You’re not a guest anymore. The party has ended. Now you’re more like a trespasser or a particularly stubborn stain.

“You demon,” you snap, scowling at him.

His eyes narrow. If looks could kill, you’d be dead, revived, double-dead, and then reincarnated all so he could do it again.

“You seemed to think otherwise last night.”

Your flinch betrays your oblivious nature. Steeling yourself, you attempt to plead your case. “That… About that. It was a mistake. Obviously. It shouldn’t have happened. I won’t tell if you won’t, okay? I was drunk and…” You decide right then that you can’t do this, so you throw the covers off, hastily pull your dress down to its appropriate length, and reach for your purse and heels—both sitting patiently near the vanity desk. “I should go.”

Sunday’s eyes follow you like an immovable, haunted portrait. Just before you can stuff your feet into your heels, he reaches out. His hand falls upon your shoulder, and for a single second you think you should just log out of life.

“One moment. We have something to discuss.”

Not a suggestion. A command, spoken in that deceptively patient intonation.

“Right… No, yeah. You’re right. Okay.”

You peel his hand off of you and return to the bed, lowering to sit on the very edge. He steps in front of you and blocks your view of the door.

He gives you a stoic once-over before asking, “How much do you remember from last night? You must speak honestly. I’ll know if you lie.”

Like I’m in any position to lie right now, you birdbrain.

Shame bubbles in your heart like molten magma. You cringe all the way through the confession. “I drank too much and wandered off in search of an exit, but I got lost and then you were there. I think we talked. I don’t know. All I know is that one thing led to another and we kissed. And you…” You catch your reflection in the mirror then and notice the kaleidoscope of marks on your neck. Immediately, courage flaring up, you round on him. “You!”

Springing up from the bed, you point an accusatory finger at his chest. “What the fuck were you thinking?! You’re a married man! Freshly married. Not even twenty-four hours married!”

The clouds in his eyes shift into impenetrable murkiness. “If I recall, you were the one to kiss me. I’m hardly deserving of all the blame.”

“That’s great, but one tiny detail. I was drunk. And furthermore you didn’t have to reciprocate!” The horror from before returns. You feel along your body. “We didn’t. We… We didn’t, right? Go all the way, I mean. Tell me we didn’t.”

It takes him a second too long to utter a single word. You don’t like that.

“No,” he replies, but you’re not convinced. “We didn’t go all the way.”

“You’re sure?”

“Verily.”

You regard him dubiously for another moment, but eventually the doubt ebbs away and you heave a relieved sigh. “All right. Good to know. Let’s take our part of the blame, apologize, and put this mess behind us.”

“You make a valid point. Seeing as we’re both equally at fault, shall we resolve to forgive and forget?”

“Yes. Exactly that.” You stand from the bed, but this time it’s the stabbing pain in your head that stops you. “Fuck, this hangover sucks!”

“Don’t push yourself. You should take it one step at a time. You’re likely dehydrated, hungry, and still clinging to the vestiges of whatever remains from last night. Be careful not to trip over yourself.”

“Gee, thanks for your insincerity.”

Sunday rolls his eyes. “My sincerest apologies if I’m not falling to my knees with sympathy.” He folds his arms over his chest and frowns at you. “It seems you never do learn. Once more I’m left to put up with your antics.”

“I’m not asking you to. I can take care of myself,” you mutter, forcing your feet into your heels. “Just show me the way out of your labyrinth home and you’ll never have to ‘put up with my antics’ ever again.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Well, I’m not staying. You’ve lost your mind if you think that’s what I’m gonna do. No way am I gonna be a homewrecker. Fuck that!”

“You’re not staying, but I refuse to let you stumble out of here looking a right mess in your current state. Until you can comport yourself properly, you’re not leaving.”

“Oh my—geez, you’re insufferable! How does anyone put up with you? How did I put up with you?” You smack your hand to your forehead and groan. “I can’t believe out of everyone—of all the ex-boyfriends it had to be you.”

“Ah, I understand. This is quite the inconvenience for you, is it? The fault lies with me for being such an insufferable wretch.” Sarcasm drips from every syllable like venom. “Perhaps you should choose a less insufferable ex-boyfriend to sink your teeth into.”

You send him a foul look. “So glad we’re on the same page.”

“Gracious…” He sighs. “To think it was possible to forget just how much work you are.”

“And I forgot how much of an ass you were. Oh, sorry. Still are.” You rake your hands through your hair. “I can’t believe I actually kissed you. What was I thinking? I wasn’t! Ugh… This is the worst.”

“You should learn not to overindulge at formal events. Conduct yourself accordingly next time.”

“And you should learn not to kiss your ex-girlfriend back! Who was it who said I was the ‘most tempting’ influence?”

“You…” He scoffs and tries again. “You initiated it. I merely did my duty as a good host and reciprocated.”

“You were the one who put my legs around your waist! What was that about?”

Sunday bristles at that. His cheeks flare with heat and his wings shudder. “That—” He stops himself to string together a coherent excuse. “That was a natural reaction to your… Ahem. It was nothing more than a rash move on my part.”

“I’m not gonna argue and play the blame game with you. Whatever it was, it happened and there’s not going to be a repeat.”

Upon hearing that, a half-smirk settles on his face. “There won’t be a repeat. I’m a married man now.”

You gaze at him, unamused. “My condolences.”

His smirk widens. “I assure you my delightful wife is happy and content. She will want for nothing.”

“Good for you. Both of you, in fact. Congrats,” you grind out. “And when Wifey makes a little mistake and cheats, it’ll all cancel out. That two-negatives-make-a-positive shit. She kisses someone and you tongued it with me. You’ll be even and free of guilt.”

Sunday scoffs. “Your irreverent reasoning is not appreciated. Do not trivialize a serious situation.”

“What? You want me to make it harder than it already is? Is that it?”

“It’s not nearly as simple as ‘canceling out,’ as you’ve put it. A kiss holds a certain level of significance. You shouldn’t dismiss it so flippantly.”

“You should if you’re drunk and there weren’t any feelings and—right, how could I forget?—when it’s with your ex!”

“It’s not that easy,” he asserts, his voice straining.

“Why? What makes it so difficult? Enlighten me.”

“There are feelings involved… Emotions.”

“Lust is the only valid emotion in this situation. What else could there be? What other emotions?”

“It’s…complicated. You were drunk and I was swept up in the moment. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t sound all that complicated when you phrase it like that.”

“We were both slightly under the influence.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why do you care so much?” he asks, turning the verbal knife on you.

“I don’t care.”

“You clearly do. A fraction of you does, at least, considering you’re so hellbent on pushing this matter.”

“It was a stupid mistake and it’s never happening again. You’re married, and I’m going to go back to my life and pretend all of this—” you gesture between him and yourself— “never happened. End of story. I’m done pushing.”

“You intend to move on?” he questions, a scintilla of skepticism hiding within those words. “Just like that?”

“Precisely like that.” You scowl at your face in the mirror and wipe at the lipstick smudged on your jaw. Dragging your purse onto the desk, you fish through it for the tube to reapply a fresh coat.

Sunday affords you a few precious seconds of silence and then he opens his mouth.

“You’re an appalling liar.”

“Brilliant deduction, detective.”

You twist the tube shut and retrieve a bottle of concealer to dress the marks from last night. Leaning towards the mirror, you work hastily to apply layer after layer. Enough to put them out of your mind for the commute home.

“It won’t take a detective to understand that your attempt at feigning nonchalance is not working in your favor.”

“Obviously! It pisses me off that it had to be you.” You tilt your head to examine the stretch of your neck. “You just had to mark me all over… Damn devil.”

In the mirror Sunday watches you carefully, enchanted by the way you stroke the little brush along your skin and blot out every bad lust bite. Because you can’t call them love bites when they weren’t put there with love and care. Or maybe they were. You’ll never know and you don’t want to.

The gloom dissipates in his gaze once you’ve covered all of them. But then the breath sticks in his throat when you, without warning, lift your dress to check for more. His eyes are drawn to your inner thighs like a hawk is to a mouse, and then he turns away with a rather loud cough. One of his wings folds over his face to shield you from his view.

“Don’t you think you’re being a touch too…thorough?”

“Oh, grow up. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” Finding no marks, bruises, or fingerprints, you drop your dress and exhale noisily.

“You’re acting as if you’re inspecting a crime scene.” Peeking out at you through a veil of feathers, Sunday allows his shoulders to droop. “Are the dramatic theatrics really necessary?”

“Sorry. Did you wanna inspect it for yourself since you’re the criminal who left me like this?!” you exclaim through grit teeth, turning on him with a frigid scowl. 

Sunday meets you halfway with a glare of his own. Gold hues rake over the area where his marks lie in wait beneath a thick coat of makeup. Classified in the most thrilling, disturbing way.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Look, I don’t care what you do to get off. If you wanna fuck your wife and pretend it’s me, you do that. Oh, but then that wouldn’t be very perfect-and-loyal-married-man of you, would it?”

He stays on your crimson lips for a drawn-out breath. “I was right,” he mumbles. “You are the worst.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Shouldering your purse, you stride past him. “I should get going.”

He hesitates, fingers twitching at his side, but he quickly folds them under his arms. Back to prim and proper, sharp as a needle, full of abhorrence for you.

“Yes, you should. Run along and put this encounter out of your mind, if you would be so kind.”

“I intend to.” You flash him a nasty sneer.

On your way out, though, you stop. Maybe you want to play at being the bigger, better person. Or maybe you genuinely are grateful. Either way, you soften the animosity in your voice enough to get the admission out.

“And…thank you. For looking after me.”

You flee from the room before he can say anything. With daylight brightening the mansion’s maze-like halls and your sobriety, you’re able to recall the path to the front door.

All of this, you think, stepping out into the sunny afternoon, your arms wrapped around yourself in a self-soothing hug, was not worth the hangover.

From the window, Sunday watches you depart until you’re officially gone. Sighing, he allows the curtain to fall into place and glances at the unkempt bed.

“Of course,” he murmurs, smoothing his hand over the wrinkled sheets. “You’re welcome.”

[keferon]

So…Blurr in the loop keeps saving people, right?

And on a surface level, that’s what he has to do. It’s what’s in the script, so to speak — the part he’s been cast in living all these lives. Because part of being cooler than the main protagonist can also involve being more heroic.

And maybe would he appreciate those brief moments of heroism — the applause, the spotlight? Feeling good for a moment amidst an otherwise miserable existence?

But at an even deeper level, maybe those lives matter. Particularly those blurr gets close to. Because despite knowing none of it will last, in spite of what he tells himself — he does seem to still make connections and get close to others.

And it’s one thing knowing they’ll lose him. He’ll lose them. He’s going to die. It’s inevitable. Unchangeable.

But it’s something else to think he’ll lose them because they’ll die. And he’ll remain. Have to figure out going on without them in the same place for once.

And maybe…maybe he can’t change his own fate. But maybe he can change theirs. Keep them alive till after he’s gone.

Because it has to mean something. Doesn’t it?

(And would he think of them sometimes? Try to remember the names and faces and places. The brief good times. When he’s far away — living a different life in a different universe. Try and imagine where the lives that intersected with his have gone — what they must be doing now. Because if they’re out there, somewhere, still living then maybe that means there is something that endures and doesn’t get totally swept away and lost to the loop.)

HE CANT MAKE THE DIFFERENCE FOR HIMSELF BUT HE CAN DO THAT FOR OTHERS

He can’t live but he still can make sure the most amount of bots will survive the thing that will inevitably kill him.

Actually that very much aligns with the tendency I see in his deaths in canon. Old versions of Blurr (like marvel comics) are dying just..to die? While the newer ones (like cyberverse, IDW) are dying while making sure everyone else will live.

He also somewhat becomes more and more of a bitchy bastard throughout continuities haha. Which also fits very well with the death loop.

He gradually learns to care about people’s lives instead of their opinions on him. Therefore progressing from adorable coward to arrogant hero

[itsabouttimex2]

What are the cookie run “fams” and what do the Y/Ns look like?

Yandere CRK Families

Alright this was a fun question, so I’ll go over three of them!

Chocofam

In terms of personality, I think that this particular Y/N is going to be very timid and withdrawn after an entire life spent within their father’s desolate and quiet castle.

As someone who believes in the necessity of strength and discipline, Dark Cacao Cookie doesn’t hold back from piling on consequences when he thinks you’re making a mistake or putting yourself in danger. His guidance is often harsh, but he genuinely thinks it’s what you need to become resilient enough to survive.

The king is strict- but he’s convinced that it’s only because he wants to see you become the best version of yourself. He frequently gives you strenuous “lessons” in survival skills or fighting techniques, preparing you for any misfortune or struggle that may come your way, but deep down, Dark Cacao knows he’s not willing to cut your lead enough slack to allow to those scenarios to manifest.

…and maybe it allows him to tuck your tired room in nice and tight when all is said and done, and maybe leave you with a treat or two.

But only if you’re good.

Caramel Arrow Cookie guards you as she guards the king, willing to trade her life for yours- I think she manifests her “yandere” behavior in sheer devotion and loyalty to His Highness, Dark Cacao Cookie, which spills over onto you in turn. If you are safe and happy, then Caramel Arrow knows that her king can focus on his duties as sovereign.

Because she’s unwilling to go against an order levied by the king, Caramel Arrow is strikingly strict with her care- not brutally so, but she’s definitely not the sort to waver once an order has been given. To help pass the time, she’ll set up targets and guide you through nocking and loosing arrows, ensuring that you’ll be just as grand an archer as her, all in time with your father’s ceaseless swordsmanship lessons. She’s warm-hearted in spite of her unwavering devotion to your safeguarding, which means it’s not impossible to get a pep talk or even a piggyback ride back to your room when you grow exhausted- and she also makes all of your meals herself to prevent any poison from being snuck in.

As for Crunchy Chip Cookie, he’s a little more hands on when it comes to dealing with you. He’ll roughhouse and tease and pester, though always with a measure of restraint- his job is to keep you safe, so no going all out or actually fighting. Still, a wrestling match or two is good for your spirit and allows for the burning of excess energy.

Though you aren’t allowed outside, there’s no rules against bringing outside in… which means that the Cream Wolf pups can “secretly” visit you as much as they’d like! It’s an immediate mood-booster for both you and the puppies, so he doesn’t mind cutting into training time.

Dark Cacao knows about all these canine rendezvous, of course. Crunchy Chip ran it by him beforehand, but they pretend that all of it is happening just under the rug. Maybe a little bit of presumed “troublemaking” does your heart good.

Well, until you inevitably get attached to a ring and then shuffle into his throne room to guiltily ask to keep it as a pet after “confessing” to playing with them it frequently.

(…he says yes, to everyone’s surprise.)

Probably your name is something like “Chocolate Milk Cookie”, “Cocoa Powder Cookie”, or “Dark Truffle Cookie”.

(Though the many soldiers tasked with caring for you will inevitably slip in enough nicknames to fill a book…)

Constantly nervous/bored and frowning, the soft gifts you’re spoiled with can only do so much to keep your wanderlust and frustration at bay- not that Caramel Arrow and Crunchy Chip ever stop piling them on. You prefer the books over the plushes, but anything new gets your little sad face twisting into a gleeful expression, encouraging your guardians to continue piling the gifts on.

Dark Cacao has you permanently bundled into the traditional garbs of his people, constantly wearing a reminder of the long-buried soldiers who bravely gave their lives for their people.

Unfortunately for you, you aren’t granted the privilege of owning thick woolen socks or fuzzy fur-lined boots- instead, your father ensures that even a step out of line would have you freezing and desperate to return to the warmth of your room.

Instead, you are forced to remain barefoot all through the day, walking only in halls and rooms that have plush carpet laid out for your little feet- else you begin to crumble from the cold. Of course, if the weather ever gets to you, you can always return to your room and request a fluffy blanket or a hot meal…

So long as you do what father says.

Oceanfam/Gemfam

(Not sure which one yet… name pending, basically. “Mermaidfam” is a little long, haha)

Probably you’re a little thing who falls overboard after rowing out a little too far, caught in the careless waves and dragged under the tide, then beaten mercilessly against rough rocks and jagged coral. The event leaves you soggy, close to crumbling… until a tender mermaid comes to your rescue under the veil of moonlight, dragging you to her underwater palace.

White Pearl Cookie is happy to meet you, to know you, to drink in every last story you can share with her about your warm and dry home back on land- until you pass out in her arms, dough so broken that your jam spills into the waters of Tearcrown.

Luckily for you, the Little Moon of the Sea has no end to her patience and kindness! Given that you’re unarmed and somewhat crippled at the moment, there’s little harm in bringing you back to the palace and settling you in for an extended stay.

Her sisters, on the other hand…

Though she’s kind, Aquamarine Cookie doesn’t think much of you at first. Really, with your wobbly lips and tearful eyes that scrunch each time a wound is cleaned and patched, she mostly just pities you. Eventually you end up wandering into her garden, where she warms up to your curiosity and enthusiasm over her lovely array of foliage. Especially if you take notes as she speaks. Expect lots of veggie dishes to aid in your healing.

Though she finds most two-legged cookies to be far too odd to bother with, Gold Citrine Cookie has already raided your personal effects and taken a liking in your interests- after all, a cookie that loves the sea can’t be that bad, right? She snatches the prettiest shells from your bag and takes them to her reliquary, hoping to gild them until they’ve reached a level of sparkle that satisfies even her.

Maybe some two-legged cookies are worth getting to know, if you like the same things that she likes. If you make White Pearl happy, you can’t be too bad.

Given her powers of foresight, Mystic Opal Cookie has very little trouble finding where you’ll be or what you might want, often drifting into sight to offer up a warm shroud or a nutritious snack, then slinking back into the shadows without a further word. She won’t never indulge to you her visions, but it’s safe to assume that you’re at least in them.

Crimson Coral Cookie doesn’t exactly like having a dubious and dying land cookie in their ward, but like her other sisters, understands that you basically can’t do anything to harm them without ensuring a death sentence for yourself, and you’re clearly not stupid, so… she allows your presence to slide.

Once she sees how happy you make her littlest sister, Crimson Coral does genuinely lighten up and make a decent effort to understand you, especially if you have knowledge of aquatic animals- it’s an easy thing to bond over.

I’m guessing that this particular Y/N might be something like “Shoal Scavenger Cookie”, “Seaweed Sailor Cookie”, or maybe “Tide Tracker Cookie”- having ties to the sea certainly helps them earn the trust of the Gem Mermaids by proving that you aren’t too different in terms of what you and they cherish.

With components like seafoam or algae in your dough, you’re surprisingly resist to growing soggy in the water, even more so when you’re granted a jewel to ward off the condition entirely- albeit in the form of a bracelet or necklace that locks tight around your dough and can’t be removed by hand.

Gold Citrine enjoys dressing you in a dazzling array of glittery and luxurious clothing, often custom-tailoring flowing garbs that sway with each gentle wave that billows through Tearcrown… though she often forgets that you don’t have a tail.

(…not that they aren’t looking for a way to give you one.)

Darkfam

Y/N is a Cake Hound Cookie. There’s no way around it. Red Velvet Cookie finds your little form after it toddles out of the oven, delirious from heat and fear, shivering and quaking- and he fucking snaps.

You’re him.

A mixture of Cookie and Cake, beast and being, in a neat package with a tail that nervously wags as he brings food to your mouth, his clawed hand cupped around the back of your little head, feeling your squishy strawberry ears…

You are a seamless culmination that he can only dream of being.

In reverence and awe, he brings you back to his master’s lair.

For all that Licorice Cookie isn’t on board with having a freshly baked cookie on the team (especially with how much trouble Poison Mushroom Cookie causes him), he’s also aware that letting a child who is immediately and unmistaken visible as “half-monster” wander freely in the world would be worse, and the mage doesn’t have it in his heart to send you off after you’ve already settled in.

As for the shroom-fanatic themself, Poison Mushroom Cookie essentially just clings to you and offers an endless supply of “shroomies” with abated glee, constantly hanging from your sleeves and tugging on your tail as you go about the day, just happy to have a new friend after a certain swordsman left…

Pomegranate Cookie graciously agrees that Red Velvet should keep you alongside his other Cake Hounds, if only because she’s intrigued to see what you’ll be capable of doing. After all, another set of hands to aid their master isn’t exactly a bad thing- and you very well may have powers granted to you by nature of your birth as a cookie-cake amalgamation. In time, she comes to treat you as she treats Poison Mushroom- almost as a troublesome little sibling who needs watching over.

Never one to spurn decent company, Schwarzwälder is happy to have a cookie young enough to do as he says- you’re probably too young to grasp his born name, and settle for calling him “Brute”. I imagine he’s got some decent ground rules for being a canine, knowing what you can or can’t eat, what methods for tending to your ears and tails is best, etc, etc… probably the safest yandere we’ve gone over so far.

Perpetually confused at the new and strange world around you, your eyes are frequently wide and your face pulled into a contemplative frown, overwhelmed with all that your sensitive ears and nose pick up on.

Red Velvet wants to be the one who does your hair, but his cake hand makes it nearly impossible to complete without damaging your frosted strands, so Pomegranate or Licorice will do it instead. Poison Mushroom will, uh, “try”… but their version of “trying” is to braid little mushrooms into the frosting.

(A+ for effort, Poison Mushroom Cookie.)

However, Red Velvet does get to help keep your ears glossy and tail clean, spending hours each week tending to your canine appendages. He’s got specialized polish (by Schwarzwälder’s recommendation) for the strawberry ears that flick and swivel with each barked order and every little coo, and a brush for the cream dollop tail that waggles at Bat-Cat and Schwarzwälder’s antics.

All your clothes are custom-sewn, of course. Red Velvet simply won’t tolerate any less than the about best for his favorite little soldier.

Once Pomegranate has grown fond of you, she’ll take to stitching any tears or fraying in your clothes, mending them with a sleek red and black thread that resembles her beloved master’s color scheme.

(Schwarzwälder is probably your favorite, though- after all, he’s the only other dog!)

[ooooo-mcyt]

There is probably something to be said for how the Life Series winners have (or haven't) died.

Grian who threw himself off a cliff in grief vs Scott who was directly /killed before he could choose for himself vs Pearl who died automatically upon winning by nature of the game mechanics vs Scar who continued to live vs Cleo and Joel who both chose their own deaths. Martyn is the only weird one because his video says he ran out of time but I think he was technically /killed, so that one's actually debatable?

I think Cleo and Joel's victories were both very kind to them. They won, and then they, while celebrating, got to choose their own ending. They both got to end it on their own terms, and they were happy for it. I don't have much to say on them, I'm happy for them.

Grian, I categorize differently to Cleo and Joel. Partially because the tone was different- he was grief stricken and dazed, not celebrating- but also because I think it's debatable how much choice he had in the ending of Third Life. From the moment it was just him and Scar left, Grian seemed to be following what he thought the spectators wanted, not what he wanted. Technically he 'chose' how his season ended, but it didn't seem to feel like one to him, and that is important.

The tone of Scar's ending is highly dependent on whether you see his survival on Secret Life as a curse or a choice. I've seen fanart of him miserably pushing a button over and over begging for his win, or curled up and alone. But personally, I think Scar chose to stay, and I see it as an act of agency and maybe defiance (in large part because why wouldn't he just jump off a cliff if he wanted out? why wouldn't grian just /kill him? but also because thematically i think this makes more sense with the character.)

Then there's Pearl. She had the choice taken from her. I've seen Scott faulted for this, people saying he selfishly killed them both to spite Pearl or something, but I think that's misattributing the real problem, which is the game mechanic itself. No matter how Pearl won, whether by Scott killing himself or Pearl killing him, Pearl still would have died in the same moment, because she was tied to another person without any choice, and she literally physically was not allowed to live without him (nor would he have been allowed to live without her). Double Life's very core game mechanic was one that limited agency. (i do think it would have been good of scott to let pearl choose anyways, but pearl didn't seem to mind- she was very explicitly touched by the 'sacrifice'- and i think the real issue of the soul link would have been the main issue regardless of how they died)

I'd say Scott is the main player who was unarguably primarily limited by another person. Grian /killed him. Scott got to the end of his season, and before he could choose how to end it himself, Grian used commands to take that choice and kill Scott himself. Which I doubt was malicious, I'd say Grian was probably not thinking about it- after all, Grian seemed to view his own victory as belonging to the will of the spectators even as it made him miserable, he clearly didn't see the winner as someone with any real agency, so why would he think it was important to let Scott have any choice either- but regardless there was an unfairness to it, for Scott to be denied in victory, the choice, not even by the mechanics of the game, but by another person.

Martyn, as I said before, is a question mark for me, because I don't know whether he canonically ran out of time or was /killed (i think both are correct so choose your favorite i guess), but I'm not sure it matters too much, because whether he was denied agency by the game or by the will of the dead, he still wasn't allowed to choose his own ending, which is painfully ironic in a very cruel way considering Martyn's whole victory was about doing things his way instead of by tradition, morality, or how others think he should do it. Everything I said in Pearl or Scott's sections can apply here too depending on how exactly you think Martyn died.

And I just think it's fascinating, the differences in how exactly each winner died (or didn't) and what that implies regarding their victory and character arc as a whole.

[445376]

she/her and (name) used when referring to the reader. i do not know what compelled me to write this, and i think i might be sorry for writing it.

"do you ever drink water?"

levi opens his eyes to the sound of her voice, just to question whether the insomnia that haunts him every night was so easily whisked away under her delicate touch, to the point he'd fallen asleep and conjured that question himself.

he tilts his head back to gaze upon her blank expression, so deep in contemplation — about whether he drinks water, the thing humans need in order to survive — until their eyes meet. she smiles warm and adoringly, like there is nothing in the universe more deserving of her love than him. she leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, one that lingers even when she stands to full height again, thumbs still working circles into his shoulders to ease every instance of tension.

(but, does he drink water?)

"yes, i drink water," levi says quite flatly, much like a disappointed father. that tone of his that indicates "this is a fact. accept it, and shut up" with no room for speculation.

her mouth forms an 'o', as if his confirmation is the single-most revolutionary discovery to ever be amongst humanity. as if this piece of information could have entire books dedicated to it. there'd be history lessons spent solely on sharing this information with every new generation to come.

"you gonna ask if i've ever taken a shit, next?"

"absolutely not." a mortified grimace makes its way to her face. "i'm already aware of that, levi. have my lookouts outside the walls been so minor that you've forgotten?" she cups his face and squishes the plush of his cheeks, hovering her face just above his so there is no mistake in what she says. "i'm the reason your last memory isn't one of taking a dump in a forest...!"

levi, at the very least, snorts a laugh — well it's more like a quiet breath out his nose, but that's basically levi-speak for "that's the funniest thing i've ever heard and actually my sole reason to continue fighting, and you're so hot. have i ever said that? i love you, darling light of my life" but that's neither here nor there — and the small sound is enough to cheer up his darling light of his life, enough that she releases his face.

"i see," he deadpans, "but you've never seen me drink water."

"no, actually. never." with her elbows propped against the back of his chair, she whispers her next words like they're a crime punishable by death, and only he can be trusted to keep her confession — along with her life — safe and hidden from the public. "i have never witnessed you drink water."

and levi, well, he knows for a fact he doesn't not drink water. and it's stupid to acknowledge the time this conversation has even been allowed to happen, that it wasn't shut down after one singular, logical thought. it's as if the sensible braincells that make up his functioning thoughts have forgotten how to speak, and instead exist only to bounce up and down, chanting in unison, "yippee! attention from (name)!" and do nothing of their usual duties.

"i do." it's simple, straight to the point. though levi is still wracking his brain trying to recall the last time he did, he can only hope she doesn't press for more proof than that.

"when?" she asks, as if solely to spite him and spit on his hopes. "tea doesn't count. we're talking plain water only."

between the two, it's like a staring contest. eyes locked, an unspoken challenge. paired with one raised brow, her eyes say "you sure?" and his, so steely and full of resolve, speak back to her "damn sure". but neither back down. and the rules of a staring contest must be lost on them, ignored even, because they both blink whenever they need to, and not a lot of staring seems to be happening.

"i do," levi states again. but the repetition serves no points to his defence, rather solidifying his lack of case. in a small twist, however, this could be proof that the legendary captain really didn't need water to thrive on the battlefield; a beast worth a thousand soldiers, whilst needing the water of none.

the only downside to befall this revelation, as incredible a find as it may be, is that no artist could replicate the true depth of his pretty face. the man in the history books would be handsome, no doubt capturing the hearts of many generations to come. but— no mortal hand could possess the skill to capture his essence. but that was okay, because levi was a very, very taken man. the humans of the future would be born in a world without the fear of titans, but born too late to witness the great captain in all his glory. the future sounded lame.

"you don't sound so certain, captain." she seems triumphant to a sickening degree. using his title with that proud little smile on her face, it's a deplorable tactic to throw him off whatever thought process he'd been looped in. and it works. but, then comes a gasp that wipes that look off her face in an instant. "you do! oh...you drink water during training."

of course he does. and during those expeditions she mentioned earlier, too.

"you know, levi, i was really worried that i'd never seen you drink water," she confesses. he feels a weird twinge in his chest — the same sensation that flourishes whenever she says she loves him, or he sees the "i've spotted my levi!" smile appear at the mere sight of him. she sighs, coming forth to wrap him in a loose embrace. "really had me worried i'd done something seriously wrong to be banished from watching your hydration rituals."

levi doesn't ask why exactly that was the first conclusion to be drawn, nor why she asked about his water intake at all. he only settles into her arms, breathing a sigh of relief as finally, by some miracle, his braincells function again.

[attaiii]

possibly hot take but I think it’s actually more in character for Dazai to not have a tragic backstory in the traditional sense. like no dead parents, no childhood abuse (at least not overtly). just a brain wired for entropy. just a kid who looked at the sky and couldn’t feel anything. a child who should’ve been fine—but wasn’t.

I love the tragic orphan story as much as the next guy, but isn’t it worse if he had everything he needed and still turned out like this? not because the world hurt him, but because of his own brain. because his chemistry betrayed him before anyone else had the chance to. dazai’s not the product of trauma. he’s the product of existential rot. he’s not broken by something—this is just who he is. a factory defect.

it’s the difference between “i hurt because they hurt me” and “i hurt because i exist.”

like yeah it’s sad when someone’s shaped by their circumstances, but dazai is so, so unsettling as a character because his pain is self-generating. he didn’t need outside influence to spiral. to turn into what he became.

there’s something so deeply upsetting to me about a character who isn’t reacting to tragedy, but who is the tragedy. the kind of person who you want to save, but there’s nothing to save him from. there’s no villain to fight. no curse to break. it’s just him and the awful weight of his own existence.

dazai is not a story of destruction followed by redemption. he's a story of continuance. of surviving in spite of. he is not healed. he is not saved despite bettering himself some with the agency. he just keeps living by the thread of a promise because someone good looked him in the eyes and asked him to keep going.

and I just personally find that so much more devastating.

[morethangodlovesthem]

i think that determination to live in spite of certain and imminent death that runs through the terror so strongly in the way the men maintain routines and order and structure and authority is why john bridgens' death hits me so hard. in addition to the fact it’s simply filmed and presented beautifully, it’s also that...it’s the one death in which it is so fucking clear hope and desire to survive has been extinguished. bridgens walking out onto the rocks to die alone under the arctic sun is just so painfully...i can’t really even put it into words how hard it hits. he has nothing else to live for. he has lost the universal human drive to survive despite the miserable reality. he’s done. he’s called it.

something about the fact he has to remove himself from the others as he does this. sure, to keep them from stopping him. for privacy. but i think also because this behavior, this choice...it’s antithetical to how the others are functioning. it’s antithetical to the idea that these men are surviving against every bit of the world trying to kill them off. god doesn’t see them. god doesn’t love them. but they are seen and loved by each other, and so they continue forward. but not john bridgens at this point. he’s no longer part of that community. he is outside of love, he is outside of perception.

idk it just. it kills me.

[nobodygotyoulikehoshina]

LOOK BACK | Hoshina Soshiro

Chapter II

➢Summary: You weren't one to stick to tradition. Never were you, and never will you be. And if it meant following Hoshina Soshiro even to the pits of hell, you wouldn't hesitate on breaking any custom or practice. Too bad he never bothered to look back, where you always were.

➢Content: romance, angst, friendship, humour, violence (cw: mentions of death, fighting, blood, injuries, alcohol, cursing, possible mental distress from the characters, some gender stereotypes). will expand with the story.

➢ Pairing: Vice-captain! Hoshina x Platoon Leader! Fem! Reader

➢Genre: childhood best friends to lovers

➢Wc: 4352

➢notes: y'all are amazing. the first chap got 150+ notes in a few weeks. thank you so much for all the good, and i'm sorry for the bad. i'll try to improve as i work on my first series ever, so thank you in advance if you decide to stick around for that. comments, likes, reblogs, and DMs are always appreciated

anyway, i hope you enjoy once again!!

Your father never really liked your friendship with Hoshina.

He was a conservative man, very tradition-bound. In his mind, the Hoshina family stood on a pedestal that was never meant for him to reach, and he advised you to never try as well. The Hoshinas were meant to lead, and your family to follow. They were in the front lines, you stood in the back. They are the Captains, and you the Vice-Captains. That was the natural order of things.

But your five year old self couldn’t comprehend that. How come you were never meant to play with the kid with the bowl-cut hair with training garments way more expensive than your clothes? Why was it forbidden for him to teach you the cool sword moves that he had learnt from his father and relatives? It just never made sense to you.

But your fifteen year old self did understand better your position in the clan. Despite that, you had remained friends with Soshiro despite the disapproval of your parents and continued mastering the art of the sword in spite of all the clan’s tradition. But your awareness is what prompted that conversation with your father on a hot July morning.

“(Y/N)” he called out to you as you both sat on the edge of the tatami floor, facing the small garden of your house. “Do you understand our way of life?”

It was a heavy question for a fifteen year old, but you still answered. “Yes…I do”.

“Then you understand why I don’t like your friendship with the Hoshina kid, right?” It wasn’t the first time he had told you this. In fact, it was a recurrent theme between the both of you. But he had never looked so serious.

“Yes, father. I understand”. You wanted to say more but he spoke before you could.

“I know you do.” Then why did he ask?. “You aren’t like your brother, (Y/N). You are very smart and driven, as well as excellent with the sword. That is why I want you to understand something; your future is better away from the Hoshina clan”.

That statement felt like a sledgehammer to the head. Up until that moment, you had never considered a future without the Hoshina name attached to it. Not when you and Soshiro had dreamt for so long for a life together, side by side.

“What…what do you mean, father?,” you asked, voice trembling slightly.

Your father, ever so stern, tightened his face a little as he faced the sight of tree leaves rocking with the wind. “The Hoshinas don’t care about us the same way we do for them. Our family is strong, that is why we have survived for this long, but they do not exist in the same way as us. They live the true path of the warrior, the firsts to arrive at the battlefield and the last ones standing. While we protect the back, they continue moving forward. And moving forward means not looking back. Not even at us, their allies”.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You stood behind a thick wall of bulletproof glass. The buzzing of the Operations Room set up behind you was proof of the excitement this particular trial test brought to the Division. Since the Number 10 suit was developed for Hoshina to wear, along with Officer Ichikawa’s Number 6 weapon, the level of the Third Division’s subjugation proficiency had increased tenfold. Everytime Hoshina had to put on the suit for a programmed exercise, it produced great excitement among the Operation officers, but you had to admit it did worry you a little.

Platoon leaders were never called for this type of trials, but Hoshina had personally requested for you to be there for some reason. So here you were, surrounded by dozens of people in charge of collecting data or supervising the whole ordeal. You weren’t sure what to do, as Hoshina’s request had barely anything other than the requirement of your presence during the programmed exercise, so you just stood there, looking through the glass to the empty area below you.

“Security authorizations for Number 10 Numbers Weapon release” one of the officers shouted into the room.

“Authorizations, cleared,” Operations Leader Okonogi declared. “The suit is fully on. Release Vice-captain”.

From one of the walls of the enclosed training ground opened a door, letting a small figure clash with the bright gray walls. It was Hoshina clad in the purple and green suit of the Number 10 Numbers Weapon (simultaneously, his proudest achievement in his military career and the bane of his existence).

“Number 10, on field,” one of the officers announced.

“Vice-captain Hoshina, can you hear me?” Okonogi called out to Hoshina through the earpiece channel.

It took him a moment to answer. “Loud and clear, Okonogi dear”.

You started rolling your eyes at the pet name, but stopped yourself at the last second.

How unprofessional, you thought, unclear if it was directed towards yourself or your long time friend.

“How are you feeling, Vice-captain?,” Okonogi asked.

“Perfectly fine, Okonogi, if not for the fact that this monster brat won’t shuddup”.

You quietly chuckled from that statement. No matter how many times they had fought together, Hoshina and Number 10’s relationship remained the same.

“Vice-captain, please activate synchronization with the Number 10 suit,” Okonogi requested.

“Roger that”.

A load of numbers and metrics appeared on the large screens, way too fast for you to comprehend it. An image of Hoshina’s vitals showed everything in order, including the percentage of Unleashed Combat Power extracted from the suit.

 81% synchronisation, a robotic voice announced to the room.

“Not a bad start,” you muttered to yourself.

“That is perfect for us to start with, Vice-captain,” Okonogi declared, typing away some data into her screen. “Allow me to explain today’s exercise, sir.”

More people started to move inside the Operations Room, polishing the last details of the experiment Hoshina was about to be subjected to. Being truthful, you felt a little awkward and a little useless there, just watching as everyone did their jobs.

“The present trial will consist of two exercises,” Okonogi began explaining. “The first one is to test the level of synchronisation we can achieve with Number 10 during simulated battle, so we’ve recreated a holographic replica of the kaiju captured with a 6.1 fortitude”.

You opened your eyes a little. 6.1 fortitude? That was a whole squadron with a platoon leader needed to defeat that monster. 

“The second exercise will be testing the Vice-captains new combat abilities once we reach the desired synchronisation percentage. For that, we will be engaging in actual combat with the original captured kaiju”.

“What?” you couldn’t help but ask out loud. You clasped your hand over your mouth, hoping that no one had heard you. Unfortunately for you, the operations official besides you apparently did, so he turned to you.

“Don’t worry, ma’am” he assured you, “the room we are in is designed to withstand a 10.0 fortitude and there’s other officials on standby in case the Vice-captain needs it”.

“Is everything ready for the order, sir?” Okonogi asked.

“Ready if you are, dear Okonogi,” Hoshina answered with his usual happy tone. He turned to look directly into one of the cameras. “(L/N), please watch me with care”.

You scoffed at him, crossing your arms. “That’s why you called me here, didn’t you, sir?”

“Very well,” Leader Okonogi declared. “Vice-captain Hoshina in position. Cameras and sensors activated. Shields open. Initiate simulated combat”.

From behind the bulletproof glass, you could see a huge figure appear. It was a lizard-type kaiju of around six meters of height. Kaiju of its size was Hoshina’s specialty, but even 6.1 fortitude felt a little too harsh for a start.

“Vice-captain Hoshina and Number 10 Numbers Weapon initiating honju subjugation,” Hoshina announced through his mic, and you could hear Number 10 screaming a couple of things in the background.

Through intense battle, Hoshina began subjugating the fake kaiju. Well, Okonogi had called this simulated battle, but you could still feel and hear the rumbles of the training room from the intensity of the confrontation. No matter how many times Hoshina had slashed through the fake monster, it never died simply because the Operations Room kept reviving him to force the Vice-captain and the suit to synchronise.

“Okonogi, dear, I believe it’s a little cruel to keep us fighting like this, don’tcha think?” Hoshina commented while skillfully dodging an attack from the kaiju’s tail.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to keep you like this for a little more, sir” Okonogi sounded apologetic.

You observed your friend fight against the monster. With the Number 10 suit, he was faster than he already was with the regular suit, almost becoming a blur in the air. To the untrained eye, it looked like a piece of cake for Hoshina. A walk in the park even. But to you, who had been present for most of the time he spent crafting his seamless techniques, it didn’t seem that way. You could see the strain on his muscles and the heavy amount of concentration required to subjugate an enemy time and time again. The drive of victory gleamed on his focused eyes.

“Miss Okonogi,” one of the operations officers exclaimed, “Vice-captain has achieved 92% Unleashed Combat Power!”.

“No sign of extreme fatigue or strain on his vitals!” another one informed.

“Raise the body limiters!” their leader instructed. “Prepare for the second phase release! Do not let the Unleashed Combat Power drop below range.”

“Roger that!”

Okonogi grabbed the mic and spoke. “Vice-captain Hoshina, please retreat from the target. We have reached the desired synchronisation level and will be initiating phase two of the trial. Please take a few minutes of rest while the new target launches”.

Hoshina backed up to one of the room’s corners, although Number 10 didn’t seem too happy about that, shouting "Where did it go?”, "Where did it go?”. The holographic kaiju disappeared, leaving your friend alone once more. You could see his chest rise and fall with every breath he took, waiting to continue with the battle. 

“All vitals are stable and no significant injuries have been detected, sir,” Okonogi informed Hoshina. “How are you feeling, Vice-captain?”

“As great as I can be with this brat on me,” Hoshina flicked the eye on the center of the suit, eliciting a series of complaints from Number 10.

“That’s good to hear, because the next phase will start in about 30 seconds.”

From one side of the test room opened a huge door. A big shadow emerged from the opening, making the test site shake with each of its steps. Soon, a big lizard-type kaiju stood towering over your best friend, who, at that moment, looked like nothing more than an insect cornered against a wall.

“Second phase: activated,” Okonogi declared, “prepare shields in case of danger or malfunction. Deploy the special weapons”.

The word danger activated something in you. Watching Hoshina move and slash all around the kaiju made you miss the weight of your own weapon on your hip.

Minutes stretched long with the kaiju proving more difficult to subjugate than initially thought, especially with the bothersome acid it would spit in every direction. Nevertheless, your fearless Vice-captain dodged every attack coming his way, retaliating with a few of his own. Finally, when you thought the fight had gone on for way too long, Hoshina’s demeanor changed. His stance was no longer playful; he now looked ready for the kill. Taking hold of his dual blades as well as an extra katana for Number 10’s tail, he lunged forward in a deadly attack.

“Seventh Form: Twelve-layered Strike,” you heard him mutter.

The clash of blades slashing at one point filled the room. Then, the dull thud of a falling body. Hoshina had defeated the kaiju.

For one breath, the whole room stood silent, in awe of what they had witnessed. The prodigy of the Hoshina family had unveiled his ultimate technique; an attack only he was talented enough to achieve, far surpassing any warrior who had mastered the blade. Then, having processed that majestic ending, cheering exploded inside the Operations Room, momentarily forgetting the point of the job.

You mildly cheered on your friend, who was now struggling to make Number 10 let go of the katana. Laughing at the funny sight, your eyes wandered to the replays of the fight that the data analysis team was going through. For a couple of seconds, a video of that last move and a close-up of the dead kaiju popped up on the screen.

Oh.

“Well, how did it go?” Hoshina had finally freed the sword from Number 10’s tail and returned it to its corresponding capsule. “Anything worth tellin’ me?”

Okonogi’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Congratulations, Vice-captain! This has been our best trial yet. The metrics show an increase…”

She began explaining the numbers and statistics that certainly interested Hoshina, but not you. Moving from the corner you had occupied during the whole trial, you started making your way out of the room, figuring that you hadn’t been of much use.

I guess he just wanted to be a show-off, you thought, although you knew it didn’t fit Hoshina’s style.

A voice stopped you on your tracks. “Well, Platoon Leader (L/N), how was it?”

You were confused. Was he really asking you what you thought? You expressed your confusion. “Are you asking me, sir?”

“Yes, (L/N),” he clarified. “Whatcha think ‘bout my skills?”

That question brought you back many years to when you both used to train with smaller and much safer swords in the yard of his house.

You thought a little before answering. “Sloppy at best, sir”.

A couple of people behind you gasp. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a couple of degrees with the following silence. Hadn’t Operations Leader Okonogi said that this had been Hoshina’s best results so far? So who was this random Platoon Leader to contradict what the data clearly showed? Even Number 10 seemed offended by your comment, shouting “Sloppy? Sloppy? Where is this human who dares call us sloppy?”.

Well, I fucked up, you mentally slapped yourself.

Hoshina’s lighthearted laugh cut the tension in the room. “I know I could count on ya to be blunt about this! Go on, tell me more!”.

You cleared your throat, feeling more confident to speak. “Personally, sir, I don’t believe your technique is good enough to manage some of your skills, especially those involving the use of the Numbers Weapon limb. Your swordsmanship was not adequate, that’s why I considered your attempts sloppy”.

“Oh, how so?” Hoshina continued questioning you.

You paused for a moment before asking. “Sir, may I request permission to approach the target?”

Your friend seemed taken aback by your request. “Permission granted, come here”.

As quick as you could to avoid the stares from the Operations team, you got out of the room and climbed down the stairs as fast as you could. The brightness of the white light in the trial room blinded you at first, but soon enough you adjusted to the light. There stood Hoshina, clad in the armour made to suit him and no one else, along with the mangled corpse of the lizard kaiju. You approached both of them, feeling the piercing gaze of the wine-red eyes of your best friend.

“Well, little expert,” he teased you with no malicious intent, “where did ya say I went wrong?”

You pointed at the cuts that surrounded the damaged core of the beast. “Please look carefully at the wounds around this area, sir. If my vision is correct, we can observe four cuts that appear to be shallower and messier than the rest, indicating bad swordsmanship. These correspond to cuts number 3, 6, 9 and 12 in striking order of your ‘Twelve-layered strike’ attack. While watching your fight, I realized that these are made using the Numbers Weapon tail. The lack of strength and precision evident in the injuries are proof that the attack has not been brought to its most efficient form”.

You had gotten carried away by your expression, so it shook you off balance to see Hoshina smiling widely at you when you turned to look back at him. It wasn’t a kind smile but a teasing one, almost making fun of you. But with Hoshina, nothing felt like mockery. No, with him, it was his way of expressing proudness in a weird but endearing way.

“I am impressed by the depth of yer analysis, Platoon Leader,” he congratulated you, hands behind his back, “and ya did that merely by watchin’. Now, do you have any suggestions for improvement, (L/N)?”.

Your eyes gleamed at the question. You could never pass on an opportunity to speak about blades. “Yes, sir, I do”.

You started your explanation, analysing the pros and cons of Hoshina’s  blade technique. You had seen it hundreds, no, thousands of times. It felt as familiar as your own, so it was easy to spot the defects that even experts of the Operations team could never pinpoint. When you finished giving your recommendations, Hoshina’s smile widened. He took a couple of steps in your direction, and threw an arm around your shoulders to bring you closer to himself.

“I knew I could count on ya, (L/N)” he slightly ruffled your hair.

You tried to push yourself away from him. You felt your skin burn even though he barely touched any of it. From your distance, you could smell his natural scent mingling with the stench of sweat and metal from the suit.

“Please refrain from unprofessional contact, Vice-captain,” you finally distanced yourself from him. Hoshina didn’t seem to take your actions personally.

“Yes, yes,” he admitted in defeat. Hoshina turned back to the observation glass above. “Okonogi dear, I guess this concludes the trial, doesn’t it?”.

Okonogi’s voice came through both of your in-ears. “Yes, Vice-captain. We have collected the data we needed. Thank you for your service”.

“My, my,” he answered, “it’s not me ya have to thank. Let’s wrap this up quickly and go take a rest”.

“Roger that!”.

Sensing that your duty was now completely fulfilled, you saluted at your Vice-captain and dismissed yourself. He didn’t say anything, worried about something being said over his in-ear. He just half-heartedly saluted back and left you to your devices. On your way out, you met a clean-up crew waiting to take away the corpse to wherever they took dead kaiju for disposal. You looked at your wristwatch.

It’s still early afternoon, you thought, I still have time to catch up on training.

That way, you busied yourself for the rest of the day, trying to forget about the faint feeling of Hoshina’s arm on your shoulder and his intoxicating smell.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Shoot, it's late.

That’s what you thought as you scurried away through the halls of the base. It was late at night and lights would be shutting off soon. You had lost track of time during your training session by yourself, so now you had just an hour to take a bath and do a couple things in your room before going to sleep.

You were leaving some training area when you saw that the lights of a room were still on. 

“These rookies never learn…,” you muttered to yourself. Going out of your way to turn the lights on, you heard some noises coming from inside. Ready to scold some newbie for staying late, you poked your head through the door.

“Hey…” you started saying, but suddenly your mouth went dry.

Standing in the middle of the training room, Hoshina was a sight to behold. His black compression shirt and dark training pants proved to be more deadly than the twin blades in his hands. Every single muscle in his body had been sculpted to perfection, witness to the hard work your best friend put into his training. His closed eyes allowed you to admire how lethal his face card was, every single feature looking like it had been created with care and love.

On the count of two focused breaths, Hoshina started moving. Calculated slashes of his blades against the air were part of the image training he liked to practice on his own. He was meticulous like that. Watching Hoshina fight was always one of your biggest pleasures. He was a real warrior but, unlike most people, he didn’t treat the sword like just a weapon. No, to him it was more than just a slab of metal. Hoshina held his blade like an artist would hold their brush. With confidence and practiced reverence.

You sat down on your knees at the far edge of the tatami, watching him just like you had done thousands of times back at the Hoshina estate. You observed the deadly dance carried out by your friend’s mind, captivated by every move and gesture. Not daring to break his concentration by uttering a word, you remained in silence.

It didn’t take long for him to notice your presence. Finally ending his mental simulation of the battle–which you recognised as his earlier fight during the test–he turned to the door, catching you waiting for him.

“Oh, (Y/N)” he stopped on his tracks, “didn’t hear ya comin’ in”.

You raised from your kneeling position, now sitting criss-cross applesauce. “You were deeply focused and I tried to not make silence, sir”.

“I see,” he replied while putting away his blades. “And what brings ya here?”

“I thought some newbie was still in here and came to scold him”.

He chuckled at your answer. “What a diligent leader, thank ya for yer service. It is pretty late though”.

You sat in silence. If this conversation kept on, you would have to take an express cold shower instead of your nice warm bath.

Fuck it, I don’t care.

“So,” you broke the silence, “why are you also here so late, sir?”.

“I could ask ya the same,” he shot back teasingly.

You looked down at your training clothes. “I had to push back my personal practice time to attend the programmed exercise this morning, sir”.

“Oh right. Sorry ‘bout that”.

“It’s okay,” you shrugged your shoulders. “But you didn’t give me an answer, sir”.

Hoshina’s playful smile crept up to his face. “Ya ask as if ya didn’t grill my sword technique just earlier, huh”.

You shot an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir”.

You truly were. Your words must’ve had a deep effect on Hoshina if he had started working on improving his form right away. Although, being the perfectionist he was, it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

“Ya didn’t look an ounce of sorry back then, didn’cha?” he continued teasing you. “But it’s okay, that was why I called ya up there”.

You gulped. “I think you would’ve been fine without my input, sir”.

“Nah,” he dismissed your claim, “Okonogi and the others are good at their job, but sometimes ya really need someone who knows what they’re talkin’ ‘bout. A real pro.”.

“That is very kind of you to say, sir,” you bowed slightly in gratitude, “but I’m nothing compared to a master of the Hoshina blade style. There’s nothing you can’t accomplish with a sword if you learn it properly”.

Hoshina waved his hand in dismissal. “Nonsense, (Y/N). Ya could beat anyone’s ass with a blade any day of the week. That’s why ya are my Platoon Leader”.

Even though it was pretty late, Hoshina didn’t appear any tired. Quite the contrary. He fidgeted around the room, grabbing and moving training gear, putting away towels, and even changing the bottle on the water dispenser. You looked at him with amusement, although he didn’t seem to notice.

“Now that ya mentioned blade techniques,” he turned back at you with his arms crossed over his chest. You willed yourself to focus on his face and not on his muscles, “as far as I remember, yer family also comes from a long line of warriors. Don’t cha also have your own fighting style?”

You took a couple of seconds to answer. “Yes, we do”.

“Then why have I never seen it?!” he questioned you.

“Because it is not as refined as the Hoshina style and a little outdated to be honest”.

Hoshina gave you a puzzled look. “And why does that matter? I want you to show it to me”.

“Nop,” you replied to his request, “no need for that”.

The Vice-captain became whiny. “But why? Aren’t best friends supposed to tell everything to each other”.

“Well, you said it, Hoshina-kun. I told you about it, but I don’t have to show it to you”.

“Ugh, fine” he conceded, “that’s lame but I accept it for now, but one day I’ll make you show it to me”.

“Sure, sure”.

This time, you both finally wrapped up whatever you had been doing in the training room and headed for the showers. You continued your conversation with Hoshina, which consisted of him mostly speaking and you listening. You appreciated these little moments with your friend, which lately had been more scarce due to your busy agendas. Finally reaching the communal baths, where your dreaded cold shower awaited you, you turned to each other to wave each other goodbye. 

“So,” he started, “did ya forget your promise?”

You looked confused for a sec before it clicked. “Drinks at my place?”. He nodded. “Of course I haven’t, but that won’t be until a couple of weeks”.

“I know,” a smile adorned his lips, “but I wanted to make sure ya had added it to yer calendar”.

You rolled your eyes at him. “How could I forget, sir?”

“Shuddup.” He brought you closer to himself, and started ruffling your head like a little kid. After a little struggle, you managed to free yourself from his grip and scurried off to the showers, praying he didn’t catch the deep blush on your face.

next chapter ➢

taglist: @hana-patata @kokoiinuts @floweringdaisie @saru-93

[glitter-stained]

I always feel like a little sad seeing posts about how Jason's character is inherently tragic and that's what makes it good, how him being unloved, a tragic consequence of his own actions, is inevitable, and how that shouldn't change because any change on that regard is a fundamental misunderstanding of his character. Yes, Under the Hood is a tragedy. Yes, Jason survived and for a long time people have been pretty confused at what to do with the character that survives the tragic ending. That doesn't mean he should continue to be trapped in the tragedy, that there's only value in him as long as he's unloved. And maybe that's me preaching and being a party pooper again but the idea that the teenage-to-young adult character with a mental illness that has damaged all his relationships is doomed to be lonely and have bad/upended relationships forever, that he's only good as a character as long as he's hurting others and/or himself (and usually both) and isolated because of this... It's sad, at the very least. I refuse the presumption that tragedies are the only stories wise and worth telling.

Also I personally really dislike the idea that Jason isn't and shouldn't be anyone's favourite, because he made himself nobody's favourite on purpose. Did he make himself a villain on purpose? Fuck yeah. Does any of his early attempts at reaching out to people hurt them? Indubitably. I maintain that this is because he wants to be someone's favourite as he is, at his worst, with his hands covered in blood. And I think he should be. (Without contradicting or damaging, by comparison, the relationships between other characters, that's the tightrope we need to be weary of when making such things, of course.)

It's like this: love, in most relationships, is conditional: you don't owe your friend or your partner to continue to love them if the relationship changes, if you change, if you become violent etc. If my girlfriend started murdering puppies, I would stop loving her. Ideally, however a parent's love for their child is unconditional. That's very often unfortunately not the case, but ideally it'd be, it's really not great for a kid to have zero parents that love them unconditionally. And most importantly, it's not just about actual unconditional love, it's about it being perceived. So it doesn't matter in the debate if Bruce actually loves Jason in spite of the murder, it matters that Jason asks for confirmation of it at the end of UTH and receives a negative answer. (similar arguments to be made about Catherine loving Jason and dying of drug overdose and Willis going to jail and dying - it's the potential perceived abandonment of it that would matter, not their agency and actual love. And it's not a question of whether he would be angry at it so much as that he'd yearn and hurt for it. And of course Sheila didn't love him at all.) That's why he, upon learning about Mia and reaching previously unknown to man levels of projection*, tries to rally her with the hope that, because she's "so similar to him" she would understand him. That's why upon learning about Dick "killing" Blockbuster Jason, again projecting more violently than a bullet, Jason makes Dick into his new favourite person (god, the concept behind BiB has so much potential why did it have to suck so bad...) Anyway, Jason to me is a character with a very intense, very overwhelming conception of love both in who he loves and how, who struggles to understand that other people love and show it differently, and it makes so much sense for him to keep looking for a person who will love him unconditionally (something that's both very rare and not necessarily healthy since, again, most relationships aside from parent-child relationships do not and probably should not include unconditional love). This is particularly interesting in the context of him having bpd (again, using bpd because i'm focusing on the interpersonal dimension that's been mostly studied within that frame) because BPD often functions around a vicious circle of "is afraid of rejection/abandonment -> does maladaptive behaviour in attempt to prevent rejection/abandonment OR protect oneself by being the one to leave first" which is what leads to the instability in relationships. It's a doomed prophecy: i have maladaptive patterns that make me think my girlfriend is gonna leave me at any time, I keep demanding to see her phone, assuming she's cheating everytime she leaves and thus demonizing her even though I was glorifying her five minutes earlier" then she's going to leave me, which is gonna reinforce my thought pattern that everyone always leaves me. But that also means that in rare instances in which the other person in the interact, for whichever reason, sticks around through that, then these incorrect thought patterns begin to change through the sheet logic of extinction: if i think that people always leave me because of something fundamentally wrong with me and people don't leave then eventually the idea that people are doomed to abandon/reject me is going to lose its power. That's, btw, an important part of why therapy works.

(*that one's a joke, btw. He's not projecting onto mia and dick to levels impossible to mankind, just pretty intensely. Very human levels of projection, might I add'. Just to clarify.)

Now, be mindful: I'm not saying make Jason an abusive boyfriend. I'm not saying put him in a relationship where the other stays because they're afraid of him, that's not unconditional love or acceptance that's just fear. Of course, the ideal version of it would be Jason goes to therapy but because dc hates me specifically this is never gonna happen, but imagine him being in a relationship, romantic or otherwise, with someone who is as intense and "unwell" about him as he is about them. I'm not saying it would fix him (again, get him so goddamn therapy jfc) but it would change him. And just as it doesn't have to be healthy it doesn't have to be tragic.

I was asked a while ago my thoughts on Jason's current stagnancy as a character and if I thought he could become interesting again, and I said yes and talked about the directions I dream would be explored with his character and their potential. My answer hasn't changed, and it's completely compatible with this, but I will add: I think Jason as a character has largely and for long enough been defined through his yearning to be somebody's favourite, and that if you want his mode of interacting with others and dynamic with different characters to change then this is a very logical way to do it. And it would make a lot of sense for it to be the catalyst for other changes in his character (ie in his name or philosophy).

Get that boy into a super intense long-term codependent situationship, is what I'm saying. Please.