#musings from thy truly

[ramblingsfromthytruly]

no you don't understand finding the queer desi side of pinterest and tumblr has genuinely healed something in me that i didn't know needed healing

[tired-n-trying]

12th grade after school routine is just: come home, change, bedrot, cry, stress over the future, eat + youtube, start studying, stop after a few mins to make coffee, get distracted, berate yourself for getting distracted, resume studying, dinner, rot, oops i still have shit to study, going to bed late knowing ur gonna be sleep deprived in class but at least ur friend is suffering with u

[sixeyesonathiel]

love thy neighbor — teaser

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with crooked smiles and too much charm for someone who tracked mud into every room. satoru made it a habit to annoy you, throwing water over the fence and calling you by the nickname you hated most. somehow, between the bickering and backyard showdowns, he became the one person you could never quite shake.

then college happened, and distance made things quieter—but not for long. one summer, you're both back, arguing over garden hoses like nothing ever changed. he still calls you that nickname, but now he says it softer, like it's a secret he hopes you’ll finally notice.

tags –> one shot, expected 20k+ wc, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, she hated him (she did not), he loved her (he still does), summer vacation tension, other additional tags to be added

red string of fate collection m.list.

the neighborhood was perfect.

white fences, manicured lawns, and an unspoken rule that everything must remain picturesque. but beneath the surface of perfection, an ancient war raged: your mother versus satoru’s. it was a battle fought with gardening shears and passive-aggressive remarks, masked by polite smiles at neighborhood events.

your mother, ever the strategist, sipped her tea with a dramatic sigh whenever satoru’s mother so much as stepped onto her porch. “oh, did you see the way she over-fertilizes?” she mused, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “poor plants, suffocating under all that desperate effort.”

meanwhile, satoru’s mother, arranging her hydrangeas in full view of your living room window, would hum thoughtfully before muttering, “i’d be embarrassed if my hydrangeas were that dull. not that i’d let it happen.”

the tension was palpable, woven into every stolen glance and whispered insult disguised as gardening advice. neither woman ever admitted the rivalry outright, but the perfectly pruned rose bushes and the carefully curated window boxes spoke volumes.

their husbands, however, lived in blissful ignorance. every weekend, they could be found on the golf course or clinking beer bottles over the backyard fence, chuckling about how “our wives are gonna kill each other one day, huh?”

the rivalry simply amused them.

but you and satoru? you were casualties. you were dragged into their war from the moment you could walk, coached into side-eyed glares and dismissive huffs whenever the gojos were mentioned.

when your father first introduced you to satoru at a neighborhood barbecue, he did so with the same pride as a general uniting two warring factions. “this is satoru, gojo’s boy!” he beamed, clapping his friend on the back.

but instead of an instant friendship, all satoru got was a glare and the words your mother had fed you over breakfast that morning.

“we don’t talk to people who use fake grass as a lawn substitute.”

you said it with the confidence of someone who truly understood what that meant, though in reality, you weren’t entirely sure why fake grass was so offensive. satoru blinked at you, mouth slightly open, his white lashes fluttering as if he hadn’t processed what just happened.

“...huh?” he finally said, voice trailing off in confusion.

your dads laughed, the kind of laugh that men share when they think their kids are just being silly. it wasn’t silly. it was war. and from that moment on, satoru gojo was your enemy, whether he wanted to be or not.

the first time you’re sent outside to water the garden, you don’t think much of it—until you see satoru stepping out of his house at the same time, dragging a garden hose behind him. he’s still in his pajamas, some silly blue set with little clouds on it, his white hair sticking up in messy tufts, like he just rolled out of bed. he’s wearing slippers—bunny slippers, to be precise—but what really catches your attention are the socks. white with tiny little blue stars, pulled up just past his ankles, the kind of socks that scream these are my favorite and if anything happens to them, i will never recover.

you freeze, fingers tightening around the nozzle as he glances at you, then at his own hose, then back at you. for a second, neither of you speak. but you both know. your moms, pretending to be absorbed in their baking and magazine-reading inside, have timed this on purpose. “pure coincidence,” your mother had said, the corners of her lips twitching in barely concealed triumph, and you—foolish, naive—had believed her.

satoru, being satoru, tries to be friendly at first, tilting his head as he watches you water the tulips along the fence. “your tulips are kinda nice,” he says, casual, like he’s just making conversation, like he isn’t the enemy.

you whip your head toward him so fast your hair smacks you in the face, eyes narrowing, scoffing as if he’s just insulted your entire bloodline. “don’t lie. your mom says they’re ugly.”

his jaw drops, scandalized, and you swear you can hear the dramatic gasp of betrayal in the air. “well, your mom says our garden looks like a plastic factory exploded.” he crosses his arms, standing his ground, his voice rising slightly like he can’t believe you just threw that at him.

you stare at him.

he stares at you.

the hose in your hand drips onto the grass, but you’re too busy processing his words to care. your mother had what? you had been raised on the belief that your family had the superior garden, the most elegant flowers, the healthiest grass. and now, satoru gojo, the enemy, was claiming that your mom had been talking about his garden?

your lips part in slow betrayal, nose wrinkling in distaste, and you take a slow step back. he mirrors you, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, his fingers twitching against the hose. neither of you say another word. but you both know what’s coming next.

the next day, war begins. it starts simple—satoru ‘accidentally’ sprays you with his hose while you’re carefully pruning the roses, his grin widening when water soaks into your shirt. you shriek, stumbling back, clutching your watering can tighter like a weapon.

fine. if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. you take a step, then another, before gasping dramatically and tripping—the entire can of water spilling directly onto his feet.

he lets out a scream, the most theatrical, over-the-top wail you’ve ever heard, jumping back like he’s been set on fire. “MY SOCKS!” he yells, staring down at them in pure horror, his slippers useless against the water seeping in. his hands fly up to his head, gripping his white tufts in agony, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in a tragedy film. “they’re wet! my favorite socks are WET!”

“oh, please,” you huff, rolling your eyes even as your own shirt clings uncomfortably to your skin. “it’s just water.”

“IT’S IN MY SOCKS.” he’s pacing now, hands on his hips, face twisted in pure devastation. “DO YOU KNOW HOW GROSS WET SOCKS ARE?!”

the next thing you know, you’re both storming inside, loudly declaring your grievances to your fathers.

“she did it on purpose!”

“he started it first!”

you both jab fingers in each other’s direction, demanding justice, your voices overlapping in a chorus of whiny accusations. satoru’s slippers squelch with every step he takes, which only makes him angrier, which only makes you smugger. but your dads, ever the peacemakers, just chuckle over their beers and wave you off. “just work it out, kids!”

useless. completely, utterly useless.

you and satoru glare at each other from across the room, still damp, still fuming, both of you knowing, deep in your little childish hearts—whether you like it or not, this is only the beginning.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @lilychan176 @n1vi @myahfig4 @here4dafics @stfusatoru @mintcheery @44ina @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @getoicious @flowerpot113 @satoruxsc @whytfisgojosohot @emoedgylord @your-mum3000 @chich1ookie @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @drunkenlionwrites @katsukiseyebrows @heartsforseo @beabamboo @bnbaochauuu @cupidsfrost @ethereal-moonlit @arabellasolstice

comment to join the tl xx

[stardancerluv]

What the Emperor Wants

Part Twenty - Three

Summary: Plans for the empire, musings and afflictions transpire.

Notes/Warnings: mentions of ancient words/beliefs... kilani: a sofa, nundinaes: weeks, anno: year, Floralia a festival of flowers…fertility…celebrated with dancing…merriment. Moments of Caracalla’s illness is shown…nothing explicit.

❤️s, likes, feedback & reblogs are always welcome & appreciated. (Sorry about the delay)

You reclined on your on klinai. You had told Aelia to have one of the servants bring it out onto the balcony. Pillows and blankets covered it and surrounded you. Never had you seen so many.

Your comfort was of the utmost importance. Geta, you felt was always calling for a fresh plump pillow for you. They were changed regularly in the royal box. The throne the two of you shared no longer was uncomfortable.

Earlier, Geta had to attend to some matters in his planning room regarding Caracalla’s baths. Before he had left, he had made sure you were in good spirits. Inwardly, you were very pleased. Geta, was truly all you could have prayed for in a husband, a companion.

How you came to be with him was a distant far off memory. That night, fear moved through you. You were truly terrified. His reputation caused nightmares. Though the man was different, there was and still remained a sharp edge. The goddesses had been with you and gave you strength. You did not waver before him.

You felt blessed that he shared his soft side, the dreamer side of him. The one who loved reading and the beauty in life. He had told you of times he would sit in the shade under the mighty boughs of a tree.

You were terribly aware that in the deep shadows resided in Geta. There lurked a side of him that could be cruel and unforgiving. Many had met their end by blade and beast alike with a casual word or a twist of his wrist.

That side came into the light to protect the two of you. His patience was kept for you, and Caracalla but as of late for all else it had shorten considerably. No longer were dissidents simply expelled, banished their punishments were swifter and more violent. Their words were silenced almost as soon as they spoken. The stones under foot were brilliant in the scarlet of their life being spilled.

To disagree with the emperor was like disagreeing with the gods themselves. The murmurs of discontent that reached you, worried you. You wished there was something that could be done to please the people. To bring their favor back to Geta, you and the child you gently swelled with.

That’s when the idea struck you. A festival could be held. Floralia, you remembered in your village how much people had enjoyed it. Carefully, you rose from where you had been lounging. You would go to him. Tell him.

*******

“The gardens are being seeded and have taken growth.” The man said he glanced him and his brother who nodded.

“Good. They will keep the airs fragrant and fresh. People will want to be there.”

“Yes, sire.”

From the corner of his sight he saw Caracalla tremble where he sat. As he got closer, a far away look clouded his eyes. The tremble grew in strength.

“You are dismissed. Leave.”

“I thought…” Geta saw the man look towards Caracalla.

He stood between them. “I said leave.”

The laurel that had been sitting atop his brother’s own firey strands fell with a sharp rattle on the ground at his feet.

“Leave now.” He hollered. He came up behind where Caracalla sat. Tearing and freeing sash that had been wrapped around him, he covered his hands and gave firm touch to his brother’s shoulders to still him.

“I am here. I am here, calm thy spirit. Calm thy spirit.” Geta whispered.

“No!” He raged, he bounced where he sat. “Father wishes for me to join me.” The edges of his mouth were growing foaming. “No!”

“Lepidus! Lepidus, come forth!”

The door clanked and banged against wall.

Geta, glanced. Brief respite filled him seeing that the man answered his call. The man bowed his head briefly.

“Sire? Oh Sire.” The broad, yet wiry guard made haste over to where they were.

“Bring him to his chambers. Draw the curtains to dispel the light of the day and stand fast in case there is another moment his illness grabs for him.”

The wiry man nodded, then easily retrieved the laurel and rested it on his bother’s head. “Sire,” He softly whispered. “It is I, Lepidus.”

Geta stepped back, leaving the cloth on his brother’s shoulders. He had taken ahold of it and twisted some of the fabric about his fingers. His eyes appeared to be clearing and returning from the far away look at that had taken ahold.

He glanced up at Lepidus.

“Dondas, wishes for you and him to rest.”

“That will be pleasant.” Caracalla replied softly, regaining his breath after his outburst.

The wiry man easily helped his brother to his feet and soon together they left the room.

Geta leaned against the large table. It felt heavy to see such an outburst. It came on the appearance of the spreading of his disease. It sadden him greatly.

******

“Empress, I only left for a moment to check on this evenings meal. What is it you wish?” Aelia, found you in one of the passageways.

“I had an idea I wish to share with Geta.”

“Are you sure you should go to his planning room?”

You saw distress fall cast a shadow over her. It creased her brow. Geta, in an angered state had sent her away. You supposed he had never spoken to her as thus. It can be quite scary when rage fitting of Jupiter is in him, certainly you understood that she wished for it to never happen again but truly you going to speak with him would not cause that in him.

“I am the empress, his empress surely I can go in there.”

“Yes, yes but he worries about you. You have been blessed with good feelings and no ailments since you are with his child.”

You were in good spirits, a wondrous idea had graced you. He would be pleased, you were certain of it.

“I have. I have shown how grateful I an to the gods, goddess daily for that blessing.”

“Why, not go and enjoy some of the fresh airs in the atrium and I will tell him you are there.”

You took a moment and thought about it. “I suppose that would be nice. I do like the fresh scent of the flowers.”

*******

Aelia, powered wine and some vinegar she had fetched from the kitchens and powered them over Geta’s hands.

“The empress, wishes to speak with you Geta. She had wished to speak here but I told her to go the atrium. I will have the footfalls of Caracalla wiped, I will not chance his madness grabbing her or the baby that grows in her belly.”

“Thank you Aelia. I shall go to her. Will the madness be swept away by nightfall?”

“Yes, surely.”

*******

Sitting there gently you ran your fingertips along some petals and some soft, fuzzy green stems. The memory of Geta first spotting you in the atrium visited you. It was from that moment forth he had begun to refer to you as his blossom. You smiled softly.

“Before me is my blossom, my flower full of life and color.”

Smiling wider, you turned in the direction of the rich timber of Geta’s voice. It filled the atrium. His words were as sweet as honey when speaking of you and to you.

“My husband.” You replied. “Geta, my love.”

They would never cease to brighten your spirits. As he drew closer, you watched as he looked you over.

“Are you in good spirits, the baby?”

“Yes.”

Easily with care of the layers of his clothing, he sat facing you. He took your hands into his lap. Gently, he caressed them with idle touches.

“You called for me?”

“Yes.” You nodded. “Yes, a thought came to me,”

You glanced down at how his ring hands held yours. His thumb, gentle caressed the back of yours as you spoke.

“Oh?” He smiled. “What came to you?”

Inwardly, you fluttered like that of butterflies wings.

“When I was a child, there was the Floralia festival. The people of my village loved it. It was fun.”

You glanced at him as you spoke. A serious expression sharpened his features.

“It could lift the spirits of the people.”

He nodded. “My father only ever enjoyed war festivals, hunting ones. They were good but this will show our love and appreciation of the goddesses.”

You nodded. “They have been wonderfully kind to spare me of the illness that sometimes plagues women when they carry

a child. This will surely please them.

“Yes, yes it should.” He smiled. “And then when general Acacius returns with his victory it will make their happiness even greater.“

His eyes were warm as he looked at you. He brought one of your hands to his mouth and he pressed a kiss to one of your knuckles. “We will do it. It will be a wonder to behold since you are and will always be my special blossom.”

*******

It had been a quick two nundinaes. You had maintained a level of rest and taking care of yourself during that time. A few times those that crafted your clothes visited a few times so that you would have an array to choose from. They were soft and lovely.

One particular night, staying in shadows when the royal Domus was fast asleep, Geta brought you to his planning room. Glancing around he opened the doorway and ushered you in. He made sure that door would not close with a loud clank, as it normally did.

He ushered you to the table to show you the approved sketches from the craftsmen.

“I told them your beauty was to be their inspiration.”

Flowers were shown hanging from lofty heights. Fellows with lyres in their hands were here and there. Memory of the beauty of their music visited you with a glance. Goats were shown free among the people. You hoped their mischief would not be uncontrollable.

“Geta, this all looks truly wonderful.”

A proud look had come over him.

“So this pleases you?”

You nodded.

“Your beauty has brought a greatness to the empire it did not have previously.”

“My heart, oh Geta.” You took one of his hands and placed it over your heart. “Around you, my heart flutters like the butterflies in the gardens.”

A smile curled his lips. “It is my pleasure to do so.” He let his hand gently to the swell of your stomach. “I am eager to see our child. I am certain it will have sense of beauty you have.”

You placed your hand over his. “It will have your strength.”

“I surely hope it does. I have prayed to gods for it.”

He reached up and cupped your cheek. His rings were cool. He had yet to remove them for the evening.

“Before we begin to usher in this festival, I have a gift for you.”

“Geta, you have given me the gift of being your wife, being the mother of your child what else could you possibly give me ?”

He smiled, then moving away from you he turned and went to a corner of the room. Anticipation filled you, as you watched him bend over and pick up a basket that was large in size. All you could make out was a large blanket.

“This love a small gift, a small companion to brighten your moments when you are here in our atrium or apart.”

Your eyes grew. “What a small delight. Hello small one.”

Out from the blanket, came out on small paws and small ears was a bunny. Its small nose twitched and rested its two front paws on the edge of the basket as you spoke to it.

“Geta, what a wonderful gift.”

He smiled softly. “She came from a wonderful family. Those that raised her family spoke of their love and sweet nature to the children of the household they were raised along side with. She will surely love our child as well.”

“Oh, what a delight.”

@honey-eyed-munson @amethyst-serenade @laura-naruto-fan1998 @screaming-blue-bagel @kitkat80 @blondie324 @alyisdead @hellomadamebutterfly @helsa3942 @marrowfrog00 @misspendragonsworld @therealjomarch @deliciousfestsalad @aspiringwhore @justalittlebitshy @littlemissholy @ruinedbythehobbit @bib200 @yes7686

[odditycircus-2002]

Scorpion loves and is protective of his two girls, Quan Chi’s Daughter and Granddaughter, so much! Being protective and caring towards them, he wouldn’t allow anyone to harm them, so interactions with other characters about his love and protectiveness towards them? Especially fierce one towards villains who may potentially lust after his new wife for power, beauty, etc?

Scorpion Speaking About His Family Intros

A/N: Luckily for you, thy muses and hyperfixation speak to me today! And if you'd like context for what they're talking about, click here and here.

Sub-Zero

Sub-Zero: Your second chance at life has been most fortuitous, Hanzo.

Hanzo: I never expected to marry or be a father once more.

Sub-Zero: May there be no mercy toward anyone who would dare go after them.

/

Hanzo: Y/N is truly my better half.

Sub-Zero: Then let her patience and wisdom continue to guide you.

Hanzo: How else do you think the Shirai Ryu became stronger again?

/

Night Wolf:

Hanzo: It's because of Y/N that I learned to let go of my rage long ago.

Night Wolf: Yet, you almost killed your wife because of your need for vengeance.

Hanzo: I need no reminder, Night Wolf.

/

Night Wolf: I remember first seeing Y/N on Shang Tsung's island.

Hanzo: She accompanied me to see if her training was fruitful.

Night Wolf: She seemed too fond of you even then to just be your instructor.

/

Jax Briggs:

Hanzo: Before Y/N, I never thought I would give my heart to another woman.

Jax: Much less a demoness related to Quan-chi?

Hanzo assertively: My wife is nothing like that sorcerer.

/

Jax: How do you not worry so much when D/N is off on missions?

Hanzo: I fear for my daughter's safety, but I trust her training will serve her well.

Jax: There's only so much you can prepare them for.

/

Frost:

Hanzo: Sub-Zero would've benefited more if he had a student like my daughter.

Frost: Why would I want to be anything like Miss Nepotism?

Hanzo: It's not nepotism that made you lose to D/N repeatedly.

/

Frost: To kill you, I'll kill your wife and daughter first.

Hanzo: Lay so much as a cold finger, and my fire won't even leave ashes behind!

Frost: They make your fire weak.

/

Shang Tsung:

Hanzo: Y/N helped me kill Quan-chi.

Shang Tsung: I always knew Quan-chi couldn't keep control of his spawn.

Hanzo: Perhaps I shall give her the honor of beheading you.

/

Shang Tsung: Your wife is quite the rare gem.

Hanzo: You will not lay a single claw on her, Shang Tsung.

Shang Tsung: I'll have both her beauty AND her power.

/

Shao Khan:

Hanzo: Why do you question my wife's realm of origin?

Shao Khan: I see none of its fire burning within such a pathetic excuse for a demon.

Hanzo: Only because you're fortunate has none of that fire been directed towards you.

/

Shao Khan: Your wife would do better as one of my assassins.

Hanzo: As if Y/N would ever let herself be subjugated again.

Shao Khan ominously: She will if she ever wants to see her husband and clan again...

/

Noob Siabot:

Hanzo: For some reason, that's beyond me, Y/N pities you.

Noob Saibot: The shadows do not NEED her pity.

Hanzo: Then by some miracle, we are of the same mind.

/

Noob Saibot: Y/N wastes her potential with the Shirai Ryu.

Hanzo: She realized her true strength with her real family.

Noob Saibot: What strength can be gained from an inferior clan?

/

Kano:

Hanzo testily: Why such a keen interest in my daughter?

Kano: She got all her mum's finest features and less demonic drama.

Hanzo: Then I'll send you to the Netherrealm myself.

/

Kano: I can't decide who's more of a beaut, your wife or your Sheila.

Hanzo: You are not worthy to even lay an eye on them!

Kano: I'll send them my regards after I deliver them your eyes then.

[rightwheretheyleftme]

As someone who’s very invested in Medea, I don’t fuck with that myth that says she’s going to marry Achilles in the afterlife- so, here are some alternatives

First, let’s establish the myth in question:

“[Hera]: When thy son shall come to the Elysian plain, he whom now in the home of Cheiron the Centaur water-nymphs are tending, though he still craves thy mother milk, it is fated that he be the husband of Medea, Aeetes' daughter; do thou aid thy daughter-in-law as a mother-in-law should, and aid Peleus himself.”- Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica (Greek epic C3rd B.C.)

Achilles’ afterlife

1) Marrying Helen of Troy

“[...] White Island, where, he used to declare, he saw Achilles, as well as Ajax the son of Oileus and Ajax the son of Telamon. With them, he said, were Patroclus and Antilochus; Helen was wedded to Achilles [...]”- Pausanias, Description of Greece (Greek travelogue C2nd A.D.)

2) Spending eternity with Patroclus

“[...] whereas Achilles, son of Thetis, they honored and sent to his place in the Isles of the Blest, because having learnt from his mother that he would die as surely as he slew Hector, but if he slew him not, would return home and end his days an aged man, he bravely chose to go and rescue his lover Patroclus, avenged him, and sought death not merely in his behalf but in haste to be joined with him whom death had taken. For this the gods so highly admired him that they gave him distinguished honor, since he set so great a value on his lover.”- Plato, Symposium (Greek philosopher C4th B.C.)

Medea’s afterlife (or lack thereof)

This one is more difficult because there is no extant myth where Medea dies. However, we have some sources where she seems to be immortal:

1)

“Goddesses and Heroes

And now farewell, all you Olympians, You islands and mainlands and salt sea between.

Now sing of the goddesses, Olympian Muses, Word-sweet daughters of Zeus Aegisholder— The goddesses who slept with mortal men,

And immortal themselves bore children like gods.

[…]

And Jason son of Aison led off from Aietes,

A king fostered by Zeus, Aietes daughter,

By the eternal gods' will, after he completed

The many hard labors the outrageously arrogant, / Presumptuous bully, King Pelias, set for him.

The son of Aison suffered through the labors

And sailed to lolcos with the dancing-eyed girl / And made her his wife, and in her bloom

She was mastered by Jason, shepherd of his people,

And bore a child, Medeios, whom the centaur Cheiron

Phillyrides raised in the hills. And Zeus' will was done.”- Hesiod, Theogony (Greek epic C8th or C7th B.C.)

2)

“[…] the word spoken at Thera by Medea, which once the inspired daughter of Aeetes, the queen of the Colchians, breathed forth from her immortal mouth.”- Pindar, Pythian Odes (Greek poetry C5th B.C)

To conclude, here’s a scholar talking about Medea’s mortality in Euripides’ play:

“Medea appears in the chariot of the sun god, placed high on the mechane, the stage crane which was used to bring gods on stage in fifth-century tragedy. This spatial alignment makes it clear that Medea is no longer a mortal, and raises the question of whether she ever truly was. The audience is left to contemplate two unpalatable conclusions as Medea escapes unpunished after committing the most terrible of crimes. Either Medea is divine, and the gods can come among us and exact revenge for our crimes with savage force; or Medea is mortal, and sometimes mortal crimes go unpunished.”- Griffiths, Emma. Medea. Routledge, 12 Nov. 2012.

Btw, this is a tongue-in-cheek post and not an exhaustive look at the myths regarding Achilles and Medea’s afterlives. Also, if anyone can help me find where to read this article (“An unerring account? In search of the marriage of Medea and Achilles”), I will kiss you on the lips 🙏🏻

[quofishofish]

Epic of the Sea God

Come here and discover what you seek, Let us learn about what troubles the God of the Sea.

-

An epic poem about Rafayel after the events of Tears of Romirro.

(Originally posted on Ao3. You can read it here)

______________________________________________________________

Long ago before the tides swelled and drowned the shores,

The Sea God had a bride, to whom an eternal love was sworn,  

She was the chosen one, the source of his power, 

Yet he set her free, enabling our most doomed hour.  

Calamity roamed these once tranquil waters,

The humans wept at their prophetic tragic fate, a price to pay for Lemurian slaughter. 

How could Lemuria forget such a deception?

The ocean remembers, its fury makes no exceptions.  

Lemuria, I invoke thy spirit,

Remind us again who led this mighty city to our fatal fall, let everyone hear it.

Was it that human and her greed?

Had she imprisoned our sacred god and taken advantage of our hospitality? 

He had to gain her heart, his powers must awaken,

Or else our magnificent city would fall to such devastation,

So what if she was your lover? 

Why the hesitation? 

O’ Sea God! You did this for your people!

Why must you weep about your lover? Humans are only feeble.  

The damage is done, Lemuria’s emergence has just begun,

Rise to the occasion, O’Great one!

O’ Muse! O’ Great bringer of thy art! 

Summon the Sea God with all of his heart!

Let him tell us what he truly desires,

Collect her essence onto this sea bed funeral pyre.  

The Sea God will speak, 

And we must hear, 

What it is he would like to share, 

What is it that brought you to despair?

You look at that ring with such condemnation,

You understood such sacrifices were needed to rebirth our great nation

Speak now or forever hold your anguish, 

For the shackles of your power have truly vanquished.  

The Sea God rises from his perch, 

He swims down to the grainy sands, her reputation already besmirched. 

His hands scoop the pebbles, he kneels on his worn tail,

He lets out a tearful wail,

“O’ Dearly beloved,

You gave your heart to me.  

You’ve awakened my divine powers 

And your betrayal has set you free.  

I resent your treacherous behavior,

My grief for our severed bond reminds me that my beloved is a traitor,

Your sacrifice alone is not worthy of my salvation, 

Looking at this marital ring brings me aggravation.  

Yet my heart cannot let you go, 

There has to be another ending, for our love story cannot end like so,  

Let us rid this wretched tale and start anew,

And our love will cease to be taboo.  

Your heart has set this great power aflame, 

Your spirit is my energy, only I am to blame,

To atone my sins I will search to the ends of the ocean, 

For my love for you is filled with such devotion.  

Whether it's in another place or another time,

Let us reunite for our love shine,

For you I will wait an eternity, 

Though it’ll be met with impatience with all certainty. 

Wait for me my love, time is only fleeting,

Look for me when the tides wane as the full moon is gleaming,

We will reunite again, our fates will collide.  

Until then I yearn for you once more, my beloved mermaid bride.”

[ultragift]

FROM: @lagsemantics TO: @astweaverling

Crash. 

They felt the vessel sway violently to the left. Taught by experience, they outstretched their bony arm to grasp the armature of the oil lamp, meanwhile letting everything that’s not heavy or stable enough clatter to the floor. Those could be picked up later. Fire is much more… fitful to deal with.

Crash.

The lights flickered ominously as the clutter slid across the hardwood floor, following the tilt. The Ferryman watched this erratic display with less than keen interest.

‘She’s uneasy tonight’ They mused. 

The Sea was nothing but a messenger of Hell herself. She was never… unkind, per se - she does not hate nor does she play favorites. But those nights, one night a year - she would grow restless. Night of which sole purpose was to commemorate the birth of the Savior - the one, who would rise and guide the divine plan to its perfect and just conclusion. 

The divine plan that failed, leaving everyone in its wake dissatisfied. It has failed so utterly and miserably that it caused the Father to make one and final decision to abandon his creation as a whole. 

The Hell and its disillusioned denizens saw Christmas as a commemoration of failure.

Ferryman chose not to dwell too much on that however. Those common-in-hell beliefs did not serve them at all. If they were to ever convert, repent, and join His Radiance in the marble cities of Heaven, the last thing they need is for this heresy to seep deeper into them and corrupt their soul even further. 

Speaking of His Radiance - well, no matter how much the Ferryman had hoped otherwise, it was foolish to expect Gabriel to visit the ship on the Holy Night. He’s busy celebrating in Heaven along the Council. 

Their veiled visage slowly turned towards the corner of the room. There, a small sculpture of a pine tree resided. In the vastness of the ocean, this was a solution that was the closest to the real thing Ferryman could afford. Besides, it gave them something to keep their hands busy for a day or two. They even managed to scrap some less useful parts of the ship and weave some Christmas lights! The presents were there, too. Hell, they even caught a pretty impressive PITR fish to at least try and fulfill the idea of a Holiday Feast, even though they themselves had no need for food, and probably neither did Gabriel…

Ferryman sighed in a thick mixture of exasperation and disappointment. Their grasp on the lantern loosened ever so slightly as the defeat sank in. The point was - they really wanted to share this day with someone, the way it was intended to be spent. Christmas should be about community, belonging. Loving thy neighbor! How were they supposed to-

Crash

Ferryman jolted in their seat, taken off-guard. They quickly cut the musings short, now compelled to see what was going on outside. Joints cracking, Ferryman’s bony feet carried them towards the window. 

Lord Almighty, it really was a mess outside. 

And then they thought.

‘They must be scared.’

Ferryman sighed. They were precisely aware of the existence of the damned beast down below, they knew how it came to be as well. But they never paid it much thought, mainly for their own comfort. Ferryman pitied the Sullen, sure, but they couldn’t afford anything besides that. But now, seeing the wrathful storm outside, they couldn’t ignore the echoing worry in the back of their skull. Just a few seconds ago, they were mourning the lack of someone to celebrate the Holidays with. And just outside the window, down below the angry sea, there was a neighbor who was truly alone. And Ferryman could do something about it.

The short fight with their own thoughts ended with a triumph for compassion. Soon enough, holding an oil lamp in one hand, and with the other - clutching their veil tightly, shielding themselves against the violent wind, the Ferryman was pushing through the storm, trying their best to reach the hull. And by some divine miracle - they did. They grabbed the line of the bell tightly and began pulling it down rhythmically.

‘Oh, the Sullen! Heed my call!’ the Ferryman shouted at the top of their nonexistent lungs, all the while ringing the bell.

For a long moment, there was no retaliation, besides the roaring of thunders and crashing of the wave. The Ferryman clutched the lantern tighter, bracing for disappointment and ready to return to their quarters.

Until finally.

Salty water splashed upon the deck, the vessel swayed violently, causing the Ferryman to almost lose balance. Above the waves, among the thunders rose the beast, a gargantuan, grotesque form was now towering above the skeletal form - observing, waiting, anticipating.

‘Merry Christmas, Leviathan.’ The Ferryman shouted, their meek voice losing the battle to the storm ‘I wished to check up on you’.

The words left the Ferryman’s parted jaws almost without thinking. The Leviathan hunched over the Ferryman. It lacked eyes to use, but the smaller figure felt the heavy gaze almost crushing their fragile, bony form. They expected to be ignored at best, thrown into the abyss to join the mass at worst. And there would be no Gabriel to save them this time…

But, instead, the massive form contorted itself so that the Ferryman was now face-to-skull with the groveling figure atop of the creature’s neck. It must have been the exact place where the souls reside. They tried not to pay too much attention to the radiant spears piercing the flesh as to try and not think about the implications of that. Instead, their own eyeless gaze locked with the empty stare of the red face. It could not speak, but the compassionate heart of the Ferryman was not deaf towards the breathless whispers of the souls. They wanted to talk and wished to be heard.

With the eyes of their imagination, the Ferryman saw the darkness enshrouding the near-bottom of the Styx. It was nothing like the cozy deck of the Ship of Fools.It was lonely, but in such… viscerally hopeless way.

‘You’re all scared.’

The conclusion, spoken out-loud, was met with silent confirmation. And that just made the Ferryman’s heart sink. They must help somehow… But how?

‘The storm isn’t going to let up any time soon. I’d like to let you aboard but I don’t have a room… no, a deck large enough to hold you.’ The Ferryman shook their head at the absurdity of such a notion ‘And I doubt you could pay for the fare either way.’

Rules were rules, after all.

They proceeded to try and find any sort of solution. They thought, then thought some more, each solution more nonsensical than the last. All the while, the Leviathan patiently waited.

Until finally.

‘Oh, Praise the Lord, I have it!’ They shouted excitedly, visibly startling the beast ‘Don’t go anywhere, I’ll- I’ll be back in a moment!’

The Leviathan barely had any option to either complain or deny. This whole situation was simply… too ridiculous. But the creature stayed and waited, as the heavy rain knocked on the marble skeleton of its grotesque form. 

And soon, the empty gaze of the red figure spotted the Ferryman rushing across the deck with something in their grasp. Were those… Christmas lights?

The small figure stopped right in front of the face, which, if one didn’t know any better, was clearly contorted in a grimace of pure, unadulterated confusion.

‘I was hoping to use those in another way today’ The Ferryman began, lifting the hefty chain of lights so that the Leviathan could see them better, before gently throwing them over the creature’s neck, much to its confusion ‘but I think you need them more’.

The Leviathan did not protest at all as the Ferryman’s skilled hands wrapped the lights along its body. All those years of tying knots aboard really did pay back right now.

And soon enough, the Leviathan’s form was glimmering in red, yellow, blue and green, a stark contrast to the starless, uneasy night. The darkness was, this way, defeated.

‘I think they should hold up for the next few days - or at least longer than the storm.’ The Ferryman shouted, their gaze skimming over their work - undeniably proud of their craft. And the Leviathan seemed most pleased. The turmoil of the souls within the red body subsided, the Ferryman felt that. It was, instead, replaced by gratitude. 

‘Suits you!’ Ferryman shouted finally, not hiding excitement ‘Now, the deep should scare you no more.’

The Leviathan nodded in agreement. It almost seemed… happy? Was that even possible, at all? The Ferryman wholeheartedly believed so. But for the sake of them both, none should have to linger any longer out in the open. So, the Leviathan straightened itself, its serpentine form swiftly withdrawing from above the deck, ready to return home in its new attire. And Ferryman was content to let it enjoy it on its own.

‘Merry Christmas, Leviathan!’

And with that, the gargantuan body submerged itself in the deep once more. The murky depths were no longer a source of fear, as the lights flickered and glimmered, illuminating the gloomy void. The Ferryman meanwhile, content and completely rid of their previous turmoil, returned to their quarters.

[mmmilkita]

my first WJ fic.

Tags: Painter+Religious+Demented Walter White, Muse Jesse Pinkman, Alternate Universe, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Necrophilia

The great Heisenberg had fallen a long time ago.

The man regains hope in the form of a young deer.

Motion by mmmilkita

An observer is always true to his words.

No cuts, no poetry, no twisting of terms. A straight line and little to no curves. Accurateness, limited to what the eyes can see, a man’s memory, his system of beliefs. A good liar is also observant; however, he lies. He lacks context, purposely twists the truth and covers the ugly or deepens the wound. This kind of man is untrustworthy yet artful in his ways. I am both, I am what you call; an artist. I have an honest heart but lying hands.

Even now as my fingers confine the wooden brush, arms dancing to the lines and shape of my muse, I contort what’s in front of me. A mirage of flesh and bones, pigments sinking into a pool of illusion. It’s almost as if I possess the power of the sovereign himself, except I am incapable of creation out of nothing. I have no other choice but to gather the finest materials, as a devotee of God.

Now while I confess that I was not one to worship or even grovel at anyone’s feet, miracles do change a man. Like so many of the others, I was but a lost soul searching for answers, the faintest light to guide me. Wandering the darkest of streets, as if a stray dog limping towards nothing at all. Carrying on with but an empty yet swollen stomach full of hungry worms, entangled and curled into a ball from their incessant writhing. They protested in language of rabid hunger, consuming whatever was left of me inside and perhaps, a fool stood no chance fleeing a scythe that was buried in the deepest well that is himself.

Angels were but a foolish concept to me until one walked on earth. The night when the heavens graciously opened its curtains to me, a hand fair as gentle snow reached out. The divine offering a gesture of forgiveness. Soft, slender fingers circled the tip of the protruding weapon and freed me of agony. As if it were King Arthur liberating the stone to claim his rightful throne. Darkness turned to day, bestowing upon me a blinding sight. It was not a King who brought me salvation, but a sweet Prince.

And in return, I have betrayed His kindness. Sacrilege. A sin of high price to pay.

Oh, jury of the winged, if you were to believe a folly, I do admit to one thing. It was the messenger to blame. Warmth radiated from every inch of his blessedness; it is simply justified that a famished mutt felt compelled to lie beside crackling firewood. Not a word of objection was heard, only the ringing of church bells in midst of pleasured cries. You see, my desecration was but to bathe away befouled spirit. If I had not done what I did, I would have simply perished.

“We are at your merciful palms.

May our pollution become a lesson.

For all I know, redeeming oneself is through sincere expression of regret.

What more could I possibly offer than an unclouded picture of thy gospel?”

Reciting my prayer, I am reminded of the disturbance growing in my chest. Creating the perfect piece is nearly unattainable, the pressure never fails to weigh me down. Mentors have praised me for having impeccable taste. How I stood among mankind much like the Christ. You know how it goes. Resurrection. Then followed by a fallout in my fruitless career which humbled a fragile ego. However, my punishment was undeniably well deserved, I had lacked intention to save anyone but myself. Selfish wishes equal to loneliness. And I was truly and utterly alone.

That is why I must repent, along with the fallen. Sickness runs in mortal veins. The desire to create is a relentless piece of us. To be sheltered in another’s flesh and vitality. How repulsive our nature is. How stubborn our hearts beat. How we break our words so effortlessly once the devil speaks.

Take a bite.

Listen to the sound of youth. Breathe.

In the garden of Eden, the forbidden tree calls out to me. From its fresh green to its healthy red seeds, I follow the hissing. My alluring Eve, betrayal is your forte. As you are not the detestable creature, I have read in my mother’s book but you are twice as mesmerizing. The cheap canvas which I replicate your beauty in shames your existence. And yet it is swarmed with overgrown flies buzzing ceaselessly. Because I continue to sully your figure, no matter the distance.

Just merely observing you inebriate my senses. Sending waves of virulent thrills stirred within a pot of boiling guilt, cruel pulsations threatening to overflow. Fragments of our shared passion flashed in a lazy, prolonged motion. Fervent haze and echoed vibrations harmonized the double visioned memory. A vivid recollection, replaying heavenly tenderness. Damp walls crafted of finest silk welcomed the dry and weary, laying out rivers of glistening sap, supple blanket overlapping my entirety. Electric blue gleamed and blazed. Those twin orbs the coldest of flames. Contrasting the gentleness of an embrace. Royal velvet lips bled against mine, crimson rose coating our teeth with a hint of metallic taste. In that moment, we were savages ardently marking each other. Sucking, biting, exchanging scents like animals. Revolting.

Albeit, it was the most pristine I’ve ever felt.

Breathless, indulging the past, the feverish rush plunging me closer to nirvana finally breaks. The face of purity watched me from across the dingy room without a trace of surprise nor disgust. I am relieved. Only innocence painted his gentle doe eyes, still and fixed on my disgrace.

A spare regret to pile into my mountain of vices. Temptation is certainly not an easy foe. The path to redemption is a rugged journey and a sinner walks barefoot. I digress. The hammering intrusion is giving me a headache.

Sauntering from my seat to the dust filled windows, I push the curtains to the side. Icy air knocked on my cheeks before enveloping my somber cabin, sweeping around powdery articles in the process. The bitter afternoon breeze encourages the flimsy fabric to sway. Flaxen, its color, the same shade as his delicate strands. I turn to him. And my, what a spectacle to behold. Not even the scenic overlook of the icebound mountain could compare to the image of a sleeping dove. Dainty and motionless. He is such a doll. Saturated hues tinted his pale complexion, revealing an angelic glow.

Breathtaking is purely an understatement. Every presented detail screamed perfection.

I promptly return, lifted and frantic, sitting on the stiff chair. Recording his ravishing figure mingling with euphoric radiance. I beamed upon witnessing a biblical history unfold. Surely, adding a second art piece is warranted by the gracious Himself, especially of this holy grandeur. Occupied of the newly found inspiration, the pounding disruption grew feeble. And the inexplicable, violating stench fades into the background at last. Bringing tranquility to the disturbed sheep, with a hopeful yearning to be forgiven.

[more-better-words]

Day 27!

🌧️

It was raining in Peldvale, and Maera was laughing.

Dynaheir arched an eyebrow at her. “Thy good humor is...strangely timed, friend,” she said, as diplomatically as she could manage. The young warrior shot her a bright smile.

“Sorry, it's just…” She spread her arms, encompassing all of the woods between them. “Isn't this gorgeous?”

“Perhaps in fairer weather.”

“Keep your voices down!” Jaheira admonished from ahead. “There are still bandits about.” Maera obediently cleared her throat.

“It hit me just now, that's all,” she continued in a lower voice. “How huge the world is, and how beautiful.” She smiled again. “Even in the rain.”

Dynaheir considered that. She knew that Maera’s youth had been cloistered, tucked away behind walls and against the sea. But she and Minsc had traveled so far on their dajemma, across mountains and deserts, wide rivers and narrow canyons, that truly understanding that was, at best, an academic matter. She glanced about. Peldvale was a pleasant little wood, with clumps of tall, thin trees scattered through the valley. The dark green summer leaves glistened in the rain, clean and vibrant. The long-bladed grass had a similar sheen, and waved in the light wind, a smooth, bending ripple. It was beautiful, now that she thought about it.   

She looked back at Maera. She was grateful to the younger woman for her rescue, and for giving her and Minsc the chance to continue their journey, when all had seemed lost. And she had a charm about her, an endearing innocence that showed itself at the strangest of times. How different the world must appear to her eyes, the witch thought. There was something to be learned in that.

There was a pond to their left, a broad, deep pool whose slate blue surface was pockmarked with the rain. The concentric circles spread outward from each drop, until they touched and crossed. Rather like human lives.   

Her musing was cut short by the twang of bowstrings and the hooting laughter of more of those thrice-accursed bandits. And as her magic crackled on her fingertips, she found she was more put out with them for disrupting her study of nature than anything else. How dare they spoil such a lovely view, even in the rain!

Curious.  Was this how Jahiera usually felt?     

[strawberry-nugget]

Most honoured and gentle author ,

With quill in hand and heart full glad, I pen thee now a note of deepest thanks. Lo! What joy dost burst like springtide blossom upon the shore of mine imagination, to learn that thy noble work Cherry Waves hath been made anew!

Thy words, like sweetest lyre-strains, play upon the soul with tender grace. The tide of thy tale, once still, now swelleth again with life and motion, and I—thy humble reader—am caught in its wondrous current. Truly, thou hast loosed upon the world a wave of cherry-blush’d delight.

To thee, fair authoress, I doff mine cap and bow. May thy pen ne’er falter, and may the muses ever dance upon thy shoulder.

In grateful spirit and faithful readership,

I remain thy servant of the page,

Anon😛😛

Hail to thee, mine own dearest Shakespeare Anon,

I am most heartened to hear thy joy upon reading the latest chapter of mine humble tale, Cherry Waves. ’Tis gladsome news to mine ears, as warm as honeyed wine on a winter’s eve.

With delight do I proclaim: a fresh continuation of this saga shall be made known in the week to come! Yet beware, sweet soul—for the end of said chapter beareth angst most grievous. Aye, ’tis a cruel twist, sharp as a dagger’s kiss, and may leave thee dumbstruck… or perchance quacking like a startled goose!

But take heart, dear friend—it shall brighten yet, ere it all descend into utter ruin. Such is the nature of tales woven from both silk and sorrow.

Forever thine in ink and uncertainty,

The shy quill-wielder,

Strawberry

[ramblingsfromthytruly]

new year’s resolution: if I wanna see more content of the girls & sapphics, I am going to make more content of the girls & sapphics

[tired-n-trying]

was sick & unproductive over the weekend but now it's a new week and i WILL do better!!!!!!!!!!

[sixeyesonathiel]

love thy neighbor — chapter one.

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with wild white hair and a grin too sharp for someone who always left dirt on your doorstep. satoru lived to rile you up, stealing your snacks and outrunning you in backyard chases, weaving himself into your life despite every glare you threw. through the chaos of shared summers and endless spats, he became a constant you couldn’t quite escape.

college stretched you apart, states away, the silence of distance swallowing your usual bickering—until summer drags you back. nothing’s the same. the air feels heavier, the days stranger, and satoru’s still all smirks and sly glances, but his eyes linger now, carrying a quiet ache you’re only starting to notice. college has you questioning everything, and he’s waiting, like always, for you to catch up to something you’re not ready to name.

tags –> fluff, tiny bit of angst later, eventual smut, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, growing up together, long term pining, yearner satoru, summer vacation tension, alternating POVs.

a/n : releasing this as series with four chapters that will have 10k+ wc per chapter instead of a oneshot out of draft jail because i overyappped once again, i’m really sorry for second guessing and hesitating so much, making u all wait TvT

collection m.list. | series masterlist. | playlist. | next ch.

the neighborhood was perfect.

white fences, manicured lawns, and an unspoken rule that everything must remain picturesque. but beneath the surface of perfection, an ancient war raged: your mother versus satoru’s. it was a battle fought with gardening shears and passive-aggressive remarks, masked by polite smiles at neighborhood events.

your mother, ever the strategist, sipped her tea with a dramatic sigh whenever satoru’s mother so much as stepped onto her porch. “oh, did you see the way she over-fertilizes?” she mused, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “poor plants, suffocating under all that desperate effort.”

meanwhile, satoru’s mother, arranging her hydrangeas in full view of your living room window, would hum thoughtfully before muttering, “i’d be embarrassed if my hydrangeas were that dull. not that i’d let it happen.”

the tension was palpable, woven into every stolen glance and whispered insult disguised as gardening advice. neither woman ever admitted the rivalry outright, but the perfectly pruned rose bushes and the carefully curated window boxes spoke volumes.

their husbands, however, lived in blissful ignorance. every weekend, they could be found on the golf course or clinking beer bottles over the backyard fence, chuckling about how “our wives are gonna kill each other one day, huh?”

the rivalry simply amused them.

but you and satoru? you were casualties. you were dragged into their war from the moment you could walk, coached into side-eyed glares and dismissive huffs whenever the gojos were mentioned.

when your father first introduced you to satoru at a neighborhood barbecue, he did so with the same pride as a general uniting two warring factions. “this is satoru, gojo’s boy!” he beamed, clapping his friend on the back.

but instead of an instant friendship, all satoru got was a glare and the words your mother had fed you over breakfast that morning.

“we don’t talk to people who use fake grass as a lawn substitute.”

you said it with the confidence of someone who truly understood what that meant, though in reality, you weren’t entirely sure why fake grass was so offensive. satoru blinked at you, mouth slightly open, his white lashes fluttering as if he hadn’t processed what just happened.

“...huh?” he finally said, voice trailing off in confusion.

your dads laughed, the kind of laugh that men share when they think their kids are just being silly. it wasn’t silly. it was war. and from that moment on, satoru gojo was your enemy, whether he wanted to be or not.

the first time you’re sent outside to water the garden, you don’t think much of it—until you see satoru stepping out of his house at the same time, dragging a garden hose behind him. he’s still in his pajamas, some silly blue set with little clouds on it, his white hair sticking up in messy tufts, like he just rolled out of bed.

he’s wearing slippers—bunny slippers, to be precise—but what really catches your attention are the socks. white with tiny little blue stars, pulled up just past his ankles, the kind of socks that scream these are my favorite and if anything happens to them, i will never recover.

you freeze, fingers tightening around the nozzle as he glances at you, then at his own hose, then back at you. for a second, neither of you speak. but you both know. your moms, pretending to be absorbed in their baking and magazine-reading inside, have timed this on purpose.

“pure coincidence,” your mother had said, the corners of her lips twitching in barely concealed triumph, and you—foolish, naive—had believed her.

satoru, being satoru, tries to be friendly at first, tilting his head as he watches you water the tulips along the fence. “your tulips are kinda nice,” he says, casual, like he’s just making conversation, like he isn’t the enemy.

you whip your head toward him so fast your hair smacks you in the face, eyes narrowing, scoffing as if he’s just insulted your entire bloodline. “don’t lie. your mom says they’re ugly.”

his jaw drops, scandalized, and you swear you can hear the dramatic gasp of betrayal in the air. “well, your mom says our garden looks like a plastic factory exploded.” he crosses his arms, standing his ground, his voice rising slightly like he can’t believe you just threw that at him.

you stare at him.

he stares at you.

the hose in your hand drips onto the grass, but you’re too busy processing his words to care. your mother had what ? you had been raised on the belief that your family had the superior garden, the most elegant flowers, the healthiest grass. and now, satoru gojo, the enemy, was claiming that your mom had been talking about his garden?

your lips part in slow betrayal, nose wrinkling in distaste, and you take a slow step back. he mirrors you, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, his fingers twitching against the hose. neither of you say another word. but you both know what’s coming next.

the next day, war begins. it starts simple—satoru ‘accidentally’ sprays you with his hose while you’re carefully pruning the roses, his grin widening when water soaks into your shirt. you shriek, stumbling back, clutching your watering can tighter like a weapon. fine. if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. you take a step, then another, before gasping dramatically and tripping—the entire can of water spilling directly onto his feet.

he lets out a scream, the most theatrical, over-the-top wail you’ve ever heard, jumping back like he’s been set on fire. “MY SOCKS!” he yells, staring down at them in pure horror, his slippers useless against the water seeping in. his hands fly up to his head, gripping his white tufts in agony, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in a tragedy film. “they’re wet! my favorite socks are WET!”

“oh, please,” you huff, rolling your eyes even as your own shirt clings uncomfortably to your skin. “it’s just water.”

“IT’S IN MY SOCKS.” he’s pacing now, hands on his hips, face twisted in pure devastation. “DO YOU KNOW HOW GROSS WET SOCKS ARE?!”

the next thing you know, you’re both storming inside, loudly declaring your grievances to your fathers.

“she did it on purpose!”

“he started it first!”

you both jab fingers in each other’s direction, demanding justice, your voices overlapping in a chorus of whiny accusations. satoru’s slippers squelch with every step he takes, which only makes him angrier, which only makes you smugger. but your dads, ever the peacemakers, just chuckle over their beers and wave you off. “just work it out, kids!”

useless. completely, utterly useless.

you and satoru glare at each other from across the room, still damp, still fuming, both of you knowing, deep in your little childish hearts—whether you like it or not, this is only the beginning.

days slip by, your damp glares hardening into a silent pact—every sprinkler twitch, every sidelong glance a spark for the next war. your moms, oblivious or scheming, sip lemonade on the porch, their laughter sharp as pruning shears, while you and satoru circle like cats, waiting for the other to pounce.

it appears overnight.

one day, your mother’s pristine front yard is free of any unnecessary clutter, and the next, it’s there—perched right at the edge of the gojos’ flower bed, staring directly at your house with its beady, unsettling eyes.

the ugliest garden gnome you’ve ever seen. its paint is chipped in places, its smile is a little too wide, and its hat is a garish shade of red that clashes horribly with the hydrangeas behind it.

your mother nearly drops her morning tea when she spots it through the kitchen window.

“oh. oh, that woman wants to play dirty.”

she sets her cup down with the grace of a queen preparing for battle, fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain like she’s contemplating war strategies. her brows draw together, lips pressed into a firm line as she leans closer, scrutinizing the gnome like it personally insulted her taste in home decor.

by the end of the day, a stone fairy statue sits on your side of the fence, directly facing the gnome. her expression is serene, her wings spread wide, and her hands clasped together as if in prayer—yet something about her placement feels pointed. deliberate. a silent declaration of superiority in the war of aesthetics.

you and satoru meet at the line that divides your houses, staring at each other over the ridiculous decorations your mothers have so proudly planted in the soil. it’s early afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the grass, and the air is thick with unspoken tension.

satoru stands lazily with his hands in his pockets, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, the summer light catching in his white hair and making it look almost silver. his eyes, bright and sharp, flit between the fairy and the gnome before settling on you, amusement flickering in their depths.

“so,” he drawls, rocking back slightly on his heels. “admiring the superior piece of art?”

you don’t answer. instead, you take a single step forward and flick his forehead, hard. his head jerks back slightly, his smirk faltering for half a second before he recovers, blinking at you like you’ve just committed a grave crime against his entire bloodline.

“your gnome looks like it crawled out of a swamp.”

satoru’s jaw drops, a scandalized gasp slipping past his lips. his hand flies to his forehead, rubbing the spot you flicked like you just inflicted some kind of irreversible damage.

“you—” he sputters, shaking his head as if in disbelief. then, with the precision of someone who has been waiting for this moment his entire life, he flicks you right back, his finger striking the center of your forehead with surprising force.

“your fairy looks like it belongs in a cemetery.”

you don’t know who lunges first, but suddenly, you’re both on the ground. hands grasping at arms, legs kicking up dirt, your yells and shrieks breaking the peaceful afternoon air.

satoru pulls at your sleeve, so you shove him, and he shoves you right back, his stupidly strong grip knocking you off balance. the scent of freshly cut grass fills your nose as your back hits the ground, satoru’s weight pressing down as he tries to pin you, but you twist, rolling and taking him with you.

“get off me, you overgrown ferret!” you hiss, your fingers grasping at the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to push him away.

“overgrown?” he scoffs, despite being half sprawled across the dirt, panting. “you’re literally—ow! stop pulling my hair, you gremlin!”

grass sticks to your clothes, dust clings to your skin, and the world tilts as you both roll across the lawn like a pair of feral raccoons fighting over food.

from the porch, your mother gasps, her hand flying to her chest in horror. satoru’s mom, less dramatic but equally exasperated, calls out something about ruining the flowers, but neither of you hear her over the sound of your bickering.

your fathers, however, are the last to react. one second, they’re sipping their beers on the porch, talking about some old golf game, and the next, their precious children are rolling in the dirt like a pair of rabid raccoons.

both men jump up at the same time, eyes wide, jaws dropping in comical horror.

“oh my god, they’re fighting.” gojo’s dad sounds genuinely distressed, like he’s just witnessed the betrayal of the century.

your dad nearly trips over the porch step as he rushes forward, his voice heavy with disbelief. “this is a disaster! we raised them better than this!”

it takes all their combined strength to pry you and satoru apart. you’re still kicking, your hand tangled in his stupid white hair, while he’s gripping onto your sleeve like he refuses to let you get the last hit. dirt smudges both your cheeks, grass stains your clothes, and the once-perfect garden is in shambles around you.

satoru’s mom lets out a horrified gasp, clutching her chest as she surveys the battlefield that was once a pristine lawn. her manicured fingers tremble, eyes darting between the trampled flowers and her son’s dirt-streaked face like she’s witnessing the collapse of civilization.

your mom, on the other hand, stands tall with her arms crossed, head tilting ever so slightly as a slow, satisfied smile curls on her lips—like a queen who just watched her heir claim victory in a brutal duel. her gaze flickers to you, pride gleaming in her eyes before she speaks, voice low and laced with amusement.

“you see?” she murmurs, just loud enough for her husband to hear, yet dripping with the unmistakable venom of a well-placed jab. “this is what happens when you let your daughter socialize with bad influences.”

she doesn’t look at satoru’s mom as she says it, but the weight of her words lands squarely where it’s meant to.

satoru’s mom bristles, her grip tightening on the pearl necklace resting against her collarbone, but she holds her tongue—for now. the war between them is long-standing, fought with polite smiles and passive-aggressive flower arrangements, but today, your mom has landed a solid hit.

your dads, however, are too emotionally wounded to acknowledge their wives’ ongoing cold war. your father looks at you like you just kicked a puppy in front of him, his hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair in utter disbelief.

“you’re best friends!” he exclaims, voice cracking like his entire world is crumbling before his eyes. “this—this is not how best friends act!” his horror is genuine, as if the mere thought of you and satoru, the lifelong duo, turning on each other is an omen of the apocalypse.

satoru’s dad isn’t faring any better, hands braced against his knees as if steadying himself for what might come next. he exhales, long and pained, shaking his head like he’s about to mourn the loss of something sacred.

“we failed them,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with grief. he looks at his son, at the tangled mess of white hair and stubborn defiance, then at you, covered in dirt and glaring daggers at his boy.

to him, this is a tragedy beyond comprehension.

for a fleeting moment, the sheer devastation in their eyes almost makes you feel bad. almost. but then you glance at satoru, and he’s already looking at you with that same ridiculous, half-offended, half-smug expression, a silent dare in those too-bright eyes.

the pity shrivels and dies instantly, replaced by a renewed wave of annoyance. because, honestly, why does he look like he won? he didn’t win.

“you’re gonna apologize and shake hands,” your dad says, attempting to sound firm despite the evident emotional turmoil in his voice.

you and satoru both freeze, breathing still uneven from the scuffle, before simultaneously turning away with identical scoffs. the idea of making peace with each other so soon, especially under adult supervision, is downright insulting.

“absolutely not.” the rejection comes in perfect unison, as if you rehearsed it beforehand.

but then satoru’s dad straightens up, shoulders squared, and fixes you both with a rare, serious, dad look—the kind that demands obedience without words, the kind that even satoru, with all his stubborn arrogance, hesitates to challenge. suddenly, rebellion doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

grumbling under your breath, you stomp forward, satoru mirroring your reluctance with a dramatic sigh. your hands clasp together with the enthusiasm of someone being forced to shake hands with a venomous snake.

and then, just because neither of you can ever let the other win, you squeeze. hard .

satoru winces first, barely, and your lips twitch into a victorious grin. but then he recovers, tightening his grip just enough to make your fingers ache, and a smirk creeps onto his face. across the yard, your dads, completely oblivious to the ongoing war happening in your clasped hands, wipe fake tears from their eyes, murmuring about how balance has been restored.

but nothing has been solved. nothing at all.

the forced peace lasts exactly three days before you're elbowing him in the ribs for hogging the watering can. he retaliates by “accidentally” spraying your shoes.

you step on his foot.

he tugs your hair.

you pinch his arm when no one’s looking—fingers darting quick, nailing the soft spot under his sleeve. he yelps “ow!” under his breath, swatting back with a pouty glare. by the time the roses are watered, you’ve racked up twelve secret scuffles—stealthy masterpieces hidden from the kitchen windows where your moms sip grudges with their brew.

he trips you into a rosebush with a sly nudge—smug grin flashing, all teeth and blue-eyed glee. you lob a fistful of fertilizer like a prank grenade. it dusts his face gritty brown. he sputters “gross!” and wipes it off with his t-shirt hem.

your cackle cuts the air when dirt clumps in his perfect white hair. he shakes it out like a wet dog, strands spiking like a porcupine. then he shoves you—hands fast on your shoulders—sending you splashing into the birdbath. water soaks your shorts.

“jerk!” you hiss, scrambling up, nose scrunched in fury. he giggles “serves you right!” and dodges your swat, slippers squishing on the grass. it’s exhausting—this endless tug-of-war. arms ache. slippers muddy. but stopping? not an option. you’re magnets, doomed to clash.

the backyard brawl simmers all week. each morning brings sneaky jabs and muffled yelps. roses and hydrangeas stand as silent witnesses.

your dads catch on eventually—dirt-stained clothes you try to sneak past the laundry, faint bruises on your knees, satoru’s slight limp after you “accidentally” drop a watering can on his foot. they’re done. sick of scuffs. sick of whining.

sick of their wives’ icy fence-side stares—each blaming the other’s kid, their garden rivalry now a cold war over mulch tips and pta brags.

one afternoon, mid-scuffle—over who stepped on whose garden bed and if that’s an act of war—you’re shoving his chest, his elbow jabs your side. your dads roll in like tired storm clouds.

“enough!” yours barks, arms crossed, flannel sleeves rolled up, face etched with exhaustion from your week-long nonsense.

satoru’s dad nods, rubbing his temples. “you’re driving us up the wall—cut it out or you’re grounded ‘til christmas.” 

“he started it!” you snap, pointing at satoru—your pout deepens, your muddy slippers leaving a smudge on the patio as you cross your arms tight.

“she pinched me first!” satoru fires back, his voice high and whiny as he jabs a finger at you, his hair still dusted with fertilizer flecks, his blue eyes wide with mock innocence.

“that’s it,” your dad says, rubbing his temples like this is physically paining him. “you’re best friends now. deal with it.” his voice is firm, final, like a judge handing down a life sentence.

satoru’s dad stands beside him, nodding like he’s just made peace with some deep, personal tragedy.

“if you’re gonna keep fighting, you might as well do it under supervision,” he adds, voice hollow with defeat. “playdates. every day. no exceptions.”

you and satoru freeze, eyes locking in an unspoken moment of horror. playdates? every day? with him?

“no,” you start, shaking your head as panic sets in, “no, no, no, i refuse—”

“you can’t make us!” satoru cries, taking a step back like he might actually run for it.

but your dad is already walking away like the matter is settled, and satoru’s dad claps a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder, muttering something about “team bonding” before disappearing inside.

betrayal. this is betrayal of the highest order.

you whip around, jabbing a finger into satoru’s chest, voice dripping with accusation. “this is your fault.”

his jaw drops, indignant. “my fault? you’re the one who threw the first punch last time!”

“because you called my hair stupid!”

“it is stupid!” he fires back, arms flailing as he gestures wildly toward your head. “it looks like a mop!”

you take a deep, dramatic gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve been personally wounded. “oh, yeah? well, at least i don’t look like a walking snow cone!”

his mouth falls open, blue eyes wide with pure, unfiltered rage. for a moment, he just stares at you, like he can’t even process what you’ve just said.

then, with the air of a man who has lost everything, he lets out a long, exhausted sigh and stomps away, muttering under his breath about how this arrangement is going to kill him.

good.

you hope it does.

the next day, you arrive at his house with a plan. if you’re going to suffer through this nightmare, you’re dragging him down with you.

so you stride through the front yard like a queen arriving at her court, the tiny porcelain tea set clinking in your bag with each step. a plastic crown sits atop your head, slightly askew from the wind but still regal in its defiance.

your expression is the picture of authority as you set down your things, the miniature table unfolding beneath your hands with all the grandeur of a royal banquet being prepared.

“sit,” you command, voice dripping with the kind of entitlement that demands obedience.

satoru, standing barefoot in the grass with his wild white hair falling messily over his too-blue eyes, just blinks at you. then he tilts his head, gaze flicking between you, the tea set, and the absurd little chairs you’ve arranged.

“i’m not drinking imaginary tea,” he says flatly.

your smile is slow, syrupy sweet—too sweet, the kind that signals incoming disaster. “oh, but you are.”

he narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. it’s a battle of wills, a silent exchange where neither of you so much as blink.

then, with the exaggerated sigh of a man facing his own execution, satoru flops onto the tiny chair, legs sprawled out, arms still folded like he’s being forced into some great injustice.

you nod in satisfaction, pouring the invisible tea with practiced elegance, your pinky raised just so. the delicate porcelain cup is extended toward him, an offering of peace—or, more accurately, an invitation to his suffering.

he takes it hesitantly, fingers curling around the dainty handle like it might shatter under his touch. then, in the most over-the-top display of mock refinement you’ve ever seen, he lifts it to his lips with the grace of a nobleman.

“ah, yes,” he drawls, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his chin upward. “delicious. simply divine.”

your hum of approval is sharp as you sip from your own cup, matching his theatrics with an air of superiority. “good.”

the corner of his mouth twitches, his eyes peering at you over the rim of his cup, and you know—this isn’t over.

revenge comes swiftly.

the moment you step through the door, satoru is on you like a storm, all grabby hands and reckless energy, fingers locking around your wrist before you can so much as take off your shoes.

he yanks you forward with the force of a battlefield general rallying his troops, pale strands an untamed mess, sticking out in wild tufts like he’s been plotting for hours. there’s an unmistakable glint in his too-bright eyes, something electric, something that makes your stomach twist with impending doom.

you try to plant your feet, to demand an explanation, but he tugs harder, practically dragging you down the hallway like a man possessed.

“sit,” he commands, throwing his arm out with a flourish the second you cross the threshold into his room.

your gaze sweeps across the floor, and your stomach drops. an army—an entire army—is laid out before you, meticulously arranged in tight, strategic formations.

tiny soldiers stand at attention, their weapons poised for battle, knights lined up with their plastic swords raised high, towering mechs positioned like silent sentinels at the edges.

even a couple of dinosaurs lurk ominously in the back, their beady little eyes trained on the battlefield as if waiting for their cue to wreak havoc.

you swallow, suddenly aware of the tiny doll clutched in your hands—a delicate princess with golden curls, her dainty features carved into a permanent, gentle smile. she does not belong here.

satoru turns to you, the grin stretching across his face so wide it practically glows. “war,” he declares, voice heavy with self-satisfaction.

your fingers tighten around the doll. “… war?”

he nods, far too pleased with himself. “yeah. your princesses are under attack. they’re defenseless.” his head tilts, expression shifting into a mockery of pity, but the gleam in his eyes betrays him. “tragic, really.”

your lips press into a thin line, suspicion creeping in. “what happens if they lose?”

his grin sharpens. teeth. teeth everywhere. “they get executed.”

your gasp is immediate, theatrical, hands clutching your chest as if he’s personally driven a dagger through your heart. “executed?!”

satoru shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “war’s brutal.”

your grip on the princess tightens, rage curling in your chest like a wildfire. the urge to flip his entire battlefield, to scatter his perfectly aligned soldiers like fallen leaves, is almost unbearable. you could end this before it even begins.

but then satoru smirks, slow and confident, tilting his head in that infuriating way that makes your blood boil. and just like that, losing is no longer an option.

and so, the war rages on.

tea party chaos one day, epic war games the next.

you haul out fancy tea sets, doilies, and plastic tiaras, daring him to squirm. he counters with action figures, spinning tragic tales to pin their doom on you.

you snatch his favorite snacks, munching with a glare; he traps you in marathons of your least-liked cartoon, smirking at every grimace.

playdates turn into battlegrounds, a clash of stubborn wills. you bake fake cookies; he chokes theatrically, flopping to the floor. he stages a war; you parade your princess dolls, decreeing peace to ruin his plans. neither of you yields.

yet somewhere amid tea-sipping and battle cries, the venom softens. it’s still a fight, but now it’s about who cracks a smile first. the worst days are quiet ones, no one to spar with. it’s not fun, but it’s not awful.

and maybe you don’t mind the challenge.

not that you’ll say it.

it hits like rain on a sunny day—sudden, uninvited. you didn’t plan to enjoy satoru’s chaos. but between the shouts and shoves, you laugh. he laughs too, not smug, but real, and your stomach flips, like maybe—maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought.

but your mom notices.

she always notices. when you come home from his house, she watches you extra close, her eyes sharp like when she’s trying to catch you sneaking extra cookies before dinner.

that night, when she brushes your hair, she doesn’t say it right away. her fingers are careful, gentle, but her voice is not. “remember, sweetheart, we don’t get too close to them.” it’s not a question. it’s a rule. the same kind of rule as don’t run with scissors or don’t talk to strangers—except this one hurts.

so the next day, you fix it. it should feel like something big is happening, like the sky should turn black and lightning should strike right between you, like the world should know this is the worst thing ever. but no. the stupid sun is still shining. the wind is still blowing. and the ugly little garden gnome by satoru’s front steps is still sitting there, laughing at you. it makes you want to kick it. but you can’t, because you have something more important to do.

“your hair is ugly.”

satoru’s head snaps up so fast you think he might get dizzy. “huh?!”

you cross your arms, lifting your chin like you totally mean it. “it’s so white. it looks like bird poop.”

there’s a long, long silence. satoru’s mouth hangs open, like he’s waiting for you to say just kidding! but you don’t. his hands ball into little fists at his sides, his face going all red—not the angry kind of red, but the kind that looks like he just swallowed a rock. “why are you being so mean?”

you look away. your chest feels all tight and weird, like when you’re about to cry but you can’t, because if you do, then it’s over. your mom’s voice rings in your head again— we don’t get too close to them. “ i was just bored.”

and just like that, everything breaks.

he stares at you like you just kicked his puppy. his stupid blue eyes get all shiny, like he might actually cry, and that makes you feel even worse. “but… but yesterday—”

he stops. his lips press together, and he swallows really hard, like there’s something stuck in his throat. then, before you can say anything else, before you can even take it back—he steps away.

“fine,” he says, and his voice sounds wobbly, like a popsicle stick bridge that’s about to snap. “i don’t care, anyway.”

but you know he does. because satoru always cares—loudly, annoyingly, in ways you don’t even understand yet. and for the first time ever, he turns away first. doesn’t yell, doesn’t push, doesn’t try to win.

he just leaves. and for some reason, that makes you want to cry more than anything in the whole wide world.

satoru didn’t talk to you after that day. not in the loud, teasing way he usually did, not in the begrudging, petty way you’d come to expect. not even when your dads gathered for the weekend barbecue, laughing over beers about how their kids had finally made peace.

you could feel his glare from across the yard, burning into your skin like a laser beam, but the second you turned to look, he was already stomping away, white hair bouncing with every step.

you’d won the war, hadn’t you? you should’ve felt victorious, you should’ve been skipping circles around him just to rub it in his stupid face. but instead, your stomach twisted up all weird, like you swallowed a rock—or maybe a whole pile of them.

and then, as if the universe had personally decided that your life wasn’t miserable enough, disaster struck.

the evening air was thick with the smell of damp dirt and fresh grass, but all you could smell was your impending doom.

your mother loomed over the flowerbed—or what was left of it. crushed petals and snapped stems lay scattered, a wreckage you caused. the porch light stretched her shadow, sharp and accusing, across the dirt. her arms were crossed, lips a thin line, but her eyes—piercing, soul-searing—made your stomach plummet.

you swallowed, glancing at the ruined flowers under your shoes. you’d only chased a butterfly, but—crunch—they were gone, and you were doomed.

“look at what you’ve done!”

your hands balled up, body rigid. “i’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice small, but she didn’t flinch.

she sighed, pinching her nose like you were her endless headache. “i work hard on this garden, and this is how you repay me?” her head shook, disappointment stinging like a slap. “these plants are my babies, and you trample them like you don’t belong here.”

…oh.

your breath snagged, heart stuttering. her babies? your chest clamped tight, ears buzzing, and it clicked—too perfectly. your mom’s lawn obsession, how you didn’t quite match your parents’ looks, your weird food quirks, her sighs, heavy with unspoken weight when she bragged about you to neighbors. 

this was it.

you were adopted.

panic flared, wild and sharp. if she knew you’d cracked her secret, would she… return you? like a mismatched shirt shoved back to the store? would she ship you to some grim place where unwanted kids ate cold broccoli forever, no cookies, no warmth? no way. you wouldn’t let her.

you had to run.

before they could box up your stuff, before their soft, syrupy voices cooed, we’re sorry, sweetheart, it’s just not right. you’d need clothes, snacks, a flashlight—money? (where did money even come from?)—maybe a blanket. you could live in the woods, charm squirrels, nibble berries. 

or you can find your real family.

maybe they were out there, longing for you. maybe you were a lost princess, a royal carriage just waiting to whisk you to a castle. maybe your true parents, rich and heartbroken, ached for their stolen kid. maybe this was your big break.

you had to get out.

you scanned the room—not yours, not anymore. glow-in-the-dark stars speckled the ceiling, stuffed animals slumped in the corner, soon someone else’s, someone who’d fit this family better. your throat tightened, but you shook it off. no time for tears. you had a mission.

you grabbed your pink backpack, stuffing it fast—three snacks, a hello kitty juice box for style, a flickering flashlight, and your stuffed bunny, because even runaways need a friend. it was heavier than you thought, tugging at your shoulders as you crept to the window. you nudged it open, wincing at the frame’s squeak. night air slipped in, whispering of adventure, maybe a real home.

but doubt crept in too.

not about running—that was still the plan. but the actual escaping? harder than it looked. your grand exit felt shaky, and you wondered if you were really built for this runaway life.

now, for the hardest part: actually leaving.

you climbed onto the windowsill, fingers gripping the edge as you looked down. it wasn’t that high… right? you just had to dangle, drop, land, and run. simple. foolproof.

you sucked in a breath and shifted forward, lowering yourself carefully, your feet searching for the ground—but it wasn’t there.

your legs kicked uselessly, toes barely brushing the wall, and for a humiliating ten seconds, you dangled there, flailing, before gravity made the decision for you.

with a yelp, you plummeted straight into the bushes, a sharp rustling of leaves accompanying your graceless fall. a dull pain shot up your arms, the sting of scraped skin making your eyes prick with tears, but you bit them back.

a true runaway does not cry! with all the dignity you could muster, you pushed yourself up, shaking off leaves and twigs, ready to make your grand escape—

“you look like an idiot.”

your breath caught in your throat. your stomach dropped.

oh no.

slowly, you turned your head, dread curling in your chest. and there he was, perched at his own window, elbows resting on the sill, white hair catching the fading sunlight. gojo satoru.

he had the nerve to look completely relaxed, chin resting in his palm, his stupidly bright blue eyes filled with unmistakable amusement.

he had been watching you.

“what are you doing?” he asked, voice laced with barely-contained laughter.

you straightened your backpack straps, shooting him a glare. ”leaving.”

“leaving where?”

“away.”

his head tilted slightly, studying you like you were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. “that’s not an answer.”

ugh. always so annoying. always questioning everything. wait—why is he even trying to get you to explain yourself to him? this wasn’t his business!

you huffed, turning on your heel with a dramatic flip of your hair. "none of your business, satoru. goodbye forever."

you had barely taken four steps before the unmistakable sound of feet landing lightly on the pavement made you freeze.

your eyes widened. you turned back just in time to see him straightening up, brushing invisible dust from his pants, completely unbothered—because unlike you, he hadn’t fumbled his escape. no flailing, no tragic bush landing. just an effortless, cat-like jump from his window, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

you clenched your fists. of course he made it look easy.

he fell into step beside you, hands buried deep in his pockets, his pace maddeningly unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be but right here, ruining your night. 

it was infuriating how effortlessly he matched your pace—never rushing, never struggling, just there, lingering like an annoying ghost you couldn't shake in the darkness.

“you don’t even know where you’re going.”

his voice was light, almost teasing, but you caught the undertone of amusement laced beneath it.

you spun around so fast your backpack nearly smacked you in the face, eyes blazing as you glared up at him. “yes, i do.”

he didn’t even blink, just tilted his head, one white eyebrow arching with skepticism. “oh yeah? where?”

your mouth opened—then promptly shut. under the weight of his expectant gaze, your mind scrambled for an answer, something grand, something impressive, something that would prove you weren’t just some clueless kid storming off on a whim. but all that came out was a very unconvincing:

“...the forest.”

satoru pulled a face like you had just suggested something utterly pathetic. he actually wrinkled his nose. “lame,” he declared flatly. “if you’re running away, at least go somewhere cool.”

your eyes narrowed dangerously. “oh, and where would you go, genius?”

his expression shifted instantly, brightening with exaggerated thoughtfulness as he tapped a finger against his chin. he dragged the moment out, milking the attention for all it was worth, before finally grinning. “probably the moon. or mars. as long as it’s on space.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw the inside of your skull. “be serious.”

“you be serious.”

“i am serious.”

“then why are you running away with just a backpack?”

you froze, shoulders snapping rigid. your fingers clenched around the straps of your backpack as heat crept up your face.

right. that.

you knew something about your plan felt slightly underdeveloped, but it wasn’t like you were going to admit that. you forced your expression into something defiant, lips parting to throw back a retort—but nothing came. because, well... he had a point.

“why do you even care?” you snapped instead, turning the conversation away from your failure. “just go back inside and leave me alone!”

he shrugged, completely unaffected by your growing irritation. “nah. watching you fail at running away is way more fun.”

your jaw clenched so tight it ached.

you should have known he’d be a problem.

but you were determined. you were going to run away, and there was nothing gojo satoru could do about it.

you slung your backpack higher, stomping down the street, ignoring the patter of footsteps dogging you. maybe speed would shake him, but no—satoru’s smirk followed, wide and smug, like your escape was his evening show.

you sped up. he kept pace. you crawled; he mirrored, whistling a tune that clawed at your nerves.

hours dragged—maybe two, but each step burned eternal with him bouncing beside you, white hair aglow under streetlights, practically engineered to irk you. at first, you’d burned with purpose—flee your mom’s scolds, her heavy sighs, and start fresh, maybe in a city, baking in some cozy shop.

now? your legs screamed, feet pulsing. regret piled high, and you just wanted to collapse.

“i’m hungry,” satoru whined, his voice grating, lips twitching with mischief.

you groaned, dragging slower. “shut up, satoru,” you muttered, exhaustion coating your words, shoulders slumping.

“no!” he snapped. “this is your fault! you should’ve at least rode a bike if you were gonna run away like a loser!”

“i’m not a loser!” you shot back, voice wobbling, defensive. your glare faltered under his teasing glint.

he sidled closer, face moonlit, mischief dancing in his eyes. “you kinda are. only losers run away and don’t even know where they’re going.”

your cheeks flared. “i do know where i’m going!” you insisted, but doubt gnawed. the dream of running was souring fast.

he arched a brow, smirk widening. “oh yeah? where?”

you froze, scanning the dark—nothing. words failed. “…” you mumbled, purpose fraying.

satoru’s smug hum stung, his grin widening as he stood, hands on hips, relishing your fluster. “exactly. loser.”

you huffed, stomping toward the park’s swings. “whatever. let’s just sit.” annoyance masked relief as you sank onto a seat, sighing into the quiet night.

satoru flopped beside you, stretching with a groan. “ugh, finally. thought my legs were gonna fall off.” his white hair spilled over the swing’s chain, catching moonlight like a mocking halo.

 you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the swing creaking under your shifting weight. “stop being so dramatic.” your fingers gripped the cold metal chains, grounding you as a breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

“says the one who ran away over some flowers,” satoru shot back, kicking his legs lazily, bunny slippers scuffing the dirt. his smirk glinted, sharp in the dim light.

“says the one who followed me,” you snapped, arms crossed tight. damp grass and metal tinged the air, his stare prickling even without a glance.

he grinned, shameless, leaning to sway the swing. “well, yeah. what else was i supposed to do? let you get eaten by raccoons?” his brows wiggled, voice thick with fake worry.

you stiffened, rigid against the creaky seat. “…there are no raccoons here.” your tone held firm, but your eyes flicked to the shadowy bushes, doubt nibbling.

“are you sure?” he tilted his head, blue eyes twinkling, finger tapping his chin to stretch your unease.

you froze—breath catching. the night yawned wider, leaves rustling too lively.

he leaned closer, voice a mock whisper. “you know, i heard they sneak up on dumb kids who run away.” his breath grazed your ear, swing rocking as he shifted.

your fingers clamped the chains, knuckles pale. “you’re lying.” your voice wavered, small against the vast park.

he gasped, clutching his chest, eyes wide with fake shock. “why would i lie to you?” he flailed, nearly tipping the swing, slippers flopping.

“because you’re you!” you shoved his shoulder, steadying the creaking metal. an owl hooted, siding with you.

“fair point.” he shrugged, grin lazy, settling back as the swing slowed. crickets hummed, playground groaning softly.

you kicked his shin—hard. “ow—hey!” he yelped, rubbing it, hair bouncing as he glared.

“you deserved it.” you huffed, chin high, swing swaying gently, cooling your flush.

“did not!”

“did too!”

“did not—ugh, whatever, i’m too hungry to argue,” satoru groaned, flopping against the swing, hand splaying over his stomach. “feed me.” he batted his lashes, moonlight catching his mischief.

you scrunched your nose, leaning back. “excuse me?“

“you packed snacks, right?” he flicked a finger at your bag. “hand ‘em over.” his palm opened, expectant.

“why should i?” you hugged the bag tight, zipper glinting.

“because i followed you and kept you safe from raccoons.” he puffed his chest, slippers swinging with smugness.

you scowled, lips thin. “you were literally just saying you wanted me to get eaten by them.”

“so? didn’t let it happen.” he shrugged, teeth flashing, chains rattling as he leaned in.

“ugh,” you groaned, yanking the bag off, unzipping it sharply. “fine, only so you shut up.”

you pulled out a biscuit, fingers brushing his as you dropped it in his palm. he stared at it, then you, jaw dropping. “…are you serious?”

you smirked, leaning back. “take it or leave it.”

he grumbled but bit in, crunch loud in the stillness. silence settled, heavy, until he swallowed. “gimme another one.” crumbs dusted his fingers, eyes glinting.

you scoffed, loud and dramatic, head thrown back like he’d demanded your soul. “absolutely not.”

“c’monnnn, i’m starving.” he whined, slumping forward, elbows on knees, white hair flopping over his pouty face, moonlight amplifying the ridiculousness.

“too bad. should’ve brought your own food.” you shot back, sticking out your tongue.

“i would’ve if you actually planned this runaway properly.” he muttered, crossing his arms, mimicking your huff.

“ugh! just be grateful i even shared at all!”

“pfft. what else do you got?” he asked, leaning toward your bag, curiosity undimmed.

you glared through the dim light. “nothing.” your lie was sharp, hugging the bag tight, the hello kitty juice box now a state secret.

satoru’s grin turned wicked, teeth glinting. “liar. you have a juice box, don’t you?” he leaned closer, breath teasingly warm.

your fingers dug into the fabric, heart tripping. “no.” your voice wavered, face turning away as the swing creaked.

“you totally do.”

“do not.”

“you do.”

“do not.”

“oh yeah? then what’s this?” he lunged, snatching your bag and unzipping it in one swift move.

“hey!” you yelped, diving, but he twisted away, laughing as he held it high.

“aha! knew it!” he crowed, waving the hello kitty juice box like a prize, pink design flashing in the moonlight. he leaped from the swing, chains clattering.

your face burned, horror spiking. “PUT THAT BACK!” you shrieked, lunging, but he danced away, cackling through the empty park.

satoru spun, keeping it out of reach. “oh? what’s wrong? embarrassed about your cute little juice?” he taunted, dodging your flailing hands.

“shut up! give it back!” you swiped, slippers skidding, but he sidestepped effortlessly.

“hmmm… nah,” he said, popping the straw in with flair and sipping dramatically. “mmm, tastes like victory.” he leaned against the swing pole, smirking.

you gasped, betrayal hitting hard. “YOU. DID. NOT.” your voice shook, fists clenched.

“i did,” he smirked, sipping again. “mmm. strawberry.” he twirled the box, straw bobbing.

rage narrowed your vision. “GOJO SATORU, I HOPE YOU CHOKE!” you roared, tackling him off the swing, both crashing to the dirt.

satoru yelped, hitting the ground with you on top, a tangle of fury. “OW—YOU MANIAC, GET OFF ME!” he flailed, slippers flying, juice box rolling free.

“GIVE IT BACK, THIEF!” you snarled, pinning his arms, reaching for your prize, hair falling in your face.

“I HOPE YOU CHOKE, SATORU!” you yelled, snatching at the box as he squirmed, laughing through indignation.

“JOKES ON YOU, I ALREADY SWALLOWED!” he wheezed, bucking beneath you, hair now dirt-dusted.

“YOU’RE A MONSTER!” you shrieked, shoving his chest, betrayal stinging sharp.

“AND YOU’RE A GREMLIN!” he shot back, twisting, nearly toppling you, voice cracking with laughter.

“THAT WAS MY JUICE!” you wailed, grabbing the box, clutching it like a lifeline, breath heaving.

“IT’S OUR JUICE NOW!” he argued, propped on elbows, grinning like he’d won. your elbow accidentally jabbed his ribs.

“OWWW!” he howled, flopping back, clutching his side theatrically, rolling in mock agony. “THIS IS IT. I’M DYING.”

you froze, juice box dangling, blinking down. “…what?” your voice softened, anger fading.

satoru whimpered, curling up, eyes squeezed shut for effect. “you got me. this is the end. tell my mom i love her. tell your mom i don’t love her. tell my dad he owes me twenty bucks.” he peeked one eye, gauging you, breath hitching.

your heart stuttered—he was faking, clearly, but doubt whispered: what if? tears pricked as you sniffled. “satoru, you idiot!” you choked, voice wobbling, “you can’t die! who am i gonna fight with if you die?!” you dropped beside him, dirt cold.

“i dunno…” he groaned, head lolling, faint and pitiful. “maybe get a pet goldfish. name it satoru junior.”

“but i don’t want a goldfish!”

“too bad… this is fate…” he wheezed, going limp, playing dead.

“shut up! shut up, stupid! you’re not allowed to die!” you cried, throwing yourself onto him, hugging tight, tears soaking his shirt.

satoru wailed, chest shaking, real tears mixing with fake. “ow, ow, ow! you’re squishing me!” he pushed at your shoulders.

“I’M SORRY, OKAY?! I DIDN’T MEAN TO KILL YOU!” you sobbed, hugging harder.

“YOU’RE KILLING ME RIGHT NOW! STOP HUGGING ME SO TIGHT!” he wailed, kicking, feet smacking dirt.

“DON’T DIIIIE!”

“I WON’T IF YOU GET OFF ME, YOU GREMLIN!”

“PROMISE?!”

“YES! I PROMISE!” he shouted, hoarse, flopping back in defeat.

“PINKY PROMISE?!” you pressed, holding out your trembling pinky.

“I CAN’T PINKY PROMISE IF YOU’RE CRUSHING ME, LOSER!” he snapped, tears streaming, hair sticking to his dirt-smeared face.

eventually, your sobs calmed into sniffles—your grip loosening as exhaustion took over. satoru’s cries faded into tired little hiccups, his chest still rising and falling fast beneath you. the playground settled back into quiet, the night wrapping around you like a heavy, damp cloak.

you fell asleep with him right there, sprawled across the cold playground floor, too worn out to move. you curled up against satoru, your face smushed into his shoulder, your breath evening out into soft, snotty snores. satoru, despite all his whining, let an arm flop lazily over you, his own snores mixing with yours as drool pooled between you.

your dads found you like that, a tangled heap of dirt and tears under the moonlight.

“oh, for fuck’s sake.” your dad muttered, rubbing his face with a tired hand, his voice rough with exasperation. he stood there, hands on his hips, staring down at the mess you’d made of yourselves.

“wait, wait,” satoru’s dad whispered, already fumbling for his phone, a grin tugging at his lips despite the late hour. “we have to take a picture.” he crouched down, angling the camera to catch the full disaster—your drooling face, satoru’s sprawled limbs, the abandoned juice box lying pitifully in the dirt nearby. the flash went off, immortalizing the chaos, and the night carried on, oblivious to the two little warriors who’d fought themselves to sleep.

the morning after your playground disaster hits like a dodgeball to the face, jolting you awake with your dad’s laugh booming through the walls, drowning out the birds chirping meanly outside. you blink against sunlight stabbing through your blinds, legs caught in sheets, and stumble out of bed in messy pajamas—one sleeve drooping, hair a wild puff.

you shuffle downstairs, steps creaking, eyes gummy with sleep, and freeze. there, on the mantle, sits the awful proof—you and satoru, a muddy pile under broken monkey bars, drool on your face, his arm flopped over you, both smeared with dirt and chaos.

your dad’s laugh erupts again, shaking the couch as he slaps his knee, grinning huge.

“look at you two! thick as thieves!” he hollers, wiping a tear, his flannel stretching tight.

you squeak—a whiny, horrified sound—hands flying to your face. “it’s so gross!” you wail, voice muffled, peeking at the photo—your drooly cheek squished against satoru’s shoulder—and step back, foot scuffing the floor. “burn it, pleeease!”

“oh no you don’t.” your mom snaps from the kitchen, stirring coffee like she’s brewing a curse, burnt toast smog around her. her glare could zap you dead. “running off over flowers—with that gojo boy? you’re lucky you’re not grounded forever.”

you cringe, twisting your fingers, shoulders curling.

“aw, honey,” your dad chuckles, sipping juice, all calm. “she was just eloping with satoru a little early—gotta practice for the real thing!”

“don’t encourage her!” your mom barks, slamming her mug, coffee splashing, eyes flicking to satoru’s mom’s smug hydrangeas outside.

you whine, flopping against the wall. “i’m running away forever!” you mumble into your sleeve, sun warming your pout as your mom mutters—“that boy’s trouble”—her spoon clinking angrily..

next door, satoru’s trapped in his own morning horror, stomping into the kitchen, fuzzy blue slippers squeaking on tile. he freezes, blue eyes popping wide, and jabs a finger at the framed photo wobbling by the toaster—same drooly wreck, same muddy faces, a twin to your nightmare.

“rip it up!” he wails, voice cracking like he’s auditioning for tragedy, arms windmilling wildly, nearly toppling a mug. “i look like a zombie!”

his dad leans back in his chair, coffee mug in hand, completely unmoved, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he reaches over with a broad hand.

“aw, come on,” he chuckles, ruffling satoru’s already doomed hair until the strands rebel further, flopping into his face like a snowy avalanche. “you two are inseparable—gonna tell this story at your wedding one day.”

satoru shrieks, staggering back, knocking a spoon to the floor with a clatter. “noooo! she tried to murder me!” he howls, clutching his head like it’s about to explode, hair flying as he thrashes.

his mom sips tea at the sink, sunhat tilted primly, lips smirking sharp. “if he even survives her chaos,” she murmurs, swirling her tea with a clink, “she’s a tornado.”

satoru wails louder, flopping against the fridge, face squished in despair. “my life’s ruined!” he whines, kicking the floor, sock drooping, as warm bread’s scent mixes with his sulky gloom.

satoru groans, long and dramatic, dragging his hands down his face until his cheeks puff out, his slippers scuffing as he spins to glare at the photo again—his drool-glossed lips parted, your muddy handprint on his shirt—and flops against the fridge with a thud.

“i’m never living this down,” he mutters, voice muffled as the fridge hums behind him, the scent of warm bread from the toaster oven curling around his misery while he kicks at the floor, his sock slipping further down his ankle.

outside, the hydrangeas bob in the breeze like they’re in on the joke, a silent audience to the disaster unfolding on either side of the fence. watering plants shouldn’t be this chaotic, but with satoru involved, everything turns into a summer storm—the air already thick with cicadas and the sharp, damp scent of upturned earth.  

your mom shoves the hose into your hands, coffee sloshing dangerously as she snaps ”don’t let him ruin my tulips” before vanishing inside, the screen door slamming behind her like a warning shot.

you trudge out in your slippers—ratty pink ones with a half-peeled bunny face—squinting against the sun as it beats down, smug and unrelenting, like it’s waiting for you to crack first.  

and there he is.  

satoru slinks across the yard like a villain caught mid-scheme, dragging his hose behind him, the green coil snagging on every patch of grass. his eyes—bright, sharp, unfairly blue—lock onto yours over the fence, mischief sparking in them like a lit fuse. his hair’s a mess of white strands flopping over his forehead, one fuzzy slipper kicking at the dirt as he straightens, grin already in place.  

“your dad’s a jerk for framing that,” you snap, twisting the nozzle with a jerk—only to spray your own shin, cold water seeping into your pajama pants. you scowl.  

“yours too, idiot,” he fires back, voice dripping with faux innocence as he angles his hose, misting your toes with deliberate precision. the droplets glitter like tiny knives in the sunlight. “now everyone’s gonna think we’re friends.”  

“jerk!” you yelp, and retaliate, your aim wild but effective—water arcs straight for his chest, drenching his stupid oversized shirt until it clings to him, fabric going sheer in patches.  

he barks a laugh, half-shielding himself with the hose like it’s a sword, free hand swiping wet hair from his eyes. “hey! watch it—”  

the air crackles with spray and tension, the sun casting long, warped shadows of you both across the grass. your mom’s voice slices through from the porch: “keep it civil!”—coffee cup in hand, frown sharp enough to cut.  

his mom’s shout follows, sunhat bobbing as she leans over the railing. “watch my sod!”  

“like i’d ruin her precious grass,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you redirect the hose toward your tulips, water pooling around them like a makeshift moat.  

“you would if you could aim,” satoru taunts, leaning forward, smirk widening as his hose dangles, dripping onto his already-wrecked slipper. 

“shut up,” you hiss, flicking another spray—just enough to make him hop back with a squelch.  

“oi!”  

you bite your lip to hide the grin, turning away before he sees it.  

later, through your window, the day fades into gold, and you catch him pacing his room, backlit by the dying light like some dramatic silhouette. he flips you off—long fingers splayed, wrist twisting with unnecessary flair—before yanking the blinds shut, hair flopping like a defeated flag.  

you press your nose to the glass, fogging it with your breath as you stick out your tongue. “loser.” 

outside, the cicadas drone on, relentless. across the gap, you can feel him glaring at his own window, probably plotting his next move—all sharp eyes and slouched shoulders, one slipper abandoned in defeat.  

you wouldn’t expect anything less.  

somehow, that’s the point. 

summer lingers, sticky and slow, your mornings a ritual of traded barbs across the fence—his smirk sharp, your eye-roll sharper. but the days stretch, and the battles blur, until the leaves hint at gold, and your dads' voices boom, calling you both to the yard like it’s time to rewrite the rules.

then—almost without warning—the air turns crisp. the hydrangeas fade from vibrant blue to dull brown, their petals curling like old paper, while the maple out back erupts in flames of red and orange. one morning you wake to find the grass glittering with frost, your breath fogging the window as you peer out at the changed world.

fall sweeps in with crisp air nipping at your cheeks, golden leaves crunching underfoot like nature’s tiny applause, and the dads declare it barbecue season with all the gusto of backyard kings.

they drag mismatched lawn chairs—wobbly legs and faded stripes—into your yard, smoke curling from the grill in lazy spirals, the scent of charred burgers doing a clumsy tango with your mom’s lavender bushes, their purple heads bobbing in the breeze.

you step outside, the grass cool against your slippers, and spot that cursed photo—yes, that one—propped dead center on the picnic table like a first-place ribbon from your playground disaster, its tacky gold frame glinting in the late afternoon sun.

your dad chuckles “look at our little warriors!”—his voice a rumble as he clinks a soda can with satoru’s dad, the aluminum clank sharp against the fire pit’s crackle. he leans back in his chair, flannel stretched tight over his belly, grinning like he’s just told the joke of the year.

satoru’s dad nods, sipping his own soda with a smirk. “bet they’ll run this neighborhood someday,” he says, his laugh booming over the snap of burning logs, the firelight dancing in his glasses.

your mom’s mouth thins into a tight line, a silent protest as she crosses her arms, muttering “over-fertilized nonsense” at the hydrangeas peeking over the fence like nosy neighbors. her eyes narrow, sharp as the lavender’s scent, while satoru’s mom hums louder—a smug little tune—pruning her bushes with a snip-snip of her shears, each cut a tiny victory carved into the air.

you and satoru are squeezed onto a rickety bench, paper plates wobbling precariously between your knees, the wood creaking like it’s begging for mercy.

he elbows you hard—his bony arm jabbing your side—making your soda fizz over the rim in a bubbly hiss, and you scrunch your nose, glaring at him through the corner of your eye.

“this is your fault,” you hiss, shoving him back with a quick nudge, ketchup smearing your fingers like war paint as your plate tilts dangerously.

“nah, yours framed it first,” he retorts, flicking a fry at your face—his long fingers quick and precise, his blue eyes glinting with mischief as it sails through the air.

you catch it mid-flight with a snap of your hand, popping it into your mouth with a defiant crunch. “good, hope they frame it in the hallway,” you snap, your pout deepening as you chew, glaring at his smug face.

“hope you get detention,” he mutters, leaning closer, his white hair flopping forward like a messy curtain, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

“hope you get ketchup in your eye,” you fire back, flicking your stained fingers at him—he flinches just a bit, his smirk faltering for a split second.

you shove him again, a quick push with your shoulder, and he shoves back, his slipper brushing your leg—your plate flips onto your lap with a sad plop, ketchup splattering your shorts like a crime scene.

“ugh, you’re the worst!” you yelp, smearing a dollop of ketchup onto his arm—his t-shirt sleeve now a canvas of red streaks—and you pout harder, lips trembling with mock fury.

“you’re welcome!” he laughs, snagging a fry from the mess on your lap with a quick swipe, popping it into his mouth with a grin that shows too many teeth, his cheeks dimpling.

“quit stealing my food!” you snap, swatting at his hand—your fingers barely graze him as he dodges, leaning back on the bench like he’s king of the chaos, his fuzzy blue slippers swinging lightly.

“it’s payment for sitting next to you,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, his t-shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of his stomach as he smirks, daring you to argue.

your mom’s glare from the porch could melt steel—she stands there, arms crossed, a shadow against the sunset—while his mom’s pruning pauses, her shears glinting as she shoots you both a look that screams behave, her sunhat tilting like a crown of judgment.

you huff, plotting to fling a pickle slice at his head, your fingers itching to grab one from your ruined plate. but the dusk sky turns orange behind your petty war, painting the yard in a warm glow, and you settle for glaring instead, your slippers scuffing the grass beneath the bench.

you slip away to the tire swing after dinner, the oak’s gnarled branches casting long shadows across the grass. the rope groans under your grip as you push off, bare ankles brushing cool blades of grass. the distant crackle of the fire pit fades behind you, replaced by the whisper of leaves overhead.

of course he follows.

pebbles skitter against your shins, each one a tiny declaration of war. you don’t have to look to know he’s smirking—can picture the way his slippers scuff against dirt with deliberate laziness. when you finally glance back, the dying light catches in his eyes, turning them electric. his hair glows like embers, white strands lit from within.

“quit it!” you snap, swatting at nothing as another stone finds its mark. your fingers tighten around the rope, knuckles going pale.

“make me,” he dares, and suddenly he’s there, long fingers wrapping around the rope. the world tilts violently as he spins you, your stomach lurching into your throat. his laughter cuts through the dizzying whirl—bright, sharp, dangerous.

“you’re gonna kill me!” the words tear free as colors blur into streaks, one slipper dangling precariously from your toes.

“maybe then you’ll stop hogging the swing!” the rope slips from his grasp, sending you wobbling to an unsteady stop. He rocks back on his heels, hands shoved deep in pockets, grin wide enough to split his face.

you’re moving before the world stops spinning—launching yourself at him with a wordless shout. you collide in a tangle of limbs, rolling through crushed grass and fallen leaves. the earth smells rich and damp beneath you, filling your lungs with each gasping breath.

from the porch, your dads’ voices carry across the yard, “there they go again!” their applause ringing through the twilight. firelight dances in their raised soda cans, painting their grinning faces in flickering gold.

your mom’s groan cuts through the celebration. “not again.”

satoru’s mother’s shriek follows, “not my sod!”

you come to rest with him pinned beneath you, knees digging into soft earth. “say sorry!” you demand, hair wild around your face. your breath comes in quick puffs, stirring the strands that have escaped into your eyes.

“never!” he gasps between laughter, his whole body shaking with it. one blue slipper hangs half-off his foot, swinging uselessly as he squirms. his eyes crinkle at the corners, bright with challenge even as he lies trapped in the grass.

later, when the fire’s burned low to embers and your dad shoves a half-melted popsicle between you with a gruff “sharing’s caring,” you could scream.

satoru takes the first bite—obnoxiously loud, teeth cracking through the ice—and his mouth goes instantly blue. “tastes better stolen,” he declares, tongue swiping at a drip sliding down his wrist. his hair’s a mess of white strands falling into his eyes, backlit by the dying firelight like some kind of haloed menace.

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, yanking the popsicle back. the cold burns your teeth when you bite down, but you force your scowl to stay put, even as your slippers swing uselessly from your toes.

“and you like it,” he sing-songs, leaning in so close you can smell the sugar on his breath. his tongue’s still stained, lolling out in a way that should be gross but just makes your fingers itch to shove him.

so you do.

one sharp push to his chest sends him sprawling into the grass with a soft oof. “dream on,” you snap, but he’s already laughing, arms splayed like he’s making snow angels in the dirt, gaze fixed on the purpling sky.

dusk settles around you both, thick with woodsmoke and the lazy chirp of crickets. your pout falters—just for a second—when the popsicle’s sweetness hits your tongue again. across the yard, the fire pit’s glow paints long shadows that dance over his grin when you sneak a glance, already scheming. always scheming.

by the time you drag yourself inside, the night’s gone quiet save for the memory of his laughter, clinging like burrs to your thoughts. the stars blink down, sealing your truce—or your war—in their cool, indifferent light.

the years blur like a popsicle melting under a summer sun, sticky and sweet, your battles with satoru piling up like crumpled homework in a backpack—each one louder, messier, sharper. 

sixth grade drags you into school’s squeaky halls, where lockers slam and whispers sting, and satoru’s there, always, his white hair flopping, his lanky frame shooting up overnight like a weed that won’t quit. he towers over you by spring, his sneakers scuffing the linoleum as he leans too close, smirking “shorty” while flicking your forehead—his voice cracks mid-taunt, a squeaky betrayal that makes you cackle, water spraying from your bottle like a victory fountain across his shirt. 

you chase him through the cafeteria, trays wobbling, your laughter bouncing off the walls as he trips over his own gangly legs, his blue eyes wide with mock outrage. your moms’ war rages on—hers with her smug wind chimes, yours with that chipped gnome glaring from the lawn—while you and Satoru hurl insults over the fence, hoses flailing, your shadows tangling longer now, stretching into dusk like a sloppy braid that won’t untie. 

but the walks home, your backpacks swinging, his slippers squishing, carry a rhythm neither of you name—a truce woven into scuffs and shoves, your glares softening when no one’s looking, the cicadas humming like they’re in on it.

middle school crashes in like a rogue wave, and satoru’s growth spurt turns him into a walking skyscraper, his arms too long, his grin too wide, his voice settling into a teasing lilt that makes your stomach flip in ways you won’t admit. 

you’re still elbowing him in the ribs, still dodging his paint-flecked flicks in art class, but now he’s stealing your fries at lunch, his long fingers snatching them with a lazy “tax for sitting here” while you kick his shin under the table. 

the block parties keep coming, your dads clinking beers and shouting “teamwork!” as you and satoru spill lemonade, tumble into grass, and wrestle over the last popsicle—his blue-stained tongue lolling out as he pins you, your shriek loud enough to scare the crickets. 

yet something’s shifting, soft as the breeze rustling new leaves—you catch him staring once, his ears pink, his smirk faltering when you shove him off the tire swing, and your own cheeks burn when he lingers too close, his shadow swallowing yours. through your glass window, he’s still tossing that rubber ball—thunk-thunk—his frame filling the frame now, his grin flashing across the gap like a sparkler you can’t look away from. 

you mutter “he’s so annoying” into your pillow, but your lips twitch, your glow-in-the-dark stars winking above, and the night hums with a truth neither of you will say: you’re magnets, doomed to clash, bound to stick, your war softening into something that glows brighter than the summer sun.

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[stardancerluv]

What the Emperor Wants

Part Five

Summary: Geta speaks with his brother. Reader speaks with a trusted servant.

Notes/Warnings: mentions of ownership, mentions of viewed gender (in Ancient Rome), discussion of intimacy, quote from the famous Virgil in is italics.

❤️s, comments, reblogs & feedback are welcome and appreciated!

Carcalla turned sharply, his eyes were slits as he looked at him. “How dare you?” He snarled.

Geta rose his eyebrows. “How dare I?”

“Yes. In front of what? Her? She is nothing.” Caracalla, cackled once again.

Geta closed what little distance was between them. “She is mine. She is my property. Eventually, I may or may not free her but still then, you dare lay another finger on her and you may learn to regret it.”

Caracalla’s eyes grew but then they narrowed again as a wet chuckle escaped his cruel mouth.

“Oh? Are you getting sentimental?” His lips curled. “Do you need to buy the ones you sleep with?”

“Silence your voice.”

Caracalla finally was silent.

He had better realize, he was in know mood for his games.

“I am having a dinner here tonight with some of those insufferable senators, you can stay or you can go out with your cohorts but don’t you dare cause another scene.”

“There of no concern for me brother. I will let you handle them.”

With a swish of his robes he left. Geta’s stomach churned. He had been so relaxed, so calm and now he saw red.

Going to one of the adjacent rooms, he went and sighed once in the cooler room. It helped to calm his thudding heart. Seeing one of the tellings of August going to Germania was laying on one of the tables from the last time he was there. He ran his fingers over the papyrus before unrolling more of it, letting his eyes drift over the words.

He’d call someone to read some poetry. He was in no mood for some of the long discussions those senators enjoyed having.

*******

Once back in your small room, you finally let the tears fall down your cheeks. You could never understand the sharp difference Geta and Caracalla. How they were borne from the same woman, always surprised you. You were reminded of the tales of Romulus and Remus, your mother spoke of. Though, you truly hoped that Geta and Caracalla would not end up like they did.

It was the one moment, you doubted that Geta could possibly lose in such an instance. May the mighty Jupiter keep him safe, you quietly prayed.

Carcalla was far more brutal, more blood thirsty then Geta from what you had heard and observed. You worried if things came to that, who would be the victor and what would happen to you. Now Geta protected you, but how long would that last. Was it possible that he’d discard you like an old, worn rug or put you down like a wounded animal that could not heal.

All these musings swirled around you as you sat there, still shaking after Caracalla pushed you across the atrium.

*******

Thy son in Italy shall wage vast war
and, quell its nations wild; his city-wall
and sacred laws shall be a mighty bond
about his gathered people.

“Yes! That is how is shall always be!” Geta held his goblet up high. “And my general, Marcus Acacius shall wield our finest steel and strike fear in all that oppose us!”

Cheers, sounds of agreement filled the room.

Relief had filled you as you watched the good humors and contentment in Geta, the earlier feelings of worry gone and long forgotten.

Marcus Acacius, bowed his head and smiled as he looked back up. “Thank you sire.”

You took, a sip from your own goblet and before once again resting your hands back into your lap. The poetry of the man known as Virgil and the savory food filled everyone. They were warmed and had a healthy flush of color in them. It was all this that brightened the room more then even the candles that were placed all around.

As you glanced up towards the inky heavens, even the stars were far more brilliant then recently. You were very pleased, to be sitting beside Geta through in all.

******

“Your presence had calmed and pleased Geta tonight. That may mean, he will come for you.” Aelia told you softly as she undid the ribbons that had held your hair in.

“Oh? Shall it hurt ?” A slice of worry cut through you.

“He is in good spirits. There may only be a temporary discomfort but if he wants to keep the good humors.”

Taking a comb, she began to slide it through your strands.

“He may make sure sure it is only for the initial moments. Just keep on breathing, do not bottle up your breaths.”

“Do we as women ever enjoy it or is that only a prospect of intimacy lay with the women who do these acts who charge ?”

You heard as Aelia inhaled. It made you happy pause and look at her. “What?”

The woman had pressed her lips together. “Thank you for acknowledging my woman hand. I am only seen as thus from my equals, you may or may not be aware but since our sire owns you personally, you are above me.”

You made a face. “No, I am not aware. I was just a girl who would serve and remain in the shadows.”

The woman gave a small smile. “Not anymore.”

She looked away before looking once again back at you.

“But yes, we can however that decision of that, is solely up to our sire. He may just want to expel his needs. I do not know.”

“Ok. Just like I had promised to him. I will follow his guidance.”

“That is truly the best.”

You felt as her fingers trembled as she continued to care for your hair.

******

The candles flickered as your door opened. You glanced over from where you sat.

It was one of Geta’s personal guard. “You are to come from me. Our sire, wishes you to come to his private quarters.

“Yes.” Was all you said.

Your footfalls and his echoed in the silent Domus. No other sounds could be heard. Such a contrast to the earlier festive and merriment. There had been liquid been been flowing into goblets and utensils and plants clanking on tables as food was ate and served.

******

The door creaked as he opened it. You walked in and flinched as it banged, behind you once it closed.

“There is the blossom of Rome, my blossom.”

Turning you watched as Geta strode in. A rich red, maroon of sorts were tied and flowed down from his waist. You had never seen his bare chested, his strength was very apparent. You had only seen that kind of strength reflected in the Gladiators that fought and battled in the arena.

“Evening, Geta. Thank you for your kind words.”

@honey-eyed-munson @amethyst-serenade @screaming-blue-bagel @missonlypost @kitkat80 @blondie324 @alyisdead @hellomadamebutterfly @heartsforjosephquinn

[grayintogreen]

WIP WEDNESDAY

HELLO HELLO. It's Roseverse week, so here's a bit from Chapter Five of OWDLIF, featuring Alastor stirring up shit and being genuinely himself.

-

He trailed a claw around the rim of his teacup. “I don’t think this is necessarily all that it seems.”

Carmilla winced, but her tongue was venomous when she drawled, “Is that the Great Radio Demon’s only take?”

Out of respect for Zestial, he would never dream of bringing Carmilla onto his radio show to see if she screamed as well as she danced, but every so often, the impulse rose like hot, wet black bile oozing up his throat. He drowned it with more tea. “Are you feeling all right, Carmilla? There was a lot of unfortunate information thrown out during that confrontation, after all.”

Another wince- ah yes, there you are. There truly was no limit to the pots he could stir tonight. He wished he’d actually had a hand in any of them, but being in an annoying situation didn’t mean he couldn’t dip his finger to sample someone else’s folly and see how it could benefit him. “Clara and Odette have been looking over reports since the meeting. There have been discrepancies in some of our shipments.” Her shoulders drew inwards and Zestial rose slowly to hover over her. “This was never supposed to happen. I have been careful, meticulous…“

“You can’t close Pandora’s Box once it’s been opened,” Alastor mused, only to brighten, a bit maliciously. “Congratulations, Carmilla, you’ve single-handedly changed the face of Hell as we know it! Good job!”

Carmilla slammed her hands down on the table- would have upended his teacup, too, if he hadn’t had the foresight to pick it up and raise it to his lips. She growled like a tiger in his face and he simply waited for her temper to cool. She wouldn’t strike him down any more than he would strike her down. He had respect for women so long as they respected him and she had respect for his uncanny ability to take out most of the trash he didn’t find amusing, even if sometimes she slipped into forgetting who she was talking to, simply because she was older.

“It is strange, isn’t it?” He said, coquettishly. “That Aamon had so much to say for himself and yet the only person who revealed anything of value was Prince Stolas’s little pet.”

“I would not call that imp a pet.” Carmilla pushed herself away from the table again. Zestial’s gaze flicked from her to Alastor, eyes widening in sympathy for her retreating back, then turning to a deep look of bemusement at the deeply amused deer demon. Alastor couldn’t be bothered by the discourse he was stirring up- to stick to the pot metaphor, they needed to be stirred, actually, and by someone who knew how to properly cook.

Once more at the window, Carmilla bowed her head. “How many families have I destroyed with my back turned, Zestial?”

“Thou cannot keep thine eyes open at all times. Thy daughters will find thy leak and make short work of the traitor.”

“But Alastor is right,” she sighed. “It will never be the way I intended it to be. It won’t simply go back to the way it was.”

That was his cue. Alastor rose to his feet, staff crackling into his hand so he didn’t have to turn at an angle to snatch it up physically. He strolled closer to the window, peering over Carmilla’s shoulders into the sickly green curtain of the acid rain, illuminated by flashes of bright red lightning.

“Don’t miss my point fretting over the dead, Carmilla. You can’t re-bury them yourself and call it penance. The only way to protect what we have is by getting blood on your face.” He added, almost sweetly, “Here’s a free tip, since you heard just as much as I did and you’re a bit too distracted to fully get the big picture. I would be looking towards Wrath for your answers.”

He pulled back, dancing away before she could rear back and grab him by the throat for daring to invade her space and offer advice like the proverbial devil on her shoulder. “Think about it.” He sing-songed, and headed for the door, pausing only to thank Zestial for the tea and the scintillating conversation.