#you were my main motivation for this project

[kyouka-supremacy]

Kafka Asagiri Tianwen Kadokawa online Q&A

Polished automatic translation of the online q&a by Kadokawa after Asagiri's panel in Shanghai. Asagiri answered 35 selected fan questions that were submitted online, divided in three categories of questions about Asagiri-sensei, about the plot and about roles. Answers were reported both in Chinese and Japanese; this is the translation from the original Japanese. Signaling any mistake I might have made is not only welcomed, but encouraged. Enjoy!

Earlier, we collected some questions about Mr. Kafka Asagiri and "Bungo Stray Dogs" on various platforms . We sorted and forwarded them, and Mr. Asagiri selected some of them and responded. Thanks again to everyone who enjoys Bungo Stray Dogs.

Questions about Asagiri-sensei

What interesting stories and motivations led to the selection of literary masters for the plot of Bungo Stray Dogs? Also, will there be more literary masters added in the future?

When creating a character based on a new literary figure, there are various criteria, but the one that left the most profound impression on me is Oda Sakunosuke. There's a story about how Dazai Osamu, Sakaguchi Ango, and Oda Sakunosuke all drank at the Ginza bar "Lupin" and took a photo, and from that photograph the character Odasaku was born. He died shortly after the photo was taken. This lead to the "Dark Era" story, with Odasaku as the protagonist. Of course, there are new characters I would like to introduce in the future. The first character that comes to my mind is the "queen of mystery", Agatha Christie.

Besides from supervising original scripts, novels, films, and stage plays, do you also contribute to the writing of spin-off projects for the animation team, such as April Fools? Are you involved in the writing of the upcoming mobile game Gakuen Bungo Stray Dogs?

In addition to the work I write myself, I also participate in other works as a supervisor. I contribute in the script for the anime April Fools Project and Gakuen Bungo Stray Dogs as a supervisor.

Why does Asagiri-sensei like "Dragon Quest" so much?

Half of the Japanese men of my generation are Dragon Quest fans. The other half are Final Fantasy fans. The reason I'm on the Dragon Quest side is because the first game I played was Dragon Quest. It's like a baby bird that thinks the first thing it sees is its parent.

Did Asagiri Kafka's thoughts while writing "Yukkuri Yomu and the Really Scary Cthulhu Mythos" (or "Minase Yomu and the Really Scary Cthulhu Mythos"¹) have any influence on the creation of "Bungo Stray Dogs"?

I love the Cthulhu mythos so much that when I first featured Lovecraft in Bungo Stray Dogs, I think I made him a little too overpowered.

How do Asagiri and Harukawa collaborate on the production? Does Asagiri write all the lines for Harukawa every month and Harukawa design the scenes based on those lines?

At first, I would write the script and Harukawa-sensei would create the storyboard and manuscript, but recently I've been drawing the storyboard myself and handing it over to them.

Has Asagiri-sensei decided on the ending of Bungo Stray Dogs?

We have a rough outline in mind, but there are many different paths to get there, and many parts are still in the planning stages.

After finishing the main storyline of this series, will you consider creating some side stories?

If you all request it, I'm always willing to write something new.

Does Asagiri-sensei have any other favorite manga or mangaka?

There are so many, I can't choose… Some examples include Hirohiko Araki of "JoJo's Bizarre Adventure," Yoshihiro Togashi of "Hunter x Hunter," and Sumito Owara of "Keep Your Hands Off Eizouken!"

The avatar frame in the manga is a cube bug. What does it mean?

It's inspired by the poisonous insect² that appears in Kafka's "Metamorphosis." It's just a little joke.

When creating Bungo Stray Dogs, do you first identify the writers corresponding to the characters, and then design their special abilities and personalities; or do you first come up with the character traits you want to portray, and then match them with suitable writers? During the writing process, when you develop unique "catchphrases" or iconic gestures for each character (such as Dazai Osamu's bandages and Nakajima Atsushi's little gestures of inferiority complex), are these details planned in advance, or do you suddenly think of them while writing?

Most of the time, I start with the literary figures. First, I decide who to include, then I get a sense of the character's outline from the author's anecdotes, image, and works, and finally I complete the character by adding a little bit of the role required for the story (such as villain or advisor to the protagonist). I usually think about the character's quirks and detailed characteristics when I'm first creating them.

Questions about the plot

In the Fifteen novel³, Verlaine was waiting for the storm to come in the basement. What exactly is this storm? Will Verlaine have a chance to appear again?

What "storm" he was waiting for, and what it specifically was, is something only Verlaine knows. However, the scene in which Verlaine will return has already been decided. Please look forward to it.

I'd like to ask when Dazai Osamu and Chuuya will appear, and what exactly happened in Meursault during this time?

It has not yet been decided when the two will reappear, but if your support is strong, they may appear sooner. I hope you can imagine what happens in Meursault from the scenes and lines in the manga.

Bungo Stray Dogs seems to have reached the end of the Decay of Angel arc. This arc, as well as previous ones, have mentioned Europe. Will the next arc be the home of the Order of the Clock Tower? If so, will the plot of Storm Bringer be brought to the screen first as a prelude to the plot?

Although I can't reveal too much about the next chapter, it will feature Agatha Christie, a stalwart of the Order of the Clock Tower. As for stories linked to Storm Bringer... Maybe there will be some.

When Dostoyevsky said to Gogol, "You tried to kill me // I'd like to return the favour", was this sentence said simply out of revenge, or was it said as someone who understood Gogol and hoped that he would continue to pursue freedom and continue the game of prison break duel?

On the surface, it sounds like simple retaliation, and it seems certain that Dostoevsky did not consider Gogol a friend, but even the author themself cannot fully understand Dostoevsky's deep thinking, so nothing can be said for sure.

I'd like to see Oda return the painting to the wealthy adopted son after joining the Port Mafia. Will Dazai return the painting with Oda?

It is not yet clear whether that story will be written, and perhaps they will return it together, but I doubt Odasaku would want to involve Dazai in anything like personal atonement. The silence⁴ in Odasaku's heart is surrounded by walls so high that even Dazai would find it difficult to penetrate.

How did Dazai know from the beginning that Chuuya was a vampire when they were in Meursault? Is there some special way they communicate with each other? Or do they just understand each other through eye contact?

As he states in the work, unlike Dostoevsky, Dazai had confidence that "his allies will definitely do this." It may also have been simply a matter of trust that Chuuya wouldn't be defeated so easily by a vampire.

Regarding Beast, Chuuya uses the phrase "Kyoka also agreed to the proposal of revenge" to encourage Atsushi to take revenge on the Detective Agency. So, what were Kyoka's feelings when she agreed to avenge Dazai? What kind of feelings does Kyoka have about Dazai's death?

That's a difficult question. Unlike Kyoka in the main story, Kyoka in the Beast world lives by accepting the dark side of herself, which is killing. For her, killing to protect the people and places she cares about may be a natural inclination of her heart.

In the incident of becoming a vampire, Chuuya was pretending to be a vampire under the order of the boss, but Higuchi Ichiyo really became a vampire. So after she returned to the Port Mafia, how did the Port Mafia deal with and control the vampire bites?

Too many people were infected within the Mafia, and tragedy struck. I guess the mafia members who were able to return to their normal lives did not receive a severe punishment.

Questions about roles

Will there ever be a day when the stories surrounding the founding of the Detective Agency, the president's youth before he became an assassin, Tanizaki's background before he joined the Agency, how Kunikida became a member, etc., will be filled in?

Each story is fascinating and I would love to depict them all, but as the author, what interests me the most is Tanizaki's past and how he came to join the company.

I'd like to know how Mori Ogai picked up Dazai Osamu, and why Dostoyevsky wanted a world without superpowers. Would you consider publishing two separate books? Thank you.

There may be an opportunity to write about the meeting between Mori Ogai and Dazai Osamu, but this story of Dostoevsky's past "creating a world without abilities" may be a little tough. That's because at this point it is unclear whether he really wants to "create a world without abilities."

What was Dazai Osamu like before he was taken by Mori Ogai at the age of 14? Was he an orphan or something else?

That's a very acute observation. If that is the case, Dazai's action of saving the orphan Atsushi may have been a way of returning the favour for what had been done to him.

I would like to ask how Yosano felt when she found out that Dazai was a leader of the Port Mafia. Does Yosano know about the complicated relationship between Dazai and Mori?

At least as of volume 1, Yosano probably didn't know about Dazai's past. Judging from the way the story unfolds, Yosano's feelings are directed towards Ogai alone rather than the mafia as a whole, and her feelings seem to be more terror and dread rather than anger.

Chuuya seems to be constantly working and traveling. Is the workload very intense for the members of the Port Mafia? Do they get statutory holidays and annual leave?

Many of the mafia members in Bungo Stray Dogs live their daily lives like company employees, but they are still the mafia, so many of them work as freelancers, handing over part of their income to the organization. Therefore, they don't have days off (ouch).

I want to know what was the most frightening moment for Dazai. The most profound thing he has experienced that he does not want it to happen again.

Humans' greatest fears are often rooted in the threat to their own life, in other words, their own death. However, Dazai has no resistance to death itself, so he rarely feels fear. What he does feel is a strong sense of loss, like when he lost Odasaku. He probably never wants to repeat that experience again.

I'm curious about what kind of "meaning of life" Akutagawa seeks in Dazai. After defeating the group in Season 2, he's already heard his teacher acknowledge that he's become stronger, and others, including Chuuya and Atsushi, have told him that Dazai-sensei has recognized him. So why does he continue to seek Dazai's "recognition" even after all this?

For Akutagawa, Dazai's approval was not something that could be achieved by receiving a simple compliment once. For Akutagawa the meaning of life was not something superficial like "I want Dazai to praise me," but rather its essence lay somewhere much deeper.

What reasons/events caused Gogol to become what he is now, a person who pursues freedom?

It wasn't that some specific event caused him to seek freedom; rather, after much philosophizing and experimenting, he came to the realization that the freedom that ordinary people seek is not true freedom.

What kind of relationship do you think Dazai has with the Agency members? Friends or something like family?

They are probably closer to what we would call friends or family, but he is Dazai after all, so even I, the author, don't really know.

How did Dostoyevsky discover his special ability? Did he discover it when he was killed for the first time?

There is no doubt that the trigger was the first time he was killed, but when it happened and who killed him remains a mystery.

What kind of animal does Asagiri-sensei think Dazai looks like?

That's a very difficult question. I think it could be likened to a free-spirited cat, an intelligent computer, or many other things, but since humans are the only living creatures in the world that decide to kill themselves, I think it would have to be a human.

What do you think of Kyoka-chan after Dazai's remark that "so what's a mere thirty-five people" brought out her inner struggles? For example, does she find him unpredictable and terrifying?

She must have realized just how insignificant her own feeling of having "killed 35 people" was. I think her anguish was eased by the boundless vastness of the darkness that is Dazai, which surpasses her own (and she probably understands that this is Dazai's way of encouraging her).

Why was Chuuya's true identity based on Arahabaki, the name of an indigenous god from Aomori? Is it related to the real-life author Dazai Osamu, who was also from Aomori?

Arahabaki is a god whose identity is extremely difficult to pin down, and only vague legends have been passed down. The name was given by the military and researchers in that field, so it does not seem to have much to do with Dazai, who was from Aomori.

For the president, are there any important distinctions among members? (Just like how a kindergarten teacher has their favourite children.) If so, what criteria are used to rank them?

There is no difference in the importance the president places on his employees. They are all part of a community and embody the essential principles of the detective agency. However, for Ranpo, who he has taken care of and walked alongside up to this point, he probably feels a different emotion.

What role does Natsume-sensei play in the story? What is Dazai's attitude towards Natsume-sensei's tripartite framework?

He is the ultimate "observer" and the strongest cat, who can see through any event. He doesn't interfere with most events, and because of that he never fails. I'm sure he will continue to appear in my works. Dazai probably doesn't feel a particularly strong sense of mission towards the tripartite framework, but since Dazai is the person who connects the night of the Port Mafia with the dusk of the Detective Agency, he's likely to be a very important element for Natsume.

Why can Oguri Mushitaro still see Yokomizo? Is it a psychological effect or is Yokomizo turned into his ghost, like Kyogoku Natsuhiko in Bungo Stray Dogs Gaiden?

The reason he sees Yokomizo is purely psychological. The countless interactions they had over the years have given him a solid image of Yokomizo in his mind. In other words, it's friendship.

Can I ask what Asagiri-sensei mentioned in the postscript before, what did Chuuya think after Dazai left the Port Mafia?

Since Chuuya didn't find Dazai working as a detective in Yokohama, he must have thought that Dazai was dead. Since Dazai was always trying to kill himself, he probably didn't find it suspicious.

¹ Asagiri's works prior to bsd, respectively a video series and its novel adaptation. ² The expression “ungeheueres Ungeziefer” as used in Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis is commonly translated in Japanese as 「毒虫」, lit. “poisonous insect”. However, the literal translation of “ungeheueres Ungeziefer” is closer to “monstrous vermin”. Despite the insect-like features (many legs, hard back, curved belly, antennae), in The Metamorphosis it is never specified that the creature Gregor Samsa turns in is an insect, nor ever implied for it to be a poisonous one. For more on the translation of the term “ungeheueres Ungeziefer”, please refer to Simms, E., & Andrews, K. (2019). The Ungeziefer and the Insect: the Social Connotations in the English Translation of The Metamorphosis. ³ “之前在15岁小说中魏尔伦在地下室等待风暴降临” Not entirely sure why it says Fifteen here, as far as I understand this is a question about Stormbringer's ending. I may be getting this wrong. ⁴ I translated 「静けさ」 as “silence” because it sounded more poetic, but it's more about the concepts of quietness / serenity / calm.

[moominmanoneandonly]

I DID IT! I FUCKING DID IT!!

The con is on saturday. Please survive till then

[autisticsupervillain]

"Bisexual Vriska isn't supported by the text because all her relationships with men weren't satisfying."

John Egbert and Nicholas Cage, motherfucker. Do they mean nothing to you?

[end-orfino]

It just all feels more pointless now. I think i lost some of the spirit. I dont know if its temporary or how to get it back

[kyri45]

A final letter

Hello Everyone!

The queue is paused and everything is scheduled, which means we are ready for the finale!

I know that, in the end, this was just a silly side project for me, with everything else going on in my life. But for this occasion, I wanted to drop some words here and hope they make sense.

I started watching LMK only because a friend told me there was a "Sonadow-coded" ship. I ended up consuming the entire thing in one sitting on July 10th, 2024. At the time, I was still recovering from a bike accident that had left me with a broken right forearm—unable to draw for a little over a month. (I did try drawing with my left finger, but it wasn't exactly fun.)

Not only that, but it was summer, and I couldn’t enjoy the season or practice my main sport, windsurfing. To say I was feeling the blues is an understatement. I remember being in physical pain just from not being able to draw my sillies. But then, watching LMK did something to my brain chemistry that my little undiagnosed autistic self had never experienced before. It hit so hard that I’ve been physically unable to rewatch the show SINCE that very first day. (And y’all still call me the CEO of this fandom. Bro, I just work here.)

A lot of you have asked what inspired me to start this comic or to draw LMK fan art in the first place. While my usual answer is, "I saw Shadowpeach and thought MK could be their lovechild, given his appearance," the moment that actually started it all was THIS ONE—

(I HAD TO REWATCH THIS SCENE TO MAKE THE GIF AND IT HURT ME ON A MOLECOLAR LEVEL)

I have… a thing for characters who discover their entire identity was something else all along. It consumes my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment. I live for identity crises, for characters who thought they knew who they were, only to be forced to rediscover themselves, their existence, and their place in the world. If you give me a story where a character has to go through that, I will like it—regardless of how bad the rest of the story is.

Pair that with loads of trauma, daddy issues, the pressure of a legacy, and world-ending stakes, and congrats! Now I’m obsessed, and I will not stop thinking about it for the rest of my days!

At first, my brain just wanted to release some of that energy with a small, four-panel post about the monkeys discovering that MK was technically their kid.

That was supposed to be it.

But since I never seem to learn my lesson, it didn’t stay like that. Because once I started drawing, I just... continued.

And

I

never

stopped.

A lot of you have also asked how I found the motivation to draw so much, to never take a break. Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it one last time: I am my number one fan. No matter how much you laughed, cried, screamed, or went feral over this story, I did all of that and more. Because I got to think about the chapters months before they released. I got to daydream about them. I got to watch them come to life—first through sketches, then line art, then dialogue. And finally, I got to witness your reactions and see the incredible creations you made, inspired by my story.

So yeah, in a way, it was almost an addiction. A good addiction. Because, for the first time in my life, I actually understood what loving art means.

I’ve been drawing for ten years, working professionally for five, but I never loved art before. I just liked it because I happened to be good at it. But creating this comic made me understand why artists say, "Oh, I’ve loved drawing since I was a child!" This was the first time I allowed myself to create purely for my own enjoyment. Something I hadn’t had the privilege to do for a long time.

Other than making me feel even more single than I already was, this story somehow also helped me a little with my own family relationships. So yeah. Crazy how the gay monkeys changed my life.

Of course, I never could have predicted how much traction my AU would gain. Man, y’all were really starving to latch onto something this silly. /j

But yeah—thank you. Thank you for sticking around until the end, for having the patience and trust to follow the story even when I made you rage with angst and cliffhangers. (The statement in my bio still stands: I am not responsible for any physical or emotional damage my art has caused.)

I’m absolutely shit at thanking people, or at writing, or at talking in general, honestly. I’m the furthest thing from being good with words, so I hope the final chapter will be enough to show you my gratitude.

Through this story, I met so many wonderful, talented people. I watched as fans across different platforms found each other through memes and fanart of the AU. I saw artists start their own AUs inspired by mine, growing their own communities. I witnessed an explosion of creativity and collaboration through our takeovers. And I laughed along with you all.

And yeah—at its core, this story has always been about love. Whether it’s platonic, sibling, parental, romantic, or whatever the hell Mac and Wukong had going on for millennia.

At its heart, it’s a story about family.

And maybe, in the end… the real family wasn’t just the one in the comic, but the one we’ve found together along the way. 💛

See you all at the finale.

Love you all, freaks /affectionate

Jade

[jaylaxies]

TEASER: CALL ME WHEN YOU HATE ME LESS

PAIRING: jake x fem!reader (ft. jaehyun and heeseung)

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, eventual fluff, porn with plot, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, fingering, choking, blowjob, using panties as a gag, spitting, edging, squirting, mentions of fighting, blood, usage of nicknames, slowburn if you squint, emotional trauma, lmk if i missed anything in the main fic!

TOTAL WORD COUNT: 18.3k words (estimated).

TEASER WORD COUNT: 1654 words.

SYNOPSIS: Jake Sim was a walking academic hazard—hot, broody, and failing just about everything that wasn’t football. Enter you, his new tutor: organized, overachieving, and absolutely not here for his attitude or his annoyingly perfect lips. But between late-night study sessions, petty insults, and one very inconvenient almost-kiss, things start spiraling—fast. He’s supposed to be you project. You are supposed to hate him. Instead, you both are one sarcastic comment away from either a breakdown or a makeout—and honestly, it could go either way.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni (the full fic will include smut).

A/N: hihi, angels! if you have seen this before then yes, it is a revamp of my jeno fic as requested by a few anons! i hope you guys will enjoy it! send an ask or comment to be added! <33 (make sure to have your age visible on your blog! blank blogs will not be added to the tl).

Chapter 1: Raised in Shadows, Told to Shine. 

Comparison. 

The core of all insecurities. The onset of overthinking. The path to self loathing. 

That’s what comparison does to a person—drive them to the edge of insanity in hopes of turning into something; into someone the others will look up to, compare themselves to. 

It was a bad thing per se, but it was motivation enough for Jake to work harder in order to leave the country, to get away from his family. 

The reason? His mother ever so conveniently happened to have fallen in love with a rich guy, someone who never knew what struggle meant, and Jake was just four back then, he didn’t bother changing his surname. It didn’t take much time for him to settle into the lifestyle, however, no matter how much he could have prepared to face his step-brother, he simply couldn’t bother looking him in the eye. 

Why? Because he was known to be the epitome of perfection. Jung Jaehyun was the son every parent wanted, the student every teacher was fond of, the doctor every nurse wanted to work with. 

The sweet dimple on his cheek was a great asset in melting the hearts of everyone in his proximity or afar. 

Jake on the other hand, wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t considered to be enough, especially when he got decent grades throughout his school life, he wasn’t a bother, kind to those who were around them, but it changed. 

It changed when he got daily reminders of how he wasn’t even close to how amazing and successful his step brother was. 

That’s when things started looking down for Jake. He stopped caring about the grades, he wasn’t sure why he was supposed to put up a I’m so good, so smart act in front of others when there was no reason for him to do that. 

Others didn’t bother doing the same for him. 

Rather, he tried to work upon the only thing he was passionate about, the only thing that mattered to him—football. 

Despite winning several trophies for playing the sport, his parents labelled it to be useless, which broke the last fragment of his heart, shattering it to the point of no return. 

Which would explain his current demeanor—moody, permanent scowl on his perfectly sculpted face and no care for the others around him. His sole focus being football, which is also the reason behind his current dilemma. 

“Being an excellent player in the sports team does not guarantee you your scholarship, Mr. Sim,” Jake’s teacher incharge spoke up, taking off her specs right after reviewing his annual grade report, “you’re failing three out of five modules, and if you don’t start getting back on track soon, then I’m afraid you won’t be able to play in the team anymore.” 

Fuck. 

Jake had been neglecting his studies, he admits, yet he never thought that he’d reach this point. It’s not that he wasn’t smart, he simply had no motivation to go on with his studies. His parents could easily pay the university to keep him around, however, he wanted nothing from them, which also explains why he got himself a scholarship in the first place. 

“I’m sorry if I’m late.” Jake’s eyes snapped wide open, turning back to see his step brother entering the teacher’s cabin. 

“Why are you here?” Jake asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching but Jaehyun only smiled. 

Jake’s professor was equally stunned, probably even more with her jaw wide open at the appearance of such a handsome young man. 

“I called him in since your parents were busy,” his professor said, handling Jake a letter, “go and find your tutor in the council room, she’ll be helping you with the upliftment of your grades, Mr. Lee, and now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to fill in your brother with your current situation,” she said the last part awfully sweetly as Jaehyun sat down in one of the vacant chairs, smiling at her kind tone. 

Jake scoffed, the demeanor change around Jaehyun went crazy and he wasn’t a fan of it, especially when he was called in to complain about his mistakes. 

He simply wanted to leave the university and never come back. 

He waited, taking deep breaths before punching the wall, not being able to contain his anger. The impact did hurt, yet he paid no heed to it, the blood dripping as he walked towards the council room to get over with the day. 

The name written on the sheet wasn’t unfamiliar to him, rather it only wearied the already infuriated boy as he knocked on the door of the student council room, which was empty except for you sitting there, working on a few papers which appeared to be the newsletter for the month. 

“Come in,” you allowed, not looking up as Jake made his way inside the room, observing the surroundings where he’s never been before. 

Then he looked your way, taking in your appearance. You looked cozy in your university varsity jacket, your specs sitting on your nose as you buried yourself in reading whatever it was that you were reading. He couldn’t deny you looked pretty in a way that’s comforting to eyes. 

With no words exchanged, he pushed the letter towards you, which finally made you look up at the source of disturbance, your eyebrows raising slightly as you most certainly did not expect the star football player to visit you in the council room, which he’s never been to before. 

He simply stood there, hands shoved into his pockets while still looking around, and you took a second to grab the letter, skimming over to read and understand that the letter was given by Mrs. Kim, the teacher in charge of your department, requesting you to take up the few teaching sessions you had applied for, Jake being the student you’ll have to teach for the same. 

You clicked your tongue, folding the letter exactly as it was before pushing it his way, your arms folding across your chest as you finally spoke up, “I reject. I don’t wish to teach you.”

His eyes were quick to snap towards you, finally staring right into your own eyes, irritation clear as he pushed his tongue on his inner cheek, eyebrow raised. 

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss your professor’s feet, given that you’re in student council? And here I thought you’d be a good girl.” Jake rasped, resting his arms on your table, leaning down to your level. 

You chuckled, expecting the exact response from him, “this is exactly why I don’t want to waste my time on you—you athletes don’t wish to study, you just require a passing grade, for which, I don’t have time to spare.” 

“What the fuck do you mean waste your time?” 

“Sim Jake, you’ve got more money with you than your bank account can handle, so I’m sure losing your scholarship won’t do you much harm,” you said with a sickening smile, “you’ve got no interest in studying, your attendance record states that oh so proudly.” 

“You don’t know shit about me,” Jake seethed out, messy hair strands falling over his eyes. 

“I know everything I need to know about you. Now excuse me, unlike you, I actually have work to do,” you said, passing him a tight lipped smile, not letting the proximity faze you. 

“You—” 

Jake’s sentence was cut short with two sharp knocks on the slightly ajar door, a head peeking in, successfully garnering your attention. You could feel your mood doing one eighty with the sudden intrusion of this stranger—whom you didn’t wish to be a stranger around anymore, your eyes softening, lips parting as you stared at him in awe. 

Meanwhile, if Jake thought that the day was done being a bitch to him, then he was wrong because the level of irritation that bubbled up in him the moment he saw the change in your expressions. 

“Sorry to interrupt, may I get in?” Jaehyun asked, smiling his usual dimpled smile, which had you swooning in record time. 

You could practically see veins of frustration popping out on Jake’s neck, “no. Your work is done, you should head back home,” he groaned, but Jaehyun only looked you way, continuing to get in, looking your way. 

“I’m Jaehyun, Jake’s elder brother. I can’t thank you enough for agreeing on giving him tutoring lessons, especially with how busy you must be with council duties,” he spoke up, shaking your hand, which was smaller in his warm, big hands. 

Jake scoffed, “she’s not—”

“Of course, Jaehyun! It’s my pleasure to help him out, and it’ll only help me better with my extracurricular credits! It’s no problem,” you nodded, a gentle smile on your face as your eyes practically twinkled with excitement, taking in the beauty that Jaehyun beheld. 

It was ridiculous. 

It was absurd how just two sentences; paired with a sweet smile from his brother, were enough for you to change your decision, in the span of two seconds at that. 

He tightened the hold he had on the strap of his black bag, “no fucking need. I’ll find another tutor,” Jake deadpanned, walking out of the room, not paying attention to Jaehyun who called out his name in the background. 

He wouldn’t let you use him to get to his brother. 

With that thought, he decided to detour and make his way to the gym, trying to blow off steam by practicing punching, each one getting progressively stronger as his mind replayed the difference in your behaviour when it came to him and his brother. 

It didn’t bother him that his knuckles were bruising, he knew he needed this extrinsic pain to get rid of the obvious hurt he felt each day. 

And he couldn’t understand why he felt so affected by your actions, especially when it was the first time you had met. 

Jealousy was indeed a bitch. 

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© jaylaxies | tumblr

[catboybiologist]

So.

Re: tumblr bans of transfemmes.

Let's ignore PhotoMatt for a moment. Manbaby tech CEO doubling down on a stupid decision and making himself look like more of an ass doing so is not a new phenomena.

Tumblr has consistently said, in both public statements and leaked internal communication, that they're essentially running a skeleton crew.

They keep saying that they don't have the resources to moderate, manually review posts, have any kind of appeal process, or anything. So, as people have widely received communications about, they seemed to have automated a significant portion of the moderation to operate solely on the quantity of reports (probably with a basic filter, eg quantity of reports regarding a certain post, within a certain timeframe) to automatically ban or shadowban accounts.

And so, they wipe their hands, both to the users, the public, and their own consciousness, and go about their automated operations.

All of this is likely true. Tumblr, at this point, is essentially abandonware internally, a kind of weird vanity project/dumpster ground for server infrastructure for Automattic. Likely, they don't want the bad press of "shutting down" fully. Or maybe the trickle of revenue they get here just barely exceeds operating costs, so why not keep it around?

Whatever is the case, the bans are a result of an automated process working in the background. I'm giving them some benefit of the doubt here, of course, we can't know anything for certain- but it seems like the individual bans are not based on any specific, manual action.

And that doesn't fucking excuse anything.

Because at some point, multiple people sat down at tumblr, and decided how to cut costs.

And they decided that the bare minimum of report abuse prevention was one of the first things on the chopping block.

Before the boops. Before GUI reconfigures.

They decided to cut something that is necessary to manage online communities.

They decided to cut something that ensures any targeted group will have any kind of community online.

And then, after all of that, the only manual intervention is doubling down on the shitty decisions that the automated systems make, and plucking reasons out of their ass for why they were the right decisions all along.

It's pure silicon valley brain. Blame the computer often and always. Use it to shield the active decisions you made when designing the computer that way. Treat it as a fact of life as opposed to something they actively made decisions for.

Is tumblr staff hitting the banhammer on each transfemme one by one? No.

Is tumblr staff deliberately crafting a system that allows TERFs and other conservative bigots to get rid of the "undesirables" for them? Yup. But they sure as hell are trying to not say the quiet part out loud. If they can always point the finger somewhere else, to the advertisers, to the automated systems, to the TERFs, then they can always have juuusssttt enough plausible deniability.

But being the "queerest place on the internet" requires concious acknowledgement that queer people will be targets of harassment, and you will have to protect against that.

Side note, this is why I do try to keep my blog at least somewhat SFW. Its one of the main reasons why I choose not to reblog all of the posts I'm tagged in- if the post is overtly NSFW, I've probably seen it, appreciated it, and consciously decided my level of interaction with it mostly based on how "tumblr friendly" it is. Is that bowing down to them? A little. It's also my choice. I value the community I have here. The pushes that y'all have given me gave me the strength to transition, and honestly gives me a lot of motivation to research HRT biology as much as I can, among many other things.

Yeah, I post pictures that are clearly meant to be found attractive in ways that are generally not socially acceptable , but never actual NSFW. I would like to think that I'm pretty safe from bans, but hey. Who knows. I don't want to lose my follower base, and the community around it.

And yeah, I'm gonna annoyingly remind you of the other places to find me, make sure to check my pin. If you don't know where to go, just find me on reddit and go from there, I'll post about it if anything happens.

[olomaya]

Private Clinic - Optometry (+ updates)

So this is the optometry portion of my Private Clinic mod (eventual series). I had hoped to get this out much earlier but just lost interest/motivation but I managed to eke through with hours of 2024 to spare. 😅 Procrastination and I are long-time friends so I'm pretty proud of myself -- the old me would have just dumped this project and moved on to some new shiny. That's not to say that I didn't but at least this time I came back to it!

What this does:

Adds the ability for licensed doctors (see private clinic for details) to run an optometry clinic and treat patients.

Creates astigmatism and a couple of other eye diseases for Sims

Adds update to the clinic system allowing you to set office hours as a doctor, or make appointments as patients, track billing, income and expenses, among other new features

A few updates to the Private Clinic Psychiatry module such as more buffs added that can be treated and being able to use the main controller's payment system.

There is A LOT of information so please read through the documentation (there's two, a new one for the PC core features and one just for optometry) before using and bug reporting. This is a scheduled post (I'm currently under a table somewhere eating grapes) so please don't DM me with any bug reports. Instead, please log it here. If you see the same issue you're experiencing already logged, then just add your name or number to the "I have it too" column.

DOWNLOADS:

Private Clinic main files - Please sort the files list by date so you can see the 5 files which have been updated/added for you to download. You NEED the MAIN file, MaladyManager and prescription objects to run any of the modules. The rest depends on which features you want.

Private Clinic Optometry Module

Private Clinic Psychiatry Module update

Credits and thanks to all the wonderful cc creators whose objects were made of use in this mod:

@aroundthesims (of course), the exam chair and eye chart from this amazing hospital set by Hekate999, Lavoieri, Moonskin93 for the contact lenses, Syboulette for the actual contact lenses, and the true to their name simcredible designs for the eyeglass rack.

Thanks to @simsdeogloria for helping me test this mod.

If you have any issues, please do log them. And if you can't use the log, please let me know!

Happy New Year!

[whentherewasatime-if]

They took everything. Your identity, your sanity and they tried to take your will. Mezorath does more than just break you. On planet Cantor, freedom isn't handed down, it's taken back—but what if there’s a bigger threat outside of the walls that tried to sculpt you? WTWAT takes place in a cyber/dystopian setting.

❗️WTWAT contains mature and potentially triggering content, including: mental and physical abuse, abusive power dynamics, human experimentation, violence, murder, references to different kinds of assault and much more. Reader discretion is strongly advised. ❗️

[DEMO]

🩸 𝙈𝙊𝙎𝘼𝙄𝘾 🩸

That’s what they call you. A bundle of whatsoever. That is all you present. Made of earth, glass and a piece of tile. Shattered on the floor between these white walls. White walls that they put you in. You’re not a mosaic. You’re barely debris.

Play as a customizable main character. Choose your own motives.

(Ro)

✦ Black Orchid - Seyn (M/F) [17y/o]

“I’ll find you, like you found me.” IpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromis-

“Eyes are the windows to the soul, it’s just that my windows were shattered a long time ago.”

✦ The Handler - Dr. Sinclair (F)

“You’re mine to manage. Don’t mistake that for care.” Care. What a strange bunch of letters.

A leash dressed as mercy. Mercy for the dead.

✦ Clay - Rolyn (M) [16y/o]

“-No” “ Well, I thi-..Wait you could talk this whole time!?”

Silence was a form of freedom. The only thing you could hold onto that wasn’t stripped from you.

✦ Bolt (M) - Silo (F) [18y/o]

“My sister is what keeps me sane, there is no ‘me’ without her.”

Mirrors are fickle in a way. What once was your reflection could be brought down to a mere shard in your side.

—————

-DISCLAIMER-

This is my very first attempt at creating an interactive fiction story. I’m learning as I go so there will be mistakes, rough edges—but I’m pouring a lot of attention into this.

constructive feedback is always welcome, this is an indie project and a learning space.

[writersdrug]

Training for Two

Chapter 7. Motivated, Sir!

Masterlist

Summary: You struggle to keep up with your freelance work - Soap has the wonderful idea of bringing you and Riley to base.

Warnings: cursing, yeah.

Sure enough, Simon had requested your services about three days after you’d run into him in the café.

He had sent you an email the Tuesday following your run in. It was the same as before – short and to the point. leaving thursday at 0900. riley will need her meds at 1300. i’ll be on base for a few days for trainig, won’t be far. call if you need anything.

You showed up no later than twelve-thirty, your backpack hanging off one shoulder and a fresh bag of peanut-butter-bacon cookies in your free hand. You cooed and smiled at Riley as she all but attacked you as you entered through the front door. She seemed to have grown to miss you, which had your heart swelling with pride. People pleaser and a puppy pleaser, it seems.

After a dose of her medicine and a much-needed walk through one of the nearby parks, you crashed on Simon’s couch to do some freelance work. With your feet kicked up onto the coffee table (politely, with your socks on and your shoes by the front door), you tapped and clicked away at your laptop, fiddling with the edge of your sweatshirt as you concentrated.

You may have bitten off more than you could chew, as much as you hated to admit it. Prancing your skill online – boosting social media posts that boasted about your expertise in logo design and marketing had brought in more customers than you anticipated. Recognition was exciting, and you had taken on four clients at once; something you were currently and mentally kicking yourself for. The burnout had settled in quickly after you finished the first portfolio of logo samples, and you wanted nothing more than to take a nap with Riley as your blanket.

You sighed, sinking further into the couch cushions and running your hands over your face. You were dangerously low on motivation.

A few moments later, you were holding your phone, listening to each ring as you chewed on the edge of your sleeve. A bad habit, one that your mother had tried to break you of in your teenage years, but you stubbornly kept to it.

Soon, the phone picked up with a click. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi Tyler…” you said with a relived exhale. “You busy?”

“Eh-“ he grunted; you heard the sound of tinkering in the background, and the voice of the secretary at his main office. “I’ve got a moment. Everything alright?”

You sighed. “Yeah… nothing’s wrong, I’m just stuck.”

“How so?”

“Well” – you sat upright, crossing your feet under you and putting your laptop to the side – “I’ve finished the one project, and now I-“

“Which project?” Tyler interjected. You heard beeping, followed by one of his coworkers asking for a wire stripper.

“The logo design for that new attorney’s office off of main and thirty-fourth.”

“Oh! Yeah yeah, I remember.”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah, I finished that one. I have three other projects now, and one is due by the-“

“Three?! I thought you just had the one!”

A sigh escaped your lips. “I did, and then more clients flooded in, I just got ahead of myself-“

“Sweetheart- here, Max, hold this for a second- you got too much on your plate. You’ve already been house-sitting for that one guy, Sam-“

“-Simon.”

“Right, yeah. But, doll, maybe you need a break. Can you tell him that you need him to find someone else for now?”

You faltered. “You’re saying quit the house-sitting gig?”

“Not quit, I know Riley likes you – but maybe just have him get another guy to finish the week.”

“I can’t do that!” you said, a bit taken aback that Tyler of all people, Mr. Work-Till-You-Drop himself, would suggest that you let go of a project. “He can’t exactly find a different sitter right now, he’s not going to be home.”

“Alright, alright- what about dropping one of the logo gigs?”

“That would look bad for my business.”

“Well, babe-“ you heard someone call for him in the background of the call. “-give me a sec, Ron, it’s important- I don’t know what to tell you. You bit off more than you can chew, it sounds like.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach; why am I bothering him? He’s working, and this isn’t something he can exactly help with. “Yeah- I’m sorry. I’m just- I dunno. I need something to motivate me.”

“Don’t be sorry, sweetheart.” Tyler sighed; you could hear the pinch in his brow. “I’m not trying to be short with you, I… eh, I guess this wasn’t the best time, hmm? Tell you what: when Sam comes back-“

“Simon.” You said with a chuckle.

“Shit, sorry- when Simon gets back, and you’re back home, let’s have a day in, yeah? You pick a movie, I’ll get the takeaway, and have a look at your portfolio. Sound good?”

You smiled, the knot in your stomach easing up a bit. “Yeah, sounds like paradise.”

“Good.” Tyler said, and you could hear the smile in his tone. “I’ll make sure it is. Let your mind rest a bit, alright? And give Riley a kiss for me.”

“What, I don’t get one?”

“Yours are automatic!”

“Leavin’ me for a dog, are you?”

“I wouldn’t leave you for Aphrodite.”

You smiled. “I love you. But go back to work! I don’t want Ron to hate me.”

Tyler chuckled, the sound sending butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Alright. Love you too.”

You ended the call, tossing the phone onto the cushion next to you. Why did I call him? He was at work – I knew that. He doesn’t even know anything about design. I could have texted him – or I could have just left him alone. Why would I even bother him with this? How could he have helped?

You groaned, closing your laptop and moving it to the coffee table. Looking across the room, you saw that Riley was no longer in her bed, her blanket partially spilling onto the floor next to it. She whined; you turned your head to find her sitting at the door. She met your gaze, licking her lips and tapping her feet anxiously on the floor.

“Do you need to go out?”

She whined again, impatient.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you huffed, standing on your feet and stretching your limbs. She trotted over to you with a groan, then back to the door.

You followed her there, slipping on your shoes. You reached into the closet and grabbed her leash, leaning down to clip it onto her collar. She grunted and jerked her head back, taking a few steps away from you.

Confusion settled on your face. “C’mon girl, don’tcha want to go for a walk?”

She let out a few voofs, raising a paw and stomping it indignantly. You tried again, reaching out with the clip of the leash, but she darted away once more. She stood by the closet and barked shrilly, still staring at you.

This lasted for a few more minutes; you’d stand there, taking every woo and wuff that she threw at you. After a few moments of the following silence, you’d take a step towards her, holding up the leash with a cocked brow, and she’d huff and turn in a circle.

“I’m sorry I don’t speak awoowoo.” You said in frustration, putting your hands on your hips. “spreek je Nederlands?”

She huffed dramatically, lying down and resting her nose on her front paws. You sighed yourself and headed back towards the couch – she yipped, whining at you through her nose.

“What?” you asked, throwing your hands up. “I don’t know what you want!”

She barked back at you. Helpful.

You groaned. This wasn’t getting you anywhere. You went back to the couch and grabbed your phone, flopping stomach-first onto the cushions. Riley trotted over to your side and whined, sitting politely on the rug.

With a few clicks, Simon’s contact appeared on your phone; well, it was Riley’s face, her snout taking up most of the camera and her ears tucked back against her head as she had sniffed the lens in the moment. You chewed your lip. It’s not an emergency… but maybe he forgot to tell me about part of her routine? She hadn’t acted this upset the last time you were here… and she had certainly never indicated no when you got ready to take her outside.

You pressed the call button, putting your phone on speaker. Not half a ring had passed before Simon answered.

“Wha’s wrong? ‘S Riley ok?”

“N- hi, Simon – yeah, Riley’s ok. She-“

“Are you ok?”

You chuckled. “Yes, I’m fine. This isn’t an emergency.”

You heard him sigh, and quickly tried to deescalate the situation. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you-“

“Don’t apologize,” he said, “ya did nothin’ wrong. I know you wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.”

You laughed again. “Well, I don’t really know if it is or isn’t – I’m trying to take Riley out for a stroll, and she won’t go,”

“No?”

“No. I try to put her leash on and she runs away. She’s yapping at me though, like she’s got something to say.” You looked at her, reaching a finger to boop her nose.

You heard the faint sound of gunshots in the background of the call. You had half a mind to ask if he was in battle- war- whatever they called it- at the moment, until you remembered that he said he was training this week. “Ya sure she needs t’ go out?”

“She’s acting like she does.” You said, rolling onto your side.

He grunted. “Pain flarin’ up?”

“She’s not limping.”

“Biscuit?”

“She’s had her first daily.”

He sighed. “Beats me. I’d think she was-“

“Oi! LT!”

You listened closely, suddenly drawn to the commotion beyond the speaker. “Simon?”

“One sec, luv-“ he said quickly. “I’m busy, Soap-“

“Cap needs ye back oan th’ feld. One o’ the Jimmies hud o’ nice fall.”

“Fuckin’ wot?”

“One o’ the rookies collapsed.” Soap was now closer to the phone; close enough that you could hear he was out of breath. “Cap wants ye out there.”

“Tell him I’m busy.”

“Tell ‘im yer feckin’ self, ye dry piece o’ shite-“

Riley suddenly barked, making you jolt. She stood with her paws on the edge of the couch and staring at the phone.

“Awe, tha’ mah girl?” Soap said from the other line. “Mah Bonnie, yea? She miss me?”

“’M on the fuckin’ phone, Johnny.”

“Ah know, I’m talkin’ to the pup.”

You thought for a moment, as Simon and Soap bickered in the background. Maybe, Riley misses Simon’s coworkers? She used to work with them… judging on her reaction – panting and ears perked up as she listened to the conversation – you’d guess you were right.

“Hey, uh… Simon?”

‘- hm?” Simon halted his bickering with Soap at the sound of your voice.

“Does she maybe want to see your- team? Or Soap, at the very least?”

“Aye, she does.” Soap chimed in, making Riley whine. “Ya hear tha’? She misses ‘er ol’ uncle Johnny.”

“Bugger off, mate.” Simon grumbled.

You suddenly felt like you made a mistake even voicing your thoughts. “Sorry if it’s not a good idea, I just heard how she reacted to Soap’s voice, and, y’know – how she used to work with you all…” you chuckled at yourself. “Now that I think about it, I probably couldn’t even get on base, could I?”

“It would-“

“None o’ that keech!” Soap said, cutting off Simon for the umpteenth time. “Ghost, ye can tell the gate guards you’ll be expectin’ er. Or cap, he’ll vouch for ‘er. Want tae see my girl.”

You felt a bout of excitement roll through your veins. “I think that would be great! And I’d get to meet you all finally. I should know who Simon travels the world with, right?”

There was a moment of silence over the phone, save for the distant gunfire and the cadence of orders being called out. You wondered if you had said something wrong; ‘travel the world…’ it’s deployment, not a vacation. Why did I say that?

“Don’t see why not.” Simon finally said, and you sighed quietly.

“You sure?” you confirmed.

“It’s jus’ what the pup needs.” Soap said. “Probably misses ‘er other friends, too-“

“Jus’ head towards the naval base, n’ I’ll send you the address to the gate.” Simon said with a huff. “Tell them you’re here for Ghost.”

“Ghost…” you repeated.

“’S my callsign. Oh, and, uh- put ‘er harness on. She wears that to base, probably why she won’t take jus’ the leash.”

You smiled, heart fluttering a bit at the information. “Great! I’ll see you soon!”

“Drive safe.”

You bit your lip as the call ended, that warmth still bubbling within your chest. A thousand, fleeting questions circled within your head as you rolled onto your side, clutching your phone to your chest. Does he call everyone luv? What gave him the callsign “Ghost”? I wonder what his team is like… I wonder what Johnny- Soap?- is like. I wonder if they’re all as attractive as-

Riley barked; you yelped, body tensing as you were torn from your thoughts. She pawed at you, still standing on her two hind legs and yowling lowly in your direction.

“Alright, alright- let’s go!” you rolled off the couch, equally as excited as she was. She happily obliged to sit next to you when you grabbed the harness from the closet, slipping it over her head and latching the leash to its back. She then eagerly trotted to the door, tapping her feet anxiously and whining.

You stuffed your feet into your shoes (you hoped that a sweatshirt, leggings, and rain boots would be appropriate for bringing your client’s dog on a military base). You stepped out into the overcast day, locking Simon’s door behind you and shoving the key into your bra; excitement boiled underneath your veins as the two of you headed over to your car, right as your phone buzzed with Simon’s text.

Simon watched as your contact photo faded from the screen. His eyes hardened as he turned to Johnny – the bloke had a cheeky grin on his face, staring right back at his lieutenant. Simon wanted to grab him by his mohawk and swing him into the wall like a discus.

“Wha’?” Soap said innocently, shoulders shrugging with irreproachability. “I miss ‘er.”

“Ya don’t have nothin’ to miss, you wanker.” Simon snarled, stuffing his phone into his back pocket. “You’ve never met ‘er.”

“The dog, ya git.” Soap sighed. His eyes narrowed in amused suspicion. “Yer awfully protective o’ the lass, don’t ye think?”

Oh, Simon could have launched the Scot into next week. He knew what he was doing, the bastard. He knew Johnny was either going to try and pair you with himself, sweep you off your feet and charm you with his stupid blue eyes and bright smile – or, he was going to pitch you with his lieutenant. Simon didn’t like not knowing how to prepare himself: to either cockblock you and Johnny, or to refuse any advances Johnny made to him on your behalf.

Soap huffed, not intimidated in the slightest by Ghost’s dissociative, angry stare. “Calm doon, LT.” he said, shoving his shoulder with two, sturdy fingers. “She’s got a lad, aye? I jus’ want tae see Riley. I’ll leave your precious house-sitter alone.” He held a hand up and crossed a finger over his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never in Boy Scouts.” Ghost grumbled.

“Does it make a difference?” Soap said with a quirked eyebrow.

Simon sighed, leaving Soap on the training field to find Price. He had to let him know you’d be coming to base, or you’d be stopped at the gate and turned away – or worse, dragged off by the military police. It would be a surefire way of keeping you away from Soap, but it was also rather unhospitable. Riley wouldn’t be too impressed, either.

Still, Johnny had a point. Why was he fretting? You weren’t his.

“Jus’ keep an eye on the recruits. Be back in a moment.” He said over his shoulder.

“Aye, LT.” Soap responded: Simon could hear the grin on his face.

Smug bastard.

Next ->

Taglist (trying this again): @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @jisungswiftie @sweet-tooth4you @kennyis-aloser @hyyyxr @lahniu @dory-98 @naradae @cum-tea-and-towels @boystepper @definitelynotaclown @your-wifes-boyfriend @ghostslittlegf @bossva @poppingaround @katzykat @mileyraes @chocolate-noodles @jupiternighties @sadlonelybagel @rorysbrainrot @reevesdriver @kingshitonly @ghost4love @lilyofhoon

[carawenfiction]

So...remember how I said in that update post how I might MAYBE do a TSS rewrite and post it for free?

"Maybe" quickly turned into "definitely happening". Instead of making it outside of COG, however, the finished product that's already published will be updated with the rewritten files. This means that if you've already purchased TSS through COG, you'll have the rewritten version available. That's how I originally intended to go about things with the old rewrite and is the better option here to avoid potential complications.

I've been in contact with COG and they've let me know that I'd be able to do what I have in mind even if this results in a different wordcount and very different scenes/plot points and a different kind of main story.

I realize that this announcement is probably pretty jarring since my last post stated that I wasn't sure about doing a rewrite but that I wanted to if I had enough time. After making that post, I started creating an outline for the rewrite mostly for fun...and one thing kind of led to another. I want you all to know that I wouldn't be making this post at all if I wasn't sure about this. It's because I've already begun the process and feel incredibly motivated and inspired that I can do this that I'm making this announcement.

This rewrite is not going to be like my old attempt at a rewrite, though. It's an entirely new one that I feel much more confident about.

So far I've written the outline for the rewrite and started reworking already existing scenes from chapter 1 as well some new ones. I'm happy to say that the difference between how the rewrite process felt years ago compared to now is like night and day. It seems like those years I've taken away from TSS were very healthy and helpful in giving me some distance and letting me figure out what kind of story I really want to tell.

My plan is to rewrite book 1 and then make 1 full continuation after that. Instead of a trilogy, it looks like this version of TSS will be 2 volumes, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it'll be shorter than originally intended. I think it's more doable for me to rewrite the first book (starting from scratch while also using some already written scenes, since I've been assured I'm allowed to do so) and then make 1 complete continuation of it rather than trying to fill stuff out over 3 different entries, and I think it'll serve the plot and story as a whole to do it that way.

That being said, I fully understand that some - or most of you - might have trouble trusting my word after me failing to do the rewrite I wanted to years ago and not delivering a second book. That's completely fair. This time I'm not rushing things and I don't feel any pressure to do this. It's not something I do out of dislike for the original, but rather out of love for what it could be and what I could make it into, if that makes sense. I'm taking as much time as I need to and am not putting any pressure on myself to do this.

My other project takes priority right now so I can't dedicate all of my time to the rewrite, but I'm working on it when I have time over or get stuck. It's actually pretty nice to alternate between two different stories that have different settings and has helped a bit in avoiding writer's block.

Here are some differences between TSS and the TSS rewrite (most of the changes I made to the old rewrite no longer apply):

The rewrite will be told in second-person point of view ("you" instead of "I"). The reason for this is that when I first started TSS I was really unused to the second-person POV, but after having spent years in the IF space it's now the other way around. It'll make writing much easier for for me, and I hope it won't feel too jarring for people who are used to the first person POV.

The Shadowman and Jealene (now "J") will both be genderselectable just like the main cast. The Shadowman will be genderselectable later on, though - it might sound strange but I think it makes sense when you have more context. J plays a bigger role than they did in the original and their personality is a bit different in this version.

Some side characters (such as most of the hideout) will be cut. This is because they felt really underdeveloped to me in the full game and didn't serve much of a purpose. Instead I'm focusing more on the main cast + a few key characters to ensure the story plot stays focused and you get more time to develop bonds of various kinds with the main cast instead.

The relationship system will look a bit different. Instead of bars showing a percentage of approval, I'll write a description of each character and what they think of you. The descriptions will shift when the character starts viewing you differently, whether that's due to rivalry, romance or friendship. My hope is that this will allow for a more nuanced relationship system/descriptions. I'll also adjust the options a bit to try and make choices more nuanced and am thinking of including the option of having ex. a heart next to a romantic choice for those who want to know for sure what they're getting into. The different responses (such as shy, flirty etc.) will stay but some of it will probably be reworked. Essentially what I want to do is allow for a wider range of MCs and how the characters respond to the MC.

The MC is going to have more agency in certain ways. I've included something plot-relevant to the main character that can potentially change the dynamic between them and the group a bit, but it all depends on how you play it.

The tone might be somewhat different. Not entirely, of course, but there are some parts of the old TSS where the characters sound a bit younger than they are supposed to be, where tension and seriousness has been sacrificed in favor of humor and where some of the interactions aren't the way I would prefer for them to be. I've gotten older since writing TSS (gasp) and my tastes have changed, as has my writing to some degree. In order to do a rewrite I'd have to write in a way that's most enjoyable for me and that I feel best fits the story I want to tell. That's not to say that there isn't going to be silliness etc., but I'm adjusting the tone somewhat and putting more time and effort into descriptions and the writing overall.

The narrative will be different, even though the overall story itself will mostly stay the same. I'm keeping a lot of elements and also aim to introduce new ones that I believe will strengthen the story and make it a more enjoyable game overall.

I think those are the main differences I can give away right now without spoiling anything. I'll make sure to post updates when I've got more to share! Once the demo for the rewrite is finished, I'll post it on the forums and link it in an intro post on here.

Thank you all for sticking by me throughout the years. I hope you'll find some comfort in returning to this world, as well as new things to ponder and excite you in this new upcoming version of the story <3

The Azuridia and Quaiel chibis are done by the amazing madebysalfi

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director's Obsession - Phase 6

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 4,442

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , Phase 10 , Phase 11 , Phase 12 , -

Headcanons

A/N: Are you ready to see husband!Krennic? 👀

Phase 6 : Strategic Bond

You had not planned on kissing him.

It simply happened, like breath after drowning, like lightning without warning. When the projection dimmed and the ashes of Cinderis vanished into streams of scattered data, the silence between you cracked open. And you stepped into it.

Your lips found his with all the force of everything left unsaid. Heat, hunger, anger, gratitude. It burned in that kiss like the aftermath of war. He met you there, one hand firm on your back, the other brushing your hip, anchoring you. For a moment, there was only him. The taste of him. The pressure of his mouth moving with yours. His breath caught just as yours did.

Then he stopped.

His hands did not leave your body, but his lips pulled away, leaving a thread of heat that barely cooled in the space between you. His forehead pressed against yours, breath uneven. He was not pushing you away. He was choosing restraint.

"Not now," he said softly. "Not here. Not on the Death Star. Not on Scarif."

You could hardly breathe. His nearness still flooded your senses. But something about the way he said it. Measured, gentle, unflinchingly clear, it made you understand. There were lines he refused to cross, not because he could not, but because for once, he wanted it to mean something.

"When it happens," he continued, voice barely louder than breath, "it will be somewhere that does not carry the memory of destruction. Somewhere that belongs only to us."

You stayed still, chest heaving from more than just desire. Neither of you moved. You both stood in the silence that followed, hearts thudding in your ribs, waiting for the storm inside to settle.

Then, at last, his voice broke through.

"I am sorry."

You blinked, surprised by the words. "For what?"

His eyes fluttered shut, as if holding in something heavier than anger. "I should never have left you alone."

The admission was quiet but heavy, and it landed somewhere deep in your chest. You reached for him without thinking, letting your fingers brush the side of his neck, grounding both of you.

"No one could have predicted what happened," you said gently. "You didn’t fail me."

You swallowed hard. "You saved me."

The words hung in the air between you, not a compliment, not even a thank-you. They were a truth. And he did not refute them.

"And," you added, more breath than sound, "you blew up Cinderis. You killed Joric. For me."

A dry chuckle escaped him, just short of bitter. "Did I?"

He tilted his head slightly, a faint shadow of amusement touching his mouth. "Well. I suppose I did. What can I say? When I retaliate, I do not hold back."

You gave him a look. But you knew he was not trying to be clever. Not this time.

His face shifted again, something darker settling beneath his expression. Something heavier.

"You survived being taken. You were hunted, beaten, dragged through hell. Rebel or not, you were the victim. And I do not allow anyone to harm what is mine."

The heat that rose in your chest was not just emotion. It was something deeper. Something more dangerous.

Then his next words dropped like cold steel.

"We have to meet the Emperor."

You went still. "Is it because of me...?"

He adjusted his cuffs with mechanical precision, the gesture as much armor as habit. "Because I destroyed a planet. And while I am prepared to take responsibility for it, the motivation behind it was personal. And personal motivation, in front of the Emperor, requires explanation."

Your breath caught. "I am not ready."

He took one step closer. Close enough to fill your vision, close enough that you could feel the subtle warmth radiating from his skin.

"You are," he said simply. "You survived what should have broken you. You spoke and made the Empire listen. You made me listen."

You looked up at him, feeling the knot of fear in your stomach loosen just slightly.

"And you will not face him alone," he added. "Not now. Not ever."

You nodded slowly. The fear had not vanished. But it no longer defined you.

Then his eyes drifted to the bruise along your jaw.

"Do you want to hide your scars?"

You lifted your hand and touched the fading cut near your mouth. You remembered how you got it. Remembered the dirt, the pain, the taste of blood. You lowered your hand and straightened your spine.

"No. I want him to see them. I want him to see what came out of Cinderis. What rot looks like when it breathes. I survived it. And I am still standing. That is the story he needs to hear."

Krennic stared at you for a moment, his mouth tilting slightly into something that was not quite a smile, but not far from it either.

"Good move," he said, voice low. "Let them see what survival looks like."

And when he said it, he looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing in the galaxy.

******

The throne room was colder than anything you’d ever known.

Not the kind of cold that came from temperature, but something far deeper. The kind that made your bones feel small, your voice too loud even when silent. You stood beside Director Krennic beneath the vaulted ceiling, with its jagged black columns like teeth closing in on the weak.

And seated in the center of it all, surrounded by darkness, was the Emperor.

Governor Tarkin stood slightly to the side, arms folded, gaze like a blade honed by spite. No one spoke until the Emperor’s voice, dry and rasping, cracked the air.

"You destroyed a planet," he said slowly, looking past you to Krennic. "Without sanction. Without directive."

Krennic’s shoulders were square. His voice was firm, but not defiant. “It was a rapid decision, my lord. Circumstances required swift resolution. The planet housed a rebel faction. One that kidnapped an Imperial agent vital to the Death Star’s development. And not just her. There were other prisoners from Imperial Citizen and stolen weapons from us.”

Palpatine’s yellowed eyes narrowed. "You took initiative. Some might call that recklessness."

Tarkin stepped forward slightly. “If I may, my lord… perhaps now is the time for a change of stewardship. Director Krennic’s contributions are noted. However, a military project of this magnitude—”

Krennic cut in, voice clipped. “Without me, there would be no Death Star, Governor. You’d still be reviewing memos about structural flaws while I was laying the foundation.”

“You’ll find I’ve never needed fanfare to leave a mark,” Tarkin replied dryly.

“Gentlemen,” Palpatine snapped. The silence that followed was immediate.

Then, the Emperor turned to you. His gaze settled on your face, unreadable. “You,” he said at last. “Speak.”

You stepped forward. Your bruises still ached. Your lip had only just stopped bleeding. But your voice did not tremble.

“My lord,” you began. “I am honored to stand in your presence. I was taken from within ISB headquarters. No warning. No offer of negotiation. The rebels did not strike at military targets. They struck civilians. I was just one of many.”

Palpatine’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“And the planet they dragged me to was Cinderis. Was not a center of power. It was rot in disguise. I was born there. I know it better than any of your officers. That place was never a resource. It was starvation, disease, desperation.” You paused, letting your voice harden. “When I was a child, I envied insects. Because they could chew leaves to stay alive.”

A silence rolled across the chamber like thunder. Especially for Krennic, who, for the first time, truly understood the weight of your struggles growing up.

You went on. “Joric Stone wasn’t a rebel. He was a butcher. A supporter of Gerrera’s ideology with none of Gerrera’s discipline. He starved the people he claimed to free. He tortured children to keep them afraid. And he would’ve built a new rebellion with their bones. The Empire didn’t lose an asset when Cinderis burned. It removed a virus.”

“Strong words,” Tarkin muttered.

You ignored him. “Director Krennic acted. Not for himself. For the Empire. For me. And for the children who were still trapped there with no future.”

You inhaled slowly, then delivered the final blow.

“The Empire now has the chance to turn those children into something more. Let them see who saved them. Let them grow up knowing stability came not from rebels, but from order. That is how loyalty is built. Not with promises. But with proof.”

The Emperor leaned back in his throne, fingers steepled. “You believe we can turn rebels into loyal citizens.”

You held his gaze. “You did it with me.”

Palpatine looked at Krennic. His voice lowered.

“This asset of yours. She’s clever.”

“She’s effective,” Krennic said quietly.

The Emperor looked back at you.  "I will have you in my service, girl. You will report directly to me. I expect no objections."

You swallowed, throat tight. "Of course, my lord."

"Good. You may go." The Emperor stood, robes sweeping across the floor like a shadow that consumed everything in its path. He gave a final glance to Tarkin. “You may continue to advise on the Death Star. But its future belongs to those who earned it.”

Tarkin’s face soured, but he said nothing. He glanced at Krennic, gaze cutting as ever. "Enjoy your brief hour of glory, Director. The Death Star is a tool. But politics is eternal."

He swept past, silent as a blade.

And then it was just you and Krennic.

You didn’t breathe until he turned toward you and placed both gloved hands gently on your shoulders. You almost collapsed under the sudden release of pressure.

“Did that just happen?” you whispered.

Krennic nodded once, his voice quieter than you expected. “Yes. It did.”

********

The speeder slid to a halt outside the ISB headquarters. The lights above the entrance hummed softly, cold and impersonal, but you barely noticed them. Krennic stepped out first, his gloved hand briefly brushing yours as he helped you down. His touch lingered just a second too long, as if reluctant to let go.

Waiting by the entrance were three familiar figures. Mia and her daughters. You exhaled, your shoulders sagging with relief as you hurried toward them.

The older girl sprinted forward first, arms wide, and the younger followed, her little legs barely keeping up. You dropped to your knees and wrapped them in your arms, the scent of their hair and the warmth of their little bodies grounding you.

“You’re safe,” you whispered, brushing their cheeks, holding back tears. “Thank the stars, you’re safe.”

You rose and turned to Mia, pulling her into a tight hug. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t strong. But it was real.

Once you stepped back, your voice cracked as you asked, “No one followed you? No one tried to hurt you?”

Mia exchanged a look between you and Krennic, then back to you, lips pursed. “We did feel someone watching us,” she said, lowering her voice. “But before I could panic, these soldiers just… appeared. Next thing I know, we’ve got a whole squad guarding the apartment.”

She tilted her head, her expression sharpening as she looked you over. “Dear stars,” she breathed, her eyes trailing the bruises on your face. “How long were you there?”

“Not long,” Krennic answered smoothly.

Mia turned, squinting at him. Her arms folded across her chest as she closed the distance between them with calculated annoyance.

“You know,” she said slowly, “I really hate you for stealing my friend.”

Krennic’s mouth quirked at the edge. “Borrowed,” he replied dryly.

“And I hate that you ruined her date,” Mia went on, not missing a beat.

“She looked miserable,” he said. “I improved her night.”

Mia raised an eyebrow. “I was this close to using my father-in-law and my husband’s influence as senators to get you fired.”

“I welcome the challenge,” Krennic said with a smirk. “Though I doubt they would enjoy crossing me.”

She stared at him for a beat, then sighed, sticking out her hand. “But… you blew up a planet and killed the bastard who murdered our parents. So… you’re alright in my book.”

He took her hand with the same practiced ease he used at political summits. “We’ll get along just fine.”

It was then one of Mia’s daughters, the younger one, stepped forward. Her wide eyes scanned his crisp white uniform with wonder. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched the edge of his cape.

“Is this made of snow?” she asked, voice small.

Krennic blinked, clearly uncertain what to do. His lips parted like he might ask for help, then closed again.

“…No,” he said awkwardly. “It is… wool.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand and stepped in. “Alright, girls. Come on, let’s make tea.”

The girls let out happy squeals and ran to you, throwing their arms around your waist. You bent to kiss the top of their heads, your heart full and aching all at once.

Behind you, Krennic watched.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But the image carved itself into his memory. The way your eyes softened, how easily the children folded into your arms, how natural it looked. How right.

For a brief second, he saw it. A room. A future. You. Him. And children that looked at him not with awe or fear, but with laughter. And then, as fast as it came, he crushed it. Buried it deep.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, voice low.

You turned. “You’re not staying?”

It shocked even you that you asked. A few months ago, the very idea of Orson Krennic in your home was laughable. But now, after everything…

He shook his head. “You need rest.”

You could tell from the pause that he wanted to stay. That he hated the thought of walking away. But he had no real home. No permanent quarters. His life was a station made of steel and classified projects. Perhaps it was time he started looking for something… else.

Mia called out, “Alright, kids, say goodbye to Uncle.”

“Bye, Uncle White Cape!” the girls chimed, waving enthusiastically.

Krennic blinked, visibly caught off guard. His arm twitched like he might return the wave. Instead, he nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and left.

And you watched him go, the corner of your mouth curling into something dangerously close to fondness.

******

A few days later, cleared by a physician sent directly by Director Krennic himself, you stepped back into the ISB headquarters.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You moved through the pristine corridors with measured steps, your boots clicking softly against the polished floor. As you walked, you felt it immediately. The shift. The weight. Eyes darted toward you, but few dared to meet your gaze directly. Agents you had passed every day now paused mid-step to give you room. Others offered stiff nods of recognition or murmured subdued greetings under their breath.

It was as though your presence had changed. No longer just another asset in the ranks—you were something more now. Something sharper. Untouchable.

You rounded the final corner toward the command offices when a familiar voice halted your thoughts.

"Agent."

You turned.

Major Partagaz stood with his usual clipped composure, but there was something new in his eyes. Approval. Relief, maybe. A subtle softening of the lines that usually never cracked.

"Major," you said formally, standing straighter.

He walked toward you, hands behind his back. "We were informed you were recovering. The medical report is… thorough." He eyed you briefly, the way a superior did when confirming that his soldier was still intact. Then he leaned closer, just slightly. "It seems Director Krennic was rather insistent about your care. Called in every favor available."

You blinked at the weight of that comment. He did not elaborate. He did not need to.

"Regardless," Partagaz continued, straightening, "you are back. And just in time. Congratulations, Agent. You are promoted."

You frowned slightly. "Promoted, sir?"

"Effective immediately, you are to serve as Chief Imperial Communications Strategist. Your clearance has been updated. You will work directly under the Emperor’s communications wing, across all major sectors."

Your breath caught.

"You will be summoned at any hour. You are to be prepared at all times. No delays, no hesitation. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Major."

There was a pause. Then, quietly, you asked, "And my work with Director Krennic?"

Partagaz's lips twitched, but the smirk never fully surfaced. "His project is complete. Unless he begins a new one, which… knowing him, I would wager he will. When that happens, I expect he will contact you. Personally."

You flushed, eyes lowering for a beat. "Understood, sir."

He nodded once. "Dismissed, Strategist."

As you stepped away, you allowed yourself a quiet breath. Strategist. A far cry from the desk you once sat behind. You moved through the corridor, trying to ignore the tight coil in your stomach.

You had just turned a corner when you spotted her. Dedra Meero, leaning against a side pillar, her face pale, drawn, but intact. Her eyes caught yours, and a faint smirk formed at the edge of her lips.

"So, let me get this straight," she said. "While I was being interrogated and treated like a traitor, you went to a gala and wore a dress sharp enough to gut a man?"

You slowed, guilt pressing into your ribs. "Dedra, I did not know they had pulled you in. I would have—"

She waved you off, her expression tired but not bitter. "Not your fault. I poked around where I was not cleared to poke. I should have known better."

You stepped closer. "Are you alright?"

"Mostly." She glanced down at the badge pinned to your chest. Her gaze lingered. "Well, look at you."

You followed her eyes. Your new rank.

"Congratulations. Strategist now, are we?"

"Thank you. Though it feels… strange."

"It should. You earned it. They do not give out titles like that for nothing."

You hesitated, then asked, "Anything else happen while I was gone?"

Dedra folded her arms and leaned a little harder against the wall. "Well, I was in a cell. So I missed a lot. But the biggest buzz was that Jung got demoted."

You blinked. "What?"

She nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Something about misconduct. Though no one is saying it outright. It is all whispers. I would be careful around him if I were you."

You nodded slowly, absorbing the information, though your thoughts were already elsewhere. Somewhere far away. Somewhere with a white cape. A promise. A storm. And Jung is inside the storm. 

*****

A few days ago.

The silence in the chamber was not peace. It was pressure. It wrapped around Lonni Jung’s throat like a tightening collar. The room was sterile, humming faintly with surveillance tech, but there were no blinking lights, no distractions. Just the sound of his own heartbeat, and the slow hiss of the door sliding open behind him.

Director Orson Krennic entered without hurry, the air around him altering like gravity had shifted. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone flattened the atmosphere.

There was no rage on his face. No dramatic threats or barking fury. Just stillness. Lethal, calculating, and somehow more terrifying than shouting. His cape moved in smooth folds behind him as he walked, circling Jung like a raptor drawing a perfect line around its prey.

He finally spoke, voice as soft as ice cracking on glass.

"What’s your name?"

Jung stiffened. "Y—Jung, sir. Agent Jung."

Krennic stopped walking. Turned.

"I didn’t ask for your rank. I asked for your name."

Jung’s mouth went dry. He swallowed, then answered quietly. "Lonni Jung."

A flicker passed through Krennic’s expression. Something close to a smile, but colder. A baring of teeth.

"Lonni Jung," he said, tasting the syllables with slow amusement. "The loyal ISB agent. The mole. The reason she was taken."

Jung didn’t breathe. He couldn’t.

Krennic stepped into his space, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret meant to carve flesh. "You’re the one who smiled at her every morning. Nodded in meetings. Took notes. Laughed at the right moments. All while feeding her name to wolves."

He took one step closer. Jung didn’t dare move.

"Do you know what they would have done to her," Krennic murmured, "if I hadn’t arrived when I did? Do you know what she looked like when I found her?"

The silence became unbearable. Krennic’s gloved fist flexed, slow and deliberate. The sound of leather stretching filled the air.

"People like you," he said, with absolute precision, "are why I do not sleep."

He pulled back slightly, letting the words settle.

"But here’s the irony," Krennic continued. His tone shifted, cooler now, almost detached. "Your betrayal… was useful."

Jung blinked. Confused. Waiting.

"Your information helped us find her before they could move her off-world. Before she vanished forever."

Another pause. Krennic’s gaze sharpened.

"Which is why," he said slowly, "I am going to let you live."

Jung flinched, his breath catching. "You’re… sparing me?"

Krennic tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to make Jung wish he hadn’t spoken.

"Oh, do not thank me," Krennic said, stepping forward again, his voice a quiet snarl, his words brushing close like the edge of a blade at the throat. "You will stay here. You will work. Quietly. Obediently. And every breath you take from now on, you will take with the knowledge that I allow it."

He turned then, as if Jung were beneath any further effort.

But at the threshold, he stopped. Without turning.

"One more thing, Jung."

Jung’s spine snapped straight. "Yes, sir."

Krennic’s voice dropped to something colder than a blaster’s barrel.

"One more betrayal, and you won’t live to explain it."

Then the door hissed open. And Krennic was gone.

Jung remained, frozen, staring at the spot where the Director had stood. He was still breathing, but it didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like a sentence. And he knew, with sickening clarity, he would never sleep peacefully again.

*******

From the viewing deck, the Death Star loomed like a myth made real. Its size was impossible to measure with the eye. Entire continents of steel and shadow, a godlike silhouette drifting in the black. Even now, with it finally operational, it still felt too massive to belong to anyone. But it belonged to Orson Krennic.

Partagaz stood quietly beside him, arms folded behind his back as they both observed the slow orbit of their creation. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual.

"So this is the Death Star," he murmured. "Almost twenty years. It’s a miracle we could finish it."

Krennic said nothing.

Partagaz glanced sideways, noticing the unusually pensive look on his friend’s face. It was subtle, but not invisible, not to someone who had spent years watching Orson Krennic charm, threaten, and manipulate his way through the most dangerous political corridors in the galaxy.

"Krennic?" he asked, a touch of suspicion in his voice.

Krennic didn’t take his eyes off the viewport. His voice was low, almost too casual. "Do you think I could be a family man?"

Partagaz blinked.

He looked at Krennic as if the man had just announced he was giving up military command to become a chef on Naboo. That was not the question he expected. Not from him.

Orson Krennic. The white-caped perfectionist who had once threatened a senator over a scheduling delay. Who scoffed at weekend leave. Who, in all the years Partagaz had known him, had never once spoken about building a life that wasn’t built in blueprints and weapons contracts.

He remembered when they were all young, back when they were just graduates of the ISB academy. Most of the alumni had families or partners. Except for Krennic.

He loved working more than anyone else.

And that was why he held a higher status and carried greater responsibilities than anyone.

Even Krennic himself laughed when someone once asked if he wanted a family. ‘Me? Could you imagine me becoming a husband?’

But look at him now. People change. Even someone like him.

"...You?" Partagaz finally said, blinking again for good measure.

Krennic’s silence was answer enough.

Partagaz composed himself. He drew out the beginning of his reply like a man weighing sarcasm and survival. "Well. You’re quite the taskmaster. Built the Empire’s most terrifying weapon under constant sabotage, bribed every senator who mattered, survived Tarkin’s scrutiny without strangling him, and somehow still find time to maintain a cape collection that rivals the Emperor’s."

Krennic raised a brow, but didn’t protest.

Partagaz pressed on, his tone shifting just enough to betray a smirk. "So yes. I think you need something else to obsess over. Might as well try being domestic."

Krennic exhaled, the sound landing somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"You think I’d obsess?" he asked, deadpan.

"Oh, please," Partagaz scoffed. "I’ve seen how you look at your cape when it gets dusty. I can only imagine what you’d be like with a baby."

There was a pause. A strange one.

Partagaz didn’t expect his words to land. But Krennic, for once, didn’t fire back. He just looked out through the thick glass at the stars, his eyes darker than before.

It clicked.

"You’re thinking about her," Partagaz said quietly.

Krennic didn’t reply. But he didn’t have to. The angle of his jaw, the way he suddenly couldn’t look Partagaz in the eye, it all told him everything.

The hardened Director of Advanced Weapons, the terror of resource meetings and budget hearings, had been cracked open by something far more dangerous than politics.

"Well then," Partagaz muttered, adjusting the datapad in his hand, "stars help the child who inherits your spine."

Krennic’s gaze didn’t shift. "My child will be brighter than most of the Emperor’s advisors," he said, voice sharp and certain. "I will raise someone so sharp the Empire will have no choice but to be impressed."

Partagaz blinked again. "Is that pride in your voice, Orson?"

Krennic tilted his head, just slightly. "Call it foresight."

Then, softer, as if the bravado couldn’t quite cover the truth: "But do you think I can?"

That gave Partagaz pause.

He’d seen Orson furious, triumphant, cruel. He had never seen him uncertain. That single question, spoken so plainly. Landed heavier than all the firepower in the Death Star.

"You blew up a planet for a woman," Partagaz said, staring at him. "I’d say you’re halfway there."

Krennic finally turned to him.

And he smirked. That familiar, dangerous gleam returning to his eyes.

"I always finish what I start."

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Please feel free to leave your comments. I'd love to know what you think. What do you want too see in the next chapter?

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Ironlily Interview

@ironlily-art can be found on Facebook and Twitter currently.

What inspired you to get into depicting action women / historical waifu?

Honestly, it's simply because I love them. I love European history, I love anime-style girls, and I love strong female characters. But it’s hard to find existing genres that combine all of these, especially where they’re the main theme rather than just backgrounds. So I just wanted to be greedy and merge everything I love into one, to explore the possibilities.

Do you think you're attracted to the women in your own work?

To be honest, the girls I draw are often inspired by ideals I hold dear, or by a certain kind of person I deeply want to portray. If my characters were real, I’m sure I’d fall in love with them. In that sense, yes—part of what drives me to draw comes from affection or desire. I believe creating something requires some level of passion, even romantic or sexual feelings.

But once these characters are created, I see them as independent individuals living in their own world. I don’t project excessive desire onto them after. Maybe that’s why some fans feel my characters seem real—because I don’t depict them as having any motive through the fourth wall toward the audiences on the other side of the screen.

Are the women in your works inspired by anyone you know personally? Optionally: Gender, including trans status if applicable or already out, and sexual orientation.

My characters are shaped by many life experiences and by what I observe around me—blended with imagination. Sometimes, I wish the world could be more beautiful and fun, where girls aren’t bound by societal expectations and can joke about their bodies as freely as men do, without facing judgment. That’s how characters like Ebenholz and the Hoplitissa came to be.

As for my gender identity, I don’t have anything particularly unique to say—I’m just a regular heterosexual person. In my country, topics like gender identity aren’t very prominent, but we respect cultures where diverse identities are more celebrated. Likewise, I hope people can also respect those with traditional values. I’m grateful that I have a kind and respectful community.

Has the animation/comics/game fandom particularly influenced your artistic decisions?

If you try searching for Takami Akai, and Seiji Kamiya of Vanillaware, I think you’ll quickly find the answer. (laughs)

Are you familiar with the Weibermacht genre? If not, why?

I wasn't aware of it before, but after looking up the term, I realized I’ve seen some renaissance artworks that fall under this category. However, I don’t have much to say.

What are your thoughts on polite society's imposed gender roles? (Polite society: Whatever the social norms are where you live)

Speaking strictly about such societies, I believe they have always served as a necessary structure for society value. However, as time changes, they need to evolve, adapt, and be reinterpreted. Setting aside any malicious human intent related to gender oppression, every culture and era has required a set of norms to maintain social unity and divide responsibilities among genders. This ensures both societal stability and the continuity of the human population.

That said, society also needs spaces for those who do not fit into mainstream roles to find refuge. Monasteries, for example, historically served such a purpose—providing an alternative social structure. Both Ordo Mediare and Hoplitissa are fictional worlds I created with this kind of concept.

What is your cultural background? Do you think it has an impact on your artistic depictions?

I come from a non-European region, also one without a deeply rooted historical tradition of its own. We've been heavily influenced by Japanese anime, and that influence has certainly shaped my artistic preferences.

Do you think your works will inspire change in society?

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my work can change society—nor do I necessarily believe that society must be changed. Rather than calling it 'change,' I prefer to see it as ‘creating a space’ gathering and inspiring people, and moving forward together. In doing so, I hope my ideas gain more recognition and appreciation."

Do you have an interest in history as a whole? What are your other hobbies beside artwork?

My interest in history is actually quite narrow—I’m really only passionate about the Western European cold weapon era. But I think that's more than enough to keep an amateur like me busy for a whole life. Of course, I don’t reject other cultures; it’s just harder for me to actively dive into them.

As for other hobbies, definitely gaming. Also food, drinks, and cute things. I have a lot of interests, but each one is pretty specific—I only like certain games, certain types of food, certain kinds of alcohol. I like to call it… loyalty!

What do you predict in the future of the New Weibermacht genre?

I’m not sure where this term originally came from or whether it represents an established aesthetic trend. But what I can say is this: if it’s framed as a strong ideological stance that tries to change, replace or correct existing artistic directions, then it will inevitably face criticism and backlash. Like many ‘new’ ideologies today, it could spark quarrels over positions among communities, and in the end, creators might get lost in these ideological battles.

Personally, I’m better at looking to the past than predicting the future. I believe creators should focus on what they love. It doesn’t need to become a slogan. If there’s going to be a slogan or aesthetic philosophy, let the thinkers and theorists take care of that.

Return to New Weibermacht Masterpost.

[alpaca-clouds]

Arcane & Disability - From the Perspective of a Sensitivity Reader

Alright. I promised this a month ago, but just did not get around, because university and work were all too stressful. But still, it is a topic that keeps to be on my mind, after the end of Arcane season 2. While season 2 was a mess in general, when it comes to pacing and characters and dialogues, to me – a disabled person – one of the biggest issues really is how the series treats disability. This was already a problem in season 1, but because of the bad pacing and the fact that a lot of characters clearly did not get as many scenes as it was intended at first, making this issue worse.

So, before someone asks, who am I to judge this: While my main job is in IT, I usually do at least one book or other project in sensitivity reading per month. I just rely on the IT job to know I have a constant income, if I do not manage to get a SR-job for once. But yes, it is part of my real-life job to critique writers on this kind of stuff.

So, let me talk about the disabilities in Arcane – and what is the issue there. I will go through different characters for this.

Spoilers for season 2, obviously.

Zaun and the Chem Lords

Let me start with something that mainly is in the background. We do see the Chem Lords once in season 1 and once in season 2 – though there for a prolonged scene. And a lot of them are disabled in some way and most of them are disfigured in some way. We also do see some of the “normal people” in Zaun, who are often disabled – using some sort of prothesis – and also often disfigured. And while, sure, the show portrays it as part of the tragedy that Zaun is so exploited that there are so many people who are very disabled, but at the same time the Chem Lords are not at all portrayed in a sympathetic light, and even those background characters of Zaun (like the woman, who lost her child to Jayce and Vi) are not exactly treated sympathetically.

Before anything else, we need to establish one important thing about disability in this show: Pretty much all disabilities in this movie are acquired disabilities. Which is fair. By far most people IRL who are disabled do acquire their disability during the course of their life. Through sickness, through accidents, and also through simply aging. However, there is some issue to the fact that we see very little in terms of variety to the disabilities.

Sure, you could argue, that technically Arcane has more disabilities, than pretty much any other western media project – and you would be right. But let’s face it here: The bar is on the ground – if not underground.

But the main issue is, that for the most part the Chem Lords and a lot of those minor disabled roles in the movie are not at all portrayed sympathetically. The Chem Lords are just minor cannon fodder background villains, while the background characters are also mainly villains. Sure, I have seen a lot of fans a bit more sympathy for their motivations. But in the show? Well, we mainly see how they attack main characters and almost kill them.

This could work, mind you – if we had a counter example of good disabled characters. But that is not quite the show that we got. For the most part.

Sevika

If season 2 had not been the mess that it was, Sevika probably would be the one counter example to all of this. While in season 1 she mainly is just “the goon” for Silco and we get very, very little in terms of motivation for her, season 2 (or rather what was probably originally multiple other seasons) clearly at some point had a character arc in mind for her. Even as it was, we did learn a bit more about her motivation and such.

While I had originally just taken Sevika mainly as someone who was working for Silco, because it was the most promising opportunity for her (given there are not a lot of chances in Zaun). Not because of some ideology.

But Season 2 proofed me wrong, there. We learn not much about Sevika here, but we learn that she actually was with Silco out of conviction that what Silco was ultimately doing was making Zaun better. She understood that Zaun needed a leader figure and she thought that Silco was possibly the best leader they could have had. Now that Silco is dead, she tries to prop up Jinx as the new leader, because she understands that this is needed.

Given the place that Sevika ends up in – as a councilor for Zaun – I am gonna assume there was some version of this (one with more seasons) where Sevika had gotten an arc, this would have been more of a focus. Her learning that instead of popping up someone else as a figurehead, she had to be the one to lead people. However, we clearly did not get that version of the story.

Still, I am possibly going to argue that the fact that she did not get this arc, is less connected to her being a clearly disabled character, and more to her being not a champion in the game so far. So generally speaking, I would still argue that despite it all, she is the one disabled character in this show, who I think is generally portrayed the most favorable.

Silco

I know, some people will now ask: “How the fuck is Silco disabled.” But for once, yes, he uses a cane at times, but also, he has a facial deformity, which is in fact counted under the disability umbrella. While technically speaking a facial deformity does not always stop people from being capable of working, the discrimination of people with facial deformities has to do a lot with the favoring of healthy bodies, and how this is connected to beauty norms.

And Silco… Well, how to put this best? From what is there in season 2, I am going to assume that there was a version of this, where there had been more time to tell the story, and we would have gotten a more sympathetic portrayal of Silco, where we went more into his motivation. Season 2 does hint at the fact that indeed, Zaun under Silco was a lot more stable than in any alternate scenario, and that Silco did in fact really try to make life better for the most possible people. But that is it: It very much hints at it, but never fully goes into it.

We know this is all bound to the lady who was the mother to Vi and Powder, but how we never get explained. And yeah, this is an issue. While I do not think that originally Silco really fell into the typical trope of “person has a facial deformity to signify their evil” (something that shows up in a lot of media – including Disney movies and a ton of James Bond movies), the fact that we never really go deep into his background and motivation, he somewhat falls into the trope here. And that really just because probably all the stuff that went into him as a character was just cut for time. And yeah, fuck. It is a big issue here. If the rest of the show was not as messy as it was, it would be less so – but given the state this show is in and the way the other disabled characters are portrayed… Oh boy, this is a problem.

Singed

I actually thought a lot about whether to put Singed in here. Because yes, he clearly is disabled and has deformities. But also, in the version of the show we got, he almost feel like a footnote of a character. However, I decided to at least go quickly into him, because again: You cannot put in most disabled characters as villains, and then make someone who is very, very responsible for a lot of the bad stuff that happens in this show and make him disabled as well. And yes, I get that Singed is disabled in the game, and that he is a somewhat bad character in the game as well. But that does not undo the harm this does within the narrative of the show. And you need to understand that. While yes, you can argue that his end goal (reviving his daughter) can be considered as somewhat sympathetic, it is not addressed enough to make him a complex and nuanced character. And again, he very much is responsible for many of the bad things that happen.

Jinx

Okay, let us talk about Jinx. She is the character, who I had the biggest problem in season 1 with – and season 2 did not really make it better. Because yes – until loosing her finger in season 2, generally her disability is her mental illness that clearly is chronic and unlikely to ever fully get away. And this is a big, big issue.

Because Jinx’s mental illness is from about the same line of mental illnesses that villains in the Batman comics have. Like sure, we can argue that there are some aspects in there of some sort of Borderline, PTSD, Dissociative Identity Disorder, and such. But for the most part her mental illness exists mainly to be edgy, and weird, and strange – much like Harley Quinn’s and the Joker’s disability. We know that those two characters were major influences on Jinx.

And look, I will admit, that Harley Quinn is a character I do generally enjoy. But that does not change that yeah, Harley like Jinx is a bad character in terms in representing actually mentally ill people. Because the focus of the character is to be weird, and cool, and somewhat entertaining. While yes, some of the symptoms that Jinx is showing are based on symptoms of real mental illnesses, as mentioned above, the way she is experiencing them is mainly there to be nice in a visual and entertaining kind of way. And that is… Well, it is an issue. Especially given that her mental illness mainly does also show in her violent tendencies.

Don’t get me wrong: I have known people with some of the diagnosis that one could probably read into what we see in her, and some of those people were in fact quite violent. At times only verbally, but in some cases they would also have a hair trigger before they would start and try to shove and punch people. So yes, this part is not technically speaking a thing that is unrealistic.

However, if someone was going to hand me a book, where the one character, who very clearly is written with a mental illness is depicted as a sort of maniac, who is part supervillain, and part manic pixie dream girl, that mainly exists and is the depicted the way she is to cater to a presumed straight male audience. That really is an issue.

Nothing that I can say about Jinx is exclusive to Jinx or Arcane in the grand scheme of things. A lot of these tropes are around for decades now. But that does not make them less harmful. On the contrary. They are actually worse because of it, as this kinda will play into the confirmation bias of people, who do not have to deal with mentally ill people very often. And I wish those tropes would die.

Sure, we can argue the fact that at the very least Jinx is portrayed in a somewhat more positive manner (just as Harley Quinn is these days), is at least a tiny step forward. But it is still not a good way of portraying this. Just not the worst way anymore.

And of course then there is the fact that for now she actually dies in the end of the show, just as pretty much most disabled characters in this show do. And that… is just not a good look.

Isha

Oh boy. Isha is something that came out of nowhere and really was one of the main reasons of me wanting to write this thing. Isha is mute. And here a little bit about muteness in real life: Most mute people are deaf-mute. So they are mute, because they were born without the ability to hear properly, and hence never learn how to pronounce properly, despite technically having a voice box. People who can hear and are mute – like Isha – probably are mute because of some mental illness. Some people go mute because of trauma, some neurodivergent people are non-verbal (so they don’t speak) or can be non-verbal under stress. (I fall under this, at times. I do have days on which I just cannot properly speak.)

With Isha we never learn why she does not speak. She just doesn’t. She shows up, attached herself to Jinx, and then is basically Jinx’s own Manic Pixie Dream Girl, just in the “little sister” way, rather than the “romantic” way. She mainly exists just to bring Jinx back into functioning enough that she can partake in the rest of the plot. And once she has archived that, well… She dies. Again, like almost all disabled characters in this show fucking do. She is merely a plot device.

And again, given some of the hints that are dropped, I do assume there was at some point more to her story. But we did not get that version of this story. The version we got? Well, she is the mute manic pixie dream girl, who gracefully offs herself once her plot function has been fulfilled. And this more than anything to me is so fucking egregious. If she was not disabled this was already bad enough, but given she is disabled? This is fucking horrible – especially again in the context of a show where most disabled characters die.

Basically what the show tells me – a disabled person – is that my main worth as a person is to die for ablebodied people. Thanks Arcane, needed to hear that. Great job. Hope y’all are proud for creating this show.

Viktor

Lastly there is Viktor. And mind you, there was a moment in this where I had some hope for his arc in terms of disability representation. Because while I will usually rage a lot about “healing disabilities” in fantasy and scifi media, his case was one where it was understandable. He was not trying to heal himself because he so desperately did not want to be disabled anymore, but because his never properly defined sickness, that was responsible for his disability, was degenerative, and he was going to die very early without a cure. And even with that in mind, once something bad happened because of it – when Sky died – he stopped it, because he realized it was too dangerous. While I had some minor notes of how this was handled in season 1, I thought it was fairly good.

And in the beginning of season 2 I actually kinda liked it too. It was not him who chose the healing, but Jayce. And once Viktor woke up from his coma after the magic healing, his first reaction was to be angry with Jayce about it. Partly because of the danger he understood, but partly also because Jayce violated Viktor’s bodily autonomy. I liked that. It was good.

However, it only went downhill from there. Because whatever anger Viktor had from that moment on, it was gone. Sure, you can argue with Viktor’s actions how much of it came from the core/the hextech/the arcane, and how much came from him. But never the less: He quickly is fine with being healed, and then becomes a sort of villain. And also goes ahead to heal other people of their illnesses and disabilities. Some of them consensually, which is somewhat fine though again for the aforementioned reasons of the eugenic implications of the “healing the disabled” trope has, but in some cases also non-consensually. And that is just… not good.

And then, in the bloody finale, he is kinda the final boss. He, the disabled person. Sure, Ambessa is the leader of the fascists, but Viktor is kinda the final boss.

Sure, I could say something about it being nice to have a clearly queer disabled character. But you know what? All of that pales against the fact that in the end of it all, Viktor has to be sacrificed for the happy end for the ablebodied people.

You know, in some other version of events I would have liked the fact that Jayce does acquire a disability in those last few episodes. While it is not quite clear whether this disability is gonna be chronic or not, it does not matter, because he, too, gets sacrificed. Guess he is no longer as valuable given that he is disabled now. Or at least that is the feeling that comes up.

Conclusion

Look, here is the thing: None of the characters in question are written in a way that is so egregious that if it was just this one example it would be a problem. And hey, some part of me is like: “Hey, at least there are multiple disabled characters,” given that this is still fairly rare in western media. (I am currently getting spoiled by Japanese shows. Ranking of Kings, Sign of Affection and so on are doing a much better job at portraying disability.) But given that most of these characters are villains or end up as villains on the long run, and most of them end up dead? Yeah, fuck Arcane. You do not get points for depicting disabilities in a way that clearly communicates that actually the lives of disabled people are less worthy than those of ablebodied people.

Look, whatever you have been told about Sensitivity Reading: Like editors in book publishing, Sensitivity Readers have little power. All we can do is say: “Hey, this is some really unfortunate implication here. Maybe you should change that.” But authors and publishers can absolutely ignore our feedback. Talking with other sensitivity readers there were a couple of examples where all the feedback was ignored.

I do not know whether Arcane had a Sensitivity Reader who gave feedback on the depiction of disabled people in this show. But I am going to assume if there was, they were very probably ignored. Because yeah, I am sorry. This is just overall not good.

Yes, this show has more disabled characters than most western shows. But again: If those characters are mainly villains, and mainly die by the end of the show… Yeah, sorry, Arcane, you do not get a gold star for including them. In fact, given how the characters are shown, frankly, I would probably have preferred it if the characters had not been disabled in the first place.

[whitecompri]

Love Circuits

Pairing: Metal Sonic x Fem!Human!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Light Humor

Rating: G(General Audience)

Warnings: Minor injury,

A/N: I can only say that I did and deleted and redid this entire story because I didn't like the first version. But I was much more satisfied with the result of this one. And it was even fun to imagine a good motivation for Metal to act the way he did in the fic. I hope you like my first story with him.

--*--

Your hands moved skillfully, shifting tools and parts over your workbench, your eyes intensely focused on your task. You had promised the local villagers that you’d finish your project for a more efficient stove by the end of the afternoon.

Of course, since early in the day you had been investing your time into it, using your mechanical and machine assembly skills on something simple, yet still complex.

What your focused mind hadn’t noticed, however, was a very familiar presence, standing at the entrance of your workshop. His glowing red eyes observed you intently, trying to understand why you would spend your day working on something that, to him, had no clear purpose.

Letting out a low hiss of impatience, he walked toward you, his metal feet clicking against the floor with each step. Finally, he stopped by your side, letting out short beeps and static-like noises of curiosity.

It couldn’t exactly be called words or a language. Still, you understood the noises Metal made quite well — after all, it had been a long, very long time since the two of you began living together. Ever since the day you found him covered in mud in a river and fixed him.

Your eyes shifted away from your work, focusing on Metal beside you. One of your eyebrows lifted as you wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand.

“What’s the matter, Metal?” you asked, confused by his sudden appearance in your workshop.

He let out a few more beeps and static noises, pointing at the nearly finished stove on the bench, then let out another hiss — this time, one of irritation.

Scratching your neck, you tried to understand why he was upset about the stove. Your eyes locked onto his, searching for answers, but the robot only tilted his head to the side and pointed to himself, letting out a questioning noise.

You furrowed your brow. If you understood him correctly, he wanted more attention, which could also be interpreted as some form of jealousy, you figured. But you quickly shook that thought out of your mind — there was no way Metal could feel jealousy. He probably just wanted more of your attention. That was likely all.

“Metal, I know I’ve been here all day working on this... But I promise I’ll finish it soon, okay?” You crouched down to be at his level. “In the meantime, why don’t you take care of the lawn outside? It’s been a few days since some weeds started growing. It might distract you until I’m done here.” You gave him a reassuring smile, placing a hand on his cold shoulder.

Metal stood still for a few seconds, simply observing you. Then, he slowly nodded, turned around, and walked out of the workshop, determined to take on the task you’d entrusted to him.

Sighing, you stood back up and turned once more to your workbench, returning to your tasks.

--*--

With your hands on your hips, you admired your impressive finished work, which would surely bring many benefits to the humble people living in that village.

Looking through your window, you noticed the last rays of the day fading from the sky, leaving behind a shallow, orange glow. Sighing, you picked up a cloth to wipe your hands, deciding to go see how Metal was doing with the weed removal.

Your steps to the front door were calm as you hummed a melody.

However, the moment you opened the main door of your house, the melody came to an instant halt, your eyes widening at the sight before you.

Your lawn, which had once been overgrown and filled with weeds, was now perfectly trimmed to a suitable height, with no flaws or weeds in sight. But even that wasn’t what impressed you the most. What truly caught your attention was the blue robot crouched in the middle of the lawn, adjusting the last blades of grass in his own meticulous way.

Metal had shaped the grass into a heart, trimming it to the perfect height to be clearly visible to anyone — especially to you, who was still frozen at the doorway, jaw dropped as you observed the scene.

At first, you thought you were hallucinating. But it was real, and the design was clear.

Maybe it was some kind of joke from Metal, or maybe he was somehow genuinely expressing emotion. But as far as you knew, that was impossible — it had never happened before. He had his robotic mannerisms of wanting your attention for reasons even you didn’t understand, not to mention his desire to protect you from every little thing — including poor butterflies who had the misfortune of crossing his path.

But this was the first time he had done something that directly hinted at feelings. For a second, your heart felt warm, but you quickly tried to ignore the feeling, not wanting to overthink it.

“Metal... That’s... really beautiful...” The blue robot turned to look at you, then stood up and walked over, stopping in front of you and letting out a few low beeps.

He pointed at his natural artwork, looking at you with his red eyes, a hopeful expression in them.

“Yes, I liked it,” you said, crossing your arms. But he kept pointing at the large heart made of grass that he had designed.

Growing a bit confused by his reaction — still standing there, pointing — you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Metal, I liked the heart. It added a nice touch to the garden. It was a... different design choice, I wasn’t expecting that from you.” You chuckled lightly. The robot slowly lowered his metal arm, but still maintained intense eye contact.

He let out a hiss and a few more quiet beeps, then began walking slowly back toward the house. You shrugged, choosing not to dwell on it for now. As odd as this behavior was for Metal, you figured sometimes his robotic circuits might misinterpret or process things in exaggerated or strange ways.

You started walking behind him slowly, deciding to worry only about dinner for now.

--*--

Organizing the pots and ingredients on the counter, you began working on your dinner. Picking up a knife, you started chopping some vegetables quickly and skillfully.

Your eyes shifted slightly to the side, focusing on the bluish, robotic figure and the pair of red eyes locked onto your every movement with the knife, as if assessing whether you were handling the tool with care and safety.

“Metal, how about you pick a movie for us tonight?” You’d probably regret that later. For some reason, Metal always picked movies that had robots or some kind of sci-fi element. It was somewhat understandable, considering what he was.

Still, his appreciation for that kind of content bordered on obsession. But for now, you just wanted to keep him occupied, so he wouldn’t spend the whole time standing there watching you.

Metal gave a brief nod, turning and walking into the living room just ahead. He stopped beside the sofa, grabbed the remote control, turned on the TV, and started browsing.

Turning your attention back to your task, you focused more and continued chopping the vegetables with precision.

That’s when the sound of the movie began. However, to your surprise, the house wasn’t filled with explosions or gunfire from an action film, nor with threatening robotic voices. Instead, what started playing was soft, soothing music, with low voices speaking gently in the film.

Turning your head to look, you frowned. It was clearly a romance movie — a couple was on screen, face to face, exchanging a long and sweet dialogue.

Metal was still standing by the sofa, holding the remote, focused on the television screen.

“Metal... did you pick a romance movie to watch?” your voice came out soft and shocked, confused about why he had chosen a romance, of all things.

The robot turned his face toward you and met your gaze. Then, he nodded slightly.

You stood frozen for a few seconds, observing him and the movie still playing in the background on the TV. Shaking your head, you simply returned to cutting the ingredients.

But now, your focus was shaken by his surprising choice of movie, and your hand slipped a little while trying to cut a carrot.

Letting out a sharp hiss, you dropped the knife, quickly lifting your injured finger. Your eyes scanned the kitchen, searching for a clean cloth.

Metal looked at you, confused, trying to understand what had caused your reaction. That’s when he saw it — fresh blood trickling from the cut on your finger, running down your arm. It was as if a warning light had gone off inside him; in the blink of an eye, he was right by your side.

His metal hand gently held your arm, bringing your hand close to his eyes. His red gaze scanned the wound, analyzing it meticulously. Then, he took the cloth from your hand and pressed it against the cut, letting out some hisses and beeps — almost as if scolding you for being careless.

Your eyes narrowed in confusion — after all, he had never reacted like this before when you got hurt. He was a robot, not exactly built or programmed to worry about superficial injuries.

And your confusion only deepened when he took your hand, making you follow him through the kitchen, stopping near the cabinet where you kept your medical kit. Metal’s hand reached for the cabinet, grabbing the kit box. He opened it, searching for the correct items.

"Metal… it’s okay, I know how to take care of myself, you don’t have to do this, let me wrap this finger up." You tried to pull your hand back, but were met with his metallic grip tightening.

Metal stared at you with glowing red eyes, letting out a soft hum of disapproval at your attempt to refuse his help.

Sighing quietly, you simply relaxed.

"Alright, I get it, go ahead..." With no choice, you just allowed him to take care of you, even if his behavior was starting to feel a little strange.

--*--

When the first rays of sunlight peeked through the next morning, you woke up stretching. The first thing you noticed was your finger perfectly bandaged. Your eyes focused on the wrap for a second before you got up, sighing.

However, as soon as you stood, a strange odor reached your nose. Something was burning.

Your eyes widened immediately as you dashed out of your room, running through the house, searching for the source of the unpleasant smell.

Stopping breathless at the kitchen doorway, you looked around, then furrowed your brow. In the end, nothing was actually on fire.

Metal turned to face you, letting out a beep and a hiss. Then, his hands reached for a tray, which he firmly held and carried over to you, stopping in front of you.

Looking down, you focused on the contents on top of it. You couldn’t help but let out a muffled giggle.

“Thank you, Metal. You really seem to have tried hard to make this for me.” Your eyes scanned once more the breakfast items he had prepared.

A piece of toast that looked more like tire rubber, completely burned — probably the source of the smell you’d picked up — and a cup with coffee overflowing, spilling all over the tray with each slight movement.

Extending your hands, you took the tray and set it on the table, slowly sitting in the chair. Metal positioned himself beside you, watching you intently. He apparently didn’t have a clear sense of what was or wasn’t edible for humans.

But you didn’t want to hurt his feelings either. Swallowing dryly, you picked up the burnt toast and hesitantly brought it to your mouth. Then, gathering some courage, you took a bite.

But instead of the bitter, painful taste of burnt toast, a delicious and crispy flavor filled your mouth. At first, you thought it might be psychological, but no — the toast really tasted like that, despite looking like charcoal.

“How did you do this?” you asked Metal, surprised by the food. He just continued watching you attentively, not making a single sound. “Anyway, thank you, the toast is honestly delicious.” You smiled at him, carefully picking up the cup and sipping the coffee — which was also perfectly balanced.

Suddenly, Metal’s hand extended in front of you. Your eyes widened. He was firmly holding a vibrant red rose, offering it to you.

“Metal?” you gave him a questioning look. The robot just let out a soft hiss. Your hand reached for the rose, admiring how beautiful it was.

But then, you came to a conclusion — this was going too far.

As much as you liked this side of Metal, it wasn’t like him. And the thought that this might be a bug or a dangerous malfunction for him weighed heavily on your mind.

So you made a decision.

“Metal… let’s go to the workshop. I need to run a check on you.”

--*--

The robot’s red eyes focused intensely on you as your hands swiftly typed into a console. Your worried eyes searched for something — any sign of a defect, a bug, or a missing line of code in his programming.

But he seemed in perfect physical condition, at least.

“That’s strange… what could be causing this behavior…?” you muttered to yourself before initiating a full system scan. “I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand the programming Eggman used in you... But at least I want to try fixing you if this is a bug... Software is just so much harder for me than hardware...”

You crossed your arms, observing the blue robot. That’s when you heard a beep from the console. Turning around, you saw a notification about something found. Frowning, you clicked to check what it was. You began reading the information — and your eyes widened.

“A subroutine? It’s relatively new… it definitely wasn’t here before, but…” You typed a few more commands, digging deeper, all while Metal watched you attentively.

Scratching your chin, you read the new data with interest. Then, you turned to look at Metal, eyes wide.

“Metal... Since when do you have a Romantic Behavior Simulation Module?” The robot just shrugged.

With quick steps, you approached the bench where he was sitting. Your hands reached for the side of his head, carefully opening a small panel, your fingers finding the said module.

“Damn… you really have one… I do remember never knowing what RBSM stood for…” Your eyes met his. “Apparently, it’s a beta version module, still under testing in you, but it says it activates when you spend long periods of time near a preferred person…”

Metal looked at you attentively, then raised his hand and pointed at you.

“Yeah, now I know I’m your preferred person.” You gave a small smirk. “I’ll never stop being amazed by you, Metal… Normally robots can’t express emotions, let alone have a favorite person…”

The robot emitted a soft hum, appreciating your compliment.

“Who would've thought, huh? And all this time I thought it was a bug...” You placed your hand on the side of his head, carefully closing the small panel.

That’s when the metal hand reached over, grabbing one of your notebooks and a pen from the bench, starting to write with his controlled, calculated handwriting.

Your eyes followed curiously, waiting to see what he would write. Finally, he set the pen down and turned the notebook toward you.

You let out a snorted laugh, covering your mouth to muffle the giggle.

‘Positive confirmation. Emotion identified: affection. Intensity: critical level. Recommended solution: kisses.’

Metal beeped.

“Well, in that case, I can say I’m also at a critical level of affection for you…” You crossed your arms, giving him a sly smile. “But your solution is inconclusive — lips are required, or at least a mouth, to make it work.” You teased, waiting for his reaction.

Metal hissed, pointing at his metallic muzzle.

“No, Metal, I’m not going to put a synthetic mouth on you. That’d be weird — and I’m pretty sure Eggman would kill me for messing up your design.” You chuckled softly, watching the robot let out an indignant buzz.

Smiling gently, you stepped closer to him, leaning forward slightly, and pressed your lips against the blue metal of his head.

The robot made an exclamation noise, surprised by your gesture.

“…But nothing stops me from doing that.” You said softly, seeing how Metal froze for a few seconds, trying to process what had just happened.

Finally, he focused his eyes back on yours. His hand once again reached for the pen, starting to write in the notebook again, then turned it for you to read.

‘Update system status to: Official Dating?’

This time, you couldn’t hold back your laughter at how adorable he was being.

“Well, I guess I can’t say no to such a cute request. Go ahead and update it.” You smiled at him, hearing a soft beep of approval and happiness. Then, he extended his hand to you.

Mimicking his motion, you reached for the robot’s metallic hand, intertwining your fingers with his. In that moment, you felt truly content. Sure, it wasn’t anything conventional. But you certainly wouldn’t trade your metal partner for any human out there.

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ hurt/comfort, fluff, crack

ᨳ♡₊➳ archive of our own

"You're an artist, a recluse, and a freshly heartbroken wreck whose idea of human contact is apologizing to your Amazon delivery guy. Your anxiety is so aggressive it could qualify for its own horror movie. And then your neighbor moves in. He doesn't get people. You don't get people. Somehow, you get each other. You didn't mean to talk to him. You didn't mean to care. But the more you both fumble through shared silences and botched small talk, the harder it is to pretend you're not watching each other heal, inch by awkward inch."

꒰ chapter 2 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: hello hello! this is officially my second fanfic on here (mwms will return from the war soon, i promise 🫡) i've been doing just headcanons lately, but this idea has been living in my brain rent free. this story means a lot to me and i'm so excited to finally share it. it's soft, hurt/comfort, still funny bc i can't help myself, and painfully self-indulgent. i'm emotionally unwell and projecting, your honor. thanks for reading, i hope you enjoy! 🖤

When heartbreak hits, nobody warns you about the weird parts.

Of course, you knew to expect tears and snot and piles of damp tissues around your bed like a sad little nest, but nobody mentioned you'd start microwaving empty coffee cups, forgetting to put water in instant ramen, or staring blankly into space mid-shower like a dramatic indie film scene as you wonder whether people ever really know each other.

Nobody mentioned that you'd have dishes in your sink older than some TikTok trends. They sit there like little ceramic reminders of your downfall, crusted with dried curry, melted cheese fossils, and the one sad mug that isn't even really yours. It was a gift from when you still thought a future together was a given, not a gamble.

The heartbreak didn't come softly. It shattered. Loud. Fast. Violent.

Four years of your life. Evaporated in a single hour.

You thought love meant endurance. Compromise. Sacrifice. You thought if you gave enough, loved hard enough, that would be enough.

He cheated on you and left you with three things: debt, abandonment issues, and a half-empty bottle of vegan mayonnaise. You were currently the main character in a tragedy no one watched because you were too socially anxious to tell anyone the show even existed.

The sunlight peeking through closed curtains mocks your misery, highlighting dust particles and making your mountain of empty ramen cups look even more pitiful. Maybe your mother was right. Maybe moving to Japan was dumb. Maybe falling in love was even dumber.

You haven't left your apartment in days. Like, properly left. Not the shuffle to the mailbox in your crocs and oversized hoodie at 11 P.M. where you almost cried once when you heard the neighbor's poodle bark. The dog you loved. The dog you used to pet during your morning walks.

You stopped doing that. You stopped doing anything.

Not because you can't, but because the outside world is loud and full of people and worst of all, requires motivation and small talk. Your body has become one with your gaming chair. Your fingers twitch instinctively toward the WASD keys even when you're nowhere near your PC. The only witness to your decomposition is your cat, Luna, who watches you with the judgmental silence of a thousand ancestors as you sob into a Sailor Moon mug, asking her, "Why didn't he love me?"

She doesn't leave, even when you ugly sob into her fur. She just blinks with those gold eyes like a tiny therapist who's been through this too many times.

Your apartment is a disaster, symbolic of your mental state. Not hoarder level, but there's an entire vibe of decay here. Laundry mountains. A graveyard of Monster Energy cans. That one sock that's been on the ceiling fan for two weeks because you threw it during a breakdown and now it lives there. Plushies lay strewn across your bed like fallen soldiers on a battlefield of despair. The irony of these aggressively cheerful toys amidst your chaos doesn't escape you, but it's not enough to motivate cleaning.

You work from home as a webcomic artist. Your editor hasn't heard from you in two weeks, and you've redrawn the same panel eight times only to delete it. You stare at your tablet like it personally betrayed you. Your characters are supposed to be vibrant. Alive. But now they feel like strangers you no longer understand.

Your job means you technically don't need to go outside. Which is great, because people are terrifying. You never know when a conversation will spiral into someone asking you what your hobbies are, and then you have to lie and say something normal like reading instead of "I hyperfixate on fictional villains and cry about fictional betrayals like they happened to me personally."

You've been eating nothing but whatever's closest to your desk. Chips. Cold udon. Candy. One time you just ate a spoonful of peanut butter and called it dinner. Your sleep schedule is obliterated. You're awake until 5 A.M. watching compilation videos of people crying during anime scenes and then wondering why you can't stop crying too.

The depression is nothing new. But the weight of it now is different. Heavier. Like it's fused to your ribcage.

And you hate that you're still checking your phone. Even now. Even now, when you know better.

Luna climbs into your lap, kneading your stomach with murder in her eyes. You don't move her. Honestly, it hurts, but she's your emotional support cat.

The worst part isn't the loneliness. You're used to that. It's the jealousy. Those little pangs when you scroll past someone's anniversary post, see someone getting engaged, and even groups of friends hanging out. Your siblings only text when they want cash, and your parents treat you like a glitch in the family's emotional software. And you hate that it still hurts. You hate that you're the kind of person who wants so badly to belong to someone, anyone, even if it means losing pieces of yourself.

You were willing to become a doormat in a relationship if it meant someone would stay.

Guess what? He still left.

"Ugh, Luna, is it just me, or is being alive just, like, way too much?" you ask aloud, voice rough and cracked from days of minimal use. Luna, now currently curled in your lap, simply flicks her tail, clearly unimpressed with your melodrama.

"I should, like, move," you whisper, stroking her soft, sleek black fur. "I should... shower. Eat a vegetable. Go outside. Not be a cryptid. One of those things."

Your eyes shift unconsciously to your phone, screen now facing down. One text from an unknown number, some nauseating pictures, and everything shattered.

You honestly don't remember what you said when you confronted him. All you recall was how your hands trembled, how you apologized through ugly sobs – even as he packed his bags and left, without so much as a glance back. Why were you the one saying sorry?

"I'm pathetic," you whisper to Luna, who only yawns, small fangs glinting adorably. You envy her so much it hurts sometimes. Her carefree existence, the fact that her biggest worry in life is when you forget to refill her water dish.

You boot up a cozy farming sim, trying to dissociate into a pixelated field of turnips, but even that feels hollow today. You should be doing something. Anything. Showering. Eating. Brushing your hair. Touching grass. But your brain's on that broken record loop: You're useless, you're annoying, you talk too much, you talk too little, you're clingy, you're a mess, you're–

Knock knock.

You freeze.

No.

No no no.

That did not just happen.

Your entire body stiffens like Luna every time you sneeze unexpectedly. You don't even breathe. Maybe if you're still enough, whoever's out there will just… disintegrate. Like an NPC waiting too long for interaction.

Knock knock knock.

You don't even flinch this time. You just stop breathing.

God hates you. That's the only explanation. This feels personal. It's not just God. This is a group project of divine forces conspiring together, pouring a bucket of cosmic embarrassment onto your entire life.

No one knocks on your door. Ever. Except maybe that one delivery guy who has no concept of boundaries and always tries to sell you his mixtape. But this isn't a knock of familiarity. It's... polite. Tentative. But firm.

Like someone who's trying not to be weird about interrupting you, but also... might be a murderer.

You sit in stunned silence, heartbeat thumping against your ribs like it's trying to warn you in Morse code. You stare at Luna. She stares back. She clearly has no intention of protecting you in the event of a home invasion. She licks her paw instead.

You tiptoe to the door, socks sliding against the warped floorboards, and press your eye to the peephole.

It's a man.

Correction: It is a tall, intimidating man who looks like he walked out of a Final Fantasy boss fight and forgot to change out of his battle outfit. He has two messy pigtails, a black band across his nose, and what looks like dark eyeshadow. Though something tells you it's not Maybelline. He's weirdly beautiful in a vaguely haunting way. But your social anxiety does not care. It clocks his vibes as "terrifying urban legend" and launches you into full panic mode.

Oh my god. The realization dawns slowly and hits like ice.

He's the new tenant.

Of course. The landlord did mention something about someone moving in soon. Though you kind of tuned her out halfway through the conversation because your brain decided to spiral about whether or not your hallway slippers were too loud.

The apartment next to yours has been empty since Mrs. Watanabe moved to live with her daughter in Hokkaido. And he's just staring at your door. Like he knows you're there. Like he felt your anxiety spike through the wall. Why did he knock on your door? What did he want from you? Are you going to get your organs harvested?

"Nope," you mutter under your breath and tiptoeing backwards like you're in a live-action stealth game.

You wait. And wait. And wait.

Eventually, you hear the soft creak of a door closing. Not yours. His.

He's inside now.

"New neighbor," you whisper hoarsely to Luna, who's grooming her butt like the entire world isn't collapsing around you.

She pauses only briefly to glance at you with her usual unimpressed expression.

"He looks terrifying," you add.

She sneezes.

You nod grimly, choosing to interpret it as agreement. "Exactly."

You spend the next three hours hiding in your apartment like it's a bunker during the end times. Every creak outside sends your nervous system into overdrive. You eat a pack of matcha Pocky for dinner and pretend it's a real meal.

Eventually, night falls. You think maybe that's it. Maybe you'll never have to interact with him. Neighbors who never cross paths. You can live like that. That's fine. That's peaceful.

The next day ruins that fantasy in the most aggressively mundane way possible.

You forgot to buy Luna's favorite food.

And the generic kibble in your emergency stash? She hates it. She gives you the most dramatic look of betrayal you've ever seen on a living creature before dramatically flopping onto her side like she's been personally victimized by your negligence.

You stare at her. "I get it. I'm garbage. I'm the worst cat parent. But please don't die of dramatics while I'm gone."

She flicks her tail. You interpret it as conditional forgiveness.

There is no world in which you will allow her to suffer through generic kibble two days in a row. She's your emotional support cat. She deserves better.

You throw on the most aggressively anti-social outfit possible. Oversized black hoodie. Joggers. The exact pair of crocs you told yourself you'd only wear inside. The look screams "Do not perceive me." and you pray the world obliges.

It does not.

Because the second you open your door – he's right there.

Standing right outside.

Holding a box. Clearly mid-move. The moment your eyes meet, your soul does the emotional equivalent of a factory reset.

He blinks at you. No expression. Just… calm.

"Hello," he says.

His voice is deeper than you expect. Smooth. Gentle in a way that does not match his "I could kill you with a stare" exterior. Like a slow wave breaking gently against the shore of your anxiety.

But your brain is not listening.

It's screeching.

You stare. Mouth dry. Thoughts scrambled.

Say hi. Say hi like a normal person. You can do this.

"I'm–I'm–I–I have to go. My cat–she's... she's lactose intolerant. Goodbye!" you blurt, and immediately powerwalk back inside like you're being hunted by debt collectors.

You don't just shut the door. You unintentionally slam it in your panic. Then lean your forehead against it and exhale like you've just survived a near-death experience. Luna stares at you from her perch on the windowsill, eyes wide.

"I panicked," you whisper. "I panicked and now he thinks I'm insane. And that my cat is lactose intolerant. Which she's not."

You slide down the door and bury your face in your hands.

He didn't even look offended. Just… confused. Like you were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve but wasn't mad at either. That somehow makes it worse. You would rather be hated than tolerated with curiosity and confusion.

You spend the next several hours pacing around your apartment, re-enacting the moment like some cringe high school play. You try to justify it. Maybe he didn't hear you. Maybe he thinks "lactose intolerant cat" is a code for something.

Your sleep is garbage that night. Of course it is. You lie in bed surrounded by Sanrio plushies and emotional damage, blinking at the ceiling and whispering to Luna, "I'm going to die alone and everyone will say, 'Yeah, we saw that coming.'"

She snores.

The days pass. You don't see him again.

But you hear him.

Moving boxes. Footsteps. Low hums of music.

Boxes shuffling across old hardwood. The occasional grunt of effort. The metallic clink of something heavy being dropped too fast. Once, the low hum of music. Not loud, not obnoxious, just barely audible through the wall. Lo-fi? Classical? It was hard to tell. There were no lyrics. Just... soft, steady repetition.

You throw yourself into working on your comic. Or... try to. It comes in uneven bursts. Like everything else these days, your creativity is fragile. Fractured. You start pages. Abandon them. Redraw the same expression twenty times. You mostly sketch variations of haunted eyed boys who have unresolved trauma and lesbian protagonists with backstories that rival Greek tragedies. You haven't posted in weeks. Your inbox is full of worried fan messages and even some kind ones from strangers telling you to rest. They mean well, but you can't help but feel like you're disappointing everyone, including yourself.

You avoid the mirror in your bathroom because you're afraid it'll show you the version of yourself that everyone secretly sees: A mess. A ghost in an oversized hoodie. An unreliable narrator.

One night, you're sitting cross-legged on the floor in the dim glow of your laptop, crying into a container of mochi like it's the last kindness left in the world. Luna is perched nearby, watching you with narrowed eyes like you're embarrassing her in front of your imaginary audience again.

Your nose is red. You're wearing socks that don't match. The mochi is falling apart. Everything is, honestly.

And then – a sound.

A thud.

Your breath catches. The sound came from the other side of the wall. His side.

You strain your ears. Silence.

Another noise. Not a crash. Not quite. Something dull, like the edge of a heavy object hitting wood. A chair maybe? A fall?

Your heart stumbles. You set the mochi container down with shaky hands and stand up before your brain even fully decides to. You shuffle toward the wall. The one you share. You press your palm flat against it, then your ear.

Nothing.

Just your own heartbeat.

Is he okay? Is he–

No. No. You are not that kind of person. You don't knock on people's doors. You don't initiate contact. You can't. You literally fled a conversation by invoking a dairy allergy.

You're still standing with your cheek pressed to the shared wall like some socially bankrupt creeper when Luna meows in protest, annoyed that your mochi slathered wrist has stopped midstroke. She headbutts your leg like, "Get a grip, loser." She knows she's the most emotionally intelligent being in the apartment.

"Luna, what if he's fallen and he can't get up?" you whisper, stroking her behind the ears.

She stares at you with her amber eyes. Blinks. Flicks her tail with clinical detachment.

You take that as a, "Bitch, he's literally built like Sephiroth. He's fine."

Right. Probably. You try to pull yourself back to reality, to the known facts: he is built. That man could survive a fall from a second story window and probably apologize to the sidewalk. He did not look like someone who loses fights. Not even with gravity.

Still.

What if?

And that is the exact moment your entire personality gets hijacked by a lifetime of catastrophizing and the haunting echoes of WebMD diagnoses.

Your thoughts spiral like they've been waiting for this. What if he's bleeding? What if he slipped and hit his head on his coffee table? What if he's lying there right now thinking, "I shouldn't have said 'hello' to the weird lactose-cat neighbor."?

You groan and sink onto the floor, half-hugging Luna, half-melting into the hardwood.

You try to get back to drawing. You open your drawing app. Stare at the blank screen. Drag your stylus across it. Nothing comes out right. You draw one eye. Then delete it. Then draw it again slightly different. Then delete it again. You redo it six times before naming the file Pain4.psd and calling it a night.

When you crawl into bed, Luna circles your face like she's inspecting it for sadness and then curls into your chest. You bury your face in her fur. "I am never leaving this apartment again."

But the universe has other plans.

The next time you see him, it's by accident. (Obviously. You would never intentionally see a human being. That would involve making decisions or being perceived. Two things you actively avoid.)

You're outside for one reason only:

Trash day.

You hadn't even wanted to go out. But the garbage was starting to morph into something eldritch.

So there you were. In front of your door, bleary-eyed and bundled up in your outside world camouflage. A faded hoodie large enough to be its own tax-paying citizen and joggers that had seen better centuries.

You were fully committed to being invisible. This was supposed to be a quick mission. In and out.

But then the door beside yours creaked open.

You didn't even register it at first. Not consciously. Just a sound. A background detail. Not until your peripheral vision catches height. A tall silhouette shifting into frame.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Him.

Again.

This time, he's holding a garbage bag. Normal. Totally mundane. A very human act of waste management. The shadows under his eyes make him look sleep deprived or like he's seen the apocalypse and chosen to keep going out of spite. His hair's tied into those same messy twin-tails, and that strange black mark still stretches across the bridge of his nose like a war paint declaration. His expression is deadpan. Neutral.

Your fingers fumble the bag, panic overriding your motor skills. A plastic bottle clinks against your shoe and bounces dramatically down the hallway like it's trying to draw attention to your anxiety. You mutter "oh no, oh fuck," in a voice so small it could be mistaken for the wind.

Of course, he notices.

Because of course.

He turns slightly toward you.

"Hello," he says.

Oh, God. Round Two.

But something about his voice is different this time. Still deep. Still calm. But… tentative.

You stare at the trash in your hands like it might burst into flames and save you.

There is no escape.

You open your mouth. Something comes out.

"Uh." You clear your throat. "Hi?"

It comes out too high pitched. You sound like a balloon losing air.

He nods slowly. You can feel his gaze. It's not judging, just… observing. Quietly curious.

Then, like he's been rehearsing it in his head, he says, "I'm Choso."

You almost drop your bag again. Choso. His name sounds like a video game boss with a tragic past. Like he was designed by someone who cries over concept art. You can already see the character sheet in your head. Tragic backstory. Hidden trauma. You blink at him, brain buffering.

"I–uh, I'm…" you begin, and then your mouth betrays you completely. "I have a cat."

His expression does not change.

You rush on, words tumbling out like a confession. "Her name's Luna. She's not lactose intolerant, actually. I lied. Sorry."

You want to disappear into the concrete.

You just said your cat isn't lactose intolerant. You apologized for lying about your cat's imaginary dairy allergy to a man you've known for less than thirty cumulative seconds.

Good job. Really solid performance. 10/10. Would cringe again.

Choso doesn't flinch. Doesn't even look surprised. He processes it, and then nods.

"I see," he says, evenly.

That's it. Just two words.

Not "Okay…?" Not "What the hell?" Just… I see.

Like he's filed it away into some mental directory. Like there's now a little folder in his mind labeled NEIGHBOR: COWARDLY, LIES UNDER STRESS, CAT IS FINE.

He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't make a face. Just stands there with a slight tilt of the head, as if that explains everything.

You don't know what to do with that. So you nod. Too many times. Like a bobblehead with anxiety. "Yeah. So."

He looks at your trash bag. "You're going to the dumpsters?"

"Um." A beat. "No. Yes. Yeah. I mean – I'm on my way. To the… garbage. Yes."

Incredible.

Truly the Shakespeare of your generation.

You mentally kick yourself into the stratosphere. But Choso just nods again, like you just said something deep.

You start walking, mostly because standing still feels like you'll combust.

To your absolute horror, he falls into step beside you.

You're walking next to him. Next. To. Him.

Your brain short circuits. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. Your thoughts are looping. 'Oh my god he's walking next to me, this is happening, I don't know how to walk like a normal person anymore, do I swing my arms? Is this arm too swingy? Am I breathing too loud? Is this what breathing sounds like? Should I look at him? No, don't look at him–'

"You don't have to be afraid," he says quietly. The words are so soft, so plainly spoken, that they stop your internal chaos like a record scratch.

Your breath catches.

You glance over, startled. Not at what he said, but how he said it. Like it wasn't a rehearsed reassurance, but a… fact. Like he knew you were afraid and didn't want to scold you for it.

You look away again.

"I'm not afraid," you mutter, too quickly. "I just have social anxiety so intense that I cry after calling customer service. Not the same."

You weren't supposed to say that out loud.

Choso is quiet for a few long seconds. Then, "That sounds hard."

It's not pitying. Not even sympathetic in the conventional sense. Just a calm, neutral acknowledgment. Like he's telling you it's okay to exist that way.

And that makes something ache in your chest.

You reach the dumpsters, and there's this weird moment where you both just… stand there. Holding trash. Awkward trash camaraderie.

You dump yours in first, then back away like the act of garbage disposal has somehow completed your social obligation.

He throws his bag in too, the motion smooth and strangely precise, like even in mundane things he moves like a weapon sheathed in calm.

And then he says, "I'm sorry."

You blink. "What?"

"For frightening you the other day. I was… too direct. I've been told my expressions are difficult to read."

Your stomach knots. "Oh. No. No, it's not you. I'm like this with everyone. You could be a tiny grandma offering me cookies and I'd still have a fight or flight response."

His eyes meet yours, and it's the first time you see them clearly. Deep brown, near black. But there's nothing scary there. Just… tiredness. Worn in sadness. The kind that builds up when you've been carrying invisible weights for too long.

"I moved here because it was quiet," he says.

"Oh." You blink, thrown off by the blunt honesty. "Yeah. It's… really quiet. Most of the people in the building are, like, old or sleep at weird hours."

Choso nods. "My last place was loud. Too much going on. I didn't sleep well there."

You don't ask what he means by too much going on. You want to. But that would require, like, a follow up. And being normal. Still, you mumble, "I hope you sleep better here."

You immediately want to shrivel into the earth. That was such a weird thing to say. Who says that?

But Choso… smiles? It's tiny. Barely there. But it reaches his eyes. "Thank you."

You finally glance back up at him.

That's when it hits you.

He's not intimidating. He's just quiet. A little awkward. Off rhythm in the same way you are, like a vinyl track played just a little too slow. You feel it in your chest. This strange, gentle ache. Not bad. Not painful. Just... familiar. A recognition of someone else who doesn't know what to do with themselves either.

"I should, uh, go feed Luna," you say, already backing toward the stairwell.

Choso nods. "Okay."

Then adds, as if he's rehearsed it, "It was… nice talking to you."

You nod so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. "You too!"

You flee. Again.

Later that night, you sit cross-legged on your floor, Luna eating kibble next to you like a queen.

"He said it was nice talking to me," you say aloud.

Luna doesn't look up. Rude.

"And I didn't completely collapse."

She licks her paw.

"I mean, I did panic, and say dumb stuff, and kind of speed walked away like a coward, but still. I didn't die. That's growth, right?"

You lie back on the floor, arms flopping outward like a starfish in emotional defeat.

Your ceiling fan sock waves at you from above.

"He's nice," you murmur.

Luna yawns. You take that as agreement.

You glance toward the shared wall.

You don't know anything about him. He could be a teacher. A gamer. A very tall barista. A secret poet. A professional garbage thrower. Who knows.

But you do know one thing:

You don't feel like a complete alien around him.

And somehow, that makes him the least scary person you've met in a long, long time.