#everything is a theory. everything is a possible announcement.

[h-f-k]

me and my bff are the perfect example of what happens when you create your "fandom experience" in different social media platforms and what happens after you've been in them for a while, i've been on tumblr for so long that i'm so immune to theories and shit like that and my friend who got into the fandom through tik tok is insufferably gullible. yesterday she got mad that taylor didn't play the way i loved you (because apparently it was obvious that she knew of this internal moment/joke the argentine fandom has which is so stupid lmao) and i'm like girl... stop projecting and expecting taylor to do stuff just bc you saw a bizarre theory on tik tok/twitter...

[trashno0dle]

so there's a lot of speculation whether or not they're gonna have mike be michael or not in the fnaf movie. and so far even i thought it was pretty unlikely considering the little things we've been shown. but now that the full trailers been revealed there's something that caught my eye. and maybe i'm puling a matpat here and over analyzing one little frame but. just hear me out alright. so in the little snippet we see of a phone call between mike and william, it's pretty normal and well, there's nothing to show that they know each other. clearly mike doesn't know who he's talking to, he just wants a job.

and honestly for me i was losing hope that they were gonna have mike be revealed to be michael. since initially i thought this was just them confirming that he's not since, surely if he was michael then he'd recognize his fathers voice? but. that might not be the case.

my theory/speculation for the route they're going (again, emphasis on the theory i'm not saying this is 100% canon) is that it's heavily implied there's going to be SOME kind of flashback with mike as a young teenager, since a boy was cast and listed as "young mike" too. and this information about his character given back when casting for the roles were announced.

"riddled with guilt over a tragedy in his past" which only further strengthens the possibility of a flashback to the bite of 83 where michael pranked his brother and inadvertently caused his death. it's the aftermath of this event with determines how this theory could work. either, william and his wife divorced shortly after, and his wife got custody of mike - they married into another family, the schmidt's. this could lead to abby either being his step-sister or his half-sister.

OR. mike was taken away from william either because of the bite or because the police were heavily suspicious that william was responsible for the missing children. he was put into the system and adopted by - again - the schmidt's. and the reason he doesn't remember anything is because the trauma and the guilt from the bite of 83 and the death of his little brother caused him to heavily repress those memories and in turn, a lot of others (william) without realizing.

so mike doesn't recognize william's voice here. but william?

this is the frame that caught me here. his expression, the subtle smile on his face. the gears are turning in his head, something clicked.

what if william was keeping tabs on mike this whole time? and he carefully plotted to ensure he got the job at freddy's. for reasons unknown. maybe he just wanted to mess with him, make him remember everything he repressed from his childhood - he's trying to get him to remember by bringing him back to the place where it all started. he remembers his son, but mike doesn't remember his father.

BUT that's just me i'm a little insane. anyway i needed to make this post and write down my thoughts or i'd explode.

[coffee-and-geto]

“I THINK HE DID IT BUT I JUST CAN'T PROVE IT (HE DID IT)”

“Tell me something… You really like to put yourself in danger wherever you go, don’t you, troublemaker?”

❦ pairing: professor!toji x f!reader

❦ summary: you are a student of criminal studies at a prestigious university with one goal in mind: get your father out of prison one day. but how will you react when your new professor in the subject, as attractive as he is odious, comes to replace your old teacher who has deserted the post? especially when that new teacher is keeping a secret that will jeopardize your plans. one thing’s for sure, your life will never be the same again...

❦ warnings: +18 only, smut, nsfw, dead dove: do not eat!!, toxic parental relationship, yakuzas, mention of violence, vulgar language/insults/alcohol/bullying/suicide, use/mention of weapons and drugs, murder, art by @/521jie.

❦ wc: 19,055 (sorry for all this length. next parts will be less long—at least I hope so...)

“No way…” 

“Is it true?”

Whispers of gossip rippled through the crowd of students packed like sardines in the Keio University courtyard under a grayish sky, crying its fine April rain. A back-to-school gathering announced straight away upon the opening of the doors of the prestigious school spared no curiosity.

Not even yours.

It’s was as if the news uttered has echoed like a clap of thunder in your ears.

Amid this gathering, you have a direct view of the main rostrum of the university, which usually serves as a stage for annual events. Mr. Yaga, the principal, stands, the handle of a microphone wrapped in his fingers, patiently waiting for a silence that you think takes an eternity to muzzle all those voices.

“Your attention, please.” Mr. Yaga’s voice resonates throughout the courtyard and cuts off the chattering. “As I just mentioned, Mr. Kiyotaka Ijichi, the professor of criminological theory, has submitted his letter of resignation at the beginning of this semester.”

He lets a silence permeate the consciousness of his students before continuing in a solemn voice, “He didn’t wish to give any justification for this sudden decision, and I doubt that this news will please the master’s students in criminal sciences. We have sent an express request to the Tokyo Academy to find a new professor worthy of teaching in this school. Temporary schedules will be sent by email this weekend pending a new professor for this position. Please be patient. Our staff is well aware of the concern you may feel. But we can assure you that we are doing everything possible to enable you all to excel in your studies.”

It’s done.

The image of your former professor of criminological theory—the man who previously handled your dominant subject—begins to fade from your mind. The subject for which you usually strive has just slipped from your hands like a wet bar of soap. 

No matter Yaga’s words.

The chances of a qualified and worthy professor walking through the doors of Keio University is like ‘looking for a needle in a haystack’.

You stop listening to the rest of the principal’s back-to-school speech and understand that it has ended when the crowd of students disperses under the squeaking of their shoes trotting on the wet grass of the courtyard.

“Don’t you find it strange?”

A mischievous voice whispered in your ear making you jump. You glance in your peripheral vision and the fresh breeze finally blowing on you making you catch a glimpse of blue hair.

“Miwa,” you mumble without turning around.

A discreet chuckle follows. You begin to leave the courtyard without lingering, and Miwa theatrically sighs your name before slipping to your side in your attempt to quicken your pace. You’re one of those people who avoided Miwa Kasumi.

Alias the university gossip girl. The one to whom you can never hide any of your secrets.

Miwa’s gaze follows you as you hurry towards the exit gate. She has a smug smile on her lips. A smile that screams ’you know what I’m talking about’.

“So, your teacher resigned without giving any explanation?” Miwa says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “How strange...” A second laugh escapes her lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.

You quicken your pace, not wanting to further prolong the conversation, already too long for your liking.You don’t respond to Miwa’s remarks—unsure if it’s because you have nothing to say or because you already know the reason for her approach.

Miwa finally sighs in annoyance. “Why are you in such a hurry? Don’t you want to listen to me? Don’t you want to discuss Mr. Ijichi?” she asks.

But you already know what she wants to talk to you about.

The light rain from earlier is now heavier, and drops crash down on the top of your head. You anticipated it, which is why—still immersed in silence—you take out your umbrella from your bag and unfold it over you.

“C’mon... Talk to me a little...” Miwa insists with her teasing tone. She gives you a pout, pretending to be hurt by your indifference.

You sigh and stop walking, standing at the edge of the university gate. “What do you want?” you finally give in. You check the time on your phone, pretending to be in a hurry.

“I’ve got an exciting article lined up for this week.” Miwa locks her blue eyes on you, and for a moment, you feel naked. It’s as if her eyes exist only to probe people’s minds. “And guess who will be in the spotlight?”

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. “I don’t know,” you mutter uncertainly, your eyes fixed on her with uncertainty.

Miwa raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying your lie. “It’ll be a weekend surprise, I advise you to stay active on the blog.” Her icy-sweet tone makes you want to run away, but you remain silent.

She winks at you before slipping away.

If the students of Keio University couldn’t bring themselves to continue living their student lives—with the apprehension of seeing their names displayed in bold on Miwa’s blog every Sunday, revealing the juiciest secrets of their private lives—this year, she subtly gave you a new piece of information about the extent of her new targets.

This year, even the teachers won’t be spared.

°°°°

“I think... Well... Let’s say next Friday? Would that work for you?” The secretary’s voice and the clicks of a computer mouse reach your ears.

You stand in front of your fridge, looking at your calendar fixed with decorative magnets. After a few seconds of thought, you nod before replying, “Yes, that would be perfect,” momentarily forgetting that the secretary at the penitentiary you’re contacting can’t see you.

“Very well. I’ve scheduled your appointment, and we’ll contact you by email to confirm your visit. Your father will be informed, of course.” You can feel the secretary’s pleasant smile in her voice. She seems to be waiting for your confirmation.

To which you quickly respond before ending the call.

Your mind has been distracted since you left the university this morning. The news of Mr. Ijichi’s unexpected (or almost) resignation and Miwa’s announcement about her next article this Sunday had you overthinking. However, setting up the visit with your father in prison, sweeps away some of the weight on your shoulders.

Yet, in the darkness that settles in your apartment as evening begins, you sincerely hope that no other news will distract you so from the goals you’ve set for yourself.

°°°°

One skill that sets you apart is your undeniable sixth sense.

Just two days ago, you feared more or less unpleasant news, but this Sunday, two caught your attention when your phone emitted notification sounds from two different sources—but nonetheless related in some way.

The first comes from a blog you reluctantly follow titled “Keio’s gossip.” Although the author of the articles posted remains anonymous, every student on the Keio University campus knows their true identity, without having the necessary evidence to do anything against him—or rather her.

Miwa Kasumi is indeed the author of the articles that publicly displayed the slightest gossip concerning each student. A majority has already tasted it, and the flavor was far from the sweet mochi sold as dessert culinary specialties in the heart of Tokyo—according to the faces that the ’pointing fingers’ made on Monday after the weekly publication of an article every Sunday afternoon.

With your eyes glued to your phone screen, you discover the article that was posted a few minutes ago on the blog. The light from your phone is the only source illuminating your room as you sit cross-legged on your bed. Your mouth opens slightly, and you resign yourself to reading the article, the title of which tightens your heart:

’Kiyotaka Ijichi: voluntary or forced resignation?’

Your eyes begin to move back and forth from line to line, and a vise grips your chest as you continue to swallow the horrifying words recounted in the article.

“It was true that Professor Ijichi was subjected to certain remarks from his students,” confides a second-year master’s male student in criminal sciences. “Jabs, sometimes even inappropriate remarks. But no one really reacted... We all thought it would stop at some point...”

“Last year, we all thought he would eventually commit suicide,” adds a history female student. “He was the type to just take it and wouldn’t dare respond or discipline his students for fear that their parents would put his position at stake at the university. Spoiled brats with excessive power, you know.”

“Yet, he was a very good teacher. He was very kind, attentive, and always spoke with humility, no matter who was in front of him,” affirms another female student, on the verge of tears. “He really didn’t deserve this...”

“It was after several other testimonies like these...”

“So, we concluded that...”

“...Kiyotaka Ijichi, former professor of criminological theory at Keiô University, therefore decided to resign from his position as a professor, which would also imply that suicide, could have been a very different departure option that he left behind at this prestigious school. The constant harassment of students, mostly from children of parents with high financial means, would thus be the real reason for Mr. Ijichi’s departure.”

“Keiô private university regularly proclaims its impeccable professionalism through numerous awards, the excellent teaching of its professors, and the discipline of its students. Here is a fact that calls all of this into question—particularly regarding the treatment of teachers. Does Keiô University really admit students for their promising futures? Or is it swayed by the big checks provided by parents from the upper bourgeoisie?”

You finish reading the article, and your brain is bombarded with thoughts racing at over a hundred kilometers per hour, but no words can break through the barrier of your lips.

Even after his departure, Mr. Ijichi couldn’t leave in peace.

A sense of injustice runs through your veins, but you can’t do anything about it.

Why did Miwa feel the need to write this article?

Was it really necessary?

You leave the article page, which is starting to receive comments as you watch the numbers increase below the end-of-page bar, and you redirect yourself to your email inbox.

It’s always the weakest who suffer the worst treatment from society. Whether it’s in the family, at work, with friends, or even at school.

You bite your lip and check the second notification in your inbox. As you expected, Keiô University has sent you your schedule for the coming week. You even expect to find empty slots in your schedule. But strangely, your major subject—criminological theory—fills its place on the colorful digital file with different colors according to the subject indicated. You think there’s an error or something. Until you read the name of the professor in charge of your courses.

T. Fushiguro.

You hastily exit the downloaded file on your phone and open the email sent by the university. After a second reading, your eyes widen like saucers.

“Regarding the replacement of the former criminological theory professor, a request has been submitted to the university. The director’s decision has been finalized. The new professor, Mr. Toji Fushiguro, will therefore lead the courses in this branch for master’s students in criminal sciences from the beginning of the semester.”

Two contradictory feelings finally want to burst in your chest.

The first is relief. You can finally resume your goals serenely without having to worry about the delay you might have experienced in the case of a prolonged wait for Mr. Ijichi’s replacement. What other good news can offset the frustration you felt less than two days earlier?

But the second taints this joy that you should feel: doubt. Keiô University is known for its excellent teaching, which includes rare, highly qualified, and renowned professors. It goes without saying that each of them has at least one doctorate mentioned on their CV. So how, over the course of a single weekend, could your former professor of criminological theory have been replaced so quickly? That’s where Miwa’s article strikes you.

“Is the university being swayed by big checks?”

You need a teacher. And not just any teacher. A teacher who would help you get a degree that would help get your father out of prison. So the fact that the university found a new professor so quickly leaves you skeptical, and your sixth sense wandering behind you like a ghost does not bode well.

So you pray that, for once, your sixth sense is wrong.

°°°°

“How’s he called, again?”

You bite your lip, your gaze lost in the rainy landscape of the courtyard outside the window. “Toji Fushiguro.”

Shoko takes a drag of her cigarette and exhales through the window opening next to which she’s leaning against a shelf. She glances at your absent expression with a slight smile on her lips, and then flicks her finished cigarette butt over the window ledge, making sure it’s extinguished by the damp grass outside. She sighs and stands up. “Let’s go. The bell is about to ring.”

You grimace but obey her words, pushing your back off the wall of the university library and following her along the rows of books stacked so high on wooden shelves that ladders are provided for students invested enough in their studies.

It’s already Monday, and you dread your very first class in criminology theory with your new professor Toji Fushiguro. Is it necessary to mention that, for the first time since your entry into the university a few short years ago, you don’t feel well? But in a normal way, like any average student? No, you have a bad feeling. Something’s off. And you can’t put your finger on it, the only thing you found to do is lament to Shoko, your trusted friend.

“Stay strong. You’ll brief me afterward, won’t you?” Shoko encourages you with a friendly elbow nudge to the arm followed by a wink from one of her eyes marked by violet circles.

You respond with a nervous laugh, and she waves before leaving you in front of the library doors as she heads towards the wing dedicated to medical sciences. With a knot in your stomach and a desire to go home and bury yourself under your blanket, you head towards your classroom in the building reserved for law students.

When you arrive at the amphitheater door, a small herd of students begins to gather in front of the swinging doors, clustering together like a school of fish. The most eager are female students who, dressed in their university’s pine green uniforms, make the most noise with their conversations, the subject of which soon pierces your ears.

“Did you see him this morning?”

“Yes! He’s so hot!”

Giggles echo until you notice that the class line-up is oddly divided. The girls are glued to the closed doors and the boys are standing back, lined up along the corridor walls. Most of them pay no attention to the girls’ chatter and pass the time on their screens—laptops and phones alike.

When the bell rings throughout the university, you enter behind your peers and sit at the end of a central table in the amphitheater. Your eyes scan the stage reserved for the professor after the last steps at the bottom of the room, and your eyes finally settle on a singular silhouette.

Your breath catches, and you almost feel your pupils dilate as Professor Fushiguro leans over his desk, with his open laptop in front of his eyes.

With your mouth slightly open, it’s as if you’ve been robbed of the ability to speak, think, and soon, to breathe.

You don’t know which details unsettle you the most—from his tall silhouette and broad musculature adorned by the beautiful navy blue shirt so deep that from further away you would have mistaken it for black; to his hair, the jet-black locks similar to stalagmites that brush his ears and neck, to his sturdy and prominent jawline.

Everything about him is so grand.

And so beautiful...

You catch yourself looking at him for too long, and your thoughts drift too far. Heat floods your face. Fortunately for you, you weren’t the only one staring at him so much—and with interest—which you use as an advantage to mask your embarrassment when you take out your belongings.

Professor Fushiguro has a beauty that you don’t consider fair for just a simple professor.

As the amphitheater falls into a heavy silence, Professor Fushiguro raises his head towards his students, and the class begins as soon as his voice is heard by all ears.

It’s—

Deep, profound, calm, composed, and above all...

...magnetic.

Professor Fushiguro doesn’t need to ask for silence for the class to hang onto his every word. Nobody seems to react as he doesn’t mention his previous colleague—Mr. Ijichi—not even once.

With furrowed brows, you rest your elbow on your polished wooden desk space and don’t take your eyes off your professor. Under your mask of attentive student, the screen of your laptop hides your chest, where your heart buried inside beats to the rhythm of cannonballs launched at full speed.

Professor Fushiguro doesn’t have the visual demeanor of a professor.

That’s the sentence you keep repeating as Professor Fushiguro continues his class, unaware that three-quarters of his class have stopped listening to what he’s saying since the first word crossed his thin lips—and prefer to admire his only physiognomy built by God himself.

Fuck.

You knew it.

You knew this replacement couldn’t be normal. The way things concluded with such a quick replacement couldn’t help but hide something.

Professor Fushiguro doesn’t have the visual demeanor of a professor.

You force yourself to tear your eyes away from your teacher and start taking notes on the course introduced on ’The Evolution of Crime and Detection Methods Throughout History’. He provides an appendix with a manual to be obtained by the end of the next two weeks, and you try to type its title into your schedule for the coming days in the Notion app on your phone without being distracted by how well your ears welcome the timbre of his voice.

You swallow and close your eyelids for a few seconds, analyzing each word in an attempt to understand the course he almost entirely reads from his printed sheets held in one of his hands just below his nose.

“...legal reforms have also shaped our understanding and treatment of crime. For example, the abolition of the death penalty in many countries reflects a change in our values and conception of justice. These reforms reflect our evolution as a society and our commitment to principles of justice and humanity.”

You open your eyelids after a minute in hopes of refocusing. Unfortunately for you, your eyes fall directly onto emerald orbs that stare at you for a moment.

With a lower lip curled up in a sign of noticeable annoyance, Professor Fushiguro doesn’t say a word and eventually averts his gaze from you, resuming his magnetic monologue.

You bite the inside of your cheek and hide behind the screen of your laptop, your cheeks probably flushed. Perhaps he thought you were dozing off in his class... You curse yourself internally despite the fact that he made no remarks.

At the end of what seems like an eternity, the bell rings, signaling the end of the class. The entire class stands up simultaneously, and you expect to have to wait for the exit door to be unblocked by the herd of students eager to leave the amphitheater.

But to your great surprise—which ultimately wasn’t so unexpected—a part of the group of girls whose conversation you overheard just before the start of class descends the room’s steps towards Professor Fushiguro.

You purse your lips and leave the class with a nonchalant step, your bag hanging from your shoulder.

You feel how long this semester is going to be...

°°°°

“And how are the classes?” your father asks through the window that separates you from him.

Your index finger traces distracted patterns on the metallic surface of the side of your table where your forearms rest, supporting your slightly hunched shoulders. You are still haunted by the image of your new professor.

“It’s okay. We have a new professor in criminology theory,” you reply, looking up at him.

Your father raises an eyebrow. “For what reason?” he asks suspiciously before wrinkling his nose. You notice he has a three-day beard and that his wrinkles appear more pronounced than usual—or at least, since the last time you visited him.

“Actually, the old one resigned, and the university found a new one.”

This time, your father’s eyebrows furrow. “So fast... Is he any good? I hope they didn’t hire some nobody who—“

“No,” you quickly cut him off, shaking your head, “he’s good.” You refrain from adding ’why don’t you take an interest in me?’ And your heart twinges every time you see your father show more interest in your studies than in yourself. Your avoiding eyes wander over the contours of the window that separates you from him, sitting across from you in a somewhat tense position—shoulders slightly hunched inward, and hands clasped on the table.

He seems to notice it and clears his throat before sitting up straighter on his plastic chair. “You... remember my friend Miguel?” your father starts, changing the subject. He speaks in a more concerned tone. “The one who went to Kenya.”

Your eyebrows furrow, and you focus your gaze back on him before blinking. “The one who was with you?” you ask with a bitter taste in your mouth. Miguel was your father’s ex-business associate, who, unlike your father, wasn’t imprisoned when the police arrested him.

“Yes. He wrote me a letter earlier this week,” he replies, “to ask how I’m doing and to let me know that he’s coming back to Japan next week. He said he’s inviting you to dinner with his wife and daughter.”

You process the information at the same pace as your swallowing. Your father slides an envelope—no doubt already opened by the prison administration before him—through the communication slot between you under the window. You take the envelope and read the letter inside.

“Why?” you murmur.

“He’s not a bad guy, you know.”

This simple sentence reminds you of something he’s told you before.

’Miguel hasn’t done anything. Nobody has anything against him. They wrongly accused me. I did it for you. I’m not like the others.’

And by ’the others,’ he referred to other associates who were arrested along with your father a few years ago, for the same reason—embezzlement.

To the tune of a considerable sum of just over a hundred billion yen.

Your father assured you that he wasn’t involved in any of it and that former acquaintances he thought were trustworthy led him to be involved against his will in a whole story that ended behind bars.

You believe him, of course.

Your father—with whom you’ve had a rather difficult relationship since your mother’s death when you were in middle school—seemed to want to rebuild a healthy father-daughter relationship with you. And who were you to refuse? You wanted your father to give you the affection you dream of every night after seeing a father and his daughter eating ice cream in a square, or a father and his daughter shopping at the mall.

Everything you’ve never had.

And when your father opened his arms to you at the end of your high school studies—still undecided about your direction for further studies—your father let you know that studying criminology could be ideal. And with that, maybe you could help him get out of the unjust prison that prevents you from being fully happy.

You love your father.

So it didn’t take long for you to become one of the top students in your university class in criminal science studies. You want to excel, and that in all areas. It makes your father proud. It stretches his lips into a smile that warms your heart. Who calls you ’my angel’ and admits wanting to hug you.

Things he would never have told you before.

“Yes,” you reply, lifting your chin. “I’ll visit him. Don’t worry. I promise.” Your voice softens, and you refrain from letting tears fill your eyes as a faint smile stretches across your father’s lips.

“Thank you.”

°°°°

“Don’t tell me he’s that handsome?” Shoko lets out a giggle that resonates through the speaker of your phone.

“Want to bet that most girls drool over him every night, imagining him in their beds?” You mutter with a hint of aggression aimed at the pot whose sushi rice you ate for lunch has stuck to the bottom. You scrub the leftover rice with your metal sponge in the kitchen sink and let out a sigh.

You glance at the screen of your phone leaning against the tiled ledge, giving you a FaceTime view of Shoko sitting at her desk in her bedroom. She giggles and brings a pen to her mouth to nibble on its end—a tic she has to replace the cigarette usually in that spot. “Just like you, for example?” she teases.

Your cheeks warm up. “Excuse me? You know that’s not true.”

“Nuh-uh…”

You purse your lips as your heartbeats accelerate at Shoko’s words and her sarcastic tone. No, you didn’t have wet dreams about Professor Fushiguro. But that doesn’t stop most female students from gossiping about the entirety of Professor Fushiguro’s physique—aka Hercules’ twin body. And from what you’ve already heard during the first week of classes, they don’t mince their words.

But you can’t say you were indifferent to him. The rest of the week flew by so quickly that you find yourself on a Wednesday afternoon discussing your life on FaceTime with Shoko. She has to study for her medical exams, and you didn’t have time to see her during the first weekend due to the workload your friend endured.

You toss the metal sponge into a corner of your sink and grab a classic, foamy sponge to scrub the surface of your pot, now smooth and immaculate.

“Oh, by the way. Are you free this weekend?” Shoko asks, looking up from her books.

You rinse your pot, turning on the faucet, and sniffle mournfully. “Nope. A friend of my father invited me to dinner with his wife and daughter. I spoke to him on the phone this morning.”

“Damn. We need to meet up so you can show me this professor too. I feel like everyone has seen him except me.”

“Even Satoru,” you chuckle as you dry your hands. “Have you heard him curse about him? He has a beautiful rival, I must say.” You continue to smile at the memory of your friend with albinos hair and cerulean eyes who was shocked to see his popularity among the female gender decline in less than a week. You shake your head, still shaking with laughter. “The look on his face…”

Shoko giggles in turn. “I guess you’ll also be studying on Sunday?” Her smile fades, and she rests her cheek against her palm a bit bored.

“Unfortunately.”

She snorts after seeing your apologetic smile.

“But don’t worry. I’ll find time for us to meet. And also to show you—”

“Yes, the man of your dreams,” Shoko cuts in with a laugh, “literally!” 

You gasp at her words. "Shoko!”

°°°°

“And on this one, we were visiting Paris. We were so young…” You lean in slightly to observe the photo that Miguel, your father’s friend, is showing you.

“Oh, he never told me he traveled so much. I remember him mentioning taking my mother to Spain once, but he never talked about his trips with you.” You smile politely, sweeping away the twinge in your heart that makes you want to wince.

Miguel adjusts his beret and tilts his head to the side. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you reply, rocking back and forth on your feet, “but I suppose he didn’t think about it. He was often tired when he came home from work when I was younger.” You force your smile even more at Miguel’s surprised reaction, which stretches the features of his smooth, dark skin.

Unlike your father, Miguel is clean-shaven, and you have no doubt that his well-groomed appearance—from his navy blue suit and charming tie with silver stripes—speaks of the comfortable life he enjoys and shares with his family. This simple fact rekindles the cuts in your heart that you’ve tried to mend over the years. But is it enough?

“And otherwise, is he doing well? Will he soon have served his sentence?”

“No, he still has a few years left,” you reply with a hint of intentional bitterness that wipes the smile off your face. “When I think that he was wrongly accused while he’s innocent…” Your fists clench, and you notice Miguel freezing. You furrow your brow, curiosity piqued by his behavior.

“Yes,” he says with a embarrassed throat clearing and a nod. “Yes, of course. The justice system is really too manipulable. I didn’t know he told you he was... innocent.”

You note Miguel’s tone. He doesn’t seem certain of what he’s saying, and you wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that he didn’t have a sentence to serve unlike your father, of whose innocence you’re convinced.

“Yes, he is,” you repeat firmly. Your gaze wanders around Miguel’s main living-room, which is decorated very chicly, in beige and black tones—warmed by the soft light of the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the fireplace in the background. It’s the epitome of a luxurious and cozy home. Yet again, something you don’t have.

You swallow back the bile rising in your throat, and as Miguel is about to continue the conversation, his wife, dressed in a stunning red velvet evening gown, enters the living room, a smile on her lips and a large plastic spoon in her hand. “Are you staying for dinner, dear?”

You’re taken aback for a moment and glance at the time on your phone then at the bay window in the living room, which offers a view of the already darkening sky. “I have to pick up a package from a nearby store before it closes... So, I’m not sure. Do you mind if I go and come back? I’ll be quick.” You offer her the same polite and forced smile you gave Miguel a few minutes ago.

“No, not at all. You’re welcome, my dear.”

And you purse your lips at the nickname but don’t let anything show. Miguel’s wife walks you to the front door, and before you have a chance to turn the handle, you hear small footsteps behind you. You turn around and see Miguel’s nine-year-old daughter, holding her Barbie doll close. Her brown pigtails sway slightly with each step, and she offers you a shy look.

“You’re leaving? Already? I haven’t shown you all my dolls yet…” she murmurs in a small voice. Her mother giggles, and you do the same. You take a few steps toward the little girl and bend your knees to her height.

“No, sweetie. I’m just going to get something outside, and I’ll be right back for dinner. We’ll even have time to play, if you want.”

“Yippee!” she exclaims, throwing herself into your arms and threatening to knock you over.

You burst into a genuine, light laugh. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Miguel’s daughter pulls away from you, a huge smile on her face, and her mother opens the door for you, apparently pleased to see her daughter showing affection for you.

Without lingering, you quickly leave the Oduol’s huge luxurious house and head to the tobacco shop a few hundred meters away. You ordered the manual that Professor Fushiguro requested for the coming weeks, and your order needs to be picked up from a store where the package was deposited. The air outside is icy and sharp for an April evening. It has been raining every day, and strangely enough, the sky has decided to hold back its tears this evening—just like you.

Arriving at the store, you ask to pick up your package, and once you have it under your arm, you almost immediately regret it. The warmth of the shop contrasts too much with the icy cold of this evening. In the deserted streets, not even a cat dares to show its nose. The neighborhood where Miguel lives is usually quiet because it’s reserved for the wealthiest. You clearly don’t live as luxuriously, and that’s somewhat reassuring. It’s as if anything and nothing can happen here.

As you turn the corner of the street where Miguel lives, bursts of orange light catch your attention. You barely have to look up before your package slips from your hands and collides with the pavement.

Miguel’s pavilion, as beautiful and luxurious as you saw it earlier, is on fire.

Despite this, silence reigns in the street. It’s as if no one sees what you see—huge flames licking at walls now darkened by the heat, and beams giving way and crashing onto the gradually shrinking lawn, also consumed by the fire. You want to scream and call for help—anything. But a silhouette emerging from the front door of the house seals your lips shut. You would have hoped it was Miguel, but you don’t live in paradise.

It’s indeed a masculine figure with an imposing muscular build, tall stature, and a black compression shirt, walking towards a motorcycle casually parked near Miguel’s fence. A large sports bag hangs from his hand by the handle. He effortlessly loads it onto the back of his bike despite its obvious weight. You’re afraid the man will notice you—though he hasn’t yet—but the paralysis freezing your limbs prevents you from making any move. While there’s no outward sign of activity, your heart rebels. It thumps so loudly in your chest that you almost fear the man might hear it from where he stands.

He straddles his bike and puts on his helmet before you have a chance to identify his face. The evening’s darkness obscures any chance of recognizing the arsonist. Once his motorcycle helmet is securely fastened, the man starts his bike and glances back one last time.

Familiar emerald eyes fall upon you.

And as the man turns away without a hint of reaction, he lifts his foot from the ground and rides off into the night’s silence.

A silence that persists even as you rush to the front of Miguel’s house and scream with all the strength of your lungs for help, calling out the names of his wife and daughter. But only the crackling of flames burning your hopes for their survival answers you.

°°°°

You can’t breathe.

The air escapes you.

Emerald irises glare at you from the corner of your room where you’re paralyzed by sleep. Thin lips stretch into a smile that haunts you like a cursed spirit. You blink, and the silhouette is now leaning over you on your bed, hands clasping around your neck with a powerful grip.

It suffocates you.

And its irises stare at you impassively.

Choking you in a deadly silence.

DING DONG.

DING DONG.

DING DONG...

You wake with a start. Your forearm rests on the polished wooden table of the university library, a small patch of saliva staining the fabric of your white shirt from your sleep. Still bleary-eyed, you look around and notice the ghostly silence of the library. You retrieve your phone from your pocket, and the displayed time tells you three things.

The first is that the bell that just rang was the second warning for the start of classes.

The second is that you’re late.

And the third—the worst—is that you have class with your current nightmare: Professor Fushiguro.

You hastily grab your bag and dash through the corridors towards the law studies building. Of course, your classroom had to be the farthest one, and of course, you’re running late. Your lack of sleep, caused by the multiple nightmares you’ve been having lately, only serves to increase your stress, which is clearly not what you need.

What you witnessed last weekend.

Breathless, you gently push open the swinging doors of the amphitheater, praying with all your heart that the class is still chatting as they settle in.

But as if your poor heart wasn’t exhausted enough, as soon as you step through the swinging doors, a familiar and magnetic voice interrupts, and a heavy silence greets you, with all the students’ heads turning towards you. Heat climbs up your neck, and you dread a fainting spell.

“You’re late.” Professor Fushiguro’s icy voice is as cutting as the iceberg that split the Titanic and resonates throughout the lecture hall. You struggle to swallow, nearly choking.

Mumbling apologies, you lower your gaze, not wanting to meet eyes that has haunted you recently. After sighing, Professor Fushiguro completely ignores you, and you take a seat on the nearest chair, still red with embarrassment as he resumes his lecture. Two male students whisper to each other, their voices audible enough for you to hear as you take out your trembling laptop.

“What’s up with him today?”

“I don’t know. He seems to be in a murderous mood today, according to the other classes.”

You clear your throat softly. Your hands shake so much that you can’t type a word on your keyboard without making multiple spelling mistakes. Your already empty stomach twists, and you suppress the nausea lingering in your chest.

“The time is up. You will submit your essays on my desk,” Professor Fushiguro orders in his deep voice.

Your pen continues to scratch your paper with its blue ink as you lift your head abruptly, panic flooding your face. “No, no, no…” you murmur, looking over your sheets, knowing that the work is insufficient.

Professor Fushiguro had given an in-class essay assignment on the recent topics introduced on criminality. Unable to write a single word during the first forty-five minutes, the limited time left had triggered a realization that made you forget about Professor Fushiguro and recall that your grades affect the relationship you’re trying to build with your father. The mere image of his disappointed face is enough to bring back the nausea you felt earlier.

Most students rise almost immediately and descend the lecture hall steps to submit their work. Yours, which must contain half of what the others have provided, will not secure an average grade. You are already certain of it. While you are usually one of the top students in your class, this year is off to a rough start, especially given your delicate situation with Professor Fushiguro.

Resigned, you abandon your pen and pack your belongings into your bag. You’ll start your first grade of the year with an F – and, more importantly, with a professor/student relationship whose outcome you don’t even know. Is Professor Fushiguro plotting something against you?

As you drop your papers on his desk surrounded by girls who you often see gossiping about his beauty—which you no longer appreciate— you intentionally meet his gaze. Your breath catches.

Behind his statue-like mask, Professor Fushiguro’s emerald irises pin you in place. With a hatred you sense is more intense than the incident involving Miguel that led to his death and that of his wife and daughter.

Turning your head away, you spin on your heels and climb the amphitheater steps. But you distinctly hear Professor Fushiguro dismiss the group of admirers sharply. “Leave the room if you have no questions about the class.”

Regardless of his lack of comment.

You will do the same—hoping he won’t touch anything directly related to your life.

And you push aside yet another bad feeling that you hope is wrong.

°°°°

But you are wrong, even years later, to doubt your sixth sense.

With shaking hands, you hold your corrected essay paper returned by Professor Fushiguro. Covered in red pen marks, a large F – circled in the corner of your sheet is the only thing that catches your attention despite the background chatter of the class. In a situation like this, you would have gone to see your professor and asked for clarification on what you did wrong and to understand what went awry. But you can’t.

A sigh escapes the barrier of your lips as you shove your paper into your bag, trying to forget how it’s not even the mediocre quality of your work that cost you this grade, but rather that every paragraph you wrote had been aggressively attacked with crimson ink. This means that Professor Fushiguro probably didn’t grade you so poorly out of some revenge.

At least, that’s what you hope.

Until the next classes resume, and each of your assignments submitted to Professor Fushiguro ends with an F – or F + (the latter when he seems to be in a good mood). You can’t count how many times you’ve run your hand over your face to sweep away the frustration that overtakes you—especially when you see other students getting results you should have. Assignments for which you put in maximum effort. Yet, nothing seems to change.

“It’s true that no other article has been posted since…”

“Do you think she has another scoop?” a frustrated voice says from behind a bookshelf.

“According to some students in her class, she no longer shows up for lectures.”

“Weird…”

“Good riddance, I say! It’s been paradise since we stopped reading anything on her damn blog!” curses a student, storming away from the aisle followed by his friends.

You lift your face from where it’s buried in the crook of your folded arm on the table. Only the faint sound of Shoko’s keyboard tapping reaches your ears. You exchange a glance with her to see if she caught what you just overheard.

Shoko takes a small breath that she releases in a small sigh. Stretching, she yawns before pulling out a bottle of your favorite drink. “Here. Keep sleeping instead of listening to such crappy gossip about Miwa. At this rate, you’ll end up just like me.”

You offer her a tired smile and take the bottle, eagerly gulping down its contents. You eat much less at home, sleep less, and spend most of your time dozing with your arms crossed on one of the tables in the university library, soothed by a sense of security reinforced by the fact that you’re not alone and the sound of the rain beating against the windows is one of the most relaxing sounds to fall asleep to.

You’re constantly on the alert at home. You startle at the slightest noise and constantly feel like danger is lurking overhead. You have no one to confide in.

You haven’t revealed anything to Shoko either.

Omitting from the police and your friend that you know the identity of the murderer of the Oduol family, you lied by saying that fear and shock caused memory issues. A policewoman took note of your statement after escorting you to the police station following the fire you urgently reported. You bluntly responded that you saw a vague figure leaving the house but don’t know more. The policewoman, sympathetic, brought you back safely home and kindly offered for you to provide any details regarding the ongoing investigation in the coming days. She then left and you haven’t contacted her since.

You’re exhausted.

Tired of studying for courses where you end up with a poor grade every time, of having insomnia that prevents you from sleeping with the constant fear of being killed in your own home.

And the worst part is your grades.

You dismissed the excuse of the mediocre quality of your first assignment. But as for those that followed, you almost gave your soul. You don’t understand the mistakes you make in each assignment. And you don’t dare to talk to the source either.

You’re too afraid.

Especially of opening your mouth during his classes.

But the next one might be even harder—because the next session will focus on a themed debate.

°°°°

“The nature of redemption for criminals.”

The debate opens for your next few hours, and you’re trapped in the amphitheater room that’s become your nightmare. For the first time, you see Professor Fushiguro questioning students and engaging in conversation with them on a topic you never thought he would address. He responds with the perfect image of a teacher. And it unsettles you.

For a criminal, he’s surprisingly good at it.

Snide remarks keep blooming in your head with each student’s intervention that receives a response from your professor. You’re so frustrated that your clenched teeth start to hurt your jaw. But you say nothing. You know you mustn’t open your mouth. But still, you burn with the desire to participate. To respond with your arguments, to shut Professor Fushiguro up, and to spit out all the hatred and frustration you have against him. But nothing can break your forged silence.

Nothing except—

“...even the most ruthless criminals may have the opportunity to redeem themselves and find redemption, provided they sincerely express remorse and commit to changing their behavior. Malcom X, Shaka Senghor, or even Piper Kerman are excellent examples of individuals who have committed reprehensible acts but have managed to reintegrate into society after serving their sentence and showing real change,” asserts Professor Fushiguro, standing with his lower back leaning against the edge of his desk and facing the class.

His calm and composed voice makes you want to scream what you’re holding back from replying.

Redemption my ass!

Your eyes burn into Professor Fushiguro’s figure, and when his gaze lingers on you, you notice the small smirk forming on his lips.

A smug and discreet smile but one that openly mocks you—because you can’t say anything about it.

And that’s the last straw.

You rise from your seat in front of the entire amphitheater, chin held high. “I disagree,” you say in a loud, clear voice that resonates in everyone’s ears.

Professor Fushiguro loses his smug smirk and turns it into a mask of ice. He raises his eyebrows—probably surprised that you’re speaking up. “You disagree?” he repeats your words slowly and doesn’t blink once. For the first time since the beginning of the year, you have his full attention publicly.

“Yes,” you affirm with conviction. You maintain a steady voice that threatens to tremble under the rapid beats of your heart.

Your last name rolls off Professor Fushiguro’s tongue like venom. “Well, then, enlighten us with your objection,” he says sarcastically and provocatively but in the silence of the room, you dare not cross any line.

Not yet.

You take a tiny breath of courage. “I have doubts regarding the possibility for some criminals to truly find redemption, especially when they have committed particularly heinous or repeated acts,” you retort. “Don’t you think that raises some neglect towards the personal responsibility of criminals? I believe it’s necessary to also consider the interests of the victims in the rehabilitation process.”

Throughout, the class as well as Professor Fushiguro haven’t taken their eyes off your bold mouth. Your teacher’s neutral face doesn’t change, but you sense a hint of irritation in his voice when he speaks up.

“I understand your concerns, but we cannot afford to condemn individuals outright without giving them a chance to redeem themselves. Even those who have committed unforgivable acts deserve a chance at redemption, for that’s how we, as a society, progress towards a better future.”

You hold back a sarcastic laugh.

You don’t care about the consequences now. You release all the frustration you’ve been holding back, crossing your arms over your chest to reply, “Allow me to doubt the nature of redemption for those involved in clandestine criminal activities. Some individuals may claim to seek redemption while continuing to commit reprehensible acts in secret,” you emphasize, raising your eyebrows and curling your lips. “Perhaps it would be useful to question the sincerity of their repentance.”

It’s as if the breath of the entire class is held.

Professor Fushiguro remains silent, but you feel him freeze at your words.

“On what examples are you basing this, exactly?” he asks in a sickly sweet tone before pursing his lips.

His response makes you let out a scoff.

Seeing Professor Fushiguro’s game, you cross the forged line. He’s testing you to see if you’ll dare to speak up. And that’s exactly what you do.

“Is this a joke? Well, let’s see…” You pretend to think, and release all your frustration accumulated over so many days. “What about hitmen?”

Never have you shown such insolence to a teacher. You realize you’ve gotten yourself into serious trouble when right at that moment, the bell rings to signal the end of classes and Professor Fushiguro utters words that sign your death sentence.

“You’ll come see me.”

As the entire class rushes to pack up their belongings, you ignore the whispers behind you and stuff your laptop into your bag with slow, feverish movements. Your heart is pumping rapidly, and your tongue, burning just a minute ago, now feels numb.

You descend the emptying amphitheater stairs and wait for the double doors to let the last student pass before approaching Professor Fushiguro’s desk. He hasn’t moved from his position, partly leaning against the edge of the desk. You leave a safe distance between the two of you, ready to sprint if he tries anything against you. But will he dare to do it within the university premises?

“You displayed a certain insolence during the debate,” he begins in a low voice. His eyes scrutinize yours, but this time, you don’t look away.

“It was a glimpse of my frustration,” you reply with coldness.

“Oh? Your frustration?” He tilts his head to the side, a sarcastically surprised expression on his face.

“I suppose you know the cause.” You leave a silence for a response he doesn’t give you. So, you continue, “Stop giving me unjust bad grades. I know you’re doing it with the intention of ruining my academic record.” Your voice is as low as Professor Fushiguro’s, who sneers at you.

“I could easily inform on you to the police, you know. I haven’t said anything until now, but they assured me they’re keeping an eye on my voice,” your courage loosens your tongue but raises the heavy, fast beats of your heart in your ears. Blood pounds in your ears.

Toji purses his lips but doesn’t falter in the face of your threats. “And I could sue you for defamation. You have no proof, my lovely.” A smug smile stretches his thin lips, and you notice the hint of a scar drawing in their corner. He leans slightly forward so that his low voice can only reach your ears. “By nosing around into things that don’t concern you, maybe the absence of your colleague Kasumi, which worries the principal so much, will eventually affect you too." He grins as he sees your eyes widen in horror.

“...Are you involved in that?” you whisper in a hoarse voice, to which he responds with a shrug.

You’ve put yourself in a situation that may be worse than it already is, but you value your life. You take a step towards him and speak with less confidence. “Fine. I’ll keep quiet. But change my grades in return. Or at least, give me a better grade next—”

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head. “You’re not in a position to negotiate. And what makes you think I trust you?” His smile turns into outright mockery. “Your word means nothing to me.”

The noise of students’ conversations waiting behind the amphitheater doors grabs your attention. You don’t have time to argue any longer.

As you prepare to respond one last time, your face contorted by Professor Fushiguro’s blunt refusal, he interrupts you by raising his index finger to impose silence. “A word of advice. Don’t risk playing with the devil when you don’t know what hell looks like. Don’t venture into a game where you’re not ready to risk your neck.”

°°°°

“In a delicate yet profitable context, I’ve organized, with the help of the principal, a collaboration with the police to put you through a real investigation exercise. The main subject of the investigation revolves around the worrying disappearance of a student from this university. As you’ve probably heard from leaked rumors, Miwa Kasumi’s disappearance was reported a few days ago by her family to the police station. We’ll take advantage of the investigation’s opening to help the police find Miwa with your assistance and to use this situation to your advantage by putting you in the field. Professor Fushiguro will supervise this exercise with me.”

The words of your criminal justice professor—Professor Higuruma—come back to you as a distant voice seems to call you.

“Hey, are you listening to me?”

A snap of fingers brings you back to reality.

You raise your head to your father, who watches you with concern from behind the glass that separates you from him. “Yes, yes. Sorry.” You rub your eyes, burning with tiredness and reddened with burst blood vessels.

You’re back in prison for another visit to your father, who has been informed of Miguel’s death. You told him everything in detail—naturally omitting the perpetrator of the fatal fire. After over an hour of questioning you, your father changed the subject to discuss your studies.

As usually.

“And the classes?” he says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Usually, at this point in the semester, you give me updates on your grades.”

You swallow hard. “Uh... Well, the workload is a bit heavier and—”

“You got bad grades?” your father interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

His conclusion catches you off guard.

“No... Well, my grades aren’t as excellent as they used to be but—”

“Answer my question.”

You blink. “I... Yes.” You take a deep breath. “But wait, Dad, I can explain—”

“And do you think this is how I’m going to get out of this rathole? I thought you wanted us to reconnect,” your father retorts, shooting you a sharp, annoyed, and disappointed look. He crosses his arms over his chest before standing up. “Don’t visit me again until your grades improve.”

“No, wait! Dad!” You exclaim, standing up abruptly and pressing your hands against the glass that separates you as your father’s back leaves the inmate visitation room. “DAD! DAD!”

Your voice breaks under the punches you give to the glass to hold him back—in vain.

°°°°

Toji enters a sushi restaurant and glances around to analyze each customer, looking for a particular person. His eyes settle on a man tattooed up to his neck, and he joins him at his table, taking a seat across from him.

The man looks up at Toji, his face lighting up as he recognizes him. “Ah! Here’s my guest. Please, order whatever you want.”

Toji nods in greeting. "Oyabun."

An elderly waitress approaches their table and smiles kindly at them. “Have you already ordered, gentlemen?”

The oyabun nods and turns to Toji. “Place his order. I’ve already eaten. You’ll put it on this account.” He takes a business card out of his jacket pocket and hands it to the old lady.

“Takoyakis,” Toji orders without a glance at her.

The lady takes note of the dish and leaves. Toji leans his elbows on the table and leans just enough to inform him, “I handed the bag to a kaikei. You didn’t tell me it contained so much money. I remind you that you still haven’t paid me.”

The oyabun puts on a serious expression and takes out a joint from his jacket. Toji lets his eyes wander vaguely over the pockets and wonders what else he could pull out.

“Do you remember the issue concerning the clan? Well, this money you recovered from Oduol belongs to me and is partly what I’m reclaiming.” He takes on a paternal tone and lights a lighter to scorch his spliff. “The rest of the sum still eludes me. I can’t pay you yet. But you know I’m not a scammer, Toji. I’ve always paid you, haven’t I?” The smell of cannabis reaches Toji’s nostrils, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“And you can’t pay me with the money I recovered?” Toji asks, almost... urgently. “I’m sure the bag already has enough to cover all my other unpaid missions.”

The oyabun shakes his head and inhales the smoke from his spliff. “This money is mine,” he replies before exhaling, “and that means you should be paid with the money that’s rightfully yours. You still don’t realize the astronomical sum one of those bastards owes me.”

“So I have to keep playing the good teacher? Where are you sending poor Shiu to look for work, seriously? I’m already struggling to pay my rent, you know? I want to get back to my real full-time job,” Toji retorts bitterly.

The waitress approaches their table and sets the plate of takoyakis in front of Toji, wishing him bon appétit before slipping away. He loosens his chopsticks and crosses them to pick up a sauced ball between them.

“I know, I know. Listen, Toji. I already have some issues to sort out, but you have my word that as soon as I’m done, you’ll be paid in one go. It’s this problem that’s preventing me from paying you. I need you, and you’re already helping me a lot. Oduol had a part of the money that belongs to me, and I recovered it. Thanks to you,” the oyabun smiles wide—revealing gold canines. “You’re my best man. You’re the only one I truly rely on. You’re under my protection as long as you stay with me.”

"I need nothing but my dough," Toji answers back with less pronounced bitterness but still irritate, and the oyabun knows his words have managed to appease him somewhat. Toji swallows his takoyaki balls one by one and casually adjusts the loosely unbuttoned collar of his black shirt.

The oyabun leans back in his chair and pours himself a glass of sake. His fingers adorned with silver rings grasp the glass, and he drinks its contents in one go. “While you’re waiting for your next target, you can take it easy.”

°°°°

Toji’s calloused hand tidies his course papers on his desk as the students in his class hurry to leave the lecture hall in the usual cacophony. He hears giggles behind him and sighs in annoyance before rolling his eyes.

Those pissy girls in uniform again.

The lecture hall grows quieter, and a quick glance over his shoulder informs him that you are still packing up your belongings. The group of girls approaches him, and he turns halfway, exasperated.

“Professor Fushiguro,” one of them begins before cackling like a hen, followed by her peers, “we wanted to ask you—”

“No, I haven’t changed my cologne. No, I’m not a former national boxing champion, and no, my shirt isn’t from a luxury brand, but from a thrift store. Now, go away,” he cuts them off sharply.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs again, hoping not to have to fend them off any longer.

Since his first day here, Toji has been the constant subject of discussion among both professors and students alike. And he knows it perfectly well. But he didn’t expect to have a fan club of ‘pissy girls in pine green uniform’—as he calls them—during his very first class.

The girls stop giggling and freeze. They look at each other and give up. The group wishes him a good day and finally leaves the lecture hall, leaving Toji in peace. But Toji knows he’s not alone. You are already descending the stairs with measured steps.

He sits at his desk, waiting—and even praying—that the bell rings earlier than expected so that you don’t have to talk to him. But Toji has never been lucky. If that day were to come, it would be because God has shown him mercy.

“Professor,” you murmur cautiously once you’re at his desk.

Toji ignores you, feigning to focus on his laptop. He knows he has nothing to do on it, but he prefers to keep his eyes absentmindedly on the screen rather than having to talk to you.

“Can you explain to me what my mistakes were in this assignment?” you continue with a fragile sweetness that almost prompts Toji to lift his gaze from his PowerPoint to check if you’re crying or not. “I don’t understand my errors despite your corrections…” You hand him your paper marked in red ink.

Toji doesn’t respond and pretends to turn a deaf ear while correcting elements of his slideshow. His peripheral vision notes that you have approached him, reducing the distance to about one inch.

You are crossing a boundary that is forbidden to you.

“Please,” you insist with a hint of impatience.

Toji is about to continue ignoring you when he freezes in place as you place a hand on his forearm resting on the polished mahogany desk and gently squeeze it with your fingers. The contact of your hand sends an unusual shiver down his spine, and the warmth emanating from your palm on his skin is as scorching as the fires of hell awaiting him in exchange for his sins. He regrets rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing forearms defined with muscles and a few raised veins running across the surface of his pale, almost translucent skin.

Turning his neck slightly to look at you, Toji squints and murmurs in a threatening tone, “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Your eyes meet his, and he almost feels the dilation in his pupils as he realizes the mirroring effect of yours.

You were on the verge of tears.

“Please…” you murmur as your eyes speak for you in a unspoken plea. “I swear I won’t say anything. It’s my grades that matter to me. I have secrets to keep too, and I don’t want to get involved in yours.” But seeing that he offers no response and merely stares at you without any further reaction, you continue, “Professor, please—”

“Enough!” he snaps in a half-annoyed, half-angry whisper. With a sudden movement, he pulls his arm away from the weak grasp of your hand. “Go away.”

“But—”

Once again, you’re unable to continue your pleas because of the bell ringing for the next classes, along with the voices of the next class with Professor Fushiguro behind the doors.

Swallowing back your tears, you turn on your heels and crumple your umpteenth paper, marked with an additional F –, adding to the frustrated sob that escapes your mouth as you leave the lecture hall in long strides.

All under Toji’s eyes, who, for the first time, has a heart still pounding from a confrontation he would have preferred to avoid.

°°°°

The rain pounding against the windows of the lecture hall is so loud that it drowns out the voices of the police officers. A policewoman, annoyed at having to raise her voice, borrows a lapel microphone from Professor Higuruma and stands in the center of the small platform reserved for the professors.

“Testing. Can you hear me? Perfect,” she says with a smile. “So, as we’re trying to tell you, this amphitheater has been reserved specifically for us, the police, as speakers.” She gestures toward Professors Fushiguro and Higuruma, who stand in a corner of the platform with their hands in their pockets. “Thanks to your professors,” she continues, “we can now officially open the investigation into the disappearance of student Miwa Kasumi, reported missing by her parents a few days ago. Your professors have deemed the situation, while concerning, suitable to put you in a real investigative situation. No report has been filed yet. Kasumi’s parents have provided us with some information about the last time they saw her.”

She clasps her hands behind her back to replace her smile with a serious and professional demeanor. “So I’m counting on you to help us write this report. You’ll give us all your information, and vice versa. We’ll sort it all out, and we’ll print it out for you. Over the next few days, you’ll be tasked with gathering information by visiting the last places Kasumi went before disappearing and gathering testimonies. Your invaluable help, combined with our own research, will constitute key elements. As soon as we feel we have enough and your professors have enough to grade you, the investigation will no longer concern you and will be entirely our responsibility. If you have no questions, I think we can begin.”

The policewoman joins one of her coworker sitting at the desk assigned to a professor and starts typing on her laptop.

Sitting at the back of the room, you stare at Professor Fushiguro. He stands nonchalantly leaning against a wall next to Higuruma. You notice that he has his lips pinched and his eyes alternate between the police officers. A thin, sinister smile curls your lips.

Of course, a hitman isn’tt comfortable in front of those who could send him to prison on the spot.

You rub your eyes with the palms of your hands and yawn.

The police’s questions begin.

Your insomnia from the previous night has left you in a murderous mood. Your reddened and burning eyes from crying all night don’t help you keep your eyes completely open under the aggressive lights of the amphitheater.

But you don’t take your eyes off Professor Fushiguro for a moment. You’re not going to let a fool like him ruin your life for grades. If you have to resort to extreme measures, you will. And that’s what you’ve been trying to do since your last desperate altercation with him. You gave up your dignity at that moment. This time, you’re already looking for something—a threat, anything—to make him change his mind. The police right now must be making him very uncomfortable—because a word from you, and he could end up in handcuffs. But you can’t.

At least not yet.

As the session nears its end, a police officer sends the report to each student’s university email and also sends it to be printed at the university library. So as you come to pick up your copy at the bottom of the amphitheater, you pass by Professor Fushiguro without a glance. As you turn on your heels, your eyes rise to meet his. He doesn’t break eye contact, but you know he can’t have failed to notice your bloodshot eyes and your silence in front of the familiar policewoman—the one who escorted you home after the fire at the Oduols’.

Despite her inquiries about your memories, you claimed that you don’t really remember who the man was.

°°°°

At the end of the week, your research has finally paid off. And there’s no way this time that Professor Fushiguro will give you yet another F –. You’re prepared to go to great lengths to force him to stop his blackmail.

Your knuckles rap three times on the door of Professor Fushiguro’s office. A muffled “come in” reaches your ears, and you enter the room. You immediately close the door behind you and observe the surroundings. Contrary to what you might have imagined, the space is decorated in a traditional academic aesthetic—large bookshelves filled with books of all sizes adorn the walls, floral wallpaper, or even a Persian rug with complex blood-red patterns sleeping at the feet of a burgundy sofa.

You clearly doubt that the aesthetic taste of the office comes from him.

“I’ve come to bring you my report,” you say after clearing your throat.

Professor Fushiguro, seated at his ebony wood desk, pays no attention to you and keeps his eyes glued to his computer. The only response is the clacking of the keyboard keys.

You take a few steps and reach the desk. You carefully place your report down and sit in one of the armchairs facing your teacher.

With your heart pounding, you take a small breath and waste no time. “Professor? Can we get back to what I was trying to tell you last week?”

Professor Fushiguro continues to royally ignore you, and you close your eyelids for a second.

This can’t go on any longer.

“Stop ignoring me.” You suddenly stand up and close Professor Fushiguro’s computer with the tips of your fingers. He barely has time to remove his fingers from the keyboard and looks up at you.

His eyes narrow like those of a cobra, and he’s about to respond—undoubtedly about your insolence—but you raise your hand in the same way he has done with you before to impose silence and hiss a “no!”

The professor’s thin lips part in surprise at your boldness. He doesn’t say a word and waits for what your audacity has in store for him. For the first time, you leave him speechless.

“Now, you’re going to listen to me until the end.” You lean dangerously toward him across the desk and place a hand on its surface. A determined gleam shines in your eyes, and your tongue loosens immediately. “You seemed particularly nervous during the first intervention with the police, or am I mistaken? You were very tense despite your facade of a relaxed man. And you saw me. I didn’t say anything.” You grit your teeth and hold back the urge to strike him in the face with his silence. Your throat is already painfully tight. You really hope he’ll listen to you until the end.

“I know you were bluffing about Miwa because you would never have dared anything directly with the police. Nothing will happen to me. So if you decide to do nothing about my grades thinking you can relax, you’re sorely mistaken. You underestimate me far too much. If I won’t speak about your crime, I’m ready to create one against myself. I’ve been kind enough so far,” you declare in a strained voice. The accumulation of silence over these weeks is too much today. 

You’re exhausted. You take a breath that has shortened.

But after all the reactions you could have hoped for from Professor Fushiguro, the one he offers you catches you off guard. At first, a slow smile stretches across his lips, then a chuckle escapes him, and finally, he bursts out laughing. The heat rising to your cheeks spreads all over your face, and the blood pounds in your ears.

“Let me laugh a little more. Who’s talking about bluffing here, again? Do you think I’m going to swallow that?” He leans his elbows on the desk with both arms to rest his chin on the back of his intertwined hands and looks at you with his emerald irises. “I don’t believe you, pretty girl. You’re capable of nothing. And I’ve already told you. Your word means nothing to me,” he murmurs with a mocking smile that curls his lips.

“Oh really?” you murmur under your breath. “That’s what I thought. You know you’re the subject of almost every conversation in this university, Professor Fushiguro. Wouldn’t it be detrimental to your already dubious reputation if a professor like you—who looks more like a model working for Calvin Klein than anything else—gets involved in an unpleasant affair with a student? You underestimate the cunning of women. Knowing that three-quarters of the female students have already had wet dreams about you. And believe me, it’s certainly not the stress of student life that stains their underwear every night. Nothing is indifferent to anyone in this university.”

The image of your father walking away from the inmate visitation room comes to mind. Your eyes sting, but you try to hold on and not break down in front of him.

Caught up in the momentum of emotion, you lean so close to him across the desk that the distance between your two heads is only about eleven inches. “I stand by what I said. I won’t let my academic record rot for a man like you. I also have secrets to keep. And I’m ready to do anything to protect them. Even if it means committing immorality.”

With these final words, you can’t hold back a tear escaping from one of your eyes and letting it roll down your cheek.

You don’t give him time to respond and turn on your heel to leave the office, wiping away the other tears that finally streak your cheeks.

°°°°

“And another loss, my friend.”

Shiu Kong chuckles beneath his neatly trimmed mustache. He shuffles the blackjack cards and picks them up one by one. He glances at Toji’s indifferent expression. “What? Is that all it does to you?”

Toji shrugs and takes a sip of whiskey. “Nothing new. I never have any luck.” The liquid burns his throat for a moment, but the sounds of the casino machines distract him, and his thoughts keep drifting to your face he encountered the previous day.

Shiu takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up. With a nod of his head, he offers one to Toji, who declines with a shake of his head. “It’s a shame you lose at games that could earn you a little cash—of course—but which can quickly accumulate thanks to many rounds. Must be better than your teacher job, right?”

“I also have secrets to keep. And I’m ready to do anything to protect them.”

Toji leans back in his chair, sighs, and runs a hand over his tired face, trying to rid himself of your voice in his head. He hasn’t forgotten the sound of your sobbing or your sniffles every time you left after trying to change your grades.

Toji has never felt the slightest guilt.

And he doesn’t want it to start now.

Especially when it involves you.

“Yeah. It really is a shitty job.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but he has the right to refuse visitors.” The voice of the penitentiary secretary sounds slightly irritated.

“But—”

“I’m sorry to insist, but even if you come in person, it won’t matter. He’ll probably remain in his cell,” she interrupts hastily.

You purse your lips and sit on your bed in the dim light of your room. “I see... Thank you,” you murmur softly, your voice breaking.

“Have a nice day, miss.”

The line disconnects, and you let your back sink into the mattress.

Your father requested to refuse your visit if you try to contact him in any way. Your throat knots horribly, and it feels like the knot is laced with thorns.

It’s all his fault.

Professor Fushiguro is your tormentor.

You hate him so much.

He ruins your life in every way—without you being able to do anything about it.

All you ask for is your father’s love, as you dream of every time.

Were you asking for too much?

Or perhaps you simply don’t deserve it.

°°°°

C +.

“C +.”

You blink several times.

No...

You must be dreaming.

From your seat at the back, you watch Professor Fushiguro finish distributing the corrected reports made by the students in the class. When he returns to his desk, the rest of the students quickly pack up their things, following suit. With Professor Higuruma present, the rest of the class will continue in a different amphitheater to update the police, who will collect all the information provided by each student.

But you still can’t believe that Professor Fushiguro, the man who has been threatening you and making your life difficult from the start, is starting to give you better grades. A “C +” isn’t the best grade you’ve ever had, but in theoretical criminology, it’s worth celebrating.

A bubble of hope swells in your chest.

Throughout the continued class, you’ve been trying to catch Professor Fushiguro’s gaze, but to no avail. Without even knowing why you’re doing it.

“Very well. Excellent, I would even say,” the same policewoman declares during the first intervention. Her voice projected through the microphone is clear and captures everyone’s attention. “Thank you, dear students. According to the overall assessments and reports from your professors, Miwa was seen in some very undesirable places just before her disappearance. Other information has been taken into account, and I ask those who know of such... prohibited areas, not to disclose their locations. Please. This part of the investigation is for the police only. We plan to involve you in real investigation work with the agreement of your professors, but for now, do not attempt anything dangerous to find your missing classmate.”

The entire class exchanges sarcastic looks.

It’s true, after all. Miwa ins’t the favorite student of most students at Keio University. She has always posted articles against any student who has a secret that could draw attention to her blog.

“But I want to emphasize that if you obtain any further necessary information before our next meeting, you are welcome to share it. Your help is greatly appreciated. Thank you for your hard work.”

Applause erupts from the group of police officers alongside Professors Higuruma and Fushiguro. The class joins in, and whistles echo through the room.

Your eyes continue to search for Professor Fushiguro’s, but not once has his head turned in your direction. A pang of disappointment pricks at you without understanding why. If he has finally decided to listen to you and stop his threats, you should be happy about it. Not that you’re not pleased, but you want him to pay attention to you.

And in a good way.

°°°°

The coffin lids finally close, plunging the Oduol family into the sleep that death offers them.

You can’t help but bite your lower lip.

The committee attending the funeral is much smaller than you thought. The morgue is filled with just over half a dozen people—including you. The majority consists of a few men in suits, one of whom, presumably their leader, is tattooed all the way up to his neck.

Without exception, they all prayed.

You’ve wondered many times who they are. Especially when, in your somber attire, a glance from you is enough to meet the gaze of the tattooed man. His indifferent eyes glanced at your silhouette, perhaps wondering who you are, but you didn’t speak to each other—because the men didn’t linger at the morgue either.

If you sideline that, on the way back to your apartment, you constantly wonder why Professor Fushiguro had to kill Miguel. And the image of the huge gym bag he carried with him twists your stomach into a bad omen.

It contained money, you have no doubt.

And then, Miguel was wealthy.

He was also your father’s friend.

But unlike him, Miguel didn’t end up in prison for embezzlement. You begin to wonder if Miguel’s wealth came from the infamous sum for which your father is behind bars. Is the money being pursued by other people?

If this deduction is true, Miguel had been a target while free, while your father has not been for years.

If Professor Fushiguro decided to target Miguel, it must also be related to why your father is imprisoned. But one last deduction lights up your brain, and suddenly nausea grips you.

Is Professor Fushiguro also after your father?

°°°°

Your fist knocks three times on Professor Fushiguro’s office door.

A muffled “come in” allows you to enter the room with a steady step. For some reason or another, you are no longer afraid to speak with your teacher—despite the fact that you haven’t said a word to him since the first time you came to talk to him in his office like today.

You’re not afraid anymore.

And only when it concerns your father.

You carefully close the door before sitting down on one of the armchairs opposite him as he doesn’t deign to look at you. Professor Fushiguro is buried in a small stack of students’ papers to correct mercilessly as he did for you.

“Hello, Professor.”

Silence.

Undeterred in the slightest, you continue, “I would like some explanations about the report you corrected. I don’t understand my grade.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and his pen scratches a sentence on the paper he’s working on. You take the opportunity to take out your own report handed in a few days ago in class. You remain perfectly silent, waiting for an answer that you’ll force out of him if necessary.

Several minutes pass, and you wonder for a moment if he will open his mouth at any point.

Your request seems to have been heard when he sighs in annoyance and sets aside one assignment to move on to another before glancing at you and your report. “Can’t you read?” he says sarcastically. He shifts his attention back to another assignment to correct.

“So you’re still giving me bad grades on purpose?” you ask, furrowing your brows, a feeling of revolt swelling in your chest and encouraging your tongue to say what you’ve been holding back. “I thought you had changed your mind about—”

“Can you stop chattering like a magpie for two minutes?” he cuts in, looking up at you with a stern expression. “How do you expect me to do anything if you never shut up?”

Silence.

“...So,” you blink, “do you agree?”

“One more word, and I change my mind.” He adjusts his dark tie over his black shirt, and your gaze follows the movements of his hand holding the pen.

A few minutes later, Professor Fushiguro pushes his papers aside and sighs. You wait for him to focus his attention on you, and when he does, his deep voice snaps like a whip in your ears, “What’s wrong this time?”. He’s annoyed. And he doesn’t hide it.

You show him the red marks streaking your paper with careful words you endeavored to put on. “I didn’t understand why I got this grade. I took it seriously. I think you’re grading me too harshly.” You tilt your head slightly to the side and squint. “And I don’t understand your correction.”

“So you can’t read.” He leans his elbow on the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose, then straightens up.

“I said I didn’t understand,” you insist. You purse your lips.

Professor Fushiguro seems to relent, because for the next ten minutes, he turns the paper towards him to re-explain the notes framing the margins of the pages.

When he finishes his oral correction, a question gnaws at you, and you scrunch your nose.

“I have a question.” You pause. “Are you grading me this way because you’re being harder on me or because you’re really grading me?” Your expression of indifference hides an analysis of your teacher’s facial expressions.

“I thought I made myself clear. I’m not threatening you anymore. But that doesn’t stop me from grading you as you should be.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Your old teacher was unbelievably mediocre. No wonder you’re surprised by such poor results when reality hits you.” He raises his eyebrows as if what he just said was such a mundane fact that you seem stupid for not understanding it earlier.

You purse your lips in an indignant pout. “Says the professor who bought his degree,” you reply almost venomously.

Professor Fushiguro raises an amused eyebrow. “So you think I faked my degree?” A smirk curls his lips.

“Coming from someone…” you murmur, searching for your words, “...like you, it’s obvious.”

“Sometimes, what seems most obvious to us is very far from reality.”

“So are we making peace?” you ask, resting your hands on your thighs, a hint of suspicion.

Under his gulp, Professor Fushiguro’s Adam’s apple oscillates. “I suppose so. But that doesn’t mean other threats can’t come your way, and for real this time.” His tone, sickly sweet, sends a shiver down your spine.

“I see. So, I’m not exactly your bosom buddy?” you say sarcastically. You cross your legs and fidget with your fingers. “So, my grade is deserved?” The corners of your lips twitch in a murmur of frosty disappointment.

An imperceptible nod from the professor is his response. “Since I’m not a ‘real teacher,’ as you put it, I might as well do my job properly to avoid arousing suspicion. If you have no further questions, the door is open.” His hand vaguely gestures to the door behind you with a sign. But you notice that he looks up insolently.

He looks like a teenager.

He pulls his laptop towards him, but you speak up again, your heart pounding. “No, I still have questions.” He rolls his eyes and pushes your report back towards you, probably hoping to silence your questions.

“I attended the funeral of the man you—” He gives you wide eyes and suddenly turns his face towards the closed door of his office. You lower your gaze to your intertwined fingers and freeze. “Anyway. I know it’s the last thing you want to talk about but…” You lean forward slightly. “Do your targets have any connection with Miguel?”

Professor Fushiguro purses his thin lips and glares at you. “No,” he murmurs reluctantly. He squints suspiciously and speaks in a voice so low that you have to lean in even more to hear him and not miss a word of his response. “I work under orders, period. I have no connection or relation with anyone. And you should stop sticking your nose into business that doesn't concern you. Or there will be consequences.”

The vise gripping your chest loosens, and you sigh with relief.

“Oh, one last thing.” You take your corrected paper and put it back in your bag. “Do you have, um, any textbooks to recommend to improve my grades? I won’t ask you anything else after this,” you add hastily, seeing his expression about to give you a flat no.

He sighs again and thumbs over his shoulder to the library behind him. “First shelf from the top on the right.”

You quickly get up and start looking at the books with dark bindings. Some vases with green plants adorn the wooden shelves, and you stand on tiptoe to try to grab two books that you can only touch the bindings with the tips of your fingers.

“I can’t reach them,” you say without turning around, breathless from the effort.

You reach higher, while the size of Professor Fushiguro looms behind you. He mutters to himself, and when your nails finally grip a leather-bound book, you pull on it and lose your balance. Your hand clutching the book sweeps the vase nearby, and in the momentum, you expect it to fall on you.

But it doesn’t.

A powerful hand pulls your forearm, and your nose hits something flat and hard. A second later, a crashing sound is emitted at your feet.

Your eyes, closed in fear, open, and you immediately look behind you.

The potted plant decorating the bookshelf has just shattered right where you were seconds ago. Your breath catches, and your heart races against another heart. The scent of masculine cologne fills your nostrils, and a single movement of your head puts you face to face with Professor Fushiguro.

Who just saved you from a trip to the hospital.

His strong arms encircle your waist in a firm and secure hold against him. Silence weighs in the room as your eyes get lost in the emerald ones of Professor Fushiguro—whose dilated pupils, alert from his movements, probe you. You swallow imperceptibly, and his warm breath brushes your face.

It’s as if time has stopped.

But the bursting of a storm outside breaks the moment, and you let go of the book you’re holding with the tips of your fingers.

Immediately, and in a synchronized movement, you both pull away from each other and avert your gaze. With flushed cheeks, you lean down to pick up one of the books, and as soon as you straighten your torso, two other books hit your chest.

Professor Fushiguro holds out the books to you and doesn’t wait any longer to lean towards the broken vase where soil has scattered on the floor. Neither of you speaks a word, and the sounds of rain beating against the window replace the silence of a few seconds ago.

You clear your throat and approach the pieces of pottery vase to pick them up, your cheeks crimson. But the same hand that just saved you pushes you away with a sharp gesture.

You raise your eyes to Professor Fushiguro who gazes back at you with...

…uncertainty? Embarrassment? You’re not sure. His eyes are too clouded.

“Leave it. You have your books,” his voice mutters before he turns around to pick up the pottery shards. You don’t see his face because by the time you perceive the expression he wears, he’s already turned his back to you.

Not wanting to push further under his tone indicating you should leave quickly, you nod anyway despite the fact that he can’t see it.

With your books and bag over your shoulder, you stride quickly towards the exit of the office, almost having legs like jelly. The areas of your body that came into contact with him burn, and you open the door before stepping halfway through and freezing.

You glance over your shoulder. Professor Fushiguro turns around at the same moment. Seized by some unknown impulse, you regain the use of your voice to whisper three words, “Professor Fushiguro... thank you.” Before swiftly disappearing without giving him a chance to react.

And your tone indicates that you’re not just thanking him for the books.

°°°°

Back in his apartment that evening, Toji slumps onto his couch, exhausted. He rubs his eyes with one hand and turns on the TV, a habit of his to avoid overthinking when sleep calls but his mind won’t rest. Unfortunately for him tonight, his heavy eyelids flutter open every time he tries to drift off. So he eventually gives up on dozing off, sleep eluding him. A shadow catches his attention in the dim light cast by the TV in his otherwise darkened living room.

He recognizes your silhouette.

He’s speechless by your sweet, angelic smile. Your shining eyes caress him with their gaze, and your lips are delicately parted. Paralyzed, Toji swallows hard but doesn’t move an inch, his eyes almost bulging in shock at seeing you here—while you, you lean towards him with a slowness that he thinks might be an eternity.

“Professor Fushiguro... thank you.”

His heart skips a beat.

His lips feel dry as if sewn shut, while you draw back and glance at the TV broadcasting the day’s news. You shift your focus back to Toji and grace him with the most angelic smile for the second time.

Angelic.

That’s the only word that registers in his brain, unable to think.

But he knows he’s never seen that smile on your lips in reality.

It’s the first thing he thinks about as he blinks his tired eyes, which soon squint as the harsh light from his living room TV makes him realize that it’s all just a dream.

°°°°

“Where did you get this?”

You swallow thick.

The policewoman’s question echoes in your head.

You purse your lips and reply in a barely audible whisper, audible only to her. “In a bar…” you lie. The sharp, piercing gaze of the policewoman silences your voice, and suddenly, you feel intimidated.

“Really? And when? In such a short amount of time?” She bombards you with questions while raising her thin eyebrows. She briskly takes the report folder from your hands and begins to flip through it without really reading your findings.

Your heart pounds in your chest like crazy, and your body temperature rises a notch. Lying has always made you anxious. And lying about where you actually went—a casino—will be no exception for you today. You sneak a discreet glance towards Professor Fushiguro, who approaches his desk in the lecture hall, the very place where you are confronted by the policewoman.

Your eyes lock onto his with insistence as the suspicious policewoman continues to grumble while flipping through your report. “Did you do your research all by yourself?” the policewoman insists, squinting her eyes.

You nod and turn your attention back to her. “Professor Fushiguro is aware,” you add a bit too quickly, blood pounding in your ears. “He has read my report and is aware of the situation.” You turn to him. “Isn’t that right, Professor?” This is your moment to send a distress signal to the only person who might save you at this moment.

The policewoman clicks her tongue against her palate and looks at the concerned Professor Fushiguro with annoyance, tacitly asking him to confirm your words.

Please, please, please...

Professor Fushiguro brings his hand to his chin and rubs his jaw. Now standing next to you facing the policewoman, his imposing physique towers over both you and the policewoman. During the split second of your silent eye contact exchange, you pray that he will cover for you and support your lie.

You dread that your heart will stop beating when he slightly parts his lips and declares in his deep, grave voice, “Yes, she came to see me.”

“You see?” you immediately insist with a forced smile. The heat on your face must be apparent now, but you choose to be in denial when neither of the two interlocutors makes any remarks. “I found a witness in a bar who told me they saw Miwa there. Professor Fushiguro tried to call her using the contact information she provided, but she didn’t answer.”

You cough, and your foot brushes against his.

Professor Fushiguro lifts his head a little and sighs, playing along with your game. “I had already decided to call her back as soon as possible, but I see that Miss has been a little more impatient than expected.” He tucks his lower lip and gives you a sidelong glance. His expression is icy and nonchalant—almost grumpy—as usual. “I understand your suspicion when we see that a student is the only one submitting a report, knowing that no other student has done so. And that the information she seems to... provide has escaped the police.”

You feel your armpits becoming slightly damp with sweat under your white shirt. You clear your throat. “Yes. I apologize for not being clearer from the start.”

The policewoman hums and sets your report aside on the table, visibly irritated. “It will be reviewed as soon as possible.”

You sigh as your steps lead you to your seat in the lecture hall and thank God that the noise of the students has helped to conceal your discussion. Perched on your chair, you lock eyes with Professor Fushiguro for the umpteenth time. And a gleam in his emerald eyes reminds you of the clear message he has already indirectly conveyed to you.

Clear explanations will be necessary.

°°°°

“Wait. I know—”

“What the hell is this now?” Professor Fushiguro cuts off sharply, carefully closing the door to his office. He returns to his seat and drops heavily into it. Rubbing his eyelids with one hand, he lets out a sigh.

Taking advantage of his momentary silence, you continue, “Listen to me, at least. I didn’t go to a bar. I lied.” You nervously fidget with your fingers on your thighs. “Actually, I went to... a casino.”

Professor Fushiguro’s eyes widen, and he tilts his chin up to your face, wrinkled with your confession. “Excuse me? And the police warnings?” He exhales irritably through his nostrils, and you could swear you see smoke coming out like a bull.

“Listen, you just have to call the woman and tell her to simply overlook the fact that I met her in a casino rather than a bar.” You force a smile, hands now sweaty. “She’ll agree, I’m sure. I’ve already saved her contact details on my phone. We just need to do it before—”

“And why didn’t you do that at the time? You knew you weren’t allowed to go there for the investigation.” Professor Fushiguro’s jaw tightens, and this time he tugs at his indigo tie—a perfect match for his black shirt, you can’t help but think—to loosen it a bit. “I can’t believe I defended you…” He sighs, dismayed.

You notice his under-eye circles are a bit more pronounced than usual but refrain from commenting.

You bite your lower lip and dare to speak up nonetheless. “She gave me informations because she also owns a bar. And... she has quite a few contacts who—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cuts off abruptly. “I don’t even have the energy to reprimand you properly.” Leaning on his desk, he clasps his hands to address you. “Stop pursuing the investigation outside of class. You’ve done enough.” It’s an order, you notice.

Determined, with your eyes narrowed in frustration that is starting to hit you like a shockwave, you assert, “To make progress, ongoing work is not enough.” You straighten your back a little to show him your determination. “I’ll find Miwa.”

Professor Fushiguro’s incredulous face is presented to you. But he doesn’t seek to ask you why you are so attached to a student with a reputation more than unfavorable.

Perhaps it’s the strange, subtle attachment you have to her? Just because she never pointed fingers or denounced your situation with your father, which could have shattered the reputation of your school record? For that alone, you thank her by searching for her.

“And... it’s also kind of you to have covered for me.” Your voice softens. “I promise you that if the woman listens to us, there will be no more problems.” Your lips twist into a slight, embarrassed smile against your will. “So, thank you.”

Professor Fushiguro’s Adam’s apple oscillate as he swallows. His lips part for a moment then close again, and he hums in response before averting his gaze.

Your smile widens, and all the nervousness you felt evaporates. You gain a bit of confidence, and when he rolls his eyes, you can’t help but let out, in a whisper, “I don’t see why you’re being grumpy when everything is under control.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a real troublemaker, you know? A trouble magnet, I would even say.” He stands up, a sign that the conversation between the two of you is over.

But you remain seated.

The unpleasant remark pinches your heart, but you don’t lose your smile. “Perhaps... you’re precisely the one who’s supposed to protect me and save me from these problems—even in your role as a teacher.” You lower your gaze to his large, calloused hands. “Despite your hands stained with the blood of your sins,” you hold back a broad smile and add, looking up at him, “and your grumpy bear behavior.”

Hands in his pockets, he takes a step towards you—one that would require two for you—and his stature looms over you despite his stooped spine to meet your eyes squarely. “Unfortunately for you, a sinner cannot afford to protect the wings of an angel. He might dirty them.” He pauses to tilt his head slightly to the side. “Or worse, burn them in trying to help.”

His words hit your heart and make it skip a beat.

Palpitations seize you, but you brush them off with a blink of an eye. Your eyes get lost in the emerald of Professor Fushiguro’s eyes. The parting of your lips is the only thing that allows air into your lungs. You also ignore the strand of hair that has escaped from your hair and refrain from blowing it away.

It serves no purpose.

Especially when it’s him who tucks it back behind your ear without a word.

°°°°

Under the usual hubbub of the lecture hall, where students discuss yet another assignment given by Professor Fushiguro, your fingers shake under the featherweight of your corrected paper. But instead of dreading to see the grade marked on it, your breath catches as you discover it.

You can’t believe it.

Or maybe you don’t want to believe it.

It’s unreal.

“A +.”

You lift your gaze from your corrected paper, which bears barely traces of ink from your professor’s pen. Your heart leaps in your chest as you meet his eyes.

Professor Fushiguro has his hands buried in his pockets, as always, and he looks at you with a neutral expression—perhaps omitting the obvious glint in his eyes. You try to guess his expression, and a faint smirk gives you the answer before he looks away.

°°°°

At the end of class, when the amphitheater is empty, you decide to descend the steps to speak with your professor, your heart strangely drumming in your ears.

“What did I do to deserve such a nice grade?” you start with the beginnings of a smile. You adjust the strap of your bag and absentmindedly play with the dangling end of the compression strap.

Professor Fushiguro responds without stopping to organize his lecture notes. “My hand slipped,” he replies sarcastically.

You curl your lips into a smile. “We can say it slipped at the right moment on the right paper.” A gentle warmth rises to your cheeks.

He doesn’t respond and closes his laptop.

“Also, were you able to contact the woman from the casino?” you ask in a low voice.

He hum in response, and as he doesn’t seem willing to continue the conversation, you purse your lips together into a tight pout.

“Has your opinion of me changed, at least? Do you no longer see me as a danger?” you insist in a whisper.

Professor Fushiguro doesn’t speak right away. He carefully packs his belongings into his own bag, avoiding looking at you with care. When he finishes, he finally lifts his eyes to yours, and his tone towards you is so peculiar that it catches you off guard. “Your mere existence is a danger. You sow trouble wherever you go.” Yet, his tone is neither dry nor hurtful.

But unbeknownst to you, in Toji’s eyes, you are simply the embodiment of danger.

“I shouldn’t be so lenient with you. Especially when you are the only person who knows a truth that risks my life.”

You furrow your brows. Your tongue burns, a sign that you’re dying to ask him what he’s implying. Professor Fushiguro is a part-time hitman, and that’s no secret to both of you. So why is he saying such... mysterious things?

“I will restore justice,” you assert with conviction. “I will find Miwa.”

As you exit the room with determined and confident steps, your brain still simmers about your professor and his strange remark.

But one thing is sure in your mind amidst all your doubts.

You will get your father out of prison. And you will prove his innocence.

That he was unjustly imprisoned.

°°°°

“Lost again,” Shiu scoffs, a smirk on his face and a cigarette dangling between his teeth.

Toji grunts before scowling. He exhales in annoyance and rubs his eyes, burning with tiredness and bloodshot. Sounds of disappointment from the pachinko machine he faces taunt him before displaying his mediocre score on the screen. Once again, Toji has lost at a game where he hoped to earn some extra money alongside his poorly paid teaching job.

“Anyway, I’ve got a new mission from the oyabun,” Shiu announces.

Toji suddenly perks up, awakened by the mention of his true job, which was enough for him before the problems his boss faced. “Spill it out.”

“Oh? Awake now?” Shiu chuckles. He raises an eyebrow before continuing, “And let me tell you, buddy, this ain’t just any target.” He takes out a lighter from his suit jacket pocket and lights the cigarette between his teeth. “According to oyabun, it’s a former associate who used to work for him before deserting the clan. And that son of a bitch stole some of the money he had. It represents a significant portion of what belongs to the clan. Get it?”

Toji stares into space, though his ear is still attentive to Shiu’s explanations. His muscular arms hang halfway between and against his negligently spread thighs on the chair he’s sitting on. Veins bulge along his forearms, exposed by his black t-shirt—he can thank his long gym sessions for the gift.

“But the man isn’t alone,” Shiu adds. “He has an associate from the same hole, but oyabun doesn’t want you dealing with him. He asked me you to focus on the associate currently at large. The rest of the kyodai will fill you in on the other details.”

Toji nods and is about to respond when a security guard with eyes concealed behind black sunglasses approaches them. “If you’ve lost and don’t have any more money, free up the seat,” he orders coldly, feigning a certain authority by crossing his arms, which only serves to annoy Toji.

The latter stands up. And even a blind person could sense how tall Toji is. He towers over the guard by two heads, who, despite his broad, stocky shoulders, pales in comparison to Toji’s stature.

“Hmm?” Toji’s face is filled with nonchalance and scowls, having lost his game, and especially with a cold anger that constantly boils within him but never explodes. His almond-shaped eyes narrow, and he tucks his hands into his pockets.

The guard’s lips part slightly, and he swallows, unable to utter a word—mesmerized by the figure of the man in front of him.

Toji shrugs and walks past Shiu, who’s been waiting for him. “Let’s go,” he says.

°°°°

Camouflaged in dark clothing and a hood of the same color, Toji sits at a small, discreet round table in the corner of a seedy bar. His eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the back of a man seated on a stool at the counter. His new target.

His gun is fully loaded and strategically placed at his waist so that a single movement would allow him to eliminate the target as quickly as he would leave this place where the various scents of mixed alcohols sting his nostrils. There aren’t as many people as Toji had expected—which suits him just fine. His target sips from a sake glass and reads one of the newspapers provided for patrons.

A single shot, and a new sum will be added to the one awaiting him.

Toji prepares to reach for his weapon when the bar’s doorbell tinkles softly.

And there, Toji realizes he’s truly cursed from birth.

With your usual gait, you take a seat on a stool three spaces away from his initial target.

God fucking damn it.

You grip a small notepad and pen between your fingers and place an order. From where he’s seated, Toji can barely hear your voice. Fragments reach him, and he just wants to set fire to this bar as he did to the man’s house weeks earlier.

Of course, you haven’t seen Toji.

From his ‘hideout’, you may not even notice him at all.

And, thrown off by the situation—for the first time on a mission—he doesn’t know what to do. Should he kill his target as planned, despite your disturbing presence? What if he accidentally harms you due to another unforeseen circumstance? Toji swallows thick. He could, but something within him prevents it.

Especially when he hears snippets of your voice conversing with the bartender. And Toji just wants to smack you for disobeying him.

“...gone missing for a few weeks now…” Your voice reaches his ears in snippets. “It’s worrying, and…”

The bartender, eyebrows furrowed, shakes his head. He continues to wipe pristine glasses. Toji grits his teeth when a group of men—mostly tattooed and wearing piercings—takes seats on the stools beside you. Even from his vantage point, Toji sees you flinch. But you don’t falter. You continue your questioning.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices two men from the group engaging you in conversation. For a moment, he restrains himself from getting up and breaking their bones. Toji suppresses his impulses. His eyes never leave your form. From your nervous tic of biting your lip to your foot tapping gently on the stool’s lower bar.

But you’re not the only one who notices, especially as you alternate between your interrogation with the bartender—who’s starting to grow suspicious—and the multiple evil glances thrown your way by other patrons.

Why did you have to be here on the same night as his mission?

But your inquiry goes largely unnoticed when a distinct voice from one of the tattooed men is heard all the way to Toji’s table, even drawing some attention from his target, who slightly turns his head toward you. “You sent by the cops?”

You freeze in your chair.

A bead of sweat rolls down Toji’s neck.

You quickly shake your head, your lips mouthing a stuttered no. The pressure on you intensifies when Toji discreetly listens and hears the bartender slamming a clean glass onto the counter, angrily cutting you off, “I don’t want to be associated with anything or anyone. Especially not with the cops.”

Toji’s heart races, and he abruptly stands from his table to slip away to the restroom when he notices the glinting blade of a knife slowly emerging from the pocket of one of the men sitting at the counter. Toji discards his stifling hood and adjusts a few details to avoid being noticed as ‘the hooded man in the corner of the bar’.

He rushes out of the dingy men’s restroom and adopts a casual stride as he heads toward you. The men along the counter turn toward him as you’re almost in a panic.

Toji positions himself just behind you, towering over the entire group surrounding you—including the bartender. From his peripheral vision, Toji’s heart stills as he sees the blade of the knife from one of the men slide back into his pocket.

He still places his hands on your waist, exerting a slight pressure on the flesh. The warmth of your body sends waves to Toji’s cold hands. He leans dangerously to the side of your neck and peeks a small kiss there, causing you to slightly startle and turn around.

Toji offers you a reassuring smile despite the turmoil in his mind at this very moment. His alert eyes try to capture your attention, and you seem to understand.

“How long have you been waiting for me, angel?” Toji asks softly.

You look up at him—your pupils dilating in surprise at his unexpected presence—and you blink twice. Your lips part, and you weakly blow out, “A while already.”

“Forgive me. Can we go now?” Toji gently squeezes your waist, a clear sign of refusal for a no.

You nod in the silence of the bar, and Toji takes your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. He leads you to the exit where no one dares to utter a word. His mere stature was enough to deter the group of men who are—without a doubt—members of enemy yakuza clans that Toji’s oyabun explicitly forbade him from contacting.

Too bad for the mission.

°°°°

The cool night air whips against your face. You try to pull your sweaty hand away from Toji’s much larger one, but his firm grip keeps your fingers intertwined in silence, and you refrain from throwing a tantrum like the children in supermarkets.

He leads you to the back of the grassy courtyard of the bar. A single beech tree planted near a wooden fence prevents you from slipping and falling when suddenly, Toji’s muscular arm sends your back colliding with the trunk. The pain from the impact brings tears to your eyes.

With anger etched on his features, Toji opens his mouth to say something. But the bell on the bar’s door chimes the very next second, letting out the group of men from earlier along with some new faces. The group is much larger than before.

From your position, you can’t see them, but nothing escapes your notice, and you understand. Toji senses that attention is directed towards the two of you, and under an impulse that escapes him, he leans towards you and presses his lips against yours.

Caught off guard, you freeze and widen your eyes. You run a hand over his chest to push him away. You can’t comprehend what’s really happening and push against his chest, but it’s futile.

In the end, you find yourself awkwardly returning his kiss to cut it short. Toji’s lips are cold but so soft against yours. They steal your breath away, and you almost get lost in them.

Until a male voice laughs and declares cheerfully, “Are the whores out here too?”

Coarse laughter erupts from the group of men. Your blood boils in your veins, and you prepare to push Toji away for good and defend your dignity. But Toji runs his hands along your sides and slips them under your shirt to access your bare skin, drawing slow and pleasurable circles with his thumbs on your stomach. He deepens the kiss, and you can’t help but let out a small moan that cuts short your desire to revolt. Toji’s tongue brushes against your lips to request access to yours, and your palm pressed against his chest gives you a glimpse of his racing heartbeat.

You part your lips, and your tongue meets his in a warm, wet kiss. You lose your breath, and the sound of the footsteps of the group of men fades into the silence of the night. Toji freezes his lips and gently pulls away from you. His lips are glossy from the shared kiss, but no smile lights up his features. A dark gleam animates his irises.

Your chest simply rises and falls with the rhythm of a breath you seek to regain. A warmth rises in your neck to the roots of your hair. Toji’s eyes narrow as he scrutinizes you, and his hands withdraw from under your shirt.

“Tell me something… You really like to put yourself in danger wherever you go, don’t you, troublemaker?”

❦ a/n: so there we go! i hope you all enjoyed this first part ;) english isn’t my first language, so be gentle. @gojonanami this incredible girl who one day restored my taste for writing and kindly let me know to feel free to tag her if I post my fic. thank you Sab!

[missdrarrydawn]

Hera wanted Athena to win

Guys hear me out, this is my conspiracy theory LMAO

I feel like in God Games when Athena is battling the Gods to help Ody, of all of them, Hera wanted her to win the whole time.

Hera is the final "level" of the game, and if Athena convinces her to say yes, then it's a yes and Ody must be released, and I'm sure Hera knew that fact.

Now look at what all the other Gods say.

Each of them gives a very specific reason why they don't want Ody to be freed.

Apollo's reason is slaughtering the sirens.

Hephaestus' reason is the Scylla sacrifice.

Aphrodite's reason is abandoning his mother.

Ares' reason is being cowardly in the Trojan war.

And then, we get to Hera, and she's just like 'Yeah just give me any good reason and I'll agree to let him go'. She has no qualms with Odysseus, she has no motivation even to fight with Athena on this. She doesn't really require convincing, per se.

She's legitimately just asking Athena to give her any half decent justification so she can say yes and make it look legit in front of Zeus.

The whole time as Athena is giving Hera reasons, Hera is also continuously egging her on to give her a better one, a more sound one that would look really convincing. She's saying things like 'Try Harder' and 'You can do better than that.'

So my theory is that after Zeus announced the God Games, Hera saw it as a chance to stick it to him for once, for all his cheating and disloyalty to their marriage, so she wanted Athena to win, and played her cards accordingly.

All she needed was Athena to give her any half-decent justification for her to say yes, so that the games look legitimate, but ultimately she was on her side the whole time. She made the game really easy for Athena, because she gave her free reign to think of absolutely anything and everything she possibly could in favor of Ody, instead of giving her a specific, niche argument she has to fight against.

Additionally, Hera is the goddess of marriage in the pantheon, and even if she doesn't care the least little bit about Odysseus, I am willing to bet she very much cares about Penelope.

Think about it, Hera herself is stuck in an awful marriage to Zeus and is not very happy about that. And she would 100% relate to Penelope's struggles of being alone, missing her husband and trying to ward off the suitors who are trying to force her into a, let's be real, abusive marriage with Antinous.

Hera as a wife definitely sympathizes with Penelope as a wife, and releasing Odysseus so he can return to Penelope is the only way to help her be protected again.

So there you go. My conspiracy is that Hera for one absolutely wanted Athena to win the entire time. I think she at the very least tried to help her, I mean she couldn't have known that Zeus would fucking kill her for winning LMAO

[cyberdragoninfinity]

I really truly still can't get over the Legends Z-A announcement. Everything about it. ULTIMATE Crazy ass moments in Pokemon history. We had Unova game vs. Johto game rumors and theories flying around for half a goddamn YEAR. People were pointing out paintings of Lugia and Ho-oh in Detective Pikachu 2, Kitakami's dex full of Johto 'mons, Indigo Disk's 32847872 Unova references, the Paradox Legendary Johto AND Unova Trios. The OFFICIAL POKEMON TWITTER was posting cryptic gifs of Reshiram and Zekrom in the weeks leading up to Pokemon Day. The day before the stream people were waving around 4chan "leaks" of Legends Celebi, ILCA BW remakes, Black & White 3. None of us went into that direct knowing what we were gonna get.

And then it was Pokemon Day and the Pokemon Presents premieres and it's start to finish full of Johto nods, Unowns bouncing around and Raikou in Pkmn Sleep and Silver in Masters. They slap THIS FUCKER up there seconds before the final teaser trailer of the stream.

And then we get that teaser.

And then we get hit with "Lumiose City"

And then It's not Johto. It's not Unova. It's the region we haven't seen in an actual literal decade.

And then a single letter changes everything.

AND THEN THE HITS JUST KEEP COMING ONE AFTER ANOTHER. Legends "Z-A." The A looks like the Ultimate Weapon. Releasing 2025. Not this year. For once in so, so long a Pokemon mainline game isn't coming this year. It's like exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. The screen goes black and every expectation we could have possible have has been flung out a Kalos-shaped window.

And then they give us one last little treat for the road

Just an absolutely unbelievable presentation. They played us like complete fiddles. They're sending our asses to FRANCE. And I can't help but smile so big just thinkin about it!! This is the first Pokemon announcement I've seen in YEARS where the majority of folks have been not just surprised but this joyful, EXHILARATED surprised, just absolutely going nuts over 10 years of memes and jokes and game wishes that are finally getting their due. And it's just infectious. There's something really magical in the comradery and shared excitement and I'm never gonna forget it. I love Pokemon. Welcome back and welcome home, Zygarde.

[queerly-autistic]

I've been thinking about potential pick-up of Our Flag Means Death by another streamer, and how it all might be tying in with the current BBC release, and I have some thoughts about what might be happening and what we can do to give the show the best chance of being picked up.

I think it's important to start by saying that all the whisperings that I heard over the past few months (including from some people who work at/with the BBC) pointed firmly towards a scheduled March release for Our Flag Means Death on the BBC. Needless to say, this means I was extremely surprised when they suddenly announced it was dropping at the beginning of February. I think it's also clear from everything I've seen that the BBC's marketing/social media plan for the release was not ready for February (there was no trailer, which was odd), which, again, really supports the idea that the show was initially schedule for a March release, not a February release.

I firmly believe the release was brought forward. The question is: why? Is it because they saw how much noise and press the show (and our campaign) was getting, and decided to try and capitalise on it? Or is there something else going on?

On top of that, we now have specific questions about Our Flag Means Death appearing on YouGov UK, including asking whether respondents would watch another series. This doesn't just happen. The charity I work for has commissioned YouGov polling (including some very recently) which I have been tangentially involved with, and so I know that this sort of polling is not easy work, and it's not cheap. Someone has put time AND money into commissioning this polling. This is significant. Someone is not only watching, but they are specifically watching the UK response to the show, and putting questions to the UK audience about it.

I have strong suspicions that a streamer (or several streamers) are interested in picking up the show, and are using the UK release as a live case study (Apple, Amazon and Netflix also have a presence in the UK, so we are a big target audience for them in a way we never were for Max). This could account for both the potential bringing forward of the BBC release (they didn't want to wait until March), and the YouGov polling that's going on (bear in mind, the YouGov questions were specifically as part of a wider survey about streaming services).

And this isn't just a passing interest: working with the BBC to bring forward the release, and investing time and money into YouGov polling? That's a strong interest. That's so interested they've already invested something into it.

Of course, I don't know anything for certain, so take everything with a pinch of salt (it's just a theory...a gay pirates theory...), but I think it's something to consider as a strong possibility.

So what does this mean for us?

It means we need to keep streaming on iPlayer. Watch it as many times as you can. Share it with your friends and family. If you're outside the UK, get yourself a VPN and join the party. Watch the live broadcasts on Monday nights (if you have iPlayer, you can stream the live broadcast - this is what I do because I don't have a TV). Keep tweeting about it (add the #OurFlagBBC hashtag to the existing hashtags we're using). Tag and email the UK media (including TV guides and radio shows) and ask them to talk about the show/our campaign. If you're tagging/emailing Apple, Amazon or Netflix, make sure you mention you're from the UK (and tag their UK specific social media accounts).

According to Parrot Analytics, the demand in the UK for the show is rising - let's keep adding to that!

You can also sign up to YouGov and rate the show (more instructions in the quote retweets of the tweet I linked to earlier), and keep answering questions about TV shows and streaming (and marking Our Flag Means Death as one of your interests) as a way to try and get them to give you the specific questions about the show (these start as a question about streaming and streaming services, which then turn into questions about OFMD, so if you get a survey like that, take it!).

It's also worth considering that if there's any validity to this, then there's a possibility that they might be waiting until after the show has finished airing in the UK (the finale is airing on 25th March) to crunch all the numbers together. This means that if we don't hear anything in the next few weeks, do not despair! We need to buckle in for a long fight, and to keep pushing the show and making noise over the next few weeks and months, especially around the BBC release.

This show is worth the fight. Let's get our damned men back!

[see-arcane]

THE HALF-BRED MASTIFF TRIED TO DEFEND THEM <:(

It did. Every dog we encounter or hear in Dracula has the same response to the Count: This thing is evil. It means harm. Stop it. Stop it! Protect, protect!

There's a lot to be said about the framing of Dogs (the heroes) VS the Wolf After the Flock (Dracula) in both metaphorical and literal terms. But one of my favorite theories regarding this particular poor dog is that Mr. 'Plans everything in advance' possibly dug into the land's own folklore and got spooked.

Transylvania has its witches, werewolves and vampires, now minus one.

England has...some very unique black dogs. Church grims. Black Shuck. And, of course, the dear old Barghest, which Old Swales was so quick to cast aside.

Dogs who guard the cemeteries, announce deaths, usher souls and slaughter those who impede them. Hounds dedicated to delivering the dead away from Earth. Psychopomps with paws.

If I were a supernatural old undead fiction in the flesh, I'd be a little jumpy about seeing a giant black dog in the Land of Stories about Weird Black Dogs Dedicated Entirely to Delivering the Dead Off the Mortal Coil coming to maul my ass, regardless of it sensing how powerful I was. Was the maiming of the dog cruel? Definitely. But in the Count's mind, I can see how he would consider it the first genuine safety precaution he's had to make in months.

[earthtokhal]

Look at the end of the day, I do not think Daniel was blindsided, after all he does have a good team and he is a businessman. Maybe it's copium or hopium or confirmation bias, but it wasn't just Daniel's behavior this weekend. It was also Sergios and Marko's and Horners.

It was also that comment (now deleted) from the people who make his helmets and that CAA guy coming out of the woodworks.

It was the difference in how Sergio responded to that interview F1 poster compared to what Daniel said about definitely being here post break, but he isn't sure what car he will be in.

Do I think Daniel was compensating for losing out on something he wanted? No. He is genuine, and if Mclaren thought us something is that he won't hide behind a smile.

While I do agree that money/sponsors are playing a role here, I don't think they would have left it this long and letting the narrative go on for so long if the solution was just some extra cash from the sponsor.

So considering that, it's possible that this is to keep everything quiet until they're ready to make the announcement or make a proper decision because if the decision was SO easy and could be made in a single meeting, despite everything they said before, why was it left so long?

If this is true, I have a few theories.

1. Max genuinely thinks about jumping the ship, which makes letting Sergio go a bit risky. They could do well with those sponsors next year. In that case, Daniel would be brought up in 25, which would explain his behavior.

2. Sergio and his people managed to negotiate a retirement option. He races in Mexico, and he sees this year through, and perhaps the team gains some money from it. In that case, Daniel would still move up.

3. They genuinely do not rate Liam right now and will be putting Sergio in the vcarb. In that case, Daniel would still move up, Liam gets some extra runs during filming day, and he would return to the grid next year.

4. A decision has been made, but like Mclaren and even Red Bull before, assuring everyone that the boat will not rocked will ensure a good break and media staying away from them only to come out with the decision closer to the end of break

5. Nothing changes, and I will pray every day for mclaren and Ferrari, possibly merc too, to beat them because truly not even sponsors can justify this because even though he bring money, the cost cap doesn't change and he's wasting away money that could be spent on upgrades. In this case, I want both titles gone.

All in all, the idea that it's now Daniel who could lose his seat when he's been top 2 Red Bull driver for multiple weeks in a row is insane.

He's a genuine guy, a good guy, and he has never wished bad on Sergio or Liam despite the narrative around them from day 1. I truly believe that he will be rewarded.

[actual-changeling]

I have written many meta posts and s3-theories, and read even more, but I got hit by an idea I have not seen before. (If there is another post, please link it!)

After vibrating for an hour and losing my mind in my dms, I have no scraped together enough brain cells to present what is probably my first actual 'main-plot meta'.

Welcome to another edition of Alex's unhinged meta corner, today with a title to honour Crowley's James Bond obsession and the possibility of another heaven heist.

I give you:

From Jesus with Love - You Will Live Twice

Now, let's get right into it.

I think Neil might have told us more about the main s3 plotline in the announcement article than we previously thought. We all got stuck on 'they're not talking'—for good reason—but it is the part before that which has been bugging me ever since then.

The plans are going wrong—and this time that is a problem for earth and humanity. Turning that around, it means that whatever that plan consists of would be the way to go and beneficial for everyone, the opposite of the main plot of s1.

"They need to prevent the Second Coming (SC)" is pretty much the only and most popular idea I have seen, hundreds of fics and metas and whatnot have been written about it, but I think there's a good chance we're wrong. If we're not, well, I will honestly just be happy to be watching season 3.

Whatever the Metatron is planning will have negative consequences for everyone, or as Michael puts it: "And so… it ends. Everything ends. Time and the world is over, and we begin Eternity… forever and ever."

It sounds very much like Apocalypse #1 - Same Old Plan, same expected result, yet if we look at different interpretations of scripture we find that the SC is not entirely about complete destruction and death for all of humanity—it is about creating a new world/migrating to the kingdom of God.

This is taken from the Wikipedia article about the SC

Resurrection and life in a world to come are a direct contradiction to the result Michael is explaining—total annihilation of humanity.

Now, I am neither religious in any way nor have I ever received any sort of biblical education. Luckily, Christians seem to love talking about the bible because there are dozens of bible website to wade through. If I get anything wrong, please point it out, I have never touched a bible in my life.

So, after reading many, many quotes by a bunch of different guys, I tried to create a somewhat coherent picture of what the SC might look like based on the assumption that the end result is positive. I will talk about how they can be interpreted more in-depth later, otherwise this would turn into a string-net very fast.

Additionally, we can also see where these points overlap with the statement Jimbriel gave in the bookshop in episode three.

What is Jesus' job description?

only God knows when and how exactly it will begin/happen, no one else does, including Jesus and the Metatron

a lot of different catastrophes are mentioned or quoted as something Jesus said, like earthquakes and storms -> Jimbriel mentioned a tempest and great storms

there is also the line "All these are the beginning of birth pains." Birth pains dictate that there will be a birth—birth of the world to come perhaps?

dead people will be resurrected/leave their graves so that they too can be judged (I'd say participate in it but that sounds like the Second Coming is a summer camp activity)

there are also mentions of stars and the heavens in general falling from the sky and the sun going dark -> Jimbriel also mentions darkness as one of the signs

great lamentations, as Jimbriel says, are also a part of many different passages, with humans mourning the world as it was

the Lord will descent with the voice of an Archangel and the sound of a trumpet/the trumpet of God; the grammatical structure of that sentence seems to be interpreted differently depending on who you ask, but the voices of angels/an Archangel and some sort of trumpet are common terms

once everyone is in heaven/wherever the 'main even' will take place, a judgement call will be made for every single person in relation to the book of life, which decides whether they will be punished forever or not (one passage talks about a lake of fire and mentions it several times in a row)

And this is where it gets tricky. To figure out what the SC looks like, we first need to understand a) what the Metatron's capabilities are, b) what he has to lose, and c) what exactly would be a threat to him.

If you ask me, all of this comes down to the Metatron wanting to stay and be in power for eternity with full control over angels so he can do as he please, aka keeping the system running as it is.

We know the book of life (bol) is a thing in the Good Omens universe, whether it does what Michael said is an entirely different question. So far, we have also only got confirmation that hell collects and tortures souls—in such large amounts that they are understaffed—while heaven looks completely empty.

The Metatron runs heaven as an institution, he seems to be the highest power any of the angels have access to and the one they defer to. He refers to himself as the voice of God and combines judge, jury and executioner, making him one great celestial dictator.

From what we know of hell, they do things a lot more democratically, having different councils, dukes, and ranks that are responsible for different levels of command.

We also know that that the Metatron wants the world to end, his goals can probably be summarized as the statement Michael makes, which would leave him in charge without any opposing forces.

We also also know that he sees Crowley and Aziraphale as a threat—why exactly remains a mystery for now—and that the success of his plan hinges on having a Supreme Archangel (SA) he can control. Gabriel decided to become princess of hell and Beez' sugar baby, so he was out of the equation, and after the Armageddon disaster, I don't think he wants to risk failing because of an unfamiliarity with earth (plus, y'know, getting our two idiots away from the plan).

It's interesting to me that right at the end, he says to Aziraphale "We call it the Second Coming"—call, not it is or it will be, CALL. We know that nothing Neil writes is a coincidence, definitely not with such an important line.

Just because you CALL something a specific name doesn't mean it IS what you call it, e.g. Aziraphale calls Crowley a foul fiend when we know he very much isn't.

The Metatron is selling his plan as part of the "Great/Ineffable Plan", so any questions can be blocked by saying it's God's will, it's ineffable. Whatever his plan is, he hides it behind the concept of the Second Coming, which angels know just enough about to understand the basics without having in-depth knowledge of what exactly it entails.

It is a good fucking strategy, I'll give him that, and it WORKS because angels—even if they have doubts—do not question. They simply don't; fear of punishment and millennia of conditioning have left them in a horrible place. When they encounter something unknown, their response is "I already knew that" as to not ask questions.

Crowley questions, we know that, and Aziraphale, ohhhhh, Aziraphale ALSO questions, but he does it in a less dangerous and obvious way. The Metatron is vastly underprepared for that.

(Side note: That alone would be its own meta post, but the gist is that he questions heaven's plans and then adjusts his assumptions of what God might want to what he WANTS God to want, e.g. Job, the Arch)

To summarize everything I just said, the Metatron wants to do what Armageddon failed to do—destroy earth and the universe—so he can be supreme dictator of all remaining celestial beings and gorge himself on power.

But instead of calling it his Big Evil Plan, he calls it the Second Coming, making everyone play along without resistance.

We cycle aaaaall the way back to the sentence I quoted—the ACTUAL plans are going wrong since the Metatron's would mean total destruction.

But what is the SC supposed to be if not the Apocalypse 2.0?

When I look at all the different aspects of the SC and assume a positive outcome, then the end result to me would be a new world that is pretty much like the old world, or maybe even literally the old world but with any destruction reversed. Heaven and hell get dissolved since now that everyone has been "judged", they as institutions are no longer needed, they have fulfilled their purpose.

No more judgement means there is no reason to keep track anymore, so why do you need to run celestial corporations whose only job is doing exactly that? You don't—and THAT is what I believe is the biggest perceived threat to the Metatron, losing full control over everyone and everything, losing his position, his title, and whatever else he has.

On top of that, Good Omens has told us again and again that God doesn't seem to give a fuck about good and evil anymore, and that without heaven and hell being all wrapped up in it, humanity would have 100% free will without any consequences.

Maybe the BoL is empty, maybe it isn't real, maybe Jesus stole it to straighten a wobbly table, who knows. There is a chance it is what Michael says, but I would admittedly find that a bit. too obvious and boring since it would boil the plot down to "they save their own asses again" and not "they save humanity at all cost".

Regarding Crowley and Aziraphale's role in this—I have Thoughts TM but those definitely need their own post. In short, they have to get the SC back on track, the real one.

-

If you have made it this far, thank you for working through what I hope are more or less coherent rambles. Any spelling or grammar mistakes are my own.

Questions? Thoughts? Corrections? Expansions and additions?

Feel free to add to this post however you like (and I can't believe I have to mentions this but if you clown on my post or behave like an asshole you will be blocked).

[herejusttosufferalong]

Re: theory on Luke’s motivations for unliking

I’d like to offer one other, maybe sobering, theory on why Luke may have gone on his unliking spree today.

Yes, perhaps word has gotten to him that the drama surrounding his activities last year is bubbling to the surface again.

But, could it be possible that it has triggered or coincides with some sort of emotional processing of what he was going through last year? I’m just thinking that with season 4 lead being announced on Tuesday, the pressure of the past couple years is officially off of Luke. He has been under pressure internally since he learned that he was going to lead season 3. It’s been a whirlwind since then. He lost a major relationship and got pushed into the spotlight and under the microscope by the public, Netflix, Shondaland, and everyone in his life.

It’s safe to say that, while many really wonderful things came from this past two year experience. It has also been a period of deep transformation and change for him. And I can’t help but wonder whether the season 4 announcement is allowing him to finally face what happened in his life in the past couple of years. So you can imagine that a lot of anger and sadness could be involved, a lot of emotions that maybe he is processing now for the first time.

Maybe he is emotional about his break up with Jade? Maybe he is rethinking how he went about recovering from his break up with Jade and he is doing his own self-healing on his own Instagram page. The only difference between him and someone else is that hundreds, maybe thousands, of eyes are watching him do everything.

I guess, bottom line is, I’d rather extend a bit of grace to him because I can only imagine the maelstrom of emotions happening with him given the events of the past 5 years of his life. Yes, I’m sure he would admit he has made some ill considered moves, but aren’t we all allowed that as human beings?

💜

[schmergo]

My bizarre real-person headcanon: Josh Groban and Ben Platt are mortal nemeses. Here's the timeline behind this theory, beginning with the known and branching off into the possible future. 2017: Josh Groban makes his Broadway debut in Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet to much critical acclaim. At the Tony Awards, Ben Platt, starring in Dear Evan Hansen, wins Best Actor and Dear Evan Hansen beats Natasha/Pierre for Best Musical. 2023: Josh Groban makes a triumphant return to Broadway, headlining a revival of Sweeney Todd. Surely this will be his year? Nope. Ben Platt's limited run production of Parade transfers to Broadway, making his own triumphant return to Broadway after a hiatus of the same length. Neither wins the Tony Award this year (J. Harrison Ghee does), but Parade wins Best Revival of a Musical over Sweeney Todd. Later in 2023: Josh Groban goes full method and immerses himself in the murderous, vengeful instincts of Sweeney Todd. Revenge against Ben Platt will be his! But he can't be too obvious about it. He's playing the long game. 2028: Surprise! There's a revival of Phantom of the Opera announced! Both Ben Platt and Josh Groban are considered as potential Phantoms. Unknown to anyone, Josh Groban has been perfecting his own Phantom-like skills of appearing and disappearing into thin air, throwing his voice, and murder. Oh yeah, and he plays the pipe organ. He gets the role! But wait, what's this? Hugh Jackman was eaten by a crocodile mere weeks before he was supposed to headline the new Broadway production of The Greatest Showman? Ben Platt heroically steps in to save the day and takes the title role! He wins the Tony Award for Best Actor in a Musical, but not Best New Musical (the critics say, "We love Ben Platt but this show is clearly just a vehicle for Hugh Jackman [RIP].") The Phantom revival wins Best Musical, but something terrible happens at the Tony Awards! There's a technical glitch when the Phantom performance is due to start and they move it to the end of the awards ceremony. But right as everyone's marveling at the artistry of the production at the delayed performance, something Totally Unpredicted happens. The chandelier crashes... INTO BEN PLATT!!! 2030: Ben Platt survives the chandelier attack but he loses his entire memory and has to relearn everything, including how to sing! He can no longer recall the moment that the chandelier crashed into him-- nor the moment that Josh Groban looked at him from the stage and mouthed 'Long live the king!' In a startling and bold act, Ben Platt returns to Broadway in a one man autobiographical show about living with amnesia and relearning to perform. He wins the Best Actor Tony Award! Josh Groban is away doing Phantom in Europe. 2040: There's a high profile immersive revival of Les Miserables on Broadway! The producers consider both Ben Platt and Josh Groban for Jean Valjean. But Josh Groban gives off such an in intense murderous energy when they find him in the same room as Ben Platt that they get a brilliant idea and offer him the role of Javert and Platt as Valjean. The production is a hit. The tension between Platt and Groban is off the charts. When it's time for the Tony Awards, both are nominated for Best Actor in a Musical (ala Colm Wilkinson and Terrence Mann in the original Broadway production). On the day of the Tony Awards, an astonishing thing happens: Platt and Groban TIE for the Best Actor in a Musical Award! The crowd goes wild! Everyone is cheering! The theatre... the cheers... it triggers something long-buried in Ben Platt's mind. Suddenly, he remembers the night the chandelier fell on him at the 2028 Tony Awards.... Josh Groban was looking right at him as it happened.... Ben Platt snaps and begins to clobber Josh Groban onstage. In his fit of rage, he doesn't see Josh Groban pull out a gun. Is this finally the end of this age old rivalry? BUT WAIT, WHAT'S THIS? IT'S J. HARRISON GHEE (SNUBBED STAR OF THE REIMAGINED REVIVAL OF LA CAGE AUX FOLLES) WITH A STEEL CHAIR!!!! At least, this is what I imagine.

[thearchercore]

Lando’s comments about not being bffs with max is for sure directly related to lestappen gate. 

We’ve know since the summer that Charles is Ferrari’s priority to resign. (Remember we even thought it was going to be announced in the summer?) they’ve been working hard to make sure Charles feels positive about 2024 and comfortable in the 2024 car and feels like he can win a championship with Ferrari. And Charles was full steam ahead ready to renew.

It all changed in Singapore. Charles was shafted by Ferrari and Carlos was prioritized. Carlos prioritized Lando instead of his teammate - helping him stay in DRS even though he was a competitor. In the cool down room he said that what happened to Charles was “none of his business”.  Charles raises all fucking hell and Ferrari sees they’re about to lose their il predestinato.

Suzuka happens next week. And then there’s a break before Qatar - and Charles goes back to the factory in Maranello. He’s there for a week, while Carlos is no where to be seen and never shows up. Charles has a sit down interview in Qatar where he talked about feeling positive for the future and the developments for next year's car and genuinely seemed excited for the new car.

This was all before the mess of the last few races, when we saw the real development of lestappen gate. And the possibility of Charles going after Red Bull, not feeling like he can win with Ferrari. And the emergence of lestappen as being friends. publicly at least, cause we all know they’ve been close for ages. 

Ferrari gets desperate to keep Charles and will stop at nothing to retain him. Prioritizing his contact negotiations, giving him whatever he wants, making sure he knows he is the priority and they’ll do whatever they need. They hired Fred for him, and Fred is hiring and replacing like money is free to get a better team for Charles. And made it clear - the 2024 car will be suited to Charles and what he likes. 

Now who isn’t the priority? Carlos. His contract negotiations have basically stopped because they don’t care about him right now. There’s constant talks about how it’s likely he won’t reach a deal and Ferrari already has a shortlist of who they will pursue and why they’d be a great fit, to the point Spanish media is taking these so seriously that they’re shading Ferrari. Even the Spanish GP was talking shit about Ferrari on Twitter. 

Fred shades Carlos as the Vegas GP, saying Vegas was their best race of the season (even above their only team win). Fred shades Carlos again for his crash in practice in Abu Dhabi, saying that the Vegas pothole was bad luck but he said Carlos crashing in practice was “something else”. 

And with Singapore and everything that followed after, we see Charles and Carlos move from friends to barely interacting except for required events and videos. Carlos sees clearly that he is 2nd to Charles and will be considered that way with everything going forward, and is not happy about that. 

So that brings us back to: Max and Lando. Max respects Charles more than he does any other driver on the grid (hello he apologized to Charles in Vegas for turn 1?? When has he ever apologized for anything that happens on the track). Max is taking Charles’ side and even if he knows Charles is only using Red Bull to get a better Ferrari contract, he supports him cause he genuinely loves racing against Charles in a proper car. And besides the respect, they’re great friends. 

Lando’s allegiance is obviously to Carlos. And he’s hearing all of it from Carlos and his being pissed. And I can fully see it coming up in convo with Max (after all Max and Carlos were teammates and friends once upon a time) and Max not fucking having it and standing on Charles’ side. And suddenly there’s the divide and Lando refuses to say they’re friends, because he’s so behind Carlos. 

And it all just further enforces how powerful Lestappen is together. 

solid points! my little own theory was that lando wants to go into 2024 with an internal goal to be THE rival to max (how realistic that is, that's another discussion) and so the friendship with max no longer benefits him.

when lando was up and coming driver, the clout that he got by hanging out with max benefitted him. he was seen partying with the world champion, got more publicity thanks to that etc. it was in general a very appealing friendship to be in for lando.

fast forward, mclaren built a car in the second half of 2023 that could fight max in certain scenarios (singapore comes to mind). however, lando did not manage to maximise the potential due to little driver errors that always cost him a better starting position.

it's 2024 now, ferrari and mercedes have great drivers but they are fully dependent on the state of their car and the team strategy. mclaren seemed to work out some of that already so mclaren goes into this season maybe more confident than they should be.

lando's friendship with max no longer benefits him, he will be now seen as a rival, not a friend. he could be fighting him on track, and so he probably wants to push his own agenda and distance himself from max. in this scenario, carlos is a safe option as any other friend on the grid (i assume tensions will rise between carlos and oscar as oscar will no longer be a rookie)

on the other end, charles is doing the exact opposite, he maximised potential of ferrari's car and also stopped following ferrari's pr guidelines. in vegas or abu dhabi, he hung out more with max than his own teammate. during the winter break he had only one scheduled appearance with another f1 driver on the grid, again, max.

charles publicly connecting himself with max does no good for ferrari's image and how they're pushing the "friendship" between carlos and charles. in that sense, charles is not hanging out publicly with max because it benefits him, quite the opposite.

he's doing it to manipulate the narrative and take over some control himself.

that's how i see the situation right now. it will be definitely interesting to see how these grid dynamics develop because yes, they are co-workers but also in the season where so many contracts expire, it's also a big powerplay so there's definitely a lot of decisions behind the scenes

[hwashotcheeto]

𝑩𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅'𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 (4)

Best Friend's Mother Masterlist

Chapter: Four

Milf!Park Seonghwa X gn!reader

Summary: A week has gone by since your late night secret with Seonghwa. You kept telling yourself to not entertain the idea of anything more than a one night stand. But Wooyoung, as always, throws a wrench in your plans.

WC: 4.4k

CW: Suggestive towards the end, kissing, touching, lots of teasing, Wooyoung is a cockblock, fluff, cuddles

AN: I spent a whole day writing this, my body hurts, my brain hurts, but I wanted to get this chapter done so badly. I hope you all enjoy it.

Tag List: @hyunjinsjeans @malldreamprincess @unlikelysublimekryptonite @becauseilovedyou @kittkat44 @babyxhoiz @asleepylilcat @mxnsxngie @rxnexxi @mommahwa1117 @acciocriativity @anxiousskylar @h3arteyes4mingi

“Hey guys,” Wooyoung said as he entered the living room. “I have an idea for something we can all do.”

The announcement shouldn’t have filled you with fear, but it did.

The week was a roller coaster, if you had to be honest. You’d wanted to keep your interactions with Seonghwa to a minimum, only talking to him if he talked to you, only if you absolutely needed to.

And it felt like torture.

You wanted to talk to him, you wanted to be nice, you wanted to sit with him and have long conversations about anything and everything. You wanted to give him hugs like Wooyoung did.

But you were scared of what would happen if you let yourself do that. If you fell deeper into him. If your lust for him turned to something more than sex.

You weren’t ready to confront that. Despite Wooyoung constantly dragging you with him to do anything, and “coincidentally” always having Seonghwa be there too, you didn’t think it was something beyond Wooyoung wanting to spend time with you. And of course, you were going to spend time with Wooyoung, so you were in a difficult spot.

And yet, the whole time you were trying to subtly avoid him, Seonghwa wasn’t dumb. And unfortunately, he was more observant than you’d thought he was.

And he hated to admit that he thought about it every time he laid down to sleep. He’d lay in his bed for hours and think about you. About the night you had together.

The way you’d look away when he tried to talk to you, the slight red tint in your cheeks when he’d call you “dear” or “sweetheart,” the little tremor in your voice when you talked to him. He was hopelessly attracted to you, and he knew you felt the same way about him.

And you both were battling with your desires in your own ways.

If only you knew that the gorgeous man you were daydreaming about was doing the same thing just one wall away.

You force a sweet smile at Wooyoung as you come back to the present. Seonghwa also looks up at him.

“Eomma, you know that restaurant you’d take me to as a kid?”

Seonghwa smiled and shook his head. “I’ve taken you to many restaurants.”

“The really expensive one that we went to for special occasions?”

“What’s the occasion?” You wondered. In the back of your mind, you wondered if Wooyoung was about to reveal his “relationship” with San to his mother. But the smirk Wooyoung was giving you shot that theory down quickly.

“Isn’t our presence enough of an occasion?” He answered, standing up straighter, puffing out his chest a little. Seonghwa laughed and shook his head again.

“Your presence is always an occasion, nae sarang, but I can’t just take you. That place-”

“Requires reservations,” Wooyoung interrupted, finishing his sentence. “Well what if I told you I already took care of that?”

You and Seonghwa both blinked, not completely believing him. You had no idea where this was going, or what restaurant they could possibly be talking about. Even if you did know the name, it wouldn’t have helped, because you could never afford to go to a restaurant nicer than Olive Garden.

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa started, in the signature disappointed parent tone that said everything without having to say it. The tone that meant “you shouldn’t have done that.” But it didn’t dissuade Wooyoung in the slightest.

“Come on, why not? I haven’t been there in a long time, and it’s something we can all do together.” He put extra emphasis on the word “together.”

You turned your attention to Seonghwa, and he was looking at Wooyoung with nothing but love in his eyes, with a little smile on his lips. He knew that no matter what excuse he made up, he was going to relent. He was going to say yes, because there was no reason to say no.

Part of him wanted to see how serious Wooyoung was. Part of him wanted to see what else Wooyoung was up to. He had his suspicions, but couldn’t tell for certain.

“What day do you have this reserved?” Seonghwa asked, tilting his head back a little.

“Tonight,” Wooyoung said proudly. “The perfect night to go out to eat.”

Time had started to warp and bend for you since you were thr0wn off your usual schedule, but Wooyoung had mentioned to you earlier that it was a Saturday. You realized now why he bothered to point it out.

Seonghwa still pretended to roll the idea over in his head. Both you and Wooyoung knew he was faking it based on his smile, but you two were still waiting with bated breath for his answer.

And finally, Seonghwa sighed and nodded. “Okay, when do we have to be there?”

Wooyoung did a little happy dance and squealed. You smiled and sighed in relief.

You didn’t feel so scared about the idea of going to dinner with Seonghwa knowing Wooyoung was going to be there. You’d have to throw together a decent outfit from the clothes that you brought, but you were sure you could do it.

And that’s what you did. About an hour before you were going to leave, you had taken a shower and made yourself look nice before you went to sort through your clothes. Just a simple outfit, but it still made you look put together. It wasn’t luxury, but it would pass decently for an hour or so.

As you were going to leave the room, there was a knock on the door. When you called for them to come in, Wooyoung peeked in. He took one look at your outfit and shook his head.

“No, that’s not gonna work.” He left and went back into his room. You followed him, befuddled.

“What do you mean, I look fine!” You protested, but Wooyoung was already going through his closet to look for something better. He frantically grabbed at different clothes, looking them over, and rejecting most of them.

“Fine isn’t good enough, this is a high class restaurant.” Wooyoung pulled out a shirt that he was satisfied with and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “Thankfully, your awesome best friend is here to help you.”

You sighed and looked at his outfit. He wore black slacks with a belt, with a white button up tucked into the shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his arms. This was the nicest you’d ever seen Wooyoung in the entirety of your time knowing him, Wooyoung never dressed up for anything. Not even to the formal events your college hosted.

Realizing that, you decided to listen to him and accept the clothes. You let Wooyoung dress you in the outfit he’d picked, and he helped fit and adjust it so it looked good on you. He accessorized you as well, with a couple of necklaces and rings.

You had to admit, when Wooyoung was done with you, you looked much better than you did before. Much more worthy of a fancy restaurant dinner.

Wooyoung also put a coat over your shoulders. “To match the outfit,” he commented.

“I have a jacket, Wooyoung.”

“Not one that goes with your clothes.” You rolled your eyes, but buttoned up the coat regardless. He had a point, sure, but you mostly just wanted him to shut up.

You and Wooyoung made your way to the front door and waited for Seonghwa.

“How do you have all these nice clothes anyway?” You asked, remembering that you never asked what Seonghwa did for work. With his nice house and Wooyoung’s extensive wardrobe, he had to be doing something amazing.

“My mom is a model,” Wooyoung says nonchalantly, looking at his phone.

Oh. Of course he was.

“What does he model for?”

“Mostly shoes, but he does a lot of other stuff. He has a couple deals for a few different luxury brands.”

Of course he does.

As you were about to continue, you heard a bedroom door close, and the familiar click of heels across the hardwood and down the stairs.

Your breath caught in your throat as Seonghwa came down the stairs. Good Lord, he looked fucking stunning.

He’d dressed himself in black slacks, a white, long sleeved turtleneck, and heels. Heels.

His silky black hair was curled and fell down in beautiful waves, his bangs framing his face perfectly. A few gold chains hung from his neck and rings on his fingers. He’d even put on makeup, with small wings by his eyes and sparkly eyeshadow, with sparkly, glossy, pink lips.

You had a sudden urge to kiss him.

You knocked yourself out of your daze when Seonghwa came over to the door. “Are we ready to go?” He asked as he reached into the closet for a coat.

Wooyoung pushed off the couch, already having a coat like you did. “Yeah, we-” And then his phone began to ring. “Oh-Sorry, let me take this.”

Wooyoung took a few steps away as he answered the call. “Hey. Oh, no. Oh, that sucks. Do you want me to come help? Yeah, I can come over. I’ll be there soon. Okay, bye.”

“Who was that?” Seonghwa asked, fixing his coat, which was white and fluffy, and long enough to cover his entire body, leaving it open. You tried to focus your attention on Wooyoung instead, who was putting his phone into his coat pocket.

“A friend from college, he needs me to come over.”

You had a strong feeling who that “friend” was.

“What happened?” You asked, but Wooyoung was already making his way to the door hurriedly. You grabbed onto his arm to stop him, and as he looked at you, you could see in his eyes that he was scared.

There was genuine fear there. Your stomach suddenly filled with dread wondering what could’ve happened to this unnamed “friend.”

“I’ll explain later, I just really have to go.” He pulled his arm out of your grip and opened the door. “I’m sorry, you two should still go enjoy dinner!”

“Wait, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa tried to stop him, but Wooyoung was already gone.

And you and Seonghwa were alone. As the silence stretched on, another realization dawned on you.

You were about to go to a restaurant and have dinner with Seonghwa. Alone.

“Well,” Seonghwa began. “Do you still want to go?”

“Yes,” you blurted, way sooner than you wanted to. Seonghwa’s lips curved up into a smirk.

“You don’t have to hide it anymore, sweetie. He’s gone.”

Your heart stops and you can feel sweat break out all over your body. Of course he knew, of course he’d seen how you were avoiding him and being shy around him. But you weren’t prepared for him to confront you about it.

And all that you can say is a soft, strangled, “What?” Seonghwa laughed softly and closed the gap between you two, standing over you. He made you feel so much smaller than you already were.

And you wanted to grab him. Desire burned in your bones to reach out and hug him, pressing your face into his chest, being safe and happy in his arms, letting the rest of the world fade out.

But you held yourself back, and forced yourself to keep eye contact with him. And he was loving the panic in your eyes.

“You can relax. It’s okay.” Seonghwa grabbed your hand and held it gently. “Enjoy this night with me.”

“But Wooyoung-” You tried to argue, but Seonghwa shook his head.

“He’s an adult. He’ll be okay. I’ll leave my phone on if he needs me.” He squeezed your hand gently. “Please. Come with me.”

And who were you to tell him no, when Seonghwa was asking you to go with him?

You followed Seonghwa into the restaurant, and you were already impressed in the first few seconds.

The entrance had little lanterns on the walls with candles inside them, illuminating the small hallway to the hostess stand and the rest of the building. There were large potted plants along the carpeted walkway, and the walls were adorned with large, gorgeous paintings of different landscapes and animals.

You stayed close to Seonghwa, but still far enough away to not touch him. He didn’t allow that, he grabbed onto your hand and laced his fingers with yours. The small gesture made your stomach flip over.

The hostess looked up and smiled at Seonghwa, and she started speaking in Korean. You heard her say “Mr. Park,” but you couldn’t understand anything else. Seonghwa responded, but there was a slight stutter in his voice.

You looked up at him, but before either of you could say anything else, the hostess motioned for you to follow her, and she led you into the dining area.

The dining area had the same theme of decor as the hallway. Dark moody lighting, lanterns, paintings and plants everywhere. The tables ranged in different sizes, from large to small, and nearly all of them were full.

But there was one open small table, with only two chairs with it.

You and Hwa took your seats, removing your coats first and leaving them on the chairs. You turned to Seonghwa and you nearly choked seeing him in the low lighting. Highlighting the bright parts and increasing the shadows, he looked like a character from a movie.

“It’s funny,” Seonghwa began, looking at you. “The reservation was under my name. For only two people.”

Your heart stopped for a second. And then you couldn’t help but laugh.

Wooyoung, the fucking brat. He set you two up. He was never going to come with you two.

Seonghwa laughed too, a soft, beautiful sound. “Did you tell him?”

You shook your head aggressively. “No, he told me not to.” And as soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Seonghwa’s eyes flicked up to you, and chills ran all across your body as when his eyes met yours. A smirk appeared on his lips again.

He was about to make a comment when a server came over and, in Korean, began to speak to Seonghwa. The look on his face disappeared and was replaced with a bright, award winning smile.

And somehow, jealousy began to burn in your bones, seeing the server clearly flirting with Seonghwa. You couldn’t understand what either of them were saying, but the way the server was smiling, giving him half closed eyes, laughing at what he said, it made you angry.

You balled your hands into fists by your sides, trying to keep your face neutral as the conversation went on. It was brief, but it was enough to piss you off.

The server walked away and Seonghwa turned his attention back to you. You forced a small smile and unclenched your fists. Seonghwa smiled back and crossed his arms, leaning on the table. You awkwardly kept your hands in your lap, not knowing what else to do with them.

“I’m sorry you’re getting left out of a lot of conversations. All I did was order for us, I hope you don’t mind what I got.”

“We’ll see when it gets here, won’t we?”

“Of course, we’ll see.”

And silence went over you both. You weren’t sure how to do this. This was less of a simple dinner and more of a date, and you’d been working to avoid this. But now you were sitting in front of him at a luxury restaurant waiting for food.

You had no idea how to fill the gap, since you hadn’t ever planned for this. You could see in Seonghwa’s eyes that he had ideas. But he just watched you.

He delighted in how you squirmed under his gaze. Holding eye contact, but nervously fidgeting and shifting around. Maybe he was just a little bit of a sadist.

“So,” he finally said, sitting up to take a drink of water. You let out a heavy breath and gulped, suddenly needing the water too. “Should I teach you a few words? Just for fun?”

“Sure.” You set the glass back down and put your hands back in your lap, still fidgeting with them. “That sounds fun.” You smiled, but it was weak and forced. Seonghwa was living for your nervousness.

“Okay, first word, eomma. It means ‘mom.’”

“Wooyoung uses that one,” you piped up. “I guessed that’s what it meant.”

“Yeah, that was easy.” He went quiet as he tried to think of more words to teach you, and one popped up in your head.

“What about the one you call Wooyoung?” Seonghwa looked at you, and his smile spread across his whole face.

“‘Nae sarang?’ It means ‘my love’.” His smile made butterflies burst in your stomach.

“That’s cute,” you squeaked out, reaching for the water again. Seonghwa’s eyes sparkled in delight.

“I thought so too,” he mused, leaning back on the table.

He was playing you like a goddamn game and you were falling right into it.

He was teasing you, toying with you. Trying to break you and admit that you wanted him as badly as you knew you did. He saw it all over you, but you refused to admit it.

But he’d made you. He knew he’d make you crumble for him.

“How about another cute one? ‘Jagiya’ means “baby,” like the pet name.”

The looks Seonghwa was giving you while he was teaching you these words was obvious. You knew the game he was playing. And you were powerless to stop it.

“Yeah, it’s cute,” you said softly. Seonghwa moved so he could prop his head up on his hand, under his chin.

“Why don’t you try it? Go on, say it.”

You gave your best attempt at the word, and Seonghwa’s heart fluttered hearing you say it. He was already imagining you calling him that.

And maybe someday, nae sarang.

No. That’s ridiculous. That would never happen. That’s not possible.

But what if it was?

The food came not long later, and the same server from before was the one to deliver it. The server was more bold this time, putting a hand on Seonghwa’s shoulder while she spoke to him.

The jealousy bubbled up in you again. Aren’t servers not allowed to touch customers unless it’s an emergency? This had to be a violation of some kind. Could you report the server for being inappropriate? Maybe, but you don’t know how you would.

“Sweetheart?” Seonghwa called softly. You snapped out of your thoughts and looked at him. You realized the server was nowhere to be found. How long had you zoned out?

“Sorry, I-”

“If looks could kill, that server would’ve been dead and buried.” He said as he picked up a pair of chopsticks. He spoke so matter-of-factly that it almost sounds like a lecture. Your cheeks burned hot and you looked down at the food, which looked delicious. A noodle based dish. “Go on, try it. I think you’ll like it.

So you did. You struggled with the chopsticks for a bit before you got a hold of them, which Seonghwa found adorably amusing. You grabbed a small bite of the mixture and took a bite.

And he was right, you loved it.

“Oh, this is so good,” you mumbled as you continued to eat, trying to remember your table manners and restrain yourself. Seonghwa could only smile as he watched you.

“I’m glad you like it.”

You both ate with minimal talking. Mostly because you were starving and hadn’t eaten in a long while, and you were loving the food. Seonghwa didn’t mind, because he was happy enough being here with you.

You were adorable. Plain and simple. You were stuck in his head.

Which is why he wanted you to admit that you wanted him to.

You got back into Seonghwa’s car as he did, settling back into the seat.

“Thank you for that, Seonghwa.” You looked over at him. “I really appreciate this. This was really nice.”

“You’re welcome, jagiya.” He started the car and began the drive home. He’d made the drive many times before, with Wooyoung, who had set you both up. It’d be an interesting conversation when you both got home.

You were sitting in the seat beside Seonghwa with your brain shorting out from the pet name. Jagiya. You knew there was a chance he’d use it on you, but it still broke your brain.

“Jagiya?” Seonghwa called softly. He glanced over at you, and he smirked, seeing your eyes glazed over.

Seonghwa placed his hand on your thigh. Gently, very gently. He didn’t move, he just kept his hand there. Just a gentle, steady pressure.

But he felt how your thigh tensed under his hand. He glanced up at your face, and your eyes were wide and clear, but your hands were gripping onto the seat below you.

“Do you want me to stop?” Seonghwa asked softly.

“No,” you blurted.

It shouldn’t have made him so happy to hear that, but he felt the desire bloom in his bones. He gently squeezed your thigh, massaging it.

And it made fire shoot up your leg and all over your body. Your stomach was churning inside you, your head was growing light. You didn’t think you could melt so badly from a simple touch, but you felt like you were actually turning into a puddle in the seat.

Every night, all week, he was in your head. You were thinking about your night together. His hands on your body, his arms around you, how his touch lit you on fire. You craved it more than you knew.

Seonghwa’s hand moved up your thigh, and you couldn’t cover your mouth in time before the whimper fell past your lips. Seonghwa bit his lip at the soft sound.

“I missed you, sweetheart.” His voice had slipped into a deeper octave, something more sensual. “I wanted you back in my bed. Don’t deny it anymore, you wanted it too, didn’t you?”

You bit your lip to stifle the rest of the noises that tumbled out of your mouth. The constant circles he was rubbing into your inner thigh, right next to where you needed him most, mixing with his voice, his confessions, you were a mess.

A mess just like he wanted.

“You wanted me too, jagiya. You thought about me, you wanted me. You wanted me to fuck you again just like I did before.”

Somehow, you were back at the house already. You hadn’t paid attention, how could you? Your brain was wrapped up in Seonghwa, all in him. Just him, and how badly you wanted him again. He was right, of course he was.

He turned to look at you, with his eyes half closed, his hand still on your thigh. He squeezed tighter than he had before.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you, jagiya. Tell me.”

Fuck it.

“I want you to fuck me, Mommy.”

“Good doll.”

You both quickly got out of the car and into the house. You pulled your shoes and coat off, and dropped it onto the couch. You turned to Seonghwa and choked on nothing as he stripped his coat off, tossing it aside, his eyes trained on you.

The only light in the room was a lamp by the door, making him look fucking angelic. An angel here for you.

He grabbed you and pushed you against the wall, his hands on your waist, his body pressed against yours. Your hands locked around his neck and pulled his lips to yours, beginning a messy, passionate kiss, all tongue and teeth.

Desperation clawed at you both like a frantic, wild animal. Seonghwa’s hands wander to your shirt, pulling it up and rubbing up against your skin, his lips traveling down your neck.

“You don’t want to go to bed?” You breathed, gripping onto his pretty silky hair.

“We’ll get there eventually, I need you now.” He gripped onto your waist again, pressing against you harder, almost pushing you up the wall.

Your legs fell open for him almost embarrassingly easily, but all pride had been thrown out the window.

Seonghwa’s hands ran down and grabbed onto your thighs, and you grabbed onto his shoulders, ready to jump into his arms.

Until you both heard the front door open.

You and Seonghwa both immediately jumped away from each other, trying to pretend that you weren’t just all over each other as Wooyoung came in the door.

Seonghwa had gone over to put his coat away, and flashed a fake smile to his son. They exchanged a brief “hi” before Seonghwa tried to cover up the sin you were about to commit.

“We just got home too! Did everything work out with your friend?”

“Oh, yeah.” Wooyoung took off his coat as well, and you couldn’t help but smirk when you saw his messy clothes. His shirt was untucked, his collar wasn’t properly fixed.

And oh, what’s that, just under his jaw? A little bruise. And how would Wooyoung get such a small bruise in a spot like that?

It took everything in you to not burst into giggles knowing exactly where Wooyoung had run off to.

All three of you agreed that everything worked out, everyone pretending they didn’t know anything about each other, before you headed up to your separate bedrooms. Not without you giving a little smirk to Wooyoung.

You’d give him shit in the morning about his dirty little secret. You knew you would.

But you were back in bed, laying awake, thinking about Seonghwa.

Fuck. This was a new level of desperation for you.

And realizing how badly you wanted to be back with him sucked any sexual energy out of you. You just wanted to be in his arms now.

As quietly as you could, you snuck out of your room and went to Seonghwa’s door. You didn’t bother to knock, you couldn’t risk waking up Wooyoung.

You slowly opened the door and slipped inside. Seonghwa was already waiting for you, and happily pulled his blankets back to let you into bed.

You crawled in and laid next to him, putting your head on his chest. He held you tight and close, and finally, what you craved was yours.

“Too risky to continue?” You whispered.

“Too risky,” he whispered back. And that was fine with you.

At least now you had him. You had his arms around you. You were in his bed. He was rubbing your back. Your head was on his chest. And everything felt right. Everything felt good.

Whatever your future held, you knew it would have Seonghwa in it. You would be sure of it. How could you ever let him go?

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “I really did miss you.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back.

And you stayed.

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed! 💜

This is a work of fiction written by me. This does not represent the idol(s) in any way. Any re-upload is not allowed and will be reported.

[cheeekycharchar]

A second theory has also been tinkering in my mind… Crowley's "I'm back" line isn't him showing up after a 4 year nap but.. CROWLEY IS ABOUT TO ANNOUNCE HE'S MOVING IN WITH AZIRAPHALE.

hold my beer and let me explain my madness again~ lol

I think an unseen moment between the two led to some kind of argument about them moving their relationship forward after thousands of years of holding back and some kind of argument happened from it. Possibly unrelated but Crowley could have gotten SO unbelievably fed up with Aziraphale's holding himself back attitude that even after ALL that happened at the end of season 1 he still won't move forward.. "together".

So Crowley runs outside the bookshop in pure annoyance and lets out a burst of demonic lightning energy in the streets and storms off in a huff.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale just thinks, "Oh, that silly wily ol serpent. Being his bitchy self as always" and goes back to his newspaper research about the strange occurrences with the Buddy Holiday song.

LATER THAT NIGHT (cause it's now dark outside. different scene from the Gabriel jump scare)

HERE HE COMES SPEEDING DOWN THE STREETS OF LONDON… CROWLEY IN THE BENTELY.. FULL OF HIS STUFF. READY TO MAKE A GRAND GESTURE… "I'm back." AND "I'M MOVING IN WITH YOU, ANGEL."

Probably cause I'm in the middle of a big house move myself currently, when I first saw the running theme of naked Gabriel and the BOX. OH SO MANY BOXES. I immediately thought, "Oh! They're moving in together!"

But it wasn't until the trailer and someone pointing out the plants in Crowley's car in one shot and possibly more stuff in his car in the first few seconds of the trailer…

This is Crowley's BIG GESTURE.

He's taking it upon himself to pack up his things and move in with Aziraphale to show his Angel just how much he means to him and wants to finally be closer to him now that they're on "their own side" finally.

So, Crowley's, "I'm back" line to me was him sauntering in after a big "OH EFF IT! I GOTTA DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE, DON'T I!?" meltdown moment of lightning frustration and then trying to act all cool and suave, take off his glasses, announce with a ring of the bell to the Angel sitting RIGHT THERE and.. Aziraphale has no idea what is about to happen.

He's probably thinking, "Oh, Crowley. Throwing a fit and running off and here he is again. What more could he possibly want to argue about now?"

So he plays it cool and calm. Like the parent pointing out the obvious to a child after they just had a tantrum. He gets up and calmly straightens his vest, ready for the next bought of ridiculousness and… Crowley tells him he wants to move in.. together. <3

I HOPE. I HOPE. I HOPE. I HOPE.

OR.. A MORE LIKELY SCENARIO....

He gets mad at Aziraphale saying that amnesiac Gabriel must be protected and stay at the bookshop with him. Crowley fights with Aziraphale over it being too dangerous, so he runs out in frustration, lightning in the streets, packs up his stuff in a huff and comes rushing back to protect his Angel..

"IF HE STAYS.. THEN I'M STAYING HERE, TOO." lol

Am I reading too much into this? Anyone else have this theory yet? Am I just wishful thinking? lol Which of the 2 scenarios do you think is more true? I want it to be the 1st but the 2nd one is probably more likely to happen. lol HELP I NEED SEASON 2, LIKE YESTERDAY D:

[m1ssunderstanding]

Get Back Rewatch 55 Years On: Day 18

Staring John Lennon, as that kid I should’ve been nicer to in first grade who always smelled like PB&J and was never to be seen without his pokemon cards

The dancing is really too cute. They’re just absolutely giddy. Making each other laugh AND an excuse to touch? John and Paul’s heaven. 

John saying he was too excited after yesterday to go to bed. Like a fucking kid on christmas.

Everybody is serving today. While the candy-land suit is fun, I actually just love that vivid purple so much that I think it’s better without the coat over it. Billy looks extremely suave and classy.  And those red polka-dots on Ringo. Red suits him, and I think with his very frank, masculine aspect, he looks so beautiful and bold in feminine fits. Paul and John are both just wearing what they wore yesterday. Yeah. But John is still a cutie, and Paul, well, you all know.

The advice chain about finishing a song while you’re working on. Paul → John → George

Paul honestly does a great job being supportive of George and his work. Coming over and grooving with him, then hopping on drums then guitar (right-handed, may I add). Just to give George musical atmosphere to flesh out his song and start thinking of arrangement ideas, I assume. Then letting him bounce ideas around. And the whole time being overly-enthusiastic to build George up. Look how happy George is with the love and attention. 

John helping move some equipment in. We love a man who sometimes doesn’t think he’s too good for manual labor. 

Yes, clean that homeless man’s palm sweat off your instrument. Probably smart. 

TFW you made Paul McCartney jealous of your musical abilities. 

John really knew so well when to be his little impish self and when to be hard and intimidating. Exhibit A, going from, “Can we have our microphones, oh, mister, can we please?” to “And get one for Billy too.” In a matter of seconds.

George Martin stepping in when they’re all getting panicky about the sound and they need an authority figure to reassure them in ways that someone like Glyn Johns never could. Just, perfectly cool and collected, puts everything right as they’re all shouting at him like school children who’ve just had a terrible time in PE. 

“Believe me, when I tell you.” “Oh, I do.” Oh, good. He did put it in. That’s nice. Right, and this is the moment Yoko decides to tell John her divorce has come through and pull him in for a big smooch. Honestly, it just shows how threatened she feels by Paul. Nevermind her whole, “good thing Paul isn’t a girl or he would have been a great threat,” quote. Clearly, he just is a threat regardless of sex.

And then John, “I’m freeeee.” At Paul. Honestly, the amount of things they direct specifically and aggressively at each other that should’ve just been general statements if there wasn’t some weird thing between them. It’s really something. Normally, you’d announce something like that to the whole room. But it seems John specifically wants to impress upon Paul that he and Yoko could get married right now if they wanted to. I mean, it’s a little difficult to make the point, because John and Paul almost aways seem to be talking only to each other. But through the whole discussion of Yoko’s divorce, John does not take his eyes off of Paul. 

Oh my gosh, Ivan Vaughn is here? How many emotional support boyfriends does Paul need to make up for John having Yoko? Glyn, Linda, George Martin, Dennis, Robert Fraser, and now Ivan? Fuck’s sake, Yoko, you’re a powerful woman.   

Paul’s Strawberry Fields piano. Let me be as vulnerable and broken as possible in my singing, since I can’t show you any other way that you’re killing me. Do you remember this song? That you wrote when we were at the height of our partnership only two years ago? How happy we were then? How beautiful the world seemed for that one brief moment? And John can’t look at him, because, yes he fucking remembers and yes he knows he’s hurting Paul. But for whatever reason, (my theory is he wanted something more Paul couldn’t give him. What that was and whether it was ever specifically vocalized I don't have a guess) going back to that time would be more painful to John than this has been.  

So they’ve been goofing off and Paul gives this little speech to get them back on task. “Alright Chawn Love. I’ve gotta call order, John, now, valuable time, here, son. Cool down, son.” But John’s response, “Don’t let me down, babe” completely switches Paul’s gears. He now thinks it’s important enough to get in this little snatch of a *meaningful* cover, “Take these Chains from my Heart,” reversing the course of productivity he’d got them on and ignoring the fact that they were about to do a take on two-shilling-a-foot tape. My interpretation of this moment is a bit tin-hatish and long, but suffice it to say, John is not happy with the message.

Everyone convincing Paul to do another take of his song is surprising, considering everything we always hear about how Paul was a tyrant task-master who just forced everyone to keep doing his lame muzak over and over when they all clearly hated it. Mal, “You can always go back to it.” Paul, “Do you want your head kicked in?” John, “We’ll never get a chance to do it again.” Paul, “Okay, honey bunch. Let’s hit it one time, tutti-frutti.” 

Yoko watching Paul check out her boyfriend’s ass. Classic. Also the fact that she literally copied his outfit? I get so much second-hand embarrassment for her, and it’s not when she’s being a weirdo and a statement-maker. It’s the having to physically stick the gum you were offering your boyfriend into this hand because he won’t take his eyes off his boyfriend for two seconds to look at you. 

Everyone laughing at Perfect Paul being out of tune is so funny to me. Like when the nerd finally gets a question wrong and the whole class is all “ooooohhhh!”

Ringo having a grand old time on the drums. I love that he just knew that’s what he wanted to do from such a young age and he never wanted to do anything else. And why would he? He’s a genius at it.

Paul. “John’s got something at 1:30 and so have I.” Smirk emoji. Side-eye emoji. George is with me. “Yeah we've got something too. I’ll do Ringo at 1:30.” I'm dead.

This moment right here hurts me. Paul’s enjoying a nice cuddle with Ringo until he remembers the camera. You’re not going to get in trouble for having your friend’s arm around your shoulders, Paul. Why are you like this? 

[book-place]

Little Flinches

Warnings: mentions of abuse (not really described), implied violence, weapons (not used), let me know if I missed any :)

Pairings: Damian Wayne x best friend reader, Batfamily x teen reader

Request: I was hoping to request a batfam x teen! Abused! Reader. Quik note; I understand if u are not comfortable with writing this since it contains mentions of abuse. You are a student at gotham high and you are also close friends with Damian Wayne. You and Damian have been friends for about 2-3 years now, and you both tell each other everything you even know about his family being vigilantes. His family has met you before, and they absolutely adore you. Yeah, remember when I told you that you told each other everything? Yeah, I lied. I lied because you've never told him about how your family abuses you at your home, but hehas always been skeptical about it. You always left tiny little "hints" without noticing. These "hints" usually consisted of flinching when he reached out to you or when he raised him voice- even if it wasn't directed to you. That's not to mention the fact that you never let him or anyone else hang out at your house, it was always his. One day, he found out when you came to school with a bruse, you had come with some before but you always claimed to have fallen, and although you where clumsy it becomes odd after coming to school with a bruse every day. Today he decided to put his theory to the test and ask tou what was wrong, as always tou answered with "nothing really, I just fell aga-", you didn't get to finish your sentence since you where quickly interrupted by Damian, "I know youre lying." He said in an angered voice, causing you to flinch, you just hoped he didn't notice, but ofc he did.After talking about it, you finally cracked and told Jim all about your family to your restless nights…Yeah, that's basically it, you can decide the ending (I just wanted do know how they'd all react, especially famian lol)

Request by: @waywardangelpieshark

*not my gif*

Summary: A change in your behavior makes Damian begin to question things

A/N: 1 down, 27 to go

Please don’t plagiarize my work, you may reblog if you like but I’m asking that you don’t steal my hard work

“We are having a movie night.” Damain announced, appearing next to you without a sound in a way he often did.

Slightly startled, you jumped before looking over at him, continuing to grab some books out of your locker as if nothing happened, “Tonight?” You asked, trying to keep your voice as smooth as possible.

He nodded his head, eyes narrowing at you a little bit, but deciding to let it slide, “Grayson keeps insisting that it should be tradition to have one every Friday night. So I decided to have you come instead of dealing with those imbeciles alone.”

“What about patrol?” You asked quietly so that people around you couldn’t hear.

He shrugged, “We will simply go later.”

You closed your locker and leaned against the door, quirking an eyebrow, “And what if I have plans?” You teased playfully.

A scoff escaped from his lips as he rolled his eyes, “You never have plans.”

It was your turn to roll your eyes in response, and as you opened up your mouth to rebuttal, the warning bell rang through the hall.

You flinched a little bit at the sudden sound, face turning red at Damian’s piercing stare, knowing that he had noticed.

“I’ll be there.” You quickly rushed out, not even looking at him as you turned on your heel and scurried down the hall to class.

His eyes narrowed at your retreating back.

-•-

You reached out and rang the doorbell, leaning back on your heels as you waited from someone to get the door.

After being friends with Damian for about three years, you eventually got used to his lavish home and lifestyle, even if it took about two years of friendship.

When you first met in class, you both hit it off right away, becoming thick as thieves and being attached to one another’s hips.

It was quickly discovered by your peers and teachers at school that the two of you were inseparable, knowing everything about one another, and practically being able to read each others minds.

But what they didn’t see- what you prayed Damian didn’t know-was that you were hiding a secret from him. A big secret.

You knew it wasn’t fair, you knew that he had told you him and his family's biggest secret, about their nightlife, and that yours wasn’t nearly as special, but you could just never bring yourself to open your mouth, get over yourself, and tell him.

Not even a moment later, the door was thrown open by a grinning Dick who was bouncing on his toes up and down with much more enthusiasm than you could have imagined.

“Hey! Hi! Hello! Welcome!” He greeted quickly, ushering you inside.

A small giggle left your lips as you entered, practically having to sprint to keep up after Dick as he sped through the house and to where you knew the movie room was.

When you got there, everyone was already spread out throughout the multiple pieces of furniture.

Jason was laying on his back, limbs going every which way, taking up an entire couch. Tim was sitting calmly in a bean bag chair, looking as if he were going to fall asleep at any given moment. And Damian sat, perched on another couch.

All of them perked up as you entered, greeting you with smiles.

You settled into the seat beside your best friend, falling into a conversation with everyone with ease.

“Next time, we have to do this at your house.” Tim joked, no longer looking as tired as he grinned over at you.

You smiled tightly, not responding.

The only reason you had been able to make it tonight was because your parents were out with some of their friends, most likely not to be returning until the early hours of the morning, so you had left without telling them. It was better that way.

You felt Damian’s eyes flicker over to you, and you could practically feel his eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion- even without looking at him.

But you paid him no mind as you changed the subject before he could open his mouth to question your sudden strange behavior, “So, what movie are we watching?”

That sparked an argument to form between all of the siblings, including Damian, which allowed you to sag back against the cushions in relief.

When they had finally come to a reluctant agreement amongst themselves and started the movie, a half hour had already passed and everyone had worn themselves out.

Doing what you always would, you gently snuggled against your best friend's side, being careful not to move the wrong way, and resting your head on his shoulder as he draped a blanket over both of your forms.

None of his siblings commented, used to it by now.

You had always been a physical touch person with those you were close to- hugs, holding hands, on the cheek kisses- anything so that they knew in a different way that you cared about them.

Damian, on the other hand, hated physical touch. The very thought used to repulse him.

But once he came to realize that it was how you would often express your feelings and that it’s what made you comfortable, he quickly grew used to- even welcoming- it.

Partway through the movie, a loud sound was released from the speakers, causing you to bolt in an upright position, practically floating down the rest of the couch, as far from him as possible.

His head turned to you in surprise, slightly wide eyes taking in your panting and shaking form.

It took you a second to realize where you were, that you were safe, that you could stop panicking and quivering like a leaf. And when you did, a new panic set in, because Damian had just witnessed you freak out over nothing.

You chuckled nervously, awkwardly sliding across the couch to get back to him. You were grateful that you both were behind all the others, so none of them even looked away from the screen at your reaction.

“Sorry,” You fake-giggled again, “That scared me.” It wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t as extreme as the truth was.

He didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at you, so you hesitated before carefully resting your head against the soft fabric of his shirt once more.

You allowed your eyes to drift back to the screen, not actually comprehending any of it, and being extra careful to keep your flinches to a minimum whenever any loud noises would happen.

Damian kept silent the whole time, eyes trained on the side of your head as they searched. For what, you didn’t know.

When the credits finally began rolling everyone slowly stood up, stretching their limbs out, except for Tim, whose head was facing the ceiling with his eyes closed and mouth slightly open.

“Thanks for having me, guys.” You whispered, careful not to wake up the sleeping boy, and giggled quietly, “Let him have the night off of patrol at least.” You teased.

Jason scoffed and rolled his eyes playfully, “Never.” He grinned.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw something moving towards you. Not being able to comprehend that it was just Dick going towards you for a hug, you flinched back, stumbling a couple of steps.

“Huh? What happened?” Tim’s voice rang out, successfully saving the day, because his older brother looked towards him just in time so that he didn’t see your reaction.

You were so relieved that you hadn’t even realized your best friend was the only one who didn’t look away from you.

With that, you slipped out of the room, Damian’s piercing stare not leaving you until you were out of sight.

-•-

A broken sigh left your lips as you stared down at your shoes you were shuffling across the pavement, a sense of dread settling into your stomach.

A dark bruise was shining over your right eye like a medal you were ashamed to have won. The other eye had circles under it of the same color.

Of course, the one day it got really bad was the one that you ran out of makeup to cover it up. And normally, you would just skip school or show up late in a situation like that, but your record couldn’t afford anymore of those. Because if you did either of those things again, the principal promised to call your parents in for a conference. That was the absolute last thing that could happen, you would not allow it.

Thankfully, Damian was nowhere in sight as you scurried down the halls to get to class as fast as you could.

What you didn’t realize was that he turned the corner just in time to see a flash of your face as you ducked into the classroom.

He frowned and turned on his heel, pulling his phone out of his pocket and walking in the opposite direction of where he was supposed to be going, dialing a number he knew by heart.

“Grayson,” He spoke, “I need a favor.”

-•-

“Miss. L/n,” Your teacher's voice pulled you out of your thoughts, causing your head to snap up in her direction.

She, nor anybody, had questioned the shiner you were sporting on your face, not caring enough to waste energy asking.

“You’re needed in the office.” She continued, already focusing her attention on other things.

Everyone’s eyes snapped in your direction as you stood and slung your backpack over you shoulder, scurrying out of the room as fast as you could.

It wasn’t that you weren’t used to the staring, you were- that came with being best friends with a billionaire's son- but after what had happened last night, you were feeling more self conscious than normal.

As you trekked down the halls, thoughts of dread filled your minds. All the what-if’s of what they could possibly want you to leave in the middle of class for.

But as you opened the door, every scenario you had thought up flew far from your mind when you were greeted with the sight of Damian and his brothers all standing tensely around the room, your principal nowhere in sight.

You blinked once in surprise, “What-“

“Oh my god,” Dick bawled, rushing over to you with his hands up as if to take your face between them and magically take the pain away.

You flinched away from his hand, though, and he came to a skidding halt, eyes widening even more as tears filled them.

Jason pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning on, a deep frown etched onto his features, “You were right, Dami.”

If you hadn’t already been alarmed, this set off even more warning bells. Jason never called Damian by his real name, it was always some nickname.

Tim sighed, dropping his head into his hands from where he sat on a couch to the side of the room.

Your eyes finally locked with Damian’s, who wore an unreadable expression that you hadn’t seen since you had first met and he still wasn’t fully comfortable around you.

“What’s going on?” You asked nervously.

“Grayson called in a favor to get you out of class for a little while.” The black haired boy spoke emotionlessly, knowing very well that it wasn’t what you were talking about.

It was silent for a few minutes as all the boys watched you fidget, varying forms of sadness and anger in their expressions.

“What happened to your face, Y/n?” Damian finally spoke up sternly.

You let out a nervous laugh, answering automatically on habit, “Oh, you know me, I just walked into a wall again-“

He didn’t even let you finish your sentence as he cut you off, “I know you’re lying.” His mouth was set in a thin line as his eyes narrowed in your direction.

You faltered, the reality of the situation suddenly hitting you like a speed train. He knew, he knew, he knew, he knew-

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your tear-filled eyes and broken whisper said otherwise.

Jason’s fist was clenched at his side as he looked anywhere but you, afraid of scaring you even more than you were. Dick was sobbing silently in the corner while Tim just looked upon you with sad eyes.

Damian was the worst though. His cold mask had slipped down to show how truly broken he looked, “I know you’re being hit.”

That was the moment everything became too much for you, and you fell to the ground with a sob, stuffing your face into your hands, unaware of the door being softly closed by Jason behind you.

Damian didn’t hesitate to drop down on his knees in front of you, being sure to keep some space in case the close proximity would accidentally trigger you somehow.

“I-I didn’t mean-“ You choked out, unable to fully speak between your sobs.

“Can I hug you?” He asked hesitantly, eyes searching your face for any signs that he said couldn’t.

All that you could do was give him a shaky nod, unable to form anymore words.

Not a single second was wasted before he scooped you up carefully into his arms, holding onto you as if you weren’t the only one who needed it, but as if he did too.

He began rubbing soothing circles in your back as he shushed you softly, using his other hand to run through your hair.

“Who?” He asked quietly, grip tightening on you ever so slightly, “Who did this to you?”

It took you another moment before you could finally spit out the two words that sent everyone’s stomachs plummeting to the ground, “My… parents.”

Over your shoulder, Damian was quick to make eye contact with Jason, giving him one firm nod that told the man everything he needed to know.

He ushered his other brothers out of the room, already having gone over with the youngest what he was to do when you told them who was abusing you.

The door was once again clicked shut softly behind them, and your best friend continued to hold you until you could finally speak once more.

“It-it started a while ago,” You admitted, tears having slowed as you sniffed, “It was just a slap or two at first, but it progressively got worse.” A shudder ran through your body.

“It’s okay,” Damian whispered, planting a kiss on the side of your head, “You’re okay now.”

You let out another sob before you continued, “And they weren’t supposed to be home last night, but they had gotten back early and saw that I wasn’t home without asking them permission to leave…they weren’t happy when I got back.”

With that, you buried your face into back his shirt and gripped onto the fabric like a lifeline.

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, mentally kicking himself over and over again for not recognizing the signs sooner.

You lifted your head and looked at him with a tear soaked face, “I’m sorry for not telling you. And I know you go through so much worse every single night and it makes me feel so stupid that I couldn’t even handle this-“

He quickly pulled you back into his hold, effectively cutting you off, “Shh, don’t apologize. You have no reason to. Those sorry excuses of parents are the only ones who need to.” He reassured you, “I chose to do that voluntarily, you don’t. There’s a huge difference.”

You sniffled, pulling back once again to look at him, “What’s going to happen now?”

He reached up and gently wiped away your tears with his sleeve, “Don’t worry about that, the others are taking care of it.”

-•-

Jason finished pulling his mask over his head and turned to his two brothers, “Are you ready?”

They both gave him firm nods, gripping onto their weapons tightly, lips pulled into thin lines.

The three of them were going to pay your parents a visit as Gotham cities vigilantes and give them the scare of a lifetime before reporting them to the police and making sure that they go away for a long, long time.

“Let’s go then,” He practically growled, turning around and banging on your parents front door.

The Superior Robin ❤️- @ineedmorefanfics2 @sambucky8 @spidyyparker @i-writes-things