#really really trying very hard not to judge

[zaynessbeloved]

The door had barely clicked shut before his hands were on you.

Still sun-warmed and tasting faintly of salt, you barely had time to laugh before Rafayel’s mouth captured yours—hungry, molten, reverent. He pressed you back against the nearest wall like he couldn’t bear the space between you a moment longer, his fingers skating over your skin slick with sunscreen and sun, and want, barely held back all day.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he moaned against your lips, his voice low and soaked with longing, words curling around you like silk. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…”

His hand slid around your waist, fingers teasing the strings of the bikini he’d picked for you months ago—delicate, barely there, the color designed to make your skin glow. He’d forgotten you even still had it. You hadn’t. You’d saved it.

And judging by the state of him now—kiss-bruised mouth, flushed cheeks, eyes molten and dragging across your chest like they were starving—he hadn’t been prepared for the way you looked in it. Perfect. Divine. His.

“You looked like a dream out there, cutie…” he breathed into your skin, his lips trailing down the column of your throat, damp and shivery. “Like something the sea spat out just for me to worship. You should’ve seen yourself.”

“I did,” you murmured with a sly smile, letting your fingers toy with the hem of his linen shirt, sticky now with salt and sweat, clinging to the hard lines of his torso. “You made sure of it, the way you couldn’t stop staring.”

He groaned deep and low, and rutted his hips against yours gently, letting you feel just how true that was.

“I tried to behave,” Rafayel whined, dragging his teeth gently across your shoulder, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting. “I was so good, cutie. I played in the sand. I let you win that race to the pier even though you cheated. I even let that lifeguard flirt with you for two whole minutes without setting the entire coastline on fire.”

You laughed, breathless and heat-drunk, and tugged him closer, nails ghosting down his back until he shuddered against you.

“You’re not very good at pretending you didn’t enjoy every second of it,” you whispered.

“Of you? Sun-kissed and smiling and wearing the damn bikini I hand-selected with trembling hands and the purest intentions?” he nipped at your jaw and moaned like he was in pain. “Cruel. Absolutely heartless. I should file a complaint to the gods, really.”

“Mhm, still…here you are,” you murmured, dragging your tongue just behind the shell of his ear, delighting in the way he gasped, “begging to be punished.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a whimper, his hair damp with sweat, strands sticking to his flushed neck. His body was so warm pressed to yours, all taut muscle and bare chest, the heat between you clinging like second skin. Your bikini still clung wet and snug to your hips, a contrast to the way his hands roamed like he was trying to undo every tie with touch alone.

“I’m not begging,” he breathed, hands skimming lower, lower, drawing your thigh up around his hip so the contact turned dizzying. “You already know I need you so damn bad, don't ya?.”

“Mmhm.”

“Cutie…” his voice dropped, silk dipped in sin. “You taste like sun and salt and every dream I’ve ever had. I need to touch all of you. Right now.”

And he did—every inch, every curve, every place you’d teased him with that wicked little smirk across the shoreline. His palms were firm and reverent, sliding along the slick warmth of your skin, mapping the path from ribcage to hip with a devotion that bordered on religious. He pressed open-mouthed kisses wherever his hands traveled—under your jaw, the valley between your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach—his moans constant, muffled against your skin.

“You were made for this,” he whispered between kisses, dazed and drunk on you. “For the sea. For me.”

Your fingers threaded through his lavender strands, now damp and curling slightly at the ends, and pulled until he looked up at you—eyes blown dark, lashes wet, lips kiss-swollen and parted with want.

“Take me to bed,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He groaned again, like the words had physically knocked the breath from his lungs.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, lifting you easily into his arms, mouth already on yours again, deeper this time, messier, made of sun-warmed desperation and hours of wanting you too much.

“Hold on tight, cutie,” he whispered against your lips. “Because I plan on making you forget your own name.”

He carried you like second nature, strong arms cradling you with all the reverence of a man handling his most precious work of art. His skin glistened, sun-slicked and flushed, his breath shallow where it brushed against your collarbone. The bedroom was already heavy with heat, both from the weather and from you—your body still humming from a day of being watched, worshipped, wanted.

He laid you out on the bed like you were the only masterpiece he’d ever cared to study, eyes roving across your still-wet bikini, the one he hand-picked as a gift a while back, his name practically stitched into the way it hugged your hips. You stretched languidly against the sheets, smirking, and that was all it took—he was on you in seconds.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he murmured against your stomach, lips trailing down with soft, reverent kisses that made your thighs twitch. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…and still smirking like you’re enjoying seeing me at your feet, desperate for a taste of you.”

“I won’t lie, you look so good like this,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his damp hair just to feel the weight of him, the heat, the tremble. “All flushed and needy.”

His hands slid up your sides, palms wide and hungry, and his mouth pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses over your belly, then down, tongue flicking at the curve of your navel. He moaned like he was feasting, like the taste of sunscreen and you was too much for him to bear. Then his teeth tugged at one of the delicate strings of your bikini bottoms, slowly, dramatically, until it came loose with a whisper.

You laughed softly, curling your legs around him. “Using your teeth now?”

“I was being polite before,” he groaned, biting softly at your hip. “But I’ve gone too long without tasting you, cutie, and I’m this close to losing the last of my sanity.”

He moved to come up for a kiss, eyes glassy, mouth parted—and just as his lips neared yours, you pressed your foot firmly to his chest.

“Ah—” he choked on his breath, eyes widening as you pushed him back with just enough strength to keep him pinned where he was. “Oh, you’re evil.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “Mhm, you love it.”

“I do,” he groaned, falling back against the sheets with a dramatic flair, flushed and completely, hopelessly gone. “Gods, I do. Look at what you’re doing to me.”

You trailed your toes down his chest, letting your heel press to the waistband of his swim shorts. He shivered, hard. Then arched a brow at you, pupils blown wide, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths.

“You’re going to kill me, cutie,” he whispered. “One day, you’ll smile at me like that, and I’ll just drop dead.”

“Mmm, even so,” you murmured, spreading your thighs in invitation, “you’re still breathing now, no?”

He stilled. Then slowly, like a predator tasting victory, he lowered himself again, hands curling under your thighs, dragging you down the bed with a strength that stole your breath. His eyes were locked on yours as he placed a kiss at the inside of your knee. Then another. Then lower.

When he reached your inner thigh, he hummed a sound that was more growl than sigh.

“I love you,” he murmured like it was a curse, voice cracking. “I love you so much it hurts. You’ve ruined me.”

And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and slick, tongue moving with practiced, fervent devotion—every stroke tailored to the exact sound he wanted to rip from your throat. He moaned into you, like the taste of you could keep him alive for centuries. Like this was a high he’d never come down from.

Your fingers found his hair—his wild, tangled, damp purple strands—and twisted. His breath stuttered. You pulled, and he groaned, hips grinding into the mattress like he was unraveling just from the pleasure of giving.

“Rafayel—” Your voice broke.

“Mmm, say it again,” he whimpered, mouth not stopping for a second. “You sound so pretty when you’re about to come for me, cutie.”

You whined, eyes fluttering shut as your body writhed under the spell of his mouth, his fingers now working in tandem with his tongue, curling and coaxing every ounce of heat from your core.

And just as you were teetering on that delicious edge—he stopped.

You blinked, dazed and breathless. “What…?”

His mouth was glistening, chin wet, eyes dark and electric. That familiar smirk pulled at his lips as he slowly crawled up your body like a storm, all heat and weight and tension.

“You didn’t think I’d let you stay in charge forever, did you?” he purred, his voice like velvet dragged over flame.

You swallowed, eyes wide.

“Now,” he murmured, nudging your legs open wider with his knee, pinning your wrists gently above your head, “be a good girl and let me show you exactly what you do to me. Let me make you feel so, so good, yeah?”

Of course he loved seeing you like this—sprawled out beneath him, glowing from sweat and sun, pupils wide with need, lips parted with unspoken pleas. Your body arched toward his, trembling on the edge of that final fall, but he denied you just a little longer, dragging it out like the artist he was, savoring every second of your unraveling.

His gaze devoured you, dark and gleaming, like watching you come undone beneath him was a masterpiece he’d been dying to finish.

But you… gods, you knew how to coax him. Your fingers slid down, lazy and deliberate, tracing the thick outline of his arousal through the soft fabric of his swim shorts. Just enough to make a point. Just enough to make him twitch in your hand.

He whined, a sharp, guttural sound that melted into a growl as his hips jerked forward instinctively.

“Oh no you don’t,” he breathed, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head again, harder this time, his frame hovering over you like the storm he always carried inside him. “You don’t get to tease and touch and pretend you’re not trying to kill me here, cutie.”

You barely had time to smirk before his mouth crashed into yours—wild and open and hot, all teeth and tongue and heat. He kissed you like a man starved, like he needed the taste of your moans to stay breathing.

Your bodies tangled, slick and desperate, the remaining pieces of clothing falling inevitably and rapidly to the floor. His hand found himself, stroking with a shudder before guiding his cock to your entrance—and you barely managed a gasp before he thrust in with a single, delicious motion, hips slamming flush against yours with no patience left to spare.

You bit into his neck with a cry, half praise, half plea, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he drove into you without restraint, without pretense, chasing something raw and sacred in the heat of your joined bodies.

But it was what came next that made you clench around him with a sharp, helpless moan. You felt it first—the frantic movement of his hips, the tremble of his breath against your throat—and then you heard it. Words. Not in your language. Not in anything you could understand.

Lemurian.

He was whispering it into your skin, into your mouth, your neck, your chest. Rough syllables, fevered and low, thick with worship and desperation, tumbling from his lips between gasps and groans. The ancient rhythm of his native tongue wrapped around your body like a spell.

You didn’t know what he was saying—gods, you wished you did—but the sound of it, the way it trembled out of him like prayer, ignited something deep and primal in your chest.

“Rafayel—” your voice broke, almost pleading. “Say it again.”

He growled, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he thrust harder, deeper. And then it came. A string of Lemurian, slower this time, more deliberate—followed by the only words you did understand. The ones he had taught you in the hush of a moonlit night, laughing as you struggled to pronounce them, only to melt when you finally did.

“You’re mine.”

It hit you like a wave crashing through your core—his voice, his rhythm, the way he buried himself so deep inside you it felt like you would never be whole without him there.

Your body tightened, back arching violently as you cried out his name, your release crashing into you in full, blinding waves.

Rafayel groaned, deep and broken, as your body clenched around him like a vice, and he followed—hips stuttering, voice hoarse and filled with reverence as he spilled himself inside you, still murmuring Lemurian into your skin like a prayer offered to the gods.

When the storm finally passed, he collapsed onto you, his breath ragged, face buried in your neck.

“Mine,” he whispered again, softer this time. “Always, cutie.”

[carlislefiles]

long distance | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori ╰►living apart for a little while didn't seem to big a deal when it first started, but now he realizes that you've made being alone absolutely miserable and he copes...not at all. 12.5k words

a/n: hi hi! back with another headcanon post about the jjk men being so embarrassingly down bad for you, so nothing new of course. this was actually a request, so I hope it's what you wanted!! thanks for leaving a request, I love to get them :] warnings: cussing, kissing, vaguely yandere!suguru but he's trying his best not to be. I think that's all. some are canon compliant, i.e. sorcerer au, cult!geto, etc. and some are not; don't read too much into it please because I'm stupid and don't think very hard. enjoy <3

he always got nervous sending you off on missions. it’s not that he didn’t think you capable of handling yourself. no, megumi knows that you are. but curses are capable, too. capable of pain, capable of torture, capable of damage, capable of murder. he’s watched it happen one too many times. he’s come close to it himself, much too close for comfort.

so that ache is already permeating when yaga assigns you a mission. but this is not like most missions. long games were for special grades or, at the very least, adult sorcerers. you were still in school, still learning. but yaga thinks that’ll be good for you. so he sends you with nanami to some shabby motel in the middle of tokyo to retrieve a cursed object. all in all, no big deal. 

you didn’t cry when you left, didn’t cling to him at the train station or demand nightly calls or send him with some obnoxious token to remember you by. you kissed him, told him you’d be gone for a while, and promised to text when you could.

he didn’t think it would be this hard. it’s been four days. no messages from you yet. nothing but an empty text thread and that stupid blinking cursor in the box where he keeps typing things and deleting them. did you eat? are you okay? I miss you. deleted. deleted. deleted.

megumi isn’t good at being needy. he isn’t good at much when it comes to feelings, honestly. he’s trying not to think about the fact that the dorm feels colder without you. that yuuji keeps asking if he wants to hang out and he keeps saying no. that even nobara noticed he’s been quieter than usual. and then, finally:

“hey!

things are quiet here. I’m okay. 

nothing’s exploded, no one’s dead. don’t worry too much, okay? I know you are.”

he stares at the message for a full minute before answering. it’s the most emotion he’s shown all day. 

“trying not to. 

can you call tonight?”

that night, you do. your hair’s messy, you’re already in pajamas, and the lighting is bad. megumi thinks you look perfect. you don’t say much. you eat in front of the camera—instant ramen in a paper bowl, chopsticks clacking softly.

“you can never repeat this or I will kill you…but I’m kind of missing gojo-sensei’s late night convenience store trips for sweet treats. I’ve eaten plain noodles for the past three nights.” 

“yeah, but you’ll live.” god, he’s such a little shit.

you grin through a mouthful of noodles. “barely. nanami lectures harder than yaga. and he watches me eat like I'm gonna throw my food away or something.”

megumi tilts his head a little, lips twitching. “I would’ve watched you eat too.��

“yeah, but you wouldn’t judge me for only eating the noodles and leaving the broth.”

“...yes I would.”

you gasp, mock betrayal written all over your face. “that’s rich coming from the guy who eats cold miso soup straight from the fridge.”

he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t even blink. just says, “it’s convenient.” you both pause, a lull in conversation. "well, you should go to bed." he says, almost longingly, like he really doesn't want you to.

"wait, no! I still have to finish eating and write a mission debrief. don't leave me alone to this torture," you whine dramatically.

"isn't nanami on the other side of the wall? won't he get annoyed with us talking?" but it's a feeble, pathetic excuse. he doesn't care if nanami's annoyed, he wants to keep talking to you. but megumi is so painfully polite.

"nah," you lie. "he's probably writing his mission debrief. or laying in bed trying to pretend he doesn't miss his girlfriend."

"fiancée," nanami corrects, from the other side of the wall. you roll your eyes and keep eating, and that settles the matter.

megumi watches you from his own desk, textbook open in front of him, highlighter in hand. he doesn’t get much studying done. he keeps glancing at the way your hair falls into your face. the way you hum a little under your breath while you eat. the way you keep glancing at him to see if he’s still looking.

you tell him about the mission in vague terms. enough that he knows you’re still safe. you tell him how boring the town is, how the cursed energy’s been faint but persistent, how nanami makes you check in at regular intervals like a human tracking collar. you joke about it, but megumi hears the fatigue under the laughter.

still, you smile at him. stretch your arms over your head. let out a soft sigh and curl up on your thin little bed in the background. “you tired?” he asks.

you nod. “gonna pass out in a second.”

“I’ll stay on the line.”

you don’t argue. just mumble something like “okay, ‘gumi,” and turn the camera so it’s angled toward your pillow. he hears your breathing first. then the quiet shuffle of your blanket. and then—nothing. he doesn’t hang up. just listens to the soft rhythm of you sleeping and sets his phone down beside his own pillow. it’s the only thing that keeps the nightmares at bay. from that night on, it’s routine. if you don’t call, he doesn’t sleep.

some nights you eat in front of him again. sometimes he reads to you from the literature class you’re missing. you tell him you don’t miss the essays, but you do miss him reading to you, even if it’s monotone and serious. he takes it as a compliment.

he tells you that yuuji says hi. that nobara’s plotting to replace you as his “emotional regulation buddy” with a plush panda she won at an arcade. that gojo told the entire class you’re devastated to be missing “your favorite, beloved, beautiful teacher.”

you make gagging noises over the mic. megumi smirks. “gross,” you groan. “if I die, let that be the last thing anyone hears from me. not gojo-sensei slandering utahime’s good name as my favorite teacher.”

“you’re not dying, and utahime isn’t your teacher.”

“I know. just saying. and she’s still my favorite.”

he doesn’t like that kind of talk, even in jest. but he lets it slide. mostly because your voice is starting to fade again, and he can hear the soft, sleepy rasp that means you’re seconds away from unconsciousness. “goodnight, gumi,” you whisper.

he swallows. “goodnight.” he stays on the call long after you’re out, usually the whole night. he wakes up and nanami’s already dragged you out of bed. but sometimes, early in the mornings, earlier than he’d need to get up, he wakes to the sound of you saying “bye gumi,” before leaving. 

the calls had become a rhythm. a soft beat he could rest his heart against. so when the call doesn’t come—when you don’t pick up—megumi’s world tilts.

it’s a wednesday, just past three in the afternoon. he calls because he misses your voice, because he’s been holding on by the thinnest thread and hearing you breathe over the mic somehow makes him feel like his chest isn't full of barbed wire. it rings once. twice. four times. and then it goes to voicemail.

he stares at his screen. tries again. still nothing. he tells himself you’re probably just busy with the mission. maybe you’re asleep. maybe nanami’s giving a debrief. maybe your phone’s dead. maybe—maybe you’re hurt. maybe you’re bleeding out in some cold concrete stairwell and your cursed tool slipped from your hands and—

he calls again. and again. it spirals quick. too quick. he forgets how to sit still. paces his dorm room like the floor’s going to fall out from under him. pulls his hoodie tighter around him. shoves his phone in his pocket. takes it out. checks his texts. nothing. checks the school emergency threads. nothing. pings gojo just in case—doesn’t get an answer, which just makes it worse.

he feels it building in his chest—this clawing panic he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, since he watched his sister's body be wheeled away, since he realized he was alone in a world that doesn’t care how scared you are.

and then—his screen lights up. [your contact]: incoming facetime call. he answers before the first ring even finishes. “hello?” his voice is raw, low, already cracking.

“gumi,” your voice spills through the speaker, breathless, warm, real, and he can see your face, your phone propped up on the pathetic excuse for a desk in your motel room. “m’so sorry I didn’t answer.”

he exhales so hard it’s almost a gasp. the air rushes out of him like a lung finally punctured, like he’d been holding it the whole time. “what happened?” he asks, too fast.

“nanami was ripping me a new one,” you sigh, dragging the words out like a dramatic retelling. “I dropped a cursed object. by accident. no curses escaped or anything, he’s just being nanami about it.”

from somewhere behind you, nanami’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade, “it was for your own good!”

“yeah yeah,” you mutter, rolling your eyes so hard he can hear it. “for my growth as a professional sorcerer, I know.” megumi doesn’t laugh, exactly. but something like a breathless, stunned smile pulls at his lips. you’re okay. you’re fine. his fingers are still trembling.

“don’t do that again,” he mutters. “don’t—don’t scare me like that.” he knows it’s irrational, that you’re on a mission and if you’re busy–for example, getting your ass chewed for a dumb mistake—he can’t expect you to drop everything for his phone call. 

“wasn’t on purpose, gumi.”

he knows that. he knows. but it doesn’t matter. logic doesn’t cushion the way his stomach still aches from the half hour of imagining you gone. “when you get home,” he says, voice rough, “we’re talking about this. about these long missions.”

“mm,” you hum. “you know we can't avoid them forever.”

“don’t care.”

you snort. “so bossy.”

“promise me.”

you go quiet for a second. not teasing, not stalling—just watching him through the camera, reading the too-serious look in his eyes. “…we’ll talk about it when I'm back,” you say softly.

megumi doesn’t push it. just says, “fine.” but he’s already made up his mind. he’ll talk to gojo. he’ll talk to anyone. no more of this. no more weeks without seeing you. no more half-breathing panic every time you don’t pick up. because he needs you too much to keep pretending this is normal.

you get home just after 2 a.m. about three weeks later.

you don’t expect anyone to be awake. especially not megumi. but the second you creak open the door to your dorm, you feel the warmth of the heated blanket across your bed and the familiar smell of your perfume hanging in the air like a ghost. he’s curled up on your desk chair, long legs tucked beneath him, phone in hand.

his eyes snap open the second the door clicks shut. “you’re late,” he mumbles, already standing. “you said midnight.”

you grin, exhausted. “blame the traffic. and nanami’s rigid driving; he’s almost as bad as ijichi.”

he’s already crossing the room. grabbing your bag from your shoulder. pulling the blanket draped over your other arm. but then he pauses—just a breath—and pulls you to him. no hesitation. no asking. he grabs you hard. arms like a vice, face buried in your shoulder, breath shaky against your skin.

you groan half-heartedly. “m’all gross. smell like gas station snacks.”

“don’t care.”

he holds you for another thirty seconds. maybe more. long enough that your fingers twitch against his back, grounding yourself, grounding him. long enough that your eyes sting with something quiet and familiar and good. then you pull back, barely.

“gumi,” you murmur. “shower. let me shower.”

he sighs through his nose but lets you go. watches you shuffle off into the bathroom, yawning as you go. he doesn’t lie down. he just sits.

legs tucked up, back resting against the headboard like he’s trying not to make himself too comfortable. because this isn’t his room. this isn’t his bed. but it smells like you—your detergent, your body spray, something floral and sugary he’d never be able to name but would recognize in any crowd. and it’s unbearable.

he hasn’t smelled you in weeks. and now you’re twenty feet away, humming off-key in the shower, and the reality of it slams him in waves. you’re here. you’re safe. your voice doesn’t sound strained. you aren’t limping. you’re home. and he feels—well…he doesn’t know what he feels. something like grief. something like longing, bent inward.

he picks at a loose thread on your blanket. he can hear the muffled splash of water. you’re probably using the shampoo he restocked before you left. the thought—so small, so domestic—makes his throat feel tight.

he hadn’t meant to wait here. he told himself he’d just check your room. make sure everything was warm. maybe leave a note. but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. not when the hours ticked past midnight. not when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the leftover tremor of panic clinging to his fingertips.

he’s not used to missing people. not like this. not in a way that guts him clean. he’s used to solitude. used to quiet. used to locking every sharp emotion behind his teeth. but you—you’ve made his silence heavy. you’ve made being alone unbearable. his eyes flicker toward the bathroom door again. he can hear the faucet shut off. movement. a cabinet. your toothbrush rattling. nothing special. ordinary things. and it moves him in a way nothing else has in days.

he wonders if you ever felt this way when he was on a mission. when he went quiet for hours. when his texts were flat and dry and full of nothing, just the bare bones of logistics. he never knew what to say. still doesn’t. you had always carried the weight of their communication, laughing off his ellipses and single word answers. he hated that it took your absence to realize how much he had taken that for granted.

his hand drifts toward the spot on your mattress where you usually lie. he presses his palm to the indentation there, barely noticeable, like a memory. like the way your body had fit there so many nights, warm and half-asleep and reaching for him.

he closes his eyes for a second. just one. listens to the lock click open. you come out in an oversized shirt and…are those his socks? gross, he thinks. they’re yours now. your hair is damp and messy and you’re rubbing at your eyes like you’re already halfway asleep. you don’t even notice the look on his face. which is good. because he’s looking at you like you hung the stars.

he doesn’t say a word when you climb into bed beside him. doesn’t flinch when you tug his arm toward you, drape it around your waist like it belongs there. doesn’t speak when you whisper something about the drive, about being sore, about the ramen being even worse on the way back.

he just holds you. pulls you into his chest like he’s still scared you’ll vanish again. like if he doesn’t wrap around you tight enough, you’ll disappear back into the wind.

and when you mumble, “shouldn’t’ve waited up for me,” into the fabric of his shirt, his breath catches.

he wants to tell you how much it wrecked him to wait. how every second of not knowing was its own kind of torture. how his heart felt like it was bleeding out in the dark. but he doesn’t. he just tightens his grip. noses into your damp hair. “couldn’t wait,” is all he says.

he hated leaving. hated the silence of being apart from you. hated the dull throb that settled in the hollow of his chest the second he stepped outside your shared space. it wasn’t about control. it wasn’t even about the cult, not really—though geto did have obligations. rules to keep, people to placate, power to maintain. no one ran an empire of belief and blood by sitting on their ass. but still.

the thing about being away from you was that it felt like waking up in the middle of a dream and finding the world gray and unrecognizable. suguru had known grief. he had known rage and cruelty, had held the hand of sorrow like an old friend. but this? this constant ache of missing you—of living in days you weren’t part of? it was a quieter suffering, but no less violent. it chewed at him from the inside.

you didn’t help. of course you didn’t. he could feel your affection like sunlight on skin, even from miles away. you texted often—too often, really, if he were a lesser man. if he didn’t live for every single message.

there was the blurry selfie you sent one morning, barely lit by dawn. bedhead in every direction, your eyes puffy with sleep and your mouth slack, crust of drool shameless at the corner. you looked like a disaster. you looked like home.

the bed misses you, you’d written beneath it. oh, and I do too. he stared at that photo for longer than he should’ve. long after he’d replied with his usual: go back to sleep. it’s too early. (you replied with bossy. he smiled.)

there was a picture of miso soup you made. you’d captioned it with theatrical misery: I made enough for you and I. guess I’ll have to eat it all myself :/

he laughed. a real one, from deep in his chest. he scared one of his subordinates with the sound. what a shame, he wrote back. 

there was a day you sent him a photo of yourself cross-legged on the floor, nanako braiding your hair and mimiko painting your toes the brightest glittery pink imaginable. they’d hijacked your phone and typed with relentless confidence: she so pritty sensei u better come home soon or we keep her

he’d answered with: the prettiest. she’s mine, not yours, he’d teased.

it struck him then, for maybe the hundredth time, how strange this life was. his days were grim and sterile. the smell of iron lingered on his clothes. he spoke to liars, sycophants, zealots. he disposed of the wretched, the corrupt. and yet…you were sending him soup. selfies with sleepy eyes and too-big shirts. pictures of your toes being painted like you had nothing better to do. like you weren’t worried about the dark parts of his life clawing too close to yours.

he missed you like a wound misses the stitch. like a man freezing misses the flame. you were busy, he knew. but not too busy. you always made time to call. the sound of your voice through the phone cut through everything. made it easier to breathe. he’d been in the middle of a meeting once when your name flashed across the screen. walked out without explanation. no one dared follow.

you greeted him with a teasing pout. “aww, you look tired, sugu.”

he rolled his eyes, dragged a hand down his face. “do I?” he murmured.

“yeah,” you said, soft. “a little.”

he considered lying. pretending he was fine. that he was just tired from work, from travel, from the endless cycles of doing what he believed was right. but instead, he just exhaled. let the truth out like smoke. “I just miss you.”

there was a beat of silence. a rustle as you shifted in bed. “I know,” you whispered. “you’ll be home soon. you’ll be in my arms before you know it.” you know that if you tell him you miss him, he’ll be ditching whatever cult business he needs to tend to tomorrow and driving home to you.

he closed his eyes. let the sound of your promise sink into his bones like warmth. that one sentence carried him for days. suguru geto had built a life from ruin. constructed an ideology from loss and pain and righteous fury. there was blood on his hands, and there would always be. but the knowledge that you waited for him—chose him—that you wanted him to come home, not as a leader, not as a god, but as a man—it was enough to keep going. only for so long, though. 

he’d decided he’d come home early. your precious, domestic texts and sleepy phone calls were only sustaining him for so long—small, bright glimpses into a life he was meant to be living in full. he’d stared too long at a photo of your socked feet propped up on the coffee table, your caption reading, these little guys are cold without you, and just…decided.

he wasn’t needed as badly as he was wanted. his responsibility to the cult weighed heavy, yes, but not heavier than the one he gave himself the moment he started loving you. and god, he loved you. so earnestly. so indulgently. as if he could worship the loneliness out of himself just by touching you enough, giving you everything you never asked for, offering you every corner of his heart like he owed you interest.

you told him he didn’t have to. he knew that. you never demanded a thing. never pressured. never made him feel like love was something transactional. but he had made a quiet promise to himself, sometime in the crook of a sunday morning with you pressed against him and sunlight painting your cheek—he’d love you so well, the world would forget it had ever been cruel to him.

so he came home. late. quiet. shoulder-heavy from travel, but stomach-light with the anticipation of seeing you.

he slipped into the house like a ghost—except ghosts don’t bring bags full of wrapped sweets and your favorite soy milk. ghosts don’t stop to make sure their footsteps don’t creak. ghosts don’t pause at the edge of the kitchen, heart pounding like they’re sixteen and about to kiss someone for the first time.

you were there. barefoot. bent over the stove in one of his old t-shirts, hair clipped messily, humming something tuneless as the smell of pan-fried dumplings filled the air. the domesticity nearly knocked him out. you looked like a dream he’d never dared to wish for.

and then you turned. and screamed. and launched yourself into him, clinging with all the force of a hurricane wrapped in a t-shirt and lavender body mist.

“when did you get back—how long were you standing there—why do you smell so good—wait, aren’t you supposed to be gone for another week—are you hungry—”

he just shushed you, kissed your hair, held you so close you whined, and cooed softly as if calming an overexcited cat. “missed you too,” he murmured. “so much, I couldn’t wait.” you’re flushed and breathless and glowing. and for the first time in too long, he feels…calm. like his body’s no longer stretched across two continents. like he’s whole again.

you finish cooking together, except his arms never leave you. he presses himself against your back, kissing your shoulder when you season something absentmindedly, humming when you sway a little to the music in your head. you tell him things he already knows from the phone calls, but hearing them now—woven with your laughter, punctuated by your hands brushing his as you grab plates—feels different. realer. better.

he makes you sit on his lap as you eat, feeding you little bites with his fingers, biting them himself just to feel your giggle against his jaw. “so clingy,” you murmur teasingly.

“deal with it,” he says, nuzzling into your neck.

the compliments come in waves, unfiltered. he missed your voice. your hair. the way you sit, slouched and cozy. the way you smell like rice steam and your favorite lotion. he missed your laugh, your offbeat commentary, the way you act like his t-shirts were always yours first.

you tease that he’s acting like you’ve been gone for years. but he just cups your jaw, tilts your head to kiss you slow. “felt like longer.”

you clean up together. he dries, you rinse. he hums as you put the dishes away, as if it’s some sacred duet. then, without a word, he scoops you up bridal style. you shriek. he grins, soft and sleepy. “bedtime,” he says simply, and that’s that.

in bed, he tugs the blankets high over you both, arms wrapping like he never wants to let go. your back presses to his chest. he buries his face in your neck. he doesn’t even speak. just breathes. in. and out. like your skin is the first oxygen he’s had in weeks.

and then you whisper, so mocking and sarcastic. “looks like you’ve missed the bed as much as it’s missed you.”

he doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed. he just hums, nose still pressed behind your ear. no bed is a bed without you in it. no life is a life without your warmth next to his.

you’d known gojo for years. adjacent, mostly. orbiting one another like curious planets in a system too chaotic to align—too many curses, too many tragedies, too many times your paths almost crossed. he was always a few feet away. loud and laughing, or solemn and deadly. the strongest. the best.

everyone seemed to gravitate toward him. you didn’t. not out of spite—just…you didn’t need to. and that alone made you unforgettable. you weren’t dazzled by the brilliance. you didn’t stumble when he walked into the room. you just met his gaze like he was anyone else. and god, that was all it took.

he spent months chasing you. ridiculous, grand, pathetically sincere efforts to earn your attention, your time, your affection. he hated how much he loved it. and he loved it. because for once, it wasn’t about being the strongest. you didn’t want his power. you wanted him. and now that he had you, nothing else quite compared. not even close.

of course, hard, cruel missions were just a part of his life—ugly constants that weren’t going anywhere. and he accepted that. he didn’t whine about it (too much). but what killed him now, what actually made his chest feel tight…was missing you. this was new. this ache, this yearning. he’d missed people before. friends, students, the dead. but this was different. a slow, golden kind of missing. like homesickness, but gentler. like longing, but soaked in love.

he left for a month-long mission—business, training, extermination, bullshit—with megumi and nobara in tow. the only thing that kept him sane was the note you’d slipped into his pocket. “good luck, handsome. not that you’ll need it <3” written in your loopy, familiar handwriting, laced with your perfume, folded once with intention. he kept it in the pocket of every uniform he wore. reread it constantly. swore the ink still smelled like you even after week three.

and then there were the calls. the constant calls. megumi swore he was going to throw gojo’s phone off a mountain if he heard your voice through it one more time. “eight hours,” megumi muttered once, utterly horrified. “eight hours. what do you even talk about?” gojo just smirked. “everything,” he said simply.

because it was true. you two talked about everything. and nothing. from global politics to what cereal you had that morning. you talked like it was oxygen. like if you stopped, the spell would break. and god, when you weren’t talking, you were texting. constant little updates that meant nothing to the world but meant everything to him. took a nap on your pillow. it still smells like you <3

burned my toast this morning, please come home and fix my life.

yuuji just dropped kicked a vending machine. your son is out of control.

he replied to everything. with emojis. with voice notes. with dumb selfies and long paragraphs and out-of-pocket comments that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. he’d wait five hours in a hostile zone for a curse to reappear and spend all of it reading back through your messages like they were scripture. he loved your voice. your thoughts. your jokes. your complaints about the coffee machine. your book recommendations. your grocery lists. you.

sometimes, late at night, when he was finally alone and the world had quieted, he’d just…watch you. on facetime. your camera angled toward your desk or the stovetop or your bed. sometimes you were talking, humming, scribbling notes. sometimes just brushing your hair or stretching. and he’d be still. quiet. eyes a little glassy. you were so real. so alive. and so impossibly his.

he didn’t even know what to say, half the time. which was rare, for him. he’d just murmur your name, and you’d glance at the screen and smile. and that was enough. he didn’t realize this kind of love existed before you. the soft kind. the quiet devotion. the love that doesn't demand anything except presence. and now? he can’t imagine surviving a single mission without it.

yes, he misses you. terribly. desperately. consumingly. he misses you like it’s a full-time job. like it’s a cursed technique in itself—one that gnaws at his chest and makes him sigh like a victorian widow. megumi and kugisaki are beyond sick of it. 

“did you know she was valedictorian?” “she expelled a special grade curse today, did you hear about that?” “she’s thinking about getting blonde highlights, what do you think? 'cause I think she’ll look gorgeous.”

and to make it worse, he says all of this unprompted. out of nowhere. while they’re eating. walking. fighting a curse. like he’s legally obligated to mention you every fifteen minutes or he’ll spontaneously combust. megumi glares. nobara sighs. gojo just smiles like the happiest idiot on earth. because honestly? the ache? the missing you? it’s the most beautiful pain he’s ever felt. how lucky is he, really? to love someone so good it makes his chest hurt? to have a reason to want to come home at all? he thinks about that a lot. how he used to come back from missions to empty dorms and empty beds. how his life used to feel like an endless hallway with no one at the end. now? he’s got you.

so he sends you things. takeout from your favorite place, delivered to your door like clockwork on tuesday nights. trinkets from roadside stands. little notes, scribbled on receipts and napkins and hotel stationery, folded into snail mail envelopes with poorly drawn hearts and terrible handwriting. souvenirs from tokyo, as if it’s not your backyard. “this made me think of you,” he always writes. every single time.

and when he finally comes home—god, when he finally walks through that door…you’re there. his house is dark except for the lamp you’ve left on. you’re curled up on the couch, eyes fluttering, a blanket pulled halfway over your lap, waiting for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and just like that, he forgets he’s tired. forgets the drive. forgets nobara and ijichi bickering in the backseat. forgets everything except you.

his chest cracks open and sunlight pours out. he practically launches himself across the room to scoop you up, spinning you in a dizzy circle before you can even stand. you’re real, he reminds himself in his head, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, your nose, like he’s checking if you’ve been replaced by a doppelgänger. you’re here. you’re mine.

you’re laughing, breathless, arms looped around his neck as he carries you like a bride to your own couch. he smells like wind and exhaustion and sweets. his hands are everywhere—tugging your hair gently, holding your face, gripping your waist like he might float away without you. and the talking—oh, the talking—it starts instantly.

you’re telling him about the neighbor’s cat and your lesson plans and the weird dream you had last night, and he’s telling you about the guy who tried to stab him and how megumi learned a new technique and how he missed you so much it made his stomach hurt. you don’t stop talking. it’s like trying to drink from a firehose of love. overwhelming and nonstop and absolutely intoxicating.

you both fall asleep in the living room that night. you, tucked into his chest. him, whispering half-conscious declarations of love into your hair.

“I missed you so much, baby. like, actual physical pain. never leave me. ever. I'll die. actually. dead. gone.”

you just hum and stroke his hair. and he clutches you tighter. because this is his whole world. and it talks to him in your voice.

it was just a three-month internship. just one summer. twelve weeks, eighty-four days. not even a full season. but, to takuma, it felt like a lifetime.

and it was a critical opportunity—one of those shiny, brag-worthy, fate-altering positions that made people blink twice when they heard the name. working at a renowned fortune 500 company. a place with glass walls and brushed steel fixtures and a breakroom espresso machine that cost more than your entire rent. takuma was lucky to even be employed there. he was luckier to be handpicked. he couldn’t say no. even though he wanted to.

a whole summer away from you was a particular kind of torture he wasn’t built to survive. and it wasn’t like he’d be lazing about in a cushy little dorm, feet up, texting you all day. he’d be working. up before the sun. in meetings. taking notes. running errands. being important™.

and you’d be busy too. school was out, which meant full-time hours at a job that drained you to the bone. you were practical like that. no-nonsense. bossy in a way that only he could make soft. you took one look at his hesitation and gave him that look. and that was it.

you made him go. told him that your relationship could never come between him and his future. told him he had goals and ambition and plans—and none of them would matter if he didn’t take himself seriously enough to chase them. he called you mean. you kissed his forehead and told him to grow up. he left the next morning with tears in his eyes and your hoodie in his carry-on.

he was a good boyfriend. no, a great boyfriend. but long distance revealed a hard truth: you were the one managing all the actual boyfriend tasks. you texted him reminders like his mother.

take your lunch break. they legally have to let you.

coffee is not breakfast. I swear to god, takuma.”

we can only talk for five minutes. go to bed.”

go to sleep. do not respond to this. I'm serious.

and he whined about it, obviously. because he was a little brat and he missed you like hell. but being bossed around by you? being cared for by you from miles away? it melted him. reduced him to mush, to goo, to something warm and stupid and in love.

he thought about you constantly. obsessively. you weren’t just on his mind—you were his mind. his default brain setting. his internal monologue. his every other sentence in conversation. his coworker was going to snap.

by week two, the poor man knew your full class schedule, your favorite brand of hair conditioner, and the name of your cat from middle school. takuma would not shut up. not during meetings. not during breaks. not even while writing quarterly summaries. his fellow intern had to physically swat his arm to stop him from zoning out mid-presentation because takuma was daydreaming about you in too tight tank tops and daisy dukes. (which, by the way, you rarely wore, but in his fantasies, they were basically the only things in your closet.)

he was losing it. and the worst part? you weren’t even out partying. you weren’t living your best hot girl summer. you were at home, being responsible. studying for a semester that hadn’t even started yet. working long shifts at a minimum wage hellhole that absolutely did not deserve you.

he thought about you when he typed emails. when he walked through security. when he accidentally dropped his pen and found your scrunchie in his pocket.

you consumed him. and it was kind of…concerning.

you didn’t even text him much. you were sentimental in theory, not in practice. but he’d set your custom ping—something soft and sparkly and obnoxious—and every time it went off, he dropped everything. his clipboard, his sandwich, his laptop (once). nothing mattered more than those three words lighting up his screen.

miss you.

ate some strawberry pocky today. reminded me of you.

you better bring me a souvenir.

simple stuff. barely even emotional. but it had him blushing. smiling at his phone. kicking his feet like a high school girl in a shoujo anime. god, he was gone. he’d sigh and press his phone to his chest like it was your face. he’d write six drafts of his reply and delete them all. he didn’t want to sound too clingy—which was hilarious, because he was. completely. desperately.

he nearly sobs at his desk. a fellow intern throws him a concerned glance from across the boardroom. the last week of the internship, he’s jittery. manic. he can’t sit still. can’t focus. his work’s still excellent, but it’s powered entirely by the promise of you.

I bought the ingredients for your favorite udon to make when you get home :) 

oh god. a fucking smiley face. you never sent those. he throws his head back and groans like he’s been shot. the guy next to him asks if he’s okay. “just in love,” he sighs dramatically. seven days. seven days until he can lie across your lap and whine about capitalism and let you pet his hair while he tells you about his boss’ entire schedule from memory. seven days until he can finally, finally, come home.

he’s texting you dumb updates the entire train ride home. like, every single thought that crosses his mind gets sent to you as a message.

just passed a field of sunflowers. thought of you.

guy next to me is eating chips. I want to fight him.

I'm wearing the cologne you like. do I smell good from here?? 😏

and you’re reading them all. like they matter. like they’re important. because they are. you’re hearting each message. sending him little thumbs up emojis, laughing silently at his nonsense, and responding with fast fingers because you’re at work and you really shouldn’t be on your phone—but you can’t not. it’s takuma. he’s coming home.

the anticipation eats at you. he’s only hours away. and still, it doesn’t feel real. three months is a long time. three months is forever. three months made you forget what it’s like to hear him laugh in person, to feel his breath against your skin.

tonight’s dinner will be fun. your friends insisted. “celebrate!” they said. “you’ve been holding it down on your own, you deserve a night!” and yeah, they’re right. but when takuma actually gets there—god. it’s too loud. too many people. music blasting. laughter ringing. someone’s yelling about a spilled drink and someone else is screaming over a beer pong table. it’s overstimulating. and he’s exhausted. and he hasn’t seen you in eighty-four days. and all he wants is to be somewhere quiet with you.

then—he sees you. standing in the yard, talking with a few friends, untouched by the chaos. the rest of the world blurs.

he sees you. tank top. daisy dukes. a glass in your hand, your other arm crossed loose under your chest. hair kissed by sun, smile subtle, barely-there gloss. you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. and he’s not thinking anymore. he’s moving. across the lawn. through the bodies and beer and sweat and laughter.

you turn, meet his eyes—and that’s it. he kisses you like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream. like he’s afraid if he doesn’t touch you fast enough, you’ll disappear again. his hands are wrapped around you, one in your hair, the other around your waist, pulling. he holds you like oxygen. he breathes you in. he kisses you like you’re a prayer he never said out loud.

someone whistles. someone cheers. one of your friends gasps out a half-laugh, half-“oh my god.” but none of it registers. just the way your fingers curl into his shirt. just the way your breath stutters when he finally pulls away. your eyes flutter open and you’re smiling—shy, surprised, soft.

and then—he grins, dazed and breathless. leans in again and murmurs, "I love your outfit.”

and you smirk, head tilted, knowingly smug. “I thought you might.”

"let's go home, yeah?" and you nod. yeah. home.

choso and you hadn't been dating for long. the concept of romantic love was still relatively new to him—foreign, even. for most of his existence, his idea of love was synonymous with protection, with blood, with survival. this was different. now, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was definitely, 100%, desperately, ridiculously in love with you.

but that sensation was new. often overwhelming. sometimes he’d just stop mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-thought, and look at you—brows drawn, head tilted, eyes wide—like he couldn’t quite figure out how all that affection fit inside his chest. he wasn’t built for this. not really. he didn’t know where to put all of it.

he didn’t say “I love you” often. not yet. not because he didn’t feel it—but because he was terrified that once he said it out loud, it would never stop coming out. like a dam breaking. like a wound that wouldn’t clot. to cope, he defaulted to closeness. physical presence was grounding. if he could see you, then he could breathe. you didn’t seem to mind. neither did he. you spent so much time together that megumi started calling you “the parasite couple” under his breath. choso didn’t take offense. parasites were just misunderstood.

when you left on a two-week-long mission, he stood by the door, stiff and silent, while you packed. his stomach felt strange. not painful—just...loud. like there were nerves bubbling in his bloodstream. his general thoughts were that he was worried. he trusted you, sure. he knew you were competent. but humans were fragile. you'd once bruised your knee walking into a coffee table. what if something actually dangerous tried to hurt you?

he considers asking yaga if he can go too—just stay a couple towns over, pretend it's a coincidence—but yuuji talks him down. “dude. don’t be weird about it. she’s gonna be fine. they wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t capable.” he knows yuuji’s right. he hates that yuuji’s right.

he hugs you for a long time before you leave. he doesn’t want to let go. not because he’s being dramatic—but because his brain keeps cataloguing the things he might miss: the sound you make when you stretch, your fingers in his hair, the way your socks never match. he helps carry your single bag to ijichi’s car and lingers near the curb while you make small talk with your reluctant chauffeur. he’s glad you're not flying. planes are unnatural. “giant metal bird coffin” is what he calls them.

before you climb into the backseat, you kiss him. it’s not a dramatic, cinematic kiss. it’s soft, familiar. your lips are a little chapped. the kind of kiss that promises i’ll come back. his heart stutters so hard in his chest that he sways slightly on his feet. you smile at him—that smile—and he wonders how anyone survives this feeling.

maybe one day, your kisses won’t give him heart palpitations…maybe. but he doubts it.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you promise, tapping your fingers twice against his chest, just above where his heart is hammering. “and now you know how to facetime me. you can see me anytime you want.” he nods solemnly. like you’ve given him a sacred task.

he tries to be subtle. he really does. he drafts every text twice, sometimes three times, trying to land on just the right combination of calm concern and casual curiosity. he thinks he’s being clever. he is not being clever or subtle in the slightest. he leaves you voice notes, asking questions, rambling.

what time did you go to sleep last night? don’t talk to strangers. did you bring your charger? what’s the exact longitude and latitude of your hotel? do you have enough socks? just double checking—when do you come back again? did you eat? you should eat. I'm not saying you didn’t eat I'm just—just checking. ignore me if you already ate. actually don’t ignore me. respond when you can. no pressure

“you don’t have to text her every five seconds,” yuuji says, halfway through a cup of instant noodles. he doesn’t even look up when he says it. “you’re gonna give her stress wrinkles.”

“she doesn’t get stress wrinkles,” choso says flatly, still staring at his phone. “her skin’s too perfect.”

“okay, see, that’s exactly what I mean.” yuuji finally looks up, waving his chopsticks for emphasis. “you’re spiraling.”

“I'm not spiraling,” choso says, with all the conviction of a man who is absolutely spiraling.

“you sent her fourteen messages in three minutes, dude.”

“she could be in danger.”

“she said she was taking a shower.”

“.......showers are slippery.”

by day three, the nerves have fully colonized his chest. he’s not just lovesick. he’s worried. anxious in the way only someone who's lived through the worst can be. you’re strong. he knows that. he believes that. but strength doesn’t mean invincible. it doesn’t mean untouchable. and you’re so selfless, so catastrophically kind. the kind of kind that gets people killed.

choso’s seen too many strong people fall because they were too busy protecting someone else. what if it happens to you? what if you’re too busy shielding a civilian to dodge a hit meant for someone else? he tries to explain this to you on facetime. several times, actually. but he always gets distracted.

because you answer the call, freshly showered, hair damp and curling, hoodie swallowing your shoulders, and look up at him with those wide, unassuming eyes like he’s not a man currently being held together by string and blood manipulation.

you talk about your day. every detail, every dumb anecdote. the mission report you had to rewrite because gojo kept adding dramatic sound effects. the vending machine that ate your change. a black cat you passed on the way back to the inn. you talk, and choso listens. listens like it’s scripture. wide-eyed, silent, lips parted slightly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your voice. nodding slowly, rhythmically, like a metronome. “uh huh.” “yeah.” “that sounds…like him.” “uh huh.”

he’s so mesmerized that you swear, one night, you see a tiny sliver of drool start to escape the corner of his mouth. “choso,” you giggle, leaning closer to your screen. “you’re staring.”

he blinks. slow. like he’s waking up. “I'm always staring,” he admits quietly. “you’re the only thing I want to look at.”

you short-circuit a little. he doesn’t even realize what he’s said. he insists you fall asleep first every night, even though you’re exhausted and he’s clearly worse off. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re okay,” he murmurs. and he does. at least for a few hours. you’re always gone by the time he wakes up—already off to scout a cursed site or drag gojo out of a sugar-induced stupor. and the anxiety…it creeps back in. like tidewater. slow but sure.

still, your texts help. short. direct. enough to tell him you’re alive and functional.

leaving to go scout out a site with excessive cursed energy. I promise I'm being careful. I’ll text again in a couple hours. gojo is the most annoying person on the entire planet, remind me of that next time I accept a mission with him.

he rereads every message five times. he takes screenshots. it’s pathetic. he knows that. but the truth is: he would give anything—anything—just to hold your hand for five minutes. to feel your pulse, warm and steady beneath his fingers, and know that you’re safe.

he didn’t realize love could feel like this. it’s always been, up until this point, soft. kind. beautiful. overwhelming in a lovely, poetic way. like the sun coming out for the first time and stretching warm fingers across his skin, melting all the snow left behind from years of cold. you made him feel safe. known. like maybe he wasn’t just a collection of trauma and blood anymore—but something real. something deserving.

but this? this kind of love? it hurts. it aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. a deep, bone-weary throb that settles in his chest and pulses every time he thinks about you being somewhere he’s not. every time he imagines you standing alone in a cursed place, facing something dangerous. every time he glances at the empty space beside him and remembers it’s going to be empty for another seven days.

he didn’t know missing someone could feel like this. he didn’t know it could feel like grief. it eats away at him that he can’t be with you. not even to interfere—just to be there. in case. what if you need something? what if you drop your water bottle and no one picks it up for you? what if your shoelace comes untied and you’re too busy to notice? what if your hair gets caught in your jacket zipper and it takes you ten full minutes to get it out and you end up frustrated and alone and—who will help you, if not him? he should be there. he should always be there.

his hands flex at his sides. his body hums with this low-level urgency he can’t shake. fight or flight. protect or perish. the same instinct that kept his brothers safe for years is now turned toward you—and he doesn’t know how to channel it when you’re not near him.

and he’s not sure what to do with that. not sure what kind of man he becomes when he doesn’t have a purpose. when his job is to wait. he hates the silence in his room. it’s the worst kind of loneliness. knowing you were here and now you’re not. but you always seem to catch him mid-spiral, facetiming him exactly when he decides it’s been too long since he’s seen your face and heard your voice. 

because for you, yeah, being apart was hard. you missed him—his quiet presence, his constant check-ins, his overbearing love masquerading as casual concern. it wasn’t easy. but you functioned. you coped. you did your job and stayed in touch and kept your head on straight. choso…did not. he was a mess. restless. worried. half-feral. the ghost of your warm body in his bed haunted him like a curse. now that you’re back, he’s not wasting a single second pretending he’s fine.

you get home late. everything is quiet. the streetlights are humming and the world feels soft at the edges, like it's been waiting for you to come back. you're not expecting anyone. you thought you told him not to wait up.

but there he is—choso, standing near the steps with his hood up, hands in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years. like he’s rooted in place by some force bigger than him. his eyes catch yours in the dark, and something in his shoulders loosens.

you barely get a word out before he’s crossing the distance and crushing you into a suffocating hug. you’re mumbling something about needing to unpack or go turn in mission reports to yaga’s office. he mumbles, arms locked tight around your shoulders, “not important. I've got you now.”

you laugh into his hoodie. “hello to you too.” he hums. it might be a greeting. it might be relief. you’re not sure. you didn’t realize how much you missed him until you felt the way your body settled into his. your bones remember him. your heart remembers him.

“we should take more missions together,” he adds a moment later, voice still low and flat like he’s making a tactical recommendation.

you grin, tired and stretching like a warm, lazy cat in the cold. “okay. that would be fun.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, but his arms tighten around you. just for a second. you don’t know how much he needed to hear that. he missed you so much he thought it would kill him. not in the poetic sense. in the actual, physical, hurting sense. two weeks felt like a lifetime. it felt wrong. unnatural. like something vital had been ripped out of his life and taken on a mission without him. you always said you were fine alone. but he wasn’t.

he scoops you up. not because he wants to be cute about it. because his body demands it. because now that he has you again, he's not risking even the smallest chance of you slipping away. the steps to his dorm are a blur. the hallway barely registers. all he knows is the way your weight feels in his arms, familiar and right, like you were made to rest there.

he doesn't even let you unpack. he doesn’t ask. just lays you down in his bed like he’s tucking away a treasure. joins you seconds later, pulling you in with the neediness of someone who's been cold for weeks and has just found the sun again. you sleep, finally. and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

by morning, his arms are deadlocked around your waist. his face is pressed into the back of your neck, breath steady, but there's a tension in him that never quite fades. like even in sleep, he’s preparing for the moment someone tries to take you away again.

you shift. once, twice. no give. you’re held fast. but it doesn’t feel suffocating. it feels nice, familiar. you press your hand over his, tangled at your stomach. his fingers twitch, tighten, tangle further. choso, even now, asleep and still, is reminding you: you’re home. 

nanami married you for a reason. and it’s not because he was feeling impulsive. he doesn’t do impulsive. no—he married you because he never wants to be apart from you. ever. even back when you were dating, before the shared toothbrush holder, before the joint tax returns, before you casually wore his surname like it had always belonged to you—he hated leaving. you didn’t live together yet, but every second spent away from you was filled with torment. not the dramatic kind—just the kind that gnawed slowly and methodically.

what if you got off work bone-tired and skipped dinner? who would cook for you? who would put a heating pad on your back and massage your feet and let you drool on his chest during a 90-minute documentary about the politics of Japan’s train system? what if your car broke down and it was raining and you didn’t have your umbrella and your phone was dead and your heels were too high? what if there was a sorcerer’s gala while he was away—who would hang off your arm, look stupid in a suit for you, worship the ground you walked on like a trained husband-shaped puppy? what if you opened a jar and the lid was too tight and you strained your wrist trying to twist it off? who would open it for you? who would kiss your wrist better and say, “you loosened it for me” just to make you feel strong? what if your neck hurt because you slept wrong and nobody was there to adjust your pillow, rub your shoulders, and scold you for not sleeping ergonomically? what if you had a nightmare and woke up reaching for him, but he wasn’t there? who would tuck you back in and whisper that you’re safe? who would pull you into his chest and fall asleep breathing in the scent of your shampoo? what if your zipper got stuck on your favorite jacket and you were late for something and already frustrated and flustered? who would help you without laughing, without teasing, without judgment—just gently fix it and kiss your forehead and say “you look beautiful”? what if you finally got around to assembling that bookshelf and it collapsed halfway through? who would wordlessly take over, follow the manual to the letter, and build it better than ikea ever dreamed?

he hates what-ifs. they make him feel helpless. because what if you needed him, and he wasn’t there? it simply eats him alive. so now that he has you, now that it’s legal and spiritually binding and signed on paper, he’s simply decided that leaving you is no longer an option. a trip away from his wife is inhumane.

he once went on a long mission right after you two got engaged and swore he aged five years in those short weeks. he didn’t sleep a full night. didn’t enjoy a single bite of food. got irrationally angry at a hotel pen. so, no—travel is out of the question.

which is why you’re currently shoving him out the door, a pressed shirt and briefcase in hand. “it’s gojo’s bachelor party,” you say. “it’s five days long,” he says, like the words physically wound him. “you have to go,” you insist, ignoring the withering look he gives you. “I don’t have to do anything,” he counters. “you’re his best friend.” the glare he gives is withering. “and, his only friend that isn’t 16 years old.” he scoffs. “I’m his coworker. and besides, he’s friends with shoko.” “oh please. ieiri would never admit to being his friend. she hates him more than you do.” so he goes. begrudgingly. and when the plane lands, he’s already got your contact pulled up. texts you: Landed safely. Will call you after I’ve unpacked. Love you. punctuation and all. capitalized. formal. very him. you read it at work and clutch your phone to your chest like a teenager.

he facetimes you as he unzips his suitcase—facetimes, even though he hates it, says it’s awkward. “you don’t even look at the camera, you look at yourself,” he once grumbled. but you pick up before the first ring finishes. “KENTO!” you squeal. “I didn't think you’d facetime!” he smiles, soft and slow. “I wanted to see your face,” he says, like it’s just a fact.

you coo. he blushes. you tell him you miss him. he immediately replies, “don’t tempt me. I have a browser tab open for a return flight in three hours.” you laugh. “you just got there. go have fun, kento.”

he sighs and props you up on the hotel room desk like it’s a Zoom call with a board of executives. “I’m not fun,” he mumbles. shocking. you tease him until he cracks a smile. you tell him you love him. you do the thing where you blow him kisses through the phone and he pretends to be embarrassed, but he loves it. gojo has to knock on his door for five straight minutes before nanami finally hangs up and leaves for the night’s events.

you get a text a few hours later. Goodnight, my love. the timestamp is ridiculously late.

you text back: good lord, how late did gojo make you stay out?

nanami: Why are you still awake? you: you’re texting me at 2am and i’m the one getting scolded for being awake?

he spends ten seconds too long responding, so you call. “if you thought I was asleep, why’d you text?” you tease. he sighs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t reply until morning.” “you know I can't ignore you,” you tease, but he looks so serious. he goes silent. just breathes into the phone. “sleep well, darling,” he says. “you too,” you reply, knowing he won’t, not without you there. 

the days blur together. calls in the morning while you’re brushing your teeth. calls at lunch while you eat in your car. calls when you’re off work and he’s getting ready for that night’s activity. you complain about having to ride the train home. “I hate that,” he mutters. “I hate that I'm not there to drive you.” “then come home,” you say sweetly, fluttering your lashes and smiling. “oh, don’t tease me. I’d do anything to be home with you. gojo signed us up to minigolf this evening.” the look he gives you says he’d rather driving a knife into his stomach. 

you jokingly suggest he take gojo to a strip club. he looks physically ill. “why on earth would you—?” “it’s a joke, kento.” “it’s not funny.” “you’re right,” you laugh. “you’d cry if a woman touched you that wasn’t me.” he doesn’t deny it.

he’s silent for a second, then says: “it wouldn’t be right.” you laugh; nanami kento, the eternal gentleman. 

he texts you on his final night, and he’s clearly drunk. not in a stumbling, slurring, karaoke-on-the-table way—nanami would rather set himself on fire—but in a way only you would notice. his texts lack punctuation. no capitalization. no perfect syntax. just: back at the hotel. alive. gojo is an idiot. and when he calls as he’s unlocking his hotel room, it confirms everything. there’s a muffled thud. a pause. and then, low under his breath, as he walks face-first into the bathroom doorframe: “fuck.”

you gasp like he just punched a nun. “kento kiyomasa nanami—did you just cuss?” “…it slipped.” “you never cuss.” “I do occasionally.” “kento. I’ve known you for three years. you’ve cussed maybe five times, and this is your first ‘fuck.’” he groans dramatically, and the sound is just shy of a whimper. when he finally tilts the phone to his face, he looks…wrecked in the softest way. tie gone. white shirt rumpled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. slacks nowhere to be seen. hair tousled like he’s been pacing and running his hands through it nonstop. eyes sleepy, flushed, and glassy. he’s laying on his stomach like a teenager at a sleepover.

meanwhile, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, backlit by your nightstand lamp. damp hair clinging to your shoulders, your skin glowing from moisturizer, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. and you’re giving him that look. that sleepy, “i love you so much it’s criminal” look.

he stares. you smile. minutes pass. finally, you tilt your head and laugh gently. “kento, what did you even call for? you’ve barely said anything.” he sighs like he’s just been caught mid-crime. “…I just needed to see your face.” “well, you’ve seen it. time for bed.” “no.” he shifts, gripping his phone like it’s a life preserver. “don’t go.” “okay…why not?” “I need to keep seeing your face.” you snort. “I'll stay on until you fall asleep, sweetie. but just think—if you sleep now, tomorrow will come faster, and you’ll get to see me in person.”

“...I could just stare at you all night and see you tomorrow.” “go to sleep, nanami.” “eugh, don’t call me nanami. it’s kento. or—sweetie. I liked that.” he doesn’t have the clarity to be embarrassed by that admission. you barely say anything, but your smile says it all. it floors him. nicknames weren’t your thing. you once told him calling someone “babe” felt like being cast in a cw show against your will. but he lives for these rare little indulgences, like a victorian man being handed an ankle.

he’s out in minutes. drunk sleep swallows him whole. and when he wakes the next morning—groggy, puffy-eyed, collared shirt all wrinkled and buttoned wrong—the call’s still on. your phone is face-down on your bed, but he hears you breathing steadily. you never hung up. neither did he. he doesn’t have the heart to end it.

you wake up not long after, hair wild, muttering about needing caffeine and how you’re out of creamer and if this is how society collapses. he listens, entranced, while brushing his teeth. packs while you throw on an outfit and kiss the phone goodbye. you don’t mention his drunken rambling. don’t tease him (yet). you just talk like normal, and he’s so grateful he could die.

when he lands—when he walks through the gate and sees you there, bouncing on your heels in the middle of terminal 9, grinning like the sun—you run to him. you launch yourself into his arms, koala-style, and he catches you with a grunt. you pepper kisses all over his face, ignoring the small crowd around you. you’re cooing, giggling, sing-songy voice saying, “you’re home, you’re home, you’re home,” like it’s magic.

once upon a time, there was a version of nanami who would’ve been mortified. who would’ve rolled his eyes and muttered about professionalism and “appropriate conduct.” that man is dead. this nanami holds you tighter than what’s probably allowed by airport safety regulations. he’s not letting go. not again. you finally pull back, brushing a hand over his jaw, cheeks flushed. “so…” you grin, wiggling an eyebrow. “feeling sober? or do I need to drive? might give you some more time to stare at my face.” he groans. but as you laugh—arms still locked around his neck, your perfume faint and warm and unmistakably you—he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder and breathes you in like it’ll fix every crack in him. and it does. it does.

after a week of blaring music, bad cologne, and gojo’s incessant, brain-melting antics, this—you—feel like quiet. like calm. like coming home in the most literal, soul-deep way.

I'm never leaving my wife again, he thinks, and it's not a casual thought. it's a vow. a personal mandate. a declaration of absolute truth. the world without you was gray, predictable, and painfully dull. but now—now you’re here and smiling, and suddenly everything is color again. texture. sensation. a rush of heartbeat and heat and softness that could crack a lesser man clean in two. he kisses your temple like it’s a lifeline and exhales, long and low, into your hair. god, he loves you. so much it might actually kill him.

“let’s go home,” he murmurs. “I’m never doing this again.”

you pull back, suspiciously pleased. “a bachelor party?” “no. leaving you.” you blink, pretending to swoon dramatically. “oh, wow. should I faint?” “you should be impressed,” he says flatly, “at how long I was able to stay away.” “I am,” you beam, cupping his cheek. “I love you, sweetie.” it’s a joke, but his soft smile is so painfully serious. 

“I can't believe fushiguro is letting you spend the whole summer with him,” you tell yuuji, voice tinny through the speaker but smiling all the same.

“I know! it’s probably gojo-sensei’s doing, but I’m gonna pretend it’s just ‘cause he’d miss me way too much to go the whole summer without me.”

yuuji grins so wide it nearly splits his face, angling the phone so you can see the infamous fushiguro in the seat beside him. the look megumi gives you both is deadpan—dry enough to wrinkle a desert. you almost feel bad for him. almost. but you know better. megumi loves your boyfriend almost as much as you do. which is saying something, because loving yuuji feels like breathing: unconscious, necessary, natural.

they're on the train heading toward gojo’s not-so-humble mansion—bachelor pad energy, unlimited snacks, a pool, no rules, god help megumi. you spent last summer together, you and yuuji. he’d visited your hometown, chased your nieces around the backyard, helped you carry groceries down warm, cracked sidewalks. he got sunburned and bought popsicles from your corner store and slept with his head in your lap while you rewatched your childhood favorite movies.

this year, it’s megumi’s turn to have him. and honestly? it sucks. you miss him. constantly. in the big, heavy ways and the small, sweet ones. but there’s something beautiful in this version of love too—in the kind that stretches across space without fraying. you send each other everything. pictures. stories. little moments from your day. he shows you a blurry photo of a sunset over the pool. you show him a neighborhood cat you’ve decided to name after him. he sends you a selfie soaked to the bone because gojo threw him in fully clothed. you send a picture of your niece covered head to toe in pink sharpie (her little sister’s doing).

it’s like you never left each other. but you did. and when the day winds down and the calls get softer, more tired, more sincere—when megumi’s asleep on the other side of the room and yuuji’s voice drops to a whisper—he admits it. “I just can’t wait to see you again.”

and it hurts. because you’ve both been pretending not to miss each other too much, but the ache is real. quiet. familiar. you miss his laugh in the room. you miss his warmth. his over-the-top affection and the way he always holds your pinky first when you reach for his hand. and yuuji—he’s doing fine, technically. gojo is chaos incarnate. megumi’s company keeps him sharp. but his heart? his heart is still at home with you. every night, every call, every time he folds his pillow in half to mimic the way you used to curl up next to him.

you send him a letter the first week. it's handwritten. covered in doodles of your faces, your inside jokes, your hearts and stars and half-scribbled lines that turn into love notes without meaning to. he opens it in front of megumi and immediately starts crying.

“you two are disgusting,” megumi mutters, smacking him upside the head.

“oh, shut up! I know you miss your girlfriend too, fushiguro. at least mine sends me cute things.” yuuji hugs the letter to his chest like it might run away if he lets go.

megumi smacks him again, harder. “yeah, well, my girlfriend’s not a sappy baby.” lies, they miss each other terribly, they’re just too proud to admit it. they bicker for twenty minutes, but yuuji tucks your letter under his pillow that night. sends one back the next day. it becomes a tradition. a sacred exchange of stickers and pages and half-dried tears all summer long. he saves every one of your notes. brings them back to school in september like precious cargo.

mid-july, you send him a photo of you wearing his favorite red hoodie. he calls immediately. “you are in so much trouble right now,” he says, dramatic, clutching his metaphorical pearls. “i’ve been looking for that hoodie all summer!”

“it’s summer,” you say sweetly. “you don’t need a hoodie, sweaty guy.” ironic considering you’ve been wearing it all season. 

“you think I'm sweaty?” he pouts, wide-eyed, like this is the most offensive thing you could’ve said.

you laugh—head thrown back, sound full of warmth and life and you—and it breaks him a little. in the best way.

he gets quiet. his eyes soften. he blinks hard like he’s trying to press back tears, but they still shine.

“aw, baby…I miss you.” and he means it. he means it. loving yuuji is the easiest thing in the world. and missing him might just be the hardest. but you’ll both make it. love like this? it doesn't disappear with distance. it travels. it endures. it always finds its way back home.

the last week of summer, yuuji is buzzing. like, atomic levels of energy. chaos barely contained by skin and bone. his mood is so hyper, it’s starting to annoy even gojo—and that’s saying something.

“you’re acting like it’s been ten years,” megumi mutters on the train, as yuuji bounces his leg like a caffeinated kangaroo.

yuuji groans and dramatically slumps in his seat. “it feels like it’s been ten years.”

megumi rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “you facetimed her literally seven hours ago.”

but yuuji is immune to logic. he’s a man possessed. you’re waiting for him. you’re probably already in his hoodie like the absolute menace you are, and he’s going to get to hold you again, finally, finally, finally. he practically explodes off the train the second the doors slide open, and megumi has to jog just to keep him in sight. yuuji tears across the campus like he’s running a marathon with a girlfriend at the finish line. because he is.

except. you’re not there. he skids to a stop outside your dorm. knocks. waits. nothing. he calls your name through the door just in case. checks the time, double-checks his texts—you were supposed to arrive yesterday. you’d even texted him earlier today about how your dorm felt a little cold without him in it.

confused and weirdly heartbroken, he drags his duffel to his dorm instead, figuring maybe you’re off getting groceries or finding your ra or something. he’s mid-sigh, phone halfway to his ear, when he pushes open the door.

and there you are. sitting on his bed like you’ve always belonged there. music playing low on his speaker. legs curled up beneath you. reading a book you’ve probably read ten times. wearing his red hoodie like the little criminal you are.

you look up. blink once. and then—“yuuji!!”

you scream it like your life depends on it. you launch yourself at him with all the force your body can manage. he catches you like he knew you’d do that, like he’s done it a thousand times, and you kiss him all over—cheeks, forehead, lips, chin, nose—endlessly.

he’s laughing so hard his abs start to hurt, tears springing to his eyes, because you’re real and you’re here and you’re warm and soft and solid in his arms and the hoodie’s all stretched out from where you’ve clearly worn it all summer and god, he never wants to let you go again.

he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in. you smell like home. he could cry. he might cry. megumi walks in just in time to witness it and looks seconds away from walking right back out. you turn, grinning wickedly. he flinches a little when you launch a hug at him too, but lets it happen. “I missed you, too, megumi,” you say, so bright it’s hard to tell if you’re teasing. “even if you completely ignored all the adorable letters and I sent you, you emotionally repressed little cryptid.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I kind of missed you too.”

yuuji practically melts at the scene. and then—you turn back to him. hands cupping his face. studying him like a miracle. “you look so tan,” you murmur. “and…did you get taller?” you always know just what to say to absolutely fluster him. 

your voice is so genuine it short-circuits his brain. he opens his mouth to respond and instead lets out something halfway between a wheeze and a squeak. you laugh again. the same laugh he’s been playing back in his head every night like a bedtime song. he kisses your forehead. he kisses your cheeks. he kisses your nose.later—once you’re both settled, once megumi has fled the scene like a man escaping a rom-com horror film, pretending he’s not off to go find his girl—yuuji turns serious for a second. his arms are wrapped around you, and he says it with all the honesty his full, stupid heart can muster: “I’ll have to tell megumi I’m sorry because I’m never doing another summer without you.” and you believe him. because when yuuji loves, he loves out loud. bold and bright and boyishly devoted. and you, wrapped in that love, never feel anything less than completely adored.

list of men who simply do not allow you to leave their presence:

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

[chicagomoonlight]

I don't think it's straight up bigotry. I really don't. I think there's nuance and I think there are people SO EXHAUSTED by all the world's problems that they're no longer policing their language to please anyone so colloquial use is coming back to the forefront.

Here's my train of thought:

We need another word for "dumb as fuck" that has the same potency of "were you dropped on your head as a child?" Tom Segura has a bit about this; about how "we never said it THAT way. We never were like, 'Look, there goes one!'" There's a generational interpretation, usually late gen x-ers and elder millennials, and a small subset WITHIN THEM who recognize the slur if it's INTENDED as a slur but still felt okay enough with the colloquial use of "that's r-worded" or "am I being r-worded about this?" to mean "dumber than stupid" but also "maybe my brain isn't working right regarding this situation." And they stopped using it for a long time because other people threw a fit about it. And now they're older and no longer care about what other people think so it's coming back because it encapsulates "dumb as fuck" without cursing and also implies maybe something in the brain isn't functioning quite right. And the INTENT isn't "HEY, FUCK YOU, MENTALLY DISABLED HUMAN" nor is it even being directed at someone who is. I think that "de-slur-ify"s it in their minds.

Very similar to how artists are STILL sometimes described as having a g*psy lifestyle. No one is saying "FUCK THE ROMANI PEOPLE" when they describe someone that way, but there isn't another term for "forced to be nomadic, peddling my wares or my craft, and people judge the lifestyle so we find and protect our own every time we go to the next town/gig."

I personally don't use it because it's not worth the upset to me but I GET why people I know are dropping it now and then (also, I don't know that it ever "went away" in Boston). It conveys a certain attitude with a certain amount of punch that is hard to otherwise achieve. But I'm also one of those "INTENT MATTERS" people because I think everything is and can be nuanced. If someone says "You're such a fucking r-word" or "look at that r-word over there" YEAH, THAT'S A FUCKING SLUR, don't talk like that. But if someone says, "the DMV is making me go to the clerk's office to get a new birth certificate because mine is too creased for their machine-reader and my passport expires in 10 days so they can't accept that either to renew my license? That's r-worded." I get it. I feel that. I understand that feeling. I understand the intent. No one is trying to attack the disabled in their commentary on the DMV.

So... If language evolves... And people still think that 2nd scenario is offensive... Then I think we need a new word. Or intent needs to matter and it's understood that it's not always being used to attack a vulnerable group. Either way.

Unless I've had a VERY different experience and people really ARE using it as a way to talk about the disabled, in which case, ignore everything, FUCK THEM - THAT'S BULLSHIT.

The thing about the r slur is that people who are using it again are indeed using it as a slur. This isn't a word that is being reclaimed. This is a word that is once again being used 100% as a slur. You're being a bigot if you're using it against others. Straight up. There isn't another argument to be made. Knock it tf off.

[earthsparked]

I’ve been a semi-frequent lurker for a few months and I just wanted to tell you how much I love your content. I have a hard time finding anything reader-insert for transformers that isn’t nsfw, and it’s even harder to find platonic stuff.

Not trying to judge the people who like spicy stuff, but I just want to be friends with the giant space robots and I’m glad there’s content for that :3

I want to hangout, not make out lol

Aw, thank you!! I'm so glad! I am really really happy others are enjoying! <333

Hanging out with the mechs would be so damn good. Once you get past the initial hesitation and introductions, and they figure out that having humans around is good for everyone, they'd be like First Aid. Setting up little human traps to lure you into spending time around them.

Drift's is a little austere but so cozy. He carefully selected seating in colors that are supposed to be calming. There's a shelf of poetry books, and some art supplies and adult coloring books, and blank notebooks so you can express yourself. He's adjusted the lights to be warm and not too bright.

Hot Rod's has a minifridge full of every kind of junk food imaginable, a giant pile of cushions all in his own colors, and an absolutely massive television with a bunch of game systems. The game systems have racing and fighting and football games (and Animal Crossing).

First Aid has several scattered around the medbay, all equipped with water bottles, fruit, earplugs (!!!) and noise-canceling headphones, and a white noise machine. A few weighted blankets, and some carefully selected memory foam beds. There's even canopies to shade out the infirmary lights and drapes you can close to feel enclosed and safe. At least one is tucked into the wall, and they're all carefully out of range of mech feet.

Ratchet does not have any. He gets swarmed by humans anyway.

Optimus Prime is never in one place long enough to maintain a human trap, but he has a sleeper cab that is tricked tf OUT with pillows and fairy lights and books. Minifridge is empty but he always gets groceries delivered if you're coming with him somewhere. There's even some "Learn To ____" craft kits with things like crochet and knitting supplies. And, because a human specifically asked for it, translations of Megatron's early revolutionary works. Talking with humans about it has been surprisingly healing...

Jazz has the most elaborate setup, created for a lot of people to hang out at the same time. He has a whole arcade with BeatSaber, DDR and those sit-on racing games, a stupid huge sound system, movie theater with giant couches you just sink into. There's a popcorn machine and a drink station. (Prowl is pretty sure Jazz just stole the contents of a movie theater, but hasn't been able to prove it.) There are also a bunch of music instruments if you want to play, or learn to play.

Prowl has a human-sized desk for working, a leather couch, the fastest internet you ever saw in your life, every single streaming service, and a coffee bar. It's very quiet, very simple, but you absolutely won't be bothered by anyone else. Prowl will probably not even acknowledge you. It's the ultimate for parallel play.

Bumblebee would rather kidnap you and take you on patrol to where ever you want to go, so he can get you out of the base. There's a whole world out there! He carries extra changes of clothes and shoes and some toiletries in case you end up staying out a long time.

Hound has a little oasis that's practically an indoor temperate forest. Lots of plants, a huge indoor pond with fish and a fountain, a bench to sit on and bask in the light from a skylight. He'd probably invite you to help tend the plants and fish. Offer you some fresh-grown fruit from the trees.

Wheeljack's is officially considered a health hazard. There's boxes and boxes of spare parts and tools to play around with, spare chemicals for experimenting, lots of science texts from Cybertron that he translated (poorly) into Earth languages. A fire extinguisher (Red Alert insisted) and a first aid kit (First Aid insisted). Though most of the time if you're around Wheeljack, he's going to draft you into helping with whatever he's working on, instead.

Bluestreak's is understated but pleasant. He has a hammock set up with a very, very soft blanket and pillow, and he got Sunstreaker to paint a night-time mural with accurate star patterns as seen from Cybertron. There's a few little games and fidget toys, beanbags to toss around, one of those sticky dartboards with fuzzy balls to throw. He also starts a collection of stuffed animals.

Bulkhead has every single Lego set. All of them.

Tailgate and Cyclonus (mostly Tailgate) have messy playthings like silly string, water guns, sculpting clay, finger painting. There's a giant ball pit.

Arcee has actual guns, and a vast array of knives and swords. You're about to learn self-defense whether you want to or not.

Swerve has the most wild karaoke setup you have ever seen, or ever will see, and a clothes closet full of designer outfits and accessories in every possible size and fashion for performing. You're going to feel like a superstar.

Brainstorm has a 40-ounce Big Gulp of soda placed under a cardboard box, held up by a precariously balanced stick, which is attached to a suspicious string that trails off into the distance. The Big Gulp is a holographic projection.

Rung has puzzles, both the flat kind you put together and the 3D kind you have to solve. There's different colors of sand and sculpting tools for expressing yourself in a zen garden. There's a giant plush teddy bear big enough for you to climb in its lap, and calming music. Aromatherapy in pleasant fragrances. Also, lots and lots of candy.

Whirl has alcohol and fireworks.

[miniscule-meow]

Borrowed Time (3)

Masterpost Wordcount: ~1.6k First Part | Last Part | Next Part (eventually)

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The plan is simple. Start in the kitchen, because that’s more time sensitive. Then, since the other bean is away- or rather, since the other bean is him, and he isn’t really sure he counts as a bean anymore- they don’t have to worry about him showing up and ruining their borrowing excursion. So, they’ll tackle that last.

Dante follows Vi through the dark passages of the walls. There’s an entrance near the kitchen, the one they used yesterday. Then, there’s apparently another entrance into Dante’s room- which he’s trying very hard to not think about. Knowing that at any point she could have just been wandering through his room, and he’s never noticed her. It’s unsettling.

Judging from her demeanor, she really doesn’t seem like the type to waste time people-watching. She certainly didn’t recognize him as the other human. So, she either hasn’t paid enough attention to him to clock what he looks like, or if she saw the similarities she wrote them off. Which would make sense because of the whole extreme height shift thing.

You look a lot like this human, except the human is six-foot and you’re six inches or whatever. Is he even six inches tall? He doesn’t want to think about it.

Before he knows it, his eyes are adjusting as they step out of walls into the brightness of the apartment. Another long, arduous climb later and he’s standing on the counter, his limbs feeling like jelly.

Looking around makes his head spin. This is a space he’s lived in, somewhere he knows like the back of his hand, now it seems entirely alien. Is he going to resign himself to this being his life now? He could handle that, right? Vivienne is weird, and interesting. He likes her… well, maybe. He doesn’t really know her. But he’d like to! She seems to… tolerate him. The hardest thing about the arrangement would probably just be convincing her to agree to team up with him.

He takes a breath, trying to steady himself. But the dizziness increases ten-fold, sending him to his knees.

“Hey, don’t freak out on me again, we need to move,” Vi turns to him, and seems to notice that something is wrong. This is beyond a panic attack. This is something else entirely. Her brow furrows, and she steps toward him. She kneels beside him and places a hand on his back. “What��s going on?” her voice is softer now, slightly more concerned than annoyed. Definitely still annoyed though.

“I don’t- I’m not sure.” He’s gasping for air, trying to piece together what’s going on.

Then he feels it.

All at once, he realizes what’s about to happen. It’s a deep feeling, rooted in the very marrow of his bones. From the core of his being, an insistent pressure. Pushing outward. Expanding.

He’s going to grow.

He doesn’t know how to stop it, how to slow it, or control it at all. This is happening, and it’s happening now.

“Vi, get back,” his voice is strained. Throwing his arm out, he pushes her aside and scrambles towards the edge of the counter, trying to build some distance between them. She stumbles back, shouting a frustrated curse in his direction. He’s certain she’s about to punch him for doing that, but something stops her dead in her tracks. It’s him.

Just as quickly as he shrank, he’s expanded back to his regular size. Dark spots dot his vision, his head swims. His hands feel sweaty, clammy. He blinks heavily, finding himself pressed against the cool laminate floor of the kitchen. With a groan, he pushes himself to his knees. Placing a hand on the counter, he helps himself to his feet. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, in an attempt to clear his vision. Squinting down at the counter, his eyes zero in on her immediately. Vivienne, on her back, slowly scooting away from him. Her expression is nothing short of horrified, he doesn’t blame her. He can’t imagine how catastrophic this transformation must have seemed to her.  He’s trying to find his voice to explain, or apologize, or say anything. When the front door clicks, and swings open. Tyler is home.

Dante jolts, Vi is out in the open. He can’t let her get caught. Without thinking, he reaches forward, scooping her into his palm, and shoving her unceremoniously into his hoodie pocket. The feeling of her frantically squirming, kicking desperately against his unmoving fingers is a nauseating sensation in its own right. He’s never thought about what it might be like to be inside of a pocket before. Dark, stuffy, uncomfortably warm. He doesn’t imagine it’s terribly pleasant, she certainly doesn’t seem thrilled to be in there.

He flattens his hand, firmly pressing her flat against his stomach to keep her still. He can feel her pulse hammering into him as she thrashes, but there is no competition. She’s stuck. He’s disgusted by his own display of strength, exerting his will so solidly over her own. But now is not the time. His roommate is here. So, his choices are, hide her, or let her get discovered by another bean. Either way, he knows that she’s never going to forgive him. He needs to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“What’s up, man?” Tyler asks casually, though he’s obviously surprised to see him.

“Not much, dude,” he forces his voice calm. Even though he is about as far away from calm as he could get. His heart is slamming in his chest, he can hear the blood roaring through his ears, only drowned out by the thoughts screaming through his mind, ‘what am I?’ And, ‘I’m holding a girl in my hand. A girl who very much does not want to be there’. Then circling back to, ‘WHAT AM I?’

“Whatchya got there?” Tyler asks curiously.

For a split second, Dante is convinced he just knows about the little stowaway he’s holding captive in his pocket. Then he looks down. Vivienne’s borrowing hook was left behind, coiled on the counter next to his free hand. He plucks it up- the tool he used to scale the very counter he’s standing in front of, the rope he clung to, and let support his weight. Another wave of panic seeps through him. Reality has been sufficiently shattered for him, and he is going to need a moment to recover. Of course, that moment is not awarded to him.

“Uh, I don’t know. Just a little piece of string I’ve been messing with.”

Tyler shrugs, stepping into the kitchen, pulling a drink from the fridge. Dante manages to navigate a short conversation with him, before managing to retreat to his room.

The second his door shuts behind him, he sinks down to his knees, pulling Vivienne free from her temporary prison.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers on repeat, struggling to catch his breath. He looks her over, she’s so small. Impossibly small. He’s holding her, right in the palm of his trembling hand. For a moment she seems dazed, flushed from the warmth of him surrounding her, containing her in his pocket. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I? I don’t know what’s happening, you have to believe me, I—” his breathing grows shallower. This is too much for him.

He's so wrapped up in his own panic, he’s surprised when Vi suddenly vaults out of his hand. She takes off running across the carpet.

“Wait! Don’t go—" He lurches forwards, his hand flying out to block her path, when suddenly pain shoots through him. He hisses a sharp intake of breath. She stabbed him. He’s lucky she didn’t stab him earlier.

Dante jolts, yanking his hand back. Thin beads of red bloom in a line at the base of his thumb. The pain grounds him back in reality- as twisted as it may be. His movement away is enough to give her the opening she needs to continue her escape.

She’s running at full speed away from him. He watches her abscond, he could easily catch her, though it might get him stabbed again. He doesn’t move.

“At least let me give you the batteries,” his voice sounds pathetic on his ears.

She whirls to face him, sword raised in his direction.

“I’m not taking a handout from a fucking bean,” she snarls. Her words are full of anger, betrayal and fear. Mostly fear, though she’s attempting to look fierce. He can see the tremble in her hands as she holds her sword in front of her. The tension in her limbs, ready to bolt at the first sign of movement from him.

“It’s- think of it like… like payment. You helped me, so… seriously, I owe you a lot more than just a couple of batteries.”

She glares at him suspiciously but gives him one sharp nod. The sword stays raised.

He stands, unable to take his eyes off her. He watches as her neck cranes back, following his face as he rises. She flinches, as if her legs are caught between stumbling away from him and standing their ground. Seeing her from this angle is unreal. She comes up to his ankle, it’s harder to see the details of her expression from here. He gets that dizzy feeling again, like his grasp on reality is slipping.

Swallowing hard, he steps away, over to his desk. He pulls open the drawer and grabs three fresh AAA batteries for her. When he turns around, she’s gone. Honestly, he should have expected that. Her absence stings. He’s left with the hollow memory of her terrified expression, and the weight of her in his hand. The only thing telling him he didn’t hallucinate the whole thing is the thin line of blood on his palm. A fitting souvenir.

“I’ll just leave them by the wall,” he announces to the empty room. He figures she can hear him; she can’t have gone that far.

[dorkus-mcdingus]

Clothes Make the Man: AKA, me geeking about the fashion of the Halloween guest characters

CW: THERE MAY BE LOST IN THE BOOK WITH THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS SPOILERS UP AHEAD!

Also this is going to get extremely rambly on my end. 😅

I kinda got this idea while I was rendering Skully's doll and it made me realize something.

SKULLY'S PREDECESSORS ARE HARD TO DRESS!

OTL ...

But then again you do also have to think of the time period some of these movies take place in while alongside their inspirations. It is so hilarious to me that I find Rollo alongside Fellow and Gidel (who are both well and alive) are so tricky for me to find a proper wardrobe for them compared to a freaking NRC Alumni who's been dead for many years.

Why? Well, let me break it down.

1. Rollo Flamme

Ah, Judge Flamme Rollo longs to purge the world of vice and sin and HOO LAWD does his design give him that air of power. Of course, due to him being a far less creepy version of the man he's twisted from (and it's kinda the case of every character in this game) where obvious points to obvious that he has to dress similar to Claude Frollo especially with Nobel Bell College LITERALLY being a Cathedral (and it's why I lovingly call it Twisted Wonderland's version of Catholic school)

I guess you could try to fit him in something modern but considering that sorta 15th century Paris look that Fleur City or just Nobel Bell College has in general, it's a little difficult to place him in something that could match his very quiet, serious, and intimidating aura. As if his freaking sanpaku eyes and his fuckass monk hairstyle wasn't enough, the student council robes really showcase that among the student body, he is someone that's held with so much respect and high regard (when they really shouldn't and he knows it) but despite his rather quiet demeanor, you can't help but feel a bit off as if something terrible is about to happen.

I'm sure the people of Paris in Hunchback were not expecting the freaking self-righteous judge to succumb to his lust for Esmeralda much like how Rollo would succumb to his wrath against mages.

Both men are sinful and self-righteous individuals but they carry so much power with how they dress. They're public officials but they hate the world and everyone in it.

Also, I love how Rollo's plan is foreshadowed in his shoes considering that Firelotuses are the freaking buckles! XD

2. Fellow Honest and Gidel/Ernesto Foulworth and Gino

My Italian kings, MY SHAYLAS! HOW I LOVE YOU SCHEMING BASTARDS SO MUCH!

Truth be told, out of all of the villains in Disney's canon, I wanted Honest John and Gideon to get the Twisted Wonderland treatment so bad especially since they're absolute icons in their own right. However, mainly because of how often I addressed Fellow using his JP name (though controversial opinion, I actually grew to like his EN name despite me wishing that Aniplex didn't change it for the sake of convenience. Oh well, makes for a fun headcanon lol) I'm going to address him and Gidel using those names purely out of convenience.

Okay, so what can we tell about these two?

While yes, they do have this sorta flashy showman look to them, you can immediately tell that the two of them aren't exactly well off. However, just looking at them, they do look like a pair of carnival barkers don't they, or at least a circus ringmaster and his assistant?

Yes, yes, this is another obvious points to obvious moment where Fellow and Gidel are supposed to dress as Honest John and Gideon respectively, but compared to the characters they're twisted from, their clothes DEFINITELY got an upgrade compared to the stuff that Honest John and Gideon are wearing with their colors being a little more saturated and embellished with embroidery compared to the tattered clothes they wore. I know Fellow has quite the talent for sewing but if he sewed and embroidered his and Gidel's ensembles BY HIMSELF?! Damn dude, why didn't you go into costume work or tailoring?! Though knowing them they DEFINITELY would pull an Emperor's New Clothes type of situation lmao

Okay, fangirling aside, I think another challenge I have when it comes to picturing them in different attire (aside from their financial situation) is also tied to the fact that Honest John and Gideon were written to be like a vaudeville duo with the two representing a couple of character tropes you would see in comedy acts during that era of entertainment (especially with Gideon taking inspiration from Harpo Marx much like what happened with Dopey. A little bit of trivia is that Gideon was ACTUALLY supposed to talk and his VA was supposed to be Mel Blanc, yes THAT Mel Blanc, but the writers at Disney thought it would be funnier if Gideon didn't speak and acted as a sort of Harpo Marx type character. Although, Mel Blanc did go back and record a couple hiccups for Gideon for the tavern scene).

You can see the sorta old vaudeville-esque inspirations for both Fellow and Gidel kinda but I will admit, to me their style reads more as

"Vaudeville rejects who ended up becoming a pair of carnival barkers."

Especially with how flashy their outfits are.

Their style is so specific to them that it makes it so hard for me to pinpoint what era or aesthetic would work with them because they look like themselves in whatever outfit Fellow manages to concoct, and of course, with Gidel admiring his big brother so much (and him acting as that old fox's conscience in a sense) he's going to look amazing (and cute as all Hell) in whatever outfit Fellow tailors for him.

TLDR: They really don't look like themselves unless it's something Fellow made along with it being cute and unique to them.

Still Fellow, YOU WOULD KILL IT AT FASHION SCHOOL! BRO, OH MY LORD!

OTL

3. Skully J. Graves

And here we are, the man of the hour and the one responsible for making this very ranty blog post. Skully J. Graves, the darling Pumpkin King of Twisted Wonderland.

One thing to point out compared to his predecessors is that this guy is literally MONOCHROME EVEN DOWN TO HIS SKIN TONE! (Seriously, homeboy is as pale as a CORPSE COUGH COUGH! What?)

There is very little color in his outfits with the exception of the bits of gold on his lapel pin and his bright orange eyes. It's elegant as it is spooky which is very much on par with his hero, Jack Skellington.

However, one thing with fashion is that you can tailor a monochrome outfit specifically to your taste by adding texture and HOO LAWDY IS SKULLY THE KING OF OUTFIT TEXTURE!

There's so much detail and texture in his outfit from the rips on his jabot, sleeve cuffs, and the tails on his coat, the haphazard stitches, the skeleton hands on his gloves, his black and white shoes, and even the different type of fabric used on his coat ranging from swirls, stripes (both regular and pinstripes), and even solid fabric to not make the outfit look too busy. His outfit is a bit busy but it has enough balance to where it doesn't take away from Skully's appearance as well as give it that dark whimsy that people often associate with Tim Burton's characters.

"So Dorkus, why do you find it easier to dress Skully compared to Rollo or the Playful Duo?" I hear you ask.

If there's one thing I know about Tim Burton, one of his more iconic looks in terms of art direction is his dark and Gothic romanticization of the Victorian era (a time period in which a lot of people HC was Skully's prime years at NRC) or similar eras to that (CORPSE BRIDE, ALICE IN WONDERLAND, AND SWEENY TODD I AM LOOKING AT YOU!)

With that in mind and also with Skully's more monochrome color palette, he in my opinion would look so stunning in Elegant Gothic Aristocrat style or Ouji especially given the fact that both Yana Toboso and Tim Burton have this spooky atmosphere surrounding the mid-to-late 1800s.

Sure, Skully came from a time period with a strict dress code for gentlemen, but it's kinda one that people do romanticize as well as take inspiration from, but hilarious enough, many Halloween traditions we know now did emerge from that era.

So, because of these little factors, I have a certain aesthetic in mind for him and that sort of Victorian Gothic look would fit him the best.

Whew that was long and ranty but that's all I wanted to say.

[musashi]

I very much appreciate your valiant Carol Holiday Defense

Because while I do dislike Carol, due to how Noelle is. Not Doing Great and how Carol is at least in part responsible for that, I also- even more than I dislike Carol- dislike how a lot of people are going about disliking her, so you are actively sparing me from the phenomenon of having to Defend The Thing You Don't Like

Like, I want to discuss how the way that Carol has responded to Dess' disappearance/possible assumed death (because it's not really clear if anyone other than Noelle believes that she's alive which is Cool but also Angst) has affected Noelle and Kris and their ability to heal from that loss, but that's hard when people's perspective on Carol is just "Abusive mother" and not "Grieving mother whose methods of coping with her older daughter's absence and husband's terminal illness is having negative effects on her daughter (And also the close family friend of Kris who may have been in some way involved in the Dess Thing)"

Thank you for helping correct the misunderstandings around her character, because there's so much that could be analyzed that just. Isn't, and can't be, because people refuse to actually engage with her character

fandom's lack of nuance has been hell on earth to exist in proximity to for the past like, half a decade when all the covid normies joined in. what kills me is how often you see this in fandom where the characters and themes of the story encourage deep thinking about that nuance. without fail, every time, it goes right over everyone's heads.

carol holiday's biggest crime is that she is so lost within herself that she cannot see how pushing her daughter is not helping her. she clearly cares about noelle and wants her to succeed and come into herself, but her methods of trying to draw that strength out of noelle are only making her recede into herself more. none of that is because carol is an abusive mother who is cruel to her daughter, all of that is because carol is 1. a grieving victim who probably does not have a good handle on herself, and 2. simply a person who is imperfect, just like anyone else.

will this affect noelle in the long-term? yes! does noelle likely have complicated feelings about her mother? abso-fucking-lutely! but we literally do not know enough about carol to be making such a severe call on who she is as a person like. its driving me crazy. all we know about her is incredibly sympathetic, as well!

paranoid: her daughter is dead/missing

controlling: her daughter is dead/missing

cold and cruel to susie: you mean the strange girl in her house, with the reputation for being a dangerous bully, who is PLAYING HER DEAD DAUGHTER'S GUITAR?

has a favourable opinion on the dreemurrs: uh, yeah, duh.

tends to throw herself into her work at the expense of her relationships: SHE IS GRIEVING. THIS IS A FORM OF COPING. THIS IS LITERALLY WHAT I DO. IT DOESN'T MEAN I DON'T CARE ABOUT MY LOVED ONES AND IT DOESN'T MEAN THAT FOR CAROL EITHER.

she is hurting her daughter. but she can do that without being abusive. people hurt people they love and want to protect/nurture all the time. that's a part of existing. literally an unavoidable part of the human experience. a grieving mother with no social support who is desperately trying to keep her shit together and run a town, who comes home every night to two empty fucking rooms belonging to her dead daughter and sick husband, IS PROBABLY GOING TO FUCK UP A BIT AND MAKE SOME SERIOUS MISTAKES. if she was Normal about any of this she wouldn't be realistic or interesting.

carol holiday resembles my shitty abusive mom in every way shape and form. she looks like her, talks like her, acts like her, saves face like her. but judging the content of her character based on something as fucking stupid as "she acts like my mom i hate" is the most mind-numbingly stupid fucking take on a character i think i could ever have, and i'm 30 years old and pay taxes and my shitty dead mom really doesn't factor into how i engage with Story.

the people saying the end of the weird route "proves" she's the knight is the dumbest shit in the world too. because she called kris. and has a completely unique speech bubble from the mysterious voice that's been calling kris previously. somehow this proves something. don't fucking ask me what.

i am so tired.

[oifaaa]

I actually hate that Jason was ever an antagonist, sure he was interested as a villain, but he’s better off with the Bat family.

Well that's definitely an opinion you can have I mean it's a bad opinion but we all have bad opinions sometimes so it's fine

[ulteri0rm0tives]

I wonder if Johnny, when he kills, despite trying his very fucking hardest to run from the programming of the military, uses the same justification that's usually instilled there. That he's only doing what he has to do with no time to ruminate on it. I wonder if he feels any guilt over this, remorse, that his ego soothes over with these justifications. That they deserve it. That he doesn't really leave the dehumanization that he's learned in the military pertaining to his 'targets' behind. That in his eyes, these are lives that don't matter due to not aligning with his personal beliefs or interests.

[gingermintpepper]

Since you feel so strongly about Apollo in adaptations, you probably hate Lore Olympus' version 🤣

(or "Asspollo" like I call him, to distinguish the LO! Version from the actual deity)

Rightfully so btw, because he's a terrible character both morally, as a version of Apollo and even as a villain, his writing sucks.

Oh god; Lore Olympus.

Okay so full disclosure, I never finished LO because I do actually love myself and suffering through shitty greek myth adaptations is only fun for me if I can tell that the author has a point they're trying (and failing) to bring across. Lore Olympus was already failing on so many levels that by the time the Apollo assaulting Persephone thing came up and I realised it was going to be a recurring thing, I was so mentally checked out that I couldn't even be scandalised LOL

Nothing about him even remotely resembles the figure Smythe claimed him to be an interpretation of which honestly is a shame considering that I absolutely adore a villainous Apollo and he makes for an utterly terrifying antagonist when done correctly.

Like, in a vacuum, I don't even mind an 'Apollo who wishes to usurp Zeus as king' story! There's a legitimate case to be made for Apollo being born before Ares and therefore being Zeus' firstborn son. There is a legitimate conflict to be dug into about Zeus' two most favoured counsels being children from relationships outside of the one with his wife. And Apollo was honestly a massive asshole when he was a young god! He was rash and impulsive, he ran about treating the world like it already belonged to him and didn't particularly care about the people he displaced or inconvenienced in his rush to establish himself. He was insulting his fellow gods, had a ton of pride and was enough of a terror that I genuinely think the islands and coves had the right idea refusing Leto sanctuary because they were afraid Apollo would trash the place the moment he was born LMAO

If Lore Olympus meant to channel this rowdy Apollo into their mess of a character, then they also did a terrible job of that because, vitally, LO's Apollo isn't intimidating. He's written to be pathetic, self agrandising, cowardly and foolish - the kind of person that's meant to look bad in order for the protagonists to look good. Apollo as a villain should be so destructive so as to inspire fear - the kind of ruthless, focused destroyer that makes you remember that he's named not for light but for the very destruction that he's now bringing.

So like, yeah, I don't like LO! Apollo 😂 Frankly, I think of him more as like someone's pet who was named after the god rather than something that's meant to actually share any qualities with him. The actual worst thing about that little freak is that it introduced a ton of people to the concept of Apollo and now there's people who cannot divorce the image of Apollo from a vile, pathetic, idiotic rapist who cannot even gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss his way into a decent succession plot.

Also he's not pretty, not handsome, and has short hair. Waste of my damn time is what he is 🤨

[aphelionatseven]

max + questionable fem! osco and also how tf do chibis work

[invader-sparkelhuzky]

Haii :3

I think ur art is kewl :3 (I wonder what you think of mine?)

Thanx, glad you like it! I think you have a fun way of stylization with very few bounaries, go nuts and dont limit yourself!

[ajdrawshq]

fascinated by mindt being found in temenos' house at night for some reason. what are u doing in here.

[tentglitch]

I'm crashing tf out grandson

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[clumsypuppy]

man ok so you know the spiciness scale on menus that show you how spicy a dish is so you can order based on your tolerance. can we have that for sauces too please