#this might be too slim a reference

[keter-class-anomaly]

when you change the settings in mario cart to "bikes only" (as if people actually do that.)

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。these traces of love, they outline you | gojo satoru

wc: 12.9k

summary: the 5 times gojo’s sure you’ve changed his life + the 1 time he hopes to change yours. 

contains: f!reader, pronoun she, 18+ nsfw (not super explicit but the act is there), symptoms similar to synesthesia, reader’s cursed technique, sparring, drunk call, pet names (cutie, silly, pretty, baby, loml), nervous feelings, tummy ache, food descriptions, surprise appearance of one character, emotional tears!!, internal thoughts and insecurities.

a/n: primarily in gojo's pov! & best read if you’ve gone through the other parts in the series! (lots of callbacks and references + better context!), lots of songs as inspo (would gladly share if you’re curious!), will add descriptions for the food in the a/n at the bottom!, from conceptualisation to actual writing this piece is my baby!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) <- you are here

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

Gojo thinks he might pass out. 

There’s a feeling of unease sitting deep in his gut, nervous and gurgling. His hands have always been restless and fidgety but never this sweaty, and his head feels like it’s floating—even more than that first time he attempted a 24-hour stint on keeping up Infinity. 

It’s eerily quiet in his office as he waits for your meeting to end, the white colon on his digital clock taunting him as it flicks on and off—16:27. 3 more minutes until you finish. 

He paces around the room. 

Attempts at any distraction are thwarted when everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you. There’s a photo hanging by the door, the mix-and-match of couch cushions in varying hues—all souvenirs you’ve given him from places you’ve been to. The coffee table books hold your touch too, and as he runs his hand over his face. he’s hit with that signature scent, clean and subtle from the hand cream you use.

Waiting in his office today has been absolute torture, but what’s made it more excruciating is the fact that he knows you’re aware of absolutely nothing.

To you, this is just like every other Friday. 

You’d done your usual morning routine, kissed him on the nose with the promise to meet him in his office after work, as you always do. And it feels like a big joke when he thinks about it now, because while he’s been on edge this entire day about it, you really have no clue what’s coming. 

To him, this could change everything with you. 

He’s been feeling it for a while now, the ripple effect of loving and being loved by you—how he can recall every time a single drop of you has shifted something deep within him, marked and colored you. 

There’s not a lot that Gojo wants now that he feels like he truly has it all, but when he thinks about all the times he’s sure you’ve changed his life, he hopes that with this one thing, he can change yours. 

.

.

.

1 — UNDER YOUR TOUCH, WHEN IT GETS TOO MUCH

The weather today is good—sunlight peeking behind cloud pillows and the occasional gust of wind passing through the space you’ve put between you and Gojo. It’s neither too humid nor too dry and though Gojo does get the occasional sniffle from his pollen allergies around this time, he woke up earlier completely fine. 

So, the weather today is good, perfect even, for a brush-up on sparring practice. 

You’ve kept a sizable distance away from him since it started, and every attempt he’s made to draw nearer, you’ve only moved away farther—a push-and-pull, an old dynamic that shows itself in the ways you engage in battle.  

Gojo’s hands stay tucked in his pockets, his stance one you know perfectly well as relaxed but still guarded. He’s gotten a lot bulkier than the days you used to spar often, the past few years having filled in all the areas of what used to be slim, lean muscle. He doesn’t move because he knows the style you fight with, how you stay on defense until your opponent charges, utilizing their own strength against them. 

It’s the only way you’ve managed to win against someone as deadly as Gojo, equal-parts lethal in speed and strength. 

So when a cluster of clouds pass by and the sun glares directly into your eyes, Gojo smirks, then bends his knees as he lunges for an attack.

Your senses are sharp and reflexes quick; in the split second that a white-and-black blur appears before you, you attempt a high kick, only for it to be blocked with his forearm. He uses his other hand to twist around your ankle, trying to flip you over, but you see right through his motives. You huff, furrowing your brows as you narrowly escape, slipping your ankle out before he can fully grab a hold of it.

Most of this practice has felt like a stalemate, with the both of you waiting on the other for the most part of the hour. Gojo can see how it’s wearing you down, this entire thing being dragged out, and if he’s being honest—this is exactly what he wants.

Sparring out here with you today, while still meant for actual training, is also just an excuse to do this for old time’s sake—the way you huff and frown, jaw clenched as your fists ball up tightly like you’re doing right now.

He kind of misses seeing you like this, impatient and frustrated, so unlike the tenderness you always regard him with. 

A smile threatens to form on his lips, and he bites it back down. 

You only ever get like this sparring against him. 

The tension breaks when you decidedly throw a punch; it’s a desperate attempt to get the fight moving but he ducks, arm securing itself around your waist as he locks your hip with his. Before you can even comprehend, your body is lifted across his back and lowered down to the grass below—the only thing in sight being two blue skies, beaming at you. 

Somewhere during the commotion, he managed to remove his blindfold, hair let loose, fluffy and white almost like the clouds above you. Gojo isn’t taking this seriously at all; he’s way too soft, having cushioned your fall by carrying most of your weight instead of throwing you down like anyone seriously sparring is supposed to. 

He doesn’t care though. All he really wanted this afternoon was to reminisce with you. 

You’re kept underneath him, one of his arms remains wrapped around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head—and it’s there, that frown on your face, that pout he’s witnessed for years evolve into what it is now. Beads of sweat collect at the crease between your brows, your temples tensing as you breathe out. 

Gojo at 17 would have teased you relentlessly for this, but he feels different now, warmth settling in his chest as he stares; he can’t help it, the words coming out of his mouth—

“You’re so—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

Everything around him blurs, green and blue blending in motion before he finds himself on his back, completely flipped over. He’s met with the sight of you, smug smile pulled wide with your hands resting on his chest. And his heart—

Can you feel it under your fingertips? How it’s beating a mile a minute? 

A shiver runs down his spine, the pinpricks of grass tickling the nape of his neck. The shock is tingling, his eyes fully open as he processes what just occurred. 

In the lapse of time he’d been a little too preoccupied staring at you, you managed to inch your leg to wrap around his, locking it at the last minute to flip him over—it lands you where you are now, on his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Sneaky.” he gazes fondly, grin teasing.

You catch your breath, “Do I win?” 

“Only because I let you get too close this time.”

Which is a lie, he knows, because having you near him like this, with some form of touching—you could never be close enough.

You roll your eyes, his fingers grabbing hold of your thighs. The grass pricks at your knees through the fabric of your leggings, and Gojo knows that if you stay like this any longer, it’s going to start to itch.

“Did I hurt you anywhere?” you ask, already assessing him for any point of injury. Your eyes go over his face before trailing down his arms, rarely exposed today in his black compression shirt.

“Yeah,” he pouts, pointing to his lips, all pink and puckered out, “kiss it better?” 

Asking for this is against his better judgment, he’s aware; with the way you’re situated on his lap, this could escalate into something else entirely. You shake your head, swatting at his chest. His grip on your thighs loosens as you get off him, but the curl of your lips is extremely telling. 

As you stand up to dust your knees, Gojo gazes at you fondly. The sun hides behind you from where you tower over him, but the halo effect around your head is just as blinding. 

“Lie down with me,” he pats the space beside him. You quirk your brow but follow anyway. 

He requests, not asks, because the weather today is good, and it’s making him a little bit sentimental, remembering earlier days with you. 

You lie down, positioning your head to align with his. And for a few moments, Gojo doesn’t speak, just looks at you once and smiles before turning to face the sky, hand placed behind his head as he sighs. 

You do the same for a while, this shared silence warm and just right. 

“So rude,” he jokingly tuts, “interrupting me while I was talking earlier…” 

“You shouldn’t have been so distracted then,” you tease back, sneaking a glance only to lock eyes with two skies. 

He wonders if you can tell—how he’s always looking at you in the stolen seconds before you notice him. 

“Well, you shouldn't have been so distracting then,” he holds your gaze. 

It’s incredibly cheesy but a part of you still feels like melting—he sounds so sincere; no lilt, no tease, no Gojo-typical flirting laced into it. 

You scrunch your nose, shifting on your side to face him, the arm used to support your head now resting against your cheek. He follows, taking one last look around him before turning to you. His other hand rests on your hip, fingers splayed out while his thumb draws hearts on fabric. 

You reach for him. 

The gesture is small, just your finger running across his cheek, but it nudges something in him—a memory of you and how you’ve always touched him like this: softly, kindly. 

“Remember when you used to do this?” he takes your hand, long and lithe fingers wrapping around yours as he guides them over his ear. 

Your eyes widen in recognition and he blinks, taking you in as he stares, “Wanna do it now?”

Concern reveals itself in the furrow of your brows, “Is it hurt—”

“No,” he chuckles, already knowing what you’re about to say.

The last time you did this for him, he didn’t even have to ask. One look and you knew—it’d been the night of his final conversation with Suguru. His skull-splitting migraine ensued after bickering with Shoko on what to do with the body. You were there; you heard everything, and when she gave up arguing and left, there was only one thing you could do. 

With his head on your lap by his office couch, you tuned out the sounds. 

He doesn’t prefer you using your cursed technique this way; it takes a considerable amount of your cursed energy to focus its effects solely on another body—and frankly, it’s a waste of time for you to spend all of that on him, at least in his opinion, personally. 

You’d struggled a lot with your technique back in high school, having to learn how to fully manipulate different sonic hues: white noise, brown noise, any and all of it in the entire spectrum. Being able to amplify, distort, reduce, and isolate them into their respective hues covers only the bare minimum when it comes to understanding your technique.

It’s tedious work, and when one of your senses holds so much more power over the others, the information that flows through it can be overwhelming, overloaded even. Sorting through all that noise—he gets it, gets you, and how it must hurt too. 

And yet you, at 17, still figuring out how to grasp it all, came knocking on his door when you noticed he hadn’t come for dinner. Quietly, you placed your hands over his ears and selflessly offered your discomfort for his relief. 

The first time you did this for him, you’d only heard of his migraines from Shoko. You witnessed it yourself when he opened his door and looked so unlike himself: blindfold secured tightly but haphazardly, strands of hair sticking out oddly; his room seemed to be blacked out completely. 

Gojo Satoru is no stranger to sensations beyond what any human should be subjected to, but when you laid your hands on him that day, cursed energy tickling his ears as it flowed through your fingertips—he’d never felt more normal, more human to be able to hear things without conjuring a visual of it. 

It’s almost like you silenced his mind—enough to hear himself, and you, and the buzz of the white noise you’d amplified to flow through him in his blacked out room. 

You’ve gotten a lot better at controlling it now, the task in itself barely causing you any ache or struggle at all. 

“Just like old times,” he nudges you. 

So you keep your hand where he’s left it, covering his ear with your palm as your fingers rest on his temples. Cursed energy flows from your touch, all sounds drowning out. 

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as your expression shifts with every sonic hue you focus on—an upgrade to your abilities the more you’d gotten the hang of it. 

You concentrate hard for white noise, creating your own mix to emulate radio static, transitioning out to green noise the moment you highlight the sound of birds chirping. Then, you ease it to brown noise, intensifying the soft whistles of the wind to mimic it. 

It’s weird how sentimental he’s been feeling lately—without any trigger or anything, but the more he leans into your palm, the more it gets him thinking. 

Touch had begun as extremely foreign to him—a god revered and valued but never really truly loved, untouchable with infinity, and the pedestal he’s always stood on. 

It was never supposed to be important to him. 

Until you. 

From your kindness that first day, and the many more that followed: of fingers brushing and hand-holding to breaths mingling and bodies moulding, moving—you’ve always touched him in ways no one else has, in places no one’s been able to reach. 

And if it wasn’t important then, completely foreign, it’s important now, so much that he looks for it everywhere, all the time, even. The way you scratch the short bristles of his undercut, fingers dragging down to the nape of his neck; the way you tap his collarbone thrice, run your fingers across his lip, and intertwine your fingers with his at random. 

When Gojo thinks about your touch, he thinks about how gentle it is, with intent and purpose. How it’s always been careful for him but never of him, and that’s made the biggest difference. 

He blinks, and you follow two times, focusing on him. 

All he hears is a heartbeat now, a little too fast to be at rest, but still steady and grounding—

The way he feels when he’s with you. 

Whether it’s his or yours, from your cursed technique or just the blood rushing in his ears, he knows this is pink noise, the one you’d so excitedly shown him when you first mastered it. 

The pink noise that resounded all throughout his twenty-somethings, when he first realized that you meant more to him than what you were. 

.

.

.

2 — WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME

The bed feels cold tonight. 

Gojo’s been staring at the lights on his ceiling for the past 30 minutes, and though his pillow is cool and blanket soft, he’s wide awake—nowhere near falling asleep any time soon. 

He shifts to the side, the space beside him taunting, empty. 

He misses you. 

For the past week, you’ve been off to a much-needed girls trip with Shoko and Utahime. He’d even offered to pay for the entire accommodation—to which you and Utahime declined, while Shoko shrugged, crossing her arms as she snorted, “If he really wants. At least he’s being useful.” 

You’d compromised and agreed that he could pay for an evening out in some nightclub. 

Now, he regrets it. A little bit. Maybe. 

Gojo’s bed is big, a king-size that fits the height of him and all his long limbs, and while it’s comfortable and spacious–supposed good things–he feels anything but comfortable in how spacious and vacant it now feels. 

He turns to the other side, facing his sidetable instead.

The digital clock reads 01:17 and he sighs; you still have a few days left. 

The next time you bring up being away for this long, he’s going with you. Even if he has to spend the entire day on his own, he’ll do it—as long as he gets to end it next to you. 

If he’s really thinking about it, nothing’s stopping him from teleporting there right now. He could hop in quick, give you a hug, hopefully a kiss, and maybe even get lucky if you allow him to steal you for the night. He’ll teleport you right back in the morning and it’ll be like you never left, even. 

He could do it. You can never resist him when he gives you his googly eyes. 

If you’re already back from—

Bzz bzz. His phone vibrates. 

He reaches for it over his night stand, instantly sitting up once he reads that it’s from you—the nickname he just recently changed your contact to. 

(It was always just your name, simple and straightforward, easy to find; when you return, he’s probably going to change it back because you prefer it that way—for safety purposes and everything.

But while he still can, he’s going to keep it like this: a petname with an obnoxious string of emojis that he associates with you).

1:20 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> satoourur are u awaeke??

The corner of his lips curl up, endeared at the image of you hunched over your phone, fingers slipping as you clumsily press the wrong letters. So cute. 

1:21 a.m.

< yes cutie? ( ˘ ³˘) 💕

1:21 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> casll?

He stares at it for a good minute or two, trying to decipher this rare, drunken code from you. But before he gets the chance to respond, your face appears on his screen, a photo of you he’d taken months ago, mid-chew special Daifuku.

You’re calling. 

He grins, biting his lower lip. His feet slip inside the house slippers by the side of his bed as he gets up, swiping his phone to answer before holding it against his ear. 

“Miss me already?” he teases, padding out of his bedroom.

“Satoruuu,” you drawl. Definitely drunk, if not tipsy.

Even like this though, Gojo aches when he hears you speak; there’s a twinge that pokes at his ribcage, making him wish he was right next to you.

The music around you sounds muffled, almost as if you’d stepped out just to make this call—another thought that makes him ache.

He walks down the hall towards his kitchen and stops, realizing: if you stepped out of the club, does this mean you’re alone? He trusts you can take care of yourself, but if you’re this inebriated…

“Are you with Shoko and Utahime?” he asks casually, attempting to mask his worry. His hand digs deeper into his pocket, shifting his weight to his other foot. 

“‘Nside.” you slur. 

You don’t actually sound that drunk, more sleepy if anything, really, but his heart still picks up pace. Maybe he should just go to you already. 

“You should go to them,” he urges, continuing his walk to the kitchen. 

“M’be later,” you sigh, and he hears a bit of rustling on your end—a soft curse and a small thud, “w’na talk t’you.” 

Another ache. 

He can picture it: you, in some sidestreet, phone clutched to your ear as you tuck your hair back before sighing, legs buckling as you clumsily drop down to sit. 

“Oh?” he lilts, eyebrow lifting. A smirk forms on his lips, head tilting as he wedges his phone between his neck and shoulder. He reaches for his refrigerator, “Got something to tell me, pretty?”

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting you to say, maybe a recount of your day, or something funny that he’s bound to laugh at, whatever it is. 

“Just miss you.” 

He wasn’t expecting you to say this—

—in an exhale, with a slight tremble, like it’s been waiting to be let out. Vulnerable. 

There’s another ache, and he nearly drops the water bottle.

He should really just go to you.

His phone nearly slips from his neck, the thump of his heartbeat on rampage as he readjusts it.

He swallows, “I miss you too.” 

And it’s odd, how it sounds when he says it, a bit shaky too. A stillness settles in the room and it echoes off every kitchen equipment and countertop. He can’t even get himself to tease you for this one. 

“I can go there now, if you want.” he offers, almost a whisper, before attempting a chuckle. It comes out flat, tinted a little sad, “Blink twice and I’ll be there when you open your eyes.”

You giggle on the other end, and it fills him in this moment. 

When he looks around his apartment now, steel finish and walls accented black, the backsplash of his kitchen a grayish hue of iron—it reminds him of luxury fit for a bachelor, sleek in its utility. 

He’s lived here since his mid-twenties, and he likes how it’s designed, the colors and feel of it right up his alley. The furniture remains simple, modern and minimalist, filling the spaces of his open floor plan down to the two bedrooms and office space. 

But right now, it feels so empty. 

“Silly,” you chuckle, he can hear your grin forming, affection dripping, “my silly baby.”

Now his heart really aches. 

The subtle static makes you sound unreal, strung together by radio waves; it’s rare enough for you to call him ‘baby’, and for you to say it when he can’t even see or hold you while you do it—it’s cruel; a test of his restraint. 

He rests his back against the kitchen counter, arm coming across his chest to rest under his elbow, supporting the one holding his phone–you–by his ear. His teasing is softer tonight, tinged by yearning, so he hums, “Your silly baby, huh? Any chance it could be your silly ‘Toru instead?” 

The way he says ‘‘Toru’ is a pitch lower, slower, and exaggeratingly more seductive in his banter; it’s what you call him in bed, or by accident, and in the moments you find yourself needing him in ways he can only satisfy by being your lover. 

If you say it, he’s definitely going to teleport himself over. 

You giggle again. 

“S’that your fav’rite one?” you mumble, words blending together. He can imagine your cheek smushed against your knee, arms curled around your legs as you sit on concrete, “‘‘Toru?’” 

When he thinks about it, you aren’t too big on his nicknames—at least, not as much as he is with you. You only call him three things: baby (which truthfully, he had to convince you to), ‘Toru (first whispered in the moment, heat fueling it), and Satoru (since you were 16, weighted and grounding throughout all the years you’ve known him). 

Is ‘‘Toru’ his favorite? 

For obvious reasons, maybe.

But—

“I like everything you call me,” he smirks, shifting his weight. 

“Sweet-talker.” 

He closes his eyes, head tilting back as he leans further—and he swears, he can see you, the image of you rolling your eyes and scrunching your nose seared into his eyelids. 

God damn, he really misses you.

“You love it,” he murmurs.

A beat. He hears the faint honk of a car before you drown it out, sighing. 

“I do,” you whisper, admittance ringing in his ears, “I love you, Satoru.” 

He hears this all the time, but tonight it just aches; the way you say things so sincerely, so honestly even in an inebriated state—how you call him Satoru and it’s still weighted, still grounding, like who he is resides right there, in the softness of your lips. 

Gojo’s always been relevant but when you call him Satoru, he feels more than just the name.

If you’re asking about his favorite, he thinks this might be it—in every handwritten note you leave, his name scrawled in your hybrid of semi-print-semi-cursive letters; in every call you pick up, opening always with a ‘Satoru?’, end pitched higher, sweet and curious. 

“C’n I tell you somethin’?” you ask (even when you don’t need to, even when he’s already listening). 

“Let me guess, Utahime has a travel ick and Shoko—”

“Satoru.” you scold, rolling your eyes, but there’s no bite. The next bit you say under your breath, a little fragile, “‘M serious.”

The nervousness sits in his stomach; this conversation feels significant.

He takes a seat on his barstool. 

“Listening.” 

For a while, it’s only your breathing; knowing you, you’re probably thinking, crafting what to say carefully. 

You sigh again, and—

“I worry sometimes,” you admit.

He furrows his brows, “About?”

“That maybe bein’ with me’s a lil’ boring?”

And this… this aches in a different way. 

How can you even think that? 

You chuckle anxiously; he can bet you’re biting your lips, a habit you’ve picked up from him. 

He rests an elbow on his kitchen island, leaning onto it as he tilts his phone closer to his ear. 

“Apologize right now,” he commands, sternness making him feel a little guilty, “that’s the person I love you’re slandering.” 

But you only laugh, real and more relaxed, nervousness dissipating. 

“My bad, my bad,” you play along before mumbling, “‘m just sayin’, there’re lotsa others who are more everythin’ y’know?” 

He wonders what’s got you thinking like this, if it’s triggered by seeing people at the club, perhaps younger and far livelier—how you spent those years of your life exorcizing curses and making a home for two kids. 

“So what? They’re still not you.”

And he means it, genuinely.

Your breath hitches and he grins, swinging around on the bar stool. 

Those years of youth were still fun, he thinks, and it’s precisely because of you—how you’d made the apartment the four of you stayed in as fun and homely as a teen barely pushing twenty could.

You had your fair share of mishaps and adventures—rushed breakfasts and Megumi’s ‘my dog ate my homework’s. Tsumiki had to miss a day of school once because you accidentally booked her a birthday gift trip to Disneyland on a weekday. 

(And he got scolded a lot, ‘Satoru’ exhaled with a look. But it would only last a few moments; you can never stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try). 

There was no way you and Gojo had the maturity and responsibility of actual parents (maybe more like inexperienced guardians, really), but you tried your hardest to give Megumi and Tsumiki a home. 

Home, what he’s beginning to realize reminds him of you.

He looks around him now, at the details of his interior, and begins to think of yours—your apartment, a little more wooden and lived-in; there’s a lot more wear but also a lot more love, never empty like his feels right now. 

“If being with you was so boring, I wouldn’t be itching to go to you right now.” he confesses, fiddling with the string of his sweatpants. 

You laugh again before it falls into comfortable silence. 

Muffled conversations and the occasional beep sound in your background. There’s a couple giggling around you and he thinks that could be the two of you—if only he were with you. 

“Satoru,” you call him softly. 

He hums, letting it sink in—the way you say his name, distinct in how you stress his consonants despite the softness around his vowels.

When you say ‘Satoru’, it always feels targeted, speaking straight to who he is. 

“‘M so happy it’s you,” you whisper shyly, but it’s bright—unmistakably smiling, the visual of your eyes crinkling. 

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, drunken affection and vulnerable confessions, but there’s that ache again, and all he wants to do is go to you, hold you. Be with you. 

For a while, Gojo’s been resigned to the fact that there are some things he can’t give you: how you’ll never know true peace because he’ll always be linked to jujutsu society; how choosing him means choosing the tumultuous, the unpredictable. 

And while you’ve already told him that you prefer this life with him better, for you to say you’re happy, that it’s him—

He’s thankful it’s you, too. 

Tears collect at his lash line, pools of gratitude, “I love you.”

“Hmm? you’re coverin’ the mic w’your double-chin,” you joke, just to hear him say it again, he knows. 

(There’s no way he has a double-chin from how you complain about his jawline being too sharp all the time). 

“I love you.” he repeats, louder, steadier, pressing it into his phone’s microphone. 

He’ll repeat it again as many times as you want him to. 

You giggle and he echoes it—like that couple from earlier, your own version. 

The clock reads 02:47, and he normally doesn’t like being up this late, barely getting enough sleep as is. But if you’re the reason why, he doesn’t mind staying awake.  

.

.

.

3 — TUCKED IN BED, WHEN I LIE CORRECTED

“Satoru, you can’t keep eating sweets on an empty stomach.”

He turns beside you, the dull rumbling of the Shinkansen hardly masking how loudly he asks, “Why not?” 

An old man seated across the aisle looks your way, grumpy by the folds between his brows—as if he’d been woken up by Gojo’s whining. You bow your head slightly in apology. 

It’s been an early day so far, with you and Gojo catching the first train out from Kyoto to Tokyo. Departing at 06:14 doesn’t exactly leave room for food stops, so all you have are the two water bottles handed out from yesterday’s meeting and a pack of (now) half-eaten Hi-Chew that Gojo picked up from the convenience store last night. 

“You’ll get a stomach ache.” you whisper, with emphasis. 

He fiddles with the stick of Hi-Chew, tossing it between his fingers before popping one piece out. 

The seats in the Shinkansen are spacious enough for Gojo to stretch his long, gangly legs, but despite all the free room in your row, he’s chosen to encroach on your space, sticking to you shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“Nonsense,” he tilts his face, sunglasses sliding a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose, “I do this all the time.” 

And his eye, clear and bright blue amidst the morning haze zipping past the windows of the train, winks at you. 

Heat warms your cheeks; it’s too early for this. 

The moment you look away, hiding your smile, he knows he’s got you. 

. 

Or not. 

Because you seem to have gotten him—

—tucked in bed, nursing this stomach ache that could have been avoided if he just listened. 

To be fair, he does do it all the time: a few candies, sometimes gummies first thing in the morning, last thing at night. So he’s right, it’s nonsense; he probably got this from something else. 

(Even when you’d both eaten the same meals—how you always order to share because you like tasting a little bit of everything). 

Which is why, you insist it’s from the sweets, his beloved Hi-Chew to be specific. And though he wants to, he can’t argue much when he’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach while writhing in bed. 

“I made you tea,” you stand by your bedside, holding out your mug—small cereals patterned all over it. 

He opens an eye, hair mussed up from all his squirming. The pain in his stomach is radiating, a knot that tightens in waves; this is different from the twist-y pop-y sparks of jealousy, and is nothing compared to the sting of multiple slashes. 

Still, it’s a pain he doesn’t understand: a mixture of feeling gassy and bloated, like he needs to run to the toilet only for it to turn out futile. What makes it worse is that when he catches a glimpse of you, a lock of hair perfectly out of place, the sensation in his stomach intensifies—like butterflies flapping (or maybe just another wave of radiating pain). 

“S’hot,” he grumbles, half of his face mushed into the pillow.

The mug in your hand is piping hot, steam lifting from it, and Gojo doesn’t like drinking hot things; he’s burnt his tongue enough times on hot chocolate that he swears any hot liquid is out to get him.

But you don’t know that about him—he’s never told you, he thinks. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“That’s kind of the point, baby.” you chuckle, tone doting with a hint of pity, “It has to be.” 

Your hand rests on his thigh, attempting to soothe him. He catches your eye and whines. 

“If I blow on it, will you drink?” you plead, “Please?”

At this point, he doesn’t know what hurts more: this stupid stomach ache or how nice you’re being. 

You could have said ‘I told you so’ the moment his stomach started gurgling when you both arrived in Tokyo—but you didn’t. Instead, you asked him what exactly he was feeling and had him change into his pajamas as you nursed him to bed. Then, you cooked him real food, a bowl of Okayu for his stomach to digest something plain and non-irritable. 

You haven’t stopped moving since you both got back from Kyoto, unpacking both your things while simultaneously darting in and out your bedroom, checking in.  

How you speak to him is so gentle, caring, doting—even when you have every right to hold it against him. 

He pushes himself up, leaning back on the headrest. You smile, lovely, and beautiful, and every bit healing that it eases the pain a little, somehow. Your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you blow on his tea, scooting closer.

A gurgling sound comes from his stomach again, but it’s manageable, and he bears it as he takes you in—how you’ve barely had the time to change out of your clothes since this morning. You’re tired, he’s sure, but you don’t mention it as you take care of him. 

The bed dips as you draw nearer, bringing the mug to his lips—he’s a grown man and he can definitely do this on his own, but you always take such good care of him. 

Who is he to say no?  

Sips of peppermint coat his tongue, warm as it eases down his throat. He wraps his fingers around yours, drinking a third of the mug before urging you to set it down. 

“I’ll heat up a hot compress,” you motion to get up, placing the mug by your bedside. 

He stops you, grip loose on your wrist. 

“Have you eaten?” 

You stare at him, a little surprised, but you nod.

“Just stay with me, then. Don’t need that thing.” 

Your brows furrow, pouting, “But it’ll help,” 

“Hug me instead,” his fingers play with yours, intertwining, “or I’ll hug you. Either.” 

You shoot him a look, disbelieving, but he musters up a wink, for you, despite the new wave of pain arising. 

“Okay,” you sigh, knowing you can’t exactly argue. As you get up, you land a kiss on top of his head, rubbing his knuckles as you get ready for bed. 

When you come back, dressed in your pajamas, he’s turned to his side, lifting the comforter to welcome you in. You lie face-to-face with him, his arm reaching out to rest on your lower back, pushing you closer. 

“You sure this is enough?” you whisper, breath tickling his chin. 

“Mm, yeah,” he hums, hugging you tighter as he grins, “you’re hot.” 

You hit his arm lightly, and he chuckles.

It turns quiet, then he shifts, resting his forehead against yours. White strands, as pale as your pillowcases tickle your eyes. 

He nuzzles your nose, hiking your leg up to rest on his hip while slotting his leg between your thighs—like a pretzel, twisted into each other tight. 

“You’re too good to me.” 

He’s said this before, and no matter how much you say it isn’t true—he’ll always think it, believe it. 

You frown, gripping his waist, “I don’t like seeing you in pain, you know.” 

And he thinks you’ve always been like this: hands outstretched farther than his, offering yourself to help carry whatever pain, struggle, or burden you can. You cry for the sadness others feel, share the hurt of anyone who needs it. You’re the pillar, the support for everyone around you—from Yuuji, Megumi, and Tsumiki all the way back to Utahime, Suguru, and Nanami. 

You’ve always been this way, ever since he met you. 

“Does it still hurt?” you mutter, concerned, fingers grazing his stomach. 

It does and it doesn’t—the pain is unfamiliar but he can take it, having gone through far worse. If he’s being really honest, a part of him just likes being babied by you. 

“Better,” he inches back a little, lips curling into mischief, “would definitely go away with some Hi-Chew.” 

You shoot him a look, then pout. 

“Satoru.” 

He figures there are still a few things you don’t know about him: how he really dislikes hot drinks, how discomfort turns him into a whiney, needy baby, and how he remains incredibly stubborn, maintaining what he stands for (but maybe you know this already). 

“Hey, you should be thanking my Hi-Chew’s. It helps with energy when we fu—” 

You swat at his chest in hopes of shutting him up.

He clears his throat, correcting himself instead, “—make love.” 

This is hardly the time or situation to be talking about the other things you do on your bed, given that he’s been out of commission, curled in on himself the entire day on it. But you sigh, resting your palm on his cheek. 

He turns to peck your wrist, hand coming up to cover yours.

“Just because you were fine doing it before, doesn’t mean you always will be.” you whisper, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone. 

And Gojo thinks he’s right most of the time, if not all the time, but—

“We’re not old, but we aren’t as young as we used to be, you know? Have to take better care of ourselves now…” you continue.

—when you talk to him like this, you humble him. Immensely. 

He’s always known that if he were to give in to anyone, it’d be to you. 

Things are different now, he knows; his considerations have changed too—like how to lay the foundations of a new, ideal jujutsu society, with all the political and diplomatic gymnastics he knows is necessary; what to do with all this downtime, with all this life and no more death looming overhead; there’s also you, where this relationship is headed, what he plans to do. 

“What will I tell everyone when the love of my life, Gojo Satoru, the strongest, gets knocked out by sweets?” 

Then you joke around like this so casually, kissing his nose and calling him the love of your life like it doesn’t bear commitment that spans your–his–entire lifetime—it shakes him a little. 

He holds his breath, eyes staring at yours. You seem completely unfazed—a slip of the tongue maybe, so he lets it go. 

“Okay, okay,” he pinches your nose as you scrunch it, “I’ll try, but no promises.” 

You kiss his wrist in return—the softness of your lips always turning him a little delirious when he feels it. He pulls you closer to his chest, palm pressed to the back of your head as his other arm wraps around you, squeezing you tighter. 

“But don’t complain if I only last one rou—” 

He gets kicked in the thigh. 

.

.

.

4 — WHEN IT'S YOUR WAY OR DOWN THE DRAIN

There’s the right way, then there’s the Gojo way. 

Sometimes there’s an overlap, but most times he’s just unorthodox. Gojo’s always had his own way of doing things, but now, he’s throwing all that down the drain in lieu of doing things your way (which in this case, he’s decided is the right way). 

Between the two of you, you’re definitely better at cooking. 

He isn’t inept at it per se; all these years, he’s managed to get by. It’s just that, he’s only ever made quick, simple things—barely having the time or need to make things on his own when you seem to have an extra plate on standby.

Long cooks like this, for real, big meals aren’t his forte at all. 

This is the fullest his kitchen has ever been, a trip to the grocery store producing bags overflowing with the ingredients he needs. He tightens his apron (yours, actually) by his waist, pale pink a stark contrast to his black shirt and gray lounge pants. It’s tiny on him, barely fitting, but it covers enough to (hopefully) save him from any mishaps. 

With all the ingredients lined up on his kitchen counter, he stares, hands on hips as he contemplates where to begin. 

You’ve mentioned before how his kitchen is every cook’s dream: complete equipment, all high-grade with steel surfaces for easy wipe downs and more than enough real estate to move around. It’s a shame he’s barely used it over the years, either too busy out on missions or lately, too often staying at yours.

The unease makes him fidgety.

There’s an air of confidence that normally surrounds Gojo in everything he does, but it wavers just a bit with this one. 

He has to get this right. 

It’s your anniversary—the third (officially), but the number doesn’t matter as much when the years have always blurred the lines of what you are to each other. 

The past two celebrations were cute and fun, adventurous in how you’d spent the first one on a trail date up north, and the second one fruit picking in a farm, just west of Tokyo—things you’d both done for the first time, together. Now, there’s added pressure because this is your thing; everything on the menu for tonight’s home cooked dinner is based on your recipes. 

You know all of this by heart. And though he’s aware he doesn’t have to impress you, he wants to. 

He glances at the clock: 15:05 in white, 4 hours until you arrive. The table hasn’t been set up yet and he’s barely dressed, an array of ingredients on the table waiting to be transformed into four of your recipes he plans to attempt. 

Gojo is no quitter, but it’d be stupid of him to underestimate how fast time flies. 

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list—then he shoots a text, pocketing the device as soon as he hits send.

.

In the amount of time between asking for help and said help standing outside his door, ringing the doorbell, Gojo’s managed to do most of the prepwork: slice all the vegetables, set the rice cooker, and mix together all the sauces and glazes so he can set them aside for later. 

“Just type it!” he shouts from the kitchen.

Four beeps sound from the door, a soft woosh following as it opens. Help enters in the form of spiky hair and a deadpan gaze, putting on house slippers by the genkan as he drags his feet to the kitchen counter. 

“Megumi!” 

The younger boy sighs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his joggers, long sleeves wrinkling higher. “Why did you call me?” 

“Oh!” Gojo claps his hands together, “I need your help.” 

Megumi looks him over, eyes zeroing in on the pink apron, then the bowls of sauces and chopped vegetables in front of him. The rice cooker is steaming beside the sink while empty pots and pans line the burners of the stove. 

“With cooking?” Megumi shifts his attention back to Gojo as the older male nods. He mumbles, “You made it sound like an emergency.”

(“Come here now.” in proper punctuation, lacking any of his usual emoticons—only ever being used in the most dire situations).

Gojo furrows his brows, “It is!” 

Megumi stares. 

“Anniversaries are emergencies.” Gojo stares back, holding the silence for a few seconds before he continues, demeanor turned serious, “Think of it as doing this for your Sensei, not me.” 

There’s a crack in Megumi’s resolve that Gojo knows only appears when it comes to you; a soft spot that exists because you’ve always been closer, warmer—an accumulation of all the times you were adamant on being present because the kids deserved someone there, especially when he couldn’t be. 

Megumi sighs, resigned, as he pushes up his sleeves, trudging over to the sink. He turns on the tap, soaping his hands until it suds, “You should have asked Itadori.”

“Yuuji wouldn’t know how it’s supposed to taste though.” 

“Sensei’s recipes?”

Gojo nods, fanning out pieces of paper from the recipe folder you keep in your kitchen drawer, “Your favorites.”

Megumi scrunches his nose, embarrassed as pink tints the tips of his ears. 

His relationship with Megumi has always been a bit weird, a not-quite-parent-maybe-kind-of-distant-guardian-and-good-but-annoying-mentor-slash-benefactor kind of weird. And he’s sure that the boy isn’t too fond of the idea that he knows small, seemingly trivial things about him like his favorite food, but if there’s anything they can settle on, it’s definitely love for you. 

“Do you have another one?” Megumi turns to Gojo, pointing to the hair band pushing back his hair. 

.

There’s a different kind of care in cooking that he’s now realizing, coming face-to-face with the pot of dashi he’s just started boiling—a patience that comes with waiting and an efficiency meant for multi-tasking.

During the 30 minutes of soaking the kombu, they split tasks: Gojo takes duty rolling the Temaki on his own, while Megumi seasons the Wagyu and prepares the Sunomono. It’s not long before Megumi is directed to setting up the table as Gojo focuses on the Miso Soup. 

There’s a reference photo, some picture he pulled online. The gray plates and silverware on his dining table match the iron-hued backsplash and steel surfaces of his kitchen, sleek but softened by the vase of red and white camellias from the florist you frequent. 

Megumi doesn’t say anything, frankly because he’s gotten used to walking in on Gojo searching up these things: a youtube video of trail dates and articles of ‘the top 10 best farms for fruit picking’. There was also that time he found Gojo’s browser open on a catalog of lingerie.

(Megumi’s been trying really hard to forget that). 

These aren’t things Gojo’s done before, much less thought of—romance and all. 

But he admits, it’s hard work, wiping off the sweat on his brow caused by the heat from the stove. 

“Why,” Megumi sighs, “Why are you cooking anyway?” He mumbles, adjusting the silverware on the table, “Couldn’t you just reserve some place?”

Most of the cook has been silent, with Gojo too focused and Megumi barely saying a word. So while adding the katsuobushi after the kombu boils, the older male answers. 

“I would have, but she said she wanted to stay home,” he turns away from the pot, leaving the katsuobushi to soak as he shrugs. 

Megumi snorts, straightening out the black tablecloth, “Don’t you have anywhere you want to go?” 

It’s a simple question. Innocent. 

But it hits him then, how what you say follows; how ‘anywhere he wants to go’ is wherever you are, how he’s choosing to cook this meal for you instead of just ordering in—-how he’s now considering you, in everything.

This isn’t his strong suit, far from it, really, but because he’s thinking of what you want—suddenly he’s domesticated, cooking for you in hopes of romancing you (even though he already has you).   

You come first now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind. 

He turns back to the stove, straining the soup through a fine-mesh sieve before adding miso paste, dissolving it into the dashi.

“I guess not.” 

The thought stays with him, even as he drops in the tofu, dried wakame seaweed, and green onion. Even as he waits for it to finish cooking, moving the pot atop a different burner while grabbing a spoon to dip in it. 

“Megumi, come taste,” he calls behind him. 

And when the boy sidles up next to him, he feels nervous, fingers trembling as he hands over the spoonful of Miso Soup. He stares at Megumi, eyes wide open, anticipating. 

The boy arches an eyebrow as he takes the spoon, blowing on it gently. He takes a small sip.

“I added less salt because—” Gojo speaks up, a bit panicked, fingers scratching at his nail beds. 

“She’ll like anything you make, even if it tastes bad.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Are you saying it’s bad?” 

“Or bland.” Megumi adds, smacking his lips. 

“So it’s bland?”

The horror on Gojo’s face is laughable, but Megumi continues, deadpan. 

“No, it’s okay.” 

Gojo sighs in relief, then pouts, “Don’t mess with me like that.” 

“I don’t.” Megumi sets the spoon down, walking back to the dining table to finish setting up. 

The 18:03 on his digital clock flickers, and the rest of the cook continues: he heats up the skillet for the Wagyu—Matsusaka Beef, grade A-5, heavily marbled, meant to be tender and sweet. Some oil is drizzled onto the pan before cloves of chopped garlic are thrown in, followed by the beef, cut into bite-sized pieces. He adds a bit of soy sauce and red wine, to draw out the sweetness (or so he’s read), then finishes it up by plating it. 

And, there really is a different kind of care in cooking, he’s now realizing; how, when he stares at what he’s cooked in the past hour, he’s thought of you through it all—your preferences, the way you make things. How big meals aren’t his forte, but for you, he tries anyway. 

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Megumi asks, adjusting the camellias in the vase one last time. He takes off his hair band and ruffles his hair, hands tucking inside his pockets immediately after. 

Gojo looks up from the spread of food on the kitchen counter, motioning for the boy to come closer, “Taste test everything with me.”

Lined up are a plate of Temaki, a wooden board of Wagyu, a plate of Sunomono, and a bowl of Miso Soup. For every bite he takes, Megumi follows. And honestly? He thinks everything tastes… okay. 

The Temaki bursts with the sweet umaminess of buttery salmon dotted with ikura, the yellow daikon pickles adding a tart balance that complements the salmon well by simultaneously being sweet and salty. The avocado adds extra creaminess, while the cucumber and corn provide a freshness that lifts everything else. For some added decoration, he uses radish sprouts to mimic leaves on the filler plants of bouquets—the main reason he chose to make this: it looks like the bundles of flower arrangements you keep on your desk. What ties everything together though, is the crunchy, crispy texture of the nori, giving contrast to the creaminess it holds inside. 

There’s a reason why Wagyu is so expensive, and it’s being told in the way it melts into his mouth right now, sweet and tender. He paid a pretty penny for this, but it’s worth it because he can’t wait for your reaction. 

The Sunomono is meant to be a palate cleanser—with sesame seeds sprinkled on it, mild and sweet, while wakame seaweed and cucumbers serve as the base ingredients. The sauce is meant to be light, just a mixture of rice vinegar and soy sauce, seasoned to taste—and maybe his is a little lackluster compared to yours, but he swears you have some form of magic when it comes to cooking. 

After each bite, Gojo looks at Megumi for his reaction—but the boy gives nothing away, face blank and devoid of any emotion. None of them are as good as yours, definitely, but for his first shot at this, they aren’t too bad. He’d pat himself on the back for it. 

“They don’t go together.” Megumi regards the entire spread with his chopsticks. 

All his hard work? Shattered. 

Gojo is dumbfounded. 

It’s too late to change everything now. 

Should he just scrap everything and order takeout? 

“But they��re not bad.” Megumi continues, washing his chopsticks by the sink before heading for the bathroom to change out of the house clothes he’d borrowed in lieu of an apron.

When he emerges, long sleeves and joggers, he asks one last time if that’s all he needs to do, taking Gojo’s nods as a sign to take his leave. The older male remains rooted behind his kitchen counter, frozen from the crisis he’s facing.  

. 

You arrive a little later (thankfully), giving Gojo enough time to figure out this whole debacle. He’s ultimately decided to feel around for how the night goes, then he’ll act accordingly—if you show any sign that you aren’t happy, he has the delivery app ready. 

He dresses in simple slacks and a white button down, fiddling with how he’s rolled it up; the thought of you finally seeing everything he’s prepared for tonight makes him nervous—the table set-up, the ambiance, the food.

(He’s even cleaned up his bedroom).

Then he senses it, faint traces of your cursed energy by the door, and he holds his breath. The beeps on his lock count down the seconds to your entrance; and when he sees you come in, surprised and so amazed at the entire thing, the tightness in his chest eases up immensely. 

All he told you was to wear something nice. 

And, by god you did. 

You walk up to him, pretty and smiling in the simple dress you’d opted for tonight—a midi slip-on with a cardigan thrown on top. Black has always looked good on you, uniform or not, ever since up to now. 

But in white, you’re radiant. Glowing. 

He reaches for you. 

The grin on his face is lovesick as he grabs a hold of your waist. You instantly tiptoe up to kiss him, hands on his shoulders as you land a soft peck that transfers a light sheen of lip gloss onto his lips. The view behind him shows the table set-up, a pop of white and red amidst all the food he’s prepared for tonight. 

Your eyes widen, gasping, “Did you make all of that?” 

He nods, pulling away from you as he grins cockingly, “Call me chef.” 

But he immediately bites his lips, restless as he shifts his weight. He hopes you don’t notice how nervous he is—if you weren’t able to tell from his heartbeat, pressed against his chest. 

“You didn’t have to,” you pout at him, eyes watery as you swipe your thumb across his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipgloss. 

“Guess I’ll just undo everything then.” he chuckles, hands sliding to rest on your lower back, fingers tapping against silk. 

You roll your eyes, and before his hands get the chance to grab you lower, you’re whisking him away, holding his hand as you lead him to the dining table.

He pulls out your chair and you sit, the rare gesture making you giggle. As he settles in the seat across you, there’s a disconnect between the expression on his face and his body language—eyebrows wiggling and lips smirking, meant to be lighthearted and teasing, but he won’t stop fidgeting, shifting as he readjusts his seating. 

As you reach for the Temaki, he sucks in a breath, entirely hyper aware of every move you’re making. When you bite into it, he’s waiting. Anticipating. 

Your eyes fall shut as you chew, humming, then you grin. But when you open them and they catch his, it’s like you can tell—what he’s feeling. The furrow on your brows deepens as you look at him, concerned, “Hey, what’re you thinking?” 

How he hopes he hasn’t fucked this up, this dinner. What if the Miso Soup is too bland? Isn’t at all to your liking? What if the Wagyu’s dried out? Isn’t cooked properly? 

If he can’t get this right, this seemingly simple thing, how can he do everything else? Consider you the same way you’ve always considered him? 

He’s so sure of you his heart could burst at it, but what if he can’t ever come to terms with himself? With what he’s able to—

Then he feels it, your hand on his as you reach for him across the table, rubbing the back of it, soothing. 

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s worrying. 

“Megumi said it doesn’t go together,” he stares into your eyes, breathing slowly, grounding. It’s been a while since he’s given you a non-answer, but you accept it, patiently. 

“Megumi was here?” you ask gently, brow arched curiously. 

He nods, “Asked him to help a bit.” 

You hum, looking back at the food on the table before taking his other hand, soothing, “Well, that’s Megumi’s preference. Mine will be different.”

The smile you give him is warm, like the Miso Soup you’re reaching for right now. He watches you take a sip.

“S’good, better than mine.” You hum and he knows you’re lying but it’s still comforting, the fact that you’d do this for him. 

So if this is your effort for him, he isn’t going to waste it.

The rest of the dinner has you making the most exaggerated sounds, your ‘mmm’s and ‘ooo’s emphasizing how good the food is if he still doesn’t believe it. Your reactions are over-the-top and definitely overplayed, but it makes him laugh—has him grinning in his seat the more he relaxes. 

You help clean up, even though he insists that you shouldn’t. 

“It’s our anniversary, Satoru.” you bump his hip, shooing him away from the table as you stack up the dirty plates. 

When he finishes washing the dishes and turns to find you, sitting atop his kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of strawberry from the special Daifuku he put out for dessert, he approaches you. 

“Don’t be greedy now,” he rests his hand on your knee, coming to stand in between your legs. You hike your dress up a little bit, just to give him some space. 

You chuckle, cupping your hand under his chin as you feed him; he eats the entire thing, half-bitten by you already. And as the tips of your fingers touch his lips, sticky and syrupy from the strawberry coating, he takes them in his mouth, sucking lightly. 

He holds your gaze.  

“Thanks for doing all this,” you blink twice as he releases your fingers, interlacing them with his, “s’not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life.” 

You say it again—how you call him that so casually. 

What do you mean it’s not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life? 

You do it for him all the time.

He hums, moving closer. His other hand rises higher, kneading the flesh of your thighs through the smooth silk of your midi dress. 

“Thought you were going to spit it out for a second there,” he swallows his nerves. 

“Stop,” you frown, grabbing him by his belt loops before pressing your lips against his forehead, landing a loud ‘smack’, “go away silly thoughts.”

He chuckles when you blow a raspberry on it, laughter easing up as you drag your lips down to the center of his brows, tense from all the worrying earlier. 

You always seem to get it right, he thinks, this whole relationship thing—always knowing what to say. 

He tilts his head up, leaning closer to kiss you on the lips, fully. The breath he lets out mingles with yours, sweet with hints of strawberry, and when he catches your bottom lip you lean back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks. 

You nip on his upper lip, playful but lightly, and he groans, hand reaching up to slot itself by your neck. 

It’s there, underneath his fingertips, the pounding of your heartbeat. 

As you squirm on the kitchen counter, you pull away for a moment, restless from the growing heat. The action is subtle but dangerous as your cardigan slips off your shoulder, revealing the strap and lace of your lingerie. 

Blue eyes land on familiar pink, one he’s certain he’s caught you in before, but seeing it now, under white, it does something to his brain—blood rushing, ears ringing. 

He leans closer, grabbing you by the waist as he runs his lips against along your neck, nipping on sensitive skin.

“‘Toru,” you gasp, breathy as you grip his shirt. 

“Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs against your skin, muffled. He sneaks one glance at you, pupils blown, before hovering over your temple, lips barely touching, tickling as he whispers, “anything.” 

Your fingers trail lower, pinching at his shirt before you tug, untucking it from his slacks. You turn to him, finding his lips, sliding them over his as you match his rhythm. It’s careful and slow, the way you unbutton his shirt, but it’s like he said—

This is your way; he’ll follow anything you say.

.

.

.

5 — WHEN ALL I SEE IS ME AND YOU

Gojo never thought he’d make this decision all because of your joint streaming subscription. 

It’s a normal weekend, regular in every way possible—just a night in for the both of you. He usually stays over at the end of the week, but it’s been bleeding into the weekdays too, lately. 

The sound of splashing water against tile echoes along the hallway; you normally play songs when you shower, but he guesses today isn’t that kind of day. 

He plops on the couch, pointing the remote to the TV as he selects the streaming app. Normal weekends consist of movie nights, half actually paying attention to the screen, and half paying attention to other things—either way, it ends in falling asleep. 

When the homepage lights up on the screen, he spots two accounts: yours and his. And it’s joint, under one household—your home. 

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking about this more lately: how the past months have been a slow realization coming to terms with himself, and where he sees this relationship going, but the visual in front of him sparks an influx of things he’s been noticing. 

The pajama pants he’s wearing now exist as a pair to a matching set he has with you, but tonight, he’s opted for a white t-shirt because his pajama top is tucked somewhere in the drawers of your bedroom. 

(You keep it with you because you like how it fits more, you say, but he thinks it’s because it smells like him, and you sleep with it when he’s away). 

There’s another pair of chopsticks you always wash now, too, plain bamboo with a ring around the handle, light blue. You’d bought it from a market down the street a year ago, and told him it reminded you of him—how it’s his from now on, in the container of utensils by your kitchen sink. 

He’s always known how intertwined your lives are, a decade and more of learning one another is bound to entangle you somehow. But the past few years have caused knots, impossible to unravel—a thought that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to; a thought he now thinks doesn’t sound so bad as long as it’s with you. 

As long as it’s with you. 

The creaking of the bathroom door snaps him back, the soft pads of your footsteps growing louder as it reaches the living room.

“Oh, you haven’t picked a movie yet?” you ask, ruffling your hair with your towel. 

He puts on a smile, facing you as he hands over the remote, “You pick tonight.” 

.

You barely pay attention to the movie, snuggled up against his chest, constantly looking up to kiss his neck. He’s the same, distracted, but not for the same reasons you are. 

It’s a lot to resist, the way your hands creep under his shirt, warm against his stomach, but the sinking feeling in his gut makes it impossible to focus anywhere else. 

“Not the time?” you tap his cheek, and he tilts his chin down, acknowledging you. The look on your face is anything but disappointed, and it tugs at him, makes him feel guilty that he’s making you worry. That he can’t give you what you’re looking for right now. 

“Maybe later,” he takes your hand, lips grazing your fingertips, “I’ll get ready for bed.” 

You nod, sitting up as he taps your hip. He knows you can tell something’s bothering him—it’s impossible to hide anything from you at this point, but this realization feels like a long time coming, like it’s been brewing, now spilling. 

He gets up, kissing the top of your head before walking to the bathroom. 

When he steps in, it still smells like you—the shampoo and bodywash you use. (Technically, it smells like him too—he’s started using yours because it feels like keeping you with him, everywhere he goes). 

As he finishes brushing his teeth, reaching for his towel hooked beside yours, he remembers how none of this existed when it was just you. You only ever had one hook for one towel, how he used to share it with you only to realize that it would never dry in time for the next use.

Then he found it, some time last year, when he walked in to take a shower and saw a hook installed right beside yours, presumably his. 

The lights are adjusted for him too; fluorescent white too bright, a pain for his Six Eyes. You noticed when you caught him washing his face in the dark, so you changed the bulbs to soft white, tinged a bit yellow, warm. 

And the thing is, he never asked you to do any of this. 

You just… did. 

Because that’s you. 

And it’s making him realize even more how he wants to keep it this way, how he wouldn’t mind if this was the rest of his life, everyday.

.

The mood shifts when you both get in bed, and if you notice it, you don’t tell him. Whatever was bothering him before has settled, his head clear, more focused to reciprocate your earlier advances. 

He’s gentle when he touches you, taking the time to love you. Your clothes come off one by one with no haste at all, slowly, almost painfully. 

But he kisses you all over, leaves marks on places only he can see—by your hip, at the center of your chest, and another one, visible, on your neck below your ear. This is more than what he usually does, but he feels determined tonight.

“Off,” you whisper, as you tug at his shirt, pulling it off before throwing it to the side of your bed. 

He holds his breath when your fingers land on his chest, dragging across his collarbones before you tap thrice. This is a spot you’ve loved so intently, he’s become sensitive to it every time you come close. You leave kisses along it, some wet, others dry pecks, but it makes him shudder all the same, every time. 

As he hovers above you, arm bent by your head, his fingers trace your lower lip, tugging only to let it bounce back; he kisses you, noses bumping, softly at first before it turns hungry—lips overlapping, biting. His tongue runs over your lips, smooth and warm. 

There are more touches, more gazes; lips brushing and breaths mixing. The heat between you is shared, intermingling, and when he’s in you—

—it’s too much, how he feels looking at you right now, like you’re everything, the only thing seared into his memory. 

There’s a life he wants to give you, and though he knows there are others who might be more able to—he can’t let go of you, refuses to. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being this close, doesn’t even want to think about someone else waking up next to you—the bed hair he always looks forward to, the lazy smile against squished cheeks, the hands that always reach for him, first thing. 

These traces of you have made him want the whole of you, and if this is him being selfish, then so be it. 

His arms wrap around your back, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around him, and you’re both moving, timing in sync, and he’s crying. 

He tucks his face into your neck, and he’s sure you feel everything—wet tears, shuddery breaths, but you don’t say anything. You hold him tighter, fingers scratching his undercut as he gets closer and closer. 

Gojo Satoru is a man of impossibilities. 

And this life he thinks you deserve—he wants to be the one to give that to you. 

.

.

.

+1 — WITH MY KNEES ON THE FLOOR, WHEN I ASK FOR MORE

He shouldn’t even be feeling this way, because what’s the worst thing you can say?

It’s just you. 

It’s just you—

And… maybe it’s because it’s you, that the .01% possibility of you even saying no—

—it makes him feel sick. 

He looks back at the clock: 16:30. The walk from the conference room to his office will take an extra 3? 5? minutes. 

The room feels tighter, smaller, floorboards practically worn down from how much he’s paced around it. 

He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he’ll grab your hand and look you straight in the eyes as he does it. Fear and excitement churn in his belly, how he’s imagining the look on your face.

If you were here, you’d tell him to breathe—to follow you with every inhale and exhale. 

If you were here, you’d smile at him, lips curled up softly, gently, the one he loves. 

If you were here—

—the door opens, and you step into the room. 

Now that you’re here, he doesn’t know what to say. 

You stand before him in your uniform, smiling, just as he imagined you’d be. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, the way he’s noticed they have since you were 17. 

He must be doing a terrible job hiding how he feels because your demeanor instantly shifts, face contorting into worry, brows furrowed and frown forming. You drop your bag as you walk to him, hands reaching to cup his face. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice hushed and delicate, “Did something happen?” 

Your fingers are warm on his cheeks (or is he too cold?), tilting his head lower so you can look him in the eyes. He can’t breathe, can’t hear you properly; you’re drowned out by the thumping of his heartbeat. 

“Need to tell you something,” he manages to mutter. 

Your eyes widen before you nod, lowering your hands as you speak slowly, “Okay, do you want to sit first? I have water—”

He shakes his head, hand reaching for your wrist, “I think… you should sit.” 

The pause alarms you, your body turning rigid. He has no idea what’s going through your mind, and you give nothing away as you mumble an ‘okay’ while walking to the couch. 

He stays beside you, not too far but still placing a bigger distance than he normally would—for the 0.01% probability that this isn’t what you want, that he isn’t too close, forcing you into an answer you might not want to say. 

The words float in his mind, but none of them string together to form the sentences he wants to tell you. Does he take it from the start? How this whole thing has always terrified him? How he never thought this was meant for him, but here he is, still learning but loving every second of it?

There are things he’s never had to consider before that he cares so much more about now—all because of you, how it’s for you, how he wants to do better by you. 

You call him the love of your life and he hasn’t told you, but you’re that and more for him, too. 

He practiced this, damn it. 

Why can’t he remember a single thing? 

The silence between you is tense, tainted by overthinking on both ends. You look like you’re waiting for bad news, and Gojo’s too stuck in his head, turning over the right words to say instead of reassuring you. 

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he starts, fiddling with his fingers. His feet won’t stop bouncing, knee fidgeting. He’s biting his lips, a tell-tale sign that there’s a lot he isn’t saying.

You place your hand on his knee to calm him down, and he stops bouncing it, looking at you as you muster up a small smile—far from being genuine, but it’s the fact that you’ve mustered it, as if to say: ‘it’s okay, you can tell me; i’ll always want to hear all of it.’ 

He swallows, “This arrangement isn’t working.” 

Your face drops, brows furrowing, “What arrangement?” 

His heart is pounding. 

“I stay over at yours too much.” 

Too much, that mine doesn’t feel like I belong there anymore, he fails to add. 

“I think we need more space.” 

Your hand slides off his knee as you tuck it between your thighs. There’s a frown on your face he can’t seem to figure out, and the fact that you’re giving nothing away, whatever you’re thinking—he’s turning even more nervous right now. 

“Okay,” you finally say, tone flat, “when do you want me to return all your things?”

He tilts his head at you, confused, “What—” 

“Actually, can I…” you shift around, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears before clearing your throat, “can I ask if it’s something I did?” 

And his heart drops, straight into his stomach. 

It’s not like that at all. 

He’s hit with déjà vu; this conversation feels so familiar, so similar to one he’s had with you before—on the sofa chair across this couch, laying himself bare the same way he is now. 

The couch dips as he scoots closer to you, reaching for your hands. 

“It’s not—”

You scoff sadly, “Please don’t give me the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ thing,” then your tone drops, blinking away your tears, “if you’re going to break up with me, Satoru, just tell me why. Honestly.” 

He blinks. 

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he once told himself he’ll never tell you. 

But now seems like it’s fitting—the right time to say it. 

“You remember when I was unsealed?” he moves to the floor, getting down on his knees in front of you. You nod as he rubs circles over your knuckles, “When I first saw you, it was pretty scary.” 

He brings one hand to your cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. You pout, the crease between your brows growing deeper. 

“You ran yourself dry because of me.” 

When he thinks about it now, he still feels guilty. 

He believes that people are accountable for their own actions, and he still believes that with you, definitely—but he knows your reasons, why you acted that way, desperate for hope everyday. And for that, he takes responsibility. 

“I didn’t want that for you, still don’t.” 

Your frown deepens, tears welling up even more. 

Do you still think he wants to do this without you? 

He can’t take this, seeing you cry; he promised himself he wouldn’t be the reason behind this anymore.

“I’m not breaking up with you.” he tells you firmly, surely. 

You blink. 

Then your shoulders drop as you breathe out—what he hopes is relief. When your eyes meet, a little less sad, he sees the stars in them, glinting like they do when you look at him.

This should be his answer already, how much you brighten at the thought of staying with him. But—

“I still think you deserve more,” he brings your hands to his lips, brushing them against it, and as you’re about to interject, he chuckles, “but I’m also too selfish to leave that up to someone else, you know?” 

“Soooo,” his hand reaches for his pocket, fishing around until he feels for what he’s looking for. He takes out his phone, swiping and scrolling until he finally stops, placing it on your lap for the both of you to see, “I’ve been thinking lately…” 

He looks up at you, the two skies you’ve always been drawn to, waiting. The unease in his stomach returns, churning. 

It’s a compilation of properties: houses, apartments, plots of land—all scattered around Tokyo, some central and some further on the outskirts. 

Your eyes widen, tilting your head to the side as you attempt to read what’s on his screen. You turn to him immediately, eyes still watery; the expression on your face is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and confusion, like you don’t exactly know what he means. 

“We don’t have to choose from these, it’s just a few brokers I talked to recently. We can look for others if you want, in quieter areas too—” 

Then you smile, beaming, tears falling from your eyes, “Satoru,” and you breathe out his name but it sounds like I love you.

There’s a quiet life he can’t give you, but he likes this one with you much better too. He takes your hands, placing one on his chest, over his heart, and the other on his cheek. Then, he leans into it, kissing the insides of your wrist before staring back at you sincerely. 

His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure, but if he can continue to make you this happy—

“Make a home with me?”

a/n: food descriptions—temaki is easy hand-rolled sushi, sunomono is japanese cucumber salad.

thank you notes: @stellamancer the actual birthday gift for u :') + @em1e for listening to me talk abt the entire plot and even reading the first few scenes!! + @mididoodles @kissxcore @itadorey @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for always being so supportive when am sharing my progress posts ilu + @crysugu @soumies @augustinewrites @ufo-ikawa no reason other than i just love u ᰔ i reply so slow when am writing smth...

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[tainbocuailnge]

I think there is a difference between the comic as a sequence of images with text and the comic as a comic. it's a subtle difference that an untrained eye might not see but the more one as artist draws comics the clearer this difference becomes, because one who first aspires to draw comics will soon find they are merely drawing sequences of images with text.

when people say an artist is clearly inspired by anime they often use "anime" to refer to japanese pop culture in general, but if you look more closely you can often tell it really is specifically anime rather than manga that inspired them, because the paneling and camera angles in their comics will read like a series of anime screenshots rather than a manga page. similarly, when I was a teenager really popular manga that had anime adaptions would sometimes get "animanga" reprints where they replaced the panels with the equivalent anime screenshots of the scene, and they often looked like dogshit because the very premise showed blatant disregard for why the original comic worked in the first place. these two examples are both about anime because i am a weeb but it applies outside that context too. a cartoon storyboard can be read as if it were a comic, but what it really is is a sequence of images with text that has yet to be refined into its actual intended format.

there are many artists who only employ the medium of comic because what they actually want to draw is a video, or a video game cutscene, but the only tool actually at their disposal is the ability to draw a series of images and add text to them so that is what they use. there is no shame or mistake in doing this, you have to make your art with the tools that you have available, and if the sequence of images with text is enough to convey the idea then it was the right tool for the job. but these are different mediums with different visual languages, languages which have a lot of overlap and can occasionally be used in each other's stead to achieve similar results (especially when drawing a fanart comic of a video game for example), but which are still ultimately different. the comic and the video and the cutscene are all different forms that a sequence of images with text can take but they are far from completely interchangeable.

there is a key difference in approach to the comic as a series of images roughly interchangeable with other forms of series of images like the video and the cutscene, and the comic as specifically the comic. this difference in approach is not always necessary to achieve results, an artist who wants to convey a scenario they came up with needs only the sequence of images with text to achieve this. but the difference between a comic with good writing and art, and a comic that is a good comic, is in whether it was treated as a comic rather than a sequence of images with text. I say this as an artist whose nearly every comic has been simply a sequence of images, because I just don't have the patience to refine it into a comic when I merely want to convey my idea rather than draw a comic. it takes a particular skill and insight that have to be developed and practised separately from the ability to draw well and the ability to write well in order to become good at making "the comic" as synthesis of the two.

it's hard to specifically point out the essence of this difference between the sequence of images and the comic because it's kind of a vibes thing honestly, and it depends on where and how the comic was meant to be published too. comics meant to have paper print editions have different constraints and requirements and frameworks to work with than webtoons meant to be read on slim mobile screens in a continuous scrolling format. a good traditional comic will consider not just how each individual panel looks but also the way each page as a whole looks, and how the pages look next to each other in a spread, and how it feels to turn the page towards the next spread. a good webtoon will consider the movement of scrolling down and how this affects the transition from one moment to another in its composition. time is time in videos and cutscenes but space is time in comics, and the space your have available determines how you can divide time across it. when you make a webcomic on your own website you have no constraints but the ones you set for yourself, and sometimes this leads to things like homestuck, which would not work in any other format than the one it created for itself.

the best comics are good because they tell their story and present their images specifically in the form of a comic, in a way that would not be possible if it were not specifically a comic. I think this is true for basically every medium, I'm just thinking about comics specifically lately, because even though I don't really consider myself a comic artist - because I usually draw sequences of images rather than comics - the thing my clients want to pay for is often still "a comic", and they don't know or care to tell the difference. it's a difference that, as established, is often fairly moot anyway, because as long as it successfully conveys your idea it's good enough. but it's precisely because the sequence of images is often good enough that the specific skill of the comic artist is often overlooked.

[leonw4nter]

been obsessed with ur fics relating to Taylor’s songs 🥺 can u do one with ‘sl/t’? Just a good ole fluffy fic.

My Cuddly Eldritch Boyfriend!

Eldritch Horror!RE2R!Leon x F!Reader

“Ah yes, my human female companion, I believe I am required to inform you of my whereabouts for today. Since we have run out of the minuscule jar of the chocolate-hazelnut spread you quite enjoy consuming with sliced bread, I had to leave our shared den and purchase some for you. It appears that I have underestimated the price of such delicacy for the bills I have pocketed fell short of a few more dollars,” your boyfriend Leon happily recounted as he showed you the large tub of sandwich spread that he bought earlier today. “Boyfriend”, rather, if he can be considered that.

Leon waltzed into your life quite interestingly, a little more differently than most boyfriends do in the lives of others who have them. You were trapped in an unhappy relationship, the kind where you had to beg to be shown affection and got scolded for buying yourself little goodies like a funny little pond jewelry dish. He was always on his gaming computer or out with his buddies for beer and snacks, yelling at you over the phone whenever you refused to lend him more money. You went home one evening, after a draining workday, to see your “boyfriend” quietly cleaning around the house and stopping to greet you good evening and ask you about your day. It’s quite the contrast to go from an “annoying clingy hoe” to “human female companion” but the latter is leagues better than the other words hurled at you. Leon isn’t even the name of your former boyfriend, wherever he is now; this replacement simply decided to name himself. You know you should be looking for your former partner, wherever he is, but you don’t want to. You’re more than happy with Leon and you wouldn’t want another undeserving girl to fall into the suffocating clutches of your ex.

“A lady has also offered me a small slice of processed meat– a sausage, it is called. Seasoned pork meat rolled into logs, a cut skewered into an infinitesimally slim stake referred to as ‘toothpick’. It is quite delectable, I must admit, but I haven’t any payment in my pockets so I had to politely decline her offer,” he continues recalling. You take out your phone and google a word: “infinitesimally”. This is another of the changes you noticed with your boyfriend: his lexicomane speech; you would never hear words the likes of ‘infinitesimally’ and ‘minuscule’ from him, intelligent phraseology is not in his vocabulary. A few days after the swap of boyfriends, you found yourself having to install a dictionary app on your phone in order to keep up with his sesquipedalian use of words and engage in conversation. You smile, finally spotting the definition of the word: extremely small.

“That’s great, Leon. We still have some sausage in the freezer, though, so I think it’s only right that you didn’t get some coz we might’ve ended up with far too much,” you respond as you set your phone down on the counter. “What brand was it though? I might pick that up for you next time around when I go for groceries.”

“Hm,” he hums in thought.

His human appearance appears to slightly glitch as he delves deeper into his recollections of the day earlier; he appears to have a chromatic aberration, multiple shadows of his head moving about and twitching around in smoky wisps, as several muffled voices of ancient chanting begin to grow a little bit more noticeable in volume. You grow worried yet you stay seated on your chair, carefully observing Leon before anything too out of control and mind-shattering occurs. Thankfully, he finally manages to remember before the voices get too overwhelming for your human mind.

“I believe it was called ‘MorningStar’,” he finally says. He falls silent, head tilting as his face grows expressionless. “Are you alright, girlfriend?”

He steps closer and sits in front of you, back straight and hands in his lap as he continues to observe you thoughtfully, the gears in his head turning to determine how to approach you.

“Oh, yes, Leon. Don’t worry, just zoned out a little. That’s all,” you respond with a forced smile that doesn’t convince him entirely.

“Have you finally observed that I have left the bathroom light bulb switched on during the entirety that I was out purchasing goods to consume?” he quietly asks, voice laced with guilt and shame as he looks at you with something akin to puppy-dog eyes; you didn’t know that eldritch horrors are capable of giving puppy-dog eyes. “I apologize with utmost remorse, my human female mate. In my haste to please you, I have overlooked a step in securing your household utilities.”

You wonder what is the connection between his previous concern for you and the most recent sentence he just uttered then it occurred to you that he wanted to delay admitting to  you that he forgot to switch off the lights; Leon must’ve also forgotten that humans don’t have the level of perception as whatever his kind has, or maybe he assumed that you and you alone possessed that ability. You never would have known if he didn’t bring it up to you. It is funny to see this eldritch being that was clearly trying to pass off as human, as if you had the power of the universe in your palm and could so easily kick him out into the streets, a look on his face now reminiscent of a kicked puppy. It appeared as if he shrank into his olive green sweater, hiding into the warm and dark depths that the piece of clothing offered. Now his ashamed aura was seeping into you, making you feel a slight tinge of what he’s feeling.

“Leon, it’s fine, okay? We’re still in one piece and nothing too bad happened. Besides, I have enough money to comfortably pay off utility expenses so there’s nothing much to worry about,” you reassure him with a gentle hand to his firm shoulder, feeling the spot unwind from the tension beneath your warm palm. “That happens to me too and I get frustrated sometimes but now I just laugh at it.”

He lights up again and that aura of despair fizzles away lickety-split. He beams again, a little too widely for what could be considered normal. He continues rambling on about sausages before asking you about your workday and leaning in to listen intently; you talk and talk, he sits and devotes all his attention to you and answers too, from time to time. He’s a lot more engaging and present when it comes to talking about yourself than your former boyfriend; all he’d talk about is himself and how you’re lucky he loves you, the occasional comparison to other girls. When you’re finally finished talking about your day, it’s Leon's turn to talk about his.

You don’t want to tell him that he’s not perfect on trying to pass off as another ordinary human being– he still tends to unhinge his jaw when he gets excited, his form glitches when he’s deep in thought, he refers to you as ‘human female mate’ or ‘human female companion’ or simply ‘girlfriend’ though in a manner free of offensive intentions, he likes to change the shades of his blue irises, and his verbose vocabulary. Other than the multiloquent manner that he converses in, no one seems to pick up on the irregularity of his physical form, not even when there’s faint shadows of his head fluctuating when he thinks; surely he’s travelling to universes beyond human comprehension just to figure out an answer to “what’d you think of the new Deadpool and Wolverine movie?”. You guess that he’s conjuring some form of illusion that mask slip-ups in his form but why this doesn’t apply to you, you’re not exactly sure but you don’t plan on telling him his lapses; you’re perfectly content with him cooling up your drink with his hand alone in a matter of seconds when you’re out together. He’s far from perfecting the image of a totally human boyfriend but you’re slightly positive that he’s the most perfect lover.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“I would like to relish in the amusement of motion pictures with sound alongside you on our couch,” Leon expresses in mild emotion though he seems quite eager to watch movies, just phrased in a more archaic fashion.

“Me too” you respond with a small giggle at his unintentionally goofy personality. “Got a movie in mind?”

“Movie? Ah, yes. The moving images,” he recalls. “I have overheard this title from a young couple I happened to share a bus with, Kate and Leopold, they said. Appertaining to this hearsay statement, it must be a picture that thoroughly imprints itself on the heart and mind.”

“Kate and Leopold?” you say out loud and he nods. “Sure, why not. C’mon let’s head to the living room.”

“Of course,” he responds with an enthusiastic smile as he gets up from his dining room chair and quietly pushes it back before trailing behind you like the lovecraftian horror puppy that he is.

You put on the movie, both settling into a comfortable silence, attention centered on the film on your TV. In the middle of the film, you realize how you are quite near to him yet he does not make advances to touch you as he appears content with your shoulders touching. You sit up, inching closer to his side yet you don’t make this all simultaneous as you don’t want to shock him into discomfort. Much to your pleasant amazement, he not-so-subtly extends his arm behind your neck and rests it there. You look at his head and his face is still trained on Leopold chasing the snatcher, though the tips of his ears are dusted with a faint bloom of pink; who knew that cosmic beings could blush. Now slightly more confident, he slowly tries to urge you closer to the warmth of his side though he’s now hesitant with his actions. You snuggle closer to his side and now his hand is comfortably resting on the side of your arm where his silvery touch sends a flurry of tingles. Leopold and Kate are now sharing a kiss on a rooftop after a waltz to which your heart nearly goes into overdrive; Leon is not faring any better, visibly red-faced and overcome with butterflies that press up against his lungs (if he has any), making breathing feel a little funny. You wonder if he’s mentally replacing the characters with you and him and the image makes him feel madly excited.

“Leon, are you cold?” you ask towards the movie’s nearing end.

“No, but are you?” he counters, turning to face you now.

“Kinda.”

“Would you like me to fetch some for you?”

“No, no, it’s fine. I can get it myself–”

Something heavy and weighted and fuzzy envelopes you from the chest down, placed down by the man beside you.

“What’s this?” you ask in a slightly raised voice.

“A blanket,” he responds in a nonchalant manner.

“Why is it so heavy? I know weighted blankets exist but this one’s a little heavier than what I’m used to…”

“It’s bear fur.”

You fall silent, staring down at the brown fur mass laid above your body before staring back up at him, silently asking if this is his form of a prank. Unfortunately, he is serious about this.

“Um… Leon, I appreciate the blanket but I generally prefer faux fur to actual animal-sourced fur. It’s, you know, more wildlife friendly… yeah, um…”

You need not to say more when the blanket is still brown but is now clearly made of faux fur, having changed it right away without arguments or insults hurled at you. He seems satisfied with his service, adjusting the blanket to cover you up properly without obstructing your view of the movie. You offer to share the blanket but he objects, tomato-faced as he stutters his apology.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The movie is finished and he smiles, remarking on how the couple was correct about their opinions and recounting some of the lines that stuck to him. He seemed to especially adore the portion where Kate is enchanted by the sight of Leopold on horseback, most excitedly analyzing the scene and going into detail about the look of love and the twinkle of Kate’s eyes before sighing dreamily.

“I wish to one day flawlessly emulate the depth of emotion she captured with only both her eyes, though I am well-aware that this is all expert acting. It would be my pleasure to one day look at you with such adoration as you tell me tales for there is nothing more that I desire than to enlighten you about the boundless worship that I present to you,” he wistfully conveys as he watches you walk around the bedroom before settling down to lay beside him.

You softly giggle, biting your lip as his voice bounces off in the walls of your mind and plays over and over again.

“Thank you. You’re doing a great job at that already honey,” you sincerely respond to him as you slip under the sheets and get snug.

“Your welcome,” he softly murmurs as a dopey smile points the corners of his lips skyward.

You ask if you can switch the bedside lamp off and he nods, the darkness of the room taking over as your eyes adjust to the lack of light. You lay still and silent before quietly wishing him a good night and restful sleep, to which he returns before he shifts and faces his back to you. Sometime in the middle of the night Leon awakens to the warmth and weight of your head and arms on his chest, the sight of you causing a human warmth to bloom where a human heart would be. You are peaceful and delicate, basking in the warmth that his form offered; the fact that you sought him out in your sleep made him feel loved, a feeling he didn’t know he’d grow to constantly crave. He pulls you closer and delicately wraps his arms around you in a protective embrace, a soft purr humming from his chest– an actual purr, like a cat’s. He strokes your hair with a silvery touch, daintily patting strands as he thinks about the fragility of his human and how he’d need to be very careful with them. His silky hands cause you to drift between the world of sleep and waking consciousness, growing more aware of his purr. You’re not new to his purring; he purrs when you two hold hands while running errands together, he purrs when you refer to him as your boyfriend to other people, he purrs when he finds out that you bought him a snack he likes. He has yet to discover that humans do not and cannot purr, that’s why you aren’t returning his physical display of contentedness but he’s satisfied that you’re letting him hold you like this. You don’t mind his purring at all and you’re firm on the decision that you love him and that he loves you back.

NOTE - First off, thank you to the anon who requested this!! I hope this one reached your expectations, even if I did put a little twist to it :)) guys... I think we're back!!! coz I decided to start on this last night at around 11:30 PM and I rlly had my creative juices flowing, like it just occured to me so clearly so now ig I'm going to start quite late into the evening if I'm going to start something new :D this fic is inspired by the eldritch horror boyfriend prompts that I came across on TikTok and also bc I felt like writing Leon rlly poetic and soft tonightt teehee :3 That's it and and I hope you really enjoyed this fic :)) Thank you for reading my works!!!!!!!!!! I <3333 UUUUUU!!!!!!!!!

The dainty chain dividers are made by @cafekitsune , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[adorkastock]

Hello! I was looking for some standing poses yesterday, using all three sites, and I ended up just having to kind of blindly scroll through the “General poses” DA folder and clicking on the “more like this!” deviations in the side bar. I ended up snagging a pose or two from you and a cluster from JoonPubStock, I think her name is.

I was specifically looking for poses I could use for costume design/ideation, where I could draw a fairly neutral front-ish pose that still had a little personality in like, how the hips were canted, arms folded, head tilt, etc, that I could draw and then come up with clothes ideas on like, layered tracing paper or something. Character design lineup/paper doll kinda thing. I think I ended up using one of your OG Sailor Moon poses as a jumping off point, since they are more static, though they had a little too much anime sass for me to use for my character. :(

Next time you’re doing file maintenance stuff, could I request adding “standing” to the list of pose types/subfolders/tags? And, if it’s not too much trouble for the next round of website iterations, being able to filter using multiple tags at once? Like, being able to specify that I want to look at single, female, slim, standing images instead of having to look through each category individually.

Thank you so much for all the work you and your team do, as well as the network of pose artists you collaborate with! And thank you for offering so much of it for free, and for the other tools you’ve developed and shared. As an unemployed, disabled, non-university-student artist, these resources are really, really valuable. I appreciate you!!

I hear you but there's a few challenges with this because *most* poses are standing. It's the same reason I don't tag myself as a model because it's mostly me. But maybe I can still help by directing you to something like my Character Reference Sheet Pack or maybe even some of the standing poses in the free Anniversary Pack. There's also the old 3D model packs which might be *too stiff* for this but could be a jumping off point. The farther back you scroll on in the DA archive the more static the poses will get because I didn't have a camera good enough to catch much movement or action. Here's a few from Shoots 1-25 that might be helpful for the type of thing you're looking to do. I am SO helpful the stock is useful! 🥰 Hope this helps and Happy Drawing!

[odiesdayoff]

Fly Boy

Pair: Neil Lewis x Fem!Reader

Summary: Frustrated with Neil's rule about the employees being required to cosplay, you decide to mess with him.

Warnings: SMUT; 18+; Neil is a bit pathetic and mean at points; he can't find the clit but has a big dick lol

“Surely, you’ve seen something by Milos Foreman.” Neil held a stack of VHS that needed to be reset. It was mostly older stuff, you saw the worn copy of Persona in the middle. He and Jonathan had a heated argument (or discussion, as they referred to it) about why the customer would stop watching in the middle, but you understood. Only the men deeply involved in film could possibly enjoy something so bad. Too trained to think black and white meant that it was a good movie automatically. 

You shrugged, continuing to put the tapes on the shelf. “Never heard of him.” Paisa slid in right next to the edge of the shelf and The Red and The White. Only this place would have a section dedicated to foreign language war films. Like it would kill him to buy a copy of Shrek 2.

He nearly dropped the tapes on the counter and looked at you as if you just admitted to a horrible crime. “How have you never heard of him? One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? The Fireman’s Ball? ” Just because you heard of the movie didn’t mean you knew every production assistant’s name. You watched movies for fun. They just weren’t your taste.

“More like The Fireman’s Balls.” You stifled a laugh at your own joke, though Neil was far from impressed or amused at all.

He put a tape into the rewinder and shook his head. “We’re gonna fix that. This Saturday.”

“Can’t do this Saturday.” He continued his quite bewildered stare at you. Of course, he forgot. “It’s your little Star Wars marathon night.”

He nodded with realization. “Right.”

His slight frown made you feel guilty, as it always did. Somehow, the grown man always managed to use puppy eyes on you successfully. “We’ll watch them. Soon.” He continued to rewind the tapes with a smile.

Star Wars wasn’t exactly your cup of tea. Boring was the descriptive term that rested on the tip of your tongue whenever the topic was brought up in the store. Not that you would ever admit that out loud. All three of them gave you a college-level lecture when you suggested that the Chanel boots-wearing Luke might have been into men. God forbid you had fun.

The costumes for women were slim, at least they were on Amazon. Your options were Padme, Leia, Rey, or some random obscure character from a show or cartoon you’d never heard of. A part of you wanted to make felt ears and be Jar Jar Binks just to piss them off.

There was still a way to mess with them, Neil especially. Hopefully, the extra you paid for overnight shipping was worth it and actually pulled through. 

By Saturday, you walked into Gumshoe with a large coat covering your costume. You braided your hair to the best of your abilities, trying to get as accurate as possible. The fabric of the costume was uncomfortable, digging into your skin and surely leaving marks you’d feel for days after.

Nerds crowded the small store, much more than usual. It was events like this one that made you reconsider your employment and how much you were a fan of movies in general. A Darth Vader brushed by you with a red solo cup of beer. Not many women were there, other than a few of the regulars dressed as Padme and Ahsoka. 

Neil, in Han Solo’s iconic white shirt with the navy blue vest (the version from Return of the Jedi ), waved you over to join the couch with him, Jonathan, and Lucian. A New Hope was in the VHS player and ready to start, the original cut before George Lucas made revisions of course. He was so proud of winning the Etsy bid for the original set of VHS tapes. 

You dropped the coat as you walked over and draped it on the front counter, locking eyes with the group as the costume was finally revealed: The bikini Leia wears at the beginning of Return of the Jedi. A part of you was anxious about the amount of skin you were showing and the people who were staring daggers into you. All you cared about was Neil’s reaction.

None of them said a word as you sat down on the couch next to them. “So, when’s this movie going to start?” Three pairs of eyes just looked back at you, more specifically, how your breasts bounced when you sat down and the thin straps that held the cloth that covered your panties. All you wore to work were t-shirts and jeans, along with the occasional tank top that left much to the imagination. You leaned over to the table and took the can of beer that Neil had been drinking, bringing it to your lips.

Neil cleared his throat. “Um, right now, actually.” He called everyone to the couches and rug, made a quick introduction to the night and thanked everyone for coming, then started the movie. You couldn’t help but notice the way his hands were clasped in front of his crotch and the bulge he was trying to hide.

Another person, dressed as Obi-Wan Kenobi in the third film, sat next to you. Only fifteen minutes in, he did the classic “fake yawn” in order to wrap his arm around your shoulders. He wasn’t slick, but as much as you noticed the attempt at flirting, Neil did as well. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning his attention back to the movie and trying not to make his glances towards you too obvious.

The can of beer didn’t last you too long, only until they were in the trash compactor. There was no way that you would get through the rest of these movies sober and a half-can of beer wasn’t going to get you there.

You got up and walked to the storage closet, where you knew that a full case of beer was hidden. Finally alone, you pulled out a can and opened it, allowing the lukewarm liquid to coat your throat. The beer was still a bit disgusting, but it got the job done. “What the fuck are you wearing, Princess?”

Neil stood in the doorway, closing the door behind him. You shrugged, even though you knew that he knew you were getting to him on purpose. “I’m participating. You never let me live down the Lord of the Rings night when I wore my regular clothes.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to whore yourself out and wear practically nothing.”

“It’s accurate, not whoring out. Are you mad that I’m wearing it or that people are looking at me in it? What is it, Fly-boy?” You crossed your arms, unknowingly pushing your breasts together and creating more cleavage than there already was.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Christ, Y/n.” His hands cupped your cheeks and he pulled you in, crashing his lips against yours. It was a side of him you’d never seen before, his eyes were dark and only focused on you. Your back hit the wall and Neil’s hands traveled lower, pulling the string that held the bra together and ripping fabric until it fell to the floor.

“Now, beg me to fuck you like the whore that you’ve been parading yourself as all night. I know that’s what you want.” His hot breath burned your neck as he trailed his lips from your mouth to your collarbone. His words cut deeply, like nothing you’d expect to come from his mouth. Who knew sweet Neil could turn into this?

You nodded. “Please, Neil. I need you to fuck me. I’ve wanted you for so long.” He moaned against your skin as you spoke and hastily unbuckled his belt, freeing his aching cock. You untied the bottom of your costume and dropped your panties with it.

His chest pressed against yours and you winced as the cold wall came in contact with your bare skin. He wasted no time in lining his tip with your entrance and pushing in, softly moaning into your neck. “You’re so warm. You’re not a whore, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Fuck.”

So, he really was all talk. Once he felt the touch of a woman, he became a needy mess. “It’s okay, Neil. Just, ah!” It was now that you finally understood the saying about nerdy boys and the size of their cocks, feeling him hit spots you didn’t know existed. You only hoped that the ongoing battle within whatever galaxy or solar system was louder than both of your unholy gasps and moans.

You would never hear the end of it if Jonathan or Lucian heard. They gave you enough shit for Neil’s unbelievably obvious crush on you that you chose to avoid on behalf of keeping peace in the store. Clearly, you had failed miserably in that aspect. Look at Neil’s cute face.

Not to mention his cock. The same cock currently driving into you and knocking the wind from your lungs. Neil fucked into you like he was on a time limit, chasing his climax and nearly sinking his teeth into your bare shoulder. “Your tits are mesmerizing.” You held back a laugh at his comment, reaching down to your clit before he slapped your hand away. “No, let me do it.”

A part of you wanted to deny it, but you let him. He blindly reached down and rubbed your labia, thinking he was on the money. You squeezed your eyes shut and gently guided his fingers to your clit, jolting when he found the right spot. “Oh, Neil…so good.”

His pace slowed and became less controlled. “I’m so close, sweetheart.”

“You’ll pull out, right?” He bit his lip and nodded. By the way he held tightly onto your hips and breathed in your scent, you knew that he barely heard your request.

The suspicion turned into fact when he stilled, pushing himself further into you as he came. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll pay for the pill. You’re just…so warm.”

You nodded along with him, not caring as you crossed the finish line as well. As you both came down from the high, the realization kicked in. He tucked himself in his boxers and buttoned his pants. You picked up your shirt, well, bra. The straps were broken. “Shit, Neil. I can’t wear this.”

He furrowed his brows, then rummaged through one of the boxes in the corner of the room. A large, baby blue t-shirt with the Gumshoe logo on it was in his hands. “Put this on. Say you got too cold.”

You caught the shirt and put it on, watching the fabric fall to your knees. “Great.”

“You still look sexy.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked you up and down.

You rolled your eyes. “What does Leia say to Han Solo? Nerf-Herder? You’re that."

[yokohamapound]

Oh hi Mark! Can I request some hcs on Dazai, Fyodor, Ranpo, Akutagawa, Tachihara and Odasaku with female reader who is a model and one day when he comes to pick her up from a shoot, she comes up to him and says they're short a model to finish a shoot with and the clothes just so happen to be his size and please won't he model with her? Just for this shoot? :D

Always love a good The Room reference! And what a perfect request for such a cavalcade of beautiful men~

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Edogawa Ranpo, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Tachihara Michizou, Oda Sakunosuke

Contents: no real warnings, just Dazai throwing his ass back

Dazai Osamu

Dazai has a tendency to come to your photoshoots whenever he has free time (or even when he doesn’t but he just wants to skive off of work). Not only are you there, usually dolled up and hanging around between outfit changes and lighting set-ups, but there’s also usually a buffet table full of food he can mooch off of. He still hasn’t shut up about the crab rolls from the first shoot he attended. 

Photographers, wardrobe assistants, and make-up artists are all familiar with him by now, and just put up with his nonsense in order to work with you. And he is capable of wrapping people around his little finger when it suits him to do so. He can turn the charm on and off like a light switch. 

He does have an annoying habit of standing behind the camera and pulling exaggerated faces at you while you’re trying to maintain a pose. Don’t worry, you’re too much of a professional to break. One day, probably when he’s loitering around the buffet table or pissing off the lighting techs by doing shadow puppets against the backdrop, the photographer makes a suggestion to you—since the male model hasn’t been able to attend, why don’t you put your boyfriend to some use? 

Dazai’s tall, slim, and very good looking, so they might as well get some use out of him if he’s going to be there, right? Lucky for you, it really doesn’t take much convincing. When you ask him, Dazai seizes both of your hands, his eyes sparkling.

“About time! I knew I’d be discovered one day!” 

Dazai divas it up through hair and make-up, telling the make-up artists not to make him look too pouty. By the time you actually get his ass into the clothes and in front of the camera, everyone's a little exasperated. You don’t have the heart to scold him, though—you know he’s only really doing it for your sake…and he really does rock the clothes. 

Photographer: “Dazai-san, you don’t need to arch your back quite so much.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

I don’t imagine Fyodor can come to your shoots very often, but when he does, he always creates a stir. A tall, pale man with black hair, violet eyes, and that bone structure! He’s like a dream for the designers, and the make-up artists are itching to get at him just to enhance those features. There’s an aura surrounding him that makes them all keep a respectful distance, though. 

No one can quite figure out who he is. They speculate that he might be a European model. A musician, with those hands? Perhaps some kind of foreign celebrity none of them will dare admit to not knowing. You never elaborate and neither does he—the speculation amuses him. 

The way he watches you gives you delicious little goosebumps whenever you’re posing for the camera, and the photographer has to call for an assistant to come and blot you with warm towels to make them disappear. 

You’re never quite sure how Fyodor feels about your job, but he’s never objected. Part of you suspects he turns up now and then to make sure that everyone remembers who you belong to, and that it would be unwise indeed to upset you or take any liberties. Just to remind them that he exists and he’s watching. 

On one particular shoot, the wardrobe assistant and the director both approach you, looking a little sheepish. The male model has come down with the flu, they explain. Do you think your boyfriend would mind stepping in just this once? Otherwise they’ll have to wrap the shoot and reschedule, costing thousands…

You tell them you can’t make any guarantees, but you’ll ask him. Fyodor watches you with an amused expression as you approach him. One of his eyebrows creeps up when you haltingly explain what the photographer wants. You’re going to have to wheedle a little to get him to agree, because Fyodor doesn’t make a habit of stepping into the public eye. Then again, how funny if one of his enemies was to see him modelling on a billboard. It’s this, and his desire to indulge you, that finally makes him agree. 

“I suppose I can step in this once,” he says, putting a finger under your chin and lifting it so you’re looking him in the eyes. “But you’ll have to make it up to me, darling.”

The make-up artist is almost vibrating with nerves as she applies a few minor touch-ups to Fyodor’s face, not that he needs much, and the photographer phrases his requests very politely. No yelling, no orders, no “Yes, baby, give me more!” Although the thought of anyone saying that to Fyodor is enough to have you in hysterics. 

Fyodor’s naturally elegant, so he can pull off the poses, get the tilt of his head just right. He always makes sure that he’s touching you in some way—hand resting on your waist, your shoulder, fingers curled loosely through your hair. It’s like he’s claiming ownership of you in every photo. 

Style-wise, I think your best bet is either for a winter photoshoot, so he can keep his ushanka, or men’s formal wear. Fyodor in a suit? Yes, please. 

Edogawa Ranpo

At first Ranpo would come along to your photoshoots due to the prevalence of snacks on the buffet table, but as time went on he tended to get bored between all the time spent touching up your make-up, fussing with your clothes, or waiting for the lighting to be arranged. He loves you, but he gets bored easily and you’re too busy to pay him much attention. 

He’ll go off and find something else that interests him or wait for you at home, usually. He does still pop up now and then if your shooting location is near to where he’s investigating a murder or if he’s got lost and just used Find My Phone on your phone and followed it to your location. (Ranpo doesn’t do this to keep track of you—it’s literally so he has a way to find you if he gets lost. It’s not like you’re really able to hide anything from him anyway…)

It’s on one of these occasions that the male model has somehow been unable to show up for the shoot, so you’re forced to rope Ranpo in. 

He folds his arms, complete with a pout. “I don’t want to.”

“Please? I’ll bake you some macarons when we get home~”

You can see his resolve starting to weaken. Macarons are one thing, but homemade macarons, still warm from the oven? He starts to loosen his arms, opening his mouth, but you hit him with your ultimate move.

“I know you’ll be so much better at it than the guy they hired, anyway~”

Ranpo visibly wavers, then he sighs. “I guess. If you’re really that much in need of my expertise, I can help you out. I’m so charitable.” He points a finger at you. “Don’t think you don’t owe me those macarons, though.”

Suitably bribed and flattered, Ranpo loses his begrudging attitude and throws himself into it, letting the make-up artists primp and pamper him. Just picture him sitting there with his head tilted back, eyes closed, a satisfied little smile on his face. He’s so fucking cute.

Ranpo’s photographs well, posing happily with you through various couple-themed set-ups. Pretending to kick puddles in the rain while sharing an umbrella. Feeding each other bites of ice-cream from a sundae (although the photographer has to tell Ranpo to stop actually eating it). Sitting on a fake beach. 

Of course, the real kicker is when he opens his eyes and reveals that gorgeous shade of green. Your modelling agency is fighting to sign him up then and there, but he breezily turns them down, telling them he doesn’t have time to do this and be the World’s Greatest Detective. 

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Akutagawa doesn’t want to be there. Everything from his tense posture to his folded arms to his scowl make that abundantly clear. The only reason he is there is either because you asked him to be, or because he insisted on coming along to make sure that no one tried anything with you. He’s protective, but huffy about it. 

Naturally, this makes everyone on set a little nervous, even if they don’t recognise him as one of the most dangerous members of the Port Mafia. 

Despite how unnerving his presence is, more than a few of the make-up artists have fantasised about getting him in the chair and accentuating that face of his. His stark haircut, pale face, and sharp cheekbones make him look like he just stepped off the runway for an avante-garde designer. Like someone’s goth fantasy brought to life. 

When I tell you the amount of begging you’re going to have to do to get this man to take photographs with you…

“You must be joking if you think I’m going to make a fool of myself like that.”

He absolutely won’t do it if he thinks there is any chance of someone mocking him or laughing at him. It’ll take a lot of encouragement, and he’ll be militant about not taking his coat off, until you remind him that he’ll still be wearing clothes and able to use his Special Ability if there’s any kind of attack. 

You’ll have to do his make-up. No way in hell is he letting anyone else touch his face or his hair. 

Your best bet is if this is some kind of high-concept, gothic photoshoot. Lots of dead flowers and Victorian architecture. If it suits his aesthetic and his shirt has ruffles, you’ve got a much better chance of convincing him to go through with it. He’ll bitch about the antiques being fake, and he stands as woodenly as a mannequin, a scowl on his face, but that might actually work for this kind of shoot. He makes a great model for the clothes, austere and aloof. 

Basically, he’ll only do it if both of you look like you’re about to die of consumption and he gets to see you in something ruffled. 

Tachihara Michizou

I feel like Tachihara only came to your shoot in the first place because he’s a nosy little shit and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. And because he enjoys watching people fawn over his gorgeous partner. It strokes his ego, so what?

He likes to hang around and casually menace the make-up artists, or flick through the clothes and give his opinions on them loudly. 

“Ooh, bring this one home, babe~”

Despite this, he’s pretty popular. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he does have a slight charm to him, and his comments have made you laugh mid-photo more than a few times, much to the photographer’s chagrin. 

You didn’t realise how into it he was, however, until the day you ask him to step up and take the place of a model who couldn’t make it. They don’t often bring amateurs in, but Michizou’s cocky grin and delinquent good looks will work for this shoot. 

He gets pissy when the make-up artists make him remove the bandaid from his nose, but he settles down and goes strangely quiet while they’re dabbing stuff on his face. If you poke at him, he’ll grumble that he’s just making sure they don’t stick him in the eye with something, but you know it’s actually because it feels nice. 

“Hey, what’s the name of that crap you put in my hair? Looks good.” 

The clothes are fine as long as he’s not put in anything ridiculous. He can pull off a lot of different styles, but casual streetwear suits him best. He brings out all his punk boy poses: 

Kicking a foot back against the wall. 

Crouching down with his arms resting on his knees, hands loose.

Arms folded, slouching, giving a “what you looking at, hah!?” stare over his shoulder.

At the end, he wants to know if he can keep all the clothes. 

Oda Sakunosuke

Odasaku’s an easy going man. He was reluctant the first time you invited him along to a photoshoot, thinking he’d stand out like a sore thumb, but really no one has time to worry about him being there. He was able to blend into the background like a tall, handsome, stubbly shadow. 

He enjoys people watching, and a photoshoot is like watching an army of ants circle around its queen—you, in this case. People are fussing with your hair, your make-up, adjusting the fit of the clothes, the tiniest tilt of your head. He doesn’t know how you put up with so many people plucking at you, but he’s impressed by how professionally you handle it and accede to the photographer’s wishes. 

Sometimes they mistake him for a roadie (or the photoshoot equivalent) and he finds himself being roped into moving boxes of clothes or holding up one of those lighting umbrellas. You try to intervene where you can, but he always brushes it off and tells you he’s just content to get involved. 

He never expected to be so involved that he’d be in front of the camera, though. When the photographer beckons him over one day and asks him to take the place of the male model, he’s a little stumped. Not even his Special Ability could have foreseen this. 

“You wanna take photos of me?”

Oda’s pretty humble. It takes some convincing to get him to agree, and he twitches a bit as his hair is styled and wardrobe comes over to adjust the clothes he’s wearing. It’s easy to forget he’s still Port Mafia, and understandably paranoid about strangers touching him. 

Oda’s not really a natural behind the camera. Takes a while for him to shake off the stiffness and stop squinting at the bright lights, but the fact he’s doing this with his partner makes it a little easier. 

The photographer figures out he can get the most natural smile out of him by making sure he’s looking at you in every shot, rather than the camera. 

For some reason, I think he’d look really good in an Autumn/Fall photoshoot? Sweaters, boots, heavy coats, scarves, fake snow and falling leaves. That sort of thing. This man looks like he was built to wear plaid.

[the-anime-enthusiast]

izuku midoryia’s type in women PLEASEEEE🙏🙏

OFCC!! Sorry for taking so long, in my last post I explained why I've been on an unofficial hiatus but yeah 😭 I got u!!

IZUKU MIDORIYA - type in women

PHYSICAL 🤸‍♀️

bro DOES NYYYAT care, literally at all. I think everyone has their preferences, him too ofc, but he's him guys. The ratio from hips to waist is NOT what bros laying attention to, but ofc I'll still give you my opinion.

SUN KISSED BADDIES you got that like sunburn across your cheeks? he's going crazy. like legitimately. I don't think he would be able to handle his feelings. he'd probably pass out from a blood pressure spike.

He likes them brown haired girls 😔 and brown eyed girls 😭 (song reference) He honestly doesn't care Abt details like that, he'd date anyone, but he def compares his love life to shoujo series and he stays seeing those dark haired baddies.

ass tits thighs personality ✅ he's fs a personality man but let's bffr, every guy has there thing....height, hips, and arms. He likes his girls shorter than him 🙂 (around 5'2? not too short tho cuz then he gets weirded out) He LOVES dem hips. Yk whenever a girl has that natural dip in her hips, it kinda looks like those donut stack toys babies play with? (random comparison I js can't think of anything) HE LOVES THAT SH!!T. He's def secretly crazy for thick hips, like when u got some fat around them. Loves it 100%

okay...so the whole arms thing...he likes girls who have thicker arms...and not rly a muscle kinda thick, more like an auntie thick when you got that little folded skin hanging over the elbow. Bros specific, and bros a lil weird Abt it. He would NEVER admit it out loud, but it's like a creepy fetish for him. He would js never actually be creepy Abt it tho cuz yk, HE HAS COMMON DECENCY. (Unlike some guys 🙄)

When I say he's not picky, I MEAN he is not picky. It's giving very much Yuji Itadori and that one girl that he was like "yeah it would be her" (very mindful, very sweet, very wholesome, very demure) Slim, Thick, Skinny, Midsize, Plus size, All size, Morphing Size (idfk im running out of sizes and you never know with those quirks man)

MENTAL 🧠

if ur a mean ass bitch you can get TFFF OUUUTTT bro does NOT stand for that sh!t 🙅‍♀️ tbh i dont think he'd be picky when it comes to personality but he doesn't stand for someone who has room for hate in their heart, even after everything hes been through. I'm not gonna sit here and be like "oh he's a sweet cinnamon roll 🥺" like bffr, but he won't even look in your direction if you're a "hater"

He generally wants someone sweet, or just nice in general. like ochaco (no I'm not shipping them, she's just really nice and the best charcter to describe his preferred personality to)(did you see her with toga? shes a sapphic queen guys bffr) He wants someone who cares TREMENDOUSLY, like he does. Kindness is what gets his attention, being a good soul and good spirit, someone he can match wave lengths with mentally.

A strong mind and determination. (bkdk reference) (I'm joking) He knows exactly where he wants to be in life, even if his idea of that is a little messy, so he likes whenever someone has the same drive he does, natural will to be good. He wants someone mentally tough and ready to face the world for what they believe, as long as they know in their heart it's what they want/believe. (all might reference)

RANDOM 🎉

He rly likes girls who can draw 😭 He thinks it's the coolest thing ever and it makes it so easy for his partner to get him gifts bc he'd melt if he got a personalized drawing of him and his fav heros 😭

LOVE LANGUAGE - physical touch

he's not huge on pda (he gets rly embarrassed, not in a embarrassed of you way, more of a, im shy and feel like my face is going to explode, kinda way) but he loves sweet little acts of physical touch. Whenever he's stressed or really anxious holding hands melts all his worries away.

LOVE LANGUAGE -quality time

bro fr js wants to be next you. he loves little cheesy dates (amusement park and sharing crepes)(manga reference) but yeah, just cheesy things like that.

Really likes nerdy girls (very big on matching energy if you can't already tell) like js geek out with bro and he'd die for u istg.

Play a damn board game with this kid, Jeezus Chrysler. Whip out monopoly and you'll have his attention till he rots in fictional jail. He actually REALLY sucks at board games but refuses to ever stop playing them. Jenga? He can't even set the blocks up without knocking them over. Uno? He forgot what the word uno was. I mean literally say there stuttering trying to remember what word he's supposed to say.

BUY THIS KID SHOES. He doesn't know why...but it's one of his favorite gifts to receive. He loves trying them on and showing them off to you. He also gets rly geeked out over custom fan shoes. (think like those Hercules sandals from the Hercules movie) He knows it's cringe. He doesn't care. He has display racks for all of them on his wall.

OMG I FINISHED WRITING IT HOLY SH!T I DIDNT THINK I WOULD I js pulled all of these he out MY BEHIND BRO it's midnight I'm dead ASF, I have that convention in 2 days, shizzz wild rn. Pls lemme know what u think!! I've never been a HUUGHERE Deku fan, I kinda js appreciate his character, but I think this is pretty cutesy, how tf do u spell that. Anyways, yeah. This was fun. BYEYYEYEYEHEHEHEHEHEYYTEYRYTRYYR

[holmsister]

Is Kabru a Twink? A possible answer from queer history

Abstract: ever since his introduction, discussion amongst Kabru scholars has been vivacious, sometimes to the point of some vitriol, on one particular specific point: does Kabru of Utaya fulfill the basic traits of a twink? There are points to be made on both sides of the issues. The solution proposed in this paper aims to be the compromise that might allow the scientific community to move on from this terminological impasse.

First of all, since this is a terminological discussion, let's start with a few definitions. What is a twink?

From Wikipedia, page "Twink (lgbt+ slang)" [retrieved 2024-06-12]:

Twink is gay slang for a man who is usually (but not always) in his late teens to twenties whose traits may include a slim to average physique, a youthful appearance, little or no body hair, and flamboyancy.[5][6][7] Twink is used both as a neutral descriptor, which can be compared with bear,[8] and as a pejorative.[5][9]

From Fandom LGBTQIA wiki, page "Twink" [retrieved 2024-06-12]:

Twink is a subcultural term referring to gay or bi men who defy traditional masculine roles, embracing traits that are generally seen as feminine.[1]

Twinks are typically associated with a few key tropes: general physical attractiveness, a slim build, and a youthful appearance that lacks facial hair and often body hair as well.[1] In his book Never Enough (2007), Joe McGinniss describes a court case in which twink was defined as "a gay slang term used to denote an attractive, boyish-looking gay man between the ages of 18 and 23, slender ectomorph and with little or no body hair, often blond, often but not necessarily Caucasian."

Now sadly we don't have the time to delve into the ways the term "twink" has sometimes be used to enforce ageism, racism and fatphobia in the LGBT+ community, since we are talking about, you know, a fictional character in a fantasy. We will refrain from judgement and just base ourself on these barebones definitions without further fleshing them out.

On the surface, Kabru fulfills many of the requirements for a twink. His build is slender (tho more on that later), he is in the age range (22, altho its worth noting age of majority in the dunmeshi world is 16).

Also, he has the baby face. Round cheeks, long lashes, big eyes... Like there's no way around it thats the kind of face some seme asshole would grab by the chin as they call him "pretty boy" in a bl manga. That's a face that gets men who have always considered themselves hetero to question a thing or two. That's a face that gets your landlord to make your laundry for free.

Kabru Schrödinger's twink paradox comes from the fact that as someone who practices swordfighting and wears an armour (a lighter one but still) and marches for days in the dungeon, he MUST be muscular. There is no way around this. And this goes against one of the basic tenets of twinkhood, which is Twinks MUST Be Lithe And Delicate.

To further this point, I will quote from this article from OUT magazine titled "Dear Internet: THIS is what the word 'twink' really means", dated 01 March 2024 [retrieved 2024-06-12]:

"But the things that tie all these definitions together include being gay, being thin, young-looking, little to no body hair and no facial hair, and attractive. So NO, 27-year-old with a ’70s mustache and buff arms full of the tattoos he’s gotten over his adult life is, you guessed it, NOT a twink..."

As you can see, emphasis is put on the lack of muscles. While Kabru has no facial hair, we can however substitute the tattoos for the many scars he has received in battle - his body looks much more like the body of a man who is weary with experience. Again, keeping in mind that the age of majority in dunmeshi for tallmen is 16 and Kabru is 22, we could argue that proportionally, at least culturally, Kabru leans towards being almost too old for a twink, too, and his scars can be symbolic of that in much the same way tattoos are.

Also, in both the definitions above a tendency towards feminine-coded behaviour is noted. In Kabru's case, while see him occasionally engaging in behaviour that might read as slightly feminine, we see him also assume very masculine roles both in his party and during battle. Its also worth noting that Kabru was raised by elves, a culture whose aesthetic standards lean heavily towards what reads as feminine to tallmen, and that Kabru himself is characterised as someone who heavily adapts his behaviour based on other's expectation - we can therefore argue that it is possible that what "effeminate" behaviour he engages in is actually a result of his upbringing, as well as a way to endear/ingratiate himself to those that he judges would respond better to such behaviour, rather than a matter of self-expression.

Now, i already hear the objections, so i will further elaborate on the muscle point. Having been killed and resuscitated so many times, Kabru has lost the soft layer of fat that makes Laios body so evidently strong, and it has probably even started to cut into his muscles. Also, differently from Laios' stout build, we see young teen Kabru in a few illustrations with Milsiril and he IS naturally lanky - even at his top weight its probably going to look more like an athletics/gymnastics body type than the wrestler/weightlifter type.

However, the muscles ARE there, and losing the layer of fat would make them even MORE visible. He is more likely to have defined cut abs than Laios, paradoxically. And again, if you look at the classic twink porn, the boys rarely have sixpacks or even visible arm muscles. They're bony.

Thankfully this is not the first time the lgbt+ community has been faced with this dilemma. Therefore, falling back on the wisdom of our elders, i propose: Kabru is a twunk.

Urban Dictionary, voice "twunk" [retrieved 2024-06-12]

Twunk

A term used amongst the LGBTQ community to describe males (typically gay) with the face of a twink (boyish-looking, pretty) but the body of a hunk (muscular, jocky).

Without the ambition of being definitive, my humble offering will hopefully offer Kabru scholars a chance to possibly reach a terminological consensus, therefore allowing us to move on from this topic without misunderstandings.

[gemsofgreece]

Feels like a lot of work to ask this

but next time you refer to some etymology or word used as Ancient Greek, please kindly consider to check out whether this word is extant and used in Modern Greek. If you refer to all words as Ancient Greek, you spread the usually false impression that these words are dead, only revived thanks to English and other western scientific terminology (while they might as well be everyday words for the Greek speakers), you obstruct a chance of exposure to Modern Greek which is viewed as totally disconnected and irrelevant, and you strip it from its lingual legacy.

So, if a word has indeed fallen out of use, by all means, call it what it is, Ancient Greek. If it’s only used in Modern Greek, which is a possibility you will likely never stumble on as Modern Greek roots barely exist at all and they are just colloquial epithets (which is also why it doesn’t make much sense to emphatically distinct a root as Ancient because there’s little else it can be anyway), call it Modern Greek. (Always talking about Greek roots, this is not about loanwords or foreign roots.)

If however it exists both in Ancient and survives in Modern Greek, which is 90% of the time, just call it what it really is. Greek.

Another reason it is very unlikely for you to be referring to exclusively Ancient Greek words that are dead in Modern Greek is because the Greek words you usually refer to are words that passed from Latin and Medieval Greek to the western languages. If a Greek word survived well into Medieval Greek and / or passed to Latin, then it has 99% of the time survived into Modern Greek. Exclusively Ancient Greek words that have fallen out of use are usually Homeric and Archaic words from non-Ionic dialects that were already fading in Classical and early Hellenistic times. So the odds of you referring to such words, unless you are a linguist of archaic non-Ionic Greek, are very very slim.

And if it’s too much work to ask (how much time do you spend mentioning Greek etymology though?!), then again just call it Greek because you can’t go wrong with this and you save yourself from an extra word. It’s that easy and is the safest choice.

[idiotmf]

Ur world building is phenomenal ｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+(⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)

Please tell me more abt xyon :3

Thank you so much! ( ◍＞◡＜◍)。✧♡

I am currently working on a story about Xyon (along with approximately fifty other things).

I usually write short scenarios with my characters for myself, sort of like different AUs, but they're in my native language, and I would like to make one that's Xyon x Reader specifically.

MDNI because my blog is 18+, the post itself shouldn't really be NSFW aside from biological aspects.

Uh, yeah... This is rather long for what I meant it to be (around 2.5k words excluding the notes at the beginning and end).

(Edit: Here is a link to the original lore dump for anyone wondering, since I reference it a lot.)

All that aside, here's a more in-depth look at my favorite biologist in the galaxy:

Appearance:

Since this is focused on just one Xenian, I can give a few more details about what he looks like. I really wish I was talented at drawing so I could give a visual representation of what I personally imagine, but I'll provide some images in case my words aren't clear enough (still working on that vocabulary, haha).

Let's start with his body!

As mentioned in the overall description, Xyon is around 2.5m (8'2), and if needed, he, like all other male Xenians, can stretch his torso up to 2.8m (roughly 9'2). If you're wondering which specific part gets stretched, it's the area just below the shoulders and above the stomach. (I'm using human anatomy here for convenience; if you're interested, I can definitely get into more in-depth Xenian anatomy, but I fear it might be boring.)

Whenever stretched, the skin gets damaged, sort of like horizontal stretch marks, but will shrink back to heal normally. Xenians don't do this often due to their high intelligence and lack of predators, causing it to be more of an evolutionary inconvenience these days.

While they still use it for mating displays, much like humans, they just prefer talking nowadays.

His overall body has a pretty slim, smooth look underneath the short fur. The muscles of Xenians are layered like thin sheets (muscle lasagna, anyone?) and don't bulge in the way human muscles would; instead, they just look broader and fuller.

Now, Xyon is considered skinny, even for his kind. I've mentioned it in the lore dump, but Xenians have moved past eating. They consume nutritional gel, which also explains why they are very lean, since they are literally only allowed to consume this gel, which covers their calculated daily needs.

If you know how nutrition works, though, you can probably see some holes forming in that logic. Xyon moves around a lot and therefore would technically require more, hence the skinny body.

His legs are long compared to his torso, especially below the knees (again, using human anatomy for convenience). His thighbones are rather short, the Xenian equivalent of Tibia and Fibula long (around 2/3rds of his legs; also, they don't have single bones but rather thousands of thin, long bones clustered together to form larger structures). It looks rather awkward when sitting or trying to crouch.

Fun fact: Xenians cannot kneel.

Well, technically, they can; once. And then not get back up without serious injuries. Their knees also cannot be fully bent back like a human's, but rather just enough to allow them to comfortably walk and sit. They actually also comfortably stand around in their strange crouching position whenever they are idle for long periods of time. Remember, they have a tail (sort of like this minus the scales) that they use for balance, resting in what I can only describe as a weird, tripod looking stance, sort of like they're leaning back and almost sitting on their tail.

I spent an hour trying to draw a representation of it, but it looked so goofy that I felt too embarrassed to share it. ( ´･ω･)

Anyway, his skull resembles that of an ocelot, complete with rows of sharp teeth, identifying his race as a once carnivorous one. (skull image) However, they don't have the typical cat whiskers, and their muzzle is less rounded.

Neat little tidbit, but technically, Xyon speaks with the Xenian equivalent of a lisp after sustaining an injury to his throat as a child (some of their sounds are formed in the throat, mainly the sheet metal-sounding one). However, since his words are translated into human speech for you to understand him, this doesn't carry over.

Xenian eyes also resemble those of cats; Xyon's are amber in color, but they can have various different ones. Of course he has a long, rough tongue due to their carnivorous roots.

Their entire body, except for their tails, genitalia, soles, and palms, is covered in a short, dark blue fur. (Imagine the fur of smooth, short coated dogs like a Doberman, Great Dane, Boxer, Beagle, etc. Just a bit softer.) If you want specifics on the color, I'd say the closest is #555C6C, ironically called Blue Planet. It looks sort of washed out due to their skin underneath being a dark gray.

His feet and hands are generally very similar in shape to those of a raccoon, except they have retractable claws and four fingers instead of five (a thumb and three fingers).

As mentioned in the species lore dump, they have retractable genitalia that are hidden underneath a layer of skin until they are exposed. It can actually harden while hidden, making their skin bulge. However, this can be quite painful since the space allowing for their phalluses isn't meant to support them in their full size.

If we're taking semen, it looks rather blueish in hue and the consistency is thicker and sort of slimy, designed to stick to a female's eggs.

Sources (cough cough) confirm it has a rather sweet-ish flavour, consuming too much of it does cause nausea in humans though.

Personality:

Xyon is an incredibly curious individual, especially later on (you'll see why in a second). He wants to know anything and everything about this planet and its inhabitants. He likes finding new plants, scanning them, and then observing for a while. He marvels at the strange animals that live on this planet (I should mention at this point that any story including Xyon is post-apocalyptic) and Earth's impressive landscapes.

Despite being very curious, he's still an extremely obedient follower of orders. For example, in one story I wrote, he was running out of his nutritional bio-gel and would simply refuse actual food, despite the scanner clearly telling him it was harmless for him to eat, choosing to starve rather than disobeying the directive to only consume the gel.

He does end up breaking one major rule, which ends up changing his entire life.

You see, while he is a biologist and was sent to earth to study and document flora and fauna for the intergalactic database, he is strictly forbidden from interacting with humans, whether positively or negatively, the only exception being for self-defense purposes. This is largely due to humans being known as primitive and extremely violent.

Xyon shares this narrative at first, since his research partner Xuan was murdered and subsequently eaten by humans after trying to peacefully interact with them.

That is, until he runs into, well, you. A lone human, injured, and on the brink of death. At first, he considers leaving you to die, then he considers observing you while you pass away, only to finally decide that even if you do attack him, he wants to help you.

Another bit of a flaw in his character is his naivety. Xenians don't have concepts like sarcasm; even lying isn't exactly something they do or consider, as it goes against their morals. This ends up with him believing everything you tell him, curiously inquiring about the most obvious of lies.

Not to mention, he speaks incredibly bluntly, which might come off as rude. This does actually improve after Xyon spends more time with you, since he learns to imitate the way you speak rather than sticking to the cold, scientific speech he uses at first.

I like to think this is a product of Xenian society, as scientists and research purpose tiers don't exactly experience individualism or even enough free will to build their own personalities to the point of even having distinguishing character traits.

I'm not sure how much I mentioned in the other lore dump (I tried to keep it short, so I kept cutting things out), but I do remember mentioning that Xenians practice culling unhatched eggs based on desirable base intelligence, health, etc. which is calculated based on your family tree, essentially. One's purpose is also determined by those stats.

Eggs far above the desired base intelligence usually become researchers and scientists, the highest "purpose" you can possibly have in their race. However, that also means that you not only get gaslit into thinking that's the only thing you're good at, you don't even get a chance to consider anything else.

Xyon is a biologist, and he cannot ever be anything but a biologist. He doesn't even have the mere choice of disliking his career, because it isn't just his job; it's his entire life.

Did I mention I love playing with such dystopian concepts?

Over the course of spending more time with you, he does eventually develop his own personality, or rather strengthen the few cracks that were present all along. But he can't help but look at you for guidance, despite being in the Xenian equivalent of his late twenties to early thirties. The concepts of being allowed to experience individualism and freely express himself are foreign to him.

I do want to mention that some Xenians do have their own personalities. This forced conformity is practiced in their general society, but only as bad as this on the higher purpose tiers, like the one he is in.

He does eventually turn into a gentle giant. I like to imagine him like a Disney princess, holding out one claw with a bird on it, like Snow White. Xyon does enjoy providing meat for you, which is a more primitive way to show that he is a suitable mate in his culture (though usually it goes both ways, or it used to, since they don't hunt anymore).

I like the concept of taking a step back from the highly intelligent life form and reverting to some more primitive practices as he develops individuality.

He never gets to the point of actively resenting his culture and planet, but rather accepts that this is one of its many differences from Earth and can be considered a flaw. In reality, he does find comfort in having a purpose, especially after you essentially tell him what life on earth was like. He finds the idea of having the freedom to try anything overwhelming, and not knowing what you're truly made for is terrifying in his eyes.

Beliefs and Values:

While a form of religion does still exist on his planet, due to the forced conformity and his purpose as a biologist, he was taught to disregard such matters for lack of logic.

Despite that, he does actually secretly believe in things like fate, especially in the context of finding one's mate.

Yet, mates are a pretty sore spot for him.

Due to their personalities, or rather lack thereof, and long absence from their planet in the name of science, higher-tier Xenians don't usually find a mate, often either living alone until death or dying during research.

Xyon does eventually express the belief that meeting you was fate and that you two were meant to end up as mates, despite being different in many ways.

He also believes that meeting you was meant to prove that humans weren't as destructive and savage as originally assumed.

(There is a whole other discussion of why earth became post-apocalyptic in the first place, and while the answer is a bit more convoluted than that, Xyon believes that the planetary representatives collectively decided that humans could not go on the way they were, and instead of risking a valuable planet that could host life being destroyed beyond repair, they would simply flatten major settlements and reset them to see whether they would grow from this experience or perish altogether.

Ironically, in reality, this was actually voted against in the end due to humans not having encountered extraterrestrial life yet and the promising scientific progression, but one race, fairly similar to humans themselves in nature (though not in looks), decided it would be for the better, carrying out the invasion on their own accord. While they weren't completely erased themselves, most of the higher-ranking beings from that planet were executed. This, however, is not common knowledge, as the representatives did cover it up in order to avoid other races being encouraged to disobey.)

While the race of Xenians does have values pertaining to open-mindedness and equality, they are fairly limited in nature. They do allow for sexual and romantic expression (on the lower tiers, mostly), but you can never, ever have the same standing as someone born with a higher tier purpose.

This means that even if you end up exceeding your calculated base intelligence by a lot, you will still be stuck in a purpose that isn't for you and have no chance of changing it.

Ironically, while a social hierarchy does exist, lower tiers are usually considered happier and have far more freedom than higher tiers. Because, again, they get stripped of all individuality to become mindless little researchers.

I purposely didn't specify Xyon's values in this case because, as you can imagine, being forced into a certain mindset does mean he has the same values as the collective, though it does change over time, with him expressing that while he does still support the tiers and purpose, he wishes it was less strict.

Family and Social Circle:

Xyon does actually have a family; he wasn't raised in a mating group. Unlike humans, Xenians don't have a close bond with their parents or siblings since they aren't fully raised by them but rather taken away early in life (around 4–7 in human years) to be trained for their purpose, which results in rather shallow bonds.

His father's purpose is to nurse and educate young Xenians that have either lost their parents or were abandoned, while his mother is the leader of their local tribe, which one can become regardless of tier, following an election process similar to that on earth.

Xyon does have irregular contact with them and even occasionally visits them while on Xen'jai, which is incredibly rare.

He had one older brother, who became a soldier and died very early on due to conflict between Xen'jai and their neighboring planet.

Xyon did have one friend, the female biologist Xuan, who was his assigned research partner.

Due to the nature of their work and purpose, social circles for their tier are small, if they exist at all.

This actually affects Xyon greatly. Now that his old partner is gone, he is alone on a foreign planet, and with Xenians being social creatures, it does make him feel lonely.

On several occasions, he has actually tried seeking out other research teams from his planet that were sent to Earth, and he briefly had contact with a male geologist named Xenon, who ended up being killed, or at least that's Xyon's assumption when his signal completely disappeared (hint hint nudge nudge, he is the other one I like writing about, and he is in fact not dead).

There is one more Xenian that Xyon is aware of on earth: a female meteorologist. He does not know her name; however, he has responded to several distress signals relating to her losing her bio-gel rations to humans.

Unfortunately, she was too far away for him to actually help (she is a character I want to write about in the future as well o(〃＾▽＾〃)o ).

Well, technically speaking, Xyon (and at some point Xuan), like any other research pair, does have a ship, but being the rule-following Xenian he is, he did not leave his assigned area (which is roughly central Europe in canon btw), though he briefly considered it until getting confirmation that the situation had sorted itself out.

It is likely due to this that he even considered helping you in the first place, because he was lonely and probably hoping deep down that a human could somehow keep him company.

Which... I mean... it worked out in his favor. Good for him.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Yeesh, this is quite a lot.

Can you believe I still left stuff out? I also ended up dumping more lore for the species itself. I promise one day I'll go back and rewrite both the Species info and probably this one as well. I kind of want to write another big info-dump for Xen'jai as a planet, because there's a lot I want to get into, like the hierarchy, religion, history and evolution of the planet, which felt too out of place here.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Feel free to always reach out for more info or suggestions, I am literally just waiting to write more lore no one really can do anything with. :3

[xinfinityl0ve17]

Check Out the Fashion of the Stars!

Vol. 5

Mana (MALICE MIZER)

Paying Attention to Invisible Style

Finally, the long awaited MALICE MIZER is here! This time we talked mainly about the costumes for their new song “The Blood and Roses of Reunion,” which will be released on November 3rd. Use it as a reference for cosplay. Also look forward to Közi in the issue coming out on November 1st and Yu~ki in the issue coming out on November 29th!

What About This Time’s Costume?

Mana: It’s inspired by “The Bloodline,” and we’ve unified the costumes for the three members. My role hasn’t changed. It’s supposed to be unclear whether I’m alive or dead...

Any Particular Details You Focused On?

Mana: The flouncy part of the mini skirt is a focus. This time, I wanted to create a sense of heaviness overall, so the fabric is relatively heavy, but the skirt is fluffy. Also, since the song is “The Blood and Roses of Reunion,” we’ve placed the emblem on each member's chest as a focal point. The color is blue, and I’ve also used a slightly darker lipstick than usual. And the knee-high socks—they’re worn over stockings. The color matches the blue theme. Even if they aren’t visible? It’s important to be stylish!

The Hair Roll Looks Great Too.

Mana: This time, setting the roll higher is key. Start by creating rolls at the roots, then curl them up and pin them. The number of rolls depends on the mood of the moment. The trick is to avoid making them too thick or too thin; use the curling iron carefully for each one. Straight hair is fine, but using the curling iron is tricky, so it takes practice. If you’re not used to it, it won’t curl easily. It’s better not to use too strong a hairspray; if it’s too hard it loses its natural softness.

It Won’t Show, You Know (laughs). This time all the lace parts of the costume are made from the same fabric and the headpiece is also made from the same lace.

You’ve Slimmed Down a Lot, Haven’t You?

Mana: I’m opening an original fashion brand shop (“Moi-même Moitie”), so the owner can’t be overweight (laughs). Plus gothic fashion doesn’t suit someone who isn’t slim. I’ve lost a few kilograms for that reason.

Are the Accessories for the Costume Store Products?

Mana: They aren’t store products; they were made specifically for this occasion. The earrings, rings, and necklace are all crosses, and they have a specific meaning. In “The Blood and Roses of Reunion,” the cross represents “spiritual communion.”

Regarding Mana’s Look...

Mana: It hasn’t changed; it’s the same (costume) (laughs). There are a lot of skirts. The points of style are mysterious, alluring, elegant, and extreme. The hairstyle is also carefully adjusted to match the occasion. It feels like “mysterious gothic horror,” right?

Any Future Challenges You Want to Try?

Mana: Maybe a pompadour. I really like pompadours. A big pompadour. It looks cool. I might incorporate that into a costume.

[betelgo0ze]

People seemed to really like my fanon v canon rant so here’s another rant about the concept of Cybertronian gender and language 

Pronouns aren’t limited to he/she/they, and I’m not just talking about Neo and non-mainstream pronouns. Words like “you” and “our” are also pronouns, so the next time you hear someone say “i dOnT uSe pRoNoUnS” yes you do. Literally yes you do(excluding people who are referred to only by name, I’m talking specifically about homophobes and bigots but I digress)

The English language, along with most earth languages, have unique words that can only apply to that language. Of course you can translate as close as possible, but some words are exclusive to that language and you can’t accurately translate them. I speak English and Spanish(specifically Argentinian) and there are many words that I can’t translate into English. My father’s from Argentina so he taught me, and even he can’t translate a few words because they simply aren’t words in the English dictionary.

Now when we talk about Cybertronian, it is a fictional language that directly translates into English. Each letter has a symbol that represents that letter so people can directly translate it. It doesn’t have its own structure or grammar, it is just a silly easter egg. 

(Also there’s two main versions of cybertronian I could find but they both follow the same format of what is basically a decoding game) 

It’s obvious they have their own language, but it’s presented to us in a format we can understand, but if we’re thinking of cybertronions as a real species than it would not directly translate and just like any other earth language.

Quick but important detail: cybertronions don’t reproduce. They call us organic for a reason. They can’t do the squinty and dirty because they don’t have things to do it with, therefore don’t have a true concept of gender identity or sexual orientation. The only reason they’re referred to as “he,” “she,” or “they” in media is because it’s translated into English, the same way languages don’t always translate accurately.

There are transgender characters but they are for the viewer if anything, and Cybertronian gender is so much more complex if anything at all. A good theory is that humans introduced the concept of gender, but I don’t think that’s the case. Some people might like slimmer frames which just happen to be a characteristic of women. Some want bulkier bodys and to not be as slim, like a stereotypical male. Words like “he” and “she” are translated into words that refer to physical characteristics rather than mental. There’s also instances of this not happening like when Swerve mistakes Nautica for a man despite her having colored lips and a slim body(traits which normally apply to AFAB people)

At the end of the day, Cybertronions are something to dissect with their culture being so vague due to language barriers and Rodimus being British apparently(different areas have different accents, Rodimus is just compared to having a British accent. Don’t think too deep into it)

also if your curious here’s the two languages sorry that ones transparent lmao

Oke thanks for coming to my ted talk I love you drink wawa and eat please I beg of you

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

Can you explain what's the deal with Val's mother rosary?

OOOHHHH SURE I'm actually dying to do this since it was not possible to do in text!

(For the record, anon refers to this fic of mine but tl;dr when Valentino spawned in Hell he was holding his mother's rosary. He threw it away multiple times but it keeps reappearing.)

Basically, like Val said, his mother prayed a lot for him. She didn't want him to turn out like her abusive husband, so she prayed that he'd somehow avoid following the seemingly inevitable path of evil (she pretty much knew there was a slim chance he wouldn't get recruited by the cartel). But it didn't work. She was killed too early to even try raising him to be a better man. However, even in heaven, she kept praying, hoping to grant him some saving grace for all the awful things he was doing. But it wasn't enough. Val never even tried to redeem himself, and after death, he ended up in hell.

Okay, so here's where my Catholic upbringing kicks in: there's this belief that prayers can help souls in purgatory get to heaven. And while I might not be the most religious person, I'm a sucker for themes of maternal love and angst. So, the rosary becomes a tangible symbol of Val's mother's faith, powered by divine magic. Val himself has no clue about it, but it's essentially his ticket to heaven. Not a free pass, mind you, but a sign that his otherwise irredeemable acts could be forgiven if he changes his ways, because his mother spent her life, and even afterlife, fighting for his soul. It's more of a reward for her than for him. And that's the tragic part: Valentino will never seize this opportunity. I mean, there's no instruction manual attached, so he doesn't really know what the rosary is supposed to do. But every time he holds it, he recalls what his mother wanted for him and how much she cared. Deep down, he gets what he's expected to do, but unaware of the potential reward, he rejects the chance every single time. Because he's truly twisted, irredeemable, always opting for evil if it benefits him. And I like making myself sad with the idea that there's still someone having so much faith in him.

[shewreckz]

Hey your art is pretty whimsical and radical my gender non specific broseph, per chance would thou be able to enlighten us on how you draw such bodacious fine art? Like how you draw bodies and fave and what have thee. (Fr tho your art really cool and I'd like to see how you make it)

okay i have whipped up a quick little visual of my thought process while drawing!! it might not be the best cause im not the greatest at teaching but if anyones curious ^_^

first lets start with how i draw bodies

a lot of people like to do the "skeleton" method which is where you draw lines and circles to plan out where the limbs should be. honestly i really dislike doing that because i like to always have volume and shape in mind when drawing bodies, but if it works for you thats great.

instead i separate the body into different pieces, kinda like an articulated doll. i think it helps visualize all the moving parts in a 3d space and makes posing and perspective a lot easier. i can also always add the detailed anatomy on top of this basic model like you see on the left. its always important to work from simple -> complex. drawing a pose while being too worried on anatomy will really hinder your drawing process.

to improve doing this it really just takes practice and observation. i could be here all day talking about proportions, and how many heads high a person is, and each specific muscle group, but i reccomend you go and watch videos and study professional artists on your own. as someone who has been drawing and studying these things for so long, i barely think about how many heads high a person is when im drawing a body. its kind of like learning how to play and instrument or driving a car. it becomes second nature eventually, but you have to apply those skills and work through that period of time where youre still trying to program it into your brain.

after you get a hang of the basics you can take this basic model and draw all types of body shapes with it. i say its always important to play around with making your body types diverse. its not only fun to do but helps make all the characters you draw unique and recognizable. (dont be like vivziepop).

dynamic posing can be the hardest thing to master for a lot of people. the best way to learn how to pose is to not think about it too much and just doing it. for example in my figure drawing class we had to sketch out gesture drawings from a picture in 15 seconds. excercises like that help a ton in making you feel more comfortable when drawing from a reference. you should definitely reference a LOT when it comes to poses, it helps build this visual database so that eventually you can get to the point where you can just draw accurate and dynamic poses from memory. after getting to this point eventually you kind of start thinking of your canvas as this tangible 3d space and considering your characters in 3d space helps make the poses feel a lot more realistic and interesting.

ok now a quick little tour into how i draw different faces yaaaayy!!!1!1!1

main thing with my art is that i LOVEEE drawing dynamic face shapes i think its so important to avoid drawing the same slim faces over and over. shape language plays a big role into this. like for example the face on the middle is more square, the one on the left is more oval and the one on the right is more circle. shape language helps communicate so much about your character without even saying a word about them and just helps differentiate people from a glance.

facial features also play a huge role into making your faces different. these are all drawn from the same exact face shape but look like entirely different characters by adding variety in the features. different noses, eye shapes, lips, etc. can make such a huge difference

i think before any of that its important to learn the anatomy of the face though. again im not gonna go into how many eyes wide a face it or how far the nose is from the mouth but like its always important to learn the fundamentals before stylizing stuff. again the face is a 3d space and if you dont consider your face a 3d plane the features will kind of just look like theyre floating on your characters face like soup...theres a lot of great resources and tutorials online take advantage of those!!! and reference from artists you like too it helps a ton.

and then you mix that all together and Boom you have cool and interesting faces. you will best that same face syndrome in no time if you take my advice Trust...

anyways yeah thats the soda design philosophy hit that like button if you liked it or douse me with tomatoes and kick me off the stage if you think i give bad advice ill leave the decision up to you

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Come close and whisper my true name (part 1)

Dracule Mihawk x werewolf!reader.

This fic is part of the Beast in Black series. This is part one of two.

This fic is dedicated to @aamon47 and @madbadpadawan. Thanks for your encouragement!

Even though they take place in different continuities, this fic references events described in Love is a killer that never dies, even though in this AU they took place years before, when reader was younger and had only met Mihawk once.

*****

(Mihawk’s POV)

Standing on the hut’s porch, Mihawk frowns for a moment when, as he stares at the solitary figure walking towards him from Cartas’ harbour, half-hidden by the rain that has been falling on the tiny island for hours in a steady downpour, he realises the man is way too slim, and young, to be the person he expects to meet. Then, a moment later, he realises he does know him, and his arrival is less unexpected, and suspicious, than it appeared at first.

It seems like the Vice Admiral has sent his dogsbody to do his job for him.

Mihawk waits for the newcomer to be about a hundred feet from the hut, to make sure the man has also seen him, and then quickly turns to retreat inside. That is not the sort of place one might be tempted to take lodgings in, even for a short time: a single wood-walled room one could cross in less than six paces, empty except for a couple of chairs and an old fishing net thrown in a corner, the floorboards broken in several places. But the ceiling is undamaged, which protects the room from the deluge, and Mihawk intends to leave soon in any case… as soon, he mentally corrects himself, as he learns why the Marines have had him come to that small islet in the middle of nowhere. 

The soft pitter-patter of the raindrops hitting the hut’s roof sounds vaguely oniric, a lulling sound that reminds Mihawk of the soothing songs mothers murmur to newborns to make them fall asleep. His never could, he reasons, since she passed less than an hour after giving birth to him; his sister probably has, but Mihawk can’t remember for certain - in truth, he has recently realised he has also started forgetting what Yoru’s voice sounded like. It is probably unavoidable, given the many years that have passed from her death, but for some reason he can’t help feeling guilty…

The creaking of the opening door tears the swordsman from his thoughts. He doesn’t bother standing up as Bogard, Garp’s right hand man, enters and closes the door behind him; he nods mutely in Mihawk’s direction before taking off his water-laden coat, that he carefully folds over the back of the room’s only free chair, and hat, that he places on the small windowsill, letting the water drip down. Mihawk, who usually appreciates the man’s penchant for taciturnity, decides the sooner they can put an end to that interview, the better it will be for him. This morning he had been considering calling (name) to propose they meet, either at his or her home or at a nice hotel on a resort island he has seen advertised on the paper; they could take some time to themselves, and there is a pretty important matter he wants to discuss with her. Garp’s call arrived exactly as he reached for his Den Den Mushi. He still intends to contact his partner as soon as he can, provided whatever task the Marines have for him doesn’t take too long, but the setback has put him in a bad mood. 

“Where is Garp?” he asks, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice “He was the one to call me here; I imagined he’d show up.”

“Vice Admiral Garp has been called at a conference at the HQ. He sends his apologies, but this meeting has to remain a secret, and he felt I would more easily pass unnoticed than a well-known officer like him.” Bogard explains, his tone as measured and sedate as it has always been in the few times the swordsman has heard him speak “He’d like you to take care of this man.” 

Bogard extends an envelope he has just retrieved from the inside of his suit jacket; as he takes it, Mihawk is almost sure he can see a grimace of pain on the other man’s face, only for a moment, as if that simple gesture had required an effort beyond his strength.

The envelope contains only two items: a picture clearly taken without the subject’s knowledge, of a man in his forties with black hair in a ponytail, busy looking over his shoulder as he crosses the street, and a map of a stretch of sea Mihawk remembers having sailed over once, years before. 

“This man is Jack Bontemps. Have you ever met him?”

“Never had the pleasure, no.” Mihawk says; the name does sound familiar, though. 

Bontemps, Bogard informs him, has been a small-time criminal most of his life before taking to the sea a few years ago, which has brought him to the attention of the Marines. Six months ago, Bontemps and his crew settled on a small and isolated island of the Goya archipelago, apparently without causing trouble or disturbance of any sort. Nevertheless, Garp has reason to suspect the captain and his crew have taken advantage of the island’s relative isolation and lack of importance to all but enslave its people, transforming the island into their own private empire, under threat of death for whoever tries to rebel or alert the authorities.

“We believe there have already been several victims. The Vice Admiral wants you to go check, and neutralise Bontemps should you discover proof of his wrongdoings.” 

Mihawk raises an eyebrow; he feels the task requested of him is way below his pay grade and wants to make sure his interlocutor knows it. “How much is this man’s bounty?” he inquires; the fact that he has only vaguely heard about Bontemps suggests the man is not an enemy he’d be interested in fighting, and he knows a moment later he had it right.

“Ninety millions.”

“That little. Don’t you have forces in the Goya archipelago? You could take care of him yourselves.”

“We have tried.” 

“And?”

“I have contacted the captain in command of our division in the area, and he assured me everything is in order and Bontemps and his men have renounced piracy and now live as private citizens.” Bogard explains; he snorts, as if to stress the implausibility of that reassurance “As much as I hate to admit it, we have to suspect the captain and other officers have been bribed by Bontemps, and are actively covering his misdeeds. This is why we need you, Mihawk; we need someone the Marines can trust, but who is not part of our ranks and therefore would be harder to bribe.”

Mihawk considers pointing out that no sum or treasure in the world would be enough to buy him off; then he realises he doesn’t particularly care about Bogard’s, and by extension the Marines’, opinion on him and his sense of honour, and he decides to save his breath. 

“Even so, is Garp really sure I am the right person for the job?” he points out “If you want me to dispatch his man, you need a bounty hunter. I know there are several on the Marines’ payroll.”

Bogard looks at him, unimpressed; behind him, framed by the tiny window, Mihawk can see the storm still raging on, high waves rising from the sea’s surface as the rain pounds incessantly. “You mean, like miss (name)?” he inquires, openly sly despite the imperturbability of his expression, and Mihawk is taken aback for a moment; he was thinking that his partner would be perfect for a task like the one Garp’s lapdog has just proposed, and (name) is undoubtedly the most capable bounty hunter among the many allied with the Marines, the Vice Admiral’s own go-to woman when a dangerous criminal is to be neutralised or retrieved, but the fact that the other man has mentioned her, and Bogard’s tone, seemed to suggest… what, exactly? That he is aware of her and Mihawk’s relationship, despite all the pains the two have taken to keep it secret? Is the man teasing him, something no one has ever dared to do since Mihawk was fifteen?

Well, apart from (name) herself, and Shanks, who does it often and happily; but Shanks is a particular case, and Mihawk knows there isn’t much he would not put up with when his partner is concerned. 

Or is it something else? Another emotion, that the usually detached man couldn’t keep to himself?

Jealousy, perhaps?

Yoru is propped against the nearest wall, close enough Mihawk could stand, grab it and use it before the average opponent has time to realise he is going to attack; Bogard is a capable swordsman, his own weapon hanging from his belt inside its sheath, but Mihawk knows he could deal with him in less than a minute, without even breaking a sweat. Maybe he will; maybe he will kill this idiot who dared mention his partner to rile him up, and maybe has even set his sights on her…

Bogard is still looking at him; he has to have realised Mihawk has tensed, and glanced at his sword, but to his credit, the Marine doesn’t try to apologise, or to justify himself. Unflinchingly, he raises and closes his hand around his sword’s hilt, idly toying with it, ready to unsheathe.

“Yes, exactly like her.” Mihawk said in the end; (name) and their relationship deserves better than to be discussed as a mark of pride, as if he and the Marine were a couple of friends boasting about their conquests, but he needs the other man to know it - to know that what exists between him and his partner is too precious and special to be threatened by the interference of a third person, no matter how determined, and that (name) is more than satisfied with what he can give her - in the privacy of a bedroom and not only “She’s the best at what she does after all. If you want I can pass the offer to her; we are due to meet soon.”

“Are you?”

“Oh, yes.”

For a whole minute, neither man moves; Mihawk glances at Yoru again, Bogard’s gaze following his. A loud clap of thunder roars from the direction of the beach, violent enough they both feel the hut’s walls shake around them. 

In the end, Bogard takes the hit more gracefully than Mihawk has expected; he sighs, silently conceding defeat, and lets the hand that grasped the hilt of his sword fall on his lap. “The problem is, what we need is a show of strength. Not someone who slips in Bontemps’ lair, kills him and leaves without being noticed, but someone who arrives, vanquishes the whole crew and destroys their ships, making enough of a mess to make an example of him and his men. Once pictures are published in the papers, other crews will think twice before assaulting innocent civilians; I’m not saying you should slaughter every single man under Bontemps’s flag, but…”

“... but you wouldn’t be opposed if I did, because it would work as a deterrent. Am I right?”

“You are, yes.”

Mihawk privately wonders if a scene like the one Bogard is asking him to provoke would actually benefit the Marines and the aura of strength and intransigency they want to communicate, since after all they are sending a pirate to do their dirty work for them rather than their own troops, but he doesn’t care enough to ask. He had in mind to spend the next days with (name), if she were not too busy with her duties on her island, but he might as well do it, take care of this errand in a couple of days at the most, and then take some time for himself -and for her- telling Garp he is not to be disturbed for a while. Bogard seems to have backed off, either because he has realised he has no chance to win -and even just to survive- against Mihawk or because he is all too aware he could not take his partner from him, but the swordsman decides he’ll ask (name) to stay away from Garp’s lackey; he doesn’t seem the sort of man who bothers women and Mihawk knows his partner would never betray him, but…

“You’re bleeding.”

“What…? Oh…”

Bogard looks disconcerted for a moment as he follows Mihawk’s gaze to his left arm, where blood is now staining the fabric of his jacket. “Oh, drat…” he murmurs “Damned beast…”

“You have been bitten?” Mihawk thought; he is amused and doesn’t bother hiding it “Who was it? Your dog?”

“It wasn’t a dog, domesticated or otherwise.” Bogard quickly explains; he has turned serious, and for a moment he looks ready to elaborate on the beast that has caused his wound, but then the pain seems to remind him he had the injury itself to take care of. He looks all around, as if searching for a first aid kit, or at least clean water and fabric he could improvise a bandage out of, in the completely empty room. Mihawk sighs; the man’s troubles aren’t his concern, but for a moment he wonders what (name) would do in his place. 

“There’s a first aid kit on my ship.” he reveals, not moving from his chair; the storm is still raging outside, but a little water won’t kill the man “It is docked next to the large boulder a few paces from where you came from. You can’t miss it.”

Bogard mutely nods his thanks before averting his gaze; he stands from his chair… and then a strange sound escapes his lips, a sort of choked grunt. A moment later he lowers his gaze to his chest, where another blood-red stain has appeared on the fabric of his jacket just above his heart; he blinks, as if struggling to understand what has happened, looks at Mihawk long enough for the swordsman to recognize the helplessness in his eyes, and then he falls forward, violently hitting the floor.

Mihawk wastes no time before reacting. Lightning fast, he reaches out to grab the hilt of his sword and, keeping low, he quickly retracts to the corner of the room farthest from the window, where no bullet can reach him; fortunately Bogard has closed the hut’s door behind him and there are no cracks in the wall through where he could be shot.

He squats with his back against the wall, Yoru’s handle in his hands, as he considers his next move; he isn’t scared, he hasn’t been for so long he has all but forgotten the meaning of the word, but he has to admit it: the attack has caught him unaware, something no opponent has for decades. 

The assailant, whoever they are, has waited for Bogard to stand from his chair to shoot him through the window; was the Marine the actual target, or was that hit meant for Mihawk himself? Can he simply leave the hut and go his way now that the other man has been felled, or would his exit be met with a rain of bullets?

He has no idea. What he knows for certain, no matter how annoying it is to admit it privately, is that he has been trapped; he can’t remain in that tiny room forever, and while it has to be unpleasant to wait for him to come out under the pouring rain -there are no other buildings for almost three miles all around that might provide shelter to his assailant, only rolling hills surrounding the beach, scattered with spontaneous vegetation- Mihawk has to admit the shooter has forced him to a disadvantage. He has Yoru, as well as the Kogatana around his neck, and if only he had his assailant within reach he would gladly cut them in pieces so small not even their closest relatives would recognize them, but the shooter only needs to see the back of his skull peeking out of the window to put a bullet through him. He has never had any interest in firearms, he isn’t sure he has ever handled one, not considering the derringer (name) has put in his hand as a precaution on that full-moon night a year ago, but he can’t deny that having a gun or a rifle at hand right now could make things much easier…

Another clap of thunder; rain keeps falling, and in the rapidly diminishing light Mihawk can see a puddle of blood spread on the floorboards around Bogard’s body. Whether the man is still breathing, Mihawk can’t say; and at the moment he has more pressing matters to focus on. There has to be a way out, he reasons as he adjusts his grasp on the black sword’s hilt, after all the shooter has no way to kill him if he doesn’t approach the hut’s door or window, he only needs to be patient and wait for them to come closer, and once they have…

Purururu… purururu…

… once they have, he will have no mercy…

Purururu… purururu…

Mihawk blinks, for a moment unsure he has actually heard his Den Den Mushi ring, the sound almost imperceptible given the deafening roar of the storm outside, or he has imagined it; he retrieves the device from the inside of his coat, and discovers that yes, he has an incoming call. He is about to ignore it, hesitates for a moment, considers how absurd the hypothesis that has just come to his mind is and the fact that stranger things have happened between him and the person he suspects is calling, and in the end, with a sigh, brings the Den Den Mushi to his lips.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” 

A moment of -probably dumbfounded- silence follows. “How did you know?”

“A shot from maybe two miles away, visibility down to a minimum, and the bullet still perfectly hit its mark. Not many snipers around the world could have pulled it off, and you know no one has more faith in your abilities than me.”

He hears (name) laugh softly, but her tone has turned serious a moment later. “Is he dead?”

“Let me check.”

Mihawk returns Yoru to its place against the wall before walking to the man lying prone on the floor; his fingers pressed to the side of Bogard’s neck easily find a pulse.

“He’s alive.” he reports, and hears (name) swear softly.

“Alright.” she says, forced to raise her voice to make herself heard over the noise of the storm “Please don’t move, I’m coming.”

She quickly says goodbye before cutting the call. Apparently they will meet soon, even though not in the way he imagined; amused, Mihawk puts his Den Den Mushi back in the inside pocket of his coat, then he kneels and cautiously turns Bogard on his back. The man, whose unconsciousness Mihawk ascertains checking the movement of his eye, is still bleeding profusely, the front of his jacket soaked in blood; the bullet has exited his body, falling to the floor where the swordsman picks it up from a moment later. Mihawk remembers (name) has told him there exist firearms powerful enough that their bullets could pass a first victim through and still hit and injure a second, if they were sufficiently close. Nevertheless, he isn’t upset: two miles is not close range, and he knows his partner is knowledgeable enough when firearms are concerned not to put his life at risk. He has faith in her, in her strength and intelligence; he couldn’t have fallen in love with her otherwise.

A few minutes pass before the pounding at the door heralds (name)’s arrival. 

“It’s me.” the woman calls from the outside, as if afraid Mihawk could shoot or attack her if taken by surprise; she is panting, and unsurprisingly soaking wet when she takes off the hooded cape she wears, her beloved derringer hanging from her waist and a long rifle slung over her shoulder. She smiles at Mihawk, happy and relieved, and a moment later they are embracing each other, kissing avidly as they always do when they meet, no matter how short the separation has been. He savours the scent of her hair, and the soft femininity of the body in his arms, for a minute before stepping away.

“What has he done?” he asks; (name)’s smile slips away, the adoring, loving partner taking a step back in favour of the cold-blooded, when necessary merciless killer for hire she has been since she was a girl. (name) sighs, holding her partner’s hand in hers for a moment longer before walking to Bogard’s prone form. 

She doesn’t answer immediately, preferring to first check her victim’s pulse and then, for some reason, the wound on his arm. “Theon is dead.” she reveals in the end, without looking back “My cousin, you’ll remember him.”

Mihawk does; he has only met his partner’s cousin once and that was more than enough, since at the time he was already aware of the bastard’s crimes.

Mihawk himself doesn’t know the full story, an unsavoury memory his partner has begged him to never ask her about, but she did tell him that his cousin, who had always been jealous of (name)’s role as the island’s future ruler, had her infected with a powerful aphrodisiac, the effects uncontrollable to the point that the then young woman risked assaulting any man she would find on her path… and even dying, since the aphrodisiac was potentially lethal in case the urges of the person affected were not satisfied. 

Theon had always insisted his had been a prank, a friendly trick like it was normal to pull among cousins, and he had no idea of the danger he had put her in; he didn’t want her to die -really, I don’t!- and since (name) in the end had survived they could, he insisted, consider the matter closed. 

(name), anxious to leave that terrible experience behind her, had declined to challenge her cousin to a duel to the death as tradition dictated, but her and Theon’s relationship, already strained since they were barely more than children, never recovered; the lady Veressa, who had until then done her best to love Theon, her beloved younger brother’s only child, had also sided with her daughter, horrified by her nephew’s behaviour. Theon didn’t reside at the fortress with his cousin and aunt, but liked visiting when he was less expected, still hopeful to one day become the lord of the island.   

And now the man has died; Mihawk doesn’t need to ask what has happened. He remains silent as he approaches, observing (name) as she tries to revive the man, gently slapping his face. “Can you hear me? Bogard. Wake up.”

It takes him a while, but in the end the man’s eyes open; he seems to struggle to focus for a moment, but Mihawk sees relief, even joy, as Garp’s attendant recognizes the woman looming over him. Then, he notices the rifle hanging from her shoulder, and the even more dangerous expression in her eyes -the merciless, bitter determination of someone ready to do what they have to, even though they don’t necessarily agree with it.

They stare at each other for a long minute, the victim and his killer, the hunter and her prey.

“You.” Bogard murmurs in the end; Mihawk can see incredulity in his eyes, and heartbreak. Why?, he tries to ask, but all he can do is mouth the word, both his blood and life-force seeping out of his body.

“I had to; because of that.” she murmurs sadly as she points to the wound on his arm, deep and painful but only a scratch compared to the bullet that has gone through his heart “The man… the creature that bit you… he was a relative of mine. Not a person I loved, or I respected, and it was probably his carelessness that doomed him, but you killed him, and he had a wife who for some reason loved him and a son he will never see grow. I have to avenge him; I have to make it right. I really wish my first shot had killed you instantly, to spare you the pain. But you must be made of sterner stuff than most crooks I usually hunt down.”

The compliment doesn’t seem to please Bogard; the man seems… not terrified, Mihawk reflects, even though he’d have reason to be. Rather, what his face expresses, amid the excruciating pain he must be feeling, is repugnance, the sort of disgust one could feel after biting into an apple and finding a wiggling worm hidden in the pulp. 

“You’re one... of them.”

(name) nods, stoic despite her sadness; she is now kneeling next to the man to better read his lips, given the fact his voice is reduced to a whisper. “I am. It’s… well, I imagine it must have been terrifying for you, but in truth we are not…”

He spits on her, blood and saliva spurting out of Bogard’s lips and hitting (name) between her eyes; she winces, more out of surprise than pain or disgust, and quickly reaches out to stop Mihawk, who has just unsheathed the Kogatana. “No. Please.”

“No one can disrespect you in front of me and get away with it.”

“He’s already dying, Mihawk.”

“Then I’ll be doing him a kindness he doesn’t deserve.”

(name) sighs; she retrieves a handkerchief from her skirt’s pocket and carefully uses it to clean herself. She stands, rain dripping from the hem of her skirt, and turns to stare at Mihawk; for the first time since they have become partners, there is no love in her eyes, only the cold, dispassionate determination of a woman who only wants to close the matter and go on with her life - or at least try to.

“It’s up to me.” she says as she brings a hand to her belt and grabs the handle of her derringer; it is a statement, not a question, but Mihawk nods mutely in response and takes a step back while his partner aims at the same target as the bullet she has shot from two miles away a few minutes ago. He knows this will hit the mark as well.

“I’m sorry; I truly am.” (name) says as she and Bogard share a last look; outside the hut, the storm roars once more, the deafening crash of the tide on the beach covering the noise of the gunshot.

*****

(name)’s POV

You didn’t protest when Mihawk offered to carry the body for you, since dragging it for the three miles to the small bay behind the hills where you have hidden your ship would have required more time than you are willing to waste. Neither speaks as your partner follows you on the trek along the shoreline, the backwash quickly covering the footprints you leave behind; the storm has ceased, but the iron-grey sky feels looming, almost threatening, over your heads, ready to unleash another uproar of rain, wind and thundering.

You never thought you’d experience an affinity for the weather of all things, but that is exactly what you feel in your heart: chaos and destruction about to be unleashed, kept at bay by a composure that feels feebler by the minute.

“Leave it here, please.” you murmur when your partner follows you below deck, and Mihawk lays down the body he has carried with no apparent effort on his shoulder, the blood that has by now stopped flowing. He doesn’t ask, even if you know he’s curious -who wouldn’t be?- and it’s while he’s helping you put Bogard’s mortal remains in the large body-sack you have prepared and brought with you expressly for him, that you start talking, accurately avoiding asking yourself if you’re not making a grave mistake sharing a matter that only concerns your pack with a man who is not part of it.

After all, you did promise to keep no secrets from each other. After all, Mihawk knows you, and by extension the members of your family, are a werewolf already. After all, you simply need to share what you feel, pain and shame and frustration and even a modicum of guilt, unassuaged by the awareness that you had no choice.

“It happened two nights ago, during the full moon; Theon was with his wife, Sinead, and her brothers. They were on holiday, and had decided to spend the full moon night in the woods, miles away from the nearest town; they thought they’d be safe, with only animals and the stars witnessing their transformation, but they were wrong.” you start, shaking your head. You think about Theon, about his particular talent of belittling you even when apparently paying you a compliment, about how his idea of a prank was feeding you an aphrodisiac that could have led you to rape or be raped, about the fact he would have received the news of your death with a celebration, and without shedding a single tear. 

And then you think of all the times the two of you played together when you were very young, before the precedence order in the line of succession created a void that nothing short of a miracle could fill; of how he was one of the few blood relatives you had left, the closest after your mother; of his wife and child, who he loved and cared for, and who you’ll have to take care of now.

“From what I later learnt, Bogard was leading a small troop back from a reconnaissance mission in a nearby town; they crossed the woods to reach their ship, and stumbled across Theon and the others just as they turned. The Marines attacked, and my cousin had the others run while he faced them to buy his wife and the others some time; they were able to escape, but Theon… Theon wasn’t.”

You sigh, hiding a sob behind the hand you have quickly raised to your mouth. “I never wanted this, you know?” you ask, turning to Mihawk, your voice pleading, almost begging him to understand, and to believe you “There was no love lost between us, he couldn’t care less for me and I… it’s horrible to admit it but my life would have been much easier and quieter without him, but I never wanted… I never wished him…”

“I know, (name); I know.”

“I had to do this. Well, technically my mother had, since she’s the leader of our pack, but I’m younger, and an experienced killer, so… he and the others should have been more careful, but Theon deserved justice. I don’t blame the Marines for freaking out, but if only they had not reacted shooting… those four would have run away, this is what we are all taught to do if humans see us turn, and now Theon would still be alive and I wouldn’t have had to kill a man who never done anything wrong to me. I also thought about shifting and then attacking in my wolf form, it would have been appropriate…”

Tears start spilling through your fingers before you have time to rein yourself in; you know in your heart Mihawk won’t reproach you for your pain, but you also know how little patience he has for any show of weakness, and crying once in his presence, on the day you told him you could never give him the child you had both come to want, was enough. 

“I’m sorry…” you murmur, desperately searching for a part of your dress that is not already soaking wet so that you can dry your tears on it, but a moment later your partner’s equally drenched, but solid and welcoming, body is pressed against yours, his arms holding you by the waist as he kisses you on the forehead, sweet and understanding like only you had the chance to know him. 

“I’m sorry for your cousin.” he murmurs as one of his hands rises to caress your hair, the gentleness of the gesture enough to make you cry again “Well, honestly I’m not; but I hate to see you suffer.”

“Thank you. It’s weird; we weren’t close, and after what he did to me I would have gladly spent the rest of my life without meeting him again. But he was my cousin, my blood, and part of me can’t help wishing things had gone differently…”

Your partner doesn’t comment, simply holding and kissing you until your tears stop falling. He declines the offer of something warm to drink, as if rain wasn’t also dripping from his clothes, but follows you to your cabin and observes as you quickly change your dress, putting on an old but dry one you keep ready on the ship for occasions like this, even though you usually need to get rid of the blood of your victims staining your clothes, not to avoid catching pneumonia after a two-hours long stakeout.

“So your cousin bit Bogard; if it’s of any consolation, the wound on his arm pained him.”

“I’ll make sure to mention it to my cousin-in-law.” 

Having put on your dress, you’re about to take care of the laces on the back when you feel Mihawk approach, and then his elegant fingers reach for the two ends of the ribbon. 

“Allow me.” he murmurs, his deceptively soft voice, as velvet hiding a steel blade, caressing your skin; he gently moves your hair to the side, and a moment later you feel his mouth on the nape of your neck, his kiss devoted, only deceptively chaste. You sigh as the pain and sadness filling your heart recede for a moment, allowing you to savour the delicious, titillating pleasure of his closeness, a moment of pure peace and bliss in the worst day you have had since the one that saw you lose your father, and your chance to be a mother. “How did you know he had been the one to kill Theon? And where to find him?”

“We procured a register with the names and the pictures of all the Marines’ officers, and my cousin-in-law recognized him; I heard him report back to Garp about his latest mission and receive the orders to meet you here, but thank all the Gods Bogard told him the reason why he was late was not something he could discuss over the Den Den Mushi. Truth to be told, we have been very lucky, even though… well…”

Even though I wish I hadn’t had to kill a man I actually knew and had a good relationship with. It’s childish, and pointless, but you can’t help feeling sorry for it. All the men you killed, pirates like your father had been and criminals of various kinds, had families and friends, people who cared for them; because of you, there have surely been more than a few widows and widowers crying inconsolably, and children who would have gladly spent at least a day more with their parent. You have always known, not last because a few of those bereaved relatives have attempted to avenge their loved ones by killing you. Besides, you and Bogard weren’t friends, acquaintances at most, and even if you were, Theon was your cousin - a member of your pack, even though your relationship had never been friendly, let alone loving, and to punish his killer was your duty. 

All things considered, you’d have no reason, and no right, to cry for the man who now lies at your feet, bagged like a package of potatoes you have bought at the market, more dead than the wood floorboards under him. He was a soldier, and while he probably hadn’t expected to die today, he knew his was a dangerous job; and while you had come to hate Theon, after what he had done to you when you were only a girl, you know that the guilt of leaving his murder unpunished would have remained with you for the rest of your days.

Still, this is the first time you have had to kill a person you had known beforehand, and you can’t deny it is upsetting, enough to make you feel grateful that Mihawk is still busy fastening your dress, so that you don’t have to look him in the eyes. 

He doesn’t know Bogard had once asked you to dinner; you never told him, more because you never thought about mentioning it than because you made sure to keep it secret. It happened years before you and Mihawk became lovers; until then, your and Bogard’s relationship had consisted of brief greetings and the occasional small talk made as you waited to meet Garp, since he was naturally a taciturn man and you never thought you’d have much to chat about in any case. Apparently he thought differently, because one evening, as you departed from the HQ with your latest bounty safe in your pocket, already focused on the various duties that awaited you once you returned home, Bogard met you near the entrance, sword by his side.

I was wondering if you’d let me take you out to dinner. I know you’re a lover of fine dining, and there is a new restaurant in town I was thinking about trying.

A little impersonal, perhaps, but his gaze told you clearly he wanted more than a dinner companion for the evening, a hint of a hopeful smile on his mouth that you found yourself returning, highly surprised but flattered by that offer, extended by a man you would have never expected to be interested in you. Your first impulse was to accept, and why not? He was handsome, polite, capable of carrying out an intelligent conversation; you would have gladly let him treat you to dinner, and who knows, you might have also decided to invite him to your inn room later. 

On the other hand, no matter how stable and advantageous for both your collaboration with the Marines was, you knew mixing your personal and professional life could lead to trouble, on both sides. After all, since you were a girl you have made sure not to entertain relationships while on your island, because it would have been impossible to avoid your exes, with all the potential awkwardness and ill will that might arise; the same thing could happen if you dated a person you met regularly on the job - the ever-present assistant of your main interlocutor at that. You didn’t want to think Bogard would talk ill about you with Garp, or deliberately cause troubles for you if your relationship failed, but you weren’t willing to take the chance; moreover, you didn’t want the Marines to poke their noses in your personal affairs. 

It took you only a few seconds to decide that declining the offer was the safest, best option, even though it sincerely pained you; you did tell him you preferred to keep your personal and working relationships separate, not wanting him to think you were opposed to spending time with him socially. Bogard reacted like you expected him to, disappointed but respectful of your decision, and from that day on he never approached you again. 

That day you sincerely regretted having had to tell him no, but over the next few years you almost forgot that episode, especially after you and Mihawk had become lovers and you never had any reason to look at other men; now, by contrast, you can’t stop thinking about it, about him. Who knows what Bogard felt realising you had killed him, you wonder as you feel Mihawk take a step back, the absence of his touch as welcome as the disappearance of your only blanket on a freezing winter night; he obviously wasn’t happy -like all those among your victims who actually got to see you, derringer in your hand and a satisfied smile on your lips, instead of being killed by a bullet shot from a distance, coming like the judgement of the Gods for their crimes- but there was no fear in him, no request for mercy, no regret for what he had done to deserve that bitter fate. 

As he stared at the open end of the barrel of your gun, from where a second bullet would soon erupt killing him, was he remembering the night he asked you out? The feelings he had once had for you? Did this, knowing he was being murdered by a person he had once been fond of, make things more painful for him? Or was it irrelevant, since he knew at that point he had no way to survive, and dying by your hand or by that of a stranger made no substantial difference?

You’re one of them, Bogard told you, despite the pain and confusion having correctly guessed -you knew he was clever- that you belonged to the same race as the man he had killed, and who you had described as your cousin. The look of horror and disgust on his face as you prepared to finish him is something you know you won’t forget any time soon; you can’t blame him for it, since the wolf Theon had shifted into had killed five of Bogard’s comrades, but seeing so much hate and repugnance in the face of a man you had once respected did hurt. You wish you had time to explain, to tell him you didn’t blame him for what he had done, since it had been a stroke of bad luck that had led him and his men to stumble upon your cousin and the others and anyone would have felt the need to defend themselves when facing four seven-feet-long beasts, and that you were sorry, so very sorry, you had to do this. You couldn’t, because he spit on you before you could find the words, a projectile less deadly than yours but that accurately expressed what he thought and felt about you at the moment.

You couldn’t blame him for it; you probably deserved worse. But it hurt. 

“Is everything ok?” Mihawk murmurs, and you turn to look at him, doing your best to smile. 

“Well, I had better moments; but I’m… I’ll be fine, unlike my cousin. Hope you don’t mind if I waited for him to be with you to shoot; I tried to aim as he crossed the beach towards the hut, but the wind was against me and I might not have had the time to shoot twice.”

“As I said, I know how capable you are with a gun. I guess you had to wait for him to stand in order to get the shot.”

“Exactly. I might have tried shooting as he sat in front of you, but there was a risk that the bullet may pass through him and hit you.”

Your partner doesn’t even blink at hearing how dangerously close he was at being hit by a bullet meant for another man; maybe he does trust you completely, or he has simply seen and done enough throughout his career as a pirate to make him indifferent to mortal danger in any form. You appreciate it anyway.

“I was going to call you, you know.” Mihawk points out a moment later “This morning, just when Garp called me.”

You smile, immediately happy to know he had been thinking about you even though you’ve been together for years. You’ll never get used to being loved by Mihawk; no sensation in the world can compare. 

“Did you have something important to tell me or you simply missed me?” you ask, a hint of mischievousness in your eyes, as you let your fingers brush against his naked chest, a promise for what is to come as soon as you’ll have the time; Mihawk smiles, but you could swear there is a hint of indecisiveness in his golden eyes before he answers.

“Both of them, truth to be told. (name)... this man was here on Garp’s orders. He’s gonna start wondering why his lapdog hasn’t returned to base yet.”

“Right…”

You sigh, instantly brought back to the still dramatic, and highly dangerous, situation you’re in; your victim may be dead, but the most difficult part of your mission begins now.

“So Garp sent him to talk to you? About what?”

“He had a mission for me; some small-time captain he wanted me to dispatch. I can tell Garp his man never arrived, but I doubt that’ll be enough to appease him.”

Unfortunately your partner is right; not only the Marines have the unpleasant habit of investigating thoroughly every time an office of theirs goes AWOL, but the Vice Admiral was rather fond of his attendant, who he had worked with -he told you once- for more than a decade and a half; you’d be ready to bet Garp will move heaven and earth to find out what happened to him. Not only do you need to make Bogard’s remains disappear; you also need to find a way to make it impossible for the Marines, and their most famous officer especially, to trace the killing back to you.

Mihawk takes both of your hands in his. “Let me help you.” he murmurs, as if he had perceived your indecisiveness; he might have, given everything you’ve been through together and how you have learned to read each other’s thoughts and emotions without the need for words, and you love him for it, just as you still shake your hand in response.

“I need to take care of this on my own; it’s a matter that concerns a member of my pack, and as much as I disliked him, I owe it to Theon.”

“As you wish.” Mihawk acquiesces; a moment later he frowns. “Wait a moment… you said you heard him report to Garp? Did you…?”

“... hack into the Marines HQ’s Den Den Mushi system? I did, a few years back.” you confirm with a small smile “Garp’s line, specifically; I mainly use it to keep myself up to date on the bounties they issue, so that I can get to work before the Marines call another bounty hunter, but today I checked his communications with Bogard. They haven’t spoken in the last six hours and he travelled alone, so it shouldn’t be too hard to pretend something happened to him before he reached the island. Can you pretend you never saw him arrive? Maybe wait here for a little while more and then call Garp to ask why you’re still waiting for his man to come?”

Your partner assures you he’ll be happy to lie, especially for you, especially to the Marines. “You need to go soon, I gather.”

“As soon as I can. I wanted to wait until nightfall, in case I meet a Marines vessel and they stop me for a routine inspection, but the sooner I arrive at home the better.” you explain unhappily “Believe me, the last thing I want is to kick you out, but I need to go.”

“I understand. May I at least kiss you again before I leave?”

You obviously let him, circling your partner’s ample shoulders with your arms as your mouths chase after each other, your kisses multiplying, and this is probably the least appropriate moment for you to get aroused, but you do, and how could you not, almost three whole weeks after you last saw each other, Mihawk’s firm body pressed against yours and his hand that runs up and down the leg you have lifted against his hip. You could make love to him right here, right now, against the wall or on the floor, near the bodysack; creepy, perhaps, but neither of you is the sort of person who cares about such trifling matters. 

You’d like that; but you can’t, not now that you have a dead Marine officer on your hands and are well aware of the potential consequences should you be discovered; no matter how sincerely good your relationship with Garp is, you doubt he would forgive you for killing his right-hand man.

Only you, Theon; you plagued my existence when you were alive, and now that you’re dead you could still get me into trouble. I’m sure you would appreciate it.

You keep insulting your cousin in your head as you accompany Mihawk on the deck, where you are forced to say good-bye; your partner asks you to call him once you have arrived home, and you promise, comforted by the knowledge that he’ll be thinking about you. A minute later, the two of you have pushed your ship into the water, the wind already filling its sails. The rain has stopped falling, you notice, and a vague mist permeates the air under a still iron-grey sky; you wish that break would last until you reach your destination, since your well-made but small ship will have to cross a particularly treacherous stretch of sea, but you know better than to expect a stroke of luck when you need it the most.

“What’s the name of the pirate Garp sent Bogard to ask you to take care of?” you wonder; who knows, you might find a way to incriminate them for your victim’s death, even though you still don’t know how. 

“Jack Bontemps; he apparently has taken over a small island in the Goya archipelago and Garp wanted me to vanquish him and his crew.”

“Oh, right; I heard about this man… I was thinking about going for him myself.”

“I think you’d have been perfect.” Mihawk murmurs, amused for some reason; he kisses you once again before stepping down, his gaze turning towards the vast expanse of the sea “You have a favourable wind; you should reach your island before midnight.”

“That’s the plan. I… I’m sorry we don’t have more time.” 

“It’s not your fault.” Mihawk points out softly; when he takes a step back, it’s like a tether linking the two of you broke, making you feel more lonely than ever even though you’re still face to face “Travel safe, my love.”

You send him a kiss on the tip of your fingers, and a minute later the wind is pushing your ship away from the beach; you remain on deck as long as you safely can before needing to take the helm, observing the solitary figure of your partner walking back towards the hut.