#when I work on this instead of my assignments

[tallaennatargaryen]

Wife Speak

Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: You asked Bucky to install the security camera a month ago, and he still hasn’t done it. You take matters into your own hands, to his vexation.

Warnings: Bucky's been too busy to do what you asked, you put yourself in slight peril, worried!Bucky, gentle manhandling, protective!Bucky, mention of previous injury, my own lack of construction know-how so I apologize for any inaccuracies, no use of Y/N

This is my first time writing in second person so hopefully I did okay! This was inspired by this short I saw on YouTube.

You were good at a lot of things. The team’s go-to “girl in the chair,” there was no one better at intel, strategy, quick escape plans, and getting into just about any system you were presented with. You’d had the Avengers’ lives in your hands countless times, and never led them to put a foot wrong. Somehow, you, a girl with just a bachelor’s degree, a–perhaps excessive–perfectionist streak, and a mini fridge full of energy drinks to help you stay sharp on overnight missions, had become indispensable to the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

But you couldn’t install a security camera above your front door.

As smart as you were, you were probably equally as uncoordinated. All the bruises in odd places told the tale of your frequent misfortune. Walking by itself often presented a perilous challenge, so standing on a ladder, balancing precariously with expensive equipment and sharp objects in your hands seemed like a perfect recipe for a trip to the ER and a costly bill for tech replacements.

Which was why you’d asked your husband, a super soldier with a metal arm and a keen eye for home repairs, to do it.

A month ago.

And three weeks ago.

And two weeks ago.

And last week.

You were tired of waiting. Bucky, of course, was busy, and often away on missions, but you only ever asked him to do it when he had a moment to spare. He’d said he would, every time you’d asked, but there was still no camera above your front door. On top of it all, the camera had been Bucky’s idea, a little extra security for when he was away on missions; it was one of Stark’s smart cameras, which could differentiate between a mailman dropping off a package and a criminal about to break into the house. Bucky didn’t exactly know how all of that worked, but he was good with the installation, and you both knew better than to assign the job to you. But the camera had sat there for a month, collecting dust on the dining room table, and despite all his promises, you knew it was time to take matters into your own hands.

And maybe get a little payback while you were at it.

It was a warm spring day, and the front door was open to let the breeze in but the screen door was in place to keep the bugs out. Bucky was in the kitchen, making lunch, so he’d be able to hear everything easily, between his proximity, the open door, and his enhanced hearing. Smirking to yourself, you set up the ladder as quietly as possible, knowing that that alone would tip Bucky off and make him come rushing out before you were ready. If this was going to get done today, you needed to execute the full plan.

Picking up the electric drill and the mount for the camera, you put one foot up on the ladder, and held down the trigger of the drill for a few seconds, causing a loud whirring sound to tear through the quiet midday air. Just as you took another step up and held down the trigger again, Bucky’s voice carried out from the kitchen.

“Doll?” he questioned, and it took everything in you not to laugh. You gave no answer, instead only whirring the drill once more as you climbed to the top of the ladder. “What are you doing?”

You might have felt bad about the panic and concern in his voice, but if he’d done this a month ago when you’d asked, you wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to have it be done. Natasha had called it wife speak, when women use their sly little tricks to get their husbands to do what they need to. She used it with Banner, Pepper used it with Tony, Wanda used it with Vision; it was a universal language amongst women when requests and orders just weren’t cutting it.

Holding the mount up against the wall, you furrowed your brow in concentration as you tried to figure out how to hold the mount, place the screw, and drill it in all at the same time with only two hands. Judging by the purposeful footsteps pounding towards the front door, you knew you wouldn’t have to keep trying to figure it out for long. Still, you kept up the ruse, because he needed to think you were serious about doing it yourself if he was going to get it done right this minute.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Bucky asked, voice raising with alarm as he found you balancing precariously on top of the small ladder. Paying him no mind, you decided to just wing it and put the drill into the head of the screw, pulling the trigger to send the screw spinning into the wall. For extra effect, you added a little wobble, just enough to make Bucky worry more but not so much that your uncoordinated self would actually fall. “Honey! Stop! What are you doing?”

“What?” you responded innocently, still not turning around. “I’m putting up the camera.”

“Why?” His hands grasped at your waist, but you pushed him away as you continued your ruse and placed the next screw.

“Because it needs to go up?” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, because it was, hello, and you’d asked him to do it so many times. Once more, you placed the drill into the screw head and let it rip, watching it spin into place. Maybe you could do it yourself. Maybe impatience was all it took to overcome your incoordination. 

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby.” Bucky’s hands were on your waist again, this time with a firmer grip so you couldn’t brush him off so easily. “Come off the ladder.”

“It needs to go up, Bucky,” you insisted, milking your moment of acting for all it was worth.

“I know, so I’ll do it, okay? Just please, come off the ladder.”

“I’ve asked you a million times over the last month to do it and you still haven’t, so I’m gonna do it and then I’ll know it's done.”

The drill was slightly stuck in the screw head once it was screwed all the way in. You gave it a tug, and the force of it combined with the resistance of the drill to come loose caused you to tip backwards slightly; for a moment, you thought you might fall, but you regained your balance after a second or two. Still, it was a second or two too long for Bucky, who’d had enough of asking nicely and being patient. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, using his strength and his grip on your waist to lift you off the ladder and set you on the wooden boards of the porch like you were little more than a doll. You almost grinned at the move, as being on the receiving end of his enhanced strength and fierce protectiveness always made your stomach do somersaults. By the time he spun you around to face him though, you had regained your self-control and regarded him with a displeased scowl. “What are you doing, huh, doll? You know I don’t like you up on that thing.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huffed, “Well, someone has to put the camera up, since you’ve proven yourself incapable.” You turned to step back onto the ladder, but Bucky grasped your arm gently and pulled you to him, maneuvering at the same time to take the drill and the remaining screws from you. You resisted, but even when he was diluting his strength, you couldn’t hope to best him, so instead you started to complain, “Bucky-”

“I know, doll, I know,” he said, voice soft as he pried the drill and screws out of your hands. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and then your nose for extra contrition. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done it when you asked me to, but I’ll do it right now, okay? Just…please stay off the ladder?”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m a girl?”

Bucky chuckled in amusement, his free hand rising to cup your cheek and pull you closer so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips. You melted against him instantly, as you always did, because Bucky always kissed you like he was trying to transfer his heart from his body to yours, deeply and wholly and with every ounce of love that he had. After a moment, he pulled away, though he kept his nose touching yours as his twinkling eyes gazed at you adoringly. “It’s not because you’re a girl, it’s because it’s you, doll. The last time I trusted you with a drill and screws, you drilled your sleeve into the wall and broke your finger trying to pull it free.”

Nose scrunching and lips pouting, you did your best to fight off a smile, trying to lay it on just a little thicker to make sure you would get what you wanted. “Promise you’ll do it right now?”

“Pinky promise.” Bucky held up his pinky finger between you, and you locked yours around it. “You can stay and watch if you want, just to be sure. I think you’ll like the view.”

Rolling your eyes, you gave him another quick peck before stepping back and nodding for him to climb up the ladder. Once his back was turned and he was on the top step, your mischievous smirk returned in full force, not only because of your triumph, but because you really did like the view.

[retiredteabag]

Sukuna culinary school au

masterlist

The band of misfits that you would find in the Culinary Arts department consists of high school dropouts, older returning students, and raging alcoholics. It was not difficult to be at the top of the class when the majority of your peers were unable to assist their children with math homework, but there was one person who was in nearly every one of your classes who always received higher ranks than you did on practical exams.

He looked just about as raggedy as everyone else, if he wasn't such a star in the kitchen, you would guess that culinary was a last resort for him just like it was for the majority of your peers.

He had a long frame pressed tight to his chefs' jacket, his sleeves were always rolled up, tattoos covered his forearms and just above the collar of his jacket, black lines peeked out. Tufts of spiky hair poked below his white pillbox chef hat.

"Ryomen, dammit, I told you to quit wearing t-shirts under your uniform!" The chef yelled from the corner of the kitchen, everyone looked up from their stations to laugh at the man.

"Chef..." Sukuna pulled a scandalized look and set his santoku on a cutting board. "Respectfully, I don't need you checking me out through my white coat." He brought his gloved palms to cover his pecs.

Guffaws.

The Chef circled around behind the tables and smacked the man on the back of the head. "And we're all grateful you cover up," The older professor rolls his eyes, "but no patterns under the uniform, hear me?" He looked around the kitchen.

A chorus of 'Yes, chef' came from every station.

"Plain undershirts, yes?"

The chorus of responses echoed back.

"Good." Before he heads to his office to look at photos of students shitty knife cuts, he faces Sukuna. "I'm taking points off your daily grade."

Sukuna tugs at the collar of his jacket.

You mix your crème anglaise on the stovetop.

--

Daily grades account for 60% of the final grade, which means that homework, tests, and presentations made up for very little.

You lost points from your daily grade for all sorts of witless, subjective reasons. Your participation was lacking? Subtraction. Your attitude wasn't respectable? Subtraction. Part of your uniform or knife kit was missing? A point for every item. You had a piece of jewelry in a piercing? Huge subtraction. Worst of all? If you were late, you were in for some serious public humiliation.

The tank your grade would take, even if you missed so much as one class, could only be made up by coming to the kitchens to help out in other classes. And with everyone working full time, a bunch of students being parents, and the commute to take into account-who had the time?

Here's the truth: you love food, you love to eat, and you love cooking. It was a huge passion of yours. Even considering this, when you weigh your skills to your classmates, you weren't all that great.

You did everything right, you followed the Chefs to a t, memorized every recipe, and read every textbook handed to you. But for some reason, your food just wasn't as good as you thought it should be. It wasn't as good as the stuff that was fed to you.

Baking was more your speed. Instead of recipes, you had formulas, very specific and hard to mess up. You thrived there! But when it came to cooking, no matter how much effort you put in, the Chef would simply hum and set your dish aside.

You never scored below a 90 on any assignment. Servsafe? No problem. But for some reason, your kitchen work was just never praiseworthy.

Don't get me wrong. You were a great cook, all your friends said so. But when compared to your classmates, your dishes were just...decent.

Ryomen Sukuna had the opposite issue. He never even looked at the recipe, he hadn't cracked open a single book, cooking or otherwise, since god knows when, and he hardly paid attention in lectures. He flunked his ServSafe the first time he took it and had trouble with even the most basic of assignments handed to him.

And this was culinary school, all the assignments were painfully simple.

But something about his food...It was undeniable, he had a gift that couldn't be taught.

--

Your parents had practically disowned you when they heard the words, "Culinary Arts" escape your lips. First, though, they laughed.

Surely you were joking. You? With the perfect test scores and college credits? You? With an acceptance to any and every school you could dream of attending. You? With "too bright a future" to waste yourself in that slag heap of a school.

Sukuna, ever your foil, had a family that was just proud he decided to further his education at all. It didn't matter what he did, as long as he was taking care of himself, they were happy.

You weren't jealous of the guy, please, he couldn't figure out a baker's scale, but when he routinely got top marks for his practicals with no practice, when guests at the school's restaurant praised him like a god, when he could whip up something just about anyone would fight for in just twenty minutes? You could say you were a bit...bitter.

It didn't help that he never seemed to care. The guy worried about nothing, how he was perceived, how his actions might affect him, or how his words might get him in trouble. One would imagine him a mess, and maybe there was something uncouth about the way he would slink into the classroom with his chefs' coat unbuttoned, the way he would brush his hair back before hiding it under his hat, the way he would spread himself out at a desk while taking a written exam. Glasses on with a palm to his forehead.

He never seemed fully prepared. But he wasn't unclean. You guess that's to be expected from the Chef De Partie of a locally famous dinner spot. His station was organized, he had his mise en place in order, and he never left dishes in the sink.

So what bothered you so much about him?

He didn't have to try. It came so easily to him. He wasn't just a natural talent; he had passion, and even if he turned assignments in late or got information wrong in the classroom, his food spoke for itself. He was respected for it.

He was content to be the best. Even if he couldn't answer a single question asked of him, even if he forgot basic conversions everyone else knew, and even if he struggled to retain exam prep. He knew food like no other. So nobody could look down on him.

--

You were sat in the break room between classes, laptop open, filing through the Google Slides nobody in your group had even touched. This was the same situation you had found yourself in all this week; nobody in your nutrition group could be trusted to pull their weight for an assignment, even if the importance of the presentation was rehashed every other day.

You know what that means: you were pulling the weight for them.

It wasn't fun eating a pack of spearmint gum for lunch three days in a row, but since you didn't have a class that ran through mid-meal this semester, you found yourself working on assignments before your afternoon lecture.

One of your classmates had joined you briefly to "look for ingredients in the dry storage." All while you ranted to her about the ratio of emails to responses you had from your nutrition group.

"Eh, fuck 'em." She shrugged, checking the clock above you, "Chef will be able to tell who put the work in and grade accordingly."

You knew she was right... it was just the principal.

"Hey, have you eaten?" She seems concerned for a moment, as if she's realized you hadn't anything with you. Waggling the sticks of gum you have left at her, she scoffs.

"There's something deeply ascetic about living off sorbitol in culinary school." You chain-smoke the last piece, using the wrapper to trash the one you were just chewing. She makes a disturbed face at you.

"You need serious help." She checks the clock one more time before waving you off, heading back to the garde manger kitchen.

You're looking over your notes again, trying to prepare yourself for this stupid presentation. You've got a headache, maybe it's the artificial sweetener, maybe it's the fact that you've missed a few too many lunches, but you almost miss him when he enters the break room.

You can't exactly miss the plate of hors d'oeuvres and canapés that are slid across the table where your gum wrappers lie.

"How are you planning to become a chef if you don't make time to feed yourself."

Sukuna is unusually tall in that moment; he's never been in such a state so close within your reach. You shift your eyes between him and the plate he's brought in.

You're quiet for a moment. "Are these for me?"

"No, they're for the other person here." He rolls his eyes, and you don't need to check that the two of you are alone.

Classic mom, your friend had gone and told everyone in her class that you hadn't eaten lunch. Looking at the food before you, you're not going to pretend you mind when you have all these little goodies.

"Just come down if you're hungry, we've got plenty of food." Sukuna is just about to round out of the room, his tufts of hair sticking out under his hat, his sharp tattoos licking up the back of his neck just thereunder.

The door has almost shut by the time you speak your thanks.

It only takes a couple of bites of the delicacies for you to be able to tell that the food was not prepared by some novice student. They were Sukunas. And he had brought them for you.

Your headache is gone, but now your brain is wrestling with the idea of the effortless talent himself being thoughtful.

[katnipp]

hello hello!! i have a request 🫩🫩 could u nake a fic about popularcheerleader yoonchae with lowkey nerd/geek reader, both of them get assigned on a oroject and yoonchae is very curious abour reader cause shed never really heard of her(theyve had many classes together) but readers disant and makes sure not to talk alot cause shes not trying to get bullied by yoonchaes friends, time goed by and they both notice that they arent as bad as they thought anf they both like eschother anf then boom they r together

according to the rubric, we’re in love— jeong yoonchae

genre: FLUFFFF

synopsis: she kept her head down. yoonchae never looked her way—until they were forced to work together. now she’s the only one yoonchae sees

—

yoonchae had never really noticed y/n before.

okay, that wasn’t entirely true. y/n sat three rows in front of her in chemistry, and two seats to the left in english. she was always there, quiet and scribbling notes with her head down, half-hidden behind oversized hoodies and thick-rimmed glasses. but she’d never heard her voice. not once. not until now.

“uh… we’re partners?” y/n asked, voice so quiet it almost got lost in the shuffle of students moving around them.

yoonchae blinked, caught off guard. “yeah. looks like it.”

y/n nodded, clutching a notebook to her chest like some kind of shield. “okay. um… cool.”

and just like that, she turned and walked back to her seat without another word.

yoonchae stared after her, a little confused, a little intrigued.

huh.

⸻

yoonchae wasn’t clueless. she knew how people saw her: cheer captain, effortlessly social, always surrounded by friends who talked more about lip gloss than books. she was used to being liked—or at least noticed—in every room she walked into.

but y/n didn’t look at her like that.

y/n barely looked at her at all.

and that? for some reason, yoonchae couldn’t stop thinking about it.

⸻

the next day, she slid into the chair beside y/n at the library and tapped her pen against the table.

“so,” she said casually, “you like star wars?”

y/n blinked up at her. “…what?”

yoonchae pointed at the small, worn patch on y/n’s backpack. “that’s the jedi symbol, right?”

y/n hesitated. “…you know what the jedi symbol looks like?”

yoonchae grinned. “my brother’s obsessed. i know more than i want to.”

y/n looked down at her notebook again. “oh. cool.”

silence settled over the table, a little awkward. but not uncomfortable. not completely.

⸻

yoonchae could tell y/n didn’t trust her. not really. she caught the way y/n’s eyes flicked toward her friends when they passed by. the way she tensed when loud laughter filled the halls. like she was waiting to be the punchline.

but she wasn’t going to be. not with yoonchae.

and besides—y/n was kind of… interesting. she was smart, for one thing. really smart. and even though she barely spoke during class, whenever she did say something, it was quick and sharp and kind of funny.

and she always smelled like spearmint gum and vanilla shampoo. which—yoonchae had no idea why she noticed that, but she did.

⸻

project meetings slowly turned into something else. first library sessions. then sitting together at lunch—far from yoonchae’s usual table, tucked into the back corner of the cafeteria like a secret. just the two of them.

they didn’t talk about the project much anymore.

instead, they talked about movies, space, comics, and why yoonchae’s favorite k-drama had a totally unrealistic ending. y/n would argue, soft but firm, and yoonchae would pretend to be offended just to get her to roll her eyes.

she liked that.

she liked her.

⸻

“you’re not what i expected,” y/n said one afternoon, half-buried in her hoodie, eyes flicking to yoonchae’s and then back to her fries.

yoonchae tilted her head. “what’d you expect?”

“someone mean,” y/n said after a pause. “someone who’d call me weird behind my back.”

yoonchae’s smile faltered. “do you think i would?”

“not anymore.”

“i’m sorry,” yoonchae said gently. “if my friends ever said anything—”

“it’s okay,” y/n said quickly. “they don’t know me.”

yoonchae reached across the table and nudged her pinky against y/n’s. “well… i do.”

⸻

she brought y/n a slushie at the game that friday. didn’t even ask, just handed it over with a grin and plopped down beside her on the bleachers.

y/n was typing something on her laptop. she accepted the drink with a quiet “thanks” and a smile that made yoonchae’s chest feel weirdly warm.

they watched the game in silence, knees barely touching. yoonchae kept sneaking glances, trying not to grin every time y/n’s brows furrowed at her screen.

“hey,” she said finally, leaning in just a little. “you’re kinda cute when you smile.”

y/n almost dropped her slushie. “wh-what?”

“you heard me,” yoonchae said, biting her lip, clearly amused. “i am flirting.”

y/n’s face went red.

yoonchae thought it was the best thing she’d ever seen.

⸻

the project was finished a week early. but they kept meeting up anyway. library after school. quick chats between classes. texts that started as reminders and turned into late-night convos about favorite books, stupid hypotheticals, and why yoonchae’s cat definitely hated her.

one day, yoonchae caught y/n by her locker. her hair was a little messy. her hands fidgety. but her eyes were steady.

“so,” she said, “we’re not working together anymore. but maybe we still could? i mean… hang out. just us. not for school.”

y/n blinked. “like a date?”

“yeah,” yoonchae said, voice softer now. “like a date.”

y/n hesitated, then smiled. “okay.”

and just like that, the cheerleader and the nerd

—

the girl who had everything and the girl who hid in corners—

fell into something real.

and this time, yoonchae really noticed her.

because how could she not?

—

a/n: SORRY IF ITS SHORTER THAN USUAL☹️

[alexanderlightweight]

For writing Wednesday:

I know you only just posted the first part an hour ago, but maybe malec meeting and bonding in your new sentinel/guide au? Or magnus reacting to alec's childhood in the new sentinel/guide au. I really liked the first part and I'm weirdly fond of sentinel/guide AUs.

If you don't want to write any more sentinel/guide stuff, maybe something about how Alec growing up in the New York Institute made him weirdly connected to the wards or angelic core.

Your writing is a major highlight of my week! Please make sure to get some proper rest and dring lots of water!

Either nsfw or sfw is good

no you're good! I ended up having a flareup last night that hit pretty bad. I took my meds and got through it but I couldn't think straight so I'm finishing now, today lol there's a piece that goes before this here because you are not the only one who asked for more! and I love sentinel/guide au's so like, I definitely get being weirdly fond since i'm extremely weirdly into the trope.

thank you! I am definitely working to hydrate and drink water not just tea today! I hope you hydrate as well and have a good day and everyone who reads this! drink and rest <3

i hope you enjoy <3 lumine

currency of fate

Magnus frowns at the way his magic is tugging frantically at his levels, trying to beg for more magic yet he refuses. Recognizing exactly which one of his many wards are currently running out and unwilling to assign more of his magic to shadowhunters.

Fifteen minutes later, Magnus catches a fire message out of the air and when he goes to ignore it, Cahya’s growl deters him.

There’s a moment where Magnus meets eyes the same blue as his magic and then he rereads the message carefully. 

“You want us to go there, despite insisting we ignore everything to do with the Institute for almost two decades?”

Cahya growls, a stubborn note to the rumble.

“Then off we shall go.” Magnus steps into his closet to change and instead, his clothes are magically swapped. Cahya is unrepentant as they impatiently nudge Magnus and well, they have impeccable taste and are unwilling to wait.

Magnus’ outfit is dark, elegant and deadly.  It’s a statement piece of power and wealth and Magnus wears it with ease as he summons a portal and appears just outside the Institute doors. It’s with a sigh that he straightens his back and lets a smirk grow across his mouth.

The doors don’t open until Magnus flares his magic but there’s no one on the other side, in fact it isn’t until he’s already down the corridor that he hears voices at all. 

“Sentinel Bane!” There’s a call of recognition as a shadowhunter with dark, shoulder length twists greets him.  He’s clearly worried even as he nods to Magnus, politely refraining from offering his hand. 

“There’s a problem with the power levels of the wards, correct?” Magnus doesn’t want to waste time, he wants to get to the bottom of the issue so he can hunt down whatever is causing the restlessness in his soul to wake up.

“No, the wards are a problem but the real problem is Alec and his guide abilities and how the wards are isolating him.”

“What?” Magnus needs to be certain he heard that correctly. 

“Alec Lightwood, the Head and Commander, he’s a guide. We can’t get anyone close to him and the wards are shutting down in a pattern that’s locking us in our Institute but away from him. Medical can’t reach him and everyone who got past the wards before lockdown started are already unconscious from Alec’s abilities.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

None of it.

Magnus would have known if there was a nephilim guide on his territory, he couldn’t have been hidden under Magnus’ own wards. There is no reason for his own magic to betray him so intimately. There’s a slim chance the guide recently came online, or is visiting from Idris, but Magnus still should have been able to feel or at least notice them.

“Why wasn’t his pride called?”

“He doesn’t have one. I can’t tell you why, it’s classified and I don’t personally know.” The implication is he’d tell Magnus if he did know is not unappreciated.  “They said restraining and healing magic are our best hope and as local Archon, you shouldn’t be overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed?”

“He’s powerful and the sentinel who caused this had been decently powerful. The Clave sent him through from Idris but he was sent back catatonic before the wards started to rampage.”

Cahya growls and flicks their round ears before knocking a large paw into Magnus’ calf followed by a hurried snap of their teeth in the air. Impatience suddenly sharp as the frost beading on their silver fur.

“Oh.”

There would be a reason, and not one that could be considered a betrayal. In fact it explains why Magnus magic is so desperately trying to sequester the guide, to hide him away from intruders or other sentinels.

Sentinel’s who aren’t Magnus if what Magnus thinks is right.

Magnus portals through the shuddering and quickly closing wards.  

They are locking in on themselves, just as the nephilim at the entry said. The fragmented magic was running out of power and it latched on the angelic core like a leech. Layering shields around the shadowhunter guide, his surroundings and finally the very Institute.

—

Alec tries to forget the rage trembling through his body, tries to clear his mind and ignore the fact that the Clave is pushing their agenda on him. There’s a strange noise that the wards don’t react to and a presence Alec doesn’t recognize is suddenly in the same space as him.

Alec’s mind reacts first and yet instead of a foreign intrusion, he’s met with nothing but familiar comfort and his mind unravels, reaching out to pool against the stronger power. It’s slightly different from what already guards his mind, but it’s too familiar for Alec to be thwarted.

It’s exactly what he needs after the slick, disgusting feeling of someone else's mind trying to influence his own from earlier.

“Oh darling, do you even know what you’re asking for?”

The voice is rich and makes Alec feel like he can do or ask for anything. It also doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know the words for what he wants, when he knows instinctively it’s what he needs.

“I’ll settle you enough to get you out of here. Then I’ll bond you properly.” 

—-

Magnus' mind luxuriates in the feel of rich, raw energy nestling against him and his senses instantly calm. Layers upon layers of Alec... Alexander's mind wraps around him in protective defense. The restlessness is purged, instead being replaced by urgency.

Magnus frowns as his guide growls, clearly displeased by the suggestion and the fact that Magnus isn’t yet touching him.  However, the last thing Magnus wants to do is bond to his guide in an unfamiliar and dangerous location, no matter that his magic is wreathed about the Institute.

The euphoria of being right, of having his guide here and now and already begging to be his — as if he hasn’t always been. Considering that Magnus can already feel the reciprocal energy of shields on his boy’s mind and doubts Alexander’s ever been anything but his.

Magnus knows that with his own tendency to go feral and the way Alexander’s rage coils like veins of lava bubbling beneath the surface that he should go for the kind of bond that will stabilize them. However Magnus has always been accused of being ‘too much’ and perhaps, he wants to prove people right.

In his own special way, of course.

After all, it’s a gift from Magnus, a choice that he’s making, to ensure someone else is correct for once.

So as much as Magnus wants to fuck Alexander through the Institute’s floor and sear their bond into existence and would be happy to do so. He also doesn’t want to share a single moment of their bonding euphoria with any shadowhunter beyond the one that’s his.

“I’m going to leave a note and then I’ll take you somewhere we can bond.”

Alexander grumbles at the delay, his familiar echoing displeasure and then a sharp-toothed maw and soft muzzle nudge Magnus’ fingers as if in acceptance.

Which is sweet, because no how much Magnus wants to sink his senses into Alexander here and now, he can’t with the knowledge and sense input of all the enemies around him.

AN:

typically sentinel/guides kind of project emotions when bonding etc and Magnus doesn't want to share that sensation. he could share it with his own pride as like a morale boost but he might not ever share that.

Alec is dissociating right now because after another year of ignoring attempts, the Clave sent one of the sentinels who work more directly under their influence to uh... seduce him. It didn't work and Alec's mad and the wards had a panic because they don't want to risk losing Alec for Magnus' sake and Alec's safety.

i'll get more into descriptions later, Cahya is ice natured as a representation of Magnus' future guide and Jayr is fire natured for the same reason

[packyanderson]

Conversely, I remember when I took a Technical Writing class in college. I had already been working as a software developer for five or six years by that point (going to college at night) and I had had my fill of bad technical writing; I was prepared to learn how to do it well. Unfortunately, the professor (the chair of the English Department no less!) had different ideas. Whenever I turned in an assignment, it would come back with a B and the note "Would have been an A, but was too entertaining".

I went back and forth with the professor on this: she insisted that people didn't read technical writing to be entertained, they read it because they needed the information, so it needed to be "dry and strictly informative." My counterargument was that if the writing couldn't hold the reader's interest, they would go without the information and just make something up instead. Coming purely from academia, my professor could not comprehend the idea of someone going without information (which, trust me, in business happens all the time), and insisted that, regardless, even if my writing was technically correct and provided all the necessary information, if it was entertaining it would receive a full letter grade deduction. I was proud that practically everything I wrote for her got a B.

Except one paper. As an experiment, I took the famous MIT Project Athena paper, Designing an Authentication System: a Dialogue in Four Scenes. This was a paragon of clear technical writing, and was the kind of thing I aspired to. What I really wanted to do was submit the paper, have her ravage it for for being too entertaining, and then reveal that it was the product of some MIT PhDs. But I knew that would be a one-way ticket to plagiarism accusations, so I did the next best thing: I took the 8-page paper and boiled it down into a 4-page impenetrable fog of writing that I, as the author, could not verify was correct without having the source paper sitting next to it for comparison. If I was grading this paper, I would have given it a C because while it was technically correct and grammatically correct, it was the worst writing I could imagine.

It was the only paper I turned in that she gave an A to. After that, I stopped arguing, checked out during the class, collected the Bs on my "entertaining" papers and moved on.

never forget the universal rule of the order of things: People Will Not Read It

[letomills]

Edited mesh files for 7 custom separates originally created by io / @serabiet, Gelydh, Shannanigan and Amaryll.

I'm giving you meshes only, you'll have to download the recolors that you want from their creators' pages (links to all the recolors I know of are given under the cut and in the downloads).

Download links and details below.

Polycounts are low (unchanged from the originals). The bottoms are 1k poly at most, the cardigan is 1.4k. All stay compatible with existing recolors.

~

📢 Edit: as io kindly clarified, on the 3 io bottoms, the original meshes have their waists matched to HP's top, as is the case with all of her other meshes. This is why there's a gap on the preg morphs when paired with aftopnaked/aftoptshirt, as you'll see below. My edits match the waist to the aftopnaked/aftoptshirt waist instead. So depending on what tops you use in your game, either io's original meshes or my edits will work best.

~

io AF & EF Rolled Skinnies

Find the original meshes, recolors & TF version here.

↳ AF edits: reshaped the fat & preg morphs to more closely match the Maxis AF mude mesh, matched the preg morph waist to aftopnaked.

↳ EF edits: reshaped normal & fat morphs to more closely match the Maxis EF nude mesh.

🔗 Download io Rolled Skinnies meshes: SFS / Mega

~

io AF Dainty Skirt

Find the original mesh & recolors here.

↳ Raised the waisband up to the seam between bottom & top meshes (texture mapping edit), made the fat morph more Maxis-match, matched the preg morph waist to aftopnaked.

A higher waistband enables seamless combos with more tops:

🔗 Download io Dainty Skirt mesh: SFS / Mega

~

io AF Tight Skirt Wedges

Find the original mesh & recolors here.

↳ Lowered the heels a tiny bit, made the preg morph more Maxis-match and matched the waist to aftopnaked.

🔗 Download io Tight Skirt Wedges mesh: SFS / Mega

~

Gelydh AF Cropped Pants

Find the original mesh & recolors here. More recolors by Xandher here.

↳ Added fat & preg morphs, fixed calf mapping, fixed thighs bone assignment (only makes a difference when using pose boxes).

🔗 Download Gelydh Cropped Pants mesh: SFS / Mega

~

Shannanigan AF Slim Skirt

Find the original mesh & recolors here. More recolors by Xandher here & here and by Solphel here.

↳ Buffed up the fat morph slightly, added preg morph, fixed thighs bone assignment (only makes a difference when using pose boxes).

🔗 Download Shannanigan Slim Skirt mesh: SFS / Mega

~

Amaryll AF Wooly Cardigan

Find the original mesh & recolor here. More recolors by PenelopeT here, Trotylka here and @goatskickin here. TF & EF conversions by DeeDee here & here.

↳ Fixed clipping at the back of the fat morph, polished the preg morph.

🔗 Download Amaryll Wooly Cardigan mesh: SFS / Mega

~

Please let me know if I messed anything up or if there are more recolors of these meshes that I missed.

[sukunasun]

I hope this ask finds you well! I simply MUST tell you about my latest Nanami fantasy. Feel free to ignore lol

So I've been obsessed with your Professor Nanami thoughts, I've always had little fantasies about him like that, but recently I thought of a combination between your Professor Nanami and the BEAUTIFUL chubby fem reader x Nanami fic you wrote.

I hate to take up your time but I simply must indulge in the thought. I imagine Professor Nanami, tall and awkward, stern and often seen as rude, falling madly infatiated with the new chubby biology professor that has joined his same university. They rarely cross paths, but when they do, he feels like a lovesick fool watching her go across the courtyard swiftly, shifting through documents, barely paying attention to the world around her. He wants to talk to her, woo her, pick at her brain and hear her ramble about her passion for her teaching subject. He wishes he still had that passion for teaching, wasn't dulled by the lack of interest in his students (Itadori is one of the few who brings his passion back every time he receives an update email).

But like I said, he's awkward, and he's a die hard romantic so he wishes they had a kind of "meet cute" encounter where she drops her papers and he helps pick them up, introducing himself, inviting her out to coffee. He feels silly when he imagines all the scenarios he could officially meet her, get her name from her own mouth instead of the university faculty index online. He just wants a chance to know her, learn about her, see her as more than a bubbly professor who is way out of his league.

Of course his thoughts don't stay pure. He often thinks of her late at night, in his office or his bed, finishing paperwork and imagining her taking his fountain pen away, coaxing him to relax with a neck massage, pressing her breasts into the back of his head. He imagines taking her on his desk, or a fancy hotel after a romantic dinner, something hot and wild or passionate and soothing. It's the only way he can get off nowadays, thinking about her in all the ways he wishes he could.

Maybe Geto and Gojo encourage him to get out of his comfort zone and ask her on a date. Maybe they do have a meet cute encounter and fall in love instantly. Maybe he's too timid around her and continues to pine in silence. Regardless, just the thought of her makes his stomach flip in the most delicious way, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to recover.

Alrighty, I'm all done lol. Thank you for your time and I hope you have the loveliest day. Your writing is always fantastic and inspires me endlessly, so I hope you're doing well 💕

thank you so much for sharing your thoughts! i loved loved loved reading this !! i'm so happy he's gotten so much appreciation, im sure he'd find it all very overwhelming and unnecessary, but it'll encourage him to give himself a chance for once.

because nanami's more than his semblance and stature. they say he's an awkward, rude man who's out to make his student's social lives just as non-existent. as. yuuji puts it, "he added an extra assignment for the week, now i have to cancel my date, i'm gonna be alone forever!"

and kusakabe snorts when you bring him up. "nanami kento? that guy only cares about work, he doesn't talk to women let alone go on dates,"

"must be one of those aloof and stoic types—" higuruma is at least observational in his judgement "—i don't know of his preferences, but in terms of dating...he'd likely be attracted to someone similar." he shrugs from behind his desk, stacks of files and paperwork piled high. his words could mean anything but higuruma rarely makes vague, blanket statements. never the kind to shy away from specifics and specific connotations.

thinking about it now. you and nanami would be equals in regards to intelligence. a pair of smart and capable people leading their fields. although when it comes to appearances, two people couldn't be more different. where he is tall and muscular, with thick forearms and a chest sturdy as a brick wall, you are rounded and curvy beneath your lab coat.

still, the general consensus on his not-so-friendly disposition wasn't enough to dissuade you, there's always a possibility he'd be kind as he is smart. the thought of running into professor nanami was a situation most unprepared for. what does one do when faced with the most unattainable man on campus. his accolades and accomplishments aside, it is clear he isn't pursuing a relationship. at least not in the way he's pursued knowledge and truth all this while.

it has never been more difficult to cross paths given that STEM and econs buildings were a distance apart. there hadn't been an overlap in students or staff meetings or social circles either, as if he were on a totally different side of the world. sometimes you notice him and it makes your heart flutter. a rare sighting of the creature of your affections standing by the window of his office but turning away the second he sees you, pulling the curtains shut. other times, he sits by the bench near the park, leg crossed over his knee as he balances papers on his thigh. even when deep into grading papers, he senses your presence walking by and leaves in an instant. his feet moving at a brisk pace, carrying an old messenger bag with him. as if he's doing it all on purpose, going out of his way to avoid you.

--------------

after nanami's dashed and made it to the safety of his office, he's left peeking through the small sliver of light from his curtains, watching you sigh and take a seat where he'd been.

"maah...he's staring again," gojo's voice is a grating sound to nanami's ears. always a mocking, teasing lilt heard from behind him. he's about to stop them from entering because they're always meddling at the wrong time but feels the weight of gojo's arm slinging over his shoulder. ah. too late.

geto laughs right in his face before shaking his head and tutting, "our kouhai hasn't learned a thing!"

"i don't know what you're talking about," nanami makes his defense. looking down at his loafers, they're all scuffed from years of wear, but he likes that the leather has darkened, the soles are still intact, and it has taken shape to his feet perfectly. kinda like how his two seniors are just as familiar. always circling and hovering around him, ready to strike with a jab or a hard truth. gojo and geto are terrible at subtlety as they are at being his wingmen.

"still wallowing?" gojo hums, his index finger coming up to nanami's cheek and poking the skin incessantly. "by the way you should really start using a toner—"

"stop it—" nanami swats his hand away, clicking his teeth "—i'm not wallowing." he sounds so juvenile like this, only with these two does he lose all reputation. turning back into that annoyed and moody teen with acne and a fringe, cooped up in a library and getting addicted to caffeine.

geto snorts, "you've made it your whole identity, 'woe is me, i'm so awkward and ugly and no one will ever put up with me'," he believes nanami's become attached to self-pity and judging by how well he's able to twist the knife with people, nanami isn't adamant on refuting his claim.

instead, he scoffs, "i never said i was ugly—" that he knows is an overstatement, but picking out the 'wrong' thing, the flaw in geto's argument helps to deflect from the unflattering truth. no one will ever put up with me. and geto knows nanami's swerving around because he gives him an unimpressed look, 'that's beside the point,' he'd say.

nanami tries to explain, "—it's always best to be honest and fair when making judgements of oneself." if that were the case, he'd remind himself of all the times he's chickened out of speaking to you. choosing to hide in the dark of his office to calm his beating heart at being caught red-handed or dashing away when you found him grading papers outside. 'coward' says the voice in his head. he ignores it for now.

"aw man he's being self-deprecating again, guru-chan do something!" satoru sighs, shaking his head as if disappointed, then hugs nanami. not a full teddy bear hug, but he squeezes nanami a centimetre closer with his slung arm, and it feels the same as being lit on fire. uncomfortable and definitely not helpful for the situation he's in right now.

suguru saves him at least by pushing satoru's arm away. "c'mon 'ken, you've been pining over her for months, what do you have to lose?" he counters and nanami doesn't know if he's more scared of being denied what he wants most or having to lose it all. weighing out the risks comes naturally to him but backing it up with indefatigable proof is unfortunately not a power he hones.

--------------

you're having lunch with higuruma today. just lunch. a meal shared between two colleagues and nothing more—

—is what nanami tells himself when he spots the two of you by the newly opened cafe near campus. the scene is so picturesque as if taken from a painting. you sit by a window, sunlight pouring in and across your features, beaming rays of light decorating you in gold and amber. he's picked a few cues from the man opposite you, one being that whatever's going on between you two is beyond platonic intent.

which he can't fault the lawyer for. no man would pass up the opportunity for something more. who wouldn't fall within the first second of laying eyes on you? the way nanami did. he remembers your shiny hair blowing in the wind when rushing to and from lecture halls, the soft plumpness of your cheeks rising with every smile, a torch of passion lit in your eyes when hearing you talk about research. with interest and a warm, almost fond curiosity.

this is to say that nanami isn't innocent in his own intentions with you. berating himself is part of romance too. 'she's not a prize to be won. she's a woman. brilliant and beautiful,' he thinks it'll be easier to succumb to his insecurities, tell himself he's unworthy, but all he feels is a twisted guilt. the same guilt that curls and winds up his spine, clutching at his chest, pooling in his stomach as he watches the higuruma move across the table to caress a finger over your cheek. seemingly to brush away what little crumbs have peppered there.

nanami clenches his fist so hard his knuckles turn white and a vein bulges. so it's like that. he hates jumping to conclusions. it's uncharacteristic for him to make accusations and form baseless hypotheses. but why. why such a feeling. all because this man has acquired your favour? who is he to have earned the luxury of touching you so freely? when nanami wants and has wanted for more than a brush of skin or a friendly introduction, for longer than a meal or seasons passed. torturously, achingly counting seconds to gaining, no, receiving that privilege. as entitled, he isn't exempt from possession. and how human too. the unfeeling and detached nanami learns he's capable of wanting something for himself.

he watches for your reaction, but when you don't push higuruma away and thank him instead, nanami believes he's lost all his appetite. pasta left untouched until clear skies turn as grey and gloomy as his mood for the rest of the day.

--------------

he's in a rush tonight. no—a rut sounds more fitting.

after he's failed half his class on their weekly assignment and dealt with the pushback, he's about ready to explode from the stress. nothing seems to be going right. an unappetizing lunch, a disinterested batch of students, and he's three days behind schedule on that journal article. staring at his three-monitor setup and coming up blank on his daily writing. he can't seem to force his fingers to tap away at the keys, but they reach toward the whiskey bottle with ease.

nanami's a big believer in moderation but'll bend his rules again as he resigns himself to the guilty pleasures of fantasy and fleeting missives. he pours himself a glass, then another, and by the time he downs the fourth, his cheeks pink and heat up. clouding his mind and buzzing all over his skin soothingly. the alcohol is not nearly enough for him to pass out drunk, but it does release some tension in his muscles.

all the nerves and irritation slip away as he reaches straight for his trousers, unbuckling himself free with a one-handed manoeuvre. he's been jerking off every night now, grown accustomed to routine, it doesn't take long for him to leak through his boxers the moment he closes his eyes shut and thinks of you. his hard dick springs free and his balls ache for release. he tugs on them and groans when the sensation throbs up his shaft. the skin hot and glistening from his precum dribbling down. twitching head begging for heat, pressure, and suction.

he's got an array of scenes to choose from. making love after a long day. making love on your wedding night. making love in general. nanami loves a soft woman, and no one knows what he's really like when in private. strict professor by day, introverted and nerdy, who most believe is still a virgin. it's only here that he doesn't fumble and fidget with nerves. tonight he feels no remorse for imaging the way his cock looks slapping against your cheek, making you gag on it as you slobber drool and his mess down your chin. nanami almost feels bad, might curse himself for picturing a sweetheart like you on your knees, his fist wrapped around your hair so tight while you look up at him, eager to please.

used to picturing slow, sensuous kisses and even slower thrusts into you, he now opts for something dirtier to dismiss the scene he saw earlier today. 'you're jealous' the thought whispers through the fog and this time, he can't ignore it.

he fists his shaft hoping to imitate the feeling of your wet heat cling to him like a vice. he curls around you just as tightly. his cock fitting snugly, almost too big to take within your depths. you'll tell him just as much because he likes the praise. academic success has done little for his vanity, but hearing your sighing lamentations, sobbing ovations on his sheer size would make him feel just that bit better about himself.

but forget his self-esteem, this is purely for your pleasure. he wouldn't want you feeling anything but full and split open on his dick. he's tall and broad and has come a long way since he was lanky and swimming in his slacks. has an idea of just how much weight, how much pressure is befitting to trap you beneath him. don't be fooled by his quiet demeanor, nanami is always down to give you a good time. setting those prescription glasses to the side and gets to work. laying you back and propped comfortably, curves cushioned by pillows. with legs spread and a view to die for, nanami gets himself into position and eats you out like a meal to be savoured. taking his time, making you edge, urged only by your cries and moans.

he wouldn't mind if you caged him in, legs putting him in a headlock, but he prefers to have you spread-eagled and bucking for more. clit so sensitive as he nibbles and sucks on it, gently at first, like he's testing the waters, picking up cues and filing them away for future reference. he loves to learn and he's quick at it too. getting so good at it he's able to have you trembling and twitching for hours, coming undone with just his mouth and nothing more.

he pumps his fist and moans shamelessly because he's allowed this one thing. here in private, he lets out groans and grunts held under crumbling restraint, rambling on, "mine, mine, mine..." his legs spread, and his thighs clench when he's close to his climax. imagining the sounds you'd make, light and airy, deep and guttural, moaning his name and screaming for more. the beautiful professor below him taking every inch that slips past the channel of his slippery, rough fingers.

wet and heated, the head of his cock bobs and his thumb presses down right at the sensitive tip while his other hand grips the base tightly with sweet pressure, just like how you'd clench down on him. "i didn't think you'd feel so good 'ken," he hears it in your voice and it makes him smile just a little. call it arrogance but he knows he'll pleasure you just right. his beautiful professor looking shocked and surprised that he's no longer a man who cowers and runs away but one who takes want he wants instead.

his cheeks get hot and so do his ears, clenching his eyes shut and immersing himself fully. tipping his head back and cursing, "fuck—" he grits out desperate and dying to bounce you atop him, coiled around you like a snake, he'd love the weight, the feel, so soft, so full.

tongue going dry with every heaving breath, nanami sees a view of your face twisting in pleasure, gasping and shaking all over. your pretty lips gaping in a perfect o-shape as your eyes roll back and your fingernails rake down his chiselled back, just to hold on, just to ride out the immense wave of pleasure. shlick. shlick. shlick. he mimics thrusting into you on the comedown before he spills into his hand. white painting his skin and most of his office floor.

he sits back and sighs, his cock still leaking cum and he thinks he hates himself. still, it's only when he instinctively reaches for the neatly folded handkerchiefs in another drawer does he begin to contemplate his situation. "i'm done for..."

--------------

when the long-awaited, much-anticipated 'meet-cute' happens, it doesn't go as he'd imagined. "professor nanami! we've never actually met so i thought i'd say hi," you put on your best smile, pushing your glasses up and hoping they hide the uncertainty in your expression. you squeeze a clammy hand on your skirt to soak up as much of the moisture before holding it out. only to have him stare at you questioningly in return.

the worse part isn't the skeptical expression, or the way his eyebrows furrow, or the way his lips grow thin, as if he's confused as to why you're speaking to him. like he wouldn't waste an introduction on you of all people. this is the downside of having a crush, the inevitable letdown and rejection you feel when realizing nanami might know you exist, but he doesn't acknowledge your existence.

you've been told you're quite the personality, cute, bubbly, approachable. so why the hell won't he just talk to you! it's not like you did anything wrong and you hate being made to feel stupid. you're a professor in your own right, and he's just staring like you were less than. not even worth a hello. so you laugh it off, "well, see you!" turning around and berating yourself for even trying. this man was just as they said—detached and cold fucking hearted.

"w-wait!" his hand reaches out to catch your arm. the sudden lunge almost toppling him over and falling atop you. "forgive me, it seems i was stunned." he swallows.

"stunned?" you ask, suddenly curious.

with his eyes blinking behind his glasses, nanami moves to push them back from slipping down that bridge of his nose. he looks so endearing, it instantly makes you smile. "yes, well, you...you're talking. to me." he lets you go after his hand has overstayed it's welcome around your bicep, pulling back towards the front of his sweater, brushing it off for nonexistent lint. (of course not, nanami would be the kind to steam and brush it clean after every wash)

"that is true yes," you reply, eyes crinkling at the berth of your smile, wide enough, bright enough, infectious in nature. so much so he gives you one in return. just the smallest tilt of his own lips. in a second his face goes from night to day. almost like the clouds that part then, crepuscular rays shining upon his golden hair and lashes.

after a few seconds, he seems to have calmed, but his heartbeat hammers the same, you know this because his face turns pink. "i'd like to...talk to you." he says, and you take him up on that request.

[kryannoy]

Hi!! can I request wind breaker boys (more specifically suo and sakura, idk if you write for endo and/or togame but if you do I would like them added too) with a reader who's been rlly stressed/overwhelmed recently because of school/life in general? thanks in advance!!

"CHILL" GUYS AND STRESS

genre: fluff, sfw

characters: suo, sakura

a/n: i have no idea what to title this. also, i need this, like irl. my week has been hectic and i need suo or sakura irl to wind down 😭🙏🏻

SUO HAYATO

Your second month in school has been chaotic—non-stop exams, ongoing curriculum in the middle of the week, assignments and homework to be handed in by the end of the week, not to mention extra study for the exams.

You have no idea how you're going to live through the entire month.

You partially blame the teachers for giving out late instructions for the assignments and still giving homework to finish when you need the time to study instead and the teachers will say "Doing your homework is also part of studying," you thought in a mocking teacher's voice.

But also, partially you were to blame for not doing the assignments as soon as you received them. But of course, at times like this, you don't want to blame yourself.

You look at your boyfriend, calmly sipping and enjoying his tea across the table.

"What's wrong, my dear? Gosh, you have veins threatening to pop out of your head. It looks way worse than when I tease you," he says in a tiny lilt of joking if you squint. He is concerned though. He just had to add in some playfulness whenever he gets the chance to.

At times like this, you envy how he doesn't have to do anything you have to do right now. When it's not times like these, you're worried about his education a bit.

He got up from his seat and stands next to you. He pulls your head to his stomach and strokes your head and rubs your head, temple, face, anywhere that you keep scrunching up to ease your muscles again. He pampers you while he listens to you whine about having so much to do.

After you've calmed down, he advises you to list down what you need to do for this week, and in a separate paper, the things you need to do for next week so you can breakdown what you need to prioritize first.

And you did while he sits down next to you and watch you write them all down in sticky notes. He smiles at this because you're so easy to listen to and obey him. After you're done, you actually feel a little lighter because you can see them clearly that there's not so much to do in one week. It's almost two to three tasks you need to do for each week.

He even offered to help you with simpler tasks such as picking a template for your slides and assignments, so you can focus on the heavy ones—gathering information and putting them together.

He may not like arts but he still borrows your tablet to find templates that you might like, ranging from following the theme to picking ones he thinks girls might like and to the ones he knows it's your aesthetics.

After you choose the templates, he stays by your side while holding you for emotional support but making sure you don't get distracted. You really don't know how he can project his calmness to you but he did.

SAKURA HARUKA

He's not good at it but somehow, he's still able to project the calmness despite his 'aggressive' behavior.

He might not be good at picking out templates because he never really cared about designs or fashion, but he's there for you and he makes sure you know it.

He wants to try and help with your work but he's scared he'll mess it up and add in more burden for you so he stays quiet instead and stays near you.

When he sees you a little stressed, expect to hear a knock on his door and the next thing you know he's handing you a nice and delicious drink—be it caffeinated or not. He ordered it just like how Nirei taught him.

When he sees you stretch in your seat, expect him to suddenly become a blushing mess because he had a thought of wanting to massage you. But he'll ask you instead if you're tired. Clearly, he knows that you are.

And when you say yes, he'll offer to rub your shoulders while hiding his red face away from you.

After a while and he starts to become comfortable with giving you the best shoulder massage and you say that you're fine now, his touch will still linger on you a little too long.

And you don't expect that he'll wrap his arms around your waist with his forehead rests on your back. You have no idea if he was blushing or not, if he was calm or not, but you do know you feel happy that he's there trying so hard to wait patiently for you.

His breathing behind your back is like a cat purring when they're stroked or petted.

Soon, you hear light snores and more warmth on your back—the side of his face is resting on you that he doesn't realize it.

A smile tugged on your lips to know that he seems to trust you enough to do this with you. And that feeling alone made you feel proud and calm that all your worries about schoolwork and such were washed away.

[zorilleerrant]

Well, I can't speak for everyone, but a lot of my complaints aren't any of the ones listed here, so I thought I might run through a few of them. First and foremost is the fact that chatgpt etc. don't work. They don't do the thing they're supposed to do.

Machine translation, while wonky, has consistently gotten better since its introduction, and tends to translate the gist of what's being said. It's not always entirely right, but the ways in which it's wrong are noticeable and fixable to a professional translator, whereas the inaccuracies and inconsistencies in the chatbots can take professionals in that field hours to track down and either correct or debunk (as seen with, say, false legal cases).

Similarly, text-to-speech pronounces most words correctly, and even incorrectly pronounced words are identifiable. Mispellings are also identifiable when read allowed, and capture much of the same nuance as intended when written. And while the various anti-AI art tools apparently aren't doing much to deter AI, they are pixelating the images exactly as promised.

(Coding tools are different. They don't do any of the work they're supposed to, and people who rely on them piss their fellow programmers off more than any other coworker. Nobody should ever use these for any reason. If you want to look at bad code to fix just ask an intern to wing it or something.)

Another thing to talk about is less copyright infringement - which is fraught in different ways - and closer to trademark infringement or impersonation as a topic. In the same way many people feel violated by deepfakes of their face or voice, people feel violated by others intentionally copying their artstyles. Sometimes people present these as if they're the originator of the style, even claiming credit over the artist's original works, or claim to be that artist (as with the deepfakes); more likely they just don't specify anything and allow their audience to assume some affiliation.

In the same way reposting people's art generates engagement for people other than the artist, this can impact people's livelihoods as well as being incredibly demoralizing. It's much less likely for someone to associate machine translation or text-to-speech with an specific individual this way. This is why we're seeing more of a pushback against large repositories that do imply their audiobooks are associated with fan creators and webnovelists in some way, sometimes even claiming the rights were sold.

Another problem that I have with generative AI that's not necessarily with the AI itself, but the culture surrounding it, is that people don't double check. With machine translation, people either use it to translate a message and then reply back (so they get feedback if the translation is wrong) or they put out a call for native speakers to check over their translation. With text-to-speech, people listen to see if the result is understandable.

With auto-generated captions? No one is checking those, and so people complain about them all the time. With summaries of news items? No one is checking those, and so people complain about them all the time. With asking for legal, medical, and life advice? People aren't even getting a second opinion, and they end up doing really ridiculous things, and so everyone complains about them all the time. People are sending in assignments and writing messages and all kinds of things without even reading what they 'wrote'. It's very different from looking things over to the best of your ability, even when your ability is limited.

Also - and this is a personal thing - I once read an article about how watching a whole TV show was a waste of time. How people should optimize their hobbies to be something like sports, which only takes a few minutes a week because all you have to do is look up the scores instead of wasting time watching anything. It said that everyone should always be on the grind, and taking time for fun should be minimized to fifteen minutes a week. (It also suggested having children would fit in that category.) So anything that takes on that mindset immediately sets my head aflame.

And what are people using chatgpt and co to do, now? They're using it to summarize books and movies they can't take the time to try out. They're using it to shorthand their communication with family and friends. They're using it to skip to the end of other people's creative endeavors, regardless of whether those artists would actually make those choices (and with absolutely no regard to why). They're using it to minimize joy for the sake of efficiency.

Anon's explanation:

I’m curious because I see a lot of people claiming to be anti-AI, and in the same post advocating for the use of Glaze and Artshield, which use DiffusionBee and Stable Diffusion, respectively. Glaze creates a noise filter using DiffusionBee; Artshield runs your image through Stable Diffusion and edits it so that it reads as AI-generated. You don’t have to take my work for it. Search for DiffusionBee and Glaze yourself if you have doubts. I’m also curious about machine translation, since Google Translate is trained on the same kinds of data as ChatGPT (social media, etc) and translation work is also skilled creative labor, but people seem to have no qualms about using it. The same goes for text to speech—a lot of the voices people use for it were trained on professional audiobook narration, and voice acting/narration is also skilled creative labor. Basically, I’m curious because people seem to regard these types of gen AI differently than text gen and image gen. Is it because they don’t know? Is it because they don’t think the work it replaces is creative? Is it because of accessibility? (and, if so, why are other types of gen AI not also regarded as accessibility? And even then, it wouldn’t explain the use of Glaze/Artshield)

Additional comments from anon:

I did some digging by infiltrating (lurking in) pro-AI spaces to see how much damage Glaze and other such programs were doing. Unfortunately, it turns out none of those programs deter people from using the ‘protected’ art. In fact, because of how AI training works, they may actually result in better output? Something about adversarial training. It was super disappointing. Nobody in those spaces considers them even a mild deterrent anywhere I looked. Hopefully people can shed some light on the contradictions for me. Even just knowing how widespread their use is would be informative. (I’m not asking about environmental impact as a factor because I read the study everybody cited, and it wasn’t even anti-AI? It was about figuring out the best time of day to train a model to balance solar power vs water use and consumption. And the way they estimated the impact of AI was super weird? They just went with 2020’s data center growth rate as the ‘normal’ growth rate and then any ‘extra’ growth was considered AI. Maybe that’s why it didn’t pass peer review... But since people are still quoting it, that’s another reason for me to wonder why they would use Glaze and Artshield and everything. That’s why running them locally has such heavy GPU requirements and why it takes so long to process an image if you don’t meet the requirements. It’s the same electricity/water cost as generating any other AI image.)

–

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[allmightstoehair]

— ➔﹒ { ㅤ꒰ — You Deserve Way Better ꒱ }.’ㅤ ۪ ୧, Kuroo Tetsuro—

GENRE: angst / hurt-comfort / friends. PAIRING: Kuroo Tetsurou and fem!reader. quick oneshot SETTING: Post-high school / College AU.

SUMMARY: You’ve been in a relationship that’s slowly chipped away at your sense of worth—little comments, sudden tempers, and bruises that you make excuses for. Kuroo Tetsurou, your longtime best friend, has seen it all. And it’s killing him.

— ⠀༏ ୨୧⠀˚ ⟡ ⋆⠀　 .⠀⠀ .　　  ⠀༏ ୨୧⠀˚ ⟡ ⋆⠀　—

You sat at the small table near the window in your dorm, your hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug he remembered from your first year of college. You were second years. The sleeves of your sweater were pulled down to your knuckles—unusual for a warm day like this.

He noticed.

You didn’t look up when you spoke. “He’s not a bad person.”Kuroo’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter. “Didn’t say anything.”

You finally glanced at him. Your smile was a faint thing—worn thin at the edges like an old ribbon. “He was just having a bad day…work’s been tough for him and—“

“Why do you keep making excuses for the guy?” Kuroo questioned. He stopped himself when he saw your expression. You rolled your eyes and looked off to the side, exhaustion lingering in it. He hated seeing you like this. Your boyfriend was abusive, demented, and didn’t care about you in the way you hoped after you tried to pursue a psychology career instead of being a “stay at home” mother. You were too young and told him no. You had a life ahead of you. When you didn’t answer Kuroo, he sighed, leaning on the counter with his mug in his hand.

“You didn’t answer my texts last night, tried to get that missing assignment done,” he murmured, shifting the subject a little bit. Your lips pursed and you stared into your still tea he had made you. The split wound on your bottom lip would only burn if you drank it. “Yeah. I was working on it.”

“Sure.” He responded. There was a lingering silence that met the both of you in the middle. He noted your twitching lip, and huffed gently. “You don’t have to drink it. I know it hurts,” he looked down at your lips. “Did you at least clean it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at your tea again, then gave the smallest shake of your head. Kuroo exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. He didn’t say ‘Of course you didn’t’ , though you knew he was thinking it. Instead, he turned and opened the cabinet above your sink, pulling out the small first-aid kit he’d helped you stock months ago after a kitchen accident you barely remembered now.

You heard the quiet rustling of supplies, and then he was at your side, leaning over you. His eyes searched your face—not just your lip, but the way your shoulders curled inward, the bruise forming faintly on your cheekbone, the way your hands trembled just enough to give you away.

“Can I?” he asked, holding up a cotton pad and the antiseptic bottle.

You hesitated, but gave him a small nod.

He was gentle—so gentle it made your chest ache. His hands were warm, fingers steady as he dabbed at your split lip, careful not to press too hard. You began to cry. Your tears spilled from your eyes and you sobbed. Sobbed your little heart out. He paused, the antiseptic brushing against your lip as he stared into your creasing expression. Kuroo let a sigh brush past his lips and he set the things in his hands down, standing there and letting you lean on his chest, clutch at his shirt and cry. Your shoulders shook, your lungs pulsing and trying to grasp the air that had left them so quickly. He winced, clearing his throat so he wouldn’t cry either but damn it, he hated seeing you like this. His hand cupped the back of your head and he soothed you with little ‘shh’s and ‘it’s alright’s. But it wasn’t alright. None of this was.

Your breathing was shallow now, hiccuping, like your lungs were still remembering how to work.“I didn’t want to bother you,. I’m sorry kuroo..” you choked out, voice muffled. “I didn’t want to be—”

“Don’t.” Kuroo pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still holding you like you’d disappear if he let go. “Don’t finish that sentence, Y/N.” Your eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, but wide and still somehow afraid.

“You’re never a bother,” he said. “Never too much. You hear me?” You nodded again, slower this time. “I swear to you,” his voice dropped, low and sharp with something buried beneath it, “if he ever lays a hand on you again, I’ll—” He stopped himself. Bit his tongue. But the way his fingers curled against your arm told you the end of that sentence.

You didn’t know how long you sat like that. The ache in your chest had dulled to a low throb, and your fingers were still curled in the soft fabric of his shirt. But the crying had stopped. At some point, your body just couldn’t do it anymore.

Kuroo didn’t say anything for a while. Then, softly—almost too softly—you said, “I don’t know what to do.” He stilled for a second.

Kuroo gently pulled back to look you in the eyes again. “Do you want to leave him?” You hesitated. It wasn’t because you didn’t know the answer. It was because the truth tasted so much like guilt, like fear, like shame that had been trained into you. But you gave a tiny nod.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I just… I’m scared.” It was almost as if your ex was around and you needed to keep quiet. “I know” he murmurs.

“I can get you out,” he continued, more practical now. “I’ve got space at my place. You can stay there as long as you need. We’ll tell the professors what’s going on. They’ll understand. And we can look into a restraining order. File a report. Whatever you want. You call the shots—I’ll just be there to help you pull the trigger.”

Your lip trembled again, but it wasn’t from fear this time. He squeezed your hand, then reached for your phone.

“Let’s start small,” he said. “Block his number.” Your lips creased, as if you were going to repeat what he just said in disbelief.

“He’ll come for me.” You say urgently.

“You really think I’m letting him come near you?” he pondered, tilting his head. He urged his head upwards. “Come on, you can do it.”

Your fingers trembled, but you nodded. Then—without another word—you tapped the screen. Blocked the number. Deleted the messages. Erased the missed calls. A silence followed, heavy but different this time. Not fearful. Final.

You looked at him, breath shaky. “That’s it?” Kuroo smiled—not the usual cocky grin, but something smaller. Softer. “That’s the start.” He stood, offering his hand again. “Now come on. Grab what you need. We’re leaving tonight.”

You blinked. “Tonight?”

Within an hour or two, you sat yourself in Kuroo’s car, a bag of things you wanted to bring with you in the back seat. The drive was quiet after that, but not the same kind of silence you’d known for months. This one was soft. Open. Like you could breathe in it, even if it was a little shaky. Eventually, he pulled into the lot outside his home. It wasn’t much—modest, kind of outdated—but the light above his door was on, and the curtains were drawn. Like it was waiting for you. Kuroo parked the car and looked at you. “We’ll carry your stuff up, order food, and then you can crash. Couch or bed—your call.”

And with that, you were placing the last of your clothing into an empty drawer he had sitting inside his room. It wasn’t much. Just a few sweatshirts, jeans, T-shirts that you’ve owned since high school. You ran a hand up your arm and winced when you brushed over a bruise. You hissed, lifting the big long sleeve you were wearing up and over your body to get a better look at it. Shirtless, you loomed over his dresser, looking in the mirror at everything your ex had done to you. You hugged yourself, tilting your head at the stranger looking back at you. You looked…haunted. Not like someone who was living, but someone who was just surviving. Your fingernails dug into your hips. You didn’t do it so it could hurt, just so you could feel something.

Kuroo pushed the door open, mumbling something under his breath about what you wanted for takeout but paused when he saw you. Standing there, shirtless and scowling at the mirror in front of you. His eyes squinted as he watched you lock eyes with him in the reflection and heard you huff. “Sorry—didn’t think you’d come in,” you paused. “then again this is your room—“ he chuckled under his breath as you reached for your shirt and put it over your body. It was one you wore a lot in high school to his games.

He still remembered spotting you in the stands—face painted, screaming louder than anyone else. When you had the freedom to be your unique self. Before you were simmered down with narcissism.The corners of his mouth lifted, just a little. “Didn’t know you still had that.”

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t know I still had a lot of things… until I started packing.”

That quiet settled between you again. But this time it was less suffocating, more reflective. Like the kind of silence you sit in when you’re too tired to pretend but not ready to fall apart either. “You were always our loudest fan,” he murmured, stepping farther into the room. “Even when we lost.”

You let out a small laugh, breathy and surprised. “You lost like, twice.”“Still counts.” He gave you a small, lopsided grin. “I remember you yelled at a ref once.

You turned slightly toward him, arms crossing over your chest—part for warmth, part for comfort. “He made a bad call.”

Kuroo clapped his hands once, breaking the quiet. “Alright, you hungry?”

You blinked. “What?” “Takeout,” he said, like it was obvious. “You’re staying here, so first things first—we establish food rituals. Vital for survival.”

Your lips twitched, just a little. “I don’t even know what I want.”

“Good thing I know exactly what you used to want,” he grinned, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Same combo as always? Spicy ramen, gyoza, and those weird soda candies you made me try once?”

You stared at him. “You remember that?” Kuroo looked up briefly, his tone softening. “Yeah. I remember.” There was a beat of silence before you gave a small nod. “Yeah. That sounds… good.”

“Perfect,” he said, scrolling through the app like this was just another Thursday night in your old rhythm. “I’ll add a second order of gyoza in case you’re lying and actually starving. Which you are. Don’t deny it.”

You snorted quietly, eyes following his movements as he placed the order. There was something grounding about the way he moved—casual, familiar, but careful. Like he didn’t want to spook the air between you. He clicked the confirmation button and glanced at you with a proud little smile. “Boom. Food’s on the way.”

(lmk if i should make this a full fanfic 😓)

[amalainse]

| MY STRENGTH & MY LIGHT . 5.8k

It's Kento's fault you're like this, in a way. The least he can do is pick up the pieces and right the wrongs done to you.

tags. Civilian Reader, Immigrant Reader, Disabled Reader, Marriage of Convenience, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Domestic, Slice of Life, A Little Canon Compliant, Introspection

i actually finished this last night but as i went to post it, tumblr kept crashing. i felt like it was a sign of the end times, or something.

Okinawa is a stray further from the area Kento's used to working in, but he has no verbal complaints to being assigned there.

If there is a curse, it's his duty as a sorcerer to exorcise it. But, as a first grade, the higher up's prefer to concentrate his efforts in Tokyo ―where there are more residents and higher chances of curses forming.

It's no Malaysia―Okinawa, he means. But the sweat beads along his neck and shoulders and Kento craves something cold between his teeth all the same. If he were here under different circumstances, perhaps on a vacation of some sort, he could even grow to enjoy the muggy heat.

The air is bitter with smoke as the curse crumbles to the ground―successfully exorcised. Kento covers his nose, eyes scanning the remains of what he assumes is the civilians house. They find you eventually, crumpled and unmoving beneath some rubble.

He had been a moment too late. The curse hadn't been hard at all to track. But when cornered, had tripled in size, squandering the small traditional home. Teeth and jaws had swallowed up an elderly man and your right arm as well. He had been close enough to hear the sickening of your arm being ripped off and the scream that followed, before you fell to the ground in a pained, noisy heap.

Kento shoulders the weight of a fallen bookcase, gently uncovering your body. Your eyes flutter awake at that―hazy and unfocused as the glance up on him. There's no use asking your name, so he hefts you up as gently as he can manage, apologizing when you emit a pained whimper.

You become steadily more conscious when Kento deposits your body into the backseat, shallow puffs of air and a whittling breath. There's another assistant for this mission and he craves Ichiji's steady companionship instead.

"Nanami-san" Kento's eyes dart away from your face to the assistant's in the rearview mirror. There's a question in her eyes, uncertainty in the way she stares. "Might I suggest a civilian―"

"She needs immediate medical attention" Kento interjects, leaning back against the seat. A civilian hospital will ask too many questions. May refuse to treat you at all. His eyes slide over to your body. The hand the remains is bloody from where you press against the stump where your right arm used to be. There's a steady stream of tears flowing from your eyes, mouth moving quickly but too hushed for him to hear.

Praying, he thinks. The scent of charred flesh wafts up into his nose and regret seeps into his bones, weighing him down into the seat. It's obvious that you need the sort of medical attention that isn't provided here. The sooner he can get you out of Okinawa, the better.

The assistant sighs softly, in the front seat, before putting the car into gear and driving off. "I can treat her more serious wounds once we make it back to the inn" She explains, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. "Once you get back to Tokyo, you can see about sorting the rest of this out"

"Do you hear that?" Kento murmurs, too soft, leaning down next to your ear. Your eyes flit over to him. He hates the pain that reflects in them. "Stay awake a little longer, and you'll live"

He wonders if you've heard him at all. Your eyes go glassy, and your hand falls―smearing blood over the seat. But then you give a determined little nod, blinking rapidly up at the roof above you.

The assistant, who he learns is named Ayumi Sato, sends him off to change out of his bloodied and torn clothes. Then once more, this time with an annoyed huff at the way he hovers. You need a fresh change of clothes and you all could use something to eat from such an exhausting turn of events.

Kento catches the tail end of a second text while he's out at a nearby convenience store, arms full of miscellaneous items while he waits to be checked out. A simple tee-shirt and shorts to combat the heat, a crossword book in case you need something to do―an armful of snacks and foods that are close enough to the nutrients you need.

Awake now. Very confused and disoriented. Up for conversation.

Reads Sato's message. He can perfectly hear the clipped tone she uses when speaking as his eyes rove over the text. Kento pays in a hurry, a rush of keep the change before darting back to the inn.

Sato stops him, just outside of the room.

"I've managed to destabilize her injuries. Had to amputate her arm though, as expected" She begins, covered in blood and grime herself. "So she won't get any worse but..."

She doesn't have to say the words. Kento already knows. You need Shoko. There are other wounds. Burns of some severity, which Sato says she managed as best she could. Cuts and scrapes, deep gashes that will need to be properly cleaned. But finally, finally, Sato allows him entry.

He doesn't really understand why he had been so desperate to save you. And judging by the discrete look Sato passes when Kento drags a chair next to your bed―she doesn't either. Sorcerers care about civilians, obviously. But detached, distant. The way a doctor wants all patients to live―but not enough to become this distraught when they do not make it.

Kento has been unable to save so many people. Haibara. Geto. For once, he wants to save someone. It's almost selfish, how badly Kento needs you to live. How close he had been to losing you. Thankful that it was your arm that the curse had taken. And not your life.

You blink over at him, once he gets into your line of sight. Your skin shines with antiseptic that peeks out from the bandages that cover nearly every inch of your skin. There are bags under your eyes and a drained look to you that reminds him of the dark salaryman days.

"My name is Nanami Kento" He introduces, tipping some water down your throat. There's so much to say and no real way for him to be able to say it. "How are you feeling?"

There's no response at first. You blink up at him, and Kento is transported to the long drive. The whispered words. English, he thinks. You aren't from here, that much is obvious. And it makes the guilt simmering beneath his skin feel that much sharper. He can picture it now. You, on a vacation that had quickly spiraled out of control.

He begins to wonder if you can speak Japanese at all, rummaging around his pocket for his phone―intent to find an English translator when you speak.

Your name first. And then, "I feel like shit. Everything hurts" in choppy English, voice raspy from your earlier screaming. "My...dad?"

Kento remembers the elderly man from earlier. He hadn't been close to see his face or to note the similarities and differences between the two of you. But still, the end result is the same. He shakes his head, feeling regret at the sorrow present on your face. "Do you have any other family?"

He assists you in drinking water, murmuring a soft, slowly, when you begin to sputter and choke.

"My mom died a year ago. Only child" You murmur quietly, in a slurred mix of Japanese and English. "We used to live in the 'States. Never knew my dad. Only been here for a month tryin to figure out why―.Never really got to―"

Your words break off and a rattling sob pushes free. "God, I don't know what's left for me here. Or there, either"

Kento is surprised by the guilt that chokes him, and he turns away, ashamed. His eyes water with tears of his own when he hears your watery voice gasp out, "I'm scared"

"I stay in Tokyo" Kento doesn't know why he offers. But he does, and the words are too late to take back now. "You could stay there"

"In Tokyo?" You repeat, sniffling. "How far is 'hat from here?"

"We'll take a plane. So only a couple of hours" He replies, watching you dry away your tears with one hand. "I have someone who can treat you there"

You look at him as if you can somehow see through him. Past him. All that he is and has yet to be. But such a thing is impossible. "Okay." Your eyes grow weary and Kento exits the bedroom to allow you the time to rest.

There's time to kill. In between the late hours of waiting for the next day to come. Kento, who cannot sleep, ventures back out to the remains of your house.

He sifts through the rubble, until his eyes grow achy with the need for sleep―body utterly exhausted. A couple of photographs that had survived the brunt of the fire with minimal damages. One of you as a child, held up by your mother. There's a bright smile on your face and your eyes twinkle with mirth. Of your father, holding a fish, much younger than the elderly man who had died in front of his eyes.

Your father, middle aged, Kento would wager, standing outside of a house before the worst of it comes. Scraps of fabric, tattered and ash-black in the corners. By the way it feels between his thumb and forefinger, Kento guesses a few could have been a blanket once. A metal cup with grooves on the side that suggest engraving that had been warped by the heat and the pressure. He gathers what he can, what's salvageable, and makes his way back to the room.

You cry again, when he gives it to you. Kento stands, somberly, listening to you attach memories to each object―so clearly yearning for the life you had before the curse had ripped your life apart.

He runs into a bit of a problem, when they touch down in Tokyo.

Your face furrows, frowning. "What do you mean, they won't help me?"

"What happened to you, that was a curse." Kento starts, regretting the flinch that comes from you at the mere mention of it. He hasn't explained it to you―afraid to, really. He has no choice to now. "I am a sorcerer. We exist to exorcise them...and the injury you've sustained is a curse one. I was hoping that our healer could fix that for you"

"But they can't?" You ask, staring down at your socked feet.

"Our laws apparently restrict aiding civilians other than directing to civilian hospitals. There is nothing at all about foreigners, but the law implies that I should send you back to your home country." At the sight of your dejected face, Kento decides to exude his only other option.

A sheet of paper is placed in front of you. One in Japanese, the other transcribed into English.

"There's a loophole" Kento explains, adapting to the same chopped mix of Japanese and English that you use. "As the spouse of a sorcerer you would still be a civilian, but it would imply that you are a sorcerer as well―or from a sorcerer family. And therefore, access to treatments like RCT that we need to assist your injuries"

His name and signature are already down. You don't take long, eyes scanning between the official document and the direct English translation before you sign it as well.

Even sorcerers are allowed honeymoons. It isn't long, a week and two days, but enough time to get you settled into the spare room in his penthouse.

Enough time to get your paperwork done, registering you as an official citizen of Japan and his wife. Enough time to demonstrate how to use the shower and how to work the stove and which app you can use to order groceries so that you don't have to exert your still healing body.

"I have another mission" Kento says, at the very end of it, in Japanese. He speaks slowly, giving you time to deconstruct and mentally translate into English. There's that scrunch in your brow again, the visible picture of you try to puzzle out what he means.

"How...long?" You ask back, frowning. Repeating the words, sounding more sure of yourself now.

"It's a couple of grade 4's―I don't expect it to take up too much time" He explains, feeling endlessly fond as understanding dawns on your face. "I won't be here when you wake up"

This time, sadness. Kento settles more against the doorway, watching you watch him. Comfortable silence settles over the room―despite the fact that you are both essentially strangers.

Then; voice pretty and soft. "Be safe"

A 'couple of grade 4's' had chaotically turned into a grade two and several grade three's. And then being sent off to Gifu before he can even return to Tokyo. But Kento manages just fine, mind sharp and succinct. Thoughts of you on his mind, keeping him just as dazed as it does focused.

It's been three more weeks. You and Kento are rarely up at the same time, but you text throughout the day all the same. You often reply in a few hours―and you've figured out how to use the kaomoji too, if you're recent message is anything to go by.

shoko came over today to help with my prosthetic. (⌒_⌒;) she says to tell you hello

The pad of his thumb rubs across the surface of the screen. He has long since abandoned the mission report, trying to rub away the traces of his headache.

I will be home today.

Your response is instantaneous.

(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ good news! luckily i made dinner for two

The hesitant smile falls off his face the moment Gojo enters the office. Half embarrassed at being caught smiling at his phone of all things and half annoyed at being interrupted, Kento is in no mood to converse with The Strongest today. But Gojo seems to headed right to him, betrayal evident on his face. A lollipop sticks waywardly out of his mouth. "I can't believe you never told me you were married!"

Kento sighs, feeling the headache worsen. Soon, it'll turn into a migraine.

"It isn't like that" He explains. And then. "Who told you?"

"Shoko!" Gojo collapses over the surface of his desk like he had been shot with a groan. "I can't believe this...my underclassman is married and I didn't even get an invitation to the wedding―"

Again, Kento sighs. It's more of a groan, but enough to shut Gojo up. At least for a moment. He doesn't know what Shoko told him, but knows enough about her that she wouldn't purposefully fill Gojo's head with nonsense. He does enough of that on his own.

"She's still settling in" Kento offers, only because he can see you getting along swimmingly. "But once she's more acclimated, I'll ask how she feels about coming over to visit. Or you can come over for dinner."

A impish smile worms its way onto Gojo's face. "I guess I can forgive you then" is all he says, before pulling up a chair.

"What are you doing?" He asks, not bothering to hide the snap from his tone when Gojo begins to shuffle with his papers, grabbing a pen from Kento's desk. "Don't touch my stuff"

Gojo rolls his eyes, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher. Like Kento's the one being unreasonable here.

"You're a married man now Kento" He says, sighing. Kento flushes at the reminder, sitting up ramrod straight. "The wife won't be happy if you spend all your time in the office"

It isn't like that. "How would you know? You aren't even married" Kento scoffs, but allows Gojo to assist him in filling out the mission reports anyway.

The stack dwindled down and down and down again. He's never seen Gojo act more helpful.

"Everyone knows this, Nanamin. A happy wife equals a happy life"

Over the months that pass, Kento gets used to having someone to come home to. You are an easy balm to a hard life, and Kento enjoys having the comfort of your presence far more than he will ever admit to.

He goes and comes back long enough for you to get used to the prosthetic. For the messes in the kitchens to become less and less common, until they never happen at all. He goes and comes back long enough for you to spark up an easy friendship with Gojo and Shoko as well. Gone and back long enough for you to sit closer to him on the couch. For you to crave his presence just as much as he craves yours.

"I got a job today" You tell him, over dinner. He's injured his side pretty badly, so dinner is on the couch tonight. Everything is a little foggy from the painkillers Shoko instructed him to take, but he hangs onto your words like a lifeline. "Gojo and...the one with the doll. They wrote me a letter"

Kento hums idly, staring more at you than the food on his plate. He sort of misses the way you spoke before. It had crept up on him faster than he realized―when your accent became more faded. Taking up the same lilt and smoothness that he pictures most immigrants fade to.

"Yaga-Sensei? The principal?" He inquires smoothly, so that you don't think he's ignoring you. "And a reference letter?"

Your face forms a funny little expression. "Yes" you parrot back to him, more smoothly. "And that too. Yaga-Sensei wrote me a reference letter."

He rather enjoyed the chaotic way you spoke before. Verbs that didn't quite add up, bunching up rather rudely with opposing sounds and the slightly off-pronunciations of your words. The way you let out strings of curses in English, voice taking on an entirely different sound whenever you bumped into the coffee table or the leg of the couch.

"What job is it?" Is his next question, entirely pushing his plate onto the coffee table in front of the couch. Neither you nor him are paying much attention to the drama playing on the television. He has the sneaking suspicion that you've gone and seen this episode without him anyway.

"The bookstore we go to" You murmur, excited, eyes gleaming. He likes how happy you look, recently. "It's only part time―but I put the shelves on the books. And talk to the customers"

"Books on the shelves" Is the gentle correction.

Your nose crinkles. "I messed up again?"

"It's alright" Kento tells you. Conversating with more people, people other than sorcerers, will be good for you. He's happy for you. "I'm proud of you. Congratulations. What would you like to do to celebrate?"

He has an inkling of what you'll want. You ask for the same thing every time.

And he's right. Hours later, full off the handful of snacks you goaded him into buying, the two of you stand side by side, trading and swapping stories like children at a sleepover. Gojo would kill him if he found out.

You watch the water flow gently in the pond, at the way the stars to reflect on it's surface.

"I miss America" You sniffle quietly, after your laughter had tapered off. "But I can't go back. Mom is everywhere there. It hurt every day―seeing her in everything I saw. Everything I did. It felt like suffocating."

Kento hums beside you. "I understand" But the words are heavy. Truthful. He does understand.

"You lost someone too?" You ask, turning to stare at him. He can tell by the way your eyes scan over his face that you're trying to figure out who. He's mentioned both of his parents, so you know it isn't either of them. You aren't a sorcerer―so you don't know that death follows his profession like a second shadow. "Would you like to tell me about them?"

"I haven't spoken his name in years" Kento admits, looking at the pond so that he doesn't have to look at you and the empathy that rolls off of you in waves. A whittling sigh pushes past his lips. "But I feel like I might be able to, now."

He nearly startles at the feeling of your hand on top of his.

"I don't want you to feel pressured to because of me"

Kento shakes his head. "That's far from it. Because of you, I can talk about him"

And he does. He and Gojo haven't spoken a word about Haibara to each other. They don't speak about Geto either. There seems to be a silent understanding of it. I won't speak his name, if you won't either. Yet they seem to meet at their gravestones at similar times on the anniversary of their deaths. Just passing, missing the other by a handful of minutes.

He talks until his throat is hoarse. He talks even beyond that, even when his eyes are drooping steadily shut. Even when sleepiness begins to overtake you both―standing there leaning against one another. Even then.

You're staring at your ring finger, when Kento comes into the breakroom. When you hear the sound of his footfalls, you push your hand up underneath your lap and stand to attention.

"Hello" Kento greets, coming to take his lunch from your hands. "You didn't have to―I appreciate it. I could have eaten something nearby"

"It's alright Kento" You tell him, waving him away. He likes the way you say his first name. Like each syllable matters. And you seem to say it often. Kento, how was your day? Kento, don't forget to grab some snacks for me while you're out. I had to deal with a mean customer today, Kento. "I was on my break. I hope you don't mind company?"

"Not at all" He replies, gesturing for you to sit back down. Kento drags a chair to sit closer to you, a creature of habit always. He cracks open the bento, hit in the face with a gentle waft of steam. His eyes shift towards you. "You reheated it for me?"

A soft puff of laughter. "Why would you eat it cold?"

Kento laughs, as well. Why would he? His arm settles around the back of your chair, fingers skimming along your shirt. Your body is a warm heat alongside his own. The two of you settle into comfortable silence for a handful of moments―enjoying the meal you've prepared. Tomorrow, it'll be his turn. You've been craving tempura vegetables lately. He thinks he'll make you that.

"How was work so far?" He inquires, thinking of the face you'll make tomorrow when you open your bento box. You're fond of sending him photos throughout the day. The last picture you've sent is one of your shoes on the busy sidewalk and the navy blue bag thumping against your leg. Maybe he'll get to see a selfie. Those are always his favorite.

You make a soft, annoyed sound. Nothing good, then. But he wants to hear anyway.

"A guy was bothering me" You murmur quietly, brown eyes flickering over to meet his own.

"Bothering you how?"

"Following me around" You mumble mulishly. Your eyes glance down at your hands again. Your left one, to be exact. "He didn't believe that I was married"

Kento swallows, throat dry. It isn't too odd for people to believe that. Besides the fact that the marriage was sudden, he knows that he can get away with not wearing a ring. Sorcery isn't something that's neat and tidy, after all. And most sorcerers who are married are retired. Or dead.

But this isn't the first time someone outside of the small world of sorcery has doubted the validity of your marriage. Kento has heard a couple stories of nosy elderly women and men inquiring about your marital status. Most are content to drop it after that. And there was that one awful time when you burst into tears at work, sobbing on the phone when someone had gotten entirely too close to the truth. He hadn't brought it back up after that, the memory of you crying quietly into his chest too much to bear.

Your coworkers initially, as well. There isn't much manpower required to run a small independent bookstore, but it makes for better gossip. A few visits to your job to pick you up for lunch dates, or to spend his break out of the office had silenced them.

Before Kento can think twice about, he's gathering your left hand into his own, tracing his thumb over your ring finger. He can't tell if its because his palms are so much bigger than your own, but your fingers appear small and slender in his hand. Dainty, almost.

So that's why you were staring at your hand earlier. You wanted a ring. Or at the very least, wondering if it would put an end to the doubting voices around you.

"I have a mission later tonight. I won't be back until Saturday" Kento starts, biting his cheek when you visibly deflate. "When I return, we can look for rings, if you'd like"

Your face brightens considerably. It brings a soft smile to his own face in return. Gojo, the fool, was right. His life is much happier, now that you are too. He can admit it himself. Maybe even to you. But if Gojo finds out, Kento knows he'll never hear the end of it.

"Come home safely, alright Kento?" You say, customary, once you've neared the end of your break. He stands when you do, following on your heel―leading you out to the school gates. It's a warm sunny day out. The students are plenty noisy as they train out in the yard.

"I will" Kento promises solemnly, reluctant to let you go just yet. His fingers skim along the cool plastic of your prosthetic. "How has your arm been?"

You give him a tight lipped smile. "It hurts sometimes. The doctor called them phantom pains, he says its normal"

That checks out. Kento hums anyway, fingers circling around the wrist of your flesh hand. "When I come home Saturday, I'll massage it for you. Maybe that will ease the pains and cramps. Try to hold out until then"

Your smile is genuine now. "I will. Thanks Kento"

There's music playing in the kitchen, some J-Pop artist he's never heard of, when Kento comes home one evening. Kento hangs his coat over on the rack and notices several pairs of shoes. The loud thudding of socked feet, and Itadori careening into his side.

"Nanamin's home!" Screeches the boy, having at least the decency to turn away from Kento's ear as he does it. Fushiguro and Nobara follow after him, hitting the boy on the head and practically dragging him away―admonishing him once again for his volume.

Kento feels for the ring around his neck and wonders when exactly his life had changed so drastically.

"Smells good" Kento says quietly, slipping behind you in the kitchen. His eyes land immediately on the ring brandishing your finger. It's been six months since the two of you went out to shop for them, and you've never taken it off once.

He hasn't told you, but Kento slips it off your finger when you fall asleep, placing it on the nightstand so it doesn't get lost in the multiple comforters and pillows you insist on having. He's sure you already know―but neither of you say anything about it. And even on the rare occurrence that the ring isn't on, the pale sliver of skin makes it seem like you're still wearing it anyway.

"It's a philly cheesesteak" You reply, gathering a thin slice of beefsteak onto the chopsticks and feeding it to him, without even looking back. Tired and dead on his feet, Kento leans most of his weight against the counter and allows you to feed him the spare slice of meat or veggie. "Pretty good right?"

"I think I need to try more of the steak to be sure" Kento drawls quietly, chuckling softly when you laugh outright. Bravely, his hand lands on your side, squeezing gently at your hip. The physical contact is new―but the lines between proper and not are always a little blurred when he's exhausted like this. More malleable and cuddly. You don't seem to mind.

His hair falls into is eyes, sleepily pushing his face into the space between your neck and shoulder. Silently, he opens his mouth to receive the next bite of food.

"You don't fool me Kento" You reply, voice just as soft, but oblige anyway. "If you eat it all, what will we have to put on the bread?"

His eyes snap open. "There's going to be bread?" He asks, staring at the side of your face. "From our bakery?"

"The kids picked up a few hoagies" You assent, sneaking some of the peppers into your mouth. "Gojo was supposed to come as well, but he got called out for a mission at the last minute. So he told me to tell you he's sorry about that"

"Mm." Kento says, secretly happy about that. He doesn't want Gojo hogging all of your attention anyway. "Are the kids staying for dinner or taking it to go?"

"Staying" "To go" Simultaneously say Fushiguro and Itadori from the doorway. One swat to the back of Itadori's head quickly has the boy changing his mind.

You make this half step, awkward and bumbling with the weight of a grown man attached to your hip. "Are you sure? We really don't mind if you stay"

"No offense, Mrs Nanami" Pipes up Nobara from the very middle, hands on her hips. "But Nanami looks like he's 10 seconds from passing out right now"

Itadori makes a soft noise of assent, nodding along sagely.

"We just wanted to try the Philly cheesesteaks" Fushiguro adds quietly, sticking his hands into his pockets. A lie, because Kento knows Fushiguro enjoys your presence maybe most of all―coming around when the others aren't with him. To stay with you, while Kento himself is away.

"American food is pretty good" Itadori adds, looking boyish as he grins. "Mrs.Nanami is really good at cooking. I wish I stayed here so she could cook for me all the time"

Nobara nods, like she's going to agree, but then shakes her head at the last second. "No. I don't want to watch them act so...in-love. All the time. It's gross"

Your hand pauses in mid-air from where you're depositing their meals into separate containers. You don't say anything. Kento watches, eyes scanning over your features cautiously. Then slowly, you return to what you were doing.

So you don't hate the idea of it.

"I think it's nice" Fushiguro of all people says, and four pairs of eyes whip to stare at him incredulously―Kento among them. "You're a better sorcerer because you have someone to come back to."

Kento occasionally gets in his head about it. Where would you be, if you had never come to Japan? If your lives had not intersected that day in Okinawa? He can't help but feel as though you've got some form of attachment to him, formed out of the gratitude you feel for him essentially saving your life.

But your hand, the flesh one, smooths down the blond hairs on his arm and you hook your pinkies together, standing close as the kids file out of the door like ducks in a line. You've managed to adapt to this new life―even one as unruly as sorcery.

"Would you still stay if you could leave?" Kento blurts quietly into the quiet air. His voice is tinged with desperation. For once, he does not care to try and hide it. "If we could divorce and you were still a citizen of Japan? If you didn't have to go back to America?"

Your nose wrinkles adorably, visibly confused. "Why would I want to leave?" You ask him simply, tugging him into your bedroom, predictably to watch dramas. A dinner in bed kind of night. Those are becoming more common too. "You're here. Why would I want to go anywhere else?"

Quietly, Kento laughs. "Well, I suppose that's true" he says, and doesn't bring it up again.

Heaving a breath, Kento half slides, half stumbles into the backseat. Ijichi, who had been standing near the door gives him a tight smile before climbing back into the drivers seat.

"What are the extent of your injuries?" He asks, eyes crinkling in the corners with concern.

"I should be fine with painkillers and rest" Kento replies. He's more sore, than anything else. "Just straight home, please"

The car pulls off slowly. Kento lets himself relax into the leather seats, eyes flickering outside to watch the countryside pass him by when he remembers. "Happy birthday, Ijichi"

In the reflection of the mirror, Ijichi smiles. "Thank you. Your wife gifted me a card for a wonderful restaurant. I treated myself to lunch with it, the udon was delicious"

"We tried it a few months ago" Kento recalls, smiling to himself at the memory. His phone buzzes, and he digs into his pocket to pull it out, glad that it's a message from you. "She really enjoyed the katsudon so she thought you might enjoy it as well"

（˶′◡‵˶）it will be our anniversary soon, so i feel very weepy. i'm so happy you're in my life.

the kids were over today, we went to our bakery. they really miss you (not more than me) !! yuuji mentioned that he wanted to go to the beach, kugisaki as well. even megumi seemed excited. is that possible?

And then, moments later, like you took a moment to think before sending ;

i love you kento.

Instinctively, his hand pushes underneath his shirt, curling around the chain holding his ring. There must be some sort of sappy expression on his face at your message―for Ijichi takes one good look at him and turns fond, before glancing back to the road.

For a moment, Kento stares at the screen. It begins to dim from disuse, but awakens again once his thumb presses against it. As tired as he is, he's never been one to make you wait.

I'm glad you remember, I'm a better man now that you are in my life. Ichiji loves his birthday gift, by the way. You did well on that. I could convince Princpal Yaga that a beach trip will be good for the students training, I'll speak with Gojo and let you know how that goes.

He sends the text off, eyes fluttering shut. He lasts all of three minutes, and perhaps not even that, before he's unlocking his phone again. You'll be annoyed if he doesn't respond to each part of your message, after all.

I love you too. See you soon.

© amalainse -- do not copy, steal or plagiarize my works.

[whimzycle]

"Oh, I can see the family resemblance. You look just like him."

"Yes. I'd remember those eyes anywhere. The very same one I watched the life drain out of.

I wonder, would yours look exactly the same?"

Bunnymund has lived his life being told he looks just like his First Parent, there are very little traits he shares with his father.

The only time he's been told that he looks like his father is by Pitch. The last person he'd ever want to hear the words he has so desperately longed to hear from.

[pocketramblr]

Bribing myself once I'm done with the Assignments I'll get to post my progress on an animatic so let's hope this works

[eudico-my-beloved]

Apple…

[5-htagonist]

is it gay to make sure another mans history is passed on?

[monstermoviedean]

coworker 1: i'm so worried that when coworker 2 returns to the motherland i'll get assigned her job

me: looking directly into the camera like it's a mockumentary but my eyeball is only microns away from the camera because are you fucking kidding me rn i've been doing 95% of my ex-boss' job plus 100% of my job for the past six months and coworker 2 is doing the remaining 5% but apparently has been giving others the impression that she's working soooooo hard and she's soooooo busy (she left a meeting an hour early today to go to a yoga class and we all know because she told us that without shame)