MakO ϵ( 'Θ' )϶

writer - first language is spanish - 20

[makos-ribcage]

mako's navigation ㅡ 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝

when i scream the sea is listening

mako | biotech student | she/her | 12/20 | sanji and neuvillette simp | mostly sfw writer but might write nsfw every now and then, with a warning.

i take requests !!

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i dont mind my work being reposted or translated, but give credits and ask for permission first

۰࿐·˚ ༘ 𓆛 〰

[homunculus-argument]

Your e-mail found me repulsive and unsettling and has made a request to not have to work with me again.

[makos-ribcage]

Holahola, t sigo desde Wattpad y m preguntaba si en alguna ocasión volverás a escribir el fanfic q estabas escribiendo o ya nada, m gusta mucho tu manera de escribir y x supuesto el fanfic 🫶💕😺

Hello, lo acabo de actualizar :3

[assiraphales]

ppl talk about tumblr like it’s dead. ‘this would have done numbers on tumblr’ ’tumblr would have loved this movie’ baby we’re still here

[makos-ribcage]

dont let them know that, i come here when instagram is too racist, twitter is both homophobic and way too woke and tiktok is too stupid

[assiraphales]

ppl talk about tumblr like it’s dead. ‘this would have done numbers on tumblr’ ’tumblr would have loved this movie’ baby we’re still here

[assiraphales]

ppl talk about tumblr like it’s dead. ‘this would have done numbers on tumblr’ ’tumblr would have loved this movie’ baby we’re still here

[probablymarin]

TADC: The Last Act is really good if you actually care about the story instead of whatever headcanons you've decided to base your whole personality around

[makos-ribcage]

i feel like its because its a lot of people first fandom so they dont know how to behave when something doesnt go the way they wanted

so many people complaining about not getting enough screen time of their favorite character when thats just now how it works, its not your show for you to decide who deserves more screen time and who doesnt

im risking sounding like an annoying old person but back in my days youll see people fangirl over a character that barely had any dialogue and not be annoying about it

[probablymarin]

TADC: The Last Act is really good if you actually care about the story instead of whatever headcanons you've decided to base your whole personality around

[demilypyro]

Digital circus' biggest problem is that it was written to be a niche show aimed at weird analytical queers with actual media literacy and it accidentally blew tf up and hit the mainstream and a bunch of people who have never had a second thought about anything got into it

[makos-ribcage]

this cause why am i seeing so many people saying theres questions unanswered, they literally explained everything

[demilypyro]

Digital circus' biggest problem is that it was written to be a niche show aimed at weird analytical queers with actual media literacy and it accidentally blew tf up and hit the mainstream and a bunch of people who have never had a second thought about anything got into it

[earthtomia]

house m.d. recs

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ gregory house

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ james wilson

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ robert chase

[dollerinna]

YOU WANNA BE ★ HIGH FOR THIS

𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐅𝐓. 𝓖regory house ‪‪❤︎‬ 𝓕em! reader ‪‪❤︎‬ 𝓘ames wilson

𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. house claims scotch gets people naked 83% of the time. so you, wilson, and a bottle of whiskey are about to become data points tonight ❪ wc: 4k ❫

𖥔 ❚❙❘ㅤ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. threesome. unprotected p in v. spītroast. oral (m!receiving). alcohol consumption. groping. implied age gap (18+). lots of house-wilson banter. more goofy than originally planned sorry not sorry

You flopped across the couch like a ragdoll with its strings slashed, one leg hooked over House’s lap, the other dangling toward Wilson. The scotch had already wormed its way deep, a slow burn churning through your veins until your fingertips buzzed and your head floated two inches above your neck. But that was nothing compared to the heat simmering low in your stomach, or the way their twin stares pinned you down—focused, unwavering, and far too aware of the way you breathe, shift, exist, like it was their new favorite sport.

House lounged back, all loose-limbs and cocky sprawl, one hand drumming an erratic beat on the armrest while the other cradled his glass. That trademark mask of couldn’t-give-a-damn sat firm—until you hit his eyes. Those icy blues cut through the alcoholic fog like a surgeon’s scalpel, hungry and coiled, a wolf sizing up its next meal.

“Fun fact,” he began, voice laden with the gravel of too much whiskey and just enough temptation. “Scotch has an eighty-three percent success rate at convincing people their clothes are optional.” He took a slow sip, letting the words marinate before adding, “The other seventeen percent? Already naked and thanking me later.”

You groaned, because of course you did, but still—your lips curled around the bait. “And this scientific study was conducted when, exactly?” Your foot nudged Wilson’s knee, a playful prod to see if he’d back you up

He lifted his glass to the light, swirling the amber liquid with mock academic flair. “Right around the time peat smoke was proven to whisper dirty things in your ear,” He paused. Then, in the worst Scottish accent you’d ever heard—“Och, lassie, off wi’ yer knickers.”

It was part-Scotsman, part-drunk pirate, part… stroke patient.

Wilson, who had thus far maintained the dignified restraint of a man ignoring the fact that your legs were essentially draped across his thigh, promptly choked on his drink. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, struggling to suppress a chuckle.

“That was less Braveheart,” he said between coughs, “and more brain hemorrhage.”

You burst out laughing.

House squinted, looking personally offended. “You think I sound weak? Offensive. That was a mighty Scotsman. A kilted god among men.”

“Mighty,” Wilson deadpanned, nodding with mock gravitas. “Mighty enough to trip over his own tongue and fall crotch-first into a caber.”

He shifted closer to you, casual as anything, chestnut eyes catching the light as they crinkled with an un-Wilson looseness that only showed up three drinks in. “Oh and by ‘whispering’, what House really means is ‘yelling like a drunk rugby fan with a megaphone and unresolved trauma,’” he teased with a laugh. The kind of laugh sober Wilson might’ve swallowed back with a polite cough and a change of subject. “Subtlety is not in his DNA- shocker, I know.”

You snorted into your glass. “That’s generous. I’d go with ‘public disturbance.’”

House raised his glass in mock salute. “Guilty. Though I prefer ‘force of nature’ to ‘traumatized rugby fan.’ Has a little more sex appeal.”

“Only to people with a head injury,” Wilson muttered under his breath.

“You say that like it’s a dealbreaker.”

House’s smirk kicked up a notch as he glanced back to you, head cocked. “Besides, subtlety’s for cowards. And the whole ‘sprawled-out goddess’ look you’ve got going? Wasted on ambiguity.”

Wilson scooted closer again, knee bumping yours. His hand grazed your leg. Not a grab, a mere fleeting touch. “Ignore him,” he said softly, but his tone didn’t quite match his composed veneer, a detail that didn’t escape your notice. “He’s got all the finesse of a sledgehammer, but he’s not wrong.” He paused, and he was close enough that you caught the faint cedar of his cologne and something else you couldn’t name but wanted to bottle. “You’re beautiful like this. Relaxed. Open.”

House didn’t even try to disguise his scoff, tipping his glass your way. “Open? She’s a neon sign screaming ‘ravish me.’ Don’t let Wilson’s choirboy act fool you- he’s already mentally cataloguing where to bite first.”

Wilson, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Just fixed House the kind of glare that said shut your trap in a gazillion different languages. He turned his attention back to you, laced with that careful warmth only he could manage. “He’s an ass. But… yeah. You’re making it real hard to behave.”

A giggle bubbled up from your chest, part-impish, part-menace. “God, you two,” you sighed, flopping back dramatically. “I can’t decide if I’m being seduced or prepped for a veeeery horny team-building exercise.”

“You knew what this was,” House said dryly.

“And you still showed up on time anyways.” Wilson added, less helpfully.

You stretched slowly, catlike, making a show of it just to watch both of them zeroed in as if they’d forgotten how to blink. “If I did want to strip,” you mused, syrupy-sweet. “I’d do it right. Spotlights. Music. Probably glitter.”

“Dear god,” Wilson mumbled, half in prayer.

“But…” you twirled the rim of your glass between your fingers, “I’d need a reason first, wouldn’t I?”You cocked a brow, eyes glittering as they bounced between the two doctors.

You weren’t subtle either.

You didn’t need to be.

House didn’t wait for permission. Of course he didn’t.

Subtlety required restraint, and restraint had been surgically removed from him years ago.

His palm slid beneath your skirt before Wilson could even think of filling the silence, cupping the curve of your ass with a lazy kind of ownership, one that screamed he’d done it a hundred times before and had yet to be reprimanded for it. The touch was almost dismissive… if not for the rough grope that followed, eliciting a small hitch from you. His thumb dragged invisible patterns against your flesh, each one a question: How far would you let this go?

Far enough. He knew that.

Eyes widening, Wilson caught the movement instantly, as if House’s hand might suddenly become a medical emergency. His mouth opened on might’ve been some half-assed moral objection, the kind that would make him feel like a better person for all of five seconds. Though it was short-lived, short circuiting somewhere between his brain and spine (and his hard-on). His hand joined the fray, settling higher up your thigh, skin leaving a line of heat through the flimsy barrier of your skirt.

You squirmed. Just a little. Not a word of protest on your tongue.

“Funny,” House tilted his head, brows knitting together in exaggerated thought. "You said you needed a reason, and now you’re practically writing me one in cursive on your thigh. Either I’m very persuasive, or you’re a liar.”

His blue eyes trailed down your body. “I’m voting liar.”

You huffed out a laugh, more breath than sound. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But you didn’t move. Not away, at least.

“Maybe I’m bored.”

House’s grin sharpened. “And this is your idea of entertainment? Letting two men twice your age feel you up like it’s amateur hour at a strip club?”

Wilson’s lips pursed into a sulky pout, grumbling inaudibly. “…Well first of all- I’m not twice her age. I’m only thirty-nine.”

House shot him with a flat look. “Wilson, please. You’ve been thirty-nine since the Bush administration.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but didn’t say a thing.

You swallowed, heat coiling deep. “Ooooor I’m just curious,” you offered, barely above a whisper. “Wondering how far you’ll go before one of you chickens out.”

House barked a cackle, full and unrepentant. “Don’t worry, I only stop until someone’s pushing up daisies.”

And just like that, Wilson’s hand moved again—with purpose now, challenged by your words, by House’s audacity, by the noiseless thrum that had weaved its way through all three of you. His fingers ghosted higher, brushing the edge of your panties—already moist, and not from nerves.

House surveyed with sharp-eyed approval, glass forgotten on the table. “That’s more like it,” a satisfied hum underscored his words. “Though let’s not pretend you wouldn’t look better on your knees.”

You turned toward him, a staccato thump seizing your heart. He wasn’t smirking anymore—just watching you, intense and unblinking, probably replaying every filthy possibility in his head.

He sat up, rising and squaring his shoulders with a lazy grace that verged on smug. “How about this,” he started, the lilt of his tone as causal as ordering coffee. “You get on your knees. I enjoy the show. And Wilson gets to lie to himself about being the one you really wanted. Fair trade, right?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s your version of fair?”

“I’m the smoke and mirrors. Wilson’s the mop and bucket. Try to keep up.”

Behind you, Wilson let out a choked laugh. “Jesus, House—”

“Wrong deity,” House cut in. “But keep calling out names if it helps.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands were already on the button of his jeans, fingers skittering with greedy impulse. House didn’t lift a finger to help. He simply leaned back, legs spread as an unspoken invitation to draw you nearer, observing with open appreciation as you worked.

“Atta girl,” he husked, tone dropping to a low and sandpapery timbre.

When you freed him, you saw it—already thickening fast in your palm, bleeding with heat that you swore had a pulse of its own, the weight of it settling heavy over your digits. Not massive, no, but enough to fuck you up, with that slight upward curve that practically begged to bully the back of your throat in all the right ways and a tip that blushed a deeper shade of red with every second you lingered. Deceptively pretty, almost rude in how it owned the space between his thighs. A grower, definitely. But now? Very much grown.

Wilson’s warm, steady hands curved around your waist. His touch didn’t push—it guided—subtle pressure coaxing you forward, down, into position. The leather of the couch creaked softly beneath you as you sank to your knees between House’s legs, the sound nearly eclipsed by the rabbit-quick beat of your heart.

He crowded in from behind, his slacks doing little to dull the throbbing, insistent press of his erection against the dip of your back. He rocked against you once, unrushed yet teeming with exhilaration, partially terrified that if it felt this good with clothes on, actually being inside you might just ruin him for life.

But then he stilled.

“You sure?” his breath stirred the fine hairs at your nape, barely audible over the blood in your ears.

You nodded. That was all he needed.

Hiking your skirt up with a breathless little scoot, Wilson peeled your panties down as gentlemanly as he could in such a scenario, the damp cotton catching briefly on the soft give of your thighs before pooling where your knees bit into the cushions. His fingers followed instantly—kneading the plush swell of your ass, spreading you wide until your wet folds parted like ripened fruit split under thumb.

Exposed, your cunt fluttered uselessly in empty space, spasming in a mindless pulse that wafted a hot, narcotic wave of scent. Your arousal clung in the air, intoxicatingly so, punching the sanity clean out of Wilson’s skull. He exhaled so sharply it rattled his chest, pupils blown, every last coherent thought fragmenting into a haze of pussy-induced delirium.

“O-Oh wow,” he blurted, hoarse and awestruck. “You are… soaked.”

Amusement flickered across House’s features, his thumb skimming the arc of your cheekbone as your mouth hovered mere inches over the swollen head of his dick. The tickle of your breath drew a feral little tremor from it, precum coating him in a viciously glossy sheen. “Told you,” he said. “She’s been dripping since I made that Scotsman joke.”

You huffed in disbelief, smirking despite the ways your thighs were trembling. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Emboldened, you bent forward and sealed your lips around his fat tip, your tongue teasing delicate kitten licks over the slit—solely to feel him shiver beneath you. Flicking, swirling, savoring the way you wrung hushed, reluctant moans out of him with every pass, you worked with surgical precision.

However, he tasted… well, not exactly gourmet. Bitter, briny, drenched in that unmistakable aftershock of something indecently male, enough to wrinkle your nose on reflex. But you were too shitfaced to give a fuck. If anything, the mess of it egged you on. You ventured on inch by inch, halfway down a single sweep as he fed easy into your mouth, while fists squeezed and twisted at his veiny base in rhythmic circles.

Air whistled harshly through House’s clenched teeth, chest lurching, his hand flexing in restraint at his thigh as he battled the almighty urge to grip your hair and slam you down until your nose was buried in his wiry curls. But he didn’t. Yet.

Behind you, Wilson gave in. You heard it in the clatter of his belt hitting the floor, the hiss of his zipper yanked down too fast to care, the rustle of fabric shoved aside with the grace of a man losing the fight to keep his hands off you.

Then: heat. The soft planes of his body blanketing you, his member nudging your entrance with shameless intent—a tad bit stubbier than House’s (if we’re being petty about it-) but girthy enough to stretch, to quell that blistering ache in your womb in a toe-curling way. He dragged himself through the weeping slit of your vulva, cockhead gliding right over your puffy clit, before lining up and sheathing in you with a stroke so bone-deep, it scrambled your mind into a buffering screen and left your mouth full of static.

A garbled gasp bursted from your lungs and vibrated around House’s cock, spine bowing as you struggled to adjust to the intrusion, momentarily unsure whether to take it or tap the hell out. House jerked, faltering in a sudden unsteady surge, a low bitten off curse slurring out of him.

“Ngh!-… mm… you feel unreal,” Wilson whimpered into your shoulder, quiet desperation creeping up the edges of his voice. “remind me t-to write you a…. Hah… thank-you note after this—formal stationery, maybe a wax seal.”

“Uh-huh…” you answered absentmindedly, too far gone to process his incessant babbling. You were busy trying to survive the way he and House were pummeling your insides from both ends, your body caught in the relentless piston-esque snap and grind that haven’t even hit its stride yet.

Wilson’s hands, once so measured and clinical, were now splayed across your ribcage hard enough to brand you with his fingerprints, knuckles blanching as if he’d been edging himself for hours instead of minutes. He buried himself to the hilt with a gluttonous shove, cock lodged deep that the blunt crest of him prodded nerves you didn’t know had a name. When he retracted his hips, only the tip remained, nestled in your drooling hole. He paused to take a glimpse, unable to help himself—transfixed by how your juices clung to him in translucent webs, adorning his shaft like lacquered silk.

He gulped, crimson crawling up his neck as the sheer volume of it hit him: how fast he (and house) reduced you to such a state.

He snapped forward, pelvis colliding with your tail bone, picking up a pace with a foggy, half-drunk determination—sluggish at first, all clumsy momentum and no finesse, each thrust a feverish motion that rocked you onward in staggered bursts. Your lids drooped, the room careening at the corners of your vision in loops. Nerves alight. Blood whirring. Your senses awash in a whiskey blur and the spectral, shivery fog of it all.

You swallowed around House further, allowing yourself to slump into the metronomic rhythm they built between your holes—blitzed on cock, alcohol, and the brain-dead high of being used just right. Every sturdy push and pull from Wilson drove you farther down, until House’s dick was battering the roof of your mouth, the squishy crown ramming the very back of your soft palate nonstop.

Your mewls resonated along House’s length, drawn out and giddy, the pitch climbing each time Wilson bottomed out. It was pure pornstar-grade debauchery: spit dribbling unchecked down your chin, your sweaty body rocking like a buoy in a storm, anchored only by the cocks working you from front to back.

“Agh—-ah… Fuck… don’t you dare stop. Keep going,” the swear fled House on an airless murmur, pleasure unspooling at the seams of his composure. His jaw clamped shut as your tongue skimmed the underside of his dick, tracing near a particularly sensitive vein before delving lower to lick a filthy stripe onto his testicles, suckling one of them until it slipped free with a lewd pop.

“…Even if you are slobbering like a saint bernard.” He snickered, glassy eyes glazing over your disheveled moving form.

Glowering up at him, you whined a sharp, wounded noise around him, partly from offense, mostly from being too cock-dumb to coordinate a middle finger without choking.

He grinned, all mean affection. “There it is. My favorite sound.”

Meanwhile, Wilson had narrowed his focus to a single, frantic mission: making the absolute most of tonight. He undulated his hips to the tempo of his rapid heaving, jackhammering into your tender g-spot with a kind of dumb, reverent devotion—not so much to you, but to your pussy, which he might never get the honor of visiting again. He was so lost in the moment that a sound tore up from the well in his chest—raw, croaky, and almost humiliating in its sincerity.

He sank deep with a stuttering grind, balls snug against you, and just froze there—as if he was internally bargaining with himself not to bust already.

“Oh my god—-” he wheezed, still unable to believe his dick had landed him here. “She’s—she’s milking me to death!… I almost saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Then, quieter and borderline-delirious: “I think I’m being spiritually harvested…”

You blinked once. Mildly confused. Though kept going.

And House, who had been casually tugging the loose collar of your shirt down to spill your perky tits free, made a noise like a judge scoffing from the bench. “You know, I once had a hooker ask if she could write me off on her taxes. That was less depressing than what just came out of your mouth.”

Wilson gave a ragged laugh, breath catching. “You think she’ll still be able to stand after this?”

“I’m hoping not,” House replied, dragging his thumb along your moist bottom lip as you pulled back, gasping for air. “Dead weight’s hotter when it’s earned.”

You dove right back in, rear jolting backward vigorously, chasing the molten pressure crushing low within the depths of your loins. Your hamstrings had long since liquified, but that didn’t stop you—it couldn’t. One couldn’t say the same for Wilson, who was clearly struggling to rein himself in, and you, ever the conniving brat, clenched down on him the second he tried to pull free. The embrace of your spongy muscles held him hostage, walls all suffocating squish and suction, amplifying the plap-plap-plap of skin meeting skin, a soundtrack so shameless it bordered on illicit just hearing it.

Teetering over the edge, Wilson shut his eyes, clinging to his dwindling resolve behind pinched lids. His hands fumbled blindly up your writhing torso, pawing your breasts with the panicked fervor of a man gripping twin stress balls—palms clutching, fingers knotting, in need to ground himself in the middle of an absolute neurological wipeout.

Calm down, Wilson.

Pace your breathing.

Think about baseball. Or the mountain of charts waiting on your desk. Or—no. That made it worse-

He tried to mentally wrest back focus—the kind he’d rely on mid-panic in an oncology consult, except he’s now balls-deep in a threesome he still wasn’t entirely convinced was real.

Just… focus. If you can tie a suture in a chest cavity, then you can last another minute without losing your goddamn mind.

Don’t screw it up like some—god, some overeager pre-med who’s never seen a real breast before!

House picked up his forgotten glass and took a long, unnecessarily noisy sip—sluuuurp—purely to make sure Wilson knew he was being scrutinized. He leaned back with a shit-eating grin, eyes flicking to Wilson like he was watching a nature documentary: ‘Man Losing Grip in Real Time.’

“I—dammit—think I’m going to…” Wilson grit out, strained and unsteady, as if the admission cost him. His hips quivered, a clumsy twitch that made you arch slightly, pressing back into him as if to say—keep your shit together or else!!

“What, blow your Hippocratic Oath all over the place?” House interjected, likely been waiting to use that line all night. He looked downright gleeful. “God, Wilson. At least try to last long enough for her to gag on it.”

“You’re not even doing anything!” Wilson snapped, grappling to preserve his dignity as your cunt clasped around him like a vice.

“I’m coaching. Like any great man in history.”

Wilson grunted, jaw slackened and too blissed out to argue. His balls tightened, cock pulsating while his thrusts into you grew shallow and sloppy. The world funneled into a brilliant flare—white-hot and crackling—pinpricks of stars jittered behind his eyes, ready to detonate. The tide surged, and he barely managed to yank out in time, his climax overtaking him as white ribbons violently painted your back.

The feeling of him spurting onto you tipped you headfirst into your own high, a muffled moan escaping as the coil in your belly unraveled, erupting trails of goosebumps over your skin.

He collapsed onto you, forehead thunking against your shoulder blade, sweat-matted wisps of his once-neatly styled hair sticking to his temple. His arms went boneless to his sides as he tried to remember how lungs worked.

House let out a breathy chuckle—not quite kind, but not entirely cruel—his hand lazily cradling the back of your head, fingers threaded into your hair like he was petting a pup that did a trick. “Aw. Look at him. Poor thing’s gonna need a juice box and a nap.”

Wilson groaned, not bothering to lift his head. “Screw you.”

House saw how you were still obediently taking him to the root like you hadn’t just been railed senseless. He Idly massaged your scalp as you bobbed your head—a sign of affection, maybe. Or he simply needed something to fidget with while getting head.

“Don’t mind Sleeping Beauty here,” he drawled, his voice thinning as his hips gave a roll against your tongue. “He always finishes the race before the rest of us even put on our running shoes.”

Wilson exhaled a weary huff, cheek still mashed against your back. “Big words from someone who’s spent this entire ordeal horizontal.”

“Delegation of labor,” His tone tightened as the treatment subjected to your poor mouth grew rougher. “Besides- someone’s gotta counterbalance the limp. Be a shame if I went toppling over like bambi on ice.”

Wilson snorted, laughter tangled in a cough. “Right… tragedy of the century. They’d write eulogies.”

House ignored him, his attention locked on you, and the fact he was on the brink of losing control.

One hand clawed into the backrest for leverage, the other cinching your hair with a force shy of brutal. The flow of his thrusts splintered, erratic and uneven, each movement punctuated by wrecked sounds he didn’t bother to bite back. “Look at you,” he panted. “Didn’t even flinch. Even after lover boy back there nearly folded you in half. And you’re still taking me so well…”

He hovered right above his seat, limbs taut, breath sawing between his teeth. He trapped your skull in place, fucking your face with abandon as his cock drilled mercilessly into the confines of your throat. You were stretched to your limit, tears needling at your waterline as you blinked up at him, doe-eyed and so ruinously eager.

He choked on a noise that was a blend of groan and laugh. “Agh-… overachiever...” his head lolled back over shoulder, the last word dissolving into a strangled sound. With a final, forceful pump, he held you close and spilled his seed inside you. You steadied, gullet flexing around the gooey burn of it, swallowing him in practiced pulls while he trembled through the comedown.

House eased you off him with surprising gentleness before sagging back into the sofa. His gaze flickered down to yours again, bleary but bright with the afterglow of post-orgasm satisfaction. “See?” He managed between shallow puffs. “Eighty-three percent success rate. Science bows to me.”

You face-planted into a throw pillow, voice muffled but laced with reluctant amusement. “…Worst… study… ever.”

House gave your bare asscheek a light, celebratory smack, earning a pitiful whine from you.

“Oh come on,” he drawled. “That was a landmark trial. Peer-reviewed by the neighbors.”

From the other end of the couch, Wilson groaned, one arm slung over his eyes like he was warding off the world. “Don’t even start. I think I pulled something.”

“You pulled out. That’s the part I’ll never forgive.”

pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

🏷️ : @do-double-g @igalol @crimin4llyins4ne @yourgirlcarol @corrosive-agent @ceces-pizza @kitkat272 @shemsworth01 @wildgirllz @metalsbites @crashoutqueenie @svp625 @discombobulateddisco007 @jiqsaww @cyacola @crikeyitschase @mychemstat @emotionallybruisedx @catharticdesire @slut4jlgibbs @ikissm1kasa @d1sgr4c3ful

A/N : I tried to tag everyone who commented for this fic! sorry if some of u guys are over it tho as it’s been months. feel free ignore if so. and ye I’m finally back blah blah, yall know the drill, but this time I was dealing with some personal stuff 🫠

oh and I’ll get to answering some asks in the next couple of days!! missed u guys 💗

[odyssean-flower]

Got so stuck on the chapter that i started writing a smut scene just to clear the writers block...and its actually working

I wont post it tho bc its very ooc and bad

[makos-ribcage]

wait, im on writers block too, ill try this

[makos-ribcage]

backfire ㅡ 𓇼 [ao3]

!! kenji "ken" sato x reader fanfic

𓇼she/her

warning ! none

word count- 5k

so i published this in ao3 and is where ill be updating it first, its also my first fanfic there so id appreciate a lot if yall went there to read it instead of here, heres the link

this is the 7th chapter, btw, the rest can be found either on ao3 or you can search for it on my masterlist :)

Usually people would find comfort when a mistake was somebody else's. It was easier to blame the discomfort or the broken pieces on someone else, it felt better to know that the awkwardness, annoyance or disgrace wasn’t something to blame on your own person. But you hated when something wasn’t your fault, because it meant you couldn’t fix it, it meant you’d have to depend on someone else for it to get solved, wait for that other person to realize their mistake and actually try to fix it, and then fix it correctly, not make it worse. But if it was your mistake you could control how to fix it, you could understand what you did wrong, how to amend it and how to behave next time so the situation doesn't repeat. So ever since you were a kid, from the first times your dad complained about you, you blamed yourself. Not for pity, not because of low self esteem, but because you can control yourself yet you can't control others. You can't make your dad not hate you, you can't make him stop yelling or complaining, but you can fix yourself enough for it to stop happening, you could dress up as a man and gaslight everyone including himself so his toxic behavior would stop or at least get less frequent. So, right now, you can’t make Sato behave, you can’t get him to stop being a distraction so you can focus on baseball, you can’t make him play less good so you could’ve gotten that sponsor, what you can do however is cut him off totally so you wouldn’t have any options except be a better player.

And so you did. Not only cutting off Sato, but you became even more distant than before. People stopped hearing your voice again, people stopped seeing different facial expressions, you became a machine for only training and playing, you didn’t even interact with fans anymore. Sato didn't tried to look for you, until he realized something was deeply wrong, when he realized not even Coach Shimura could get a word out of you, when he realized instead of looking serious always, like when you first got into the team, you looked angry, like at any moment you could pop off a vein in your forehead. Fans became curious and even more excited about your new mysterious way of being. You've always been weird, non-chalant and just a bit socially awkward, but people often liked that, especially fangirls and old men who think you should exclusively focus on baseball. And you knew that, you knew all those things because they were what got you into a good team in the first place, but you let yourself slack. At first, Sato decided to leave you alone, let you get out of whatever mental situation you got yourself into, but as time passed and you still didn't talk to anyone, he realized something was wrong. He didn’t understand how you can go from sharing your feelings and spending time with him to straight up ignoring him and everyone for that matter.

But he couldn’t deal with you right now, he told himself, he got bigger fishes to fry, bigger kaijus, to be more specific. He was sure he was going to die soon, both figuratively and literally, he could never rest neither from baseball nor Ultraman duties, if it wasn't baseball, Coach Shimura or your judgemental eyes every time he made a mess during practice or games. Then he would get home and have to take care of a Kaiju alone, fight other kaijus and run away from the KDA, he thought of calling his dad, of course, Mina let him know how much of a better decision than whatever he was doing that would be, but he was both stubborn and stupid, so he never agreed to call him. And the idea of calling you and telling you his secret was long lost as time passed and you didn’t exchange a single word with him.

That night was the final game, everyone was nervous, except you. You practiced your soul off those past days and you felt grateful you got mad at Sato and started practicing more often because now you were the perfect baseball player, you made sure of it. If before you never got tired, now you could run for miles and not catch a sweat, you didn’t miss any balls, you could run faster than everyone, you were at your peak. And that bothered you, because it meant you couldn’t get better than were you were, it meant someone out there was going to get better and you weren’t, but you pushed those depressive thoughts deep under your brain and focused on tonight, on winning the game, on showing those sponsors who was the better player, the bestest option. Sato, on the other hand, looked terrible, tired, eyebags, sore muscles and a busted ego. You hated that, you felt pitiful of him, you wanted to tell him how he should rest, you wanted to ask him what was wrong, but you buried those thoughts deep along with everything else.

And so the game started, as usual the rookies batted first, then you, a few more rookies and finally Sato, so you went first, stepping on the box as your name was chanted loudly by the stadium. As you grabbed the bat tightly, each finger curling up with your gloves avoiding any slips the stadium no longer sounded loud. It vibrated, a living pulse rolling through forty thousand voices as the scoreboard shined above the field displaying the score you were currently at,  bottom of the ninth, two outs, tie game. You positioned yourself in the batter’s box calmly, you knew this was going to be easy, you practiced for it. The noise faded the moment your cleats settled into the dirt, your fans watching expectantly to what you were going to do, and both you and them knew how you played, how you were a runner. Your stance was simple and efficient, perfect, left foot slightly open, one hand loose and the other tight, weight balanced. You were a machine, you made sure of it. 

The first pitch came fast, a high-velocity fastball aimed inside to confuse you, startle you. You didn’t move. Strike one. Your eyes remained focused on the pitcher, and you closed them tight for a second, already listening to your dads complain, but that was only motivation, because you were going to make sure he didn’t complain. The pitcher tried again, this time a slider breaking away from the plate, bait meant to force a mistake. You stepped forward and swung. The crack of the bat cut clean through the stadium noise as the ball shot between third base and shortstop.

You were already sprinting before the ball crossed the infield dirt. Your first steps were explosive and low, every movement efficient, practiced to be enough but not too much so you got tired before you should be tired, arms tight and controlled, rehearsed for your body to spend the least amount of energy possible. The shortstop dove and missed by inches. You crossed first base at full speed. You rounded the bag aggressively, forcing the outfielder into a rushed throw before stopping sharply at the coach’s signal. Dust rose around your cleats as you regained balance instantly. You looked toward the dugout without any expression, already thinking ahead how the things were going to play.

With the next batter at the plate, you took his lead off first base. Three steps, then four, testing distance, your biggest fans totally ignoring the next batter and still focusing on you, Sato’s eyes still focused on you. The pitcher checked you repeatedly, trying to pin you in place. You watched only the pitcher’s lower body, waiting for the shift of weight that could not be faked. The pitcher set, paused too long, and in that hesitation you managed to find certainty.

The moment the pitcher committed toward home, you exploded toward second. Your acceleration was immediate, perfectly timed with the delivery. The catcher received the pitch cleanly and fired a sharp throw to second base. You slid feet-first into a hook slide, pulling your leg away from the incoming tag at the last instant. Dirt burst into the air as the umpire spread his arms wide. Safe. The crowd roared as you rose calmly, brushing dust from your uniform as if the play had required no effort at all, and it didn’t, you were perfect, rehearsed and flawless.

Now the winning run stood in scoring position. The count on the batter stretched to full. Every defender leaned inward, tension visible in their posture. You  watched the pitcher again, noticing the change in breathing, the fatigue settling into each movement. The pitch came, and the batter connected weakly, sending a shallow line drive into center field. Most runners would hesitate, but you weren’t that weak, you ran the instant the bat met the ball.

You rounded third base at full speed, body angled perfectly to maintain momentum. The center fielder charged forward, scooped the ball, and fired home. The throw arrived high as the catcher leapt to receive it. You launched into a headfirst slide, arm stretching forward while your body curved around the expected tag. The catcher’s glove slammed down just behind you as his fingertips reached the plate.

For a moment, the stadium fell silent. Dust floated under the stadium lights while everyone waited. The umpire stepped forward and spread his arms.

“Safe!”

The noise returned all at once, overwhelming and wild as teammates rushed the field. You stood up, agitated but calm, you knew how it was going to go, you knew the plays you wanted to achieve, you knew each inch your body was going to move and how it was going to move. So you stood up, surrounded by celebration and flashing cameras,your expression didn’t change, and even though you wanted to leave, you stayed, sponsors liked it when you were famous, when you could manage the media, and even though you had a special way of doing so, it was going to work, you’ll make sure of it. Across the field, Sato watched in silence. You allowed yourself to stare at him for a second, and allowed yourself to make a different expression for once, a frown. 

Now was Sato’s time to bat, he positioned himself at the batters box, this time, less people chanting his name, his fans with more than a few games of disappointment on their minds, but there were still a few more loyal fans, whether because they had supported him for a long time or because it was obvious he was going through a hard time, Sato positioned himself in the batter box, taking a similar stance to yours that he had learned and got used to it during the first days of training with you now a long time ago, of course he would rather kill himself than admit he learned and applied something from you. The pitcher threw the first ball. A clean strike. The catcher threw smartass comments toward Sato that only resonated as a loud beeping noise in his ear. Two more balls went by and he didn’t hit any of them, he was out. The stadium roared but this time on a loud ‘Boo’ for Sato, you felt pity for him, for the first time in days. But you promised yourself you weren't going to let that get the best of you again, you thought but yet you still walked mindlessly towards him once the game was over, not to pamper him or cheer him up, but to yell at him.

“Don´t.” He quickly said when he heard your steps, his back turned to you as he took his uniform off, you took a deep breath, watching each muscle in his back contract, remembering for a second how hot you found him, but making sure that didn’t let your actual needs and wants become blurry. You tried to pick the correct words so you spoke the least amount of words, trying to remain loyal to your vote to not speak much again.

“You need to train harder,” You stated, Sato closed his eyes tightly, standing up to pick up a water bottle inside his locker, focusing on what was going on around him and trying to pretend he didn’t want to push you in the face.

“You need to mind your business, worked great for you,” He said sarcastically, and you frowned even harder.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You walked closer to him, watching him take a sip out of his water bottle, licking his lips once he was done, making your eyes flutter to them for a second. You knew what that was supposed to mean, how you didn’t cared about anyone anymore, how you didn’t cared about the rookies neither tried to help anyone train or get better, but it worked for you, and you decided you needed to be at least a little bit selfish, or a lot, you haven’t made your mind about it yet. 

“It means that you’re an asshole, now if you’ll excuse me,” He stood up, grabbing a towel, bumping into shoulder and walking towards the shower, closing his locker with a loud thud as your eyes followed him until they couldn’t.

The next few days were hell, awards, interviews, new rookies, and not a single sponsor for you, which only made you despise Sato even more given the last sponsor you could’ve gotten decided he was the best option, not you. You despised him, you blamed him, you were sure it wasn’t his fault, both logically and because of your harmful mindset of always blaming yourself, but you wanted to take your anger onto someone that wasn’t you, because your thought already tortured you a lot, you already talked enough shit about you, you didn’t need more of it. So you became Sato’s own personal hell. It was petty and childish coming from you, but you didn’t cared, you were mad at him, you were mad how Coach Shimura insisted on you talking with him so he got better during games, how your dad complained how if you were a better player you wouldn’t have to play with such mediocre players like him, so you made his life impossible, quietly blaming him for at least a few of your disgraces.

So once a new season began with each day during training you were under his nose, watching his every move and correcting him when he failed, complaining when he got tired, talking his ear off corrections he didn't ask for. That morning especially you were running around the field, and you managed to run next to him, perfectly, not a single drop of sweat, of course you didn’t stop training during vacations, he knew that, he knew how much of a psychopath you were. So you ran next to him, giving him indications on how to run, how to breathe, how to tense or relax his muscles so he could run faster, for longer and more efficiently. Of course he didn’t appreciate any of it, turning his head towards you to let you know how much of an annoyance you were being.

“Narawa, leave me the fuck alone,” He whispered, knowing Coach Shimura didn’t appreciate when language was used that way.

“It is my duty given by Coach Shimura to help other train more efficiently,” You answered, sounding like a robot.

“Your insufferab- Fuck!” He complained, falling to one side, catching himself with his elbow before hitting the ground. A twisted ankle bad enough for you to listen to a ‘pop’ before a painful hiss came from him. You ran towards him in worry, but you quickly managed to appear nonchalant once again, “I told you you should stretch before,” he raised his eyes, his painful expression fading to one of annoyance.

“I’ll beat your ass, I swear,” He spat at you and you snorted in a small smile.

“Would love to see you try,” Despite the fact that you were quite sure you hated him and that you blamed him for stuff he had nothing to do with, you helped him to his feet, or foot, the good one. His arm behind your shoulders and one of your arms around his waist. “You’re too skinny,” You lied, feeling the muscles under his clothes, but you really wanted to let him know that even though you were helping him, you still hated everything he had caused and that was related to him. This time he didn’t answer, just sighted in annoyance not too sure of what he did to cause such hate coming from you. You took him to the infirmary, a nurse quickly helping you and taking both of you to a bed where he could lay down.

You explained to the nurse how he twisted his ankle, how you heard a ‘pop’ and made a point about how he didn’t stretch, hoping the nurse would explain to him how important that is too and make him feel annoyed once again. He explained how he couldn’t walk at all, so then she left to fetch what was needed for treatment.

And an awkward silence became present, you hated it. The ambience was cold, way too bright, the cheap bedsheets stuck to Sato’s sweaty skin, you sat at the edge of the bed, not too sure you wanted to stay there, but you told yourself that staying was what Coach Shimura would’ve wanted and you were going to use that as an excuse. But the silence was horrible, or so you thought until he spoke, pulling you out of your thoughts and deciding that speaking was in fact way worse than the silence. He called your first name, a bit of anger behind his words still but definitely calmer than the past few days each time he complained about how much you were annoying him, “What’s wrong with you? Seriously,” you turned around slightly to try to face him, but his eyes were turned away from yours, “I thought we were friends,” You grunted and shifted in your place.

“I told you, you did nothing wrong, it was me,” You nodded, trying to convince yourself of your own words.

“That’s bullshit, I can tell,” You sighted, watching the nurse come closer again.

“Trust me on this one,” You simply said, standing up, “See you tomorrow at practice,” You told him as you left, changing places with the nurse.

[zealousbluebirddeer]

Ungrateful.

Part 1

Relationship : Caine x Female!Reader

Plot : What if, during Caine's massive crashout, a new human joined the circus ? (AH ! BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING)

Cw : Slight yandere!Caine, human!Reader, swearing, physical violence.

This is meant to be a multitude chapters fic.

It had been days, maybe weeks, since Caine became...Different. After his whole musical number about putting them back in their place, the atmosphere of the circus took a drastic turn. The gang tried every possible solution to avoid his 'brand new' unhinged adventures. Hiding, begging, screaming. Caine wasn't even listening anymore. He just snapped his fingers and they were off to another adventure.

Those didn't even seem complete. Walls glitched, textures were half there, and the storylines were sometimes lazy or straight up unfinished. Like Caine himself was mass producing adventures to ensure that they would be trapped in an endless cycle.

Like his passion for creating brand new worlds had vanished.

You'd think they could at least take the opportunity of being away from Caine during these adventures to take a break ? Nope ! If his hundreds of all seeing eyes caught them slacking off, NPCs would suddenly become more aggressive, faster and sometimes they'd be forced to move forward or pushed by invisible walls.

At this point none of them knew when this would end. Or if Caine would actually get tired of this constant torture. There was even a time where he shoved them right back into another adventure as they stepped out of the previous one.

"This...doesn't help." Said Jax the moment his back hit one of the lawn chairs outside the tent, in the beach area. Gangle suggested a 'nice' time outside, and since the whole group was now more united than ever before, they agreed.

"At least it's a nice change of scenery. Hey Pomni, do you want to show me those fish you mentioned when we were here last time ?" Ragatha asked, making sure that the conversation doesn't end up being about Caine again.

Time seemed to go by slowly. Maybe they were trying to savor the moment, maybe they were counting each second until Caine decided it was their turn again. "You know," began Zooble, as they helped Gangle making a sandcastle. "I never actually feared him. I mean, over the years, I just saw him as a meaningless part of my life. Something I can ignore and live without. I never thought he'd..." They didn't finish their sentence, simply sighing, before letting out a grunt of frustration after Jax crushed the sandcastle with his feet.

"What ? It's to keep you occupied. You're welcome." He said with a smirk, and then-

"That's so weird, do you think he deleted them ? Why would he do that ?" "I don't know, maybe he likes to replace and update his NPCs or something." Pomni and Ragatha came out of the water, and Zooble turned their attention on them.

"What's wrong ?" They asked, and Ragatha shrugged it off with a wave of her hand. "Don't worry, we just couldn't find the NPCs in the water. It's just nice to be out in the...." Ragatha paused, as she looked up. It was silent as everyone (except Kinger who was doing god knows what in a corner) stared at her.

"Uh guys...? Where's the sun ? W-Why is there no sun ?" She pointed out, mildly disturbed by her realization.

"Wait, I didn't see her when we stepped out." Zooble said, and another silence took over the group.

"Oookay..." Jax sighed, before continuing. "So no NPCs 'round the circus anymore. Caine defo lost it." "Defo ? Seriously ?" Zooble replied immediately, before focusing back on the situation. "But, yeah that's weird."

"It feels wrong to be out here now that we know we're the only ones around. Maybe we should go back inside ?" Gangle sounded worried, like usual, but this unsettling feeling quickly took over everyone.

So, they all began to head back inside. Big mistake.

"Ah ! There you are ! I was starting to think you all abstracted or something. That'd be really uncool of you guys." Caine floated near the entrance of the tent, no bubble in sight. Weird.

"Honestly I'd rather just abstract at this point." Said Jax in the most nonchalant way possible, before getting shoved by Zooble. "Hey ! Don't say that in front of him, we're doing the 'positive' sh*t, remember ?" They whispered angrily, reminding Jax of the strategy they had been using for a while now. Well, it didn't seem to work, but with time, maybe...

"Um...Nice...Seeing you Caine ! Is there an adventure you made for us today ? Looking forward to that !" A nervous chuckle escape Ragatha as she spoke, and Caine crossed his arms. He was truly unreadable these days, which was a drastic change from all the exaggerated expressions he'd normally take.

"Not quite, my dried starfish." His voice lacked his usual enthusiasm, and his nicknames were less and less joyous. "Today's adventure is completely up to you."

For a moment the group seemed to be somewhat reassured, until Caine snapped his fingers a bunch of times. Two glass cells appeared, one left and one right. Then, in front of the group, a panel with two buttons appeared. The exact same ones as the day they were tricked by Caine. The buttons that, in a way, started it all.

Then, Ragatha and Jax were thrown into the cells. "You, will have to choose one of them to sacrifice to save the other." Caine began his explanation, pointing at the now small and confused group. "If you press the blue button, A swarm of bugs will fill up Ragatha's cell, causing her UNFORTUNATE dismay." He said, and ignored the desperate cries of the ragdoll. "And if you press the red button, Jax will get electrocuted for all eternity. You have five minutes to ch-"

"YEAH, no. We're not doing that." Interrupted Zooble, causing Caine to visibly frown.

"You have to. It's today's adventure-"

"Caine, this needs to stop." Pomni took a step forward, surprising everyone, even Caine himself. "You don't realize that you're going too far."

"You're putting us through hell. And for what ? Because you never listen to us and suddenly we're ungrateful ?" Zooble spoke again, and for a second, Caine seemed to be internally struggling. He didn't speak. One of his hands started to glitch.

"U-U-Ungreahejsi-" His head started to shake mildly, before his unstable state got back to normal "Ungrateful ! That's all you're good at ! I work, and work, and work endlessly, to adapt to you, to shape my adventures in ways that will appeal to everyone."

In a very disturbing way, he slowly started to grow bigger and bigger, additional limbs tearing through his body until he took up most of the space.

"I made this all for you ! Human after human, I have to stare at my failure as a host when one of you abstracts. And when I try harder to keep you sane, you spit in my face !" His multiple hands violently grabbed all of them, breaking through the glass cells to get a hold of Ragatha and Jax too. Their kicks and screams do absolutely nothing against Caine as his eyes pierce through their very souls.

"If it wasn't for the fact that I can't stand the circus when it's empty, I'd have you all in the cellar in the snap of a finger ! Don't you understand by now ? I AM YOUR GOD-"

POP

An astonishing silence took over the circus after this sound interrupted his rampage. The group, aside from Pomni, suddenly realized what this sound meant. This sound you heard if you were close enough to the stage. This sound you'd typically hear when-

The moment Caine's eyes drifted to the stage, his hands let go of everyone. The second after, he was back to normal, like he had been rebooted entirely. Except he hadn't been.

His eyes had caught you. Hopeless you, staring with horror at what you had just seen. Standing up on that stage with wide eyes.

A new human had just appeared, at the worst time possible.

The other humans barely had any time to register the fact that they had been dropped. They completely forgot about the previous argument, forgot about Caine. Everything in them screamed to run towards you. To grab you violently, to make sure that vr headset removes itself from your head, to save your life.

But they couldn't move. Caine couldn't move either. Not only did you chose a very bad time to arrive, but also...You were...you. You had hair, human skin, human eyes, human...Like you were not supposed to be here, not like that, not right now.

"My...MY ! Where are my manners ?!" Caine had snapped out of his trance, straightened his bowtie and he floated towards you. He did his usual speech, presenting the circus, all that, before randomly turning his head towards the group.

"Oh !" He snapped his fingers, and they were all teleported to their own rooms. He had moved their rooms to the void, of course ! Can't risk Jax freeing everyone with his bucket of keys after all ! He couldn't have them in the way, not for now.

"Please ignore them, my..." A breath of hesitation, or perhaps frustration, left him as he realized something.

You were perfect. Not because of your appearance, oh no. Caine doesn't actually know what a real human looks like. To him, you're just an ultra detailed humanoid character. At least he could tell that. No, you were perfect, because you were new. A fresh start, a second chance.

"My dear..."

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

Thank you for reading (◍•ᴗ•◍)

[orphetoon]

i hate all these ai chat ads but especially the ones obviously targeting teenagers in fandoms,,, like you should not be talking to an ai!!! these blorbos exist in your head!! you should be making fanart you should be doing awkward roleplay you should be making crack fanfic,,,, why are you outsourcing fun to a robot

[makos-ribcage]

backfire ㅡ 𓇼 [ao3]

!! kenji "ken" sato x reader fanfic

𓇼she/her

warning ! none

word count- 5k

so i published this in ao3 and is where ill be updating it first, its also my first fanfic there so id appreciate a lot if yall went there to read it instead of here, heres the link

this is the 6th chapter, btw, the rest can be found either on ao3 or you can search for it on my masterlist :)

Somehow Sato managed to get you to drink whisky that night by ordering two glasses without even asking you. You went to the same bar you were the last time, sitting on the same spot too. The warm light was nice and the smooth jazz made your head just a bit dizzy, the amber liquid sliding down your throat making it worse. “Seriously, how can you drink this?” You complained, but he ignored you. You wanted to ask Sato what could possibly be bothering him so badly that he asked for a hangout at 1am in the morning, but he seemed to be terribly lost in his thoughts. That deeply scared you. You thought that he was going to confess to you, you feared he was going to mention all those times he clearly wanted to kiss you with zero shame that both of you decided you will never going to mention and just pretend it didn't happened, meanwhile he actually was dancing around the possibility of telling you that he turns into an alien the size of a building that shoots beams through his hands. He played with the rim of his glass as you took another sip of your drink, already getting used to the bitterness of the whisky you didn't even want to order to begin with. “Do you… Have any secrets? Like,” He straightened his back once the words came to his mind, moving his hands slightly to show his words, “A secret so big it could ruin your life if it came out,” He was tipsy too, just a bit, both of you decided you didn't want to get too drunk that night, no throwing up or acting whimsical on accident, “Yes.” You answered quickly, not thinking too much and just being honest thanks to the influence of the alcohol, then you remembered he can’t ever know that you're actually a woman or your life will be ruined. He seemed to get concerned right away, staring at you with an arched eyebrow waiting for you to elaborate,”I mean, you know I’m gay, so, uh… I don’t want to get into any trouble with my sponsors and, uh… The media,” You made shit up as you spoke, Sato seemed to buy it, partially, “Yeah, right…” An awkward silence became present, awkward for you, you didn't want to ask him about his secret, you feared he was going to tell you he loved you or some shit, Mio had told you how guys fall in love immediately, just by you being nice to them slightly, you thought you were safe of that fate, turned out you weren’t, or so you thought.

Sato on the other hand was basically going through a breakdown in front of you, he wasn't sure of telling you or not his secret, both that he was Ultraman and that he had a kaiju baby in his basement. After watching him have a tiny breakdown you decided to talk about anything, anything that was going to bring him out of his head for a few minutes, he seemed like he needed it, and you’ve been there too after long talks with your dad, you didn’t want him to feel how you did in those times: Alone. “Wanna play a game?” You asked him, chugging the rest of your glass, which you regretted right away. You didn't wait for him to even start a sentence, “Finish that up, let’s get out of here,” you stood up, taking the extra helmet, and going to the bar to pay, wanting to at least take money out of his mind this time.

You remembered the game, the one you used to play at college parties that Mio forced you to go, you needed beer, so you made Sato stop at a gas station so you could buy some, “Really? I hate beer…” He whispered, watching you decide between different brands of 6-packs, “Don’t be a baby, it’ll be fun, I promise,” You comforted him, “Ah, this one…” You picked a pack, remembering the cans from when you were younger, “It looks a bit different, but this is the one,” You smiled at him, big and bright, feeling nostalgic from better times. His heart skipped a beat, still not used to seeing you put an expression that wasn’t disgust, anger or literal nothing. He paid this time, you almost fighting in front of the cashier of who was going to do so, ultimately you deciding to let him pay once the cashier became so awkward they looked like they wanted to die. He drove you both almost out of the city, to a spot of an abandoned patch of grass. You jumped out of the bike and took your helmet off, tossing it back into his hands “So, you’ve seen western movies?” You told him, walking to the middle of the grass as he placed both helmets on the bike, you felt the cold night wind on your skin and regretted not having brought a coat, “You’ve seen the gun duels, right? Where they give each other their back, walk a few steps, yell ‘draw’ and shoot each other? We’re doing that,” You smiled at him, a mischievous smile that made him gulp, you never smiled, let alone a grin like you were plotting an evil plan. You used your thumb to make a hole on the plastic of the six-pack you bought, pulling out two cans of beer and giving him one. “I used to play this at college, with my baseball team,” you walked towards him, giving him one of the cans. You explained the game to him, how you’d give each other your backs, walk a few steps, turn around, drink and throw the beer cans at each other, he raised an eyebrow to that last part, “Y’know I used to be a pitcher, right?” You scoffed, “We’ll see that,”.

Just like that, the game started, you both pressed your backs against each other, a can of beer in your hand, Sato was still unsure about how the game was going to go, but already seemed to be out of his worries. “10 steps, as a start,” you told him, before starting to walk, him giving his steps too, just a fraction of a second before you, “Alright, I’ll tell you when you can turn around,” You giggled under your breath, feeling like a teenager once again, when you used to have friends, when you met Mio, when you could let your voice and your actual personality be shown at least just a little bit, “Draw!” Luckily, he understood that as the sign to turn around, and you both faced each other, you struggled to open your can, while he did it right away, starting to drink up, you followed once the tab gave in. You finished your drink first, preparing to throw the empty can at him, which hit him in the chest, splashing him just a few drops of beer, “Not fair! You’re used to the taste, I’m not,” He used as an excuse to which you laughed, “Sounds like a you problem,” You laughed, walking towards him to start the game again.

Same procedure, this time with more steps, to be further away once you draw so to add extra difficulty to the game, this time, he won, hitting you with the beer can just on top of your head, he laughed to your face stained with a few drops of the liquid. You felt happy again, happy that you managed to bring him out of his own head, happy that you could share a genuine moment with him, you felt happy. It made you wish you could tell him your secret, he felt the same way too, hoping that such genuinity would stay around long enough for you to trust each other to that degree, both of you doubted it. If your secret came out you could pretty much go to jail, if his secret came out, who knows what the KDA would do to him. So as for now, you’ll both enjoy each other’s company without worrying about secrets, genders or aliens.

The game went along for an hour more, until you were both too far away for the cans to reach each other, the wind blowing them away before they could hit anyone, so you sat down in the grass to let the drunkenness fade and so Sato could be just sober enough to drive back home. “You’re nice when you don’t have a stick up your ass,” He said, the closest you’ll get to a compliment, “You’re nice when you don’t have your own head up your ass,” You backfired at him, making both of you laugh, “But yes, I felt nice,” You agreed with him, looking at his face for a fraction of a second, not wanting to be caught staring, you enjoyed each other silence for a few seconds, Sato closing his eyes in peace for the first time since he got to Japan, “We should leave, there’s training tomorrow,” You mentioned as the alarm in your phone beeped, what would normally mean you had to wake up for your pre-training training, he stared at you in disgust “I forgot you’re a psychopath, right,” he mentioned, remembering those few times he went training with you, standing up and taking off his jacket, “You’re paler than usual, here,” He said, lending it to you, you hesitated, since the action felt cheesy, intimate and cliche, but you ultimately decided to play along, since mentioning it would be even more awkward, “Thanks,”.

You got back into the motorcycle and he drove you back home, this time, you let your head rest on his back, making him jump just a little bit once he felt the pressure, “Getting comfortable?” He joked through the communicators on the helmet, the robotic voice reminding you of something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on, “Shut up, I’m dizzy,” You complained next to a groan, “Don’t throw up on me,” He followed.

“See you at training, Sato,” You told him once you got home, as you stepped off the bike, “Call me Kenji,” He whispered, adding your first name afterwards, you smiled at him, “Sure, Kenji”.

You felt good, nice, like you had a friend, but it troubled you, still. You hated how you couldn't fully let yourself be you, you were unsure you even knew who that was at this point, you were too used to being a lie, you didn't know how to be you. But you were sure that night was the closest you’ve been to yourself in years, you laughed without being afraid of your pitch, you spoke without being scared, you'd give yourself away, and you enjoyed yourself, fully and truly. But you hated that, you punished yourself about it that day, you hated that you let yourself loose with Kenji, again. You sighed, stressed, deciding that sleeping was a lost cause, instead, getting dressed to go to your pre-training, hoping the last few ounces of booze in your body were going to be able to keep you awake the entire day.

That morning at training Coach Shimura talked to the whole team, you coming to the front immediately, Sato not being anywhere to be seen, “There’s a brand interested in sponsoring you, but the policies only allow one player sponsored at once,” He explained, straightforward as always, “So, you’ll be competing at training, every day and during the games to be chosen,”. That’s easy, you thought, you already were the best, along with Sato, but there’s no way he would put the effort just because of a sponsor who asked him to do so, so you relaxed, it’s not like you needed an sponsor, you had your dads money right there, but you had to proof yourself that you were the best, you needed the validation, you needed the people’s trust so you could trust yourself. You searched for him, meeting his eyes suddenly, making you blush for a few seconds, clear your throat and look at Shimura once again, at least now you knew he wasn’t even paying attention, it was going to be easy.

That evening during training there were men dressed in black around the field, taking notes, watching, checking who was doing the best, who had the most spirit, who was a good candidate. And it was you, of course. It didn’t make you nervous, you were used to being watched, you were even used to being hated, on your older teams, when you arrived and suddenly were better than anyone else, even here, you noticed Sato’s burning stares on the first training and first games. So you were confident that you were going to win the sponsor. Sato didn’t care, and the rest of your teammates were good, yes, but you were simply better, you were the only option.

Or so you thought.

Kenji had charisma, a terribly good one when needed, you, on the other hand, was known for not speaking, not staring, not ‘caring’, except you cared a lot. The men saw you expressions, how you didn’t smile, didn’t talk, didn’t even sweat, you looked nonhuman, they decided that publicity made with you wouldn’t succeed. But you were good, so they doubted, and in doubt, you ask. They asked Shimura and your teammates, and, sadly, no one knew much about you. They mentioned how you didn’t go to celebration parties, how you didn’t talk with anyone, how you barely interacted with anyone, most of them haven’t even heard your voice at all. The choice started to become clearer. You saw those men talking with Sato once the training ended and you got angry, jealous, what could they possibly be laughing about? Kenji wasn't that funny, you knew it firsthandly. You went the whole training perfectly, not tired, not complaining, efficient, perfect, so it didn’t make sense they were talking with Sato and not with you. But you calmed yourself, it was fine, they weren't going to make a decision so soon.

The next few days were hell for you, you trained so hard to not fall back, and you weren't even falling back at all, you were the best during training, but during small talks, breaks and over coffee, Sato was the star, and you couldn't beat that. Not only that but he was a damn good player, you knew that, the last few games he pulled fiascos, yes, but he still had history, he had fans, he had support. You had your own fanbase, yes, but way smaller than Kenji’s and way smaller than even other players which you were just factually better than them. You were angry, it wasn’t fair at all, you put so much effort on your figure and being the best player, it wasn't fair Sato took the attention away from you just because of a pretty face and talking about the weather. So the next few times he tried to talk with you, you ignored him. Childish, yes, but that was way more mature than what you wanted to actually tell him, how he should start playing more and talking less, how sponsors don’t win championships nor score points, but that would be hypocrisy given you also care about those sponsors.

It wasn’t only to be better than Kenji and prove to yourself that you were a good player, that you weren't failing, it was to take a step further from your dad. Your main sponsor was him, you had others, yes, but he was the biggest one, and the most constant one, you hated that, you hated those meetings, you hated when he paid you less and you couldn’t say anything, you hated when you bought him a gift and he just complained about you wasting his money, even though it was yours by that point. You needed the sponsors. You needed to get away from your dad. It burned in your heart how Sato was getting something he didn't even care about. He acted the same as always, complained during training, arrived late, left early, joked around during meetings, laughed when he made a mistake and acted unprofessional most of the time. But that’s what the fans liked, that humanity, they could relate to Sato, they couldn’t relate to your robotic way of being.

So when weeks passed, Kenji was brought to Shimura’s office and he came out with a contract, the contract you lost. He was happy, not as much as how you would've been, he went to you to celebrate, being the first person he locked eyes with once he came out the office and being probably one of his only actual friends, “I got sponsored,” he claimed with a smile, a cocky one, as usual. But this time you took it personal, you didn't want to make a scene, you didn't want to attract attention, “Congrats,” You said, bitterly, but he saw the angry expression on your face, he wanted to mess with you, still not understanding that you were actually mad, that you actually cared. “What? Are you jealous?” He giggled, trying to get to your face as you turned around to leave. “Back off, not in the mood,” You took a deep breath before spitting the words, you saw the men leave Shimura’s office as the later walked them out of the stadium, a placid smile on everyone’s face, except yours, you felt out of a huge inner joke, you felt left behind, you felt like a failure. “Kenji, I’ll punch you,” You warned, “Oh, wouldn’t want that, my new contract could brea-” He got cut off by your fist crashing on his nose. He stepped back slightly, you running towards him to keep fighting, you both eventually falling to the ground, some teammates quickly coming by to try to peel you off each other, eventually Shimura came back, and you automatically stopped trying to tear Kenji’s face off, he was mad at both of you, pulling you both to the office for a scolding. “Are you 12 years old? How is it possible you sign such a prestigious contract and 5 minutes later you're rolling on the floor fighting with a teammate?” He scolded Sato first, your ears beeping as your lower lip burned with a new bruise and probably a cut too. Sato cleaned the blood on his nose with his arm, “He started…” He whispered, wanting to defend himself but not being dumb enough to not know he was also in the wrong, “And you, Narawa, I thought you were more mature than that, but these past few days you’re acting just like him, if not worse,” he pointed at Sato, who acted offended at the comment, “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” you simply commented. And you were certain of that, you decided Sato was a distraction, a huge one. You decided you needed to be devoted once again, to live your sport. You told yourself that it wasn’t Sato’s fault he got the sponsor and you didn’t, it was your fault. You were mediocre and weak, if you were good of a player enough, you would have gotten the sponsor. You thought that your dad was right, that you were slacking off too much, your posture, your resistance. You needed more exercise.

When you left the office Sato walked towards you, but you already made your decision and who to blame, it was your fault you focused too much on Kenji, but you could still fix it, it could still be solved. “Dude, I’m sorry,” he called your name, but you ignored it, walking out of the building. He wasn’t better than you, out of all the people in Japan, he was the most bound to hold a grudge, so when you didn't take his apology, he took it personal, “Really? What did I do?” He complained, you stopped your steps, keeping silent for a few seconds, “Nothing,” You told him, deep forced pitch you used with everyone else, cold expression you showed everyone else, “It was my fault,” you decided.