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boy who is cool and chill and unbothered until you start dating him and he slowly reveals himself to be 1) jealous 2) clingy 3) possessive the way a criminal in a thriller might unmask himself in its final act
(Suguru always adapts to the role he’s been given with exceeding diligence; you suppose you should have guessed he’d be like this once you started dating.
Still, the cold smile on his lips surprises you.)
”O-Of course you are.” Your tongue stumbles past the vowels, body caught between your classmate— your boyfriend— and the concrete-wall next to the vending machine. You didn’t have time to get anything before you were cornered. Since morning he’s been staring at you with enough intensity to burn your skin like wax, and now, it seems, his patience has run out. ”What’s this about?”
A dragonfly-hum bruises under the pocket of his pulse. Silence nestles itself into the span of one, two, three long seconds. It feels like twenty.
”That’s what I thought.” He lifts a hand to brush his fingers through your bangs, near-tender. ”… but you’re letting Satoru touch up on you like you’re his.”
You blink. You stare.
If you weren’t so flabbergasted, you’d probably laugh. He’d get the same look in his eye that he always does whenever you poke fun at him, intentionally or not— like a cat squinting at the sun.
”Suguru,” you deadpan. ”Are you seriously jealous of Gojo? Satoru Gojo? Our Satoru Gojo?”
…
”Well,” he clears his throat, angling his body backwards, letting you breathe. It’s not quite a step back, but it does the job. You can’t focus well on much when he’s close enough to smell: today it’s citrus oil in his hair and oakwood at his nape. ”Jealous is a bit much. I just don’t want him all over you.”
(It’s hard to tell with Suguru, but you think— you’re almost sure— that there’s some peach-dust at his ears. Gone by the time you think to take a closer look.)
”Well, neither do I.” You scoff, half-hearted. ”Gojo’s just like that… There’s not much I can do. Honestly, he might only be doing it because it bothers you.”
”He is,” Suguru inhales. Exhales very quietly. Eyes curved into crescents, but a sharp slope to his lips. ”Believe me, he is.”
”Then why make it sound like I’m to blame?”
He frowns, only slightly. Something in his brain must have gotten knocked out of order: the line that goes from A to B. That’s not what I meant, he’s probably thinking. I’m only mad at him, not you. You know that. You can see the thoughts flicker in his eyes, watching film on a projector that spins only for you.
”You… aren’t,” he says, smoothing out the crease between his brows with a light shake of his head. His bangs are sticky with sunbeams. ”Okay. You’re right. I’ll be more firm with him from now on.”
”Not sure how much more firm you can be without getting suspended.”
”That’s a risk I’m willing to take, unfortunately.” A full smile. He leans down to kiss your cheek, chaste and sweet. The sound his lips make reminds you of popped bubblegum. ”… Thanks for bearing with me. It annoyed me that he wouldn’t take it seriously, so I guess I’ve been letting it build up.”
”You’re good.” It’s cute, you think. ”It’s cute.”
… Though you didn’t mean to say it.
Suguru blinks. For a moment, you wonder if he’s upset. Some reactionary, masculine reflex. Then his eyes soften, and his fingertips feel hot against your jaw, and his lips are on yours, and you think, oh, he likes it. Nevermind. Kissing him feels like breathing, so your thoughts trail off somewhere around there.
”… Can you say it again?” he asks, low and lulling.
”You’re cute.”
”Not that,” he laughs. ”The other thing.”
…
Oh.
You wrap your arms around his neck, resting your elbows on his broad shoulders. They feel abyssal like this. His body warm through polyester. ”You’re my boyfriend, Suguru,” you murmur at his ear.
He might have shivered just now. You aren’t sure.
”Mm,” a purr thrums through his chest, pleased and rumbling. His throat sounds dry. ”… Yours. That’s right.”
Suguru always adapts to the role he’s been given with exceeding diligence; jujutsu sorcerer, class president, or boyfriend, all in equal measure. It doesn’t surprise you, not really, that it makes him act like this: being yours. Having you. It may surprise Gojo and Ieiri, but they haven’t traced his cells with their fingertips— not like you have.
You’re glad. Pleased. The cat that got the cream. Because Suguru acts more like a boyfriend than you ever could have dreamed.
I've heard MANY different ways people categorize Career tributes and what constitutes a Career tribute. Please tell me in your own words: What constitutes a Career tribute? This is literally for science and a possible tik tok.
For example: I've seen a person say that because they volunteered from xyz district that they are deemed a career AND I DO NOT AGREE!
I'm very simply of the mindset of training and mentality, where volunteering has nothing to do with it outside of it being a majority of Careers who volunteer, but that is not the end-all-be-all.
i told myself i was done griping about sotr, but making burdock be haymitch’s best friend and confirmed covey relation just cheapened so much of haymitch and katniss’s relationship from the hunger games. katniss isn’t some random spirited kid from the seam that haymitch sees himself in. she’s not a girl that he takes one look at and, after decades of losing kids says “maybe this one could be a winner.” he doesn’t call her sweetheart to irritate her, knock her down a bit, because he was once a cocky kid who thought he knew the extent of the capitol’s cruelties, and he needs her to listen to him. he doesn’t try harder to be sober because of these two random kids that come into his life, shake it up and remind him what it is to love.
nope. instead the narrative gives him no choice but to love her. how could he not? she wore pigtails like louella, she knows lenore dove’s songs, she’s got burdock’s blood and maysilee’s pin. he feels guilty for how he handled his friendships after the quell, and now he’s given this perfect moment to atone for it. and imagine you’re a parent, you knew haymitch when he was younger, saw him running around with burdock everdeen. he’s been considered the joke of the district, a horrible mentor, and yet, you see him stepping up as a proper mentor for katniss, his childhood best friend’s kid. it honestly makes him seem like he’s just a shitty person who can’t be bothered to see past his own grief for the sake of saving others some, except for when it comes to the people he used to be friends with. and, as if haymitch’s ability to do anything of his own volition wasn’t taken from him in the entirety of this book, suzanne somehow manages to strip him of his choices in the og trilogy too, and he can no longer choose to love katniss of his own accord.
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everything that gets "revised" about the games in sunrise on the reaping is less interesting than what we can infer from the original series. which is a big issue if your book is about propaganda. haymitch's story as we inferred from the trilogy is as follows: a sixteen year old kid randomly gets chosen for a nightmare death match, is lucky enough to find an arena loophole and gets punished ruthlessly for it, and then goes into substance abuse and retreats from society as he has to watch two kids from his home die every year for 23 years.
all of that is so much more interesting than a 16 year old who is chosen to go into the arena after an act of rebellion, who gets chosen to be an agent of the rebellion before entering the arena for no reason, who personally stands up to and defies the fascist leader, who somehow does not die a brutal death in the arena as soon as possible because of said defiance (so that snow can kill his girlfriend in front of him? each collaborator dies brutally but for some reason haymitch lives and it makes no sense). and then descending into madness and alcoholism explicitly and immediately because your puppy love girlfriend dies and you can't handle it.
also collins took one of the most interesting and multifaceted characters of the trilogy and was so afraid of exploring negative qualities. haymitch is known for his mean streak, his intelligence, and his deep-rooted care. none of that is seen here. in fact, he reads (and reads himself) as dumb, his intelligence eclipsed by his rebellious girlfriend, who teaches him big words and that maybe the world could be better. he's never mean - the haymitch of sunrise on the reaping would never tell 17 year-old katniss "you could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve that boy." in the arena, everything he does is out of kindness for the weakest tributes. every alliance and action pure, when it could have been really interesting to navigate what being placed in a "47 other kids or me" death trap does to your psyche in the moment.
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"Now heaven forfend that the mountainous cairn of commentary erected over the bones of [Iago] who so infelicitously remarked, "The rest is silence," be ever duplicated. But I am constrained to take up the cudgels against this general imputation of the unattractiveness of Iago and vindicate his place in the sun, beneath the beams of that romantic luminary which so irradiates all his great compeers: Honest Jack, the Prince of Denmark, and the Serpent of Old Nile. We are prone to turn our scandalized backs upon Iago and flatter ourselves, as our ancestors have been doing since the days of Samuel Johnson, that the rogue shall never beguile us; and thus we miss the many evidences that Iago was to Shakespeare intensely, even romantically, attractive."
'The Romantic Iago', The Yale Review, Volume VII. Tucker Brooke. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1918
Tucker Brooke, you're an absolute legend. Never thought I'd find a fellow Iago fangirl in The Yale Review, from 1918. I see your villain thirst, and I applaud it.
Yesterday I almost cried because my baby cousin ran up to my grandmother and was like. “Ha! Buhbuh ba ha.” And she said okay you want to show me something? And he led her over to the garden patch and crouched down and pointed at rocks and plants and was like. “Ah. Habah ba ah” as she listened attentively.
And I was like that happened 1,000 years ago. Probably 10,000 years ago. Maybe 100,000. The youngest human in a group went to the oldest one and said to the best of their ability “come see.” And the adult went.
this is such a beautiful post it doesn't need my dumb addition, but i can't fit this in the tags. at the archaeological site Dolni Vestonice in the Czech Republic there are a bunch of really really fascinating finds and I'm only going to tell you about one tiny detail of one of the most interesting sites in the world.
at this settlement 20-30,000 years ago there lived a person who appears to have been a sort of sorcerer-grandmother-ceramics artist and her workshop was preserved very well in the sedimentary layers. her hut where she had her kilns was full of little sculptures of animals and people that seem to have been made to explode in the kiln on purpose, we're not sure why but nevermind. the relevant detail is that when you sculpt something with your hands and then fire it, your fingerprints can be preserved in the surface of the clay forever, so we have fingerprints of ancient ceramics artists that have survived for tens of thousands of years. and one of the major artifacts from Dolni Vestonice has a fingerprint on it that is so small it could only have belonged to a child
so this shaman-grandmother-sculptor, who was buried with her pet fox by the way, had children running through her workshop and touching everything she made while she was at her mysterious work of creating the world's oldest ceramics, none of which appear to be bowls, bottles, pots, or any "useful" items at all, but rather a collection of animal and human and sometimes anthropomorphic figures, some of which appear to be self portraits. exactly the same as sandersstudios' grandmother being led to the garden by an excited baby. we've all been the same for 30,000 years.
saying, “hi, daddy,” to your boyfriend when you’re out with friends and he called you to check up on you. you’re a little far away from your group and your body lights up when he chuckles and says, “hi, baby. how are you doing?”
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sero's smile is lopsided, nearly sliding off of his face the eay he nearly slides off the booth when he turns to you. the izakaya is loud and the air tastes of cigarettes and stale beer, but the food is good and the drinks are cold. It's been your spot for your friend dates (freights) for years; this seat's cushion is probably permanently shaped like your ass.
"Hey." Sero leans towards you, hand bumping into your thigh. "Can I eat you out?"
You blink. Then, blink again. "What?"
There's no shame in his glossed over eyes. "Can I lick your pussy? My mouth is, like, craving it so bad."
That makes you scoff.
"You're drunk."
"Uh, duh. That's the best time to eat it." Sero's eyes travel down to the high hem of your skirt. "I can get all sloppy and weird with it."
"I'm all sweaty-" You aren't sure why you're even entertaining this, but that makes Sero hunch over the table and groan.
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