CLASH OF WORLDS: Souless Warrior & Bodyless Scientist by CosmoNira
We are on AO3 now, baby.
The prologue is out!
Senku Ishigami's world is governed by immutable laws, where science is order and emotion is chaos. Kohaku, a warrior forged in sacrifice, harbors a devotion so deep she dares not name it, fearing her value lies only in her strength and that her heart's truth could shatter the fragile, vital friendship that sustains them. In a civilization rebuilt on logic, their love is the one illogical, unpredictable, and most essential element. A slow-burn journey proving that he, who stood the highest on a pillar of reason, had the farthest to fallâand fell the hardest.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
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The ride from the airport felt longer than it was. Too many miles spent staring out the window at pine forests and misty valleys that tugged at her memories. Not even her favorite podcast could distract her from the thoughts that swirled around in her head. The bus wheezed as it pulled to a stop in front of the old General Store, brakes squealing like a sigh after traveling the entire coast. Sadie stepped off the bus and immediately drew in a breath of fresh air.
Pelican Town in early spring hadnât changed much. If anything, it felt like a page from an old story someone kept reading without realizing it was dog-eared. The air was crisp and damp, tinged with salt from the ocean beyond the hills and the earthy promise of thawing soil. The last clumps of dirty snow clung to the bases of the trees and edges of the sidewalks, melting reluctantly into slush. Crocuses and daffodils were starting to poke up along the sides of the square. Someone had planted them years ago, and theyâd survived through sheer stubbornness.
Most likely, Evelyn.
Pierreâs General Store loomed ahead, just as she remembered it. Sturdy wood paneling covered the facade, painted in a faded cobalt blue with white trim. A big bay window on the front had a hand-lettered Fresh Produce Weekly! sign swinging from a string. There were baskets of seed packets stacked outside, already slightly damp from the morning dew. A chalkboard next to the door read: Spring Specialsâ10% Off Saplings & Salve! Beneath it, a smiley face that had mostly smudged into a blob.
Parked in front of all of that history was a truck that looked like it had driven straight out of a country song. She spotted the old maroon truck immediately. It looked like duct tape held it together, and she could have sworn she smelled engine oil before she saw the driver.
âSeriously?â Sadie muttered aloud. âThey still let that thing run?â
It sputtered like it heard her, then the door swung open.
Alex jumped down from the driverâs seat and she swore for a second the chilly breeze had nothing to do with the goosebumps prickling along her arms. He looked like every womanâs favorite regret. He had short brown hair that looked uncombed, mischievous sparkling green eyes, and a grin that likely ruined lives within a five-mile radius. He wore a white T-shirt that fit too well, jeans that hugged his thighs, and his signature green hoodie zipped halfway over his chest. He looked nothing like the 14-year-old she remembered. And God help her, he was smirking already.
âHoly hell,â she muttered under her breath. She didnât realize she was staring.
He laughed, slamming the door, making the truck shake.
âY-You look differentâŚâ she stuttered. The words couldn't find their way to her mouth.
âWell, Iâd hope so.â Alex stretched lazily, his eyes scanning her with exaggerated judgment.
âAnd look at you, Big City Sadie. Did Mr. Joja CEO give you that coat?â
âItâs merino wool, thank you very much, and no, I bought it myself,â she gripped her suitcase handle tightly.
âSo fancy,â he teased, stepping forward to pull her into a brief but warm hug. âYou smell like expensive lotion and disappointment.â
âYou still smell like Axe body spray and unresolved trauma.â
âDamn,â he laughed as he took her suitcase like it weighed nothing and heaved it into the truck bed. âStill sharp, I like it.â
The truck groaned as they pulled out of downtown and headed through the winding back roads toward the Palmer Farms property. The drive through town was slow and full of awkward nostalgia. They passed by buildings like old classmates. Half of them seemed unchanged, the others looked a little rough around the edges. The old Saloon still had its swinging sign and chipping paint. The schoolhouse bell rang as they passed, faint and far away. Sadie thoughtfully remembered when there was no schoolhouse. Town kids would just be tutored in the library.
âYou havenât changed a bit,â he said casually, eyes still on the road. âStill, looking like youâre calculating ROI on my entire personality.â
She laughed, âI wouldnât have guessed you even knew what ROI was.â
âRude.â
There was a comfortable tension in the silence that followed, punctuated by bursts of laughter as they slipped into old stories. Summer lemonade stands, fourth of July fireworks, and her epic wipeout on a rusted old bike. The one he swore he warned her about.
âStill blame me for that scar on your knee?â He asked, smirking.
âAbsolutely.â
âYou know, you were the only girl in town who could actually beat me at tetherball.â
âOnly because you kept hitting your damn face.â
He snorted.
They turned onto a familiar old dirt road, her heart gave a nervous little jump. Trees started to thin, then there it stood. When she saw the house, her chest ached. The house came into view like an old photo sheâd forgotten she still had. It looked sad and tired, almost like time had tried to erase it.
The once-pristine white panels were yellowing and weather-stained. The shutters hung crookedly; some were even missing entirely. Tall grass reached hungrily toward the porch steps. Weeds had overtaken the gravel walkway, and the swing on the front porch dangled with one chain broken.
Sadie slowly pressed a hand to her mouth. Alex pulled the truck to a gentle stop and killed the engine.
âYeahâŚâ he said quietly. âHe got real sick, real fast. Cancer, I think. Robin and Ms. Marnie did what they could, but between their work and trying to help him, it just⌠kind of got away from them.â
Sadie opened the door and stepped into the driveway. The air was cooler here and carried the smell of old leaves, pine bark, and damp earth. A bird chirped somewhere off in the distance. Her boots sank a little in the softened dirt as she walked toward the house. It felt like it loomed over her. Crooked, but still standing. A breeze carried the faint scent of salt and wildflowers somewhere deep inside her chest. This was hers now. For better or worse.
âWelcome home,â Alex said softly.
The porch groaned under Sadieâs weight as she stepped up to the front door. The paint was peeling here too, curling like the pages of a book left in the sun. She hesitated before the threshold and glanced to her right. There he was. Still standing guard after all these years.
A short ceramic gnome with a chipped red hat and a mischievous grin stood half obscured by grass. His googly eyes were stuck permanently askew from years of rain and mischief. She crouched down, lifted him slightly, and found the familiar silver key taped underneath. The old, yellowing tape still wrapped it, and rust still covered its teeth.
âOf course,â she muttered with a fond huff.
âSecurity at its finest,â Alex said behind her, arms crossed, leaning against the porch beam.
The key scraped as it turned in the lock. The red door creaking open with a long sigh. Dust danced in the slant of afternoon light that cut across the old wooden floor. The house smelled of cedar and age, laced with something faintly sweet. Her boots left faint prints in the film of dust coating the entryway as she stepped inside. It was exactly as she remembered. Just older and dimmer.
The living room opened to the right, where a sagging couch once sat beneath the front window, now only a simple wooden table and a pair of mismatched chairs, remained. A tiny old television sat crookedly on a low console, the kind with manual dials and fake wood paneling. Wallpaper was peeling in long, curling strips along the hallway. Her grandfather had scratched at parts of it, as though he had started to remove it but never finished.
âItâs like a time capsule in here,â she murmured.
Alex stepped in behind her and closed the door gently. âYeah. He didnât really touch anything over the years.â
She wandered through the main room, fingertips trailing over the dusty surface of the table. A single envelope sat there, crisp and out of place. She picked it up and opened it.
She folded the letter and tucked it into her coat pocket.
âWell,â she said softly, âguess thatâs what Iâll be doing this week.â
âWant me to come with you?â
She gave him a quick smile. âAre you offering to be my emotional support jock?â
Alex grinned, âDepends, will I get snacks out of it?â
She chuckled under her breath and made her way toward the stairs. They creaked exactly the same way they used to. Low and moaning, like old bones complaining about the weather. Her room was at the end of the hall. The door still had the star-shaped sticker sheâd put on it as a kid, now faded and curled at the corners. She pushed it open slowly, parting the hanging door beads, half expecting to find her childhood self sitting on the bed reading a Teen Vogue magazine.
Her room was small and mostly empty. But her old twin bed was still there, tucked into the far corner. Time had faded the quilt her grandmother made her from blue to near gray. The dresser stood beneath the window, its mirror spotted and cloudy. The curtains drawn back, let spring light spill across the floor in a soft golden haze. Alex glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Something unreadable shifted behind his eyes.
âItâs smaller than I remember,â she said.
âYouâre taller than you were,â Alex offered, following her in and setting her suitcase down gently by the dresser.
She sat on the edge of the bed as the springs squeaked underneath. âItâs weird, you know? I didnât grow up here, not really. But it still feels like⌠pieces of me live in these walls.â
Alex leaned against the doorframe of her room with his arms crossed. âYou spent every summer in P.T. until you were in like 10th grade. That counts as growing up here.â
She didnât answer, just looked around the room with a quiet expression. Dust motes turned in the light. A robin chirped outside her window.
âYou sure youâre okay?â He asked after a pause.
âI think so,â she said. âJust⌠need to see it all and let it settle.â
He nodded. âWell, for what itâs worth, Iâm glad youâre here.â
Her lips twitched into a small smile. âThanks, Alex.â
âYou hungry?â He asked, pushing off the doorframe. âWe can go to the diner for a bit. Donât ask me to pay though, I can only afford to get you a grilled cheese.â
She laughed, âGrilled cheese sounds perfect.â
The diner sat tucked between the library and the old post office like it had always belonged there, even though Sadie was sure it hadnât existed when she last set foot in town. A silver-lettered sign above the door read âStellaâs Dinerâ in looping cursive. A striped red-and-white awning fluttered over the wide front windows. The intoxicating scent of sizzling butter and brewed coffee spilled out every time the door opened. Inside, it looked like something out of a 1950s postcard. Red vinyl booths, chrome accents, a jukebox in the corner. The kind of place where the waitstaff called you âhonâ and the pancakes were bigger than your face.
âDefinitely wasnât here when I was a kid,â Sadie remarked, letting the door swing shut behind her.
âItâs about five years old,â Alex said. âPeople were real suspicious of it at first, but now try taking away Ms. Violetâs cinnamon rolls and thereâll be a riot on Main.â
A short woman in her sixties with blue glasses and a cloud of permed white hair waved them toward a booth near the window. Alex pointed at her with a grin.
âThatâs Ms. Violet. Donât let the smile fool you, sheâll throw hands if you insult her food.â
Sadie slid into the booth, folding her coat neatly beside her. She let her fingers rest on the cool chrome edge of the table, it felt a little surreal. Familiar and foreign all at once. She glanced out the window at the square, then back at the cracked leather menu.
âWaitâSadie Palmer? Is that you?â
Sadie looked up to see a tall young man with blonde hair and a skateboard clipped to his backpack.
Sam.
He hadnât changed much. A little taller, a little leaner, with facial hair that looked like it came and went depending on the season. Beside him was Abigail, with colored hair swept back into a messy braid. Sadie remembered she used to dye it purple. Now it was more of a dark teal. Her eyeliner, still perfectly smudged in a smoky black, was a stark contrast to the casual, slightly rumpled jacket she wore. Hanging back a few steps behind them was Sebastian. The usual black hoodie zipped to the neck with hands in his pockets.
Sadie blinked in surprise. âHi?â
âHoly shit, itâs really you!â Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, grinning. âWow, I havenât seen you sinceâgod, what? You were still in braces.â
âShe never had braces, you idiot, that was me,â Abigail smirked, nudging him.
âYou didnât?â Sam looked confused. âHuh.â
âHi Sadie! Iâve missed you so much.â She bent down to give her a quick hug. âCan we sit with you guys?â Abigail asked, already sliding into the spot beside her without waiting for a yes. âItâs not every day someone comes back from the Joja Mothership.â
Alex chuckled as he scooted over to make room. âItâs like watching someone reintroduce an animal to its native habitat, right?â
âThanks,â Sadie rolled her eyes. âGlad to be everyoneâs local cryptid again.â
Sebastian slid into the boothâs edge without a word, nodding toward her with a soft smile in his usual quiet way.
âSeriously though,â Sam said, âWhat brings you back? Thought youâd escaped the small town curse! Iâve been trying to leave this hellhole for years.â
Sadie hesitated, fingers drumming once against her mug of water. âInheritance stuff. My popâs old place. Just sorting it out for now.â
âYouâll love the diner breakfasts,â Sam exclaimed, pointing to the menu. âEverything tastes like love and butter.â
âSheâs not wrong,â Alex muttered, and leaned toward Sadie to whisper, âJust donât order the tuna melt.â
âI heard that, Alex!â Ms. Violet called out from the bar counter.
âSee?â Alex grinned. âShe has ears everywhere.â
Sadie let out a small laugh, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to ease. The fog of travel, grief, and doubt hadnât lifted entirely, but this? A table full of half-familiar faces, laughter, and warmth felt like a beginning.
After the diner, Alex drove her back through town as the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting long golden streaks across the road. They didnât talk much this time. The radio played some classic song with steel guitar and wistful lyrics filling the space between them. Sadie let herself watch the town roll by through the window. When the truck came to a stop in the gravel drive, Alex cut the engine and turned to her.
âAre you sure youâre good? Donât lie to me, Adi, Iâll know.â He asked, brows lifted.
Sadie gave a tired smile. âYeah. I just⌠need to be alone for a little while.â
He nodded, then stepped out to grab her leftover food from the backseat. When she rounded the truck, he handed her the bag and pulled her into a brief but firm hug.
âText me if the walls start talking or something,â he said into her hair. âIâll come punch a ghost.â
She snorted. âThanks.â
He stepped back, gave her a wink, then climbed into the truck. The engine sputtered like it wasnât in the mood to leave. As the truck rolled down the drive, Alex gripped the steering wheel tighter. She was really back. After all this time. Every year heâd figure the memory of her would fade like the pictures in Evelynâs hallway, but there she was. Same Sadie, just older. A little more tired in her eyes, maybe, but still hers. He smiled to himself, then shook his head.
It was stupid how fast the memories had come rushing in. The bonfires and bike rides highlighted with stupid dares. The way her laugh cracked wide open when he said a dumb joke. How sometimes they'd sit too close on the dock and pretend it meant nothing. But it had meant something. At least to him. They never named it, and maybe that was the problem.
And then, she was just gone. No solid goodbye except for a half-hearted note. Just vanished like a summer storm.
He didnât know what he expected now. She was here, and it made him happy in a way that unsettled him. Like the ground had shifted beneath the farm and no one had warned him. Part of him hoped she'd stay. The other part wasnât sure if his heart could take it.
Back at the house, Sadie stood for a long moment on the porch, bag in hand, watching the last light slip away behind the tree line. She turned, unlocking the door, and stepped into the quiet of the house. It felt heavier without Alex. Like the air had settled back into old memories as she slowly explored.
The kitchen was outdated for sure, but still functional. Copper-bottom pans still hung from the wall, and there was a dent in the linoleum where the old stool used to wobble. A door beside the pantry opened into a small room she hadnât remembered clearly. It was a lined wall covered with shelves sagging under the weight of dusty books.
She stepped in and brushed her fingers over the cracked spines.
âThe Farmerâs Almanacâ
âMushroom Cultivation in Coastal Climatesâ
âWeathering Tools and Weathering Storms: A Memoirâ
Most of them looked well read. Some had her grandfatherâs scrawl in the margins with personal notes, and diagrams of crop layouts. Downstairs, the basement was cool and smelled faintly of cedar. The stairs groaned beneath her weight as she descended into the dimness, turning on an overhead bulb with a buzz.
The basement was a museum of her late grandparentâs lives. Stacked boxes litered the space. She crouched by a familiar trunk, the faded floral print peeling along the edges. When she opened it, the hinges groaned like they were waking up, disturbed from their sleep. Inside were stacks of things that felt like her childhood frozen in time. Construction paper crafts, seashell necklaces, and a tin of half-dried watercolor pans.
And then she saw it. A journalâneon pink, with shimmering Lisa Frank dolphins leaping over a rainbow. She let out a short, stunned laugh.
âNo wayâŚâ
She unlocked the clasp and flipped it open. Her own handwriting stared back at her, chaotically wide looped, scrawled in glitter pen.
âAt least I know my handwriting has improved.â Sadie smiled softly as she flipped through the lined heart print pages. Page after page detailed drama between friends, swimming at the beach, and bonfire nights behind Samâs house. A particular page caused her to pause.
Her heart stuttered. Adi was the nickname he gave her. He even called her that before he left today. Woven through all the pages was Alex. He seemed to always be mentioned somehow, and he always felt like something more than what they pretended to be. It struck her like a sudden breeze through a closed window. That little girl, her heart a whirlwind of uncertainty and hope, was so sure, so full of tangled feelings and big emotions. Sheâd already known. Maybe not the depth, or even what it meant at the time, but sheâd felt it genuinely.
And then sheâd left without a goodbye. It wasnât that she wanted it to be that way. He was just away for a game, the week she was moving. She couldnât really do anything about it, so she left a note with Evelyn.
Sadie swallowed hard and closed the journal gently, her fingers brushed the raised dolphin sticker on the front. She slipped it back into the trunk and shut the lid like she was putting something precious back to bed. A yellowed photo album with curled edges lay half-open on a crate. She brushed the dust away and saw her motherâs smile looking up at her, younger than Sadie was now. Happy among the sunflowers. She didn't speak much to her parents. The divorce tore them apart and was partly why she stayed at her grandparentsâ in the first place. The bad memories of those years cushioned against the good ones made in the valley made her heart sink.
She found a trunk in the corner. Inside, gardening gloves greeted her. Faded seed packets blanketed over a folded apron embroidered with the name âCharles Palmer.â Her grandfatherâs.
Grief mixing with the nostalgia braided together so tightly she couldnât separate them and felt difficulty breathing. She closed the trunk gently and exhaled. That night, she slept in her childhood bed, curled beneath the faded quilt. She dreamed of spring rains and someone calling her name from across a field.
The next morning, Alex was waiting out front, this time with two mugs in hand and some sunglasses sitting on top of his head.
âYou look like you got hit by a freight train,â Alex remarked as she approached. He offered her a travel mug.
âGood morning, to you too, I guess,â she grumbled, accepting the coffee. âIs this my sympathy, coffee?â
âIâm your chauffeur today,â he bowed slightly, with a flourish.
The ride into town was brighter this time. The sun slanted through the windshield, little patches of green growing braver on the bare trees.
âOh, by the way,â Alex said, glancing at her sideways. âSpring Flower Dance is next weekend. You sticking around long enough for that?â
She raised an eyebrow. âThatâs still a thing?â
âOh yeah. Sam tried to turn it into something similar to Warped Tour last year. Mayor Lewis almost had a coronary.â
Sadie laughed. âIâll think about it.â
The attorneyâs office, Willow & Finch, was tucked into a narrow red-brick building downtown with frosted windows and a gold-lettered door. Inside, it smelled like wood polish and paper. The meeting was simple for the most part. The only thing asked of her was signatures. They covered disclaimers and a rundown of the estate assets. Nothing shocking, just heavy. She was still given until Friday to decide if she wanted to sell or keep the property in her name. By the time she stepped back outside, her head felt stuffed with paperwork and emotions. She barely registered the curb until her foot caught and twisted.
âShitâ!â
Her foot slipped out from under her, and she cried out as her ankle bent painfully sideways. Before she hit the pavement, the coffee cup went flying as Alex caught her with one arm around her back.
âYou okay?â He asked, voice tight.
âNoâŚâ she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut. âAnkle. SomethingâŚpopped.â
Without hesitation, he adjusted his grip and hoisted her against his chest like she weighed nothing. She groaned. âThis is humiliating.â
"No worries, Doc is just down the way."
The clinic sat just down the block. It was white shingled and neat, with a little garden of medicinal herbs tucked under the windows. Alex pushed through the door with his shoulder and Sadie on his back. The bell above jingled. Inside, the space was quiet and warmly lit. A faint scent of antiseptic mixed with lemon balm filled the waiting room. Sadie barely had time to look around before someone stood up from behind the check-in desk.
âWhoa, need a hand there?â Said the woman in scrubs, walking around the counter. Her bob bounced as she moved. Her short, dark hair was tucked behind her ears held up by her glasses.
âShe twisted her ankle,â Alex said. âWe were leaving the attorneyâs office, and the sidewalk won.â
Sadie gave a tight smile. âThanks for the recapâŚâ
âWell, youâve got good reflexes, Alex,â the woman said to him with a grin. Suddenly, her face lit up with recognition. âOh, my GodâSadie Palmer? Do you remember me? Iâm Maru! I still help out here a few days a week. My parents are the ones with the research lab up north. Anyway, letâs get you checked in. It's so good to see you again!â
Sadie was starting to not like all this attention everywhere she went. In such a small town, perhaps it was inevitable. Maru grabbed a clipboard, scribbled something quickly, and handed it to Sadie. âJust need a signature and a few questions answered.â
Alex set her gently on the padded bench near the exam room door. Maru knelt to examine the ankle while Sadie filled out the top of the form.
âGirl, thatâs a nasty sprain,â Maru muttered sympathetically, glancing up. âIâll go grab Dr. Harvey! He came on staff a few years after you left. Youâre in good hands, heâs the best.â
She disappeared with her soft footsteps fading down the hall. A moment later, another set approached.
He appeared in the doorway, clipboard tucked under one arm, broad shoulders framed by a dark sweater vest beneath his white coat. Round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, drawing attention to warm brown eyes and a neatly trimmed beard that matched the light brown of his hair which was brushed back. He pushed back a single, stubborn lock with practiced ease. Dr. Harveyâs presence was quiet but steady, like a well-read book with something hidden between the lines.
Sadie swallowed, blinking as he stepped closer.
After a quiet clearing of his throat, he crouched beside her. âMiss Sadie Palmer?â
âWhat? Oh, yeah. Right, thatâs me,â she managed, laughing nervously. She was trying her best not to sound as flustered as she felt.
âIâm Dr. Harvey McClellon. Iâll be taking care of you todayâmay I?â
He nodded toward her ankle. She gave a quick, silent nod in return. Alex, mercifully, was distracted by the superhero wallpaper. Meanwhile, Harveyâs hands were warm and steady as he touched her ankle, tilting it gently in examination.
âMaruâs correct, itâs a classic lateral sprain. Iâll wrap it and get you some ice. Youâll want to stay off it for a few days, Miss. Palmer. Donât do anything too dramatic, and you should be fine. Iâll set you up with a crutch.â
âShe always was a bit dramatic,â Alex quipped, earning him a dirty look.
Dr. Harvey smiled faintly and stood. âWelcome to Pelican Town, Miss Palmer. Even if itâs under slightly painful circumstances.â
âThanks,â she murmured with a slight flush.
He moved with quiet efficiency, wrapping her ankle, while Maru returned with a small bag of ice and a crutch. The two of them worked like a well-oiled machine, Dr. Harvey calm and focused, Nurse Maru quick with clever remarks and small comforts.
âYouâre in luck,â Alex said as Maru handed over the crutch. âThey just restocked dignity, so you get to keep some.â
Sadie laughed. âThank god. I was running dangerously low.â
Once everything felt secure, Dr. Harvey stepped back and met her eyes with a furrowed brow of concern. âIf it gets worse, or the swelling doesnât go down in a few days, come back in and see me. No need to tough it out.â When he smiled, it felt genuine. She wondered how many people in this town had quietly fallen for the doctor over nothing more than his smile. There was also a strange hypnotic quality to his low, steady tone of voice that caused her to hesitate.
It's here lovelies, it's real đđ𼰠please enjoy this much delayed chapter, given to you with all my love. I was ready to post this and then Ao3 went down... timing.
Pairing:Â SasuSaku
Tags:Â Romance, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Team Dynamics, Blank Period, Sexual Tension, Mutual Pining
Sasukeâs temperature has always run higher than most, and Sakura has always, always burned for him. Moments of heat, spent together in the time after his return.
Sasuke could almost see the wheels turning before Shikamaru placed his hands on his hips, head cocked. Both men stared at one another for a heartbeat, two silent figures standing amidst the racks of standard-issue ninja clothing.Â
Shikamaru put a hand on the back of his head, scrubbing his hair. âDo you⌠have protection sorted?âÂ
Sasuke managed - with difficulty - not to choke on nothing, blinking rapidly. He felt his blood betraying him anyway, the flush of colour in his cheeks a dead giveaway. His Sharingan spun in agitation too, and through his embarrassment he was gratified to notice that the Nara didnât flinch at the sight.Â
âI, um-â
Shikamaru sighed, blushing too. âThough I suppose that as a medic, uh⌠that will be covered anyway. But still, it doesnât hurt to be prepared, you knowâŚâ
He trailed off, looking to the ceiling. Sasuke had a moment of deep gratefulness that it was Shikamaru whoâd spotted him rather than any of the rest of their cohort; he wouldnât have coped with Kiba or, gods forbid, Narutoâs attempt at this kind of advice.Â
âTemari always saysâŚâ Shikamaru started, then clearly thought better of it. âWell, I think that for kunoichi, itâs a thoughtful gesture to prepare as wellâŚâ
Another awkward beat passed, Sasuke looking down at the underwear in his hand. He felt a momentary urge to throw it away, resisting when he realised heâd be left with only his current slightly-threadbare sets.
âIâll look into it,â Sasuke blurted. âDo you want to get a drink?â
We are launching the greatest, most brain-blasting, heart-smashing, Senhaku-powered fanfic challenge of ALL TIME. Thatâs right. Itâs called:
â52 Weeks, 52 Tropes: A Year of Senhakuâ
(AKA: The One Where We Totally Lose Our Minds in the Name of Science and Romance.)
Hereâs the mission:
Each week, you write a one-shot, drabble, scene, or experimental chaos piece featuring our favorite science gremlin and jungle queen, based on a specific trope. One fic. Every week. For a year. 52 tropes. 52 Senhaku moments. Thatâs 52 chances to make us cry, swoon, and scream into the void.
Examples of Tropes to get your BRAIN ENGINEERING:
đEnemies to Lovers (classic)
đFake Dating (yes please)
đOnly One Bed (you know this one's a banger)
đTime Travel
đSoulmates with a Twist
đAccidental Love Confession
đHurt/Comfort but Make it Science
đâOh no, theyâre HOTâ
You can go canon, AU, modern, prehistoric, SPACE? Go nuts. Build a timeline. Or donât. Tie them together or keep âem separate. You do you, boo.
Want extra chaos?
đShuffle your playlist and use the first lyric you hear as the title.
đMake it â¨seasonalâ¨. Senhaku Halloween? I dare you.
There are no losers. Only fanfic heroes. And I believe in you.
Letâs fill the fandom with serotonin and sufferingâthe good kind.
#Senhaku52Challenge
LETâS. DO. THIS.
*mic drop, Peralta-style cartwheel, probably crashes into a filing cabinet*
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"Oh lol I can't write fic the AO3 curse will get me-"
Stop talking. Look at me. Look at me and listen.
Life is a never ending string of tragedies and delights. You will not be saved by making yourself less noticable.
Write your fic, post it. Enjoy the creative process. Enjoy the fandom. The bad things would have happened anyway, at least now you have the AO3 kudos emails to look forward to.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
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A small snippet from part III of Take me home from CoW: Souless warrior & Bodyless scientist
The clearing was bathed in the cold, silver light of a full moon, its glow etching the edges of every leaf and branch in sharp relief. The usual chorus of nocturnal insects had fallen to a hush, leaving only the whisper of a faint breeze through the dense foliage. In the center of this stillness, Kohaku was alone, the last of her team having long since returned to camp.
Then, a sound severed the silence.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Heavy, deliberate steps crunched through the forest. Kohaku froze, her body coiling into a fighterâs stance before her mind had fully processed the threat. Most animals moved with a lighter, more erratic rhythm. This was different, purposeful.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the moon-washed world to focus entirely on the soundscape. The steps were steady, a jarring percussion against the forest's subtle breaths. The rhythm was vaguely familiarâa hard impact that quickened for a moment, then slowed, as if matching the pace of a beating heart.
It made no sense. The owner of that gait, that specific, weighted footfall, should have been miles away.
But alas. The warrior kept herself ready to battle, until she heard a familiar voice:
âKo-ha-ku!â Hearing her name from that person, she dropped her stance immediately and a sharp shiver went down her spineâa reaction of guilt, not cold. She dropped her shovel and raised her arms above her head in a gesture of weary surrender.
Then a powerful force hit her torso, and she was almost knocked out of consciousness.
âOuch, Ruri.â The younger sister winced, her exhaustion making the blow feel heavier than intended.
âWell, hello to you too, dear little sister.â The older woman looked severely irritated. Kohaku felt, more than actually knew, what this visit was about, so she decided to strike first.
âHa, so you missed your husband so much that you had to come here, even with all the work you have at the village?â she tried to save herself with a comment that she hoped sounded lighthearted.
Her sisterâs frown deepened. âYou know very well this is not why I came.â
Kohaku sighed and dropped her forced smile. âRuri, I am fine, okay? You donât have to worry. I know you have more than enough with how fast the village is growing. You donât need to waste so much of your time with me.â
Kohaku had clearly said the wrong words. Ruriâs face had become white with sudden rage. Kohaku winced again.
âHow could you say that, Kohaku?â
âRuri-neââ
âAre you not my family?â
âI know, but you have already so much to worry aboutââ
âDonât even start!â Ruriâs voice was a low, dangerous command that finally silenced Kohaku. âDo you even know how much you mean to me? Do you even know how much it hurts to spend so long apart from my little sister? How much I missed you over the years? Do you know how much I miss you now, even though I am not sick anymore and, in fact, am capable enough of going on as many adventures as yourself?â
Kohaku knew for a fact that Ruri should not be in the line of work she was, but now felt like the wrong time to point that out.
âDo you know how much it pained me to know how much you have sacrificed to keep me alive and to know how I could never do the same?â Ruri finished, her voice thick with years of guilt and love.
âI know, sisâŚâ
âYou donât! Because if you did, you would not be here trying to kill yourself with so much work and no rest!â
âChrome, nothing, Kohaku! Have you even thought about calling me? About calling us all at the village? You know very well this is a possibility, and yet you gave no sign whatsoever.â
Kohaku paused, the question hitting her like a physical blow. Why did she not call? She barely thought about anything other than completing her mission and being out of range of the tent her belongings were at.
Her sister was still waiting, so Kohaku decided to come clean with the surface-level truth. âSorry, Ruri. I guess I got too caught in my work that I forgot about other things. I am truly sorry for making you worry.â
Ruri hugged her again, this time much softer. Kohaku hugged her back, her defenses finally crumbling under the weight of her sisterâs concern.
âIdiot Kohaku.â The phrase was so out of character for Ruri; Chrome was definitely rubbing off on her. âYou gotta rest, you know?â
âI knowâŚâ
âWhy donât you sleep in your tent anymore?â
âHe even told you that?â Kohaku tried to pull out of the hug, but Ruri kept her there, the embrace tightening, forcing Kohaku to stop resisting.
âWhat happened? You donât like to sleep with the girls at the tent?â
Of course, that would come up. Kohaku didn't want to tell her sister that she felt sorely out of place and was too affected by their sentimental topics. âItâs nothing, really.â
Ruri only clenched her tighter. âSeriously, Ruri, it is not them.â
âSo what is?â
Kohaku threw her head back, now limp in her sisterâs arms. âCan we please not talk about it?â
âNo, we canât not talk about it, Kohaku. Not when you have been working yourself to death and sleeping out in the woods even when you have a perfectly good sheltered place to sleep.â
Kohaku shook her body in her sisterâs arms, but the woman would not let her go. She exhaled loudly again. âI just wanted a different scenery, is all.â
âKohaku.â
âI just wanted to sleep by myself,â she tried again, knowing it was weak. Her sister stayed skeptical. âI just wanted to have silence when I sleep.â
âOh?â This time Ruri let Kohaku go. The short-haired woman rubbed her arms. âAre you serious?â
âI am.â
âWhy didnât you politely ask for silence?â
âI donât know, felt like I would be intruding.â
âHuh.â
Kohaku eyed her sister, praying she wouldn't ask any more questions. But she wouldn't be that lucky.
âIt is weird, though. You are a light sleeper, yes, but not to the point where some conversation would be such a disturbance.â Kohaku shrugged. âWhat do they talk about, after all?â
And here came the question Kohaku didn't want to face.
Kohaku looked at her sisterâs face, desperately trying to break the subject. âOne thing or another, it was just background noise.â
âWell, if it was background noise, why did it irritate you so much?â Ruri insisted, clearly unwilling to drop the matter.
âI just got too tired in this mission. Managing people is no easy feat either, so by the end of the day, I just want peace and quiet.â Kohaku prayed internally that this partial truth would be satisfying enough for her sister.
âAh. I see. Why didnât you ask for another tent, then?â
âDidnât want to give Chrome any more work?â
Ruriâs frown softened. âListen, I know you are worried, and I bet you are going to find a solution that will put an end to whatever I am doing, right?â
Ruri nodded slowly.
âSo, there is no need for any more concern. Okay?â Kohaku looked at her sister expectantly.
âOkay.â
And so they began the walk back to the camp.
That night, Ruri and Chrome immediately set up the small tent she had brought for Kohaku, making sure her younger sister would feed, bathe, and sleep well. Ruri spent about two weeks there, acting as a personal enforcer of rest for Kohaku, and only left after Suika arrived to take over the position.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
saw this being debated and just wanted to talk about it too.
"is it rude if I politely ask a writer if they use ai or chatgpt on their works because I'm almost certain they do?"
yes, it is rude. no matter how polite you are being when you ask them this.
you say you are almost certain. so you are not absolutely certain.
unless you are absolutely, undoubtedly certain â with actual proof â that their writing is ai generated, never ever ask an artist if their work is ai generated.
I know several writers who would stop writing and delete all of their works if they were ever accused of using ai. so it doesn't matter if you are polite when you ask them this, you are suggesting that their works are ai generated, that they didn't create the works they could have spent hours, days, weeks, months or years working on.
ai and chatgpt are trained on real humans' works, they are trained to mimic the way real humans write. so if you say a genuine writer's work "looks ai", I'm gonna have to ask you what you think ai was trained on.
a writer whose English isn't their first language may also write in a way that "looks ai" to some, if they write in English and have to rely on translator.
using em dash isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time. my fellow writers all love em dash.
having long paragraphs with "overly described scenes" isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time, and so do my fellow writers.
all the "ai signs" are actually just what most writers actually do. they get mistaken for "ai signs" because sometimes the way writers write or describe a scene in a fanfic or an original work is different than the way people talk or text. because they're writing a fic and describing a scene, not chatting with a friend. the way I talk is different than the way I write my fics.
if you suspect a work was ai generated, but are not 100% sure, you can always just stop reading said work without saying anything.
if someone does use ai to write, they will either a.) deny and continue using ai to write or b.) admit because they see nothing wrong with it and continue using ai to write.
if a genuine writer was wrongly accused of using ai, they may stop writing altogether.
asking a writer if they use ai or chatgpt to write will always do more harm than good. witch hunting will always do more harm than good.
you are not "fighting against ai" by throwing around such accusations. you are harming genuine writers and artists.
all of the fanfic writers, whom I personally know, say the same thing that they would feel discouraged and might delete all their works if they were asked this.
itâs not âhey do you like x or yâ question. itâs a subtle implication that your work looks like it was written by a robot within a minute. if you personally donât find that offensive, thatâs cool. but I know a lot of writers do. and they have the rights to be discouraged by it.
also we are talking about fanfic writers who write as their hobby, getaway or safe place, writers whose works you read for free. not writers who sell their works and are making profit from what they write. fanfic writers donât owe you anything.
This just came across my dash. I'm going to be blunt.
Asking a writer or artist if they âuse AIâ is an accusation, no matter how you dress it up. Itâs not neutral. It implies you think their effort, style, or voice is artificial. It implies that their human work doesnât look human enough for you.
You donât protect the community by policing people who are actually creating from scratch. You protect it by supporting human creators, reporting confirmed AI misuse when thereâs evidence, and learning the difference between this sounds different than what Iâd write and this is machine-generated.
Writersâespecially fanfic authorsâalready pour their time, emotion, and identity into what they share for free. They donât owe anyone proof of authenticity on top of that. And if your question makes someone want to quit writing, itâs not protecting the community. Itâs shrinking it.
If youâre not 100% sure, just scroll. AI ethics donât need to turn into public inquisition season.
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