Chikko 🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆

I'm Chikko/Kiyo :3

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I'm 16 and I LOVE writing ! I'm always open to new people >_<

BLUESKY: https://bsky.app/profile/lauver1.bsky.social

DISCORD: lauver1

I'm hyperfixated on ;

•Alien Stage,

•Mob Psycho 100,

•BNHA,

•DanDaDan,

HAHA HELLO!! BLUELOCK OC ^_^

Shoko Kimura ! Because of Bluelocks failing funds they resorted to interning medical students to help with managing the health of bluelock students and competitors.

Stationed in building 5 (Isagi’s building) focusing on the leg therapy of Hyoma’s leg injury she spent time listening to the boy talk for hours on end about his self centred desire to win.

Shoko had no interest in Soccer, she’d never watched it in a day of her life, purely taking the internship up for a good record on her resume, needing more ‘community service’ things towards her medical degree.

She’s 16 years old, recently leaving school to focus on this ‘internship’. Jinpachi Ego promised to keep her well fed, a place to sleep, ect. It was hard to turn down, a months worth of work where she’d get to laze around and do the occasional assistance? It was more than desirable.

After the first selection was when she initially met Isagi, Gurimu had injured his ankle during a fall; featured in the first episode during ‘tag’.

While Shoko doesn’t have a history with Isagi she was initially intrigued by his closeness to Bachira, and how polar opposite he was to the other egoists, yet later as he evolved she realised his potential was just hidden inside, a trigger like bluelock making it more than clear.

Her history with Bachira is limited yet important, attending Namikaze High alongside him, she wasn’t at all interested in approaching or instituting herself in his life. He was a loner, a weirdo. But seeing his passion on show, how someone with such a flame be used into full throttle made her realise why people played these games.

~~~~~

Ichi sat cross-legged on her futon, hunched forward as her eyes remained glued to the computer screen. The faint hum of the fan in the corner of her room filled the silence, punctuated only by the soft tap-tap of her fingers scrolling. She wasn’t searching for anything specific—just something to fill the void of a lazy afternoon. The mug of tea she had brewed earlier sat beside her, forgotten and lukewarm, its floral aroma barely lingering in the air.

That’s when a bold headline caught her eye:

"Show Us Your Muse: Seasoning City Photography Competition."

The words were accompanied by a stunning image—a twilight cityscape awash in purples and golds, with a lone woman perched on a bench, her long black hair flowing in the breeze. Ichi leaned in, the glow of the screen casting a soft light on her face. She clicked the link, curiosity blossoming into something sharper.

The details unfolded like a dream: a chance to display her work, an esteemed judging panel, and a tantalizing prize of cutting-edge equipment. Her chest tightened, excitement and apprehension creeping in as her eyes devoured each word. This was perfect. Almost too perfect.

Her hand hovered over the “Entry” button, but doubts crept in. Did she even have a muse?

She frowned as memories surfaced unbidden. Middle school. A sunny afternoon. Ichi stood on the edge of a group of friends, clutching her pink camera. The plastic was warm under her fingers, but her grip was shaky, uncertain. When she finally snapped the picture, it turned out crooked and lifeless, nothing like her vibrant shots of flowers or birds.

Photography was supposed to be her refuge. Why venture into something so personal, so daunting?

The promise of recognition and new equipment tugged at her, refusing to let go. Ichi leaned back against the cool wall, tilting her head up to stare into the dim ceiling. Names and faces of classmates flickered through her mind—people she knew, people she barely spoke to. But none of them seemed right. Who could be a muse?

She ran through the options. Someone from the News Club? Too busy. Shigeo? No, obviously not. He was fine—nice, even—but he didn’t spark anything. He lacked the energy and pull that a muse should have. Yet, Shigeo had something she didn’t: connections. He knew people and had plenty of friends.

The thought lingered, teasing her, but she pushed it aside. Ichi shut the laptop with a soft click, plunging the room into darkness. For a moment, she sat there, the faint hum of her phone the only light in the void. She grabbed it, her fingers hovering over Shigeo’s contact. The hesitation was almost painful; her thumb hovered like a precarious pendulum.

Would he even agree? Would he understand what she was asking?

Who wants Yuri

Ichi x Tome fanfic in the works, rarepairs wont stop my fuel for homosexuals

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Muse

A person or [personified] force that serves as the source of inspiration for a creative artist.

"Yeats' muse, Maud Gonne"

~~

“I don’t understand why you won’t, Tome.” Ichi’s voice broke the stillness, her beige hair falling softly as she tilted her head. The silence lingered, Tome’s gaze slipping away as a faint blush crept across her smooth, flushed cheeks.

“It’s not that I won’t, Ichi… I just don’t think I’m the one you’re looking for.”

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Heyo,

Haven’t been doing too good recently, sorry for the slow updates 🥹

I’ve been feeling unmotivated and a little overlooked by others, if someone slaps me silly and tells me to get back to work I probably will.. If you want more Through the Cracks content be sure it’s still being made, that’s for sure. My hyperfixation is still at its peak.

I’m purely warning an ongoing/beginning hiatus. I’ll try using Tumblr more but you know how it is.

**·:*¨ ༺   ♱✮♱   ༻ ¨*:·**

The smell of fresh Takoyaki wafted through the air, mingling with the faint warm aroma of freshly brewed green tea. Tree’s and bush’s nestled in the heart of Seasoning City served as the backdrop, the cafe’s sliding wooden windows slightly ajar to let in the crisp morning air. Outside, vendors called out their meals, their voices interspersed with the gentle chime of wind bells dangling from the eaves.

Inside, the atmosphere was intimate and unhurried. We sat at a booth together, the low hum of distant chatter provided soothing white-noise. Reigen sat across from me, his dishevelled blonde hair catching stray rays of sunlight that filtered through the paper screen windows. He looked oddly at home here, despite his mismatched attire—still half-wrinkled from his impromptu stay at my apartment.

“My payment,” he murmured with an exaggerated grin, gesturing toward the café like it was some grand place. He speared another piece of Takoyaki with his chopsticks, that self-assured demeanour seemed to soften. His eyes darted toward me as if searching for something in the awkward silence between bites.

I glanced at the sizzling plate before me, steam rising from the golden-brown spheres drizzled in mayonnaise and sprinkled with katsuobushi. They danced slightly from the heat, much like the unspoken tension between us—light and fluttering, but undeniably present.

It wasn’t just about the Takoyaki or the payment anymore. Something in the air felt heavier, unspoken words simmering just beneath the surface. I couldn’t care less buying this man a meal, but the insistence I stayed felt oddly strange. The memory of last night’s chaotic events replayed in my mind, though I struggled to find the right words to bridge the gap between then and now.

“Good, right?” Reigen finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with a forced nonchalance as he leaned back, chopsticks pointing toward my untouched plate. The way he smiled—like he was trying to mask something—only made the pull toward him feel more inexplicable.

“Not hungry?” He mused, head tilting as his chopstick met the porcelain of my plate, pushing it closer towards me with expectant eyes. I exhaled, head tilting to the side as I contemplated my words. I *was* hungry but it felt strange eating out with someone. Especially someone like this