#(i think thats her title?)

[ranmaru-kageyama]

MINIGRAM 63: "Chiropractor" Translation

[ribbononline]

Still trying to finish other things but in the meantime- updated design for my older May! She's an Ace Trainer

[neolxzr]

hey you get it its an alien stage alien au—wait a minute... this is just invader zim !!!

some more random info abt this au under the read more ^_^ open at your own risk its a lot of yapping

till makes it his mission to expose the aliens (mostly ivan. he has personal beef with him) to the rest of humanity, but he's the boy who cried wolf. no one believes him because he's been talking about aliens and bigfoot and mothman and whatever nonstop all his life.

till loves the supernatural but also fears it. it consumes most of his waking thoughts. he doesn't like how quickly the aliens grow close to mizi out of a desire to protect her from the (presumed) threat. he's kinda like if dib invader zim was some gay art kid instead of like a supergenius

this threatening feeling comes from till assuming that ivan and sua are on earth for some kind of conquest and or abduction reasons. are they actually? who knows...

mizi is a bit of a hopeless romantic and finding out that sua was an alien only served to make her fall for her more. she could think of nothing more romantic than this scenario, actually. even till screaming danger at her cannot deter her from her love

ivan fights with till and riles him up because he finds how expressive he is utterly fascinating. he says its to "learn more about humans" but mostly he just wants till's attention. he himself doesn't know why he wants this attention, though.

sua and ivan experience a range of emotions in a similar way to humans, yet their species is discouraged from acting emotionally and isnt taught about what any of their feelings mean. all they know, at the start, is that these humans draw some kind of strange feelings out of them that they've never felt before.

(it sticks with the overall theming of alnst being about trying to understand exactly what love means.)

ivan and sua's earpieces are multipurpose tools. they're connected directly to the brain and can't be taken off. they can be used to generate their disguises (its a hologram type of thing), works as a translator so they can communicate with other alien species, etc.

what looks kind of like a nose on the aliens' faces is not a nose. their antennas are used as their olfactory system (they are also quite sensitive)

till is no longer crushing on mizi at this point in his life. sometime during middle school mizi came out to him as a lesbian and so he told her he liked her and it was a whole thing and they both cried. it ended up serving to strengthen their friendship. its been about 4 years-ish since then and theyre still inseparable

till works some kind of shitty service job part time, at which he met hyuna. she's like his cool older college friend and sort of older sister. he plays with her band sometimes

this takes place in who the fuck knows where midwest united states, and the humans are korean-american. till is first generation and usually speaks korean with his mom at home

it takes a while for till to first get a glimpse of ivan and sua's undisguised forms, though when he finally does something about them seems oddly familiar to him.

mizi sees sua's undisguised form long before till does. she does not tell him this

luka is an alien too. wonder what he's up to...

ok thats all love you bye ^_^

[terukotime]

merry christmas y'all......so project eden's garden amirite

[haveihitanerve]

My Sun And Stars

“Nausea is a feeling of discomfort or sickness in the stomach, often described as an urge to vomit. It can also feel like an unsettled stomach or queasiness.”

“Thank Siri.” Stephanie Brown grumbled, arms cradling the toilet bowl as she lay crumpled in the corner of her bathroom. She totally wanted the textbook definition of what nausea was and not what caused it.

But before she could snark this totally useless comment to her inanimate device, a new wave smashed into her and she bent back over the bowl, hurling up her breakfast, and probably last nights dinner, and then all of her internal organs. Or at least, that's what it felt like.

She stayed there for a few minutes, just heaving until nothing came out anymore, and let herself fully collapse to the floor.

After about five minutes when she was sure her body wasn’t going to immediately kill her if she tried to stand, she wobbled to her feet and flushed, washing her hands and her mouth in the sink before stumbling to her bed.

It seemed there was no more denying the test at the bottom of her trashcan. Siri, after giving her about seven different ways to say she felt like her insides were being stretched like a rubber band and basketball-ed out through her throat, it had, in fact, given her a list of reasons as to why she was feeling nauseous. And, unfortunately, pregnancy was decently high up.

She curled onto her side, dragging her comforter over her shoulders as she tugged out her phone. Her fingers hovered over her contact list, lip caught between her teeth. It wasn't that she didn't have people to call. It was just… who.

Her thumb moved to the pinned number, only a heart as the name. Steph sighed, switching off the phone and dropping it on the bed next to her.

Tim… He would… she didn't know, actually. There was no doubt he would care for her if she told him. He had taken care of her when the child hadn’t been his. But that had also been… obligation free. When she hadn’t known who he was. When the kid hadn't been his.

Her hand reached down, cupping her stomach. Last time… she didn't have a particularly good memory or fondness of being pregnant. She hadn't wanted it, the father hadn't been around, and she had been young. So young.

Steph sighed, dropping her hand as she sat up. There wasn't any way to actually keep the pregnancy hidden, not from the worlds greatest detective and not from Bruce either. It wasn't like she saw them on a daily basis or anything.

She dropped her head into her hands, taking deep, measured breaths. She was due for a date with Tim later, at seven. He’d said he’d come to pick her up. Steph glanced at the clock. It was twelve.

She let out a soft whimper groan, getting to her feet and grabbed her coat. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

The walk to Wayne Manor was long, but Steph didn't mind. The cold air gave her something else to focus on, like the numbness of her hands, totally a symptom of the wind and not her anxiousness, and the fact that she was inhaling Gotham air.

She had to smile at that thought, though. It was one of Tim’s biggest gripes. How she and Jason and Bruce all relished breathing the city in deeply, how unbalanced they felt outside of Gotham, how rejuvenated the toxic air made them feel, while it made him gag.

Her smile dropped as she neared the Wayne gates, bypassing them with ease. With her keys. She knew it would set off alarms, she never used the gate the normal way. None of them did, save Alfred. But she honestly was too tired to care.

Bruce, surprisingly, opened the door. “Tim isn’t here. He and Cass are out right now.” Steph nodded, the numbness spreading slightly. She had wanted to put off the reveal, but now that she was here she just wanted to get it over with.

“Steph?” Bruce asked gently, and she realized he’d been speaking. He stepped aside, gesturing at the foyer. “Would you like to come in?” For about the first time, Steph realized she very much did.

She nodded, stumbling into the entrance as Bruce closed the door behind her, still so gentle. So careful. He reached for her jacket, but Steph leaned away. She needed the comfort of something thick around her.

“Would you like a blanket?” Bruce asked quietly, because of course he knew. Of course he saw. He always saw. Saw all of her. Too much.

Steph nodded, allowing him to slip the jacket off her shoulders, ignoring the tender way in which his fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, so warm, so familiar, so comforting.

She marched into the den instead, away from him, away from his eyes, away from his knowing. But of course he followed, he always followed, and a big, heavy, comforting black blanket was wrapped around her shoulders, a purple bat stamped on the back. Her blanket. Because he’d made one for her. For all of them. His past Robins, Batgirls, his children who had found such comfort in curling under his cape that he had made them blankets of it.

“Is everything alright Stephanie?” He asked gently. Steph shook her head, sinking onto the couch. She knew he wanted to push. It was just how Bruce functioned. But he held back, nodded. Brought her a plate of food, a glass of water, and let her sit. Quiet.

Steph nibbled at the warm cookies, freshly baked, and watched the door. He didn’t come, not for a while, long enough that Steph stood, muttering about using the bathroom to Bruce, who only nodded and returned to his book.

She headed up the stairs, stumbling into the annoyingly lavish bathroom, and leaned against the sink. She wasn't feeling nauseous, thank Diana, but she still felt unsteady.

“Steph?” A knock on the door. Steph breathed shakily, realizing belatedly that her eyes were stinging with tears. “Steph?” Jason knocked again, more insistent. “I saw you go in there Brown. You good?” He sounded so worried. So… so much like he cared about her. He did, of course. She knew that.

“No.” she choked out, and it was all he needed, picking the lock and opening the door.

“Steph…” he breathed, closing the door behind her. “What do you need?” Straight to the point. She appreciated it. No questions she didn't want to answer. No useless comforting words that didn't help.

“A hug.” She gasped out, and Jason moved, enveloping her in his arms, cradling her as they sank to the floor, Jason’s back thumping against the door.

It wasn’t until she spotted the wet spots on his jacket that Steph realized she was crying. She hadn't cried. Not when the pregnancy test had come out. Not when nausea had crippled her to bed for three days, not when Bruce had been so gentle.

But now… hot, fat tears streamed down her cheeks, and Jason didn't comment, holding her close, his arms warm and strong and protective, blocking her from the world, from words, from things she didn't want to talk about, from herself.

She didn't know how long they sat there, Jason rubbing soothing circles on her back, but at some point Bruce had come up, knocked, asked quietly if she was okay. Jason had answered and he had left again.

Steph hiccuped, tears finally empty. “I got you.” Jason murmured, lifting her without strain, setting her on the counter and grabbed some towels, wiping her cheeks free, and handing her a few tissues.

“Steph?” Bruce’s voice. Outside the door. So he hadn't left entirely. “Tim is here.” Steph nodded, and Jason called out a thank you to him.

“You okay? What’s Timmy done?” Jason asked, hands resting on either side of her legs as he looked up at her face.

Steph shook her head. “Nothing I didn't want.” She mumbled. Jason raised an eyebrow and she realized how bad the words sounded. She let out a slight hiccupy laugh, shaking her head. “I’m pregnant.” The words blurted out before Steph could reconsider, and Jason stared at her, mouth actually dropping. She laughed again, shaking her head as she used the tissues to wipe at her eyes.

“You're- so- this. Tim-” Jason stumbled backwards, grabbing his head. He shook himself, pulling himself together, most endearingly. “So um,” He gestured to her, to the mound of tissues, to the tear stains on his jacket. “Were these uh, happy tears or…?”

Steph shrugged. “I don't. Know. Emotions?” She guessed and Jason nodded.

“Okay. You’re telling Tim?” She nodded. “How long have you known?”

Steph twisted the towel in her hands, looking away. “I took a pregnancy test a few weeks ago. I got sick last week. I wasn't sure, but um… for about a week now?” She didn’t specify “a few” meant six.

But Jason undoubtedly knew she wasn't telling the full truth. Honesty, but withholding information was basically the family's motto. Bruce was lucky they were at least all honest. Not fully, but honest nonetheless.

Jason helped her off the sink, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear and helping to wipe away the last few residues of crying. “You good?” He asked quietly, and Steph almost laughed. His resemblance to Bruce was almost scary.

“I'm good. Gotta get it over with.” She shrugged, reaching for the doorhandle, but Jason caught her, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“You know that no matter what Timmy says, you’ve got a home here. With us. B won’t let you leave once he learns he’s a grandfather.” He pulled back, looking her in the eyes. “And you’ll always have a place in my apartment. You know that yeah?”

Steph nodded, pushing his shoulder. “You’ll make me cry again you jerk.” Jason laughed, opening the door.

“Good. Now, I feel a little bad, so just know that Tim won’t deny you. He’s not like that. I promise. And if he is…” Steph snorted, leaving the bathroom and heading down the stairs.

“I know. I know. Thanks Jason.” He stayed at the top of the stairs, saluting.

“Of course. Dead Robins gotta stay together y'know?” He smirked, smile turning softer. “Need me?”

Steph shook her head. “No. Thanks. I've got to do this alone.” Jason nodded.

“I know he’s my brother, but you’re my sister too, Steph. I’ll beat him up.” Steph laughed, waving over her shoulder.

“Bye Jason.” He sighed, but let her leave.

Tim was in the den, waiting for her, if his nervous tapping was any indication. He looked up the second she walked in, eyes scanning her carefully as he walked over, hands automatically settling on her arms.

“Hey, you okay? You've been crying.” His eyes were worried, hands careful as he tugged her to the couch. Bruce nodded to them and stood, giving them privacy.

“I’m… fine.” Steph murmured, sinking onto the couch next to him, folding her legs under her body as she tugged Bruce’s blanket to her.

Tim was watching her, leg bouncing. “You’re scaring me Steph. What's up?” Steph sighed, fiddling with the blanket on her shoulders.

“I’ve uh, been sick recently. Nauseous and um, I’ve been craving these awful pickle hotdogs.” Tim wrinkled his nose, but she could tell his mind was whirring, cycling through why she thought this was relevant information to share.

As much as she liked to talk, most of it had a purpose, and he had been one of the first few people to notice it. “Pickle hotdogs again?” He murmured, slight teasing in his tone. “You haven't wanted those since-”

Steph saw the exact moment he realized what she meant. His gaze darted up, scanning her again, as if she’d already be showing.

“You- you’re pregnant.” It wasn’t a question, but a carefully stated fact. Steph nodded, waiting for his reaction. He didn’t withdraw, and he didn't yell, but he didn't react positively either. In fact, he didn't react at all.

“Okay.” Tim said softly. “You’re pregnant. Still in the first trimester, so you have time. Bruce has money, I have money, hell we could even do it in the cave here if you want, Alfred knows how, I think, he was a doctor, and of course we have enough medicine to keep you unconscious and free of pain, you won't feel a thing-”

“Tim, what are you talking about?” Steph interrupted his fast paced ramble, and he paused, looking up at her.

“What?” Steph’s arms curled around her waist.

“I want to keep it.”

And she knew it was true. Before, abortion hadn't been an option. Not just because there would have been no one who could have provided it for her, but also because it had been too late when she’d discovered it, and much too late when she had a discussion with herself on whether or not she wanted to keep it. It hadn't mattered what she wanted, anyway. She wouldn't have been given one.

But this time… this time she had a choice. This time she was older, this time she could handle a child. This time she wanted a child. And Tim… Tim was the father. She wanted him to be the father. But if he didn't want to- Steph looked at him, but Tim’s eyes were glowing.

“You want to keep it?” He breathed. Steph nodded slowly, unsure. Before she could ask what he wanted, she was pressed into the couch, Tim’s arms wrapped around her in a tackle hug.

“I love you I love you I love you I love you.”

Tim chanted into her neck, arms squeezing tighter, and Steph laughed, lifting his head between her hands. “You.. you want to have a kid?”

Tim’s smile was blinding. “Are you kidding? With you? Yes. I- I always wanted kids.” He admitted quietly. “When I became Robin, and then Red Robin, it… the dream became just that. A dream. But then I met you, and you were pregnant, and then we dated, and now…” He sighed. “I thought you’d never want kids after what happened. And i was fine with it. I am fine with it. But if you want it. If you are… then yes. Yes.”

Steph leaned up and kissed him, and his hands dug into her sides, kissing back like he’d never stop, like he’d never let go, like he’d never leave her. Steph knew he wouldn't.

“You are the father, by the way.” She murmured a half hour later, Tim’s head on her chest, his hand drawing lazy circles on her stomach as her hands glided through his hair. “Just in case you wanted it from me. We can do a blood test, of course, I know you’ll want that. But you are. Its only you. Its only ever going to be you.”

Tim propped himself up on his elbow, leaning down to kiss her again. “Its only you for me too Steph. Spoiler and Robin. Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown. The dead robins. Forever.” Steph smiled, running her hands through his chest.

“That sounds pretty perfect Wonder Boy.” Tim grinned, hand tightening on her hip. “Perfect.” Steph laughed, and they sat up together, slowly, leaning against each other.

“Two imperfect people. How perfect.” Tim laughed, and Steph couldn’t help it. She kissed him again. 

[codypunk]

idk if there's even an audience for this besides like 2 mutuals but also I feel like I should actually put this down instead of vaguely alluding to it all the time. the movementverse is my au where it's basically just what if the messiah gimmick actually worked and I changed murph and the aop for people I actually care about (sorry).

nathan (frazer) also made a tweet back in 2021 about how if seth ever needed an actually loyal disciple instead of murphy, he was available so that was what made my gay little gears turn

its essentially a seth and roman role swap with roman being a far more mentally stable version of himself and seth as a tyrannical leader of a faction bc it's kind of funny to think about. also seth loses his eye at extreme rules instead of rey which to me is what would have been the last proverbial straw that would put him full force into that persona, since in canon he seemingly has some kind of remorse (or he just thinks it's gross, either way he throws up)

its also in canon already very heavy handed on the authority callbacks, seth word for word parrots things hunter once said to him back to murph so I always really kind of wished they did more with that because it does a lot for seths character that his idea of a villain is using hunters words and tactics and using his sledgehammer

[lesbianralzarek]

things that reduce gamer rage when said aloud while playing sekiro:

- "thats just my shinobi way"

- "crazy how chasms just teleport under you in this game"

- "tch. these rookies dont know my secret shinobi technique, Alerting Everyone In A Twenty-Kilometer Radius To Come Hit Me"

- *jurassic park voice* "clever girl"

- any and all plays on the title, like "sekiro: this guy dies about half as often as i do"

- "we just wont tell kuro about that one"

- "wow, the historical accuracy here is crazy. people really did die in sengoku era japan when you shot them in the face"

[ahamkara-apologist]

I hate to sound like one of those guys who tries to downplay the misdeeds of his blorbos bc I'm personally of the opinion that a character's misdeeds IS what makes them fun, but honest to god- what did Eramis do to warrent people calling her a war criminal again?? Because outside of raiding human settlements or Twilight Gap, her most egregious crimes were opening the Vex Portal on Europa (done against her own people) or were a result of being used by the Witness. The raiding of human settlements/participation in Twilight Gap are the only two things I can think of where she came close to actually causing the direct loss of human life, but both of those were for basal Eliksni survival, so they're pretty nothingburger imo. Everyone and their mother was raiding human camps. Every human and THEIR mother were slaughtering Eliksni en masse during the war. That's really not any worse than what the rest of her species was doing, or necessarily a war crime

Ik attempting to nuke the Traveler is what a lot of people go to with her, but I find that pretty fucking ridiculous when she a.) Literally never succeeded in actually doing it, b.) was, again, being actively watched by the Witness when that was happening, so she had no actual agency in the matter, and c.) We played a false surrender card beforehand that resulted in the slaughter of her soldiers (an actual war crime) after the events of Beyond Light, which not only have an after-campaign mission dedicated to destroying food stores (another actual war crime), but details guardians toying with young Eliksni before they kill them in Namrask's lorebook. That's two solid strikes right there, but I can't remember what Eramis did that actually warrented her being called a war criminal

[theposhperyton]

All evidence suggests yes

[xxplastic-cubexx]

I hope everyone whos walked behind me today has acknowledged the fact ive just been staring at rivals magneto for the past hour

[yippee-optimistically]

hi guys i finished my suitcase plush :3 shes about 12.5 inches tall and made of fleece with a felt lining. she also has a functional zipper and snaps to hold the ends of the straps down !! shes filled with stuffing rn but she is an actual bag teehee

her and the lb .. so silly.. #teamsuitcase btw shes so peak

[marblerose-rue]

click for better quality!

the planes of existence

[dykedvonte]

I think the most baffling thing about the Tulpar as a vessel to me is the fact that the ship really did only have a one way communication system.

I know it was cheap but even the most basic of vessels regarding major transport would have some way, shape or form for outside communication. Not only that but there was absolutely no form of innate emergency signal to show they may have been offline or in trouble despite clearly having a system to dock credits if they went off course. It's another factor that really shows that bad situations are made to get worse by design. One person who is required to relay all information to the crew and make all the choices without feedback. No way to update or call for help in case of a dire situation. No way to inform of inner personal conflicts and acquire procedures accordingly.

It really is like they are all in some sort of fucked up solitary confinement. They have their own world with strict roles that are meaningless in the end, as long as the cargo makes it, it doesn't matter what happens on that ship to the company. They don't want to hear anything and will come to conclusions on what happened based on how much pay they can withhold from the workers. Even what they do send is short, sterile and corporate to the extent it was likely written and sent out with a command by some random unmanned computer in an office.

There's something to be said about how unfair it is to force absolute power and control onto one person when you as an entity could do so much more to offload it but I've said it many times before so I won't again.

[cherrhara]

huevember day 24, natalia

[tategaminu]

SOOO the title for 05X6 dropped and I'm going feral

Be prepared to hear my long ass theory about this episode and why it will be the rayllum fully gets back together episode (I'm annoying)

Of course we already know season 6 will mirror S3 or at least that's what it looks like. "Moonless Night" is episode 5‚ the same one when Callum and Rayla first got together‚ just as 4 had the title of the place they reach. (The Midnight Desert‚ The Starcrapper)

I have to add‚ just as season 3 had Nyx‚ there's this sky girl called Astrid who may act as the Nyx parallel‚ who knows.

I don't use Discord but my info provider (hello there) told me Devon said episode five would be emotionally heavy and a favourite. A person said ep2 of season 5 were their favourite because the cute rayllum moments and Devon said "until 5 of 6" 🧐

Aparently, it was confirmed by writers this episode would DESTROY people KILL EVEN, well maybe not that but you get me. We know how emotional these two blorbos are for each other right? and we for them. In Discord, a person said ep2 of season 5 were their favourite because the cute rayllum moments and Devon said "until 5 of 6" 🧐

Now let's go to the juicy part. The title. This title is absolutely loaded. like wth. We all know whose favourite girl is related to the moon right? of course we are worried. But I think she's gonna be ok, in the end at least, let me explain.

Of course I'm asuming this scene from the teaser may be from episode 5. We see Callum falling in a moonless night but I'm guessing the title isn't that literal. I think Callum is falling emotionally and literally just as he has before for Rayla. He fell in love with her‚ he fell off a cliff for her and then fell emotionally when she left. The sky he is in is dark‚ no moon‚ representing his own mental state without Rayla. Rayla left him at night just as Callum is falling in the night (omg)

Callum had a moonless night every day for two years because his guiding moon wasn't in his life. I think they may talk about it or it will affect Callum in this episode some way.

Note that the teaser opens with this scene, next we have Aaravos saying "we are all of us, stardust, held together by love for an instant"

(wow subtle foreshadowing you guys)

and the teaser ends with Callum losing his love wings. The wings he got for her. Basically opening with a rayllum scene and closing with a "rayllum" scene ya know

In Chasing Shadows Rayla specifically mentions the stars in his eyes‚ when he does the big speech:

Now‚ what do I think will happen?

EP3: They visit the Silvergroove? just like in ep 3x3. Maybe visit Ethari? "heeey your husband is alive ok bye". My own guess is that they will get the boat from the leaked scene there since there are moon animals in that thing and reach the frozen ship with that.

Ep4: they reach destination and meet the sky elves, Astrid included, with no hiccups. ba dum tss

Ep5: Basically 05x3 but different and sexier

Whatever Callum is about to do I highly doubt Rayla will agree with it because you know how they are (me getting hurt is ok but not you). He convinces her like he did in TTM‚

But this time Rayla is the one to say it

I think that even if Callum promises he will be ok‚ he will have a "I want you to know" moment again and that may lead to talking about her leaving. This may derive into a kinda argument. Callum and Rayla can't continue their talk because they get interrumped (once again) but the memories of a broken heart and feelings affects him badly. He's just emotionally distraught and loses his love wings because whatever. I doubt Rayla isn't seeing any of this, you know how she is. She didn't spend 7 hours watching him sleep to actually not watch this like c'mon

This time Rayla may be the one saving Callum from falling (literally and metaphorically). Now yeah Rayla can't fly but maybeeee

A: she calls out for his name, "waking" him up

B: she just jumps (im going for this one) like Callum did for her. She jumps, not knowing if it's going to work, wakes him up after catching him‚ Callum is able to get his wings back and fly them both into safety, Callum gets his love wings again for her but this time she's being the savior (in the most part). Maybe even completing whatever mission they ask as well. TOGETHER.

After this we may get a Rayla is a hero speech or this time Callum is a hero speech, I don't know‚ I think it would be more fitting if it's from Callum and the hero Callum speech is from Rayla to her parents. Whateve, they finally have their three sesaon dragged conversation and they both kiss like in S3 but maybe reversed this time (Rayla kissing first and apologizing and Callum kissing her next) and they fully come back together :'). I dont think we will get an I love you until ep 9 but we won't really need it here right? we already know!

The episode ends with them kissing under the moon. Moonless Night ending with with a moon night (metaforically and literally)

Now‚ this is just my own guess and it sounds very very self-indulgent (heh) but a girl can dream

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

IN THE DREAM I DON’T TELL ANYONE, YOU PUT YOUR HEAD IN MY LAP ; SHOKO IEIRI

synopsis; ever since the battle in shinjuku came to its conclusion, nothing’s been the same as it used to. but you don’t think anyone is doing quite as badly as shoko. 

word count; 4.5k

contents; shoko ieiri/reader, gn!reader, canon-typical mentions of death (iykyk), angst, hurt/comfort (but not very heavy on the comfort), jjk spoilers (up to chapter 236!!), mild gore (mentions of blood, autopsies and general gore-ish imagery? nothing too bad tho), shoko ieiri deserves better, includes gojo slander (stay safe gojo nation)

a/n; first of all i just wanna apologize to the shoko girlies for writing angst when we’re already so starved of content, i have like 50 fluff drabbles planned for her but chapter 236 threw me into a mental angst pit so </3 yeah. i love my wife!!

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while.

the thought sneaks its way into your subconscious, as your feet carry you to her morgue — a rotten thought you just can’t seem to rinse away.

it’s not very hard to notice. she doesn’t talk as much, for one. not that shoko was ever much of a talker, but now the silence around her is deafening. thick and heavy like the spine of a knife. and she smiles even less.

you can’t remember the last time you heard her laugh.

the crescents beneath her eyes are darker than ever, darker than you thought possible. a murky purple that you’d find soothing in any other context, but like this it’s just revolting. her eyes are deep and dark, the same as ever, but now they’re glazed over with something you can’t quite put your finger on. 

apathy, maybe.

or bloodlust.

the scent of cigarette smoke that follows her is suffocating. indistinguishable from her natural scent. you don’t know if she’ll ever be able to scrub the tobacco stench off her skin.

(you’ve given up on counting the exact number of cigarettes she smokes each day. you’re not sure you want to know the answer.)

she doesn’t even look alive, anymore. like some part of her already reached its expiration date. a spectre, wandering the hallways, filling the air with the slow, ominous clacking of her heels.

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while — and it’s so obvious. her grief is so heavy, her sleep-deprivation so severe. you’d have to be blind not to notice it. 

so why hasn’t anyone said anything?

you gnaw at your bottom lip, trying to suffocate the bitterness swimming inside your veins. it’s a dumb question, really, because you already know. you don’t want to acknowledge it, because it’s so unfair, but you know. of course you do.

no one has the time to. it’s as simple as that. 

no one’s doing well, anymore. not since shinjuku.

not since gojo died.

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing. always with her, tucked away within those eyebags, in the pockets of her coat. in that smell of tobacco, never-fading, always lingering. it follows her like a ghost, like something she’ll never quite be rid of.

(like something she doesn’t want to be rid of.)

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing, and it always has been. but recently, it’s been downright overwhelming. it used to be subtle, the kind of thing you notice if you look close enough. if you squint. if you even care enough to try.

but now, it’s more like a haunting than a simple ghost.

(geto. nanami. yaga. and now gojo, too.

how many people does she have to lose before whatever’s watching is satisfied?)

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while, and it’s obvious, and it’s sickening. she still does her duty to a tee, but she isn’t quite there anymore. gaze always forlorn, as if she’s trying to convince herself of something.

and yet no one says a thing.

everything is one big mess, right now. you don’t want to blame anyone. everyone’s exhausted, completely and utterly spent, but they’re still planning it all out. even in the midst of their mourning. because they don’t have any other choice. 

this is not the kind of situation where you should be pointing fingers. a part of you is angry, livid even — but you know the others are doing just as badly. it’s not like you aren’t, either.

still, though. isn’t this just too unfair?

”i brought you coffee!”

making sure your voice doesn’t waver is tougher than you initially assumed. just the sight of her sends a tremor running through your ribs; sunken down in her chair, papers in hand, eyes scanning the pages methodically. papers of what, you’d like to ask — but you already know.

(she’s reading through the post-mortem examination report, again. searching for something you don’t understand. you’re not sure she does, either.)

and she looks exhausted.

try as you might, your voice ends up sounding a little stale, as it flows from your lips and reaches her ears. but the attempt is there — the attempt to sound cheerful, calm. normal. to give her something to hold on to.

shoko looks up at you, and her lips curl in a way you think is supposed to form a smile. it doesn���t. her eyes look into yours but it’s like she’s not seeing you at all.

when you go to give her the cup of espresso, your fingertips touch. only for a second, before she curls her fingers around the ceramic handle. she receives the coffee with a small murmur of thanks, but you don’t notice because you’re too busy thinking of how cold her skin feels.

(cold like a ghost. cold like death.)

shaking away the shivers down your spine, you allow your gaze to trail over the morgue. it looks the same as always. cold, empty. foreboding. today, you think it feels just a little chillier than usual. matching the temperature of the outside world, where everything lies buried in heaps of snow and frost.

hesitantly, you plop down in the seat right next to hers. with such a narrow distance, you can smell the tobacco sticking to her clothing. it makes you want to throw up.

(you try not to look over at the couch in the corner of the room, where a certain someone used to slack off. his awkwardly long limbs would dangle off the edges, and shoko would pretend that she didn’t enjoy his company. you were more than content with silently admiring the smile she was trying to hide.)

shoko doesn’t look at you, professional in the way her eyes run across the files. cause of death: damage to central intestines, subsequent loss of blood. from a cut to the stomach, right below the liver and spleen.

you look away before your eyes can read another line.

leaning back in your chair, you exhale a tiny sigh. desperate to fill the silence with something, anything at all. you scramble for topics, racking your brain.

(what could you possibly tell her that she doesn’t already know?)

”the others are still planning everything out,” you speak, playing with your fingers idly to distract yourself. ”i think it’s going well.”

shoko hums, unaffected. ”that’s good.”

she’s speaking to you, but that feeling of unease still won’t go away. her voice sounds still, flat. empty of emotion. but you can tell she’s trying to be polite.

that’s no surprise. shoko isn’t the type to ever show how she’s truly feeling. she’s not the type to ask for help, either. people come to her for help, not the other way around. that’s all she’s ever known.

(in that sense, the two of them were alike.)

but that just makes it all the more important for you to be there. even if you’re a little awkward, and even if you can’t do much. even if it’s only for a moment or two, you want to see her smile. you want to feel for yourself that she’s really there.

looking over at shoko, you wring your hands together, the cold air of the morgue nipping at your sweaty palms. she’s drinking from the cup, one finger around the handle as her other hand flips through the papers.

”does it taste okay?” you ask, softly. if only you could ask her that under better circumstances, with cups of espresso made with better coffee machines than those at jujutsu high. ”i made it myself, so…”

”it’s fine.” shoko takes a sip. dragging her syllables out, as if mustering the will to speak. ”don’t worry.”

short sentences. almost cold, but you know better than that. she just doesn’t have it in her to pretend that everything is normal, anymore.

and it makes you uncomfortable. this silence. 

a couple months ago, it would have felt comforting; a quiet, peaceful kind of solitude shared between the two of you. nostalgic, like the smell of morning dew. or the way moonlight feels on your skin when the world falls asleep.

the silence you had with shoko always felt so tender. a single moment of peace, before the other shoe dropped. just that one moment was enough to give you the hope you needed to make it through another day.

you loved being silent with shoko. you loved her silence, the way she could soothe your very soul without saying a thing.

but now it only stings your skin. you fear that you might drown in it.

there is nothing to say. you want to ask her how she’s doing, but you already know. you want to ask her why she’s still reading the files from gojo’s autopsy, but you already know.

you want to ask her if she can still keep going, like this. but you already know.

she doesn’t have a choice.

(something crumbles, deep inside your chest, like ashes cast into the sea.)

”hey. shoko?”

she hums, again. weak. quiet. absentminded, acknowledging your words but not really hearing them.

you take a deep breath.

”i think i’m going to quit being a sorcerer.”

silence.

for a moment, nothing happens. nothing moves, or speaks. the air is cold and crisp and carries no meaning, no words, nothing at all. 

like time is frozen. frozen like all the bodies shoko’s had to dig inside these past few months. frozen like gojo was when she found him in the snow.

frozen like your youth, a glass marble kept in your pocket for moments when you feel as if the ground beneath your feet is about to slip away. then you’d take it out, and look deep inside it. watch the swirling of greens and blues and purples. that streak of indigo right in the middle of the glass. memories of the past, to give you comfort.

to remind yourself of why you’re doing this. to give you a reason to keep moving forward.

(south or north, it doesn’t matter. stay as you are or move forward, look to the past or to the future — none of it matters if you aren’t alive. that’s the conclusion you came to.)

shoko’s expression, too, is frozen. it doesn’t change, even as you let those loaded words fall from your tongue. you watch her carefully, out of the corner of your eye. she doesn’t even look at you, gaze still glued to the tiny letters detailing exactly what gojo’s pulse was at when he got cut.

but something flickers, in the depths of her irises, so fast you barely catch it. something you can’t identify, but it’s still something. it’s movement. it’s alive.

”not right now, obviously,” you elaborate. suddenly a little nervous, now that the words have been made manifest. ”but… you know. once all this is over.”

not sure what else to say, you trail off, fidgeting with your fingers again. voice wavering pitifully towards the end of the sentence, because deep down you know it’s not a question of once, but a question of if.

(if this ever ends. if i don’t die tomorrow, or the day after that.)

you swallow the lump in your throat, and look at her. trying to find her eyes. trying to keep her alive for as long as you can, this sequence of motion, this moment frozen in time.

trying to reach her.

”you won’t ever have to worry about me dying,” you throw in, like the words are light and not heavy as bricks. but you know she needs to hear them. ”i’ll leave, and then — and then…” 

staring down at your lap, you link your hands together. exhaling, a little breathless. sheepish, in a way. ”… well. i don’t know. i haven’t thought that far ahead, yet.”

you never had the chance to. you didn’t even really think of it as a possibility, as something you could do. and you know it’s not a possibility for shoko. the choice to be a sorcerer was never hers, from the very beginning.

a user of the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing almost any wound, more power and capability than a child should ever have. invaluable. she’s saved so many lives you’re sure she’ll be reborn as a god.

but the choice was never hers.

a soothing kind of ache blooms in both your palms, as your nails dig into the soft skin. hard enough to form crescents, like the ones under shoko’s eyes, that she’ll never be rid of no matter how much she sleeps. the choice was never hers.

isn’t that just too cruel?

they don’t deserve her. none of them do. the elders didn’t, the jujutsu world doesn’t — not even the students. no one deserves it; everything she does for everyone, day and night, just slaving away in the morgue or her office. cutting up curses and old friends. every second of the day, always that same buzzing of her name being called. 

shoko, someone needs healing, come quick! 

shoko, i know it’s 2 am and you have work tomorrow, but there’s a curse that i need you to dissect.

shoko, i think i got a paper cut, would you mind taking a look?

none of them deserve her.

you think of gojo. a flash of white hair, a grin brighter than the sun. a bloodstained smile — one shoko had to wipe away.

something ugly claws its way up your throat.

none of them deserve her. especially not him.

what were you thinking, leaving her all alone like this? so much for being the strongest. you couldn’t even stay alive.

why would you die with a smile on your face? do you have any idea how cruel that is to her?

you idiot. don’t you know how much she missed you?

— yeah. none of them deserve her. gojo doesn’t, the world doesn’t, and neither do you. no one does. 

what shoko deserves is to live a normal life. 

and she never will.

it’s foolish. it’s naive, a juvenile daydream. but you wish for it so, so badly. so much that even just the thought alone feels like too much to bear.

you wish you could bring her with you. 

you wish you could take her hand in yours, and run away. leave it all behind, every single thing, without caring about the consequences. you’d hold her hand and never let it go, and then you’d run and run until you were both high on adrenaline and breathless laughter.

maybe you could go somewhere, together. somewhere better. outside of japan, where there are less curses. money wouldn’t be an issue, you both have more than you know what to do with — one of the perks of having a job that’s bound to kill you. you could settle down in some smaller town, peaceful, maybe a little secluded. just to make sure no one finds you. 

maybe you could open up a little shop, together. or spend all your days tangled up beneath the blankets, catching up on lost sleep. talking and whispering, like you’d do back at the sleepovers you used to have. you’d make her coffee every morning, and tea every evening. you’d spend the rest of your life trying to make her laugh as loud as possible.

there’s nothing you want more. absolutely nothing. there never will be.

— but you can’t ask her.

you can’t ask her to come with you, no matter how much you want to. that’d be the cruelest thing you could possibly do to her.

she would never agree. you’d only be hurting her more. so selfish, all of these wishes. it was so much simpler back when you were just kids. when you didn’t have to care about duties or responsibilities. when your cognitive empathic abilities were just a little more lacking. 

a sigh flows from your lips. resigned, but somewhat hopeful, all the same. tainted with the murmurs of a memory that’ll never happen.

”maybe i’ll open up a bakery, or something.” you tap your fingers against the desk, smiling a little to yourself at the thought. or trying to. ”then you could come visit.”

shoko looks into her cup of coffee. watching the swirling of the vortex, the abyss that gazes back at her. she doesn’t look at you but you can tell she’s listening. then she puts the cup down, and you glance at her now-empty hand. 

shoko’s hands have always been pretty. even when they’re covered in grime, or stained with blood. thin, a little bony, smooth skin obscuring clear blue veins. moles litter her hands like stars in the sky; one right beneath her pinkie, another by her wrist. the more you look, the more you find.

tentatively, you broach the distance between you. curling your fingers around her slender ones, where they rest on her lap. linking hands. it’s a slow movement, drawn out and careful, accompanied by the heavy beating of your heart. 

(her skin is cold to the touch. your skin buzzes with unease, but you don’t let go.)

then you smile. a small thing, not really optimistic, but the attempt is there. something for her to hold on to. looking deep into her eyes, admiring the hazel glow that never quite left them.

”i’ll give you free pastries.”

a moment passes. shoko’s fingers squeeze around yours — weakly, but it’s there. movement, motion, life. a way of reaching out. a way to hold on.

her eyes continue to trail over the page, but you know she’s not reading any of the contents. you’ve caught her attention. a small victory, but you’ll take what you can get.

”i don’t like sweets,” she reminds you, leaning back a little in her chair. allowing her eyes to flutter shut, at last — and it’s not much but it’s something. a moment of relief for those tired, tired eyes. more tired than any 29 year old’s should be.

”i’ll change your mind,” you promise, mustering up enough will to sound smug. ”my pastries will be out of this world. you’ll get a sweet tooth in no time, sho.”

she exhales a breath, vaguely amused. your smile widens, hopelessly. her happiness was always the root of yours, wasn’t it?

then she looks at you, one eyebrow raised in lazy scepticism. ”can you even bake?”

”nope,” you deadpan. ”but i’ll learn. you’ll see.”

this time, shoko almost chuckles — and it’s more than you’ve gotten out of her in recent memory. god, you missed that sound. a little raspy, from all the cigarettes, but still so honeyed and smooth. hearing it makes you feel as if everything will turn out fine, in the end.

(what a powerful thing, for a voice to do. one so lovely it anchors you to the earth.)

a faux pout curls its way to your lips, and you squeeze her hand lightly. ”don’t laugh, i’m being serious!” your pout shifts into a soft grin, a little teasing. ”i’ll get you addicted to sugar instead of nicotine.”

”haha…”

shoko laughs. shoko laughs and it’s beautiful.

shoko laughs, a genuine laugh, and it’s so beautiful that you almost don’t notice the tears in her eyes. almost.

and then you realize your mistake.

a memory comes to you, then. you recall a hushed conversation, beneath a cloudy summer sky. the air was heavy with the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke. two people were beside you, and all you cared about was listening to the tilt of their voices. that, and nothing more. a time before everything and everyone went south.

(”you know, shoko. you really should drop those death sticks of yours.”

”i don’t want to hear that from the guy who needs 40 grams of pure sugar every day just to function.”

”rude! and as far as addictions go, sugar is a cut above nicotine, don’t ya think?”

”whatever. just worry about yourself, gojo.”)

by the time you realize, it’s already far too late. the tears have already begun to fall. little droplets of grief, sticking to her skin.

they trickle down the contours of shoko’s face, and fall onto the paper in her hand, smudging the letters. she clutches it tightly, crinkling it, just to make the damage worse. her other hand is still holding yours, chipped nails digging into your skin gently.

but she keeps laughing. low, hazy laughter — pained. she sounds like she’s in pain, and that’s because she is. even if no one ever cares to mention it.

(how cruel, for her to be born with the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing any physical wound; leaving her with too many mental ones to count. never to be healed or acknowledged, in this life or the next.)

you can only stare. helpless to her sadness. her eyes are a little red, and she’s biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood — a drop of scarlet falls onto the paper, and you think of gojo again.

you think of shoko finding him. running to his side. doing all she could to heal him, to patch him up — getting blood all over her hands and clothes. red everywhere, staining the pure white of the snowfall. like something out of a painting.

she did all that she could. pressing down on his chest, positive cursed energy pouring out from her fingertips in tandem with the snow. pressing two shaky fingers to his pulse point, just in case. just to find any sign of life, absolutely anything. hoping so tenderly that she’d feel the flutter of his pulse. that he’d get up, and laugh obnoxiously, and ask her if she really thought he’d leave her behind so easily.

you’d never seen her look so scared. so desperate, a primal kind of fear you’ve learned to associate with self-driven survival. the way some animals can claw their way out of a predator’s stomach if they’re swallowed whole. but she did that to save him. trying to claw him out, herself. from the belly of the beast.

she did all that she could.

but gojo didn’t do anything. he just laid there, split in two. frozen in time, eternally young. watching the sky. smiling.

(what a wonderful way to die. what an awful thing for an old friend to find.)

before your mind can catch up, your body acts. muscle memory, in the way your arms curl around her midriff to bring her close. tucking her into your side while she sniffles and cries. still laughing, like she’s still trying to convince you that she’s fine. like she’s isn’t falling apart at the seams.

the dam breaks. the ice shatters. everything comes crashing down — and you’re there to pick up the pieces. despite everything.

it’s not enough, it never will be. but at least it’s something.

it’s heart-wrenching, the way she clings to you. like you’re the only thing she has. the dry laughter that spills from her throat devolves into sobbing, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, nails clinging to the fabric of your clothing like she’s trying to anchor herself. broken sniffles fill the space between you as she hides away, in the crook of your neck.

(the sound makes you feel like someone drove a knife from your sternum down to your stomach.)

all you can do is hold her. quietly, delicately. as if she could break if you squeeze her too hard. as if she’d shatter like a sheet of glass if you were to say the wrong thing again.

you hold shoko like she’s fragile. because she is, regardless of what anyone else says. because she’s a human being, and she’s grieving, and she needs this.

eventually, she musters up the will to speak — and it’s awful, raspy, broken syllables she has to force out of her throat. 

she chokes on the words like they’re poisonous. like she’s been carrying them around for decades, bubbling beneath the surface, waiting to be let out.

“don’t — don’t end up here,” shoko pleads, voice wavering through the syllables. full of fear. “please.”

you know what she means. she doesn’t have to say it, because you know.

don’t end up in my morgue. don’t end up on my autopsy table. 

shoko sounds meek. she sounds close to falling apart. you’ve never seen her like this before, clutching onto your sleeves as if begging you to stay. 

“you’re — you’re the only one i…”

she doesn’t finish, cut off by a broken sniffle. but she doesn’t need to. 

you’re the only one i have left. i can’t lose you, too.

please don’t die. please don’t leave me behind.

a shaky inhale. your arms tighten around her waist, tugging her closer. praying that she’ll feel the steady beating of your heart, the undeniable proof that you’re alive. that you haven’t left her yet. 

you blink away the tears in your eyes, grasping for control over your wavering voice.

“i won’t.”

and maybe it’s cruel, maybe it’s the cruelest thing you could do to her — making a promise you know you might not be able to keep. but you do so anyway. helpless to her sadness. at the complete mercy of her grief. you’d do anything to stop the tears from falling, to soothe the turmoil in her chest.

“i won’t let you be alone, shoko,” you murmur into her hair, with all the comfort you can possibly muster. ”not now, or ever.”

three words yearn to be spoken, resting on the tip of your tongue. three little syllables, desperate to be heard after living in the back of your throat for so many years. 

and for a second, you think you might say it. 

you think you might say it, breathe life into the statement. you can almost taste it, can almost hear it. can almost see what her expression would look like.

but shoko sniffles, and hugs you tighter. protective, like you’ll leave if she doesn’t. so tightly that it hurts a little.

and you swallow the words, once more. 

right now, this is enough. it’s enough that you’re alive, that you’re here. that’s what shoko needs, right now.

she doesn’t need your love. she just needs you to stay alive.

so you will. you decide that you will, no matter what. you’ll leave, and you’ll open up a shitty bakery that won’t get any customers — and you’ll give her free pastries for the rest of your life. you’ll get her so addicted to sweets that she’ll have no choice but to come back for more.

shoko cries like a child. filling the silence of the morgue with her shaky breaths and quiet sniffles, little hiccups and whimpers. the tears never seem to stop, and you wonder how long it’s been since she last let them fall.

you hold her in your arms, smoothing a palm down her back, counting the bumps of vertebra — and don’t say anything. there’s no need to.

for now, the soft patter of your heartbeat is enough.

ijichi stands just outside the morgue, unmoving. not saying a thing.

it’s muffled, hushed and quiet, but still audible. the sound of childlike crying. the kind all sorcerers do their best to keep to themselves.

in his arms lie a bundle of papers. the final pages of gojo’s autopsy report. it’s important that shoko sees them — vital, according to her. something about the six eyes, the possibilities they hold. the hope that maybe, just maybe…

— he clutches them tightly, and then walks away.