#I think THAT's the darkest parts of this manga | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

decagondice · 1 month ago

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༓ EXPERIENCE SHAPES PERCEPTION ༓

༓ 'If lies can save a man once, truth can save him twice.' [The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1001 Nights]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Bride!Reader

༓ Synopsis. Every night, a fresh girl is forcefully taken away from her loved ones per the King's orders, betrothed for a few hours as his wife, and at dawn, an extravagant silk bind is tied around her throat. Unable to tolerate the unjust wrath of the sovereign and promise to do any means necessary to survive in order to put an end to the King's torment, you offer yourself to the King of Curses as his unfortunate bride.

༓ Content. 1001 Nights inspired, sfw, F!Reader, Slightly reluctant reader, KingofCurses/Trueform!Sukuna, Slightly ooc Sukuna, angst (?), fluff (?), Sacrificial reader who eventually finds the good in Sukuna, Slightly depressed Sukuna, Emotional distress, Lonliness, Resentment, Mentions of death, Talks of violence (brief), Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 8.8k

༓ A.N. I randomly had a vision of a 1001 nights au of Sukuna and reader last night and its been my mission since to bring that to life since then :P But, I was torn between making this fic 18+, however I think I just wanted to portray Sukuna's lack of love and life filled with rejection in a different format first. (When reading the fic, you will soon realise how much the last few chapters of the manga had an effect on me...) Hmm~ I might consider making and exploring a short snippet of a smut scene in this au, though not yet. This is my first ever piece of writing that I mustered up the confidence to present the world with, thank you for tuning in and please enjoy! :D

[Drawn to resemble the classic Arabian tales, 1001 Nights, narrating the story of Scheherazade's sacrifice to the resentful Caliph, captivating him with a story every night to preserve her life and end the wrathful reign once and for all. Artwork by Léon Carré, part of his collection of illustrations for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights', 1929]

The King’s palace was a labyrinth of shadows and whispered fears, a fortress carved from malice and crowned with disquietude. In the heart of it, past echoing halls filled with ancient curses and dread, lay his private bedchambers- a sanctuary draped in silks and shadows. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh as the flickering glow of oil lamps casting a dim, golden light that danced lazily on the walls. Heavy curtains draped from the high ceiling, their rich fabric falling like cascading shadows around the room, veiling the room in an otherworldly haze, as though even the air itself hesitated to settle too close to the King of Curses. Sheer veils billowed softly in the breeze that slipped through the open windows, creating a veil of secrecy, a cocoon of intimacy where the outside world seemed to disappear.

You stood before Sukuna, your hands trembling despite your efforts to still them, your gaze fixed on the dark patterns of the floor rather than meeting those eyes that burned with cruel amusement. You had come here not out of ambition or desire but out of duty—an act of desperation to save the other innocent girls from this fate, to shield them from being torn away from their families and cast into a life of terror at the hands of a monster.

You had heard the tales of Sukuna long before you ever set foot in his palace. His name was a curse whispered in the darkest corners of the village, a warning to children who strayed too far into the shadows. He was the King of Curses, a monster draped in human skin, infamous for his cruelty and insatiable thirst for power. But beneath the layers of horror and bloodshed, there were also whispers of another kind—a story buried in the dust of forgotten tongues, one that spoke of a man who had once been cast out, unloved, and rejected by the world that shaped him into the monster he is today. You knew of the loneliness that had festered within him, the pain of being feared and loathed for reasons beyond his control. And though a part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for that tragedy, you couldn’t afford to indulge it. How could you feel pity for the very beast who was tearing innocent girls from their homes, who was crushing lives beneath his wrath without a trace of remorse? The same hands that once reached out in vain for love were now stained with the blood of those who had never done him harm. He was a monster by his own making, and even the darkest past could not excuse the cruelty that now defined him.

Sukuna sat reclined on the edge of a low, opulent bed, his form barely illuminated by the oil lamps that sputtered and hissed in their brass holders. He doesn't rise to acknowledge you; instead, he tilts his head slightly, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as though your presence is nothing more than an amusing diversion in his endless reign of bloodshed. The silken sheets beneath him were the colour of deep wine, their surface catching the light in a way that seemed to make the room pulse with a dark, muted glow. His eyes, twin embers of malice and something unreadable, tracked your every movement as you entered the chamber, the heavy drapes closing behind you with a shiver of finality.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawled, his voice as sharp and unyielding as the blade he might have pressed to your throat, “What makes you think you’re any different from the others who came before you? What hope do you have of surviving me?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the terror that gripped your chest. Those crimson eyes stared back at you, full of cruel delight, as if he found your defiance entertaining in its futility. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, reminding yourself of the faces of the girls you were trying to save, the way their fear had mirrored your own.

“I have volunteered to become your bride,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you met his eyes. “Not because I believe I am stronger or braver than the others—but because I couldn’t stand to see another innocent torn from their family. I thought that if I could offer myself, it might be enough to end this cycle of suffering.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and disdain. “You think of yourself as a saviour of some sort?” he asked, the mockery in his voice cutting deep. “Do you believe your pathetic sacrifice will sate my thirst for destruction? The world is built on suffering, and I am its rightful king. Do you think yourself capable of changing the fate that awaits you? That your life is worth so much that I would spare the rest for the sake of your trembling courage?”

He leaned forward from where he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet predatory, the movement causing the heavy silk drapes to sway, turning the chamber into a shifting sea of light and darkness.

“You are nothing but another lamb brought to the slaughter by trembling hands.” He leans forward, chin propped on one hand, his fingers tapping the side of his jaw as he eyes you like a predator watching a mouse dance on its hind legs. “Do you truly not know that you stand in the den of a beast who devours without mercy?”

His words cut deep, but you refused to let them break you. You had to survive this, for their sake, and for your own. As his gaze bore into you, suffocating in its intensity, you did the only thing you could think of—something born of sheer desperation.

“I stand before you, knowing well the beast I face. And yet, I do not come to plead for mercy.” Your voice is steady but soft, like a whispered plea against the storm. “I come to offer you something else— a story each night. I will give you a story unlike any you have ever heard, if you’ll listen. In exchange, you spare me for as long as I can hold your interest."

The words spill from your lips in a rush as you try to barter with him suddenly.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk that spoke of both curiosity and disdain. “A story?” he repeated, as if the idea were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You offer me tales to stave off your death? How utterly quaint. You think words will stay my hand when I tire of you?”

“If they do not, then I will be no worse off than I am now,” you said, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “But if they do… perhaps I can buy a little more time. Perhaps, in my words, you will find a reason to let me live another day.”

He pauses before speaking again.

“You are a fool to think you could charm a monster with your petty tales, Human.”

His voice drips with scepticism, but you notice the faintest twitch of intrigue in his gaze. It’s a small opening, an aperture in his indomitable armour.

“I don’t believe I can charm a monster,” Your voice unwavering, the words carefully pour out from your mouth. “But, I believe that even a monster seeks a distraction from the loneliness of his throne.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrow, something cold and bitter flickering in their depths—a buried wound reopened, a memory of rejection. He hides it quickly, but not before you catch the flicker of vulnerability that you know is your only chance.

His eyes stared at your form, and you could feel his gaze like a physical force, pressing down on you, testing your resolve. Then, slowly, he leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face, though it never touched the cold, glittering malice in his eyes.

You took a breath, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, and said, “I don’t know if I can change anything. But if it means buying a little more time—if it means sparing just one more life—I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He laughed, a sound low and dark that echoed through the chamber like a promise of doom. But there was something in his eyes—something almost curious, as though he were intrigued by your defiance, by the way you held your ground when so many before you had already fallen. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Then let us see how long your courage lasts,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you dare. Spin your tales and try to keep my interest, little lamb, and know that the moment I tire of you, your life will be forfeit.”

And so, night after night, you returned to that chamber, your voice threading through the darkness like a lifeline, weaving tales of sorrow and hope, of longing and loss. At first, Sukuna listened as if you were merely a distraction, something to toy with until his boredom gave way to cruelty. But as the nights stretched on, something between you began to shift, something so subtle and unspoken that it almost seemed like a trick of the light.

You noticed the way his eyes softened ever so slightly when he watched you, how they no longer held the same cold indifference. There were moments, fleeting but undeniable, when his gaze would linger on your face, following the movements of your lips as you spoke, as if he were more captivated by you than by the story itself. And when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression would change, growing almost thoughtful, almost gentle, as though your words were stirring something in him that he had long since buried.

One night, as you spoke of a warrior who fought not for glory but for the love he could never fully grasp, you saw Sukuna’s jaw tighten, the barest flicker of something raw passing across his face. It was a crack in his mask, a moment of vulnerability that seemed to take even him by surprise. He shifted, turning slightly away as if to hide the turmoil in his eyes, but you could still see the shadow of pain that lingered there, the ghost of something he would never voice.

“The warrior,” you continued, your own voice softening as you ventured into the story’s heart, “he fought because he knew that love, even unreturned, was the only thing that could ever make him feel human. It was the only thing that could make the darkness inside him seem like something less than a curse.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee, his gaze dropping to the floor as though your words had struck deeper than he wished to admit. He let out a slow breath, the sound almost like a growl, as if he were fighting a battle within himself, as if your story had hit too close to the truth of his own guarded soul.

“I told you to amuse me,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something almost vulnerable beneath the bravado. “Not to speak to me of things you don’t understand. Love is nothing but a weapon, a lie dressed in silk. Do you think you can wound me with your pretty tales?”

You hesitated, your heart aching at the hardness in his voice, the bitterness that seemed to bleed through his words. “I don’t wish to wound you,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised even you. “I only wish to show you that not everything has to end in darkness. That there is more to this life than the hate and loneliness you’ve known.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on yours, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—a fragile thread of understanding, a bond that was as much resistance as it was connection. His hand reached out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch that was hesitant, almost reluctant. It was as if he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between cruelty and tenderness, how to reconcile the monster he had become with the man who still longed to believe in something beyond his own darkness.

When he pulled his hand back, his eyes lingered on yours, softer now, searching your face as if he were seeing you for the first time. And in that look, you saw the flicker of a man who was more than just a monster, a man who was trying, against all his instincts, to understand the strange, delicate thing growing between you.

And though neither of you spoke of it, though the words remained locked behind walls of pride and fear, you knew that something had shifted irrevocably in those moments. The King of Curses, who had once seemed untouchable, unmovable, was beginning to unravel beneath your touch. His gaze, so often filled with fire and malice, now held something softer when it turned your way—something almost like admiration, like a reluctant longing that he could neither deny nor accept.

Blossoming feelings, subtle and unspoken, budding like a flower in the cracks of a stone wall. Fragile, tentative, both of you too proud, too fearful to admit its existence. But it was there, in the way his eyes softened when they met yours, in the way his defences fell just a little more with each night that you shared. A flicker of light in the darkness, a promise that even monsters could yearn for more than the abyss.

༓ ༓ ༓

The nights continued in that hidden, veiled sanctuary, where the scent of incense lingered and the golden glow of the oil lamps painted soft halos around your figures. You could feel the shifting of something unnamed, a tenuous thread that connected you to Sukuna, something deeper than the stories you spun to save your life. There was a pull, a force between you that neither could fully grasp or resist—a slow, inexorable gravity drawing you closer, even as you both tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Your tales had become a nightly ritual, the words flowing from your lips like a spell, weaving through the stillness of the room. And Sukuna—this terrible creature of wrath and solitude—listened to them, not as a predator listening to the last words of his prey, but as a man who seemed to find solace in your voice. His gaze, once filled with nothing but cruel amusement and hunger, now seemed to soften in the dim light, tracing the lines of your face as if memorising the shape of every emotion that flickered across it.

There were times when he would reach out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve or lingering near your own hand. The touch was light, so brief that it could have been mistaken for nothing more than the movement of air, but you felt it all the same—each contact sparking something within you, a rush of warmth that you couldn’t quite name or deny. He’d pull back just as quickly, as if startled by his own actions, a frown creasing his brow like he was punishing himself for that momentary slip of vulnerability.

Despite his silent reprimands, you began to notice the changes in him. The way his sharp words seemed to lose their edge when he spoke to you, the way his anger—so fierce, so all-consuming—seemed to hesitate when it came to you. There were moments when you’d catch him watching you with a look that bordered on wonder, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, or perhaps a memory he longed to reclaim. His eyes, once like cold embers burning in their sockets, now held a trace of warmth when they met yours, a softness that seemed to take even him by surprise.

Yet, even with these changes, there was still a wall between you—thick, immovable, built from years of pain and rage that neither of you could dismantle in a single breath. Sukuna would often turn his gaze away just when you thought he might open up, a shuttered look crossing his face, as if terrified by his own emotions. He was a man at war with himself, torn between the beast he had become and the fragile humanity you were slowly unearthing within him.

One evening, after a particularly harrowing tale of two lovers separated by fate, you noticed a shadow flicker across his face—a hint of sorrow that made your chest ache. You paused, your voice faltering slightly, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was alive with all the things left unsaid.

“What is it about these stories that you think will change me?” he asked, his voice rough, almost bitter, as he met your gaze head-on. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he tried to mask with his usual disdain, but it was there—a crack in the armour he wore so tightly around his heart. “Do you think words can heal what the world has done to me? Do you think your voice can mend what was broken long before you were born?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, your own voice barely a whisper, the honesty raw between you. “I don’t know if I can heal you, Sukuna. I don’t know if I can change the darkness that you carry. But I do know that I see something in you—a part of you that still remembers what it means to feel, to long for something beyond this anger and vengeance.”

He stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between a sneer and something softer, something almost like pain. “You see what you want to see,” he said, but the words lacked their usual venom, trailing off into the quiet of the room. For a moment, he looked at you not as a king of curses, not as a monster, but as a man—just a man, vulnerable and lost, standing on the precipice of something he could neither name nor understand.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, as if fighting every instinct that told him to turn away, Sukuna reached out. His fingers grazed the side of your face, a touch so light it was almost a question—a silent plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for. You held still, your breath caught in your throat, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter this fragile moment between you.

“Your stories,” he said at last, his voice so quiet it was barely a murmur, “they make me remember… things I thought I had buried.” His thumb traced a line down your cheek, his touch both tender and hesitant, as though he were afraid of the warmth he might find there. “You’re like a flame in this darkness, something I want to reach for, even though I know I have no right to. Even though I could snuff it out with my own hands.”

You turned your face slightly into his touch, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, the vulnerability between you stretching taut like a thread that could either bind you together or snap in two. “And yet, you don’t,” you whispered. “You could end this now, and you don’t. Why?”

He said nothing, but his eyes told you everything. They spoke of the battle raging within him—the struggle between the curse he had become and the man who was trying, against all odds, to remember what it was like to be something else. To be someone else. Someone who could care. Someone who could love.

Sukuna’s hand dropped back to his side, his expression hardening once more, though the softness in his eyes didn’t entirely fade. “This changes nothing,” he said, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “I am still what I am. Don’t mistake my interest for kindness.”

But you saw it there—the tiny crack in his defences, the fragile tendril of something more that had begun to grow between the two of you. It was subtle, almost invisible, like a seed taking root in the dark soil of a barren landscape, and yet it was there. And in the quiet of his bedchamber, with the flickering light casting long shadows across his face, you knew that you were not the only one who felt its pull.

For in his touch, in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the way his words softened when they were meant to wound—you saw the beginnings of something tender and reluctant. The monster within him was still very much alive, still sharp-edged and dangerous, but for the first time, there was something else as well. A flicker of a man who was learning, despite himself, to care for the flame he had found in the darkness.

༓ ༓ ༓

The days bled into nights, and each night that you survived seemed to blur the line between captor and captive, between monster and storyteller. Sukuna’s bedchamber had become your stage, a place where you wove tales to pacify the beast that loomed over you, but also where something unspoken began to pulse between you—a slow-burning warmth that defied the cold cruelty of his presence. The more you spoke, the more your stories reached into the corners of his soul, unearthing the fragments of the man he tried so hard to bury. And in those moments of listening, the mask he wore seemed to slip, just enough to reveal the man beneath the monster.

You found yourself watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes, and the way his sharp features softened in the glow of the oil lamps. There was a beauty to him, hidden beneath the menace—a kind of tragic elegance that you could almost reach out and touch. He was like a starless night sky, dark and endless, but with a hint of light just waiting to break through if given the chance. The way he listened to your tales, how his eyes would narrow with thought or flare with emotion, told you that your words were not only buying you time—they were reaching him, drawing him closer to something he could neither name nor understand.

But there was also reluctance in you, a fear that tangled with your hope. You could not forget the darkness that lived in him, the cruelty that could ignite in his eyes with the flick of a thought. Sukuna was still dangerous, still unpredictable, and every night you wondered if this would be the last, if the flicker of humanity you saw in him would be snuffed out by the monster he claimed to be. You felt the tremor of your own hesitation, the way your heart wavered between pity and fear, between hope and doubt. How could you let yourself care for a man whose hands were stained with the blood of so many, who could end your life in a heartbeat if the whim took him?

Yet, despite that, despite everything you knew and everything you feared, you couldn’t help the way your breath would hitch when his gaze softened ever so slightly. Or the way your skin tingles when, during those rare moments, he let his guard down enough to touch you—not in violence or possession, but in something that felt almost tender. Like that night when your tale came to an end, and instead of letting you leave as he usually did, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers circling it with a gentleness that stole your breath.

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough with something that could have been longing or anger—maybe both. His grip was firm but not unkind, as if he feared that with one wrong move, you might slip through his fingers and disappear. His eyes searched yours, darker than the night, a swirl of emotions hidden in their depths that he didn’t know how to voice. “Stay a little longer.”

You looked at him, at the touch of vulnerability in his gaze that was as startling as it was heartbreaking, and you nodded. Slowly, carefully, you sat back down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, close enough that your breaths seemed to mingle in the space between you. Sukuna’s hand remained on your wrist, the touch turning almost idle, as if he were memorising the shape of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, roughened with a vulnerability he couldn’t quite conceal. There was a hint of frustration in his tone, like a man desperate to understand something that defied his grasp. “Tell me the truth.”

You hesitated, your throat tightening with the weight of his question. What could you say? That you saw not just the monster he tried so hard to be, but the man he once was and perhaps still could be? That somewhere in his darkness, there was a light fighting to break free, a yearning that had been denied so long it had turned to rage?

“I see…” you began, your voice soft, barely more than a whisper, “I see someone who’s afraid to believe in anything that isn’t pain or vengeance. Someone who’s convinced himself he doesn’t need love because he thinks it’s beyond his reach. But I also see a man who listens to my stories not because he has to, but because they make him feel something he thought he’d forgotten how to feel.”

His fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist, and you could feel the tremor in his touch, the way his breath hitched in response to your words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his jaw clenching as if struggling against some invisible force. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher, more vulnerable than you had ever heard it. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, but the words lacked their usual bite, falling almost hollow in the space between you. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“It’s not pity,” you replied, holding his gaze, refusing to look away. “It’s just the truth. You’re not as alone as you think you are, Sukuna.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, as though the monster in him wanted to rise up and crush this fragile hope between you. But instead, he just stared at you, his eyes softening, the fight bleeding out of him as something warmer took its place—a flicker of longing, so fierce and raw that it made your heart ache. He reached up then, his fingers brushing the side of your face, a touch so gentle it felt like a question, like he was asking if he was even capable of something as simple as kindness.

“You speak as if you know me,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “As if you see past the monster I am. Why?”

“Because,” you said softly, feeling the truth of your own words catch in your chest, “sometimes the hardest stories to believe are the ones we tell ourselves.”

His gaze faltered then, his hand dropping to his side as if suddenly aware of what he’d done, of how close he’d let you come. The mask of indifference snapped back into place, but it was thinner now, more fragile, unable to fully hide the man beneath it. He turned away, his jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders rigid with a frustration that wasn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“Go,” he said, the word a rough whisper, almost torn from him. “Leave before I change my mind.”

And you did, though your steps were slow, your heart heavy with the knowledge of how close you had come to breaking through his defences. As you slipped through the curtains and out of his chamber, you couldn’t help but glance back, catching one last glimpse of Sukuna standing in the dim light, his face half-hidden in shadow, his eyes fixed on you with an expression that was equal parts longing and fear.

It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was something. Something fragile and new, something that both frightened and fascinated him. And though neither of you were ready to name it, you knew that it was growing between you like a fire waiting to be kindled, a warmth that could one day banish the darkness if only he’d let it. And perhaps, one day, the King of Curses might come to realise that even he was not beyond the reach of redemption.

༓ ༓ ༓

Shifting like the currents of a hidden river beneath the surface of your nightly tales, that fragile something between you and Sukuna continued to grow. As per your routine, you still came to his bedchamber each evening, weaving your stories into the warm, fragrant air, but now there was a difference in how you both lingered in that space. It was no longer just a battleground where words danced to save your life; it had become a place where silences spoke louder than the tales themselves, where the stolen glances and unspoken words built a tension so palpable it filled the room.

Sukuna watched you differently now. His gaze, once sharp and cold, had softened in a way that seemed to unsettle him more than any of his past violence ever had. There was a war in his eyes every time he looked at you, a struggle between the darkness that defined him and the light he couldn’t quite extinguish when he was near you. He tried to mask it, his expression often hardening the moment he felt his guard slipping, but there were cracks in his armour now—cracks that grew wider with every story, every quiet laugh you coaxed from him, every moment that made him feel something other than the hate he’d clung to for so long.

One night, as you finished the tale of a long-lost prince returning to his love, you noticed the way Sukuna’s hand had drifted toward you, fingers almost brushing the fabric of your sleeve. He pulled back before making contact, a scowl flickering across his face, as though furious with himself for that momentary lapse. But you saw through that façade, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when he thought you might look away.

“You seem moved by that tale,” you said, the words light yet probing, testing the waters of his resistance. “Is there something in it that you recognize?”

He laughed then, a rough, humourless sound, though it lacked the sharp edges it once had. “Moved?” he echoed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Do not mistake my interest for softness. I am no lovesick fool to be swayed by such nonsense.”

And yet, as he spoke, his eyes never left yours, and there was something in them—a flicker of pain, of memory, that betrayed his words. You could see it clearly now, the way his barriers were beginning to crumble, even as he fought to hold onto the fragments of who he used to be. He was no longer the untouchable King of Curses in those moments; he was just a man, trapped between the monster he’d become and the human he never thought he’d be again.

“Perhaps not,” you replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But even the hardest hearts can soften, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if trying to unravel the mystery of you, this mortal woman who dared to speak to him as though he were something more than a beast. For the first time, he seemed almost uncertain, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to step forward or retreat back into the darkness that had always been his comfort.

“Why do you persist?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his brow furrowing as if the question was dragged from some deep, wounded place inside him. “Why do you look at me as though I’m not a monster? Why tell me these tales as if they could change anything?”

You hesitated, feeling the gravity of his question, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. It wasn’t just a question about the stories; it was about you, about why you stayed when any sane person would have fled. Why you dared to look at him not as a villain, but as a man capable of more than just destruction.

“Because,” you began slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “I see more in you than you allow yourself to see. I see a man who was once capable of kindness, who wasn’t always this… cruel. I see someone who’s afraid to hope because he’s been denied love for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like.”

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw and aching crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. “You’re a fool,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual venom. “You think you can save me with words, with your pity? There’s nothing left of the man you think you see.”

“Maybe,” you said, your eyes never leaving his, “but you keep listening anyway. You keep letting me stay when you could have ended my life the moment I entered your chambers. You reach out for me even when you don’t mean to. If that’s not proof that there’s still something human in you, then I don’t know what is.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The air between you was thick with the weight of unsaid words, with the electricity of something both terrifying and beautiful. Sukuna’s expression was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—anger, vulnerability, denial, and something else, something softer that glimmered beneath the surface like a light struggling to break free from the darkness.

And then, almost without realising it, his hand came up to touch your face. The movement was slow, hesitant, as if he was testing the reality of your presence, of his own desire to reach for something he had long believed lost to him. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He held his hand there, cupping your face like you were something precious, something breakable that he was afraid to hurt.

“You,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of his own disbelief, “you’re the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.”

A smile ghosted across your lips, so faint it was almost imperceptible, and you leaned ever so slightly into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. “And yet, you let me live,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You listen to my stories, you reach for me even when you don’t mean to… Why is that, Sukuna?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. The monster in him was silent, subdued, replaced by a man who was lost and yearning, who didn’t know how to handle the tenderness he felt creeping into his heart. He was afraid—afraid of vulnerability, afraid of what it meant to care for someone, even in the smallest, most reluctant way.

But in that moment, with his hand on your cheek and your eyes locked on his, you knew the truth. The King of Curses was beginning to fall, not in defeat, but in a way that neither of you had expected. Slowly, painfully, he was learning to care. For you. And it terrified him more than any curse ever could.

The silence between you was no longer empty; it was filled with a thousand unsaid things, with the unspoken promise of something that might one day grow if either of you were brave enough to let it. And as you stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze, you knew that this was only the beginning. A delicate, fragile beginning to something that could be more than either of you ever dared to hope for.

༓ ༓ ༓

Dusk had finally arrived, and the dense fragranced smoke made the air feel warm and almost oppressive. You sat across from Sukuna, your voice carrying softly over the quiet hum of the night as you began to tell him yet another tale—this one different, more poignant, more deliberate.

“There was once,” you started, your voice laced with the slow rhythm of an ancient storyteller, “a creature who was not born into darkness, but who fell into it, piece by piece, as the world around him turned its back. He was not always a demon, you see. Once, long ago, he was something else—someone else. He was born of light, meant for greatness, a guardian meant to protect and to love.”

You paused, casting a glance at Sukuna, whose gaze was already fixed on you with an intensity that made the air between you feel electric. He didn’t interrupt, but you could see the shift in his expression, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers clenched just slightly, almost inconspicuously. He was listening, not just with his ears but with every part of him, as though he was bracing himself against something he didn’t want to admit was reaching him.

“But the world,” you continued, choosing your words carefully, “can be cruel to those who don’t fit into its perfect mould. And this guardian, despite his strength and his loyalty, was different. He was feared for his power, for the potential of what he could become. And so, the ones he had sworn to protect turned on him, shunning him, casting him out into the wilderness as if he were nothing but a beast. They called him a monster, a fiend. They said he didn’t belong among them.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, like a truth that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You could see it in Sukuna’s eyes—a flicker of recognition, the raw wound of a memory he had tried to bury under layers of hatred and pride. For a moment, he was no longer the invincible King of Curses, but something far more vulnerable—a man haunted by the echo of his own past.

“They cursed him to the darkness,” you went on, your voice softer now, almost a whisper. “And in that darkness, alone and forsaken, the creature’s heart hardened. His pain turned to rage, his sorrow to vengeance. He became the monster they had always feared he would be, not because he was born that way, but because they had made him that way. He believed he was unworthy of love, unworthy of redemption, because that’s all the world had ever shown him.”

Sukuna’s face was a mask of stillness, but his eyes were aflame with something that bordered on anguish—a deep-seated hurt that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. His hands, which had once been so quick to strike, now lay motionless at his sides, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. You could tell that the story had struck a chord, that it had reached into the deepest part of him, the part he kept locked away even from himself.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice rough and strained, barely more than a whisper. The question seemed to cost him something, as though he were admitting to a wound he had long denied. His gaze was hard, almost angry, but beneath that anger was a glimmer of something else—pain, vulnerability, the same longing that he had buried beneath centuries of rage.

“Because,” you said gently, meeting his gaze, refusing to look away, “I believe that even in the darkest of creatures, there is a spark of light that refuses to be extinguished. I believe that the demon in my tale, like you, was not born a monster but was made into one by a world that didn’t know how to love him. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he’s still searching for a reason to believe that he’s more than the monster they say he is.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating in its intensity. Sukuna’s eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded, as if you had laid his soul bare and he didn’t know whether to thank you or curse you for it. He looked away then, turning his head slightly as if to shield his face from your gaze, but not before you caught the faintest glimmer of moisture in his eyes—a shimmer that could have been from the firelight or could have been something far more human.

“You think you know me,” he said at last, his voice hollow, laced with bitterness and something else—something broken. “You think your pretty words can change what I am. But you have no idea what it’s like to be cast out, to be made into this… thing. To be so hated that you start to hate yourself even more.”

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, his broad shoulders tense and rigid as though he were trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he might snap back into the beast that he was so comfortable being. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, silent and still, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole form trembling with the effort to keep the chaos within him contained.

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice cracking with the force of his own denial. “There’s no light left in me. There never was. I am the monster they made me, and nothing will ever change that.”

Slowly, you rose to your feet, your heart aching at the sight of him—this man who was so much more than the monster he believed himself to be. You approached him cautiously, your hand reaching out, hesitant, trembling slightly as you placed it gently on his arm. He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, didn’t break the fragile connection that bound you both in that moment.

“Then let me be wrong,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, full of a conviction you hadn’t even known you possessed. “Let me be wrong, Sukuna, but let me try. Let me see the man beneath the curse, the man who still listens to stories even when he says he doesn’t believe in them. Because I think… I think you’re more afraid of being loved than of being hated.”

He turned then, slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierceness that took your breath away. There was a storm in his gaze, a turbulence of emotions that he could no longer hide. Anger, pain, confusion, and beneath it all—a flicker of yearning so raw and desperate that it broke your heart to see it.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rough, almost pleading now, his hand coming up to catch yours where it rested on his arm. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as if he were afraid that letting go would mean losing the only lifeline he had. “Why do you keep trying to find something good in me when I’ve done nothing but prove I’m a monster?”

You smiled then, a sad, gentle smile that reached the deepest parts of you. “Because even monsters deserve a chance to be saved,” you said softly. “Even monsters deserve to believe they’re worthy of love.”

For a long moment, Sukuna said nothing. He simply stood there, staring at you as if you were something he couldn’t quite understand, something he couldn’t believe was real. And then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he let his forehead fall against yours, his eyes closing as he exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His touch was still hesitant, still tinged with that reluctance to fully give in to what he was feeling, but it was there—a silent surrender to the possibility of something more.

And in that moment, with your hand still on his arm and his breath mingling with yours, you knew that the demon in your story had not been defeated but had begun to believe in the light again. Not because of some grand act of heroism, but because he had found someone who dared to see the humanity within him, even when he had given up on seeing it himself.

༓ ༓ ༓

The sky outside his chamber was a raging symphony of thunder and rain, the storm’s fury echoing the tempest that had been brewing between you and Sukuna all this time. The wind howled through the narrow openings in the stone walls, the curtains rippling like waves of silk in its wake, casting wild shadows across the room. It was as if the heavens themselves were tearing apart, unleashing their wrath on the earth, and within the shelter of Sukuna’s bedchamber, the storm had found a mirror in the turmoil that raged between your hearts.

You stood before him, drenched in the soft, flickering glow of the oil lamps, your voice trembling as you tried to pierce through the walls he still kept so fiercely around his heart. Sukuna’s eyes were wild, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, a mix of anger, fear, and that same raw vulnerability that you’d seen creeping into his gaze over the past few weeks.

“Why do you fight this so hard?” you asked, your voice cracking under the weight of your own desperation. The words were almost lost to the roar of the storm outside, yet you knew he heard every syllable. “Why do you still pretend you don’t feel anything? That you’re not capable of more than this darkness?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his teeth gritting as he turned away from you, his hands fisting at his sides. The storm’s rage seemed to course through his veins, the lightning outside illuminating his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look every bit the demon he believed himself to be. And yet, there was something in the way he stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes averted—a man on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.

“Do you think we are the same? I am not like you.” he growled, his voice like gravel, torn between anguish and frustration. “I don’t know how to be good, how to be anything but this—this thing they made me. I’m not meant for love, for kindness. I’m meant for death and ruin! That’s all I am.”

“No,” you said, your voice firm but soft, unyielding as you closed the distance between you. The storm seemed to quiet in your wake, as though the very air held its breath. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, feeling the tension in his fingers, the way he hesitated before finally allowing your touch to anchor him. “You’re more than what they made you, Sukuna. You’re more than the monster you think you are.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his expression twisting into something pained, something that looked like loss and longing all at once. His fingers were trembling now, almost imperceptibly, as if he was afraid to believe in what he was feeling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours, and for the first time, they weren’t filled with anger or resentment but with something far more fragile. Hope. And fear.

“You do not realise what you’re asking of me,” he whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “To hope, to believe that I could be anything other than this… Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? How cruel?”

“Hope isn’t cruel,” you replied, lifting your other hand to his cheek, gently cupping his face. He flinched at first, the motion instinctive, but then he let you hold him there, the warmth of your touch a balm to his storm-ravaged soul. “Hope is the kindest thing there is. And I think, deep down, you want it. You’re just afraid to let yourself have it.”

He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his darkness. But then, in a movement so slow it seemed to defy time itself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as if savouring the warmth of your palm against his skin. The tension in his shoulders eased, the storm inside him quieting as he let himself lean just a little closer, as if he were finally too tired to keep fighting.

“Why?” he asked, his voice almost broken, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Why would you care for something like me? After all I’ve done, after all I am?”

You gave him a sad, gentle smile, the kind that was both a promise and a farewell, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. “Because even the fiercest storms pass, Sukuna,” you whispered. “Even the darkest nights have to end. And even you—especially you—deserve to see the dawn again. You deserve to believe in something more, even if it scares you.”

He opened his eyes then, and in them, you saw the storm break, saw the crumbling of a fortress he’d spent centuries building. The fear was still there, the uncertainty, but there was also something new, something that looked almost like surrender. The kind of surrender that wasn’t about defeat, but about letting go of the chains he had wrapped around his own heart.

And then, without another word, he pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was both fierce and gentle, like a man holding onto the only thing that could save him from himself. His forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm and uneven against your lips, his eyes searching yours, still disbelieving but filled with that spark you’d never seen before—hope.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words rough but honest, a confession laid bare. “I don’t know how to be anything but a monster. But for you... for you, I want to try.”

Your heart swelled, a warmth spreading through you like the first light of dawn after the longest night. You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips ghosting against his in the barest of touches, a promise of something more—a beginning, not an end. “Then try, Sukuna,” you said softly, your voice trembling with both fear and joy. “Try with me.”

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he let the last of his resistance fall away, and for the first time, you felt the true man beneath the curse—the one who had been buried so deep he’d almost forgotten he existed. He held you as if you were his anchor, his lifeline, the only proof that he could still feel something other than rage and pain.

And as the storm outside raged on, battering against the walls of the chamber, the two of you stood together, wrapped in each other’s arms. In that fragile, trembling embrace, Sukuna finally let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving after all. That maybe, in the warmth of your touch and the softness of your whispered words, he had found something he thought was lost to him forever—a chance at redemption, a chance at love.

The dawn was still far off, the road uncertain and fraught with the shadows of the past, but for the first time, there was a light on the horizon. And as Sukuna held you close, his lips brushing your temple in a touch so tender it almost broke your heart, he knew that whatever lay ahead, he wouldn’t face it alone.

Not anymore.

The storm raged on, but within that chamber, there was a stillness, a quiet hope that spoke of new beginnings and the promise of something neither of you dared to name. It was not an ending, not yet. Just the beginning of a story that had no easy answers, no simple resolutions—a story that was still being written, night by night, heart by hesitant heart.

A.N. Thank you for reading! :D Please let me know what you think!

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s4lv4tions · 1 year ago

Text

numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands.

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope.

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business!

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with.

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone?

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking.

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest.

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying.

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard.

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it.

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning.

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.)

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke.

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt.

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly.

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off.

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need?

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun.

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate.

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead.

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up.

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them.

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you.

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick.

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living.

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice.

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all.

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later.

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it.

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased.

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness.

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths?

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns.

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay.

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will.

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body.

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised.

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him.

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw.

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of.

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish.

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die.

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact?

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves.

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin.

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata.

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight.

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry.

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities.

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless.

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce.

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier.

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release.

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes.

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever.

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness.

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more.

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful.

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far.

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again.

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you.

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others.

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips—

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk.

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

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deludedfantasy · 2 months ago

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I’m now on my third read of the Trigun manga, so be aware that large portions of my posts for book club will contain major spoilers, including this one (massive spoilers for the end of Trimax in this one!). You’ve been warned.

I did something a little interesting when I first read Trigun. Almost immediately after I finished volume 14, I went right back to the beginning and started the story over again. The brainrot was very strong at the time. And I got slapped in the face by something incredibly poignant. The first and last pages of Trigun are mirrors (though you could also argue they’re exactly the same).

Look at how even the paneling is similar! An image framed by a black border. Despite the fact that the text is similar, the contrast of the images says so much. In the beginning, we’re met with a wide view of the sky and the destruction of July beneath it. But in the end, all that’s left is the wide open sky, Vash running full tilt towards it, a promise of a new future.

The story is bookended neatly by these pages. It starts and ends the same way, though Vash is in a very different place at the end of the story than he was at the beginning. The bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Vash of the early Trigun volumes is nowhere to be seen by the end of Trimax. He’s been through a lot and lost so much. But the story ends the same way it begins, with the song of humanity continuing on.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? Despite all the pain and hurt he’s endured, despite everything he’s lost, life goes on. And Vash goes on with it.

The cyclical nature of life is one of Trigun’s core themes. The story opens with the destruction of Lost July and ends with the near destruction of No Man’s Land. It explores the cycles of abuse and the bad thought patterns we can get stuck in. But the ending pages hold a slightly different weight. I hesitate to say the ending of Trigun is necessarily happy, but Vash is alive, the world is saved, and there’s hope for the people of No Man’s Land that wasn’t there before. That’s something. And Vash, ever the optimist, a believer in the blank ticket, sees that and runs straight for it. That’s something.

Some stories would play this cyclical nature of the universe as a tragedy. While Trigun, in my mind, could be classified as a tragedy, I don’t think this part of it is. It’s just reminding us of a very ancient piece of wisdom: this too shall pass. Good will follow bad and bad will follow good. That is the nature of life, and you can survive it. Trigun’s other big theme is hope, that you can find it even in the darkest times. I think both the beginning and the end are trying to remind us we can always keep going and find that thing that will help us survive just another day, week, month, or year because surely, good will come around again. You just have to believe in it.

#trigunbookclub #trigunbookclubspoilers #trigun #trimax #trimax spoilers #trigunbookclub 2.0 #dani talks #love that my first post for this year's book club is just straight up spoiling the end of the story #sorry but this parallel has been driving me crazy for well over a year now

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popawritter12 · 7 months ago

Note

I loved your yandere rain! Would I be able to request a yandere havik with a male reader?

Author's Notes: Let's not say that I do not paid a lot of attention to Havik during my "stay" in MK1, but after digging a little into his lore, I was very attracted to this idea, I hope you like it!

Yandere! Havik x Male! Reader

Yandere character: Havik From the videogame/anime/manga/movie/serie: Mortal Kombat 1 Case: Kidnapping, chilhood friendship, agression to the reader. Warning: Mention of rape, SA and physical and mental abuse on the reader. Part:1 of 1 Finished:Yes

Where had he gone?

That question, short and simple, that could be answered in two or even a single paragraph, had run through your mind for so long that it seemed like it already knew where each nerve was, where your darkest sorrows were hidden, or where the heart lay. memory of that man whom you admired so much at the time.

Havik was his name; You still had the memory of when you saw him for the first time, someone quite tall, hair that gave off strands that barely followed an order, a stupid smile on his face - which, it should be noted, his lack of emotions when he walked away from you - and acting nervous when talking to you.

That's how he was, as stupid as a king in love, as kind as a vase when manipulating the stems of a flower, and as sweet in simple acts as company was on a fearful afternoon, or help in moments of crisis. .

It was because of that—or perhaps, because of the change of letters on each card—that, when you saw him again, with that mask covering his jaw, there was only one question running through your head.

Where had he gone? Who was this strange being that had the audacity to invade the body of your loved one? Of all the people in the world, why specifically him? And his face, fearful and even aggressive at the moment your hands appeared between his two cheeks, only showed a feature that you were lucky enough to see at the moment of his departure; the horror.

Whether it be to the unknown, or to how horrific the journey that he was forced to undertake was going to be when he left his hometown, or even to this moment, where the emotions have such an overwhelming size that it is frightening, that it causes such feeling in his heart—which seemed to have turned to stone after so many months away—that softens his soul, but that generates earthquakes in his mind.

He felt rotten, after so much time alone, after so much pain without being shared, and from such burns that it makes one believe that they would never heal, he felt as if throughout the trip, he had suffered a metamorphosis, one such that At this point, it caused everything to go to hell.

He never wanted to allow himself to love, but with you everything was different, with you it always had to be different, perhaps because the gods wanted it that way, or perhaps because fate, always cruel and cold, decided to condemn his soul to this torment. . The torment of seeing you from afar, of knowing that he had become a monster, a strange creature and that he had no place in his town, and, going even further, that he changed both his physical appearance and his soul, as well as his thinking. , like his belief that, even in the darkest moments, there was a way out.

But. that light never seemed to exist, or at least when that witch, so vile and deceitful, ruined all his hopes to nothing, submerged all his innocent thoughts of keeping you safe in an ocean of pain, from which there seemed to be no escape.

So ugly and cruel was the reality that he had to take days to accept that the path was the most difficult, however, that was never mentioned in the letters. The same ones, so sweet and tender they were, that it seemed like he was playing with your mind, that he was tricking your head, that he was writing a fairy tale so that you wouldn't escape from his grasp, much less from the reach of his arms.

However, Havik also learned to be cruel, so cruel that, more than one night, he happily fantasized about destroying those suitors who dared to touch what was his, longing to steal a heart that belonged to him, and seeking to generate in you a feeling of apathy for him.

But, in poetic words he was expert; so many days dedicated just to writing to you, so many spelling mistakes fixed, and so many papers thrown into the trash solely because they did not meet his expectations of expressing his growing and throbbing love in every drop of his blood for you.

Maybe it was his eccentricity to deceive you, or his professionalism when it came to expressing his affection for you in every letter that you fell into the trap of his arms, in the obsessive ties tied to his soul, and in the eccentric loves that decided to torment everyone. and each of your thoughts.

It was exceedingly painful for you to see how different it was when he saw you again; the look in his eyes when he simply saw your figure again in the darkness made you foolishly believe that he was the same as he was when he was gone. However, it was when his arms trapped you in an immovable grip that you noticed something was wrong.

He had that pleasure of wrapping his arms around you, of laying his head against your hair or simply allowing him, so desperate and eager to free people from him, to receive even a token of affection, a small sign that he was doing everything right, a piece of reality, which was that you were with him, that you were there to receive him with a hug, and that, above all, the relationship that for years was seen as tender, continued to lie. same love that they felt for each other, that affection still existed, that energy of showing love, that joy that generates in the heart of the other to be in the presence of the one whom they considered was the destiny of their life.

“They are going to be freed,” he had whispered to you, “finally, the bastards will be gone.” he assures you, as if it were a wish that had finally come true. And as he joyfully intoned and highlighted how far he had come to fulfill his goal of freedom, your happy grimace twisted, protesting and alert to each of his words.

“What bastards?” You asked him “Are you talking about the wizard you had helped or…?”, you tried to continue questioning, but your mind clicked quickly.

You weren't exactly known for being smart, let alone being able to fully understand Havik. Even with all the time of friendship, or all the years of affection and sweet moments that you shared between the two of you, there was something that you always tried to ignore; that black stain which seemed to expand with the passing of the years, that sign of corruption which was only a small sign that maybe, and just maybe, the thoughts that lay on his mind were not as sweet and kind as you. you believed for so many years of stubbornness and lies. And of course, when seeing the reality, it was already too late.

Your screams were heard only by him and by Rain, who was the direct cause of so much blood and corpses scattered across the well-built terrain of your city, your town, your people, your beloved people whose lives had been so important to you how to breathe and release the air from your lungs. Your sobs, useless and exasperating, were the cause of Havik's anger, who seemed not to understand your desperation and anger.

The screams turned to pushing, pulling, and too soon, hitting you to try to subdue you, and it was soon when you ripped the mask from his jaw. His burned face, his angry countenance that could only be noticed by the tilt and expression of his eyebrows and the color that formed around his eyelids, only provoked even more terror in your soul.

This wasn't Havik, you repeated over and over in your mind. This is not my man, you screamed at your heart as he punches you in anger. Each spank against your skin was like a direct stab to your feelings. “I did this for us!” he shouted at you, but you couldn't hear him clearly, your sobs of pain and desperate attempts to try to escape him were as useless as a lamb's attempt to escape from a hunting wolf.

Again and again, the blows and expressions extended to reality by his lips caused your soul to tremble in horror. Something had happened to your much-loved man, whom you called the love of your life, the man who you had so claimed that he was going to be yours for eternity, and that you would belong to him until the end of time.

Of course there was a reality in those words; You were going to belong to this cruel man, even with all the horror, the screams and the storm that hit the city and the corpses that lay beneath the depths of the magic-tinged water, along with the screams of horror of the people who were victims. During the dark night where no one could return to their bed and rest as they deserved, you were going to be an object, a small, manipulable and weak object, whose openings caused by so many blows had to be covered by countless bandages.

But before everything escalated, the tan-skinned man's magic forced him away from you with a crash.

Even with all the damage already caused, and all the deaths that occurred during the few minutes that your “punishment” lasted for the futile attempt to make that man understand the mistake he was making, he had quickly reached the state of repentance.

Even with your attempt to speak, it was difficult for the man whose name you didn't know to try to understand your speech, and only Havik's aggressive and understandable reaction reminded Rain how dangerous it was to try to prevent you from being hurt further. The fight, inevitable even at such a crucial moment in the people's “liberation” from the forcibly established order, spread, but it was obvious that it was already useless to try to reason at such an important moment.

It was the first and last time Havik forgave Rain for anything, and it even took him a few hours to realize how much he had gone too far when it came to hitting your face. But at that point, his mind, having the room of rottenness so normalized, just decided to “let it go.”

It was painful to remember that you were about to faint as buildings fell on your friends, where your family searched for you all over the city even on the brink of collapse and so close to death, and knowing that, even if you had tried, you wouldn't have managed to even move a hair on the man who looked so hurt by the experiences he gained after such a long trip, much less knocking down his companion.

The only memory you had after such savage blows was hearing his voice, that voice that had made you crazy with love for so long, and that now only caused terror in your heart.

Days passed until your eyes opened again, and the bed, the worn walls, the sheet that covered your skin and the bandages so poorly fitted that they seemed to have been hastily made were not part of your room, nor of your house, or anywhere in your house. And the rough footsteps in the distance reminded you of that man, no, that monster who had ruined what meant so much to you.

Disgusting, was what you thought when he treated you with all the kindness he could, and your serious expression demonstrated the obviousness of your anger, and even in your crude attempt to pretend that you were just looking to “get used” to your new life, there was only a look of anger on your face.

No, of course Havik was not easy to fool —or at least that was what you believed during your first days in your new home—, much less when he was able to weaken you and generate a trauma in your mind, one such that it could reduce your mind to nothing if he shown even a little cruelty.

It was horrible knowing that you had been deceived, so many hours, days, months dedicating yourself to knowing if he was alive, if he still loved you, if he still planned to return to your arms and whisper in your ear how much he loved you. All thrown down the drain the moment you realized his horrendous cruelty.

For countless nights you planned the escape of your life, but each attempt was worse than the last, and it was even more difficult when he seemed so calm when you simply didn't say anything or beg to be released. Of course, when something was wrong, he had to force himself on you through fear, and obviously, you were too manipulable for him at that point.

Without daily exercise in those four walls you lost your strength, there was no room for magic, much less a measly attempt to stab him. Everything was so useless at that point that it seemed impossible to escape.

But a ray of light crossed your life when the chains managed to soften his overwhelming grip after resisting your struggles for so long, and by then, you managed to escape during that time. Your feet against the twigs on the ground, and your gaze fixed on various animals that crossed your path as you hurriedly fled from that home of terror, everything was even like a fairy tale for you.

But reality hits much harder than it embraces, and in this case, it hit you with Havik's cruelty when he managed to find you. And of course, at the time of the encounter, his anger was so thunderous that he seemed to be unstoppable at this point. Every second in which you were dragged by his powerful arms along with threatening promises of how cruel he would be from now on was overwhelming.

The cries of pain still terrorize your mind during the first few nights he had the nerve to force himself on you again, but now in the worst way possible. You still tremble as you remember all the nights in which you were barely able to get a little rest; Whether it was because of how cruel he was to your poor, weak body, like the bite marks on your neck and neck, or the pain after the forced acts, or the crying that you were forced to suppress after so much agony, everything was so horrible that to this day is traumatic.

Day in which, even with the hope that those stormy nights were only generated by his temporary anger over your miserable escape, it was only a small beginning of what was to come in the rest of your life, the suffering that was going to twist your life. mind and shatter it only to cause a pleasurable twist in the mind of such a macabre man, and a minimal taste of the pain that awaited you until the end of your days, for the man you once called the love of your life.

#poppa thoughs #yandere #poppa things #obsessive love #yandere x you #yandere male #MK1 #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat #yandere mortal kombat #havik #mk1 havik #yandere havik #male reader #havik x reader #yandere male x male reader

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pulim-v · 2 months ago

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Reverse Unpopular Opinions for Love Bullet and Undertale please?

Oh their are good ones I have a lot of stuff that I can rant about with these afjshfnsj

Love Bullet

The art is genuinely stunning, and it's kinda surprising because from what I've seen manga tend to be kinda weak when they're just starting out, but Love Bullet has a lot of really good panels and art so far!

From scenes with amazing technical execution

To masterfully done panel transitions

To incredibly emotional beats enhanced by how the mangaka composes the scene and uses different values (note that the girl in the middle has most of the darkest parts of the image, so you're naturally more drawn to her and consequently to the action of the shot)

I could yap more but I think I've said enough agdhahdhjajd I don't want to go overboard

Undertale

THE CHARACTERS ARE ALL SO!!!!!!!!!

See cuz Undertale's whole thing is challenging RPG tropes and morality, and the way it does that is by having every single character have complex goals and motivations that interact with other characters in the game, and that ends up making a complex web of characters that is SO tasty to analyze

There are motifs that the game builds up. Both musically and narratively. And they all seem to interact with one another in ways that create an absurd amount of parallels. For example, the Dreemurr kids use the same greetings as their parents (Flowey says howdy just like Asgore, Chara says greetings just like Toriel), however it seems like the parent that they don't copy is the one they have a deeper relationship with (Asgore called Chara the future of the underground, and Flowey was much more hurt by Toriel not managing to make him feel than by Asgore failing to do so)

Again I think I've rambled enough agahhdjajaj there's a lot to talk about wrt both of these works of art and I could spend days doing so, but idk if you'd want to read that much lmao

#pulim's rambles #love bullet #undertale

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crowcaws · 2 months ago

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Btw this is what I mean when I say if you only watch anime, if you just wait for anime adaptations instead of giving Manga a chance, if you see Manga as just the beta version of something that would be better animated, you're absolutely missing out on some of the best art this planet has to offer.

(This post turned long as all hell so examples under the cut)

(Yashahime)

The limitations of black and white make for some absolutely incredible artistic choices. Despite the lack of colour, the dramatised use of light and shadow is much more pronounced.

The colour versions are beautiful in their own way, but there's just something about black and white that evokes drama that a full colour piece of the same scene often takes for granted.

There is also a lot more care put into detail in individual panels, because you can stop to examine them. In an anime, details (like the legs on this centipede for instance) are often forsaken, understandably, because of time constraint. You're not going to over-detail something you only see for a few frames.

I'm going to use FMA as an example because people love to argue about which anime is better and my answer, for fifteen years, has been: The Manga.

Both scenes gorgeous, but in the manga version the artistic choice to make his eyes the brightest part of the page, even to the point of not shading his irises, draws the viewer's attention to Edwards eyes and his intense emotion, whereas the anime version kind of draws your eye to his hand and the motion of pointing. As yellow is the first colour the human eye tends to notice, I think the fact he's rendered in colour also serves to distract the eye from the most important part -- the determination and emotions in Ed's eye.

Same manga, different scene:

In the manga, a huge part of Lust's character design, and many of the sins in turn, is that they are an inky black blot on the page. They stand out as the darkest part of any given panel they're in. As such, I think their design when rendered in full colour feels markedly less inhuman when next to the rest of the cast.

In the anime, you get the Lust vs Roy scene as below. Good posing and composition, and by all means a great scene overall. This is two people in an arena who have just duked it out, and the dust is clearing:

The manga version looks like this:

There is no obligation to render a background and the scene is all the more intense for it: All it comes down to is these two characters, and the moment that one of them is about to die. The entire universe, for this panel, it just Lust and Roy. She emerges from the smoke like a tumour, like a parasite reaching for a host. She is not simply standing in front of him, she is emerging from obscurity, her strike sudden but his resolve unwavering. You can see from the way the smoke lingers around him that Roy stood stock still, as the smoke on her side whorls with the ferocity of her movement. He waited for her to pounce, knowing he'd kill her now or die trying. Even the sound effect is used as part of the visual experience.

Another FMA example:

This is a beautiful scene where Edward's arm is the focus, showing the way it, and the regret and heartache and loneliness and guilt that it represents, overshadow his life and his actions. Very nice, I like the way it's the shiniest part of the shot, if not necessarily the coldest.

But here's a very similar scene in the manga:

(All Fullmetal Alchemist and its adaptations)

I think again that the lack of obligation to render a background when it would not enhance the scene does so much heavy lifting here. The way his shirt is completely dark and the background is completely bright means that the grey that is Ed slices through the panel. You don't see his eyes, much like the anime example, but the way he's half in shadow and the way he stands in the void makes him feel so, so much more lonely here.

(I'm certain there's a more equivalent moment in the FMA manga but I couldn't find it for a whim post so here we are)

(Kagurabachi)

This one doesn't have an anime yet but the way this artist renders shadow dripping from a blade to form an inky black goldfish makes it difficult to imagine how you could render this in anime format and maintain the same feeling, or even improve on it. The lack of background makes the contrast bold, but anime often can't really leave the background perfectly black without making the scene confused.

Anyway this isn't to say anime can't look fucking awesome because it very often does. But if you're not reading the manga, well, you don't HAVE to. But you're missing out majorly and I'm sick of it being treated as this preliminary, inferior art form that needs a studio to pick it up and "improve" it to make it worthwhile.

#FMA #kagurabachi #yashahime

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turndecassette2 · 6 months ago

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Re: chainsaw man my personal take is that the first 80 chapters or so are some of the best manga I've read, but it falls off after that.

Anon cause I don't want people to blow me up for saying I don't think pt 2 is all that good either. Weird pacing, inconsistent arcs. I know not everyone agrees with me on that but it just lost me.

I would however say that fma is definitely worth picking up. Its not the darkest story ever but it deals with what I think are some serious subject matters and treats them with respect and gravity. I read it again recently and think it holds up incredibly well.

yeah I like the aesthetics of pt 2 but rn I'm not sure how I feel abt it. really appreciate fujimoto's dedication to always taking things in the direction you least expect, also hoping it will eventually add up to something that will maybe be more satisfying when read in one go the way I did pt 1. there's some cool stuff in there still so I'm hoping he manages to tie it up in a way that feels worthwhile.

(this is dumb since I know the chainsaw man manga is about the titular chainsaw man. but I liked it when pt 2 was all asa & just doing its own thing. not mad it went the way it went, but. also, edit: both parts of chainsaw man are still better than the weird comics I make)

re: dark, that's just me admitting I'm still driven by morbid curiosity like a teenager watching horror movies while their parents are away or something. but I'm fine with stuff that's wholesome, or a bit of both, I think the thing I really NEED in a work is for it to feel distinct & like, honest? hard to explain but I know it when I see it.

#anyway tumblr please hold me accountable #I WILL read fma ha ha #an ask

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forestfrolickingfairy78 · 5 days ago

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Hellooo, I'm in the mood to post this one shot Twilight Link x Reader ball scene I wrote a while ago. Enjoy! If you like fantasy writing and ball/dance settings, this one is for you :D

This isn't from LU, just Twilight Princess Link!

(image from Twilight Princess Manga)

The playlist I wrote this scene to, feel free to give it a listen while reading <3

youtube

Synopsis/Summary

Y/N is caught in a violent storm while trying to get home, and is attacked by the rise of another twilight beast, straying from it's world that was meant to be sealed off. When she thinks everything is over, a mysterious wolf with blue eyes saves her . A few days later her sister drags her to a ball where she meets Link, the knight to Princess Zelda where they share a dance, but she can't help but wonder if she's met him before somewhere...

An Arc of lightning split through the sky.

Violent bolts of violet crushed through the dark veil of night in the shape of teeth. Rain swelled the air and thick droplets and fell down my scalp, sending a chill as I stepped through the beaten path of Faron woods.

The hour of twilight had descended, and the last ray of sunlight faded above the horizon, slowly melting. An unforgiving chill lashed my cheek as I kept walking forward, struggling to make out the shape of twisted trees, and gnarled branches intertwining in ominous patterns.

Ordon village wasn't too far, but in the dark it made it seem like it was a never ending path, splitting into several directions I couldn't make out. My shoulders tensed as I walked forward, keeping an eye on the low light of the moon faintly illuminating the spaces between the trees, hopeful I would reach home soon. I kept my step light, but each move forward felt like I was walking through water, slowing down my muscles cramped with fear. My mind was heavy with thoughts, watching shadows lurked between branches, swiftly moving between the dark.

I pulled my shawl close, wiping rain across my skin. I took a few more steps, focussing ahead and sped up, ignoring the chill biting down my skin. For a short moment everything was clear, just rain pattering down on leaves, the gloomy spore of a firefly spiralling between the dark.

Then, thunder. This time a pale slash cracked the sky in the shape of a scythe. I lost balance, clamping my hand across my ears as the sound shook the earth. My bag fell, all the supplies I'd brought from the castle town spilling out across the floor. I reached forward, hands rummaging through wet soil and cringed, feeling it line my palms.

I took shallow breaths, nothing to be afraid of.

I grabbed onto my book, dismayed as the cover was now wet, the pages stained, and stuffed it inside my bag. While I was still low I glanced up, eyes fallen on a twisted, slow moving silhouette. My body froze as it neared, unable to recognise it's monstrous form- part humanoid and monstrous. Dark tendrils slithered out of its head like snakes, and a glowing, red pattern lined across it's body. My breath hitched in my throat as I watched.

I slowly blinked, unable to tear my gaze away, paralysed by the beast. It had fallen from the Twilight world, even though most of them had been sealed we'd heard about the stray ones, roaming in the darkest places. My teeth chattered, helpless. The earth shook once more, throwing me off balance, but it wasn't another strike of thunder. On each side black pillars encased my surroundings, and a translucent wall stretched between each one. The beast stood, watching me then leaped with a tiger's speed. Between all the darkness it's hand reached.

I screamed, helplessly clawing at the dirt, but my voice wouldn't even reach the bounds of the forest, echoing into the dark. My sight was blurred, rain and tears merging different shades of black. It's hand slithered around my skin, now fully in it's grip. It's faceless form hovered above me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it wouldn't be a long death. I waited, struggling out of it's grip and looked up, feeling it's weight off my body. The beast was now pinned to the ground by a wolf, growling as it circled the perimeter. I slid my foot away, looking behind to see the walls still trapped around me.

Underneath the pale light, the wolf's fur was shone, but when I looked closely it's eyes kept me still. Light blue like a spring sky that I'd never seen before. The wolf growled, snapping it's eyes to me as I moved, keeping me still. It bared it's teeth, then lurched forward, violently tearing into the beast. It's fangs sank into it's dark flesh, throwing it aside. What lay of the creature now remained ashes, disintegrating into the air.

The pillars vanished, now opening a new path for me. I watched the wolf move slowly, staring back at me before disappearing into the shadows. A painful throb spread over my head as I fell into a sprint, unable to stay any longer in the forest. Finally when I reached the first sign of Ordon, my legs slowed, and a painful burn seared my chest. A fire lit the distance at the opening, and when I reached home, tears fell down my face. Upstairs footsteps grew louder, and Yasmin found me, wrapping her arms around me.

"Y/N, I thought something happened to you! Why are you home so late?" My sister sat beside me, carrying the scent of spice and jasmines. The memory was still heavy as I thought of the beast, and shook my head. For a long time I watched the fire, unable to speak and squeezed her hand. It was only a slim chance that I survived, even wolves were out for prey but today, I'd been lucky. Yasmin left, returning with a hot cup of tea, seeping a bag inside the cup. The spices warmed me, and slowly I regained my voice, pulling the blanket closer. "I'm sorry I made you worry."

"But what happened? Are you hurt?" She was already pulling my sleeve up, inspecting for wounds but I tore her hand away.

"I'm not hurt." I begin, forming the story with what I remember, but everything is a blur, all black. Yasmin wiped her face, still holding me tight. "No more going out before twilight, it's too dangerous." Anger replaced her worry, but I didn't argue, staring at the ripples in the cup. Dregs of tea lined the bottom as I swirled the liquid. She was right, not the smartest idea.

Deep reds and oranges swayed in front of me from the fireplace, and rain continued to pour outside. The light warmed another shiver as I took the last sip of tea. Yasmin sighed, shaking her head. A slight smile curved her face and got up.

"I've got news, while you were out the post man came by." Water sloshed in the sink as she spoke. "There's a ball for Princess Zelda's coronation, apparently everyone in town is invited." I placed the cup down, watching her sit beside me once more, passing an envelope. Gold lettering elegantly formed the invitation, with our family name etched in cursive letters.

How strange, I didn't think anyone outside the royal family would be allowed in. I knew Yasmin would be excited, ever since we were children she would dream of wearing beautiful dresses, dancing underneath a golden chandelier. Now all she needed now was a prince.

Excitement grew on her features as she hummed.

"I'm happy you get to finally experience that." I place the letter down, unsure if I wanted to go.

"You're coming with me, don't think I'm going alone." Her tone firmed as she heard me speak, recognising the uncertainty in my voice. It's not that I didn't enjoy them, but to be around so many people I didn't know made butterflies in my stomach. "So when is it?"

"In two days! But, I already have the perfect dress for you." Yasmin winked. Two days wasn't long at all, and the more I thought about it the more I fell ill, anxiety swirling inside. How in the world did she even find a dress?

"What?"

"Just wait here."

I kept an eye on the flames, still shaky from what happened and fell into a lull. A few moments later Yasmin stood ahead of me, placing a dress against her. The colour was a vibrant emerald green, with a long flowing skirt and laced bodice embedded with gemstones. She would look so stunning in it. I clasped my hands together, admiring her. Yasmin placed a hand on her hip, tossing her behind her shoulder.

"Care to dance, madam?" She laughed, and I couldn't help share the excitement.

"Yas, you're going to be the belle of the ball."

"No you! Come see what I picked." She grabs my arms, spinning me once like we're already there. "Close your eyes!"

"Okay." I laugh, covering them. The sound of fabric unfolds, and she places it into my hands. I trail my hands along the silk, recognising the feel of it's softness.

"You can see now."

A shimmering lilac brightens the room from the dress, and in every angle it reflects different a different shade. In some it looks pink, another violet. The top was fitted like a corset, with delicate roses showered in glitter and a long skirt trailing the floor. My jaw hung down as I admired it, placing a hand to my mouth.

"How much was this?"

Yasmin rolled her eyes, "I'll take that as a thank you."

The more I look at it the more I fall in love, holding it close. "You didn't have to." Guilt fills me, feeling bad that she probably spent all her earnings on it. "Are you kidding me? This is a ball Y/N, and I'm making sure we both have the best night of our lives. We need something for ourselves too." Yasmin's tone softened, and I slowly nodded, hugging the dress. I hoped it would be a night to remember.

Golden light fills the room, illuminated by chandeliers hanging down the ceiling. On each table candlelights were placed in the centre, and the whole room was decorated with various flowers. I held up my dress, as I walked, trying to remain upright beside all the other attendees. Yasmin walked with a natural grace, swaying elegantly between the crowd while I struggled to maintain my posture.

Already guests filled the room, women swirled in deep, richly coloured dresses and from afar the men stood, some of them trying to ask their hand for a dance. Ahead Princess Zelda was seated on her throne, staring out with a clear gaze while a young man stood beside her, face wearing a calm mask. For a moment I watched, wondering why he looked familiar for a second but my attention tore away as Yasmin pulled my wrist. She narrowed a gaze towards a young man ahead, and realised he was staring in our direction.

"Do you mind if I dance with him?" Her cheeks mottled with heat, pressing her lips into a thin line. I looked back at him, watching as he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

"Why are you asking me? Go!" I laughed. While he took her arm I stood beside the candlelights, watching more and more couples fall into harmony underneath the chandeliers. The whole castle was decorated with flowers, wisteria swirled around the marble pillars and on other parts roses hung down, giving bursts of colour between gold.

While more people joined I stepped outside towards the balcony. The air was warming as more people joined, but outside a cool breeze swirled, and below the gardens lit up. A few guards roamed, talking. I let out a small sigh, relieved to finally have some fresh air.

I leant my arms against the rail, lost in the silence and spun my necklace between my fingers. It had been two days since the beast appeared, and each time I hoped to forget about it, the clearer the memory became. I let my fingers down, focussing on the stars but the door slipped open, and footsteps broke the quiet. Immediately I glanced over my shoulder, meeting the eyes of the young man from before. The knight beside Zelda. He paused, holding onto the handle.

His eyes took on the colour of an ocean during a storm. A face with a sharp gaze, and strong jaw but when he spoke, his gentle tone surprised me.

"I'm sorry, am I disrupting you?" I raise up my hands before talking, unsure why I lost my voice for a second. "I was about to head back inside." I say, wondering if Yasmin was still dancing, but he stops. "I'll let you enjoy your time, it's beautiful out here." The nerves tightening my chest suddenly ease, and decide to stay. Two people can share the sky, right?

As he nears, I glance at his face again, studying his eyes and wonder why they'd seem so familiar. He smiles, making me realise I'm looking for too long and stare back at the garden, noting the tender saplings and bluebells glowing under the moon.

"May have your name?" He says.

"Umm, Y/N—" I pause, then shake my head. "Have we met before?" Surprise forms between his features, but he quickly laughs, shrugging.

"I'm not sure, maybe. I'm Link." The name doesn't sound familiar, and suddenly I feel stupid, wishing the ground would crack open and swallow me. I tighten my hand along the rail, staring at the sky again for comfort.

Link speaks, "is this your first ball?"

"Is it that obvious?" I laugh, keeping my hand close my face.

"First time for everything right?" I try to let my shoulders loose, biting down my lip. Despite the temperature dropping, a sudden comfort warmed me standing beside him. As if I'd known him before. I didn't want the moment to end, slowly continuing our conversation until the chill seeps into my bones.

We head back, and he opens the door leading me inside. In front of me the ballroom glowed underneath a dozen golden lights, looking more beautiful each time. I kept walking, keeping an eye between the couples and try to spot Yasmin. Link quickly came beside me, standing in front.

"Y/N, I was hoping that we could share a dance?" Link reached his hand out, tilting his head slightly with a kind smile. Unable to form any words I simply nod, taking his hand guiding me towards the floor illuminated by all the golden lights.

A symphony played, sweet notes slowing down time. He placed a hand behind my back, and we fell into a harmonious rhythm. Time felt like it slowed as we moved with the music, and everything else faded.

It was just us, lost in each other's eyes.

#legend of zelda #link twilight princess #the legend of zelda #zelda oc #ball dance #dance scene #fantasy #fantasy romance #oc #one shot #twilight princess #fanfic #Youtube

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animebw · 5 months ago

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Short Reflection: Spring 2024 Anime

I feel like 2024 is shaping up to be an unusual year for anime. Most mainstream shonen and isekai are staggering into audience fatigue of some kind or another, two-cours series are making a massive comeback, and big waves are being made from eclectic shows like Apothecary Diaries and Girls Band Cry that would likely be relegated to cult classic status in years prior. There haven't been many clear standouts yet, but there's a lot of fascinating second-tier stuff bubbling just under the surface. It feels like the general anime audience has grown so big at this point that the way we consume shows and the kinds of shows that break through are evolving before our eyes. Never mind movies like Look Back and The Colors Within waiting in the wings to redefine our notions of what animated cinema can be. All this is to say, I don't know what we'll make of 2024 when all is said and done, but it's gonna be a very interesting story. For now, though, let's take stock of spring's roster of shows to pick out the best, the worst, and the worth checking out. Not counting the shows I've already talked about (Hibike Euphonium's final season 9.5/10 and Demon Slayer's training arc 4/10) or MHA's latest foray, which I'm still waiting to see exactly how it shakes out.

Dead Dead Demons' Dededede Destruction: Please Watch/10

I'm putting this one right up front because while it's still very early into airing, there's a good chance a lot of you don't even know it exists. Released initially as a pair of movies earlier this year, this adaptation of Oyasumi Punpun author Inio Asano's bizarre bildungsroman alien invasion manga has been retooled into an 18-episode TV series with (apparently) lots of additional footage to fill out everything the movies had to cut for time. Those production circumstances alone would be interesting enough to merit checking it out (fingers crossed Haikyuu can get the same treatment?), but more importantly, this show is just really damn good, and it deserves better than being dropped on Crunchyroll with almost no fanfare and incomplete English subs that don't translate most of the written text. As someone who kind of loved and hated Punpun in equal measure, Dededede feels like all of Asano's best instincts on full display, a riveting exploration of how modern humanity is forced to struggle through "normal" life in the shadow of the apocalypse, asking how we can still set our sights on our futures when there's a very good chance that future might never come. It's messy and difficult, and yet it brims with love for people and our ability to seek kindness and compassion even in the darkest times. Just do yourself a favor and skip the awful "episode 0" prologue; not only is it leagues worse than the rest of the show, it spoils so many details about the story's endgame that it might just ruin the experience outright if you're not careful. You've been warned.

Mushoku Tensei Season 2 Part 2: 1.5/10

Is the second part of Mushoku Tensei season 2 as apocalyptically awful as the first part? Not quite, no. But that's only because Rudeus doesn't do anything quite as jaw-dropping as buying a child slave or kidnapping and molesting a pair of catgirls with no consequences. I know, the bar is in fucking hell and this garbage fire still barely managed to stumble over it. Otherwise, it remains every bit as vile as always. Here's a fun drinking game you can play: take a shot every time someone this season 1) makes excuses to justify why Rudeus shouldn't feel bad about doing something awful, 2) praises Rudeus to high heaven and calls him the most specialest boy ever, 3) falls head over heels for Rudeus in a matter of seconds. You'll likely pass out before you're halfway through the season, but on the plus side that means you won't have to watch any fucking more. I simply remain baffled that so many people have been fooled into thinking this show is something meaningful and smart, how many people ignore its glaringly obvious awfulness to pretend it's saying things it's not actually saying and exploring ideas it's not actually exploring. All I can do is wait impatiently for Re:Zero's return later this year so it can smack everyone senseless with a reminder of what challenging, subversive isekai storytelling actually looks like. Maybe then we'll finally be able to recognize this steaming pile of misogyny and rape culture for what it is and cast it out without a second thought. We can only hope.

Urusei Yatsura Season 2 (2nd Half): 4.5/10

I think I've given Urusei Yatsura a fair shake. I've done my best to enjoy it through its weaker moments and painfully obvious crows' feet. But now that it's finally over, all I can think is maybe it was better off left in the past. There are infinitely better screwball comedies that have come since, comedies that have been building off the tropes Urusei Yatsura established and finding much more interesting, meaningful things to do with them. This may be a foundational rom-com text, but fifty goddamn years later all its best qualities have been improved upon to the point of obsolescence, and all that's really left is the gross, dated stuff and the fact that every time it tries to be sincere and sentimental it runs into the unavoidable problem that all the romantic relationships its built on really kind of suck. Sorry, but Ataru and Lum are an awful couple and all the worst parts of this show are when it unironically tries to make you root for them despite them being pretty blatantly terrible for each other. I'll stick with Inuyasha, thank you very much.

Wind Breaker: 5/10

Man, why does every promising modern delinquent anime end up driving itself into a ditch before long? First Tokyo Revengers, then Bucchigiri, and now Wind Breaker has completed the trifecta. And this one had so much potential! Casting a shoujo-style blushy tsundere bad boy as the protagonist of an otherwise straightforward tough-guy action brawler is one of the most inspired strokes of genius I've seen in a long time (let alone getting the Kyo Sohma's VA to voice him). What better way to explore the emotional human side of delinquent storytelling than with a main character who's arc is all about accepting other people and learning to love himself despite the world's rejection of him? That plus a slick production full of badass fistfights should've been an easy recipe for success. Unfortunately, it falls victim to the most common of shonen death knells: getting stuck in an overlong, dragged-out arc that consists of nothing but uninteresting fights against half-baked antagonists that loses sight of what made this series unique until its final moments. And double minus points for entirely taking place in a single visually dull location that you're forced to stare at for like 5 episodes straight with occasional flashbacks as your only escape. Seriously, you could cut the Shishitoren arc to half its current length and lose very little of value. I can only hope the upcoming second season won't get similarly bogged down, cause a good version of this show is something I desperately want to believe is possible.

Konosuba Season 3: 5.5/10

So here's the good news first: Despite a seven year gap since the second season and a change in studio, Konosuba's third season is still every bit the same show it was. As for the bad news... well, the bad news is that Konosuba's third season is still every bit the same show it was. Yeah, in the years since I first watched it, I've had to really reckon with all the ways this show fucking sucks, and all of those reasons remain on full display undimmed by the passage of time. It's sexist, it's objectifying, it's violently queerphobic, it thinks sexual assault is the funniest thing ever when Kazuma's the one doing it, it's every bit as misogynistic and masturbatory as the isekai genre it's supposedly satirizing. And it's also still one of the funniest goddamn anime ever made when it wants to be. Seriously, if you just strip away all the godawful incel-pandering that's seemingly endemic to modern isekai, Konosuba's god-tier expression work and pitch-black sarcasm are a blast of laughing gas like nothing else in its vicinity. If it could just focus on telling actual jokes instead of passing off alt-right sexual politics as "comedy" half the time, it would more than deserve its status as a modern classic. But it won't, because it genuinely believes all that garbage is the funniest shit ever. Which is why it'll forever be stuck as a show that you can never admit to enjoying in public without being justifiably judged by everyone around you.

Train to the End of the World: 5.5/10

It's kind of impossible to describe what Train to the End of the World is about without sounding like you're flipping through ten different plot summaries and choosing words at random. But here's as best I can: a freak accident causes the world to morph into a surreal patchwork of bizarre locales, while also seemingly reducing the scope of the world to a single train line in Japan stretching between rural town Agano and Tokyo's metropolitan Ikebukuro district. When Agano high-schooler Shizuru finds evidence that her long-lost friend Yoka might be trapped in Ikebukuro- and also maybe related to the reason everything went insane- she hops on an abandoned train car with a few friends and a dog and starts the long, long journey to reach Ikebukuro through the madness and chaos that defines the new world. The best I can explain it is Gullliver's Travels by way of Alice in Wonderland and Salvador Dali, each episode taking us to another stop on the train line that's morphed into its own flavor of batshit crazy, from mushroom people to horny zombies to a post-canon bad end magical girl world. Unfortunately, any semblance of a point feels buried under a thousand tons of calcified absurdism too thick for anything resembling sincerity to peek through. There are attempts at exploring deeper themes or character moments, but the show's pace is so blisteringly fast and so deeply uninterested with anything beyond what wild ideas it can pull out of its hat that nothing really sticks by the time the train's rolling on to its next destination. If there's anything here beyond a series of wacky Moments(tm) delivered with the rushed breathlessness of a Youtube video on 2X speed, I can't say it made an impression.

Tonari no Youkai-san: 5.5/10

I'm of two minds about Tonari no Yokuai-san. On the one hand, it's a deeply heartfelt iyashikei that uses its fantasy elements to explore grief, loss, love, community, and the reasons we celebrate life even knowing it must one day end. This town of humans and spirits living side-by-side feels so real and warm you wish you could live there yourself, and the characters populating it, from earnest nekomata to old gay cars to prickly fox spirits and everyone in between, burst with inner life so naturally it almost makes you jealous. On the other hand, for some baffling reason, this show keeps trying to shoehorn in action plots and sci-fi elements that gel with the quiet, contemplative tone as well as oil and water. I genuinely don't understand why the author thought they needed time-space bureaus and giant rampaging snakes to liven things up when just the main character going through an existential crisis about how they're going to outlive everyone they love is ten thousand times more gripping than any of that other nonsense. On the bright side, the good stuff is still really good, and considering how few of you likely watched this show already, let this be your reminder this your reminder not to let it slip through the cracks.

Go Go Loser Ranger: 6/10

Is the idea of a dark, edgy twist on tokusatsu where the protagonist is a nameless minion trying to overthrow a fascist cabal of sentai rangers that unique? Not really, no. But god damn if Go Go Loser Ranger doesn't make it work regardless. There's something just inherently fun about watching one of those nameless background mooks that normally exist just to get punted en masse decide "You know what? I'm done being the world's punching bag. I'm gonna become the protagonist of my own story and take these fuckers down." We've all rooted for the underdog at some point, after all. It's only fair the most disposable fodder get a chance in the spotlight. And Go Go Loser Ranger delights in twisting that setup as far as it can get away with, constantly making you second-guess your allegiances to any one side as it quickly becomes clear there are no true heroes to root for in this world, just lots of different people flawed in very different ways, all fighting for their own personal gain. You're never quite sure when someone you're rooting for is going to break your trust with some horrific act, or someone you loathe is going to prove themselves more courageous than they first let on, and it keeps you on the edge of your seat waiting to see when the next shoe's going to fall. Sadly, it also suffers from Wind Breaker's mistake of spending too much time on an overlong arc that's mostly just dull characters fighting in a duller location, but by the end it's shaken off those doldrums and returned to form in a big way. As long as the second season can keep those gears turning, we're in for a good time.

Spice and Wolf Reboot (1st Cours): 6/10

Let's be blunt: there is no point to remaking Spice and Wolf. The original series is still just as good fifteen years later, and despite the source material continuing past the point it ended, it reached such a beautiful conclusion on its own terms that it more than cemented its status as a true eternal anime classic. Sure, it's nice to experience this story again, to re-aquaint myself with Holo and Lawrence's wonderful chemistry and the fascinating ins and outs of Medieval economics that drive their story. There's a reason I fell in love with this show so many years ago, and Reboot Wolf still has plenty of that charm to go around. But this isn't a re-imagining or a Brotherhood/Froobs 2019 style "proper" adaptation. This is just the same show again but a little bit worse in every way. All I can think of, watching this story I know play out again, is how much stiffer and generic the modern art direction and animation is, how it plays things so much safer with its source material while the original wasn't afraid to make strong changes, how Holo's prickly personality has been neutered into a much more docile, Lawrence-dependent character while the original stood so strong on her own two feet. Maybe it works well enough if this is your first taste of Spice and Wolf, but then, the original show is right there! You could just watch that instead and get a much better experience all around!

Yuru Camp Season 3: 6.5/10

Speaking of shows that are probably pointless, was there really any need for Yuru Camp to continue after the one-two satisfying punch of season 2 and the epilogue movie? Those endings put such a beautiful bow on the series that anything else would feel superfluous. Especially with such a massive downgrade in the art direction department, Jesus Christ. I don't know who's running studio 8bit's compositing department these days, but between this and the latest Yama no Susume season, it's so painful to see a studio that once excelled at background art reduced to putting filters over photographs and awkwardly slapping ill-fitting moeblob characters on top. The clash between the characters and the backgrounds this season is legitimately painful at times, and for a vibes-based iyashikei like Yuru Camp, that could so easily be a death knell. Thank the gods, then, that most of this series' charm still comes through in spite of itself, the wonderful characters and delightfully daffy comedy still as strong as ever as it extols the virtues of finding your peace in the great outdoors. But if we're going to get any more, then please figure out how to make this new aesthetic not so physically repellent to look at.

Kaiju No. 8: 7/10

I've said many times that the art of making a Good Enough show is more complicated than most people appreciate. It takes so much skill and talent, so much mastery of the basic building blocks of storytelling, to create something that's just fun to watch plain and simple. And Kaiju No. 8 is yet another example of how impressive it is when one of these shows gets it right. It's a simple, straightforward action show about an over-the-hill sanitation worker getting one last chance to live his dream as a member of the elite kaiju-slaying force that keeps the world safe from the towering monsters that menace it... by accidentally becoming part kaiju himself. The characters are simple but lovable, the emotional stakes are earnest without being overbearing, the action is consistently exciting and well-animated, and the story keeps you on your toes with well-worn tropes executed in novel and exciting ways. I honestly don't think I've seen a shonen action romp so perfectly nail its fundamentals like this since the early days of My Hero Academia. Whether or not this show will also rise to MHA's eventual level of complexity and thematic weight remains to be seen, but for now, it's just plain fun, and an easy recommendation to anyone looking for a good time.

Delicious in Dungeon (2nd Cours): 7.5/10

Well, I asked for Dungeon Meshi to get darker, and by god, that's exactly what it did. Through shocking plot turns and deeply disquieting thematic touches, this silly little fantasy cooking comedy has developed into something much more sinister and unsettling... while still being primarily a silly fantasy comedy about cooking D&D monsters into mouthwatering meals. I'm still not sure if the tonal whiplash entirely works, but my god does it make this a fascinating show to watch. A single episode can take you from some of the most gut-busting deadpan snark this side of Gintama to a skin-crawling contemplation on mortality and consuming life to perpetuate your own without missing a beat. Turns out, Dungeon Meshi has thoughts on the nature of food as a biological, societal and cultural force, and how that force is not always as simple or benign as a meal shared with friends and family. And it explores those ideas with a quiet dread that makes even its silliest moments feel like a tentative breath before things come crashing down. I have no idea how things will shake out in the second season, but if manga fans are to be believed, it's only going to get more twisted and insane from here. I cannot fucking wait. Just, can Falin stay on screen for more than a single episode without being kidnapped again this time? Girl's such a damsel in distress even Princess Peach is giving her concerned looks.

Jellyfish Can't Swim in the Night: 7.5/10

There is no feeling quite like being a young artist. You're excited to make your mark, painfully anxious about not measuring up while simultaneously being quite full of yourself, bursting with ideas and not quite sure how to execute them, but above all else, in love with the act of creation. And I don't think I've ever seen an anime that so perfectly embodies that messy, beautiful spirit as Jellyfish Can't Swim in the Night. Four girls from different artistic backgrounds- an artist, a singer, a musician, and a tech wiz- come together as one to give each other the strength they lack on their own, forming the musical group JELEE as they strive to love themselves and their work through the magic they make together. It's an explosion of passion and joy, often times outstripping its ability to measure up to its ambitions and stumbling over itself, but always shining, always dazzling, always wearing its heart firmly on its sleeve as it celebrates the joy of creation in the digital age and the importance of sincerity in a world too afraid of cringe to accept it. It's also a wonderfully capital-P Progressive series; there's a gay kiss, one character is eventually revealed to be nonbinary in a scene so spectacular I wish I could bump my score up another half-point for it alone. Sadly, it only reaches those heights every so often- but when it does, my god is it a sight to behold.

Girls Band Cry: 8/10

I remember back when I watched Love Live Sunshine, I wished there was a girls' music anime where the protagonists sung the kind of badass punk rock usually reserved for the antagonists of idol shows. Well, it looks like writer Jukki Hanada and director Kazuo Sakai heard me, because five years after bidding Sunshine farewell, they're returned with one of the most exhilarating, renegade expressions of punk spirit we've gotten in a long time. Girls Band Cry is a supernova, a soaring firecracker of a show that marries an instantly iconic headbanger soundtrack with Hanada's typically spectacular character writing in this tale of five outcasts forming a band and coming together to spit in the face of the world that tried to grind them into conformity. Nina Iseri's arrogant, self-righteous immaturity is a primal scream for the importance of doing what's right over what's easy, and you feel that scream in your fucking soul. Even the show's scrappy CG animation embodies that non-comformist spirit, charting stunning new avenues for 3D anime with some of the most expressive character models and soaring concert scenes you're likely to see all decade. And while the pacing is definitely rushed at points, the overwhelming emotions bleeding from each and every scene make even the weakest moments go down easy. It's downright criminal Toei fumbled the ball on an official English release, but unless you're completely against sailing the high seas, you owe it to yourself to track it down regardless. So raise your middle fingers to the sky, spill your heart from your chest, and let Togenashi Togeari force you to believe in the power of rock all over again.

Dropped:

-Bartender Drops of God (3 Episodes). Too boring to stick with in a pretty packed season.

-A Condition Called Love (3 Episodes). Creepy possessiveness excused for the sake of romance.

Blue Archive (1 Episode). Do you even need to ask.

-The Many Sides of Voice Actor Radio (2 Episodes). Awful adaptation that butchers what made the manga so great.

-Whisper Me a Love Song (9 Episodes). The production falls completely apart and it skips the main couple's first kiss. Just read the manga, it's really damn good and deserved so much better.

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fire-dwelling · 2 months ago

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I'm going to rant about why Haumea doesn't work for me as a character.

Was Haumea's trauma ever actually foreshadowed before the last arc decided to make her the tragic victim that needed to be saved?

Or were we to read that given how obviously unwell she was (and simultaneously ignore how awful she was to other people, including whatever she was doing making Sho into her new dollie)?

Or was it not foreshadowed and just a drastic shifting of gears because the writer had no idea what he was doing?

Or is it that she does bad things and it is presented as bad, but we need to recognize that no one is wholly good or evil and that people in pain deserve to be helped regardless of what they did before?

Is she the Crona of this story? Because, for good or bad, I can overlook what Crona did when the story clearly communicates that they are part of a cycle of violence, whereas with Haumea, the late back story does not recontextualize anything when the horror of what she was doing to others was the first impression and not only never wore off but is still used in current promotional materials (the mobile app game just reinforcing her sexualized violence upon Arrow).

In other words, the story barely made it clear that Haumea was just "driven insane" and that's why she does what she does--which doesn't work: her being in tune with humanity's darkest thoughts does not seem to separate her from her own agency, as so much of the story presents her actions as out of a choice and agency, not even a choice within the limited options given to her.

I wish the story had emphasized some detail that clearly delineated that we are supposed to root for her recovery; even Shigaraki in My Hero Academia was a villain that the story was trying to make you root for being rescued, even if the cliches of reducing him to his child form as Tenko may be cliche or overlook, again, his own agency in the choices he made.

Instead, Haumea's conclusion just seems slap-dash and doesn't clearly telegraph an ending that says everyone deserves to be saved regardless what we may think of them. Would it have helped to info-dump all of Haumea's back story in the middle of the manga similar to how Tenko is info-dumped in the middle of My Hero Academia? I don't know.

Fire Force kept acting like this was a story about saving lives and property, and that firefighters don't see anyone as undeserving of rescuing...Too bad it also has Shinra and company resurrect even mass killers and ends up creating monsters and natural disaster then treats this as, "Oh, well, the world's more exciting like this."

Like, sorry for conflating people who deserve the chance to change with mindless monsters and destructive forces of nature, but the story never seemed to have the depth it was trying to telegraph in its ending.

This isn't even a problem of shonen as a demographic or this story as an action-adventure genre: it's setting up a question--"Does everyone deserve to be saved?"--and instead of answering with a resounding and obviously correct answer of "Yes!" instead overlooks what Haumea did, what Kurono and others did, and says to just have fun and not think about this because the world is now a zany cartoon known as Soul Eater (which, as I was trying to emphasize, did this entire plot better with Crona--a character who themselves didn't even apologize for their actions but at least said they had a connection to Maka and wanted to do what was right for her if for no one else).

And, just going to throw this out there: it's bothersome that Fire Force has an ending that acts like everyone, regardless of how wicked they were, deserves to be resurrected...while Crona (a victim of abuse who still did commit atrocities) gets to stay imprisoned on the Moon, Medusa is still dead, and Arachne is still dead. I would not be so insistent on this point because, hey, two different works by the same author doesn't mean that they have to be consistent just because it's the same creator. But when you then force the two stories into the same chronology and are trying to connect their morals--that the lessons learned in Fire Force created the world for Maka to learn her lessons--but those morals do not match up, then yes, I am going to criticize all of this as tonally inconsistent and having competing mutually exclusive morals.

Maybe so much of this would help if there was ever any sense of just how much agency Haumea had. The bread crumbs were not enough: she witnesses the Evangelist holding baby Sho, but she was the one who kidnapped him; she is suffering from the images of humanity's worst impulses, but we don't see resistance by her even when she seemingly gleefully is participating out of pleasure in harming Arrow and Sho, not to stave off the pain from those impulses or even to distract from that pain but just because she seems to really want to do it. Maybe I'm obtuse and need the story to hammer whether she really wanted to do this, or whether she changed her mind over the course of the story, and either case would require the story to actually let us into her mind--and by the time we get there, she has done enough that is too gross to think, "Oh, okay, now I get it." I can accept "she needs to be saved"; I can't accept "and you should agree that this doesn't still suck, doing the right thing."

Also: maybe if she wasn't given reality-altering powers at the end this all would have worked better. I understand that Crona having the power of madness and needing to be talked down means that they are still not being treated as a person to reach out to but as a force of nature that has to be stopped; I appreciate how that is a mixed message. But the thing is, I think most people like Crona, however much unfair derision will be made that we like them just because they are a "woobie." But with Haumea, the entire attempt by Shinra never felt like reaching out to Haumea as a person but just to convince her to go along with his plan to remake the world--that's it, a means to an end, a force of nature that is out of control and needs to be managed. And it makes Shinra resurrecting Charon seem less as a way to help Haumea continue to live and, again, just a bribe, an enticement like getting a kid to do their chores--it's condescending.

I guess to wrap up this rambling, Haumea never felt like much of a character, just "the antagonist" until the story needed sympathy for the devil to jerk out some tears from the audience that are not earned. I know all literature is just artificial constructions meant to imitate reality without ever entirely reaching reality and instead opting for just believability--but, damn it, this is not believable, and when the stitches in the plot are showing this obviously, the story is not working and comes across as a bunch of tropes stapled and taped together so badly that the staple and the tape are obscuring what I can see in the story.

#long post #dwells whines about fire force

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einsatzzz · 1 month ago

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give me your favorite manga or anime of all time. NOW. like, the ones who changed you as a person. if you are okay with questions like that!

Charlotte!!!! More anime/manga asks yipeeee I'll give you the three I can think of rn! For this one, Gintama is definitely my all-time fave but the others are in no specific order at all

Gintama - This one started off as a comedy at first and it really took its time endearing me to all these quirky and funny characters, while also showing glimpses of the layers beneath them. Then comes the "serious" arcs, that's when I start screaming and crying when I get to know more beneath those layers. The comedy is definitely still the highlight in this series for me, whenever I feel down I would pick a random Gintama episode and just watch it. Tbh, even if it has 300+ episodes, I can confidently say that I probably already rewatched it at least three times by now. But another highlight for me here is the mangaka's godtier ability to shift the tone between say comedy and serious/heartwarming moments, the transitions feel really smooth and it doesn't feel forced or out of place. I mentioned this in Jojo's ask, but this series really helped/supported me through my most depressed teenage years and it's probably not an overstatement to say that its one of the reasons I'm still alive rn. One of the quotes there that I can still vividly remember is "It's always darkest right before dawn". On the more goofy side, even to this day, I still have that one monkey's long ass name memorized lmao (the tagalog version specifically) Even if I change interests and fandoms, it will always be #1. The writing style, the characters and the comedy in Gintama are all such a huge inspiration, as well as a standard, for me. If you're familiar with Gintama, you can see lots of pieces of it in the way I want to portray and execute my own stories.

Pandora Hearts - THIS ONE CERTAINLY CHANGED MY BRAIN CHEMISTRY AS WELL. ITS ALSO VERY MUCH A MASTERPIECE. But my brain treats it the opposite of Gintama, in the way that after I finished reading the manga - I never reread it again. That's just how much the story destroyed me so thoroughly. I'm so afraid to re-experience it lmaooo I cried a lot of times for the characters there and the plot twists are nothing short of insane. I really love how complex the characters, their relationships with e/o and their lore are in this story. This series really fuels the angst + extremely complicated story lover in me. It's also a huge inspiration for my stories 🤭🤭🤭 If you're not familiar with this one, I recommend searching this one anime ost it has called "Lacie" (to avoid spoilers, don't go for the sideshow ones dkdhdj). I'm so attached to that ost, it has been a source of both comfort and sadness in one package. One of these days, I'll get enough courage for a reread...

IDOLiSH7 - I discovered this idol series when I was in college! (specifically experienced it first in the mobile game form) I thought its gonna be the usual happy lighthearted idol story that I'll move on from after a few weeks BUT NO! BRAIN CHEMISTRY CHANGED!! I didn't expect them to go so much deeper than that and I didn't expect to love & be attached to all the main characters, it's insane. Some of the characters' problems like Mitsuki's even hits so close to home, it really made me go *pause and starts walking around the house*. And thats just part 1 of the story, and then it's gets even worse (in the best way possible) in further parts. It doesn't help that the anime for it was done with a lot of love and care in it, elevating and improving the source material even further (adding/emphasizing symbolisms, more foreshadowing, etc). I just know that the main people involved in the creation/production of its anime were also as much of a fan as I am 🥺💖✨ (THE SONGS ARE BANGERS TOO!!!)

That's all for now, let me know if you want me to list more hehehe I rambled a lot for each of these three, but tbh, I still don't think it's enough to express hm these series meant to me dkdbmssbsn

#ask #charlottepuddingposts #i love these series so much #i am insane abt them #the only reason i didn't have gintama and pandora hearts in the yknrm inspo post is bc its gonna be a spoiler lmao #no beta we die like gintoki's balls in that one episode

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jacquelinemerritt · 1 year ago

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Dragon Ball Z: Abridged Episode 60 Review

What does it mean for an abridged series to go even further beyond?

Part I

I started this review series in 2015 because I loved Dragon Ball Z: Abridged, and I needed there to be writing out there that explained why I loved it so much.

It’s a funny thing, re-reading all of my old writing about it. Part of the nature of a weekly review series is that you tend to zoom in on the particulars, as that’s where the meatiest criticism lies. Going over the specifics of the story’s structure, how details in the show add to a greater whole, it’s all part of the process of finding out why something in a show works, or sometimes, doesn’t work.

It’s in those details though, that you come to a greater whole. By recounting the specific ways in which a story is threaded together, week after week, episode after episode, you start to bring forward recurring ideas, and piece together aspects that continually make a show work, and contribute to the greater whole. And when you’re critiquing a masterpiece, a show so lovingly crafted that every single detail lines up perfectly for its conclusion, you eventually are able to tie those thoughts together into what is hopefully a masterful conclusion of your own.

Dragon Ball Z: Abridged is the best possible version of Dragon Ball Z.

This might be the most contentious statement I’ve ever made about this show. It’s a statement I know for a fact the creators disagree with. But it’s a statement I believe wholeheartedly, and I even would go so far as to say that Dragon Ball Z: Abridged is closer to the spirit of the original Dragon Ball than Toriyama managed to pull off himself.

The original Dragon Ball manga is a masterpiece of its own. Akira Toriyama did a phenomenal job weaving together hilarious gags with thrilling martial arts action and compelling character growth, all while centering one of the most lovable, fun, and pure-hearted protagonists to ever be written. There’s a reason that it spawned an entire genre of imitators, and that’s because its blend of action, comedy, and growth were all executed masterfully.

I don’t think that Dragon Ball Z ever manages to capture that magic the way the original does. That’s not to say that Dragon Ball Z is a bad show, but by the time Raditz enters the story, the manga and show both change into something much more akin to a melodramatic soap opera. There’s so much waxing from the characters about how powerful these foes they’re facing are, and there’s very little levity sprinkled throughout these long, drawn-out fights, as the circumstances feel too dire for the characters to make jokes and be silly.

Silly humor was core to Dragon Ball’s charm though. The very first fight in the first World Tournament Arc is a gag about how Krillin is able to beat a martial artist who has never bathed and uses stench as a weapon, because he doesn’t have a nose to smell him with. The best side character in this series goes from being an angry, murderous criminal to being a cheerful, innocent sprite every time she sneezes, and she always sneezes at the worst possible moments for everyone. Hell, the entire Red Ribbon Army Arc is a joke about how Goku completely obliterates a major threat to the world on a whim, because none of them are martial artists, and not a real challenge as a result!

The very magic of Dragon Ball Z: Abridged is that it takes this melodramatic source material and finds the space within it to make jokes again. The Saiyans are a world-dooming threat, but Nappa is hilarious, and I will forever quote everything he said. Freeza is a genocidal tyrant who has taken the galaxy by force, but even when the world around him is unable to laugh, his spoiled, petulant attitude is funny as hell, and full of delightful dark humor. Even the darkest timeline of Trunks’ future is filled with jokes, whether that be the genuinely despicable ramblings of TJ and the Wombat, or a 50-year-old Bulma making a pass at Gohan, perfectly fitting her original boy-crazy characterization.

And phenomenally, Dragon Ball Z: Abridged manages to do everything I just mentioned without sacrificing an ounce of drama. Goku’s battle against Freeza is desperate, and his Spirit Bomb failing rips the ground out from under you. Future Trunks’ battle against the Cyborgs is tense, and his first transformation into a Super Saiyan is gut-wrenching. Even in the first season, before they fully found their feet, Team Four Star managed to make the battle between Goku and Vegeta every bit as tense as it needed to be, while still incorporating a constant stream of jokes.

So where does that leave us with Episode 60?

Part II

What, exactly, is the purpose of an abridged series?

I think it’s fair to say that an abridged series is, at its core, an adaptation of a work of art from one medium to another. This is a statement I’ve made before in these reviews, but I don’t think I’ve ever elaborated on it. It feels rather obvious to me that an abridged series be treated as any other adaptation might, because at the end of the day, that’s what artists like Team Four Star, LittleKuriboh, and Something Witty Entertainment are doing. They are adapting a work from the medium of televised anime to the medium of a comedy YouTube short, and making the same kinds of adaptational decisions in creating these series as a production team turning a book into a movie.

You can see this question of adaptation present itself as far back as some of the earliest abridged series, like Avatar: The Abridged Series. Most of that show intentionally leans into the weakest aspects of Katara’s character, emphasizing her feminity, thirst for cute boys, and quick temper far more than the original show ever did. Yet, in its last episode, Katara undergoes a significant transformation in the face of Paku’s sexism, and is completely reimagined with a new voice actress as she goes on a rant about the sexist ways she’s been written, and her refusals to stand for it anymore. The last episode of this abridged series ever made goes out of its way to critique both itself and its source material in its last episode, and it begs the question of how far an abridged series adaptation can go.

Sword Art Online: Abridged famously goes even further in its critique of its source material. Almost every character is completely rewritten to serve as both a more accurate representation of online culture, and a deconstruction of their original persona, with Kirito in particular standing out as a fantastic depiction of the kind of loneliness and self-isolation that comes with being a try-hard edgelord. It takes an entire season of the show for Kirito to learn to truly connect with other people, and that growth is made all the more satisfying by showing genuinely difficult it is for him to maintain anything resembling a positive friendship with anyone because of those edgelord tendencies.

These shows both have very different purposes, in large part due to the evolving understanding of what an abridged series is capable of between their creations, but they both raise a fairly similar question: what happens when you give everyone with a video editor and internet connection the ability to re-tell someone else’s story?1

The answer here is something I think is quite beautiful. The abridged series thrives outside of the realm of copyright locked down by rent-seeking ideas landlords, and allows individuals, groups, and communities to reimagine their favorite stories. Sometimes, what they imagine is as simple as few extra jokes, or a simple rant about the sexist way a character is written, and sometimes, what they imagine is a completely new version of the story that actually raises interesting questions and showcases compelling characters.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the abridged series found its roots in the copyright-less utopia of early YouTube, when anyone had the freedom to take something they loved or hated, and transform it into something completely different. The rise of Content ID has long since taken away this pure, unadulterated freedom from us, and I truly feel that the internet is worse off for it.

When it comes to Dragon Ball Z: Abridged, the show we are watching is the result of a bunch of people who love Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z more than anything else, asking what they can do to make the show funnier, smarter, and more meaningful. Team Four Star found their footing as writers when they began to focus on the comedy that came from character interaction, as we watched these huge personalities clash, and for every funny joke they were able to draw out of that foundation, they managed to draw even more pathos and catharsis for these characters.

Which is to say, Team Four Star took the idea of an abridged series, and went even further beyond.

Part III

Episode 60 of Dragon Ball Z: Abridged is a massive episode that provides a satisfying resolution to the whole series, and nearly every storyline running within it. It also highlights the relationship between its characters fantastically, placing most of the story’s emotional weight on the fractured dynamic between Gohan and his chronically absent father, Goku.

The entire first part of the episode is focused on the tension between who Gohan fundamentally is, and the man his father expects him to be. Goku has, in a stroke of fighting genius (the only genius he is capable of), perfectly planned out this encounter between Perfect Cell and Gohan. He’s manipulated Cell into hosting a tournament for the fate of the world, and placed his son in the perfect position to take down Cell and ascend to power greater than anyone has ever seen. And it’s all ruined because, as Piccolo perfectly points out, Gohan hates fighting.

The subtext of emotional strain between Goku and Gohan has been running throughout the entire series, but it’s finally brought to the forefront of the text in this moment. We see Gohan wrack himself emotionally and Cell wrack him physically, as he and Cell both try to force himself to fill the role his father has placed him in. Even as Cell violently births his own progeny to wreck Goku and his companions, in a last ditch effort to stir a fire within Gohan, Goku’s son cannot bring himself to be the warrior his father believes him to be.

Android 16’s speech and subsequent death changes all of that for Gohan. In a moment set to a breathtaking cover of Unmei no Hi, Gohan internalizes the lesson passed onto him by Android 16, who thoroughly eviscerated the liberal pacifism Gohan has been trying to embody. And Gohan gets angry. So angry that his power skyrockets, and he becomes a Super Duper Saiyan.

Super Duper Saiyan Gohan is fucking terrifying.

Throughout Dragon Ball Z: Abridged, we’ve come to know Gohan as an incredibly intelligent, exuberant, compassionate bookworm. Even though he doesn’t want his entire life to revolve around education and books, he still revels in knowledge and the opportunity to learn, and some of his cutest moments are when he is allowed to be truly childlike, like when he eagerly investigated Cell’s time travel pod for clues.

Every single ounce of compassion and love for life Gohan had before transforming into a Super Duper Saiyan is replaced with rage. Rage at Cell for destroying Android 16, a beautiful soul who did nothing wrong. Rage at Goku for thrusting him into this fight unprepared, and taking away the only hope he felt by throwing Cell a Senzu. And rage, most of all, at the world, for being so fucked up that he was forced into this situation to begin with.

Gohan’s rage is cold though. There is no righteous fury like Goku, no petulant tantrum like Vegeta, no sorrowful torment like Trunks. This Gohan slowly defines the word “filicide” for Cell as he effortlessly commits it, wiping out all of Cell’s children so quickly even Freeza, the most murderous being we’ve met in this universe, would be impressed.

That very rage drives all of Gohan’s decisions, as he lords his power over Cell and takes every opportunity to torment him. He blows away all of Cell’s limbs with a Kamehameha, and then guts him with his fist so hard that he throws up Android 18, and loses his Perfect form. It’s this blindness by rage that leads to Gohan’s greatest mistake, of not finishing off Cell, who tries to blow himself and the planet up in order to gain some kind of victory.

What’s perfect about this moment though is that while Gohan feels entirely responsible for his mistake, Goku knows better. He recognizes the responsibility he bears for Gohan’s bloodlust, and knows that the only way to make it right is to remove Cell from the equation altogether, teleporting the two of them to King Kai’s planet in bold move to save the earth.

Goku’s decision to sacrifice himself also recalibrates Gohan’s perspective, guiding him away from the rage that filled him before, so that when Cell returns, and murders Vegeta’s baby boy, Gohan doesn’t hesitate to put himself in harms way to protect Vegeta from a deadly blow. It costs him an arm, but his commitment to protecting others, even when it’s stupid, and even when it gets himself hurt, is true to the Gohan we’ve come to know and love. All that’s left for Gohan to do is face off against Cell, one Kamehameha against another, and draw on the strength and fighting spirit of his father to deliver the final blow.

Goku and Gohan aren’t the only two characters whose relationship is deepened in this episode. Vegeta’s enraged cry of “MY BABY BOY!” when Cell kills Trunks shows just how much Vegeta has come to love his own son, despite the airs he puts on to the contrary. Piccolo’s love for Gohan is also expressed incredibly here as he lectures Goku for not paying attention to the needs and wants of his son, who just wanted to receive love and affection from his father.

In fact, the love that these characters have for each other, and the ways they express it, is a theme that runs deep in this episode. Trunks love for all these folks around him is shown as he dutifully delivers them all Senzu Beans, quietly making silly puns to each of them. Krillin’s love for Android 18 is displayed wonderfully, whether through him gaining the strength to stand up to Vegeta because she’s resting in his arms, or through him wishing her and her brother free of the bombs implanted in them. Even Yamcha and Tenshinhan are given a moment of brotherly love, as they express for the first time in words how much they both mean to each other.

That very love is also what drives Goku to refuse to be resurrected at the end of the episode, despite Cell having been defeated. He genuinely loves Gohan, Goten, Chi Chi, and all of his friends, and knows that the best way to show his love, for once, is actually to be away from them, and spend time in heaven with King Kai. He’s not afraid of the great change this will be, both for him, and the people he loves, and is willing to embrace the afterlife if it means safety for his loved ones.

Goku’s speech about embracing change and not being a part of his loved ones’ life anymore is also very easy to read as a coda to Dragon Ball Z: Abridged itself. He, and all the rest of these characters, are saying good-bye to us, the audience that has followed them on their journey for years, and they are all embracing the truth that it is beautiful to let this show end on its own happy terms. It’s ironic that, at the time, Team Four Star announced that they would be trying to continue this series, but it’s clear they grew to see the wisdom in Goku’s words too.

A similar message can be found in Cell’s final moments, as he gives us a beautiful rendition of Frank Sinatra’s My Way. Team Four Star, just like this villain, has spent nearly a decade re-telling the three sagas of Dragon Ball Z they loved the most, and at every turn, they chose to do it their way. Sometimes, in the early days, that meant reference-based humor that aged like milk, but more often than not, it meant leaning into their strengths as comedic writers, taking creative liberties with the source material, and working to elevate the text of Dragon Ball Z to something even better than the original show.

I don’t know what to call that other than Perfect.

Epilogue

The journey that I’ve been on with Dragon Ball Z: Abridged, both as a viewer and critic, has been an incredible one. It has meant more to me than just about any other show I’ve ever watched, and stands up there with some of the most impactful art that I’ve experienced. It’s a show I’ve watched when I was suicidally depressed to find some sort of levity, a show I found enough depth in to meticulously critique every episode, and a show I’ve gotten even my shounen-indifferent partner to get extremely hype about, as I showed them the entire show in the lead-up to its fantastic finale.

What Team Four Star managed to create in Dragon Ball Z: Abridged is something genuinely special. It’s a show that makes me laugh harder than just about anything. It’s a show that’s made me cry more times than I can count too, as I was tearing up multiple times while re-watching the finale for this review. It’s even a show that I get to cringe at sometimes, when I think of the early seasons, but that cringing makes it all the more impressive how much Team Four Star improved as storytellers, and elevated their craft to tell their version of Dragon Ball Z better than anyone else could.

I love Dragon Ball Z: Abridged. I will always love Dragon Ball Z: Abridged. And even though it’s over, I know it will always be there for me, waiting for me to tag along with Goku, Krillin, Vegeta, and Gohan, as they power up and save the world.

Rating: 5/5

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Stray Observations

1This question, you might notice, is exactly the same question raised by the existence of fan-fiction, and this is because abridged series are, at their core, no different from any other form of fan-fiction. An abridged series does, by its nature, require more work and expertise than a piece of prose on Archive of Our Own, but all it achieves, in the end, is a greater level of accessibility, like the difference between a written article and a video essay.

I genuinely adore that in this episode, when Piccolo goes to yell at Gohan to dodge, he’s already dodging Cell perfectly. What a great ending to a running gag.

Yamcha’s every line in this episode is great too. He just wants to be included, whether that’s in Team Three Star, or Cell’s plans for tournament entertainment, and I love him for that.

Super Duper Saiyan is also, just, fucking brilliant. Like, what a great way to use Goku’s silliness to get around the awkwardness of these forms being called Super Saiyan 2 and Super Saiyan 3. Vegeta calling the next form Super-Dee-Duper Saiyan just sells the joke even further. If the show had continued for another season, I genuinely would have loved the comedy of these characters shouting about being “Super-Duper Saiyan” or “Super-Dee-Duper Saiyan,” and would love to see a mock-up of Goku’s “even further beyond” speech with these terms in Team Four Star’s style.

Krillin Owned Count: 0. And as a huge fan of Krillin, yeah, this makes me real fuckin’ happy J

Also holy shit, did Krillin cum 39 times??? That’s super impressive for a cis dude, mad props.

#dragon ball z abridged #dragon ball z #team four star #tfs #dbz #dbza #dbza ep60

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