#I'm trying very hard not to care that it could be better

[shinra-makonoid]

You know, if I do succeed in becoming a doctor, depending on where I end up to I'd like to specifically work in prison to care for prisonners, as they are one of the categories of people who are less able to access healthcare and more suffering from chronic illnesses (especially mental health issues and traumas, as the carceral system is inherently abusive which increase the probability of new crimes to be committed after). Because I think everyone deserve to have access to healthcare. How monstreous of me, it means I ""defend"" aaaaaaall the criminals. It's worse than you thought! My most preferred option though is cancer or palliative care (which can also impacts prisonners). But it's far too early to think about this and it could change.

I think you underestimate the cultural differences between you and the people I know surrounding the field, my friends, or the hypothetical "colleagues" that I will potentially have. Most of the people I know are against guns, think Americans are barbaric idiots, understand that crimes is a complex issues with several factors that are independant of someone being fundamentally "good" or "bad", and that killing is wrong. If you think the average person thinks like you, you're in an echo chamber.

I'm poor and always have been poor btw, I neither own a home nor a car, there's nothing of value to steal in my place. My loved ones have been threatened and attacked, feared for their lives, without having any means to defend themselves. I once faced a 2 meter father to defend a little girl from being abused, without any kind of weapon (I'm not even 1m70), which I'm sure you wouldn't ever have had the balls to do without hiding behind a gun like the sad cuck that you are. The fact is, you know absolutely nothing of me or my life and you're still creating some kind of weird puppet to get mad at or jealous at or whatever you are feeling. And it's embarassing, you guys are on your tumblr account hypothesizing about a literal stranger on the other side of the world who is trying very hard to make a difference to create a better place in his country, because said stranger hurt your little feelings. What the fuck are you doing to make your country better exactly? Nothing. You jerk off all day and talk about how you'll kill anyone stepping on your property lmao and I'm the one who talks big? The truth is that if you were in my spot you'd shit yourself dude, you have 0% of the balls needed to do a fraction of what I do in my life.

I know what people can do, how cruel and dangerous they can be. My position comes from a place of understanding and knowledge about those issues, not from being ignorant of it. I also know that you don't decrease the amount of crime through punishment or death sentences, and that people don't do crimes for no reasons. That the reasons need to be tackled for the crimes to go down, that we need to consider it as a public health issue rather than a stupid story of individual bad people and individual good people. And that it's not morally ok to kill.

Just read someone claiming that being ok with killing someone breaking into your house is a "facist usamerican opinion".

As a victim of a home break in, where I got beaten up for the sin of dropping a plastic bag holding snacks I had just bought, where I then had to witness an aunt and her daughter crying their eyes out tied to a bed, fearing they would get raped, myself fearing the same for them after I too was tied and gagged next to them.

And also as the son of another victim of a break in, who got stabbed in the gut and almost died of blood loss half naked right in front of his infant daughter.

I have to say

Kill all home intruders, if they have committed the sin of breaking into the place most safe for you and your family, with the intention of taking everything you worked so hard to get, not to mention the lives of you and your family, you have all the right in the world to respond with deadly force, no questions asked.

[megapteraurelia]

EPITHIMIA. — part 2.

☾ SUMMARY;

— having been sent up to tokyo as an exchange student to spy on the first-years, your objective had been crystal clear: don't meddle. don't change anything. just observe. you didn't expect fushiguro megumi to foil your plans that quickly — but it's not like you could help yourself, not when he refused to be someone you could respect. so, what else to do but meddle?

☾ WARNINGS;

— fem!reader; enemies to lovers; forced proximity; attempted character study?? (badly done!!); angst; gojo being annoying; ppl being hypocritical!; kind of angsty yuji too; TW: mention of blood, death;

☾ WORD COUNT;

— 20,458.

☾ AUTHOR'S NOTE;

— i lied. there's no romance here because i'm stupid and i couldn't stop writing other scenes. there will be a part three (and if all goes well that SHOULD actually be the last part). also, frick action scenes! also had to sacrifice some of the aesthetics because i can only add 30 images oops

please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

pt. 1 | pt. 2

15th of April; 07:22. — kugisaki nobara.

Fushiguro syndrome. — as coined by Kugisaki Nobara: part-time sorcerer, quarter-time model, quarter-time self-proclaimed doctor.

Definition. A rare but deeply annoying affliction characterised by excessive brooding, emotional constipation, and the compulsive need to shoulder the entire weight of the world whilst pretending it's fine. Symptomps. — saying 'I'm fine' while visibly not fine. — intense staring instead of talking. — going silent mid-conversation because feelings are hard. — randomly disappearing to punch curses alone without backup. — at least one major emotional crisis repressed into a singular eyebrow twitch.

They weren't fighting.

And honestly, that was weirder than when they were.

Nobara noticed it the second they all met up in the dining hall for breakfast: the sun cast high, the light refracting through the glasses of water on the tables, leaving behind a sparkling surface. Megumi's arms were crossed nonstop, his shoulders struggling to hold the tension, sporting the worst eye bags she had seen in ages (Should she recommend him some good eye cream?)

He fixed the ground with a glare, eyes narrowed like he was trying to exorcise his constipated feelings, before sitting down at one of the tables off to the side. Nobara thought that he looked like a statue with too much gel product in his spiky hair, the way he didn't even eat his food, just stared at it.

On the other hand, there was you, who kept fiddling with your uniform as if it wasn't sitting right on your body. It couldn't be that, though, because the tailors of Tokyo Jujutsu High were very high-calibre. She would know, her uniform sat perfectly, and she was quite finicky in that matter. So, it had to be something else.

Nobara couldn't read you, though. You kept to yourself and made no move to really integrate yourself to their friend circle and sure, as an exchange student, this entire stay here was supposed to be temporary, so to some extent, she did understand that maybe, it was better not to get attached. But then, there also was no telling how long you were staying, so wouldn't it be better to make friends?

But you didn't and so Nobara didn't, either.

It wasn't like she really disliked you, but she wasn't going to waste effort on somebody who didn't know to appreciate it. She was fine to ignore you most of the time, which wasn't hard, considering that you only let some comments slip sometimes, but then you had to go and be a bitch to Megumi.

It wasn't like she really cared about Megumi; if anything, he was annoying with the way he was zapping all the fun, but she couldn't stand by and watch him be hurt like that. In the end, he was her teammate and…..her…..friend……so she couldn't not feel a certain way about it.

In any way, there was no greeting, no arguing, not even a single snide comment about the other's expression, punctuality or whatever it was they used to bicker about constantly. No sarcastic jabs, grumbled responses that made her roll her eyes so hard, it gave her a headache.

Not a single thing.

Just silence and a whole mountain range of tension between them — and it wasn't even the fun type of tension. Ugh, this was so boring.

Nobara leaned back on the bench, her food untouched as well as she pretended to yawn, but mostly, she just wanted to gauge how bad it was between you two. She had seen you going at it before — loud, sarcastic, the kind of arguments that made Yuji glance between you two like some kind of referee in a sports match, so the weird silence — the chattering of Yuji's with the rest of the students aside — was honestly disgusting.

Yuji's voice, cheerful and loud as always, broke through her thoughts. Really, this kid had no tact or decorum. "Sooo, what's up with these two? It's like there's a black hole of energy today."

"Salmon," Inumaki said and stabbed a piece of fish (Fish? As breakfast?) to bring to his scribbled mouth. Nobara eyed the markings on his cheeks and Inumaki was quick to zip up his jacket and hide them behind his collar like he could hide from the world. Nobara didn't really mean to make Inumaki feel self-conscious but wow, these marking did not help out.

Yuji, on the other hand, kept eating the fish and the rice like he was starving, though knowing him, he probably was. Seven hours without food? A surprise he was still alive. With stuffed cheeks, he spat a few grains of rice onto her plate. She pushed it away. Gross little chimp.

"Yeah, it's like, they're magnets in reverse, you know? Like…repulsing? Was that the word?"

"Repelling," Maki's eye roll was so incredible in conveying her exasperation, Nobara was in love. "It's like watching two stubborn blocks of wood trying to figure out who is more stubborn."

Nobara had to try out the eye roll, too. "More like, who is a bigger pain in the ass."

Then she leaned over her food, ignoring Yuji's star struck chipmunk face when she pushed him back by the shoulder to shout over to you, "Oi, did Megumi infect you with Fushiguro Syndrome, too?"

Your voice was cheerful when you replied, "I think I'm just peachy, Kugisaki, thanks for asking!" but Nobara could spot fake-happiness from a mile away — the way your knuckles whitened holding your chopsticks, the annoyed twitch in your eyebrows, the distracted flitting of your eyes over the fish. Yeah, definitely Fushiguro Syndrome. You were sporting the most theatrical fake happiness anybody could ever ask for. Not that she'd know who would want it, but in case it was an attribute searched by anyone, at least she would know where and who to direct them to.

"She absolutely isn't."

"Yeah, no way in hell."

"Salmon, salmon."

Yuji swallowed the food without even chewing properly, a few rice grains still sticking to the side of his mouth. He tried getting them with his tongue when Inumaki pointed towards them, but gave up when the blonde sorcerer kept shaking his head. Nobara probably could tell him exactly where it was, but to his dismay and to her enjoyment, she did delight in watching Yuji make a fool of himself.

"It's weird, though," he said in between licks (no! Not this way — the rice grain was under his lower lip on the right side!) and then stuffed his cheeks with more food, "I mean, they've always been kind of odd with each other, but now it's different. It's like…they're those crabs that get stuck in the same hole and just…pinch each other until they both get annoyed enough to walk away, but they can't leave because they're stuck, and it's hilarious."

"What in the hell," Nobara paused. "are you talking about, Itadori."

Inumaki Toge nodded. "Bonito flakes."

"You seriously agree with him, Inumaki?" Maki quirked up her eyebrow, one of her chopsticks waving in the direction of Yuji and Inumaki as if to make sense of their non-sense, to bring to life the magic of understanding neanderthal-speak.

Megumi stood up with the slight screech of his chair skidding on the floor, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets as he walked out the dining hall without sparing a glance towards anybody. There was a distinct scoff coming from your direction, your chopsticks scratching hard against the surface of your plate, before you too pushed your plate away and got up to leave.

Nobara wondered if you had only been here for Megumi's sake, whether you had meant to leave at the same time, to give the impression that your presence at breakfast was just to make Megumi uncomfortable — maybe a reminder of whatever transpired between you both. But honestly, Nobara couldn't care less. Worrying about other people could mean that she'd stress over them enough to cause her hair ends to split or, worse, get grey hair.

God, just kiss or kill each other already, she thought with an exaggerated eye roll, but in the end it wasn't her business. Not really.

…but she definitely was going to text Yuji about it later.

16th of April; 13:26. — gojo satoru.

Gojo Satoru was many things.

Handsome (undefeated). The strongest (naturally). Adept at approximately all the things he put his hands on. But nosy? Not really. But once he was curious, there was no stopping him, and curiosity for Gojo Satoru was a dangerous thing.

Sipping from a can of peach soda, especially sweet, he sat lounging on the stairs. Below him, on the courtyard lawn, stood his little assortments of students, amongst which were his enigmatic black-haired student and his new Kyoto's little sharp-tongued mole. Well, exchange student, if he were to stick totechnicality, but then again, that word didn't do a lot of justice to the actual reason you were sent here.

Both of his students were standing a little too far apart; there was no speaking and no fighting like all the other times that he had the pleasure of witnessing. But that was the thing. There had been a fight.

If he could be generous to call it that — which he always was, mind you — the last mission ended with a little…disagreement. He hadn't been there, but the report Ichiji had given him was quite clear. Something had happened that broke whatever little tolerance you both had for each other. Of course, he could imagine what it was, because Ichiji had been very detailed in the way both of his kids derailed into a shouting match over blame.

Gojo sipped his drink.

Interesting.

Megumi wasn't the type to carry grudges, usually. He carried a lot of responsibility, sure. A liberal amount of regret tossed in there, too, but what sorcerer didn't?

But something as petty as resentment? Not usually his deal. The nasty glare he had fixed on the exchange student was speaking volumes, though.

And you?

He had noticed it before; the way you made things personal, the way you didn't let up. Gojo thought that it wasn't the worst thing to happen to Megumi, especially if you could get him out of his mind once in a while. So he never saw a need to intervene, beside the fact that he didn't think Megumi would be unable to handle what you threw at him.

He could already imagine the glare sent his way if he meddled in Megumi's business beyond his own relationship with him as a teacher. Though, not that that really kept him from anything.

But personal tension, especially if it was persistent, had a way of bleeding into teamwork — or as 'team' as that work between you seemed to be, which did make it Gojo's problem, after all.

One eye peeking from underneath the blindfold, he noted the way Megumi's jaw tightened when you turned away without acknowledging him; the way your cursed energy flared aggressively when Megumi muttered something under his breath. There was a tight rope between apathy and something glimmering beneath it, heated, unspoken and definitely unresolved, tied between both your feet; ready to get you tripping if you moved too far away from each other.

He could be doing the responsible teacher thing: sit them down. Encourage open communication, blah blah — no.

That wasn't his style, and way too boring. What kind of teacher would he be if he didn't subtly abuse his incredible power for lighthearted surveillance?

Gojo Satoru tilted his head and his gaze fell on Yuji and Nobara, a slight tight-lipped smile widening, "Let's see what my adorable disasters are up to."

20th of April; 10:08. — gojo satoru.

"Already done? My, what hardworking bee you are, Megumi!"

"There any more, Gojo-sensei?"

"There's always an abundance of low grade jobs, but you sure you're not gonna turn into a zombie on me? Ya giving your brain enough time to catch a break?"

"I'm fine. I'll handle it," then, his voice a bit quieter: "I won't make any more mistakes."

Gojo tilted his head, his eyebrows drawn high, "I'll have Ichiji give you the details on the way. Just know that you'll lose your handsomeness if you turn into one of those undeads; flaky skin and all, you know? Now off you pop."

Though maybe he'll finally stop resembling his father then, Gojo thought, his finger turning the cuff of his uniform as he watched his student leave the room, a slight limp as he stepped on his right ankle.

22nd of April; 23:48. — zen'in maki, just called maki.

Zen'in Maki, just called Maki, hated reminders of her parentage.

For all the obsession with strength and cursed techniques, Maki found that the name of her clan in blood was less a title and more of a curse itself; a chain clinched around her throat since her birth, growing with her as she transcended childhood and grew into the young woman she was today. It was not rare for somebody to utter the name in her vicinity — not by virtue of upsetting her, but because even though she thought it was undeserved, there was no denying that the Zen'ins were one of the three great sorcerer families.

Even though it had been some time since she left the clan compound, she still felt the weight of it — the expectations she was meant to fail, the sneers she was meant to endure, the silence that was meant to shame her into obedience.

The traditional and backwards way her clan in blood operated made hers boil, and even though she would like nothing more than to circumvent any mention of this bitter reminder of her apparent inadequacy, she steeled herself each time the name passed somebody's lips. Because to flinch is to give in, to react is to admit defeat and to allow them to control her beyond their property by mere allusion. And Maki, with her stubborn heartbeat and her body honed into a weapon, refused to bow.

Her eyes, as sharp as ever, flitted over Megumi's black hair, though barely illuminated in the darkness and stillness of the night. Sometimes she forgot that he shared the same blood, but it wasn't the clan's much-heralded inherited Ten Shadows Technique that reminded her. It wasn't the black hair either that they shared. It was this.

The look in his eyes as he gripped his blade and performed katas with his sword. The cleanliness of it, the efficiency. It was the expression on his face that had her narrow her eyes, that had her muscles tensing as if to ward off any attacks — the same calculating silence masked as focus, the same quiet detachment.

She used to see that look in the training halls of the Zen'in estate: when her father would bark corrections with a tone that promised bruises and punishment; in Naoya's face when he used to kick the animals that lost their way onto their property, on the faces of several clans men. A mask that said feelings get you killed.

She watched him pivot, bring the blade up with a sharp, precise movement that made no sound but cut through the air like glass; the harsh exhale like there was a mountain of air buried deep in the cavity of his lungs needing to be set free. It was the feeling that this reminder of the mask brought out within her, the desperation to rip off that same look on her own face, the hollowed out thump in her chest that had her approach Megumi.

"You trying to break some record or are you just trying to kill yourself out here?"

Maki didn't expect a response and true to that, there was none following. She knew it all too well — this honed focus, the strangulation of an-ever growing vignette.

"Seriously, what the hell is going on with you?" Maki stopped a few metres short from where he was denying his body any rest, "It's well past curfew and you're bleeding all over the place. Training's not going to do you much good if you can't even hold your damn weapon."

Along the razor sharp sound of the blade slitting the air into two, Megumi's voice sounded out, painted with heavy breaths: "What about you then? What did you come out here for, huh?"

Silence. A slight stiffening of limbs.

"Don't pretend we don't know," Megumi halted in his movements, and his eyes — a wild, storming ocean — fixed her with a look, "You come out every night like you're being chased. Like you'll fall behind if you stop. So what is it — are you here to check on me or were you planning to do the same thing?"

Maki stayed quiet longer than she meant to.

There was a slight pressure behind her ribs, in the cavity that was her chest. Something curling up in on itself. A part of her wanted to scoff and tell him he was projecting, but the look in his eyes stopped her. The restless edge. The way he trained past exhaustion, the circles underneath his eyes, a promise that collapsing meant personal failure. The way he avoided eye contact when people asked if he was sleeping.

She knew what it meant. She knew where the road lead, because she was still walking it.

He wasn't wrong. The truth was that she hadn't come out here to check on him, that it wasn't on her mind until she saw the way he had danced over the training grounds. That she came because her body was buzzing from the inside with energy to waste, constantly caught between fight and flight, even when there was no one left to fight.

Her knuckles were still sore from last night. From the night before that. From the week before that.

Never leave me behind.

Maki's exhale was quiet. There was a promise and she broke it. She had left first.

Every time she trained until she couldn't feel her legs, every time her fingers bled grasping the hilt of her blade, it was with the breath of her sister's whisper down her neck. Because she had to believe that it would make it worth something. That she was getting closer to earning her way back, that she wasn't abandoning her twin — just biding her time until she could tear the clan down with her own two hands.

She glanced at Megumi, the tension in his muscles, the barely healed cuts on his arms, the faint trickle of blood from the ripped open callouses on the palm of his hand and the way he was holding himself together like his world was taped up hastily and might shatter. She saw herself in him, younger her who kept pushing forward because stopping and turning around meant seeing what she had left behind.

"I didn't come here to hurt myself. I came to train."

Something almost akin to a scoff escaped the boy, though it also could have been him breathing out in exertion, "Right. Because your hands weren't wrapped in tape yesterday either, right?"

"That's different," she said but Maki wasn't typically somebody who lied to herself.

Megumi bent at the knees, deep, the sword reflecting the moonlight for a split second, his shoulders twitching in a shrug. "I'll stop if you stop."

Maki felt it sit in the pit of her stomach — the guilt at her own decision, the rightful anger at her clan, the choking pressure of her desire. Then she rolled her own shoulders, steeled herself and with it came the resolve: even if there was nobody who would understand her, who could walk in her shoes, who could save Mai from the Zen'in clan's clutches, she would have to continue on.

There was no other way it could go.

"You're overthinking your third stance."

His voice was rough, almost desperate. "Show me."

25th of April; 01:18. — you.

There was a folded strip of black paper sitting on your bed, pressed and knotted with a red threat.

A talisman.

Kyoto-issued, so it seemed. You'd recognise the ink pattern everywhere having seen it in your school, a subconscious reminder that you weren't here to have fun. Well, it wasn't like you were having any special fun, but still, the appearance of such a charm had your spine straighten up immediately.

Carefully, you let your gaze roam through your entire room, but nothing seemed out of the norm. If anything, it might have been even too tidy, though that also might be your paranoia talking. As much as your room looked like it always did, the talisman was very well out of norm.

Kyoto Jujutsu High usually didn't get in contact with you, unless there was something dire.

And that couldn't be, because you hadn't noticed anything worthy of noting down yet, because nothing was happening here. Nothing of significance for Gakuganji, at least. Nothing that warranted them contacting you directly and sending you a message so obviously.

You picked up the paper, your eyes recognising the charm written up, general polite well wishes, and underneath in strokes that only a select few could read:

As we have yet to receive any updates, we would greatly appreciate a brief report at your earliest convenience. Should circumstances remain unchanged, we may be required to explore other available options. We appreciate your continued efforts and trust you will keep us informed.

Of course. There was no name, no seal, no malice in those words. Seemingly. Only incredible politeness, a veiled threat, so if one were to read it, it would sound like a mildly scolding letter.

You stared at the charm, the crease where it was folded neatly. Your first thought had been that you missed a report — that somehow you'd let something slip. But you knew yourself, knew the meticulousness with which you always prepared the seals, knew that the correspondence was as tight and precise as your technique.

You pursed your lips in thought.

If they had sent something now, that meant your charms weren't reaching them for a while now. You hadn't thought much of the silence after each of the transmissions; no confirmation coming back wasn't unusual. The Kyoto faculty preferred silence, the kind of quiet superiority that made them respond when they deemed it important, not one second before.

But now this.

If your reports weren't arriving, then either something had intercepted them…or someone had. Both implications had your forehead create way too many wrinkles for your age and instinctively, you glanced toward the window, the slow sway of the courtyard trees like a whisper about to tell you its secrets.

The paper folded without resistance, at the same seam as before. It didn't matter if someone had been interfering, you decided; you had no proof or any grounds to throw around accusations, especially since that wasn't Kyoto's intention to begin with. They'd rather replace you than make sure to find out who was trying to foil their plans. Beside the fact that it wasn't your job to speculate. It was to observe. To report. To be useful.

It wasn't quite the way you liked to do things for it made no sense to you that other people would offer up information out of their own volition. If there was no action taken, how could you ever find out about people? How were you ever going to prove your usefulness to the people who deemed it so easy to replace you?

You hadn't expected to feel anything, reading those words — certainly not this hesitation. Not when you were here with a purpose; but still: it twisted inside you, low and persistent.

Which meant no more distractions.

Because if your chest twisted like that then that meant you had been dragging your feet, it meant that a part of you had started to hope the assignment would quietly dissolve before it reached a critical point. Because it meant that you started to get attached when you were just being thorough.

You straightened the paper, smoothing the wrinkles that didn't exist. No more chasing tension for your enjoyment's sake. No more watching Fushiguro Megumi to see if you could crack the surface, to see if his innards spilled out with all the thoughts and feelings he kept hidden, the fight with himself to figure out who he was. No more trying to provoke him.

You'd wasted much time trying to figure out what lay behind that tired sharpness in his eyes, the way he flinched at praise, the way he always looked like he was dragging something unseen behind him.

You couldn't make that mistake again.

Whatever role he played, whatever potential Kyoto thought he might harbour and develop, it wasn't yours to decipher. It wasn't yours to push. It wasn't your mission. He wasn't.

Whatever interference had occurred, it wouldn't happen twice.

26th of April; 16:34. — fushiguro megumi.

"She's not that bad, you know?"

Fushiguro Megumi didn't want to look up to see the pink of Yuji's hair drown with an orange sheen, to watch the sky bleed into lavender, evening announcing itself slowly, gently.

He thought that he really didn't want to talk about it.

There wasn't anything to talk about, not about you, and not about you with Yuji. Especially not him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate his input — at times. But this? This wasn't something Megumi wanted to lay out for anyone, not something he wanted to talk with Yuji about.

Not the argument that him and you had, about the accusation standing in the room, about all the things that he knew Yuji felt strongly about. Megumi knew that he would take it hard.

So he scoffed, his chin finding its way onto the palm of his hand, "Yeah, well, she thinks being loud is the same thing as being right."

"Cool. But that's not what I asked," Yuji leaned back, his elbows finding the stone steps behind him.

No, it wasn't. He knew it wasn't.

There was a soft breeze, a certain warmth swinging alongside it. The stones beneath him were warm, too, still lingering in the former caress of the sun. Yuji wasn't looking at him, and that somehow made it worse. If he had been, if there had been pity in his face or concern in his eyes, then Megumi could have shut it down. Cut the conversation short. But the casual posture, the light tilt of his head back toward the sky — it made it harder to tell him to shut up.

It would have been easier if he wasn't here. If Yuji wasn't trying to poke holes in walls that Megumi had already worn himself out trying to keep up.

So he said, flatly, "Why you here?"

Yuji didn't take the bait, and that annoyed Megumi, too. But there wasn't a lot that didn't manage to irk Megumi nowadays.

"Because you don't talk to her," he said simply, "Maybe you'll talk to me."

Megumi didn't move, but the grass in front of him did; swinging with the soft picking up of the wind. Yuji's voice wasn't accusing or disappointed; it was gentle in the way that only Yuji could sound like. Goodhearted, open, optimistic. He talked like he knew it was difficult and didn't want to make it harder, and that was exactly what made it difficult to shove him away.

"You care. That's what's messing you up, isn't it?"

Megumi didn't dare breathe.

"She pissed you off. Got too close. Now you don't know what to do with it."

He exhaled softly. Yuji was wrong — or at least, somewhat. It wasn't that he cared about you. It was the way you looked him in the eye and questioned everything he believed in. His desire to save lives — all lives, if possible; that he wasn't actually doing it. That killing the curse wasn't always the same as winning, that the mission, the regulations weren't absolute. Couldn't be.

You believed in getting it done and accepting what had to be lost along the way, and it was the way you had been calm about it. Cold, even. Efficient, not even necessarily cruel, though he thought you were — but just clear.

And that had shaken him.

A part of him was wondering if you were right. He was pissed about that.

Because standing in the rubble of the half-collapsed shopping mall with the girl crying behind him, he had hesitated. Not even because it was hard. But because it wasn't.

"Mind your own business, Itadori."

Yuji stayed on the steps, solid, still, refusing to be dismissed. There was a pause, and then:

"Nah."

He knew Itadori Yuji. Knew the tone and knew exactly what it meant — that this wasn't going to be one of those conversations that got buried under a shrug and a change of subject. Yuji wasn't leaving, not until he had said whatever he wanted to come say. There was a quiet patience in his eyes, the kind that made Megumi feel seen, a little exposed, challenged.

He rubbed at the corner of his brow with two fingers, eyes closing with exhaustion that ran deep. "I said drop it."

"Yeah," Yuji nodded. "I heard you."

"You don't get it." Megumi imagined Yuji like a fly that he could swat away, bury all his thoughts under the same swatter, squish them out of existence. His tongue felt heavy. Had he never said this out loud? It felt like he had been saying nothing else for weeks now. With a tight jaw, he muttered, "You would've saved them. So would i. That's not the issue."

"Then what is?"

Megumi hesitated. He didn't want to offer his thoughts, everything in him didn't want to admit it like that, but this was Yuji. The same person who who had jumped into danger without a second thought just to protect someone he barely knew, so he cradled the thing that sat in his chest like weight and pushed it out, "She made it sound like doing that made me weak. Like— like it was selfish."

He thought that if he could save someone, even one person, that should be enough. But she made it sound like wanting that meant he was doing it for himself, like he wasn't thinking about the bigger picture. Like he didn't care.

Yuji was silent for a while, and Megumi stiffened, and then—

With a shrug that didn't match the weight of his words: "So what if it was selfish?"

Megumi's shoulders stayed tense but he blinked, his eyes wandering over to Yuji but all he met was a steady look back, calm, grounded in a way that Yuji rarely looked like.

"We make choices and live with them. Sometimes that's selfish. I don't think it means it's wrong," Yuji hesitated, then shrugged again, though this time it was more of a way to get rid of thoughts that intruded on his spoken words, "Maybe it's not even about who's right. Maybe it's just about who's willing to live with what they chose."

Megumi's chest ached. Yuji spoke with a certainty that made him think about Sukuna's finger that Yuji ate that roped him into a world that brought nothing but misery, and why he had such a hard time doing the same when he grew up within it. He didn't respond, not because he disagreed, even though he wanted to push back, to argue, to find a reason for why he would be right, but because the words wouldn't come.

Maybe it was his pride. Maybe it was shame crawling up his throat, laying bitter on his tongue. It wasn't a question of his decision, it was a question of who he was.

Yuji stood up and brushed off his pants like he hadn't just pulled something raw into the light, like the conversation was done. And maybe it was. Megumi made no start to stop Yuji, anyway.

"If you don't wanna talk to her, fine. But don't lie to yourself about why."

3rd of May; 18:52. — you.

The warehouse reeked.

Like mold, blood, and something sour that clung to the back of the throat — the kind of stink that told you a curse didn't die clean. And it didn't: there was a substance resembling blood splattered all over the floor, like it couldn't escape fast enough from where it had been squashed into mush.

Megumi stepped over it, his boots making a wet sound on the floor, his steps heavy and with purpose in the vast silence that suddenly laid itself on top of you like a thick blanket. The air was heavy with aftershocks of cursed energy; the taste tangy and metallic on your tongue.

You could hear the drip of blood from the curve of your sword, the echo hanging in the air, drip, drip, drip.

It gnawed on your nerves, a slow and deliberate sound that you couldn't escape, so you flicked the blade off with a swift motion. Your eyes swept over the shadows lingering from when megumi had called them.

Footsteps matching his in the quiet, the rhythm of yours echo out of sync, a subtle discord that had become almost too familiar. Before, the silence had been filled with sharp words, teasing, half-fulfilled orders, information, occasional jabs. Now?

Now it was just motion. Breathe. Get it done. Get out. No checks. No confirmation. No reason to linger.

Megumi didn't wait for you to catch up. He moved forward without a glance, the slight echo of his voice cutting through the stillness, not loud enough to be a real order, not quiet enough to ignore, "Let's go."

You followed because, well, it was over. The job was done, and there was nothing left to say.

5th of May; 12:01. — fushiguro megumi.

Fushiguro Megumi didn't know why he was lingering around the broken shopping mart in Yurakucho.

With his hands loose by his side, his eyes travelled over the police tapes that were slowly being rolled together. The curse hadn't come back, because if it had, there wouldn't have been the shifting from police workers to construction workers over the weeks.

His heart was beating steady, watching the bustle, the shouts over the sound of equipment, the everyday hustle of people who didn't know better, who didn't have to know better. He continued standing there, watching until the workers gathered together for lunch time.

Megumi ducked under the signs that warned other citizens to stay out, and entered through the broken doors, now cleaned off the shards. His feet took him to the third floor automatically, the entire mall looking weirdly peaceful without the shelves reaching over to keep him in their grasp, without the air weighing him down like he was going to crumble underneath the pressure. The lights were turned off, the electrical wires cut, but there was enough light coming through from the ripped down wall to the south side that he needn't worry about seeing, and he observed the dust dancing in the air.

There was no cursed energy lingering around anymore, but he found the faded circle of red on the floor easily.

He didn't have to worry about the cursed womb anymore, didn't have to worry about anybody else getting hurt.

His teacher had caught him on the extended balcony of the main building in Tokyo Jujutsu High a couple days back, jutting out to observe the main courtyard and if he turned, a side view of the sport field expanding right in front of him. His other schoolmates were training out, and he hadn't joined them; instead, his eyes flitted over the starfish spread of Inumaki's — a Yuji standing next to him poking him with a stick, the huge body of Panda's throwing around a screeching Nobara, the band of limbs blurring in a spar between Maki and you.

His lips twisted, and he looked away.

"Megumi skipping school? Scandalous!"

He barely flinched when he heard Gojo's cheerful tenor ring through the air behind him, too used to his teacher popping in at whatever times he deemed fit. He couldn't tell whether Gojo had come up using the stairs like a normal person, though knowing his teacher, that would have been too boring.

Megumi didn't think he needed to answer. He knew he was supposed to be down there training alongside the rest of his classmates, but he couldn't step foot onto the field, knowing you were there. If ignoring you had been difficult before, it was almost impossible now, even though he didn't speak to you, your own comments having dwindled, only terse necessities when you were put together on missions.

It was less the quantity of commentary that weighed on him heavily; it was just the way his hair stood on its ends, his skin prickling at your mere presence. There was a charge to the air between you both, the accusation and assumption sitting in the atoms he breathed in, heavy, tasting like static.

He shook his head lightly, the memory of a certain monitor beeping in his ears fading. He wasn't wasting time, he wasn't — he was going to train twice as hard, was going to make up for it. His missing the training with the rest of the students would have no bearing on his performance. He was going to make sure of it.

He had no other choice.

"Just so you know, I don't quite mind. I do approve of a little rebellious streak," Gojo's saunter towards the railing where Megumi stood was insufferable. It was not just the way he walked, like gravity bent over backwards for him, the bounce in his steps, like he was mocking the world and daring it to do something about it, but also the underlying message through the easy sway of his shoulders: that he was untouchable. "But skipping school is a slippery slope. First, it's one day. Then it's two. Next you know, the others avoid handling you at staff meetings, and I'm the one who has to go through all your reports. Not fun."

A dry remark, no questions intended. "Do you even read the reports."

"Nah. I don't. It's too much of a hassle," his teacher said with a grin, his canines sharp and glinting in the sun. His elbows propped up on the railing, his back to the sports field, he looked up to the sky. Or, well, his face was looking towards the sky, his eyes might has well have been roaming Megumi's face. Not that he would know where Gojo was looking with that blindfold on.

There was a kind of quiet between them that felt like it was supposed to be purposeful. He didn't like it, his hands gripping the railing a bit tighter, like he could redirect his tension through his fingertips to the wood. There was a breeze softly caressing Megumi's face, and for a second, he wondered if he deserved to have the world treat him so gently, when he—

"I exorcised the curse."

On instinct, Megumi whirled around towards Gojo and the distinctive curve of his jaw as he continued to study the sky's blue, the spare clouds here and there. Like clockwork, the stone in Megumi's stomach sank deeper, and his knuckles whitened on the wood, his nails digging between the rills of the old timber.

"I know there's coulda-woulda-shouldas going through your head. You don't have to tell me, I know I've got bingo already," Gojo said offhandedly, and finally turned his head to Megumi, his smile softening, less of a tease, more of an inspection.

Megumi looked away, the wood digging in between the nail and his skin, right in the crevice where it was hard to get out. "You shouldn't have had to clean up after me."

"Aww, come on, that's what I'm here for. Let me have my moment," a snap of his fingers, "I even looked cool doing it — real flashy. Big crown. Someone might have clapped, ya never know."

His teacher was so ridiculous, Megumi couldn't stop the huff escaping him. Of course, he was out to be praised, so full of himself the way he always was. To an extent, Megumi even appreciated the ease with which he talked. Not that he would ever admit it. "You're not helping."

Gojo bent down, the tip of his sharp nose getting awfully close to Megumi's. "Also, for the record, the whole spinning around you just did? Very dramatic, I give it an 8.5 out of 10."

Megumi jerked his head back, sending a glare towards his teacher, "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Not unless I'm unconscious. Or dead," both hands up in the hair, Gojo stood upright again, to his full height; assured, confident, a fact, "Hold your horses, Megumi — I'm not planning on either of those today. Or the near future."

Megumi's eyes found their way from his teacher to the field again. Inumaki had finally gotten up, though he was still a far cry away from actually gearing up to fight. Maki had moved on to rope Panda into blocking a flurry of her attacks, every movement precise and trained, no wasted moment. Yuji and Nobara were off to the side, engaged in the typical bickering he knew his classmates to partake in. A threatening raise of her hand at Yuji, an assuaged shoulder dropping directed at Nobara.

You were nowhere to be seen, and Megumi hated that he took note of it, that his fingers let up for a second, that the coil in his stomach uncurled. And when gojo spoke again, he hated the way relief wormed itself through his heart, as if he deserved it.

He hated, too, how much he welcomed the relief.

"It's alright for the stuff to weigh on you. You think you're the only one holding the line sometimes," Gojo's voice was serious, in a way that Megumi seldom heard, "You're not. You've got people behind you. Beside you. Me included, aren't you lucky."

Because it was true. Because Megumi could rely on Gojo Satoru. Because he could rest assured that his teacher had always looked out for him, and would always do so, despite being so annoying about it. Or maybe perhaps, even more so because of it.

"…thanks."

Gojo's grin returned with ease, shoulders pulled up as he kicked off the railing. "By the way, the next time you skip class, at least pretend to be doing something cool. Like I dunno — stealing a cursed artefact, annoying Nanami until it looks like the button on his collar is gonna burst, infiltrating a rival Jujutsu School…the list is endless!"

"Those are all terrible ideas."

A gasp, and Gojo turned around, his hand clutching his chest, "Excuse me for having taste."

Megumi had rolled his eyes, but inwardly, he had felt a weird mix between mollification and a nervous fraying around his edges. Making his way down to the training grounds as well to take over Panda's spot, he had even managed to ignore that he was only going down because you weren't there anymore.

A coward—

No.

He just didn't want to get into fights anymore, he told himself, he was sick of it.

Standing in the wreckage left behind of the failed mission now, he couldn't muster up the relief that he felt when Gojo first told him that the curse was gone. He didn't have to worry about it anymore, didn't have to agonise over it at night, could finally focus on his next missions, of not repeating the mistake.

The curse was dealt with. No one else would get hurt, no news alert or updates that he would have to await with bated breath. No more imagining what could have happened — because none if it had happened. And now, it never would.

So why, instead of ease, did he feel a familiar tightness in his chest?

His fingers swept over the mark of his shikigami's warding attack, muscles loose, not clenched, not angry.

The second Megumi learned that Gojo had stepped in, the weight had vanished from his shoulders like it had never been his in the first place. The moment it wasn't his problem anymore, it had stopped being real. The guilt, the panic, the second-guessing — all of it evaporated. Gojo had fixed it. He had always fixed it.

But what if his teacher died? What if there was nobody around to pick up the pieces he left on the ground?

He pressed his lips together.

Megumi didn't use to think about it, but then you threw it at his head, the question of whether he knew that his sense of justice disappeared so easily and—

The comfort sitting in his bones, in the cracks of his joints, turned sour, like milk that was expiring. Gojo could shoulder the burden like it was weightless — and for him, maybe it was. But Megumi wasn't like that. Was he going to rely on his teacher forever?

If he started choosing who lived, if he stained his hands so others could stay clean, would maybe one day the relief feel genuine?

1st of May; 14:28. — you.

You lingered near the restricted area, your fingers hovering over the glass display case. You didn't dare touch anything, but your eyes were sweeping over the more dangerous collection of cursed objects. The area hummed with restrained malevolence; the ancient talismans pulsed dimly, guarded by layered barriers woven so tightly that even the air seemed hesitant to stir.

You didn't intend to steal anything. T

his was merely reconnaissance, to confirm whether the rumour over at Kyoto's were true: that Tokyo Jujutsu High had been quietly amassing cursed relics far beyond what they reported to the higher-ups. That under Gojo Satoru's protection, they'd turned the school into something closer to a private arsenal than a neutral institution.

But this wasn't about fairness or balance, that you knew. It always came down to fear, to wanting to gain the upper hand against somebody they didn't trust. Neither gojo nor his students, and especially not the influx of power the first-years all brought along.

Standing there, surrounded by cursed tools older than some dynasties in Japan, you felt weird.

This wasn't just a vault, it was a warning, too. A reminder that if Tokyo wanted to, they really could overpower Kyoto before it ever drew its own blade. And if it was true, what would the elders plan to do with this information if you delivered it?

In the end, you shouldn't care. You were a tool to use, a means to someone else's end, you were just there to collect information, and leave before anything could happen. Ever since you found that talisman on your bed, you kept repeating it to yourself, yet still —

Strangely, your first thought was of Itadori Yuji.

Not because he was friendly, even though he was. Not because he always offered to spar, even though he did, or because he was so earnest, but because of what he carried inside him.

You had seen it in flashes; in the way his smile faltered when he thought no one was watching, in the tension in his shoulders when he had to deploy Sukuna to take over his body, like he was bracing himself for something he couldn't stop.

He bore the King of Curses like a time bomb behind his ribs, and the worst thing about it was that he wasn't just a vessel. He was a boy trying to stay himself. So if what you learned here about Tokyo's cursed arsenal got back to Kyoto's elders, would they have more leverage to use against Yuji?

You were their spy, yet—

"So, funny thing," came a voice from behind you, "back during my days, the restricted section wasn't on the student tour."

You froze.

Gojo Satoru stood just a few steps back, hands in his pockets, posture loose, like he had just strolled in by accident. His blindfold was slightly pushed up, one pale blue eye gleaming under the low light. He wasn't smiling, but his tone was light, breezy, almost bored.

Like catching you here was a minor curiosity.

You turned slowly, "Gojo-sensei."

"Wow. Polite!" he nodded appreciatively, the corner of his mouth twitching, "Didn't expect that, considering the whole Kyoto sending you here and not teaching you how to trip a proximity ward. How is Utahime, by the way? She still giving the staff at the Karaoke's grey hair?"

Your answer was hesitant, slow, careful, "This place is off-limits? I could swear it wasn't. That's my fault. I can be on my way out, no time wasted."

There was a brilliant smile on Gojo's face at you playing stupid now; like a mask, easy and lazy, but there was a dangerous glint in the way his canine caught the light. "Cute. You lie like somebody who's never had to lie to me before."

"I wasn't—"

"—lying? Spying? Trying to sell me some sweet, innocent act?" he finished for you, his grin sharpening, his attention on you razor sharp, "Nah. Of course not. I can give you some pointers if you want my professional constructive criticism."

So lying wasn't an option anymore.

Not that you thought it ever really was, but in the same way that the higher-ups had no issue throwing out obvious, outrageous excuses like that, you thought maybe you could do the same to save yourself. But of course, it was a stupid decision. You had neither the power nor the authority nor the leverage to pit against somebody like Gojo Satoru to even try to pull shit out of your ass.

If anything, you didn't know if Kyoto even had any control. Not when it was the honoured clan heir on the other side.

What were your options then?

Despite the imposing presence of Gojo's, like an incessant reminder of the energy thrumming underneath his cool demeanour luring you to see him as an enemy, you couldn't attack. Not if you wanted to keep all of your bones intact. It would only end one way and that was with you in a hospital and having lost all semblance of some sort of trust between not just you both, but also with the other first-years.

Not that any trust had ever been really genuine, but at least it hadn't disturbed the status quo between you during all the weeks before.

You also didn't want to fight. Not like that. Not against Gojo Satoru. Ever.

You could try to stick to lying and pretend like you were innocent — it might even work, depending on how much good-will Gojo owned in that moment, how playful he was to really allow you to walk that line. He wouldn't believe you, but maybe you could appease him a little. On the other hand, it could also go insanely wrong in that he doesn't take kindly to being toyed with.

As stupid as it sounded, it was a viable option, but it was too much of a wild card to really trust that it would work either way.

Another option, which, out of everything, was not high on your list, was to offer him something in return if he let you get away with it. If you could convince him that you were more useful to keep around, you might be able to play it safe. He might be insulted, or he might take the offer, but either way, you would lose his respect and any possible prospect of gaining trust. Which, again, did not help your case in any way.

That lead to two different problems, though, which could be viewed on two different scales of importance, too. For one, and far less important, your behaviour was not just representative of yourself, but of Kyoto too, so any repercussions were directed back to the elders as well. You yourself didn't particularly care whether Gojo Satoru had respect for you, though having him as an enemy was not quite on your to-do list, either; but being the reason for the stand-off between the two schools to sharpen? Difficult.

Another reason, far more important to you, was to sell yourself like that went against your own principles; you were not in the habit of disregarding your own feelings in favour of saving yourself.

You were following your job, you knew that. You could treat it like a mission, because it essentially behaved like one, except a part of you couldn't because it wasn't against enemies, curses and curse users that intend to hurt innocent people. It was against other sorcerers, in a game where you were supposed to smile in Yuji's face and then feed his future to people who'd rather he die quietly than live inconveniently.

How much of a pawn did you want to be? You didn't care when you came here to Tokyo, but you also hadn't known any of the students here, hadn't seen how hard they worked to make a different future for Jujutsu Society.

You talked all about Megumi and his inability to be true to himself, but how about you?

The words left your mouth as calmly as you could manage, as steady as you could bring yourself to sound with Gojo Satoru watching over you like a hawk, "I didn't come here to steal anything."

Was that your smartest move? Maybe. Maybe not. It was hard to guess with him, but it was at the very least the truth and sometimes, when nothing else worked, truth was all you had left. It was your best bet at catching his attention; somebody who occupied the stance that Gojo Satoru did would appreciate honesty, you thought.

"You must be really curious then to ignore all the seals."

So he wasn't going to let you off easy. Almost, you were hoping he would be kind to you.

"They don't trust you. Or Tokyo," you didn't have to mention who they was; Gojo knew. By the shift in the air, the lessening of oppressive attention, you also knew he was listening now. "Not with the first-years. Not with Itadori. And especially not with you standing between them and the chain of command."

He didn't interrupt, so you continued.

"I guess you could call me spy, but they never do. Well, not officially, anyway. It's called oversight, information gathering, or whatever other thing they can come up with," you swallowed the amount of saliva having gathered in your mouth from your rambling, "They think this school is building its own army."

"An army, eh?" Gojo made a low sound in his throat, an unceremonious snort escaping him, "I can't say we haven't a good roster this time round: a hammer, a puppeteer, a ticking walking bomb? Nah, I gotta tweak that one a little…just the bomb? Hmm…"

You interrupted him before he could spiral into another tangent, "Point is, they're scared of you."

He turned towards you and despite the brightness of his eye roaming over your form, his words were honest, "Good. They should be."

You stayed still, because— "What are you going to do?"

Gojo blinked, lazily, as if none of it truly concerned him. Like catching a spy in Tokyo Jujutsu High's restricted section was no more urgent than choosing what flavour Mochi to buy. But nothing about the casual motions of a tight-lipped smile curling onto his face or his fingers tapping his chin was idle to fool you.

"Me?" he echoed, "Oh no, I'm just sitting in the front-row seat of 'what are you going to do?"

You swallowed, just once. "I could tell them about all this here."

"Naturally," he said, one shoulder heaving up in a small shrug. The way his head tilted reminded you of a bird, "You could."

Was there a trap in his words? You weren't sure. That was the problem with Gojo Satoru — he didn't need to be flashy to be dangerous. Sometimes it even hid in plain sight, draped in his infuriating nonchalance and wrapped in his lazy smiles.

Was the off-handed way he regarded you a threat?

Maybe.

He didn't look like he was posturing. He didn't have to. He barely moved since the moment he caught you, and yet you hadn't relaxed once. His eye watched you, but not in a way a predator would its prey, because that was still seeing you on the same plane of existence as him and right now, you weren't.

He watched you like a god watched a candle.

You studied him back. "You're not going to stop me?"

"I already did."

Things were not written in stone. Theoretically, you knew that.

You could send your report back to Kyoto, and it would carry your name. You could choose to continue your mission the way it was intended, could accept that you essentially were a discardable part of a plan that was larger than you. The plan that encompassed the death of Itadori Yuji, that had its eyes set on Fushiguro Megumi and the power imbalance of his cursed technique officially belonging to no clan, but still could be seen as an extension of the Gojo family.

You could do a lot of things, but the way he was waiting for you to understand made you feel like your decision had been made hours ago already. That it had been cemented in moments that you hadn't thought twice about: the first time you snorted at Yuji's really-not-funny joke but he lit up like he got handed a prize when he realised who it came from.

The first time Nobara didn't bother hiding her annoyance during a dragged-out explanation during training but still shifted enough to give you a clear view.

The first time you saw Megumi hesitate before a mission, so minuscule that you had almost dismissed it, his jaw tight and eyes distant, that spurred on your curiosity about what he was hiding.

That was the trap, you thought, not Gojo's words but, put on the spot in front of a decision, how treacherous your heart and mind were.

7th of May; 22:13. — kugisaki nobara.

"Yo."

"Gojo-sensei!"

"Yuji, my favourite student who is absolutely not my favourite just because you're the only one who has decency enough to miss me so when I'm gone!"

Nobara tried her best at Maki's eye roll again, "Teacher's pet."

"Wait…am I not supposed to say hi?"

"Nevermind that, Yuji-kun! Won't I get a heartfelt greeting from my other two favourite gremlins?"

"Hi." — "What's the mission."

"Yuji, close the windows. There's a real cold draft. Weird."

"But there's none open…"

Ignoring yuji, her teacher continued cheerfully, throwing a file onto the table, "I come bearing gifts!"

Nobara's head thumped against her arm. Goodbye, skin care routine. Goodbye, a good night's sleep. Goodbye, peace.

8th of May; 23:42. — you.

Megumi's leg was touching yours.

The problem with being four people in a short limousine was that there were two single seats that both Nobara and Yuji were quick to claim. In fact, as you all were walking down to the awaiting car on the main street, both of your classmates started accelerating until they were speed walking at a very conspicuous pace. Megumi huffed to himself, a deep annoyed sigh, a few steps behind you but you didn't think much of it until Iwata opened the door for you both and an innocent Yuji was looking back from the front row seats.

The boy's pink-haired head immediately whirled forward when he caught your eye, but it wasn't quick enough for you to have missed the slightly guilty expression painted all over his features. Your eyebrows wandered even higher up when your periphery registered movement between the seats, Nobara's well-manicured fingers slightly pinching Yuji's thigh.

Her lips mouthed something towards him, quick, messy enough that you couldn't catch it but apparently that was enough for Yuji because his brows furrowed and he nodded, resigned, accepting his part in whatever scheme she was coming up with.

"Move," Megumi grunted from behind you when you took to long to enter, and pushed himself past you into the car.

"Don't strain yourself with all that politeness, Fushiguro," you bit out.

It was a cruel joke, looking inside the vehicle and finding that the only seat you could possibly take was right next to Megumi's right. Well, it would have been Megumi's left if you had entered the car first, but at least it would have been at your choosing which side you'd rather occupy.

Not your mission, you reminded yourself with a press of your lips, before sliding into your seat and allowed Iwata to shut your door close so he could drive you all to the mission site.

That had been eighteen minutes ago, and Megumi's leg was touching yours for the past thirteen of those. Megumi who had stubbornly stared out the window, who kept his body to himself, tense, with his arms crossed, until his head lolled forward slightly and his body relaxed slowly.

It was funny how open to an attack he was in that position, the back of his neck exposed as his chin softly bumped against his chest. If the Kyoto elders had tasked you to get rid of the Zen'in brat with the Ten Shadows Technique, you could have done so easily in that moment: taken a hold of the dagger you kept with you and aimed for his carotid, then dragged it up to his internal jugular. He would've been dead before he could have even had the chance to wake up again.

They didn't ask that of you, though, so you sat in this car with Yuji's and Nobara's whispers in front of you, and Megumi's leg that touched yours.

9th of May; 01:18. — you.

"This place smells like whatever's festering in those idiots' laundry pile."

Nobara wasn't exaggerating.

The stench of stagnant water reeked of bacteria finding a welcoming home; flowers that had been standing in their dirty water for weeks, a sickly sweet under note. It reminded you of buried corpses beneath wet earth, rotten.

The entrance to the underpass stretched out before you, half-drowned in shadow as murky floodwater trickled out steadily. Despite the sloshing of water reaching your ears faintly, there were no other sounds to indicate there was something nesting inside there: no breeze of wind, no metal creaking, no movement through the water.

There had been residual cursed energy picked up from the last site that the curse was lingering around, though it was difficult for to scouts who were monitoring the area to pick up the exact location. The curse was constantly moving, apparently extremely territorial and, most importantly, smart enough to avoid detection until now.

"What are you doing?"

You turned slightly to observe Yuji bending down, untying his boots, "I didn't know the water was going to be that deep!! I'm wearing my cool socks, so — " he rolled his socks into a little ball, stuffed it into his pocket before slipping into his shoes, sock-less, " — problem solved."

"Ugh, yikes."

"We should split up as we discussed," Megumi spoke up, his voice scratchy from when he woke up from his slumber earlier.

When the car came to a halt and the overhead light turned on, his body had stilled as his eyelashes fluttered lightly, opening, coming to his senses with a blink. He was quiet, when awaking. But Megumi, when left to his devices, was always very quiet, even more so in the recent weeks. His jaw slightly moved when he released the tension held within his teeth and his chest moved with a deep breath, shoulders staying relaxed momentarily before they stiffened when he felt your gaze on his face.

He had looked at you, something raw in his eyes, and you looked back. For a second there was nothing between you both other than just space that existed, then his knee had pulled away and you had turned and gotten out of the car.

"Sweep it from both ends. One team at the north entrance, and one from the spillway," Megumi continued. "At least this way we can cut off one route if it decides to lead us through a chase."

As you were approaching the mission site earlier, Yuji had asked about the distribution of teammates, and a quiet Iwata had spoken up. His voice was soft, hesitant like he was scared to unleash a storm with what he was about to announce. Apparently, Gojo had made it clear to the assistant manager to convey his explicit desire to have you and Megumi paired up.

You hadn't bothered to either act or be surprised about that development, taking the 'news' with as neutral a face as you could manage. Obviously, you would have preferred to share the name of teammates with Yuji instead, but after the encounter with Gojo, you weren't surprised that you were to be kept away from the pink-haired student that had the Kyoto elders in an uproar. It didn't matter that nothing in your secret mission had mentioned any bodily harm to Yuji, nevermind the fact that you didn't want to hurt him, but if it were you in anyone else's shoes, you would have kept yourself far from him, too.

The lack of trust didn't hurt you, for it made sense and you weren't sure you trusted Gojo Satoru and his little games entirely, either. It was a give and take, so nothing you could do about it.

What captured your attention instead was the fact that Megumi's face hadn't moved at the announcement, either. Where there would have been a palpable exasperation at sharing his presence with you, a frustrated grimace, a twist of lips, he just quietly accepted it now. It had you narrowing your eyes, a thoughtful curl of your mouth that you couldn't hold back.

His lack of ill-will was off-putting; the oppressive quiet he had layered over himself over the past weeks slowly, bit by bit, one that suffocated the usual reticence he carried with him. it wasn't like you knew too much about his private life, so you couldn't pin point what exactly had happened that had Megumi hide behind the biggest mask of indifference you had ever seen, and—

Not your mission.

There was fire licking at your fingertips, urging your tongue to loosen up to coax it out of him, because you knew there was something contained behind the seams, trying to burst. You knew because you felt the same way. Because there was something brewing in your chest that wanted out, because Kyoto made it clear not to intervene with anything and not to care. Because Megumi was not your business.

You're not going to stop me?

I already did.

You exhaled harshly.

The sound echoed off the walls of the underpass, seemingly stretching endlessly in front of you. Your shoes were wet and you were glad that the water hadn't seeped through them to dampen your socks — yet. If you had to walk any longer in the rising water level, they would become so sooner or later. The water rippled around your shins faintly, lit dully by the weak glow of your flashlights. Moss climbed up the walls in green veins and every few paces the rusted husk of a bicycle or the tip of a traffic cone broke through the surface.

Megumi was wading through the water as well, next to you, his eyes observing the tunnel walls like they might peel open and serve the curse on a silver platter, a stern line on his mouth. The silence stretched thin — taut with the weird change between you both. He hadn't spoken a word since you entered, and it didn't bother you, you told yourself.

Except there were comments that burned on your tongue, so you did the sensible thing and swallowed them down with the same-old mantra you had adopted ever since you found the talisman on your bed.

Ignoring the fact that ever since Gojo had found you sniffing around, you hadn't actively went to search for any new information, either.

9th of May; 02:03. — itadori yuji.

"If this thing doesn't show soon, I'm gonna curse it for wasting my time when I could be getting beauty sleep," Nobara's boots splashed as she moved on ahead, her hammer kept low.

Rip her mouth to shreds. She talks more than you whine around, brat.

Itadori Yuji flinched just a little, shoulders tensing instinctively at the voice that coiled through his mind like rot given form. Sukuna's tone was laced with dark amusement, sharp and sleazy, sliding into the quiet of Yuji's mind like a knife. His voice carried the weight of ages — dry, scornful, each syllable curled with contempt.

He tried not to show it. He was getting better at hiding when Sukuna slithered in, but it still left that familiar feeling in his chest, like he'd swallowed nails. But Yuji also knew that Sukuna loved to get the best of him, so his best bet had always been to not give the King of Curses the satisfaction of a response.

He trudged through the water beside Nobara, arms slightly raised like the water might leap up and bite, "It's not so bad. You think curses can swim?"

"Shut up before you jinx us," she muttered.

Yuji glanced at nobara, trying to gauge her mood. She was always so confident, so brash, but tonight there was something different about her. A tension in her shoulders, a tightness in her jaw. It wasn't just her missing her beauty sleep, it wasn't just the mission. She was annoyed, sure — that was kind of her default — but… more than that.

He couldn't really blame her because Yuji felt weird most of the time, too.

He knew that not everyone shared the same line that he drew in the sand.

He hated it. Hated the feeling of watching his friend hurting over something he understood very well, of the sting of pain that stayed lodged deep beneath his ribs, creeping into dreams and daylight alike. Yuji had lived it, Megumi had lived it, Nobara had, they were still living it; the same wound that wouldn't stop bleeding because it never got any time to heal.

Yuji knew that Megumi would throw himself into danger if it meant somebody could be saved — it was why he appreciated and trusted Megumi after all this time so deeply.

But you?

If he had to say, he wasn't quite sure where to put you on his scale. He didn't think that you both were strictly in the category of friends, but he also didn't think that you weren't. If worse came to worst, he would protect you as he would with any other of his teammates, the same way he would with any given human, but he wasn't sure whether he enjoyed your presence, not when he saw how biting your words could be.

Yuji generally was a forgiving person, straight forward, optimistic even, but then sometimes you fixed him with this look of yours as if you knew more about him than he'd like you to and—

He shook his head.

That wasn't the point. The point was that he had seen enough of you to understand that you weren't heartless, not in the strictest sense, that you did what the mission called for, that he saw you doing what other sorcerers were doing, and Yuji understood that.

It scared him, not because he thought it was cruel, which he had trouble figuring out if it even was, but because he knew that he had been shown over and over how the Jujutsu world worked. How easy it was for the mission to swallow everything else; that maybe, one day, doing the right thing by the rules would mean stepping over someone begging for help.

He wondered if, eventually, he'd have to become like that, too.

Yuji rubbed his chest; a self-soothing technique he only really started to use ever since his grandfather died, ever since he had swallowed Sukuna's finger and there was a presence within his body fighting his cells for power.

He didn't want to get used to death.

Such sentiment, truly. You weep over things already gone, how tedious.

Yuji's jaw tightened, but Sukuna kept going; his voice silken, venomous.

All this morality talk. You still speak of saving everyone, how quaint. How boring. This is not a tale of heroes, boy, it's a reckoning. In time, you'll grow accustomed to it. They all do. And when your bleeding heart betrays you, I shall be there.

He swallowed down the clawing urge to scream. To sleep. To disappear. Then, with a squeeze of his eyes, short, forceful, he re-focused on Nobara grumbling through the water, the faint sloshing echoing through the tunnel, the feeling of cold surrounding his legs and asked, "You think Fushiguro and her are doing okay?"

"They better have more going for them than we do, ugh, my poor shoes. I'm so going to have Gojo buy me a replica. Maybe even two, he knows I hate mouldy tunnels."

Fool.

9th of May; 02:21. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi refused to be surprised anymore.

It had been Gojo's idea. Of course it had. Who else would think it brilliant to shove two people who could barely tolerate each other into a death trap as a form of 'team building'? He could almost imagine his teacher's laugh — the disgustingly cheerful, insufferable sound that was somehow still able to be genuine in its amusement.

Megumi didn't feel like laughing. He hadn't wanted the assignment to turn out this way. Not with you. Not when he had tried, again and again, to avoid being in your presence more than necessary. But this was necessary, so he clamped down the buzzing feeling crawling on his skin to focus.

When Gojo had given them all the file with the information gathered so far, Megumi had fingered the paper, eyes scanning over the information — sensor readings, half-legible scout notes, maps — only to turn the page and stop. There they were: blurry, cruel pictures staring back at him of the confirmed causalities. Faces frozen mid-expression.

Something had twisted in his chest at the faces, gripped his heart in an iron fist. It wasn't guilt, not exactly. Not yet. But something closer to pressure, sharp and unwelcome in the way it prodded his ribs from within.

"The curse's not consistent. Weren't sorcerers or anything special — locals, mostly," Gojo had said offhandedly, almost flippant. His voice didn't betray anything of what he thought of Megumi's question, "A maintenance worker. Two kids cutting through the underpass to skip school."

Simple facts, lives on paper, reduced to what they weren't.

He had felt the words lodge in his spine. This time, he wasn't going to freeze, wasn't going to falter, to hold back just because something inside him still bucked against the uglier parts of being a sorcerer. This time he couldn't be selective.

He was not going to run away.

Because if he hesitated—

No.

He didn't need to think about what-ifs, because there were going to be none. Because there was going to be no second-guessing, no moral hesitation, no wondering if he had made the right call, no thinking of you—

He bit his tongue.

Megumi's eyes flicked sideways toward you, just slightly, almost involuntarily. His eyebrows furrowed deeply. He hated how your presence was a quiet pulse at the edge of his focus like an itch that he couldn't ignore. He disliked that he didn't know why he found you so unfamiliar, why the air between you both kept feeling like spilled gasoline, invisible and waiting for a spark

You didn't speak, didn't look at him, and yet somehow it felt like you were doing both, like you were aware of everything he thought and felt, like he was being watched, measured, known in a way that he didn't want to understand—

He shifted his gaze forward again.

Not now.

The water was deeper now than when they first entered the north side of the tunnel, cold, heavy, like it wanted to slow him down. Instead of ripples, the water moved steadily with each movement, and he had to hold up the lantern a bit higher so it wouldn't be swallowed up, the dull glow barely pushing the shadows back.

Up ahead —

He squinted.

This was an underpass; there was only one way to go, it should have been a straight line. Yet right in front of him, there were dozens of access tunnels branching in and out, narrow, curling like roots in the dark. The architecture shouldn't be possible, yet…

He paused, and when the lantern was held out to you, you reached for it without a word, hand brushing against his own.

It was only a single moment, the brush of skin only that: a brush, yet it burned.

Tensing, he snapped his hand back, fingers poised and intertwined in each other, ready to summon his Divine Dogs at a moment's notice. The cursed energy coiled tight between his hands and the flash of heat through his chest.

9th of May; 02:38. — kugisaki nobara.

Miserable and damp, Nobara's boots splashed through the water that had no business climbing up her legs, dunking her flesh in the slimy substance she actually wasn't entirely sure was even water to begin with.

"Smells absolutely rancid," she muttered to Yuji, her nose curling, "Almost like—"

"My socks? Jokes on you, I'm not even wearing them," he grinned, bright and dumb as always, but even Nobara could see the sharpness underneath the smile, the vigilant squinting of his eyes against the darkness, "Think it's hiding?"

Obviously, she thought. Not long, and she would completely master Maki-senpai's eye roll.

"Yeah," Nobara scanned the ripples a few metres away, the suspicious feeling in the air intensifying. She was pretty decent at recognising the enemy's game plan, she'd say. She had to if she wanted to survive amongst all the backstabbing people in her old town. If she wanted to navigate through the lying, the lashing out, the manipulation she saw Saori enduring, "The water's deep, so it could be anywhere but..."

When the water stilled again, her muscles tightened, and she raised her hammer slightly. Nobara didn't like that the water was quiet, because quiet meant somebody was thinking, and thinking meant there was a trap ahead.

There were two things Kugisaki Nobara hated: inappropriate use of leopard prints and backhanded manoeuvres.

"…my feeling's telling me that…it's..right…"

A point with her hammer at the minuscule waves, "…there."

"Did you—"

Before Yuji could finish, there was a dark grumble interrupting him, deep and disgusting. A breath later and the curse burst out from beneath the water, twisting like a living shadow, fast, massive and so goddamn ugly. It was big, its head almost reaching the roof of the underpass, a tail smashing against the walls as tendrils, oily and slimy lashed out wildly.

Nobara's waist started to feel cold, and when she dared to catch a look down, there was water surrounding her. It hadn't been so high earlier, she noted, alarmed, "Yuji—"

"Shit—!" Yuji barely dodged the first strike of a tendril, thick as a tree's trunk, the water splashing violently as it crashed beside him. Make that three pairs, Nobara thought, when the oil splattered on her. This wasn't going to get washed out, no matter what, and honestly, she wasn't even sure if she wanted to try and clean it.

Her hammer was fully up in a blink, energy pulsing through her arms like fire, "I'm going to teach this ugly fuck a lesson."

She didn't have to look towards Yuji to find a determined grin on his face, "Count me in."

Yuji darted forward, quick and clean despite the water sloshing at his waist. His fists were already poised and up, eyes locked on the twisted silhouette ahead. Nobara hung back; not out of fear or reluctance, because contrary to popular belief (Megumi and Yuji), she would get dirty to get the job done, but because she'd rather watch the movements of the curse and aid the exorcism through ranged combat. Also, because there was no way in hell that she could be as fast in this water as Yuji.

A tendril cracked through the air, slicing down in a high arc. Her teammate twisted away just in time, water exploding around him as his fist connected with the creature's head. It screeched, high and guttural, the stench of rot rolling over them like a wave. Then it vanished, slipping beneath the surface with a splash.

“Crap,” Yuji muttered, eyes scanning the water. "It’s in the water. We're not gonna catch it like that."

He backed off, mumbling something that might've been a joke. Not that Nobara thought it would've been funny if she had been able to catch it. Her hand was already in motions, pulling nails from her pouch in a fluid sweep. With a flick of her wrist, she launched them: sharp darts of silver, one, two, three, humming with cursed energy.

A muffled shriek followed as the nails found flesh. Oil rose, swirling on the surface, then it burst from below with his ugly sharp teeth, sinews that hung loose and all the rage lunging at her.

"Not today, freak," Nobara snapped.

She held her ground until the last possible second, then side stepped, her hammer swinging upward to catch the curse across the shoulder. It connected with a thunder-like crack, and the curse reeled — right into Yuji's awaiting first. One hit. Two. The third sent it staggering back.

Then came the tail. A blur of muscle, whipping with brutal force.

It slammed into Yuji's gut with a wet, bone-jarring thud. He grunted, forced back a step, his boots skidding through the water, but didn't go down.

Seriously, what were his legs made of? Reinforced concrete?

9th of May; 02:40. — you.

"You heard that?"

Megumi nodded, his eyes fixed on the walls ahead. His entire body had gone taut, every muscle alert, like a blade drawn but not yet swung. A screech had cut through the air, faint and distorted by stone and water, but unmistakably the curse. Which meant either Nobara and Yuji had found the curse or the curse had found them.

There was a low hum of cursed energy in the air, but it was weak. Too weak to confirm the exact source just yet, barely enough to really catch it, but still, not faint enough to ignore. It didn't mean it wasn't dangerous.

The dampness began to creep into your bones, deeper now, soaking through your clothes and sliding icy fingers across your skin. Every slow gust from the tunnel behind felt like a breath on your neck, caressing your spine with a kiss and you suppressed a shiver.

You had chosen the far most right tunnel, because it was the easiest to retrace should anything go wrong. That had been the plan: don't get lost, don't get flanked, stay alert, focus, exorcise the curse.

But as you and Megumi pushed forward, the narrow passage began to widen, the ceiling opening up, revealing more waterlogged space. Holding up the lantern, the light shone faintly, shadows receding slowly.

Then—

A faint, irregular movement.

Just off to the side, slumped against the wall where a mound of debris had collapsed, was a figure. He was half submerged, water up to his shoulders, and trembling violently. His soaked clothes clung to him, ragged, probably weighing him down more. Almost like a ghost, his pale skin shone in the dim light as he shuddered; looking like he was barely tethered to the physical world.

He wasn't dead, though. Not yet.

The old man's face lifted slowly when he heard you, eyes wide, bloodshot, water droplets hanging from his messy beard. His lips parted, cracked and raw. How long had he been down there?

Megumi slowed, and the water shifted with his arm, like he was gripping his weapon, ready to draw, and when you turned slightly, the light of the lantern between you, he glanced at you for a fraction of a second.

There was an unreadable look on his face, like carved from stone, every line harsh, neutral, focused. But you didn't search his face, you searched his eyes underneath the dark hair, underneath the mask he put in place so tightly, and they always betrayed him, flickering with something fierce and momentary. A whirlwind of emotion he swallowed down with a bobbing of his Adam's apple, not clear whether they wanted to soften or harden.

9th of May; 02:52.— itadori yuji.

Another round of nails fired, and Yuji knew that even though the water wasn't clear, he could trust Nobara to do a good job surrounding the curse.

He was already moving when she slammed her hammer down on the final embedded nail, her cursed energy surging in a flash: a chain reaction snapping from point to point. The ground trembled with how fast it spread, and the explosion lit up the creature's side.

A shriek, a buckle from the curse.

A fist, elbow, knee from Yuji.

The rhythm of his strikes was relentless. Each one hammering the curse deeper into disarray, but when he made to surge through the water, raw knuckles ready to deliver another blow—

A splash of water, mud splattering on his face, and some landed on his panting mouth, the taste pungent and dirty. He couldn't keep the grimace from spreading on his face.

The surface calmed instantly, still, eerie in how quiet it became. Too quiet.

"Where the hell—"

"Shit," Yuji wiped his wet face, breathing hard, lungs ragged. His body was coiled like a spring ready to release, tight, "This thing doesn't stay down for long."

But there was only tense silence, the only sound interrupting was the soft splashing of water beneath their feet.

Nobara's eyes scanned the water, "Wait…"

His muscles tensed at her alarmed voice, "What? What is it?"

She didn't answer at first, her eyes shifting back to the water, expression sharpening. Then, with sudden certainty: "It's not coming back up. It's gone, not just hiding, gone."

Before he could respond, there was a low, echoing splash resounding in the distance. It sounded deep and wrong, and a tremor rippled through the water, legs vibrating, concrete humming underneath their wet boots.

Yuji's head snapped toward the noise. "North entrance. Megumi."

He was already running, water flying with each step. The air felt thicker, charged with the sense of urgency. The pounding of his heart kept time with the splashing of his feet.

He was not going to leave you both to your own devices, not if he could help it, not if he could still breathe, not if he still had blood pumping through his body.

Run, brat. Let's see how far those legs get you.

Yuji didn't flinch. He just pushed through the water harder.

9th of May; 02:53. — you.

One of Megumi's shadow beasts barked. Sharp, low, a warning cry that cut through the heavy silence.

Megumi's attention snapped to the darkness ahead. his stance shifted, spine straightening, sword already angled forward. the tension in his frame was immediate, palpable, his expression hard.

The old man behind them coughed out a garbled string of words, stuttering, his voice raspy and dry, like it hadn't been used in ages. But whatever he was trying to say drowned beneath the sudden shift in the air, heavy, suffocating, thick with cursed energy.

The ground trembled underfoot, a chilling surge of cursed energy spreading across the water.

"Get back," Megumi commanded, low and clear.

Then it came.

Emerging from the depths was a hulking mass of shadow and writhing limbs that twisted the laws of motion. The curse moved like a fluid wrapped in wrinkly skin, oozing cursed energy with each movement; its eyes were pits of malice, gleaming in the lantern light with unnatural hunger. The nasty smell rolled over you like poisonous gas, subtle, clogging your nose.

Megumi's dog lunged forward with a snarl, water splashing around its paws, saliva dripping from his bared canines.

You raised your weapon, but the sudden influx of oil made your grip slip — just for a second. It was enough to remind you how bad it could go. You hadn't expected it to be a walk in the park, of course, but you had hoped it would be at least a bit simpler. This though? This was difficult.

Then it roared. It was a low, bone deep sound that shook your chest, vibrated through the water and clung to your legs. And before you could blink —

It was fast. Faster than expected. Faster than you could dodge.

You registered the impact on your ribs from the tendril lashing out, before you skidded back from the force. Pain bloomed on your skin, a deep ache, and you thought you couldn't get any air even when you breathed. Gasping, you spluttered out water from where you fell back, face momentarily dunked in the liquid, "Fushiguro!"

There was another swipe of a tendril, and it dragged over the entire terrain, coming at you with shocking speed. Ducking under the water again just in time, you felt it catch some of your hair. Your lungs complaining, screaming for air when you couldn't get your diaphragm back into its rhythm from the strike before, you broke the surface again, in time to see the tendril catch the old man full in the chest. He wailed once, a broken, high sound, before the curse yanked him across the tunnel like he weighed nothing, like he was a rag doll to be thrown around.

You grunted, voice raw from the salt water as you moved forward, intent on cutting down the curse, but even as you charged, a shadowy tentacle shot from the creature's body, aiming directly for you, snapping through the air —

It never hit.

Megumi's blade was fast, cutting through the curse's arm mid-strike, slicing the shadowed limb clean in two. Black ichor splattered on the water, sizzling where it landed.

The curse shrieked, and in that brief moment of distraction, it let go of the man, retreating back into the shadows of the water once again, moving like liquid, too fast to keep up with.

The old man struggled to stay afloat, finding a log of discarded metal, rusted and probably carrying all the bacteria for the wound on the guy's forehead. Yet, he still clung to it with all his might, body trembling in fear, eyes wide in terror. You were sure he was only awake because adrenaline coursed through his veins like a drug, with primal fear at something he couldn't comprehend.

Megumi’s gaze didn’t waver from where it tried to track the curse; he stared at the water, sword angled low, a predator stillness to him. And for a moment, in the gleam of his eye, there was something unspoken.

Like a warning, like a challenge, like a promise.

9th of May; 02:56. — itadori yuji.

"It was already halfway gone before you punched it, Yuji, how about using your brain sometime to grab it or something."

"How am I supposed to see it coming? It's like swimming with a torpedo. A creepy, soggy torpedo."

"Whatever. When we're done, you're gonna carry me to the car. I'm way too tired."

"Do I even get a say?"

"No."

9th of May; 03:01. — fushiguro megumi.

The water exploded.

A monstrous surge of tendrils shot from the depths, writhing toward them with horrifying speed. There was nothing human in the way it moved — its limbs contorted as they stretched unnaturally. It was too long, too thin, but Megumi didn't flinch. It was not too difficult to kill.

There were jagged shapes protruding from some of the tendrils, and its movements blurred at the edges: frantic, fast, making it hard to follow with the naked eye. But he didn't need to. His shikigami tracked cursed energy like breath in the dark, flaring with each incoming strike. It always alerted him when the cursed energy levels changed, so he could trust his shadows, but you—

Megumi clicked his tongue.

You were already moving towards the curse, cursed tool in hand, dark energy radiating off it where you had imbued the blade. Despite having been flung through the air, your movements were still swift, graceful, but god, you had no patience. He swallowed down the bite rising in his throat, the urge to tell you to wait so that you could coordinate, to strike smarter.

The curse recoiled at your blow, but it wasn't retreating yet, just gathering momentum.

The water churned violently around its body, as though the curse itself was dragging the entire underpass toward it. Its mouth opened wide, teeth flashing as it lunged forward, but Megumi, who anticipated it — seeing as how he seemed to be the only one who tried to hatch out a game plan — was quicker once more.

His eyes narrowed and with a practised signal of his hands, his Great Serpent moved through the water like it was his second home, converging on the curse, coiling around its limbs and biting down hard. The curse snarled and writhed under the pressure, just enough to expose a weakness, enough to give you an opening.

"Now!" he pressed between gritted teeth, his voice carrying the urgency, snapping.

You both moved; your blade arced towards the curse's core, and Megumi stepped in to flank, but the curse twisted, unnaturally pliable. With a sudden, sickening twist, it tore itself free from Great Serpent's jaw, spraying deep purple blood across the concreted walls. The thing's body seemed to fold in on itself, reshaping as if wanting to escape the grasp of Megumi.

"Dammit!"

He didn't stop. Couldn't stop, pushing forward, determined to keep it boxed in, to keep it in check, to not allow it any time to recover, but the curse was relentless. It was like fighting an ocean of flesh, always shifting, always evading.

Your eyes never left the curse either as you tried to slash with your blade again, aiming for what seemed to be its neck, but the curse writhed, dodging; its inhuman agility almost more terrifying than its strength.

"Great Ser—"

Pain.

A sharp, burning stab to his side.

Megumi exhaled harshly, stumbling back a half-step. One of the curse's long, jagged limbs had found its mark, cutting deep. For a moment, his focus wavered. Blood dripped into the water, mixing into the water easily. Refusing to flinch, his hand instinctively clutched the wound, warmth spilling between his fingers. He couldn't drop his sword, he wouldn't— burning, it burned, right in his side. It burned.

"Megumi!"

Your voice broke through his haze, and he shook his head, once, hard, eyes squeezed together to rid himself of the feeling of pain, forcing it back, forcing focus. He snapped back to attention just in time to see the curse pivot and reach for him again.

Your cursed blade cut through the air, movements clean and fluid, synchronised with his own as if you had fought together for years, not just a couple months. Megumi's chest squeezed painfully as it hit him: not the pain, not the fight, but the weight in his chest, the strange sense of familiarity settling inside the cavity despite the tension.

"This thing is relentless," he groaned, voice tight with concentration, one hand coming up to wipe the blood daring to trickle down to his eye.

You nodded, readying yourself, but just as you were about to, the curse twisted violently, its body flailing in a desperate attempt to escape. Its tail lashed out as it caught the old man with brutal force, flinging him into deep the deep, murky water with a loud splash.

Megumi's shikigami was quick to snap back onto the curse, pinning it. It screamed, thrashed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it was momentarily incapacitated, vulnerable.

They could end it. Now.

But the homeless man did not resurface.

And the curse was vulnerable enough to finish off.

His heart thudded once, hard and painful. Something tugged in his chest, tugged in his head. He had the chance to save the man, but—

No running, no hesitating. He felt it again: the pull. The he weight of his role pressing down on him, his duty to destroy curses, pulled at him with an iron grip. He couldn't flinch, he was a sorcerer, a weapon, that was what he was. And yet—

Before he registered what he was doing, his head had already whipped out to you and he met your eyes.

He didn't mean to look for you. He didn't know why he did, he didn't even want to. But here you were, already looking at him, meeting his gaze head on. There was no judgement in your eyes, not yet, but something else.

He hated that you were already looking at him. Hated that he felt like that was a test, hated the part of himself that didn't know which answer was right, hated that he felt observed, naked.

His jaw clenched, "Rush the curse," just as your voice sounded out: "We have time to go save him!"

9th of May; 03:05. — hasegawa masato.

The world around him was a blur of cold water and shadows. His heart, as weak as it was, hammered in his chest as endless dark loomed over him.

Masato's body was numb, though whether it was from fear or the icy water that soaked him to the bone, he didn't know. Terror clawed at his throat, tugged at his clothes, held his head in a vice grip.

He had been close to death before. Sickness when he couldn't afford medication was a vicious thing, hunger when he hadn't had anything to eat in weeks even worse. Sometimes, when a group of people, drunk, came by, they liked to make him dance for some money. Sometimes he would. If it meant he'd get some food, he sometimes swallowed his pride and went ahead with it.

But this? He had never been close to death like this.

That creature was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Grotesque, weird, unreal. Masato couldn't believe it was real, not when it looked like the stuff from nightmares, not when he thought he was going to piss himself.

When it had swung him around, he was paralysed under the weight of the monster's presence. The air thick with fear, the water having pushed him away from the safety of clinging to the metal piece; the scent of decay heavy on his tongue, his rasping breath barely able to satisfy his brain with enough oxygen.

Overwhelming helplessness consumed him as his limbs struggled against the water. They were like lead, the fear creeping deeper with every second. Oh god, he was going to die here, in this filthy underpass, alone. He was going to die alone with nowhere to run, no breath to take.

Was this how it was going to end? Was Masato going to die without having seen his daughter again? Without being able to tell her how sorry he was? That he wished he could hold her again, the way she was as a baby, a tiny thing that barely reached the entirety palm of his hand.

Masato had hoisted her up against his naked skin, her tiny little face nuzzled against his flesh, seeking his warmth. Then he had cried, mourning the lifeless body of his wife on the bed next to them, her legs spread and bloody, and his tears had caressed his daughter's skin.

Oh, how he wished he could tell her sorry, that he wished he could have given her a better life, that he didn't have to succumb to the deep abyss of all the feelings he didn't know what to do with after the loss of the light of his life.

He might have cried had his chest not been in so much panic that he kept trying to take a breath. It was a sheer miracle that he didn't, that he knew to press his hand against his mouth, trying to keep the precious little air he had left within his lungs.

Then—

Sharp pain at the back of his head. Everything blurred; his sight darkening slowly, warmth.

I'm sorry, Himari-chan.

9th of May; 03:07. — kugisaki nobara.

A faint bark sounded out, echoing through the tunnel.

"Dog's out, oh, what a good boy."

"He's so gonna get all the beef jerky he wants."

9th of May; 03:06. — you.

Your lungs burned, the world around you a blur of shadows and waves. The sounds of the curse seemed so far away, like there was cotton in your ear.

There. Just…a little…bit more.

Cold, slimy, your fingers slipped off the material once, twice, then, you gripped it harder. Tugged. Found it good enough, and then pulled as you struggled to haul the old man toward safety.

9th of May; 03:09. — itadori yuji.

Water sprayed as Itadori Yuji and Kugisaki Nobara exploded into the fray, his arrival marked by the sound of his footfalls pounding through a receding flood and the snarl of a curse that sensed another sorcerer enter the fight.

Megumi was already soaked, blood running down one arm in slow, steady rivulets, his expression eerily calm as it was grim — tight-lipped, pale, unshaken, angry. Shadows coiled at his feet, the water lapping up the blood oozing from Megumi like it was thankful for the meal.

The creature towered ahead, slick with oil and reared its grotesque head toward Yuji as he skidded to a stop beside his teammate.

"Took you long enough," Megumi said flatly, not sparing him a glance.

Yuji flashed a breathless grin, panting, "You look like shit."

"Then focus and stop wasting time."

Yuji's heart thumped in his ears, pounding like war drums, gaze trained on the curse and the way it twisted, the way it lunged forward, a mess of teeth and water, the movement causing a wave to crash against the tunnel walls. Without hesitation, Yuji ducked low under the strike, pivoted, his fist cocked back and ready to go.

He landed the first hit; clean and solid, pissed off, because fuck, Megumi was hurt and you were nowhere to be seen. A snap as the force rattled the curse's jaw back, howling in response.

Yuji ducked under the swing of a tentacle, and faintly, he heard a deep inhale, a pressured tension in Megumi's voice: "Max Elephant."

Water erupted as the enormous shikigami materialised, crashing down with enough weight onto the curse to shake the tunnel, its trunk hammering down like a wrecking ball, forcing the curse to rear back and expose its side for half a heartbeat.

Yuji darted around the curse, "Now!"

Nails flying through the air, hitting their mark from where Nobara stood at the head of the tunnel.

Megumi didn't hesitate either. With one swift motion, he snapped his hands together and called forth his Divine Dogs again, and they burst forward with fangs bared, eyes gleaming, latching onto the curse with force, ripping it apart. It shrieked and thrashed, momentarily locked in place as Yuji came from the other side, launching upward with an uppercut laced with cursed energy, coiled around his fist like a storm.

A rattling cry, a shriek then—

Purple, oily blood and cursed energy splashed outward like a shock wave and dissolved into vapour almost immediately. The pressure collapsed inward with a sickening pop, the oppressive air in the tunnel lifting like a vacuum sealed bag that gasped for breath.

And silence fell.

Max Elephant vanished with a spray of mist, and the Divine Dogs flickered out of existence, too, their shadows melting into the water. In the sudden stillness, the tunnel felt eerily quiet; water lapping gently against Yuji's legs like nothing had happened at all.

He staggered back, soaked, gasping. "Dude," he panted. "I'm done. I don't know what the hell that thing was but I'm calling it. No more sewer monsters. Ever."

No answer.

Yuji looked up and something in his blood sung, telling him to freeze. The water couldn't possibly become colder, except it did. There was a darkening to Megumi's face, something carved sharp. The kind of scary quiet that came before something snapped. His face was drained of colour, his gaze fixed somewhere past Yuji, unreadable, but his whole body was tense, a string pulled too tight.

For a heartbeat, yuji could swear he wasn't looking at a friend, which was stupid, because Megumi had always been Megumi, always good, old, reliable Megumi. Except that Megumi looked like he was two seconds away from turning into something else.

Yuji winced and tried to change the topic, "Soo…where's—"

Nevermind. He was not going to ask, not when Megumi looked at him then, and all the quiet, buried fury suddenly directed right on Yuji. He didn't wait for an answer, because behind him — a sharp splutter, a frantic gasp for air. He whirled around before his brain caught up, legs already moving toward the sound.

That expression — looks just how I like it.

9th of May; 03:11. — you.

Yuji was there in an instant.

He dropped to a crouch beside you, hands already curling underneath the old man's armpits to pull him up. His hair was ruffled like he had been going through it, and the look in his eyes was worried. Worried beyond just about the civilian man in your arms, worried like there was more weighing on him.

"Got him?" he asked, his otherwise cheerful voice tight.

"He's breathing. Took a hit to the head, though, so might have a concussion."

He nodded and gently pulled the man the rest of the way out of the water. Now that the curse was gone, the water was slowly receding, revealing more and more of the underpass, and becoming less and less like a maze.

You exhaled, warm air escaping you, blown out into the cold.

The skin of your neck prickled like the edge of a blade was pressed against your flesh — it wasn't the kind of shiver that came from cold water trickling down your wet hair. It was something tighter, and you didn't need to turn around to know who was staring.

Megumi, of course. It was always him when the silence felt like judgement.

The weight of his gaze sat between your shoulder blades like a hand pressed flat against your spine. He wasn't just looking; he was blaming.

So much for keeping low key, for staying professional, getting the job done and walking away. You could feel the air heat up, funnily enough, a kettle that was boiling and ready to whistle.

You refused to look at him, because if you did, you'd explode. Because if you looked at him and he dared to look upset with you, you were going to snap. If there was even a flicker of annoyance, of those stupid eyebrows drawing together and that stupid grimace on his mouth, you were going to kill him.

"Don't you look at me like that."

Megumi's steps were slow, deliberate, his boots sloshing through shin-deep water as he closed the space between you.

"Like what," his voice was low, rough, weird. Too calm.

He came to a stop just beside you, his chest brushing your shoulder, close enough that the warmth of his body clashed with the dampness of your clothes still seeping into your skin. Yet still, you refused to look, even though he was invading your space on purpose, even though you could see his hands balled into fists so tightly that the knuckles had gone bone-white, one still slicked in drying blood.

You spat, "What in the hell is wrong with you?"

The nail of his thumb dug into his pointer, "Me? What about you? You abandoned shit again right when I thought you knew what the hell you were doing."

You knew what you said.

That you wouldn't look at him. That you refused to give him the satisfaction of trying to stare you down. But well, the day was long and you talked a lot, and he pissed you off. You couldn't help it. You really couldn't, because Megumi had the nerve, because he never stopped.

You whirled around so fast that water flared up around your leg, arm raised and finger jabbing straight at his face, "Oh no, we're not going to start this again, Fushiguro," with the same nasty look on your face mirroring his. He didn't flinch. if anything, he stepped even closer, jaw tightening, ground teeth against teeth and his hand, long bloodied, trembling fingers, came to grip your wrist. Not enough to hurt, but enough for your senses to sharpen and hone on the contact of skin.

"This," his eyes were a dark blue carved out of the same murky water around you, "is what you wanted."

You barked out a laugh, mouth twisted in disbelief. "You think anything's changed? I thought your whole thing was not letting people die. But you — what? Tossed that out just like that? I mean, good on you, honestly. Growth or whatever, little Megumi finally growing balls, but you okay with that now?"

Megumi's anger was subtle, but it was laid out for you like a book to read. You looked at his jaw, cut sharply, and the way it tightened, skin drawn taut. His teeth were bared at your insult, a muscle in his cheek twitching as a droplet of water ran down the curve of his cheekbone.

He was angry at you, and even though you wanted him to be because it meant he let loose of that stupid mask he still kept up, it fired you up just as much. Because in the midst of his dark eyes narrowing, a wild storm in them, you thought that anger looked good on him, that you much preferred this to the silence and the ignorance the past weeks.

There was something bitter on your tongue and you let it sit there like ash when you looked at the way his wet hair hung down his forehead, the blood that was still running down the side of his face, circumventing his eye with a flick of his fingers, "I mean, if you're cool abandoning your values, fine. Be my guest. I just thought you'd learned from last time."

That got him.

Megumi's face shuttered, eyes dimming like a switch had been flipped, the storm cooling to heavy rain. His grip on your wrist didn't loosen; if anything, it became a tad tighter.

"Yeah?" he said, low, voice like ice, "Just like how you flipped on me now?"

"Excuse me?" you jerked your arm free, stepped forward so your chest bumped his, the air between you both hot despite the dampness, "I did what needed to be done. We had an actual opening, Fushiguro. You would've jumped on that weeks ago, now you're suddenly swinging from one extreme to the other?"

Megumi scoffed; a bitter, humourless sound that barely passed for amusement. His jaw flexed as he turned away slightly, and you noticed his other hand curling tightly at his side, "Don't try to sell me that bullshit."

You didn't back down, and this time when he focused his attention on you, his voice dipped lower, register dark and tight, the kind of controlled anger that came from being pushed too far too long, "Funny how 'what needed to be done' always ends up being what you decide. I'm starting to think you don't care about what the rules say, either."

"Yeah?" you snapped, "You got a problem with that?"

Fuck.

You could punish yourself for the way that slipped from your mouth. Because it sounded like an admission, because you knew that he wasn't entirely wrong, either. You always thought yourself to be a pride-less person, hell, you typically were, but not with this look in Megumi's eyes, one that's deeply rooted in proving you wrong.

And you might have chosen the wrong thing to say, but you would fight tooth and nail to prove to him that it didn't immediately absolve him, either.

His hand trembled, barely held back. In the back, you heard Yuji mumble something, but Nobara's voice cut through his, and he fell silent. For a second, you wondered what he said, why Nobara pulled him back when it was so very clear that he wanted to intervene.

Though, truth be told, you didn't know if you wanted him to.

"You judge me for going off-course. For ignoring your precious protocol, now you do the same exact thing and suddenly it's fine. Tell me, why is it okay when you cross the line?"

"It's not the same—"

"Like hell it's not."

Did he not see? Did he not see that whilst his snake was holding the curse, you both actually had a tangible moment of saving somebody who was drowning right in front of you? Was he so focused on suddenly pretending he cared about the regulations now that he threw his entire morals away again?

His eyes burned with something wild. Not rage exactly, maybe disbelief, maybe betrayal somewhere, "That's what you said about me, wasn't it? Not to let my emotions cloud my judgement. So what — now it's different? Because you felt like saving someone?"

Your heart was pounding and your throat scratchy as you memorised his face in your mind, the harsh lines, the curve of his nose, his wet hair, the hard press of his lips. Almost, you wished that Kyoto had told you to kill him, maybe then you'd stop feeling like there was a fire within you that you couldn't put out.

"So why didn't you?" you narrowed your eyes, because you couldn't kill him, after all, because even if you did have that order, you didn't know if you would, "You could've summoned your toad, couldn't you? I know you've got that shikigami. You're perfectly capable of calling out two of those shadows, so what the hell stopped you?"

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and his voice sounded like each word was an effort to not raise his voice, thick with feelings, and it made you go crazy, "You think I didn't consider that? You think I wasn't aware of every option, every second, every goddamn breath we had left while trying to hold that curse in place?"

"Then why didn't you do it?"

"Because I was holding the line," he hissed and his nose brushed yours, "Because you ran off without a plan, because you ignored what I said, again, and I had two choices: drop the curse and go save that man's life or hold it and save all of us, hoping that your pea-brain was going to handle the other side."

"Don't you put this on me—"

"I will put this on you," his breath was heavy and you felt it caress your mouth and your chest tightened, "Because you walk around like you've got it all figured out, preaching about this and that. So quick to tell me I'm wrong for my decisions, but here you are, doing the same damn thing I did."

You stared at him with your chest heaving, repressed shivers making you tremble, betraying you. Because he wasn't wrong and you hated that. Hated how easily he cut through you when it came from him.

"Stop acting like you're above it," Megumi said, quiet now, bitter. Raw in a way he rarely let out. "You're not. And neither am I."

Your pulse was loud in your ears, loud, fast. You couldn't bring yourself to speak — too much crowding your throat.

He watched you for one long moment, then looked away, the tension in his shoulders rigid as he turned and walked off slowly, his hand pressing down on his side.

9th of May; 03:31. — iwata.

Iwata wondered if he would ever get relieved of his duty to chauffeur the kids around. Not that he necessarily minded the act itself; on the contrary, he quite enjoyed the thought that in some way, he was able to contribute to bettering society, of ridding the world from curses.

It was just that whenever he drove the kids anywhere, they came back looking a little more like soldiers, hardened and soiled, and a little less like teenagers.

That part, Iwata hated the most.

He watched them now from the driver's seat, engine idling quietly as rain pattered on the windshield, mixing with the muddy streaks from the tunnel water still clinging to their clothes. The smell of rotten water, blood and burnt cursed energy hit him the second they climbed into the car.

Iwata pretended to be busy, but his eyes searched them for any signs that they lost a little bit of themselves out there.

The pink-haired student, Itadori Yuji, climbed in first, breathing a little hard, wearing the same tired grin he always did — like if he smiled hard enough, none of the bad things would stick, like they would just ricochet off him. He flopped into the far seat and winced, arms limply sprawled across his knees as if it was too much effort to lift them.

Right behind him was Nobara; she looked like she still had some fire left in her, though it was only a glimmer. She muttered a string of curses under her breath, most of them aimed at the curse they had just fought — or maybe the mud in her boots, it wasn't clear to Iwata.

"Whoever sends us into another one of those tunnels," she sighed as she relaxed against the seat, "will have me hexing their entire bloodline."

"That a threat?" Yuji yawned.

"No. A promise."

Iwata didn't comment. Instead, the door in the back opened and Megumi followed in silence, a hand pressed to his side. The blood had mostly clotted, his jacket crumbled up to apply pressure against it, but Iwata saw the way he walked, the stiffness in his joints, the pain he tried to hide. Iwata couldn't do a lot, not until they got back to the school and to Shoko Ieiri. He slid back, elbows on his thighs, eyes locked on the floor like it might answer for something.

Lastly, there was the exchange student, the one he barely knew. Not that he knew the others that well either, but this one was even more of a puzzle to him. So he couldn't read your face, only saw the way it was set in granite, lines hard. You shivered slightly though you hid it well, instead looking out the window, hands clenched in your lap.

Iwata eased the car into drive, pulling away from the tunnel entrance. He had called an ambulance for the old man the kids were carrying out, already having given the first aid that he could. Silence settled over the kids, save for the soft purr of the engine and the patter of the rain.

He caught glances of them in the rear view mirror — Megumi stubbornly clenching and relaxing his hands, your eyelids slowly closing, Nobara picking at dried blood under her nails, Yuji fiddling with a broken zipper on his jacket.

God, they were just kids.

They shouldn't have been worrying about life and death, not making choices that adults twice their age couldn't shoulder without cracking. Should have instead been having fun out there, enjoying their youth, enjoying making memories all kids their age do.

He exhaled quietly, one hand tightening on the steering wheel. He didn't say anything. He never did. But he reached forward and flipped a switch on the car's dashboard to heat the seats for them.

Yuji leaned back a little more, Nobara let out a tired hum of approval, Megumi let his head fall back against the seat finally, his eyes closing and your shoulders loosened slightly.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

11th of May; 07:29. — kugisaki nobara.

"You think they're going to come out of this alive?"

"God, I hope not."

11th of April; 07:30. — gojo satoru.

"Well!" Gojo Satoru announced cheerfully, "Who needs actual curses when the real horror is whatever this — " he waved a hand in the direction of his two students, " — unresolved..bit…thing…is supposed to be. Hm. That sentence got away from me."

Neither Megumi nor you looked at him, and Gojo didn't need them to. He understood their silence perfectly well, after all. One could call him the whisperer of anguished teenagers, if one will. Not that anybody would, but he thought there was a high chance it could be true.

He sighed loudly, exaggerated. "Y'know, I didn't set this training camp up because I love early mornings or physical labour. I set it up because I actually care."

Still no answer. His lips twisted slightly, and he clapped his hands once, loud enough to echo through the wooden beams of the dojo they were occupying, the two kids sitting in front of him on the ground. Megumi stared down at the floor, his posture rigid. Next to him, you had your arms crossed, staring right past Gojo's shoulder at the wall.

"Alright, group meeting, just us three. Megumi, dear exchange student, and your incredibly good-looking, well-adjusted teacher."

That got your eye twitching, at least. Megumi's jaw flexed like he was grinding down a curse by tooth alone. Not quite efficient, but at the very least, he had them react to something. Sigh. Kids were so difficult these days.

"You two are good sorcerers. Really, of course still lots to learn, but good. Smart even, shockingly so actually, considering the choices you've both been making lately."

Megumi exhaled slowly. "We're getting the job done."

"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you are one outburst away from killing each other."

Then his voice dropped, just enough to remind his students that they were his students after all, "You can hate each other all you want once the job's done. But while you're out there? You work together. You trust each other. Or I pull you both off the field. Permanently."

That definitely got some reactions.

Megumi's head whipped up, a disbelieving, annoyed look on his face, the one Gojo loved to see, and you narrowed your eyes in response, "You can't be serious."

Ah, the poor exchange student by day, spy by night. How interesting it was to watch you scuttle under his attention, knowing the implications his words had on your situation. When he caught you in the restricted section, he had toyed with the idea of sending Kyoto a memento about what he really thought about having a child sicced on him by the higher-ups. A reminder that consisted more of a body part than it did of anything verbal, but he wasn't cruel enough to succumb an innocent person to that kind of torture.

Though, of course, he did think it would have been a good shock for them. And really, what would they have done? What could they accuse him for that he couldn't point right at them?

After all, they had started it.

"Oh, I'm so serious," he sang, the smile still there, but it didn't quite reach his eyes anymore, "This is your mission now: finish this training camp. Together. No sulking. No bickering. Just work. And progress, of course. I know, it's boring. Tough luck."

He stepped forward, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders, his slender fingers pressing in ever so slightly with something akin to encouragement, "So! You've got two choices: succeed…or succeed. Because that's all I'm offering."

Megumi glared at him viciously, like he thought maybe he shouldn't have come under Gojo's patronage. He thought he might have deserved it— nah, who was he kidding.

"Breakfast's in an hour, and if either of you come late, I'm making you sit next to each other and hold hands."

The look of disgust mirrored on both of your faces had him try to suppress a giggle. Oh, he should have done that earlier.

AUTHOR'S NOTE | thank you for reading!!

TAGLIST | @binkibuns @1l-ynn @nscuit @julieannah (tagged you guys because you seemed excited about the first part so i hope i'm not disturbing you with it!!)

[acosmicbee]

ANNIE

I need her

I’m supposed to be studying for the mcat and your writing keeps me above water

The Regular - Part 3

500 Follower Celebration - Day 7

(Yay sickfic time! Very fluffy and cuddly Annie ahead!)

You shivered, pulling the covers up to shield your eyes from the light. You, and Annie, had fallen asleep on the couch the night before. You sneezed, wrapping yourself up tighter as you tried to fall back asleep. You still felt so tired and heavy.

"Rise and shine, darling!" Annie said, gently trying to wrestle the blanket from you. She frowned at your pained groan the second light entered your eyes, immediately placing a hand on your forehead. "Oh dear... you're burning up quite a bit. Y/N, can you talk to me sweetheart? Tell me how you're feeling?"

"'M sleepy... and cold, but hot..." You mumbled, curling into the blanket she was now tucking back around you. "And I feel sick."

"Sick in general or nauseous sick, honey?" She asked, running a hand through your hair. "It's probably from all that running around in the rain you did last night. You were out there for hours, after all."

The mention of your failed escape attempt from the previous day before only made you feel worse. "Both." You answered her question, hearing her exit the room.

She was walking around the kitchen, you could hear some cabinets opening and then the faucet running. When she returned it was with a cool washcloth she lay across your forehead.

"There you go, darling. Just a little cold, hm?" She cooed, placing another blanket on top of you. She also placed a cup with a straw on the coffee table near your head in case you needed it.

You drifted in and out for a while. The bits you did manage to catch included her dragging the pieces of the now shattered and splintered basement door somewhere, a brief memory of drinking some water and her answering the door when the bell rang.

No matter what, you never felt alone when you were conscious. You could always hear her somewhere around you, feel her care as she regularly checked in on you. It was the first time you'd had such attentive care when you were unwell, the first time someone had cared so much.

When she woke you up for lunch she had made homemade soup to help soothe the ache in your throat. She let you pick a movie to watch while you ate, encouraging you with a smile when you cuddled into her.

"Hmmm, let's see. We could watch Bambi?" That's got a firm head shake from you. "Maybe-- what were those fairy movies?-- Tinkerbell? Is that okay?" You nodded.

Soon enough, an animated fairy was flying across the TV as you watched in a daze. Your hazy mind found it hard to focus on eating and the movie at the same time so Annie eventually took the spoon from you to help you actually get the soup into your mouth instead of all over your clothes and the blankets.

"Y/N, turn to me a little. No, no here sweetheart." Annie gently guided you, making sure the spoon went into your mouth. You gasped in betrayal when instead of soup you tasted horrible fake cherry.

"You... you betrayed me..." You murmured, pulling away from her cuddle looking distraught. She was quick to shush you when tears sprang to your eyes, murmuring apologies as she wiped away any tears.

"Shh, I'm sorry, honey. You know I only want what's best for you. I promise the cold medicine will help your fever and make you feel better. And would you have actually taken it if I had asked?"

"Yes!" You pouted, knowing that it was a lie.

"Mhm, sure. Here, have some more soup. I promise it's actually soup this time." You nodded, returning to your previous position so she could hold you close.

You pouted at the TV, realizing you'd missed some of the plot. Annie just shook her head, a fond smile on her face as she guided another spoonful of soup to your lips.

"What kind of soup is this?" You eventually asked.

"Oh, it's a chicken soup with wild rice. Not your classic chicken noodle, but pretty similar." She said, pressing a kiss to your temple. You went back to staring at the screen, enjoying the movie as you cuddled with her.

You managed to eat a majority of the bowl before you drifted off again. Annie carefully untucked herself from you to put the rest of the soup away. You hadn't noticed the boxes that had been delivered earlier that she began carrying down to the basement.

She kept an ear out for any distress as she began to unpack them, taking out some cute sheets and pillows, some comfy blankets and more cute items. When you were more aware you could tell her if you wanted to change anything, but for now she decorated your little corner in her basement.

Soon enough, it was more than just a mattress and a small lamp. Now you had a cute place to relax in while she streamed.

You were dead asleep on the couch when she went upstairs. One of your arms was fully off the couch, your head tucked into a pillow as you softly snored. She didn't turn off the TV, letting it be background noise as she tidied up a little bit.

Eventually, she put on a kettle for herself as she began to relax. It was quiet as she looked through her tea collection, trying to decide what tea she wanted. She had finally made her choice, a nice calming blueberry tea, when she heard a sudden gagging sound from the living room followed by a splat.

When she entered she saw you lying on your side, tears in your eyes as you stared at the mess you'd just made on the floor. When your eyes met hers you instantly broke into sobs.

"No, no, no. It's alright sweetheart. I can clean it up. You don't have to worry about anything. You aren't feeling well. Let me run you a bath." She said, gently helping you up. She ran you a warm bath, complete with fancy bath salts and everything.

Soon enough you were slumped against the rim of the tub, your cast resting on a towel on the edge. Annie quickly cleaned up, mentally thanking the gods that you had missed the carpet.

She finally made herself a cup of tea, taking a sip before she was going back to helping you. She picked out a some breathable pajamas for you to change into once you were out of the bath. She didn't need to help you much with drying off as you'd gotten better at only having the use of one arm, but getting a shirt on was still a bit of a struggle for you.

Finally she led you back downstairs to the couch, pouring you a cup of ginger ale to help settle your stomach while she wondered if making dinner was even worth it. Eventually she decided against it, pulling out her phone to look up the menu of some places close to here.

Unfortunately for her, you had gone back to cuddling against her and you were peeking at what she was doing. You felt better now, and your stomach decided what it wanted. "I want nuggets."

"Y/N, you just threw up. I'm not getting you chicken nuggets that could make you sick again."

"Nuggets." You insisted, looking up at her with a pout. "And I feel better now. I'm not nauseous anymore."

She rolled her eyes but reluctantly added the chicken nuggets to her order. "Fine, but you better stop if you start to feel sick again."

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎧 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Annie smiled as she watched you sleep. You had actually managed to finish all your chicken nuggets, grinning triumphantly at her as you did. She'd given into your pleading for '15 more minutes' watching movies as long as you took your medicine without fuss.

Now you were fully asleep on her chest, mouth open and drooling a little, and she couldn't be happier. She had no idea how your previous family had been so neglectful of you with how precious you were.

Not that that mattered anymore, they couldn't hurt you here. Now, you were safe with her, wrapped in her arms, and she would eliminate anyone who tried to disrupt that.

[chimerafeathers]

#i don’t go here but i think mirabelle had every right to react the way she did #how was she supposed to know siffrin cared at all if they were acting like he didn’t? #secret goodness only gets you so far if you aren’t willing to be honest about it with the people you love (via @kaiju-lightning)

i don't know to what degree you "don't go here" (what context or information you have or don't have outside of what's in this post) but, if you didn't know, Siffrin isn't like. some asshole with a secret ultra-hidden deep-down heart of gold that no one can see. they're just kind of quiet a lot of the time, and when they do speak up, it's usually either lightly jokey or very sweetly supportive. Mirabelle doubting his motives is VERY much fueled by her anxiety; none of the others (including Bonnie, a pre-teen) sincerely think that Siffrin doesn't care about them, even after Siffrin spends a day burning all their bridges.

more specific spoilers ahead!

there's a flashback in the very beginning of the game where Siffrin remembers Mirabelle checking in with them, trying to make sure he's really willing to be on a dangerous quest with her, and he tells her point-blank that traveling with them all is the happiest he's ever been. they're being completely honest, but Mirabelle doesn't really know that! because like! how could that possibly be true?? they're on a dangerous quest that they may not survive, for a country that he has no ties to, AND THEY JUST LOST AN EYE??? it doesn't make sense that nothing in his life made him happier than they are right now! maybe they're teasing her, or just trying to make her feel better, or something that would make more sense than that.

Siffrin's also in the habit of reminding Mirabelle not to bite her nails too much when she's feeling anxious. they start visibly panicking whenever they think someone is upset (especially if he thinks it's his fault or it's aimed at him). they lost their eye protecting Bonnie and only really cared that Bonnie was safe afterwards. he spends a lot of time trying to be quietly reassuring or keeping people happy with his jokes. Isabeau at one point calls them nice, and says he "always listens to what everyone has to say, and always tries to give advice even though they're not always very good at it"—that's all specifically about pre-time-loop behavior!

it's really not a secret AT ALL that Siffrin cares about the party in general. the "secret" part is how MUCH and how DEEPLY they care. it's the difference between "yeah, we had a great time together! i really enjoyed hanging out with you. we should keep in touch and hang out again sometime" (where everyone thinks everyone else is at, emotionally) and "i care about all of you more than anyone else i've ever known and the thought of you leaving is painful, but i can't bear to ask you to stay with me when you all have lives and homes and jobs and families to get back to and i don't want to keep you from your goals. i'm fine with just 'keeping in touch.' it's FINE"

it's also worth noting that the "secret" part is also kiiiiinda a secret even to Siffrin himself? as in, they're trying so hard to accept the fact that everyone will leave, that it's completely normal and natural for them to go back to their own lives, that they're shoving all their feelings about that into a tiny box and burying it in the back of their mind.

all of this to say, yes, Mirabelle absolutely has a right to be upset when Siffrin hurts her! but the reason she reacts so strongly is that she struggles much more than the others to consistently read Siffrin's behavior as sincerely friendly, because of her own anxiety and hangups. it's NOT because Siffrin is outwardly cold, callous, rude, flippant, or anything like that at a baseline.

hope that clears things up!

i really love how intensely Mirabelle reacts to act 5 Siffrin botched friendquest.

Isabeau is mostly operating out of concern and, eventually, hurt. he already knows something’s up before Siffrin gets to him. he knows something truly awful must be wrong for Siffrin to be lashing out like they are, and as soon as he can’t handle the situation anymore, he leaves and asks (with strained cheer) for time apart to cool off.

most of Bonnie’s anger comes from being upset and afraid that Siffrin would willingly put themself in danger for no reason, when that’s exactly why they’ve been so unsettled since the eye incident. they hate that Siffrin values their own life so little, they hate that they’re the cause of any pain or loss for him, and here he is, putting himself in that situation AGAIN. on purpose. it’s loud and explosive, but it’s familiar, too, being “hated” by Bonnie for this reason.

Odile pushes, and keeps pushing, until her concern overwhelms Siffrin and they strike where they know she’s most vulnerable. she gets physical, just for a moment, grabbing his collar before controlling herself and letting go. her fury shuts down into cold detachment, and she walks away.

but Mirabelle—dear, sweet, gentle, loving Mirabelle, “the most wonderful being on earth,” with her secret “ruthless side” that largely involves lightly badmouthing people behind their backs and then apologizing—slaps them. immediately.

and then COMPLETELY RENOUNCES THEIR FRIENDSHIP.

not just “we’re not friends anymore,” but “we were never friends in the first place.”

that’s!!! pretty extreme!!!!

of course, she ALSO starts by asking what’s wrong. something must have happened for him to act like this. but as soon as Siffrin brushes her off, she jumps past that line of questioning and dives headfirst into re-evaluating everything she thought she knew about them as a a person.

if he could say something like that to her and not see anything wrong with it, then she was wrong to treat him as a friend, wrong to read camaraderie into his teasing, wrong to think they must care about them all under their aloof demeanor.

that’s how Mirabelle phrases it—“I was wrong about you”—but i think that there’s a hidden layer of I was right about you, too.

she talks about the way they tease her like she had to convince herself that he was doing it in a friendly way. she says they talk like they “know better than her” like that’s a thought she’s had for a LONG time.

“Always soooo mysterious, Siffrin, always talking as if you're better than me! As if you know me!!! But you don't, Siffrin!!! You're just as lost and useless as I am!!! So stop!!! Talking!!! As if you know me!!!!!!”

none of this comes across as a new, sudden way to view Siffrin for her. it doesn’t shock or confuse her. it makes her angry, defensive, almost like she was waiting for something like this to happen at some point. the feeling of resentment, frustration, jealousy, being patronized and condescended to—this is something she’s been actively pushing down and rejecting this entire time, but they’ve given her ample reason for it all to boil to the surface. violently.

Mirabelle’s kindness is not inherent or easy. it’s a choice she’s making. she treats Siffrin warmly because she gives him the benefit of the doubt—refusing to act based on anxiety-fueled, cynical speculation, and reassuring herself that his actions are driven by care and friendship even if she can’t quite see it.

“I was wrong about you” doesn’t mean she always and without question believed them to be a fundamentally kind, caring person from the beginning—it’s that her first, colder instincts were right, and she was wrong to convince herself otherwise.

never mind that she asked what was wrong at first. she barely gives them time to speak in their own defense, to explain what they really meant by what they said. all of her suppressed doubts and frustrations are getting aired out now, now that all the trust she’d so deliberately placed in him has been betrayed. her pain feels bigger than this singular moment, so when she hurts him back, she makes sure it extends back through the entirety of their relationship for him, too.

“You're awful. You're not my friend, not my ally, not anything. You never were.”

like the others, she goes back to the clocktower and tells Siffrin not to come back until later. but there’s a finality to the way she ends this confrontation that isn’t quite there with the others. Isabeau and Odile reach their breaking point and remove themselves from the situation, asking for space to cool off but still somewhat leaving the door open for Siffrin to tell them what’s really going on at some point. Mirabelle is the only one who tries to fully cut ties—after everything else she says, her “I don’t want to see you until tonight” reads to me somewhat as “I don’t want to see you anymore unless I have to.”

I can’t wait to never see you again.

even back at the clocktower, Mirabelle doesn’t really defend Siffrin’s place in the party when Odile suggests leaving them behind out of concern for their trustworthiness on the most important day of the journey. Isabeau and Bonnie protest out of sentimentality and faith in Siffrin’s abilities and connection to them, and Mirabelle agrees, but…

“I agree, but... B-But would he even agree to come with us, still? Maybe they won't even come back tonight...”

she doesn’t say much outside of that. maybe the stutter and hesitation here are signs of regret about how things happened, but she lacks Isabeau and Bonnie’s confidence that Siffrin even wants to come back to them in the first place. she doesn’t trust that their bond was real anymore. maybe it never was in the first place, or maybe she broke whatever was there herself.

and she’s still mad when they finally catch up to Siffrin at the King! and she makes sure Siffrin knows that—after saving them, assuring him that he no longer needs to fight, that they’re all there for him. she still cares, of course she still cares—she’s still hurt, too, but they can figure that part out once there’s less world-ending stuff going on.

she’s the first to say that they all reserve the right to still be angry at Siffrin later—and that they’ve already forgiven him.

she’s also the first to say we want to stay with you, too. it’s not just you.

she was wrong! she thought they didn’t care but they care so much, it’s overwhelming, it’s world-ending.

i think she’s gonna be wallowing in guilt post-canon the moment she remembers what she said and did TO SIFFRIN and not just what Siffrin said to her. especially now that she knows Siffrin’s exact hangups, and especially especially if she figures out what Siffrin was trying to say.

they put themself through hell out of loneliness and fear that none of the others cared about him the way he cared about them, he was going insane from repetition and exhaustion and hunger and trying to keep them all safe and together, and all they did in the midst of all that was say something kind of mean to her one time (that turned out to not even be MEANT to be mean it was supposed to be HELPFUL they just SAID IT ALL WRONG) and she SLAPPED THEM? and told him that they WEREN’T FRIENDS AT ALL??? how could she!!! she should have known better!! what they said hurt a lot but still!!!

so when they eventually manage to try to talk about it, they end up almost in, like, a guilt competition.

Mirabelle apologizing for how she reacted, that she shouldn’t have yelled or hit him, that she doesn’t want to be the kind of person who acts that way out of anger and she’s sorry that she made Siffrin expect that reaction from her, she should have known better and believed in him more and they only messed up like that because they were losing their mind in a time loop but what’s HER excuse—

and Siffrin going nononono stop I deserved it—(HUH DON’T SAY THAT NO YOU DIDN’T)—and that he should never have said such awful things to her, ever, and she was under so much pressure already with the weight of the country and everyone’s lives and futures and her religion and their whole party counting on her to do this impossible task because she’s the only one who can, all this unbearable expectation and hope crushing her, and they KNEW that but they thought they could skip to the ending as though her feelings didn’t matter at all, like helping her wasn’t as important as saving a little time—

until they’re just. in tears together, apologizing for all the horrible things they did in between complimenting each other’s strength and kindness and resilience and how much they admire each other and saying that no, everything you did was completely understandable, actually, the only one who sucks here is me. which neither of them will accept coming from the other!!

they’re so similar, in ways they couldn’t really understand, before.

warm, affectionate, perfect Mirabelle, the resolute hero, a beacon of compassion and hope for all those around her, who wears her heart on her sleeve, her fear making her courage shine all the brighter—nothing like the insignificant, forgettable Siffrin, too terrified to be known, too fragile to touch, too selfish and disgusting to bear letting go.

cool, mysterious, unflappable Siffrin, the worldly traveler, as charming and silly as they are confident and skilled, who brushed off losing an eye like it was nothing, accepting the risks of this journey with barely more than a shrug—nothing like the anxious, stagnant, underserving Mirabelle, a fraud and a nobody crumbling under the weight of a mission too important to be entrusted to someone like her, doubting herself, doubting her friends, doubting her mentor, doubting her faith, too weak and brittle to bend and change the way the world needs her to without breaking.

not worth bothering others with their problems. they should be able to handle this alone. stay positive, stay calm. breathe in, and out.

they’ll struggle with it, still—the hiding, the minimizing—but now, they understand each other a little better. they can hold each other accountable for what they leave unsaid.

it’ll get easier, eventually. they have plenty of time.

[zozo-01]

on loving a sport that only demanded the best from you, and how you cope with taking your life back from it. (feat leon s. kennedy <3)

You could feel his eyes trained on you, trying to ignore his gaze as you help the kids off the ice and into the change rooms to get them ready for their parents.

You didn't even flinch or look his way when he stopped next to you on the ice, his back resting against the rink. Through all of that, he never took his eyes off of you.

"Is there anything you need, captain?" You finally turned your head towards Leon, trying to figure out what he needed from you.

He didn't say a word, opting to continue to just stare at you. What was going on behind those baby blue eyes, you'll never know. Quite frankly, you didn't even care. But at this point, his staring was starting to freak you out, and you're ready to bolt out of there to avoid his scrutinizing gaze.

"Well, if you're not going to say anything, I'm gonna go-"

"Your skills are still there," he finally spoke up. Your raised eyes brow and confused face must have prompted him to continue. "The way you handle the puck and skate around... You're just as good as you were when we were kids."

With the way your training was instilled in you, it was hard to let go of the way you played hockey. It was true that your instincts were still there, and if you were being honest, you could probably put on a jersey and play better then half of Leon's team. And that was probably putting it nicely.

But the thought of putting on another jersey had bile rising in your throat. You shook those desires out of your head.

"Congratulations, you're the first person to tell me that." He wasn't the first and you know he won't be the last. The moment you stepped away from the sport, all you heard around you were pleas to keep going and to save your home team, with no regards of your health or even what you wanted. It left you bitter, how the people who'd call themselves your 'fans' just treated you like a circus animal, who's only purpose was to keep them entertained. You scoffed, "I'm sorry you won't get your rematch though."

His eyes widened and his mouth was ready to defend himself.

"That's not what I meant-"

"If you're keep going to say the same shit that everyone has said to me, then you can drop it Kennedy," you snarled as you squared up to face him. "I am never setting foot on ice during a game again, and you're just going to have to deal with that." You were exhausted of everyone thinking you owed them an explanation. You didn't owe anyone shit, let alone Leon.

His eyes hardened as he squared up to you as well, not afraid of the challenge you're posing. Fine, if he was going to be stubborn, then you'd just have to beat his ass again.

"I just hate that you have all this talent," he used his gloved hand to gesture at you before continuing, "and it's going to waste when anyone would kill to have your natural skills." He tried to hurt you with his words, and it would have worked had you not heard worse over the years.

Still, it didn't stop anger lighting up your blood and the scars on your heart slowly reopen.

Before you could go off on how very wrong he was, you were cut off by one of the girls from your class. She was talented for her age and you saw a lot of you in her, back when you thought hockey was what you wanted. Part of you wished to deter her from this path and save her from the pain that awaited her. You of all people knew that wasn't your decision to make.

"I'm sorry if I'm interrupting anything..." her voice trailed off with nerves. Your heart softened as you knelt down to hear her better.

"It's ok, sweetie. Is there anything you need?" you asked as you felt your rage leave your system. You would never be like the coaches you had growing up, always treating your kids with the kindness and care you were denied.

"It's just... I just want to thank you for everything that you do and that it's really cool to have you as a teacher!" Her eyes lit up as she continued singing your praises. Your cynical side wanted to come out and tell her that you weren't as good as she said, but you kept your mouth shut. But there was one thing she said that stood out to you.

"I want to be just like you one day!"

No you don't kid, you thought remorsefully. You didn't say anything because Leon decided to speak up on your behalf.

"You're choosing a great person to look up to." Your eyes snapped up to him, not expecting him to praise you after such a heated exchange. "She's one of the best to ever do it, and you already look like you're on your way to be like her." He smiled at her, his voice confident in his words. You never knew he thought so highly of you, and your heart fluttered at his compliment.

That was the end of the conversation, as the young girl's father had come by to pick her up. She thanked you and ran off to her dad, but you stayed kneeling on the ice.

This is what you loved about the sport. Seeing young players look up to you and having older players validate you. You were so damn good at hockey it hurts you everyday that you would forever be just a juniour player when you knew you could be more- were destined for more.

The silence didn't scare him off, so you offered a little bit of your story.

"It wasn't easy," you finally spoke, standing up with your back to him. "I don't even think I made the right decision sometimes."

"There's always a spot on the team for you," Leon offered. You knew that, with Coach Branagh giving you the same offer. "You're a better player then literally the entire team, except for me of course," he boasted. He didn't see the little smile at his cockiness. He continued, "if you love the sport, there's always a way back."

"But I have to love me more. No sport is worth my life," you said with an air of finality, and you hope that if you said it enough times, your heart would stop aching every time you said it.

Leon deflated, but if he wanted to say more, then it would have to wait for another time. A cursory glance at the clock told you that his practice was about to begin and it was time you head home.

"I'll see you around, Kennedy." You didn't wait for a response, stepping off the ice and unlacing your skates, leaving him standing there on the rink. You grab your bags and head over to your car.

As you left the ice rink, you couldn't help but have a feeling that you're going to see Leon around more often. A small and dismissible part of your heart was okay with that realization.

(Leon gave himself a mission as he watched you walk away again, and that was to break the shell you created for yourself and try to bring back the girl he fell in love with all those years ago.)

(The fact that he wishes to deny is that he never stopped loving you, and he's scared he'll never get over you.)

reader: sorry i don't date hockey players leon: but... you were a hockey player... reader: my point exactly

well... hockey boy! leon apparently has my heart and i have @vaaaaaiolet to blame for that. i'm sososo excited to read your hockey boy! leon fic and i am clutching you so hard during these trying times (the nhl playoffs as a leafs fan)

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday: Ransom Drysdale

Summary: Ransom apologizes.

A/N: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.

Warnings: Angst, Self-esteem issues, Talk of sex dreams. Please let me know if I missed any.

Previous

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Ransom knocks on your door. He's more tense than he's ever been in his life. He's got the Birthday Pusheen held in front of him so it's the first thing you see when you open the door. If it's you that opens the door. You warned him Spitfire and Newbie were there, helping you out.

Sure enough, Spitfire is the one to open the door, the Pusheen directly in her face. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

"She...she said to come over?" Ransom hesitates.

Spitfires move aside and gesture for him to enter the apartment. Her glare is incredibly effective and he can't meet her gaze. There's no doubt in his mind that, if he doesn't apologize well enough, she will be kicking him out.

As Ransom enters the living area where you and Newbie are sitting on the couch you immediately spot the Pusheen.

"Is that an apology gift?" you ask trying very hard to keep your tone neutral.

"Sort of," he replies sheepishly. "It's a thank you for giving me the opportunity to apologize. I'd originally gotten it for your birthday but...but I made some mistakes." He winces as he hears Spitfire's dismissive snort.

You take a breath to steady your nerves. "Do you know what you're apologizing for?"

"For hurting you by lying." Ransom feels the tears start to form in his eyes. The admission of the crime, admitting he hurt you of all people, hits him hard and he fidgets with the Pusheen. "I," he takes a breath, "betrayed your trust. And I am, so very, genuinely sorry."

"Why?" Tears start forming. You can tell he's hurting, too but you need more if you're to consider forgiving him. "Why did you do it?"

"I thought I was protecting you,' he confesses.

You can see Spitfire fighting the urge to give him a piece of her mind. You're happy to have her support but you asked her to only intervene if he got out of hand. At the same time, Newbie is letting you squeeze her hand to help keep yourself under control.

"Protecting me from what?" you finally ask.

"From me." Ransom lowers his head. "I...I had some...dreams of...of us...together..."

"Sex dreams?" Newbie blurts out. You're happy Ransom can't see how your eyes widen when he nods in the affirmative.

"I...those times I said I was at D&D I was...I was looking for a hookup," he admits. "I thought, if I could just get it out of my system, I wouldn't...corrupt you or hurt you even more."

Even as you see Spitfire soften towards him, you feel yourself getting angry. "So you're saying I'm 'too pure'? Too 'naive and innocent' to be with you?" Ransom looks back at you, eyes filled with fear. "Do you know how many people treat me like I'm a child just because I like soft, pink things? And now you're doing the same thing!"

"No!" he asserts. "I know better than to think that. We've hung out enough that I know you're not childish and definitely not naive. But I know me. Especially the old me that I'm so scared I still am. I don't...I don't want to just use you. You're too important to me to lose! Especially through my bad habits!"

"How many?" you choke out. "How many women were you sleeping with when you told me you were playing D&D?"

"None," he admits quietly. Spitfire and Newbie both guffaw. "I'd meet them and it would go nowhere," Ransom adds. "I tried, so very hard, to let myself...to be my old self. Just looking for sex. But it never happened."

"You expect me to believe that?"

Ransom hesitates. "I can actually get someone to confirm that but..."

"Who?" you demand.

"Nick," he whispers. "He showed up at the last failed date."

That gets your attention.

"So he's still following you? Why hasn't he given your family the information?"

Ransom lowers his gaze again, "he doesn't care for my family so he offered me an out. But I'm not taking him up on it."

"So someone neither of us wants to talk to can verify your story about not sleeping with anyone despite your attempts, all while you were lying to me," you deadpan.

He winces. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

"Do you have his information?"

He hesitates, "yes. But he'll think I'm...that I've agreed to his terms."

"What were those terms?" Spitfire cuts in.

"That I set him up on a date with Bubbles," Ransom mumbles. He looks back to you, "but I'm not going to do that. You're more important to me than my family learning where I am."

The room quiets. All of you know about Ransom going no contact. You know a lot of the reasons for it. Looking him in the eyes, you believe him when he says he'd rather talk to them than sell you.

"Call him," you demand. "Set up a meeting." Turning to Newbie you ask, "think you can talk Steve into getting involved?"

She smirks, "someone trying to bully their way into a date with you? Yeah, he'll be game to help out."

"Hopefully he won't be needed," you counter. "But I definitely want him nearby in case things go south."

"What are you thinking?" Spitfire wonders.

"I'm gonna tell him off for being a creep," you fume. "And for hurting Ransom." Ransom perks up at that. You look at him, "I accept your apology but you've still got a ways to go for forgiveness."

Ransom drops to his knees and starts crying. You rush over to hug him and he hugs you back while whimpering, "thank you, thank you so much."

Next

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @ozwriterchick; @ronearoundblindly; @lokislady82; @thiquefunlover63

[a4th]

Snow White; oneshot

SOUKOKU Beast AU | words: 695

skk ff written by me long time ago, translated from PL to EN (so there might be some minor errors sorry!) No explicit content, just canon-typical mentions of Dazai's s*icide.

Angst. Inspired by Dead Apple art. Enjoy!

Summary: One man grapples with the weight of a past sacrifice, while another feels an inexplicable pull towards something he never knew. A story of inner struggle and hidden bonds.

One fights for oneself one's whole life, most often – quite unsuccessfully, because even the strongest will eventually succumb to the weight of what they must sacrifice. It's better to fight without winning than to win while losing the most.

Dazai understood this too late, when blood already crowned his victory. He held in his arms the limp body of someone who could have even been considered his truest friend all those years, if only he hadn't remained such a soulless blind man – the dead Chuuya. He hadn't made it in time, cruel time had betrayed him, and the Book, capable of reversing the course of an unfortunate history, had long since disappeared somewhere!

Today, his still distant gaze, wandering in search of something he had lost long ago, and time won't turn back, no longer cries, only the Sun doesn't cease to hypocritically laugh straight into his tired face, encircling with its sharp glare the soaring, pitch-black buildings of the Port Mafia, where the gloomy king hid on such beautiful days as this.

He was a coward, and he will be one tomorrow and the day after.

That is why, as he parted with life in his final flight – the flight of a completely freed bird, which with broken wings headed straight for concrete arms – he felt not the slightest fear. All thoughts scattered somewhere, finally releasing him from earthly worries. Confirming these feelings, a smile did not leave his face until the end, although it was a very sad smile, one in which happiness was obviously absent despite all his earlier words.

Dazai smiled until the last second, undoubtedly deceiving himself just as he had deceived those unfortunates above, whom he made the recipients of his art, before red flowers bloomed below, as if someone had picked roses and then scattered them. Without applause, in deafening silence.

Snow White lay breathless on the ground. She was dead.

The Book itself did not bring happiness, because it's hard to find in logic, but it gave a choice. A life for a life, and that was something, so before it happened, before a garden full of red blossoms bloomed at the foot of the black towers that had been his tomb from the beginning, Dazai didn't hesitate for even a moment longer. He had written this fate for himself, and he was somewhat proud of it, for his poor literary talent. He liked excessive drama, so it's no wonder he didn't deny it to himself, especially on his last day.

That was the real reason for sacrificing his own life on this altar. To atone for his sins with sacrifice, how cliché! All for a better tomorrow for people better than him.

He didn't notice how the Demon's words had become his own.

Chuuya. If I was the cause of your death, let me be the cause of your life. Ah! It's so pretentious and boring to be a hero. What a waste of time! I don't think this pose suits me, Chibiko. You know me well. I'm leaving. I have to leave to save face. Otherwise, I'd burn with shame! You don't need me anymore. So it's best if you never find out about this. Well, and now I'm going to sleep for all time! Oh. I think something cracked in my back. No, it's not from lying down. Aaaah, I'm getting sleepier and sleepier... I need to rest more now. Good night, Chuuya. You take care of yourself too. Oh, I almost forgot. Try to surprise me and grow a little taller, okay?

One wish was certainly fulfilled.

In this world without Abilities, Chuuya never met Dazai. Until the end of his life, he didn't know what that feeling was that sometimes came over him when, from the window of his apartment, he would cast a fleeting glance at the clear evening sky of Yokohama, which was no longer whispered to by black, steel towers, spreading a shroud of terror over the port city in their terrifying might.

Here, Dazai Osamu was never born.

Chuuya involuntarily held his breath, often enveloped by the spring-infused wind, because that's when the strange feelings intensified the most. With sparkling eyes, he chased after something that only eyes couldn't see, meanwhile he felt with his whole being as if it were right there, within reach of a hand reaching out for flowers in the rain, on which cherry blossoms would remain, just like today. As if someone had always stood beside him and had only stubbornly refused to speak, trusting that words were not needed to announce:

I'm here.

Snow White lay in her coffin for a long time, but death had not left its mark on her. She looked as if she were asleep, still as white as snow.

Such Yokohama was beautiful.

Thanks for reading 🫶 wattpad PL

[cursesavior]

"Mm, I'm glad - I'm trying to be." Suguru murmurs with a melancholy smile, holding Satoru close as he pushes his way into his lap. There's still a comforting bit of warmth to his skin, his transformation recent enough that some of his human body heat still clung to him, and Suguru takes the opportunity to bury his face in the crook of his neck and soak it all in, knowing it'll soon fade and Satoru's pale skin will be as deathly cold as his own. He knows he's good at hiding his trauma from the rest of his followers - he's created a very particular image of himself, one where he's powerful but rational, fully in control of his own mind and body, a savior equally capable of protection and destruction. If they knew what he'd really been like when he first awakened, that image would be shattered - he couldn't let that happen, couldn't let them see the weakness and regret beneath the surface, everything would fall apart. It's all an act, a role he has to play until he reaches the finish line...

But, at least with Satoru, he can still be himself. He can rest assured that his one and only will accept him, faults and all.

He gives a weak laugh at his comment, reaching up to ruffle his hair playfully. "Hah, you're right - I can't imagine he tastes very good, especially to a sweet tooth like you." Gossip has always been a guilty pleasure of his - well, not that he actually feels all that guilty about it, more that he just wouldn't admit to getting that much enjoyment from it, despite how blatantly untrue that is. His expression softens after a moment, though, pressing a kiss to the side of his face- "But you know, I'm already proud of you. You've come so far."

And he doesn't just mean that in terms of handling himself well as a vampire- no, even before his transformation, Satoru had changed so much since they were reunited. He used to be petulant and selfish in their younger years, brash and reckless, caring little for others - and while Suguru hadn't been there after his supposed death, he can't imagine that made things any better. He'd heard the stories about him, an emotionless killing machine on the battlefield, the academy's pride and joy, the best vampire slayer they'd seen in decades. But now, he's grown up, matured, taken well to Suguru's cause and completely changed his perspective - it would almost be hard to believe this is the same boy he knew in their school years, if Suguru didn't know him better. But deep down, they're both the same people they've always been, aren't they?

His heart sinks a little at the question - there it is, the same hurt boy who'd lost his best friend, still there beneath it all, still wrestling with the grief. He holds onto him a little tighter, resting his forehead on his shoulder with a quiet sigh. He wishes there had been some other way, wishes he didn't have to leave Satoru without a word, allow him to think he was dead for nearly a decade - but what else could he have done? If he'd made any other decision, chances are they wouldn't be here right now.

"I thought you'd kill me," Suguru admits, voice heavy with guilt. "Or if not you, then someone - but you remember what they taught us back there. I was sure you'd think it would be better for me to die than live as a monster. I didn't see any way I could go back there and survive... And honestly, I didn't know if I could look you in the eyes again, after everything I'd done." By the time he'd regained his senses, he'd become exactly what they were taught to hate and fear at the academy, a trail of senselessly drained and viciously slaughtered corpses left in the wake of his transformation. He didn't want Satoru to see him like that - he'd rather he think he was dead, that he'd perished going down the noble path, that he remember him as a human. It seems foolish now, to think that Satoru would turn on him like that, but he was still so young back then, lost and confused about his place in this world, ashamed of what he'd become. He just didn't have it in him to face him back then.

Honestly, it's something of a relief when the topic changes to the academy itself, despite the fraught emotions surrounding the place where they'd spent their teenage years - it's complicated, but it's still easier to think about than the past. This concerns his future plans, the world he's going to create - it's easy to step back into the role of powerful leader, leaving his scared, remorseful self to the wayside. "I was wondering when you'd ask about that," He hums, shifting to meet Satoru's gaze once more. "It's not like I want to kill everyone there, if that's what you're thinking. I can't say they're all bad people - we were just the same, once, and I know some of our old friends are still there... It'll be tricky, but maybe there's some way we could evacuate those more... Amenable to our cause before we attack. Of course, it would be a disaster if that information leaked to the higher-ups..." Ah, so much to consider. Maybe he really will just try and get their old friends out, first - he never said his judgment was unbiased. If it means saving those he cares about, he doesn't mind some favoritism.

"Regardless, we're going to attack the academy with all of our strength, and take over their facilities for ourselves once we've chased them out. That'll be our first major step in dismantling the entire system - prevent them from training new vampire hunters, and it'll become much easier to achieve our goals. Whatever new hunters spring up won't be nearly as well-equipped or well-trained, especially if we take the teachers out of the equation..." He trails off, realizing that perhaps he's speaking a bit too casually about the murder of their former professors, the people they looked up to, once upon a time. He has to remind himself just what they were teaching them - hate and violence, the eradication of those different than themselves because they thought of them as a threat to humanity. "... It's going to be ugly, and there will likely be many casualties on both sides, but it has to be done. We can't win otherwise. All we can do is prepare our followers as much as we can..."

Fingers press into the sides of the plastic pouch, swishing around the warm liquid as he watches the way that Suguru almost struggles to form a coherent retelling of his own time as a baby vampire, of the first few days in which he had become someone else. The thought of someone else leaving him alone, of someone turning him without a care as a punishment and not caring about the consequences, makes Satoru’s stomach roil. His throat feels too tight; suddenly the blood doesn’t taste as appetizing as it once had. Suguru had been all alone in the world; he had gone on a mission as a human and then was turned, left to fend for himself and give into the bloodlust that coursed through his veins. There had been no one there to be a gentle guiding space for him  ––  there wasn’t anyone offering him a blood bag nor was there someone guiding him with a firm fist in his hair when he drank too much. There’s a soft moment where Satoru debates on whether or not Suguru even enjoys being a vampire or if he’s just happily begun to play the role that he was given. He’s always been the more adaptable of the two  ––  and now he has a following, ones that happily rise up to meet his every demand. He’s alone no longer, but is that enough to placate such a dark time in his life?

“You’re a good sire, you know.”  The words are soft, falling from his lips as he coaxes his way into Suguru’s lap, feeling the hard press of his body against his own. It soothes something in him, the way that the brunette completely curls himself around him, like being protected when he is nothing more than a monster now.  “You would never know what you’ve been through.”  He reaches up, runs fingers along his jaw carefully; he doesn’t like to see the look that he has in his eyes now, that hardness and the loneliness that stretches for far too long. Satoru would destroy anyone if it meant that he didn’t have to see that again.  “I’ll do my best to make you proud and not kill Jerome of being a pesky little fuck. I’m sure his blood would taste like whiskey at this point anyway.”  A derisive sniff, an attempt to make Suguru smile again.

Tongue runs along his fangs for a moment, testing the sharpness of them as he thinks. It makes sense then why Suguru is so careful with him, how he has been asking constantly if this was something that he wanted, how he had to consent loud and clear that being a vampire was his choice. Everything that he had gone through may have hollowed him out in the long run, but he has in turn become the sire that they had all heard about when they had been in the academy, learning weaknesses and who to truly target. But thinking of the academy raises more questions than anything, and Satoru shifts a little so that he knows that he’s not alone, knows that as dark as his thoughts and his story might have turned, there will always be Satoru in order to ground him. He doesn’t know how comforting it actually is in the moment, but he gives it his best shot and speaks around the straw in his mouth.  “Why didn’t you come home? I know you were turned, but maybe we could have helped you.”  

It’s a long shot of a thought, one that is spoken from a boy who had his heart broken when his best friend had been declared dead. One who had spent far too long at a memorial in the pouring rain, swallowing hard with hands shaking as the flowers felt too cartoonish, felt too insincere. They wouldn’t have been able to help him and somewhere deep down, he knows that. There was an aching bite in his soul when he even thought of it, of how horrendous he had been for so long because the world had thought less of them. The world had bit into their veins and spun a narrative that all vampires were bad, that there was nothing more than slaying. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, even back then  ––  but what choice did they have? There was no talk of living in harmony with the creatures, of just minding their own business so long as the body counts didn’t get too high. What about this right here? The blood bag in his hands? If they donated every month at the academy, could they not stave off the hunger pains that newborns felt?

It was all questions that he could ask in hindsight, but that he would never get answers for. No, now he was thinking with the mind of a creature and seeing the errors of his ways, and there was no going back. He knows that he would stand by Suguru’s side, even if it meant slaughtering everyone at the academy. Maybe he could get Haibara, Shoko, and Nanami out  ––  they’ve all been fed up with the academy for so long, leaving the moment that they got the chance to. Shoko was still there though, tending to wounds and researching vampires, making new weapons in order to strengthen their chances against them. But the other two…Nanami would keep Haibara safe, he could keep him away from the academy on the day that they attacked, lure him into a day in the city or something similar. Fingers twitch; this isn’t even his call to make  ––  he had agreed to serve Suguru the moment that they had met once more. There was an ache that twisted in his chest because he knows Suguru will listen to him, but he’s never once stopped to ask just what the real goal was.

The question is timid when it finally escapes him.  “What do you plan on doing to the academy?”

[turtlecleric]

CWs: thoughts of suicide, suicide attempt

-

There are no stars here.

There were stars in the country. You remember staring up at them on nights when you couldn't sleep, getting lost in the constellations until your eyes got heavy enough to stay closed. Here, though, when you look up, there's just… darkness. An endless expanse of nothing. Almost like the stars themselves decided it wasn't worth it anymore to stick around. Light pollution, smog, yeah yeah, you know. But maybe… maybe the stars just decided to leave. To start fresh.

Or maybe… they decided to finally rest.

The wind cuts through your thin jacket, chilling your skin. Your feet sway where they hang in the air, over the side of the roof, and when you lean forward, peering down at the city below, you think you should be feeling some sort of vertigo. A bit of fear, maybe. Instead you feel… nothing. Just cold, and stiff, and tired.

You miss the stars. But you understand why they left.

The city is a blur of light and movement. There are thousands of people down there, even now, at this late hour, going about their lives. It's so busy here. Always busy and bustling and alive in a way that doesn't come naturally to you.

Out of place. That's what you are. That's what you've always been. But not for much longer.

“What are you doing?” a voice stage-whispers nearby. You inhale sharply, whirling around to see… nothing. You scan the empty roof, eyes wide, your heart lodged in your throat. There shouldn't be anyone up here. You checked to make sure when you first came up, and there had been no one. If someone had come through the door, you would've heard the heavy, ancient thing creaking on its hinges, and the ladder is to your right, so you would've seen if someone came up the fire escape. So there shouldn't be anyone up here.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I know this is weird or whatever,” the voice continues. It sounds like… a guy. Honestly, he sounds like a fucking dork, with the way he's whispering so loudly. “It's just that, like, Leo would kill me if I let myself get seen, but you've been here for a while and it's pretty late, or- I don't know, early? Whatever, but I had to check on you, y'know? So, like, are you good?”

…This is weird. Right? Yeah, this is definitely weird. The guy, wherever he is, doesn't… sound like someone you need to worry about, though. Something about the way he talks makes you feel like… talking back.

“I'm good,” you say slowly, the words feeling foreign in your mouth. You twist around further, still scanning the empty roof for signs of movement. “How did you… get up here?”

“Uhhhhhh same way you did?”

Okay so he's a terrible liar. Despite everything, it makes the corner of your mouth twitch upward. “Right. Sure.” You scoot back and swing both legs back up so you can stand, your muscles protesting from sitting still for so long. You take a few steps away from the ledge, peering around you. “And where are you exactly?”

His voice goes from a stage whisper to a cheesy imitation of a ghost, and yeah, okay, this is the weirdest thing that's ever happened to you, but you can't help laughing when he croons, “I'm a hallucinaaatioooon.”

“Uh huh. A hallucination.” There are a few vents on the roof. You start to walk between them, circling each one in the hope that you'll find this guy crouched behind one, but no such luck. “A hallucination that will get in trouble with the big boss for being seen? Is that what you said?”

“Pshhhh Leo isn't the boss of me. Well, I- I guess like sort of, in a way, but not like- I mean- Dad is the- okay, no, we were talking about you. What are you doing up here? Aren't you cold?”

You cross your arms, feeling a bit petulant at the question, though you're not sure why. Yes, you're cold. But it's… fine. “Are you cold?”

“Answering a question with a question, huh?” You hear a nervous chuckle from… somewhere. “Donnie does that when I'm being- oh shit, am I bothering you right now? I am, aren't I? I'm sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I'll- sorry, I'll let you get back to, uh, sitting.”

“No!” You reach out a hand toward nothing, feeling more than a little silly as you continue to look around you in vain. The roof is still empty. “No, please, I…”

You… what? Want to keep talking? Missed feeling seen? Maybe he is a hallucination. Maybe this is your brain's last attempt at stopping you. But… it's true. You do want to keep talking.

That's just pathetic, isn't it? Sad, lonely little girl, wanting to be seen so badly that she'll hallucinate someone to ask if she's okay. There's no one here. You're alone.

You're alone.

Everything you had been feeling before you came up here returns, all at once, like a crashing wave, smothering you beneath the crushing pressure. Your throat tightens. Your lungs burn. There's a fog in your mind and a black hole in your chest and you're shivering but it's not from the cold.

…You've put this off long enough. It's time to stop pretending.

Your shoes scuff against the roof as you approach the ledge. A gust of wind makes you sway dangerously, and you think you hear the voice again, but the roaring in your ears is too loud.

Just one more step. One more step. One more. Just. Just-

Something yanks you by the arm, and you stumble backward, bumping into something big and solid. You're wildly disoriented for a few seconds, still getting your feet steady beneath you, and then you look up to see…

Okay. You're definitely hallucinating.

“What are you doing?!” The man (??) asks, frantic concern etched into every line of his face.

His face. Green skin. No hair. And no ears, and more of a snout than a nose, and a- a mask over his eyes? For some reason? You're officially losing it.

The man snaps his fingers - there are fewer than there should be, you notice - in your face, and his other hand rests on your shoulder, holding you in place. “Focus on me, angel, okay? Can you hear me? Are you okay? What were you doing?”

He's talking so fast you don't even get a chance to answer each question before he's asking the next. You stand there, watching him fret, and Jesus, he's huge. With a big… something? On his back? A shell? You look him up and down and back up again before you finally find your voice.

“Are you a turtle?”

He stops moving, going quiet, and seems to suddenly realize something. His expression turns sheepish, almost afraid, and he pulls his hands back to fidget with them in front of his stomach. You feel unmoored without the weight of his hand on your shoulder. “Yeah, actually. I am. Sorry, I… guess I should've… I'm… I'm Mikey.”

Mikey. There's no way this is real. Still, it feels rude to not introduce yourself in turn. Mikey seems to relax when you tell him your name, but the concern returns quickly, and this time when he speaks, he does so quietly.

“What were you doing?”

Is this… your brain trying to… get you to face what you're trying to do? Somehow? You know what you're trying to do. You've been thinking about it for months. Where were these hallucinations before you quit your job? Before you sold nearly everything you own and let your lease run out and cut off the few people who have tried to make a connection with you since you moved here? You're so tired. You're so…

“You know what I was doing, Mikey.”

There's silence as you stare at each other. You watch his expression shift from confusion to dread to sadness. He looks from you to the edge of the roof and back, and his eyes start to water, and you can't, you can't, you can't do this. That's not fair. It's not fair for your mind to come up with a giant turtle man and then make you feel bad for him being sad. That's fucking ridiculous!

…But you do. Feel bad. Mikey looks lost, and scared, and sad - and you hate it.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

Mikey makes an aborted movement with his arms, then shakes his head. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “Can I hug you?”

Well, now, this really is pathetic, isn't it? When was the last time someone hugged you? Is your brain that desperate for comfort?

…What do you have to lose?

As soon as you nod, Mikey puts his arms around you and pulls you close. His arms shake, just a little, but you feel secure in his hold. Your cheek rests against his chest, and it's… oddly firm. Textured. Warmer than the air, but still a bit cool to the touch. You can feel his chest moving as he breathes. It feels so real. And you… you don't want him to let go.

It's pathetic, fine, sure, whatever, you don't care, but when you start to sob and he only holds you tighter, you're so, so thankful that he's here.

You let yourself cry. He stays quiet, a steady presence that keeps you grounded, and when your sobs turn to sniffles, he's still holding you. It still feels real. It can't be real, it can't be, but honestly? Fuck it. Fuck everything. You really, truly, do not care. It feels good to be held. It feels good to be seen. To be… cared for. Your brain can hallucinate whatever it wants at this point, as long as Mikey is there, too.

When he starts to pull back, you cling to him. Embarrassing. Whatever. He stops pulling away though, holding you close again.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks.

“Don't have one anymore.”

“Oh. My bad.”

For some reason, that makes you smile. Your hallucination, which manifested because you were going to kill yourself, is apologizing for not knowing that you were homeless, which you did in preparation for said killing of said self. Yeah, no, that's funny. That's fucking hilarious.

Maybe you're a little sleep deprived, actually.

“Can I…” Mikey hesitates, his fingers tapping against where he's still holding you. “Do you maybe want to stay with me? For tonight? It's pretty late, so… you'll need a place to sleep, yeah? N-Not that I was, like, saying that- I mean, I'll take the couch obviously, so-”

Oh my god. He'd be sort of adorable if he were real. You let him stumble over his words for juuust a little longer before putting him out of his misery. “That sounds nice, Mikey.”

“Ye-Yeah? Okay. Okay. Cool. So I'll. Um.”

You yelp as he shifts his arms and picks you up like it's nothing, carrying you bridal-style. You look up at him with wide eyes, and he smiles hesitantly down at you. “Ready?”

You blink. Ready for… what? But, as you've already clearly established in your head, you're done questioning things. So. You nod.

“Alright. Uh. Don't freak out. Here we go.”

Don't freak- JESUS CHRIST. The air whips past you as he sprints across the roof and leaps into the fucking air. For a split second you're sure that you actually did step off the roof, that the hallucination has finally ended and it was just your brain scrambling to make shit up in the moment before you plummeted to your death - but then you feel the impact of Mikey landing on something and continuing his sprint. Then it happens again, a leap and a free fall and another impact, and then it happens again, and you realize he's- he's jumping between roofs. Carrying you across the city from way up here. How-

Nope. Nope. Not asking questions. Doesn't matter. He's got you. That's what matters. You press closer, loosely curling your fingers around a leather strap that's crossing over his chest. Another leap, and you think you're sort of, kind of, maybe getting used to it. There's a sort of rhythm to it, and you let yourself relax. You wonder if the rhythm is soothing or if you're just that exhausted. You wonder if any part of this is real. You wonder if you're falling asleep or falling to your death.

It doesn't matter, you decide. Either way, you'll finally be able to rest.

[chelseasdagger]

hello!! i'm not sure if anybody's interested but i've been trying to dust off my laptop and get back into writing! i've been going back to the old drafts i had for chapter 4 of teacher and the very, very rough outline is sitting at over 2k and it's nowhere near flushed out. i've got some good ideas for this next part and i really hope y'all will still like it!

[heretohavenone]

Juuuuuust gonna throw in some more analysis for Number Man since this was a Jack heavy post. Kurt was probably the most baffling character to me, even Mostly through Ward. Limerick was the only thing to give him enough context after re-reads to click

Number Man is just SUCH a fucking curve ball every time he appears, or one of his little bastard kids. Reading the Harbingers popping up in Ward and their little murder tendencies made his entire 'I want to make the world better' thing pretty hard to believe, and his philosophy seemed... Wonky, since he critiqued a prisoner for bringing up Morals after an escape attempt. I suppose if you wanted to Force another parallel, you could say Kurt doesn't care for smaller scale, emotional ways to help others while Jack believes doing horrible things will Ripple Out if you hurt people, even to the point of causing relatively small horror shows. Or, blowing those up like with Gollum. But, back on topic, Kurt seems to have, like Accord, a very persistent and strong form of OCD that includes some form of Balancing things by hurting others, and feeling comforted by improving systems.

Part of Kurt growing up might have been him trying to lean out of his role as a combat cape so that he didn't feel that too strongly anymore, even though he is an EXTREMELY effective one. Mr. Fucking "Give me 4 number two pencils, some scotch tape, and a stone. I'll send them a message." Ass kids still get me. Anyways. I also found myself suprised by his relationship with Citrine being strong enough he was willing to die for her. I don't doubt he loved her enough to sacrifice himself, but I'm curious if his connections to others ended there or not, and how much about himself was changing through the process of being in a relationship like that, presumably for the first time. I don't think putting others first was something he would see as an improvement for himself, so I'm genuinely curious if that was a show of hypocritical care even if his own life would be more valuable to the world, or if he saw she had more value to the world than him, OR he loved her and believed she had more value to the world than him. I'd also. Fucking. Murder. To read about them on a date, there has to be a fic on that. And Jack paying a visit and being the worst Ex known to man.

Oh, yeah, and a last aside: I mostly disliked Kurt for most of my reading, not from a writing standpoint, but a personal one. He just. Rubs me the wrong way. His fucking Standing Desk. His little harbinger monsters. The fact he isnt packing a gun despite the fact he doesn't play by the unwritten rules, and that would work GREAT with his powers. Reading he could run up a wall via it's imperfections in his wiki making me roll my eyes out. I like him as a freak, but if I met this man I'd be full of annoyance at his every little Quirk. Like. Okay buddy. I get it. You do numbers. And can kill me. And can like, do any process related to math perfectly. You probably to 10 minutes of stretches before bed and drink your warm milk. Probably the best home chef ever and know how to play the paino without trying. Mr. Know it all in your plain ass outfit with your fucking pocket protector. MAYBE use your THINKER BRAIN to stop being such a nerd. You ever think of THAT????

Okay. I've been pondering Jack Slash for a bit. Slimy basted he is, and Number Man, the weirdo HE is. I've come to a couple conclusions after reading through Worm and most of Ward (working on it you'll all be getting my dog gruel opinions on it after) and some of Jack's Backstory via Wildbow posts. First I'll talk about Jack, since he needs more piecing together, for me at least.

Jack Slash is essentially a grifter/shitty salesman when he's speaking 99% of the time. Hes trying, almost without even putting up an act to get you to believe there is some philosophical point he's reaching towards, or some reason why what he's doing means Anything greater than just plain old being a dick. He'll put on different hats to tell you Why he's killing, but in the end, the only thing he wants is to make the world worse and to cause conflict. And that's it. 100%, honestly it. He'd probably kick a puppy if he thought that'd actually help make more people do Worse things, and get him into more conflict. For almost his entire interlude he doesn't really think of himself in terms of what he gets in goals, he simply observes others and thinks of how to best pressure them to continue making things worse while under his control. I think its pretty evident from how much he throws himself into chaotic situations and tries to make things so complicated he can't keep up that Control isnt really what hes most into.

Let's now put this into the context of his past, and more importanty, what Shards want. His past is pretty interesting: locked in a bunker by abusive parents, and told the world had gone to war. They told him a story about how bad everything had gotten, kept him in there for a Long Long time, and he triggered when he left the bunker and he realized it was a lie. Specifically, the thing that broke him wasn't the fact that his parents lied to him. It was that the world was Sane, and Safe, and Not at war. Something he'd grown used to, and absorbed into himself while in that bunker. Essentially, he torn apart by the fact everything was Okay when he was convinced utterly that it had all gone to shit, and people were in senseless conflict like he thought. His worldview got flipped, everything felt wrong, and he triggered. He only thinks the world makes sense In conflict, he had the ability to really process a healthy, constructive world severely damaged to him when he was young.

Jack's desire for conflict make a little more sense with that, but his shard Loving his ass makes a hundred times more sense. He's literally trying to cause humanity to act divided, just like the Shards want, and to create conflict testing. No wonder it likes him so much, that's about as ideal a host as any shard could net, ever. Its like a weapon tester finding a group of suicidal combat junkies. Like. Exceptionally lucky. So Jack is rewarded for his instincts by things Working for him, and gets in a loop of conflicts that are their own reward by making the world as horrible as he thought it was, and making him Comfortable. It's his natural environment. Anything actual push to be constructive and grow attached probably feels alien to him, or just gets contextualized as a tool to create conflict, because he no longer really would know how to do anything but be a grifting jackass hurting people. Even his games are shows of this, every rule meant to be broken and unfair, because you're supposed to stop thinking about them as Rules and more like tools to fuck eachother over. The game Is cheating the game. The point isnt anything he says, it's trying to Kill him.

This is what makes his relationship to Number Man maybe the top five ????? Things when I first read it. He liked the person who's entire sociopathic, utilitarian goals were: Helping The World and Making Order. Seemed contradictory, but Jack did like him as a person, not necessarily his philosophy. Still. They're people who think back on each other fondly, despite what they've become. While Jack doesn't know Where Number Man went, he's not being hunted or hurt or even being pitied nor not following conflict like Jack.

They seem to be like Wildbow's fucked up little views on systems and those who take them down rather than working on them, which I disagree with, but they're still fascinating. As much as Number Man is a monster like Jack, who would do everything Jack does if given reason to by finding it the best way to improve people's lives, Number Man is mature by trying to be constructive with his views on what is and is not important, while Jack is purely deconstructive of everything. Their similarity though is how they both seek out their version of thing purely for their own satisfaction, and that's the reason they both seem to admire eachother. Theyre both entirely selfish people.

They're also, hilariously, both killed by people who are both out-doing them in their field. The only Parahuman who hurt Jack Slash was Gray Boy, someone who didn't care about anything but his own selfish ideas of fun who found Jack 'boring', and a disappointment, and that Might have actually thrown Jack off enough it let Gray Boy hit him with a time loop. Number Man got factored in as an uncared for number in Contessa's plan to defeat Teacher. I'm very curious if this one of Worm's few narrative punishments for both's wrong deeds, or just coincidence. Whichever, it's pretty interesting to look at these two freaks dichotomy in terms of the story, and what Caulron does vs what those who fight against systems in the story do.

But, I like Jack Slash tbh. Cartoonishly evil as he is, he wasn't really didnt do anything else than what he sent himself out to do, and he CLEARLY enjoyed himself while doing it. And Number Man took some time to grow on me, but I also enjoy how he's kind of the opposite in how he shows himself to be very simply then pulls some marble slingshot bullshit to lobotomize someone a mile away.... OKAY I'm still a lil shocked by that.

[sysig]

I remember this game (Patreon)

[byanyan]

me two years ago: byan has always been a little bastard. awful nasty child who intentionally used their big doe eyes to manipulate people

me now: byan used to be a soft baby who just wanted love and acceptance, who slowly became hardened and selfish in order to survive when they realized they'd never get what they needed

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[astrolook]

Sun in the houses:

Let's see what happens how sun behaves in all these houses, both positive and negative. Mind you that every planet in any house or sign can exhibit both positive and negative traits and can manifest in a person.

Sun in 1st House: I’m not saying I’m the center of the universe, but... I kinda am. 🌞🌍

You just get leadership. You don’t have to try; it’s in your blood. If afflicted, your leadership style might feel more like "dictatorship." You’re so sure of yourself that others don’t get a chance to voice their opinions.

Your positivity and belief in yourself make others think, “If they can do it, I can too!”. If Sun is afflicted, it can come off as "I'm better than you" rather than "I believe in myself."

You’re the life of the party! Your energy lifts the room and makes everyone feel involved. If afflicted, you might crave attention to the point where you overshadow others.

You set big goals, and you achieve them. There’s no stopping you once your mind is made up. If afflicted, friends and colleagues can feel like you’re so busy chasing success that you forget to check in on them.

Your dad probably instilled in you a sense of pride and self-worth that shaped who you are. If afflicted, your dad could be too demanding or proud of you, it can create some serious pressure. You might feel like you’re living for his approval rather than your own dreams, and that can lead to overcompensating or burning out.

Sun in the 2nd House: Money talks, but my self-worth yells! 💸🌟

You have a strong sense of self-worth, often tied to personal achievements. You know your value. If afflicted, You might tie your entire identity to material success, feeling inadequate or worthless without financial stability or possessions.

You are ambitious, striving to build financial security. Hard work often pays off. If afflicted, your financial instability may lead to insecurity or even an unhealthy obsession with money. You may be overly materialistic.

You’re usually careful with your resources but if afflicted, you could be prone to overspending or hoarding, unable to find a balanced approach to finances.

A father figure can be a source of inspiration and a role model in financial matters and work ethics. If afflicted, it could bring inheritance issues or you may feel that you never live up to his expectations.

Can exhibit workaholic tendencies, sacrificing personal happiness or family life for financial gain or status.

You have the potential to rise above financial challenges, but if afflicted, you could experience deep feelings of insecurity or even shame when you don't meet your own or others’ material expectations, possibly leading to cycles of self-doubt.

You might view love through the lens of material gestures or gifts, making it difficult to connect emotionally or romantically.

Sun in the 3rd House: Your ideas are shining bright, but good luck getting people to stop talking long enough to hear them!

You’re a natural communicator, your words carry weight. If afflicted, you might dominate conversations or struggle with listening, sometimes coming off as self-centered or dismissive of others' perspectives.

Close, possibly authoritative, relationship with siblings; they could be supportive, or you may take on a leadership role in your family. If afflicted, Conflicts with siblings or feeling misunderstood could arise, leading to tension and rivalry, sometimes even to the point of no contact.

Quick-witted and sharp but also can struggle with overthinking, becoming mentally scattered or overwhelmed by too many ideas at once.

You could excel as a teacher or mentor. If afflicted, a tendency to lecture or impose your ideas on others.

Enjoys frequent short trips. On the flip side, Travel may be more about running away from stress or distractions rather than meaningful exploration, leaving you feeling unsettled.

You naturally build connections with people in your immediate environment, making you very social and approachable. If afflicted, can come off as superficial or too eager to network.

You have a great sense of humor and can use wit to win people over in conversations. If afflicted, might use humor as a defense mechanism or to hide insecurities, sometimes crossing boundaries or coming across as insensitive.

Sun in the 4th House: Home is where your heart—and your ego—are, and good luck moving past your childhood room!

You deeply value your home and family, often finding identity in your roots and personal space. Sometimes, it can lead to clinging to the past or feeling stuck in old patterns.

Your self-esteem may become too tied to your home life, making you feel insecure or restless if things at home are unstable.

You may have a strong, nurturing relationship with your mother or a motherly figure, who plays a central role in your life. If afflicted, A dominant or overbearing mother could lead to conflicts or struggles with your own sense of self.

You have a deep appreciation for your heritage and traditions. If afflicted, You may be too focused on the past, unable to move forward or let go of old family patterns or unresolved issues.

You may find comfort and strength in your private life, but sometimes a strong need for privacy might lead to isolation or difficulty expressing yourself outside of your home or family setting.

Sun in the 5th House: You’re not just good at playing games—you’re good at being the star of them!

You have a strong need to express yourself creatively, often excelling in arts, hobbies, or self-expression. If afflicted, Can become too focused on being admired for your creativity, leading to vanity or insecurity when not recognized.

Life is a playground for you; you seek joy, excitement, and adventure in everything you do, but if afflicted, may seek too much pleasure, becoming careless or irresponsible, neglecting other important aspects of life.

You approach romance with confidence and passion but sometimes you might crave validation through romantic relationships, leading to drama or superficial connections.

If you become a parent, you’re likely to take pride in raising children and may have a natural ability to nurture and inspire them. If afflicted, can become overly focused on impressing your children or living through them, putting too much pressure on them or on yourself.

You are willing to take risks for excitement but on the flip side, A penchant for risk-taking could lead to reckless behavior or impulsive decisions, sometimes causing unnecessary harm to yourself or others and regrets.

Sun in the 6th House: You’re the go-to person for work, health, and making sure everything runs smoothly—unless you’re burnt out, of course!

You take pride in your work and have a strong sense of responsibility. You’re highly dedicated and reliable. If afflicted, it could be overburdening yourself with tasks and potentially leading to burnout.

You find fulfillment in helping others and often take on service-oriented roles where you can make a difference. Sometimes, you might feel taken for granted or unappreciated, especially if you put others' needs before your own, leading to frustration.

You are often very conscious of maintaining good health but sometimes you could become obsessed with health routines, leading to anxiety about perfection or overemphasis on minor health concerns.

You feel fulfilled by supporting or mentoring others, often excelling in roles that require service or care. You might struggle with self-worth if your efforts aren't appreciated or recognized, leading to resentment.

You possess strong mental and physical discipline and you may become overly critical of yourself or others if things don’t meet your high standards.

You’re excellent at identifying and solving problems but over-thinking or obsessing over problems can lead to anxiety or difficulty seeing the bigger picture, getting stuck in the minutiae.

Sun in the 7th House: You love being in the spotlight of relationships—just make sure you're not shining too brightly for your partner!

You thrive in close relationships and find your identity through your connections with others. If afflicted, you may become overly dependent on a partner for validation, losing sight of your individuality or putting too much pressure on the relationship.

You may take pride in your role as a partner or spouse and often invest deeply in committed relationships. If afflicted, You could place too much importance on marriage or partnerships, potentially attracting bad partners that are either possessive or just use you.

Your relationship with your father can have a significant impact on your views of partnerships. If your father was distant or authoritative, you may unconsciously seek partners who resemble him, leading to issues with power dynamics or unfulfilled needs.

You excel in negotiating and finding common ground in relationships but you may avoid confrontation or sacrifice your own needs to keep the peace, leading to resentment or unresolved issues.

Sun in the 8th House: You don’t just like to dive deep, you want to see what’s under the surface—and no, we’re not talking about the fridge!

You experience emotions deeply, with a strong ability to connect to others on an intimate level. beware, intense emotions can lead to emotional highs and lows, making it difficult to find balance or feel stable in your personal life.

You are fascinated by the unknown, with a natural curiosity about life’s deeper meanings, psychology, and even the occult. You may become obsessed with uncovering secrets, and sometimes, this can lead to unhealthy fixation or paranoia about what’s hidden.

You’re often able to emerge stronger from crises or difficult experiences but also you may become addicted to chaos or dramatic transformations, seeking out crises for the sense of power or transformation they bring.

You have an innate understanding of life's cyclical nature, and you often feel comfortable with the idea of death, allowing you to live more fully. This connection can turn into a preoccupation with mortality, possibly manifesting as anxiety or unhealthy fears surrounding death or loss.

If afflicted, a troubled relationship with your father, possibly marked by power struggles or emotional distance, could lead to unresolved issues or feelings of inadequacy that carry over into your relationships.

Sun in the 9th House: You're on a never-ending quest for truth, knowledge, and adventure—basically, a cosmic tourist with a PhD!

You are drawn to big ideas, philosophy, spirituality, and have a strong sense of purpose, often inspired by a higher calling or ideal. If the ideal is unattainable or unrealistic, you might feel disillusioned or disconnected from reality, leading to frustration or unrealistic expectations.

Travel, especially abroad, opens your mind and helps you grow as a person. If afflicted, leads to a feeling of being ungrounded or dissatisfied if you're unable to travel or explore as much as you’d like.

You might even study or work abroad. Your family could have mixed races.

You enjoy being a guide, especially when it comes to life’s big questions. If afflicted, can exhibit a tendency to be overly preachy or self-righteous could alienate others.

Sun in the 10th House: The spotlight is yours! You were born to be on stage—just don’t forget to thank your fans (or, you know, your boss)!

You’re highly motivated to achieve your professional goals and to be recognized for your efforts. If afflicted, you may become overly focused on career achievement, neglecting personal life or burning out from putting all your energy into work.

You care deeply about your reputation and public image, working hard to project a successful, competent, and reliable image. If afflicted, an excessive focus on public perception might lead to superficiality, a tendency to prioritize appearances over substance, or anxiety about how others view you.

Your career goals often play a significant role in shaping your sense of self. Achieving professional milestones boosts your confidence and sense of purpose. If your career is the only way you define yourself, failure or setbacks in your work life may cause a loss of self-worth or personal identity.

Your work is a vehicle for self-expression. You want your career to reflect your true talents and individuality. If your work doesn't align with your authentic self, you may feel you're not being true to who you are.

Your father may serve as a strong role model for career success, influencing your own professional aspirations and ambitions. If your relationship with your father was strained or critical, you may feel like you’re constantly trying to meet his expectations or prove yourself, which could cause you to chase success for the wrong reasons.

Sun in the 11th House: You’re the lonely butterfly with a mission— dreaming of changing the world one connection at a time!

You're that introvert in the extroverted setting. You could be surrounded by people all the time and still feel lonely. You prefer a one-to-one connection than a group setting.

You may become disillusioned or frustrated with the slow pace of change or people who don't share your level of commitment to causes, which could make you feel isolated or unsupported.

You likely to adopt kids or maybe you are the adopted kid. There is a possibility of having a step-father or divorced parent.

You're not one to conform easily and prefer to stay true to your unique self, even in social settings. Definitely, not a sheep.

You like to talk with strangers online and loves to spend time online. If afflicted, chronically online.

Sun in the 12th House: The spotlight is on you, but you’re hiding in the shadows—awkwardly shining in silence and doing some serious soul-searching!

You have a deep connection to your subconscious mind, offering insight into hidden aspects of yourself. This connection can bring about significant personal growth and spiritual awakening.

Could have had a relationship or a fling with a professor or teacher of some sort. Or was it just a crush?

You could shine by moving to other countries for studies or even work. You might feel like you don't belong here.

You could be working in a hospital, programmer, researcher, or just any "behind-the-scenes" jobs.

Have a tendency to avoid the spotlight. You might won't even show your face on social media.

Your father could be distant or could be that he is not there for you.

Curious about your birth chart and what it's really saying about you? 🌟 Slide into my DMs for a personalized astrology reading, and let's unlock the secrets of your stars. ✨ Don’t forget to check out my pinned post for pricing details! 🔮 Let’s make those cosmic connections happen! 🌙🌌

[yanderedrabbles]

What's the worst thing Yan Military Contractor has ever done to the reader?

Yandere! Military Contractor

The very worst? Now that's tough competition. He's fucked you raw so many times that afterwards you can only curl up and whimper, legs aching so bad you can't stand. He's bitten you so hard that he's left a scar of his teeth on your thigh. He's bent your arm so very far up your back that on bad days your shoulder still aches. He's done anal without any prep or lube.

But the very worst? That happened on the day you almost escaped.

He likes to humour you. Likes letting you try and get away, just to drag you back at the last second. Likes the way you fight so much harder when freedom is so very close. But he never once entertained the thought of you actually succeeding.

You're too damn clever sometimes. Too smart for your own good.

You planned your escape carefully this time. Waited for a rainy day when he'd have trouble hearing your footsteps and seeing your tracks. Managed to make a mess in his armory and get out of a second story window when he was distracted counting his guns. And then you ran.

You saw a tree out on your forced walks once. Thick oak with branches that just about reached over the fence. It would be a hard fall, but if you managed to not snap an ankle you'd be home free.

He almost found you. You were up in the branches, rain pelting you in thick sheets when he walked right under you. It was pure luck that you noticed him in time. Even without the noise of the rain to cover his footsteps, he was dead silent.

He looked pissed. But that wasn't what made your heart drop.

He had his gun with him. Not one of the rifles or shotguns. That might have almost been better. Those guns felt unreal, felt like something out of a movie. No, he was carrying his chrome .50 calibre Desert Eagle.

You hated that gun. It was the one he carried on him almost all the time, the one he had the day he took you. Huge, mean looking thing. 'One of the nastiest shots you'll ever see,' he told you once.

It was scratched with years of use. A soldier's gun. A killer's gun.

You fingers went numb on the branch before you had the courage to keep moving. You dropped down on the other side of the electric fence, landing bad. You smacked a hand over your mouth to stifle your yelp.

Staggered to your feet, holding onto the trees to take the pressure off your stinging ankles. You did it.

You actually fucking did it.

You were free. Actually, finally free. You half didn't believe it until you reached the end of the trees and open farm land stretched in front of you. The rain was so much worse without the trees to protect you, but you didn't care. An empty field of wheat had never looked so damn good.

"On your knees."

You froze. No. No.

"I said, get on your fucking knees!"

You sat so fast that you felt lightheaded.

He came to stand in front of you, blocked your view of the open land and your last chance to escape. He was scowling, hand gripping his gun so tight that veins were standing out on his forearm.

The rain was sheeting down around you, running past the grooves and catches of his pistol. You couldn't see his face through the rain, but you could feel his eyes. Raking down your body, burning.

He pointed the gun at you, cocked it. The metallic sound of it somehow the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

"Open your mouth."

"I'm sorry! Please just-"

"Open. Your. Mouth."

You did. He forced the barrel passed your lips, all the way to the back of your throat. Your teeth scraped the metal.

It tasted bitter. Iron, gunpowder. It tasted like your death.

His finger was on the trigger. One little twitch, one inopportune gag, and you were done.

"Suck it."

You did, crying so damn hard but terrified to make a sound.

"No," he snarled. "Suck it like you would a cock."

He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back. "Show me why I shouldn't kill you right here and now. Remind me exactly why I keep you around."

You sucked his gun like your life depended on it. Tongue out, drooling, like you weren't a hairs breadth from death. Looked up at him with rain and tears pouring down your face.

You must have given him one hell of a show. When you couldn't take it anymore, when you were shaking from the cold and your lips were turning blue around the metal, that's when he pulled out. One hand still in your hair, he pointed the gun at the sky and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed over the trees.

Fuck. You really did just have a loaded gun in your mouth.

He holstered it, grabbed your jaw with the hand that just held your death.

"Never again. Yeah?"

"Yeah."