#INTONATION 2020

[connanro]

i'm listening to a recording of the mozart clarinet quintet my chamber group sophomore year made and it's a little painful....like @ me you're the first violinist did you not practise your solos???????

[undying-love]

Paul's grief over time: A Compilation

“During the session [in 1981] Paul fell into a lugubrious mood. He said, ‘I’ve just realized that John is gone. John’s gone. He’s dead and he is not coming back.’ And he looked completely dismayed, like shocked at something that had just hit him. ‘Well, it’s been a few weeks now.’ He said, ‘I know, Eric, but I’ve just realized." (Eric Stewart)

“It’s still weird even to say, ‘before he died’. I still can’t come to terms with that. I still don’t believe it. It’s like, you know, those dreams you have, where he’s alive; then you wake up and… 'Oh’.” (Paul, 1986)

"Occasionally, it wells up. Y'know, and I'm at home on the weekend suddenly and I start thinking about him or talking to the kids about him and I can't handle it." (Paul, 1987)

"Is there a record you like to put on just to hear John’s voice?" I ask Paul the next day. Paul looks startled. He fumbles. “Oh, uh. There’s so much of it. I hear it on the car radio when I’m driving.” No, that’s not what I mean", I persist. "Isn’t there a time when you just wish you could talk to John, when you’d like to hear his voice again?" For some reason, he instead responds to the original question.“Oh sure,” he says and looks a little taken aback. ‘Beautiful Boy". (1990)

"Also not obvious is that McCartney [for the Liverpool Oratorio] has penned a gorgeous black-spiritual-like piece for mezzo-soprano that intones the last words spoken to John Lennon as he lay dying of gunshot wounds in the back of a New York police car -- "Do you know who you are?" McCartney gets a bit choked up at one point when he reveals, "Not a day goes by when I don't think of John.” (1991)

"Delicious boy, delicious broth of a boy. He was a lovely guy, you know. And it gets sadder and sadder to be saying “was”. Nearer to when he died I couldn’t believe I was saying “was”, but now I do believe I’m saying “was”. I’ve resisted it. I’ve tried to pretend he didn’t get killed." (Paul, 1995)

"Paul talked about John a a lot, but the strange thing was that it was in the present tense, “John says this" or "John thinks that. Very weird." (Peter Cox, 2006)

“John Lennon was shot dead in 1980. That totally knocked dad for six. I haven’t really spoken to him a lot about it because it is such a touchy subject." (James McCartney, 2013)

"It's very difficult for me and I, occasionally, will have thoughts and sort of say: "I don't know why I don't just break down crying every day? […] You know, I don't know how I would have dealt with it because I don't think I've dealt with it very well. In a way… I wouldn't be surprised if a psychiatrist would sort of find out that I'm slightly in denial, because it's too much." (Paul, 2020)

"Like any bereavement, the only way out is to remember how good it was with John. Because I can't get over the senseless act. I can't think about it. I'm sure it's some form of denial. But denial is the only way that I can deal with it." (Paul, 2020)

"When I talked to Paul about John and when he missed John most, he couldn't answer me for a long time and his eyes teared up. And I asked him where he thinks about John and when John comes into his mind and he just … he lost it, he completely lost it." (Bob Spitz, 2021)

-------------------------------------------------

The following two are from the gossip website Datalounge, so they may or may not be true. Still interesting though:

"The one time I was ever actually in a room with Paul, zillion people between me and him (and no way I'm gonna bother him, all of us who travel in celeb circles have people we're fans of and all of us inexplicably try to hide it to seem "cooler"), he started talking loudly about himself and John, and how hard it was not to have him there. I remember him saying something along the lines of not a day passing that John's not still in it with him, but it's not like he can pick up a phone and say, "Hey, just needed to hear your voice today," and even when he got craggy responses, he still missed them. He misses it all, and it's bothering to him that he misses him more as time goes on -- it doesn't heal, he just learns new ways to bandage the wound."

“Since everyone is anonymous here, I guess I can give a bit of info I got from a female friend of mine who at one time worked as one of Paul’s assistants. [...] She does not know for certain if John and Paul were involved but she suspects it since to this day whenever John’s name is brought up he acts in her words ‘like a widow’ and he also addresses John in present tense. He would say things like, ‘John thinks that the music should be like this,’ and during his bitter divorce from Heather he was saying, ‘John says that this is getting nasty.’ Kind of creepy." (this one actually seems very intriguing because it sounds very similar to what Peter Cox said, about Paul often talking about John in the present tense, saying "John says.." or "John thinks...")

[fanhackers]

An Intimate Sound–Podfic and Confluence

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about podfic, i.e.., audio versions of fanfic, read out aloud. Podfic, as an audio-based medium, sits at the confluence of disability accessibility, performance, and of course, simply being a new form of narrative text.

In the first ever published article on podfic, Olivia Riley states:

“Audiobooks, another auditory predecessor of podfic, share podfic's emphasis on fictional narrative and vocal performance as well as other qualities typical to all the audio mediums so far discussed, including portability and ease of access. The comparison of podfic to audiobooks is particularly important because in my investigation I ran across numerous instances of listeners explicitly comparing the podfic experience to that of an audiobook, while only one referenced podcasts in relation to these audio narratives; thus, we must take into account how fans theorize their own texts and experiences.”

This particular comparison between audiobooks and podfics interests me; podcasts, whether fictional or non-fictional, arguably may be more intimate, in so much as we may get to listen to the speakers’ personal opinions, thoughts, ideas, etc. And yet, podfic finds itself standing more with audiobooks, despite sharing half its name with podcasts. I’d like to complicate this further, drawing from my own experience of both running zines with audio components, as well as interacting with fellow fans who make podfic, and who have had podfic made off their own work: fans are sometimes hesitant to provide permission to have their work read out aloud, concerned about the voice and audio work “exposing” perceived flaws in their written texts.

There’s a certain intimacy involved in the process, certainly, more than just that of getting a work beta-ed, or proof-read. It’s similar to the collaborative nature of fanart for fanfic, except fanart is welcomed with a lot less hesitance.

In the same article, Riley further goes on to explore this very intimacy:

“The audio performances of podfic produce a queer network of relations between the performer, the text, and the listener. To begin with, the text itself is an actor in podfic. All the podfics examined for this article were explicitly queer in their content, featuring queer(ed) characters, queer themes, romance, and often explicit sexuality. The characters in these podfics carry variously transformed and reimagined genders and sexualities. These podfics are palimpsests of many texts and authors, including the fan fic being read aloud, the source text the fan fic was inspired by, the contemporary fanon and fan community that shaped the fic's production, the various music and sound effects often used in these recordings, and the labor of all the creators who made these media. Further, through the reader's performance, listeners receive a unique interpretation of the fan fic being read, conveyed through the intonations and other subtleties that emphasize and elide various textual significances. This profusion of overlapping and sometimes contradictory layers of meaning impact how a listener understands a character's gender and sexuality, refusing the simplicity of heteronormative binaries.” RILEY, OLIVIA JOHNSTON. 2020. “PODFIC: QUEER STRUCTURES OF SOUND.” TRANSFORMATIVE WORKS AND CULTURES, NO. 34. HTTPS://DOI.ORG/10.3983/TWC.2020.1933.

There is, then, a definite sense of vulnerability in getting podfic made off one’s work. But podfic, I’d argue, is almost the most celebratory fan-object fandom has ever produced—it sits again on a confluence, not just of medium and accessibility, but of multiple creatives, all of whom have a singular contribution in making the final product. Podfic is, in many ways, a community object, more so than most fan-objects, simply by its nature of needing multiple inputs. 

What are your thoughts on podfic?

[thiniceofeternalyouth]

MISLEADIN' ME SERIES: CHAPTER TWELVE

THIEF OF THREE DESTINIES

⊳ Gojo Satoru x f!reader

series masterlist

Genre: angst, fluff, sci-fi, cosmology.

Words count: ~13k

⊲ previous

[July 1, 2020; 02:17am; hunters' hq]

[02:01] You: Megumi's back, he's fine

Delivered.

Unread.

[02:11] You: u ok?

Delivered.

Unread.

Gojo wasn't answering your calls either. You were drowning in an abyss of intrusive thoughts, each one worse than the last. Was he okay? If he was all right, why was he silent? Such silence was like the silence of a dead man - just as endlessly cold.

You stirred, pushing the images away from you and setting the phone aside. Maybe that was your lesson to learn. Wasn't that what he meant by loneliness?

There was nothing left of Kyle, not even his cold corpse was honored to rest deep underground. His image along with the vague tracings of his voice seemed to beg you not to forget him, but you knew that every image and every melancholy has a year later. Eventually, a wave of new memories would erase his still-green eyes. 

The moral compass had been broken, trampled, torn to pieces. In which direction should the lost traveler go now? This entire time traveler had been walking along the dark side of the moon towards the calling sun - towards something bright and warm. Where would the road lead if the sun was stolen?

"Meg," you called out detachedly. "Asleep?"

"No," replied the mechanical voice.

"I have a riddle."

"I'm listening."

"There are two hunters," you began, staring blankly at the black monitor screen. "One is experienced, the other is a newbie. They were surrounded by demons, the experienced one was killed, and the newbie survived. What kinda a case is this?"

"The newbie was with the demons," Meg replied without hesitation or questioning intonation.

"Think again," you said, admonishing more yourself than the artificial intelligence.

Meg was silent, but it was as if you could hear her digging through the informational bowels of universal human knowledge, and she was doing it so fast that it would take you a lifetime to absorb that much information. "Hmm...," Meg drawled. "The messengers don't get killed?"

"The messengers don't get killed," you confirmed in a whisper, watching in the extinguished monitor as your eyes went black.

You didn't even notice that you had chewed your own thumb to a bloody pulp. Those devils knew everything. From start to finish. They knew you'd broken into a settlement, knew which one, knew that Kyle would be going instead of you that day. So where was the rat lurking? Was it one of the people in the void? Or was it one of the people who lived in the house?

Knock-knock.

Your only task was to keep your head down. You knew exactly what they were after, and they seemed to be getting close. Every day it became harder for you to control the turns of the invisible blades embedded in your body. You wiped the moisture from your dark eyes with a sharp movement, and making sure you looked like anyone else, you walked to the door.

A pair of sad, frightened child's eyes greeted you. "Why ya still awake?" you asked Yuuji tiredly, trying to maintain a neutral, if not positive, attitude. The boy looked down at first, before peeking over your shoulder. "Okay, come in," you surrendered, throwing up your hands.

He walked hesitantly over to your bed and sat down on the very edge. It looked like he was about to fall to the floor. "I... I brought something," Itadori began in a shaky voice and reached into his pocket with the same hands. "I think...," he stammered, and you could see him literally chewing the inside of his cheeks. "I'm sorry, but I don't think you should have thrown it away," he stated in an already firm voice, looking you dead in the eye. In his outstretched hand lay a silver bracelet, mockingly sparkling. "Especially in the trash can," boy added more quietly, trying to hide from you again. "It's a memory."  

"I've never complained about my memory," you said, shrugging.

"That's not the point!" he protested, and the bracelet almost fell out of his hand. Itadori immediately pressed it to his chest. "Don't you wanna have a piece of him always near you? It's very precious," he whispered, pressing the jewelry harder against his chest.

"This thing's worth 20 bucks."

"Don't you dare say that," Itadori hissed. His fear faded away, making way for anger at the words you had said. "Take it!" he ordered, holding out the jewelry to you again. "Take it, now!"

It was the one shining thing that didn't make you want to take it or steal it. You walked over to the bed and sat down next to the boy, and you had no time for inner cries and agonizing - you couldn't show weakness in front of anyone. As soon as you took the bracelet in your hands, you felt like the ultimate fool. Why did you throw it away in the first place? It had never been a soulless piece of metal, at least not since you'd put it on your brother's arm.

You glanced around the workroom. Kyle wasn't here anymore, and he never would be. Maybe you'd never see him again, or maybe he'd see you in hell.

Along with everyone else.

"Thank ya," you smiled weakly but sincerely at Itadori. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he heard it in your voice, but he fidgeted restlessly, dropping his gaze to the floor again.

"What are you thanking me for...? I yelled at you. I'm sorry," he mumbled, and the swollen red face was drawn again with sorrow. Where is the artist who painted such things on children's faces? Maybe if you ripped their heart out, you'd feel a little better.

You wrapped your fingers around Yuji's chin, making him look up at you. "For being more mature than me today," you tried to wipe away the tears that had started streaming down his cheeks before you'd even finished speaking. He snuggled into your shoulder, muffling the tearing sobs. You didn't pay attention to how wet your sweatshirt was from his tears and snot, only gently stroking his back. "It's gonna be okay," you repeated the words like a mantra straight into the pink top of his head.

His body was clearly exhausted, and he collapsed in your arms. Yuji seemed to have cried for so long that all the water had gone out of his organism. "Try to get some sleep, 'kay?" you said, adjusting the pillow on the bed with your hand. At his exhausted questioning look, you shrugged. "Ya can go to your room if ya want. It's just that I remember ya saying it's quieter at my place."

You patted him on the top of his head and got up from the bed, heading back to the computer chair. A murmur behind you made you chuckle quietly - apparently Itadori had made his choice. "Y/N?" he addressed you quietly, covering himself with a blanket. You hummed questioningly. "You didn't call sensei?"

You didn't want to disturb an already wounded young heart. "He's busy right now, so I didn't bother him with the news," you said evasively. "Just texted him to say that Megumi is fine. Now go back to sleep."

A fresh morning breeze wandered through the room, taking all the memories with it as it made its way back through the window into the freedom of the bay. There really wasn't much stuff - you only needed three boxes to pack all of Kyle's clothes. Was it always this black and gray, or had you stopped perceiving colors?

You folded another T-shirt carefully, deliberately slow. After all, this was the last day you'd ever been this close to him. As you put the folded T-shirt in the box, you glanced at the unopened men's perfume on the bedside table. Would anyone need it now?

When you picked up the black sweatshirt, the door clicked open. The fresh air in the room was instantly freezing, chilling to the bone. Rachel was like the walking dead, even the large eyes on her gaunt face showed no signs of life. She stood on the other side of the bed, across from you, staring blankly at the sweatshirt you were holding.

You tentatively held it out to Rachel, and she took the sweatshirt in her hands after a few more seconds of staring blankly at the space. "Um...," you began quietly, watching her go through the clothes in her hands. "I packed everything here, so... When ya go to Hopetown, bring it with ya, 'kay?"  

Rachel covered her eyes for a moment, her nose buried in the sweater as if she hadn't heard you at all. You looked away awkwardly and headed for the exit. "Ya're going too," she demanded in a strangled voice.

You sighed convulsively and turned around - Rachel was still standing with her back to you. "Rach, I don't have time to stand by a tombstone that doesn't even have a body underneath it." 

Everything froze. Your ears heard nothing, your eyes saw nothing. Your skin felt neither wind nor touch. Even your memory stopped - all the images melted away, spreading out into the obscurity.

You came to your senses from the impact of your head hitting the floor. Rachel was on top of you, clutching your throat with both hands - she must have been doing it for a long time because your chest was already cramping helplessly. Certain places on your body were aching desperately, especially your ribs and cheekbones. "Rach," you wheezed, grasping weakly at her wrists.

She held it all in not making a sound, and you could have sworn you could see the muscles in her face tense behind the shroud of rage. You tried to reach out to her again, but another pathetic croak escaped your lips, and Rachel let go of your neck, whimpering suppressedly. "Ya're going," she hissed, getting up from the floor.

You pulled yourself up, coughing and rubbing your neck. "Rachel," your voice became an order of magnitude rougher as if your sister's hands were still clutching your throat. "I understand ya feel bad," you watched as she walked back to the bed, looking down at the same sweatshirt and wiping silent tears from her face. "But why ya so angry with me?"

She turned around sharply, meeting your uncomprehending gaze. "Because it's ya who should bear that burden, not me!" she shouted out desperately. "It's-," her own sobbing interrupted her, and she tried to push it away, hiding her face in hands. "It's all your fault, so why am I theone in tears right now?"   

"I didn't ask anyone to follow me-"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" the perfume flew just an inch from your face. When it hit the wall, it left nothing behind but shards that crumbled to the floor. "Shut up!" Rachel gasped and agonized with her own emotions. Despite the fact that she let them out, it didn't get any easier in the slightest. "Ya just an ungrateful bitch," she hissed weakly. "Ya'll go to the funeral. Otherwise your white-haired weirdo will find out-"

"He knows," you cut it off.

"That's how it is," Rachel said, naively slamming her eyes shut. "Then it's strange that he's still with ya. I can barely stand ya, even though I've been around since I was a kid."

"Rachel," you sighed tiredly. "Let's just not fight, 'kay? This isn't really a good time for that."

Wiping the nearly dried paths of tears from her face, your sister straightened to her full height and headed for the exit. "Ya're going or ya don't have a sister anymore either," she mumbled absently, shoving you with her shoulder.

It was definitely her favorite.

"We are gathered here today to honor the memory of our beloved son, brother, friend..."

The weather was clearly mocking. The midday sun brightly illuminated the growing greenery, the black-clad people, and the names on the tombstones. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, just a vast blue. Nature didn't seem to want to grieve with the people. She didn't care about all of you.

You stood away from everyone else, leaning against a tree. There was no place to hide in this cemetery field, and the tree seemed to be your only refuge. You pressed your shoulder against it as hard as you could, smoking your third cigarette.

"Words cannot express the full horror of this tragedy that has touched us all..." 

Tragedy.

Megumi and Danielle stood in the front rows, huddled together as if trying to become one. Both were pale and lifeless, but Dany still had the strength to cry. She stood with her face buried in his neck, unable to look at the closed coffin, and the boy stroked her head inconsolably, unable to take his eyes off of it. It was unclear which of them had it worse, but they decided to deal with it together.

It brought some people together.

Rachel stood beside them, holding Mike in her arms. She kept her hand on the redhead's head, pulling her son closer to her chest as if ordering him not to look. You could see his little body flinch and twitch. Rachel never spoke to you after that fight. She didn't even look in your direction.

Someone was distanced by it.

Frank's skin was the color of his hair and beard, but he struggled to keep that same good-natured expression, though it was completely drenched in sadness. He stared blankly at the empty coffin. How could you look him in the eye now that you couldn't even bring the body?

The people from the void who had come to the funeral were frightened. This man had saved them, fought for them, but if he was suddenly mortal, didn't that mean the rest of you were too?

Tragedy inevitably befalls everyone. For some it prepares them, for others it comes completely unexpectedly. It leaves behind either a hardened spirit or a broken heart - a person must choose for themselves.

"Wherever he goes, I believe he will end up in the arms of God..."

If God didn't have time to keep track of everything going on here, who's to say he had time to keep track of the other side? Did it even exist? You looked around the cemetery helplessly. There was a whole universe under each tombstone, but what would be under your brother's one?

"Y/N," greeted the woman who came up behind you.

"Camila," you said, taking another drag on your cigarette. The woman leveled herself at you and stared through her dark glasses at the spectacle in front of you. "I didn't think anyone from the old generation would come here."

"Can we be judged for that?" asked Camila plaintively. "Kyle's death hardly our business."

"He's Frank's son," you reminded her. "To Frank ya owe a lot."

"I didn't come here to bicker," the woman said sternly, nervously smoothing her already perfectly bunched hair. "I want you to give me my sons back."

"Did that one death scare ya like that?" you raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"One?" barked Camila, but immediately lowered her voice so as not to draw attention to herself. "Whatever. Anyway, I'm expecting Axel and Ryan home tomorrow. If not, we'll come pick them up ourselves," she gave you a meaningful look as if she wanted you to feel like you were nothing.

"Will mom's skirt save them in battle, too?"

There was a resounding smack. You bit your lip and put a hand to your aching cheek.

"It's called concern," she hissed, leaning over you. "You don't know of such a thing, do you? You don't care who you let go to waste."

"Concern?" you chuckled. "It didn't keep your hubby safe," when she tried to hit you again, you intercepted her arm, digging your nails into her skinny wrist. The hiss of bubbling blood eclipsed all sound, so you didn't immediately notice that there was no noise at all. No voices, no stomping. "Hit me again and I'll rip your heart out. Just like everyone else who will come to our house," you had barely finished grinning when a ringing silence that you hadn't sensed earlier hit your ears. Stunned by this, you turned towards the people gathered here to pay their honor. All of them were looking at you.

Shoving the frightened Camila's hand away from you, you strode away from the cemetery to the taunts of the midday sun.

Gojo thought he was doing the right thing. At least for the first couple days. Wasn't it fair to feed you the same pill you kept giving him? If you didn't give it a taste, how else would you know how bitter it was? That's how he reassured himself when he saw another missed call. If on the first day it made him smile stupidly, after a while he grew more and more anxious - maybe you've forgotten him already? He had to hand it to you - in all this time you called only four times, the last call was dated last night. It wasn't enough for him. He didn't want you to miss him only at night, he wanted to be in your thoughts every morning and evening, whether you were eating or fighting.

Gojo didn't miss your messages either. Megumi did well, how could he not? It couldn't have happened to any of his students otherwise.

He muffled the panic rising in his chest by poking curse's eye out with his heel. The eye burst with a squelching sound. He couldn't count how many times it had been these days because he had personally volunteered for mission after mission. "God, that's a lot of yelling," he muttered, tucking his hands into his pockets and pressing down on the ugly head even harder. Whether there was a brain inside the curse head or something else, Gojo's shoes were immediately stained with purple goo.

Gojo didn't hear the phone ring because of the ultrasound, but he pulled it out when he felt it vibrate in his pocket. Biting his lip in frustration, he stared at the caller's name for a while longer before answering. "Hey," Gojo chirped.  

"Jesus, what's that sound in the background?" hissed Megumi. The boy was heard to pull away from the phone.

"Oh, wait a second," Gojo rambled apologetically. He squatted down, and leaning over the curse, grabbed it by something that resembled a throat. When the covers crunched, when the curse froze, opening its mouth in an already silent scream, a mad chuckle escaped Gojo's lips. Clenching his hand even tighter, he ripped the creature's head off with a single tug. Tossing it away from him, Gojo leaned the phone to his ear again. "Better?" he asked carelessly.  

A long sigh sounded from the other side. "Are you really that busy or are you really just an unscrupulous asshole?"

"Hey!" he resented. "It's been so long since we've seen each other, and you don't have a warm word to say?"

"You should come. Anyway, the ceremony's already over, but I think it would be respectful to at least show up here," Megumi muttered moodily, and what was even more surprising to Gojo was the weakness hiding behind the usual scowl.

"Ceremony?" wondered Gojo, feeling his palms begin to sweat. "What did you guys do in there without me?" he asked, trying to suppress a nervous grin. 

"Uh," Megumi began uncertainly. "Didn't Y/N tell you?"

"Told me about what?" he inquired, smiling forcefully. There was silence on the other end, and the longer it lasted, the harder his heart began to pound. It pounded loudly and painfully, breaking all his arrogance and confidence in his own actions. "Megumi, told me about what?" 

Before his heart could stop, there was a rustling sound as if Megumi had pulled the phone as close to him as possible. "Kyle's dead."

They'd never been close. A few insults and promises to kick each other's asses were all they had in common. However, Gojo wasn't hurting for himself right now.

That's why you called him last night. You had called him twice in a row, and while Gojo had hesitated to answer the first call, the second one had made him throw the phone away. He'd been told that many times, directly or veiledly, jokingly or seriously, but as soon as he waved his hand, the words evaporated before they reached his soul. He couldn't even look up now, though. For the first time he felt like nothing.  

Sitting at the empty dining room table, Rachel stared out the window as if there were something more mesmerizing than the everyday sunset. Whether she prayed, pleaded, or argued, the inhabitants of heaven were adamant or deaf. The angels and their arrows did not care about human suffering.

Gojo was sure she heard the front door slam, so why didn't she turn around? The only thing that moved was her fingers, which scrabbled against the tabletop, occasionally touching the crystal ashtray that held at least twenty or so cigarette butts. The ashes smeared awkwardly against the table were like feelings - neither reversed nor returned, only wiped away with a damp cloth. "Hey," Gojo sounded muffled in spite of his ringing voice. "Sorry for your loss," Rachel never turned around. No nod of her head, no greeting. "Um... You know where Y/N is? Is she still in town?"  

"Why would I know where your monster is," she mumbled. Despite her slurred words, there was no bottle or glass on the table in front of her. Apparently, her father's influence was taking its toll.

"Uh? You're her sister," he said with a perplexed shrug.

Rachel clicked her tongue lazily, not taking her eyes off the window. "I wish I wasn't."

"Oh, I see," he drawled, an arrogant smirk in his voice. "So you're the poor unfortunate girl. The only one who lost someone, huh?" he tilted his head sideways, looking at your sister. There was no child sitting in front of him, so where did such childish behavior come from? "Grow up already."

Rachel sat still for a few seconds, then slowly turned her body and stared at Gojo with empty eyes. He'd come to her house, to her family, hung around her sister, failed to show up at her brother's funeral, and dared to mock her.

"Tranquillity."   

Gojo remained standing as he was. He realized that something had happened; even though he wasn't shackled, he felt strange as if the chain did exist and it was beginning to be slowly pulled around his neck. "Is that all you got?" he asked excitedly. There was only one desire burning in him now - to test the limits of his own abilities. 

If she'd had the strength to smile, her face would have contorted into a mad grimace, but right now Rachel just kept watching him. Nothing reflected in her glassy eyes. No surprise, no satisfaction. "What were ya saying about your infinity?" she asked blankly, not expecting an answer. It was not enough for her. If he couldn't feel the mental pain, let him feel the physical.

"Tranquillity."

She was ready to tear him and his equanimity. Thin black strips crawled along her fingers, wrapping around every inch of tanned skin.

It was hard for him to breathe, but the reverse technique was doing its job - it broke the chains time after time, but they were put back on, each one thicker than the last. His hand flew involuntarily to his throat.

"Rachel, that's enough!" shouted Frank, rushing down from the second floor. He hadn't even had time to change - he was still wearing his black suit. "I said STOP!" he howled, and Rachel's head popped up. When the chains of dark energy stopped restraining Gojo, he began gasping for air.

Frank walked over to him, and taking him by the shoulder, looked him over anxiously. "Son, ya okay?" Gojo nodded, rubbing his throat. "And ya," he turned angrily to his daughter. "What the hell ya doing?"  

Rachel showed an emotion other than total absence for the first time in a day. She laughed bitterly. "I'm just wondering why everyone is defending her."

"I don't know who exactly ya talking about," the man hissed. "But we have a duty to protect her because she's our family."

Rachel laughed even harder, and the louder her laugh was, the crazier it sounded. "Mom never carried her under her heart! She's here because you're a hearty idiot! You just felt sorry-"

"Shut your mouth!" snapped Frank sharply.

"I won't!" she yelled, jumping up from her chair. "None of this would have happened if it wasn't for her! I just want to come home and know that Kyle will meet me! Alive!" she gasped, muffling her own sobs. "And now he's gone. All because ya took pity on her once! You should have just left her to them," she whimpered weakly, her head collapsing onto her chest.

"You don't feel well. Go to your room," Frank ordered softly.

She glared sharply at him, for ire gave her strength. "Ya can't tell me what to do!"

"I am your father. Sure I can," he replied firmly, and though he kept his voice low, it sounded much louder than his daughter's screams. 

"Obedience."

Rachel groaned painfully and tried to keep her legs in place, but they were trying to get off the floor against her will. "Fuck you," she spat out, and then she went up the stairs and disappeared to the second floor.

Gojo watched Frank anxiously. The man was breathing heavily, staring after his daughter and rubbing his chest as if his heart were painfully throbbing. His arm was covered in dark, wriggling stripes, and when Frank's legs started to wobble, Gojo picked him up immediately. "Hey, hey, oldman," he gibbered worriedly. "What's the matter?" he dragged Frank to the couch, and sitting him down, poured him some water. 

"Thanks, son," the man took the glass with a shaky hand and took a couple sips. "Sorry for no warm welcome today. We're all on edge right now," setting the water aside, Frank pulled back the collar of his shirt. The dark lines wrapping around his collarbones almost reached his heart. "Shit...and here I thought I can live to fight another day," he grinned grimly.

Frank wasn't a fool. He may not have been the smartest man, but he had a lot of experience under his belt. He saw no anger or irritation on Gojo's face at what had happened, just the faded blue eyes. "Lost someone?" the man asked.

Gojo nodded briefly without looking up. "Yeah," he said quietly. 

"She's in the church now," Frank prompted politely. "She went to give some things away, so... You'll find her there."

"Do you really think I'd leave an old man with a heart attack?" clinging to the remnants of his temper, Gojo glanced slyly at Frank.

He got a fatherly slap, not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to set him straight. "Go already," Frank growled, and Gojo didn't bother to argue or bicker with him. Rubbing his aching heart, Frank barely waited for the door to slam shut. "Ya left too soon, Kyle," he sobbed, digging his fingernails into the blackened skin. "They still need your care."   

You dragged the boxes to the far corner hidden behind the columns and unlit by hundreds of candles. You did it as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb the praying parishioners. On days like this, the church came alive. The hall filled with light from the fire was crowded with people, and those who did not have enough room in the pews reverently said their prayers on the floor, on their knees. Everyone was silent, all those present turned only to God. Paradoxically, it only took one dead person to do this. On other days, the place was not gloomy, but rather empty - all the voices of those who came here echoed off the walls.

You could barely lift the boxes as if each one weighed a ton. When you would sneak quietly into a corner with a box, your forearms would ache terribly and you would want to drop everything or carry it back home. Were clothes always this heavy? Or was it the weight of parting?

When you reached the last box, you took your time putting it down. You held it tightly to you as if you were hugging it, and sat down on the floor next to the rest of the things. Watching the people in the gap between the columns, you wondered - perhaps you should have done the same. No one had ever explained what silent prayers could do. It was something intimate, something that remained only between man and the creature from above.

Man is all-powerful. Man is fragile. A person can move mountains or they can break their heel jumping off the bench. Person loves and hates, misses and has fun, makes mistakes and feats, but they forget that all this exists only because of them. Without them there would be neither conquered mountains, nor love nor hate.

And then the man dies.

"Y/N," a soft voice addressed you. "Don't sit on the cold floor. You'll catch a cold," you looked up and saw the Holy Father holding out his hand to you.

Setting the box aside with the rest of Kyle's belongings, you took his palm and stood up, shaking off your feet. "Kalev," you awkwardly tried to shove the boxes away so they wouldn't get in the way. "Um... Thank ya for performing the ceremony."

"What are you talking about?" wondered the Holy Father quietly. He was still dressed in his ceremonial robes, and unlike the others, it was completely white except for the wide collar - it was embroidered with silver threads. "Of course, I agreed to it. I don't care about the rumors. We're all human, and we deserve to go to the other world accompanied by a God."

"Yeah," you muttered, faltering and not looking up. "I guess ya're right."

"What's troubling you?" he asked worriedly, barely touching your hand. "We can always talk," seeing your gaze flicker around the church, he squeezed your palm harder, trying to reassure you.

You knew what awaited you behind those columns, away from the congregation. A small, cramped room that separated the speakers by a mesh partition. "There's no way I'm going to the confessional," you grinned nervously, feeling the back of your neck sweat.

"I didn't say anything about confession," the Holy Father smiled modestly. "I was talking about ordinary human interaction," the man spoke the most ordinary words, but the aura around him radiated a light-winged warmth as if he really was protected by a god. "I will always be happy to talk to you, Y/N," he continued to hold your hand in his, wrinkled and cognizant of the years that carried not only his joys and sorrows, but others' as well. "But it seems to me that someone else wants to talk to you now."

His kind gaze didn't change a bit as he looked over your shoulder. When he let go of your hand, he nodded softly, ordering you to go. As if it were a command from above, you turned around.

You couldn't see his face in the shadow of the columns, but you knew who it was. You walked past Gojo and sat down on the step without even looking at him. Since it was the will of the shadows, let the expression on his face remain a mystery to you forever. "I'm sorry," came the husky voice that had always been ringing and cheerful.

"Me too," you replied detachedly, watching the deserted town.

He carefully sat down beside you, keeping his distance. "Why didn't you tell me what happened?"

"So ya didn't see the calls and texts after all."

"I saw, but...," the heated tiles beneath his feet began to crumble. Gojo had heard once of that feeling of the ground leaving beneath one's feet, but no one had warned him that it would do so slowly. "If you only texted me about what happened, I would be here right away."

"Why," you couldn't even catch the sarcasm in the impersonality of your voice. "Did something like this really have to happen for ya to finally pick up the phone and say ya 'kay?"

So that was it. You didn't ask for help or pity. You just wanted to be reassured that he was okay. "I really am an asshole," there was none of his usual sass in his voice. Just the realization crashing down on him like a slab of granite, crushing all arrogance and carelessness. "I'm sorry. I'm not- I'm just- God," he buried his face in his palms. "I can't even find the right words."

"Whatever," you said, and your alienation did not catch his despair. "I still have more to think about besides another person being disappointed in me."

"No, no, no. It's not like that at all," he mumbled in a weak voice. He cupped your face. To his surprise, you gave in effortlessly as if you were a rag doll. "Only a brainless idiot would be disappointed in you," he leaned his forehead against yours. "And I'm an idiot, but I have brains. Right?" he asked you, and noticing the faintly familiar wrinkles in the corners of your eyes, he smiled, even though his eyes were glistening treacherously.

"If you had brains, you'd run away," you didn't realize that both his mind and his heart had been screaming to the contrary for a long time. That's why he was here now, in front of you and with you, all broken with naked soul. 

Gojo pressed you tighter against him and even pushed you back a little, so as not to disturb the exiting parishioners, but you didn't notice anything. On the other hand, he noticed everything, right down to the way you burrowed harder into his neck when someone walked past you. "Mochi," he rubbed his nose softly against the top of your head. "Is anyone home?"

"No," you replied without raising your head. "All here in Hopetown."

Not to a grieving Rachel, not to a worried Frank, not to a maelstrom of hissing hunters - he didn't want to give you to anyone. Gojo hoped you would understand his selfish desire. "Let's go home then, 'kay?" he whispered and, stunned by the church bells and the beating of his own heart, he kissed you shyly on the temple - your very first kiss. 

You washed away today - all the water running down the drain, taking the dust, sweat, anger, and pain with it. You tried not to disturb your mental equilibrium, and one way to maintain it was with a routine. After smearing moisturizers on your body and applying balm to your hair, you wrapped yourself in a robe and stood in front of the dresser with your clothes. Gojo wanted you to open up - it was time to start somewhere. 

You had no idea what was waiting for you on the floor above. You'd agreed to just watch something, but Gojo was running around the kitchen trying to make a quick meal. He's already gotten it into his head that you're an omnivore. Maybe there were some exceptions like boiled carrots or something, but he didn't like those things too, which meant you'd find something to your liking from all the things he'd quickly cooked and panic-bought at an unknown store - in his state of chaos, Gojo didn't even realize where he'd teleported to. Garlic croutons, mozzarella cheese balls, baked shrimp in bacon, nachos with chili sauce, a few chocolate bars - cholesterol plaques. Everything just the way you liked it. "Well... Acceptable," he muttered, eyeing the edibles.

"What is it?" you asked, peering out from behind his forearm. Gojo didn't even jump - he was used to living in this house with the thought that you could be behind him at any moment. He was ready for anything. Or he thought so until he turned around. 

You were wearing regular pajama pants. Avocado, kitten, funny writing, or solid colors - he'd seen them all. But instead of the usual closed shirt, you were wearing a top. A little stretched and faded, but it hid almost nothing. "Uh," you drawled uncertainly, noticing the lost expression on Gojo's face. "Is something wrong?" you took a step back.  

Gojo had long suspected what was under your clothes, and his suspicions were confirmed. Scars of all kinds - sunken, bumpy, torn, and stretched - adorned your skin, layered on top of each other. The whitish-pink indentations on your wrists were like bracelets, and your throat was covered with many thin tightened cuts, like a dried bloody necklace.  

That wasn't what Gojo was interested in. He knew that if he gave it a single thought, he would be consumed by rage, which was good only in battle and only if it was cold. However, in helpless rage one could only find the road to self-defeat. Anyway, a trigger clicked quietly in his head.   

Kill them all.

"N-no, it's okay," Gojo mumbled, averting his eyes in embarrassment. Your naked arms, shoulders, collarbones, and neck - it made it seem as if you'd exposed more than just a part of your body. "Y-you just- uh," he panted quietly and tried to brush away the unruly white strands that tickled his burning face with his hands. "You took me by surprise," he mumbled awkwardly, raising his eyes to you again.

"Well, I just wish I could wear something like that sometimes too. At least in your workroom," you shrugged. "When I told ya ya could sleep over sometimes, I didn't think ya'd end up living there," you chuckled, not noticing how the man in front of you was being pulled further and further into the abyss by the shame.

"Sorry, I- Uh, I-I just...," Gojo kept stammering like a flustered teenager, and his hands couldn't find their place - he was trying to shove them into his pockets, then cross them over his chest, then fix his hair again. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think of that," he admitted timidly. 

"Nothing, it's fine," you smiled, seeing his condition. "If it bothered me too much, I'd tell ya about it, so... Let's just take it all to the TV," you suggested, pointing to the food. Gojo nodded, and you walked over to the dining table. Seeing several bars of chocolate, you looked dumbfounded. "God," you whimpered. "Wait here. I forgot something." 

You had no right to do that. He'd been through too much emotion that day, and this waiting during your sudden outburst only made him more anxious. He tried to rub his face with his hands to get the red paint off it or to cool it down a little, but it was in vain. Even his hands were burning.

Gojo was eager to get everything ready. He moved all the food to the coffee table, fluffed all the pillows on the couch, brought a couple of blankets, turned on the TV and searched for a movie, but nothing worked. He was still in a panic. 

"Here," you drawled uncertainly, rising from the workroom and walking over to him, sitting on the couch and tapping his foot against the floor. "It's hardly tasty, so...," you bit your lip, holding out the chocolate bar to him. "Just a souvenir from the void," you chirped, flopping onto the couch and tucking your legs under you.   

Gojo stared dumbly at the bar of chocolate in the weathered wrapper - it had been pink, but there was no lettering or logo. Did you think of him?  Was there really room in your head for him in the midst of the cold and the demons, the half-dead people and the unknown? When you were all alone and didn't know how to get out? "I won't eat it, I guess," he said weakly, though he tried to smile slyly.

"Prissy," you snorted, grabbing the nearest pillow and throwing it at him. "Crank up TV."

You've seen several movies, but Gojo didn't understand any of them. The plot, the acting, the locations - he couldn't remember any of it, even though he was staring straight at the screen. Thoughts were rushing around in his head, and his side vision was emphasizing you. You were eating with an envious appetite on whatever he'd cooked or bought, which made him bury his face harder into the pillow he was cradling against his chest. Was it fair that you were so comfortable around him? Was he the only one in this room with a heart that was out of place?    

"That's it," you sighed tiredly, stretching. "I'm full and I can't move," you said, throwing the pillow on the couch and flopping down on it, keeping your legs tucked in so you wouldn't disturb Gojo. 

Okay, it may have been unfair, but it was rarely otherwise in this world. He made that decision on his own. If you were knocked out and made to run away by his attempts to get closer to you, he was willing to back off, but just one step back. No further. Everything was fine as long as you let him stay by your side in this room, on the same couch, eating mozzarella cheese balls he'd made.

"Hey," you poked your foot gently into his thigh. "You're falling asleep," you said, watching his eyelids slip shut. "At least lie down." 

Gojo glanced sleepily at the door; he didn't want to go down to the workroom. He sighed tiredly and lay down behind you. In a strangely familiar habit, he put his arm around your waist - your back was pressed against his chest. "Mochi," Gojo whispered gently into your shoulder, realizing it was time for a risky endeavor. "Look, this might seem weird to you, but... Is it just me or are you and Rachel not getting along?" 

He furrowed his brows at his own insolence, though he hadn't been bothered by those devils pulling his tongue before. You remained silent, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb, an action that made him relax a little. "We fight with her a lot," you finally uttered. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"I just heard something I wasn't supposed to hear," he admitted honestly. "She said things like, uh... It's not like a common fight."

"She rarely watches her tongue," a shaky exhale escaped you, and Gojo, burrowing deeper into your neck, tried with all his might to show he was there for you. "Rachel, she's... She's not the bad person. It was just a bad day, that's all," he felt you squeeze his hand harder as if you were trying to hold him in place. "Besides... She has a right to be mad at me." 

He squeezed your hand in response. "Why?"

"I killed her husband."

You sat in the huge wooden barn, surrounded by sleeping cattle. The thin hay stung your skin even through your clothes, but you didn't dare move; you sat obediently as you had been told. The strong wind made the barn door wobble as if it were about to swing open. Nothing could be heard outside, only the long whistle of the night air through the cracks.

You tried irritably to wipe the dried blood off your hands, your skin itching and aching in places as you tried so hard to get rid of the scarlet liquid. With the quiet sleepy snorting of the animals and the shoving of another straw away from you, you wondered angrily. What had gone wrong? Where had you miscalculated? And where the fuck did Frank go?

No matter how fast or slow the time dragged on, he was already late. Did he really think that if he told you to sit still and keep your nose clean, he could disappear as long as he wanted?  

As irritation began to turn to frustration, the barn door swung open, banging loudly against the wall. "Shit," mumbled Frank to the howling wind that blew in. He examined the door, and making sure it was still on its hinges, closed it back with force.

You immediately jumped to your feet, approaching him. "Well? How bad is it?" you worried.

He put his arm around your shoulders, forcing you back into the haystack and sat down beside you. The stack immediately sagged, nearly flattening to the floor. "I'm not gonna lie. It's pretty bad," Frank admitted on an exhale.

"Hunters?"

"There's less than half of them left."

"And the people?" you asked hopefully.

"Everyone was slaughtered," Frank reported grimly, patting you comfortingly on the knee.

"Wonderful," you said desolately. "They were the first people we brought out of the void, and for what? So that a couple weeks later they could just be killed?"

"It's okay," the man put his arm around you, and noticing the deep cut on your eyebrow, touched it - dark lines immediately began to tighten it. "The important thing is that we're still alive."

"What... What's up with the plantation?" you asked through force, expecting the worst.

Your expectations were confirmed. "Burned down along with the village," Frank said threateningly quietly. "We don't have the black orchid anymore."

You jumped to your feet again, and even Frank's heavy hand couldn't hold you in place. You started pacing from side to side, wringing your hands nervously. "That's fucking bullshit," you bellowed. "Hunters have lived there for centuries, has anyone ever attacked?" at your rhetorical question Frank still shook his head. "Then what the hell? Did someone turn us in?"

"I have no clue," the man shook his head contritely. "We'll have to think about it on a fresh head. Right now it's better to rest."

Because of your worries and the excitement of the elements of nature, you did not hear someone knocking shyly on the barn door. The guest, not waiting to be answered, opened the door themselves.

You turned around, but Frank had already managed to step forward and covered you with his back. "Oh, Noah," he exhaled, and his body relaxed. "Thanks for bailing us out," Frank said, and he wasn't so hard at covering you anymore. Peeking out from behind his shoulder, you met the worried gaze of a man who was wrapping himself more tightly in a fur vest.

"It's nothing," Noah muttered, shivering from the cold. "But you can't stay here for long," he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Don't think I'm chasing you out of here. It's just that they... They might find out through me that you're here."

"Don't worry. We'll wait out the night and leave at dawn," the insider nodded uncertainly at Frank's assurance and took a step backward, slamming his back into the wall. The clattering pitchfork made him jump up and he stormed out of the barn. "I dunno where to go, though," he admitted aloud.

"Then you'll come to our house," you said in a voice that didn't tolerate bickering.

"I doubt the hunters would agree," grinned Frank sadly.

"Let them go to motels then. I don't care," you waved it off, settling back on the haystack. "We ain't done with that settlement yet anyway. Those people need a place to live, and without hunters, there'll be more room in the house."

"Still... The house isn't rubber, after all," the man frowned.

"We have to rebuild the village," you tried to cheer Frank up. "Somewhere on the edge of the Earth. And this time we'll have to think seriously about how to protect it."   

***

Two months had passed since the bloody incident, and you were on tenterhooks again. It was comforting to know that you weren't the only one in that state. Kyle was sitting next to you on the couch in the hallway of the infirmary. He jumped up, walking to the closed door of the chamber, and then sat back down. Involuntarily watching his fidgeting, you began to get even more nervous. Doc had never taken so long to examine a patient before; had something terrible happened to Rachel?

Your brother wouldn't stop - he would pop his head up every now and then when there was a rustling and mumbling outside the door. "Ya're not helping. Sit down," you turned to him exhaustedly as he once again got up from the couch.

You shivered as the doc's replica rushed past you. The same white coat, the same hands that clutched the clipboard and pen, only the replica never had a face. A blank canvas with no eyes, no nose, no mouth. Doc was always good at optimization, but the implementation was sometimes horrifying.

You both rose from your seats as doc left the ward and closed the door behind him. Clutching the clipboard to his chest, he stared at you over his glasses. "Congratulations," he said glumly. "She's pregnant."

"What?" you both simultaneously blurted out, and were reflections of each other - both amazed, right down to your open mouths.

"I mean, it's...," began a panting Kyle. "That's great!"

"Go to her," Doc nodded, but as you took a step toward the room, he grabbed your arm. "Not you. In my office. Now," Doc hissed and immediately rushed off in the direction of his office. You and Kyle looked at each other dazedly, and after a little while, you headed after doc.

As you closed the office door, you saw doc fidgeting with his medical records, and when he found the right one, he began to flip through the pages. "Doc, what's the matter?" you worried, watching as he began to write something down. The pen was almost tearing the paper.

"Sit down," he called out without raising his eyes. You obediently took the chair and moving it closer to the desk, sat down. "I won't beat around the bush," he tossed the medical records aside and interlocking his fingers, stared at you again. "Rachel has uterine hypoplasia. Or rather, she had uterine hypoplasia."

"Uh," you began confusedly, digging around doc's desk with your eyes, not sure why. Maybe looking for answers. "Can we use human language?"

"Undeveloped uterus," doc chided. "Specifically in her case, no bigger than this thing here," he tossed a pencil eraser under your nose. "I examined her from top to bottom just a month and a half ago, everything was the same. And now she's pregnant," he said coldly.

"She never told me anything about her disease," you said wistfully, thoughtfully twirling a pencil eraser in your hands.

"She suspected her reproductive problems, but I never told her anything about her disease," doc explained glumly. "Rob wanted kids too much, and I wanted to find a solution to that problem before I told them everything," he grimaced as he watched you put the eraser back on the table. "But the problem seems to have been solved for me."

"Couldn't ya... Ya know, recover her or something?" you suggested weakly, crossing your arms.

"I can only replicate what is already available. Not create new things," doc shook his head, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table.

"So what ya getting at?" you asked, the corners of your lips involuntarily creeping upward, and there was no way you could stop that panicked nervous smile.

Was it because of this that a few months ago you all literally drowned in blood and lifeless bodies? Was the price of all this something ephemeral, something that had not yet come into this world? You didn't want to believe it, and you hoped that none of you would say it out loud.

Doc was of a different opinion. He was always satisfied only with truth and facts, and it didn't matter what they carried with them. "If you don't believe in God, I suggest you to start," he said, leaning back in his chair. "After all, if this isn't a miracle of God, I'll laugh in the face of anyone who says it's just a coincidence."  

***

Rachel didn't have any of those weird wants - no cucumbers with chocolate, no honey and chips, no chalk - but her appetite was growing by the day. Because of her cravings, you could go to the store several times a day, only to have her tell you afterwards that she didn't want it anymore. Just like that, you were shoving now unwanted strawberries into the fridge. The container crumpled from the force you exerted, and the walls of it turned scarlet - unable to withstand such violence, the poor strawberry simply burst.

When you heard your sister's mumbling from the couch again, you spread your arms out to the sides with all your fingers together, closed your eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths to catch the slipping calm. You weren't supposed to be angry, Rachel was pregnant. This behavior was normal.

"What the hell ya doing there?" whined Rachel, peering out from behind the back of the couch. "The show's already starting."

"I'm coming," you muttered, slamming the refrigerator door shut. As soon as you sat down on the couch, she immediately laid her head on your lap, not caring at all about the way your legs were going to cramp up. Sighing, you started stroking her red curls, realizing where this was going. "Ya can't sleep on the couch forever. It's bad for your back."

"Back off," she snorted, fidgeting and tugging the blanket over her. "What can I do? Rob stinks."

"What's that he smells like?" you laughed softly.

"How should I know?" she whined for the umpteenth time this week. "He just stinks. I get nauseous around him all the time."

"Ya sure it's about the smell?" you asked casually, smirking eagerly, for which you received a hard slap on the thigh. "Ouch!" Rachel only frowned more at your exclamation and squirmed harder into a ball, not taking her eyes off the TV. "Rach... How did ya even realize ya were pregnant?"

"Well...," she drawled thoughtfully. "I got my period first. When it first start when you're thirteen it's normal, but when you're in your early twenties... I had a real panic attack," she laughed merrily, remembering her flighty state. "I thought I had vaginal cancer or something."

"Rachel," you giggled quietly along with her.

After calming down a bit, she continued. "I went to the doc right away, and he calmed me down, saying I was just menstruating. Only he was looking unkindly at my medical records. Dunno, maybe I imagined it. Just a couple weeks later, I got so sick...," she whimpered, placing a hand on her still growing belly. "I thought I had poisoned myself with something, but Rob kept following me around and insisting to take a pregnancy test. So, it just happened," she pressed her palm harder against her lower abdomen, and she could have sworn she felt another heartbeat even though her common sense screamed that it was too early for that. "Ya think I'll be a good mom?" she asked muffled, almost bashfully.

"Uh...," you drawled surreptitiously, playing with a strand of her hair. "I guess so? Actually, it depends on the kid, too. It's a matter of luck," you shrugged, trying to choose your words. "If it's a gifted child - fine, but if it's not... Well, then ya'll be scrubbing shit off the walls," you giggled, which earned you another hard slap to the knee. "That hurts!" you squeaked.

The fact that she was unaware of it was neither comfort nor relief. The deeper you went into your thoughts, the more your hands shook as if your mind were a labyrinth, its icy walls stretching to the edge of heaven, leaving no way out. You didn't know if you had to do it or if you just wanted to, but it seemed like the best solution.

Toxicosis is a terrible thing. Either a woman eats a lot and then vomits, or she eats nothing at all and still vomits. After a few trips to the bathroom with Rachel, she finally fell asleep. You carefully put a pillow under her head instead of your lap and headed to the second floor.

You didn't spend more than a minute in there. All you had to do was walk as quietly as possible past the sleeping Rob, steal his phone, and carry it into the workroom. Trifling matter, but when you got to the desk, you couldn't bring yourself to plug the phone into the computer. You felt like you were shackled, and the more you resisted, the harder the shackles dug into your skin - a familiar feeling that made you collapse helplessly into the chair.

"Need help?" the suave mechanical voice was like a nudge or just a key to all the chains for you.

"Meg," you addressed the artificial intelligence, finally plugging the cable into the computer. "Find something," you sobbed raggedly, watching as his phone lit up, announcing that the connection had been successful. "Find something that says he had nothing to do with this."

***

Vito looked at you as if you were mentally unstable. Everyone else had left to celebrate the completion of Hopetown, and you were the only one sitting in the kitchen, in absolute silence and total darkness. No garland was lit. No crickets were chirping. No cold wind rushing in.

Doc probably only told you about it because he knew Rob was Kyle's best friend. He wouldn't have been able to judge impartially, and there was no telling which evil would show its face. A desperate attempt at vindication, or a brutal, agonizing murder. "Eh," Vito sighed, wrapping elastic bandages around his legs. "I was born to drink beer, not this stuff," he glanced at you sneakily. "And why aren't ya at the party?"

"I felt sorry for ya," you joked back.

"Come on," Vito said cheerfully. "I bet next year someone else will get a shift on those dates, and I'll make up for it then."

After waiting for him to lace up his boots and put on his mask, you got up and went to see him off. When you got to the training field, the same point from which every voidrunner departed, Vito nodded, and after telling you to drink a bottle of beer for him, disappeared in a purple flash.

You walked around the place where the man had been a few seconds ago, took a dozen steps toward the forest, and turned around, leaving footprints in the snow. The clammy anticipation of the inevitable made your palms sweat. The clouds of vapor coming out of your mouth were jagged, intermittent, but not from the cold, for all you felt was desolation.

You could feel his presence, but you couldn't sense his thoughts or his moods. You ran a hundred excuses in your head for him, but none of them fit. Your gut shook more and more as he approached. Before the purple flash was even born, you covered your eyes with your hand.

Rob didn't look hurt or tired, only frantically shaking something off his sides with his hands, unaware that there was someone standing ten paces behind him. Someone with obvious motives, someone with courage and no sympathy. Perhaps if he'd paid attention to the fresh footprints, he might have been able to do something about it.

"Relocate."

There was no longer a field beneath your feet - it was a scaffold. One of your hands rested on his shoulder, and the other, clutching the dagger, was between his shoulder blades. The dagger cut the flesh silently, so your conscience was silent, too. It was very quiet. No sobs, no whimpering. Only when you twisted the dagger and pulled it sharply from Rob's heart was there a gurgling wheeze.

The man tried to turn around, but he didn't have time - his legs gave up before he could. He fell to his knees, and only after a few long moments, collapsed face first into the ground.

You'd always loved the sight of blood running down a back - a sure sign that the reaper had gone unnoticed. You watched blankly as the scarlet puddle spread beneath Rob, desecrating the pure white color, and you never realized that this was the first murder you'd ever committed that didn't make your hands tremble.

Your world froze, but everything continued to live without your participation. To the songs of the white wind under the northern sky, winter was sweeping everything away. The ground, the cooling body, the sins of the living and the dead. The only thing left untouched and naked were your bloody hands.

There were two persons in the field. One was the best friend, the father, the husband. The other was the one who took it all away. 

It was a sudden revelation that was never meant to be spoken, and Gojo froze in place, trying not to scare you away. You took it in your own way, though you tried not to think about how badly you might have spoiled his attitude toward you by telling him about your past. It was better to keep your mouth shut as it had been, and though Gojo was sometimes angry at you for it, you'd never felt like he was about to leave for good before. "Rob never had time to figure out who killed him, and Rachel never found out what happened to him," you continued to drown yourself, forgetting your sense of self-preservation. "I just told her that he never came back from the void," you were disturbed to your shaking knees by this uncertainty - Gojo still had his arm around your waist but remained motionless, you couldn't even hear his breathing above your ear. "I used to reassure myself that it was best for her, that she'd never know what he'd done or how much Mike's life really cost, but... I guess those were just pathetic excuses for a coward like me. That's all."  

"Look at me," though there was nothing commanding in his tone, his hand tugged at your waist, forcing you to turn around. "A real coward wouldn't have done anything and let it go, but not you," Gojo said, stroking your cheek soothingly. He would have given anything for you to look at him now, to feel how sincere his words were, but you only squinted your eyes harder. "I killed Megumi's father," he admitted on an exhale, and you opened your eyelids. "I'm not seeking for attention, it's just...," Gojo mumbled embarrassedly, but didn't take his palm away from your face. "It would be fair of me to admit something in return. And... Uh, he doesn't know about it either." 

"How come?" 

"It's just happened," he grinned bitterly. "He had a person to kill and I was just in the way. To be honest, he kicked my ass pretty good, but it was that bastard that made me stronger," Gojo sighed wistfully at the recollection that seemed to have faded into oblivion. "I never got to protect that person, though," he added more quietly. 

"But ya've protected many others."

"Exactly!" he brightened, burying his nose in your cheek. "So do you. Don't ever forget that, 'kay?" you nodded your head weakly, but it was enough for him. If need be, he was willing to repeat it every day, and it didn't matter that there was a chance he'd pester you to the point where you'd ban him from the workroom forever. He could have come in through the window anyway.

The annoying feeling of worrying for someone had long ago turned to trepidation, and when Gojo felt you fidget once more, there was no way he could keep another question inside him. "How long ago did you stop sleeping?" your stunned stupor made him chuckle. "It's not like I'm a blind fool. You said you were gonna sleep in the other room, but when you're home, you don't leave the workroom at all." 

You climbed under the blanket and pressed your forehead against his chest. "Ya've reached your limit of questions for today," you muttered sullenly, pouting your lips.

The only reaction he had to your behavior was tenderness. You may not have remembered it, but he'd seen you asleep once. In this very same spot, on this very same couch, which was illuminated by the light from the TV. He remembered covering a restless you with a blanket and sitting next to you all night, pretending to watch cartoons. "Come here," Gojo whispered softly into the top of your head. "Come here," taking advantage of your lack of comprehension, he rolled over onto his back, wrapped both arms around your waist, and laid you on top of him with enviable ease. His arms closed around you in case you decided to run away, even though he realized that if you wanted to disappear, you would. But you remained motionless, leaning your head against his chest. "Try to get some sleep, 'kay?"   

The song of his heart was fast and feverish, but it wasn't annoying. In the timid embrace of such a rare guest as a dream, you heard another melody, unfamiliar one. The longer this melody was played, the more embrace became tender and stronger, but did an ordinary dream know how to embrace like that? 

Gojo hummed softly to himself, hardly saying any words. It was a muffled melody, and he doubted you could hear it. Either way, you began to fidget less and to raise your head less often, looking around the space with a blurred gaze. "Shh," he hushed quietly as you jumped up once more and gently returned your head back to his chest. "It turns out you're snuffling. You knew that?" after all, he had already kissed you once, would it make it worse if he did it again? Gojo didn't remember himself as his lips covered everything they could reach with tender kisses. "My baby," he whispered softly, touching with his lips the spreading black lines on your forehead. "You're so beautiful," he breathlessly babbled nonsense into your blackened hair and smiled foolishly, but his face changed immediately as if someone was trying hard to take you away from him. "I'll always be there for you. I promise."  

You were pushed from side to side as if you weighed nothing, but it wasn't anyone's fault. There were more people in the bar this time, but everyone was still as drunk and happy as ever. When you heard the threatening creak, you unconsciously bounced. An old wooden sign fell where you had just been standing. A cheeky hooting sounded, profanity was heard everywhere, and a bottle smashed against the wall a few feet away. You ducked as if you were in a battlefield and headed for the familiar staircase.

It was still the same fog of cigarette smoke, but it was a lot calmer. Maybe it was the quiet people who gathered here or maybe it was the influence of the sullen-looking bartender. He was still polishing the glasses.

No one was interested in anyone here. When you walked in, not a single head turned in your direction. The people here were happy in their own way, and they didn't care about anyone else. "Sunshine!" a joyful, familiar voice called out to you.

When you looked over, you saw Kyle sitting at a round table. He had a glass of light beer in front of him, and judging by his blissful look, it wasn't his first glass. He was surrounded by painfully familiar faces, but that pain carried with it only surprise. Vito was slyly pouring more alcohol into Kyle's glass, and your brother's shoulder was gripped tightly by a man's hand. Rob sat next to him, encouraging them both.

"Hey guys," you smiled, taking a seat across from them.

"Hey! Why ya sitting so far away?" whined Kyle drunkenly, holding out his arms to you. "Come here!" you looked at this picture through your fingers. Shifting your gaze to Rob, you saw him raise his eyebrows guiltily.  

"I see ya two are best friends again?" you asked snidely, pulling Kyle's beer glass to you. Kyle was drunk, but he was able to focus and send you a questioning look, even though you thought his eyes were about to drift apart.

"All right, lad, let's go bring ya to your senses," Vito announced businesslike, lifting Kyle by the shoulders in one jerk.

"Oh my," you said meaningfully, watching as Vito dragged Kyle's collapsed body on his back. "It's not even a day later, and he's already on a roll."

"He's been looking out for ya all his life," Rob reminded you, laughing. "He's long overdue for a rest," he sighed as the door to the restroom slammed shut behind the men. An awkward silence hung. You had a lot to say to each other, and only one of you needed the courage to start. "Ya mad?" asked Rob quietly, looking into your eyes.

"No," you replied simply, shaking your head and pressing your lips together. "I'm not."

"Ya didn't tell him?" he nodded his head in the direction of the restroom.

"Kyle's not stupid. I think he figured it all out on his own."

"I just...," he began tentatively, and all his movements seemed awkward, embarrassed. Rob scratched the back of his head thoughtfully before continuing. "I just want ya to know. I don't regret anything."

"Yep," you chirped, sipping from Kyle's glass and immediately grimaced. You sighed heavily, wanting as soon as possible to say goodbye forever to the feeling that made your soul clench into a helpless lump. "Me too."

"That's your style," Rob laughed and immediately relaxed. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. "How's... How's my baby boy?"

"Mike is fine. He's nothing like ya," you stated, wrinkling your nose. "Not in looks, not in personality."

"It's for the best," he said, raising his glass as if his words were a toast. Taking a sip from the glass, Rob set it back on the table with a thud. "And how's my wife?"

"She is okay," you lied, shrugging indifferently. "Ya know her. She can handle anything."

"Oh yeah," he drawled meaningfully, stretching and putting his hands on the back of his head. "I never thanked ya," he started laughing softly again, and you realized what he was getting at.

"Kyle brought ya two together, not me," you tried unsuccessfully to remind him, but Rob was already flying in his memories.

"He just gave me her number and some idiotic advice," he waved it off carelessly. "And ya," he literally jabbed his finger at you. "Ya're the one who told me to bring a bouquet of garlic bread and dried squid instead of flowers on our first date," you clucked your tongue and involuntarily hid half your face in your palms, hoping he'd get your sign and not continue. "And how she chased it all with beer, mmm," he thought blissfully, closing his eyes. "I was all gone," he chuckled again. "Here comes our drunk," he announced, nodding toward a sobered Kyle.

He looked like he was being dragged to trial. His face was still wet and red, and he clutched his clenched hands to his chest with all his might. "I'm sorry," he said quietly to you, sitting down next to you. "I forgot myself a little," he stared guiltily at the table, not daring to look you in the eye.

"You deserve it," you reminded him, shoving him gently with your shoulder. Suddenly, on cue, a thought popped into your head as if your mind was a jewelry box and someone had just put a piece of jewelry in there. "By the way, Kyle," you chirped, reaching into your pocket with your hand. You didn't take it with you, you didn't even think about it, so why did you have it? "Ya left something," you said, holding out a silver bracelet to him.

"Oh shit!" worried Kyle, taking the jewelry from your hands and placing it on his wrist. "I thought it was gone forever..."

"Don't lose it anymore," you jokingly chastised him.

"Thank ya," he wrapped his arms around you and began kissing your face, and you wrinkled unhappily at the touch of wet black strands against your skin.

When he was done with his affection, you unceremoniously pushed the beer glass away from him. You decided to stay out of the men's conversations and musings - they'd been gone too long already. You'd heard stories about their first dates, their first fights, and there seemed to be some generational difference between Vito, Kyle and Rob.

Kyle wouldn't be himself if he hadn't noticed your state of mind even in the midst of a cheerful conversation. He could see your desperate gaze circling the bar, searching for someone. "Sunshine...," he began, taking your hand. "I'm sorry, but she's not coming tonight."

"I thought so."

You're just now noticing that there's been music playing in the bar the whole time. Quiet, but energetic. You only realized this because your brother looked playfully into your eyes. "Shall we dance?"

"Kyle, I can't dance," you protested weakly, flinching away.

"Just a twitch, then," he chuckled, taking you under the arm and pulling you from the table.

There wasn't a single person here dancing. Maybe they didn't know it was allowed or maybe they just didn't want to. Either way, no one paid any attention to you. Everything merged in your clumsy movements, and did so tightly that it ceased to exist at all. You forgot what happened yesterday and didn't know what would happen tomorrow, the only thing that mattered to you now was Kyle dancing and laughing right in front of you. He was alive and whole, and no one tore him apart. He still loved and supported you even when you failed.

The two of you, panting and red, Kyle from the exertion and you from the embarrassment, didn't notice as the bar began to empty. People lingered here for a long time, but they left quickly one by one, and now there were empty tables all around you. "Okay, that's it," he put his arm around your shoulders, trying to catch his breath. Kyle saw Rob and Vito already getting ready, slipping their jackets over their shoulders. "Sunshine," he whispered, looking into your eyes confused. "I'm sorry. But we really have to go."

"It's okay," you cheered him up. "I understand everything. Go."

He pulled you hard against him, but at this point, you couldn't feel how much love he actually put into it. "See ya," Kyle whispered into the top of your head, and he could barely pull away from you as if every inch between you was causing him a tremendous amount of pain.

"See ya," you said after him.

The same bartender was still sullenly going about his work as if he had an endless supply of dirty glasses under the bar. When all the door bells rang out, you looked around and realized you were alone in that corner bar again.

The crackle of burning wood in the fireplace and the smell of smoldering timber brought calmness, one of the few states of mind available to them. Not discerning day or night, sun or moon, love or hate, but only pretending to know everything around them, these creatures sat in corners, in shadows, trying to sort out their own affairs. "It's time to stir up the hornet's nest."

Rei reluctantly raised his head. "Hm?" he lazily uttered, examining the ceiling of the room as if the person speaking was sitting there. "If you meant kill them all, there's a different expression for that. You should be around people more often," Rei stuck back into the fashion magazine and slid the whiskey glass closer to him.

"Who has access to the repository with the artifact?" the creature asked, ignoring the barbed remarks.  

"Frank and his kids," Rei replied nonchalantly, admiring the model's sultry skin on one of the pages. He ran his finger across the page. Why instead of a soft smooth texture he didn't feel even a pitiful semblance?

"How fortunate you killed the lad," the creature hissed

"Do I hear sarcasm in your voice?" grinned Ray, looking up again. "Oh, come on," he laughed, grabbing a glass of whiskey, the ice rattling as if it were afraid. "You're the one who advised me to watch out for the redheaded girl. We didn't need the lad. He just got in the way."

"Any luck finding anything out?"

"Nope," Rei muttered, pouting his lips demonstratively. "Her only weaknesses are alcohol and sex. I like her, by the way," a smile slowly formed on his face, and he turned back to the model. Rather, to her sultry skin.

"You can't be entrusted with anything at all," the creature disappointed, and the glass the demon clutched in his hand crackled. The thin glass shattered into hundreds of small shards, but never broke. "We need someone with powers of observation."

Taking a couple deep breaths, Rei came to his senses. "Stop underestimating me. Even if we did have it, the town is protected by relics," he said irritably, carefully setting the glass aside. "They only protect it from demons and dark energy, though. No one said anything about the rest," the indignation was replaced by a mad chuckle so quiet and short it could penetrate anywhere. Under the skin, under the bones, into the heart.

"Is there someone in mind?"

"Yeah, kinda," Rei chirped, wiggling his leg flirtatiously. Maybe he should have done it for nothing because every movement of that body created an rage in him that he couldn't get rid of. The more he spat it out, the harder he let it out, the more it came back to him. There was only one thing that could do it all.

"You're still not happy about something."  

"Give me one good reason why I should stay in this body or I'll change it immediately," he bellowed, tugging on a shirt that was twice his size.

"Have you tried working out?" the voice suggested sincerely and courteously. "They say it builds muscle."

"Why don't I start eating fucking porridge in the morning too?" Rei clenched his teeth in anger, pitching forward.

"You can't change your body right now," the creature warned. The glass, already battered and hitherto standing peaceful on the table, burst. "Your date hasn't happened yet. She needs to see this," there was a huge upside to each creature seeing and hearing what the other creature saw and heard. At least, if it wasn't hiding. Rei moaned quietly, pitifully in pleasure as he saw your image through the prism of the one who spoke to him. "Calm down. It'll be a while yet, but until then... You need to stay in this body. If you hate it so much... I think you could change it a bit."

"That's right," he said cheerfully, taking off his glasses and breaking them in half. Only one small detail remained. Grabbing the shears from the table and going to the mirror, Rei cut off a long black braid in one motion.

next ⊳

[daryascurse]

𝐔𝐧𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈

Ryoumen Sukuna x Reader // ♡ follow #ULSukuna for updates ♡ // ⁿˢᶠʷ mdni

POV: second person, AFAB reader, feminine pronouns Chapter tags: dominant Sukuna, submissive reader, themes of dubcon/ seduction, oral, teasing, dirty talk, rough sex, fingering, spanking, choking, biting Chapter length: 6.4k

You try to pull your head back, but his grip is strong. “See? I knew you had it in you.” “No,” you whisper through gritted teeth. But the word comes out a whimper as your eyes flutter over him. He’s handsome in a way that shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it is. Another primal reaction, a very, very, wrong one. Your heart should've started to calm by now, but it gallops still in your ribcage. Even though his breath comes level, sweat glistens as it runs down his neck, disappearing on the black banded tattoos. The veins and muscles under his skin flex lightly as he tilts his head, the second pair of eyes closing, the other still intent on you. He moves his hand, turning your own head back and forth with strong fingers. So long and slender. Somewhere in the back of your mind, an ashamed thought flashes- they must feel good, and Sukuna breaks into a grin once more. "Well, you little slut,” he says, a terrible delight in his voice. “If you could see how you’re looking at me. You want this, don’t you?"

Read after the jump or on AO3 // set the mood (don't shuffle and start from "Exxus")

I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please see the byf in my pinned.

Author's note: This is a repost of an old work of mine that I love dearly; I think that when I originally posted it in late 2020 it was one of the first Sukuna x Reader pieces on ao3 :,) started as a requested piece. I'm cleaning it up and posting it again. My gratitude to all the original readers and commenters, and my many many thanks to anyone reading it now.

It’s the weirdest fluke, a total accident. An accident that you can’t begin to gather into a coherent explanation in your own head, let alone explain intelligibly to the figure towering over you from a colossal throne of skeletal ruin. He regards you coldly, head propped in his hand, eyes gleaming rubies in the darkness. It's how you realize that it truly is dark, that the only pale, sickly light from the tunnel of blackness - it comes from him.

The fear in your bones is primal. Feral. 

“I’ll ask again, little bitch,” his voice comes, a soft, dangerous purr, “how dare you enter my Domain?”

“Really – I -”

He sighs, crossing his legs beneath a flowing kimono. The gesture knocks something from atop the pile, and it clatters down to roll in the shallow water around you. A horned skull, the cracked sockets leering up at you when it comes to a rest at your feet. Your words shrivel and die in your throat. He adjusts himself again. 

“But - no, you don’t have the malicious aura of most trespassers,” he continues. He sounds almost curious in his musings, as if he’s speaking more to himself. “You’re not here to fight, are you?”

The intonation isn’t that of a question. In fact, he seems closer to laughter than anger, but you shake your head frantically, tearing your eyes from the horrors below to look back at him. Those eyes glitter with something unknown. “No, no, absolutely not.”

“That’s a shame,” he says. A smile curves over his mouth, and he leans forward with his chin high, gaze narrowed down at you. “I prefer women with a bit of fight in them.”

He looks hungry.

“Please, I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll get out, I’ll leave, right away.”

How?

He says it, or you think it, you can’t tell over the loud hammering of fear in your heart. You recognize him now, the black markings cuffing his wrists and streaking down his face, lining those shining eyes. The legends of Ryoumen Sukuna. The King of Curses.

Your knees shake, and you start to take a shuffling step backwards, liquid sloshing underfoot.

“How?” Sukuna says, clearly now. “I’d like to see you try." He pauses, and smiles terribly. "I’ll make a deal with you. If you can find a way out all on your own, you’re free to go. But if I catch you first, you’re mine to punish.”

“Punish?”

“I don’t like intruders.” Sukuna’s teeth bare in that grin, something deranged and wicked. “But I like a challenge. I’ll give you a head start, counting from ten.”

You can feel your whole body tremble, your hands shaking as they come together, clasping before you in a prayerful plead.

“Please, please, I promise I don’t–“

Sukuna waves his hand dismissively. He leans forward even further to rest his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. “Ten,” he says.

You find some strength, unknotting your hands and taking a step back.

“Nine. Better run, little bitch.”

Run where? You jerk your head back, wild, heart pounding in your throat. Puddles splash beneath your tentative footsteps. The walls of the cavern, cracked like a ribcage, yawn crimson and black over you, offering no open path. You turn back, the mountain of bones before you, glittering eyes in the darkness.

“Eight.”

Forward. The adrenaline pours through you, your fingertips shaking as you feel your legs move before you can consciously choose to. Forward, to the skeletal throne, and around, feeling the air move like a shockwave around you. Fallen fragments of bone crunch underneath your heels when they splash into the watery substance as Sukuna’s laughter echoes above.

“Seven!”

The call is fainter now as you run, blindly stumbling as your surroundings grow dimmer. The cavern walls stretch murky and black around you. Crunches still sound under your feet, vibrating up your legs, the murky shallow water dragging you down.

“Six!”

His voice is further, and it gives a wild burning hope in your chest. You’re running as fast as you can. Your feet are heavy. Your breath comes in cold huffs. The further you go into the labyrinth abyss, the icier the air gets, so cool it burns your lungs. You turn your head back, but the darkness extends behind you too, just as obstructive as your starting point. The next steps you take are lurching, wide leaps that almost make you fall straight on your palms. But you can’t see Sukuna now in the darkness, can’t hear him even as your heart hammers the countdown out, and it presses you forward.

Five… four… three…

Something begins to take on shape in the distance before you, an eerie blue glow that creeps across the ground the closer you approach, a dark structure like a shrine taking shape. Columns, a sloped roof, and behind it, the smooth enclosing wall of the cavern cracking red above you. More bones come into your vision as the light spreads. Maybe you could break through the curve of the wall, or maybe you could find some sanctuary in this shrine, with all these pillars, bury yourself among the mountain of bull skulls, hide in this twisted realm.

Two… one…

But as you approach, panting, your legs almost buckle with every step closer. Your pace stutters, stops, and you feel your knees give out as you fall on your hands, the puddles icy around you. The heels of your palms skid against the depths, almost knocking into the white-bleached skull before you. Despair crashes down through your body, leaving you cold.

“How…” you gasp.

Before you, Sukuna bends into a squat, the hem of his kimono falling into your line of sight as it floats in the shallow waters. His breath is hot on the back of your head. Your skin prickles, but you can’t force your body up. Sukuna reaches forward, grabbing your chin with his thumb and curling his index finger underneath, urging your gaze up to him. He stares at you in silence for a moment, a second set of eyes slanting against his cheekbones blinking open and rolling forward to meet you.

“I’m impressed you didn’t give up from the start. It was never going to be much of a chase, but you have some fight after all,” he says.

You try to pull your head back, but his grip is strong.

“See? I knew you had it in you.”

“No,” you whisper through gritted teeth.

But the word comes out a whimper, something weak and wanton, as your eyes flutter over him. Close up, seeing him clearly, he’s handsome in a way that shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it is. Another primal reaction, a very, very, wrong one. Your heart should have started to calm by now, but you feel it galloping still as it hammers in your ribcage. Even though his breath comes level, and there’s no hint that he was running after you, sweat glistens as it runs down his neck, into the folds of his kimono and disappearing on the black banded tattoos. The veins and muscles under his skin flex lightly as he tilts his head, the second pair of eyes closing again, the other still intent on you. He moves his hand, turning your own head back and forth with strong fingers. So long and slender. Somewhere in the back of your mind, an ashamed thought flashes - they must feel good, and Sukuna breaks into a grin once more.

“Well, you little slut,” he says, delight in his voice as it slips into a laugh. It's deep, thick, hoarse. “If you could see how you’re looking at me. You want this, don’t you? You wanted to lose. You’re going to enjoy being punished.”

He grins as a yelp slides from you, still laughing. You feel your cheeks grow hot. “You – no, you - demon, no!”

Your words don’t have the bite they should. His eyes narrow on you, tongue licking his upper lip as the laughter settles back into the devious, hungry smile. “Save your breath. I don’t believe you, and there’ll be reason enough to scream later,” he says.

You toss your head again, failing to break from his iron grasp - but not really trying to. Sukuna just slides his body even closer to yours, forcing your face easily back to his. Your body has accepted futility before your mind is able to. His drooling jaws loom over your face, the sheer delight unbroken.

“This won’t be much of a punishment for you after all,” he says. “But don’t worry, you little slut, I’ll still enjoy myself.”

He’s kneeling above you now, forcing you back on your ankles as he leans further forward. He lets go of your chin, and reaches down to grab your wrists. His fingernails, blackened and thick, claw into your skin as he raises your hands almost to your shoulders. You writhe, but don’t try to shove him away when his chest pushes into you, the heat of his body radiating under his touch and rising to your flushed cheeks. You feel your lips part, and Sukuna brings his mouth down on yours.

His kisses are hungry, devouring the whimpers that spill from you as your lungs struggle to breathe. His tongue slides into your mouth, demanding access and claiming territory. You shiver in response. Some hot arousal begins to spread through you, coming in unintentional moans. He snarls in response, teeth almost clashing into yours as he bites your lower lip, letting go and coming back properly. It’s a hard kiss, wanting and taking, and you’re not sure when you begin returning his motions, not sure when your hips sink down, sliding your balance off your ankles and your legs into a W shape as your body starts almost grinding into the ground.

When he finally draws back, your face is burning below the skin. You reach up, straining with trembling fingers, and touch your swollen lips.

“I knew it,” Sukuna says. He wipes his lips with the side of his wrist, hand twitching. 

He stands, yanking you up with his grip still hard on your arms. You’re too out of breath, from the run, from the kiss, and you stumble after him as he pulls you in, upward over the pile of bones and into the mouth of the demonic shrine. Ivory jaws and teeth extend around you, an echo of Sukuna himself. The blue light pours from around you, giving him some twisted halo glow, the furthest thing from holy. He releases his grasp with a push, tossing you like a ragdoll to the unsettlingly soft ground. You lift yourself back to your knees, unable to tear your eyes away from his face, so cruel and so beautiful.

Sukuna tears his cowl from his neck, untying his kimono and letting it fall to the ground. He lifts his hands to his face and sighs. The broken lines of his tattoos rise and fall with the swell of his bare chest, pointing down, directing your vision to his cock.

“Oh…” he spreads his fingers apart, regarding you through the slots. “Do I really need to tell you what to do next?”

You totter, body falling forward uncertainly. He drops a hand, shoving hard against the back of your head, pushing you towards him.

“Suck it.”

He almost strokes your hair as he pushes his hand down, cradling the base of your skull as you open your mouth in response to the rough caress. The tip of his cock falls against your lips, and you squeeze your eyes closed as you open your mouth wider, heart hammering in your chest.

Sukuna sighs again. “Come on, you little slut.”

The arousal that courses through you is coupled with shame as you feel his second hand come to the other side of your head. His claw-like nails press into the back of your neck, locking your movement into forward motions. They prick against your skin as you begin to move your tongue over the tip.

“You can do better than that.”

It's hot at the back of your neck where he digs his claws into your skin, forcing you to take him deeper in your mouth. His scent is overwhelming, musky and unclean, something so disgustingly good that your mouth waters in response.

“Mmmph.” It slips out of you and vibrates around him.

“Rude to talk with your mouth full.”

Sukuna’s cock throbs in your mouth as you struggle to lick him, the strokes of your tongue thick and short and straining for space. Each push of your head forward takes him a little deeper, brushing against the roof of your mouth a little faster, and a little faster the next time. His hips have started moving into your face. His cock hits the back of your throat and you tighten your mouth in response, fighting the urge to gag as he begins to push himself further.

"Yes."

The pressure makes your mouth tight and sloppy, slurping over his cock as you suck him off, trying to take him as far down your throat as you can under his strength. Your hands reach up, searching for and fondling for the shape heavy against his legs, cupping what you blindly find and bringing the slick of your saliva down over them with gentle fingers. Above you, you hear Sukuna’s breathing become heavier. His hands tense at the back of your head.

His taste grows more and more bitter, seeping through your mouth as his cock grows hard and stiff. Tears begin to leak out of your eyes, and you force them open, blinking furiously to push them away. You roll your eyes up. Sukuna is looking down at you, all four eyes wide and wild and burning. The nails on your skin tighten, a piercing pain shooting down your neck and forcing your mouth even wider in a silent cry.

“Keep going, come on, come on, you fucking slut.”

Sukuna fully has control now, gripping you between his hands and thrusting his hips into your face as you kneel before him. You close your eyes again as the watery tears sting you. Your tongue is the only agency you have, and your movements are weak as your saliva comes choking out of you, slobbering down his cock as he thrusts it to the back of your throat and further down. You drop your hands to your knees, pressing your thumbs into your skin and leaning forward in support as your face collides with his body with every thrust.

You press your tongue blindly upward, feeling the ridge of one hard vein protruding hard along his shaft. He groans louder. You whimper around him, finding it harder and harder to breathe, but straining your tongue along it.

“Ah!”

The grunt is wordless, his hands hard around you, and Sukuna comes hot and bitter as he keeps thrusting down your throat. Your involuntary whines choke and vibrate around him, throat convulsing as you swallow. It tacks around your cheeks and lingers at the front of your tongue. Swallowing again doesn't rid the taste. 

Sukuna pulls out, pressing his hands into the base of your head, forcing your neck sharply back and up at him. His chest is heaving with panting breaths. He releases his grip, moving a thumb to smear across your lips as his mouth breaks back into that devilish smile.

“You’re such a mess,” he says, his voice raw. “A fucking pretty little mess. You like being at my mercy, don’t you?”

You nod, humiliation and lust knotting together in your stomach. Your mouth feels sticky and wet, but you fight the urge to scrub it against your hand.

“You’re mine to play with, mine completely. I already know what makes your cunt wet and your hips pop. I bet you’re absolutely dripping now,” he says, crouching down once more. He rests his elbow on one knee, the other leg folded beneath him, all four eyes keenly forward as he reaches his other arm forward. One extended finger dances down your collarbone, down your body, curving at your hips and scooping down between your clothes. Your thighs shake, threatening to take you off-balance.

“This is just in the way,” Sukuna notes dryly. “Take it off. Take it all off.”

You nod again, adjusting your kneeling position to fumble at your shoes, your pants. As soon as they’re free, Sukuna lets out a dark, disgruntled sound and reaches forward, his expression darkening.

“Too slow.”

“Sorry -” you start, your voice muffled as he grabs at your shirt. It’s like tissue to him, sharp nails scratching against your skin as he tears it off with ease. Instinctively your shoulders roll in, your hands crossing over your hips before Sukuna grabs you by your wrists again and forces your palms to the ground, squeezing your bone until you cry out before letting go. All four of his eyes roam hungrily over you, and his hands move up, locking around your hips.

“Now let’s see how wet your cunt is, you pretty little slut.”

He pushes, urging you roll onto your back. The ground is soft, but the immediate force still makes you gasp at the impact. Above, the blue light reels, the ridged roof of the shrine’s mouth cascading shadows down Sukuna as he kneels over you. Your legs splay awkwardly around his body. Shifting your knees doesn’t make it any more comfortable, and you whimper again. He brings a hand to your face, dancing his fingers over you as his other hand pushes down at your hip, forcing you into the ground. One finger trails a line from your temple, down your jaw, re-visiting the journey over your collarbone on naked skin. It leaves you sensitive and shivering, as if ghostly fingers still dance over you in the wake of his movement. Lower still, the uneven rhythm of breath from two sets of lungs echoing into the yawning cavern, and his finger spirals lazily, trailing down, down, and to your cunt. You bite your lip as he moves through your folds, collecting your leaking arousal.

“Just as I thought. You filthy little slut, you almost got off just from sucking my cock,” Sukuna says. His voice crackles with delight, his breathing getting heavier again. You can feel your face flushing, heat spreading down your body, collecting below your abdomen. Sukuna begins moving his fingers through you, teasing down to your entrance and back up. His fingertips press into you. Your hips shake under the force of his hand, knees struggling to bend and writhe.

“You’re not coming until I say you can,” he says, fingers finding your entrance and brows lifting as another moan escapes you. He moves in slow circles, just barely, just almost sneaking into your body as you shift your hips in response to the trembling heat rising below your skin. “I’ll keep you strung out until I’m ready for you.”

“Oh…”

“Tell me you understand, you fucking slut.”

“Yes,” you force out as his finger suddenly dips inside you, just barely, before withdrawing. Your eyes cross as Sukuna’s face drops behind the brilliant blue shadows, a halo shining from behind his face as he lets go of his grating hold against your waist. You try to sit up to keep him in sight, but the hand quickly pushes you back down, hard against your stomach. You choke back another gasp and fall flat on your back again.

“You’re so fucking desperate. Do you understand the rules I set before you?” Sukuna’s hand stays hard on your stomach, pushing down, lower, and lower, almost painful right below your navel. “Let’s test your intelligence. I’m not going to touch your cunt until you beg me.”

You moan, more in frustration than anything else. Sukuna’s shifting above you, adjusting his position, one knee still between your legs. He leans it forward, your thighs struggling to lift in response, hips rolling into the ground as best as you can. His fingers rest against your cunt, teasing at the folds, just barely pushing them apart.

“You want to hump my leg like a dumb, mindless animal, don’t you?” His voice is sardonic, mocking with bites of laughter. “Dumb little bitch. I told you to beg.”

His knee comes right up to you, almost grinding into you, and his hand below your stomach pushes harder, elbow digging into the top of your thighs.

“I know what it does to your body,” Sukuna continues. “I want to hear you say it.”

“S-Sukuna, it…please, I’m begging you to touch me, I need it.” You’re almost surprised to hear the words fall from you, but it’s your own sound. It babbles from you on his command, your voice growing shrill. “I do, I do, please.”

His knee sways, knocking into your thighs, just barely feeding the friction your body desires. You feel yourself clenching, his fingertips so close to you. He lightly grazes your skin, dancing over your sensitive folds. “Hmm,” he says, a toying sound, and then finally, finally, plunges his fingers into you with a sigh that echoes your own raised cry.

Sukuna’s fingers slide in easily, and after a few shallow, teasing pumps, he curls them, moving in a beckoning motion that feels as if he’s summoning you up off the ground. The sensation hooks right below your belly button, trapped by his other hand still pinning you down. His thumb swipes up, rubbing through your slit and searching lazily upward, twitching up and down over you in time with his fingers in you. Your hands fly down, searching to grab against his shoulders, to pull his hand firmly in you, but you can’t find the strength to hold him.

He laughs, guttural in his throat, moving his knee back and forth between your legs. Your thighs rise to instinctively meet his touch, body clambering for more. “Oh!”

“I didn’t say you could stop begging,” Sukuna says, his voice rasping and low. The growl sends thrills through you, and you roll your hips in response as his fingers begin to curl faster and faster. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you say faintly, the word taking on more syllables than it should as the heel of his palm pushes down. Weakness shoots through your body, the back of your knees feeling limp as the heat begins to burn in your core, coaxed from you by Sukuna’s beckoning fingers.

“You say that, but your cunt betrays you,” Sukuna says, derisive. His thumb strokes right over your clit, and you moan. "I think you could satisfy yourself like this."

“Please!”

“Do you know how many of my fingers are in? Two, just two. Isn’t it frustrating that my fingers aren’t reaching where it feels best?”

He moves faster, pressing into you and letting go. Your eyes roll back, the sickly blue light around you going momentarily black when he brushes back and forth on your clit, your back arching. A sharp ache goes down your back as your neck convulses right where his nails clawed you before, but it’s forgotten as he moves the side of his thumb faster and faster on your clit. Your body is hurtling towards orgasm faster than his permission, and you cry out again.

"Or is this what you're used to? Little human cocks pushing you this open and no further? Maybe you would just break."

“Please, Sukuna, please, I’m begging you, I’ve been begging you, I need you, p-please.”

Words spill foolishly from you again, pushed out by his searching fingers spreading you apart, buried in you and holding you down. You strain your eyes down, searching for his gaze in front of the blinding blue light, and whimper when you find his eyes locked on you crouched low over your hips and holding you under him. He completely owns your body.

“Please,” you moan again.

He’s watching your face ravenously, the black tattoos streaking across his face almost disappearing in the shadows. He presses hard on your clit and rocks back, letting his knee slide away from the embrace of your thighs, lowering his face to your hips behind the casual barrier of his anchored hand.

“You keep saying that, but the way your body trembles under me… you like this,” he says, amused and staring at his you, his little plaything. “I knew you would. You like the torture, the slow, long, chase of pleasure, drawn out at my mercy.”

He turns his head, bites the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It stings, sending a shooting pain up through you, hot under your skin. The coiled heat gathering in your core winds tighter, and you force out another, weaker, “please.”

“Your cunt is squeezing my fingers. You desperate little slut, I didn’t tell you you could come yet.”

You blink rapidly, trying to force your gasping breaths to come smooth, to bring your body back from the edge. “Sukuna,” you say again, barely breathing his name.

Sukuna presses and lifts his thumb from your clit one last time, pulls his fingers slowly out, dragging them down across your hips. You feel the slick trail of yourself, cool against your skin, and shiver. The pounding pleasure in you begins to ebb, fading back from that hurtling ledge as his pressure withdraws.

“Your body was expecting that, wasn’t it?” Sukuna sounds almost impressed. He lifts his hand from below your stomach, coming to grip your thigh. His thumb presses right into where he bit before, and you bite back another yelp of pain. “Don’t worry, you’re going to feel good. In the end.”

Without any more resistance, you draw your elbows back and prop yourself up, wincing and using your arm strength past the aching in your stomach. He was pushing you so hard down that you wonder fleetingly if you might bruise. The “ouch” that escapes you in a breath is ignored.

“Stand up,” Sukuna says. He doesn’t help you stagger to your feet, but scoops you by the waist from behind once you’re up and begins walking you towards a corner pillar of the shrine. The pallid blue light comes behind you now, stretching out into the piles of bones beyond. The muscle of his arm digs into your stomach as he carries you off like a conquered bride. You shiver and stumble when he lets go, reaching for the support of the pillar. It’s smooth beneath your palms, and you bend your elbows, resting against it. You didn’t realize you needed rest.

“I’m going to thoroughly ruin you,” Sukuna growls. You tilt your neck back as far as the pain of his scratches allows, and lock eyes with him as his left arm comes over you to grab your right shoulder, trapping you right in the crook of his elbow. “Step back.”

Your feet slide against the ground, almost crashing into his own as you try to move against the constraints of his grip on your upper body. His chest is sweaty against your back, and his other hand palms your ass. He slaps you sharply, and you gasp, throwing your head back down, his bite mark flaring hot again.

“Come on, spread your legs.”

He pulls against you, urging your hips apart, and you try to widen your stance. You can feel his cock, hard against your inner thigh, and after another spank, he releases his grip. He guides his cock up between your legs, pushing right between the shallow valley of your thighs.

“You’re dripping. Sloppy little slut.” His fist, slick and sweaty, knocks into you, knuckles rubbing against your thighs as he moves the head of his cock through your folds. You roll your hips, breathing heavily into his elbow right under your chin.

“Sukuna, please…” you say, shifting your weight. The tip of his cock pushes against your slick folds, which achingly succumb to the pressure, forced apart and letting him slide right to your entrance.

“Greedy,” he breathes, and with his right knee almost crashing into the back of your own, he thrusts right into you.

Your gasp turns immediately into a cry as he stretches you. He grunts, moving his feet with muffled thuds behind you, and leans back as he pulls out before thrusting in again harder. His hand comes back to your ass with another smack, palming at your skin as he grabs you, adjusting his grip until his fingers are splayed over you, thumb digging into you and pushing you almost into the pillar. Your hands slip down around the smooth black stone, your vision obscured by his arm jostling with his thrusts.

“Fuck,” Sukuna hisses in your ear. His hands roam but keep you firmly in his grasp, never breaking contact with your skin. The one at your shoulder is tight, nails scratching almost into your back with each thrust. He pulls his elbow away, dragging his claws over your collarbone, and comes to rest his hand against your throat. You try to swallow, try to compose yourself, but your body is weak, melting like candle wax as he pumps his cock in and out, leaving your core aching with every stroke.

“Is this good enough for you? Your voice, your body, you’ve been begging with all you have,” he says, jagged, his voice panting as he thrusts. “You better be fucking – grateful – you – little – fucking – slut !”

His fingers drum around your throat, squeezing lightly, and you roll your head back, wildly searching for his eyes, for any of them. Ecstasy crawls down your spine, pure pleasure, or just trickles of sweat.

“Yes,” you choke out. He’s so deep in you, each thrust with his thighs colliding into yours feels like he’s pushing straight to your core. “Sukuna, yes, yes, it’s good – it’s so good.”

His teeth graze against your ear. “Good,” he says huskily, and you feel his sharp teeth close on you. He tugs, sharp on your lobe, and you cry out again.

He’s fucking you ruthlessly, and your legs are losing the last semblances of strength. You can barely arch your back, let alone move your hips back to meet him. When you try, he slaps you again, a burning sensation over the previous spankings, and your words melt into senseless yelping. His hand flattens against your throat, pushing into your windpipe, and you let out a harsh cough. He lets out a sound like a laugh, nestled next to your ear, and his hand closes right around your neck. Your eyes bulge as the blackness over your eyes.

“Sukuna…” your words gurgle, and you try again with even less success. His hands are pressure on you, the savage thrusts of his cock still pushing up through you, but it’s all muted and slipping away.

“Oops,” Sukuna grunts, still with an edge of laughter in his voice, and releases you. You gag and cough again, sucking in air, feeling his hands strong and hot on you, his cock thick and heavy as he pulls back and slams in once again. Your knees buckle, your hands sliding down across the pillar.

“Giving up?”

“No – ”

Sukuna’s hand on your ass moves, grabbing roughly at your hips and waist, and his other finally comes off your throat to the top of your back. “Then down, back down, little bitch, I’ll make it easy for you.”

The words are derisive, disgusted, and you find yourself choking back tears as your ears burn. Sinking to the ground again, your only thought is beating dim - is he disappointed? He pulls his cock from you as you collapse on your hands and knees, and slaps your ass again. You moan painfully, still gasping for a clear breath. His arms come down on either side of you.

“You’re not giving up. This filthy cunt is mine,” Sukuna says with a growl, breath hot against you. He reaches up and kneels back, crossing his arms over your chest and lifting you back with ease. You turn in his arms as he drops you on your back again, lowering his torso over yours. His arms are a cage, looming over your head as he rests on his forearms, and he easily knocks your legs apart with his knee. You whimper as his face comes looming to meet your gaze, lined with blue shadows and black tattoos and inescapable.

He’s devilishly beautiful.

You feel his cock come down to your sore and swollen entrance and he pushes inside with ease. His hips roll down, and you push your shoulders into the ground as his cock strokes into you, suffocating pressure and concentrated pleasure right to your core. Above you, his eyes glitter, lips split in a triumphant smile.

You reach up, almost automatically, and grab him by the back of his head to pull his lips to yours.

“Oh!” Sukuna squares his shoulders and rolls his head back, easily tearing away. Your hands fall back to the ground. “You’re growing bold, little slut.”

But he’s still grinning, his eyes still shining, still driving onward between your shaking legs. He’s ramming into you even harder, too hard for you to care, or get caught up in hurt feelings, trapped here beneath his body on the floor of this unholy shrine. Because it feels so fucking good, his cock filling you, his body over you. With every stroke of his cock in you, it pushes more babbling cries out of you, mindless praise and pleads.

Sukuna revels in it, adjusting his palms almost against your shoulders as he leans back. It’s a new angle driving so deeply up in you that your words turn into a scream.

“You’re mine,” he pants, swaying over you as his pace slows, each thrust deep, deliberate, making your thighs quiver and eyes roll. “This cunt is mine.”

“Yes,” you say, a dumb reply, thick and drunk with lust. Anything he says. “Yes, Sukuna.”

He leans back on one palm, the other coming down to trail down your body. He drags the back of his hand rough and lazy down your stomach, turning his wrist as he reaches your naval and pushes down hard once again. You wail, a mix of pain at the returning ache, and pleasure as his hand ribs in time with his strokes, feeling his cock pump into you over your skin. Sukuna keeps it there for a while with his eyes locked on you, trapping your body between his cock and his hand, before dragging it down again, and you gasp at the release. He stops again at your full and aching cunt, pulling tightly, almost painfully again, to find and rub at your clit. You slide into a wordless cry as his thumb comes heavy again right over your overstimulated body, and pinches hard.

“Oh!”

“Mine,” he repeats. “If another man makes you dirty with his touch, I’ll just clean you with my cock.”

“Yes!”

His thrusts are merciless, and his fingers moving simultaneously over you are almost enough to pull you apart. You’re wholly at his control, every part of you belonging to him. Your body aches under him, deliciously throbbing pain, and you moan wildly as he moves harder, faster, his eyes a hot fire.

This pleasured pain is damn intoxicating. 

“Come for me, pretty girl, come, you slut,” he snarls, and it’s as if the words break an invisible barrier, some curse gets lifted, some cord inside you snapping as the hot coil below your stomach breaks. The scream that comes from you is feral and raw as relentless waves of cramping ripple through you. You can feel yourself twitching around Sukuna’s cock buried deep in you as he groans, dimly above you, coming hard and hot at the same time. Your skin feels hot, the bite marks he’s left pulsing in time with your orgasm as it ebbs through your veins, out of time with your rapid heart.

It isn’t until he pulls his cock out and lifts his sweaty, heaving chest off you, and blinks down at you with both sets of eyes, that everything he’s said, everything you’ve responded, begins to sink in.

The silence stretches.

“Sukuna…” you start, licking your lips nervously. “Please. Please let me go.”

He blinks, barks out a sharp laugh, as if it takes him a moment to understand. “Oh. Oh, you really are just a dumb slut, aren’t you?”

His elbows dig into the ground, forearms resting on either side of your head, and you stare, wide-eyed and wild, into his unreadable face. The wicked smile fades, his four eyes focused on you.

“You’re mine, and I meant it,” he continues.

Despair and dread wash over you once more, just like the first time you collapsed before the shrine. Minutes, hours ago? Days ago? You can’t tell how time has passed. Your entire body shakes, and you’re unable to drag yourself up. You’re pushed past your breaking point and shattered in a thousand pieces, and Sukuna, crouching over you and catching your head in his hands, knows it.

You’d lost the race long ago.

“Let me out,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and desperate.

“Oh, I will,” Sukuna says after a beat. He sounds soothing, a deadly demonic promise you can’t let yourself believe even as you hear it. “For now, in exchange for your memories of this place, and a tether to bring you back, I’ll let you go.”

Sukuna’s hands are hard on the side of your face, squeezing tighter and tighter as tears run down your cheeks and reach his fingers. You reach up with quaking hands, grabbing for his wrists, but somehow not able to make contact. The mouth of the shrine seems to stretch, yawning further, turning the world around you black. His words fade as he does, the markings bridging across his face blurring together as darkness swallows him, leaving only those glittering eyes on you, the sound of his voice a ghost drifting away from you.

“You’ll forget about this in daily life, you’ll move through your world in foolish ease. But you're still mine. Oh my selfish little slut, the memories will find their way back. In your excited days, at your most euphoric moments, it’ll all come back to you, and you’ll come back to me. And I’ll be waiting.”

chapter ii

[april-is]

April 30, 2023: Oral History of Insatiability, Jason Myers

Oral History of Insatiability Jason Myers

I woke in the wreck of history

still drowsy, a dryness in my

bed, my bones. Would you

like fingers, the Lord asked,

& gave me plenty. There was

no music, no garden in them.

I wanted to be touched the way

I had touched, delicately, but

with great passion. If you want

another kind of lover, Leonard

Cohen crooned. Not my will,

Martin Luther King intoned,

but God's. I wanted a word

for every surface, for the belly

& the underbelly, the line between

the lines. There was a secret

name inside every living thing,

a song underneath every song.

What happened then, I asked,

meaning both before & next.

The Lord said Kabul. Said

manifest destiny. Said Rembrandt

said Bordeaux said Dakota

said Chelsea Hotel said Egyptian

cotton said Homer. The Greek

poet, I asked. No. Homer Plessy.

Oh, I said. I see. But I did not.

Lulls, curtains, continuations.

You want company, the Lord asked,

& made New Orleans, oceans,

rye bread, Cointreau. There

were some companions sent

by another party. There were

days smothered in solitude,

nights when I thought, if only

I could sleep, if only...but I

could not complete the sentence.

Are you hungry, the Lord asked.

Oh my. Oh yes. Oh my yes.

--

Also by Jason Myers: Hotel Orpheus

Jason is an excellent poet and human being. His first book was just published, and it’s gorgeous: Maker of Heaven &.

Today in: 

2022: Try to Praise the Mutilated World, Adam Zagajewski 2021: In Defense of a Long Engagement, Mairead Small Staid 2020: Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness, Mary Oliver 2019: Starlings in Winter, Mary Oliver 2018: Born Yesterday, Philip Larkin 2017: Thus, He Spoke His Quietus, Thomas Lux 2016: Trees, W.S. Merwin 2015: Today and Two Thousand Years from Now, Philip Levine 2014: from For a Long Time I Have Wanted to Write a Happy Poem, Richard Jackson 2013: Tear It Down, Jack Gilbert 2012: from An Atlas of the Difficult World, Adrienne Rich 2011: Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal, Naomi Shihab Nye 2010: from Pioneers! O Pioneers!, Walt Whitman 2009: from The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot 2008: from Five-Finger Exercises, T.S. Eliot 2007: Journey of the Magi, T.S. Eliot 2006: Preludes, T.S. Eliot 2005: A Song for Simeon, T.S. Eliot

-- 

I don’t know where this month went! As always, thanks for letting me spam you, and for your kind notes.

More to come in 11 short months. In the meantime, check it out, you can:

- Visit a random poem sent in the past at april-is.tumblr.com/random - Browse poems by topic - Or skim them chronologically

Until next time, mes amours.

Martha

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

St. Vincent on How Her Love of Podcasts Led to Narrating Audible’s Rock History Series — and Why She Relates to Skynyrd’s Episode as Much as Bowie’s

By Chris Willman

Annie Clark, better known to most as recording artist St. Vincent, first took a step out of rock ‘n’ roll and into “voice work,” as it were, when she wrote and recorded a compelling original audiobook, “Words + Music,” for Audible in 2020. Now she’s taking a step further into the realm of pure narration as the host of a new six-episode podcast series, “History Listen: Rock,” which premiered on the Audible service in January. She didn’t write the series, which produced by Double Elvis, creators of the lauded “Disgraceland” podcast, among others. But f you’re a fan of St. Vincent’s through material like “Daddy’s Home,” there’s a good chance you’ll take to her intonations as she speaks into life some well-crafted mini-histories of rock, from the R&B of the ’40s and ’50s through folk, psychedelia, punk, metal and (the arena where she’s picked up her three Grammys) alternative rock.

Variety spoke with her about her love for the medium and some of the genres and artists covered in the new series, which can be found here.

Was doing the autobiographical audiobook a few years ago the thing that was a gateway drug into narrating something that’s not about yourself?

No. I mean, honestly, I probably listen to more podcasts than music, so it’s just a genre and a medium that I am intimately involved with and intimately familiar with. So, you know, there’s certain things I’m aware of that, if I’m listening to a podcast, I cannot abide — like a dry mouth. I stay very hydrated. You’ve gotta have that Poland Spring, just right there at the ready.

No, really, I listen to so many podcasts, and I was also a fan of “Disgraceland” and some of the other Double Elvis things — that brand, shall we say, of podcasters. And I love narrating, and I’d love to do more of it. I was excited when they asked me to do it, and I learned things too, definitely, doing the podcast, so for sure that’s a two-thumbs-up for me.

It is a medium that I’m kind of obsessed with. I mean, I just consume an insane amount of them. But not the murder ones anymore. I’m good on on female pain as entertainment for a minute. That’s stopped feeling OK, personally.

Does developing a speaking style differ from the work any singer does to find his or her own voice?

It’s a bit more like acting. The only tool you have at your disposal is the tone of your voice, is the inflection, is the cadence. So in that way, it was a discovery, a little bit, using my voice just.as a different kind of instrument. I found it really informative. I think everybody remembers the first time they heard their own voice back, on an answering machine or something, and went, “Ooh, I sound like that?” In terms of the actual narration part, I had a couple hiccups there. I was like, “Oh, no, just go a little lower.” The podcast voice is a little lower than my, natural chit-chat. It’s interesting to discover that. I was lucky enough that I was able to record it by myself in my studio, so I got to experiment and play and not worry if I messed up on some of the tongue twisters, and to make sure that the meaning of the words was never lost in my inflection.

I didn’t know if you were the kind of person who reads a lot of music biographies or just picks things up through other means.

I’m more of a person who has the kind of stories that you swap in the studio. And of course those are stories that don’t necessarily have a journalistic rigor that these do. But I definitely liked reading the Miles Davis autobiography by Quincy Troupe — I know thst sounds funny, to say that his autobiography was by Quincy Troupe. I found that very, very fascinating, and I recently read the Sammy Davis Jr. autobiography. But for the most part I kind of like to engage with it in a more organic way than necessarily reading autobiographies.

I’m not a historian. I am obviously very knowledgeable about what I know. But this is, I think, a nice overview for people who are fans of rock music, from a very casual fan to someone even more invested. Because you get the real stories and kind of the guts and the glory of the different scenes, and also so much of the roots of rock and roll. There’s so many things that it’s sort of crazy that they were even able to distill it down to what they were able to distill it down to. I think it’s a good, fun listenand overview for people who really care or are just casual listeners and just want to have a little bit more context.

Did some of the episodes appeal to you more than others? People would think, well, of course, she has a gravitation toward punk or alternative or glam, and maybe less so, say, Southern rock…

No — I mean, hey, I learned “Sweet Home Alabama” on the guitar when I was 12! I know it well. I’m well-versed in the classic rock staples.

Is there anyone that jumps out at you from the early days of rock ‘n’ roll as someone especially interesting or a kindred spirit?

Of the stories that we covered, I’d say there is no Prince and there is no Bowie without Little Richard. I mean, he was so slick, and such an incredible performer, and to be playing with gender and sexuality and all of those things at that time was just pretty staggering. You don’t have rock ‘n’ roll without Little Richard, that’s for sure.

How about the folk era?

I’m more a fan of the politics of that man-on-the-street style of songwriting than I am necessarily aching to put on an Arlo Guthrie record. But I appreciate its point in history.

There is an episode on what is described as psych-rock, and having seen your “Daddy’s Home” tour, where it feels like you mixed in some of that along with the soul-revue aspects, it seemed like you might have some affinity for those late-’60s sounds of early Pink Floyd and such.

I think harmonically, it really started to just blow wide open in the ’60s, whether it’s the Beatles or the Beach Boys, and then add a healthy dose of acid into that, and people were like, “I want to see colors that don’t exist yet,” you know? To me that music is very visual. I mean, you go, like, “This guitar’s melting, and then those drums are dripping, and then the bass is all swirling around with it…” I’m sorry, I’m going poetic with it.

Since you mentioned the Beach Boys, you just performed one of their songs at the taping for a “Grammy Salute” special (airing later in the year). How was that?

It was really sweet. Brian Wilson looks great, he really does. “You Still Believe In Me” was the song I sang, and I’ve always loved that song so much. It’s amazing to get to sing the song for the person who wrote it, to say thank you. I mean, I’m not supposing that’s some big gift. [Laughs.] “You’re welcome, Brian Wilson!” But just to honor and get to kind of do your best in front of the people who made it is very special. I did one last year when I got to sing “Court and Spark” for Joni Mitchell [at the MusiCares person of the year dinner]. It’s very moving personally.

Going back to the episodes of the podcast: You mentioned earlier that Southern rock is in your wheelhouse, or at least was part of the wheelhouse of growing up.

Yeah, it totally is. I mean, I’m a kid from Texas. I know the Skynyrd catalog. I’m a guitar player — you know what I mean? I know “Free Bird.” So of course that was just part of the canon. And Duane Allman, I always loved his playing. So I know it, yeah. To me, the sort of current Duane Allman is Derek Trucks. Jesus Christ, what a beautiful player. You see the sort of Allman to-Trucks kind of line. I’m a guitar player who doesn’t care that much about guitar, but I’m just truly just like, what a transcendental player, Derek Trucks. Such a voice. Oh man, what a stunning player.

Glam is something that people automatically assume is part of your background and what informed you. Did anything from that episode bring up any particular love of yours?

Yeah, I mean, I think I always have just thought of Mark Bolan as cool. I didn’t realize that there was such a major kind of backlash against him where the British press really kind of went after him. It’s Mark Bolan — what’s the problem? And I know he died young anyway, but it made me quite sad for Mark Bolan. As far as the Bowie glam era, obviously that is unbelievable and iconic. For me, I’m a kind of Berlin Bowie gal, if I had a gun to my head. I’m kind of a “Low” gal… or a “Station to Station” gal, shall we say.

But I mean, just the theatricality of it… it’s the age-old question of: What are you selling? Some people are selling you authenticity, and then some people are selling you a dream, selling you magic. And I’d rather be kind of in the latter camp. We’ve talked about this with “The Nowhere Inn” [her satirical film that deals with issues of authenticity]… So, I sell the magic.

Finding authenticity in showmanship is one of rock ‘and’n’ roll’s great tricks. And certainly something you’ve been able to do is write emotionally meaningful songs, presented in a way that takes you somewhere else other than basic street reality all the time.

I mean, that’s the call, to just absolutely go for the heart and go for the jugular. But with some acid dust kind of sprinkled on top, it’s more fun, you know?

Anything about punk, metal or alternative, as explored in this podcast, you would want to speak to?

Yeah, one thing from punk that I will say… You know, again, it’s not a complete history of anything. It’s really entertaining, bitesize chunks of a trajectory. But I wish we could have talked more about bands like the Slits or Siouxie and the Banshees or the Raincoats. So if anybody sees this article, also go check out the Slits, Siouxsie and the Raincoats, et cetera, et cetera, forever and ever.

Last summer you finally wrapped up several rounds of touring behind the “Daddy’s Home” album. Any quick promises you would want to make anyone for 2023?

It’s gonna be a great year. Gonna be a great year. I’m in my studio right now.

[vocalsynthbdays]

happy birthday to kotonoha akane & aoi(voiceroid+) [apr 25] !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

kotonoha akane & aoi are japanese synths developed by AH-software in collabiration with AI Inc. akane is the pink one and aoi is the blue one btw. they were originally released for voiceroid+ in 2014, then voiceroid2 on 9 june 2017, web synthv on 22 july 2020, synthv studio on 30 july 2020, synthv studio lite on 24 sep 2020, aivoice on 22 feb 2021, voidol on 12 oct 2021, aivoice english on 10 dec 2021, and neutrino on 25 apr 2022. their vp is Yui Sakakibara. their voiceroid art was illustrated by Yoshida Yoshitsugi (im not sure about the synthv art though). they are a pair of sisters, with akane being the older one. akane is made for Kansai-ben intonation, while aoi is standard.

sorru about this post being so late btw ><

[merakiui]

I ended up hearing about twist when it was announced in like 2018 or something like that, got bored and stopped following due to no news, re discovered it and found out the released it in Japan and got obsessed reading fics and then the English release announcement came like a week or two later

Omg yes!! I remember the excitement when I first heard about it and then saw the website page back in 2019/2020? A schoolmate and I used to sit during our lunch break and we would put my phone up to our ears to listen to the voices on the website. We would make our own headcanons just from hearing the voices and we’d always giggle about it to ourselves. I remember we played Riddle’s voice and we kept saying, “Maybe he’s the prince type? Or the cruel king with a secret soft side!!!” because of how powerful the intonation was. Neither of us were expecting to hear Lilia’s deeper voice when we first saw him and then listened to his voice line.

I remember it was released in March 2020 during the pandemic, but I really only discussed the characters with my friend because I didn’t know where to look for fanfics. orz quotev didn’t have many at that time and that was the only fanfiction website I was on back then and knew how to easily navigate. ^^;;;

And now here I am in current times completely consumed by the twst brain rot. OTL

[keikaru]

in your hands these garden flowers bloom - FEH (Kiran, Alfonse, Lif)

Originally written in 2020. Forgot to post it after all this time!

In which Kiran embroiders flowers while Alfonse sits beside her.

--

In the garden, it was peaceful.

Garlands of green ivy adorned the garden walls while trellises of ivory flowers enclosed the area around us.

“Summoner—” Alfonse’s voice was steeped with concern— “I think you just pricked yourself.”

“Did I?”

And just like that, I felt a sharp pain on my ring finger. I glanced down at my latest embroidery piece. It was a simple laurel that cradled a few roses within the folds of the leaves. Among the crimson flowers, I noticed a fleck of copper that was unlike the others.

“It’s not like you to be so careless,” he began, “here, let me see.”

From across the table, Alfonse reached over and took the project from my hands. He scolded me for being absentminded as of late and I remained silent. It was true that something occupied my thoughts. But I didn’t think it warranted a lecture because the needle in my hand slipped. It was a mistake even seasoned craft makers would have made from time to time. When I found a pause in his words, I cut in wryly.

“This isn’t a grievous injury, Prince—" the garden chair scraped behind me as I stood up— “but if it greatly concerns you, I will go see a medic.”

I offered a tight smile. From where Alfonse sat, he coolly gazed back at me, eyes the color of Prussian blue. Something stirred within those eyes of his, like a tidal wave crashing upon a shoreline. Only if I stared long enough, perhaps I could drown in them.

I looked away. His looks as of late agitated me. But I didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was the warm air. Perhaps it was stress.

“I didn’t say it was a grievous injury. Only that, if you continue to be absentminded, think of how this would reflect on the battlefield. Then where would we be?” There was no heat behind his words, only a plain statement.

Nevertheless, an irritation welled up inside me. It coiled around my thoughts. There he goes again. I intoned silently. I know he means well but…It feels infuriating sometimes.

“Regardless,” another voice smoothly cut into our conversation, “You should take better care of your hands.”

Alfonse and I both swiveled our feet in the direction of the voice, startled. As I turned around, I felt something soft fall onto my head. It slid down my hair and a veil of white obscured my vision. Tentatively, I reached up for the object.

Behold, it was a soft handkerchief of the finest quality.

“Thank you, um, Lord Líf.” I responded, a mix between bewilderment and gratitude. He seldom made an appearance, usually withdrawing to his quarters or to a solitary corner after a mission. On some occasions, I saw him discussing with Thrasir either in the library or the grand halls. “I will—I will hasten to return this.”

Líf appeared at my side, his gaze settled on Alfonse before drifting to me. They were not cold but held an indifference to them. It seemed as if his crimson eyes could have bled over a ruinous future into my eyes if I gazed long enough. I turned my eyes downcast, unsure what to make of him.

His presence was no longer intimidating, but it was always his eyes that filled my heart with immense melancholy.

“Do whatever you please,” he replied curtly and with a nod.

I held the handkerchief to my pinpricked finger and watched as a speck of copper blemished the pristine fabric.  

Líf turned to face Alfonse. After a brief pause, he addressed the latter.

“Prince. Your presence is required. Hríd was looking for you.”

“I see. Do you know what he needed?”

They discussed about the matter. It was about provisions and assistance with rebuilding Níflheim. Of course, progress was steady, but the lack of resources and manpower quickly added onto the burden of reconstruction.

Quietly, I stared at my hands. Thin, pale scars spiraled out like constellations on my fingers. There was a jagged scar on my left hand, curling like a crescent moon. I recalled how an enemy lancer struck me before my bolt of Thoron did. How the wound took months to mend—coupled with special concoctions, ointments, skilled clerics and magic—I miraculously regained use of my left hand again.

Perhaps I would be useless without these hands. Hands that wielded the divine weapon Briedablik, hands that helped forged a future for Askr. And hands that clutched onto the dying palm of a soldier, reassurance that their sacrifice was not in vain. Thank you, Summoner. Until…we meet again…

I turned to look at my nearly finished embroidery. Then I glanced at Líf and Alfonse. Lif’s mature and stoic countenance contrasted with Alfonse’s youth and lofty idealism. Like on the surface of a lake, a ripple distorted their reflections, revealing the outcome of their worlds.

As the pair continued their conversation, I slipped away behind the ivory flowers and trellises.

You should take better care of your hands.  

It was a simple statement, but I wondered why Líf’s words had a somber quality to them.  

[sleepyowlwrites]

FTWT CCCLXXIV

a million light years ago away @artdecosupernova-writing sent me some words in an escape pod

lost (previous lives and premonitions, 2020)

Toby looked up at him with a gloomy expression. “I hate math.”

Arin had heard this sentiment at least once a day since he’d started tutoring Toby, so he nudged his side as he took a seat next to him. “What’s that? It sounds familiar, have you told me this before?”

“Shut up, you’re good at math. Don’t tease me.”

“Arin lives to tease you, Toby,” Mandy said without looking up from her phone. “It’s a lost cause, right, Penn?”

Penn smiled charmingly and shook his head. “Toby, you’ve gotten better at math since Arin started teaching you.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it any better,” Toby grumbled, leaning on Arin’s shoulder.

echo (on a hill, still, 2021)

Your voice in the air is a raindrop, a shiver, a tapping on the back of your hand. The church bell intones without notes, your own a throbbing echo like a shadow without a sun. The hour turns over and the song has still not begun. It has no singer, no self, no place to stand.

alone (space story d0)

Myr couldn't mourn their memory if they'd never had one, but maybe they did have one at one point. If Gaor knew, and he probably did, he wasn't going to tell. Myr asked him other things instead, like why Feastor was completely green or humans never made a third Earth. Gaor didn't always answer them, and if he did, it was often in riddles again, but Myr didn't mind too much. At least they had someone to talk to.

They talked to their spaceship sometimes, but it was an inanimate thing. It couldn't talk back and Myr could only go so long without talking to someone who talked back. Sometimes when they made their way back to Alpha Nine and stepped out onto the rocky terrain, they felt like the planet had gotten considerably older since their last visit. It was possible. Myr didn't keep good time when they was alone.

Which was always, since they were always alone.

solitude (you, of flight, and I, of falsehood, 2021)

yet even as the dusk offered solitude and sanctuary still- it was a knife to be feared

desperate (guild story d0)

“Why would you take a contract with house Lyreel? You think their days are numbered.”

“Because their days are numbered.” Xiyun shifted to face him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Lord Lyreel is desperate enough to make foolish strikes against his enemies and it won’t do him any good. I’ll make money without changing the game. That’s the best way to do it.”

Idrian didn’t turn himself in her direction, but kept staring out at the yard. The skars and masters were all at the evening meal, and the only other occupants were a couple of stable hands taking tack to the cleaners. Idrian tracked their movements while counting his breaths. Xiyun always did have such an easy time getting a rise out of him. He wanted to think that was why she tended to win their sparring matches, though it was equally likely that she was merely a better fighter than he was.

invisible (city story d0)

Jet likes to imagine that he still has fine lines running through his liminal spaces. That he has fences set up between him and the world, and thinner, more invisible fences between him and the people who have decided they're his friends. And maybe he also considers him friends, but that means reordering his priorities and he doesn't want to bother. It's bad enough that Rune has emerged triumphant at the top of the list, scowling and shrugging him off even while he makes space for her and her chains. Copper sits next to him, not even on the list, too important to order and too precious to hold onto.

What he has in his life is a set of fence-breakers, and ones that he's becoming increasingly fond of, and it’s tearing at him underneath his armor. They smile at him and tell him jokes and insist that they want to help him out of the fights he puts himself in, as if he ever asked for such a thing.

"You don't have to ask," Yarrow tells him the day after the bloody fight with Rune, when Jet is pretending he's the only person in this garage.

fear, slight, between, likely. BONUS: abound, sideways. @enchanted-lightning-aes @peresephones @odysseywritings @dontjudgemeimawriter OR ANYBODY

[thinkingimages]

Possessed Voices: Aural Remains from Modernist Hebrew Theater

Finalist for the 2020 Jordan Schnitzer Book Award in the category of Jews and the Arts: Music, Performance, and Visual presented by the Association for Jewish Studies Possessed Voices tells the intriguing story of a largely unknown collection of audio recordings, which preserve performances of modernist interwar Hebrew plays. Ruthie Abeliovich focuses on four recordings: a 1931 recording of The Eternal Jew (1919/1923), a 1965 recording of The Dybbuk (1922), a 1961 radio play of The Golem (1925), and a 1952 radio play of Yaakov and Rachel (1928). Abeliovich traces the spoken language of modernist Hebrew theater as grounded in multiple modalities of expressive practices, including spoken Hebrew, Jewish liturgical sensibilities supplemented by Yiddish intonation and other vernacular accents, and in relation to prevalent theatrical forms. The book shows how these recorded performances provided Jewish immigrants from Europe with a venue for lamenting the decline of their home communities and for connecting their memories to the present. Analyzing sonic material against the backdrop of its artistic, cultural, and ideological contexts, Abeliovich develops a critical framework for the study of sound as a discipline in its own right in theater scholarship.

[389]

Produced by John Gosling (Psychic TV, Mekon, Jiz) ’Bed Bugs’ (2020) is the newest release by garage kink dominators Wild Daughter which, as James Jeanette intones, will leave you ‘creeping, and a-crawling’ with illicit delight. The accompanying music video, an original work by LA-based artist Richard Hawkins, is an erotic milieu - a collage of desire and critique. Hawkins’ video presents a queer longing, requited and unrequited via gay pornography,Hollywood queer baiting and uncensored male desire with cartoon stimuli and footage from Wild Daughter’s carnal ICA London performance (2019) and its legendary golden phallus. The seductive hum of ‘Bed Bugs’ (2020) raptures against the queer raunch of its video including disruptions, both camp and uncanny, which will ‘get under your skin, keep you burning’. Buckle up, and strap on, for Wild Daughter’s most uninhibited ride yet. - Thomas Lockwood-Moran

[velvialifestylesummit]

Definitely the Biden Administration will ensure the smooth transition of power following the presidential recalibration of Democrats being overwhelmingly thwarted by the retaliatory premeditation to ruin the fabricated campaigns for Kamala Harris. The massive failure of Kamala Harris can be attributed to the incandescent renegade of the Biden Presidency in addition to the presidential distortions of Kamala Harris including abortion freedom and the uncontrolled influx of migrants from central America. Undeniably the critical distortion of presidential election comes from the undemocratic result of the electoral college votes for the projected winner without the support of majority voters. The lack of electoral consensus of America to displace the undemocratic verdict of the electoral college votes tends to deny the authentic winner of the presidential election. The consequential impact of the revolting momentum associated with the incessant unwonted performance of Biden Presidency could trigger the next level of political implosion amid the looming massive deportation of foreign migrants from Trump Presidency. The engendered impacts on the projected woman presidency of Kamala Harris including the inimical malfeasance to resolve the unsustainable living conditions of the stormy states and the sudden change of political intonation of Biden to admit the return of Trump Presidency implicated the woman presidency of Kamala Harris was tarnished unwittingly amid the looming coup of America which could trigger the chaotic upheavals in certain states including the legalisation of undocumented migrants before the presidential inauguration of Donald Trump in January 2025. This could enlarge the ongoing furious fire zone in California. Obviously the extreme hostile gesture of China to confront the return of Trump Presidency denoting someone dislikes the comeback of Donald Trump to raise the projected tariffs war of international trade despite the ostensible diplomatic statements from BRICS. The sarcastic invitation of Biden to welcome the return of Donald Trump seems to admit the clemency of the pendulous hurdle of interregnum triggered by Trump Presidency in 2020.

[progressglobenews]

Common Dreams:

Nicole Wallace described Vance “building an intricate and beautiful fort out of toothpicks. And it was perfect. And at the end, he sneezed on it, and the whole thing fell apart." The sneeze was the vital moment Walz asked Vance point-blank if Trump lost the 2020 election, he tried to squirm away by intoning, "I'm focused on the future," and Walz pounded him with, "That is a damning non-answer" - now featured in killer Harris ads. "He lost the election. This is not a debate," Walz declared, and if anyone forgot about the gallows built by rioting yahoos on Jan. 6 he added, "That's why Mike Pence isn't on this stage."

[arpov-blog-blog]

..."he (Trump) does not seem to recognise the moral significance of bodies and minds in pain. And, second, he is not aware of the importance, social and moral, of pretending he does recognise another’s pain even if he doesn’t. Then there is the language itself. It suddenly swerves into the incoherent. Trump says that “everyone gets the Congressional Medal of Honor that’s soldiers”. (He could also mean: “everyone gets the Congressional Medal of Honor – that’s soldiers.”) The words verge on nonsense. Either he is saying that every soldier gets the Medal of Honor, which is absurdly untrue. Or he is saying that only soldiers get the Medal of Honor, but that every soldier gets it – which is similarly absurd – but with a twist. If Biden had spoken in such a way a year ago, he would have been pushed aside all the sooner.

Trump’s extreme rhetoric is still routinely dismissed as him “just being Trump” – the usual hyperbole and bluster. Yet it is hardly mere bluster or hyperbole for Trump to claim, as he has recently, that “you can’t walk across the street to get a loaf of bread. You get shot, you get mugged, you get raped, you get whatever it may be.” Perhaps the most alarming part of that sentence is the disturbingly disconnected “whatever it may be”. And it is not merely vulgar for Trump to republish a post claiming that Kamala Harris has achieved political success thanks to dispensing oral sex. The claim is not just appalling; it is crazy to make it in public. That post appeared with several others: a photo of Harris in an orange prison jumpsuit, a photo of Barack Obama with a caption asking Trump supporters if they wanted Obama to be tried before a military tribunal, and photos of Trump with AI-created lions. Most people do not lack inhibition to this degree. But Trump’s repetition of such lunacy has made it routine. Call it the banality of madness. Trump’s assertion, made in deadly earnest in an interview last Tuesday with Dr Phil McGraw, that God had spared him from being assassinated in order to save America, and possibly the world, barely raised an eyebrow.

Incredibly, in America, where just about everything goes – Trump, for example – there is a tacit prohibition against discussing Trump’s obvious mental incapacity in public. The taboo was imposed in February 2017, just over a year after Trump’s inauguration. That was when the New York Times published a short letter, signed by “33 psychiatrists, psychologists and social workers”. Noting Trump’s “inability to tolerate views different from his own, leading to rage reactions”, and his pattern of distorting reality to suit his own “psychological state”, the letter reasoned that “[i]n a powerful leader, these attacks are likely to increase, as his personal myth of greatness appears to be confirmed”. The signatories concluded that Trump’s “speech and actions make him incapable of serving safely as president”. Trump’s continuing refusal to accept his defeat in the 2020 election makes the letter prescient.

The response to the letter was more than passing strange. Other mental health professionals rose to denounce the letter and its signatories. One was Allen Frances, the prestigious chairman of the task force that wrote the “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV”, considered psychiatry’s diagnostic bible. Frances had two problems with the letter. The first was, he said, that Trump was too successful to be mentally ill – a bizarre argument that sounded like one Trump would make himself. “Mr Trump,” Frances intoned, “causes severe distress rather than experiencing it and has been richly rewarded, rather than punished, for his grandiosity, self-absorption and lack of empathy.” Therefore Trump could not possibly be mentally ill, Frances concluded, apparently unaware of erratic politicians in world history who have achieved success in the exact terms defined by their insanity. Frances added, with an apparently unintentional touch of humour, that pronouncing Trump mentally ill was an insult to the mentally ill.

Reacting to the negative backlash, the NY Times then published an article about the controversy by Richard Friedman, a psychiatrist. Friedman referred to what is known in American psychiatry as the Goldwater rule. This was the American Psychiatric Association (APA)’s official prohibition against mental health professionals making a public diagnosis of a politician’s mental health. That edict itself was a response to mental health professionals participating, in 1964, in a public survey and judging the then Republican candidate for president, Barry Goldwater, mentally unfit to be president. Siding with the APA, Friedman finished by declaring that clinically judging Trump to be mentally ill would let him “off the moral hook”. And from that point on, liberal attacks on Trump were unfailingly moral, a tactic that soon degenerated into a grossly ineffectual torrent of moral hubris, virtue-mongering and sanctimony."