#Major Key Publishing

[volixia669]

Constantine Story That Should Be Made But DC is Full of Cowards

Well, higher ups who are still iffy on publishing queer stories. There’s definitely writers and artists there pushing boundaries.

What am I going on about?

I think special Hellblazer mini-series should be made about the AIDS epidemic. About the friends Constantine had, and his experiences during it.

Bring back the “born in 1953, demon blood resulting in looks freezing at 40s” as well as his Anti-Thatcher politics. Go into how Thatcher and Reagan fucked over the queer community in both UK and the US (and elsewhere).

Have Constantine reminiscing about his various friends and acquaintances, how they looked while healthy, how they looked in the hospital. The fights he got into. How he’s dealt with so many demons, and yet.

Show him while in a punk band, starting shit with a rival band member, then a couple decades later, that band member is dying with no one who gives a shit.

Show him dealing with a demon that’s at a hospital, and ends up picking a fight with a man’s family who won’t allow the man’s partner in.

Show Constantine being terrified that he might have caught HIV, only to discover in a bit of cruel irony, the same demon blood that cured his cancer, also prevents/cures this (at the time) death sentence. Have this happen when dealing with Satanic Panic Christians to REALLY max at those irony points.

These are just examples of where a series like this could go. Constantine was not only alive at the time, but he’s exactly the kind of messy queer that can be used in a very political miniseries. A miniseries that should be written by a queer or two who were alive at the time.

Do it DC, I dare you

[perkeleen-lavellan]

The problem with being a discovery writer and fanfiction is that it’s really hard to not start posting your fic midway when it’s coming along, even though you are well aware of the risk that halfway there the plot changes enough that you need to rework all the earlier chapters to course correct.

And I don't wanna hear it, I know I could and a lot of people would even prefer it if I just waited to post the thing until I was done with it entirely.

But here's the thing though. If I don't start sharing the work I really will never finish it. At least when I've started posting it the fact that other people want to see how it ends gives me the motivation to, you know, take the story to its end.

[kineticpenguin]

US lawmakers are eyeing votes before November’s midterm elections on legislation that marks the first major effort by Congress to regulate big tech since the inception of the internet.

The American Innovation and Choice Act, which has bipartisan support in the House and Senate, would lay down key ground rules for dominant firms including Alphabet Inc.’s Google, Amazon.com Inc., Apple Inc., Facebook parent Meta Platforms Inc. and Microsoft Corp.

The measure is the product of years of effort, including a 16-month House probe featuring public testimony from the chief executive officers of Apple, Amazon, Google and Meta. The investigation by the panel, which published its final report last week, found the four companies use their platforms to dominate vast swaths of the internet—from social networking to mobile apps to e-commerce—often at the expense of smaller rivals.

The bill seeks to break the stranglehold the largest tech platforms have over their markets by prohibiting them from giving advantages to their own products and making it easier for rivals to communicate with customers and collect information about their users.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil,

I am a college-aged person who has been into writing and other creative based careers/hobbies since I was a child. For a while it was theatre, then journalism, and now I am interested in writing my own fiction stories.

Of course, I still have passion for all of my former endeavors, but a key reason my focus has shifted aside from aging is fear for the future. “Everyone wants to preform, unless you are one in a million you will never get the chance.” or “Journalism is a dying career.” Applying for schools, so few colleges even offered journalism as a major option, which surprised me.

Now that I am looking into writing fiction, I am once again in that same boat. My media studies professor was discussing literature, and he asked the class a very thought provoking question:

“Have any of you guys read a book that came out in the year 2023?”

Nobody raised their hands. Thinking back on books I’ve read within the past few years, I can only remember reading one that came out while I was in high school. Everything else had been older than that.

It made me take a major pause. Are books dying? Have we surpassed the age where it’s possible to create entirely new worlds and scenarios and have other people read them? How do we keep reading alive?

Of course, one man alone cannot hold all the answers, but I’m curious- What is your opinion on this as a well established author?

Thank you for your time!

I think the majority of the books published in 2023 are still in hardcover and that college age students will mostly be waiting for the paperbacks to come out. And that the vast majority of books were published before 2023.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME (PLEASE DON'T FALL) ❞

Gojo Satoru x male!reader | Nanami Kento x male!reader | arranged marriage, angst no comfort (serious) | sub. bttm. reader (AMAB) | wc: 23K | not proofread

warnings: hint/implied SH through passive means (no descriptions), loss of virginity, blowjobs, handjobs, anal fingering, anal sex, major character death, graphic descriptions of violence, yn's low-key going insane masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

authors note: this is going to have an open-ended ending so you can let your imaginations run wild. also, I'm sorry it took so long to publish this but I hope it satisfies you! also also - i truly apologize for how frantic the shibuya arc is as I'm an anime watcher so (T T) they'll be no continuation of this fic but there'll be a one-shot fic of nanami kento x reader having some sweet moments just for the heck of it along with a short fic of gojo and yn's wedding day...maybe.

“This is nice,” he murmurs. Uncaring of the water trickling into the shape of his leather shoes or how it makes his clothes cling onto him like a heavier second skin. It’s cooling, feeling like relief that was manifested into a palpable form. Pulsing, moving, pushing, and pulling as the shadows undulated. Sunlight dances on the ocean, piercing through the waters to reach as far down as it can.

Your arms around him make him grin. He reaches to hold you, the rarest of treasures appearing on his face as he feels your lips press onto his left cheek. 

He holds your flesh with a gentle squeeze. The weight of you on his back is like a comforting blanket draped over him; he kisses the delicate muscles and marks you have. You burrow your face into his neck, he closes his eyes and chuckles. "I'm sorry, my love."

“You’re going to make me late.”

It grins wide and proud at the sight of your disgruntled face. The cursed spirit was as ugly as a piece of dogshit on the street. Smelled like it too. It was a semi-special grade that had popped up in an abandoned hospital. It was the subject of a bountiful amount of paranormal fans, which meant a handful of people and teenagers had disappeared after entering its premises.

Ah, didn’t I go on a mission like this once? You thought to yourself.

“Or was it Utahime’s mission?” you muttered.

She — the curse — opens her split mouth to screech. Her white hair flies behind her as she furiously charges towards you. The corners of your mouth twist in disgust. What a wretched being. Her hands were bound behind her back as she was in a straight jacket. So far, her attacks had been long-distance but the ones that truly hurt were when she got close enough to sink her teeth in.

The chunk of missing flesh on your hand was proof of that. It was covered by your tie but those blackened veins were a clear sign of trouble if you didn’t exorcise her.

“Yeah, yeah. Come and get it, bitch.” Tucking in your chin while taking a quick breath as her horrendous form gets closer, you feel the familiar rush of energy flowing through you. She was running like a bat out of hell. Her chin probably would’ve been shaved off if she bent any lower — her disgusting mouth was slobbering all over as she unhinged her jaw. She lunges and you release a breath. With your outstretched hand, palm facing up, you press the sides of your pointer and middle finger together. The curse screams, her teeth now a hair away from biting the tips of your finger off.

“Divine Flame.”

The birds seem to freeze midflight and the ants appear static; even the clouds above the building had been glued in place. She sees your lips split into a grin, a puff of air that mocks hers as she struggles to breathe. The curse drags her ruby-red eyes to the spark of black that ignites on your fingertips. "Gods Blade."

A second ago, she was so close to taking your wretched hand off and leaving it a bloody stump. Her stomach wants nothing more than to savour the flesh of a sorcerer and hear him scream in agony as she triumphs in the fight. The memory of it, the bright flash of white that burned her skin off her flesh. She can still taste it in her mouth, she can feel the phantom pain of it slicing the back of her throat. Everything tasted like smoke and blood. As you kick her head, she tumbles until she is gazing up at the sky.

The sky?

What happened to the roof?

The sight of her shaking pupils made you scoff. The building was torn down. Sliced cleanly in half according to the angle of your fingers; everything your technique made contact with was bright orange, smoking, and singing. Cement crumbles into ash, and metal turns to oozing and bubbling liquid.

“Shit. I haven’t used that move in a while. I’m sorry, I’m in a rush, okay? I think I went overboard.” Thankfully, Kiyotaka had raised a veil or else you’d never hear the end of it. The building shudders with each step you take. She watches as you crouch next to her, grabbing a fistful of her white hair and bringing her eyes level with yours.

“Not that you don’t deserve it. You glutton. 14 people in three weeks? You brought this on yourself.”

Her eyes fill with tears as she feels your palm warm and warm and then it burns. Her screams were like nails on a chalkboard but you bore through it. Staring into the black flames that consume her you ponder about your agenda; those spikes of fury remind you of Megumi’s gravity-defying hair.

“You’re really shitty, you know that right?” she’s down to her bones now and it’s slowly piling up into a mountain of ash. Still, she finds it in herself to scream. “Your crappy domain was creepy. It’s been a while since I’ve been back in Japan. I’m just settling in. You were supposed to be a simple mission. Now you fucked up my hand and I’m covered in soot.”

Suguru would surely laugh at you. He often did when you were muttering to dying curses. It was a habit you formed, wanting to annoy them to the very end about your minuscule grievances. They weren’t to you but the curse spirits probably felt like tearing your head off as they died.

“(Y/N), you’re really unique, huh?” Suguru leaned against the red-bricked wall with his arms stuffed in his pockets. Shoko watched impassively by his side, holding a plastic bag filled with burn relief gel. It’s not as though your flames burn you. The heat they produce stung your skin. You suppose you’ve built endurance to it but you appreciate your friends pampering you; your clan was ruthless in fine-tuning your abilities, and there was no such thing as pain-relief creams or gels.

The (L/N) weren’t like the Major 3 of Japan. They were considered to be imitations. Mocked for their gaudy technique names and overzealous attack styles but weak bodies. In order to chase after the huge power gap, your clan brought the children to their knees. Grinding them forcefully on whetstones; until they either become sharp-edged or they break.

As the son of the head of your clan, breaking was not an option.

Luckily for them, you were blessed with a powerful curse technique. Unluckily for you, you were blessed with a powerful curse technique.

Your pout makes him smile. “Calling me unique feels like an insult, Su-Su,” you turn your attention toward the husk of a curse. He was pinned to the wall with one of Suguru’s spear-wielding curses as he was being toasted by your curse technique.

“I’m just trying to make them pass on easily.”

The curse warbles its disapproval as he shakes his head, its skin flaking and smoking. Shoko crouches beside you, unboxing the gel after you spread your fingers and exorcise it.

“I think it might’ve cursed you instead,” Satoru appears with canned drinks. He presses it tenderly to your warm cheeks as Shoko tends to your hands. “Here, you did most of the work today,” he thinks nothing of how flushed you seem and simply shrugs it off when you avert your gaze. Satoru ruffles your head, which erases the blush into nothing but annoyance,

“Man, can you believe we’ll be second-years soon? We’ll have juniors to bully,” Satoru says with too much glee. Suguru knocks the back of his knees with his own and Shoko and you barely muffle your laughter.

Kiyotaka smiles warmly as he spots you. It falls as his veil disappears to reveal the ruined building.

“Mr. Gojo…” Kiyotaka gasps with his hands curled to his chest. He must be pissed, Kiyotaka thinks as he glances your way. “Mr. Gojo!” you lift a hand to stop him from fretting over your bleeding hand, unknowingly showing him your fingertips.

“You used — “

“Principal Yaga won’t appreciate my tardiness, Kiyotaka.” The tie around your gaping wound unravels and he rushes to open the car door for you. “Ms. Ieiri will tend to me just fine, I’m not going to die. Oh, and please just call me (Y/N), Kiyotaka. Honestly, we’ve known each other for so long, I feel bad if you kept calling me using honorifics.”

How can he be married to Satoru? He thought as he nodded at your words. Half the time he’s expecting to be beaten up by Satoru, the way he speaks sometimes is as if he is deaf to how crass it is. As he rushes to get into the driver's seat, you try your best to tend to the soot and ash on your fingertips.

Kiyotaka watches you from the mirror. What worries him is the missing chunk from your left hand. The irritated edges and bulging veins weren’t easing his worries either. “Mr. Gojo,” you lift your head with a polite grin. Kiyotaka unconsciously returns it.

“Your husband left some burn relief gel at the back of the driver's seat,” he says. It leaves you stunned. He says nothing as your cool expression turns bashful. He was glad to see you find relief despite your twitching wound.

“I’ll drive you there as fast as I can, Mr — “

“Kiyotaka,” you huff.

“M-Mr — Mr. (Y/N).”

It’s strange what a familiar sight can do. Seeing the peeks of the sloped rooftops made your palms clammy. This was a form of torture and of that you are certain.

With every step taken to climb towards your destination, the wind carries forgotten voices and laughter. This school was a picture you kept in a box under your bed; meant to collect dust and only seep out through the cracks in the forms of nostalgia. Seeing it materialize the closer you get makes your throat tighten. The tree branches dance in the wind and sunlight falls into step. This would be scenic in any other circumstance.

You had no one to blame but yourself. Satoru may have pestered you to agree but he didn’t force your hand; you caved in all by yourself.

‘ Get a grip, ‘ you scolded yourself. This was doable. The anxiety that’s coursing through your veins does not compare to everything you’ve already been through. First-day jitters are all it is. Megumi will be there with his friends, Yuuji and Nobara.

Along with them, Satoru’s other students would meet you again!

They were all great kids (and an amazing panda). You’ve only ever seen them in passing, sometimes Satoru would’ve asked for you to meet him whilst his students were already there. They were a memorable bunch. Meeting with a cast-aside Ze’nin daughter had shocked you. It was no surprise she narrowed her eyes at you.

It was fair. The elitist nature of the major clans of the sorcery world was hard to escape and unlearn. Satoru could escape unscathed due to his curse techniques, spoiled by everyone and entrusted as head of the Gojo clan the second he was deemed worthy enough. But for Maki? She had to steel herself when your eyes landed on her. Especially because you were dressed in traditional attire, the silk of your clothes decorated with the sigil of your clan and Gojo's (your half-sibling had just been born, so you wore it to celebrate her first birthday).

You simply offered a downward gaze and nodded as a greeting. Flashing her a quick show of teeth that you showed to Toge and Panda as well.

“Mr (Y/N), are you okay?” Kiyotaka’s hands hover over your shoulder. You’ve half a mind to swat them away. He means well but at the moment you need someone whose heart isn’t racing louder than yours. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. You weren’t going to die, Kiyotaka just needed to get that memo.

“I’m well. Let’s just hurry before — “

“(Y/N)?” Satoru's presence causes Kiyotaka to stiffen up like a board. His footsteps approach you from behind. You prepare for the questions he's bound to ask. He doesn't say much, simply does a once-over on you, then focuses on the bloody bandages around your hand. An attempt to hide it behind you was made though he’s already reaching to pull it into the light.

“Satoru, it’s fine. Shoko can fix it up, I’m already late. Principal Yaga is going to have my head.” Satoru reluctantly lets your wrists fall. “You’ve got 25 minutes before the meeting actually starts. I built a reputation for being 7 minutes late for a reason. Why doesn’t anyone else abuse it?”

The twitch of your brow makes him grin. Satoru greets Kiyotaka with a nod and he promptly greets the couple a goodbye.

Satoru stays. It seemed as though Satoru was following along on your impromptu trip to Shoko’s.

“He’s excited to see you, even though he won’t say it,” he turns his head in your direction. “He sure is attached to you. All he ever does is be snarky to me. How come I’m getting all the teen angst?” he makes you guffaw.

“Can you blame him, Satoru?” you snort. “Megumi is pretty guarded after what his step-mom and his father did. I don’t blame you for taking on so many missions either but I did end up staying home more often compared to you. Besides, you’re love language of gift-giving looks more like buying love sometimes.” Satoru’s jaw goes slack and his brows pinch into that annoying expression.

“You’re saying I’m like a rich benefactor rather than a parent?”

“More like a gay uncle who likes giving expensive gifts,” you grunt as he tugs on the lobes of your ears. He’s not that offended by your words, it’s not as though you’re denying that he cares for Tsumiki and Megumi. Simply stating that they still hadn’t bridged the gap. Partly due to his frequent goings and partly due to Megumi’s abandonment issues.

It must sting to know your father sold you to a family who only cared about your abilities. It’s no wonder he keeps his walls high. You’re excited to see his friends climbing it, hoping his fortune is as bountiful as his name.

“Must you be so blunt, husband?” Satoru opens the door for you, eyeing the stains on your shirt. "I heard it was a semi-special grade," you shudder at the reminder, "did she cause you so much trouble? It's been a while since you've used God's Blade."

The fluorescent lights of Shoko's don't help your nerves. The theme of today seems to be revisiting memories. The chill in the building does not ease you in the slightest. It reminds you of the same eerie hallway you'd be escorted to, the sickening green-blue lines of light that light the path would make your palms clammy every time. Those five men were akin to statues as they held onto the thickly bound rope plastered with talismans.

"She couldn't talk just yet but managed to create a weak domain. I don't know why. I wasn't expecting it. It was so unsettling."

Satoru wraps an arm around your shoulders, stroking your shoulder as he steers you through the hallway. He knows you don't like long hallways with cold lights. Satoru doesn't ask the why's or what's. Those rigid lunches and dinners with your father and stepmother are all he needed.

Shoko's eyebrows jump at the sight of the both of you walking in.

"Hello, lovebirds," she stands from her chair, "d'you guys need some condoms or something?" The joke earns her an unamused expression while Satoru just chuckles.

"My dearest husband was injured in battle."

Your exclamations of protest fall on deaf ears as Satoru forces you to sit at Shoko’s check-up station. She idles over, pushing Satoru away with a gloved hand. Her touches are careful and light as she takes a close look at the wound.

Then, she grasps your other hand and you can’t help the gentle smile that graces your face as she tuts at the sensitive skin. “You’re here to meet the Principal, right? This won’t take long. You owe me dinner.”

“Yes, Ms Ieiri,” you coo. It was an odd sensation, to feel your flesh regrow, veins stitching together as muscles intertwine. Meanwhile, Satoru is moving around in her office, sticking his head in cabinets and drawers while you wash your hands. Shoko does nothing to stop your meddling husband.

“Found it!” Just as you turn, Satoru’s face looms over yours. Your gasp is choked on the lollipop he puts in your mouth. Shoko’s stethoscope is looped around his neck and her spare doctor's coat makes him look absolutely ridiculous.

"A treat for being such a good boy at the doctor's office today!"

“Those might be expired, by the way,” Shoko says. “‘Toru!” he giggles unabashedly, avoiding your wrath with glee.

“Mr. Gojo is married!?”

Megumi regrets ever saying it in the first place. Nobara and Yuji are staring at him with wide eyes, practically sparkling with curiosity.

“Did you guys not see the ring on his finger?” The chair creaks as he leans back, crossing his arms as they place their elbows on his desk. “Now that you mentioned it, I have noticed it. I didn’t think he was married,” Nobara tilts her head. “I mean, I guess he is pretty good husband material,” Yuji says. “He’s strong, handsome, and he’s generous too!”

“The lip balm he wears is expensive too,” Nobara nods as she speaks. “It’s not that expensive,” Megumi mumbled though the two simply ignored him. He was on another financial level. His standard of ‘expensive’ had been skewered.

“He just doesn’t seem like he has a wife. How does she put up with his childish attitude?”

Footsteps come from the hallway. Megumi says nothing as Nobara and Yuji press their faces to the indoor windows, trying to steal glances. His heart picks up its pace as he clasps his hands together. He kept his guard up for a reason. He expects disappointment so he can never feel that fear of abandonment — a childish wish. Your trips overseas were something he didn’t think would make him fearful again, so he iced them out the best he could. But now that you were back, he felt entirely too excited.

“Shh! Itadori, shut up! Let me sit here!”

They wrestle for the chair closest to the door. The ridiculousness of it has Megumi hiding his smile behind his palm, rolling his eyes fondly. Nobara wins and Megumi buries the feeling of excitement that Yuji is sitting close.

The doors rattle open to reveal Satoru. The silence that greets him disturbs him enough to hesitate to take a step inside. Instead, he stretches his neck and lets his head jump from one student's face to the other.

“Is this some sort of ambush? Why are your faces so intense?”

“Mr Gojo!” Yuji exclaims (he doesn’t need to). Raising from his seat, Yuji plants his palms on his desk and speaks: “Is it true that you’re married and that your spouse is going to be teaching us?”

Satoru beams, one long leg crossing over the threshold. Megumi spots a flash of (H/C) coloured hair and no matter what he does he can’t stop his heart from squeezing in anticipation.

“A guy like me? Of course, I’m married!” Satoru wiggles his fingers in the air. The ring is a simple silver band with a beautiful gem held preciously by silver roots. It was personal, something that would twinkle under the light but remain bashful in any other setting; it didn’t make it any less beautiful or inexpensive.

Nobara stands next. “What is she like? How does she put up with you? Is she cool?”

Soft laughter floats inside. Megumi’s shoulders hug his neck as you walk into the room. You were dressed in a nearly identical faculty uniform to Satoru’s though there were little adjustments and accessories here and there that made it more your own.

“They’ve been your student for less than a week, and they already wonder how your spouse puts up with you, husband,” your eyes meet Megumi’s and turn warmer. Nobara and Yuji gasp, eyes going comically wide as they stare at you.

“They’re overexaggerating. I’m an amazing teacher.” Electing to ignore your pouting husband, you address the first-year students with your hands politely folded in front of you.

‘ Ah, always so proper, ‘ Satoru thinks. It’s probably where Megumi’s manners got reinforced because it sure as hell wasn’t from Satoru. You really were a marvel. How lucky would anyone be to be yours? An idea popped into his marvellous brain. Satoru suppresses his urge to rub his hands together schemingly though hopes Nanami won't mind that he meddles a bit with his mission.

“My name is Gojo (Y/N), it’s nice to finally meet all of you. Mr Gojo has told me what promise all of you show.”

Yuji doesn’t pretend not to notice the way your eyes linger on him. He stiffens up, jaw locking as he feels his tongue spasm. Your eyes — the colour of it seemed to sway, like a flame dancing in the dark. It was spine-chilling.

To stand next to Gojo Satoru, to be his husband — to be his equal. Yuji imagines you must be strong. He wonders what your curse technique is. He is not the only one wondering. Deep in the recesses of his soul, four eyes split open and illuminate the darkness.

“We were thinking of taking all three of you on a field trip around Tokyo!” Satoru says with glee.

“It better not be like yesterday’s trip to Roppongi,” Nobara mutters. You glance towards Satoru, brow raised in question while he laughs innocently at Nobara’s accusing glare.

Megumi takes note of the smell of ash, and cobalt gaze immediately dropping to your folded hands and narrowing as he notices how irritated your fingertips look.

“You’ll enjoy this trip, trust me. Everyone can show off their skills to Mr Gojo, even Megumi,” Satoru said. Megumi's cheeks burned at the callout despite that, he was excited. He learned a lot in those 4-months and he has much to show you. Nobara snickers at his annoyed expression but catches Yuji’s lack of response. Satoru did as well though since there were no marks or mouths sprouting on his face he elected to wave it off as him being stunned by you.

For being a man? Surely, not. Perhaps for your handsomeness? That seems very likely.

It wasn’t as though he was sullen, just tight-lipped as he smiled and guffawed at the ongoing conversation.

“You may call me Mr (Y/N). It might be confusing for everyone if you both refer to us with our surnames." Satoru pretends not to grimace at the lame excuse. It was not for their sake. It was for yours and his. In 8 months, you would no longer bear the heavy weight of his name, placing it on a mantle of your victories and regrets.

“Gojo?” Kento’s voice causes you to jump. He felt bad for disturbing you from your reading, you looked so peaceful. It's been a while since he's found time to sit down and digest the words of a book. The mountain of unread literature in his home begs for a crumb of his attention — they remain untouched until he's sure he won't die without reading the final chapter. That would truly be a nuisance. The cafe had the smell of fresh paint quickly being overshadowed by freshly baked pastries and brewed coffee.

Kento apologizes for startling you. An apology you wave off, setting your book down after slipping the bookmark between the yellowing pages. The spine of it was cracked and the front of it slightly warped despite the plastic cover it was wrapped in. "A good read?"

“It was my mother’s favourite book,” you trace the title on the cover, sheepishly grinning. “She left some of her books in my possession after her passing. It got banged up after a mission with a curse in America, some alligator curse.” “What is it about?” His voice was so deep. Had it always been that deep? Admittedly, you’d only had the pleasure to see Kento again during Suguru’s proclamation of war. At that moment, you weren’t ogling him or relishing in the baritones of his voice. He’d grown up to be a handsome man. Those high cheekbones and strong eyes finally settled on his face. Despite the coat he wore, you could tell his body was chiseled and firm. Muscles stacked on muscles. He’d always been studios — his technique did require a more hand-to-hand approach. It didn’t surprise you. Most active sorcerers tend to train their bodies in order to survive strenuous missions.

As students, you recalled having sparred with him a few times. It didn't surprise you he became a Grade 1 sorcerer. With his flexible ability and his sharp wit, Kento was a force to be reckoned with then, you cannot imagine what he's capable of now. “It’s a bit dark,” you turned the cover to him, “it’s about a woman whose sister and old friend from school died. They were murdered. We follow her through her memories of them and her emotions. It’s quite interesting if you have the stomach for it,” he takes the book as you slip it into his hands.

Your fingers brushed and your ears warmed up.

‘ Ah, stop it. Stop it! You are (Y/N), a powerful sorcerer. Stop acting like a schoolgirl! ‘ “It was inspired by a murder in 1997.” Kento reads the synopsis on the back, his eyes drinking in every syllable. You wonder if his gaze is always so intense. Do they soften when he leans in to kiss? Thankfully, the book distracts him from your aggressive sipping of your drink. "Is the protagonist compelling?" After all, what's more horrid than a boring storyteller. Kento has consumed his fair share of bland-tasting media. It was just how life is, he supposes. Still. It didn't mean he was any less disappointed.

He flips through the first few pages. His touch was featherlight as he traced the edge of the pages. "She's angry," you reply after a moment of contemplation. "She is...unapologetically resentful, overly judgemental. But, for some reason. It's almost relieving to read," he watches you scratch the back of your neck as if admitting it out loud made you a bad person. “I’ll have to keep an eye out for it in bookstores. This looks intriguing.” Kento hands the novel back to you. You’re only a little disappointed that your fingers don’t brush again. He reaches into his coat as you put the book back in your bag. The file he pulls out makes you sober up from the butterflies in your stomach.

Right, this wasn’t a date — despite Satoru's jests — this was a mission. It must be a pretty daunting one if two Grade 1 sorcerers were needed. “Gojo — “ Your huff makes Kento pause. “Honestly, Ken, just call me (Y/N).” Your eyes widen. Stumbling over your words, you try to apologize for your bluntness, your hair practically lifting and puffing like a panicked cat. It has been so long since you’ve been classmates. A whole decade had breezed past. Calling him by an old nickname after so long was so rude!

To your surprise, Kento smiles. It’s unlike Satoru's, free and sharp, the corners curled like a sly fox as he set his sights on adventure. Kento’s smile was reliable, assuring you without words. Like a prince, though one that was gentler in his ways of living compared to the gallivanting knight that is Satoru.

“Only if I can call you, (nickname).”

Yū’s face floats to the surface. You had given Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and Kento their nicknames.

Satoru, ‘Toru. Suguru, Su-Su. Shoko, Ko-Ko. Kento, Ken.

Yū, well, you had trouble giving him one considering how short his name already was. So he gave you a nickname instead. It stuck more than the others, every time you saw him he’d immediately call you that and you’d struggle to find a nickname that’d stick for him.

After his death, nobody called you that anymore.

If spirits were kept alive through memory, you’re certain Yū’s was thriving thanks to Kento. His classmate, his best friend. What an honoured spirit he must be. Kento was a quiet man, your mother often said those stoic ones were filled with such blinding love it left them tight-lipped so as to not overwhelm others. You wonder if your feelings have tainted Suguru in any way. The very thought makes your knuckles whiten. How awful. You hope he does not resent you.

You remember visiting Kento after Yū’s funeral, leaving food for him at his front door for weeks until you found out he had moved out.

That was a dark summer.

“Of course you can, Ken.” He stands as you do, falling into step next to you as you make your way towards your destination.

This was an interesting mission. It was located in an alleyway that once harboured a noodle shop. Something chased away the people. The building on the right was an abandoned temple, and the building on the left was a nightclub that was torn down after a murder happened.

An unlikely set of locations sprinkled with fear and isolation. The perfect breeding ground for curses. The mix of religious trauma and debauchery formed a mass that seemed forcefully threaded together by a thick rope in the center that looked oddly like noodles.

What peeved you about it was that it took less than two hours for Kento and you to investigate and exorcise it.

He swung his weapon in the air, the dissipating gore of the curse splattering on the walls in a spray. You’re waving away some dust and debris, coughing as you crush a minor curse’s head under your boot. This mission was dangerous, a perfect mission for a Grade 1 sorcerer.

A Grade 1 sorcerer.

It hardly required a duo.

‘ Satoru, ‘ you’re choking him in your mind. This must be his doing. He'd joke about setting you up with Kento but you thought it was that, a joke.

A heavy hand places itself on your shoulder, turning to face him you’re caught by how close your faces are. “Are you alright?” your body twists and you can't remember when he got so tall.

“I’ll be sore, but it’s nothing new.”

You were his favourite out of his upperclassmen. Kento never said that out loud, he wasn’t sure why; you weren’t the quietest or most polite. You were any other teenage boy. Except that was a lie.

(L/N) (Y/N). You were a product of your clan’s race to stand out. The destiny many searches for was laid out ahead of you the second you were conceived.

But you were kind. Not that the rest of the upperclassmen weren’t. You were different, a shining light that Kento finds himself gravitating towards like a moth to a flame. You were the night sky, twinkling and watching those around him. Kento was a mere mortal. All he could do was admire from the ground as he helplessly reached up to embrace deities.

He slides his hand down to your arm, and the reaction is immediate. Pain shoots up your arm, blood hidden by the dark uniform. Kento undoes his tie and wraps it above the bleeding cut. It’s crazy what adrenaline can do to you.

“Kento, you didn’t have to,” you wince as he tightens it. He offers no apologies though his jaw still clenches.

You were strong, your ranking was proof of that. But you were a (L/N). Kento heard of the rumours they tell about your clan's weak bodies but overeager abilities. It was a nice way to say that your clan was in over your head. As history notes, your clan was more devious than forthcoming. Hailing from ninjas or assassins or whatever it is that seemed more malicious.

“I’ll bring you to the school,” his tone was resolute. “It’s just a cut,” he frowns as he takes another look at it. It was deep, not bone-deep, but deep.

He’s terrified that there’s truth in them. The rumours. As you stand here with your heated cheeks and too-warm touch, he’s worried that your brain is overheating. Or maybe your blood is boiling and killing you. You could drop dead right in front of him right now, despite the amount of times you get up each and every time.

He’s terrified, (Y/N). He cannot lose another person he cares about. Kento absolutely refuses to do that all over again.

“Kento,” that stubborn purse of your lips never did go away. He can see the fight you have in you, that fire that fuels you.

As you smile, Yū’s face eclipses yours. For a split second. Just a second. It makes Kento loosen his grip. “I’m fine, Ken. Swear it,” he reluctantly lets you go.

“I apo — “

Your fingers thread through his. They’re intertwined and your grip is firm.

‘ I’m here, ‘ each squeeze relays, ‘ I’m safe, Kento. ‘

The coolness of your ring on his skin earns you a firm press.

He’s content watching you from afar, Kento had long decided that would be his fate. There was no honour in it. He sure as hell didn’t expect a heavenly reward for it. Perhaps he’s a fool for living the way he does. Kento knows he's lying to himself. Deep down he wants nothing more than to kiss you, hold you, make you his, and let him be yours.

But Kento’s fear of losing you outweighs his love for you. Staying by Gojo Satoru's side ensures your safety, wealth, status and prosperity.

Kento will be content with that. Tripping through these messy tangles of heartstrings would just be how his life went. Even if Gojo Satoru did not deserve you, he provided you with more.

He would come home without fail. He was the strongest.

“After we patch up, let me buy you dinner tonight, (nickname). We can catch up.” The offer brightens your expression. You’d always been so divine when you smile, (Y/N).

“(Y/N)?” Satoru always smells so sweet before bed. It’s the lotion he puts on his skin, specifically everywhere else Fushiguro Toji had stabbed him.

It was expensive and meant to heal and moisturize damaged skin. They’re barely there anymore. The only proof of that day was nothing more than stark lines, and barely blushed skin that hides beneath his bangs. It was just routine now, a habit he couldn’t break. Or perhaps, a reminder for him; to know what it felt like to bleed out, to die, to let others die. The day he ascended to the heavens and became the honoured one. The day everything shifted.

“Oi, (Y/N).” You’re burying your face into his neck and Satoru stiffens. He’s ticklish there, he’s told you that before.

“Are ya’ drunk? Did Nanami get you drunk?” His voice lifts in amusement at the end. He'd heard that Nanami was quite a heavy drinker from what Shoko had told him. He hadn’t expected you to come here after a date. He was nearly asleep when you stumbled into the bedroom. Did you forget your new address? Satoru feels your hands tighten around his waist. A blanket of sadness shrouds you.

“Oi. Did something happen?”

You shake your head. Never in a million years would you fathom hating grain or bread. It wasn't her fault for holding Kento's heart but what sort of cruel joke was this? The gods were mocking you. Satoru swallows thickly as your lips brush the junction of his shoulder and neck.

“Did Nanami do something?” His anger was immediate, you could taste it from how close you were. Had he always been so responsive to your emotions? All it took to make him lose his coolheadedness was a suspicion that someone had hurt you.

“Why are you here, (Y/N)?”

“Ken, he dropped me off here.” Your legs stumble as you sway so Satoru holds your hips. He can smell the grilled meat from your hair, the alcohol from your breath, and the antiseptic wound dressing under your clothes.

“You didn’t bring him home?” Satoru teases.

“He brought me home.” Satoru can feel your lashes tickle his neck. Your breath is fanning that barely-there-scar and it makes gooseflesh ripple across his skin. Right, in the public’s eye, this was still your home. Kento was a gentleman, of course, he’d send (Y/N) back to his husband.

“This is my home, S'Toru,” he agrees with you with a nod, “Of course, beloved. We should get you ready for bed, yeah?”

His breath gets caught in his throat as he takes you in. The moonlight makes your skin look absolutely ethereal. Those tales of forest spirits with decadent forms and whispering eyes that lure men to their deaths pale in comparison to you. The drunken flush that looks silly on others makes you look like you’re a teenager all over again. Your gaze was unfocused, jumping or lingering from one thing to the next.

But your eyes meet him and they're so dark. He’s taken aback. It happens when someone’s in a dim room like you are currently. Your pupils dilate to let more light in. Satoru knows that’s not the case. You’re 17 again and the windows to your soul betray you by letting Satoru in. It’s silly what humans do when they’re in love. How our eyes insist on seeing more of them. Take in every microscopic detail despite not having the ability to do so. Fluttering those eyelashes as if curling a coy finger.

' Come, ' your eyes are saying. ' Let me show you where I ache the most, this void in my chest. Come. Inhabit me. Bare your soul to me. '

The act of kissing is perhaps the silliest. Moulding your lips with another person, feeling them against you as your soul breathes into their body. It’s Satoru’s favourite sensation. The intimate act of it all, of breathing life into someone you love. It was almost cannibalistic in a way. As you stand in front of him, hiccuping from all the drinks you took and only being supported by his hands Satoru can’t stop the way his gaze lingers on your lips. Satoru wants to kiss his husband. He wants to feel your soul burn him from the inside and he wants you to harbour his own in yours.

“Why can’t I just sleep now?” You mumble. Satoru’s palm cools your flushed cheeks, his thumb ghosting the edge of your lips.

“You smell like grilled meat and beer,” he traces your jawline and cups the back of your head to pull you into his embrace. Too drunk to care about how fast your heart is beating, you simply let it happen. Satoru’s big hands travel down and he shushes you when you squirm.

Down to the sides of the waist, then to your hips, further down and down until he catches the back of your knees. He lifts you so you wrap your arms around him, going all but limp.

“Grilled meat and beer smell great! I’m so sleepy, please,” he chuckles as you kick your feet. “I prefer if the bedsheets smell the way they do now. Man, how much did you have to drink?”

The hiccup you make when he sets you on the counter makes him shake his head. Satoru tells you to lean back so he can undress you. It’s amusing to see the emotions on his face as he does.

The metallic scent still lingers judging from how Satoru’s nose is twitching. Suppose the new jacket you got did little to mask it. He unbuttons your undershirt and his eyes widen. At that, you turn to breathe in the mirror, entranced by the way your breath leaves traces of itself on the smooth surface.

Satoru ignores the way your chest stutters as he traces the outlines of the fucked up star-shaped scar on your chest. It was a sick imitation of your skin colour. So close to your heart, too close. Your hand rests on top of his as you trace his knuckles.

“There aren’t a lot of doctors like Shoko overseas,” Satoru slips his hand away from you. It rests on the big scar on your side now. He can feel the marred skin beginning from your back all the way to the front, like a sickle. He can imagine it, see the way a claw or a tooth had nearly split you in half if you hadn't gotten out of the way.

It must've ached. He would know. Muscles being torn apart viciously, bone thudding so harshly on the ground that sometimes he's convinced it's broken. You must've been in pain — muscles and nerves screaming at every movement despite whatever sorcery was used to heal it.

Scars are a part of the sorcerer society. It’s a rite of passage just as much as dying is. He’s not surprised you have them. He’s seen your bare torso before. When it’s an unbearable hot summer or on a beach, you’ve chosen to shed a few layers. Sometimes, you’d even sleep topless if it was too humid.

Each time, Satoru would find himself looking at your scars. Counting them, wondering where some came from and what mission caused it. Or was it an accident? A childhood scar that never went away. Was it your training?

Was it your father?

He never asked. Satoru didn’t want to say anything for fear that you’d no longer be comfortable around him. The ones he remembered, he'd let his gaze linger on but the others? No. It felt shameful to ask. So he never knew. Simply wondered.

In those four months, why had your scars increased? The severity of it looked more and more painful.

“You’re usually not so careless,” fear grips him and his expression is so morbid you laugh. Satoru finds no amusement in it and his firm gaze makes your chuckle fade away.

“Maybe my family’s curse is catching up to me.”

“That isn’t a laughing matter.” Satoru knows you’re not completely immune to the flames you cast. You’ve certainly grown a tolerance for it (and other flames), once or twice he recalls you casually patting away at the inky flames that catch on your clothes. But it’s a great technique.

Too great some would say.

Divine Flame. A technique that enabled the user to control cursed wildfires. To manipulate it to burn through nearly everything it came into contact with. A searing black that makes you sweat even from a distance. That is so bright when cast, it blinds those who dare gaze upon it.

The whispers of your clan making a deal with a cursed spirit followed you everywhere you went. People claim that your ancestors made a Binding Vow to become great sorcerers. To rival the other houses and to fill the void of power that Sukuna Ryomen left your society in after he massacred great clans.

But your ancestor got greedy and the vow was broken, which left canyons of karma engraved in the bones of their children. It was why your clan could never flourish. It was why the children die out, why the women grow barren and the men weak.

It was ridiculous but Satoru himself wonders if there’s truth in it.

Why would the Gods give you a body you couldn’t sustain? Were you truly cursed? This mighty curse technique engraved into your skeleton burns you from the inside out; is it hurting you?

If it was, Satoru would demand the Gods to come down and face him. Why should you pay for the mistakes of your ancestors?

Why would they dare take more from you?

From Satoru?

Had they not have their fill?

Just rumours, he tells himself. If they — the Gods — dared taking you from him he'd raze heaven and hell.

“...You would tell me if it was, right?”

Has Satoru’s eyes ever looked as dark as they did now? There’s a ring of blue surrounding that endless void. As he peers up at you, all you can focus on is that sliver of heaven. That cerulean that reminds you of the sky and the sea, that you swear shines in mischief or glows like a good omen.

What is this darkness you're peering into? An abyss that whispers for you;

' Come. Let me show you, come, teeter over the edge and fall with me.'

“Would you stop it, Satoru?” your hands on his cheek make his skin burn. “This so-called ' great family curse, ' could you stop it?”

“I’d do anything to protect you, beloved.” He'd make the Gods ever regret making him fall in love with you.

You grin as your thumb swipes over his cheekbones and all thoughts of killing unreachable Gods dissipate. Satoru lets you come down from the counter, ready to catch you if you fall as you attempt to take your pants off.

Satoru is squirming like a worm under the sun. He’s sat on the toilet lid, refusing to let you tend to him. “Gojo,” your sigh makes him chew on his inner cheeks. Finally, you manage to get his shirt off and without that second skin, he feels far too cold.

You’re in nothing but a towel. Your funeral garbs are being tended to by servants. They were probably steaming out the wrinkles while you attempted to wring Satoru back into shape.

“I can do it by myself.”

He hasn’t eaten. What little he does eat is barely sustaining him. Satoru could barely stand after his adrenaline wore off, you truly hope he will not be stubborn. You reach for his boxers and he exclaims, once again;

“I can do it by myself!”

The blood that rushes to his head humbles him. Satoru stands and Satoru falls. You catch him, gasping out his name as your arm wraps themselves around him.

His face is on your chest, resting on your clavicles while your chin is on his shoulder.

Look away, he wants to tell you. Look away from me.

Suguru’s love letters are still dark on his pale skin. Like flowers blooming under sunlight, they decorate him from behind his ears to the nape of his neck. Satoru can recall pushing Suguru away as he did, his skin remembering unfeeling metal but Suguru kisses him and Satoru forgets it all.

He thought Suguru could forget it too. He tries not to cry but he does anyway. Satoru sobs into your chest and a part of you feels anger. It was your mother’s funeral.

Why the fuck is he crying?

But your grief is hanging outside the bathroom, neat and crisp and proper. It will weigh like boulders when you slip it on and you’ll feel your stomach twist into knots as you hold back the urge to vomit. In this bathroom, Satoru’s guilt is his and you’ll be there to wash it away.

He hates himself for it. He hates how you rub his back and shush him, gathering him in your arms as you stand so you can brush away all these feelings.

He couldn’t imagine going to his mother's funeral.

He also couldn't imagine Suguru not being by his side but that was now reality.

Your mother was a kind woman. Not naively trusting, barely had any faith in others his mother once told him. But she was warm despite it. Cunning underneath the pleasantries she shared.

His mother enjoyed her company. He can’t recall if she ever enjoyed anyone’s company other than his father and his own.

‘ She’s a wonderful woman. Shame she’s married to such a horrible man, ‘ she once told him.

“Let me wash your hair, Gojo.” The water hides his tears but you wipe them away regardless. You offer him a smile and Gojo can feel that tree of guilt sprout.

He catches you as you trip on your discarded pants and perhaps you should feel bashful or shy as your naked body is pressed against his clothed one. But you’re too drunk and too sleepy to care.

Your face rests on his chest and his chin is over your shoulder.

“Why do you call me that?”

Satoru turns the shower on, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist as he tests the temperature.

“Beloved?” You nod against him and the hair that tickles his throat doesn’t make his insides shudder in memory of that day.

“Do you want me to stop calling you that?”

He pushed you into the shower and the warm water has you groaning. He’s gentle as he manoeuvres your bandaged arm up, telling you to brace it on the wall to not get it damp.

His eyes are still so dark.

“Your shirt is getting wet,” you point your finger at it. Neither of you addresses your blatant brush-off. He tells you to turn around and you do. From the corner of your eyes, you see his clothes getting tossed onto the floor and the sound of his hand's lathering soap has you fluttering your eyes closed.

He envies the careless way the water hugs you. How it slithers from your shoulders down to the curves of your legs. Rivulets of ambrosia ease your sore muscles in ways that he wished he could.

“People...people usually use baby or babe,” Satoru’s hands lather soap on your back and you lean forward to press your forehead on the wall.

“Hey,” it twists beneath your arm, brushing over your chest and tilts your head up. You can feel his chest hovering over your back and you wonder if there are raised lines where Fushiguro Toji stabbed him.

“Do you want me to call you baby or babe?”

You shrug, wanting to hang your head again but somehow keeping it exactly the way Satoru had positioned it even as his hand moves to your back again. “It’s because you’re dear to me. Calling you my dear sounds way too archaic though.” He smiles as you scoff, “As opposed to my beloved?”

You’re sobering up from the water. He can feel your muscles tensing under his touch.

“What did you call Suguru?”

You prayed that you didn’t ruin this moment. The sick curiosity of it all has rotted in you for too long. You need to know how great his love was, from his mouth alone.

If you’ve spent a decade of your life resenting yourself for being in love with a man who was never yours, you’d like to know if he was truly unreachable.

“I called him my one and only.”

He sees no point in hiding it from you. Satoru didn’t want to hurt you, he hoped if anything this would make you run into Kento’s arms. A restart, a good man who had more than enough money to make sure you wouldn't have to give up too many comforts (Satoru's money and Kento's were no laughing matter but his was as infinite as his abilities due to generational wealth). From what he gathered on Nanami, from previous partners to his parents and health, he was clean. You deserve that. His beloved, you deserve to be with a man who would never hurt you.

“Your one and only.” Your face is hidden from him. He wants nothing more than to turn you around so he can see what you’re thinking.

“But I am dear to you, Satoru?”

“You are. You’re,” he struggles to find the words. As he does, he struggles to say it.

Cutting him off, you tell him; “You are my first love, Satoru."

He inhales sharply. Crimson seeps from the gauze of your bandages. Staining the white with red. The pinpricks of pain barely register.

“Suguru was yours. I don’t hate you for it. I don’t blame you. You alone hold the sorcerer society’s expectations on your shoulders. Its happiness and misery are all on you. The strongest. I am vindictive. I am selfish.”

“Beloved, you’re not.”

You turn to face him. Here you are, standing in front of each other. Bare and vulnerable. You might as well say what you need to.

“I am, Satoru. I wanted you to hurt, I wanted you to be in pain, for 10 years all I ever wished for was for you to feel what I felt. My love for you was tainted by my own feelings by my own hate. He was your one and only. How could I hate you for that? How could I hate him for that?”

Satoru looks to the side, clenching his jaw as his hands ball up into fists. He shouldn't say anything more but there's this voice pleading for him to say it. Say that he forgives you despite the fact that you didn't need to apologize in the first place. Isn't this what couples do? They kiss and make up. After a decade of this, of wearing rings and honouring vows, you would think it was something the both of you got used to doing.

That's not what you are, in a few months, the only remains of this marriage will be harboured in memories alone. So why does this voice grip him so tightly? This hope that the both of you can actually be together...he needs to extinguish it.

“I’m glad we had each other throughout these years, I'm glad you stayed even if it was out of pity. Even if we were unhappy, even if I could not...please you. We’re friends, and I could never hate Suguru for being your great love.”

“Stop, please.” Your blood is trailing down your arm. Turning the water into a pale red as it swirls down the drain. “I married you so I could marry Suguru.” He releases a shuddering breath. Satoru’s words sobered you up like a slap to the face.

“I was 16. There were marriage proposals from everywhere, even from overseas. I didn’t want to marry them. Not because they were strangers but because my duties would pull me away from his side. But I was forced to. By higher-ups, by clan members, by my mother, the world was looking at me. You said it yourself. The misery and happiness of the world we live in depended on me. But I wanted Suguru more than anything."

He’s looking at you with tears in his eyes. It's your heart that's being shattered.

So why the fuck was he crying?

“I told him if I married you, we would divorce and you would understand the reason. Because you were our friend. Suguru said it was cruel. He knew you loved me.”

These words were like striking a match and holding it to the leaves of that beautiful willow tree you made him.

“Stop, Satoru.”

“I knew too.”

“Please, stop!”

“I — I didn’t...I would take it back if I could. But I can’t.” That voice within him withers to nothing. He pretends he doesn't feel his chest ache as he stares at your betrayal. Your arm pulses in pain but you can barely find it in you to care.

“My beloved — "

“You knew I loved you? All that time, you knew I loved you?”

Was this better? For all these years, you thought he chose you because he held some sort of fondness for you. Perhaps the comfort of familiarity wasn't too far off. But the fact that he chose you due to your proximity? The reason he was so insistent on binding your hands together in matrimony was due to distance?

In another life, Suguru is where you stand now. Except there’d be no distance. They’d be pressed together, lips locked with a passion even your flames couldn’t rival. Would you be happy in that life? Knowing that your marriage was all a facade until the honor was fulfilled and Satoru would whisk his true husband to the altar.

“You used me.” He tries to grab you but you flinch away, stumbling over your own feet as your back meets the wall.

“I’m so sorry.” "You keep saying that, Satoru!"

You needed to get away from him. There was no way this could work. Not as friends, not as husbands, not as anything more. It was foolish to think otherwise. You attempt to squeeze past him and out from the glass doors but he holds you by your shoulders.

Satoru holds you to his chest as you try to slip out of his grasp. You'd think it'd be easy since you were practically covered in soap suds. If your tears were gold, you'd be the richest man alive. He's glad you go limp, gathering you so close you can feel the raised skin of the scar he had.

Blood is seeping through the fine hairs on his arm, staining it as you hang your head in defeat. He turns you around and the foggy glass doors of the shower make your back arch.

He should stop. This absolutely won't end well. He's broken your heart, cremated it into dust. Was this his punishment from a past life? Had he scorned a lover? Was it you? Were the both of you destined to love each other this way?

Why must he love this way? You can't tell what's running through your veins right now. Adrenaline? Anger? Beer? You don't know what it is, but it makes you stay as he stares at you.

"Hate me if you need to. I can take it, (Y/N). I promise you I can."

That's the problem. You can't. The definition of hate had been skewered for you centuries ago. Maybe this is how you love Satoru; with bitter longing and resentment. They had four letters, practically indistinguishable from each other in your mind because that's what Satoru has done to you.

From the second you saw for the first time, he'd burned his very soul on your heart. Branded you like cattle with his smile, left cuts with every exhale and inhale as he laughed; this is what loving Satoru feels like.

How did Suguru manage? Was he a stronger man than you? You wish you could ask him. Would his cold corpse cushion your back with his chest, praising you for taking Satoru's sadistic love so well?

The tip of his nose brushes against your ear as he embraces you. This is what Satoru feels like slotted against you.

So many questions are running through your mind. None were answered. They kept buzzing and it's making your eyes water. The steam, the familiar scent of your favourite soap, and Satoru's fading sweetness as the lotion is washed off.

"I hate you," Satoru's breath does not hitch. He turns his head and your lips quiver as he brushes along your jaw. He can feel you trembling as his face hovers across yours. You should put distance between him. Scream and tell him to get away.

Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved by him.

Just.

Just once.

' Come. '

His eyes are still so dark.

' Inhabit me. '

So are yours.

' Let me show you. '

They flicker to your lips, pure white lashes do little to hide heaven away.

' Bare your soul to me. '

His cheek twitches when you place a hand on it. No barrier between your palm and his face. Being naked isn't the reason why you feel so exposed. It's the way he's looking at you. As if your very skin was peeled away, muscles torn apart, bones bashed to smithereens; as if he used Hallowed Purple and eviscerated you into nothing but the very essence of your soul. He drinks it in with that unlimited darkness.

' I have. Now fall with me. '

He kisses you.

It's not the other times when he tries to initiate intimacy. No. It isn't methodical, hesitant, awkward. On the other hand, it isn't passionate either. It's wet. It's pathetic. Both pairs of lips bumbling fools that try to make jagged pieces to fit. Tears sting in your eyes, and Satoru can't understand why he does this to you.

' Look at what I do to you, ' he thinks, ' all I do is hurt you. '

You gasp when his hand pulls you in closer.

Just once.

He needs to hold you like this just once.

To show you how he loves the only way he knows how — to devour you with his sin so you know how much he meant. He knows he shouldn't. This would only muddy the dark waters you tread through. But fuck it.

Fuck it.

Fuck the world. Fuck the higher-ups. Fuck the clans, fuck expectations, fuck Suguru, fuck Shoko, fuck Kento —

"Satoru," you're breathing into his mouth, lips still pushed against the other as you try to catch your breath. Praying at the altar of the body that holds your soul; Satoru is weakest before you.

His godhood is forgotten.

The strongest kneels.

The taste of him is making your head fuzzy. The pain feels insignificant and for a moment the heartbreak is forgotten.

"(Y/N)," there, where you ache for him, he's there.

His tongue feels like velvet. With one leg tossed over his shoulder, you're at his mercy. Those plush lips paint your skin, ushering your blood just under the skin's surface. The tugs on his hair make him groan as he leaves apologetic licks on your inner thighs.

"Satoru," your whisper could make a mountain bow. A brush of his teeth has you gasping. It's soon replaced with a moan as he takes your cock into his hands.

It's obscene. Sex was never meant to be anything but — however, the sight makes you feel dizzy.

This ethereal man is on his knees, cerulean eyes staring up at you as he kisses the tip of your cock. A hand squeezes the underside of the thigh on his shoulder, slithering up to your hip and reaching for your chest and neck. The whisper of his touch on your chin has you whimpering.

"Don't look away," he says, "keep your eyes on me, my beloved."

Your hands attempt to grab the purchase of the glass doors, but all you manage is a handful of steam. They cover the marks you leave as your palms press on the glass. Satoru's mouth and tongue feel like velvet — so warm and wet. When you nearly slip his nose is pressed to your pubic hair so he simply lifts your other leg. The only thing you can do is thrust into his mouth.

He strokes your hips, nails lightly scratching the surface as he encourages you to do as you please. The noises he makes go straight to your dick and you feel like you're losing your mind.

As you curl over, gripping his head, you can only see white. Satoru's throat is gulping all of your cum down, and the sensation of your cockhead being squeezed has your heels digging into his back.

Those 10 years of denying him felt ridiculous now.

There's a distinctly (Y/N)-shaped stain on the bed. There's still soap on your skin. The coldness in the air makes being wet and naked uncomfortable. But Satoru is there.

He's kissing you like he wants to eat you alive and you're weak to his whims. Your cock is in his hands, painfully hard as he strokes it and swallows every pitiful mewl you let out.

Here he is again, ruining you, branding you.

He's not entirely at fault. You let him.

It was not his fault he loved another and it was not your fault you loved him. He was a teenager, so were you. What did he know of consequences, of choice, of pain? He was 16, in love.

Were you truly vindictive? Why were you so devout in your worship?

What were you worshipping?

The tragedy of this marriage? The humour of it all is a great soap drama that the Gods peer down at to coo at.

"(Y/N)," he says your name like it was a prayer. Such reverence in his worship. His lips are trailing down to your neck and the scriptures of adoration he places on your skin make your back arch into him.

"Satoru," he answers his name with a whisper of yours. He takes a nipple in his mouth, teeth catching to feel your chest try to escape it. He doesn't let it. He tongues at the scar you have, pressing kisses there and to the scar on your side, the scar on your hip, the one on your thigh, the one near your belly button...

"(Y/N)," he'd whisper every time he does.

Satoru is in between your legs but you don't want him there. He grunts as you pull on his forearm, a breath away from showing you his dedication to you but he doesn't complain because you're kissing him.

He likes kissing you.

Satoru moves his jaw up and down, you can barely catch up but that isn't without trying. The feeling of his undercut makes your hand move to grab his hair so you can breathe. His forehead is on yours and water drips from his bangs as he pants.

That endless void; it reflects only you.

"(Y/N)".

It's your name that leaves his lips.

"(Y/N)."

He's pleading for you.

"My beloved."

You're dear to him.

Your grip loosens and he relishes the way your soul burns as it goes down his throat.

When he's inside of you, you were certain you were going to die. Life has taught you plenty of lessons and one of them was that nothing good came without a price.

His cock split you open as gently as he could make it. It was tight. You were grateful for his fingers that stretched you despite how uncomfortable it had been at first. Tears still fall as you try your best to breathe, Satoru kisses them away. He's braced on his arms with you underneath him.

It takes all his strength not to pound into you. He's barely halfway in and all he wants is to stay inside you forever. You're squeezing and he inhales sharply, a breathless chuckle escaping him.

"Easy, you're gonna cut my dick off, baby," you sniffle in response. Satoru reaches to pump your cock and shushes you as you moan out his name.

"I'm right here, beloved."

"Satoru," he meets you halfway when you lean up. His heart clenches as he tastes your tears, saying nothing as you laugh in between the lip-locking. His hips move and you clutch onto him tighter.

"Oh fuck, 'Toru." He's there. Nestled in the space he had molded inside of you. Satoru is sheathed fully. You're convinced you're about to die as your chest grows heavier. He cradles your face in his hand, wiping that steady flow of tears as he thrusts in and out. You simply let him, gasping for air and mercy as your body hangs onto him.

"(Y/N), fuck, (Y/N)," his nose curls as his lust-lidded eyes drink you in.

"'To - Toru, Satoru." He can feel your nails digging into his back. It stings but fuck does it feel good.

"More. Nuh - Need more, 'Toru. Need — "He nods. You don't have to say it. You need him.

"Me too, (Y/N). You feel s'good, s'fuckin' good."

When his hips rattle yours, it's enough to have you sobbing.

"Love you so fucking much," he says. You don't have to say it back. Because your eyes betray you. They only reflect him and you're sure this is how you die.

"Satoru."

With his name on your lips.

"Please."

Begging for his mercy.

"Satoru."

You ____ him.

The clouds are strangely dark today. Earlier this morning, the reporter had babbled on and on about the clear blue skies and bright sunny day. Weather predictions weren't an exact science, Satoru knew that, but the sky was not cheery much less sunny.

It was baleful.

The Gojo clan's grounds were meticulously opulent. Preserved history in every shimmering roof tile and old ghosts whispering tales from the creaking wooden frames. The servants are dressed to the nines as well. They lower their gaze with such grace, Satoru wonders if they're robots.

"Satoru, you've come home."

His mother does not meet him at the entrance, nor anywhere else other than her office. It's a traditional room with an open floor plan, despite her aging body she prefers sitting cross-legged as she works or writes or draws or whatever it is she likes to do.

If the sharpness of ice could be personified, it was his mother. It was spine-shivering every time someone told him that he resembled her. Her hair was colder than his own, having an almost silver tone to it compared to his lilac. Her eyes were almond-shaped with delicate double eyelids that lifted up at the end, which resembled a cunning fox. Satoru knows his nose was from hers, his chin as well although his lips were passed from his fathers instead.

"Yes, I have."

Before her, on the short-legged table (which she had commissioned from a talented craftsman), were the signed divorce papers.

It'd only been a day. There was no surprise, if anyone was going to find out it would not be the head of the (L/N) clan.

It'd be his mother.

"Was he not good to you, Satoru?" The shadows swallow his visage as a cloud covers the sun. "It was a mutual decision," he says, "we both thought it'd be best."

"Because of Itadori Yuji's death?" his brows pinched together. A sigh escapes her. "If you feel so much for children, I wonder why you never had some of your own. Men like yourself can have bloodlines now through extraordinary science." "It wasn't because of young Itadori."

"Well, it'd better have been for a good reason then. This divorce will not reflect badly on you. I know why you settled for (L/N) (Y/N) despite his clan's reputation. However cruel it was, you told me yourself you'd take responsibility. I recall you using your power as head of the clan to strong-arm the decision despite much more powerful families offering their sons for you. This ' mutual ' decision will only have a consequence on (Y/N)."

She sniffles prudently.

"I quite like him as my in-law. His late mother was an honorable lady. I do not wish for her to haunt you for hurting her son."

"I cannot keep him against his will. He wishes to be free."

She scoffs at him. He does not need to lift his eyes to know how sharp her scrutiny is. The clan may have spoiled him with care and affection, but his mother had not. A hand was never raised and she never yelled, however, she ensured that her son was able to lead studiously.

"Free? Of you?" she places her temple against the knuckles of her fist. "Do you beat him? Are your words harsh and cruel? Do you rule your house with an iron fist like his impudent father?" Satoru shakes his head, frowning at the very suggestion.

"Mother, of course, I wouldn't — "

"Do you take him despite his protests? Force him to labor heedlessly to your whims? Is there a lustier boy waiting for you in a seedy hotel?"

"Gods, no! What do you take me for!?"

Her brows cover her double eyelids as she glares at him. "Then what is it that he wishes to be free from? If you are not mistreating him, if you treat him kindly, what is the freedom he seeks?"

"My informants tell me he had signed it before you did. They tell me that he had moved to a penthouse 4 months ago, mere days after Geto Suguru's death."

The light filters through that grey cloud. It highlights the upturned tip of her nose, her pink-dusted cheeks, and her lilac eyes. She was such a refined beauty, it was no wonder her son was too. But this made her look especially cruel as she stared him down.

"I took responsibility, I told him what my initial intentions of marrying him were," he says. "You idiot," she seethed. "He was a respectable man. A good man. A strong sorcerer with a cunningness his late mother had passed down to him and you chose a dead man?"

"You humiliate him, Satoru. The poor boy will be eaten alive by the gossip. Will you take responsibility for that too?"

"How are you doing, my love?"

Megumi raises from below the covers. The distinct sound of the windows rattling open makes him rub the sleep from his. He takes a breath, then says; "I'll be training with the second-year students today with Kugisaki." He hears you exhale and he can see the gentle grin you have on your face even with your back turned to him.

“Is she going easier on you?”

“No point in training if they’re going easier on you,” he mumbles. It makes you laugh while you settle next to him on the edge of the bed.

“Fair. You still haven’t answered my question, Megumi.”

The silence drones for a minute. Despite this, you can tell what races through his mind. Memories bursting with every blink and laughter echoing in his ears. All the things he should not have to know, all those precious moments ripped away from him.

“Does it ever get easier?” His cobalt gaze is especially heavy as they dance around the room.

“Losing someone?”

You stared at the wisps of steam that escaped the spout of the kettle on the kitchenette. Losing a comrade was a rite of passage for sorcerers. Through death, through betrayal, through this or that. For you, you supposed, it was a gentle albeit tedious loss.

The morning after that night had left you nauseous. Satoru was awake just as you woke, and both of you silently, rigidly, stayed in the embrace. His toned arms wrapped around your torso, nose pressed to the top of your head whilst your lips were mere inches away from his neck. His grip tightens as you squirm but ultimately he lets you go.

You couldn't bear it. That night of bittersweetness, of passion you've been craving for, of weepy love confessions and apologies. Not anymore. So you signed the papers despite the 8 months left and sent them to him.

It's Megumi who witnessed the death — according to the reports he'd been fighting with Sukuna Ryomen all by himself. That trait you know he got from Satoru, not the cockiness, but the self-sacrificing resolve. You hate Satoru for tainting Megumi with it, even if most would call it valor.

There is no honour in a child dying.

“Yeah,” Megumi inhales through his nose. It stings. Every inhale is a reminder of Yuji’s last.

“No, it doesn’t. It stays, shrinking or stretching sometimes but it remains.” He had hoped you’d say something else. Tell him that one day he’ll forget about it all. That this sinking feeling will fade away.

But you know he wouldn’t want that. He’d want to remember. No matter how painful. To keep Yuji’s spirit alive, he’d remember.

“It’ll get easier to carry it though, that much I can promise you.” Your arm slips over his shoulders and cradles his head. He is pliant as you pull him in, closing his eyes as your lips press on his temple.

“I loved him, dad."

Megumi stares stoically, eyes rimmed with red. Those words strain to escape his chewed lips. It quivers and as much as he tries to stiffen it, a cry escapes him.

Megumi knew his time with Yuji was limited, he told himself he was content with what they had. He was a lamb sent for slaughter and the butchers were the higher-ups whose orders he fulfilled. Megumi felt like a butcher. He feels Yuuji's blood drying on his hands, he can still feel the weight of his body on his back when he carried it.

He remembers how tightly he held him when Satoru tried to pull Yuuji away from him. How unwilling he was to part with the boy who didn't deserve any of this to happen to him. Megumi starts gasping, bowing his head as he presses the heel of his hand to his teary eyes.

"Oh, Megumi." He turns into you and weeps. Body racking with sobs as you comb through his hair, curling over him as he clutches at your torso.

"I'm here, Megumi."

Tokyo is dark by the time you reach your home.

The beeping of your intercom makes you pause.

Ice-cold water travels down your spine at the overwhelming aura that comes from the front door. Although you hope for it to be Kento, or even Satoru — hell, even his mother would be great — you know who waits for you beyond that door.

To deny him what he wants will just make this more painful. What greets you as you open your door is your father’s hulking frame. Steeling your expression, you widen the door. No entourage waits in the hallway. It was just him. He always dishes out his punishments that way. He says nothing about it. Closing the door felt strangely final; the soft click and thud blanketed the penthouse in silence.

As you turn, a fist connects to your jaw. The force has your skull bouncing off the wall, crumpling to the floor.

There was a monster in your house. Trapped with you as it grabs fistfuls of your hair. It drags you to the living room, lifting and then slamming you down on the glass coffee table. The wood breaks and the glass shatters but at least it lets you go. Taking a desperate lungful of air you lift your arms to protect your head but it lifts a mighty foot placing it right on your chest.

Your ribcage screams its protests. When your hands fly out to desperately push its weight off, it merely places its knee on your chest instead. The pressure has you gasping, and blood blurs the vision in your left eye which doesn't help the disorientation. He grabs at your neck and you swear you feel your ribcage concave as you desperately try to breathe.

"You worthless child!" The beast roars. Finding a purchase of broken wood, you imbue it with cursed energy and strike it above its knee. It yells, shifting its weight enough for you to push it back and away.

Your back presses against the balcony doors and your hands tremble as you bring it to your chest and face.

The monster snarls, baring its teeth at you as it stands.

It's funny how much bigger he looks right now. It's as if you've shrunk back to being a child when you stopped being one a decade ago. It was frightening how much fear your father put in you.

When Tsumiki and Megumi first met you, you were apprehensive about adopting them. You were a teenager, barely fit to take care of yourself, much less keep two children alive. You were certain that kids were never in your cards either.

The night Tsumiki and Megumi found themselves nodding off as you were huddled up together on the couch watching some stupid TV show was when you were struck with a moment of realization.

You could never imagine laying a hand on them. The very thought made you feel sick. You wanted to protect them, cherish them, love them. Loving them felt like the most natural thing in the world.

How could your father not feel the same for you?

"I gave you everything!" He growls, veins bulging across the back of his hands.

"You breathed your first breath because of me! I gave you life!"

"Get out of my house," the words are strangled and garbled. His eyes darken as he takes steps towards you. Not like Satoru's that night. No. His eyes are dark like the walls of that hellish room. They only reflect you but not because he cares for you; because he wants to kill you.

There's a sharp whistling sound that comes from over his shoulder. The glass door behind you shatters as shards of red crystals fly towards you. His innate ability was to control broken shards of glass, changing their shapes and imbuing them with cursed energy. Blood flows from your cheek and torso. The wound from your mission with Kento spills open with fury. Cold wind rushes in as your hips bump into the railings of your balcony. He looks warbled in your vision, painted crimson.

"You're nothing without me! I made our clan rise from the ashes. I saved it from shame as I gave you that tyrant of a husband! I prevailed. I sacrificed everything for it! What do I get in return for giving you this auspicious life?"

You bring your hands up and yell as the shards intently aim for your scars, intent on ripping them open.

"Humiliation! They denied me entry to high society. Me! Denied of my destiny because of my weak-willed son!" The neighbors are rushing to their balconies and out onto the hallways. They yell if you're alright, trying to catch a peek of the scene by holding out their phones and aiming it at you. They yelp as his crystals fly into the air, clearly shocked at the unusual phenomenon.

This beast. He had 10 years to make himself worthy enough to stand between those of "high society."

Is it your fault that high society never — and would never — accept him in the first place?

He reaps what you sow. That's the kind of man he is. His pride comes before all, your mother once said to you.

She knew sacrifice. You knew sacrifice.

He knows nothing, yet he spouts his ideologies so loudly, so defiantly, it is as though it is gospel.

What a foolish man.

"Where is your respect!? Your gratitude!? I gave you life, I'll take it just as easily, boy."

He was close enough to reach out and grab you. When he did, he quickly regretted it. Fire engulfed his fist, the flame dark as ink as it roared. He yells in pain but you don't let him pull away. Instead, you bring your hands to wrap around his wrist and keep it there. His flesh smells rotten as the fire melts the skin away, charred almost. It sizzles on your skin, leaving its mark as more and more fat renders and pulsates. Bubbling like a foul soup.

Pull as he might, you keep him there, glaring with blood in your eyes.

The hand that holds his wrist lets go as he falls to his knees, summoning his weak ability again. They cut and slice furiously, emboldened by his pain, but yours was greater. With him on his knees, your hands thrust through the fire and grab his face.

It hurts. Your skin screeches in pain as the flames eat away. It feels insignificant. Before you, kneeling, was the beast that played the role of your father.

He feels as though your grip would completely crush his jaw.

The hand on yours is beginning to show bone. You feel nothing. His vomit slips down your hand, lumps of tears as well, and he looks so pathetic, so utterly inhuman. The grinding of your teeth makes your temples feel as though it's about to burst.

"Here it is! Do you feel it!? " his nerves burn to nothing, the crisping sound of his eyelashes distracting him from your voice. "I asked you a question, boy!" The flame lashes out, crawling to his elbows, and he strains out a scream.

"Here is my sacrifice!"

The fingers gripping his cheek warm and the fear in his eyes sends shivers up your spine.

There. In your eyes. That cursed candle. Its flames roar. The heat causes the windows to burst into a million pieces, sharp shards flying around. He tries to summon his ability, windows bursting as he forms a large spear. It flies to pierce through your back but your flame is too hot.

Your eyes are dark. He sees himself in them.

Had he always looked so weak?

His glass spear melts and bursts. The sound causes the building to shake and the screams that follow make your grin widen. Flecks of orange embers swirl around the both of you.

"Savour every drop of it, father."

It's always too sterile. The walls, ceilings, floors. He threatens to slip on the wooden floorboards with every step. Satoru watches the black car drive away, jaw clenched as it grows smaller and smaller into the distance.

The (L/N)'s clan manor lacked warmth. Despite the open courtyards and shoji doors, the meticulously cared for trees and shrubbery. It felt plastic. A show put on for the sake of being presentable.

The servant bows, telling him you are awake and he follows her.

The room is bright, facing the inner courtyard with a windchime swaying calmly from the threshold. You're sitting up on a futon, staring out at the small bamboo spout water feature.

Satoru can't believe his eyes. Every inch of skin below your face was covered in white bandages.

"Master (L/N), presenting Gojo Satoru."

The title brings a smile to your face.

He wasn't dead, your father, he was elsewhere. Getting his wounds treated by the best of the best but most importantly, far away from you. If Satoru thought you looked like a walking gauze, he hasn't laid eyes on your father yet. According to your stepmother, he was wrapped from head to toe, resembling a mummy from Egpyt.

It serves him right. The bastard.

You inclined your head and she bows, that same swirl pattern greets you goodbye. Master (L/N). Head of your clan. The position was temporary seeing as your father was still alive but the very title made him uneasy. Satoru settles near the wall, observing the sight before him.

The night of your 'scuffle' with your father had been the same night he fought that one-eyed curse. He had sensed a chill in his bones but with the opponent (and teaching opportunity) before him, he elected to brush it off.

"Satoru, did you see my stepmother on your way out?" He squeezes his biceps, shifting his knees as he adjusts his crossed legs. It wasn't his fault he was born with elegant legs, it felt uncomfortable to sit this way but to point his feet at you was a disrespect he wouldn't toe.

"Yeah. She seemed like she was in a rush, your brother and sisters have grown."

Of course, she would run. Make a scene of it to show her fear. To say she was displeased at the news of your fight with your father was the understatement of the century. She had wasted no time in calling for a trial, pointing a hysterical finger your way, and screaming that you did this to be called the head of the clan.

A quick mention of how your siblings lacked any resemblance to your father but an uncanny one with his trusted servant made her very tight-lipped.

"The higher-ups aren't pleased with the fiasco?" you inquire.

"What d'you think?" Satoru says dryly.

The entire population of the building had to have their phones wiped, memories too, and paid a huge sum in repairs due to your powers.

Apparently, people had thought there was a fire-breathing dragon that appeared in Tokyo.

Facing the garden, you pull the covers away. Crimson seeps through the white, like blood-tainting snow. Satoru is dressed in black pants and a white shirt, his bomber jacket was the same one you'd picked out for him some time ago.

This familiarity is not lost on him. The look in your eyes, that faraway gaze and twitching of your lips. When your mother had passed, you seemed lost but at this very moment it was as though the answer was right before you, that mishappen vision of your destiny a hair away from you.

Suguru had that same look.

"They whisper about you now," you giggle out as he takes his glasses, folding them in his lap. "They always do," he tries not to sound cocky but it's interwoven with every word.

"No. Satoru. They whisper about your curse," you wiggle your toes and stifle a grimace as the cut on your foot stings in protest. "Geto Suguru who killed his parents and (L/N) (Y/N) who nearly burned his father alive."

"They think you made us insane."

"I need reassurance." A laugh spills from your lips. He watches you curl your knees and place your elbows on them with your forehead braced on your knuckles as you give him your full attention. The sun glowed from behind you. The light does not reach your face.

"I'm not crazy, Satoru." His eyes meet yours and your smile slips away.

"I need reassurance that you won't go the same path Geto Suguru did."

"I don't resent non-sorcerers," you say curtly. "Don't play dumb." Satoru's neck is littered with traces of you. Akin to a collar. "Did the higher-ups ask you to execute me, Satoru? Do they wish to incite war on the (Y/N) clan?"

' My, you took to your role quickly, ' Satoru thinks.

"They worry that the new head of the (L/N) clan took his title with force."

"Not all of us were born with such legendary curse techniques. Is that a crime?"

Satoru's grip causes spiderwebs to appear on his glasses. "Do not be obtuse, (Y/N). You know what is implied. You've played this polite game of veiled threats and boasting for years. You know what they ask and you know what I ask."

"I don't." Shades of red bloom underneath your bandages. If Satoru concentrates enough, he could hear how the gauze seeps it and how your stitches strain as you straighten your back.

"Speak plainly."

"(Y/N)," your glare silences him.

"Speak plainly, Gojo Satoru."

Red-veined roots wrap around his throat. That precious willow tree was smoking, sparks of embers bursting from the center as it creaked and moaned. Its branches gnarled, its flowers leaving nothing but ashes.

"If the Grade 1 sorcerers weren't called to stop the fight, would you have killed him?"

The windchimes sing gently. Water gently flows from one end of the bamboo spout to the other. The birds chirp, the clouds move, and the world continues its song and dance.

Satoru's ears feel like someone has stuffed cotton in them. He makes sense of the words you speak by reading your lips, he hopes you're jesting so he looks into your eyes.

The windchimes still.

The shoji doors slide open and the same servant greets you.

"You have visitors, Master (L/N). A man named Nanami Kento and a woman named Shoko Ieiri. They've come with Fushiguro Megumi and Kugisaki Nobara as well."

"Please, send them in and escort Gojo Satoru to his car."

She stands, waiting for Satoru to do the same as his glasses threaten to shatter in his hand.

"Do not do this to me, my beloved."

"Have you ever loved me? Truly?"

His indignation fuels you with sick fascination. The corpse of Suguru grins, his cracked lips pressed to the junction of your neck as he praises you.

"I love you, (Y/N)."

"Then give me the same grace you gave our beloved Suguru. Leave me and cast your gaze aside. If you truly love me, husband. Grant me this final wish."

He whips his head to the side, reaching forward and grabbing the back of your head. It aches. Every shredded muscle and rattled bones, bruised organs and cut skin.

But he holds you against him. His lips taint yours.

Suguru chuckles coyly.

"Please." His forehead is pressed against yours, and you can feel it, that raised scar.

"I love you, I love you, I love you. Please, don't do this."

"Satoru," Suguru whispers it along with you. His tears almost taste sweet as they slip down his cheeks and land on your lips. That ghost, the one that drapes itself on your back with his bony ribs and dirt-covered gojogesa, his smile graces your face as Satoru's heart dies once again.

"Fuck off."

"Is it strange?" Megumi quirks a brow at you from across the table. You set down a plate of cut-up fruits, stealing an apple for yourself before you sit.

"Finding out he's alive 2 months later."

The expression on his face makes you struggle to hold in your laughter. You've never said it out loud but Megumi looked like a prickly sea urchin every time he was pissed off and now he was pricklier than ever.

"I wanted to pummel Gojo to the ground. Yuji too." He stabs into an apple and the loud, angry, chewing makes you giggle. His brows pinch as you grimace but you tell him not to worry.

The dining room is unmistakably grand. Feeling far too empty. Megumi much preferred your old penthouse. This manor was far too big, far too pretentious. Which wasn't a slight on your clan, just their tastes in design.

"Did he really never tell you?" he narrows his eyes.

"We haven't talked much," you reply. Megumi finds that hard to believe. You were both teachers at Jujutsu High, so interactions were unavoidable. Everyone has seen you and Satoru side by side, talking to each other about this or that. No matter how short or icy the interaction was...it was still something.

Formalities were still shared, and Satoru's crass behavior softened just as his voice does when he talks to you.

There must be some lingering awkwardness, Megumi is not naive to think that there wouldn't be. But, it was clear that there was still some affection Satoru held for you. It was almost jarring to see how blatantly you ignored it when once upon a time, you’d been silently blushing at his efforts. Megumi wondered if the two of you had yelled at each other again. He hoped that was not the case. Your relationship was far from perfect but...it wasn't as though Gojo did not deserve your bitterness.

"Is it because you're seeing Mr Nanami?" Sweetness slips down the fork and you hand him a tissue. “Is this like those shitty TV shows?”

The idea of this being a revenge arc against your ex-husband was humorous. Kento was far from the plotting type. He may be annoyed by Satoru but he wasn’t a man who would intertwine his hands with another for the sake of hurting someone.

“Haha,” you said dryly. “Finish up your homework, I’ll drive you back to school.”

Megumi doesn’t pout. At least he think he doesn’t.

He does.

He pouts as you walk out from the room.

Megumi continues to pout even in the car ride back to the dorms. You’re watching from the corner of your eyes, lips curled in endearment.

“Do you like Mr Nanami?” He blinks at the question, turning his head to look at you. Megumi crosses his arms, pout dissipating into a thin line.

“I don’t know him, but from what Yuji tells me, he is a very reliable man.”

“He is,” you continue to gaze out the window, ignoring the itchiness of the healing wounds. The only solace in this pain is that your father’s was greater. Still comatose, skin still peeling as the heat lingers in his bones.

Saying this out loud would make the crows that follow your every movement very rich though.

“In some ways, he reminds me of you. Both of you have a stoic expression, so mature-looking. Mr Nanamin is 27, so it suits him. But you, my beautiful son, — “

Megumi grunts as you poke his forehead.

“ — you are only 15. Stop frowning!” He yells in protest as you stretch his cheeks, frowns only deepening as he tries to escape your grasp.

Yuji waits in the hallways. Megumi and you pause in your steps and Yuji’s eyes widen as he opens his mouth.

“Mr (Y/N)!”

Mirth swims in your eyes. “Itadori, did you need something?” He scratches the back of his neck as his cheeks blush. How cute. Young love was such a sight to behold.

“Isn’t it?” Suguru sighs. “In the same halls, we used to walk through too, (Y/N).”

“No! Ah, just, I heard footsteps so I thought I could hang out with Fushiguro for a little.” You push Megumi not to subtly towards his room/Yuji.

“He’s all yours,” your cooing tints Megumi’s ears pink. He mumbles he wants to wash up first and Yuji just seems excited he didn’t turn down his offer. “Don’t stay up too late, Itadori. Classes are bright and early tomorrow,” he salutes you and the bright smile he has is so contagious you grin as well.

The eye on his cheek split open to take a glimpse.

As you turn, it slips close.

Kento waits for you at the house. He smells like petrichor and as you get closer there’s the distinctly sharp taste of lightning-struck earth. You burrow your face in the crisp white shirt he wears, and he smiles. You can tell even without looking. He always huffs in amusement before he smiles.

“Did you have a good day?” You shrug your shoulders and he slips his hands around you. Those strong arms squeeze you, molding you to his frame. “Did you?” He makes a noise, something between a hum and a grunt and you peek up at him.

Kento visited you frequently during your recovery. He sent you to school during your first days back, then he sent your favourite foods during your lunch and they turned into flowers.

His shy courting was anything but. Kento pursued you with a hunter's grace but a priest's devotion.

Could anyone blame you for accepting his attempts? He made your heart flutter, swoon and race. For the first time in your life, someone was sending you flowers in hopes of you paying attention to them. Kento fed you while you healed and the same day you find out that his eyes do soften when he kissed.

People whisper about how quickly you brought Kento home. Infidelity, they say. Hah! What a load of bullshit. A servant must’ve opened her mouth, one whose loyalties still laid with your stepmother.

How unlucky was it that her home had been burnt down the very day she was fired?

You wrote her your condolences. She begged for your forgiveness.

Kento doesn’t know this. You’re determined for it to remain that way.

“Today was nothing special. Tonight is a different story,” your brows raise at his flustered gaze. “I made reservations for us.”

There it goes again, your heart swoons. Kento tilts his head into your palm and you wonder what your life would have been like if you had noticed his gaze back then.

After that kiss, after knowing that he returned your feelings and only spoke of his interest in a baker because of your marriage, he confessed how he’d been smitten with you the longer that school year passed.

“You were training hand-to-hand with Geto,” he whispers to you, as if shy to confess this. You’re sat with the covers a mess at your legs and the food on the tray forgotten. He’s flustered? He kissed you silly mere seconds ago while you were wrapped up with bandages. The scent of healing ointments practically radiated from you. He was so put together and you’d been going through your clan's financial statements since 3 am.

Kento remembers it like it was yesterday. The way you lifted yourself up into the air, your leg was a blur as you spun. Tendrils of your hair caught the gleam of the sun and it glowed like vinyl. The ringing laughter that followed as Suguru dodged made his heart squeeze.

“We’re supposed to be working on your close combat skills, Su-Su!”

“Quit aiming for my head, (nickname)!” Suguru dashes towards you and you yelp as he catches your middle but the shock wears off. Suguru grunts when you press your palms down on his shoulders and dig your heels into the ground before kicking off, pushing Suguru down.

“Go, (nickname)!” Yū cheers beside Kento. He rolls on top of you, smiling victoriously until your legs wrap around his waist and twist.

“Oi, S’guru! I bet money on you!” Satoru waved his fist around while Shoko curled her fingers expectantly his way.

Kento can’t believe you’re real. Your smile is so wide he can see your gums, the sweat that beads down your skin makes you glimmer like a gem and despite the dirt on your skin Kento can’t fathom it to be a smudge or mistake.

Because everything about you seemed deliberately made. The blood and flesh of those before you must have loved each other so greatly to bless you with such a face. He wonders if, in the future, they’ll find traces of him in your bloodline.

Fire in the wind. Wild and free and untameable.

“You win, you win!” Suguru goes limp and you giggle. Rolling off of him, you lay down on the grass as he spreads his arms out like a starfish. You cushion your head on it and spot the bruise on his neck that peaks out from his unzipped jacket.

“Su-Su, you’re not holding back, are you?” you turn your gaze to the sky. He’d be a Special-grade sorcerer with no problem. His ability was insanely useful, and flexible - a trump deck of a technique. If he exceeded in close combat, that grade would be his with no ifs or buts.

The strongest.

Suguru blinks once, and twice, then offers a warm smile.

“Give yourself more credit, (nickname). You totally beat my ass.”

“You‘re amazing,” Kento tells you as the memory fades away. “I just didn’t know how to tell you. I was content with watching from the sidelines,” your finger presses to his lips and Kento’s eyes widen. It slides across his bottom lip before it travels below his jaw and ear and you’re leaning in.

“A reservation?” Your eyes twinkle. It would explain why he was dressed so nicely. It must not be the fanciest place since he wasn’t dressed in a suit and tie but the watch he wears hints at luxury nonetheless.

“Go, get ready,” he tells you in that gentle tone that makes his voice go so deep. Everything about Kento’s actions felt so intimate. You would think he’d be reserved, wanting to go slow as to be proper. In your world, death is a guillotine blade that’s dug into your neck over and over again.

Kento can be courteous but to assume he would go slow was not likely. He knows you, (Y/N). From those times in high school to the fleeting glances of you during meetings and the mission you went on; he sees you.

Perhaps it’s just the way sorcerers will always love each other.

The way Suguru loved Satoru. The way Megumi loves Yuuji. The way you loved Satoru. The way Satoru loves you.

None of you were made for casual affection. Everything and everyone that falls for wicked beings like you find themselves with deep marks embedded in their shoulders, arms, and neck; desperate hounds begging for their man to not leave them but unable to pull their teeth out.

So Kento grips you and kisses you with a heavy weight of relief and you return it.

The Gods have taken too much from you. Kento will not be one of those things they rip away from your fingers - no, not him.

“‘Atta boy,” Suguru’s decaying arms circle your waist as you walk the halls of the house. When you shed your clothes to clean yourself, Suguru sits on the edge of the bathtub. The humidity makes him look paler and his eyes more bloodshot.

“You deserve someone like him. A good man to fill that cavernous void. Kento’s always been hiding his flustered face every time you walk past him,” Suguru moves his hands around as he talks. You don’t remember him being so chatty but as of late, this apparition keeps the voices in your head quiet. He makes sure you’re not alone.

Your father must’ve knocked your head hard enough for some screws to come loose but you find it hard to care.

“Cavernous?” you mumble. Suguru pauses then leans back a bit. His hair swaying as he does so.

“Do you think it’s enough? Being loved after everything you’ve been through, is that enough for you?”

“...Was it enough for you? In your final moments, was it enough?”

What would this Suguru know about his final moments? He wasn’t real, he never had been. He’s just a manifestation of your hurt, a coping mechanism your brain conjured for some hellish reason.

“I died by Satoru’s hand and then, died in his embrace. What could be more poetic than that?”

You died in Satoru’s arms too. That night he took you as his husband. The weeping, the love confessions, the moaning. Your heart was racing in your chest as he thrust into you, his face nearly scarlet as he kissed you.

The heat that pools between your legs makes Suguru guffaw.

He dips his hand in and traces your thighs.

“Kento’s hands are rougher than ‘Toru’s. Fingers thick and finger pads sanded with hard work. Everything you taught him as his upperclassman he still uses today.”

Shuddering, you slip your knees apart. Suguru takes a hold of your cock.

“You’ve always had the best legs, ya’ know. So strong, even your punches hurt like hell."

You lean back, eyes lidded with pleasure as Suguru pumps his fist. The water spills over the side as he slips in with you, his hair acting like curtains as he peers down at you. His slanted eyes and those onyx eyes make you feel powerless against his desires.

"He'd be so sincere with you. Every thrust," a gasp makes him chuckle darkly. "Every stroke," you moan and grip the sleeves of his robe. "Every kiss," his lips trace the bridge of your nose.

"S'guru..."

"A testament to his adoration for you. He'd worship you, (nickname). But will that be enough? His skin on yours? Is his heart in your hands instead of the other way around exciting? Will that finally fill this void?"

Your spine arches and your knees bump into the edge of the bathtub. Suguru's breath feels like a hurricane as he kisses the side of your jaw, his fist damn near merciless.

"Will you accept his sacrifice, (nickname)?"

When you come, you squeeze your eyes shut. The floor is slick with water and steam makes everything fuzzier than it needs to be. As you lift your hand from beneath the water, you grimace at the sight.

How shameful.

You settle the bath by yourself, the servants didn't need to see more than they've already heard.

Kento is waiting by his car when you step out. He drinks in the sight of you, unable to stop himself from kissing you as you come close. As usual, he opens the door for you, and you stroke the cream-coloured leather seats of his Mercedes Benz.

"Ready, (Y/N)?" He reaches over to hold your hand and you bring it to your lips before he can. He can feel the softness of your lips, the slight gloss that sticks to his skin that makes his crotch tighter than his pants liked.

"Ready, Mr Nanami." Kento chuckles, squeezing your shameful hand and bringing it to his lips next.

Suguru sits in the backseat, his dark eyes keeping themselves glued on you. You see him in reflections, in puddles, in every monotone face that walks past.

As Kento settles you on his lap, his thick cock making you feel stars and heaven itself, Suguru is still watching.

"Ken, I - "

Kento sinks his teeth into your neck and you groan. His hands are big and rough, just like Suguru said they'd be. They grope and squeeze and bruise. He grabs a handful of each cheek and your thighs are thankful for it. Kento lifts you so effortlessly it makes your desire feel unquenchable.

His strength doesn't surprise you. The gym in his apartment complex was one he frequented. If he didn't want to mingle, he had a dedicated room for working out in his home. You've seen the weights he has, how interesting was it that they were the same weight as you, (Y/N).

"(Y/N), does that feel good?" You squeeze the tip of his cockhead in reply and sink down on him to cement it. His cock keeps kissing your prostate, the drag of his dick makes you want to be keen and whine.

His hair looked good when it was dishevelled, which makes his jaw sharper and his nose makes you want to grind on it. Kento shifts and moves to lay you down on his pillows. Your legs wrap around his waist and twist.

The aching muscles hiss in protest but the lust that flows through you overcomes it.

"(Y/N)..."

Kento tries to sit up but your hands on his chest keep him down.

"(Y/N)".

"Kento."

Suguru traces his jaw and it's no surprise Kento does not react. He grips at your waist, whispering your name again. You pin his arms next to his head and Kento's eyes widen.

There it is. That darkness that takes over that molten brown. It only reflects you. Suguru is peering over your shoulder, his hands circling your neck as his dark tongue licks your cheek.

"You want what I want, Ken," you murmur against his lips. "To come undone by each other's hands, to devour each other, to be one."

"Yes," he breathes out. "Then let me feel you like this," you brought his hands to your waist once again, and he planted his heels into his mattress.

"I want to see you unravel under me, Kento. I want to see you, all of you, just as you do."

He nods and you grant him a kiss, allowing your tongues to dance.

"Do you intend to keep following me forever?"

Kento's balcony is unexpectedly warm. You can smell the breakfast he's making as you nurse your cup of tea. For your throat, he tells you.

How pervertedly kind.

The crow tilts its head and you narrow your eyes at it. "They must've paid a heavy sum. Or was it my stepmother?" It flaps its wings, preening the under feathers. Lifting your hand, you press your pointer and middle finger together. It squawks, hopping as it flaps its wings again.

"I'll pay you more to leave me alone. My ex-husband has left a hefty fortune for me. If this persists, I won't hesitate to wipe the floor with you, Mei-Mei."

The crow squawks again but turns its head to leave.

A crisping feather floats gently down onto the floor of the balcony. By the time Kento walks over to place the tray of food down on the table, it turns to nothing but ash in the wind.

"You spoil me," your legs are over his lap and he brings those hands to massage them. "You spoiled me," he answers. "Just showing my appreciation."

A group of crows flies past but Kento is cutting up your food and moving to feed you. Your cheeks burn, you open your mouth and Kento's gentle grin makes your heart race.

"I don't recall him having a temper, are the rumours true?"

Mei-Mei had better things to do. Her time was worth more than stalking someone's ex-lover. However, the head of the Gojo clan was a generous man. How could she refuse?

"Do you truly make them go insane?" He can hear her smile from over the phone. "He attacked you?" Satoru rolls his ring over his knuckles and between his fingers. The classroom was empty as the students trained on the field.

"He's committed arson against a servant who was trading secrets with Lady (L/N) and now he's burned a crow into nothing but dust. He even offered to pay more than you have. What a lucky man he is to have divorced from an endless fountain of wealth."

"Yeah? Maybe you should try that instead of chasing after green."

"Careful, Gojo. I still have my pride."

He places the ring on his palm, curling his fingers over it.

"Kento and him make a handsome couple. I almost feel jealous." Satoru would be stupid to believe Mei-Mei trusted that this stalking was him feeling possessive. She wasn't an idiot. He was concerned about you. Your grandiose act of nearly burning your father alive was the talk of the town.

The evidence of it being self-defense was backed up by the cameras in your home (the ones that hadn't melted anyway).

But it was too convenient.

Satoru is a man who is filled with memories. As careless and crass as he portrays himself as, he's sentimental. He slips a hand into his pocket and your ring is accompanied by Suguru's button.

The cameras were damaged enough to make it out as if it was just saved by fate. But Satoru knows your flames better than most. It burns everything. Devours with a hunger that no beast could compete with. It's indiscriminate. Which is why your aim is immaculate.

If it hadn't melted, you wouldn't be as free as you are now. Even in your rage and fear, you were careful to ensure your longevity.

"I'm sure you do."

"The divorce barely made a dent?"

"You already know the answer to that. Make sure he doesn't suspect me, I'll pay double."

"And if he faces me?"

Satoru grits his teeth together.

"Run."

Kiyotaka waits for him at the front of the school, that usual sour-puckered face and obscene politeness manages to elicit a grin from Satoru. The drive to the house on the hill is filled with silence, which is for the best seeing as how tightly wound he was.

Kiyotaka knew divorce could put people on edge but seeing Satoru’s fists tremble on his lap, knuckles nearly turning bone white and all, terrified him.

The gates are opened after Satoru rolls down his windows. He should ask why they were here but his instincts knew better.

“I’ll be out in an hour or so. You don’t mind waiting, do ya’?”

“Of course not, Mr Gojo.”

He smiles, giving Kiyotaka a firm squeeze on his shoulder before walking inside the modern home. Its grey colours looked atrocious against the vibrant greens of nature. Ah, Satoru was glad you had better tastes compared to the rest of your family.

Your stepmother waits for him in the living room. The carpet before her is littered with toys of all sorts. The youngest of the family takes a liking to smash some toy cars together while the others were most likely tended to by their governess.

“Mr Gojo,” she stands with a certain air of grace that prickles his skin. He nods politely her way.

"Is he doing better today?" The machines that they've hooked him to made him resemble a sick science experiment. Perhaps it's poetic justice from his late wife. The curtains were drawn and the only light was dim to ensure his skin wasn't exposed to any more unnecessary heat. There were talisman papers pasted on the walls and ceilings which Satoru thinks is entirely too much.

"Have you..."

The exposed split of bandages reveals nothing more than charred flesh and peeling skin. A hint of bone and muscle too that help him speak. Satoru ignores the hazmat suits, stepping through the heavy plastic curtains. His infinity wouldn't bring any harmful germs into this room, never had so far too.

"Leave." His wife commands in that shrill voice.

The doctors and attendants bow deeply and the door closes behind her. She sits close to the wall, outside the curtain.

"Have I?" There's writing on the bandages. Sutras are written in some sort of special ink that emits curse energy.

"killed (Y/N)." He sighs, crossing his arms as he spreads his legs.

"My son-in-law — " It might be cruel to tune out the words of a man who's half-dead, but Satoru cannot believe he's spouting this again. A part of him wished you had burnt through his throat. Satoru sighs loudly, tossing his head back and scrunching his face.

"Old man, the divorce papers have been signed. I haven't been your son-in-law in a whole month."

Between this and your increasingly violent tendencies that Mei-Mei keeps reporting back, those curses spirits working together popping up, Itadori Yuji's attempted assassination (and the mysterious way he rose from the dead...) — Satoru was in no mood.

He does not agree with your decision to commit attempted murder. But make no mistake, he fully believed the bastard deserved it.

"You keep telling me to kill him. I shouldn't have to say this, but you do know in the decade Geto Suguru was gallivanting around, I did nothing because he was dear to me. (Y/N) is dear to me. I'll wait 50 fucking decades before I lay a hand on him."

"You dare curse at my lord husband?" Satoru glances at her from over his shoulder. That distorted reflection makes her look more attractive than she actually is. "Lord of what? Gauze and morphine? If we're doing a dick-measuring contest, I win. Sit down. Your voice is annoying."

She sputters, mouth opening again. So Satoru tilts his head, flexing his fingers as he clicks his tongue.

"Woman." The ' lord ' croaks out. She watches him raise a hand, shaky fingers flicking outwards and Satoru swears steam nearly shoots out from her ears. The door has a soft-close feature which makes her attempt at slamming it void but it brings a smile to Satoru's face.

"The rumours, of my clan."

Now that was far more interesting for Satoru. His silence is a prompt for the man to continue. A sharp intake of breath comes in quick twos and threes as his bandaged hands squeeze the trigger for the drip of morphine.

Then his shoulders sink into the mattress and he speaks.

"The Binding Vow we've broken. The karma we faced since then...I think, I fear, I..."

Satoru feels his ring heat up against his sternum, so he leans forward and it's cradled by the button of his shirt.

"I fear he's paid the price, wholly, his self-righteous pain...he's balanced the scales..."

"I messed up."

The chattering of the skulls at least fills silence. Satoru can see why it'll quickly become a nuisance that will make his ears shrivel in disdain but for now, he finds it better than nothing. Whatever it is underneath him pokes him and shifts against his clothes.

Slipping a digit under the rim of his blindfold, Satoru tugs on it and exhales through his nose.

"Things are not looking good."

"Yo, Satoru."

The weight of the blindfold rests over his eyelids and Satoru sinks into the mass below him.

"I'd kill him a thousand times if I could, Satoru."

' Would you really, my beloved? ' Satoru's lips twitch into a grin. No, you wouldn't. Maybe in the moment, that night fuelled by fear and anger. The morning after when your pain still pulsed under ripped-open skin; but he knew you, his beloved, his darling friend; his (Y/N). Your father was nothing but a frail man who knew nothing of what he spoke of.

You'd be safe, protected, and cared for regardless of who you lay with or whose heart you hold. Kento be damned. You were his first and his always. Suguru's corpse was a jarring sight. A painful one too. He'd bury him properly, his love for him will join him in that new grave. His love for you will haunt him for as long as you walk this earth.

He unbuttons his outerwear, tugging on the silver chain until he unclasps it. The blue gem twinkles sweetly his way and he slips it on his finger where his skin all but sighs in comfort.

"Well, there'll always be a way. I'm counting on you, everyone." "Sealed...?"

Kento moves forward and you stare at his frame as he does. Megumi's head swivels to follow him and Ino's as well, they walk in step with him but you stand there in shock.

"Move," Suguru whispers to you. The joints of his fingers dig into your back as his hair curtains your peripheral field of vision. "(Y/N). Move."

"(Y/N)?" Ino's voice causes the group to pause. Their eyes are expectant. Megumi wonders why he cannot pinpoint the flickering emotions on your face while Kento's gaze takes note of your trembling hands.

"NA-NA-MIN!"

His touch shocks cause your pupils to jitter into focus. Kento says nothing, simply squeezing your forearm as he whispers your name.

"If they sealed him, our top priority will be undoing that."

"You know this, (nickname)," Suguru bites, the click of his teeth sending shivers down your spine. "(Y/N) — " You move past Kento, curling your fingers into fists and feeling Suguru thread him through yours.

"Let's be quick about it then."

This feeling...

"It's like that day," Suguru croaks, "the day he died. Your heart is beating so fast. Do you still ____ him, (Y/N)? Do you truly?"

"Why is he off limits?" Geto does that serene smile that makes Jogo simmer in annoyance. "Jogo, you can't kill everyone you see in battle. There's some grace in keeping a certain few alive."

"Will he be used as a hostage to make Gojo Satoru fall in despair?" his words humour Geto, truly amuses him. Mahito lifts his head from the ground, leaning on the heels of his hand as he peers at the two of them.

"Man, Jogo. You really are wicked," Geto peers at the shimmering scales of the curses that lurk within the waters.

"He's not for Gojo Satoru's imprisonment."

"Don't keep us in the dark, Geto," Mahito voices out Jogo's thoughts, his mismatched eyes impatient.

"Gojo (Y/N) is for..."

You yell as the eel tightens its body around you, digging your heels into the sand as Dagon summons it to themselves. The force of it makes your back bow and no amount of strength could stop it. Dagon holds the back of your skull and you hear Megumi yell out for you.

"(Y/N)!" Kento takes several steps forward and Maki grits her teeth.

Naobito focuses his gaze on their escape, knowing that they would be able to help the poor fool if they were outside of the domain.

But then.

"That man — " Dagon pulls you to its chest and your eyes widen as Fushiguro Toji appears before you. His eyes, it must be some sort of sorcery cast, a trick, a body double. Your fear recognizes you. He shifts his gaze to meet yours and there's a smirk on his face.

"Still alive, are you, freak?" The cursed weapon in his hand rattles in the air and then straightens. He aims it right at you and you brace yourself for the pain.

Dagon blocks it at the cost of its hand.

' It's protecting me!? ' You grunt at the blood that sprays onto your face and into your mouth, coughing as Dagon tries to fight Toji.

"Hah? Did you leave your husband for this thing?" The eel that held you disappeared into nothing after the barrage of hits he had laid out. Dagon tries to grab you but you engulf your fists into flames and spin to punch its face. Dagon does not let you escape but Toji is running toward you again so you plant your heel into its head, kicking off from its chest to fall right into the waters.

Kento catches you in his arms, and the tension of the surface breaks with monstrous sea beasts that try to land a hit on Toji. With his arms occupied, he relies on you to deter them as he makes his way back to Megumi's simple domain.

Megumi —

You stare at him as he asks you if you're alright.

Megumi, you should tell him who this man was. You should —

Dagon is exorcised.

The ground beneath you disappears. It takes a second too long for you to catch your bearings. Brain rattled and breathe knocked out of you as peel yourself off the ground. Kento, Maki, Naobito —

"Megumi!?" Kento helps you up and you take a step forward to follow the sounds of destruction but the air grows thick.

Satoru was never an artist. The horrendous rendition of the curses that attacked him the same night your father had looked as though it'd been drawn by kindergartners. But it was unmistakably him.

The disaster curse. Bald and one-eyed.

His fire makes the water on your skin steam into the air. He removes Naobito, and you move to protect Maki by getting between them. Barely in time, she still crumples to the floor but she would live if taken to Shoko quick enough. His eye widens as you stand unscathed, your clothes flaking off like snow as your skin reddens and steams.

"Gojo (Y/N)."

"Divine Flame."

He lifts his hand just as you do.

"Do not let him use his curse technique, Jogo. He's not as strong as Satoru, but you'll thank me," Geto's voice coos.

"God's Bl — "

"Kuantan?" he sets down the rest of the breakfast he made. His home is as neat and crisp as he is — though there are still traces of himself. His hopes especially. The mountain of books, the pamphlets about Malaysia here and there. If you peered into his room, Kento had even laid out a few notes of plans he hoped to fulfill. It was as if he was waiting for the perfect moment, lying in wait.

"The beaches are nice. The food as well," he sits across from you and pauses as you pat the spot next to you. Endeared, Kento settles where you ask. "Perhaps after Megumi graduates to a second year," he stays silent for a moment and watches you eat.

"...Would you resent me for not marrying you until I retire?"

You pause mid-chew, blinking at him for a moment. Then you turn your gaze on the plate, eyes trailing after the dew drop of water on the lettuce.

"I won't if you do not regret marrying someone from a sorcerer clan."

He pinches the lobe of your ear gently, tracing the shell with so much fondness he chuckles as it warms under his touch. It was damn near perverted how he did it — your heart races as he turns your face his way.

"I could never regret being yours, (Y/N)."

That memory burst into flames. His house, his books, his hopes, and his dreams. Jogo stands there in the ashes and he smiles at you with those blackened teeth.

"(nickname)," Suguru whispers. Your trembling hands stiffen as he strokes the insides of your wrists, his empty gaze reflecting you as he stands in front of you. "Balance the scales."

"Gojo (Y/N)!" Jogo exclaims proudly. "Y — !"

Jogo barely had time to react to your kick. Bursting through windows and walls. He digs his fingers into the floor and just as he lifts his head he sees your shadowed face. Your pupils were nothing but a speck of (E/C) on white as smoke slithers between your lips.

"Divine Flame — "

A spear pierces through your stomach. Jogo covers his eye just in time before your blood splatters on it. Breathing through your nose, you grasp at the crimson-soaked spear, eyes widening as you take in the details of it.

"Impossible," you turn to look and it's there. Satoru had let you name it this time, among the Fredericks and other silly names he dubbed Suguru's curses as this one was the one you named.

"Togatta?" It does not give any sign of recognition but there was no mistake.

Jogo's fist makes contact with your chest and you choke, coughing up spit and blood before he lands a final blow on the back of your neck.

The puddle of blood grows next to him. Those stupid girls, demanding things of Ryomen Sukuna, threatened to fight him with no plan nor strength. Humans were really something else.

Jogo waits for Ryomen to ask and then and only then he tells him he didn't want anything but Ryomen's freedom. Sukuna's crimson eyes take interest in the cursed object Jogo has slung around his neck; a dark shard of glass that pulses a steadily beating blue within it.

"Ten fingers and what's mine?" He looked beyond pleased.

"You've outdone yourselves." Jogo gulps, unbinding the rope around his neck and using both hands to present it to Sukuna. He takes it after a particularly gentle stroke of the sharp edges, then places it in his pockets.

"Ryomen Sukuna?" Geto nods assuredly. The rolling waves melting into the sand give leeway for Jogo and Mahito to process his words. What could Ryomen Sukuna find useful in Gojo (Y/N)? He was a Grade 1 sorcerer but he was not like his husband.

"His family line, the (L/N) clan, is a disgraced one. All the men are weak, all the women dimwitted and the children cursed. Sorcerer society looks at them in disdain, calling them desperate and thieving. It was the child from the (L/N) clan that made it possible for Ryomen Sukuna to be sealed. A son with a curse technique so strong and a face so beautiful, Ryomen Sukuna took him as his property. He had forced the boy into a Binding Vow — one the boy broke to defeat Ryomen Sukuna."

"It left the clan with nothing but shame. The Gods inflict karma on generations to come even if the Vow was wicked beyond belief. Sorcerer society rejected them and curled their noses at the clan that saved them from extinction. I still remember that boy's face."

Geto chuckles, leaning back in his seat as he closes his eyes.

"Mahito, do you think a soul ever comes back in a new body?"

Reincarnation or divine coincidence.

Jogo does not ponder on the question. All he knows is that giving Sukuna an ancestor of the boy whom he favoured, whom he made into a treasured concubine, pleased him.

"This is your reward for the fingers. Come at me. If you manage to land even a single blow on me, I'll work under you all."

Megumi is still leaning against the shutter doors. The shinigami he released, it's a beast that Sukuna had never had the pleasure of seeing before he was locked away. Placing his hand over Megumi's chest, he heals the wounds to ensure Megumi is no longer on the precipice of death and darts his eyes toward the rope that sticks out from his pockets.

He slips the shard into Megumi's hand, recalling how fond you were of the boy. How perfect. This world — this era, truly was made for him. Everything would be his. Men, women, and children — all for him to devour indiscriminately.

With Uraume and (Y/N) with him, this age of haughty sorcerers with abilities he'd never seen, ah. His mouth waters from the very thought. Once he obtains Fushiguro Megumi's body. Once you submit to him. Once he kills Gojo Satoru. Once he destroys Itadori Yuji into nothing.

"Na..."

The sight before him, it made his stomach twist into knots again and again and again...

Kento sees himself in Yū's eyes, he points to Yuji and Kento can't bring himself to say anything to the boy.

"Nanamin..."

The nickname makes his heart squeeze in relief. That youth that he wants to protect, is still there in his final moments and that alone would have made Kento die without regrets — but he's lying to himself.

He made a promise to you to return to your side. You did not ask him to say "alive" because just having a body to bury is a miracle in your world. (Y/N), he saw that stubborn strife in your eyes even as you nodded.

Too little time spent with you. Those 2 months of pure love with you, it would never be enough but he cherishes them all the same. He hopes you can tolerate this pain — he never wished for you to go through this before him, (Y/N).

He should have introduced you to his family.

He should have kissed you deeply before tonight began.

He should have given you everything you deserved.

Ah, regret truly is the worst feeling in the world.

He wants to take care of you like he promised to, (Y/N).

What could he say to Yuji to make him understand what this means?

Mahito's curse energy was enveloping his soul and Kento used the bit of strength he had left to ensure Yuji would not be the one to kill his transfigured corpse. The least he could do, this cruel kindness... "I'll leave the rest to you."

"My husband."

Shoko pauses. Satoru is not looking her way, instead, staring at the ceiling with a bored expression.

"He did not greet me," she's glad that he does not see the way she clenches the box of cigarettes in her pocket. Or maybe he does because he straightens his composure and asks;

"Is he still pissed at me or is he dead?"

"....We don't know, Satoru." His nose curls in distaste. Still, he waits for her to continue.

"Nobody has seen him and there's no time nor resources to sift through the rubble of Shibuya to find him. The last person to have seen him alive was Maki, she says that he was against the onne-eyed disaster curse."

"He'd have no trouble exorcising that baldy." Satoru is being too kind, you would struggle but you'd still win. He was sure of it. Then again, your abilities were too similar — a tie maybe? You had more wit, you'd win.

Or is that denial talking?

"Nanami died by Mahito's hand," Shoko pulls the box out and tosses it aside as he takes out the final cigarette. "Does he know that?"

"Maybe he's already with Nanami."

"Shoko."

"All of you are dropping like flies around me. Was there an invite I was never given?" She doesn't cry but Satoru stands to walk towards her anyway.

"Yū, Suguru, Kento, (Y/N)," she allows him to hold her shoulder and pull her in but does not return the affection. Should she? Would this be the final memory of Gojo Satoru she had?

"He isn't dead." Satoru pulls away after a long minute. The smile on his face makes her hopes soar and Shoko doesn't understand why she can't force it down.

"I can feel it. He's still here. Don't host a funeral just yet, yeah?"

"You're way too cocky, do you know that?"

"I have every right to be."

"Mr Gojo." Satoru wonders what Yuji would say to him. He wonders where the scars come from, when his eyes had ever been so dull or hardened, he wonders if Yuji will bounce back from everything; if he'll regret being so selfless in the first place.

"Itadori," he braces his arm on his hips, and Yuji's shoulder droops.

"Mr (Y/N), Nanamin...he said he'd leave it to me. You told Ms Ieiri that you had a feeling he was alive."

"Eavesdropping, Itadori?" Yuji's laughs as Satoru slings an arm around his shoulder, attempting to escape his hand that is ruffling his hair.

"Aah, Mr Gojo, quit it!" Satoru settles with a few more chuckles so Yuji continues. "When everything settles, could you help me fulfill Nanamin's wish?"

"Yuji."

Satoru smiles brightly, squeezing Yuji close as he ruffles the back of his head.

"You leave (Y/N) to me."

"Does this form please you more?"

Your eyes can't take themselves off the sight before you. Satoru — no, his corpse. What a strange string of words.

Satoru's corpse.

It's too unreal. Those words do not belong to one another. He grasps the back of your head and forces it to face him. You can't decide what is worse; when you wake to Megumi's face twisted in a cruel expression, finding out Tsumiki was being used as a vessel, being shown Kento's death on replay through Sukuna's/Yuji's memory of the moment, or this monstrous being before you with Satoru's corpse behind you.

"My, my, my, don't tempt me," Sukuna does not let you squirm. His four hands held you firmly within his grasp as you wept.

"I truly am delighted your bloodline prevailed. The betrayal should be punished with death but, seeing you again, I'll not make the same mistake twice."

The binding vow that was made with your ancestor, one that made Sukuna keep the flame technique within his grasp and your ancestor in the other. Breaking it left your bloodline with a technique meant to be used only after mastering the innate technique — to put it simply, it was akin to making someone tame a pack of rabid wolves before they even potty-trained a puppy. It was no wonder you were all so weak.

"Keeping such a trump card of a technique hidden from me, how shrewd."

Yuji cannot believe it. Everything was moving too fast. Gojo Satoru was dead, and the era of sorcerers was coming to an end as reality settled in the bones of curses and sorcerers alike. But then, you're there.

Apparated out of thin air — no. The necklace around Sukuna's neck. You were kept there, did you spectate everything? The entire fight? Every person Sukuna had killed —

They had tried their best to look for you and you'd just been there, hidden in plain fucking sight.

Suguru is in your peripheral, you blink and you swear you feel your mind break as he loops his arms around Satoru's corpse. Another blink and Kento and Yū appear, pale and rotten and burnt and dead.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" His eyes are filled with nothing but amusement as you will yourself out of his grasp, your foot making contact with his face as you kick yourself off from it.

The rubble stings your bare feet as you dig your heels into the ground, your dark flames eating away at the sleeves of the silken garments his loyal servant, Uruame, had dressed you in. Feeling its weight disappear fuels you with more ire than you ever thought you'd ever feel.

This man, this monster, had taken everything from you. Even if it kills you, even if you end up burning the entire world into ash and cinder — nothing matters anymore.

Your mother, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi —

Heaven and Hell will rue the day they took them. The Gods have created a new monster in the form of you and Yuji shudders at the empty look in your eyes.

What had you gone through in the months you were gone? The garments you wore were that of highly respected concubines, heavy and silken and patterned.

What had Sukuna done to you? Had he taken the very essence of your soul and ripped it to pieces just like he had done with him?

Kento's words echo in his mind, and Satoru's face appears with a blink. He needed to step in and save you — from yourself and from Sukuna's grasp. His two mentors, he can't let them down, he can't. You were precious to Megumi, to Tsumiki from what Megumi had once told him. Satoru looks at you with such a warm aura, that Kento always threatens to smile when he even mentions you.

Desperation pumps through Yuji's body and he feels his nails elongate, giving it a quick glance before spotting Kashimo descending from the sky.

Sukuna's laughter booms throughout the empty planes and echoes around the destroyed buildings. The very earth shakes with each inhale.

"You truly haven't changed, my concubine! Come! Let's go insane together!"

[pikahlua]

i have a question about this chapter

in the beginning, bakugou says “i’m done messing around izuku(?)” but i’m confused on what it means. does this mean that he isn’t gonna treat him horribly anymore or he’s done messing around and he’s coming into his own (quirk/name/person)?

Didn't wanna answer until I published the translation.

もうおめーの邪魔はしねえ もうおめーのじゃまはしねえ mou omee no jama wa shinee I won't get in your way anymore.* (*Note: This is a sentence that could have many potential translations: "I won't get in your way anymore," "I won't hold you back anymore," "I won't be a hindrance to you anymore," etc.)

This is one of those "Katsuki Bakugou contains multitudes" lines where he means a lot of things at the same time.

The surface-level, pseudo-obvious meaning is that Katsuki won't be a jerk to Izuku--but that doesn't actually make sense, because he isn't a jerk to Izuku anymore. That shit is long over.

I think the key to understanding this line lies in chapter 406:

The major struggle Katsuki has had throughout this final arc is about his sense of inferiority compared to Izuku. Remember, he was revived at the time when he could save All Might from AFO and make up for his perceived weakness that caused All Might's downfall.

So in one sense, Katsuki is saying he's strong now. His lack of power will no longer be a burden. Now he can run alongside Izuku and match his pace and support him without Izuku ever having to worry.

But there is also some deeper meaning behind that sentiment, one that's had roots in Katsuki's journey through the entire story, since chapter 1.

It's Katsuki's relationship with victimhood.

From the beginning, the one insecurity within Katsuki that was so great he would actually kind of voice it aloud was his fear that he couldn't match up to Izuku and that Izuku looked down on him for it.

And this all ties back into his insecurities about his role in All Might's downfall. All of this was a major point of what "Deku vs Kacchan, Part 2" was all about.

It's something I dissected a long time ago here:

So it's not that Katsuki wants to protect Izuku; Katsuki doesn't want to be the reason for Izuku's downfall.

And here:

Katsuki lightens Izuku’s load by looking out for everyone else, and this is why Katsuki works so well as Izuku’s weakness. He’s become the cornerstone of Izuku’s house of cards. As much as he hates being a weakness, Katsuki can’t just make it stop by telling Izuku not to care. Izuku will keep on caring regardless. So instead Katsuki has to convince Izuku that Katsuki is stronger so Izuku will keep chasing after him. Izuku needs to believe Katsuki is stronger in order to get stronger himself. Katsuki needs Izuku to believe Katsuki can handle himself, that Izuku can trust him, so they can work as a team and compensate for each other’s weaknesses.

Katsuki acknowledges in his apology in chapter 322 that Izuku is on the right path, that all his moves since receiving OFA have been correct. Katsuki has been a roadblock hindering Izuku and holding him back--yes, often by rejecting him and competing maliciously with him, but also by being too weak to stand at Izuku's side. He was caught by the sludge villain, kidnapped by the League of Villains, lethally stabbed and later nearly killed by TomurAFO. He wasn't the strong hero like All Might that fought to win and save the day. He wasn't an equal partner.

What I read when Katsuki says he won't get in Izuku's way anymore is that he's done it, he's strong enough to stand at Izuku's side, he's strong enough to let Izuku do what he does best, he's strong enough to support Izuku as Izuku strives to achieve what only he can achieve. AND I read Katsuki saying "I am no longer that weak person, I am no longer a burden, I am no longer NOT a hero, no longer NOT the hero I needed to be."

"I won't be a weakness others can exploit to get to you anymore."

(And I read that he's ready to let Izuku be the main character.)

[vitaminseetarot]

PAC: What Hobby Should You Begin Next? 🎨🛶📯

Sup y'all, it's time for a new pick a card reading (this one's especially for you night owls out there as I'm posting this at midnight lol). Ideally, I'd like to post one PAC every week after this but eh, lettuce see about that. 🥬👀

This pick a card was inspired by the remaining energies of late Taurus season. The grass is bright, the air is warm, the flowers are blooming, and it's brought out the artist in me. While I've been finishing a leisure painting, I stopped to draw out some cards to help out anyone who's in the mood to do something fun in their spare time but could use some direction or guidance.

Pick any one of the four Prism Oracle cards below, or its corresponding crystal/emoji, to see what hobby you could explore next, or if there is a hobby you enjoy that is calling for your attention:

Pile 1 - Consciousness + Moonstone 🌙 Pile 2 - Happiness + Carnelian 😊 Pile 3 - Creativity + Amethyst 🎉 Pile 4 - Determination + Citrine 🧭

Pile 1 - Consciousness + Moonstone 🌙

77 Beginnings, Sound+Resonance+Frequency, The Musician, Capricorn Rising - Aspire; Page of Swords, Page of Wands, 9 of Cups, Knight of Swords, XI Justice

Wow, pile 1, I think you have the most obvious answer of all four piles. You're very drawn to pursuing something musical. It could be in a variety of ways. You might try singing, writing a song, playing an instrument, learning to dance, or perform in musical theater (the purple curtain in the Justice card definitely brings theater to mind). You could enjoy collecting vinyl records, or producing music through special programs and apps. You may desire to publish your music online, or dream of going big on stage and signing major contracts with labels. Two Pages tells me you're most likely into more than one thing, as plenty of musical artists can multitask.

Your pile was the only one to get two Prism cards at first as Anxiety initially wanted to pop out. It's also clear that with two Pages and the Beginnings card, you're very new at this hobby. There's an over awareness of this fact, that on some level you may not know where to even start. There's some doubt I sense that you feel you can't be at the level you wish to stand on. Capricorn energy wants to reach for the very top of the ladder in accomplishment; it is a steady energy although not intent on settling. I get that there are many people here who greatly look up to an artist and wish to have their same talents. Try to look past the smoke and mirrors of all the top 40's singers and know that music is way more accessible than it's made to look.

Try embracing the newness of this pursuit, pile 1. It's okay to be a little lost, or feel that there's a long way to go. The only way to go pro is to start small and grow. There are a lot of free resources online for learning music (try out musictheory.net for free lessons) and free vocal technique lessons on Youtube. Some people are very lucky to have the chance to start learning at a young age, but if we were to set a rule stating that only those who did so could play, that would leave a lot of creative geniuses and successful musicians out of the frame. If you're learning to play the keyboard, practice one song or even one note at a time (doesn't have to be Chopsticks, lol). Consistency is key.

When the inspiration and joy to explore music finally strikes you, take the time to really dive in and make something small. If you're trying to write a song, start with a jingle. If it's music theory you want to go over, start with just 1 lesson and see how it feels. If you're learning to dance, begin with warm ups and slow music before working on the more intense songs. Are you looking for writing inspiration? Keep plenty of notes on hand and learn how to identify music so you can easily write a melody down (there are empty music notebooks for this). If this is something you would like to do in the long term, then continue to practice with that perspective by not overdoing it to compensate for "lost time". You are exactly where you need to be on your creative journey.

Pile 2 - Happiness + Carnelian 😊

66 The Selves, You Belong Here, The Wise One, Cancer Moon - Intuit; X Wheel of Fortune, Sagittarius ♐, VI The Lovers, 9 of Pentacles, XVI The Tower

What's going on, pile 2? With the Selves card above Sagittarius, I'm getting that a lot of you may be interested in pursuing theater or comedy, whether that's stand up or it's simply channeled through the projects you create. Your next hobby may involve incorporating a lot of humor into what you do. This pile is the most multifaceted of the four, with many differing hobbies, so I'm going to list a variety of different talents, but what binds them all together is the need to express one's own (very) strong opinions for the world to see.

You may want to be a photographer who documents unusual things, or write something that makes a powerful statement. There's a need here to let go of any of the anxieties that come with expressing your authentic self, because while those feelings are natural, listening to them too much will dampen your creative drive. This is the group that wants to make very surreal graffiti art or provocative dance routines. With the Tower card, here, I feel there's a need for the shock and awe to get your inspiration buzzing. On the gentler side, I can see some of you getting into something nature based like flower printing and permaculture but the caveat is that it's a reflection of your genuine self and beliefs in some way. With Wheel of Fortune, some of you may feel an urge to learn about tarot or pendulum reading, as these things are typically categorized as "unusual".

You may also get into traveling to stay involved in your hobby, or it requires roving about in some way. To break down creative blocks, it might help to actually move yourself to a different location. It doesn't necessarily involve moving to a whole new place, it could just refer to another part of your home or you may benefit from walking or dancing to decompress. I feel that moving your body will stimulate your creative ideas to flow through. A small number of you may have considered trying out extreme sports like free climbing or parkour. I don't really need to mention that these can be incredibly dangerous, so some of you may like something similar like skateboarding or gymnastics as well. It doesn't have to be intense, just active.

With the Lovers, there also exists a social aspect to your hobby. You may be drawn to share you hobby with a friend or with partners. It will greatly help you to be in an environment that supports your avant-garde tastes and not settle for less. It's not always easy to put shocking art with profound messages out there for the world to make sense of it, though some make it seem that way. It's easy to pretend that negative feedback doesn't get to you, but only accept constructive criticism as that will feed you more than shocked reactions. You cannot afford to have others in your life discourage you, as your skill sets require a lot of space for growth. Nourish relationships that want to celebrate your talents with you. Find a community that loves what you love, and wants to see you happy with what you do. Embrace the wild side of your artistic abilities.

Pile 3 - Creativity + Amethyst 🎉

54 Security, the Messenger, The Aspirant, Aries Sun - Assert; 2 of Pentacles, Knight of Wands, 0 The Fool, Aquarius ♒, Virgo ♍

Hello, pile 3. With the 2 of Pentacles, many of you may want to explore a hobby that is both online and offline, or the internet and social media are major components. If you like making artwork, you could be into digital art or simply want to upload images of your offline work for others to see. With Virgo, some of you may have a lot to say, by starting a blog or online journal documenting your life or interests, or you could try out freelance editing. If you were a youtuber, you could be really good at creating epically long videos about niche topics, or short videos explaining how to do a certain task (like tiktoks that showcase a person's routines and what cleaning products they recommend).

I see that this is the pile of innovation, as the Creativity card shows a lightbulb. You could have various ideas pop up in your head, only to feel unsure of how to approach them. Your attention span could split into a variety of different mediums for getting the idea out. Aquarius wants to take its genius energy and spread it around the world. For a lot of you, social media will support your ideas by broadcasting them. Your hobby may directly involve interfacing with others; your creative spark is not for hiding away. Web design, for example, is a hobby but it involves creating something that others will directly interact with. Your work is meant for a wide audience, should you choose to put yourself out there.

This may not always be easy for you, since there could be a pull towards more stable and predictable activities. There's a nervousness here, kind of like imposter syndrome. You may get a really cool idea for a mobile game app before you or someone else goes "but that's an unrealistic goal to spend so much time and effort on", followed by, "how could I ever make something like that?" The thing is, you can be the most talented, skilled, and experienced person when it comes to a subject, yet still have these same worries. Imposter syndrome doesn't magically go away with a college degree, a new job, or 10,000 subscribers. It's completely normal, but make sure to not let your doubts tempt you into doing something more boring and unfulfilling. This is the pile most likely to try a totally new hobby that is unrelated to your other skills, it doesn't have to be realistic.

But also understand that it can take time for something to get really good. Your first fiction draft is gonna turn out clunky, or your app could be filled with bugs, but it's part of the process. There's no perfect time; when you get the urge to try, just try it! Reach out to a local community or chat group so you can get a realistic sense of how long it takes for projects and skills develop. Slam poetry may be a great outlet, so if you'd like to do that, attend an open mic and see how others do it. You are allowed to be imperfect with your hobby--if you wish to evolve your craft, remember the passion and curiosity that brought you to it.

Pile 4 - Determination + Citrine 🧭

57 Spiritual Guide, What Goes Around Comes Around, The Astronomer, Taurus Rising - Enjoy; 9 of Pentacles, Cancer ♋, Queen of Swords, Knight of Wands, Knight of Swords

How's it going, pile 4? So this is the most active and possibly athletic pile we have here. Staying in the house is not gonna work because something is itching you to get out underneath the stars. Could some of you be majoring or planning in major in STEM? I'm getting a lot of natural science here. With the Astronomer card, you could want to use your telescope to go stargazing or visit planetariums. Are you still feeling the buzz from all the aurora storm and eclipse hype? It would not surprise me if these events awoke an interest for you and now you're looking up when the next meteor shower will show up or when Saturn will be most visible in the sky.

Your next hobby needs or is the outdoors on some level. But Cancer energy is that of a homebody. The most laidback people in this group may enjoy relaxing hobbies like birdwatching or gardening. These hobbies could be spiritually fulfilling for you. I'm seeing someone wearing an apron outside, so could some of you be interested in grilling or being the host to a fun party in the backyard. Do people even have book club meetings in gardens? A lot of enjoying nature is simply finding a good spot and soaking in the scenery with no other goal in mind. Just being near trees and beach sides might be enough.

But I see a lot of you mainly wish to have an adventure and go far out in nature when the weather's just right. You could be thinking about hiking or backpacking out on trails. It all depends on your comfort level as we all have different tolerance levels. I don't know if geocaching and pokemon go are still popular, but they can be unique ways to engage with the outdoors. You could try guided nature tours presented by nature conservationists like the National Audubon, where you can identify and take photos of animals as you wander through the woods and plains. You may like a hobby that is seasonally specific, like swimming in warm waters or skiing down a snowy mountain.

Your hobby may have you think deeply about how humans connect with nature, exploring the ecosystem and how our actions influence our environment. Climate change can be a very serious and, for some, directly impactful topic to mull over. Remind yourself that as long as you're respectful (leave no trace), mother nature enjoys your company as much as you do for her. A small few of you may have the urge to travel to weird locations. Two knights in your reading suggest boldness. If you decide to visit an abandoned or haunted place, Queen of Swords says to please be careful and follow rules if it says no trespassing, and remember that abandoned places can be dangerous from faulty wiring and unstable flooring. Overall, I feel this pile just can't do with an indoor hobby. You have the motivation and courage to explore the vast beautiful world out there. It awaits you.

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2024, @VitaminseeTarot ™

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Kickstarting the Red Team Blues audiobook, which Amazon won't sell (read by Wil Wheaton!)

Red Team Blues is my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller; it’s a major title for my publishers Tor Books and Head of Zeus, and it’s swept the trade press with starred reviews all ‘round. Despite all that, Audible will not sell the audiobook. In fact, Audible won’t sell any of my audiobooks. Instead, I have to independently produce them and sell them through Kickstarter:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/21/anti-finance-finance-thriller/#marty-hench

Audible is Amazon’s monopoly audiobook platform. It has a death-grip on the audiobook market, commanding more than 90% of genre audiobook sales, and every single one of those audiobooks is sold with Amazon’s DRM on it. That means that you can’t break up with Amazon without throwing away those audiobooks. Under the 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act, I can’t give you a tool to convert my own copyrighted audiobooks to a non-Amazon format. Doing so is a felony carrying a five year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine for an act that in no way infringes anyone’s copyright! Indeed, merely infringing copyright is much less illegal than removing Amazon’s mandatory DRM from my own books!

I’ve got amazing publishers who support my crusade against DRM, but they’re not charities. If they can’t sell my audiobooks on the platform that represents 90% of the market, they’re not going to make audio editions at all. Instead, I make my own audiobooks, using brilliant voice actors like Amber Benson and @neil-gaiman​, and I sell them everywhere except Audible.

Doing this isn’t cheap: I’m paying for an incredible studio (Skyboat Media), a world-class director (Gabrielle de Cuir), top-notch sound editing and mastering, and, of course, killer narrators. And while indie audiobook platforms like Libro.fm and downpour.com are amazing, the brutal fees extracted by Apple and Google on app sales means that users have to jump through a thousand hoops to shop with indie stores. Most audiobook listeners don’t even know that these stores exist: if a title isn’t available on Audible, they assume no audiobook exists.

That’s where Kickstarter comes in: twice now, I’ve crowdfunded presales of my audiobooks through KS, and these campaigns were astoundingly successful, smashing records and selling thousands of audiobooks. These campaigns didn’t just pay my bills (especially during lockdown, when our household income plunged), but they also showed other authors that it was possible to evade Amazon’s monopoly chokepoint and sell books that aren’t sticky-traps for Audible’s walled garden/prison:

https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/columns-and-blogs/cory-doctorow/article/90282-we-wrote-a-book-about-why-audible-won-t-sell-our-book-and-snuck-it-onto-audible.html

And today, I’m launching the Kickstarter for Red Team Blues, and even by the standards of my previous efforts, I think this one’s gonna be incredible.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell

For starters, there’s the narrator: @wilwheaton​, whose work on my previous books is outstanding, hands-down my favorite (don’t tell my other narrators! They’re great too!):

https://wilwheaton.net/

Beyond Wil’s narration, there’s the subject matter. The hero of Red Team Blues is a hard-charging forensic accountant who’s untangled every Silicon Valley finance scam since he fell in love with spreadsheets as as a MIT freshman, dropped out, got his CPA ticket, and moved west. Now, at the age of 67, Marty Hench is ready to retire, but a dear old friend — a legendary cryptographer — drags him back for one last job — locating the stolen keys to the backdoor he foolishly hid in a cryptocurrency that’s worth more than a billion dollars.

That’s the starting gun for a “grabby next-Tuesday thriller” that sees Marty in between three-letter agencies and international crime syndicates, all of whom view digital technology as a carrier medium for scams, violence and predation. Marty’s final adventure involves dodgy banks, crooked crypto, and complicit officials in a fallen paradise where computers’ libertory promise has been sucked dry by billionaire vampires.

It’s a pretty contemporary story, in other words.

I wrote this one before SVB, before Sam Bankman0Fried and FTX — just like I wrote Little Brother before Snowden’s revelations. It’s not that I’m prescient — fortune-telling is a fatalist’s delusion — it’s that these phenomena are just the most spectacular, most recent examples in a long string of ghastly and increasingly dire scandals.

Red Team Blues blasted out of my fingertips in six weeks flat, during lockdown, when technology was simultaneously a lifeline, connecting us to one another during our enforced isolation; and a tool of predatory control, as bossware turned our “work from home” into “live at work.”

The last time I wrote a book that quickly, it was Little Brother, and, as with Little Brother, Red Team Blues is a way of working out my own anxieties and hopes for technology on the page, in story.

These books tap into a nerve. I knew I had something special in my hands when, the night after I finished the first draft, I rolled over at 2AM to find my wife sitting up in bed, reading.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I had to find out how it ended,” she answered.

The next day, my editor sent me a four-line email:

That. Was. A! Fucking! Ride! Whoa!

Within a week, he’d bought Red Team Blues…and two sequels. I finished writing the second of these on Monday, and all three are coming out in the next 22 months. It’s gonna be a wild ride.

Kickstarter backers can get the usual goodies: DRM-free audiobooks and ebooks, hardcovers (including signed and personalized copies), and three very special, very limited-run goodies.

First, there’s naming rights for characters in the sequels — I’m selling three of these; they’re a form of cheap (or at least, reasonably priced) literary immortality for you or a loved one. The sequels are a lot of fun — they go in reverse chronology, and the next one is The Bezzle, out in Feb 2024, a book about prison-tech scams, crooked LA County Sheriff’s Deputy gangs, and real-estate scumbags turned techbros.

The third book is Picks and Shovels (Jan 2025), and it’s Marty’s first adventure after he comes west to San Francisco and ends up working for the bad guys, an affinity scam PC company called “Three Wise Men” that’s run by a Mormon bishop, a Catholic priest and an orthodox rabbi who fleece their faithful with proprietary, underpowered computers and peripherals, and front for some very bad, very violent money-men.

Next, there’s three Marty Hench short story commissions: the Hench stories are machines for turning opaque finance scams into technothrillers. While finance bros use MEGO (“my eyes glaze over”) as a weapon to bore their marks into submission, I use the same performative complexity as the engines of taut detective stories. Commissioning a Hench story lets you turn your favorite MEGO scam into a science fiction story, which I’ll then shop to fiction websites (every story I’ve written for the past 20 years has sold, though in the event that one of these doesn’t, I’ll put it up under a CC license).

Finally, there’s a super-ultra-limited deluxe hardcover edition — and I do mean limited, just four copies! These leather-bound editions have Will Staehle’s fantastic graphic motif embossed in their covers, and the type design legend John D Berry is laying out the pages so that there’s space for a hidden cavity. Nestled in that cavity is a hand-bound early draft edition of The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues. The binding is being done by the fantastic book-artist John DeMerritt. Each copy’s endpapers will feature a custom cryptographic puzzle created especially for it by the cryptographer Bruce Schneier.

I often hear from readers who want to thank me for the work I do, from the free podcast I’ve put out since 2006 to the free, CC BY columns I’ve written for Pluralistic for the past three years. There is no better way to thank me than to back this Kickstarter and encourage your friends to do the same:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell

Preselling a ton of audiobooks, ebooks, and print books is a huge boost to the book on its launch — incomparable, really. Invaluable.

What’s more, helping me find a viable way to produce popular, widely heard audiobooks without submitting to Amazon’s DRM lock-in sets an example for other creators and publishers: we have a hell of a collective action problem to solve, but if we could coordinate a response to Audible demanding the right to decide whether our work should have their DRM, it would force Audible to treat all of us — creators, publishers and listeners — more fairly.

I’ll be heading out on tour to the US, Canada, the UK and Germany once the book is out. I’m really looking forward to as many backers in person as I can! Thank you for your support over these many long years — and for your support on this Kickstarter.

Today (Mar 22), I’m doing a remote talk for the Institute for the Future’s “Changing the Register” series.

[Image ID: A graphic showing a phone playing the Red Team Blues audiobok, along with a quote from Booklist, 'Jam-packed with cutting-edge ideas about cybersecurity and crypto. Another winner from an sf wizard.']

[probablyasocialecologist]

Days before Salvador Allende’s confirmation as Chile’s president in 1970, US President Richard Nixon met with a rightwing Chilean media mogul to discuss blocking the socialist leader’s path to the presidency, newly declassified documents have revealed. The documents, published in a new Spanish edition of the Pinochet files by archivist and writer Peter Kornbluh, include Nixon’s agenda for 15 September 1970, which shows a meeting in the Oval Office with Agustín Edwards, the owner of the conservative El Mercurio media group. A day earlier, Edwards had met CIA director Richard Helms. Notes from that conversation detail the media baron’s observations on various members of the military, prompting Nixon to request a “gameplan” for a coup that would prevent Allende’s inauguration. Allende had won a slender victory over rival Jorge Alessandri in presidential elections, but with no clear majority, the electoral system at the time required congress to ratify the candidate who would form a government. In secret, and with the support of President Nixon’s White House, a plan was hatched for the military to seize power, dissolve congress and block Allende’s inauguration. Alongside munitions and payments, Edwards conveyed the military’s demands for “clear and specific guarantees” as well as “assurances they would not be abandoned and ostracized”, according to a memorandum entitled “Conversation with Agustín Edwards, Owner of El Mercurio Chilean Newspaper Chain, 18 September 1970”, which had previously been heavily redacted. “It is incredible that, 50 years later, we’re still learning key details of how the US were trying to block, thwart, undermine and destabilise the first elected socialist president in Chile,” said Kornbluh.

[satoshi-mochida]

Cupid Parasite: Sweet & Spicy Darling coming west in 2024

Gematsu Source

Idea Factory International will release otome visual novel Cupid Parasite: Sweet & Spicy Darling for Switch in 2024 in the west, the publisher announced.

Cupid Parasite: Sweet & Spicy Darling will launch first in Japan on November 30.

Here is an overview of the game, via Idea Factory International:

About

While working for a major marriage agency named Cupid Corporation, Cupid the goddess of love herself, strived to become the top bridal advisor. She was assigned five hopeless clients known as the Parasite 5! Even after guiding them through mock dates, matchmaking seminars, and the reality show “Parasite House,” all five abruptly canceled their memberships! Yet their departures brought all their personal challenges to the surface. As she confronted these issues with them, they overcame many unexpected obstacles… And she fell in love with “him.” This is the continued love story of the goddess of love, Cupid, experiencing love firsthand. It’s the tale of when she becomes a goddess “only” for him. Marriage wasn’t the end goal, but the start of a new chapter. Whether they began dating or got married, the only thing awaiting them is a series of unexpected challenges! A mysterious new creature has appeared in Los York! Could it be a divine message or evidence of an unknown civilization? A love story so sweet, it’ll make your heart melt! The whirlwind of feelings taking the world by storm is far from over! An endearing, joyful, and chaotic tale that’s richer and more exhilarating than ever! This romance featuring a former goddess is so sweet and spicy, it’ll make your teeth ache and set your soul ablaze! And in Merenice Levin’s route, her days as Cupid are far from over! A romantic and comedic story in the world of matchmaking is set to unfold!

Key Features

Sweeter and Spicier! – Return to Los York with the original cast of Cupid Parasite, plus an all new-character Merenice Levin. Rendezvous with seven of the sweetest and spiciest bachelors in up to three game modes and unlock over 80 CGs, including some that may be too hot to handle!

All Different Flavors to Choose From – Pick from three different modes that can satiate anyone with a sweet tooth. Select “After Drama” mode to follow-up with the original Parasite 6 and pick up from where you last left off. Go with “New Parasite” mode for a chance to experience Merenice Levin’s perspective of the events that take place after the common route of Cupid Parasite. You can also explore routes you unlocked in “Bonus Episode” mode for six bonus episodes with their own unlockable CGs!

In Sweetness and In Spiciness?! – You must choose the flavor of the next course. Will you go with the sweet? Or will you go with the spicy? When prompted with the choice during gameplay, select between sweet or spicy to impact the ending of your selected route. Manage to balance the flavors for a chance at something really appetizing.

Rich, Decadent Visuals and Savory Scenarios – The original scenario writer and illustrator of Cupid Parasite return! Ririka Yoshimura (scenario writer) and Yuuya (illustrator) join forces once again to bring fans a delectable addition to the Cupid Parasite universe.

Watch a teaser trailer below. View a set of screenshots at the gallery. Visit the official website here.

Teaser Trailer

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - March 13, 2023

🐝 - Did you hear about the honeybee vaccine? It's creating quite the buzz! But seriously, it's a major breakthrough in the fight against American foulbrood and could save billions of bees.

1. Transgender health care is now protected in Minnesota

Minnesota Governor Tim Walz signed an executive order protecting and supporting access to gender-affirming health care for LGBTQ people in the state, amidst Republican-backed efforts across the country to limit transgender health care. The order upholds the essential values of One Minnesota where all people, including members of the LGBTQIA+ community, are safe, celebrated, and able to live lives full of dignity and joy.

Numerous medical organizations have said that access to gender-affirming care is essential to the health and wellness of gender diverse people, while states like Tennessee, Arizona, Utah, Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi, South Dakota, and Florida have passed policies or laws restricting transgender health care.

2. First vaccine for honeybees could save billions

The US government has approved the world's first honeybee vaccine to fight against American foulbrood, a bacterial disease that destroys bee colonies vital for crop pollination.

Developed by biotech company Dalan Animal Health, the vaccine integrates some of the foulbrood bacteria into royal jelly, which is then fed to the queen by the worker bees, resulting in the growing bee larvae developing immunity to foulbrood. The vaccine aims to limit the damage caused by the infectious disease, for which there is currently no cure, and promote the development of vaccines for other diseases affecting bees.

3. Teens rescued after days stranded in California snowstorm: "We were already convinced we were going to die"

The recent snowstorms in California have resulted in dangerous conditions for hikers and residents in mountain communities. Two teenage hikers were rescued by the San Bernardino County sheriff's department after getting lost in the mountains for 10 days.

The boys were well-prepared for the hike but were not prepared for the massive amounts of snow that followed. They were lucky to survive, suffering from hypothermia and having to huddle together for three nights to stay warm.

Yosemite National Park has had to be closed indefinitely due to the excessive snowfall.

4. La Niña, which worsens Atlantic hurricanes and Western droughts, is gone

The La Nina weather phenomenon, which increases Atlantic hurricane activity and worsens western drought, has ended after three years, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. That's usually good news for the United States and other parts of the world, including drought-stricken northeast Africa, scientists said.

The globe is now in what's considered a "neutral" condition.

5. Where there's gender equality, people tend to live longer

Both women and men are likely to live longer when a country makes strides towards gender equality, according to a new global study that authors believe to be the first of its kind.

The study was published in the journal PLOS Global Public Health this week. It adds to a growing body of research showing that advances in women's rights benefit everyone. "Globally, greater gender equality is associated with longer [life expectancy] for both women and men and a widening of the gender gap in [life expectancy]," they conclude.

6. New data shows 1 in 7 cars sold globally is an EV, and combustion engine car sales have decreased by 25% since 2017

Electric vehicles are the key technology to decarbonise road transport, a sector that accounts for 16% of global emissions. Compared with 2020, sales nearly doubled to 6.6 million (a sales share of nearly 9%), bringing the total number of electric cars on the road to 16.5 million.

Sales were highest in China, where they tripled relative to 2020 to 3.3 million after several years of relative stagnation, and in Europe, where they increased by two-thirds year-on-year to 2.3 million. Together, China and Europe accounted for more than 85% of global electric car sales in 2021

7. Lastly, watch this touching moment as rescued puppy gains trust in her new owners

By the way, this is my newly started YouTube channel. Subscribe for more wholesome videos :D

---

That's it for this week. If you liked this post you can support this newsletter with a small kofi donation:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Let's carry the positivity into next week and keep spreading the good news!

[windvexer]

Cartomancy After 101: Developing your own sets of card meanings that you swap out depending on your needs [concepts & tips]

My hypothesis for this post is that most forms of cartomancy heavily rely on the context of the question or situation being read on.

As context shifts, so do the specific interpretations that readers pluck out of a pool of general meaning.

By leaning into the idea of context and building extremely contextual meaning sets, readers can elevate their skills and more reliably produce very specific readings within contexts they have studied and prepared for.

This is going to be a long one, so I'm making sections for readability.

1. Cartomancy Relies On Context

Most "little white books" that come with tarot and oracle decks, and cartomancy websites and published resources, divide card meanings into the general and contextual.

E.g., a tarot card's general meaning usually includes key words such as heartbreak, betrayal, and backstabbing. Then, contextual meanings might be provided:

Interpersonal relationships: Is a relationship about to end?

Business: Make sure any new business deals won't screw you over.

Spiritual: How can you use your spirituality to help with heartbreak?

While these contextual meanings stem from the base source of the card, they aren't interchangeable. Imagine if a querent asks you about their small business, and you reply, "well, have you tried using your spirituality to deal with interpersonal heartbreak?"

Therefore, a major role of the reader is defining the appropriate context of a question.

In order to practice their skills, many diviners offer to do "blind" readings for others. This means that the reader doesn't want any background information about the question at all - but even so, a reader may still ask for the context of a question.

E.g., a reader may say, "don't even tell me your actual question, but just tell me what kind of question it is - if it's about employment, a relationship, etc. Otherwise I won't know how to frame the answer."

[I don't mean to say that all readers always require context in this manner. Many readers do not, especially very practiced ones. But I don't think that means that context is irrelevant, even to very experienced readers who can obtain context on their own.]

2. Developing Meanings for a Specific Context Results in More Specific Readings

The Complete Lenormand Oracle Handbook by Caitlín Matthews begins by introducing the typical meanings of Lenormand cards. Later, she provides a custom set of meanings she personally developed related to her years spent in live theater.

Because of her time spent performing readings for theater workers, and about theater, she had developed a complex and unique system of meaning for Lenormand which, for the purposes of reading about live theater, was immensely more accurate and specific than the general Lenormand system.

While the general meanings of Lenormand informed her custom system, the custom system was not interchangeable with general meanings and was only applicable to a specific context and its related themes.

I discovered the same phenomenon by accident years ago, when I was frustrated with how general and nonspecific my readings had become.

I wanted to be able to use tarot to read accurately for everyday situations. So, over the course of several months, I worked with my primary divinatory ally to develop my own set of notes for the tarot, specifically for reading everyday, mundane situations.

The meanings given for the cards don't work very well at all for mystical, spiritual, or meditative self-exploratory readings. The meanings are things like, "you're the only one putting energy into this relationship," or, "don't go to the party if you didn't receive an invitation."

I use this set of meanings when I want very plain and straightforward readings on everyday situations, which it's very good at. I got what I wanted: accurate and specific readings on day-to-day questions with the tarot.

The meaning set fails at every other kind of question.

Recently, in my ongoing experiments with a custom oracle mashup of playing cards and tarot, I decided I wanted a meaning set that was useful for troubleshooting creative writing projects.

This deck has general meanings like, air/movement/exchange, water/observation/stagnant, and earth/categories/planning.

I developed contextual meanings like, "the dialogue in this scene is doing what it needs to do," "the character's motivations aren't clearly explained," and "the external goals of the character don't match what's already been explained about them."

By focusing on a specific context, readers can get very good at reading certain types of questions.

3. Exploring Specific Contexts Improves Overall Reading Ability in Any Context

By taking the general meanings of a card and developing them in new, unique ways that are still true to that card's roots, you create a huge learning opportunity to connect more deeply with that card.

Not only can you explore the unique evolutions of each card as it intersects with your interests and life, but your understanding of the deck as a whole can evolve.

When I was working with my original set of "everyday" meanings for the tarot, I discovered that many times I developed card meanings that really overlapped each other, making some cards redundant. When I decided to sort this out, my understanding of - and relationship to - tarot rapidly changed. I'm at a new level of understanding that I hadn't been able to achieve just by using general meanings for the 15 or so years of reading I had been doing before that.

The elements are currently a major part in my practice of witchcraft. As silly or abstract as it may seem, exploring how an oracle card that generally means water/observation/stagnant could apply to a specific type of fiction writing deepened my relationship not only with that experimental deck, but also to my craft as a whole.

As I've explored custom meaning sets in general, my ability to rapidly link abstract symbols has improved. Even if a specific meaning set doesn't apply, just having explored that makes my readings stronger.

For example, if I draw a card and I don't know how to apply it to a certain situation, having different sets of meaning floating around in my head is a little like having three or four helpful aunties shouting suggestions. None of them may be completely accurate, but it's a far better starting place than having no aunties at all.

By investing in very specific sets of meaning that only apply to certain contexts, readers can gain insight and skills that assist them in all types of readings throughout all contexts.

4. Sundry Suggestions for Those Convinced

Here are a handful of tips and tricks I've collected throughout the years. Take or leave them as you desire.

Choose very specific contexts. The more specific, the better!

Well, I'm sure this one is more down to personal preference, but don't be afraid to choose extremely specific contexts.

In my examples above about the creative fiction meaning set, the context wasn't "literary analysis" or "creative writing." The context was, "troubleshooting commercial fiction manuscripts and outlines to be more in line with modern commercial standards."

That isn't great at brainstorming, coming up with story ideas, dealing with literary fiction, grappling with major artistic themes, etc. It does one thing great: helping you workshop a commercial manuscript that you'd like to send to a publisher.

Put thought into what deck(s) you're using.

Even when using general meanings, many readers identify that certain decks are just better at certain kinds of readings. If you have multiple decks, try swapping them out as you experiment and see which ones work best.

Develop not only individual cards, but the deck as a whole.

Depending on your preferences, you may find value in not only developing individual cards, but also groupings of cards.

By taking entire sections of cards (say, all of the wands cards) and linking them to an important concept within your context (say, the behaviors of all the dogs you train), you can make large leaps of progress.

The same could be done for all the kings cards (your mentors in the dog training world), all the #3 cards (they're all going to relate to, say, small change or progress), and you can end up quickly mashing up new meaning sets:

Today's dog training business reading suggests that a Youtuber who's information you rely on is going to release a video about the importance of small behavioral changes.

Assigning broad meanings to different sections of cards is a good way to start exploring specific contexts.

Let card meanings evolve as you explore.

As you take notes, there's no need to settle one one meaning for the card as it is and then avoid changing it.

If your original idea for a card is "stubborn dogs who are not motivated by treats," and you perform multiple readings on it where the card only really makes sense if it means, "this dog will show up super tired and just want to nap," then it's fine to modify notes as you go.

I find that over time, modifications actually end up being multiple possible interpretations, once again deepening my understanding of the card as a whole (this card refers to difficulty inspiring action and engagement).

Often, card meanings come to me very vaguely and are practically stand-ins until I can figure something out for them.

Be mindful of spreads.

I can apply some meaning sets to literally any spread and it'll come out just fine.

Other meaning sets I have don't play great with tons of spreads, and may only work well with small spreads, using signifiers, and so forth.

There's no need to avoid highly contradictory meanings.

If you've got two ideas for a card (the dog is well-adjusted and friendly, or, he's very reactive and dangerous) and you aren't sure which fits, keep both meanings and use a combination of readings and real-world verification to experiment.

Your unique context sets don't need to be congruent with each other.

While I believe it's a good idea to seek fidelity to the original/general meanings of a card, this doesn't imply that the unique contexts you develop have to coincide with each other.

Maybe you have a meaning set specifically for energy work, and a separate one for religious spirit work.

In your energy working set, the wands cards could always relate to fire energy and only ever refer to a spirit if drawn in conjunction with a court card.

But, in your religious spirit work set, the 4/wands might always refer to the spirit of a home, regardless of elemental alignment.

The meanings you develop for one context don't need to adhere to the rules you create for other contexts.

Playing card decks can really simplify the process.

Tarot cards, with their intrusive little pictures, can often impose their own meanings on a context whether you like it or not. Even if horrendous betrayal makes zero sense for your context, sometimes it's impossible to get those ideas of the 3/Swords out of our heads.

If you're finding tarot to be too confining, try experimenting with playing card decks. They're smaller, draw less attention, and most importantly, do away with the art that can anchor our minds to the wrong concepts.

(Split the difference by working with a tarot deck that just uses suit symbols for the pips, but has full art for the major arcana.)

5. Hey! Thanks for reading.

I hope you're having a good day ^-^

[onlycosmere]

REGARDING AUDIBLE

Brandon Sanderson: Hey, all. Brandon here, with what I consider to be some pretty exciting news. Many of you may remember when I wrote last year about my worries regarding audiobook royalties (particularly for independent authors). You can read it HERE, but some of the main bullet points are as follows:

I seriously worried about the opacity of reporting to authors about audio sales. We didn’t know what a sale meant, how much of an Audible credit was given to authors when a book sold via one, and how royalties were being accounted.

I felt that the industry was taking advantage of authors because of their lack of powerful corporate interests to advocate for them. While video game creators and musicians get 70–80% (88%, in fact, on two major platforms) of a sale of their products in a digital platform, Audible was paying as low as 25%–with the high end being instead 40%.

I felt I could have gotten a better deal for myself, but the entire state of this industry was seriously concerning to me. So, I made the difficult decision NOT to release the four Secret Projects on Audible, costing me a large number of sales, to instead try to bolster healthy competition in the space, highlighting some of the smaller Audible competitors.

I hoped this wake-up call would prompt change. I didn’t refuse to put my books on Audible out of retribution or to declare war; I did it because I wanted to shine as powerful a light as I knew how on a system that highly favored the audio distributors over the authors. I was convinced that the people at Audible really did love books and writers, and that with the right stand taken, I could encourage them toward positive change.

I’m happy to say that this stand has borne some fruit. I’ve spent this last year in contact with Audible and other audio distributors, and have pushed carefully–but forcefully–for them to step up. A few weeks ago, three key officers high in Audible’s structure flew to Dragonsteel offices and presented for us a new royalty structure they intend to offer to independent writers and smaller publishers.

This new structure doesn’t give everything I’ve wanted, and there is still work to do, but it is encouraging. They showed me new minimum royalty rates for authors–and they are, as per my suggestions, improved over the previous ones. Moreover, this structure will move to a system like I have requested: a system that pays more predictably on each credit spent, and that is more transparent for authors. Audible will be paying royalties monthly, instead of quarterly, and will provide a spreadsheet that better shows how they split up the money received with their authors.

This part looked really good to me, as I understand their decisions. I tried poking holes in the system, looking for ways it could be exploited, and found each issue I raised had already been considered. This doesn’t mean it’s going to be perfect, and people smarter than me might still find problems that I didn’t. However, I think everyone is going to agree the new system IS better. We will better be able to track, for example, how Audible is dividing money between books purchased with a credit and books listened to as part of their Audible Plus program.

It’s all very technical, but I have to say I’m impressed with the effort they have made. The people there listened to my complaints, and have tried to improve. I’m not at liberty to explain in its entirety their new structure right now, as they��re still tweaking it, but they did say I could announce its existence–and that I could promise new, improved royalties are on the horizon.

Now, before we go too far, I do anticipate a few continuing issues with the final product. I want to manage expectations by talking about those below.

What I’ve seen doesn’t yet bring us to the 70% royalty I think is fair, and which other, similar industries get.

Audible continues to reserve the best royalties for those authors who are exclusive to their platform, which I consider bad for consumers, as it stifles competition. In the new structure, both exclusive and non-exclusive authors will see an increase, but the gap is staying about the same.

Authors continue to have very little (basically no) control over pricing. Whatever the “cover price” of books is largely doesn’t matter–books actually sell for the price of a credit in an Audible subscription. Authors can never raise prices alongside inflation. An Audible credit costs the same as it did almost two decades ago–with no incentive for Audible to raise it, lest it lose customers to other services willing to loss-lead to draw customers over.

These are things I’d love to see change. However, this deal IS a step forward, and IS an attempt to meet me partway. Indeed, even incremental changes can mean a lot. When I was new in this business, my agent spent months arguing for a two-percent change in one of my print royalties–because every little bit helps. These improvements are going to be larger than two-percent increases.

Because of this, I will be bringing the Secret Projects to Audible very soon. I consider Audible to again be a positive force for the industry, and I have decided to shake hands with them. Audible has promised to release their new royalty system for all authors sometime in 2024, though I should be testing it in the next month or so.

And…if you’ll allow me a moment, I’d like to say that this feels good. It isn’t what I wanted, but I’d begun to think that nothing would ever change–that even my voice, loud though it can be, wouldn’t be enough. Yet change IS possible.

I know that there are plenty of people out there who are tired of hearing about me and my works (I’m sorry–I do have quite the group of evangelists, and we can be an enthusiastic lot). However, for better or for worse, I am one of the bestselling authors in the world. Historically, one of the best ways to change things in my industry is for authors like myself to force it to happen.

Feeling this responsibility, when I was first talking to Audible about these issues in 2022, I made it very clear that I wasn’t just seeking some quiet deal that gave me an individual advantage. I wanted to see positive change for all authors. And while I don’t think I can take sole credit, I do feel like my efforts this year have had a significantly positive effect. Soon every independent author who publishes on Audible (and maybe, eventually, traditionally published authors with the huge publishers–depending on what New York decides) will be getting a larger cut of the profit, with more transparency about how that cut is allocated.

So, for those who have been waiting until Audible had the Secret Projects, you’ll get your chance soon. I hope you’ll support them, and support Audible for their decisions. And thank you to all of you who shared the news about my problems with the audio industry last year; I believe that pressure really did help. This is a victory for all of us, because happier authors able to make a better living (particularly those authors who are struggling in the midlist trenches) make for a more vibrant world for everyone.

[freshstitches]

Last month, Sixth & Spring publishing reached out to me to review the new Short-row Colorwork Knitting book by Woolly Wormhead. Woolly  is best known for designing clever hat patterns that employ the use of short-rows to create dynamic shapes in colorwork. I've never made one of her patterns, but have long appreciated them as a sort of brain teaser. Each one seems to fit together like a puzzle of yarn. I've now spent a month with this book, reading through it and using it as a textbook to learn Woolly's signature short row technique.

The cover of the book has a frosted glass feel, which I think is nicer than a glossy cover. Three of the brightly colored stitch patterns are displayed along with the title. The book contains 50 stitch patterns and 10 projects. The yarn for the publication was provided by malabrigo so every stitch pattern is shown in beautiful tonal yarn. I also noticed a stitch key on the inside of the flap of the cover that folds out so you can look at it when you're working on a pattern. I love the consideration for the reader and the functionality.

This book is written like a workbook, it starts by giving you all the tools that you need to use to knit the stitch patterns then use them in your own projects. The first few chapters explain the short-row colorwork fabric, the chart system, ways of altering the motifs in the book and color theory. I was not left with any questions about the instructions. The next section of the book contains tutorials teaching the basics of short row knitting, the skills that are needed to complete the patterns are shown with photos. There's even a photo tutorial on knitting backwards - a huge time saver. It seems like Woolly and I have the same party trick. 

Next, I tried making a few of the stitch patterns with my new skills. The chart system was intuitive. The first swatch is the Sine Stripes pattern. The swatch in the book showed a selvedge, which I added on my swatch as well. Next, I tried making the Anemones motif. I did not add a selvedge this time, but felt confident using the lessons to shift the placement of the short rows. None of the short rows were changed,I just cast on extra stitches and practiced moving the motifs. I did not have a chance to try any of the "repeatable" stitch patterns yet which can be used in the round as well as flat. The majority of the book is spent on these adaptable stitches.

I didn't have time to try any of the projects, but noticed a good mix of different accessories. I appreciate the inclusion of multiple designers showing different perspectives and approaches to the Short-row Colorwork technique. The final chapter of the book explains different design considerations, inviting the reader to actually use the stitch dictionary portion of the text for their own applications. The properties of some of these stitches are unique and the lessons are helpful and explaining all different scenarios that may come up.

I always intended to get this book, and it definitely lived up to my expectations. It's incredibly thorough without becoming overwhelming. If you enjoy learning new things, this is a great purchase. It's currently available for  pre-order and will be available in the US on April 16th and in the UK on May 14th. More info is available on Woolly's website. And you can preorder a copy of the book on Amazon.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Up All Night 1

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)

Note: I wasn't serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You rub your cheek as you check the time in the corner of the screen. You should’ve been gone an hour ago, you should have your bottle of shiraz and your episode of housewives to keep you company. You don’t know why you expected that, nothing ever goes to schedule, not with your boss.

You sigh at his empty office. You haven’t seen him for two days. He has an automatic reply that he’s ‘working remotely’. You know Mr. Drysdale well enough. He doesn’t work outside the office, he barely does anything at the office.

You go back to the PDF, your red notes in the margin of the manuscript. Big meeting tomorrow. Hopefully your boss got that message. You can only imagine what would happen if a publishing house missed their introductory conference with a major writer. That could mean thousands, if not millions, in losses. Somehow, you suspect you won’t have to imagine.

You finish the chapter and press your finger to your phone. It lights up but you don’t have anything more than the several reminders you set for yourself and automated notifications from apps you never use. Drysdale…

His last name rolls from your throat without meaning too. Something about him just irks you to the bone. Maybe it’s envy, or at very least, resent. You’ve worked all these years in the publishing business to become an assistant, all while he was born into his editor’s chair.

Another bubble pops up. You’re not the social media type. You never got much into it. Your generation came a bit too early for that, but you’ve found with men like Drysdale, narcissists really, it is a great tool.

You tap the notification and it opens the story. There he is, taking a shot with a pair of statuesque twins. Not the best look for an editor, on that night, of all nights. 

You clamp your lips shut and flare your nostrils. Right. You close your laptop as you see Eugene making his sweep. Once security pops up, you know you’ve got to go. You pack up your things and say hello to the man in the blue uniform on your way out. He knows you by name too.

You shift your glasses on your nose, the little rubber pieces starting to squeeze your bridge. You come out the front of the building and make your way to the only car left in the lot. You throw your bag in the back and drop into the front seat.

No wine for you. You’ll have to stream the episode when it comes out on Prime. You set a new alarm for the morning, early enough for you to make sure Mr. Drysdale meets his obligations.

📗

As expected, you don’t have a single call from Drysdale. You’ve left several messages since your alarm blared and broke through your four hours of sleep. You see his last activity on Insta from three in the morning and you want to throttle your own phone. This isn’t good.

You have only enough time to get yourself ready. Your morning routine of a perfectly portioned breakfast and precisely brewed dark roast is nixed. You get in your car with coffee in a travel mug. You have only one thing on your mind.

As you draw up the long drive to the ultra-modern facade, the revulsion courses from your stomach into your throat. There’s something about his style that makes your eyes roll. So obnoxious and absurd. He’s exactly a caricature of a silver-spooned brat.

You park behind the beamer and take a draw from your insulated mug. Ugh, you need caffeine, you need strength and patience. You put it back in the cupholder and force yourself out of the peace of the front seat.

You stride up the white stone walkway and hit the doorbell. Once. Twice. Five times before you admit you will not receive an answer. You bring up the emergency file in your phone and key in the door code. Drysdale would shit if he knew his mother sent you it but she is a lot smarter than him. It makes you wonder how the apple rolled so far away after falling.

You let yourself in. It’s quiet but for the catch and skip of a forgotten record. You go into the front room. Open bottles of liquor forgotten on the glass table, a broken glass on the floor, and the record player crackling through the speaker.

You pull the needle off and pause to look out through the transparent wall that gives a clear view of the entire room. You know Drysdale to be shameless but really?

You put your phone away and approach the stares. The large gap between each gives a sense of vertigo to your ascent. You get to the top and head down the hall, glancing down over the entryway as you do.

You carry on and open a door; closet. The next, a bathroom, the other, a bedroom but not used. And finally, you find the door you’re looking for. On the other side, Mr. Drysdale sleeps with his ass naked in the room, upside down on the bed with his head hanging off the foot. The same woman from his Instagram are entwined with him as they sleep the right side up. Ugh, you don’t want to picture it.

You go into the en suite bathroom and take the sleek black plastic cup from beside the sink. You fill it with cold water and unhook the amber satin robe from the door as you pass. You march to the bed and dump the water onto Ransom’s head, watching it splash down his back.

He yipes and whips his head up with an unattractive snort, “what the fuck–”

“Robert Laing is due at nine. It’s ten to eight.” You drop the robe over him carelessly and spin on your heel, “let’s go., Mr. Drysdale.”

[impala-dreamer]

Sweet Little Lies

A Supernatural Story

~ It’s funny how one little white lie can spiral so out of control that the beginning seems eons ago and the end is nowhere in sight.~

Dean Winchester, OFC Eddie, OMC Leslie, Sam Winchester and others

8,517 Words

Warnings: Show Level Angst and Violence, Blood, Major Character Death, Some Funnies

A/N: This is written for @jacklesversebingo My prompt was "A white lie that spirals out of control" and boy did it. I do hope that you enjoy. This took me forever to write and I really love how it turned out. Thanks for reading!

JacklesBingo Masterlist

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

With a worried sigh, Dean grabbed the Impala keys off of the little round kitchenette table and his green canvas jacket from the chair. In a rush to leave, he nearly toppled the chair, but it found its footing on the dingy orange carpet. 

“Be back later,” he groaned, clearly annoyed and slightly confused.

Sam shook his head from the bathroom doorway. He leaned against the door jab as he finished drying his hands with the slightly gray hand towel. The motel was beyond old, and suspiciously filthy, as if a maid hadn’t stepped foot inside in the past two decades. 

“You’re really going?” 

Dean huffed as he paused just half a step from the door. “What choice have I got, Sam?” 

“You could not go,” Sam offered with a hint of snobbery that Dean did not appreciate. “You know it’s a trap, right?” 

Dean spun on his heel and pursed his lips into a tight line. “Yeah, I know it’s a damned trap! Of course it is! But I gotta go.” 

Sam sighed heavily, his massive frame sinking just enough to drive his point home. “Dean-”

He tossed his hand up and waved Sam away. “I gotta go, Sam. Someone could die.” 

“I know.” Sam cleared his throat. “You want me to go with-” 

“No.”  Dean turned back to the door and fingered his keys, easily pulling out the one that fit his Baby. “I’ll call ya if I run into trouble.” 

The sun was fading and golden light struck his face when he opened the door. The air was cool; a fresh early spring breeze made him take a breath as he stepped out. 

Sam clicked his tongue and shot one last jab under his breath: “When you run into trouble…”

The demon’s phone call had chilled Dean’s blood and confused the shit out of him all at once. He racked his brain, combing back through the last year, trying to find a clue as to what the bastard was talking about, and consistently came up empty. 

Clearly, it was a trap. Sam wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. Hell, demons had been playing this game for the last twenty years it seemed, always trying to lure him into some abandoned warehouse with broken windows and bare, hanging light bulbs that blinked as they swayed. It was always cold in those big spaces, and something, no matter the weather, was dripping from the roof. And always, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, Dean stepped in the puddle and got plinked in the forehead with a droplet of whatever the hell was dripping. It was getting old, frankly, but he had to go. 

Engine roaring, Dean pushed the Impala to eighty and wove through the dense traffic on the highway.

Even if the hell-spawn was making the whole thing up and he was walking into an ambush, he had to go. On the off chance there was someone in danger, someone who- No. It was impossible, he was 99.999% sure that it was impossible, but he couldn’t take that chance. 

That’s just who he was: an idiot hero who couldn’t risk an innocent’s life. 

Besides, he had to find out what the hell was going on. 

Two hours later, he was there. He pulled up beside the giant, abandoned warehouse and sighed as the headlamps gleaned off of dusty, broken windows. 

“Great. A warehouse.” 

He cut the engine and checked his gun. Loaded. 

He pulled the Angel Blade from his jacket. Armed. 

He popped his collar against the cold night. Ready.

“Let’s do this.” 

The front door was ajar so he walked in without a problem. His gun was raised; the safety was off. He squinted into the dark lobby and walked past a few empty offices before finding his way. 

Two giant doors stood before him, locked with a flimsy bolt and framed in flickering yellow light as if light bulbs were swinging from half-frayed wires on the other side. 

Dean took a breath and lifted his right foot, kicking the portal open. 

The doors swung and crashed against their respective walls with a loud clang of metal on metal.

“Hey Lucy,” Dean shouted as he made his entrance, “I’m home!” 

To say that Dean was shocked by what he saw would have been a lie. He was totally and completely unsurprised to see a giant, empty room with broken windows lining the top of each wall, and rusty metal beams decorating the ceiling. There was even the standard line of unshaded hanging light fixtures that were moving in some breeze blowing in from a hole in the roof that was also - 

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, slapping a drop of icy water from his face. 

The demon who, presumably Dean had spoken with on the phone, stood in the middle of the warehouse, his pale face beaming with a sinister grin. He was slight and lanky, with a mop of ginger hair atop his cotton swab shaped head. He wore a navy suit that was a size too big and a striped tie that made it look as if the entire ensemble had come prepackaged together from a department store. Dean wasn’t judging- he’d been there many times too.

Standing behind the ginger-demon were two others; their black eyes shining with an intimidating sheen as an air of cockiness pulsed off of them in waves. Dean almost laughed, but he held it in, giving them a bit of dignity. At least their suits fit, he thought.

And, finally, positioned between them and tied to a rusty metal folding chair, head covered in a black velvet sack, was the woman Dean had been charged to save. He squinted at her from afar, accessing his whiskey-addled memory, but without seeing her face, there was no way to figure out who it was. Her clothes were normal- nothing out of the ordinary or distinctive that he could see besides a silver charm bracelet on her left wrist. Otherwise, she was just another body tied to a chair. Light Jeans, black boots, and a dark blue sweater. That’s all he could see. 

The main fiend finally spoke up, his hands moving with dramatic flair as he greeted the famed hunter. “Dean Winchester! We meet again!”

More confused than ever, Dean’s squint moved from the damsel to the demon. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to figure out who the hell you are.” He took a slow step forward and pointed his gun sideways in a way that made him look like the bad-ass, no-nonsense cop from a thousand 80s movies. “I know I don’t have the best memory, but I think I’d remember a skinny little fuck like you.” 

The demon took offense, standing up straight and frowning as his cohorts chuckled in the background. 

“I fucking knew it,” the bald demon on the right sniggered. 

“Shut up, Karl!” The ginger hissed over his shoulder. After a breath, he turned back to Dean who was struggling to hold back a laugh. “You know me,” he insisted, gesturing to himself. “I am Leslie Wintermillt! Crossroad Demon Extraordinaire!”

Dean smacked his lips and lowered his gun. He looked away, comedically pretending to remember, but his mind was blank. “Oh, yeah… You were at that place doing the thing. Yeah, yeah.” With an eye roll, he lifted his weapon again and cleared his throat. “How ‘bout you let the lady go and we can all go home and get on with our lives, OK?” 

Karl and the nameless demon laughed again, clearly amused by the lack of respect Dean was showing their ringleader. 

Leslie grew more angered, his eyes slicking to pure black and his cheeks growing beet red. He clenched his fists and dragged a blade from his breast pocket. 

“You shouldn’t be so quick to insult people, Dean,” he warned, quickly spinning to stand behind his kidnapped victim. “Especially a being as powerful as I!” The blade pressed into the black velvet sack and the woman squirmed. She mumbled something; her scream clipped behind a gag. 

Dean held up his hands in a show of surrender. “Hey, hey. OK! No need to go playin’ with knives, now. Let’s all just calm down.” 

The bound woman screamed once more and began twisting against the ropes. She was tied at the ankles and her wrists were locked behind her back. She shook herself in an effort to break free, but all it did was annoy Leslie even more. 

“Fine,” he growled, pulling the blade away from her chin and addressing her with familiarity and ire. “You want to see your betrothed so badly? You want him to watch you bleed? I’m happy to oblige!” 

Before the words could fully sink into Dean’s head, he saw her face. 

The bag was pulled away and he was met with big blue eyes hidden behind rather pretty lashes. Her blonde hair was long and messy- half in a ponytail that had fallen from the crown of her head, the rest tugged free and frizzy from the velvet hood. Her face was pleasantly plump and rather pink from all the exertion, and her thin lips were parted by a thick piece of the same brown rope that tied her limbs to the chair.  

Dean had absolutely no idea who she was. 

She looked at him, begging for help with huge eyes and a stunted voice. 

Leslie grinned devilishly. “Well, Mr. Winchester, what say you? I’ve captured your fiance and your unborn son. I’ve won our little dance once and for all!” 

Dean sucked in a quick breath and held it, confused and pondering his next move. Obviously, he was going to save the woman, kill Leslie, and at least one of the other demons, but- the whole thing just wasn’t sitting right with him. 

He cleared his throat again, pushing away the feeling of being so utterly lost in his own scene. 

“Uh. I’m sorry. And no offense, but…” He looked from Leslie to the blue-eyed captive and cocked his head. “What the hell is going on?” 

The background demons whispered to each other, clearly mocking Leslie. 

“What do you mean?” Leslie asked, desperately clinging to the illusion of victory.

Dean gave his head a little scratch and locked eyes with the blonde. “Who is she?” 

Edith Rose Marshall fell into hunting in the usual way. She was not brought up in a family of skilled hunters, nor was she the legacy to a vast compendium of supernatural lore and knowledge. Truthfully, about ninety-five percent of active hunters aren’t either. No, Eddie- as her friends called her- was thrust into the world of ghost hunting and demon dodging at the tender age of sixteen when a werewolf attacked her and her high school sweetheart while the couple was parked up on VanHorn Cliff. The teens had snuck away for the evening, ready to consummate their love for the first time, in a place that most of the youngsters in Marchant Creek, Virginia knew all too well. 

As Jason mustered his nerve to finally reach the Holiest of Holies and unhook Eddie’s bra, a scratch upon the hood made them both jump. 

Instead of spending the next two and a half minutes slightly unimpressed and a little bit in pain, Edith Rose was treated to a world-class view of Jason’s still beating heart as it was ripped from his chest by a hairy, wolfish claw. 

Splattered in his blood, unable to breathe or utter a scream, Eddie stared at the monster as it sank its yellowed, hellish fangs into the dripping muscle. As it licked its paws clean, Eddie came back to herself and scrambled to open the passenger door; her shaking fingers fumbling over the handle. While she struggled, the beast rounded the front of the car and slammed its furry fist into the window. The glass shattered and Eddie’s scream rang out over the cliff. It grabbed at her long blonde hair, tugging out a clump from the roots. She swatted at the arm but wasn’t able to fight it off. 

The wolf pulled her from the car, dragging her over the jagged shards of tempered glass, leaving a bloody trail down her back and sides. She twisted and kicked; screamed and begged, but the monster was undeterred. Lifting its snout to the dark sky, it howled with an intensity that shook Eddie to the core. Eyes wide, jaw slack, she saw the creature fully for the first time and an entire world of impossible facts came slamming into her. 

The bright moon washed over the wolf, its human eyes, and its matted, bloody fur. Eddie held her breath as fangs lowered, reaching for her throat. 

Hot, metallic breath breezed over her cheek and Eddie screamed. With a surge of self-preservational strength, she shoved at the wolf and sent it stumbling back a few steps. Before it could steady itself and charge forward once more, a shot rang out and blood sprayed from the wolf’s chest. Coated in more blood, Eddie stood motionless, staring in shock as the beast fell, dead at her feet. 

Adrenaline and panic stormed through her veins and Eddie grabbed her head as a scream ripped through her soul. She fell to her knees, trembling as the prior moments flashed again and again, becoming more clear with each repetition of memory. 

“Hey! You’re OK.” 

A gruff voice called to her and Eddie opened her eyes to find a tall man with dark hair and a shadowed jaw towering over her. His clothes were old and filthy, his hazel eyes stern but kind. 

“You’re OK,” he said again, reaching a hand for her to take. 

Eddie swallowed down her boiling emotions and let him help her up. His hand was rough but warm and she blinked up at him, terrified and confused. 

“What. The hell. Was that!” 

The man laughed softly under his breath. “That, sweetheart, was a werewolf.” 

Her stomach flipped painfully. “A what!”

“A werewolf,” he said again, slowly letting her hand drop. He took a step back and gave the corpse a kick. “Don’t worry. He’s dead.” Turning away, he clicked the safety on his pistol and tucked it into the back of his waistband, hiding it just under his leather coat. “You’ll be fine.” 

Eddie floundered. She looked back at the car, at the torn body of her boyfriend and the broken glass stained with his blood. When she looked again at the wolf, she knew she was staring at the shattered pieces of the way she thought her life would turn out. 

The picket fence was gone; the cushy office job had vanished. Her two-point-five kids and yappy dog went up in an ethereal puff of smoke. 

Nothing would ever be the same. 

She watched as he walked away, heading towards the far side of the clearing. There, a giant boat of a black car was waiting; its hood shining in the moonlight. Eddie lost her grip on everything and collapsed to her knees in the bloody grass. She felt her chest tighten and every breath was short and pained. 

A car door squeaked open and she looked up to see the man arguing with a younger guy who had leapt up from the passenger seat. They spoke heatedly over the hood, the younger one gesturing towards Eddie and the crime scene. Close as they were, Eddie couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in her ears, echoing like thunderous drumming inside a cave. The young man finally gave up and bowed his head respectfully, ceasing his protest. 

Without another word, he got back into the car and stared forward. He bit his tongue and his jaw clenched tight. He met Eddie’s hopeless gaze and sighed. 

The engine roared like a mother lion as the car disappeared down the hill and out of Eddie’s life. 

That was the first time she ever saw Dean Winchester. 

It was also the last. 

Well… sort of. 

The thing you have to remember about the Hunting Community is that it’s less of a community as it is a wildly random assortment of people around the continent that seek out the company of evil creatures over their warm-blooded compatriots. They’d rather spend a weekend covered in dust and monster muck than sit around at a baby shower or backyard barbeque making small talk and drinking imported lager. 

That being said- there are times when groups of American Bogeyman Slayers get together to shoot the shit or share information. They work together, mourn together, and occasionally share a barstool at an out-of-the-way safe house. There really is no way to predict who would show up or when, but one thing was certain- where there be hunters, there be booze. And where there be booze, there be hunter stories. 

Hunter stories aren’t just retellings of cases or anecdotes of happenings on the road. Oh, no. They are elaborate, extravagant, wildly inaccurate tales of bravery, heroics, and sometimes death that have been stretched and twisted around like taffy on a pulling machine. They rarely tell the whole story or every legitimate fact within. However, more often than not, they hold some grain of truth. 

The hunters that can weave such tales as to captivate a tavern full of peers are revered and spoken about for weeks after. Their stories travel to every corner of the country and sometimes beyond, becoming legends with the bards themselves. 

Those who cannot expound upon their adventures in a stylistic and mesmerizing way, tend to stick to the background at larger gatherings, lingering in the shadows and soaking up knowledge as it is passed around. 

Eddie had been hunting for years, but she wasn’t exactly great at it. Nor was she great at telling stories. If she could travel back to see her ancestors in ye olde country, she would find them hugging the barstools and shyly staring as the raconteur spun their yarns and sang epic tales of wonder. 

So, for the most part, Eddie went unnoticed. There were no stories circulating of the time she rescued a poodle from a witch who was about to skin it alive for some ritual to bring her sister good fortune. No rumors about how amazing she was at memorizing random facts about creatures that never actually came in handy, or how she could lasso a horse if it stood still long enough. 

Eddie Marshall was barely known to anyone, even in the circles she normally found herself in. To the others, she was just a sweet kid who was probably in over her head, and boy did it piss her off. 

Just once, she wanted to be the center of attention. She wanted to stand on the bar with a bottle in her hand and regale the tavern with poems of her Herculean strength and Captain America-like bravery. Just once. But she had nothing to talk about, no credibility whatsoever. 

One evening at a rundown roadhouse bar on the outskirts of Kalamazoo, Michigan, Eddie lost her mind a bit. 

She was sitting at the dark end of the bar, head in hand, beer warming next to her as she half listened to a couple of hunters yodel on about some demon that was running amuck in Kansas. She was barely paying attention until two words jumped out and smacked her in the face: Dean Winchester. 

Sure, over the years, she’d heard many, many stories about Dean and his brother Sam. They were basically celebrities in the underground world of vampire slayers; the real Buffys out there saving everyone else’s asses just about every other damned day. Most of the stories were fantastical and hard to believe. Sam had been possessed by Satan? Sure. Dean had died, gone to Hell, and come back in one piece? M’kay, right. Still, they couldn’t all be fictional. And even if they were, so what? It wasn’t like the Winchesters were hanging out in gross dusty bars chatting up other hunters. Hell, Eddie hadn’t even seen him once since that night back home when John Winchester saved her life and started her on the path to certain, heroic death. 

So, OK, tell some wild story about the Impala being equipped with rocket boosters and a grenade launcher in the trunk. Spin a tale about the time Sam was given the power of flight and temporarily knocked down the power grid in Las Vegas during his wedding. Who’s getting hurt? No one. Who’s getting some street cred? 

…Eddie didn’t even realize what she was doing before the lie came spilling out of her mouth.  

“I was there when Dean Winchester took down that twenty-strong vamp nest in Albany with a single blade and a flask full of holy water. It was epic.” 

The hunters across the bar turned and stared, seemingly impressed. The larger man with a beard down to his gut scratched his jaw and nodded her way. 

“Tell me more…”

Suddenly, Eddie had something she’d never had before: a spotlight. Having the ear of other hunters enlivened her and something inside snapped. She told a few more stories, vaguely hinting that she was friendly with the famed Winchesters and worked with them often. She pulled monster names out of the lore stored in her head; and plucked cities off of the map lodged in her brain. The more she spoke, the more she lied. The more she lied, the more heads turned her way, and soon, Eddie was surrounded by a group of inebriated but intrigued hunters. 

“You really take down a wraith in Cedar Knolls?” An older man with graying red hair tucked beneath a wool beanie leaned in, his beady eyes locked on Eddie’s face. “I got a friend down there. You know Jessie?”

She nodded thoughtfully as if trying to match a face to the random name. “Oh, sure- I think I crossed paths with him a few times.”

The man hummed curiously. “Jessie’s a broad.” 

Eddie coughed behind a laugh. “Oh! Yeah! Jessie!” She bit her tongue and righted the ship. “I was thinking of someone else. Anyway- the wraith came at Sam but Dean went right for it and…”

“Did you know that the Impala has a secret panel inside that holds pure silver bullets and crosses that were blessed by the Pope? I kicked it open by accident once when Dean and I were fumbling ‘round in the backseat if you know what I mean…”

“Dean once fell six stories off the roof of a hospital while chasing a snallygaster. Nasty lookin’ thing. He fell on his back, rolled, sprang up, and shot the thing in the chest with a freaking arrow. Killed it dead.” 

“Last October, Dean and I went to Battle Creek and took out an entire coven. Just knocked ‘em all dead. Town was so thankful, they paid for dinner for us at this fancy French restaurant. We got a little tipsy… and handsy…”

It was almost as if whatever she said was instantly believed, no matter how outrageous it seemed. After her third beer- purchased by someone else, by the way- she had to really keep track of what she was saying. Twice, she’d almost mentioned riding Dean while riding a unicorn but thought better of it. There were only so many things she could get away with, or so she thought. 

As the night wound down, Eddie was running out of tales to tell. Sometimes, the audience would ask follow-up questions, occasionally they’d laugh at her outlandish claims, but never did anyone call her bluff. The Life was so fantastical that there really was no way to say what was real and what was dream work.

She walked away from the bar in the twilight hour, feeling exhilarated by all the attention and only slightly guilty for fibbing. It really wasn’t that bad, she reckoned. After all, what damage could a few sweet little lies do?

To some, demons may seem like the ultimate evil. They are mysterious- slinking in the corners of the universe unseen until they decide to attack. They are powerful- able to inhabit the body of just about anyone they choose, flooding their host with charcoal smoke until they fill every inch, every cell, taking over and using the mortal as their unholy puppet. They are clever- often laying traps for their victims to fall into and ultimately sell their souls for the glory of whatever their darkest desire might be. They are murderous and wicked, terrifying and cunning. They haunt the shadows of life, biding their time until the moment is right, only to strike down their prey with all the power of Hell, damning their souls to an eternity of pure torment and the scorch of hellfire.

Sure, there are demons in the higher ranks that may fulfill this preconceived notion of how Satan’s Henchmen behave. But, more often than not, the demons that venture to the surface to reap souls for their higher-ups are little more than low-level fetchers, more akin to worker drones in skyrise office buildings than to anyone with any real power. They collect on contracts, set up hazard traps, and generally carry out whatever tasks have been handed down to them from on high. Or, rather, from below. 

Occasionally, a group will get together and take on something larger; plan a job that will not only net them a coveted prize, but help them gain favor, and therefore credibility, with their superiors. These plans could include such impossible tasks as kidnapping the President and forcing him to comply with Lucifer’s wishes, or sinking a battleship in neutral waters thus triggering the inevitable World War III. These plans never pan out, of course, but some of the smaller ones do. Things like infiltrating an entire sorority and causing a panic that leads to a rush of unexplained deaths, or trapping a well-known hunter and using them to massacre an entire congregation during Easter Morning service. 

These acts are greatly praised and their legends grow far and wide, often twisting and expanding in detail like a game of demonic telephone as it passes through the ranks. 

Those who recount the tales and pass them along like notes in a grade school classroom are usually awed by the stories and yearn to be the focus of such epic adventures themselves. However, those who spend all their time wishing, often fail to achieve, as their heads are clogged up with fantasies of their own glory and their feet never actually move.

The demon that can dream it, can do it. The demon that only dreams of dreaming of doing it, cannot. 

Originally from Tucson, Leslie was an unimportant man who had lived a rather pointless life that revolved around telemarketing schemes and large gambling debts. He was mostly harmless in person, but some of his ventures had resulted in the untimely demise of others, thus marking his soul for eternal torment in the fiery pits of eternal damnation. 

It hadn’t taken long for Leslie to worm his way off the rack and into the mailroom of 

Hell, slowly learning the ropes and advancing up the proverbial ladder. However, black eyes and slick words only got a body so far, and Leslie was stuck on Crossroads Duty, bargaining for souls and whistling at HellHounds. He was bored but unable to make a move, even laterally. As just another peon, he was disrespected by his bosses, ignored by his peers, and generally left to fade into the background. 

This, however, did not stop him from trying to sneak into the limelight and better his position in the afterlife. He took any opportunity to talk himself up, even going so far as to take credit for co-workers' achievements or ideas, and generally spinning webs of lies about how amazing he was. 

One night while chatting about himself at a little bar in Raleigh, he took a few more liberties than usual. Around a table full of pint glasses in various stages of emptiness, Leslie wove a tale that had even his closest friends, Karl and Phil, laughing at his claims. 

“There is no way you did that,” Phil said with a laugh that shook his shoulders and rocked the cheap wooden chair beneath him. “You’re so full of shit.” 

Leslie sneered and lifted his chin high as if Phil’s claim had offended him greatly. “How dare you! You don’t know what happened, you weren’t there!” 

Shaking his bald head, Karl leaned in. The stink of stale beer floated from his lips across the table and struck Leslie in the face. 

“You really trying to tell us that you kidnapped Dean Fucking Winchester and lived? No fucking way.” 

The liar pursed his lips and set his hands firmly on the table. He peered around quickly as if checking for prying eyes, and leaned in, whispering. “I did. I kicked his redneck ass all over the place, too. Left him with four broken ribs, a busted up nose, and a gash on his chest longer than his dick!” 

Phil choked on a sip of beer and covered his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. “How do you know how long his dick is?” 

Leslie slammed his palm down in annoyance. “I- that’s not the point!” Sitting up straight, he settled his shoulders and clicked his tongue, giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts. 

The thing about lying is, you have to make it believable and stay consistent. 

“Fine. I don’t know how long his dick is, but the cut was deep. He was bleeding all over himself and his thrift store flannel.” Leslie paused and watched their eyes glaze over with a tiny flicker of belief. He almost had them. “I would have killed him,” he went on, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “But that stupid angel showed up and ruined everything. I barely got away. He tried to smite me but I fought him off. Still got a little singed by his Grace, but I’m fine, thank you for asking.” 

The demons across the table held their breaths and their tongues for a long moment. They stared at Leslie and then looked at each other, seemingly absorbing all the information. 

Leslie, proud of himself for convincing them, sat back and crossed his arms smugly over his suited chest. 

“So, there you have it,” Leslie ended, waiting for applause or a congratulatory clamp on the shoulder.

Neither were offered. 

Instead, the duo laughed in his face. Loud, grandiose laughs that drew the attention of half of the room. Two dozen sets of eyes turned their way and Leslie felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and hatred. 

“There is no way you’d get away if that asshole angel tried to smite you. He’s taken down the best of the best. Are you kidding?” Karl screeched with amusement. 

Phil laughed so hard he started coughing. “You’re a pissy little liar, you are! No way, no how did that ever happen? I’ll bet you’ve never even seen Dean Winchester!”

Leslie seethed. 

Karl smacked his leg and added: “Never even been in the same state as him!”

Phil cackled. “Or continent!”

“Planet!”

Back and forth they went until there was no geography left to name, no corner of the Milky Way left unaccounted for.

Leslie let the flame of injustice broil his already charred heart. It was one thing to be ignored or tossed aside, but to be mocked- it was too much for the demon to bear. 

“I’ll show you,” he warned, teeth gnashing behind his thin lips.

“Sure you will, Leslie,” Karl teased. “Just call up old Deano and have him stop by since you’re such good friends.” 

“We are not friends! We are-” Leslie’s fists closed at his sides and he stood up, unsure if he wanted to run away crying or throw a punch. While they probably expected the former, he knew he’d never get away with the latter. 

He turned and slunk off to lean on the bar, dejected and annoyed with himself. If only he could hatch a plan, actually get some face-time with the famed hunter, maybe, just maybe he’d be taken seriously for once. If only he could figure out how to lure that filthy, annoying, demon-slaying De-

“Dean Winchester! I knew that was you!” 

The famous name shot out from over the throng of drunken voices and blaring 90s hip-hop, striking Leslie in the gut. His head snapped to the left and he found a short blonde thing clad in denim and a baggy navy sweater, perched on the edge of a stool. The speaker, a tall brunette with all the curves of a toothpick, was stumbling into the next seat, a mostly empty bottle of Bud Light in her grasp. 

She was in awe of the blonde, practically star-struck, and Leslie zoned in on the strange encounter. 

“You’re his girl, ain’t you?” 

The blonde shrugged. “Yeah… I mean, we don’t have an official title or anything but-” 

“No. Way.” The brunette held up her hand and leaned in. “I knew it. Tell me everything! As soon as I saw you, I said, that’s Eddie, I said. I said that to Jimmy- Where’d he go? I said, I’ve heard all about her. She’s the chick keeps hookin’ up with that sexy Winchester. Oh, I’ve heard all about you!” 

Eddie’s shoulders curled inwards as if she were shy. 

Leslie’s focus sharpened. Dean Winchester’s girl? His luck must be turning. 

“That’s so sweet, um-” 

“Jennifer,” the woman said, running a hand through her teased hair. “You call me Jen. All my friends do. We’re best friends now.” A drunken burp ended her yapping, but only just. 

“OK,” Eddie said with a smile. “Jen. Nice to meet you.”

Jen finished her beer and slammed the empty bottle down on the bar. “Yo!” She sat up and leaned over onto the counter, snapping at the bartender. “Another one!” Pausing, she looked at Eddie and then gasped. “Sorry, hun… And one for my friend!” 

Eddie shook her head. “Oh, no thanks, I-” 

Jen’s jaw dropped and she leaned back to look Eddie over, her hazel eyes darting to the woman’s stomach. “Oh. My. God. Are you pregnant?” 

“I, um…” All Eddie had meant was that she wasn’t planning on staying much longer. Jen was very over the top and kind of irritating, so she hadn’t wanted another beer. But, if Jen was going to assume things, who was Eddie to deny her fan a little more excitement by being in on a huge secret? 

Eddie smiled and lay a hand over her tummy. “Yeah. But, don’t tell anyone! We haven’t even told Sam yet!” 

Leslie’s eyes grew huge and he scooted a little closer. “Well, goddamn…” It had to be a sign. There was no way this wasn’t meant for him. Right place, right time. 

Jen lost her drunken mind. “Holy shit! This is amazing! Oh my god! When? What? Tell me everything!” 

Eddie laughed gently and shrugged. “Um… I’m like… three- no four- months now. And we’re hoping for a boy. I mean, Dean kinda wants a girl, but I think all those little flannel shirts and jeans on a boy would just be the cutest! But yeah… we’re so excited.” 

Leslie echoed her excitement. His thoughts were racing faster than his heart, concocting the perfect setup to get Dean Winchester in his grasp and make stupid Karl and Phil look like assholes. His time had finally come. 

Jen sighed happily and patted Eddie’s stomach without asking. “A little Winchester. Just perfect.”

Eddie was beaming, but not from hormones. She was in her glory, finally about to become a legend in the hunting community. 

“I can’t wait to tell everyone. After the wedding, we’ll- oh! Oops…” 

Jen squealed. “You’re engaged!”

Eddie nodded and spent the rest of the night layering lie upon lie. 

It’s funny how one little white lie can spiral so out of control that the beginning seems eons ago and the end is nowhere in sight. 

Leslie waited patiently, gathering all of the information that he could. Finally, he slipped away and let the boys in on his plan. 

When the bar closed and the moon was high, three demons cornered a lone hunter in a dark alley. She bit back her scream, channeling her panic into her blade. Black eyes gleamed in the dim light of the flickering street lamp; Eddie’s Latin recitation echoed down the vacant path. 

Metal flew through the air. Punches landed on yielding flesh. Arms fit around her like steel ropes. 

Eddie saw the bricks spinning as her eyes unfocused. Her head was throbbing and the darkness was winning. She saw a flash of golden-red hair before the bag was lowered and her world went dark. 

Once she woke up, Eddie wouldn’t shut up. 

Twice, Leslie had threatened her with the painful removal of her tongue with a pair of dull safety scissors, but even then, she wouldn’t be still. She thrashed and kicked, spat, and yelled. As far as hostages went, she was the worst. Not that he’d taken another before, but he could imagine. 

The gag finally shut her up.

Phil and Karl hung around in the background, observing Leslie as he put his plan into motion. 

Step One- Kidnap Dean Winchester’s pregnant fiance. 

Step Two- Call Dean Winchester and get him to show up, thus sacrificing his life for hers. 

Step One(B)- Get Dean Winchester’s phone number. 

Step Three- Kill him. Kill her. Reap all the rewards of fame and fortune that could be bestowed upon him by the King of Hell!

So far, he was stuck on Step Two. It had taken three calls before he’d gotten the right phone number and on the first try, no one had picked up. It wasn’t as if he could leave a voicemail with such important information, so he tried again. 

The second time, Dean picked up and Leslie was in such shock that he almost hung up on him. 

Finally, after much deep breathing, Leslie had convinced Dean to meet him and save Eddie’s life. 

“We will be waiting, Mr. Winchester…” 

Eddie bit hard into the rope between her lips and screamed. She twisted as best she could against her bindings and rocked the chair back and forth. 

Leslie had no choice but to make her stop, and thus, pulled the gag out. 

“What!” 

She spat out a mouthful of saliva and frayed rope bits. “You can’t do this!” 

The demon gave his cohorts an ambushed look and laughed. “Oh, really? Because it seems like I already have.” 

Eddie groaned. “No, you don’t understand,” she went on, begging for her life. “IT won’t work. He won’t come.” 

Karl’s ears perked up, but Leslie moved around to the other side of his victim, blocking her from view. He leaned close. 

“What are you talking about?” 

She grit her teeth and set the truth free. “He won’t come because he has no idea who I am.” 

If demon blood could run cold, Leslie’s would have. He balked. 

“W-what? No. You’re carrying his child! Don’t insult me with your lies. They won’t save you.” 

Eddie hissed. “He won’t either! I don’t know him. I saw him once when I was a kid, but we didn’t even meet then. It was like in passing. I’ve… I… I made it all up, OK?” 

“Why would you do that!” Leslie yelled in a whisper, leaning closer still. 

“I don’t know!”

“Keep your voice down,” he warned. 

Eddie whispered harshly. “I don’t know, OK? I just… it just happened. I started talking about hanging out with him and one thing led to the next and-” 

“And now you’re pregnant with his child and engaged to be married!” 

She sighed. “Yeah. But no. None of that is true. It’s all just… lies.” 

Leslie closed his eyes, processing everything. He’d lied again and again which had led him to this spot, trying to prove himself to his friends, all in the name of attention. 

And now, it seemed, so had his captive. 

He was screwed. 

“There a problem, buddy?” Karl called to him from across the warehouse, his smile smug, his eyes curious. 

Leslie straightened up and adjusted his striped tie. “No! Not a thing. Everything’s going to plan!” 

Quickly, he grabbed the rope around Eddie’s neck and lifted it to her lips. 

“Oh, please don’t,” she asked, looking up with pathetic eyes. “It’s so uncomf-”

The velvet bag slid down next and all they could do was wait. 

Dean gave his head a little scratch and locked eyes with the blonde. “Who is she?” 

Eddie’s heart sank. Even though it was a stupid thought, she’d imagined that somehow, some way, he’d heard of her. Maybe the Slayer Telegraph had made its way to Kansas and tickled his ears. As he stared at her, she was sure it had missed the connection. 

Dean was more handsome than she remembered, but not as much as she’d conjured up. He looked tired and badly needed a shave. There was a faint line of an old cut on the bridge of his nose and his jaw was bruised. Still, she thought, he was pretty hot. She wondered sadly how she looked and hoped that her hair wasn’t too much of a mess. 

Leslie cleared his throat and tried to ignore the movements behind him. Karl and Phil were moving in, ready to attack- him or Dean- he couldn’t tell. 

He was in trouble. 

“Uh- What do you mean! Are you going to disavow knowledge of your lovely bride-to-be and the life within? Are you so cruel as to toss her to the wind and leave your offspring to die fatherless in a ditch on the side of the ro-”

“OK, shut up!” Dean roared, taking aim in earnest. He set his stance, boots shoulder width apart, and squared his shoulders. His expression melted from shock and confusion to one of pure focus. It didn’t really matter who she was- she needed help, and he could be it. “Let’s just… do this.” 

Leslie moved to protest just as the first shot rang out. 

It was loud and Eddie cringed, terrified to be trapped in the middle of a gunfight. 

Karl shot back, missing Dean by about a mile and a half. He shattered the window to the left of the door and Dean laughed. 

“Nice shot.” He countered and hit the demon in the shoulder, knocking him over. “Winchester, one; demon, zero.”

Phil took up Karl’s place and shot back. Three consecutive blasts from his pistol made Dean duck and spin away - Phil was a much better marksman than his bald friend.

While they exchanged bullets and quips, Leslie did the only thing he could think of: he bargained for his life. 

Quickly, he untied Eddie’s legs and sliced through the rope binding her wrists. He lowered the gag for greater effect and Dean froze when she screamed his name. 

A bullet nearly clipped his ear, but Dean’s focus had shifted to Eddie. Without looking, he shot at Phil and the demon fell, clutching his gut. The wounds wouldn’t kill them, but they sure as hell would feel the pain. 

“Dean!” 

He wished to God that he recognized her. 

He still didn’t. 

Dean held his left hand up in surrender but kept the right aimed at the demon’s head. “Hey, now. Let’s all just take a breath.” 

Leslie held his blade to her jaw. She flinched when he pressed the sharp edge against her flesh, and a thin line of blood trickled down her throat.

She held her breath, afraid to move, afraid to do anything but stare at the man she’d invented a life with, the man of her impossible dreams. 

Dean pressed his tongue between his lips as he calculated his next move. One shot to the head would send the prick to the ground, but he could hit the girl. He could also piss off the demon and in turn get her throat slit. The situation called for a delicate maneuver for sure. 

He took a breath and lowered his gun. “Just let her go and you and I can talk.”

Leslie laughed and lowered the blade to her chest. “I don’t think so. The only thing standing between me and certain death is this lying pixie.” 

Eddie squirmed an inch and huffed, resenting the title but afraid to really move or backtalk the demon. 

Dean nodded. “You’re not wrong.” Reaching behind him, he stuck his pistol in the waistband of his jeans and pulled out a blade. The ruin-carved, serrated blade shone in the flickering light as he twirled it in his palm. “I’m gonna kill you. But you can do one good thing before you go.” 

The demon swallowed hard and dropped his hand to her stomach. The tip of the knife dug gently into her side. A small pool of wetness darkened her sweater. 

“Really?” he asked. “What’s that?” 

Dean took a step. “You can let her go.” He took another. “You can drop that knife and surrender. Save her life.” A third step had him less than a dozen feet away. He stared at Eddie and nodded subtly. She’d be OK, she just had to trust him. “Come on, man. Save her life.” 

Leslie laughed. “And why would I do that?”

“Because…” Dean paused, his words failing him. He clicked his tongue and then shrugged. “Well… I don’t really have a good answer, and you’re gonna die anyway, so I’m just asking you nicely. Let the girl go.” 

There was a moment of utter silence. 

A hard, terrifying silence in which Eddie could hear nothing but the painful thrumming of her heart as it reached its quickest pace. The warehouse faded around her and the men who held her life between them became sharp shadows that moved in through the sludge of the air like beasts stuck in quicksand. 

She saw the outfield demons attack with guns blazing and fists flying. 

She saw Dean dodge their bullets and lunge forward. He hit the ground and rolled closer, springing to his feet like a gymnast. 

She saw Leslie’s arm raise; heard his warning like a mumbled groan in her pounding head. 

She felt the push of steel into her side; tasted the tidal wave of blood as it struck her tongue. 

Dean’s voice cut through the ringing in her ears but it was hard to pay attention, hard to pick his words out and make sense of anything. 

She watched as he swung around, roaring like a lion defending his territory from enemy attack. He jabbed his knife into Karl’s temple and sparks burst from the demon’s mouth and eyes. 

Eddie laughed gently. It always amused her the way demons lit up when they died. It made their heads look like jack-o-lanterns. A cough overtook her and blood spilled down her chin, hot and wet- self-made lava. She wondered if she looked like a Halloween horror too. 

Dean shouted at her, waving a hand her way. “Just hold on!” 

He seemed so sweet. Why he would care about her at all was beyond her grasp at the moment, but she was grateful. Maybe all the stories about him were true. He was brave, that was for sure, and strong, and so- 

Dean stabbed Phil in the heart and fireworks danced from his open mouth. 

The knife twisted inside of her and Leslie’s horrible laugh echoed through the giant room. 

“Too late, Winchester!” he yelled, catching Dean’s attention once more. “She’s dead.” 

Eddie laughed. She wasn’t dead. Her knees hit the ground. It was hard and cold; pain spread up through her bones and she groaned loudly. The blood was thick in her mouth and her eyes were heavy. 

Dean rushed towards her and looked down with a pained expression. 

She smiled. “I’m OK,” she tried to say, but all he heard was a gasping gurgle. 

Her shoulder hit the floor, but this time, she couldn’t feel anything. It should have hurt, the way her bone collided with the concrete, but her whole side was numb. She shivered at the chill seeping up from the ground and wondered why she could still feel the cold if not the pain. 

She heard Leslie scream something and Dean yelled back. She heard shoes behind her and watched as Dean threw his blade, aiming like an archer with an arrow. Leslie let out a surprised grunt and Eddie heard the shimmer of demonic pyrotechnics as he hit the ground far behind her. 

Eddie rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. Pieces of roof were missing and she could see the sky above. Maybe there were stars out, but she couldn’t see any from where she was, and besides, her eyes weren’t working so well suddenly.

“Hey! Hey…” 

Dean slid down beside her and carefully scooped Eddie’s head into his lap. He wiped at her chin with the sleeve of his canvas jacket, clearing away a mess of blood. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be OK, you hear me?” 

She knew he was lying. She was dying, quickly. 

Eddie smiled. “Liar.” 

A darkness washed over his handsome face and Eddie couldn’t help but smile at the constellations of faint freckles that covered his cheeks and nose. They were more beautiful than any stars that were out that night, more perfect. 

Dean pressed a palm to her stomach and Eddie let out a pitiful cry. Searing pain spread through her and she focused on his hand. He was big and strong and she was amazed that he was really there. He was really, truly there. He was solid and whole. His heart was beating and his brow was pebbled with sweat. His eyes were so green, so impossibly green-

Eddie’s eyes rolled and Dean shook her gently, bringing her back. 

“Hey, come on now-” He leaned in close and smiled a hopeful smile. “You gotta stay with me, OK? I need you to explain to me what the hell just happened. I need you.” 

She laughed and it hurt. Not because the pain was bad, but because he’d never find out what exactly had happened. He’d never hear her story, never know it that she was the girl his father had saved on that overlook years ago. The girl he had fought with his dad over. The girl who had lied about him again and again. The girl who deserved to die bloody and cold in his arms in some godforsaken warehouse in the middle of nowhere. 

He’d never know.

She couldn’t feel her body, couldn’t feel the blood pouring out of her and spilling over his hand. She looked up into his gorgeous face and smiled. 

Tears welled in his eyes. “Who are you?” 

She smiled. “I’m Eddie,” she whispered with her last breath.

Dean closed his eyes, and let a single tear escape down his stubbled cheek. “Hey, Eddie,” he said softly. “It was nice to meet you.” 

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