#There’s always just a few more things though isn’t there

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ me & my husband ]❜

ft. the salesman (gong ji-cheol) x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ you don’t need your husband to be perfect, you just want him to be honest┊3.3k words

contains: written before s2 came out!! probably ooc or inaccurate, angst with spots of fluff & a bittersweet ending? reader’s pov mostly, suspicions of cheating, lack of communication, mentioned age gap, random inaccurate lore for the salesman

➤ author's note: yeah, i saw the sudden uptick in notes on that gong yoo post i made and realized season 2 came out which i completely forgot about. i intend to watch it soon as possible and write fics for it as well as (probably) add new characters to my writing list, but for now, please be content with this!!

₊˚ʚ 💌₊˚✧ this fic was heavily inspired by “emotionally intoxicated” by aurasaurora!

gong ji-cheol is the poster image for the ideal husband. he’s always been like that from the moment you met him, and you can’t help but feel like you’re the luckiest woman in the world when he calls himself yours. he’s tall and handsome, someone who catches everyone’s eye despite his only being focused on you. he’s wealthy and hard-working, able to call a luxurious mansion your home, and willing to buy you anything your heart desires as long as you ask for it. he spoils you rotten with that money, gifting you expensive things even if you didn’t ask if it reminded him of you. he’s doting, always sure to smother you in affection with kisses and cuddles whenever together to make it known how much he adores you. the sex is great too, he makes you feel wanted and desirable without ever leaving you unsatisfied. 

most importantly though, you love him, and he loves you. the last two years of marriage have been so blissful, and there isn’t a single thing you would change.

at least that’s what you believe most of the time.

you like to think you know a lot about him, and in a way, you do. you know his favorite color, how he likes his coffee, what he usually orders at restaurants, the type of wine he prefers over beer, the exaggerated shocked fasces he likes to make, how his favorite chore is folding the laundry, how his least favorite is doing the dishes because he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty, the name of his childhood pet, what positions he likes to cuddle or fuck in, the names he’s thinking of giving to your child when they are finally born— there are so many little details you know about him, yet at times you feel like you don't know anything at all.

you don’t really know much about his childhood aside from a few random stories, he claims there’s nothing really notable and that it was as standard as can be. you don’t know who his parents were or what they were like because he said they died when he was young, but surely that’s an important loss which must have impacted him and made youth difficult in some way? you don’t know about his past partners if he even had any, but you doubt you were his first as he was yours with a face like his. you don’t know any of his secrets, like an embarrassing moment or something sinful he might have committed in the past. 

he knew all of these things about you and the little details of your life, so why don’t you know any of the most basic things regarding your own husband?

these periods of uncertainty are few and far, but once the icy tendrils of doubt creep in, it’s difficult to shake them off when you realize you only know these things through observations and not him actually telling you. it’s a miracle your stupidity allowed you to make it this far in falling head over heels for him, getting married, and carrying his child (not that you completely regret it, you still love him, but you wish you had given it more time).

they say there are no such things as stupid questions, yet the main question you have is exactly that as it’s something every wife should know even before the marriage. it would be impressive how long you’ve been clueless about this matter if it weren’t for how often and how skilled he is in managing to evade your curiosity and steer the conversation elsewhere. you didn’t want to press on it since he seems to shut it down every time the topic is brought up and you don’t want to fight over something you technically didn’t need to know, but it weighs on you and presses into your chest with the knowledge you were being kept in the dark. 

what did your husband do for a living, exactly?

his schedule is always unpredictably changing with little rhyme or reason and it confuses you. sometimes you’ll go an entire few days without seeing him, sensing him wake up in the morning before the sun is even up, feeling him kiss you on the cheek before getting ready, and not coming back until long after you fall asleep with no communication aside from a note on the table telling you he’ll be gone for the day along with a wad of cash for you to treat yourself while he’s gone. other times he’ll be chilling at home for an entire week, waking you up with aggressive cuddles (or morning sex), making you breakfast with the morning news on in the background, and taking you out to wherever you want to go on his card in his rare casual clothing and messy wavy hair rather than the typical fancy suits and hair styled with gel. 

as far as you’re concerned, he’s a businessman of sorts, although you don’t know what company he works for or what position he has in terms of hierarchy or how an occupation of that type allows such flexibility in hours or anything at all. 

“what if he’s having an affair?”

you paused for a second before continuing the motion of slicing the cheesecake with a fork and savoring the taste in your mouth. “that’s ridiculous,” you stated simply after swallowing. “he loves me very much, and it doesn’t explain his weird schedule either.”

today was spent with some friends you met back in high school, but honestly, you were only attending out of politeness and tradition since you honestly feel like you’ve disconnected from these girls long before the current. still, you treasure the memories shared in your more formative years and wouldn’t ever say no to them if they wanted to hang out like old times. ji-cheol doesn’t bother to hide his distaste for them, calling them a miserable lot who try to drag you down at every opportunity out of jealousy for your happiness. you laugh it off, but you know deep down he’s right and yet you’re still sitting here at the cafe with them with bright smiles like their words don’t cut deep. 

“maybe he’s dating the boss— a sexy office siren type— she gives him plenty of days off and he stays with her at her beach house at jeju island or something to keep her company, and then she gives him lots of money in exchange.”

“oh my god, could you imagine?”

“can you be realistic? it sounds like you’re just writing a plot for a new drama,” you giggled, not allowing the feeling of a twisting blade in your abdomen to show on your face or the venom to drip from your words at the mere thought of the man you loved being stolen away a faceless woman who was everything you wished you were more of: more beautiful, more wealthy, more experienced, more intelligent—

“you don’t know because he’s your first love or whatever— and you’re so lucky to have been able to marry him— but men are dogs, and i don’t see why he would be the exception.”

“but he treats me so well—”

“maybe he only treats you well because you’re pregnant— he probably just feels guilty. i mean, when i was pregnant and had my first, my husband wasn’t attracted to me anymore and demanded a divorce unless i lost the baby weight.” she shrugged like it was so simple, so common, like the notion of marriage wasn’t something so deeply important and could be thrown away so easily.

“we aren’t suggesting you get a divorce, but we’re just saying you should keep an eye on him— you know? a handsome guy like him was always bound to get a lot of attention…” her laugh was shrill and high-pitched, making goosebumps erupt on your skin.

“right… thanks guys…”

that night, you couldn’t stop twisting and turning on the large sectional couch with thoughts rushing through your head of your husband with some other woman. the jealousy from these fictional scenarios without evidence of existence plagued you. it made you want to vomit up the negative feelings and go back to the person you were a few hours ago without the images of him cheating planted in your mind, which didn’t go unnoticed by him and caused him to ask what was bothering you as it wouldn't be good for the baby.

you hesitated for a moment, “could you tell me about your exes?”

“why are you suddenly curious about that?” he chuckled, knowing damn well that it was because of those stupid snakes masquerading as people (it truly takes one to know one) running their mouths again, but still feigning obliviousness for your sake. 

“just wondering,” you muttered. “i mean, you’re the first person i’ve fallen in love with, but you’re a bit older than me so…”

“and i hope to be the only one too,” he smirked confidently, making you laugh as he plopped down on the ground and rested his head on the cushion next to yours. 

it was such a casual setting in such a vast space, bringing you back to the days in your little apartment inviting him over for chicken and beer before you knew about your immense wealth and got embarrassed over your cheap dates when he was so used to expensive restaurants. he found it very endearing though, knowing you liked him for him and not his money.

“well, if you’re so curious…” he trailed off, but you weren’t quite sure if it was because of hesitation or because he simply didn’t know where to start. you can’t remember the last time a conversation like this was held to learn more about him since it was usually about you, maybe back when you first started dating and briefly discussed his late parents.

he started with his crush when he was in middle school since that was his earliest recollection of feeling love, who didn’t really count as a girlfriend or love because nothing was established and because of their age, but she was his first kiss that he ran away from right after because of how nervous he was, and it was never addressed again. apparently it was his second girlfriend who taught him everything he knew before he met you, saying she basically “trained him like a dog” to create a gentleman out of an inexperienced boy who still wasn’t quite sure how to treat a woman like a queen. she was a bit mean though, and he didn’t realize he dodged a bullet until later after realizing she was unnecessarily cruel to him for no reason multiple times if he didn’t do things exactly her way.

you suppose you always knew your husband wasn’t always the suave charmer you know him to be, but the image of younger him being clueless on matters of romance made you burst out laughing because of how you could hardly picture it.

he reached over to pinch your cheek affectionately, “are you of all people really making fun of me when you were too scared to hold my hand for me to escort you out of my car?”

“oh my god, that was on our first date, i can’t be blamed! i was shaking like crazy on that day— you had to tell me that you didn’t bite.”

“i was actually thinking about calling off our date last minute because of an emergency at work,” he confessed, “but i’m glad i didn’t and met the love of my life instead.”

“aw, you flirt.” the memory made you smile and feel all giggly inside, all the fears you had about him possibly having an affair falling away, yet there were still some lingering at the back of your mind with the mention of his job. “what happened at work?”

“nothing that important,” he said instantly like clockwork. “just some boring business things.”

you didn’t push it, not wanting to ruin the mood, but once again, your curiosity was just itching to ask more questions about his work life even if it was truly as boring as he says. you wanted to know every mundane detail whether it was what his office looked like or what the annoying co-worker did on a daily basis, anything to satiate your need to know more about this mysterious man you had made life-long vows with.

it all came to a head one night while you were cooking dinner, you heard the doorbell ring a dozen times in quick succession and answered it to find an older man with fiery red hair that seemed to match his temper. when he addressed your husband by name and verified your relationship with him, he began spewing all kinds of insults about the blood he had on his hands by luring innocent people to their deaths and you felt your heart drop. you tried to reason with him that there must have been some sort of mistake, barely able to get your words out in a fit of confusion and surprise at the absurd accusation, but he wouldn’t hear you out and pointed a finger in your face, asking if you had any idea what gong ji-cheol was doing behind your back. 

at that very moment, he was suddenly seized by two anonymous men in all black, causing him to yell out in panic as they dragged him away and stuffed him in the back of a car before quickly driving off into the night without a trace. it all happened so fast, you just stood there with your mouth open in shock, wondering if you should call the police on what looked like an abduction. 

then your husband comes running up the steps with his locked briefcase in hand, shouting out your name, asking you if you’re okay, pulling you back inside the comfort of your shared home, and checking you all over to make sure you aren’t harmed in any way. when you ask about who that man was and what he was talking about, he simply told you he was some crazy customer who was dissatisfied with the company, was looking for someone to blame, and promised to tell you the details later. 

you didn’t tell him that you didn’t believe him, just pursed your lips and furrowed your brow for a second then let go of the topic like you always do, taking his coat off his shoulders with a peck on the lips asking how his day was. he reciprocated the kiss, said it was fine without anything special, and that he would shower before having dinner, something he didn’t really need to say since you already knew but stated anyway as per evening routine. 

as he headed up the stairs and disappeared from sight, you stared at the locked briefcase resting crookedly on the little entryway table and paused for a moment. if you did this, it would be a breach of privacy and a sign of growing distrust in your husband, but it could also answer all of the questions that never cease. 

your hands wouldn’t stop shaking involuntarily as you felt the cold black metal underneath your fingertips, marveling at the smooth material clean of any scratches or dents. fidgeting with the built-in combination lock, six number sequences started rushing through your mind as you started to hastily run through your options with a focus on dates. you were determined to only do this three times since you had no idea if an alarm would be set off or if it would close off permanently.

his birthday?

an electronic beep went off indicating you were incorrect, making you nervous.

your birthday?

wrong again, you only had one attempt left. you swallowed, shaking the accumulating sweat off your hands.

the date of your wedding?

you gasped as the locks suddenly flipped open and lightly knocked against the briefcase. it was undone, you could open it at any moment now and see it all.

and yet you still hesitated during this golden opportunity. was it the fact that the passcode to his most secret possession was the day you got married? was it guilt for going behind your husband’s back for answers instead of directly asking him? was it because you were afraid of what you would find if you discovered the red-haired man was telling the truth?

whatever it was, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and locked it again, leaving it looking untouched and went back to playing dinner.

there was a heavy tension present at the dinner table that night, the only conversation present being him interrogating you about what the red-haired man talked about word-for-word. not really interrogating since his tone of voice was still calm and gentle as he asked questions, but you could see him fidgeting with his fork and not leaving much room for any other topic until he was sure you told him everything. he then sighed and claimed the man was insane, a gambling addict who was too deep in debt to afford treatment and was trying to drag him into his misery after meeting at the subway station. 

“ji-cheol?”

he froze for a second, not used to hearing you use his real name rather than a pet name. “yes?”

“what do you do for a living, exactly?”

a pause, you watched him fidget with his chopsticks and shift the grains of rice around. “you know, business stuff— nothing you need to concern yourself about—“

“but i don’t know! that’s the thing!” you felt tears starting to well up behind your eyes, letting two years of frustration trickle through. “i know it doesn’t seem that important for me to know, but is it really so important that you leave me in the dark about it for the three years we’ve been lovers? and now some guy comes to our doorstep and tells me about how your job is playing games with people at the subway station to make them participate in death games?!” you took a deep breath, calming yourself down, “please, be honest with me, that’s all i want…”

“i-i…” that was the first time you’ve ever heard him stutter, and if the situation wasn’t so tense, you would be proud you finally got one-up on him. “i can’t say… it’s for your own safety and mine.”

“so he was right?”

he remained silent, trying to think of some way to counter what seong gi-hun had told you, but if you didn’t believe the elaborate lie he already told you and wanted to learn more, then he knew this was the end of the road. 

“i-i need some time to think…” you looked defeated and it broke his heart. “i’m going to my mom’s house tonight, i’ll be back tomorrow—“ you got up, not bothering to pack anything aside from your phone and your wallet.

he had prepared for you to start screaming and crying (not that he would blame you, i mean, who would willingly stay with a man who was complicit in mass murder), demanding a divorce and packing your things to shut the door for him never to be seen again with your unborn child. the strangely calm reaction was both a relief and extremely unsettling to him.

“i won’t be mad if you decide not to come back” he stated plainly, defeated in a state you’ve never seen him in before. “whatever choice you make, i’ll support you, just know i love you— more than anything else in this world.”

you stared at him blankly through the open doorway. perhaps your husband isn’t the perfect man you believed him to be, but he was as honest as he possibly could have been with you regarding the matter, and that’s enough. 

“i love you too, i’ll be back in the morning.” that’s how you feel at the moment, but you don’t know if you’ll feel the same way tomorrow morning when it sinks in.

[hischierslovergirl]

G'mornin'! I just saw your post and I want to say it's always warming seeing someone getting back into writing!! And so please can I request:

Luke Hughes with "the first initial kiss being a peck, then they immediately go back in for a stronger, more passionate one" + "I'll give you a ride, don't worry."

Have a lovely day and take your time, no rush <33

Thank you so much for requesting and for your encouragement xx. This turned a bit longer than I anticipated, but I hope you enjoy!

Just when you thought your day couldn’t get any worse, your car decided to show you just how bad it could get. You’d already had a long and crappy shift of dealing with handsy old men, your manager and coworkers were seemingly fighting to see who could piss you off the most, you had spilled a red colored drink on your white top, and now you had to deal with whatever problem your car has now. Needless to say, you were over it.

Members of the club you worked at passed you by without even a simple glance in your direction as you stood there with frustrated tears welling in your eyes, phone to your ear as you tried to get a hold of anyone. Your hopes of someone coming to your rescue dwindled with each unanswered call until you had officially given up. You sank to the ground, knees pulled to your chest and back pressed against your car as you let out a sigh of defeat.

“Hey,” You heard a familiar voice call out.

You slowly lifted your head up from its spot between your knees and your gaze landed on Luke, one of the guys you grew friendly with during his many trips to the golf course. Though, truthfully, you had always been a bit more than friendly with him on occasion, always throwing subtle flirty remarks his way that he would bashfully return. He was a little on the shyer side than most of the guys you encountered at work, but you liked it. You liked him.

“Hi, Luke,” You weakly smiled at him, hoping the sun had set enough that he couldn’t make out the small streaks of mascara underneath your eyes.

“Is everything okay,” He carefully asks, taking a few steps closer to you with his hands shoved into his pockets, “I thought your shift was over a few hours ago?”

You decide to ignore the fact that he remembered you always got off at three on Tuesdays, but it still made your chest warm.

“It was,” You confirm, your eyes flickering to his usual group of rambunctious friends a few feet away from him before finding Luke again, “My car isn’t starting, and I can’t seem to find anyone to come pick me up, so I’m stuck here until my parents get back from the city in a few hours.”

“A few hours,” Luke lets out in disbelief before he shakes his head, his curls bouncing around in disarray, “Absolutely not. I can take you home. You’re not waiting out here for hours.”

“Luke, no,” You stressed, finally rising to your feet so you’re closer to eye level with him, though he still has quite a few inches on you, “I can handle waiting a bit longer. It’s okay. Plus, it’s way out of your way.”

A fact you knew courtesy of the time Jack had invited you to a party they had sometime last summer. A party that you left early because of the multitude of girls hoarding the one person you had gone there for.

“Doesn’t matter,” He stubbornly stands his ground, hesitantly taking a step towards you, “I’ll give you a ride, okay? Don’t worry. Making sure you get home safe will never be out of my way.”

Luke didn’t take no for an answer, and that was exactly how you ended up in seat of his expensive car with his music softly playing in the background. You had never been alone with Luke before, let alone in such a confined space, and it made you nervous. Any of the usual teasing and flirtatious remarks you would throw his way were left in the parking lot of the country club, only awkward casual conversation falling from your mouth now.

Luke kept stumbling over his words, occasionally veering off into a rant of sorts whenever certain things were brought up, and it made a smile twitch at your lips. After a few minutes he would realize that he had been talking far too long, though you didn’t mind, and he would mumble a bashful apology before directing the conversation into something different. By the time you were nearing your house, a bout of silence had fallen over the two of you and you watched everything flashed by.

“This is the one,” You pointed to the house on the right side of the street, “You can just drop me off at the end. I can walk the rest of the way.”

Luke brought his car to a stop right in front of your house, quickly throwing it into gear and grabbing the key before he was darting out of his seat. You watched him with furrowed brows and curious eyes as he jogged to the passenger door before carefully tugging it open. He was sporting a shy, timid smile, his hand grasping at the frame of the car as he patiently waited for you.

“Thank you,” You sheepishly mumble, hugging your bag to your side as you slip out of the seat.

“Of course,” He clears his throat, awkwardly shifting on his feet, “I’ll walk you to your door.”

Luke walked close enough to you that his hand kept brushing your arm, making warmth spread up your neck and to your cheeks as you kept your gaze on the ground in front of you. Once you were standing in front of the door, you finally turned to face Luke and you couldn’t help but admire the way he looked under the warm porch light. His features were soft and delicate, his curls framed his face in a way that made your mind run rampant with the idea of running your hands through them.

“Thank you, again,” You swallow thickly, “For taking me home. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” He nods, and you swear his eyes drift down to your lips, “It’s the least I can do after all the gatorade’s you supply for me and the boys.”

His joke brings a quiet giggle out of you as you playfully shake your head, “I definitely make sure to keep my cart stocked when I know you guys are coming. Though I can never seem to have enough for Jack.”

“Yeah, he throws them back like they’re going to disappear,” He chuckles, his lips tugging upwards into a smile.

“I believe that,” You airily chuckle, your gaze quickly darting to his mouth before looking away, “Well, I’m sure you probably have better things to do tonight, but I really do appreciate you.”

You hastily stand on your toes to place a small and delicate kiss on his cheek, your eyes fluttering closed for a fleeting moment until you were flat on your feet again. When you meet Luke’s eyes again, there was a certain glint to his eyes that made you nervous, but he gave you no time to dwell on it before he was surging forward and slamming his lips on your own. Your reaction was instantaneous, your bag falling from your shoulder as you wrap your arms around his neck and you kiss him back with everything you had in you.

Luke’s hands found purchase on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin as he brings you further into his chest. His mouth is moving against yours, unyielding and fueled by months of suppressed feelings as you lose yourself in the moment. It felt like the two of you were connected for hours when you regrettably pull away from him to catch your breath, his hands sliding to the small of your back to keep you close to him.

“I’m sorry,” He eventually breathes out, his chest heaving against you, “I just— Um, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time and I—”

“Luke,” You tenderly cut him off, peering up at him through your eyelashes, “I’ve been thinking about that for a long time, honestly. Actually, I was wondering if we could do it again sometime?”

[cyberr-v0id]

Last song: Head Shrink by Mother Mother

Favourite colour: Blue and red

Last book: The Nightmare Before Kissmass by Sara Raasch. I don’t usually read romances

Last movie: Jumanji two (can’t remember the proper name of it. I’ve also watched a lot of films over the last few days)

Last show: good question. Ah! I was watching the new season of The Dragon Prince with my brother last Friday. Haven’t finished it yet though

Sweet/ spicy/ savoury: depends how I’m feeling, often spicy. Overall I prefer salty, which isn’t here

Relationship status: lovingly and happily in a relationship

Last thing I googled: I was checking my art fight page for some of my character notes

Current obsession: I always have a lot of obsessions, but my most soul consuming ones at the moment are Robin Hood, Pirates, Boats, bead sorting (I sure do just love bead sorting), archery, vampires

Looking forwards to: listening to my new record, spending New Year’s Eve in a corner learning or developing a short hand, my girlfriends birthday party, seeing my friends that go to another school now, drama rehearsals, so much more

@glbtrx @necromancers-incorporated @mysteryofvampires @shortgaything @lil-gae-disaster @grungebutsoft @kimu-dem @frankie--the--fox @areindeerlime @axolotl-detector @eliza-married-a-gay-icarus @totally-italy @literally-lord-montgomery @apparentlyautistick @dead-immortal @a-fucking-tornado and open tags, no pressure!

Ten people I'd like to get to know better

Tagged by @marshmallow--shark Thanks for the tag!

Last song: Intro/Chamber The Cartridge by Rise Against

Favourite colour: Orange!

Last book: A Brief History of Intelligence by Max Bennett

Last movie: That Christmas (it was kinda weird and we didn't finish it)

Last show: Jentry Chau vs. the Underworld

Sweet/spicy/savoury: I don't have much of a sweet tooth anymore, but I used to. Savoury!

Relationship status: Happily single

Last thing I googled: "quality" synonym

Current obsession: Star Trek: Enterprise. This is my fallback obsession. Close behind is Jentry Chau as a very recent one.

Looking forward to: Seeing a concert and a musical next year!

Tagging: @ionamalachite @peculiarreality @thetachapel02 @deadheaddaisy @papercranesong @talshiargirlfriend @glitter-and-metal @dragons-in-spaceee @pearlypairings @strze-lec

[randomfandomworks]

Now, I know what a fool I’ve been. But if you kissed me now, I know you’d fool me again.

Bernard x GN!Head Elf!Reader

Synopsis: It’s believed that you and your fellow Head Elf couldn’t hate one another more. Isn’t it strange how wrong beliefs can be?

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: Potential OOC & Probable Grammar mistakes

Pronouns Used: (You/Your)

A/N: Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! This is my Christmas special, so I hope you enjoy a short rivals/enemies to lovers one shot with our favorite seasonal boyfriend, Bernard.

Post Dividers used within this post are made by @saradika-graphics

You and Bernard had never seen eye to eye that much was for certain. At every bit of confusion or conflict presented by the elves you both would only argue. It was a wonder that Santa, Scott Calvin, had continued to let you both hold the title of Head Elf. Seeing as how whenever you both were meant to handle a situation it ended in more disputes amongst the workers then any kind of resolution.

Yes, despite your shared circumstances, despite growing up through hundreds of years together, you just could never seem to understand the other. The only thing you seemed to agree on was ensuring the happiness of children around the world, and making sure your jobs were done well and properly.

Though even that wasn’t enough to stop your fighting. One year, you two had been quarreling about wrapping and what exactly was the proper way for the elves to wrap the presents. This argument came to be so out of hand that you fell behind schedule.

Half of the wrapping department was listening to you and the other half to him, and quite frankly it was slowing you all the way down. Cutting your production time by at least half if not more than. You had only made it to Christmas on schedule that year by the slimmest of margins and it was most certainly not easy. Which made you all the more uncertain of what your current situation would present for you.

It was an almost silent night amongst the North Pole as you walked with your Co-Head Elf, Bernard, the small bells on the two of your outfits ringing softly with every step. You were both doing your hardest to discuss and agree upon the best plan to amplify production. As to avoid any big arguments that may lead to another production and schedule delay.

As you walked you both came out onto a terrace of the pole, it was snowing in light flurries as you both stood. The fresh falling snow slowly catching onto your clothes and forming very light halos of delicate snowflakes in your hair.

Each of you were rapidly speaking, and slightly disagreeing, with the other. Which was the case for quite a while until Bernard had taken a step back and paused suddenly, his eyes fixated above you both.

“Bernard?” You called, only growing more and more confused as he continued to ignore you. Until finally you yourself looked up, following his line of sight until it came into view. A small bundle of mistletoe hung between the two of you. A quick realization washed over you as you quickly attempted to fix the situation at hand.

“I promise I told the Decoration Department that this was in the wrong place.” You assured, continuing to look up at the mistletoe that was hung between you and Bernard.

And you had, earlier that day when you had been passing by this exact terrace you stopped to watch them work. Usually your decoration department did a wonderful job, going above and beyond for the look of the pole.

However as you watched them you noticed them hanging the traditional plant up above the terrace, and you had asked them to take it down, bringing up a few reasons as to why it had been decided not to be placed in this area before. Eventually they agreed with you and told you they would remove the mistletoe, pleased with that answer you found it okay to walk away and get started on another job you had to complete.

The mistletoe’s leaves glittered with a slight bit of Christmas magic, magic that the decorators always dusted across the mistletoe within the pole before they were put up. You looked back to your Co-Head Elf with slight worried glances, getting ready to combat anything he had to say about it.

Though when his gaze finally met yours it seemed as though he wasn’t upset or bothered by the classic decoration, in fact he didn’t show any sign of distaste. It was strange at first before it dawned on you, perhaps as opposites you were, whilst you were upset with the placement he was not. Perhaps instead he would decide he liked it, even if only to start an argument with you.

As these thoughts danced in your head you watched a bit of the shimmering magic flutter down and land on you. It occurred to you now what this meant. How the plant dangled so perfectly between you two symbolized more than a mistake of your decorators.

You turned to meet Bernard’s gaze once again, he’d been oddly quiet, usually the two of you would result in much more commotion. His eyes were expectant though patient, observing you and your every move as he waited for you to finally realize what you both had quite literally walked right into.

You looked at him for a moment more before speaking up, “We don’t have to.” You gave, no one was around to hold you to this, and surely neither of you felt you were necessarily in a position where you must.

You watched as he stared at you for a moment more, his face scrunching slightly, he did that when he was thinking. Which was something you had learned about him but never admitted to, much like many of his other traits.

You heard him chuckle softly as he met your stare again, those eyes, you thought, they were always so full of life. Always shining with this sparkle that you couldn’t help but feel matched the spark of joy that the Christmas season brought. They certainly made you feel lighter, more joyful even, despite who they may belong to.

“Why would I not want to kiss you?” He finally spoke. He asked it as though it was more than obvious that’s what he’d been willing, no, wanting to do, as if it’s what he had been waiting so long for. It made you feel almost idiotic, foolish even.

You watched him take a small step towards you. Your bodies and faces mere inches from each other, you could smell him from here. He always smelt first like the fresh fire in his office, a light Smokey scent followed by those classical Christmas ones. Gingerbread specifically with a slight hint of sweet peppermint.

You held his gaze, his eyes roaming across your face, finding their way back to your lips time and time again. As his hands slowly found their way to your waist, he was warm, a comforting warm. The kind you feel when you come inside after a walk in the winter or bundled in a sweater as you decorated for Christmas.

And from your place before him you could see every silver freckle dusted on his cheeks. He looked almost angelic, you found yourself thinking with the snow sticking to him and the familiar light in his eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered softly, a question to be shared with you and you alone. His voice was almost desperate, though he wouldn’t make any move until he had absolute certainty from you.

Your breath became stuck in your throat, you paused, unsure of what move you should make before you unconsciously replied, “Yes.” You found yourself whispering, nodding softly as your own voice subconsciously matched his desperation.

In almost an instant your lips were against his, one of his hands coming to cradle the back of your neck, the soft ends of his sweater brushing against your cheek as he did so, with his other hand pulling you closer from his hold on your waist.

He tasted almost as sweet as he smelled, just like the new sugar cookies the bakery had been working on, and cinnamon, from his hot chocolate you found yourself remembering. He always had his cocoa with cinnamon.

He pulled away from you with a shaky sigh, a sweet smile spreading to his face as the sparkle in his eye shone brighter than you thought it had perhaps ever had before. His hold on you was still gentle but enough to keep you close, almost as though he never wished to let you go.

Looking at him now, taking notice of every detail about him, and the way he smiled at you, a sweet, loving smile that warmed you even more than his hold. It all made you feel more of a fool than before.

Has he always looked at you this way?

Has the sight of his smile always swooned you?

And have you just been so oblivious as to ignore it?

It had been foolish for sure, your attitudes towards one another, the arguments, and specifically waiting so long for this.

Thinking it all over you couldn’t help but breathe him in and pull him in once again, putting a silence to your thoughts as you kissed him once more.

[bkgexe]

the defiance of a life spent almost in touch

geto x reader ✾ 15.7k ✾ part one of two ✾ ao3 link

info! (canon au, haibara lives and geto never defects.) Your cursed technique allows you to read people—to see into their minds—when you touch them. It's not pleasant, but to jujutsu society, it's useful. Which means you end up in close proximity to Geto Suguru, who you've been avoiding for nearly a decade since seeing just how frightening it is inside his head. Though it's something you vowed never to repeat, it seems that there are powerful people vested in having you read him once again. ✾ tw! reader is scared of geto, typical jjk gore/violence, geto is. mentally unwell. like he didn't defect but he's Wrong ✾ notes! part two should be out end of january!!!

When the jujutsu higher-ups ask you for help, they always send Kento, because you have a hard time saying no to him. 

To his credit, he always looks sorry. You have the number of every other sorcerer you know blocked. He still comes in person because he knows the blow will be softer if you can complain to him after. He drives you to the appointed location, a small town on the border of Yamanashi Prefecture. The ride is mostly silent. When the car stops in front of a small, traditional house, Kento sighs deep, a sound you got so well acquainted with in high school that you can still conjure it in your mind on command. 

A familiar look: why are you doing this. Another: you can say no.

“You know why I have to,” you say.

The sigh again. “Fair enough.”

You left jujutsu society for a few reasons.

The first: your cursed technique is useless in a fight. You had to rely on strength and agility alone, which got you to Grade B—but you saw what happened to Haibara. The higher-ups send lower grade sorcerers out as a test, a toe in the water. They misjudged the grades of so many curses that at a certain point, you started to suspect that they were making it all up. That they had no way to accurately measure the strength of a curse until it had drawn a sorcerer’s blood. You didn’t want to be a body in a hospital bed, cut so deep through the middle that you had claw marks on the inside of your spine.

Haibara lived, but not without consequences.

The second: three men wait inside the house you’ve been called to. The window that alerted the higher-ups, a non-sorcerer passed out on the ground—and him. Geto smiles warmly when he sees you. You used to like his smiles before you saw the inside of his head. Now all you see is fox teeth hidden behind a stretched mouth.

Though your cursed technique isn’t useful in a fight, it’s still useful. Skin-to-skin contact allows you a look into another person’s mind. Just flashes, and nothing specific, but it’s helpful when the only witnesses you have are comatose or otherwise indisposed. You’re allowed a normal life for these few visitations. The higher-ups don’t bother you anymore. Even Gojo stopped asking you to come back and teach somewhere along the line, distracted by things more (or less, knowing him) important than your existence.

Geto never tried. You can at least respect him for that.

He explains to you that six people have been found in the same state as the man in front of you. It’s not a normal coma—something is smothering their soul, stretching it far from their body. As if they’re standing on the sidewalk across the street from themselves, watching the inside of their head through a lit window in the middle of the night. You’d forgotten what Geto’s voice sounded like, all friendly tones and half-hidden condescension.

When you touch the unconscious man, you don’t see anything at first, which is odd. His wrist is clammy and cold, his whole body covered in sweat. You briefly wonder if his soul is so disconnected that you won’t be able to read him.

And then, memories:            noodles in warm broth,          a pair of leather shoes           with buckles,                    a live wire at the power plant,          what it would feel like          to put your hands on it?,          to feel electricity for the first time in so long?,          to take something into you                                                                  r body that was never supposed to be there?,          hands wrapped around spark-soaked copper—

Outside, you throw up behind a camellia bush. Bile burns your throat, the roof of your mouth. The flowers smell of putrid rot when you know they shouldn’t. Cold air digs needles into your cheeks, so you’re stinging inside and out. Kento hadn’t given you enough notice for you to skip breakfast, but the higher-ups hadn’t given him any notice that they’d need you.

People are predisposed to show you either wants or memories. Never both, for reasons beyond your understanding. Memories are worse than wants. They burrow deeper, which makes them harder to expel.

Instinct tells you the hand is coming before it connects, and you dodge contact—Geto at your shoulder, asking if you’re alright. He doesn’t miss that you flinch away from him. “I’d have brought a bucket inside if I knew,” he tells you. His face says: I’m sorry for overlooking this detail. He’s very good at lying with it.

“It’s at the power plant,” you say. “Whatever’s causing this.”

“Do you want to read any of the others before you go?” The question feels cruel. His face says it isn’t.

You shake your head and leave without a word. 

Kento drops you off at your building and you thank him. You could invite him up easily. The two of you have known each other for so long, have experienced so much together, that being with him feels natural. It’s possible to turn off your brain around him, to touch him and only experience the smallest flashes of memory. 

You thank him and say good night.

It would be selfish. You would give anything to be the kind of person that could be a good partner to him. He’s an easy man to love, which is exactly why you can never love him. You’re difficult, a puzzle that comes with a sizable warning.

When you fall asleep in your cramped apartment, you see soup and silver buckles, live wires and burning flesh.

✾

An unknown number calls when you’re at work. You pick up because it breaks the monotony of clicking around account records and absorbing none of the numbers on the screen.

“Are you busy?” the person on the line asks, and you realize you never blocked Geto’s number because you never had it in the first place.

You tell him you’re not, even though you have a project deadline this week. If you sit in this closet-turned-office for five more minutes you’re going to explode all over the walls. You're not sure why you entertain him—why you didn't just hang up the second you heard his voice. There's something about him that compels you. A terrible, morbid curiosity that sometimes, when you're not looking directly at him, overrides your fear.

He meets you at the same house as last time, but today there’s no window. Just you and him. Kento didn’t drive you. For some odd reason, you thought there’d be someone else here, as if jujutsu society at large should know that you always need a buffer when it comes to Geto. A witness. And you realize that despite the curiosity, despite the compulsion, you should never have entertained this man on the phone for more than ten seconds. You shouldn't be here. You keep your keys spiked between your fingers, as if you’d ever be able to stop one of the most powerful sorcerers alive from doing whatever he wanted with you.

“I didn’t find anything at the power plant,” he says, leading you down a wooded path behind the house. You emerge onto a dirt road on the other side, a near-identical house sitting before you, its sloping, tiled roof dripping with excess morning rain. “Have you had lunch?”

You shake your head. He smiles with his hidden fox teeth.

The man you read this time is just as feverish as the other, but his wrist is hot. This isn’t relevant to reading a person, but you notice these things because you touch people so infrequently. Each time you do it’s a research experience, notes taken inside your head, recorded to compare against other studies you’ve done over the years.

The memories are instant:  rough hands that have hardened from years of manual labor, watching baseball with the other construction workers after projects done in town,                     your daughter           moving to Tokyo for college, radishes that she used to grow in the backyard that she boiled and roasted every day after harvest, and           who          will you eat them with now? and who          will grow them? and who          will you make your hands rough for?  you don’t like baseball.

Pulling away from the man’s mind is like extracting yourself from honey in the process of crystallizing. His consciousness clings to you as you leave, trying its best to suck you back in. You’re the only company it’s had in a while.

“I didn’t get anything,” you say, and your voice is rough. Your throat burns even though you didn’t throw up. 

Geto sits in one of the two plastic folding chairs in the house’s main room. He plays with the piece of his hair that’s loose from his bun, twirling it between slim fingers. You haven’t seen him in a jujutsu tech uniform since high school, though you’re pretty sure Gojo still wears one daily. Geto’s always in crisp white or black button-downs, slacks, expensive oxfords. Maybe playing dress-up makes him feel less like a sorcerer and more like a human.

“I can try again,” you say, and you’re not sure why. It’s for this suffering man, you think, even though your savior complex was left behind with the jujutsu world. 

“You don’t have to,” Geto says, dropping the strand of hair and leaning forward. His language is careful. He’s not telling you no. The way he watches you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in the middle, makes you feel like you’re being tested.

You try again. This time:  getting your wedding ring engraved,          sitting on the porch in late spring sipping on plum wine,          nearly crying when you see your daughter playing with                     the girls that have caused the town so much misfortune,          the relief when            they ’re finally gone,          the relief when your daughter brings new best friends home and          their eyes          aren’t shadowed and sharp and too old for their sockets—

Retching is your second-least favorite thing, right behind actually vomiting. Your body rejects the images you’ve seen, trying to empty your stomach before the memories can begin to digest.

You tell Geto what you saw. 

His question: “Does he remember what happened to the girls?”

“If he does, I didn’t see it,” you say. When Geto is silent, you tell him, “I can’t do it again. I can’t.”

After a tense, quiet moment, he smiles at you. You still feel nauseous, but you can’t tell if it’s because of your cursed technique or because of the bone-deep malaise that spreads into your skin like a balm when he looks at you—when you’re reminded of what you once saw lurking in the corners of his mind. “Of course,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

✾

Kento meets you at your usual coffee shop a few weeks later. Your throat no longer feels raw every time you swallow. He has a drink waiting for you when you get there—(describing Kento as punctual would be doing the man a disservice)—and it’s your favorite, with all the little add-ons that you get too nervous to ask for at risk of being a burden to the already overworked baristas. You’re positive he tipped heavy after putting in your order.

He asks you what you think about the murder mystery you’ve both been reading. You tell him about your job, the monotony, the fantasies of exploding. He tells you about jujutsu business, even though he’s not supposed to. This has never stopped him in the past and won’t ever stop him in the future.

“The higher-ups are pleased with your work,” he tells you. He doesn’t sound pleased.

“Kento.” A warning.

He hmms at you as if actually considering your warning before speaking his mind. “Having a foot in either world is difficult. It’s impossible to keep your balance.”

Your drink suddenly disgusts you. You taste bile. The cup is hot between your hands as you roll it back and forth with your palms. “Are you saying I should come back to Jujutsu Tech?”

“I’m saying that if you want to leave entirely, you should.”

You consider this: a normal life, surrounded by normal people, with a normal job and normal friends and a normal partner, maybe, if you’re lucky. The higher-ups would never let this happen. If you wrong them, they make sure to wrong you back. “You know why I can’t.”

“I’d take care of it. You wouldn’t be bothered by anyone.” He speaks with such confidence that you could almost believe him.

You tell him you’ll think about it. The coffee stings your palms. A terrible feeling sits in your throat like a weathered rock.

There’s something other than the threat of retaliation that stops you from pulling the trigger—from fully leaving the world you grew up in, as Kento once did. Maybe you’re not as brave as him. Maybe you can’t reconcile how quickly he ended up going back. Or maybe you just feel so inextricably tied to the world in which you were raised that you need to have it in your life somehow, even if it’s in brief, unpleasant flashes of memory and want.

“You can make your decisions for yourself,” he says. He’s not disappointed with you, you’re sure—just worried. The same way you often worry about him. “They’re pleased. Geto found the curse and exorcised it the same day thanks to you. I can see why the higher-ups don’t want to let you go.”

The stone in your throat grows edges, forgets its weathering. His name always unnerves you, but Kento’s words unnerve you more. “He exorcised it—the same day we drove out there?”

Kento nods, sips his tea. “He can be vicious.”

A tremor begins in your fingers and lodges deep in your elbows, your shoulders, your very soul. “He didn’t need me to read another victim?”

Kento’s a smart man. His eyes narrow. “Not to my knowledge. Or anyone else’s.”

You wave off his concern (suspicion, really, but you love to downplay these things), and your coffee is finished, and you really should be going, anyway. “He didn’t do anything,” you lie, standing and folding your coat over your arm. “He called and asked me to come back out, but I said no.”

It’s easy to see that Kento doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t press you either. He knows that if you tell him half-truths, once you have all of your feelings together, you’ll tell him everything. He’s done the same, and you’ve given him the grace he’s currently allowing you. He puts up with a lot—but that’s the nature of living the lives into which you both were born.

“Thank you for the coffee,” you say.

“You’ll call me soon?”

“You’re on speed dial,” you tell him—and it’s true. His contact is the only one in your phone that’s favorited.

Kento smiles—something you rarely see. You wish it didn’t call to mind the shine of fox teeth.

✾

How you ended up coming into contact with the wants of Geto Suguru: he showed up at Ieiri’s dorm with his ribs visible through his uniform.

You remember very specific things from that day. The heavy knock, the thud of him collapsing, blood soaking the tatami floors. Shockingly white bone beneath torn skin and muscle, his ink-black hair coming undone, silk-soft and slipping across your fingers as you dragged him inside. Ieiri’s hands were shaking. She smelled like cigarette smoke and metal. Pressure here, she told you, ripping away the remains of Geto’s jacket, and when you touched him everything was skin-muscle-bone-blood and: bodies.  bodies of people that have wronged you. people that haven’t.  their blood thick beneath your fingernails          like orange peel.  how easy it is to snuff out each life. to take from them what they have forgotten to value.                      you could kill more.                      you could kill everyone. 

When you pulled away from Geto, his skin was knitting together beneath Ieiri’s shaking hands—hands you knew well, her black nail polish chipped around the edges because she bit at her nails when she was somewhere she couldn’t smoke. His ribs faded from view, and then muscle, and then his skin was pink and shiny, scar-new, as if whoever had done this to him had simply taken a paint brush to his bare chest and drawn a bold X. 

Blood was underneath your fingernails. Orange peel. It’s all you remember about the aftermath. Getting back to your room and locking yourself in the washroom were voided from your memory. Your head was all bodies. All bone. An undeniable feeling of righteousness, completely sure that they hadn’t deserved what you’d taken from them. And on top of that, the most frightening thing: relief that they were dead. 

You washed your hands so much that the skin was raw, peeling, but you still couldn’t get your fingernails clean.

✾

You ignore his calls.

The frequency with which you receive them makes you uneasy. You don’t have his number saved. The first few digits become a bad omen.

In school, he and Gojo had a reputation for toying with people. Mostly women, mostly in a romantic sense. The difference between the two is that Gojo was easy to understand—a spoiled boy-prince that liked the attention. He wanted girls to fawn after him, to beg for more when he finally graced them with a kiss, to cry when he dropped them.

Geto always seemed worse, somehow. He would date girls and leave them behind like candy wrappers, charming them into giving him a taste and only revealing his true appetite when his prize had reached the inescapable vicinity of his jaws. 

It’s more insidious than simply liking attention. He liked power. Having control over someone.

Whatever he’s doing now is insidious in nature, too. You can feel it. So you ignore his calls and keep working the days away until you can’t ignore him, because he shows up at your office with the confidence of someone supposed to be there, hands in his pockets, leaning against the frame of your door.

You jump so hard that your bones creak, almost louder than the creaking plastic of your poor hand-me-down rolling chair.

“Your instincts are a little dull,” he says. “I thought you would’ve heard me coming.”

Standing up feels necessary. You don’t want to feel smaller than him, even though he towers in your doorway. “I’m not supposed to be bothered by sorcerers without advance notice.” 

He smiles. “I tried calling.”

Your heart is pounding like a rabbit at the foot of a wolf, partly torn to shreds but conscious enough to experience the abject terror of what comes next. “Who let you up here?”

“I was hoping you might be willing to humor me without advance notice.”

“I’m calling security.”

“I need your help,” he says.

“Like you needed my help last time?”

He sits with that for a moment. “Is it a crime to be curious about you? What you’re capable of?”

“You lied to me,” you reiterate. “You didn’t need me to read that man. And, what—it was so you could see more of my technique?”

“Yes,” he says plainly, as if it's a perfectly sane response.

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

He chuckles, the sound rich and deep and calm, as if you’re having a nice conversation between old friends. “Are you saying you’d have responded well if I just asked?”

You remain silent, staring at the sticky notes on your monitor with reminders and deadlines written in blue pen. Tanaka account today. Get stapler back from Yoishi!!!! You both know his question is rhetorical.

He crosses his arms, taps his long fingers against his bicep. Is it impatience, you wonder, or his inability to sit still for too long? His face belies nothing. “Would you read me if I asked?”

Your veins feel too tight, constricting muscle. It must be a leading question—he’s suspicious of your aversion to him, maybe. The exterior he’s built is charming and handsome and kind. That’s probably how he got to your office. You wouldn’t be surprised if the receptionist saw a handsome face and caved immediately. It’s not his fault you see through it. If you could go back and revoke your touch, remove the bodies from your memory, you would. But you can’t, and the things in his mind scare you. It’s part of what made you leave. The idea of working with a man like that, who held such terrors in his head, was incomprehensible to you. It still is. You would always be thinking about the ease with which you could become one of those bodies.

When you read people who project to you in wants, it’s usually easier. Makes you feel less sick. But not him. He wanted those people dead, whoever they were. He wanted blood on his hands. He was thinking, concretely, that he could have killed them all. That they deserved it.

The relief was the worst part. Seeing all those people dead, and the resounding thought that outshone everything else: finally. 

He steps forward, hand extended slightly. “If I—”

“No. Just—don’t,” you say, and you stumble a little as your legs hit your chair and push it, rattling, against the wall. Your office has never been this small. You never want to be inside his head again. You'd do anything to get him out of your space. “Tell me what you need my help with and we can go.”

He doesn’t look pleased. It seems people in your life are operating on a theme. Still, his hand retreats, and he smiles, slouches a little, as if to make himself smaller. Less intimidating. “Thank you.”

As you leave your office, you give him a wide berth, though you could swear his body goes taut, as if suppressing the urge to touch you.

The Ueno Zoo is closed during operating hours. This hasn’t happened in the entire time you’ve lived in Tokyo. The woman at the gate is a window—the look she gives Geto is one of recognition, respect. He and Gojo are the most well-respected sorcerers currently active, though you believe entirely that Kento is much more deserving of respect than they are. The window lets the both of you inside without a word.

Geto leads you to the vivarium, just to the right of the gate. It’s a beautiful glass building, the windows fogged with humidity to keep its plant and animal residents comfortable. You haven’t been to the zoo in a long time, but when you used to come with family and friends, you always visited the vivarium before you left. The air was heavy and hot, birdsong piped in through speakers, echoing off the glass walls like prism-dispersed light. Every animal inside moved slowly, heavily, and if you listened closely enough, you could hear the soft slide of scales against stone, the heavy thud of a taloned foot into packed dirt. A haven for living in calm and peace.

Inside, it’s chaos.

Display cases are smashed, plants and trees are torn up from the roots, stone walls have been dismantled and crushed. In the center of the rubble, the strewn dirt and bundled roots: jaws. Alligator jaws, crocodile jaws, all long and horrible teeth, and when you look closer—the jaws of snakes, fanged and dripping venom, and others from what you can only assume would be turtles, small and rounded. 

The skin remains perfectly intact on every jaw. Muscle, bone, blood. You see bodies. You see limbs. You remember: finally.

“Don’t look at that,” Geto says from beside you. “Look at me.”

With a deep breath, you do—though looking at him does nothing to dispel the unrest in your stomach, the pit in your chest. 

“Good.” He’s not smiling anymore. You wonder if he’s decided to drop his disguise or if the orphaned jaws are more horrifying than the wants he carries like stones. “Come this way.”

He leads you away from the viscera, into a small office next to the stairs. A man sits in the single chair, staring into the security monitors on the desk in front of him. His gaze is absent, hollow. His hands clasp and unclasp on his lap. Blood is spattered across his face and the front of his cheery yellow jumpsuit.

“He’s been like this since I got here,” Geto tells you. “I need you to read him.”

Ieiri used to tell you that if humans come into contact with curses and live, you have to monitor them closely for cardiogenic shock—stress and fear mounting to such a peak that the heart can’t handle the pressure. It’s not a peaceful death. “He needs to go to a hospital.”

“I’ll take him after.”

“How long has he been in shock?”

“Read him first,” he says, more curt than you’ve ever heard.

This is the thing lurking under the surface. The wolf peeking through the mouth of the sheepskin. It sits in him waiting to be called forth. You’ve seen it already—it’s no surprise to you that it lives in him still. It is, however, a surprise that he let his facade slip so badly.

He smiles, fox teeth a little sharper than usual. “Please.”

You put your hand on the side of the man’s neck, the only skin available to you. Touching people’s faces horrifies you. Such an intimate thing tarnished by the images that flood your brain. 

Memories on a loop:  guttural screeching,          death cries that couldn’t be conjured by a human mind,          and from the ceiling,          from the ceiling          the jaws                     falling, falling,                                          falling,  blood everywhere          and on you and you can taste it          ???          in your mouth          ???           on your tongue          ???            metal and rot,          and there is something discarding these jaws from the bodies of animals          it eats                    while clinging to the vivarium’s rafters something ???        when you met your wife you knew you were going to propose to her in the zoo in the vivarium because of the beautiful glass the beautiful plants she loves plants something           there is something          there is          something you cannot see          some          thing          ???

This time, Geto has a trash can waiting for you. You’ve gotten very good at gathering your hair up with one hand at a moment’s notice. He puts the trash next to the desk when you’re done, and you tell him everything useful that you gathered on the curse. Everything else, you keep to yourself. You’ve gotten very good at that too.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your wrist. The bile tastes more like copper than usual. “Is that everything?”

He holds his hand out to you and you hide your flinch poorly. “Gum?”

The foil-wrapped stick shimmers green, held between his fingers like a cigarette. You stare at it for a beat too long. It’s your favorite brand, spearmint flavored. 

“It won’t bite,” he says. He tilts his head to the side, eyes crinkling with mirth. As if you weren’t tasting blood just a moment ago. When you still don’t take the gum, he laughs softly and it reminds you of high school. His laughter has always been a little mean, as if it gets harder for him to hide his true nature when amused. It reminds you of a housecat playing with a bug. “I won’t either.”

A funny thing for someone with such sharp teeth to claim.

You take the gum from him, careful to grab the very end so there’s no chance of your fingers brushing his. “Thanks.”

He smiles and nods as if he’s done you a favor. You appreciate the gum, but you’d appreciate him ceasing contact with you more. “I’ll see you soon,” he tells you.

“Get him help, Geto.” 

He smiles wide in response.

✾

You lost your virginity to Kento during your graduating year at Jujutsu Tech.

Haibara was recovering, still in the hospital for the third consecutive month. He had to learn how to walk again, the implants in his spine acclimating to him at the same rate that he was acclimating to them. You and Kento were the only two students in your year that made it to graduation. The two of you felt like celebrating but when you began drinking, you realized it was more commiseration than anything celebratory.

“Do you always see things?” Kento asked. He never drank—saw it as beneath him—so when he did, he was a lightweight. “When you touch people?”

“Yeah,” you said. The both of you sat against the headboard of your bed, passing a bottle of gin back and forth—the only thing you could find in Yaga’s campus stash. It stopped tasting like liquor twenty minutes prior. “I can make it quieter. But I really have to focus. Like—I couldn’t make it quiet now, I don’t think.”

Kento turned towards you and said, “Try.”

And always, you would protest when people suggested this. It was like a party trick to people that didn’t have to deal with the fallout. They all wanted to know what you saw in their mind, whether it was wants or memories that jumped to the forefront, what their subconscious decided was important enough to broadcast.

You didn’t believe at all that Kento was asking for those reasons. It’s why you touched him.

Wedging the bottle between Kento’s thigh and yours, you turned towards him and reached for his face. This, for some reason, was your first instinct. His skin was soft, a little dry. His mouth was set in a nervous slant. 

And you got a few things from him: finishing your favorite book for the third time, going to the beach with your mother, finding out how cold the sea was. Memories, unfortunately. The feelings behind them.

But what you felt was mostly your own. 

You pushed his bangs back from his face, and you couldn’t take your eyes from the slant of his lips, and suddenly you were in Kento’s lap, kissing him, and he was kissing you back, hands on your hips, groaning softly into your mouth.

The gin tumbled off the bed and spilled all over your floor. Your dorm would smell like liquor for weeks. 

It was awkward the way a first time should be for teenagers, misplaced limbs and kisses with knocking teeth. You both tried to take care of each other the best you could while shit-faced and entirely inexperienced. You hadn’t kissed anyone before then—you hadn’t touched someone’s face since you were little. 

You’d been scared. He figured out how to make that okay. 

✾

Gojo is in your office when you come into work, reclining in your chair with his feet up on your desk. He peers at you over his glasses, eyes like jeweled robin eggs. “Running kinda late, huh?”

“I don’t have to be here until nine,” you tell him. “It’s eight forty-five.”

“Semantics.”

“You’re in my office.” You don’t even have the good grace to make it sound like a question—just an admonishment.

“Or is it syntax?”

“Can you please get out?”

“Can’t you pretend you’re happy I’m here?” He pouts, taking his feet from your desk. “I won’t even ask you to do anything. I basically just came here to say hey.”

“That would certainly be a first.” You walk behind your desk and shoo him away from your computer, waking it from its slumber. An orange post-it note on the top of your monitor reminds you that tax reports are due TODAY!!!!!!, and you try to prepare yourself for a grueling eight-to-twelve hours of tax filing, depending on how smoothly things go. Gojo Satoru showing up at your office before you is not your definition of smooth. “You said hey. Why are you still here?”

Gojo slowly spins in your chair, pushing himself in circles lazily with one long leg. Avoids looking at you. “You’ve been working with Suguru a lot lately.”

“Twice.” You open up the tiny K-Cup machine you have on your desk and start preparing the world’s smallest cup of coffee. Three times, technically, but you still don’t know what to make of the second time he called you out to Yamanashi Prefecture. When he lied to you. “That hardly constitutes a lot.”

“Enough that it got back to me.” He slows the chair, then starts spinning the other way. “You got any idea why he’s taken an interest?”

Your tiny mug clatters against the K-Cup machine. Geto is probably miles from here, dealing with important jujutsu business, but your heart beats like a prey animal nonetheless, the way it often does under his gaze.“I don’t think he’s taken an interest.”

“As much as I’d love to be flattering you, that’s not what I mean.” He stops the chair entirely, body directed at you. “You’ve been useful.”

There’s nothing you hate more than being talked about like a tool. Your coffee finishes brewing and you take a sip before you really should. It burns your lips. You lean against your desk and look at Gojo, trying to read anything from his face, his body language. As always, you glean nothing. Though you see Geto as the more insidious of the two, you’re keenly aware that Gojo is just as good at pretending. 

“I’ve been useful,” you repeat. “So what?”

“You don’t think you’ve been pretty unnecessary for the missions you’ve been asked to help with?” Though his glasses are on, it's as if you can sense the intensity of his gaze through the darkened lenses. “Suguru could’ve found and exorcised either of those curses easy. I could’ve done it even easier.”

Every meeting with Gojo requires a mandatory ego-stroking period. You decide to get it over with quickly. “Yes, you’re both very strong. What’s your point?”

“Do you know what happened that night?” he asks, taking off his glasses—and this is what really instills a fear in you that something terrible is about to happen. A full view of eyes like glittering sapphires. There’s no question what night he’s talking about. 

You don’t like thinking about that time in general. You don’t like thinking about Geto’s ribs. You don’t like thinking about the bodies. “A non-sorcerer tried to stop the merger. You guys… neutralized him.”

His gaze clouds for a moment. You’re aware that Gojo carries his burdens, despite his unbearable ego. He’s somewhere else, seeing things that you have the good fortune of never having to see. You briefly wonder whether you’d read memories or wants from him. You’re content with not knowing. “Don’t play coy,” he tells you. “You’re smarter than that.”

“You killed him.”

“I killed him.”

Gojo’s account of the day you read Geto: both he and his best friend so narrowly avoided death that they still remember its taste.

A mercenary whittled down Gojo’s endurance and attacked just as they were delivering Amanai Riko to Tengen for their merger. Gojo stayed back to deal with things. Geto escorted Amanai. Gojo was slit from throat to hip with a blade so sharp he didn’t feel the pain until his blood was already varnishing the floor. Geto was carved apart by that same blade, left alive only because of the curses he stored and their indeterminable state upon his death. Amanai, quick on her feet, made it to Tengen. The merger was successful. Things settled down and another Star Plasma Vessel wouldn’t have to be found for a long, long time.

Gojo shows you the scar on his forehead, shiny rib-white, usually hidden by his hair or his blindfold. Being so close to death changed him, he tells you—he fully understood the limits of his cursed energy and what it could do.

It changed Geto too.

“I’m not telling you all this for nothing,” he says, a disarming smile appearing on his face so suddenly after a serious conversation that the speed makes you nauseous. “I just have one tiny favor to ask you.”

It’s long into the day. The details took a while to get through. Your lunch hour is coming up and your appetite is nonexistent and tax forms sit unfiled on your desk. Gojo asking for a favor is always bad news. You can taste vomit and you wish you had a piece of gum or alternatively that you were born an entirely different person. “I don’t want any trouble—”

“No trouble. Promise.” He lifts his right hand, pinkie out, grinning—as if it’s funny that you, specifically, can’t touch him. “I just want you to read him for me.”

Your heart slams into the base of your throat. “That’s… You know that’s not a small ask.”

He drops his hand, shrugs. “C’mon—look, it’ll give you an excuse to get close to him.”

“Why would I want that?” you ask.

“As if I didn’t clock your embarrassing crush on him in high school.”

“Excuse me?”

“Excused. It won’t even be bad,” he says. “I only need you to read him one time, probably.”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Gojo.”

Weighing the cost of telling you a half-truth versus keeping you in the dark seems to take a toll on him, his smile turning brittle at its corners. You think he knows that you won’t do anything for him without more information. Not that you’d read Geto ever, at all—but Gojo hasn’t always been good at believing people when they say never. Hesitantly, he tells you, “Something happened.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, something,” he says, finally a little exasperated. “I wouldn’t be asking if I already had answers.”

There are things he’s not telling you, very obviously. He’s minimizing. Jujutsu sorcerers are good at that. And he and Geto are best friends, two people so closely intertwined that they could count as one. “Why can’t you just ask him?”

For the first time in your acquaintance with him, Gojo is silent.

“He doesn’t know you’re asking me to do this,” you say. It would be a question if you weren’t already so sure.

“Oh, no, he’d kill me if he knew I was here.”

“I’ll call him and tell him to come get you.”

“I’d like to see you follow through on that.” He grins, peeks at you over his glasses. “Bet you won’t.”

Geto answers on the first ring, your name spoken in question.

“Your dog’s in my office. Come pick him up.”

He does.

Gojo could easily leave before Geto arrives, but he doesn’t even try. He sits in your chair, still reclined, surely doing immeasurable damage to the hydraulics. Asking him about his motives would be wasted breath—he’ll never tell you something he doesn’t want to, regardless of how much you wheedle him. He’ll enjoy the wheedling, though, and you don’t want to give him the ego boost of being begged. 

Instead, you shoo him out of the way of your desk and start working on submitting the tax forms, leaning awkwardly over your computer. Gojo hums and your back aches, and you refuse to be curious about this entire situation because it’s none of your business. This is what you do now. Taxes and filing.

Geto arrives at your office once again without needing your permission to come up. You wonder who’s working reception.

“Sorry about him,” Geto says, leaning in your doorway. His hair is loose, strands falling softly against his face. You forget how tall he is sometimes. How handsome. It makes your stomach turn. “Badly trained.”

“I think the fault is more the owner’s than the dog’s,” you say.

He shrugs. “If you tried training the dog in question, maybe your opinion would change.”

“Can you guys stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Gojo asks.

Geto grabs him by the back of the collar. “Walk’s over. Time to go home.” He smiles at you over his shoulder as he leaves, his hair so inky black that it almost blends into his dark dress shirt. You remember how it felt sliding through your fingers years ago. Even though you never touched his wound, you think you can remember the texture of his ribs.

You consider Gojo’s proposition long after you’ve submitted the tax forms, after you’ve arrived home late once again, after you stare out your bedroom window into the night sky and see nothing but storm-cloud gray. 

You expect Geto to be the kind of person to keep secrets. It shouldn’t worry you. But keeping secrets from the one person he views as an equal makes you uneasy. The bodies are in your head. You wonder how close you are to finally. When you sleep, it’s fitful, and you wake in the night to the feeling of silk-soft hair running through your fingers, falling so quickly that it’s impossible to grasp.

✾

Kento is antsy when he comes over for dinner. It wouldn’t bother you if he didn’t also happen to be the calmest man you know. He keeps bouncing his leg as he sits at the little two-top table in your kitchen, drumming his fingers incessantly on the tiled surface. He’s not wearing his glasses—and he usually watches your cooking like a hawk, just in case you make a grievous mistake—but instead holds them in his hand, twirling them back and forth. 

The one-sided conversation you have with him is unbearable. Did you have a nice day? Mmmhmm. No crazy assignments? Just the usual. Should I use soy sauce or sesame oil? Oil. My favorite author is doing a book signing next month. Do you want to go with me? Sure. Is something up? Not at all.

Eventually, you’ve had enough. “I’m going to burn the cabbage.”

He glances over at the pan you’re wielding. “It looks fine.”

“I’m going to do it on purpose and I’m going to make you eat it,” you say, pointing your spatula in his direction so he’s positive that it’s him who’ll have to eat the ruined meal. “I’ll spoon-feed it to you.”

Kento is bewildered by this, his eyebrows raised very slightly—shock has always been a micro-expression for him. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a little absent.”

“More than a little.” You stir the cabbage again. “You know I don’t want to pry.”

He nods. The space you offer each other is a give-and-take. If neither of you are ready to speak about something, there’s usually no pressure to do so. 

But this time is different. You’re worried that the strange things happening around you are begging to connect, veins folding over each other to become arteries, blood flowing into your life and staining the foundations. You need to tell him about everything that's happened over the past few weeks. But first, you need to ask. “Does this have something to do with Geto?”

His leg stops bouncing. His fingers quiet against the tabletop. “So you know.”

You tell him everything. Being called out to the village again, going to the vivarium, the jaws. Gojo showing up unannounced, though that's the most usual thing out of everything that's happened. “He asked me to read Geto,” you say. “There are secrets being kept.”

You told Kento about the bodies only once. The two of you had just recently graduated. You shared a studio apartment in Tokyo for three months before your Jujutsu Tech paychecks started coming in. In his arms, you saw memories of a kind-hearted blonde woman, the scent of coffee and pastries, the cool chill of the air in the mountains of Denmark, and you had to pull away from him, trying not to gag and failing.

When you returned from the bathroom, teeth minty-fresh and tongue burning, he apologized so earnestly. As if he had done anything other than hold you close and thread his fingers through yours. 

It was then you began to understand that you could never be his, though the realization didn’t settle in for a while. You told him not to apologize. You told him that nothing was his fault. And then for some reason, you told him about the bodies and the orange peel and the finally and he asked if he could comfort you and you had to say no because you didn’t want to throw up again. From then on, he was wary of Geto. Maybe not as much as you—though that’s understandable.

Knowing what’s going on in his head is one thing. Experiencing it is another.

Kento sighs, familiar. He joins you in the kitchen, in the heat that radiates from the stove. The cabbage is burning slightly even though you never meant to follow through on your threat. Your attention has been elsewhere. “Let me,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes yours as he takes the spatula from you: fresh bread from the bakery at the end of the block,          long nights at the office alone,          a deep hatred of the word ergonomic—  He begins to peel the burning cabbage from the bottom of the pan. “He’s been quiet lately.”

“Isn’t he usually?” You remember Geto being reserved, but then again, maybe that’s only because your memories of him are often in the context of Gojo.

“He can be.” Kento takes the pan to the trash and scrapes off the burnt cabbage, then returns to where you wait for him, leaning against your counter. He opens the top drawer next to the stove and pulls out the menu of the Indian restaurant nearby that you both like. “He’s exorcising Special Grade curses that he shouldn’t even attempt to take on by himself, no matter how strong he is. There are days where he’s cleared missions back-to-back without stopping to sleep.”

“You think he’s focused on work because something’s wrong.”

“Yes,” Kento says, and chews on the thought for a moment. “I don’t like it when he’s focused like this. He gets… obsessive.”

“Him and Gojo were always odd, though,” you say. Minimizing whatever is happening with Geto feels crucial. You’ve never seen Kento this worried.

He hums. “In different ways, perhaps. Gojo’s obsessive nature is more self-centered. But Geto—when he’s consumed by something, it’s like nothing else matters. He’d raze the world to ash if it meant doing what he felt needed doing.”

“Should I be worried?” you ask.

You should. You already know this.

Another sigh. He can’t quite look you in the eyes. You both think: bodies. You both think: finally . “Biryani for you?” he asks. “Or do you want something different this time?”

“Biryani’s fine.”

“Great,” he says, proceeding to order your food. And you don’t talk about it again that night.

✾

You’ve been a regular at the same coffee shop for nearly half a decade. The times you come in vary, depending on work or your weekend plans. You know the regulars and have seen thousands of faces pass through the cozy little building. Not once have you seen Geto here.

Yet he’s at the back of the line when you arrive, smiling pleasantly when he sees you walk through the door. Almost as if his arrival was timed.

If he hadn’t already seen you, you would’ve left. Even as you step into line behind him, you still consider it: bolting out the door and down the street, sprinting your way home as if he’d catch you if you stopped running. He stares at you expectantly while you think about your escape. It puts a shiver deep into your bones, his handsome face and kind eyes and warm smile, all tactics granted by genetics and lifted straight out of a manual on inviting body language. Instead of doing what your instincts tell you is right, you say, “Hi.”

“It's good to see you.” His smile widens, Cheshire in nature despite not showing teeth. “I didn’t know anyone else knew about this place.”

You almost tell him you live close by, but then think better of it. “It’s Kento’s favorite.”

“Of course,” he says. “Haibara took me here a few years ago.”

Yu is kind to a fault. Neither you or Kento have ever talked to him about what you saw in Geto’s head—mostly because you're scared to tell too many people, but also because of the blind respect Yu has for Geto. As if he's a story-book hero that could never do anything wrong. You care about Yu too much to disappoint him with the truth.

“I’ve gotten the same thing here for a long time,” Geto tells you. He gazes up at the menu, such concentration on his face, pulling at the strand of hair loose from his bun for a moment before turning back to you. You remember what Kento said about him not sleeping. His obsessiveness. Nearly imperceptible purple smudges lurk under his eyes. “Would you like to try something new with me?”

You can’t decide if you say yes out of sick curiosity or the fear of what would happen if you said no. Geto pays for both of your drinks—you insist that he shouldn’t, enough times in a row that it’s rude and very obviously makes the cashier uncomfortable, but his insistence wins out.

Waiting at the drink counter with him is torture. You hate when people buy things for you because it makes you feel like you owe them something. For Geto, it’s time. He paid for your presence, at least for however long it takes the baristas to make your drinks. He asks you about your work. You tell him about the books you’ve been balancing, hoping to bore him. Instead he asks more questions about how you like your office, whether your coworkers are nice, if your boss is treating you well.

“Are you looking for a new job?” You fail to keep vitriol from lacing the underside of your words. “We’re not hiring.”

If Geto is bothered by your attitude, he doesn’t let on. He even seems a touch amused. “I enjoy what I’m doing now, but thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

The barista calls out Geto’s name, and he grabs your drink first, hands it to you. You ordered a cappuccino with a syrup that you’ve been curious about but have never tried. The coffee smells amazing even at arm's length, creamy and strong and a little like cinnamon. 

“Thanks.” You slowly turn to leave. “I should be—”

“Wait,” he says, reaching towards you.

You flinch so hard that a slim stream of coffee shoots from the lid’s mouthpiece, burning hot when it lands on your hand. Geto never makes contact, but his arm is still outstretched, as if waiting for you to calm down so he can go through with touching you. You think of Gojo’s request, of the cases where Geto has asked for your help but hasn’t needed it. Yu might have shown him this coffee shop however long ago, but why is he here now? Why have you never seen him here before if he’s a regular?

“Get away from me,” you snap, stern and quiet enough that your words lace themselves underneath the shop’s easy-listening music. 

He does, hands raised and palms open, proclaiming innocence. Slowly, he lowers them. The barista calls his name again, his coffee still waiting on the counter.

“If you ever make me read you against my will,” you tell him, “I will never forgive you.”

Your forgiveness probably means little to him, but it’s the only thing you can threaten. You don’t know him well enough to understand what he holds dear—but you remember respect being important to him when you were at school. Respect and forgiveness.

“I wouldn’t,” he says. “Never.”

You thank him for the coffee again in lieu of a goodbye. The air outside stings against your face, your neck, the spots on your skin where the coffee burned you, steamed milk already drying to film. You’ll wash your hands when you get home. And you’ll wash them again. And again. Eventually they’ll feel clean enough.

✾

Yu calls you at 3:06 in the morning. “They’re dead because of me,” he tells you, and then he’s crying and you’re already walking down the block, heading toward his apartment in your pajamas and large winter coat.

After his injury, Yu wasn’t sent on more dangerous missions for a long time. Even when he was healed fully, despite the nasty scar that twisted and puckered the width of his chest, the higher-ups didn’t think he would be psychologically ready to take on anything too stressful.

They were right. One of the few things you’ve agreed with them about. Yu had always been the most hopeful out of all of you, the most caring. But he was also the most sensitive. Getting so close to death did nothing but make that worse. 

He’s on the couch when you get there, using your key to let yourself in. You and Kento were given copies at the housewarming party, which had consisted of four bottles of peach soju, the three of you, and Ieiri for a few hours before she was called back to the school. His eyes are red and puffy, and he’s curled into himself, laying on his side. It looks like he’s been crying for the entire evening. The worn leather of the seat is darkened beneath his face.

You’re by his side immediately, brushing hair back from his face, wiping stray tears from his cheeks: i wish i’d known i should have !!!          known how did                                         how did i not know how i wish i “Hey, it’s okay. I'm here,” you say, trying a little more pointedly to keep your fingers off his scalp. The thing he wants, simply: to have done better. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I messed up,” he says, and you’ve never heard him sound so defeated. Even during his recovery he sounded less broken than this. “I don’t—I don’t know how I didn’t see it.” 

At seventeen, you and your classmates began to receive solo assignments. Yu always got the easier ones—still recovering from his injury, both physically and mentally. He tells you about a mission he had almost forgotten: a curse terrorizing a village on the outskirts of Yamanashi Prefecture. The curse was easily exorcized, easily forgotten—what Yu remembered well were the whispers that came after. They called him a devil, named him unnatural, said that he could see things no one else could because he was damned. Just like the two little girls that lived in the village, their late mother’s otherness somewhere in the same vein.

He thought nothing of it. He would get rid of the curse, and the village would go back to normal. Yes, they were skeptical and untrusting of anything that could be perceived as even slightly supernatural, but most non-sorcerers were. Sometimes you had to protect people that would never thank you—that could never comprehend the things you’d given up to offer said protection. Whatever oddities they attributed to other people would fade away once the curse was gone, and the village would go back to normal. Everyone would trust everyone again.

The bodies of the girls had been exhumed during a construction project aiming to bring affordable housing to prefectures outside of Tokyo. The Hasaba twins, Nanako and Mimiko, reported truant by their school over a decade ago. Their mother wasn’t alive to receive the report. Their father hadn’t been there from the beginning. The town didn’t report them missing—they knew exactly where the girls were. From the remains, bones weak and brittle, authorities determined that they died of malnutrition.

“I could’ve helped them.” Yu’s lip trembles and he bites it so hard that you see the skin around his mouth turn bone-white. “They might have been alive then. If I paid more attention, I just—how could they have done that? How can anyone justify that?”

You don’t know. How does anyone justify anything? How many times do you have to tell yourself you’re doing the right thing before you believe it? You wonder if the inhabitants of that village let out a breath when the sisters had finally passed—whether they, too, had a moment of finally.

Yu cries for a little longer and you hold him carefully. It’s all you can do. You’d call Kento if you didn’t know that Yu would be mortified to cry in front of someone he views as his superior at work, despite their friendship. After a while, he pulls his phone out and opens up a message chain. A groupchat for Jujutsu Tech staff. Ieiri’s text, attached to the official posting from the higher-ups: zen’in clan are holding a service for the girls on sunday. gakuganji wants us there to pay respects so everyone better show up. In the report, there are photos of each of the girls, from Picture Day at their school, judging by the uniforms—and you recognize them. 

You’ve seen these girls inside a man’s memories. A man that you read for Geto. 

Your heart beats so hard that you’re sure Yu can feel it through your shirt, through your skin. When you’ve reassured him as much as possible that he couldn’t possibly be at fault, when he promises you that he’ll be able to sleep without the feeling of guilt crushing him under its heavy heel, you head further into the city instead of back towards home.

The apartment building you come to is sleek, flashy, piercing the night sky like a blade. The doorman lets you in—you’ve been here before. On business only, and never of your own volition. You take the elevator to the top floor and slam your fist against the hallway’s only door, choosing to ignore the shiny golden doorbell and the even shinier knocker. After a few moments of you hitting the wood so hard that it feels like the meat of your palm is going to split, the door opens. 

A terribly annoying grin greets you. “I would’ve invited you up if you called me.”

“Why,” you say, trying your best to be calm, “do you want me to read him?”

Gojo’s expression flickers. A moment, a fleeting instant of concern. He’s without glasses or blindfold—you must have woken him up. It’s probably nearing five in the morning. The first trains will start running soon. “Hello, business,” he says. “I’ve got to admit, I’d hoped I was talking to pleasure.”

“It has to do with the girls, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t ask Suguru about what girls he’s seeing—”

“I saw them, Gojo,” you say.

This shuts him up.

“I read someone who knew them.” You’re not sure why, but it feels necessary to not tell him that you read the man because Geto asked you to. “He didn’t like them playing with his daughter because they were different.”

He stands, silent and contemplating, eyes pearlescent and glowing in the soft shadow that precedes sunrise. 

There’s a terrible phantom that lurks between your ribs, a sticky feeling that slimes along your bones. You think of Geto’s sudden reappearance in your life, you think of Gojo’s intimidating request, you think finally, finally, finally. “Did he kill them?”

His eyes snap to yours, fluorescent, flaring—you had forgotten that the hottest part of a flame is blue. “No.” 

He’s so serious that your heart rate picks up, your body going into fight-or-flight at the coldness of that single word. “Gojo—”

“He wouldn’t.” 

“Okay—it’s okay. I believe you.” You don’t, but you’ll say anything to remove the hardness from his eyes, his tone—the same hardness as when he sat in your office and told you not to sugarcoat things. I killed him. “Then why do you want me to read him?”

“I told you,” he says, and his voice is back to normal but his eyes are nowhere close. “I’m just curious.”

Your hand darts forward on instinct. You want to know what’s inside his head so bad that you can’t control yourself—until you remember exactly who you’re trying to touch and exactly what his power is. Forget being untouchable—he could physically destroy you. He could snap your arm like a matchstick. He could pull at the broken end until the limb splits completely. You step back, but the movement was too obvious to have been anything else.

He grins again. Holds his hand out. “Wanna touch?”

“Good night, Gojo.”

He watches as you get in the elevator, as you press the button for the lobby, as the doors slide shut. All the while, eyes burning.

✾

You’re at a run-down warehouse in Roppongi with a cursed weapon in your hand when you wonder where your life went wrong. Kento called you half an hour ago—cornered, bleeding, his cleaver knocked out of his grip. “I wouldn’t have called you,” he said, “but no one else is picking up.”

It didn’t matter. If he needed you, you would be there. That had been the case for the better part of a decade. 

The warehouse was a storage facility for flour and corn, most likely. The floor is covered in rancid mold. Your knife—Sound Eater, the cursed tool you’d conveniently forgotten to return to the armory when you left Jujutsu Tech—is familiar in your palm. Its handle is worn to the shape of you. 

You feel comfortable like this. More comfortable than at your job filing accounts, at your apartment reading or watching some awful reality TV show. It’s because this is how you grew up, you think. You’re remembering the person you were for twenty years before you became someone else.

At the far end of the warehouse, a stone staircase leads to the basement—where Kento is. Where the curse is. You can sense it, the same feeling as being watched. A specter’s ghostly nails tracing the ridge of your spine. 

The basement smells mustier than the warehouse. A single light blinks ahead, allowing you flashes of the series of hallways that lead deeper into the warehouse’s underground storage. The floor is wet, and the viscous liquid that coats the stone soaks through the soles of your shoes. Your socks stick coldly to your feet. You listen to your weapon to see if you can locate the curse, its energy responding to the curse’s with vibrations and muted shrieks that sing through your bones unpleasantly. The curse seems to be everywhere, spread through the basement like an even layer of butter. 

You find Kento’s cleaver before you find him. It’s deep in the tunnel system—you’ve already been walking for two or three minutes, and there’s been no sign that anyone else is down here with you.

Taking his weapon as a sign that you’re close, you even your breathing, measure your steps—stealth training from long ago functioning like a ghost limb, sending signals through your body despite not having been used for years.

You enter a large antechamber—some sort of production facility—and though it’s quiet, you hear breathing from behind a burnt-out piece of machinery. Slowly, you approach, Sound Eater singing against your skin. This is not the cursed tool’s energy responding to a curse. It can only be Kento. Your heart still beats violently against your ribs, bruising bone.

His shoulder is a mess. Dress shirt torn, blood adorning the fabric and the shiny plastic buttons, face haggard—he’s in pain, and the sight sends you back to your youth as quick as a fist to the face. Group missions, Kento’s injuries, your injuries, the way you started always wearing black because it hid bloodstains most effectively.

You’re at his side quickly, a hand gingerly against his shoulder, checking for damage. He groans. His shoulder is dislocated, but he already knows this. “Help me get it back in,” he tells you. His shirt is still intact enough that you won’t have to touch his skin, which is good. You can’t risk being weakened right now.

Shoulders always relocate with a sickening crack, as if a bone that had been broken is being rebroken and set. A badly healed bone is a liability, Ieiri has told you. Dislocation is easier to fix. You feel a little less sick when the sight of distended skin and incorrectly puzzled bone is straightened out, set right. 

“Details,” you demand.

“A semi-first grade, four-legged,” he says, taking his cleaver from you. “It’s using whatever’s on the floor—sticks you in place. Its left flank is injured.”

The one question that Kento doesn’t seem to be able to answer: where is it?

Sound Eater answers that question for you in the span of seconds, buzzing against your palm, shocks working their way down your fingers. You nod your head towards the north entrance to the production facility, where your weapon is attempting to drag you. Once it gets close enough to a curse, its energy begins to magnetize. The stronger the curse, the stronger the magnetization. You try to ignore the way your hands shake with effort to keep Sound Eater in place.

Kento is up, breathing labored. You hate this for him—that he feels like it’s his duty to deal with this, that his purpose is nothing more than being a jujutsu sorcerer. That knowing what it feels like to exorcise a curse makes it nearly impossible to want to do anything else.

You understand. This is the most alive you’ve felt in years.

In the abridged sign that you and he used to employ during group missions, he tells you, Go right. Distract.

You dart into the clearing, the curse’s eyes immediately finding you from across the large room. They’re yellow, the familiar color of bile, and they shine out from its gray body, the blob-like consistency of a snail on top of four muscled legs, identical to those of a wolf. 

Which means it’s fast.

Your shoulder takes the brunt of the pressure as you roll out of the way of the curse’s first strike. It crosses ground more quickly than you can comprehend. When you right yourself, you can see just how grotesque the creature really is. Its mouth is a wide wound stuffed with teeth. Its eyes are scared, childlike. In its twisted voice, it says hello hello hello? hello who's there hello? and Sound Killer wants to taste its skin.

As it readies its weight on its back legs to strike again, Kento comes down from above, his cleaver hitting the back of the curse’s neck with intense force—almost 7:3. You hear a crack, a hiss, but the curse backs up, head still attached to its body by a thread.

The floor is suddenly very cold. It radiates up through your feet, spiking into your calves, your thighs. You try to move and fail. Sound Eater begs you to let it get closer to its target. 

You’re not sure if the curse can only freeze one person at a time. Kento tries to move forward to strike again and his body jerks and stills, glued to its vulnerable position. The curse readies itself again to strike, its head knitting itself back onto its body. Its wound-mouth opens wide, ready for an offering. 

Sound Eater whistles as you lift it to shoulder-level, as you aim to throw it into the curse’s open mouth before it consumes Kento. 

It’s stupid, Gojo once told you, to lose your weapon on the field if your cursed technique is useless. You got very good at throwing weapons with dead aim, taking out curses with a single slice, Sound Eater a perfect match for you because of its draw to the cores of such curses. Part of you got good at this to spite him. You’ll continue to spite him, even now.

The curse lunges. Sound Eater slices through air. An echoing click fills the chamber as the cursed tool hits tooth, cracking bone but doing no more. The curse halts its attack, scared yellow eyes focused on you now.

And your cursed tool lays beneath its feet, glittering under a layer of pungent slime. You briefly try to appreciate the irony of the situation: if you hadn’t left the jujutsu world, you wouldn’t be as rusty as you are now, and maybe you would have lived. 

Your feet are unlocked so suddenly that you fall to your knees, slime coating your pants, your legs, your hands as you push yourself back up. The curse lies inert in between you and Kento—clearly breathing, but nowhere near conscious. Asleep.

It’s like you can sense him before he speaks, your blood chilling in its well-traveled arteries.

“I’m glad you’re both okay,” he says. Grins without teeth. The same way Gojo grins—confident and so hopelessly self-impressed. There’s a curse beside him, one that he controls, its energy definitely potent but not malicious towards you. It’s familiar, in a way—eyes that crackle with electricity, sparking skin, long claws. You’ve seen it before, but not personally. Geto’s gaze flits between you and Sound Eater on the ground next to the downed curse. “Did Nanami call you out of retirement? Or were you just having a little fun?”

Kento says Geto’s name—a warning. He’s injured, hurting. He doesn’t have patience for games.

“It doesn’t matter why I’m here,” you say, offering Kento help to stand. His body is a heavy weight that pulls at your shoulder, activating muscles you haven’t used since right after high school. “Ieiri still runs the clinic at school, right?”

“Of course,” Geto responds, all fox teeth. He points at the unconscious curse. “First, though.”

You’ve never seen Geto absorb a curse before. You know some details about the process, mostly from Kento and Yu telling you stories about happenings in the field, but you’d never actually witnessed it. It amazes you how the body curls up into such a compact ball of shadow, how it can be contained within the walls of Geto’s cursed energy. The expression he makes while he consumes it is familiar to you. You know that strain, that effort put into controlling every single muscle in your face, veins in the neck straining hard against skin. They must taste awful. You think about the gum he offered you at the vivarium—wonder if he carries it for purposes you hadn’t considered until now. 

He dismisses the other curse with a small movement of his hand, and the energy in the room evens out so quickly that your head feels full of falling sand. Sound Eater goes quiet, and you collect it from beneath a viscous layer of filth. “We should go,” Geto says, gesturing to one of the entrances to the production facility. Knowing him, he probably has the entire compound mapped out in his head. 

“Did you call a car?” you ask.

“I already have one waiting. Figured we might need a quick exit.”

You nod. He still unnerves you, but you’re not entirely without manners. “Thank you.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than you’re comfortable with. Everything seems calculated in his eyes. He never simply sees things—he analyzes them. “My pleasure,” he says. You can't read his tone because he always keeps it even, friendly. But you’re sure that there’s something to read in those words that you can’t quite see right now. “Shall we?”

Despite the way you feel about him, you allow enough tentative trust for him to lead you out of the darkness and back into the sun.

✾

He insists on escorting you home from the school.

There are company cars you could’ve requested rides from—the higher-ups at least owe you a free ride home for everything you’ve done today—but you don’t want to take anything from them that they haven’t already offered. They can be tricky about which of their favors require repayment.

This leaves you and Geto on the last train of the night, alone. He stands despite the long rows of empty seats, leaning back against the Do Not Lean On Doors sign, arms crossed. There’s not even a hint of him trying to hide that he’s watching you intently.

On any other day, you would stand, unwilling to give him any advantage—but you’re exhausted. You need a shower so badly. Layers of slime have dried on you and you feel more disgusting than you ever knew was possible. You sit opposite him, leaning back in the uncomfortable plasticky chair. Meeting his eyes feels foolish. Taking your attention off of him feels even more foolish. Staring at his shoes is a happy medium.

The car rolls steady across its tracks, its wheels whistling slightly when the train reaches top speed between stations. 

“Do you ever see things you don’t want to?” he asks after a three-stop stretch of silence.

All the time. It seems you’ll always be stuck in this cycle of attempting normalcy only to be tasked with experiencing the unpleasant wants and memories of people you don’t know. You’re not going to tell him that, though. Him asking you questions makes you queasy. Your knees feel weak even though you’re sitting down. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“You’re very good at avoiding my questions.”

“You don’t make it hard.”

The train rolls on, and on, and on.

He hooks his arm around the closest stanchion pole, then leans in your direction. The strand of hair that hangs loose against his face sways alongside the train's ebbs and flows. Blinding brightness from the overhead LEDs paint his face in baroque shadows. He could be a devil, or a killer, or simply a man. “Does it scare you?”

Many things about this situation scare you. You ask him to clarify.

“When you read people. I’m sure you’ve seen some… unsavory things.” You think: bodies. You think: blood and muscle and sinew and bone. “It would make sense if those things scared you.”

“They don’t,” you lie. 

He considers you for a long moment, seeming to lean even farther forward, and the idea of him getting closer pierces your stomach like a nail. But the train once again sways on its tracks and his body follows, leaning back on his heels and removing himself from what could have almost been your space. “I always wondered what it was you saw.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. You know what he means.

He smiles, almost condescending—an expression that says come now, are we really going to play this game? The way he says your name in response, so pleasant and even-keeled, makes you feel like a cold stone. Prey trapped in a small space with its most vicious predator. You go so still your blood stops flowing.

Until now, you’d never been sure whether he actually knew that you’d read him. You’re positive he doesn’t want anyone to know what’s inside his head. He paints an image of himself over what he really is, but it’s a faulty veneer. Apply enough pressure and it’ll fracture in all the little places that hold the worst rotted of the flesh beneath.

You know he would do anything to keep this image of himself spotless, whole. You’re sure of it. “Kento will know something’s wrong if I don’t talk to him in the next few days.”

His brows draw low over his dark eyes—first in confusion, and then in a sort of amused incredulity. “You think I’m going to kill you.”

“I think you want to.”

The lights flash in the car as it passes under a tunnel. “What is it that defines a good person?”

“...why are you asking me?”

He grins, and your stomach constricts. “Good and bad are large concepts in a small world. They touch and overlap in more places than any of us could ever anticipate. But we’re supposed to fit neatly into one or the other.”

You don’t respond. You’re too focused on the stretch of his lips.

“So what defines a good person?”

“The things they’ve done,” you say, more to get him to stop asking you questions than anything.

“I don’t remember doing anything particularly harmful to you,” he says—and here it is. What he really wants from you. “It can’t be my actions. So is it my desires that define me as a bad person in your eyes, or my memories?”

Your stomach constricts tighter. Painfully. You’re still four stops away from the one by your apartment. “Geto.”

“It has to be one or the other. Those are the two categories that you can read, right?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Ten years,” he says. “And you can barely look me in the eye.”

You try, as if you could prove him wrong, but you can’t maintain eye contact with him for more than a moment before you feel a terrible coldness in your gut.

“I’d always wondered if you read me that night, but I was never sure.” He wraps his loose strand of hair around a long finger, then unwraps it. Repeats these movements like a question and answer, like a catechism. “Not until I saw you again.”

“The second time you called me out to the village—you were lying to me.”

“We’ve established that.”

“You put that man in a coma,” you say. "You absorbed the curse that was at the power plant."

He nods, face calm, as if altering someone’s state of being is a normal thing to do. “But I woke him up right after you left and he was unharmed. I paid him for his time.”

“Why?”

“I needed to know what it was that scared you. The situation itself…” he says, holding out one hand flat—and then the other, his hands mimicking the sides of a scale, the second option heavier than the first. “Or me.”

“I’d have told you that if you asked,” you say, and you would have. No point in keeping it from him. “You didn’t have to lie. That was underhanded.”

“I think reading me without my consent counts as underhanded.”

Bone, muscle, blood, sinew. Bone-white beneath his uniform. And the blood, the blood, the blood, orange-peel thick. “I didn’t want to. You don’t understand, you were—I could see your ribs. It was—we didn’t think—”

“I understand,” he says.

“I know you do,” you concede. Because he was there for it all. He experienced it all. He woke up when he was healed and immediately went to search for the body of his best friend, not knowing that Gojo had already woken himself up from the brink of death. “I wish it happened differently.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he asks, parroting your response from earlier.

Maybe they do. Maybe things could have gone much differently—worse, even. You could know more than his wants. You could have seen them realized.

“What did you see?” he asks, careful. Quiet. There's a weight to his voice you're unfamiliar with. It sounds like more than passing curiosity.

It’s what makes you answer honestly. “Blood. Bodies.” Finally. “Relief.”

“Which of those scared you the most?”

You look at him, jaw tight, because he knows which one it was.

“And that makes me a bad person?” he asks.

“I never said you were a bad person.”

“You just thought it.”

You have. You’ve thought it every day since seeing his true desires. You’re not sure that you’re a good person either, but your hidden wants will never be as gruesome as his. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it’s not.” Again, he smiles—but there’s something brittle to it. Gojo, in your office when you pushed too hard. A mask beginning to crack.

The train stills, doors opening. You're still a few stops away from home. No one gets on, no one gets off. It's just you and Geto on the car, filling its silence with more than words.

“If I asked you to read me now,” he asks, “would you?”

Your head jerks up, and you look past him, at the closing doors, at the windows of the train car. The whistling starts again, the train gaining speed. You’re between stops. There’s no exit. “No.”

“It could be different than last time.”

“You don’t know that,” you say, but what you really want to tell him is that it won’t be.

“What if it is?” he asks. “Maybe you have the wrong idea of me.”

You don’t think that’s the case. You’re not going to tell him this.

“I was angry. Hurt. I thought Satoru had just been murdered.” He says these things like easy facts. His tone takes the emotion out of them entirely, as if those factors didn’t contribute to what you’re sure is massive unresolved trauma. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You didn’t.”

“No,” he says—and here you get a flash of something deeper, again unfamiliar. Because he won’t look at you, even though he’s the kind of person that always makes eye contact. He leans back, distancing himself. “Have you ever experienced that? A moment where you know you’re going to die?”

“I haven’t.”

His lips twist into a muted frown. He looks young, the way he used to in high school. He stares out of the darkened window at nothing. At the walls of the underground tunnels. At blackness, pure and complete. The bags under his eyes are more prominent. Because of the lighting, maybe. “You think a lot of things. You realize a lot of things. And none of it is particularly fair.”

This has to be manipulation. He’s good at that. He always has been. But—something about this moment feels vulnerable, and you’ve never known Geto to be vulnerable. Not with anyone. Even on the brink of death, even just recovered, his chest still terribly scarred—there was nothing. He smiled at you and Ieiri before he left, that fox-teeth smile you hate so much. I’ll be back shortly, he told the two of you, as if his blood wasn’t coating the bottom of your shoes, staining the skin of your knees, clotting underneath your fingernails.

You’ve read people for long enough that you’re sure: this moment is different. “Why do you want me to read you?” you ask, so quiet that your voice is nearly swallowed by the sound of the train wheels scrolling across their metal track.

“Because I want to know,” he says, his voice a little hoarse at its core, “what you see.”

You shouldn’t. You’re too kind. Kento tells you this often. 

You shouldn’t.

When you put your hand out, palm up, Geto places his fingers atop yours so gently—a breeze of a touch. And then: bodies. bodies. bodies.           bodies. bodies. bodies. bodies. bodies. bodies. bodies. bodies. suguru          should we kill these guys ? bodies. bodies.           bodies. bodies. it could’ve been different i could’ve been different bodies. bodies.                     bodies. bodies. bodies. bodies. we could do it together          no. i could do it alone bodies. bodies. bodies— You vomit onto the floor of the train.

Geto is on his knees in front of you, clear of the mess, and your fingers are tangled in his shirt, fists bunching the material at each shoulder. You want to let go so badly but you can’t—you’re heaving, sobbing, your forehead pressed against your fist, tears running hot onto the back of your hand. 

It’s just so bad. It’s so terrible. He wants this to happen. He feels like people deserve this. You never should have let him convince you to read him. You shouldn’t have been drawn in by the vulnerability. Not when—not when it’s that in his head, still, a decade later. 

You can’t stop heaving, nearly retching. You can’t stop pulling in breaths too quickly, not deep enough. Your forehead is flush against his shoulder now, and your tears are staining his shirt, and you can’t let go. You’re paralyzed.

He holds you while you cry. Only touches your back, your arms. Not your hair or face or hands. You couldn’t handle it again. You couldn’t handle it again but you can’t move right now.

As you quiet, as your breaths turn slow, heavier, you realize he’s been speaking to you. Maybe the whole time—you’re not sure. Quiet reassurance. It’s okay, you’re okay. Breathe.

You don’t feel okay. You feel more sick than you ever have. “Why would you want that?” you ask, and your words blend into tears. Into panic. 

He’s quiet, one large hand smoothing down your back over and over, as if reassuring you that you’re safe. Safe in the arms of someone with that many bodies in his head. He sighs, tired, and his breath makes your hair flutter, caresses the curve of your ear.

The shock of fear to your system from realizing just how close he is gives you the strength to pull away—to sit back in the seat again, untwine your fingers from his shirt. It’s creased on each shoulder from your vice grip. There’s vomit on the floor of the train to the right of him. He’s on both knees in front of you, hands in his lap now that you’ve freed yourself from his grasp.

Was it real? The vulnerability? The hoarseness to his voice when he told you that he wanted to know what you would see?

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Why would you want that?” you repeat.

He sighs again. Sits back on his heels, begins running his hand through his hair before remembering it’s tied up. He just leaves his hand on the top of his head, fingers curling inwards until he’s gripping his hair, and you wonder if it feels the same as it did on the night you read him for the first time. “I don’t know,” he tells you.

The train stops again. The voice says something you don't hear. You can't get up. “That’s not true.”

The doors close and there's the whistling once again, the darkness that surrounds the both of you, the speed you can just hardly feel. “Why did you decide to quit being a sorcerer?” he asks.

You don’t want to tell him. “There were a lot of reasons.”

“How is it fair?” He drops his hand. His hair is disheveled, just like his shirt. He looks so un-put together that he hardly resembles the Geto you’ve always had an image of in your head. “So many of us die. So many of us have injuries that take years to really heal. And it’s their fault. Humans.”

“You’re human.”

“I’m a sorcerer.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“I’m the one that has to deal with the consequences of their actions,” he says, as if that means something. As if that puts him in a different group from them entirely.

“So you want to kill them?”

“No,” he says, quick—because that’s what he’s supposed to say, you think. Then he quiets for a moment and seems to actually consider your question. “No. But—I do think about it.”

You both sit with the admission. Though the train car is empty, you feel cloistered, walls too tight around you.

“It makes me worry that I’m not a good person anymore,” he tells you.

“Did you want me to read you so you could decide whether you’re good or not?”

“I wanted you to read me because when I heard about those little girls that died, Satoru had to talk me down from going to that village and killing everyone.”

The conductor comes on the speakers, announcing the last few stops. It's both shocking and reassuring to have another person so close. You can't believe this conversation is happening in such close proximity to a person that couldn't even begin to understand the nature of its contents. Strangely enough, the admission quiets some of the fear inside you. Because you can understand it, on some level. Those girls were sorcerers. They were also nine.

“I had to see if there was anything inside me that didn’t want to do it,” he says. “Because—if there’s not—”

“I don’t see everything,” you tell him. There's more you could say, but you've never been comfortable revealing the true extent of what you can do. You've been a tool for long enough that you know being more effective begets more use. “I don’t think you should use me as a metric.”

“It’s obvious that what you saw wasn’t very good.”

“They starved to death,” you say. “I’d be angry too.”

And you're not angry, you realize. Not in the way that he is. Two little girls were starved to death for being somewhat different, and you can't get yourself to feel more than disgust. More than frustration. Parts of you have been quelled over time—being a jujutsu sorcerer necessitates this. You can't get angry over everything because everything is unjust, and everything is unfair, and eventually it'll all build up. Maybe into what Geto is experiencing now. If you hadn't desensitized yourself like this, maybe you would have bodies in your head.

It's unlikely. Not to the extent he does. But it's not like you're a stranger to violence.

“Maybe I’m not a good person because I’m not angry the way that you are,” you say.

“I don't think that's true,” he says, smiling, a little slight and a little sad.

It's the only time since you'd read him at the edge of death that you don't see fox teeth—but the smile is still not entirely kind. His words don't speak of reassurance. Perhaps a sort of envy. You're familiar with want. Uncomfortably so. You recognize it even when you try not to. Maybe he wants to feel the way you do. Less angry. Or maybe he does truly see you as good, in a certain context, and he wants to be there on that level with you.

“The first time I ingested a curse," he tells you, “I was so sick I couldn’t stand. I didn’t realize how awful it would taste. There’s nothing I could compare it to. After it was done, I threw up until my stomach was empty, and then kept going. The stomach acid burned my throat so badly that I had to go to the hospital. I was still young.”

You stay still and quiet. You don't want to relate to him so you try not to.

“And sometimes I wonder—would any non-sorcerer ever understand that? Could they?”

You try not to, and you fail at it. “Will you show me?”

He looks at you in askance. You don't tell people that you can do this. Only Kento knows. It's not something you should allow Geto. Not when he scares you the way he does.

“The first time,” you say, because despite knowing you shouldn't do this, it's that sick curiosity again that pushes you forward. And maybe something else—a want. A need to relate. To be sure that someone else has known what you've felt your entire life. “If you really concentrate on the memory—I want to see it.”

To show you, he touches your face: it’s so dark and i’m scared. and mom said to come home soon. but i saw this thing and i want to see if i can beat it                     no. i’m lying to you. there is a way i want this memory to go. i am a good child and i want to go home to my mother but i am so curious.           i am so curious i am so curious. i want to see what that thing looks like when i kill it. i know i can. i know i am different. i scare my mother and father and they still love me very much because it is so dark and i am so scared and i am just a child.           but i am not scared. i follow the thing into dense trees that shadow the park. i play here with my friends. i kill it.           i don’t know how i know what to do but i do and                     !!! oh                               !!! god                     !!! oh god                                                   please.                                                   please.                                                   please. don’t make me do it again don’t make me do it again don’t make me do it again i want to go home i want to see my mother i do i’m sorry it hurts it hurts oh god           oh  i want to be good. i’m sorry. i want to be good. i’m sorry. i want to be sorry. i’m           god. 

The way you come out of a reading is usually like a free-fall without a parachute. One second you’re tumbling through the air, and the next you’ve been abruptly stopped. Being shown something is different. Kento would show you his childhood when you asked, moments with his family, bad parts of missions that he didn't want to voice but still wanted to share. It’s a little easier to stomach.

Usually. 

His hand lingers near your face, resting on your shoulder. He’s so close to you and he smells like very expensive cologne and you suddenly see how tired he is. His smile hides more than you thought it did. Maybe more than you had been looking for.

“Do you have a final verdict?” he asks. “Or should I decide for myself?”

There’s a predilection in him, you think. He’s predisposed to anger, the self-righteous kind. So is every other sorcerer you’ve ever met. And yet it’s different with him—more complex. Something else is very wrong with him. Deeply.

“I don’t like it when people touch my face.”

“I can keep that in mind.”

“I want you to apologize.”

“Of course,” he says, gentle. Was his voice always this gentle? Or is it because of all he’s shared with you on this train? “I’m sorry.”

The doors of the train open and a tinny voice announces that you’ve reached the last stop of the night. You missed your station a long time ago. You’ll have to pay for a cab. “I don’t think you’re a bad person,” you tell him. “But I'm afraid of you.”

He nods. Sits back on his heels again. “Will you be okay getting home?”

“Yes,” you say. “Thank you.”

You make it home just after one in the morning and lay in your bed with your clothes on and you don’t sleep. You don’t sleep at all.

i will link part two here when it is posted!

[ikkyfics]

Stag Party

James Potter x reader

Summary: Sirius ignored him completely. “First, remember one thing: atmosphere is everything. If you stay somewhere with a creaky bed, you’ve failed as a husband.” James laughed but covered his face with his hand. “Merlin, I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” “Oh, wait, there’s more.”

Warnings: none

Part 7 of Marry Me

Masterlist

It was a golden afternoon, with the sun gleaming on the autumn leaves in the garden. The air was filled with anticipation, especially for James, who was sitting on the couch beside you, his hands intertwined with yours, wearing that signature smile that always made your heart race.

You both were savoring the last quiet moments before the evening’s commotion. James was about to leave for the long-awaited bachelor party organized by the Marauders, and though he tried to hide it, it was clear he was excited.

The door slammed open, and Sirius entered first, a whirlwind of energy. His messy black hair was more unruly than ever, and he wore a leather jacket that was definitely not suitable for the weather. "Prongs! Time to go, my dear future married man!"

Right behind him came Remus, more composed, but with a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. He was wearing a blue sweater that looked like it had been knitted by some devoted grandmother, a stark contrast to Sirius's chaotic energy. "Hope you're ready. Sirius spent the whole week planning this," he said, giving a slightly suspicious glance to his friend.

Peter appeared last, carrying a wrapped box that seemed heavier than he was. He was blushing and grinning from ear to ear. "I told you I wasn’t carrying this alone!" he protested, as Sirius easily took the box from him.

"Prongs, let’s go! We’ve got the whole night planned, and you can’t be late," Sirius said, slapping James on the back.

James looked at you, his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. He seemed torn between wanting to spend more time with you and the excitement of going out with the guys. "I guess this is a goodbye for a few hours," he said, leaning in close.

You smiled, knowing exactly what to do. Gently pulling him by the tie he was wearing – because of course James wore a tie even on a casual day – you kissed him. It was a slow, sweet, deliberate kiss that made him sigh against your lips.

"Oi, oi! Let’s go, Prongs, this isn’t the honeymoon!" Sirius exclaimed, pretending to cover his eyes.

"For Merlin’s sake, we’re still here," Remus muttered, but his smile gave away how much he found the scene amusing.

James finally pulled away, but not before leaving a last kiss on the tip of your nose, causing more grimaces from Sirius. "I’ll be back soon," he said softly.

Before they left, you placed a hand on Sirius’s chest, stopping him. "I’m only going to say this once: strippers are off the table. Understood?"

Remus raised an eyebrow and responded with his usual calm. "I promise there won’t be any strippers."

"But I can’t guarantee anything about—" he started, only to be cut off by Sirius.

"Hey, hey! That was supposed to be a surprise!" Sirius said, feigning indignation. "But don’t worry. We’ll bring Prongs back safe and sound for you... eventually."

When James was practically dragged out of the house by the Marauders, he looked back one last time, flashing a smile that made your heart melt. You shook your head, knowing he was in good hands – albeit extremely chaotic ones.

Outside, Sirius was already waiting impatiently to Disapparate. "Prongs, today’s the day you learn what real fun is. No responsibilities, no wedding lists, just us and the best night you’ll have before you say 'I do.'"

James raised an eyebrow, adjusting his glasses. "As long as it doesn’t involve anyone losing their pants or ending up in the Ministry’s holding cell..."

"Relax, love," Sirius replied with a grin, throwing his arm around Remus’s shoulders, who looked at him with skepticism. "We’re not losing our pants. Just... maybe... misplacing them temporarily."

Remus sighed, but there was a lightness in his eyes. "Ignore him, James. The worst that’ll happen is Sirius breaking a bar stool trying to show off some inappropriate dance moves."

"Hey! That was ONE time!" Sirius protested, while Remus just shot him an incredulous look.

"Oh, let’s go before you start fighting," Peter said, stretching out his arms so everyone could Disapparate together.

They vanished with a pop and reappeared in a place that was a mix of controlled chaos and extravagant magic. A wizarding bar filled with floating enchantments greeted the group, with colorful lights flashing around and a makeshift stage where a band was playing.

"Welcome to the Howling Cauldron," Sirius announced dramatically. "The best place to celebrate like there’s no tomorrow."

James looked around, surprised by the size of the place. The enchanted walls displayed constantly changing landscapes – from lush forests to snow-capped mountains – and the tables were filled with spells that made drinks levitate directly into the customers' hands.

“I’m afraid to ask how you found that out,” James said, throwing a glance at Sirius, who simply smiled as if he were the greatest genius in the world.

Remus rolled his eyes, but there was an obvious affection in the gesture. “He spends more time researching bars than he should, but... he has good taste.”

Soon, the group was seated at a polished wooden table, with mugs of butterbeer and goblets of mead being magically distributed. Sirius raised the first goblet, signaling for everyone to do the same.

“A toast to Prongs!” he began, with a wide, sincere smile. “To the best friend a guy could have – and to his bad luck for getting married before me!”

Remus gave his shoulder a light punch. “You’ve literally been dating me for years, and we live in the same house.”

“Details, details,” Sirius shot back, before continuing the toast. “Prongs, you deserve all the happiness in the world. And honestly, we deserve credit for putting up with you while you fell madly in love and got unbearably mushy.”

James blushed slightly but smiled. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh, it’s not bad,” Peter chimed in, with a shy smile. “It’s just... constant.”

Everyone laughed and toasted, the sound of the goblets echoing through the bar.

After a few rounds of drinks and embarrassing stories – like the time James fell off his broom trying to impress you – Sirius appeared with a box wrapped in a silver ribbon.

When Sirius handed the box to James, his eyes sparkled with the same mischievous energy that had turned simple moments into legendary tales. “Just open it,” he insisted, his voice full of expectation.

James, who had already been blushing lightly from all the laughter – and maybe a bit from the rounds of mead – raised an eyebrow and carefully untied the silver ribbon, clearly skeptical. As he opened the lid, he froze like a deer caught in the headlights.

Inside the box was a pair of underwear that blinked in bright letters: Love, You’re Lucky to Have Me.

The bar exploded with laughter. Sirius literally barked a loud laugh, slamming his hand on the table hard enough to almost spill his drink. Remus joined in with a short laugh before covering his face with his hand, shaking his head in amused disapproval. Peter, on the other hand, let out a high-pitched laugh and immediately took a long gulp of his butterbeer, trying to contain the embarrassment of being seen in public with this chaotic group.

James picked up the item with two fingers, holding it up in the air like a broken broomstick. “Sirius, this is absolutely ridiculous,” he said, but the smile that threatened to form on his lips betrayed any seriousness he tried to fake.

“Ridiculous?” Sirius repeated, mock-offended. “This is a masterpiece! You’ll thank me when you wear it on your honeymoon.” He winked, and the group laughed even harder.

Remus, who had until then tried to maintain some dignity, finally succumbed to the chaos. “This is so you, Sirius. You’ve managed to combine bad taste and creativity in one gift.”

Sirius dramatically pointed at him. “Ah, but that’s why you love me, Moony.”

“For that and your amazing skills at being the most inconvenient person in the world,” Remus retorted, but there was a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“Speaking of inconvenient,” Peter began, with an expression that could only be described as a small, adorable betrayal, “has anyone told the story about the time James tried to impress her with that spell to make fireworks?”

James turned around so fast he almost knocked over his goblet. “Peter, no!”

But it was too late. Sirius was already leaning forward, his eyes shining with anticipation. “Wait, I don’t know this one!”

Remus bit his lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Oh, it was memorable. James decided to surprise her in her garden. He wanted to conjure fireworks with their initials...”

Peter completed the story, enthusiastically betraying James: “But he messed up the spell, and the sparks ended up forming completely wrong initials, and she got confused because she thought he was talking about a completely different couple.”

Sirius laughed so hard that tears threatened to escape. “You... you basically confessed your feelings for another person! This is pure gold, Prongs.”

James shook his head but couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped. “Oh, of course, because none of you ever did anything stupid to impress someone, right?”

Sirius blinked innocently. “Me? Never.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh, sure. Want me to mention the time you tried to impress me by dancing on top of a table in the common room?”

“Oh, that was a display of talent, Moony,” Sirius replied, without an ounce of shame.

“It was more of a display of how clumsy you are,” Remus shot back, and the group erupted into another round of laughter.

When the laughter started to die down, Sirius turned his attention to James with a smile that promised nothing good. “Now, let’s talk seriously, Prongs. Are you ready for your honeymoon?”

James squinted. “If by ‘ready’ you mean I’ve planned everything to make it special, then yes. If you mean am I ready to hear you give absolutely inappropriate advice, then no.”

Sirius completely ignored the second part. “First, remember one thing: atmosphere is everything. If you stay somewhere with a creaky bed, you’ve failed as a husband.”

James laughed but covered his face with his hand. “Merlin, I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“Oh, wait, there’s more,” Sirius continued, raising a finger. “Never underestimate the power of a good ambient lighting spell. Magic lights are good, but enchanted candles with scent? Perfect.”

“That’s very specific,” Remus commented, looking at him with a slightly flushed face.

Sirius smirked. “I only say what I know.”

Before James could protest, Peter intervened with his hesitant voice, but full of enthusiasm. “Oh, and have you chosen who will be the godfather of the first baby? Because I have a list of reasons why it should be me.”

That broke any remaining attempt at seriousness. James laughed loudly, and even Sirius looked surprised by Peter’s boldness.

Remus shook his head, smiling. “You’re skipping a few steps, don’t you think?”

Sirius patted Peter on the shoulder. “Ah, Wormtail, you always know how to steal the show. But we all know the godfather will be me.”

When the night came to an end, James looked around at his friends with a smile that didn’t need words to express what he felt. They were chaotic, unpredictable, and absolutely insufferable... but they were his family.

And as Sirius led the group toward the exit with one last tease, James made a mental note: maybe he really should consider those scented enchanted candles. After all, every piece of advice had its use.

taglist: @hisparentsgallerryy

[jintaka-hane]

Hiiiiii 👋

First of all I love your work, and I’m so excited for your New Year’s event! Looking forward to read all the smooches 😘

If it’s okay can I request Penguin for the event pleaseee? Thank you so much! 💕

[Kiss your blorbo at the New Year’s Eve event]

PENGUIN

Summary: You think you’re going to spend New Year’s Eve alone in your cabin when Penguin knocks on your door. Word count: 1000 Warning: x gn!reader; fluff; kissing All my stories are written entirely in Spanish and then translated into English, so I apologize for any mistakes I might make.

You know Trafalgar Law isn’t the kind of guy who’s into celebrations. You knew that when you joined his crew, and it’s never bothered you. He more than makes up for it in so many other ways, and you’re proud to serve under his command. But deep down, that night, you can’t help feeling a little sad. It’s your first New Year’s Eve aboard the Polar Tang, and you’re already anticipating that when midnight comes, you’ll be alone, asleep in your cabin.

You toy with the food on your plate during dinner, lost in thought and letting out sighs you don’t even realize. Someone who does notice, though, is Penguin, who’s been watching you closely, just as he has since the day you first set foot on the submarine.

Penguin adores you. He loves your smile, the way your lips curve upward every time you see him, and the way your eyes soften whenever he makes you laugh with one of his goofy antics. But tonight, you’re not doing any of those things. And something inside him tells him exactly why.

When dinner ends, you help clear the dishes, say goodnight to your crewmates, and head to your cabin alone. It doesn’t take long to brush your teeth, run a comb through your hair, and slip into your nightgown with a wistful sigh. Just as you pull the covers over yourself, a soft knock comes at the door, gentle, as if the person on the other side isn’t sure if you’re already asleep.

Curious, you sit up and head to the door, clutching your nightgown to cover yourself more securely before cracking it open just a few inches.

“Penguin?” Your eyes widen when you see him standing there, smiling under his cap with a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly, holding up a bottle of champagne and two glasses he’s probably “borrowed” from the galley. “I hope you like celebrating the new year as much as I do…”

Your face lights up with a grin so big it covers your entire face, and grabbing him by his boilersuit, you tug him into your room.

“I’ll take that as a yes…?” he chuckles.

“Yes! Penguin, I’m so happy!!!” You bounce in excitement and pull him into a tight hug. He tries to return it, but with the champagne and glasses in hand, he can only awkwardly lift his arms. Laughing, you take them from him and skip over to your nightstand to set them down. “Thank you!”

“Oh, It’s nothing,” he grins, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing even more as he realizes just how much it affects him to see you so radiant.

“There's still an hour until midnight,” you say as you place the glasses carefully on the small table, “What are we going to do until then?”

Throwing that smirk of his that you like more than you really want to admit, Penguin reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out a deck of cards, and waves them in front of your eyes.

“Cards?”

“Yes!” you clap your hands. 

Together, you grab a few blankets and pillows from your bed and arrange them on the floor to create a cozy little fort. Once you're done, the two of you settle into the blanket nest, sitting cross-legged and facing each other.

“Shall we start?,” Penguin asks, shuffling the cards and setting up two small piles between you.

The hour flies by as you play. It’s turning out to be one of the best nights of your life, laughing with him until your stomach practically hurts. You like Penguin. You like him a lot. He’s always treated you well and ensured you were as comfortable as possible aboard the submarine, despite Sashi’s constant teasing. And having him all to yourself that night feels like a dream come true.

You watch him study his cards with intense focus, catching the mischievous smirk that appears when he has a good hand. And you can’t help but wonder what his eyes hide beneath the brim of his cap every time you catch him glancing at your nightgown.

"Hey," he says, rolling up the sleeves of his boilersuit and looking at his watch. "There's one minute left until midnight."

"Oh! The bottle!" you exclaim nervously and try to stand up, but he grabs you by the arm and pulls you close to him.

"No! There's no time! And shh," Penguin laughs, motioning with his hands for you to lower your voice. "You're going to wake everyone else."

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh, and both of you lean over the watch, staring intently as the hands move in rhythm with the ticking. You're very close to each other. So close that your head nearly brushes against his cap, and both of you can feel the warmth radiating from the other.

When there are only 10 seconds left until midnight, you begin the countdown together.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven,” you whisper.

“Six, five, four,” he continues.

“Three, two, one…” You smile at him. “Happy N—”

Your words are drowned out by his lips pressing against yours. Your eyes widen in surprise, yet the sweet, gentle movement of his mouth on yours makes you close them and surrender to the tender, careful kiss. But it ends as quickly as it began.

“I-I’m sorry,” Penguin stammers, his blush deepening as he grabs the brim of his cap and pulls it down to shield his eyes. “I-I didn’t let you say Happy New Year...”

You stare at him, your cheeks also a shade of pink, and blink a couple of times, still too stunned to form a reply.

“Wait,” he says quickly, lifting his wrist and fiddling with the dial on his watch to turn the hands back. “I’ll rewind it five minutes so you can—hmmph.”

This time, it’s your lips silencing him as you throw yourself at him. You lean so far over him that he has to place one hand on the floor to keep his balance, and, smiling into the kiss, he brings his other hand to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss further.

The champagne bottle remained untouched, left forgotten, as your lips didn’t take a single moment’s rest the entire night.

Happy holidays chibinasuu!!

.........................................

Taglist: @fanaticsnail @armiliadawn @pandora-writes-one-piece @i-am-vita @eustasscapitankid @nocturnalrorobin @daydreamer-in-training <3

[yandere-kokeshi]

Hi can you write headcanons With Nikolai , Alex , Farah , Ale and rudy with Darling who have scoliosis and need to wear this brace thing to sleep?

— Yandere Nikolai, Alex, Farah, and Rudy with a GN! Darling, who has scoliosis

Warnings: Yandere behavior, details of surgery, back chronic pain, and PT.

A/N: I honestly hope you enjoy this, I did my best with my research! Please message me if anything is remotely incorrect. Happy holidays!

Edit: spelling mistakes is expected! I apologize.

Nikolai:

Nikolai has heard of scoliosis, though he doesn’t know the full extent of how extreme it can be. It can be fatal if left untreated, as he comes to understand in depth, and he really begins to frown at the times when he cannot help but rather play the waiting game.

Chronic back pain isn’t avoidable, which he finds out pretty quickly. Even lying down or walking causes you to be in some form of discomfort, and Nikolai hates coming to terms with it. He deeply tries to help you when he sees you in pain, offering to rub your tight muscles and placing a heating pad or cold press to let you sleep comfortably. Stroking your arms and waist, kissing you deeply, and rubbing your scalp to help calm your mind when it’s too much.

When heading to doctor appointments, Nikolai is always accompanying you. He understands it can be rather scary—the thought of doing more treatment or having a doctor being a prick and not believing you is incredibly nerve-wracking. But having him there, with his hand in yours and wearing his warm jacket, undoubtedly helps at times.

The corrective braces that you wear, he finds, are gorgeous, oddly enough. Despite how often you have to wear them and, at times, unsuccessfully working. Nikolai can’t help but admire how they just form your back intimately. He finds them breathtaking on you, and he never stops telling you that, whispering it in your ear each time he comes up behind you, his hands whisking around your hips to pull you closer to his form.

If correction surgery is ever needed, Nikolai will definitely feel defeated. He will sympathize with your exhaustion and most frustration. It’s something that was mostly avoided, but sometimes it’s needed. The recovery is difficult, and he’s worried about what it will do to you mentally. However, he’s there every step of the way, and if you decide to do it, he’s proud of you. In no way are you a burden, and having this surgery isn’t making you less of his spouse. He doesn’t mind caring for you—if anything, he prefers it. It allows him to understand your tolerances better and, at times, take over when you overexert yourself.

Alex Keller:

Though Alex knows and is aware of scoliosis, he doesn’t understand it as much as a whole. He understands the growing signs and the slight complications of it—but that’s mostly all. So, when you confide in him ahead of time, he’s a bit clueless. However, he does do some research on his own time to understand it better. And more importantly, how to care for and support you.

Chronic pain is something that he’s very aware of, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling awful. He loathes to see you in pain, and not just because he feels uncomfortable from it, but watching you grip your back, trying to relieve the pain but yet cry out, wants him to sob himself. It worries him deeply if the pain is too overboard, and he often talks to you about other options and if surgery is one.

Back braces suck. It’s one of the first few things he learned that’s dreadful about having your condition, but above all, he understands that they are more than a nuisance. His prosthetic is similar—it’s needed, quite annoying, but it’s there to support you.

Alex deeply sympathizes with the dreadful feeling when putting it on, so to help with your moodiness, he suggests decorating the brace. Adding stickers, making it a fun date night where the two of you draw and add symbols and all types of fabric adhesives to make you feel better. He’d even go as far as printing a picture of his face, adding you should make him a sticker and put it on, so he’s “always there for your back.”

His tight hugs and cuddles really make up for his long missions with Farah. Every time he’s home from them, his hands and arms are wrapped around you in some way—kissing your shoulders and making his way down to your back, highlighting how gorgeous you are to make you feel gorgeous.

Farah Karim:

Farah caught your condition pretty early on, understanding from watching you from afar, her “cat-like abilities” making connections. When she properly gets an answer from you, she quickly frets and worries herself by researching your symptoms and, moreover, how to support you as her sweet s/o.

In a way, she adores being attentive to you; your reliance on her is comforting to her. Despite her being a commander and being busy, you always come first. If everything is overwhelming with all the fatigue, migraines, and chronic pain, she’s right beside you. Anytime she’s at home, you can bet Farah will offer to rub your back, getting deep into your digits and letting you control where she rubs. She’ll bring pain prescriptions for easy access and come to you with homemade food she’s made, kissing your face and placing an ice or hot pack down your back brace. Hell, she’s even carried you to the couch or bathroom a few times, not minding one bit.

While she is away, your phone is often buzzing from her. She sends all types of things, especially random dogs she finds or pictures of flowers she comes across, the caption being, “Reminded me of you.” She regularly sends you funny voice clips or videos with her and Alex, without a doubt making you laugh.

Farah will definitely help you put on your back braces, tightening the straps when you struggle to do it yourself. To lighten the mood, as back braces suck, she’ll kiss your face, telling you lame jokes (she stole from Alex), and fixate on the two of you taking a walk together. But, if the pain does become too much, and the doctors do suggest surgery, she makes it your decision. She trusts you enough to make your own call, and if they persist, she shuts them up.

On days when self-consciousness and shame hit you harder, Farah will assure you over and over again that you’re stunning. In bed, she’s behind you, copying the curvatures of your back—her blunt nails following your arches like a painting because it is. It’s one of the many things that makes her have heart-eyes pupils whilst staring at you, just admiring you. She truly loves you and hates seeing you feel self-hating. To let you know you’re not alone, she’ll share her own insecurities.

Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra:

Rodolfo understands what scoliosis is—at least the top bare of it. He’s never known someone affected by it; therefore, he’s never had to learn nor properly research it. But, when you come into his life, he almost becomes a mother hen, studying the best treatments and systems for you, even going ahead to ask questions about your condition.

He constantly reminds you that your spine deformity shouldn’t limit you or stop you from doing what you want. It’s just a slightly bigger challenge, and he’s with you every step of the way, cheering you on in whatever hobby, goal, or career you want to succeed in. Your happiness is his happiness, so if you achieve something, he’s celebrating it with you.

Rodolfo is really on top of helping you stretch, doing some yoga with you, and helping you with your back braces. He has schedules set in the mornings and evenings to do together, and if you feel you are not up to it, he won’t push you, knowing you’re aware of what is best for your body. But sometimes, you have to push through the discomfort—and if he needs to push you to help you regain a bit of flexibility back, Rudy will do so gently, reminding you he’s right beside you the whole way.

Discomfort and being unable to move because of your own soreness leave him pinned. It’s not new for you, but it is for him—it’s uncomfortable and awkward, leaving him unsure how to properly help you. But sometimes, the best he can do is just be beside you. Helping you with items, hoping to have you get some type of joy out of snacks and rest beside you. Not having the expectancy of doing anything, just entangled limbs in bed as he traces your goosebumps, his lips pressing against your temple. He tells you what he and Alejandro did for duty that day, recounting some specific details and future plans by the two of you. Kissing your skin and reminding you that you’re his entire world.

Much like Alex above, Rodolfo heavily suggests decorating your back binder, making it more you-styled if you haven’t already done it. He understands they are bland and with no color; it doesn’t help your mood. So, he makes it a promise to help you decorate, adding some personal decorations, even if they end up bad. It’s the idea that comes in handy, and if the two of you laugh during it, it’s a start of something positive.

—

Masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

© yandere-kokeshi 2024 — Do not copy, modify, edit, repost, or use my works for ASMR readings, tiktoks, or other content.

[strawberriesinbloom]

Fairy Light Flurries

Zayne/Gender-Neutral Reader

Summary: You pick Zayne up from work and relax in your apartment together. Unfortunately for Zayne, your mischievous tendencies can be a bit distracting.

Word Count: 4,098

A/N: Hello, @ticklygiggles!! I was your @squealing-santa this year. :) I hope you enjoy this silly little fic.

This is a tickle fic btw!

~🍓~

As you stood near the front entrance of Akso Hospital, you stared at your phone, spamming your favorite doctor with several text messages to announce your presence. You knew Zayne wouldn’t answer your messages for a while, even though his shift ended a few minutes ago. He was a hard worker, which you admired about him.

A cold breeze cut through the air, and you shivered, drawing your coat closer to your body. Tiny snow flurries scattered throughout the air, dusting your wool hat with white snowflakes. Some of them caught onto your eyelashes. You blinked them away.

Downtown was quite pretty during this time of year. Fairy lights were strung along the buildings, emitting a warm, yellow glow. Some were multi-colored, and others had lights that changed color each second. Red, green, and white banners and garlands wrapped around the light poles.

It was quiet out here save for the occasional sound of a car passing through. You supposed most people didn’t want to be outside when it was so cold. Another breeze passed through. You didn’t blame them.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even get to read the notification before a soft, deep voice sighed behind you.

“You could have waited inside of the lobby, you know?” Zayne shook his head as he stepped closer to you. Snow crunched under his shoes. “Or my office.” He wore a large, brown jacket over his outfit. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets.

You laughed. “Yeah, but this is more romantic, isn’t it?” You held out your arms to your sides. “The snow. The lights. It’s so pretty out here. I couldn’t help it.”

Zayne puckered his lips. If you didn’t know better, you would have said it almost looked like he was pouting. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.” He readjusted your hat, making sure it covered your ears. “I can’t believe the Hunters Association is forcing you to work during the holidays.”

“I could say the same thing for you,” you said, pulling at his scarf. Not expecting you to do that, Zayne took an awkward step forward. You evened out the ends before forming a loop and tying it up, so it held closer against his neck. You smiled at his surprised expression and pinched his cheek.

“I chose to work this week,” he said quietly.

“Me too.”

Zayne shot you a quiet smile. You both were workaholics, practically married to your respective jobs. Despite the surface-level differences, you and Zayne were very much alike–at least in that regard.

“Come,” he said, jerking his head to the side. “I’ll drive you home.”

You took his hand as he led you to his car. Zayne always parked in the same spot, so you didn’t need him to lead you, but you just wanted an excuse to hold his hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, but his hands were still surprisingly warm. How did he manage that?

“Home?” you repeated with a snort. “Do you mean yours or mine?”

Zayne hummed as he opened the passenger side of the door. You sat inside, shivering when your body came in contact with the leather seats. “Your choice,” he said. He closed the door and entered the driver’s side, swiftly starting the car.

You tapped your index finger against your lip. “Mine,” you answered after a while. “I want you to stay the night.”

“Sounds good,” Zayne said as he drove out of the parking lot.

A few minutes into the drive, you rested your chin against your palm. The colorful lights seemed to blur into one as you passed by. You were tempted to press your cheek against the window, but you knew it would be freezing, so you held yourself back.

“How was work?” you asked, simply wanting to fill the air with something. It didn’t matter what you and Zayne talked about. You just liked being with him.

Zayne took a moment to respond, as though he was recalling what happened today. “It was fine,” he finally said.

You waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “That’s it?”

Zayne shrugged. “Not every day can be as interesting as yours.” The hint of a laugh tinged the end of his sentence. “How was work for you?”

“Oh, you know, nothing much,” you said while straightening your posture. “I just saved a mother and daughter from a Wanderer attack.” You flexed your muscles. “No biggie.”

“My hero,” Zayne said. For a second, you thought he was being sarcastic, but his tone sounded strangely sincere.

Unsure what to do with this change in atmosphere, you stared at your lap. “I like waiting for you when you’re done with work,” you said quietly, changing the subject. You knew it was a sudden shift, but you didn’t know what else to say. “It’s the favorite part of my day.”

“Mine too,” Zayne answered.

“Really?” you asked with a slight chuckle.

Zayne spared you a singular glance. Your heart skipped a beat. “Yes, really,” he said. You smiled warmly. You were about to say something else when Zayne interrupted. “We’re here.”

You perked up. “We are?” You looked around and, indeed, you and Zayne were in the parking lot of your apartment complex. “Wow, that was fast.”

Zayne laughed in response. “How time flies.” He stepped out of the car.

Before he could open the passenger door for you, you stepped out and slammed the door shut. Zayne didn’t respond but you did catch him frowning slightly. You stopped his chance to be a gentleman. Hopefully, he didn’t mind too much. You skipped over to him and grabbed his arm as you walked over to your apartment.

There wasn’t any snow or ice on the pavement. The road crew must have come earlier to salt the streets and parking lots. That was good. You wouldn’t have to worry about Zayne slipping and falling. You knew his fancy dress shoes weren’t built for this weather unlike your sturdy boots.

The heat hit you at full blast the second you entered the lobby. It felt comforting–like someone wrapping a large, fluffy blanket around your body.

“I have some spare pajamas in the guest room,” you explained, making your way over to the elevator. “You can take those.” The doors opened with a ding and you stepped inside.

Zayne smiled as he pressed the button to your floor. “They’re my size?”

“Of course,” you said. “It’s always good to be prepared.” You shook your shoulders. “I learned that from a certain doctor.” When the elevator opened, you stepped out and walked over to your room.

The moment you unlocked it and stepped inside, Zayne leaned over and hugged you. You nestled your nose into the crook of his neck, taking in his scent. He smelled like peppermint, and his skin felt smooth to the touch. You kissed his jaw, and Zayne pressed his lips against your cheek. While you wouldn’t call Zayne shy per se, he was definitely the type to be reserved when it came to public displays of affection. It was cute.

“I missed you,” he muttered against your skin.

You giggled and tried to pull away. He pulled you back into his embrace for a few more seconds until he finally let you go. His hands lingered on your upper arms as his thumbs softly caressed you.

“Me too,” you said. With a split second of hesitation, Zayne pulled back to start unbuttoning his jacket. You tugged his sleeve. “Wait, let me get that for you.” He stilled, and you helped him peel off his jacket. You hung it on the coat rack next to the front door with a short flourish.

Taking a quick peek in his pockets, you noticed he had one of those hand-warming packets in there. That sneaky doctor. No wonder his hands were so warm earlier. You wondered if he did that on purpose, knowing you would try to hold his hand. Zayne’s thoughtfulness always made your lips curve into a small, appreciative grin. He tried to be subtle with these things, but you knew how much he truly cared for you.

“Thank you,” Zayne said as he untied his scarf and placed it next to his jacket on the rack.

“Go get changed,” you said. “I’ll make us some hot chocolate.”

Zayne nodded and went to the guest room. You stepped into your bedroom to change into your nightwear before heading to the kitchen and opening the last cabinet on the right. Way in the back was the matching snowman mugs you got for the both of you last year. They were meant to be used for special occasions, and sharing a warm drink in your abode counted, at least, in your opinion.

A part of you wanted to make hot chocolate from scratch, but after the long day of work you had, the mere thought of it made you want to pass out. You had to settle for the instant packet stuff instead.

It didn’t take long for you to prepare the mugs of hot chocolate considering how all you had to do was microwave some milk and stir in the powder. Zayne came up from behind you while you were in the middle of stirring. He had changed fairly quickly. The light blue pajama set suited him. He placed his hands on your shoulders, squeezing them.

“You should add a pinch of sugar in mine,” Zayne said. He pressed the side of his head against your ear. You could hear him swallow at the end of his sentence.

“Sugar?” you repeated. “This is the powder stuff. It’s already sweet,” you clarified, thinking that Zayne would see the error in his ways.

Zayne glanced at the open box of instant hot chocolate on the counter. “I know,” he said. “It’s just a pinch.”

You should have known. Zayne’s proclivity for sweets had no bounds. Just as he asked, you added a spoonful of sugar to his mug (and then another when he gave you puppy dog eyes). He would have denied it if asked directly, but you knew what he was like.

With your mugs of hot chocolate, you and Zayne sat in the living room. “Do you have any preferences?” you asked as you picked up the remote. You turned on the television and scrolled through the wide array of movies.

“Not particularly,” he said, sipping on his drink.

“Alright.”

You played a random holiday movie that was featured on the front page of the streaming platform. From its summary, it seemed like a decent watch: a meet-cute romance between a hunter and a businessman. Apparently, the hunter teaches the businessman about the magic of the holidays. You settled next to Zayne once the music began to play. He lazily laid his arm around your back.

The beginning of the movie was cute, but your mind began to wander halfway through. As the movie droned on, your eyelids started to droop down. All your hours spent awake working and saving the day were beginning to catch up to you. You were almost finished with your drink by now.

Placing your mug on the coffee table, you leaned into Zayne’s side. He hummed and set down his mug next to yours before wrapping his arm around your shoulder and lying down, dragging you down with him.

“What?” you asked as you awkwardly fell over him. You shuffled around until you were lying down on his side, pressed against him and the back pillow of the couch.

Zayne kissed the top of your head. “You’re feeling tired, are you not?” The gentle drum of his heartbeat almost lulled you directly to sleep. He lowered his voice, so it was barely above a whisper. “You can sleep. Don’t worry.”

You turned your head to the side, nuzzling your nose against his chest. “Okay,” you said with a yawn. “Tell me how the movie ends.”

You hugged his side, your arm worming underneath the small of his back. You sighed as the movie became nothing more than background noise. The rise and fall of Zayne’s chest kept you steady. Every so often, his breath tickled your cheeks. You smiled, your fingers flexing against his back.

Zayne stiffened, and you raised your head slightly. “What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing,” Zayne said, petting the top of your head. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered into your ear.

“Are you sure?” you asked. You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. You tried to pull your arm from underneath him, but it was stuck–pinned against the couch by his weight.

Zayne squirmed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s just…” Zayne stopped when he saw your expression. You weren’t going to let this go, and he knew it. Zayne bit his lip, his ears suddenly flushing red. “It just tickles. A bit.”

You propped yourself up on your other arm. “Does it?” Experimentally, you curled your fingers, watching in awe as Zayne arched his back. That allowed you to pry your arm from under him. He gave you a pleading expression–like he was begging you to drop your discovery, but how could you?

“Please–” Zayne said, cutting himself off when you clasped his side and squeezed it. “I’m not th–that ticklish…” He bit his bottom lip as you dragged your nails over his stomach. His abs tensed under your feather-light touch. “…so you caha–!!”

Zayne gasped as you suddenly launched your attack across his stomach just above his belly button. He scrunched up his nose, refusing to laugh. He was always so stubborn. You moved over, so you were now sitting on his lap.

“I think you’re more than ‘a bit’ ticklish,” you said.

His lips were caught in an awkward half-smile that he was desperately trying to keep at bay. Zayne grabbed your wrists, temporarily stopping your pursuits. “Don’t you want to finish the movie?” he asked with the tiniest bit of desperation at the edge of his voice. His fingertips quivered against your skin. Even though you weren’t tickling him anymore, he was still trembling.

“This is much more interesting than some movie.” You pulled your hands out of his grip and latched onto his hips. Zayne bucked up on instinct, and you laughed as he almost bounced you into the air. “Wouldn’t you agree?” You massaged the skin, taking care to dig deeper at the spots that made him jerk especially hard.

His eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to stop himself from succumbing to your touch, but you were far, far too powerful. “I–ehehehmhm…” Zayne giggled breathily. It was satisfying to see him break albeit a little. He seemed to be at a loss for words, his cheeks dusting a light pink. His smile, now much wider, wobbled slightly.

Zayne was still trying to half-heartedly stop your devious hands, but it felt more like a kitten pawing at your arms than anything else. You wondered if that was his way of allowing you to keep going. Surely if he genuinely wanted you to stop, he would have put his foot down by now. Alas, Zayne was putty in your hands. You were one of his few weaknesses.

Your fingers slowly wandered up his torso as they made their way to his ribs. Zayne jumped, clamping his arms to his sides. This seemed to be a much more sensitive area, which you took to your full advantage. “Is this a bad spot, Dr. Zayne?” you asked in a light-hearted tone. “Are you too ticklish for your own good?” You clawed at the soft skin in between the grooves of his ribs.

If you were particularly evil, you might have even tried to tickle him underneath his shirt, but you were feeling a little merciful today.

Zayne squeezed his eyes shut, seemingly no longer able to look at you. “Behehe quiehehet!” he suddenly cackled. “Dohohon’t tickle me there! Eheheh!” He grabbed at your upper arms but didn’t try too much to stop you. Even though you were nowhere near his hips, they still jerked and flinched with every new spot you explored.

“So I can tickle you somewhere else, then?” you teased.

“Nohoho!” he gasped out. Zayne turned his head from side to side as he attempted to wiggle out from underneath you. It was no use, however. You were simply too determined. “Stahahap!”

His laughter was deep and almost husky, peppered with the occasional gasp or winded yelp. It was beautiful. Zayne twitched and jumped with each poke and prod. He was so sensitive. It enamored you. You wished Zayne would laugh like this more often. The sound needed to be captured in a bottle and tossed out to the sea for everyone to have a chance to hear.

“You’re so beautiful, Zayne,” you said softly.

You wondered what Zayne would have said if you weren’t tickling the life out of him. He tossed his head back and cackled when you started digging your fingers deep into the soft fleshy parts of his sides. “Ahahahaha! I–I cahahan’t–!” He squealed, squirming from side to side. “I cahan’t tahahahahake it anymore!” Zayne tried to curl up into a ball, but he couldn’t do that with you sitting on his legs.

“Do that again!” you said, trying to elicit that same squeaky squeal. You dragged your nails up and down his sides, but you weren’t as lucky this time. Oh well.

“This ihihihis too muhuhuch!” Zayne managed to giggle out. He kicked his legs out from underneath you, but you held yourself steady. “Hhh…ehehey!” His shirt rode up a bit, revealing a sliver of rosy pale skin. A slight sheen of sweat glistened against his toned stomach, and you realized that you were, indeed, evil. Very evil.

You targeted his exposed skin. Your fingertips immediately latched onto his bare stomach, tickling him there. His muscles flexed instinctively underneath your touch. You dug your thumbs into his soft warm skin, and he jumped. The way his stomach shuddered with each gasp of breath in between wild laughter made you want him more. You could simply devour him.

Not wanting to go too far, you slowed down. Now, you were lightly dragging your fingers up and down the sides of his stomach. “I like hearing your laughter,” you said quietly, “It’s lovely.” You were barely speaking above a murmur, so you weren’t sure if he could hear you much less understand your words.

“Hehehmmhmm…” Tiny droplets of tears clung to Zayne’s eyelashes, sparkling under the soft overhead light. It took him a moment to realize what you just said, but when he did, Zayne flushed a nice shade of red. His cheeks twitched as residual snickers spilled past his lips. “Thank you,” he mumbled awkwardly. You didn’t blame him. It was an odd compliment considering the circumstances. It was nice seeing him all embarrassed. Zayne shifted slightly, staring off to the side. “I uhahahAHAHA!”

Unfortunately, that little moment of peace had to come to an end because you were once again overcome with the same ruthless mood that started this mess. You began tickling his armpits. He flinched–hard. It didn’t take long for you to find a spot at the very center of his underarms that made him cackle. Your thumbs drilled directly into his armpits, and you snickered at the way he jolted.

“Whoa,” you said in between your own giggles.

“WAHAHAIT!” he practically screamed. “Not thehehehere! Nohot thehereee…!” Zayne managed to flip himself over on his side even though you had been sitting on his legs. Huh. You sat on your knees, hovering over his lower body. He crossed his arms to his chest, effectively blocking you from tickling him. “Ehehehe,” he giggled.

“Come on, please, Zayne?” you asked. “Just five more minutes?” You tried to lift his arm, but he wouldn’t budge.

“No,” Zayne said, slightly out of breath.

You puckered your lips. “What? You can’t handle a little bit of tickling?” You poked down the length of his arm with each word. “Are you too ticklish?”

He shivered. “I’m not–” Zayne began to protest before he thought better of it. He puffed out his cheeks and corrected himself. “I’m not that ticklish.”

You pressed your index finger into his cheek. “I beg to differ.”

“Be quiet.”

You chuckled lightly. “Don’t worry. I think it’s cute.”

“Cute,” Zayne repeated under his breath. “That isn’t a word most people would use to describe me.”

“Well, most people don’t know you the way I do.”

Brushing his bangs out of the way, you leaned down and kissed his temple. His forehead was a bit damp. Probably from sweat. Oops.

Zayne closed his eyes and nodded. Then, to your surprise, he lifted his arm. “Five more minutes,” he said quietly. He glanced at you for a brief second before diverting his attention elsewhere. His ears were redder than you had ever seen them.

You blinked. You blinked again. You were tempted to scoop Zayne in a hug and kiss him repeatedly, but you couldn’t waste this opportunity. Your heart pounded in your chest. Who knew when you would get this chance again?

You reached over and–

Zayne flinched, bringing his arm down before you got close to his underarm. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered under his breath. He repositioned himself, so he was lying down on his back, again.

“I’m surprised most people don’t call you cute,” you said, pinning his arm above his head. “They’re really missing out on this side of you.”

You lightly dragged the tips of your nails around his underarm, and Zayne’s body went rigid. He bit the inside of his cheek to probably stop himself from breaking into laughter right away, but the way he puckered his lips and scrunched up his face told you everything you needed to know.

Zayne let out an odd, strangled hum, and you knew he was done for. “Aha–ahAHAhaha!” He hiccuped before his laughter softened into sweet giggles.

“Aw, you’re so–”

You weren’t able to finish your sentence because of Zayne’s abrupt cackle when you started clawing at his armpit. “Eeehehahh…HAHA!”

“That was a weird noise,” you said. You prodded at his sensitive skin, wiggling and swirling your thumbs against it as much as you could.

“Shhhehehahaha…shut uhuhuhp!” His free arm lightly batted away at you, but you didn’t let that deter you.

You puckered your lips into a fake pout. “Seriously, Zayne? How rude.” You dug your fingers into his armpit.

You loosened your grip on Zayne’s arm, and it immediately came crashing down, pressing it up against himself. You took this as an opportunity to tickle his other underarm, as well. You quickly spidered your fingers, targeting any spot you could manage.

“AHAHA! Wahahait! Wahait!” The corners of Zayne’s eyes crinkled as he tossed his head to the side, filling the room with the melodious sound of his laughter. “St-stahaHAHAP! I cahahan’t take it! I’m seriOUS! Hahaha!”

Zayne grabbed your hands, prying you off of him. Deciding to be nice, you stopped. You stole a quick kiss from his lips, which was still quirked up in a wide, sappy grin. He sighed as his chest heaved up and down. His chest trembled while he tried to catch his breath.

“You good?” you asked.

Zayne nodded breathlessly. His fingers twitched at his sides. For a moment, you thought he was going to exact his revenge before he grabbed your shoulders. He pulled you down, and you clumsily fell on him with a soft gasp. He liked doing this to you, didn’t he?

“Don’t tease me anymore,” he said into your ear. His voice was slightly weak with just a hint of a pant. He pulled you into a hug, embracing you with two strong arms. “I don’t think I will be able to handle it tonight.” His warm breath brushed against the shell of your ear. You shivered.

You smiled against his collarbone. “I’ll try not to,” you said, cuddling him. “No promises, though.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Hmm…love you, Zayne,” you whispered into his shirt.

“I love you, too.” He kissed your forehead.

You closed your eyes with a small, content sigh. Zayne’s warmth and peppermint fragrance soothed you. His steady breathing slowed down into long, deep exhales. His chest rose and fell against you, bringing your head up and down with him. You hummed. The witty reply in the back of your mind soon dissipated into nothing but flurries and fairy lights.

Somewhere in the background, the movie finished with the two romantic leads caught in a passionate kiss outside in the snow.

[schrijverr]

I Mean, You Love Him, Don’t You?

Divergence from chapter 31, where Shannon sees the bombing on TV and immediately realizes (or thinks she does) what is happening; what has happened without her there. However, upon arriving at the hospital, she realizes it’s a little more complicated than that.

On AO3.

Ships: Buddie

Warnings: injury, referenced emotionally abusive parenting

~~~

Shannon is at home by herself when she sees the news. Ever since fleeing El Paso and the death of her mother, she’s been working on herself. She’s going to community college at night and has a pretty okay job as receptionist.

The dating game is something she’s been out of and she only has a few friends, but she tells herself that she isn’t lonely. That she’s doing okay.

Though, maybe sitting alone on her couch and mindlessly watching TV isn’t the best way of proving that to herself.

However, it works in her favor, because otherwise she wouldn’t have seen the breaking news segment interrupting the game show she was starting to find annoying. The bomber that’s been terrorizing LA blew up a firetruck and is holding a bunch of firefighters hostage.

“If you’re just joining us, witnesses are reporting that this LAFD ladder truck, belonging to station house 118, was hit by some kind of an explosive as it was making its way to a call. Now, you can see there’s a firefighter pinned under that truck.”

The camera pans and Shannon drops her tea cup as she gasps: “Evan?”

She thought of Evan from time to time after she left, the boy that she couldn’t love that she used as an escape from the boy that couldn’t love her. She wondered what happened to him, after she left Chris with him, a thing she still feels guilt about. Wondered where he went after. What job he worked. If he got out of there like she did.

To see him after all these years and in these circumstances is shocking. He did get out. He’s been in the very same city as her. He has a different job now, probably a whole new life. And he’s being held hostage!

Her hands start shaking and she starts reaching around, as if there is something she needs to grab or do that will change the situation. But she can’t. She’s sitting on her couch and he is on an intersection somewhere pinned by truck and some jackass with a bomb.

On the screen, you can see some commotion to the side, before someone is running. The journalist reports: “This is unexpected. A civilian now confronting the young man with that vest. We’ve got no details on this man’s identity.”

As they continue to speculate and report on what’s happening, Shannon is on the edge of her seat. She has always wished Evan nothing but to best. To see him like this now hurts way more than expected.

After what feels like forever, the man that walked onto the scene tackles the bomber. There appears to be somewhat of a scuffle, but then more police, bomb squad looking people are moving in and the reporter on the scene tells them the bomber is taken into custody.

Shannon lets out a sigh of relief, sagging slightly and allowing herself a thankful gaze to the heavens. She hasn’t moved her eyes away ever since she first recognized Evan and she’s pretty sure the tea will stain her rug and her couch.

God, that was super stressful. She doesn’t think she can handle anymore revelations like that today, she thinks to herself.

“Well, that firefighter really appears to have taken the brunt of all of this. That’s an entire ladder truck that you see there. We can only hope for the best at this point.”

She sits back up, wanting to at least keep watching until Evan is freed and on his way to the hospital, maybe even send him a card or something. Then, naturally, because the universe loves to fuck with her, another revelation gets thrown in her face when she looks back to the screen. The camera zooms in on the firefighters helping and she spots a very familiar silhouette among them; Eddie.

Holy shit.

She rubs at her eyes and blinks a few times, before squinting at the screen. She has half convinced herself she’s imagining things, but no, that is still very much Eddie.

From the angle and distance, she can’t make out many of his facial features, but she doesn’t really have to. The way he’s kneeling beside Buck, hand continuously running over him again and again, while his counterpart medic doesn’t, tells her enough.

There is a desperation there when he looks up to the man that rushed in earlier to talk down the bomber. His shoulders are both tight and slumped. He almost looks a little like he did during the last glance she send to him, before she was whisked away by doctors during her birth.

The thought makes her swallow and a pit grows in her stomach when the man responds and Eddie almost collapses in on himself, only held up by the steel in his spine that has been forced in there by his father.

Shannon claps her hand to her mouth, nearly choking on her tears. She can’t have just been forced back into this sphere she left behind just to face another tragedy. She can’t watch as Eddie loses another person dear to him after her. She doesn’t even want to begin to think what it would mean for Christopher.

“Now, look at this. Bystanders stepping in. They're gonna help out. This really is an amazing scene that’s unfolding. What an incredible show of support and gratitude.”

Oh thank God. Bystanders are indeed stepping in, running over the blockade to help and lift the truck off of Evan. The tears now truly start to fall and she can only feel gratefulness towards everyone there, who stepped up and helped.

She watches as Evan is lifted on a stretcher by the woman who was helping Eddie earlier and another man. Eddie is also there, but he doesn’t appear to be helping, instead holding Evan’s hand as he disappears into the ambulance.

Despite following along every moment, it doesn’t all register until the camera pans away from the disappearing ambulance.

Shannon tunes the journalist out, who is babbling about beautiful moments of support, instead again realizing that, holy shit, Evan and Eddie are in the same city as her. Christopher is probably in the same city as her. Evan and Eddie still know each other. Work together.

When she left Christopher with Evan, she did so, because leaving him anywhere else would invite questions that would crumble her resolve. She always felt bad about it, but she never questioned what that would have meant. Now, she understands that her leaving the way she did, forced Evan and Eddie into each other’s orbit.

She has always assumed that after a while, Evan would leave El Paso too. That he would have saved up enough and leave that shithole town behind like they both always wanted to. In a way, he did, though he didn’t leave it alone.

Or he ran into Eddie again at work and this is all coincidence.

However, Shannon has a hard time believing that. She remembers Evan clearly no matter how many years have passed, the way he was always ready and happy to help, delighted in watching Christopher, showing him all the chickies. Seeing them together still, it doesn’t feel unreasonable to her that he stayed when she left. That he kept offering to help.

A part of her feels like she should be surprised Eddie took the offered help. When she was still there, he wanted nothing to do with Evan – the boyfriend – always making sure she did drop off and pick up when Evan watched Christopher.

But she doesn’t find it weird. Evan is so open and earnest and Eddie must have been panicking when he found her gone. Guilt stabs through her again. She can totally believe that he would have been weak to those baby blues just like she was, especially when she divorced him for the reason she did.

Yeah, sure, Eddie never confirmed she was right and resisted her more delicate way of bringing it up, but he signed those paper without too much protest, and looking at him now, even tiny on that television screen, she can tell he nearly lost the love of his life.

She needs to find him.

She knows it sounds crazy, because she walked out on not only him, but their child soon and she never turned back. After all she did, she is probably the last person he wants to see. Ever.

However, he just went through something ginormous and he needs people to lean on. Shannon might not know anything about accidents, but that looked bad, and she does know what it’s like to have hospitalized and dying loved ones. You need people to prevent you from drowning. Eddie needs someone right now. A friend.

Before she got pregnant and responsibility took them down – something much bigger than they could prepare for tying them together – they had been friends. Good friends. They’d spend hours driving around, talking, laughing, sharing things they never shared.

If she hadn’t become pregnant, Shannon believes that even though they wouldn’t have worked out in the end as partners, she would have had a lifelong friend in Eddie.

Besides, if her theory about what happened between them is correct, then Christopher just had one of his dads be severely injured. If wanting to support her child, even if Eddie won’t let her see him directly, isn’t a good reason to at least try to find him, she doesn’t know what is.

So, she spends some times trying to figure out where the truck bombing happened, before finding nearby hospitals, driving to the wrong one first, before finding the right one.

Shannon is a little anxious, just as she was the first time, when she gets out of her car, but pushes through anyway. She’s been running for long enough from this. The people that were once her family need her, she isn’t going to abandon them again.

She is glad she gathered herself in the car, because she runs into Eddie a lot quicker than she thought she would, finding him slumped on the ground next to the ER entrance. His knees are up to his chest and his head buried between his knees.

Her stride pauses for a second, unsure how to get his attention. His shoulders are shaking a little and it hits her that he’s crying. She can’t recall ever seeing Eddie cry before. Not when he left for boot-camp, not during the birth, not after that doctor’s visit that got Chris a diagnosis. Not when they fought and not when they divorced. He always seemed so strong, so perfect, so much more in control of himself than her.

It’s almost odd to see this version of him, but it humanizes him too. He isn’t the perfect parent that she could never be, the good son to her bad daughter. He’s just a man. And right now he is alone. Everyone just walks past him, letting him cry by himself.

After hesitating for a moment longer, she takes a deep breath and makes her way over to him, sliding down the wall and sitting down next to him. She doesn’t say anything or touch him, just sits close enough so that he can feel her presence.

“Are you going to be disappointed at me again?” Eddie asks after a moment, voice rough and raw. He doesn’t look at her when he says it, she isn’t even sure he knows who he’s talking to.

“Why would I be disappointed in you, Eddie?” she asks, proud of herself when she doesn’t waver when she talks to him. She is also curious at the answer, wondering why that’s what he expects anyone that is here with him to be with him.

Eddie’s head whips up at the sound of her voice. His eyes are red-rimmed, wide in their shock, and his hair is an absolutely mess. He gapes a few times, then almost seems scared as he softly asks: “Shan?”

“Hi, Eddie,” she smiles crookedly. “It’s been a while, huh?”

“Wha- what are you doing here?” he asks, scrabbling back a little.

A part of her withers in her chest. She didn’t expect a warm welcome, but this is also a little extreme, though to be fair, she did ambush him slightly. So, she tries not to take it to heart as she explains: “I saw what happened on the news. First recognized Evan, then you. I kinda guessed what might have happened, since I left. I wanted you to not be alone.”

Eddie stares at her as if she’s an alien, clearly trying to find his wits and failing slightly. She might not know him well anymore – maybe she never did – but she knows his overwhelmed face from miles away.

“I know being alone sucks,” she says, when he stays quiet, wanting to give him more context. “I never meant to stay gone. Never meant to leave the way I did. I just didn’t know how to come back. This kind of felt like a sign, I guess?”

“Signs aren’t real,” Eddie tells her, almost instinctively. He startles a little at the sound of his own voice, then blinks himself into the presence and frowns: “You didn’t know how to come back? Maybe pick up the phone? Call? Send a card? Or a text? Hell, even a telegram or a fax.”

She can’t help the humorless chuckle that escapes her and she shakes her head: “It’s not that easy, Eddie.” He is about to protest, but she cuts him off: “I am sorry. I am. So incredibly sorry. You have no clue how guilty I’ve felt all these years. I want to make it right. Make it up to you. To Christopher. But right now, I just want to be here for you. Are you okay?”

With the way he looks, Shannon would have thought she slapped him, instead of merely asking a question.

Then he glares at the ground, as if his eyes can burn a hole in it. There is a small tremble in his lips, but he bites down harshly, pushing it all down. “I’m fine,” he grits.

Watching him now, she wonders how much he pushed down when they were together, how much of his hurt she didn’t see, like he didn’t seem to notice her hurts. God, they had just been stupid kids, hurting themselves in doing something neither of them wanted to.

She nudges him and waits until he is looking at her again, before she gently says: “It’s okay if you’re not fine, you know. I mean, you love him, don’t you?”

His eyes go from a mild glower to a wide eyed stare and he lets go of his bottom lip to gape at her. For a few moments, he’s silent, then he says in a hushed whisper: “Oh my god, I love him.”

“Did you- did you not know that?” Shannon asks, almost cautious. Maybe her assessment that they ran into each other and it was a coincidence was more correct, but then how long have they been working together for Eddie to fall for him the way he has?

“Yeah,” Eddie squeaks. Then he looks panicked as he asks: “Does this- Am I… am I gay?”

Shannon freezes, unsure if it is considered rude to answer yes to that. Finally she settles on saying: “Do you think you’re gay?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie yelps. “Do you think I’m gay?”

“Uh…”

“Oh my god, you totally think I’m gay.”

“Well, you just agreed that you love a guy, pretty sure that’s kind of gay,” Shannon exclaims, hands fluttering about awkwardly. “And, like, I kind of thought you were… when I divorced you. But you can say you’re not.”

“I mean, yeah, but I didn’t know that,” Eddie says.

“You didn’t?” Shannon can’t help but ask.

Eddie groans and buries his head in his hands, but she can see his ears have turned pink. Embarrassed he asks: “Was I- Was I that obvious about it?”

“A little,” Shannon winces apologetically. “But I only noticed after Chris was born. Too caught up in it all before that, I suppose.”

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs. “I- I wasn’t a great husband.”

“No, you weren’t,” Shannon sighs. “But I don’t think either of us were great at being married. God, remember how we fought?”

“Yeah, that got bad,” Eddie says, uncurling slightly and managing a small smile. He is relaxing again, seeming slightly more grounded than when she first arrived and accidentally made him question his whole identity. Them being able to joke about their marriage won’t fix everything and there is so much she still has to make up for, but it feels like a good first step.

With them on more solid footing, she feels a bit of curiosity burning, both at what happened with Chris after she left as well as with Evan and Eddie. Slightly suggestive, she asks: “So… you and Evan.”

“Buck,” Eddie says. “He goes by Buck.” Then he blushes at the correction that seems to come almost instinctive.

“Okay,” Shannon nods with a smile. “So… you and Buck.”

The blush get worse and he curls in on himself. “It’s not like that. We’re best friends. He probably doesn’t even like me like that. He’s just so good and nice. Too nice.”

Shannon can recognize that. She can still remember the way she said the same thing to him. It hadn’t been a compliment then, not entirely. But the reproach was mostly directed at herself. How she didn’t deserve his kindness.

Eddie rubs his face and groans again: “God, he is so fucking nice. And sweet. And good with Chris. He loves that kid to death, you know.”

Vaguely she thinks, that maybe her first assessment was right, except the being in love together kind, but just that Buck stayed to help. That realization, though, gets overshadowed by a stab through her heart at the words. At the knowledge that someone else is good with her kid, that Christopher has a bond that she was supposed to have with someone that is not her.

However, she knows that she can grieve the feeling of a lack of connection to Christopher, but it’s her that walked out. So, she swallows it and with a wobbly voice, she says: “I’m glad Christopher has him.”

“Me too,” Eddie says, voice tight. “Fuck, I don’t even know how I’m going to tell him about this. What can I even say to him? Do I bring him here to wait for Buck to wake up? Or do I wait until Buck is out of surgery? Let Chris sleep tonight and burden him tomorrow, but risk him feeling like he missed out on being here for Buck or – god forbid – saying goodbye to him?”

Shannon’s breath catches and she almost doesn’t dare to reply. She hesitates, wondering if Eddie is actually asking her on advice about raising Christopher again, if he trusts her with that, or if this is just him ranting.

Cautious, she asks: “Would the security of knowing Buck is okay later be better for him or the ability to be here for him now regardless of the situation?”

“The- the last,” Eddie finally decides. “He’d want to know. He’d want to be here.” He nods to himself, then goes to fish his phone out of his pocket and dials a number. “Hey, Carla. Did you see the news?”

She has no clue who Carla is and tries to remember if it’s anyone from Eddie’s vast extended family that he mentioned when they were married, but no one comes to mind. It sits wrong in her chest that she doesn’t even know the person who is with Christopher right now.

“Yeah, he’s in surgery. He’s probably going to live, but his leg- it’s bad. Really bad. Uh, can you- can you bring Chris to the hospital? I- I want to tell him myself. In person. And I can’t just leave Buck alone here,” Eddie’s voice snaps her back to the conversation.

When he replies to whatever Carla said, he sounds like there is something stuck in his throat. “Thank you so much. I- I don’t know what I would do without you.” Then he quickly hangs up, clapping a hand over his mouth and squeezing his eyes closed.

She pulls his tense form into her side. Her ass is cold and kind of numb from sitting on the ground outside, but she doesn’t care. She’s run so long from this. Not just from El Paso, her in-laws or Christopher, but Eddie too. They had never been there for each other, no matter how much they tried to be. If she wants to come back, that has to change too.

So, she holds him, lets him tuck his head into her neck and feels the way he cries. Even now, he is restraining himself, shoulders tight to prevent them from hitching and cries silent, only felt as hot tears hit her skin, not heard and carefully hidden from view.

Still, despite his restrain, he doesn’t succeed in stopping himself from crying and it takes a few minutes before he stops himself.

Once he does, he pulls away from her. He roughly rubs his tears away, frowning as if annoyed with himself that they’re even there. Before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders.

Shannon just watches in a weird sort of fascination as a mask gets pulled on, then realizes with a start that mask is more familiar to her. She wonders if she’s a stranger to Eddie too. Wonders if they were ever anything other than two strangers pretending they weren’t.

“I need you to go,” is what he finally sees when he has gathered himself completely.

“What?”

Her heart constricts, cracks and gets folded in on itself to punch her in the gut. She knew not to expect a warm welcome, but she thought she at least broke the ice somewhat, opened herself up, apologized, and it seemed like Eddie accepted that somewhat. But now that is undone and he is shutting her out, like he always does.

The instinct of all their years together is to fight, to get angry, but she suppresses it. Eddie is not her husband anymore and she gave up the right to call herself Christopher’s mother. It’s up to Eddie to let her in again, to let her make it right. It crushes her that he doesn’t want her to, but it’s not on her to force this on him.

So, she swallows the bile that comes up. The taste of broken hope foul in her mouth.

However, then it seems Eddie’s words register in his own mind and he waves his hand around kind of panicky as he says: “Oh, no, not- not like that. I just- For now.” He pinches his own brow and takes a breath, then steadier he says: “I need you to go. For now.”

“Just for now?” Shannon asks, unable to help keep that vulnerably hopeful note out of her voice as she does.

“Yeah, just for now,” Eddie assures her. “I- I can’t- Right now, I- I have to worry about Buck and- and Chris and our- our job. Fuck, I- I only just realized I love him. I can’t- I need to process that, be here for Chris, for Buck. I can’t deal with you being here on top of that. I need to talk to- to Buck first.”

“Of course, yeah, no, I get that,” Shannon immediately says. She can’t even begin to imagine how tonight must have been for Eddie. Her showing up was a gamble and it paid off, but not right now. Not in the midst of all this.

Still, she is going to do it right this time, not abandon Eddie to his fate like she felt abandoned. It’s a terrible feeling, trust her. So, she checks: “As long as you’re gonna be okay. Are you alone here? Will you have anyone here other than Christopher? Someone you can lean on?”

She almost asks after Carla, but stops herself. It sounds jealous even in her own mind, even though it’s not meant like that. God, what if Carla is Buck’s girlfriend? That would make this whole thing even more of a mess.

“I’ll- uh, I’ll have Carla? Maybe,” Eddie offers. “She’s an at home care aid, watches Chris. That’s something.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Shannon breaks kindly. “Is there anyone you can call? Didn’t you get here with coworkers?” She’s pretty sure she saw more people on the news.

Eddie winces at the mention of coworkers and he says: “Uh, they all kind of hate me right now.”

“What? Why?” Shannon frowns. She now remembers how their conversation started, how Eddie thought there was someone there to be disappointed in him. She can’t imagine why someone would be in these circumstances. Unless Eddie somehow caused the accident, but that seems unlikely.

“Uh, they all found out me and Buck are married,” Eddie mumbles, not meeting her eyes as his cheeks flush once more.

“You’re married?”

The flush only strengthens and Eddie ducks his head, still refusing to look her in the eyes. “Yeah, we, uh- we are. Marriage of convenience. So, Buck could adopt Chris and watch him while I re-enlisted. I- I didn’t want my mom to take him. She might not have given him back.”

That is a loaded sentence and Shannon needs a moment to process every part of it.

Firstly, marriage of convenience? Does Eddie mean to tell her that these two idiots got married, because it was useful and it’s taken him until now to even realize he’s in love with the guy? That he’s fucking gay? Really?

Secondly, Buck adopted Christopher. She doesn’t know why that feels like a punch in the gut. She already knew that Buck has a prominent spot in his life, that he took over for her after she left. But hearing that he has a legal claim on him, while she gave up hers, makes it real in a way that tears her up inside.

Thirdly, they did that to prevent Helena from taking Christopher. Out of everything, that’s the easiest to absorb. Helena has wanted to raise Christopher on her own from the moment he was born, even before that too. If it wasn’t a federal crime, Shannon maybe would have snapped at some point and just taken Christopher and ran across state borders to get away from her.

Once everything has settled, she has to pick what to focus on, finally deciding to say: “Only you, Eddie, only you.”

“Uh, thank you?” Eddie replies, horridly awkward in a way that reminds her of the eighteen year old she fell in love with once upon a time.

She giggles, unable to help herself, the laughter only growing stronger as Eddie squawks and gently pushes with a pout.

“Shut up.”

“I’m sorry,” she smiles. “It’s just very you. Bet it was your idea to lie about it to your coworkers.” He blushes. “Oh my god, it totally was.”

“I said shut up!” Eddie exclaims, but there is something lighter about him when he does.

Shannon holds her hands up in defeat as she smirks: “I will, I will.”

“Good.” Eddie eyes her suspiciously, then pouts: “It wasn’t meant to get this much out of hand. We just started lying and then we got in too deep and couldn’t get out anymore.”

In a way, the words remind her of what he did with her. The way he convinced himself that he loved her, kept going and going until they had a child, a marriage, a home, and he couldn’t get out. How both of them got trapped in his lie.

This time, he has a different lie, however. This time he probably kept telling himself it wasn’t that deep, that it was just convenience and didn’t mean anything. That no one had to know, because then no one could tell him what he was doing meant something. Then no one could force him to see what he’s been ignoring for so long.

Her chest constricts for him and she squeezes his shoulder. “I hope it works out well for you this time, Eddie.”

He frowns for a moment, probably confused how she got to that response, then smiles crookedly: “Me too, Shan.”

“Tell them they need to be there for you, yeah? And let them,” she asks, because she’s sure Eddie won’t let them, even if they extended an invitation. He has always been stubborn like that.

In response his face contorts and he doesn’t meet her eye as he says: “Maybe,” which is probably all she is going to get from him now, unless she wants to push, but she doesn’t.

As predicted, Eddie decides he’s had enough of this for today, because he hauls himself onto his feet and holds his hand out to pull her back up. A part of her feels like maybe she should call him out on it, but he’s probably has had a hard enough day. Plus, he still has to break the news to Christopher. She wishes she could be there for that, but knows it’s too soon. It wouldn’t be good for Christopher and she refuses to be a horrible mother. So, she lets Eddie pull her up.

Eddie pauses for a moment when they stand there, clearly hesitating for a moment. His spine straightens with resolve and then he quickly wraps too arms around her, squeezes her for a moment, before letting go and stepping back. “Uh, thank you. For coming.”

The bashful little look he gives warms something inside her and for a moment, she remembers the moments like this one that made her fall in love with him all those years ago.

However, she’s older now. Wiser too. The warmth is no longer the flutter it used to be, instead it’s a nostalgic fondness. A love she used to feel, now whittled down into something else, something more friendly. She likes that that still exists too.

“Of course,” she smiles. “Is it too early to make an in sickness and in health joke?”

“Probably,” Eddie snorts loudly at that. That stupid snort he always did when he genuinely found something funny. God, she missed that. She missed the friend she had.

“Then I’ll wait with that,” she grins widely. A little more timid, she asks: “Will you call me when you have news on Buck?” and news on if I can ever see my son again, she doesn’t say, though she’s pretty sure Eddie picks up on it.

He sends her a sympathetic look, but it doesn’t make her feel pitied like it used to do, even if Eddie has his mother’s face. “I will,” he promises. To add a bit of lightness to it, he jokes: “Does that mean you’ll unblock me?”

Shannon lets out a short laugh at that, though it’s more of a wet chuckle if she’s honest with herself. “I will,” she promises too. Both promises feel like more than coordinating an update.

For a moment, they just stand there, next to the ER entrance. Silently. Then Shannon jerks with her thumb in the general direction of her car and says: “I guess, I should go now?”

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie agrees, obviously feeling a little awkward about the whole thing. “Uhm, goodbye, then, I guess? For now.”

“Yeah… Goodbye. For now,” Shannon nods. She hugs him again, then quickly walks away before she can find another excuse to stay. Christopher has to deal with this first, before she can come back. She isn’t going to be a horrible mother. Not again.

So, she leaves.

Well, she goes to her car. Then she sits behind the wheel, telling herself to turn the key and drive away, but finding herself unable to do so. Before tonight, she thought she would never see Christopher again, that he was halfway across the country. But now he’s in the same city as her. Almost at the same building. So incredibly close.

Which means that Shannon sits right there. Unable to move, eyes trained on the ER entrance Eddie disappeared through moments earlier. She isn’t going to talk to him. She just wants to see him.

After fifteen minutes, there he is. He’s walking with an Afro-American woman, who is leading him gently. He’s dressed in his pajamas and looks a little sleepy, but he’s walking easily with his crutches, glasses firmly in place. He looks okay. Happy. Healthy. So big.

A breath catches in her throat and without her permission a tear slides down her face. It’s immediately followed by another, then another one, until she’s crying in her car. Alone.

It’s not even an entirely sad sort of crying. It is a little, but it also isn’t. Sure, she is sad because the baby she once held is now a little boy, easily standing on his own too legs and no longer tripping over his crutches and it aches, because she missed so much. But he looks okay. He lived. She didn’t irreparably fuck him up for life and that’s a relief she didn’t see coming, until it suddenly hits her now, sitting in her car, watching him.

She waits until he’s inside, then sits there for a few minutes longer. It’s a Herculean task, but she turns on the ignition and manages to drive away.

At home, she falls into bed feeling exhausted. She is anxious about how tomorrow will go. If Eddie will ever contact her again, if Buck will let her back in Christopher’s life, or if he’ll block her return while Eddie would have let her back in. If she will ever see Christopher again. If he will still want her there.

It gnaws on her. Her mind keeps running and sleep alludes her until the late hours. In the end, she finally manages a few hours fitful sleep.

However, she shouldn’t have worried, because when she finally wakes up the next morning, it is to a series of texts from a number she hasn’t had contact with in years. The contact name is still Edmundo, which she had done to be petty after the divorce. She changes it back to Eddie, before opening them.

Is a hospital a weird place to confess?

This is Eddie, by the way.

Chris took the news about Buck as well as he could.

Buck is okay too.

We’re with him now.

Might take a while to bring it all up.

A knot unclenches in her stomach and a smile comes on her face. It’s not perfect, it will be a while for her to be allowed back in, but Eddie isn’t pulling back and Christopher and Buck are both okay. She couldn’t ask for more.

So, she decides to be hopeful instead. She’s been working on herself. This is a good step for her. It’s maybe even a first step to getting some semblance of a social life, because when she’s honest has been a little lonely.

With a shit eating grin, she texts back: A hospital is a great place to confess

Hug Christopher tight from me?

Would it be ok for me to send Buck a card?

~~

A/N:

Does this AUAU primarily exist to fuck with people that check the titles for this fic on tumblr to trick them into thinking the reveal wasn’t happening in chapter 30? Mayhaps. However, I am happy about bringing Shannon back for this, just to let her know what happened in her absence, since that will always be iconic to me, because that is wild from her POV

I am sad I didn’t bring Shannon back in the main verse, but you can’t bring her back without having to deal with all the messy emotions that come with the way they split up and the insecurities and whatever and that isn’t what the main fic is about. And if I brought her back, that is what it would have become about. However, dipping my toe in it through these AUAUs is very fun :D

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

Ok ok, here I am to share my first crumb, and I really hope it has a good flavor reheh~

When I thought of it, I had to keep it in my memory so I wouldn’t forget: What if, during the journey or even afterward, a random character showed up to Reader?

For this idea, I wanted to use my OC, Gi Bao, because I think it would be fun and would fit well to create an awkward moment for Sun Wukong and Macaque, and maybe she could even act as a kind of "ally" for Reader, especially in dealing with her yanderes.

Gi Bao is more of a mystical being in monkey form rather than a yaoguai monkey (is that the right term?). She would stand at around 1.6 meters, with lightly bronzed skin in areas not covered by onyx-brown fur (like the middle of her neck, face, and chest). Her eyes are dark brown, and she has long, straight hair. She has sharp claws and fangs. Her body is small but muscular, with a mask-like mark of two connected stars around her eyes in a deep blue color.

Gi Bao was born from the earth, close to the earth’s core, where the ground mixes with underground scorching magma. In short, she has more physical attack abilities but a complex connection to the earth itself, along with a skill I created for her, tentatively called True Sight. It’s a variation of golden vision, but it works in a very different way—I like to call it ADHD reheh (these earth-related and eye-based abilities act as support for Bao in battle, as she’s focused on hand-to-hand combat rather than magic).

Gi Bao’s strength might not be greater than Sun Wukong’s, but it would be comparable. She can, with raw force, pull and push tectonic plates to cause natural disasters, as well as stretch her arms (like elastic) enough to embrace a mountain range and compress it into a small mountain or hill. Due to these aspects, I believe that whether Macaque and Wukong are cursed or not, she could easily stand up to them (though not necessarily defeat them, as she doesn’t have any magic beyond what I mentioned, and her body isn’t as resistant as Wukong’s stone body, but rather one that reshapes and comes together like earth and magma).

Gi Bao would appear without any warning and, just out of whimsy and interest in Reader, she would approach her and start talking and complimenting her (Gi Bao has no filters, so if she finds something or someone beautiful, cool, or interesting, she’ll say it right to their face. She sees everyone simply as beings, indifferent to what or who they are, so she doesn’t see a difference between a monkey, a yaoguai, a spirit, or a celestial being). Gi Bao is naturally calm and friendly, only expressing her feelings through touch, whether with a punch, a nose boop, or simply being close (if the other person doesn’t want to be touched, she struggles to keep her hands to herself, always fidgeting with her fingers or feet).

I can imagine them talking, and mid-conversation, Bao starts flirting with Reader, mostly by using pet names, like "sweety," "flower," "beauty," "honey"... (Gi Bao just loves to tease and flirt with anyone, always keeping it on a more humorous than serious level, so if the other person feels uncomfortable, she simply stops and apologizes; that said, she loves to annoy others but always stops before it really bothers or discomforts someone).

Gi Bao would have been kind of brought into the Celestial Realm to occupy a position there, as a warrior among other things, so there could be some potential connection to the Celestial Realm (if you think it makes sense or would be fun). If you’re interested in this character, I can give more details; some things are still in development, but I do have a few things ready.

Sorry for going off on a monologue about my character, but I thought it would be good to give some information to explain why I think Gi Bao could be a nuisance for Macaque and Wukong, and an “ally” for Reader. Bao could pull Reader away from Wukong and Macaque at times, helping to keep Reader’s sanity or just when she feels overwhelmed by the two warlords. I’m working on a drawing specifically of this scene because I thought it would be interesting.

Well! I hope you enjoyed my first crumb... Now that I think about it, this would be more of a crossover, right? Well, what do you think? May you be taking care of yourself and have an amazing day!

All right! I love your character! Now while I won’t be adding her into the Cursed Warlords canon, I can still write a small introduction for her. Where she meets the crew during JTTW. Or at least how what they would think of her at least. I’m not writing a scene because I don’t want to get her character wrong.

Sun Wukong – He likes monkeys weather regular, demon or mythical he doesn’t care. He will like her… until she tries to separate him from his darling Reader. She is HIS, Gi Bao can’t have her! Weather she wants to ‘have’ her or not doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like anyone who tries to separate him from either of his mates (Even when he is currently PISSED off at one of them)

Macaque – He doesn’t care what some one is, they can be a monkey he truly does NOT care. He won’t like the person who is trying to get between him and his mate. So he may or may not make her fall down a shadow portal to somewhere, anywhere away from his darling.

Reader – Oh she likes this new friend. She’s so nice and helpful too. She does however get worried when she tries to ‘help’ Reader. She knows how her husbands are, they are VERY protective and possessive. She likes hanging out though and hopes that Wukong and Macaque will back off.

Reader would be pretty nervous if she saw Gi Bao fighting as she gets nervous and scared when here is a big fight around her. But regardless she would like to see someone other than the group around.

Spirit – Jealous, she isn’t a Yandere but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t get jealous. She is your sworn sister not this other monkey demoness. She thinks her jealousy is stupid but even so she kinda wants Gi Bao to leave you alone. While she won’t act on this jealousy it will cause her to be a bit snappy with the monkey demoness.

Tripitaka – ANOTHER MONKEY!? Wait. She’s kind of nice, it’s good to see a monkey demon who isn’t trying to kidnap you.

Pigsy – This is a pretty female! Too bad she’s a monkey demoness, he doesn’t like monkeys at the point of interaction so he limits his contact.

Sandy – A nice woman, he has no problems with her and likes to interact with her.

Ao Lie – he likes that his new sister is getting along with someone. Though Reader gets along with most people when they are nice, it’s still nice to see you interact with someone outside of the group.

I hope you like how I answered this! Love your character, she is very pretty too! Keep up the good work in your drawings! If anyone else would like to send oc’s my way I wouldn’t mind having my characters and my versions of the main cast give their opinions! I hope you enjoyed and I am SO sorry that this took so long!

[apomaro-mellow]

Two in the Bush 8

Part 7

Steve’s wardrobe options had gotten more limited as his belly grew, but he tried not to feel some type of way about it. He was still able to dress in a nice shirt and pants and not look too out of place when they brought him to the restaurant. An upscale kind of place that made him wonder how they’d found this place.

“Some guy I know works here”, Billy said as they were taken to their table.

“And he admits that to other people?”, Eddie gasped.

“Watch it, Munson. I’m trying to be nice.”

Steve smiled. He had to admit, just a few months ago, Billy would’ve just decked Eddie and be done with it, ruining the mood and their night. The fact that the three of them were even doing something like this. A date was different than just going out to eat. This was both Eddie and Billy showing their intentions with Steve, and thus their intentions with his pup.

Conversation flowed easily between the three of them, it always did. Eddie was naturally talkative, as was Steve. Billy was less so, but he surprised Steve with what he said sometimes. It made Steve realize he was a good listener.

“So about that one guy…”, Eddie started as their appetizers were replaced with their entrees.

“The alpha redhead or the blonde beta?”, Steve asked.

“Redhead”, Eddie answered.

“You mean Manfred?”, Billy asked.

Eddie snapped his fingers. “Manfred! Yeah! He came in again, trying to micromanage and shit.”

“Isn’t that the same guy who couldn’t tell he was driving on bald tires? And he couldn’t remember which mother gave birth to which kid?”

“The very same! Tires bald as hell and shuffling around like he knows shit.”

“Speaking of kids”, Billy said as he looked to Steve. “You thought of names yet?”

“I’ve thought of several. But I’m not really gonna know until I’m holding them in my arms.” Steve smiled, bringing a hand down to his bump. “I did decide on the names you guys are involved in.”

“Oh?”, Eddie leaned in, intrigued.

Steve nodded, smiling at him. “Whoever the real sire is, the baby will get their last name.” Then he looked at Billy. “And whoever isn’t the father, will get to give them a middle name.”

Billy blinked in surprise. “You’d do that?”

“It only seems fair”, Steve said, looking at the both of them. “Only one of you is the father by blood but you’ve both taken care of me and this pup.”

They went with Steve to doctor appointments whenever they could. They helped him modify his diet, even foregoing some things just so Steve didn’t get jealous. They had massaged his back and feet to relieve aches. Steve had been prepared to do this with just himself and Robin. But with two extra hands, the load was much lighter.

Steve found himself staring at them both more and more. He knew he was lucky, so incredibly lucky. To have not just one but two alphas vying for his hand and fatherhood of his pup. There were plenty of alphas who turned tail at the first mention of the word ‘baby’. Eddie and Billy had not only NOT turned away. They ran at Steve in full force. After dessert, Steve watched them split the bill and then they were on their way home.

He was feeling satisfied in a way he hadn’t in a while. And he didn’t miss the way their gazes lingered on him. Steve wasn’t completely surprised that guys had stopped coming up to him in public. A prominent belly didn’t do much for his dating prospects. And he had gained weight in other places as well. He told himself he was still a catch and that after having the baby he could get right back out there. But sometimes when he looked in the mirror, it was harder to convince himself of that.

The way Billy and Eddie looked at him though, were looking at him right now, it was the same way they always did. It carried the same heat, the same desire. There was a small voice in the back of his head. The one that tried to keep him from making bad decisions. But as they got back home and started towards the stairs, it got quieter and quieter. Steve had forgotten why this was a bad idea in the first place.

Before the other two could part ways to go to their respective rooms, Steve cleared his throat, making them pause. Steve stood at the door of his own room.

“Do you two…wanna come in?”

They entered wordlessly, Billy on him in seconds, lips on his and hands in his hair as Eddie closed the bedroom door. Then Steve felt a warmth at his back that could only be Eddie.

“You sure about this?”, he whispered as he kissed his ear.

Steve broke away from Billy’s mouth to nod. “I’m sure. I know it.”

“What about Robin?”, Billy asked, already unbuttoning Steve’s shirt.

“She’s out. Won’t be back until morning.” She’d told him as much when Steve told her about this date. And at the time, he had assured her there was no need. But she’d given him a look, full of meaning. She knew him better than he knew himself. 

“Then we’ve got all night”, Billy grinned, showing his teeth.

Eddie brought his own teeth out, nipping at Steve’s ear and the back of his neck. He was surrounded on all sides but he didn’t feel caged in. No, he felt embraced. One hand went to Billy’s jaw while the other reached behind, bringing Eddie’s arm around him. As the fell together into bed, a different voice became louder and louder in Steve’s mind.

A voice that said this was the best idea he ever had.

[malk1ns]

december 17 vs kings, 3-2 OT win

these idiots. and then they watch it back after??? perverts.

previous soulbond installments: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Sid isn’t scoring goals.

That’s nothing new; he’s gone through slumps his entire career, just like everyone else. He knows what to do to work his way out of them, can practically recite Sully’s speech word-for-word at this point: simplify, don’t force a pass, eyes on the net and stick on the ice and the puck will start going in again.

The last time his scoring woes were this closely scrutinized, though, was almost a decade ago. And honestly, considering who’s watching him now, Sid thinks he’d prefer another round of headlines questioning if maybe he’s a washed-up one-hit-wonder after all.

The bond specialists won’t leave.

Sid’s not going to pretend that he knows more about the science or biology or whatever it is behind bonds than people who study them for a living, but he does think that living with a bond should maybe give him a little more authority than he and Geno are currently being granted.

The specialists seem convinced that their matching lulls in production are because they’re spending too much time together on-ice, and the sharp dive after they were separated on the power play will regress to the mean eventually, once the bond accepts the distance.

The two separate units are performing just fine, that’s not the problem. But Sid’s not seeing an improvement in either his or Geno’s play, and Geno’s just as out of sorts about it.

The holiday break, and with it a few days away from the rink and the watchful eyes of the entire Penguins athletic training staff, can’t come soon enough.

Sid’s unease over the added scrutiny is bleeding into the bond, too. It’s making them both clumsy on the ice, and it’s coming to a forefront during the Kings game. Geno clutches up on his stick on his shifts, passing when he should shoot and shooting when he should pass. Sid loses track of his wingers and sends the puck hurling over to the other team so many times in the first period that he switches sticks partway through.

It comes to a head when they’re caught out on the ice at the same time during a shift change. Sid always knows where Geno is now, that’s no different, but he doesn’t want to give the specialists an excuse to say that the proximity is negatively impacting their play, so he directs all his energy onto the puck until they can change lines. He can feel Geno doing the same, pulling back from the bond until the echoing chasm between them is loud in Sid’s head, louder than the crowd and the sounds of the game.

He maybe should have predicted that would backfire, which it does in spectacular fashion when Geno crashes into him and sends him sprawling to the ice.

Fuck, reverberates through the bond as Sid lumbers back to his feet, Geno wincing at him and just barely stopping himself from reaching up to touch his own mouth in echoed pain.

Sid can practically hear the specialists up in the press box taking furious notes as he skates to the bench to get checked out.

He knows why they ran into each other. They’re trying so hard to prove that the bond isn’t an issue that it’s having the opposite effect; all that effort spent on trying to ignore it keeps it front of mind.

But after the game, when he tries to argue that point, tries to explain that if they just did what felt natural to them things would improve, he and Geno are both overruled. The fact that Geno got himself a goal, as ugly as it was, only gives the specialists more proof for their point.

Science says that distance is better, no matter what Sid’s experiences out on the ice are saying.

He and Geno exchange uneasy glances as they walk out of the trainer’s room.

[rottenfyre]

I got so into your batfam stories, I’ve actually gotten into reading the comics to better understand the universe! Honestly never thought I’d touch superhero stuff, but your writing is just so darn good I had to go learn more about these characters! Also I know you’ve got several series planned, but I was curious about that Dick x joker’s assistant one. Could you indulge us with a few of your ideas for that one? (If it’s not spoiling anything!) the concept is just so good

Awwww, thank you! 🥰 First of all, I’m so happy you’re enjoying the stories enough to dive into the comics! It really means the world to me that my writing has sparked that interest. As for the Dick x Joker’s assistant story, let me clarify because I actually have two different series involving Joker's sidekicks—one with Dick and the other with Jason. Since you’re asking about the Dick one, let me spill a little about Jester.

So, Jester is… complicated. She was this lonely kid growing up, the kind who was always a little “off,” and Joker saw that in her. He took her in, not because she was as crazy as he was (she’s not), but because she had this strange detachment from reality that he found fascinating. She’s unhinged in her own way, though—she doesn’t really understand the concept of good or bad. To her, the world is like one big storybook where rules don’t apply, and everyone’s just playing their part. That’s why Joker adores her; she operates in her own little bubble of logic, completely removed from societal norms.

She’s untainted by traditional human logic and morality. To her, Joker is just a misunderstood "mad king," and she’s his pretty princess.

She met Dick for the first time when she was about 10. At that point, she wasn’t Jester yet, just this weird little kid who accidentally crossed paths with him while he was fighting crime. Dick saved her during the chaos, and for her, it was like a fairytale moment. Here’s this ridiculously pretty boy with an even prettier voice, swooping in like a literal prince, and she’s immediately smitten. Even though it’s just a brief moment, and in her eyes, he becomes this impossibly beautiful and noble "prince."

Fast-forward to later that same year—she’s now Jester, Joker’s official sidekick, and runs into Robin again. It’s chaos everywhere—Joker and Batman are tearing each other apart in their usual deadly dance, but then you’ve got Robin and Jester off to the side, having this completely bizarre and awkward “high school girl confessing to her crush” scene. She’s carefree, bubbly, and genuinely just wants to be friends with him. Meanwhile, Dick’s all serious and professional, probably trying to figure out if she’s an actual threat or just delusional. (Spoiler: It’s both.)

Her obsession with Dick escalates quickly—because in her mind, this is how love stories work. She doesn’t just want to be his friend; she wants him to be hers forever. So naturally, her solution is to kidnap him and make him her “pretty bird.” She genuinely believes this is romantic. Like, why wouldn’t he love her back? Isn’t this how princesses and princes end up together? She dreams about marrying him, having kids, and living out their happily ever after.

The thing about Jester is that she doesn’t see herself as evil. She doesn’t even really understand what “evil” is. To her, everything she does—whether it’s breaking the law, hurting people, or abducting her “true love”—is just part of the story she’s living in. She doesn’t see it as wrong because she’s so disconnected from reality. She’s living in this fairytale bubble where everything she does makes perfect sense to her, no matter how horrifying it might actually be.

That’s what makes her so fascinating and, honestly, terrifying. She’s not malicious or cruel; she’s just completely untethered from reality. In her mind, she’s the heroine of this grand love story, and Dick is the prince who doesn’t realize he’s supposed to love her yet. It’s twisted and unhinged, but in her own warped way, it’s sincere.

Jester’s relationship with Joker is as twisted as you’d expect, but not in the way people might think. Joker didn’t raise her to be cruel or hateful—he didn’t even need to. She already had this skewed view of the world when he found her, and he simply encouraged it. To him, she was this bizarre, broken little doll who saw life through a kaleidoscope of whimsy and delusion. He adored how unpredictable she was, how she could smile sweetly at someone while holding a knife to their throat, not out of malice, but because she thought it was “funny.”

But Joker wasn’t a father figure to her. He was more like a mentor or a ringmaster in her eyes. She looked up to him, sure, but in the way a kid might look up to a magician who promises to show them how to make the impossible happen. He gave her attention and fed into her fantasies, but he didn’t care about her in a meaningful way. To Joker, she was just another toy—a fascinating one, but still a toy. And in her naivety, she didn’t see that. She thought their bond was special. That they were alike.

In reality, Joker kept her around because her complete detachment from reality amused him. She didn’t understand pain, fear, or consequence, and that made her a perfect wildcard. But when she started fixating on Robin, Joker didn’t stop her—he thought it was hilarious. He egged her on, treating her obsession with Dick like a soap opera to entertain himself. He probably even encouraged her fairytale delusions, mocking her behind her back but also supplying her with whatever she needed to chase her “happily ever after.”

And then there’s Dick. He was everything Joker wasn’t—kind, warm, heroic. The first time he saved her, she wasn’t just drawn to his looks or his bravery; she was drawn to the way he saw her. He didn’t look at her like she was a freak or a broken doll. He saw a scared kid and treated her like she was worth saving. For someone as lonely as Jester, that moment stuck with her. In her mind, it was love at first sight. He became her Prince Charming, her one bright light in an otherwise chaotic existence.

But Dick didn’t even remember her. To him, saving her was just another day as Robin. He had no idea he’d planted the seed of obsession in her mind. And when they crossed paths again, with her now as Jester, he didn’t recognize her at first. She was this eccentric, giggling enigma who acted like they were old friends—or more than friends. She flirted, teased, and acted as though they were already destined for each other. It confused him, but he also saw glimpses of that scared kid underneath the makeup and manic laughter.

What makes it heartbreaking is that Jester doesn’t understand the depth of her own loneliness. She doesn’t know how to express love in a healthy way, and she’s never had anyone teach her. Her fixation on Dick is less about him as a person and more about what he represents: stability, warmth, someone who sees her. She clings to her fantasies of marrying him, of building a life together, because it’s the only way she knows how to cope with the emptiness inside her. She doesn’t even realize how much she’s hurting him or herself in the process.

It’s both funny and kind of tragic because, deep down, she’s just a lonely kid who never learned how the real world works. Dick, being the compassionate guy he is, probably picks up on that, which only makes things more complicated. Her obsession is unrelenting, and she truly believes she’s the princess who will win her prince in the end, no matter what stands in her way.

Dick would probably feel pity for her. He’d try to reason with her, to help her see the world for what it is. But the more he tries to help, the more she doubles down on her delusions, convinced that he’s just playing hard to get or that the world is keeping them apart. It’s a tragic cycle: her chasing a love that’s not real, and Dick trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

[paingoes]

Rubies - Snowstorm

not really nsfw but pretty intimate i guess???

this is set a bit further into delta’s recovery!!

(Content: caretaker POV, recovery, fever, nonsexual nudity, sickfic, platonic intimacy, past trauma, discussion of past abuse, crying, brief discussion of noncon, vampire caretaker???, brief discussion of self harm)

~

The white mountains went on for miles in every direction. In the past weeks, they’d been broken up only intermittently by the wildfire smoke, but today the sky was clear and bright. Even in the dead of night, the atmosphere had a brightness about it. The surrounding woods would darken, but overhead the clouds remained luminous. Still, they hoped not to take so long on the trek that they’d be forced to travel by it.

They were making good time, all things considered. The rebel group was only thirteen strong — it was a lucky number. Large enough to function as a single organism at times, but not so much as to become unwieldy. Two dogs jet back and forth between the party members — only one of the hounds had been brought on purpose, the other had simply found them and tagged along. 

Apollo once again scanned the frozen landscape — all bitterly cold and pristine, made to destroy things like him. But he was not immune to its beauty, and he could not help but be mesmerized by it. After all, there was little else to focus on.

Galatea stretched its medics thin. This time was no exception. Again, he was the only one to the group. They were protective of him for that. It was mutual, pleasant. It felt nice to be needed. He never balked from it.

Delta moved a few meters to his right, skirting the edge of the canyon, the abyss below. Apollo clicked his tongue a bit, beckoning him closer. Delta came away from the border and did not seem to resent the summons.

One hand against the nape of his neck proved he was freezing, but he always ran cold. Apollo replaced the scarf around him, relinquishing the contact. Delta peered up curiously, much of his face still obscured within the fabric. 

He didn’t need to be here. The only reason he’d tagged along was because he’d asked. If Levon had his way, Delta would never leave the fortress. All the time, he’d been making himself invaluable there, in a way Apollo could ungenerously describe as calculated. All the same, he understood the impulse.

“Are you cold?” Apollo asked. It’s a dumb question, but he liked that Delta indulged him with it.

“Nah,” he answered back anyway. “I like it more like this. The lake isn’t frozen through all the way, even though it should be by now. There’s vents at the bottom. We’re on a volcano.”

There was a soft gravel to his voice that immediately caught Apollo’s attention. He was getting sick. He might not have even realized it yet.

“Do you think that’s what’s been causing the smoke on the horizon? Volcanic activity?” Apollo asked. 

Delta considered this.

“No.” He said finally. “I think that’s just because of the bombs.”

Apollo nodded in understanding.

~

It seemed to really hit him just as soon as they’d reached the safe house. To be sure, there were places for it to have hit him. But there were also places much, much better.

Delta struggled valiantly through it anyway. The arrival was when the hivemind really seemed to kick in — and each of them present moved like one consciousness, unpacking, drudging water and electricity up from the ancient system. Apollo caught sight of Delta amidst a mess of wires, willing the radio to work. He was tireless. All of it was up and running by the time the pale moon was directly overhead. It was only then he’d let himself be tended to.

Delta coughed terribly, the congestion in his chest now fully audible. Apollo listened closely, in search of something worse.

“You picked an awful time to do it,” he tsked in mock disapproval. “Going to need Balto to carry it all the way up the mountain.”

“Who’s Balto?” Delta asked blearily.

“Nevermind,” Apollo shook his head. “You’re going to be fine. Bacterial, though. It’ll put you out for a couple of days.”

Delta looked up at him pleadingly, as if this was a sentence that he could adjust.

“Gonna be fine,” Apollo repeated, petting his hair. Delta nudged his hand back, leaning into the touch, though he still looked resoundingly unhappy with this verdict. He still let himself be led into the quarantined bedroom, collapsing down onto the cot the first second he was able to.

~

One night later, Delta half-stumbled out of the doorframe. He shivered, visibly, little pinpricks forming all up and down his bare arms. Bare arms, even in the cold climate, because he’d been tucked beneath the blankets and too many layers would make him feel trapped. When he got like this, his eyes turned to sea glass, all soft and cloudy.

“Do you want me to help you?” Apollo asked. Before he could answer, he’d already moved to steady him. He placed one hand against the soft cotton of the tea shirt, feeling at the fragile shoulder bone beneath. Delta let himself be leaned back against the wall. The offer had not been merely to steady him.

Delta nodded yes. He had gotten so much better about receiving it.

They both sat on their knees against the cool tile of the bathroom as the old clawfoot tub gradually filled with mountain water. Delta rested his forehead against the edge of the porcelain. He had a migraine, on top of everything else. When he got anything, the migraine tended to come with it.

Apollo dipped one hand tentatively beneath the surface. It was colder than he would’ve liked, but he knew he was an abnormality in that regard. Delta voiced that it was perfect. He said “perfect”. He was always more agreeable with Apollo, more insistent, strategic to counter the other’s nervous fussing.

It was a pleasant surprise to find that the old house still held the soap for a bubble bath. Apollo had taken liberties with it in the interest of privacy, and because the lavender scent had made him nostalgic. A family had lived here, once upon a time. He felt a soft twinge of sadness as his attention turned back to Delta, who still lay oblivious with his head down against the ledge. It would not mean to him what it meant to Apollo.

The issue of privacy turned out to be of little concern. He’d have offered to turn away, but Delta had already placidly stripped the shirt from his back, then all the rest. Used to it, he’d said the first time, and Apollo’s heart had sunk all the way into his stomach until he’d clarified. There’d been maids. His dignity had been denied to him constantly, or it had never even been considered, but at the very least it had not come to that. Nevertheless, Apollo remained cautious and tentative as he moved to touch the bare skin.

Delta only leaned into it. Apollo had wondered once how much of it was trust and how much of it was simply obedience. He did not wonder so much anymore. All of his movements were slow and controlled, still doing his best now to startle him. He poured the plastic cup carefully over his head, letting a gentle stream of water pour down over the black locks. His hair was longer now. Not as long as it had been, but getting there. It had grown back fast.

He felt the way Delta tensed when his hands brushed over his scalp. The touch was soft. It was the placement. He uncurled his fingers, undoing the hold of his hair.

“Still okay?” Apollo asked quietly. 

“Mm,” Delta agreed at the same decibel. 

He had tensed, though. And his eyes now seemed to study only the surface of the water.

“…You know he tried to drown me?” he said. By the end of the sentence, all the words were only mouthed shapes. No sound came out.

Apollo’s hands froze, given way to still shock. He didn’t know why it surprised him. He’d seen what they were capable of. Nothing should have surprised him anymore. 

“One of the last nights,” Delta added quietly. “It’s why I had to leave.”

He’d wondered all the time what the last straw had been for him. 

“Do you want to get out?” Apollo retracted his hands back to the ledge, lowering his body slightly as if it might make him less intimidating. 

But Delta didn’t look scared, really. His eyes hadn’t left the surface of the water, but they were all half-lidded. He was just sad, in the way he tended to be. He shook his head slowly, slightly.

“No,” he said. “I know you’re not going to. I was just…”

He sunk further into the water without bothering to finish the thought. Apollo cautiously resumed washing the shampoo out from his hair, extra careful not to run his fingers through it too hard. Extra careful so as not to pour the water into his face, so as not to obstruct his breathing. He moved his hands through his hair dutifully, working the conditioner and jojoba oil through the ends. 

When he looked up, he was surprised to see that Delta had started crying. With all the water, he could not be sure if they were really teardrops. Delta’s expression was more or less unchanged. There were no other tells. He wiped his eyes as if he nothing had happened, but his shoulder blades cinched together in a silent sob at the same instant.

“Sorry,” Delta said first, sensing the way his eyes had fallen upon him, “It’s not…”

Again, he didn’t bother to finish the thought. Apollo frowned. He ran his knuckles back up by Delta’s scalp, moving them in soft circles. He leaned into the touch, the crying seeming to slow for a moment.

“I love you,” Delta said.

A small, discontented noise. Apollo sighed as he drew him in a bit closer, kissing him gently on his temple.

~

Though it was deep into the night, the living room was still alive when they emerged into it. It still glowed with the warm orange light. One of the dogs snored atop of the rug just by the fireplace. The scout sat cross-legged next to it, headphones on as she played with her weighted carry-on computer. In the kitchen, the voices were indistinct, but pleasant all the same. 

Delta followed him readily onto the couch, curling up at his end of it. His hair was still wet at the edges. After a moment, he brushed it away, tilting his head to the side to expose the skin.

Apollo stared at him, unsure of what he was seeing. As the silence endured without any movement from Delta, he knew it was what it looked like.

“What’s this?” Apollo’s tone was gentle. “Are you baring your neck for me?”

A soft blush rose up in Delta’s cheeks, not just flushed with fever. Apollo shook his head. Delta straightened his neck back out and — blessedly — did not seem too distraught over the denial.

“Why don’t you?” Delta asked. He let his hair shield his skin again, but leaned closer, pressing his head to Apollo’s shoulder. “Can’t you?”

“I can,” Apollo answered, though for a second he really thought about lying. “But I don’t need it.”

“Lun does,” Delta pointed out. “They need it. If you don’t need it, what does it feel like for you?”

“…Heady.” Apollo admitted. He brushed his nails along the side of the boy’s head. There was too much heat there.

“It gets you loaded?” Delta asked incredulously.

“Not quite,” Apollo said, mostly because he sensed the alarm in the other’s voice. “Just dazed. I don’t like the feeling.”

Delta frowned anyway, but he did not question further. He rearranged himself, asking if he could place the pillow down in Apollo’s lap. He did so. He did not take the blanket and he did not need it. The fever was startling. It would peak tonight.

“You like me more when I’m like this. You just want a patient.” Delta accused, but the tone was teasing.

“I like you all the time,” Apollo said, though he didn’t deny it. Delta sighed discontentedly, exhausted. The skin of his neck was still bare then, unguarded. Apollo pressed two fingers to it, checking the pulse. Steady.

[exhaled-spirals]

« Over the next few weeks, any time Mira and Annie ran into each other, something widened inside of them. Something was opening in Mira’s chest, a portal to Annie […]. What of the strength of our connections with certain people, and the weakness of our connections with certain other ones? […] With a few people in one’s life, too much happens emotionally—more than even makes sense to happen, given how little has actually occurred. Such people are deeply igniting in a way that others are not. This igniting always happens in the very first instant and it never goes away. No stupidities can destroy the igniting, so even if those two people never meet again, a connection always remains. Mira felt this way about Annie. It wasn’t that Mira had met her in some previous life. It was that she was meeting her in this one—and isn’t that rare! Why is it so hard to meet in this life? […]

On such occasions, it is often the gods who are to blame. They slip into a person like an amoeba, and from within one person, they watch another one—the one they have chosen to watch. So from within Annie, the gods were watching Mira, and from within Mira, the gods were watching Annie. It doesn’t always happen mutually this way, but in their case it did—the gods just taking notes on humans, to make us better in the next draft of the world. […]

They noticed hidden things about the other one, without even meaning to. All this seemed to be happening of its own accord, this laying down of a bridge on which things between them could pass; not necessarily sexual things, or even intimate things, but things as yet unknown. A road was being laid, though nothing was yet travelling on that road. Some workers were doing it—it was the gods—and it was happening far too quickly! They always worked so fast—so much faster than humans could ever understand […].

She wanted to tell her everything she knew. […]

The few moments of real presence you have ever felt in your life might mean that a god was inside someone near you, using them to see you. The few moments of real insight we’ve ever had about another might indicate that a god was inside us at that moment, using us to see them. When they brighten the characteristics of another person, it is like turning on a light in a darkened room. We might remember that moment of seeing better than any of the other moments in our lives.

The person who the gods are watching through you often develops a certain attachment to you. That person may find themselves thinking about you a lot, and you may find yourself thinking about them a lot, too. It often happens between two such people that they will feel fated to be in each other’s lives. They might like or dislike the other one, or have no clear feelings between them at all, yet there they are, for minutes or hours or weeks or years, mysteriously in each other’s orbit, as though something of significance is going on.

Then, when the desire suddenly comes over a person to swiftly and dramatically change their life, it is often a desire to evade the eyes of the gods. It may feel like something threatening is happening—something dangerous from which they must escape. A person might blame this feeling on the choices they made, or [t]hey might blame the person who the gods have inhabited for all of their discomforts, so they try to flee […]. But the gods who are watching you from inside another one don’t disappear if you flee your life. They will leave the body of your child, your neighbour, or your friend—whoever they have inhabited to watch you—and find a body in your new life to inhabit, and continue to watch you from there. »

— Sheila Heti, Pure Colour