#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

[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!

[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.

[sunny-knight]

Dear My Dear -

an @forgettable-au fan-slideshow

At the end of their journey, Sans has remembered everything. And theres only one question on his mind now…

*now what?

Its lore time. omg theres so much-

The way ill organize this…lIll start with the GENERAL thing, before getting more spesific, and explain each slide in way too much detail.

THE BIGGER PICTURE

This is the hypothetical end to their journey. Sans and Papyrus remember what happened, and this is how Sans is handling it. A letter to Wingdings.

I was hesitant to make this at first for obvious reasons- we dont know how its gonna end!!! But I took this more as a “what if ?” scenario. IF they ever remember anything, how would Sans specifically, react? I mean thats gotta be tough.

Because of that though, lot of what happened to lead up to this is kept vague.

ill explain in way more detail how Sans got to the point of writing this letter, and how he feels in the end when I explain each slide individually. But the reason why, the MAIN ISSUE is…

Over the years, hes put so much effort into enjoying what he has. And- nothings even changed!!! So why does he feel so much has? Now that he remembers what he lost…WHO he lost. He cant help but have this voice in the back of his head that says “would it have been better if that never happened? if Papyrus never existed?” and of course he absolutely hates to think that! but the voice gets louder. Writing this letter, is an act of closure. Of laying to rest someone he never got to. Someone he never even really got to do much with.

(Excuse the shitty quality of the images- I promise they’re better. WATCH THE VIDEO)

my dear wingdings,)

Sans says “wingdings” here instead of “brother”. that’s important. Also its on a white void, showing a sorta “heavenly imagery” with the mention of Wingdings. Also Gaster is in a BLACK void, but hes talking about WD here, so, contradictions.

you never came back, and now…after remembering everything everything clearly i understand why.)

Sans and Papyrus are sitting by a fire at night. They are both sorta lost in their own worlds at the moment, but are more or less leaning on one another for comfort and support. They both need each other right now despite each other being the whole reason why they feel the way they do right now-

Papyrus is notably no longer wearing the white coat that somewhat resembles a lab coat. Symbolism! Growth!

(art note: I drew Sans as a lefty in this- cherish it. It was so hard to draw these hands at these angles- CHERISH IT.)

i don’t imagine you’ll receive this letter, but i, nonetheless, must send it. wingdings….oh ‘dings…)

the first part is somewhat of a self aware/sarcastic joke. Sans is writing this letter for himself- he doesn’t imagine Wingdings, the dead man, will ever see it. Nor would Gaster care to read it. Thats another important thing, this is NOT a letter for Gaster. This is a letter for Wingdings. which is for Sans

The star in the sky symbolizes a few different things- the main one being Wingdings ofc. But also Papyrus’ expectations of himself- which mainly come from who he was. He’s looking at it, reflecting, thinking of what Wingdings did, and what Papyrus has done. Who he is NOW, and if he ever was Wingdings.

Or if Wingdings just became him.

A square is a rectangle, but a rectangle isn’t a square type thing.

i was just starting to dream the silliest- the softest of dreams. i miss you. and i will always miss you.)

2 contradictions, what Sans used to think, vs what he knows now. The memories were fuzzy- he couldn’t remember The Royal Scientist, he just feels like he remembers some nice times. Before now knowing everything clearly. And he still misses it- slightly.

The reflections are blacked out at first, before showing their future selves. Before, there was no connection to the present because it wasnt true. It felt like/was 2 completely different things

but i cannot live like that.)

Sans can still tell, even without the rose tinted glasses view he used to have, he cant live missing the past and not living in the present. He always knew that, but repeating it here makes him feel better.

Pictured is Sans and Papyrus hiking up the mountain next to the city as the sun sets. Papyrus is in full view of the light, but is facing away in order to help Sans see it too. Symbolism!

and it seems you cannot live any other way.)

another reference to the fact that Wingdings cant live… at all now. But also an awareness that part of him lives on in Gaster. The thing that killed him.

I doubt hes going to change in any way by the end of the comics, he’s far to obsessive about angels and the player for childish stuff like “growth” and “changing for the better as a human being”

when i was with you, the world made sense. but now that we are apart, i see clearly that your world is not a world from which one can escape.)

When they were together, they knew what they wanted to be. They wanted to be scientists. But after being apart so long and experiencing so much uncertainty, Sans finds that mindset is unhealthy. Again, a lot of this is stuff he already knew, but is repeating to himself because after remembering everything, he feels as if hes back at square one.

As kids they would test echo flowers, for science purposes! We don’t know yet if WDs voice comes through on them, but I imagine not… maybe. But for this we’re gonna say no. Their speech bubbles are trying so hard to be circles- the scribbles also somewhat resemble stars because I thought that’d be fun.

But the last slide has it shown that he dug them out, also for science purposes!

He took the echo flowers from their roots, much later on in his lab career. That in itself isnt that bad, but it symbolizes that he doesn’t care much for taking things slow. He wants to test with echo flowers? **TAKES EVERY SINGLE ONE WITHIN A 100 MILE RADIUS**

Also the empty holes reflects sort of what happened after he died. All of the underground was left with holes to fill. Sans, a childhood/brother. Alphys, the royal scientist. Those are the main ones but he was THE ROYAL SCIENTIST im sure there were more (smaller) holes that may or may not have been filled.

Ok and the last thing the flowers being taken out represent- he took the ones specifically from when they were kids, and abandoned what was left for the grass to grow tall and the entire area to be, in general, a lot flatter. In his quest to basically never grow up and continue being the thing he KNEW he wanted to be since kindergarten- he’s taken everything and left the rest in the dust. He’s The Royal Scientist now, he “doesn’t need anything else.”

i’m so sorry. for everything. for everything long ago, and for starting up that machine again.

Sans knows he could have been better. He could have done things differently, and that thought messes with him, even before he remembered.

The 2nd image is Sans at Grillbys after another failed attempt to get Wingdings outside. Despite the fact that he could have done things differently, theres no real reason to be “sorry” But still, he cant help but feel like he should be. He could have done things differently- could have tried harder, and gotten Wingdings out more often- or at all.

Im not sure where the machine in Sans’ lab comes into play in this AU, but it worked for the purposes of this audio.

theres a good man within you, wingdings. but he is wrestling with a giant. and the giant WINS time and again.)

Before everything, there was still a good man inside Wingdings that Sans saw. But now that he’s Gaster he just cant see him ever changing... and yknow what hes probably right. Like Papyrus says! Anyone can be a good person if they just try!…Gaster just isnt trying

“Wins” being emphasized here, I enjoy, since its sorta a video gamey term. The giant hes wrestling is that/the player, after all. Also probably his ego

I also had fun with kid Wingdings and what he’s drawing. Ofc its all him and Sans plus silly little stars, but him being finished drawing Sans, but not yet finished drawing himself, symbolizes the fact that at that age he still didn’t really know what he wanted to be, I feel like Wingdings kinda remembers the past wrong. Sure he definitely had science on the mind, but younger kids are often filled with questions, he questions if thats truly where he’d be the happiest.

Thats the good man within him

you’ve broken my soul again, and i fear i have broken yours. and for that i will never forgive myself, but i need to let you go now.)

the star represents, again, Wingdings. And the moon represents Sans, which shines only under the Suns (Papyrus’) light.

The sun is beginning to rise, and Sans and Papyrus are beginning to leave. Sans puts out the fire, closing this chapter of his life.

Because of every reason he needed to relearn/re-reflect on listed here, hes ready to let Wingdings go now. Sans is the one to put out the fire here, and not Papyrus, cause this is from the perspective of how SANS handles putting this issue to rest. Papyrus can have his own fire to put out later

Another thing about putting out the fire, thats just kinda common knowledge to do especially at a public camping spot. Yknow what else is common knowledge to do so you dont disrupt the community?? NOT REPLANTING FLOWERS-

Its not that deep…but still-

i send you the radio you made many years ago when we were kids. not because i dont want it, but… because i care for it far too much and it reminds me too much of you.)

CALL BACK!!!!!!

Sans leaves this last memento to Wingdings, the last thing they have that has nothing to do with Papyrus. Because at this point theres no reason to keep it, in Sans’ mind at least. There’s also no reason to destroy it- Like he says, hes not leaving it out of malice, theres just no good that will come from keeping it and holding onto the past.

As the sun rises, here we see the brothers leaving. in contrast to before, Sans is helping Papyrus down. Helping him down from the spotlight, the expectations he’s set upon himself. Another kick that Papyrus still has much more to reflect on and think about, he’s still looking back at that light, at a shooting star, at everything he thought he wanted to be.

i hope one day you will find some kind people who with appreciate you. for it kept me thinking of you all these years.)

GASTER FOLLOWERS!!!

Despite everything, Sans still wants whats left of Wingdings, Gaster, to be happy and find something, anyone, that will give him true happiness. It’s left ambiguous however if they truly do, do that for him. If it’s at all healthy.

cause frankly i have no idea how theyll be included. but just like everything- i cant wait to find out

and i hope by returning it to you, i can finally be free. goodbye.

- your brother

As the sun rises, the star gets smaller and smaller and eventually the sun replaces it. Remember when I said Papyrus represents the sun? SYMBOLISM!!!

Also about that, the star shines brighter than anything, but the Sun is among a lot of clouds, depicting how isolated Wingdings is/was despite shining the brightest, vs Papyrus who also does indeed shine! but isn’t isolated whatsoever.

Now, remember when I said Sans saying “my dear wingdings” instead of “my dear brother” was important? well, he acknowledges that he is still Wingdings’ brother, despite everything. So he signs off as “your brother” but… He’ll always try to remember Wingdings fondly…but…he’s unsure if he considers Wingdings his brother anymore- just because of how much they’ve changed. Thats why the whole thing is called Dear My Dear.

the radio + letter remains there in the end. I briefly played with the idea of having them disappear as the sun came out, implying that Gaster took the radio and reas the letter, but that was before I realized it was much better for this to be for Wingdings specifically, not Gaster/Wingdings/whatever.

FINALE!!! PLUS SOME BEHIND THE SCENES INFO!!!

weeps pitifully this was probably the most fun i’ve had with a project/the most happy i’ve come out of one. Learned lots about my process’ and what works! so thats awesome It took a while to make, so theres a lot of stuff I changed or ideas I scrapped that I find interesting, so im gonna show some of that on my side/shitpost account, @o-sunny-day

also isnt this so awesome???? I got a computer so I got to post more images than just 10, THIS IS SO AWESOME!!!

Have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year! Heres to being a bigger, better, and different person this year! except not really because despite everything its still you.

un-unless you…got shattered across time and space…. then you’re-

well I mean that-….. hm…

does that…? hmm, well….

[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

[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.

[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.

[ylangelegy]

collision course 🏁 sunwoo x reader.

“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee. (Full Throttle, diamonddaze01)

or: sunwoo knows a lot of things about cars, but girls? a whole different story.

★ ferrari mechanic!sunwoo x race strategist!reader. ★ word count: 3.1k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: formula one. fluff, feelings realization/denial, confessions, car terms. alcohol consumption, swearing/cussing. sunwoo has a crush and is lame about it. i know nothing about f1/cars and relied heavily on google— so help me, god. (if anything is wrong/off? we ball.) ★ footnotes: this is a self-indulgent, belated christmas gift for @diamonddaze01, because seeing a sunwoo cameo in her ferrari!jeonghan fic was an absolute treat. in her words, "had to bring my other man in here somehow."

At speeds over 150 km/h, the aerodynamic downforce generated by an F1 car is enough to keep it adhered to a ceiling— theoretically allowing it to drive upside down.

It’s a stupid fun fact that Sunwoo likes to keep in his arsenal of pickup lines. He’ll be in a new city, grabbing drinks with the garage technicians and pit crew members, and he’ll pull that little nugget of information out of his sleeve with a winsome smile to boot. 

“Wanna hear something cool?” he’ll ask his victim of the night, gesturing for them to lean in closer so he can be heard over the thumping music. 

His success rate with the fact is at a solid 83%, which isn’t bad. 

Would be nice if it could work on you, though. 

Of course you wouldn’t be impressed with Sunwoo’s technical F1 knowledge. You had your own array of race tactics and data analysis, always knowing just how to make the car’s performance fit within the larger race context. 

You were brilliant, productive, and ruthless. The brain behind the brawn of the indomitable Scuderia Ferrari.

Sunwoo is reminded of it now as he leans over the hood of the SF-23, his brow furrowed with concentration. He catches your eye from across the garage.

“Hey, strategist,” he grunts out, and you approach gingerly to see what he’s griping about. 

Once you’re by his side, he asks, “You sure about this tire strategy? Softs at the start? I don’t know if we’ve got the grip for that, especially in this heat.”

Your expression remains perfectly neutral as you respond. “I’ve run the numbers,” you say. “The tire temps on the softs will be optimal. We can manage the degradation. The first few laps will be crucial, but we’ll have an advantage after that.” 

An advantage. Sunwoo lets out a derisive snort. 

“We’re talking about a five-second difference in lap times, and track conditions are ass,” he argues, wielding the wrench in his hand as he speaks. “One wrong move? We’re out of contention. I’m telling you, we’ll burn through those tires too fast.” 

“And I’m telling you, I know the risk.” Your tone is unwavering as ever, like you’re far too used to your decisions being questioned by hard-headed mechanics like Sunwoo. “I also know the reward. Trust the data.” 

There it was. Your go-to catchphrase. Trust the data. 

In the years that Sunwoo has worked alongside you, he can no longer count on two hands the amount of times you’ve thrown him that line. It was your way of getting him— and everyone else— to shut up, and he’d be damned if he tried to push back on it now. 

“You’re the boss,” he mumbles as he goes back to checking the car. 

In the corner of his eye, he sees the slight twitch in your jaw, as if you’re contemplating saying something more. You seem to decide against it, instead choosing to walk off with your chin held high. Maintaining faith in your own numbers, in your very credo of trusting the data. 

Sunwoo shakes his head to himself. He can feel the pull of his gut, but your confidence is hard to ignore.

It quickly becomes apparent that your conviction— and your blasted data— are not misplaced. The softs perform better than anyone had anticipated. By the time the race is nearly halfway through, your tire strategy is pulling ahead. 

The radio crackles to life with Sangyeon’s voice. “You’re going to need to hold your ground now,” the race engineer says. “Great call on the softs.” 

Sunwoo huffs out an exhale. Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he still tries at this point. 

You materialize at his side wordlessly. At first glance, there’s nothing in your expression that might give away what you’re feeling or thinking. But Sunwoo has known you long enough to recognize the upward arch of your eyebrow, the amused purse of your lips. 

I told you so, you’re saying without saying, and he can’t help the way that it makes him laugh. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, running one hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “You were right. Trust the data.” 

“Trust me,” you amend with a knowing smile.

Sunwoo doesn’t quite know why, but something about your subdued smugness bowls him over. You’re already wandering off to check the timing board before he can grasp one of his witty remarks, leaving him at a rare loss. 

It was the strangest thing to admit, but he found himself wanting to be harmlessly wrong again— if it meant seeing that look on your face once more.

An F1 car can theoretically drive upside down. In the same vein, you’ve not-so theoretically tilted Sunwoo’s world on its axis.

F1 tires can reach temperatures of over 120°C during a race, which is necessary for optimal grip.

Sunwoo is no stranger to heat. His job has taken him all over the world, has put him through the sweltering temperatures of Bahrain and the merciless climate of Brazil. 

He’s learned how to handle those. 

Hot people, however? 

You’re several paces away from Sunwoo, your fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. There’s a lot of celebration in this middle-of-nowhere Austin bar, especially after Jeonghan finished P1. But Sunwoo can’t be bothered to care about his intoxicated fellow crew members. 

Not when you’re dressed like a cowgirl— a fringed vest, a leather hatband, and a goddamn hat. 

Was the bar a cowboy-themed one? Yes. Was Sunwoo prepared to see you in something outside of your usual race-day attire? Not quite.

He’s in the midst of untangling his complicated web of thoughts when you catch him staring. He looks away a second too late, because you’re rounding on him mere minutes later. 

“Never seen a strategist in a hat before?” you drawl, your attempted accent so horrendous that Sunwoo can’t help but bark out a laugh. 

Play it cool, a voice says in the back of his head as he leans on the bar counter. 

“Didn’t think anyone could pull it off. Especially you,” he teases. 

You sip from your beer, your eyes never leaving his face. Something about the action makes Sunwoo’s breath hitch. 

“Yeah? Thought I was all numbers and charts?” you shoot back, the lip of your bottle resting over one corner of your mouth. It’s a sight that’s going to burn itself into Sunwoo’s brain for weeks, he’s sure. 

“I mean, you do spend most of your time with a headset on, looking like you’re about to break down tire strategies. Not…” He gestures vaguely to your get-up. “Whatever this is.”

You laugh, and the sound catches him off guard. It’s low and easy, like you’re genuinely enjoying this. The two of you had always worked in close coordination, but light moments were rare in your high-stakes positions. “I can do both. Multitasking is my specialty,” you say breezily. 

Something about your tone— confident, but with just enough challenge— makes Sunwoo’s heart beat a little faster. “Well, if you can multitask,” he says, trying to keep it light, “I guess you won’t mind helping me figure out how to not make a fool of myself right now.”

There’s the ghost of a smirk on your face. “You’re not making a fool of yourself. Not yet, at least.” 

“So you’re saying there’s still time?”

“Maybe. Depends on how much you want to embarrass yourself.”

It’s a bit dizzying, how fast-paced this conversation is going. As much as Sunwoo would like to blame it on the alcohol, he knows it runs a little deeper than that. 

“You’re drunk,” he says for the lack of a better thing to say. The rest of his sentence goes unspoken: You’re drunk, and that’s the only reason you’re bantering with me like this. 

“Maybe a little buzzed, but I’ve got a clear head,” you answer. When you go on, your voice is pitched just low enough that he has to lean in a bit more to hear you. 

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” you note, and Sunwoo briefly considers making a run for it then and there. 

The air suddenly feels too warm, too thick. He tries to laugh it off, but it comes out a little strangled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Those little glances,” you say, flicking your eyes over him in a way that makes him painfully aware of every inch of his body. “You were checking me out, Kim.” 

“Was not.” 

Crap, Sunwoo thinks as the answer comes out of him a little too fast, a little too defensive. 

He backtracks. “I was just—” 

But then you do that again— sipping your drink while staring directly at him— and the words hitch in his throat. He’s caught. Completely. 

The flirtatious, suave Kim Sunwoo is in over his head, just because his team’s race strategist deigned to toy with him. 

What a joke. 

“You’re just?” you prompt, the slight grin on your face giving away the fact that you know what effect you had on him. 

Sunwoo tongues the inside of his cheek. “I was just trying to get my head on straight,” he finally says.

He’s not used to being on the back foot. He’s always held his own in situations such as these, and yet here you are— subjecting him to a sudden, wild rush of feeling with a few choice words and moves. His mind is reeling over the fact that this is how lethal you are tipsy. How much more if you were sober? 

A corner of your lip curls just enough to be dangerous. “Well,” you say, almost too casually, “looks like your head’s all over the place now, huh?”

There’s an unfamiliar heat blooming in his chest, one that burns far more than any tire blanket. 

“Yeah,” he grumbles in response. “No kidding.” 

An F1 car— including its driver— weighs around 740 kg, with the car itself weighing just over 700 kg.

Remaining lightweight is crucial to any car’s victory. Sunwoo’s job demands that he maintain the steadiness of things, never sacrificing safety for durability and vice versa. 

He keeps his hands steady as he fastens the car’s bolts one more time. The hum of the garage surrounds him, a familiar rhythm that he could work in with his eyes closed. It’s in moments like this that he feels most at peace. When the noise fades into the background, when the weight of everything else in his life feels distant.

Except the weight isn’t distant today; instead, it’s in the same room as him. 

You’d laughed at his joke earlier. Some stupid wisecrack he made about Mingyu of McLaren. He doesn’t even remember what he said anymore, because the sound of your giggle had just emptied out his brain. 

Sunwoo wipes his hands on a rag, shaking his head. Focus, he mentally chides himself. There’s a job to do. There’s always a job to do. You have to—

“Hey, Kim.” 

Well, so much for that. 

His gaze snaps up to where you’re standing by the garage door. You have your arms crossed in front of you, and there’s a slight frown on your expression. 

“What’s got you distracted?” you ask point blank. “You’ve been off all morning.” 

Busted. Sunwoo almost wants to laugh at just how absurd this whole situation is. How did he ever think anything would get past you? 

He tries, still, to brush it off. “I’m fine,” he says as evenly as he can manage. 

You step closer, your gaze narrowing as you look him over. For a second, Sunwoo feels like you can see right through him.

“You’ve been quiet,” you point out. “And usually you never shut up.” 

He raises one hand over his heart, feigning like he’s been wounded. That at least draws a small chuckle from you, but you don’t look like you’re going to back down any time soon. 

“I’m just focused,” he says. “Gotta keep everything in balance, am I right?” 

“Balance,” you repeat with amusement. “That’s your thing, isn’t it?” 

Sunwoo could praise the heavens at the opportunity to veer the topic into safer waters. He snatches up the opportunity, immediately launching into an enthusiastic ramble of, “Yeah. It’s all about maintaining the right weight. The right balance between power, handling, and fuel efficiency. Gotta make sure nothing’s out of place, or else the entire thing could fall apart.” 

Really, he should’ve known better than to think you would let him off easy. 

“And yet, here you are,” you say in a way that makes him feel like you’re playing a different kind of game now. “Completely off-balance yourself.”

Damn it. 

You’re not talking about cars anymore. Hell, you’re probably not even just talking about how preoccupied he’s been. Everything from the glint in your eye to the teasing edge in your voice promises trouble, threatens to read him better than any book. 

“I guess I’m a little bit off-balance,” he admits, the confession escaping him before he can reel it in. “But I’m getting used to it.” 

You give him a long look, something unspoken passing between you. Then, without warning, you smile— something soft, almost shy, and Sunwoo forgets his damn name. 

It’s like a weight he’s been carrying for so long has suddenly lifted, even if just for a moment. A glowing sort of warmth spreads through him, light and freeing.

“You’re not the only one,” you muse, your tone almost thoughtful now. “We all are. Maybe that’s what makes us good at what we do. We’ve learned how to keep our heads straight even when everything else is... a little out of whack.”

What is this ‘we’ business, Sunwoo almost teases you. The undercurrent of your words has him thinking this conversation has nothing to do with the state of the garage, but everything to do with whatever weird tension has been crackling between you two. 

The truth is, he's never felt this light before. The weight of his feelings for you, the tension in the pit of his stomach, feels like something he’s been carrying around for ages— but right now, in this fleeting moment of understanding, it’s like the air has cleared. He doesn’t know what to do with it, but he knows it’s there. This strange, giddy feeling thrumming below his ribs.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little steadier. “I guess we make it work.”

Surprisingly, he’s not worried about getting things right. He’s not thinking about the balance of power or how much he can handle before breaking. 

All he knows is that in this moment, with you standing in front of him, the weight he’s been carrying feels a little more like something he can handle.

Maybe it’s the start of something. Or maybe it’s just a crush.

Either way, it leaves him feeling light. 

A well-executed pit stop takes less than two seconds, with each mechanic trained to handle their specific role.

Over the years, Sunwoo has steeled himself to the pressures of being precise, of being steadfast and reliable under the world’s most insane time crunch. Every millisecond counts. He knows that better than anybody. 

He’s done this a thousand times, and each movement is like a second nature. The tires are off, the new ones are on. The fuel is topped up. The car is ready to go. 

Soonyoung’s car is on its way again, speeding off into the distance. Flawless, just like always. 

Sunwoo lingers, his eyes drifting to where you’re standing. He lets out a long breath, shaking his head slightly. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore how he feels whenever you’re near. And for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint, it’s only grown more unbearable.

Every second he spends just working with you is like another fleeting moment, ticking away before he loses the courage to say anything.

You’re reviewing data on your tablet, and so you don’t notice him right away Sunwoo coming up to you. When you look up, there’s the slightest shift in your expression. The smallest softening. 

“Nice work,” you say coolly. There’s something almost fond in the way that you look at him, and it has him feeling like he’s on shaky ground. 

“Thanks,” he says, trying to sound casual. He knows he’s not fooling anyone, least of all you. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that he’s sure makes him look more like a mess than the reliable mechanic he’s supposed to be.

There’s a brief silence between you, the sounds of the garage fading in the background. The team is starting to disperse, moving onto their next tasks, but Sunwoo can’t seem to shake the weight of the moment. The pressure of the milliseconds, the years of perfecting his craft, feel insignificant compared to the one question that’s been gnawing at him for weeks.

If he’s learned anything from his driver friends, it’s that hesitation can cost you everything.

“Listen,” he starts, his throat suddenly dry. He forces the words out before he can second-guess himself. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

You tilt your head to one side. A wordless encouragement of go on. 

Sunwoo takes a deep breath, his hands still clammy despite the cool air of the garage. He’s never been good at this. Not the racing, not the work on the car, but this— this thing that’s been building up between the two of you. 

“I know we’re both busy, but… after the race, I was wondering if you’d want to grab coffee with me. Like, outside of all this.” He gestures vaguely at the cars, the people, the entire race track that’s been your shared world for so long. “I’d, uh, like to spend time with you. Not as part of the team. Just... us.”

You blink up at him, processing the words. For a second, he’s sure he’s just made a fool of himself. Maybe he’s misread every sign. Maybe you’ll just laugh it off.

But then you smile. A slow, genuine smile that makes his heart skip a beat.

“Finally,” you exhale, and Sunwoo doesn’t have the room to press you on what you mean because you hit him with, “I’d like that, Sunwoo.” 

So this is what it feels like, Sunwoo thinks, to finish P1. 

“Great,” he stammers. “I’ll see you later, then.” 

“Later,” you echo, your tone teasing but soft. “Looking forward to it.” 

Sunwoo steps back, nearly knocking into a tool box as he tries to take his leave. You don’t care much for his less-than-gracious exit; in fact, it makes you laugh a little, and it only makes him feel giddier than ever. It’s like a pit stop in the middle of a race— short, but thrilling, and completely worth it.

Every millisecond does count. 

And for once, he feels like he’s made the right choice with the time he’s spent.

🏎️ end notes: fan fiction of fan fiction? likelier than you think. if you love formula one and seventeen, you're bound to enjoy tara's ferrari!jeonghan piece, full throttle (part one & two). and to tara: this is insane. we have to stop exchanging fics like they're christmas gifts. <3 you.

[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

[reddevilmcnt]

When I'm with you, I feel safe.

Dmitri loves a good shot of adrenaline; it's been the fuel keeping him alive since forever, the very pulse giving his chaos purpose. But no thrill-seeking rush had ever prepared him for how easily a certain close friend could make his heart flutter pathetically, achingly, with just a few words. Reggie feeling safe with him wasn’t totally surprising; that had always been a given. Dmitri made sure of it. Even on the days when he worried he was too much, too intense, too overwhelming... he fought to temper himself. Practicing restraint wasn’t easy, but it never conflicted with his deepest need: to be the kind of man Reggie could rely on. It was strange, though. Dmitri liked to think his dearest friends all understood that he had a heart, even if it was battered, bloodied, and drawn to the darker sides of life. Beneath the grit and muck, he would protect every single one of them without hesitation. But Reggie? He was more----- something precious, someone Dmitri instinctively wanted to shield and hold close, no matter the cost.

He studies Reggie’s face intently as the heartfelt compliments come out spilling, each one hitting him with a rare and unexpected warmth. It’s nice, comforting, even, to hear the kind of words he’s not used to, an almost sacred acknowledgment that feels foreign but cherished. Sure, people always praised his prowess in the ring----- called him unstoppable, powerful, relentless. The status of champion wasn’t given lightly; stepping into a fight with him was agreeing to go to war. But then there’s Reggie, speaking softly, cutting through all that toughness with words like safe and funny, comparing Dmitri’s presence to something familiar and comfortable. It’s disarming in the best way, and Dmitri can’t remember the last time his heart felt like this----- melting into something unrecognizable, something softer, all because of Reggie. And damn if it isn’t the sweetest, most bewildering thing to happen to him.

"...I mean, you did forget to mention my devastatingly good looks, my charm, how sexy these abs are," he teases, a wicked grin tugging at his lips as he picks up a gingerbread cookie from the Santa-themed plate. He leans in, pressing the cookie gently to Reggie’s lips in a playful gesture to feed him. "Nah, you nailed it, baby. Thanks for that." Baby. The pet name slips out abruptly, catching him off guard, but Dmitri refuses to overthink it. It’s not like it’s a big deal. He’s definitely thrown out ridiculous ass nicknames with his girl friends before, and though that wasn’t exactly his and Reggie’s thing, it felt natural enough in the moment. An innocent slip. Nothing worth dissecting.

The movie plays on, finishes, and Dmitri starts another without hesitation. He’s perfectly content to zone out to these feel-good films, where everything somehow always wraps up neatly in the end. Each sip of his spiked eggnog delivers a warm buzz, the dark rum softening the edges of his thoughts, leaving the sweet and spicy notes lingering on his lips. But as the night drifts on and they both grow lazier, Dmitri starts noticing how cramped they are, their limbs awkwardly tangled on the couch. Arms brush, knees bump gently---- small, accidental touches that only highlight the unspoken tension between them, the quiet pull to get closer. It's that tempting line they’ve always danced around but never dared to cross…

Until Dmitri apparently loses his goddamn mind and says, "Can you move over so I can stretch out my damn legs? Couch hog." The words come out teasing but laced with a gruff tiredness. Before Reggie can even react, Dmitri grabs him by the wrist, strong grip guiding him effortlessly. With a deliberate pull, he situates Reggie squarely onto his lap, settling him against the warmth of his solid thighs. Dmitri doesn’t stop there, snatching the nearby quilt, tossing it over them both with a practiced ease. Then he leans back, pulling Reggie down with him, annnnnd just like that----- problem solved. Cramped discomfort gets replaced by a cocoon of shared heat and closeness. So much better.

He's completely lost track of the holiday film playing on the screen----- something about a modern, comedic twist on Pride & Prejudice set during the winter season. Dmitri’s attention drifts lazily to the movie for a moment, his gaze half-lidded and unfocused, before the comforting haze of the moment pulls him back. His hands, callused but gentle, find their way beneath the edge of Reggie's tank top, fingertips tracing slow, deliberate paths along the curve of his spine. The touch remains soft, soothing, a natural extension of the peaceful warmth that’s settled between them. But then, like a sharp shard of glass piercing his serene thoughts, a sudden, unwelcome realization takes hold------ one he’d love to blame on the wicked influence of rum. Why the hell couldn’t he have both? A close friend and a lover. Why did it always have to fucking be one or the other?

Why did it always have to be him who had to settle, to compromise? Meanwhile, Reggie seemed so willing to give his heart to someone who’d never truly see him or adore him the way Dmitri did. The very thought made his chest tighten. Here he was, wrapped around someone he cared about, and all Dmitri could think was that Reggie might be thinking about someone else, some other lesser man, while Dmitri played the fool. The anger began to intensely bubble beneath the surface.

"Hey... you asleep?" he asked roughly as he leaned down, tilting his chin to catch a glimpse of Reggie nestled against him. He waited for a response before carefully shifting, lifting himself and gently bringing Reggie into his lap. The weight of him was all too perfect, and Dmitri couldn't help but indulge in the sensation, his hands gripping Reggie's hips, pressing him down firmly on his clothed cock. The warmth, the closeness, the way it felt... it was hypnotizing, especially as the pressure built in Dmitri's lower abdomen, a delicious reminder of how far he'd let himself fall.

Nevertheless, despite his best efforts to mask it, Dmitri's expression betrays his mood. There’s a simmering frustration beneath the surface, his eyes burning with a heat he struggles to contain. His attempt to keep calm quickly fails him, and the raw tension in his gaze remains palpable, as though he’s desperately trying not to unleash the same ferocity he would when facing an opponent in a fight. Reggie's not the enemy, but he does have Dmitri's weary heart resting in the palm of his hand... And so, what exactly is the difference?

"That guy you said you’re giving up on and you’re just gonna keep pining over…" His fingers grasp Reggie’s chin, moving his face until they’re eye to eye, forcing Reggie to stare right into the fire. Dmitri’s voice drops lower, hard with a quiet anger. "Are you gonna fuck him?"

Well, shit.

it feels like a bullet dodged, but there's a sharp sting of it in his chest, like he's been rejected without dmitri even realizing that he was doing it. fingers flex at his sides for a moment as he battles with himself, to either spit it out and just tell the man that he's so fucking in love with him that he could scream, or to let the moment go and brush past it like it's nothing, but dmitri makes the decision for him when music starts to pour from the speakers.

music that reggie recognizes.

the playlist isn't anything extremely special, it's the one that reggie has to have, the one that keeps him feeling positive even when he's going up against the most negative thoughts that live so deeply rooted in his head. it's the music that calms all of those nasty thoughts about him, about who he is and who he isn't. it's basically therapy to hide behind when a particularly bad day at work leaves him feeling the stress and trauma that really comes with his job.

the soft, fond little smile on his lips as song after cheerful song plays through the speakers fills him with a kind of profound warmth. his eyes keep cutting over to dmitri as the music goes on, heart racing just a little more, feelings getting muddled and mixed up all over again. he's pretty sure this is, at the very least, a little bit what love is. and maybe that's a stupid thought to trail after a pretty softball rejection of his feelings spilling out, but reggie has never been the smartest guy on the team.

as the cookies finish and the couch becomes a comfortable nest, reggie slips out of the button down he'd still been wearing, the tank top underneath loose and a-framed and comfortable. body sinks into a kind of comfort that he can only dream of on most nights, and the sigh he lets out could be called dreamy. he wonders if this is what heaven will be like, if he's done enough to even get there in the first place.

and as they're settling, as the cheesy movie plays, his mind continues to wander. he wouldn't be able to relay the plot to this movie if asked right in this moment. instead, he's thinking about love, and feelings, and how safe and comfortable he feels right here in this space. how dmitri has always made him feel that way, always wrapped him up in that cozy feeling and how rare it felt to be so blessed with it.

maybe it isn't fair, but the idea of anyone else getting this, this warmth, this comfort, this safety, it shoots a jealous bolt of anger through him, and his body shifts, perhaps a little more consciously than he's willing to let on, into the other man's space. if he were to move any closer, he'd be practically on top of him.

which isn't necessarily a position he's against being in.

dmitri's voice is the only thing that pulls him out of the deep hole of thoughts he's thrown himself down, thoughts about how easy it would be to just turn his head and start kissing a swath of skin down the man's neck, how simple it would be to curl his body just so and be cuddled into his side, how nice it might be to let his hand fall ever so gracefully into the other man's lap and then, perhaps, explore it.

but the question makes him blink away the filthy thoughts and he lets out a little chuckle under his breath at the question, twisting so that he can face the other man instead. "you really want me to stroke your ego right as they're getting to the big third act misunderstanding where they break up before they fall in love all over again?" eyes cut to the screen he's barely been paying attention to in the first place, but quickly move to look at him again.

like a magnet. drawn to him. oh so easily.

"i dunno, man. i feel...." he has to be careful with his words. has to be. or does he?

"when i'm with you i feel safe. like, i can handle myself, you know? i'm a firefighter, it's not like my workout routine and my arm game is bad, but i don't feel like i have to, because you're there, and you're always gonna have my back." expression serious, though with a glimmer of a smile hiding in the shadows of his features, reggie shrugs again. "i feel like... you're funny, and you're quick. i don't know a lot of guys who get punched in the head for a living in general, but the ones i do know don't tend to be as sharp or quick as you are. you have this energy, like... like i could say anything i wanted and you'd take it and roll with it, but you'd have something to say if it wasn't a good thing to say." without thinking, reggie leans in, and his hidden little smile twists into a smirk that's teasing and perhaps too mischevious to be completely innocent.

"that good? that enough stroking, or are you not finished, yet?"

[divinekangaroo]

last night i dreamt that somebody loved me - pettiot - Peaky Blinders (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

Ch 1 / ?

S4-E6. What happens in the months between Tommy deciding to run for a parliamentary seat and his successful election outcome.

This is how Thomas Shelby proposes marriage to a whore: he doesn’t.

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Explicit | Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark, Polly Grey, Ada Shelby, Charles Shelby, Ruby Shelby | Post-Birth Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Anachronistic Chinese Restaurant, Class Issues, Anger Issues, Profoundly and Mutually Poor Communication Skills, Probably Non-canon Compliant Shelby Grandparent and Parent Backstory, Swiftly Averted Lactation Kink, Mild Post-natal Depression (Lizzie’s got the Morbs)

[tariah23]

Well, I’m still glad that Gojo was always a character who was growing and learning at least. He’s literally one of my favorite characters of all time now. Like, he’s never been as perfect as how the fans would make him out to be despite canonically being viewed as an absolute nuisance to everyone around him (I don’t think his peers necessarily hate him but a lot of them probably hate to see him coming and the ones who’ve dealt with him long enough to consider him a friend, tolerate him and groan whenever he opens his mouth, too 😭… out of love. He’s extremely childish so there is only sm the other adults around him can take and to an extent, his students. I think the only characters in canon who adore him and their eye’s sparkle whenever he’s around, and being a silly teacher was Yuuji and Miwa (she asked him for his autograph (he’s the most famous sorcerer in the jjk world) and when she was alone, she did a little dance in the empty hallway 🥺…) from what we’ve seen even though the others still care about him, too. They just find him rather annoying, which he most definitely is. And he does it on purpose. He plays too much.)