#and sometimes instead of metal on metal its more of a sort of

[divtanver]

Your AU inspired me to write a short story based on it. Here it is:

Seventeens laps

Prologue

Arrival at the funnel

It was not easy to return to Green Hill. For many years, this place, so accustomed to his former essence, existed only in worn-out memories, good and not. Friends, places and the smells of fresh-growing grass, like drawings on an abandoned beach, were systematically washed away with each new tide of monotonously passing days, leaving behind only faintly legible patterns of images once familiar to him. At some point, he himself began to believe in the illusory nature of the few fragments of the past remaining in his now relatively healthy mind, until an invitation came to his new address a few days ago. Tired eyes with green irises immediately recognized the familiar handwriting, in those old days, the immensely energetic and enthusiastic blue blur, instead of reading constant love cards, preferred wind-like freedom, unencumbered by relationships and misadventures. But a lot has changed since then, he is no longer a world-saving hero, but a recluse hardly leaving his new place of residence. So far from his native lands, the best times of which are now far behind the new era. Despite Eggman's death, the long-awaited peace never came. On the contrary, scavengers of all sorts and qualities gathered from all over Mobius, each of whom wanted to bite off a piece from the cooling corpse of a hitherto great empire. For a while, they were held back by Metal Sonic, which, with the remnants of Badnik's army, tried to preserve the legacy of its creator, desperately fighting for every crumb of his greatness only to eventually inherit the same fate of the ghost of bygone times. However, he was not the only one, a wave of changes swept through all the inhabitants of Green Hill, somehow affecting the once examples of selfless struggle for freedom that have now turned into legends living in the stories told by local parents for their starving children. And a blue hedgehog named Sonic became one of them, but he was in no hurry to declare his existence in the flesh. Wearing a warm red jacket over a white T-shirt, dark brown tight trousers and a grayed scarf around his neck, he walked along the somewhat snowy street of the night settlement, ignoring the white particles settling on his head. If anyone were nearby, he would still cover himself, but not for their peace of mind. Fortunately for him, there were no such people here, which made the slightly frosty and pleasant-to-breathe air somewhat lift his habitually not very good mood.

After the incident, the self-contained prickly preferred loneliness to openness, despite all the efforts of doctors aimed at his socialization. However, no one else seems to have tried, for the overwhelming majority it seemed much easier to erase an annoying stain than to redraw an established picture. Sonic himself was not even sure if the intentions of the psychiatric staff were really as altruistic as they wanted to seem, and were not motivated by the simplest need to discharge another patient as soon as possible. Probably few people thought about the success of such an idea, if the closest and most supportive Mobian disowned the blue hedgehog, then what could be expected from the rest of the world? Surprisingly, those who knew the fallen savior the least, such as the armadillo Mighty and the flying squirrel Ray, turned out to be the most responsive. All those long years of living together with his old, but still barely familiar friends, they provided him with shelter and food, and in return he helped them in every way he could, constantly feeling like a burden on the shoulders of their much more cohesive and self-sufficient duo. Until some time. Since his cohabitation, their behavior has undergone some changes, becoming more distinct every day. They increasingly avoided eye contact with Sonic, as if they were afraid to look into his eyes. He understood them, sometimes being afraid of his own reflection, terrible from lack of sleep. They gradually stopped communicating with him, occasionally exchanging only general phrases. He was not offended because he himself was not a fan of long conversations. They eventually started avoiding him, and he didn't blame them, remembering well why. But then it started. More and more often, he noticed minor disputes arising between Mighty and Ray. First of all, the blue hedgehog perceived this as a standard part of any relationship, who doesn't have them? Especially next to him. However, they soon escalated into conflicts that arose almost from scratch and only with the last burst of hands did not reach a fight. It began to seem to him that his own presence exasperated the two comrades and tore apart the seemingly indestructible friendship, in phrases unpleasant from the volume, he increasingly thought of his own name. Worried about the duo who sheltered him, the blue hedgehog decided to leave, the only question is where? His ignorance ended on a paper that unexpectedly came to him so familiar, the contents of which were quite... desirable. However, this did not surprise him because the hedgehog who sent him, named Amy Rose, always showed some attraction to him and despite the long-severed ties, he was still glad to meet her. Having collected the minimum necessary from his few savings, he left a no longer hospitable place. Now his life is heading south - towards Green Hill, along a sparsely populated train and snow cover.

Remembering the past that brought him here, Sonic almost missed the peach-colored house he was looking for, fenced in with a beautiful, as if real planting of small, evenly trimmed shrubs with red roses growing densely on top, the ubiquitous snow precipitation accumulated anywhere but on them. His appearance was clearly expected. The view, so beautiful for his gray-accustomed eyes, made a contradictory impression on him - based on the not-the-best view of a number of houses he had passed and the news papers he had read, the blue hedgehog expected to see the general desolation and withering. The girl with the hammer, whom he remembered, would hardly have allowed herself such a luxury when others around lived in poverty. However, at the moment, with his meaningless thoughts, he was only wasting someone else's time, which he had already taken away quite a lot once. Slowly getting through, Sonic stopped at the front door to release excitement and indecision from his lungs, after which he knocked on the door three times.

*Knock*

*Knock*

*Knock*

Soft footsteps sounded on the other side...

This is for the people who have gotten interested in the exe au, but…..

I’m giving up on the exe au help😭😭😭🙏 because like idk how to make it interesting and end well:(

So ima just move on to a different project if that’s okay? (I will still make Art about it this is just my very first time actually making a comic even if it was short and unfinished.)

For the new people here welcome and here’s here’s art too lol

And the link of what I’m talking about

[ashs-cardboard-box]

Clumsy and frantic

~ Harvey/GN!Reader

~ Romantic

~ 1.1k words

ib: @the-spookington

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“What were you THINKING, Y/N?? I- I told you not to go in there..! It- it’s dangerous and- and I can’t–” Harvey speaks frantically, practically stumbling over his words as he gently holds your face in his hands. His eyes were blown wide underneath his glasses as they rapidly dart across your face. Frowning as you lie in one of his hospital beds.

He wasn’t at all trying to be mean, he was just terrified for your safety. He was always hyper-conscious of other people’s health, but especially you. He was so overwhelmed with a mixture of anxiousness and exhaustion that his words left his mouth before he could grab ahold of them.

Truthfully, you were fine..at least, you felt so anyway. You had collapsed on your way back to your farm from Elliott’s shack on the beach, needing to deliver him something on Leah’s behalf. Only to be found by Linus shortly after and dragged down to the hospital before leaving again. 

It was a little past two am, a few hours after his usual bedtime at ten. Upon seeing you get dragged in, he had no time at all to get properly dressed before his anxiety hit him like a Joja train. His hair was disheveled from its usual combed down state, similar to it’s unkempt state after a rough shift at the end of a long day. Wearing a white shirt with a small front pocket, underneath a long, forest green, wool cardigan. The fibers of the thick fabric frayed and standing up every which way. His legs only covered by his green, pinstripe briefs, yet he had hardly noticed. He was too worried about you to care about his own shame.

“I’m fine, Harvey.. Really..” You try to say, only for Harvey to shake his head quickly. Muttering nervous plans to himself as he steps away from you, his cardigan swaying behind him. His sleep addled brain pushing into overdrive to make sure you’re one hundred-ten percent okay.

His hands scanning over his cabinets before his eyes ever properly read anything. Knowing his place of work like the back of your hand, not his. He pulls out a large variety of items of which you’re unsure on how most of them are supposed to be used.

“What hurts?” Harvey asks, but it comes out as more of a concerned demand. Setting his various equipment down on a metal cart next to your bed. You can’t help but feel at least a little guilty for making him so worried, but at the end of the day, you knew it was probably inevitable. You have a small bruise on your shin after tripping over a shovel earlier and a sore spot on your head from hitting the ground.

Instead of responding, you carefully sit up and take both of his hands in your own. Your thumbs gently caressing over his knuckles as you look into his worried brown eyes. “Deep breath..” you say quietly, taking a few deep breaths yourself as an example. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The Adam’s apple in Harvey’s throat bobbing as he swallows thickly with a slow nod, following your breathing pattern to calm his rapidly beating heart. His hands slowly tighten around yours as he sighs heavily. A sad smile crossing over his lips before he leans down and places a small kiss onto your forehead. The coarse hairs of his mustache tickling your skin, though you pay it no mind.

“Thank you, honey. I- I’m sorry.. I just– you scare me sometimes..” Harvey murmurs, pulling away to look down at you with the same concern. It’s obvious he’s still looking for any sort of damage he could fix.

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” You whisper, pulling his hands to your lips and kissing the back of both, right on the knuckle of his middle fingers. Your eyes still up on his own as you shift on your hospital bed again, slinging your feet over the edge to put your muddy boots down on the clean floor. “I promise- I’m fine. Just a small headache is all”

Harvey nods slowly in acknowledgement, feeling his cheeks turn a rosy pink at your gentle treatment. Leaning down again to place a peck onto your lips before he parts from you once more. Calmer this time, he pulls his cart back over to his cabinets, putting away all of his unnecessary equipment he grabbed in his freakout.

“I’ll have to make sure you didn’t sustain a concussion with your fall, but otherwise, I can provide you an ice pack for any soreness. Anything else feel wrong? Headache, nauseous, confused…” He trails off, just giving examples on things you could be feeling. Finishing up putting away his supplies, he glances back over towards you, tugging his cardigan closed.

You slowly shake your head with a light chuckle. “No- no.. nothing like that.” you deny honestly, interlacing your fingers with one another and setting your hands in your lap. Your eyes practically glued to the doctor.

He heads right back to the side of your bed with a mere penlight in hand. Putting the tips of his middle and index fingers underneath your chin, he lifts your head up to be able to see you entirely. He takes in your features appreciatively for a long moment before snapping himself back into his work.

“Just a small light..” Harvey murmurs in clarification, showing you the penlight before clicking it on. You keep your eyes straight into his own to allow him to check up on you. He slowly brings the light to the edges of your eyes, watching the way your already dilated pupils expand and contract without issue. 

While he doesn’t comment on it, he finds it incredibly adorable. The knowledge that oxytocin and dopamine are making your pupils expand when you see him makes his heart swell with affection. Clicking the penlight off and setting it into the front pocket of his plain, white shirt.

“You’re all good, honey. Do you want an ice pack?” Harvey asks gently, to which you shake your head, prompting more confusion from him. “Just another kiss from you.” you grin cheekily. Harvey feels his cheeks burn as he leans down and places another kiss onto your forehead.

“I feel better already.” you remark sarcastically, though there was a hint of truth in your words. Even without doing any sort of medical procedures, Harvey always manages to make you feel better, with the added trait of getting all giddy like a schoolgirl.

Harvey laughs softly as he carefully helps you up from your hospital bed, treating you as if you’re glass. “Then I suppose you’ll feel even better when we go upstairs.” he teases, knowing good and well he’s just going to bear hug you until the two of you fall asleep. He’d be crazy to send you home tonight.

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he's so real

(Thank you to Spooki for the idea !!! again !!)

[misasimagines]

kiss it better / reader x Jiro (tokyo debunker)

included characters: Jiro! Yuri as a visitor.

rating: SFW but it gets a bit suggestive in the end. The part that's a little much, I've marked with (**) so you can stop if you're uninterested.

warnings: all about injuries both big and small, so plenty of talk of blood. also, there's a lot of kissing but not all are very chaste :)

You kicked your feet from your seat atop an empty examination table, the cold metal biting into your thighs, seemingly incapable of absorbing your body heat and neutralizing in temperature. You had a folder on your lap and you were reading through its contents, occasionally jotting down notes on a legal pad next to you.

Jiro was sitting on a real chair next to an overflowing filing cabinet, doing much of the same: organizing, reordering, shredding, and sometimes adding notes of his own. His jacket was hanging over the back of the chair, leaving him in just a disheveled and untucked button down and his tie, never knotted correctly and always hanging as if it were in two parts. His glasses slid down his nose every so often and he pushed them up without breaking concentration on his task. 

You, on the other hand, daydreamed and got distracted by just about anything. You’d been doing this for hours after Yuri announced he was going to (finally) get some sleep and take a shower and you were BORED! No amount of indiscreet comments and conspicuous gestures convinced him or Jiro that that break should be taken by Jiro as well. When you suggested it, he just looked at you and said he was fine. Which he wasn’t, he so rarely was, but he wasn’t at the level of total exhaustion where he’d listen to you just yet. 

Leaning back, pressing your palms into that cold metal, you gave your neck a little side to side stretch and checked on Jiro only to find him staring at his hand instead of the paperwork. “You good?” You called out.

“Papercut,” he responded, unaffected, simply holding his bloody finger away from the papers and returning to his sorting.

Setting aside your papers, you hopped off of the table and strode over to him, “Let me see,”

He held up his hand, his index finger split open and dripping thick, slow droplets of blood.

You grimaced. His injuries were always more severe than they should be with his weak immunity and seemingly non-existent healing abilities. “I'll take care of it,” you assured him, basically skipping across the room in your haste to grab up a mismatched first aid kit that had both basic supplies as well as a stock of experimental pills and forceps. You only needed the bandaids and a little cotton round.

When you returned to Jiro, he was still holding his hand up and away from the paperwork. The little stream of blood, thankfully, did not make it past the second joint of his long finger before it lessened. He would not be dying of blood loss from a paper cut. Not today at least.

You took his hand and gently turned it over, palm facing up, to clean him up and bandage his finger. “All better. Does it hurt?” You asked, still holding his hand carefully in your own. His hand was cold and laid limply in yours, filling you with the urge to hold it more tightly and try to warm him up. It was no simple task to fight that urge.

He regarded it silently and then responded, “I suppose it hurts a little.”

Frowning, you commiserated with him, “Papercuts are too small to hurt as much as they do.” You thought for a second, “But I can fix it!” You gave him a small smile before leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to the back of his knuckle. “Now it won't hurt!”

Jiro stared at his injury, then lifted his gaze to you with an unhurriedness that gave you far too much time to consider what you just did. You felt your cheeks grow hot when he finally locked eyes with you. You really just kissed a grown man's booboo to make it better.

Flustered, you practically shoved his hand away from you and straightened up, prepared to offer an apology for your weird behavior.

He wiggled his finger slightly as you floundered, “It doesn't hurt anymore. Thank you,” he said.

“Oh! Yeah. Well. Good!” You brushed off, turning away from him and grabbing up your things. “Anyway, I should get going! See you… whenever!” You hurried out, shoving the folder into your bag. 

On the way out, you could have sworn you heard him laughing quietly at you.

~~~~~~~

There was a steady stream of blood dripping down his face. His bangs clung to his skin, more red than dark purple, and his expression was more haunted and distant than usual. 

You hovered nearby, bouncing on the balls of your feet nervously as Yuri both fussed over and scolded him.

“Messy! You got hit far too many times fighting that anomaly,” Yuri snapped, but from the nearly imperceptible shake of his hands, you could tell he was more worried than angry.

Jiro apologized solemnly, “Sorry, Yuri.”

Yuri huffed in response and finished his careful bandaging of Jiro’s head. “It's no matter when you have Dr. Yuri Isami to save your life afterwards.” His usual bravado was lessened significantly, giving you the sick sense that Jiro was worse off than either of them would admit.

“Will he be okay?” You asked quietly, your own voice surprising you.

Yuri seemed to only realize you were there when you spoke, and looked at you with wide eyes. He cleared his throat and steadied himself, “Of course! He's been through worse and I'm not some hack doctor that can't treat a simple head injury.” He turned back around to look at Jiro and frowned dramatically, “You can't sit around covered in that much blood. It's a contamination hazard.”

Jiro nodded slowly, stood up, and you and Yuri both rushed forward as the color drained from his face. You propped him up between the two of you and guided him back into his seat. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes as he sat back down. “I'll get changed… in a few minutes…” he assured.

Yuri glared at him long enough to make you think he wouldn't say anything, but he finally broke his tense silence right before you were ready to interject, “Stay here, I know where your clothes are.” He turned on his heel and walked off, muttering about how he has to do everything and how he was disgraced to the duties of a mere nurse. 

You watched him until he left, then turned back to Jiro to inspect his state. His glasses were left on the desk next to him and there were blood stains streaked across his face and over his eye. His white shirt was spattered with blood, certain parts so saturated you knew there was no way they'd bleach out. He was paler than usual, his eyelids flickering in an attempt to stay open. 

“It hurts,” he spoke up, his voice betraying no sense of the proclaimed pain. He had enough energy to lift his head to look up at you.

Your heart ached, and you brushed a few strands of his hair out of his face. “I'm sure it does. I'm sorry you're in pain.”

Jiro lifted his hand and pointed his index finger up, “You fixed it last time.”

Last time…when you kissed his finger to make the papercut not hurt. You couldn't help but let out a breath of a laugh, “Jiro, I don't think a little kiss is going to fix your major head injury,” you confessed quietly.

“Probably not,” he agreed, “but I still want it.” 

Your heart thumped in your chest. Well, who were you to deny him a little kiss when he was so hurt and beat up? “Fine,” you acquiesced, standing in front of him and placing your hands on his cheeks. He kept looking up at you and only closed his eyes when you leaned over him and kissed him on his forehead. You lingered a millisecond longer than necessary and then pulled back.

He reached up and held your hand against his cheek, eyes still closed. “Thank you. You're good at that.”

You let him stay like that as long as he wanted, hoping that you had alleviated even a fraction of his pain.

~~~~~~~

(** below)

Sniffles echoed in the hallway as you shuffled towards the office in Mortkranken that you spent so much of your time in. You felt a bit childish, tears spilling out of your eyes and nose red from your relatively minor injury. You had been pushed over by some general admissions student and scraped your knees bloody on the pavement. They barely stopped to apologize, leaving you to escort yourself to find some bandages. It wasn't that serious, but it hurt and each step stretched your skin and made it impossible to ignore.

You pushed your way into the office and up to the desk in the back of the room. Riffling through the drawers, you found some bandages and disinfectant and set yourself leaning against the desk to dress your wounds.

The door to the underground lab opened and Jiro stepped inside. He stopped when he saw you and did a quick scan of your condition, “I'll handle it.” He didn't hesitate, walking over to you and setting down the tray of strangely colored vials he was carrying.

“It's fine, I can-” you started.

He took the roll of bandages from your hand, “Sit on the desk so I can fix it.”

You swallowed, a little overwhelmed by his command, and hoisted yourself up to sit on the desk.

Jiro crouched down in front of you and started dabbing an antibacterial wipe over your scrapes. 

You winced as he did so, the burn mingling with the constant throbbing of your torn skin.

His movements paused for a second in response to your reaction, and when he started again it was with a lighter touch. “Sorry,” he apologized.

“It's fine! Thank you for taking care of me.” You reassured.

He hummed in response and continued disinfecting your wounds, moving on to bandages only after applying a thin layer of ointment over them. When he was finished, the sting had passed and you felt secure enough to stretch your legs slightly. He set the supplies on the floor and looked up at you, “They're superficial wounds so they shouldn't take too long to heal.”

You smiled, “I'm sure they'll heal even faster thanks for your care.”

He let out a breath and looked back at your knees, straightening the bandage meticulously. “...does it hurt?” He asked.

You braced your hands on the desk, “Not as badly as they did, but a bit. Am I good to go, doc?” You joked.

Jiro’s hand had not left your leg, pressed lightly against your skin to hold you in place while he worked. He leaned forward and his eyes drifted up to meet yours, “Not yet.” He kissed the inside of your knee, right below the bandage.

Your brain probably exploded and you sucked in a gasp. 

“Should I do the other one, too?” He asked.

If you had been able to speak, you weren't even sure what you'd say. You felt yourself nodding dumbly but couldn't determine if you made the decision to do that yourself, or if your body has taken over in want for him.

His eyes narrowed slightly in amusement and he kissed your other leg. 

Your heart was hammering in your chest. 

“Did it work?” He asked quietly, still on his knees before you.

You couldn't even so much as think about pain when you could still feel the ghost of his lips against your skin. When you tried to speak, you mostly squeaked and had to clear your throat. “Uh-huh,” you managed. 

His finger trailed down your calf, then back up, “I wonder if efficacy changes based on location.” He slowly parted your legs, “Can I test it?” 

You were accurately aware of your skirt, your boring underwear, your prickly and not freshly shaved legs, and the feel of his measured breaths against your thighs. Were you ready for something like this with him? How far did he intend to go and how far would you let him? Still, you'd be insane to say anything other than, “Okay.”

He didn't waste any time, kissing your inner thigh just above your knee and then glancing up for your reaction. When you only blushed harder in response, he kissed a few inches higher, having to lean in to reach. 

Your breath caught and it came out as a whimper. He didn't bother looking up this time, his hands now holding your thighs, his fingers pressed against you. He lifted your leg and hoisted it over his shoulder and kissed even further up, his hair brushing against the hem of your skirt.

He turned his head, “I'm neglecting this side.” He lifted your over leg up on his other shoulder, leaving his head sandwiched between your legs. Jiro kissed your skin again and you gripped the edge of the desk so hard you thought you'd leave marks in the wood.

He kept kissing, slowly making his way up, and you felt a quiet amusement in yourself as you noticed his grip on your thighs grew more intense. He was just as worked up as you were. You let go of the desk and pet his hair softly, your cheeks flushed as you looked down at him.

Jiro's eyes drifted up at your touch, watching you as he pressed another kiss to your thigh and your heart tightened with something more than lust. 

“Jiro, I-” you started, only to be interrupted by loud footsteps and the sound of Yuri's impending complaints from the other side of the door to the lab.

Jiro untangled himself from your legs, letting your feet dangle off the desk, and stood up just as Yuri walked in looking as irritated as ever.

As soon as Yuri's eyes reached you, he groaned, “Why is it always you?” He shook his head and looked at Jiro, “I hope you're done here because we have a patient downstairs who's having a fit. Do you expect me to restrain them and perform medical care all alone?” 

Jiro glanced at you, then back at Yuri, “Okay. I'll come down.” He stepped away from you and offered you a hand to help you down. 

Taking it, you slid off the desk and straightened up your clothes while Yuri glared at you with nearly tangible suspicion. 

He relinquished your hand, “I'll come by tonight to redress your injuries.” 

You waved him off, “It's fine! I can do it myself if you're busy.”

He had already started following after Yuri and stopped at your response. “I'm not done with my experiment, so you'll have to endure it a little longer. I'll see you tonight.” The door shut behind him.

You stood there, legs weak and covered in Jiro’s kisses. Had he just promised you more? You blacked out for a second in anticipation, and then rushed out the door to get home and put on cuter underwear.

[veilantares]

Dark Dweller

Depth dwellers unite, and swan dive in the Dark, Metal Masked Machines designed to always hit their mark.

obviously all of the cool energy tatoos carved onto the robots are so that they can be lights amidst an infinite expanse of darkness, duh. they were Made this way.

About the piece - I'm still feeling inspired by anglerfish and other deep sea creatures, I spent more time than usual adjusting the texture on this one to give the dark blue a sinking feeling, but it being this dark also means the turquoise can stand out more which I like. I didn't get the detail as intricate as I would like, but its cool that this feels like more of a full body piece than I usually do, theres a bit more posture here.

One aspect of my setting I want to get better at depicting is there being "Celestial, Skybound" robots, and "Terrestrial, Groudbound" robots - they are sisters, at once the same, and yet parallel. Sometimes I like to think of variants, like what would the Celestial variant of this Terrestrial one look like or vice-versa, and that leads to some of the more exciting designs to try.

The Celestial ones live in and explore space - their part of the Singular Empire probably looks like thousands of space stations. The Terrestrial ones live on the ground so they have more complex structures and cities, but the "ground" also has unexplored frontiers, locales and wildernesses that require specialised equipment.

I like the idea that the robots can be natural astronauts of sorts, they're robots so maybe they don't need to breathe, but maybe they might still need tools to travel and move around or interact with their environment. Recently in the limited spare time from work I've been thinking about what their tools and equipment could look like, given that setting lets me have all kinds of different explorers.

This ones "wings" are probably meant to be one such kind of equipment - maybe it's like a jetpack - the idea is in the setting that the machining (lol) and craftspersonship of tools have gotten so refined that the cyborgs can get equipment that looks "like themselves" from a competent enough smith, even if they have really ornate or unusual patterns or shapes. Maybe amusingly when theyre using something generic second hand it very obviously doesn't look "like themselves".

In the past I've drawn others with similar backpacks that have gatling guns or other equipment instead, like the wings are a storage platform or something (while still maintaining the silhouette of being wings). I've somehow lost confidence in giving them complex looking equipment in the years since then, and should find a way to get it back.

[local-magpie]

depending on your kingdom, "sometimes" becomes "almost always"

Come join the SCA we have:

- Stabbing other people

- Stabbing cloth (sewing)

- Period Accurate Dancing (you will be bad at it)

- Stabbing yourself (also sewing)

- Hitting metal with other metal

- Nobel Prize Winner Milton Friedman’s Son, for some reason

- Cranky old people

- Sometimes there is food

[it-happened-one-fic]

Special Delivery - Wriothesley

Author Notes: It has been a journey in learning how to spell this man's name. This fic honestly just sort of happened. I didn't have a song I listened to while I wrote it and didn't really exactly have an idea either, outside of the fact that I've always though guys should get flowers just like girls. After all, flowers are pretty. I leave it up to you to decide what sort of flower was gifted here though. As per usual, Reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-Neutral Reader/ Fluff/ Flirtation/ Teasing

Word Count: 1308

Just as it was with other nations, there were many, many different jobs and positions that one could hold in Fontaine.

But yours was very unique.

It wasn’t that you were anything nearly so grandiose as the receptionist to the revered Iudex or the widely-beloved Archon. And you also didn’t work for the Spina de Rosula or The Steambird.

No. You didn’t hold a position quite that illustrious. Instead, you were a delivery person.

You delivered ingredients, bandages, medicine, and, yes, even teas to the infamous Fortress of Meropide. After all, while such commodities were the norm of the Overworld, finding the same goods at the bottom of the sea was hardly possible. So you delivered them. Sometimes making two to three runs between the sunny upper side of Fontaine and the dark prison hidden in the depths.

 Your delivery runs were always waited for with bated breath by the people within the massive prison complex. Especially when the denizens of the depths knew you were going to be bringing special commodities, such as books for Sigewinne sent from Monsieur Neuvillette himself.

You strolled through the metal hallways with purpose as you went to make your final delivery for the day, and no one looked twice as you marched right up to the warden’s office and went in with barely even a pause.

Most inmates had no clue as to what you might be delivering to the duke who guarded these halls. You almost always had to make a stop at his office, though, and most preferred not to think too hard about what might be in the box you were carrying.

But, despite their fears, you held nothing quite so terrifying as what they might suspect. In fact, the box you held against your hip always held the exact same thing. Namely, tea.

To be fair, he usually requested an assortment of varying teas, but the regularity of his orders was somewhat concerning, and it might be worth mentioning to Sigewinne as to whether excessive consumption of tea could be detrimental to his health.

You walked up the steps silently as you entered the well-appointed office that you were now quite used to. Though you did have to wonder where the man in question hid his doubtlessly impressive tea stash since all the shelves of his bookcases were filled with books.

“There you are,” Wriothesley’s pale eyes immediately lifted from where he’d been looking at a stack of papers so that he was looking up to where you’d appeared at the top of the staircase as he stood from behind his desk. Almost like he’d been waiting for you. Or rather, more than likely, his beloved tea.

He walked around the desk with a slight smile as he met you halfway and accepted the box from your arm before immediately sitting it down so that he might peer inside at its contents. And you waited patiently as his gaze scanned container after container of fine tea and tea blends, nodding approvingly at certain intervals before he at last looked your way once more, “Perfect as always.”

There was a subtly teasing lilt to his voice that had you smiling before you shifted and revealed what you’d been hiding behind your back with that hand that had not been occupied by tea.

“Special delivery,” You announced cheerily as Wriothesley’s gaze darted between the potted plant in your hand and you. His expression shifting amusingly from curiosity to confusion.

After a brief moment of silence, he sighed, almost as if surrendering, “Y/n, you’re gonna have to help me here. I’m not the most well-versed in the language of flowers, but is this some form of hate mail from the House of Hearth or something?”

You rolled your eyes before handing the fully bloomed flower to him, “No, Sigewinne’s been telling me about how you’ve been staying holed up in your office, and you’ve mentioned that you rarely get to see flowers since you’re usually stuck down here in the fortress. I bought this for you to try and brighten the place up,” You gestured widely to the room as you finished, still smiling at the man who continued to stare at you.

“So you bought this for me?” He clarified with raised eyebrows, causing you to nod in amusement before you saw the glimmer that entered his eyes at your wordless response. A small, childish part of you whispered that you never should’ve entertained the thought of buying him a gift, but you ignored such thoughts.

Instead, you focused on the man in front of you as you braced for whatever it was he was going to say next.

“Well, something coming as a gift from you certainly is a ‘special delivery,’ but I must say, you’ve done what most can’t. You’ve surprised me, Y/n.” He paused, eyeing you closely, before pressing a hand to his chest with a grin slipping onto his face, “I never expected you to try and woo me.”

Somehow, you weren’t even surprised by his words as you leaned relaxedly against his desk and sat the gift down, causing the flower to bob lightly. “And what makes you think that this is me wooing you?”

He leaned forward, that grin still on his face as he spoke once more, “Isn’t that what gifts of flowers usually mean?”

Unperturbed by his teasing, you tilted your head, “Weren’t you the one who just implied that this plant was flower-coded hate mail to start with? And flowers are common get-well-soon gifts anyway; they don’t necessarily have anything to do with romance or wooing.”

“But I’m not sick,” He was quick to point out his apparently good health almost immediately. Straightening with an almost smug grin that had you shaking your head slightly.

You smiled at him innocently, though, automatically reminding him of Siegwinne’s concerns regarding his habit of holing himself up in his office, “But Sigewinne is worried.” 

He mimicked your motions, propping against the desk and half-caging you in with his body but still leaving your escape open, “Is this why you've been delivering such especially high-quality teas?”

You grinned slightly, despite yourself, at the man before you gestured lightly to the now abandoned box that sat on his desk next to him, “That’s the brand you always request, Lord Duke.”

His title slipped off your tongue easily, and you stared at each other silently. Wearing matching grins and similarly bright eyes as you each waited for the other one to make the next move.

After a moment, though, he shrugged and leaned back. Seemingly giving up even though that tell-tale glimmer still hadn’t left his eyes, “If you say so. I still find it suspicious, though.”

You held out his receipt for the delivery, watching as he took and signed it obediently before handing it back over. You accepted the slip of paper, having to actually tug it out of his hand as his gaze held yours with that persistently amused smile. But this was becoming a steadily more common set of interactions with you. A careful dance of teasing that he almost always slipped some form of flirtation into. 

You were still smiling as you finally managed to free the paper from his grasp without it tearing and without having to grasp it with both hands and yank it out of his hand, “Duly noted.”

He snorted slightly at your words but didn’t respond, and with that you were on your way. Not stopping until you were outside of his office and being greeted by Sigewinne.

“Did he like the flower?” The Melusine’s eyes were wide with giddy curiosity, and you paused. 

A smile flickered across your face as thought back to Wriotheseley’s amused grin, teasing tone, and glimmering eyes before you nodded, feeling oddly satisfied with yourself, “You know, I believe he did.”

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Ghosts - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi finds connections between past and future...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx's room, though. That's a different story.

Vi pushes the door inward. The hinges creak. Pale greenish matchsticks of light fall through the widening gap. They strike the mobiles of scrap-metal and colored glass hanging from the ceiling. Fractals of hypnotic blue and pink dance everywhere.

In the shifting ambiance, Vi makes out the room's dimensions. A vanity, a wardrobe, a chaise and a desk. The bed's an extravagant four-poster fit for a princess: all curlicued brasswork and flounced trimmings. The sort of bed Vi and Powder used to dream about as little girls, staring awestruck at old Piltie glossies scrounged from the junkyard.

Except there's a sad, abandoned quality to the fittings: pillows jammed against the headboard, sheets stirred into restless disarray, stuffed animals taking refuge under the mattress. 

It's as if the owner's been snatched from slumber in the middle of the night.

Or swallowed by her own nightmares.

Vi steps inside. Her bare feet sink into the plush rugs. Between her toes, there's a ticklish layer of dust. The room, colorfully cozy, is nonetheless steeped in neglect. Either Jinx hasn't spent much time here the last few days, or Silco's staff have orders not to intrude.

Both, Vi guesses.

Crossing inside, she can't help but stop to pick up the sheeny black leather jacket, dumped in a heap on the carpet, and straighten it. It's the same one her sister routinely sloughs off in her frenetic pacing through the Aerie's corridors. The weave of the silk lining is redolent of chemicals. The acrid whiff of gunpowder, the piercing bite of turpentine, the waxy fug of crayons���all overlaid by the musk of a wild night out.

Yet beneath the olio of adult grime, a sweet, soft note persists.

Eau de Urchin.

A pang of longing seizes Vi's heart. She lifts the jacket, burying her face in its folds. The scent that fills her nostrils is pure Powder. Redolent; unmistakable. For the briefest moment, the years fall away. Powder is in her arms, her heartbeat is music against Vi's ribs, and the world's a safe place.

It's a wish, and Vi holds on to it with every fiber of her being.

Then she sneezes, and the moment shivers away. 

Laying the jacket aside, she refocuses on the room. It's a Jinxian miscellany: cluttered, crammed, kaleidoscopic. But also nothing like Jinx at all.

In Vi's mind, she'd conjured a tiny replica of the Aerie. A hotbox of destruction, filled to the rafters with lethal gizmos. A mirror, in short, of Jinx's psyche: distorted and dangerous and dazzling.

Instead, she's fallen into a time-warp. The décor is a mishmash of hard-edged glamor and girlish whimsy: pastel plushies warring with bold posters of sultry-eyed cabaret stars; an antique dollhouse next to a pair of neon-pink go-go boots; a rosy little lampshade offset by a skull-themed lava lamp.

And the walls.

Good gods, the walls.

Every square inch is plastered with pictures. Many are Powderish crayon drawings, exuberantly signed with a monkey motif. Others are Jinxian marvels, surreally skewed. The subject-matter is a grab-bag: comic book heroines kicking ass and flaunting cleavage, cute little animals cannibalizing each other, fiendish caricatures of chem-barons reduced from bloodthirsty tyrants to fawning buffoons.

There is also a riot of photographs. The sort that'd give Caitlyn's forensics team a conniption. Plenty are polaroids Jinx obviously snapped as she'd stalked the streets, their backgrounds murky with the suggestion of flaming wrecks, smoking guns and dead men. Vi imagines she kept a record of her most prolific heists, back when she'd been Silco's top gun, and the Lanes had quaked in terror at the mere mention of her name.  Others, more innocuous, are a potluck of the crew—Ran, Lock, Dustin and sometimes a shadowed Sevika—in moments of hilarity, brutality, or simple, undistilled banality: target practicing with beer-bottles, ghoulishly lit with neon during poker games, posing like big game hunters with oversized trophies of squid at the harbor or sump-vole at the Deadlands.

In all, there's a dysfunctional joie-de-vivre. Not family, but the camaraderie born from different lives bound by a single cause.

Not, Vi senses, that Jinx cares.

Each photo, badly angled, imprecise, speaks of a childish ardency to be included in the fun, even as she's excluded from the frame. The crew's not her focal point; nor is the cause. Only a bone-deep dread of being left behind.

Then there's Silco.

Silco, Silco, Silco.

His presence dominates the walls. Even in the smallest scrap of artwork bears his imprint. A set of mismatched eyes coalescing from a cloud of stinging-red ink. Somber graphite slashes of a scarred profile in chiaroscuro. Impressionistic smears of an upturned collar, a pristine cravat, a long-fingered hand. In one, he's a long-legged sprawl on a throne of skulls. In another, an elegant silhouette by a window. In a third, a floating shadow at sea, the city rising up to engulf him like teeth.

A man, a monster. Sometimes both.

But always, always there.

In the photographs, his face is never in full focus. He's a blur of movement, half-turned away, or angled just out of reach. A trick of shadow, a distortion of light. In the rare instances Jinx captures his face, his expression seems caught in a series of fractured emotions: a grimace of annoyance, an unguarded frown, the tail end of a smile.

It's as if he's trying to escape from his own portrait. And Jinx, in turn, is trying to hold him in place. To capture a single, solitary truth, in a single, solitary moment.

It never works. Silco always slips away.

Except once.

It's a photostrip, like from a booth at the carnival. Four squares, two bodies. Jinx, plainly perched on Silco's knee, her arms passed around his neck. Her eyes are sparkly as lit fuses; her smile is ravenously wide. In her embrace, Silco is more subdued. He sits, not idly slouched but straightbacked, as if to keep their faces on a level. In the first square, he's plainly irritated to be there. His expression is walled-off, the shark-eye a chilled blank.  In the next, something in his temperature shifts, so infinitesimal that Vi wouldn't have caught it if not for the contrast between the frozen frames. A softening of the good eye, a thawing of the bad. By the third, his arm's encircling the slipping weight of Jinx's giggling body, as if to keep her from falling. By the fourth, their heads come closer, temple-to-temple, and he's smiling.

Smiling.

It's a gut-shock, that smile. Not the smile of a schemer biding his time, or a monster slinking through the dark. It's a smile of simple, unqualified human happiness, stolen from a man unwilling to be caught off-guard but unable to resist the thrill.

And it's not Silco's smile.

Not entirely. There's something about the curve of his lips, the way it softens the eerie luminosity of his shark-eye, and melts the scarred angles of his face, that's so familiar it hurts. Vi's seen that smile before. Seen it refracted through the lens of a whiskey glass in dreams, and split into a swarm of flaming facsimiles in nightmares.

It's Blut's smile.

And Jinx's, mirroring, is Powder's.

[isfjmel-phleg]

So you want to describe a room? I'm not claiming to be any kind of expert, and of course everybody has to find out what works for them, but here are some things that I personally have found helpful when writing descriptions for interiors. You may or may not find it useful, but I thought I'd share in case it could help.

The key question to ask is: What do you want the room to say about something?

Is it a character's personal space? Is it a room that serves a particular purpose? Do you need the setting to convey a particular mood or feeling? Rooms aren't just backdrop; they're an opportunity to build your world, set your scene, and/or develop your characters.

My OC who is an enthusiastic, scattered, impulsive fifteen-year-old girl who lives in a poorly-upkept country castle is going to have a dramatically different bedroom from, say, the OC who is a serious, driven, artistic twelve-year-old girl who lives in a middle-class townhouse in the city. The cluttered antique shop that's the setting of one of my weird short stories needs to convey a very different impression from the hospital waiting room in another such story. Even if your setting isn't anything visually impressive, even if it's the blandest office, that still says something about your world and characters.

Every room is saying something.

For practice, observe rooms in the real world and think about them.

What do these rooms contain? What does the design of a room and its contents say about the people who live there or who use it? How are public spaces different in appearance from private ones? How would a person whose room this is see it? What about a friend of that person? Or a stranger? How does perception of it change at different times of the day or in different states of upkeep?

Take my living room. Most of the mismatched furniture is secondhand, except for a few pieces, like the umbrella stand shaped like an umbrella, or the coffee table that resembles a trunk edged in metal and rivets. The coffee table is piled with papers and books and miscellaneous objects (including a never-used crossword puzzle mug, a turtle hand puppet, and a stray block). More piles of books and papers and comics crowd any flat surfaces. There are three tall bookshelves, crowded with books, sorted by genre and author, and a cabinet of DVDs, sorted by title. Throw blankets lie wadded on the couch until I bother to neatly fold them over the back of the armchair. Displays of decorative objects appear on top of the desk, the cabinet, and a side table. The walls are covered in art prints, mostly of my OCs, but also botanical designs, a poster of the entire text of a Shakespeare play, a couple of wreaths featuring berries, and a Bouguereau painting. The area rug badly needs vacuuming. Sometimes I let boxes pile up by the door instead of taking them out to the trash. There's a good-sized window, but not much natural light. The walls are painted a green-gray color that darkens the space--I didn't choose it. What could you infer about this room? My impression would be home and comfort, but you, who have (probably) never been there, might come to some other conclusions about the person who lives there and her tastes and habits.

The rooms that you write about may be nothing like ones you see in real life in terms of design and detail, but you can bring principles you've observed into just about any kind of setting.

Once you know what you want to convey through the description of the room, the next question is: How can you use imagery to craft this impression?

Sure, you can tell your readers that a room is messy or fancy or boring, but for a description that will pack a punch and stick out in your readers' minds, using imagery is helpful.

So try things like playing with color symbolism. Conside the condition of the room and the objects in it: old, new, tidy, messy, well-kept, neglected, etc. Notice the distinctive objects in it--or even lack of distinctive objects--and call attention to this. Things like the size of the space or the lighting (or lack thereof) can also be striking.

Make the details sensory for a stronger impression. Textures, smells, sounds, etc. But don't feel like you have to go overboard. Zero in on a few specific, impactful images and details. You don't need to describe everything in the room. Just what gets your point across and anything in the room that your characters will interact with or that will serve a purpose in the story. Keep your description proportionate to the room's significance in the story. You should aim for quality over quantity.

This is a description that I'm fairly satisfied with. It's the study of a king, as seen for the first time by a boy who is there because he is in trouble. I wanted to give an impression of wealth and splendor but also of coldness, distance, power, obsession with an appearance of flawlessness. I wanted the room to feel a bit off, a bit ominous. So I chose imagery that suggested the lifeness of a museum, with some classical influences. "White marble" is repeated for emphasis on uniformity. The textures are cold and hard, with an absence of the warmth and softness of textiles. And the final chess image positions the protagonist as a seemingly powerless player in a game he doesn't know the rules of.

It's a lengthier description because I needed to establish just how terrifying the room and the man in it are for the protagonist so that the reader, who is just meeting him, understands what kind of world he lives in and whom he's up against as he's about to have a difficult conversation.

He stood in a room of white marble beneath a high domed ceiling. Bookcases lined the walls, displaying books all the same size, bound identically in the deep blue and silver of the Liennese flag. White marble busts on Ionic pedestals peeked out from corners with pupilless stares. Tamett shuddered, half expecting them to quiz him in Greek with the voice of HRH’s tutor. A forest of blindingly white columns stretched toward the far end of the room. There, before a white marble fireplace, were chairs upholstered in studded navy leather, their unsociable slipperiness unrelieved by any cushion or rug. And beside the chairs, behind a fortress of a desk, awaited exactly the sort of man who would own such a room. The king glanced up from his papers and said, “Come in,” in a low voice that seemed to shake the very dome. Tamett inched across the rugless floor, studying its checkered pattern and wondering if the king had ever considered acquiring giant chessmen to match it.

A further way to describe a room is to let your characters interact with the space. What effect does it have on them? How do they move within it? Are they comfortable there or reluctant to engage and why? How do the contents of the room inform what the characters are doing and thinking about? If there's a couch and an armchair at a distance from it, and there are three people present, who gets the couch and who gets to be physically distanced from the others? How does a character deal with a room that's set up for someone else's convenience but doesn't work for them? If there's a mirror in the room, how does a character respond to it?--can't keep their eyes off it? ignores it? punches it? Etc. etc.

I don't know if this makes any sense, but these are the kinds of things I try to keep in mind for room descriptions. If I ever actually write.

[neewtmas]

A Fateful Bus Ride

A/N: I'M BACK! wohoo! Hopefully at least some people are happy about that whoops

I finally somewhat dug myself out of this slump I've been in (writing and otherwise) and this is my reintroduction piece, if you will. It's not my greatest work (when is something ever lol) but I think it's decent and if anyone has any more requests, I'd be happy to write them. This request is from literal months ago (I'm so sorry it took so long, I hope you're still interested) and it's the only one that didn't get deleted with my whole inbox bc I had started writing it already elsewhere. anyways, enjoy <3

pairing: george karim x fem!reader

wordcount: 2.2k

request: Could you make a George Karim x fem or gn reader where they are on their way to a mission and they have to ride a bus and there aren’t enough seats so she sits on his lap and he realizes he likes her and he confesses to her when they get home and he holds her in his arms (sorry if that is very specific It just came to me and it’s so cute) 💜💕 - by @iloveyousomuchhhhhh (it's not 100% exact but I hope you like it anyways :))

taglist: @maraschinomerry @marinalor @oblivious-idiot @lockwood-lover @givemea-dam-break (if you want to be added or removed, just send me an ask)

masterlist

George stood in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea when he heard a commotion in the basement. The door to the staircase was slightly ajar, and he heard the clattering of metal chains against the concrete floor, followed by some curses and then more clattering. After a short silence, in which he contemplated if he should go downstairs to check, he heard the stairs creak as someone stomped upstairs, chains loudly sounding against the metal of the steps. The door got pushed open, and Y/N entered the kitchen, arms full of chains. She was breathing heavily as she unceremoniously dropped them next to the kitchen table on the floor. "What idiot put them into the closet like that? Of course they would just fall out and break my goddamn toes." George cleared his throat. He knew the culprit all too well, but a look at Y/N's face told him it would be wiser to feign ignorance. So he just shrugged. "Maybe Lockwood was feeling lazy last night", he offered and took a sip of tea to hide the small smile that fought its way onto his lips. From the way she glared at him, he was sure that she knew exactly who was responsible for putting the chains away the evening prior.

She left the kitchen and pulled the door closed rather strongly, as she always did when she was irritated. If it had closed, the bang would have probably shaken the pictures on the wall in Lucy's room in the attic, but it didn't. Instead, Lockwood came in, pushing it open again. He seemed to be in a good mood and full of energy, strutting over to the kettle on the stove, lifting the top to check for the tea inside before turning around to George. His gaze fell to the pile of chains. "Why are there chains on the floor?" He didn't even wait for George to answer, instead, he kept talking as he grabbed a cup from the cupboard and poured some tea in. "Just got the confirmation call, the case tonight is still on. Have you had a chance to gather some information?"

George filled him in on the findings the morning in the library had brought. It wasn't anything too special, it seemed to be a routine case. "Couldn't find any deaths related to the house or the ground it was built on. The lady on the phone talked about how the haunting started sometime after her great-aunt died. She wasn't living in the house though, so my bet is on some sort of haunted heirloom." Lockwood nodded contemplatively. "Sounds interesting enough."

An hour later, the four of them stood by the door, all packed and ready to go. Lockwood had the telephone by his ear, listening to what the person on the other side was saying. His expression turned from neutral to irritated quickly. He listened for a few more seconds, then said a curt goodbye before hanging up. "Can you believe it? Not a single cab is available in all of London. That guy must be mad!"

"What do we do now?", Lucy asked and Lockwood let out a long drawn sigh. "We take the bus. As the gentleman on the phone let me know, that is just as fine of transportation as a cab." He huffed, clearly of a different opinion. But complaining wouldn't get them to their destination any quicker, so they begrudgingly grabbed their equipment and left the house. Y/N had the straps of the duffle bag containing the chains thrown over her shoulder, and she quickly realised that carrying the heavy bag down the street would be much harder than simply carrying it a few metres to a waiting cab. She had a slight stumble in her step, the weight of the chains throwing her off balance.

"Do you need help with that?" George slowed down until she was next to him and extended his hand. "No it's fine", said Y/N through gritted teeth and attempted to keep walking. It was clearly not fine. George quickly caught up to her. "Just let me help you, Y/N." She sighed, setting down the bag and rubbing her shoulder with a grimace. "Fine. But let me at least carry your bag." George couldn't help but smile at her defiance. He remembered very well how long it took him to convince her to let him help her when she was struggling with something.

When she had started working for Lockwood & Co, she had been friendly but closed off - nothing that George hadn't experienced with Lockwood already. And after all, he himself wasn't known for being the most sociable person either. But something about her had caught his interest from the very first time she had walked through the door of 35 Portland Row. He handed her the much lighter duffle bag he had been carrying and picked up the one with the chains.

At the bus stop, they didn't have to wait too long, but that made their situation only marginally better. The bus that came to a halt in front of them was full, much fuller than one would expect at this time of day. But that's just how it was in the summer months, their work started when it was still light out, and that always meant that much more people were around. They hauled their bags and themselves into the vehicle and past the passengers already sitting inside. It was very apparent that the sight of their filled duffle bags, dark clothing and especially the rapiers that gleamed at their sides made the people around them somewhat uncomfortable. There were only three unoccupied seats left, and when Y/N, who entered the bus last, reached them, they were of course claimed by her colleagues.

It wasn't very comfortable, they had too much stuff with them and the bus was already overfull. "Do you wanna sit down?" George asked her and was already about to get up to let her have his seat, but she shook her head and motioned him to sit back down. "It's fine. I can just sit on the bags." They had stacked the bags to not take up any more space. But before Y/N could find a way to make herself comfortable on them, the bus driver started the engine back up and the bus lurched forward. She stumbled back, losing her grip on the pole she had held onto and landed on George's knees. She immediately started apologizing profusely, embarrassed by their sudden closeness. "It's fine, don't worry", George interrupted her, feeling a little overwhelmed by how flustered he felt all of a sudden.

She didn't try to get up and away from him immediately, and George surprised himself with his boldness as he pulled her closer so that she was on his lap completely. "Just stay here. If that's fine with you", he added hastily, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. Maybe that was a little too forward. He half expected her to jump up and get as far away from him as possible, but instead, she sheepishly nodded and didn't move. George turned his head to look out of the window, and he could feel the stares of both Lucy and Lockwood almost burning holes in the back of his head.

It was quite a long drive to the house they would be working at tonight, and George was happy to notice that Y/N seemed to get more comfortable with every passing minute. Where she was sat straight at the beginning, she was now leaning back against his chest. And again, with a boldness he didn't know he had he wrapped his arms, which had been by his side until now, around her waist and pulled her even closer to him. For a few seconds, his heart felt like it was about to jump out of his chest as he held his breath and waited for her reaction. But she just crossed her arms, placing them on top of his.

They spent the rest of the drive like this, and it was only when they reached the final stop, that George reluctantly pulled away his arms from her to let her get up. She didn't look at him, but her cheeks were pink as she grabbed her bag and dragged it off the bus. They were to only ones to get off at this stop, and so they stood alone on the sidewalk as the bus drove off. George prayed that no one would say anything about what had just happened. Luckily, neither Lucy nor Lockwood seemed to be in the mood for any teasing, though he could still feel them looking at him curiously. He chose to ignore them.

The case was just about as uneventful as he had predicted, and the source of the ghost - the great-aunt's necklace - had been found and cleared pretty quickly. Still, when they arrived back at the bus stop, it was dark. It was obvious that Lockwood still wasn't happy with this kind of travelling, but at least they didn't have to wait too long. This time, the bus was empty - no one besides agents was still outside now. The bus driver looked even more unhappy than Lockwood, and it was clear that he too would have preferred for them to have taken a cab.

But George was convinced that neither of them - neither the bus driver nor Lockwood - was quite as unhappy as he felt when he realised there was absolutely no reason for him and Y/N to repeat the seating arrangement from before. With them being the only four passengers, there were plenty of free seats available. But what somewhat lessened his disappointment, was the fact that Y/N chose the free seat next to him to sit.

Back home in Portland Row, George put on a kettle on the stove. Lockwood and Lucy had excused themselves to bed even though they came back earlier than usual from their case. Y/N on the other hand stayed with him in the kitchen while they waited for the water to boil. She was telling him about something that happened last time she had gone grocery shopping, but while he usually had no problems paying full attention to whatever she was saying, tonight it was different. He couldn't stop thinking about the bus ride. He had known before that he liked her, and that it was very different from how he liked Lockwood and Lucy - but it hadn't been clear to him just how much he liked her. And the way she had reacted to him - it gave him hope that maybe she felt something similar. He filled two cups with the water from the kettle and added the teabags. "Do you wanna sit in the library for a while?", he asked.

Y/N followed him to the library, where he sat down on the couch. She quickly contemplated if she should sit down next to him or if she should opt for the chair next to the couch. After what had happened on the bus, she was entirely unsure about how to act towards George. He smiled at her and she suddenly felt very nervous. Nonetheless, she decided to sit down on the couch, even though that meant they were now sitting very close next to each other. They were silent for a while, both sipping on their tea. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it never was with them, but something was different than before.

Y/N finished her tea first and put the empty cup back onto the table. She was suddenly feeling very tired, but she liked the way she was sitting so close to George on the couch, and she didn't want this moment it end, even if she didn't exactly know what was between them right now. So instead, she leaned closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

George could feel his heartbeat quicken as Y/N leaned against him, and he had to force himself to finish his tea without choking on it. He quickly leaned forward to put his cup on the table as well, but the sudden movement had Y/N sit up straight again. "No no!", he said hastily, cursing himself silently for being so awkward in this moment. "Don't go away. That was nice." He almost bit his tongue. Was that too forward? But Y/N smiled shyly, in a way she had never smiled at him before. She resumed her position, and with his heart beating out of his chest, he slowly put his arm around her shoulder. A part of him was scared that this was too much, but instead of pulling away, she just cuddled closer to him and closed her eyes. "You are right, this is nice", she said quietly smiled as George leaned forward and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

thanks for reading, feedback is appreciated :)

request something

[portcakess]

Sweet Tooth Dottore . ⋆ੈ✩‧₊˚ೃ༄

HC: I'd like to imagine that the feared Second harbinger, Dottore, has a HUGE sweet tooth with no consequences

a/n: this is my first story and headcanon here! please IM TRYING MY BEST

Like what the Raiden Shogun said,  "Cavities are no big deal — you can just replace your teeth." Which is the case for Dottore.

He's one of the smartest, most knowledgeable, beings in Teyvat and has conducted countless experiments on others and himself. Surely the Doctor definitely has modified parts of his body. He doesn't replace his organic parts with pure metal covered in synthetic, close to life, skin. That's what his segments are for. Instead what he did is create some sort of serum or potion that allows his teeth to grow back. Perhaps he being the genius he is extracted that ability from a shark, modified it to be able to work on his own body.

You are quite fond of his natural sharp teeth, you think its endearing, sometimes out of pure impulse and much to his irritation, you like to cup his cheeks then spread them open with your thumbs to shape his lips to a smile (more like a grimace from his unwillingness to be part of your shenanigans), in the middle of kissing then proceeding to open his jaw to examine his sharp teeth. No matter how much you see them, you couldn't get enough. He doesn't have it in him to stop you, he's quite fond of that focused and fascinated expression you have plastered on your face when you're interested in something, much more when he's that subject.

What horrifies you is when he would out of nowhere yank out a tooth from his mouth. You two could be hanging out in his lab, he could be in the middle of an experiment, mid conversation, and he wouldn't hesitate or even tell you moments before he yanks out a tooth, insisting that he felt a small ache, immediately recognized it was a cavity and needed to purge the distraction. All while some blood dribbles out of his mouth. Don't worry! It grows back in 10 minutes!

Teeth aside, now onto the cause of his concerning habits.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to worry about any health issues asides from mild cavities that don't even get the chance to develop much. He's immune to every disease and every possible health related problem.

Unfortunately for you, you were still pure 100% human and can be prone to any disease out there. Being the normal human being you are in contrary to your lover, you can't help but also feel horrified when you see Dottore put at least 12 tablespoons of sugar in his drink of choice. 10 teaspoons on a good day. He doesnt sleep often, unless you somehow miraculously convince him to sleep with you that night. He needs all the sugar on top of SOME coffee to keep his mind functioning sufficiently for his experiments and research.

"Would you like some coffee with your sugar?"

Recall that one time, he received a not so satisfactory report from one of his segments due to some unfortunate circumstances in their mission. His expression one moment clouded over with irritation and mild rage, then the next moment much calmer when you, who had been sitting on the office desk with your back faced to the segment during his meeting, had fed him a spoonful of the parfait you had happened to be eating.

From that day onward, the segments make sure to inform you before their creator if their mission went badly just so you could prepare some desserts for your boyfriend so that he doesn't end up possibly wiping out any of the segments you're quite fond of upon hearing the news.

Bonus++

If he cooks for you, which is already a rare occasion on its own. He makes two separate batches for the each of you. One of his batches would follow the normal, healthy amount of sweet that he followed from what he knows or from a recipe, then the other...would be for him, certainly much much sweeter than yours. You dont mind it too much, him constantly eating sweets makes his lips taste like candy!

[mightnotfeelrealbutitsok]

just quickly imagining if Bilbo died instead of Thorin

Here is a broken king. Kings aren’t supposed to be broken, not ones who have toiled and led to regain their kingship, and teetered on the brink of insanity for the sake of it, then fought unfathomable battles. But here is a broken king of that kind. His followers sometimes think there was more king in him before he claimed his title, when he was empowered by embitterment and ambition and he fearlessly sought what his ancestors had lost. He found it but it seems there was a cost. All the wealth of golden halls and the joy of feasts and songs and the pride of the mountain can’t counter it.

He sits on his throne and there’s something vacant in his face. Some believe it’s the Arkenstone; who could be a true king without it? They blame him for leaving his quest half-completed and not taking back that one key article. There was uproar when it went down into the tombs. Why surrender something so hard won? It glimmers useless in the cavernous grey of those deep chambers, while the king keeps his convictionless eyes. Maybe it was a sacrifice of some sort, to honour his forefathers by sharing in their loss. He did not want to be greater than his own father who was made by his own strength, not the stone.

Something else was buried, though few dwarves remember. The stone doesn’t lie unclaimed in the tombs, rather it adorns a certain coffin, laid grandly upon a certain chest. It is strange for such a creature to be valued, not one of their own kind. He is exceptionally small in stature, looking somewhat rough and dirty, but beardless, and wearing alien, unkempt clothes. A hobbit, it is said, and it is a race hardly heard of in the lonely mountain. The one connection between this poor being and the tradition of the tombs it rests in is a coat of chainmail it still wears, since before its death. Mithril is of the highest value amongst the dwarves and yet this precious coat is abandoned down under the floors, left with its brief owner. It is unfortunate that the coat didn’t offered the desired protection; the metal was impenetrable, but the flesh of the neck where the orc struck was none the better for it.

What kind of lines can be drawn between a buried outsider and the distant ways of a king? He wanders his halls with something weighing on him, and in his eyes there can be seen glimpses of a desperation, a wish that he was not there. He is powerful but he has gone quiet. There is the sense that something was cut out of him and he lives with the chronic pain of absence. Few know he loved the hobbit and can’t live with himself for having lost him.

[callme-aprilroseisha04]

I so badly wanna know what's going on with Sonic in your Voices AU!!! (This is an invitation for you to info dump if you so desire)

OK so originally I had this MONSTER essay on what this was about but im really really bad at explaining things and I don’t want to leave you hanging forever so instead I’ll just give you a basic rundown of the concept and all the plot points. Also, important thing to mention, I HAVEN’T FINISHED SEASON 2 YET. Y’know, where the majority of my AU takes place. Haven’t finished that. Haven’t even seen Chaos Metal Sonic. Sorry, sorry, I know, I’m a fake fan but in my defense every time I turn on the show I want to bang my head against a wall, tear all my skin of, and run in circles at the speed of light (in a good way) (but also in a bad way) (a good bad way). Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I need to quickly explain the concept behind this. In the first episode of Season 2, Avoid the Void, Sonic doesn’t realize that he can run out of the Ghost World. He’s stuck there. This also means that he can’t save shadow from falling into the void (this is why shadow doesn’t have his arm or his leg in my au illustrations, he wakes up before he can be fully disintegrated, but he did lose some limbs.) Back to Sonic, since he has nothing better to do, he tries to take a nap at the beach where his friends are at and starts “taking” to Tail’s projection. Then, the voice comes. I don’t really know how to describe this. There is a voice, like the name says, but it’s also a lot more complicated than that. When “it” comes, Sonic can’t hear anything; or, well actually he can hear things (sometimes the noise feels oppressively loud) but he doesn’t know what people are saying, so to him it just sounds like gibberish. Also, this isn’t always true, (it just depends) but his eyes won’t focus properly and they get really blurry, like can’t see what’s in-front of you blurry. Also, headaches! Because apparently we needed to make this even worse for him for some reason!!!!! It’s not at its worst here, but as you can expect, he is pretty disoriented after it’s done. Shadow comes back to the ghost world, Sonic is understandably surprised by HIS LACK OF TWO LIMBS, he gets the tech and bounces, yadayadayada, all the stuff. More importantly, now we get Nine back! Chapter two; Sonic goes to Boscage Maze, they’re ripping the place up, Sonic goes to help Thorn, mini “voice” episode (as an appetizer), he gets a tech upgrade from Nine, he goes to fight, gets the main course “voice” episode, Nine gets in trouble cause emo tween egg boy caught him talking to Sonic trying to figure out what’s wrong with him and why he’s talking to himself, Sonic gets the shard from Thorn, he runs of with it, emo eggboy sends a message that they’re gonna kill Nine unless Sonic gives them the shard, Nine tells him not to, he goes anyway and THROWS THE SHARD INTO THE OTHER SHARDS THE EGGMEN HAD COLLECTED SO HE CAN SAVE NINE, (he tries to get the shards back but they got swarmed by robots) and finally they get out and go to the ghost world. Shadow is really, REALLY mad at him for trading a SHARD just to save his little kit boy and ALSO mad because Sonic wants to keep Nine there, to keep him safe. Eventually, Shadow gives in after Nine mentions that he could build Shadow a prosthetic, but he adds the clause that the moment Nine finishes the prosthetic, he leaves. After that, Sonic goes to get the rest of the shards back while Nine makes Shadow���s prosthetic at Tail’s workshop. For the next few chapters, Sonic get into some sort of a routine; Try to get the shards, come back to the ghost world to rest, squabble with Shadow, chat with Nine for a little, and repeat. Some important things to mention from this period are: 

Nine is intentionally taking his time making Shadows prosthetic (Sonic’s idea) as well as making it break really easily & adding a secret “feature” that allows him to $&@!?ING electrocute him from afar using a remote implanted in his mechanical tails (both and especially the last one NOT Sonic’s idea); 

Sonic doesn’t actually sleep during this time, he just takes 3 hour naps so he can get back home quicker, which only worsens the voice thing; 

Shadow, (who doesn’t understand anything about what’s going on with Sonic other than the vague sense that something’s wrong with him, unlike Nine who got a basic lil explanation from Sonic after asking wtf happened at boscage maze) is getting increasingly frustrated with Sonic because of how long it’s taking for him to get all the shards, as well as his continual trusting of Nine.

This continues for a while, those “episodes” get worse and worse, Sonic grows closer to Nine and tension keeps building between Sonic & Shadow until <drumroll………>

THE EGG COUNCIL COMES!!!!! Again, since I still haven’t seen season two of Sonic Prime, I don’t really know how this is gonna happen, but I do know it’s gonna happen. (btw Nine finishes Shadow’s prosthetic & leaves like a day before the egg council comes.) This is a massive battle and I have like a whole thing on how it’s gonna play out but the important things to note for the story are: Shadow finally sees Sonic’s “episodes” play out in front of him and he is understandably confused and concerned, but their in a battle right now so he can’t really do anything about it and <another drum roll please…..>

SONIC TRIES TO CHOP OFF HIS F$!?KING ARM! Ok, I definitely need to explain this a little more. During the first occurrence of the “voice,” it mentions something about them and Sonic being the same person, & basically says “I am a part of you, Sonic. The only way to get rid of me is to get rid of you.”  Edgy stuff like that, y’know? Well, during this one, it repeats that phrase again and in true Sonic fashion, he decides to do something incredibly stupid, risky, and drastic based on even dumberreasoning. You see, the voice said it was a part of him, not all of him. It also said that in order to get the voice out, he’d have to “get rid” of himself too. So, using this logic, if he only gets rid of a part of him, then he gets to keep living without the voice constantly haunting his every move! This is admittedly pretty silly logic, but he was in the middle of what is essentially a scaled up panic attack, so cut him some slack, OK? He tried to use a piece of scrap metal that fell off the robot to remove it, which unsurprisingly doesn’t work very well. It only ends up cutting halfway, but Sonic can’t really tell that it’s still attached since he’s so tired, & “it” did shut up after he stabbed his arm open soooooooo¯\_(ツ)_/¯. He manages to drive the egg council off to their own dimension before passing out from blood loss, leaving Shadow to rush him to Tail’s workshop so he can get bandaged up, made harder with Shadz’s new leg getting absolutely trashed. When Sonic finally wakes up, Shadow is confused, deeply concerned, and angry with him for almost killing himself for seemingly no reason. Sonic, however, is incredibly calm about the whole thing and nonchalantly explains why he cut off his arm during the battle, until he realizes his arm is still attached to him 

Here’s a comic page of the next scene:

He leaves to go get more shards and get Nine back to fix Shadows leg, which Shadow predictively grumbles about. This is a pretty light chapter, besides the ending:

Nine and Sonic are hanging out, having fun, the usual. Nine points out how cheery Sonic is right now, and Sonic starts to explain why he’s in such a good mood while Nine passes a small knife for him to hold while he does other things. Sonic, in the middle of his explanation, is cut off by…… “it” and proceeds to frantically rip off his bandages and try to cut the remainder of his arm off with the knife Nine gave him. Nine, who has no idea what’s going on, tries to wrangle back the knife from Sonic. In the struggle, Sonic ends up permanently scaring Nine on one of his eyes. It was an accident of course, but Nine bolts out of the workshop and zaps the door so Sonic can’t chase after him all the same. Sonic breaks down. 

After a bit, (about 30 minutes or so,) and after seeing and briefly meeting with Nine to ask where Sonic has been since he should be with him at the workshop; Nine responded with a suggestion to check for himself, Shadow decides to take Nine’s advice and go. Here’s the scene I wrote for this, as well as the comic I made (they have some dialogue differences, but the general idea is the same.)

“Sonic,”

He didn’t even look up. He was completely unfazed, almost expecting it.

“Sonic!”

Finally realizing who it was, he made a soft gasp, which, however small, was enough for Shadow to know he was listening.

“Do you know how big of a mess you’ve just made?”

They both stayed silent.

“Let me get this straight: That, … thing came back,”

The blue hedgehog sitting on the floor appeared perfectly still in the darkness of Tail’s old workshop.

“So you decided that it would be a good idea to try to cut your arm off again, even though it clearly didn’t work the first time, and I explicitly said not to, because we didn’t have the medical supplies to patch you up after,”

This time, he made a slight nod downwards.

“And when the fox tried to stop you, you hit him in his FUCKING eye? Is that all? Does it get any worse than that?”

The hedgehog didn’t respond. He was focused on something else.

“Are you even listening?”

Complete. Silence.

“Of course not. Of course you’re not listening. You never have, so why start now, huh?”

Shadow broke into a grin.

“You can’t listen to anyone, can you? Not your friends, not your allies, not even your own family! You’re Sonic the Hedgehog. The arrogant, narcissistic, naive, idiot hero who destroyed his own world because he couldn’t slow down. That’s all you are.”

Still nothing. He got angrier.

“I’m TIRED of your NONSENSE! I’m TIRED of you just sitting around having a PITY PARTY over something YOU CAUSED YOURSELF!”

Shadow grew quiet.

“I’m tired of your games, Sonic.”

A cold, hard, stare crossed the black and red hedgehog’s face.

“SO GET UP ALREADY!”

He forcefully pulled him off the ground, and for the first time during this whole conversation, Sonic spoke. He… screamed, a scream so loud you could hear it from a mile away. 

Shadow let go. 

Then, he slowly lowered his hand to his face, and …. No. The hedgehog gazed into the person standing before him, looking for something, anything, any semblance of the hedgehog he knew, but all that met him was an empty husk that he could barely even recognize.

“I-”

Sonic ran past him. He was gone. And Shadow didn’t know if he would ever come back.

“I’m sorry.”

———————————————————————

Sonic runs into the New Yoke rebel base and patches himself up. He’s able to get two shards from the egg council, but the rebel base is found in the process. There’s only one left, besides the Grim shard. Before Sonic leaves, Shadow tries to talk to him for a moment, but once he got a hold of him, he doesn’t know what to say. Does he apologize? Would that make things worse? Is he just supposed to wait it out and hope Sonic’s friends will help him? Sonic is still able to collect the shards, so they’re still getting back home, but what will happen after that? As much as Shadow hated to admit it, Sonic and his friends were just about the only force that could stop The Doctor from completing whatever world ending scheme he cooked up that week, other than himself. If he …. If something bad happened to Sonic after this, and he couldn’t get back up from it, and if he couldn’t pick up the slack, then….

He didn’t know what would happen. 

Shadow is barely able to get a word in before Sonic leaves to get the last shard. There’s nothing left to do.

Before we move on to the next plot point in the story, i want to talk about Nine for a second, since we haven’t really gotten the chance to explore him at all yet. A quick little thing I want to note is that Nine knows what the plan is in the AU. Get the shards, put them together, and save this world. He is planningto betray Sonic in this. At the same time, he’s also a lot closer to him. They hang out more, they chat more, and both of them feel the other is the only one on their side right now. Nine reasons that he can just convince Sonic to come with him, since they’re friends after all. He doesn’t really pay Shadow any mind, just thinking of him as an antagonistic coworker, not a real threat. The zapper he put in his leg was just a backup plan, incase he couldn’t fight him himself for one reason or another. Sonic and Nine were a team. They wouldn’t hurt each other. Until they did. Until Sonic did. After the incident, all of the trust between the two is gone. Nine doesn’t blame Sonic per say, he knows that Sonic was just desperate for it to stop, but he’s still angry. He’s angry at himself for trusting him. For trusting that he wouldn’t get hurt. From this point onwards, neither of them try to talk to each other. Nines plan only changes slightly.  He won’t try to convince Sonic to come with him. He won’t make that mistake again. 

Sonic’s feelings are a bit more complicated than Nine’s. He wants to fix everything, but he can’t. He wants everything to go back to normal, but too much has happened for that to even be a possibility. He wants everything to just stop for a minute, to just let him rest, but no matter what, it won’t. He just has to keep going. He just has to keep moving forwards. 

Sonic gets the last shard (Sonic and Shadow have to fight off the egg council again; it’s pretty awkward), and Nine finally puts his plan into motion. Using a machine he built while Sonic wasn’t around, he creates a portal to the Grim, his new home. Sonic begs Nine not to do this, that they’re friends, but that only makes Nine angrier. If they were friends, then Sonic would want to help him, if they were friends, then Sonic would’ve listened to him, and if they were actually, really friends then Sonic WOULDN’TV’E DONE THIS TO HIM.

Shadow had been outside the whole time listening to this, and he has heard enough of Nine’s ramblings. He lunged straight at Nine, but just as he’s about to reach him…. ZAP.  They both stare down at Shadow’s limp, burned body. Sonic’s head started spinning rapidly. He couldn’t tell who was in front of him, he couldn’t tell what was going on, he couldn’t tell where he was or who he was or why he was doing any of this at all. All he knew was that Shadow. Was. Dead. Because of him. Because hedecided to trust him. He spin-dashed straight into the kit’s chest, pressing him deeper and deeper into the rough, ragged cavern floor. One of his mechanical tails snapped from the shear force the spin dash on his body. Sonic slowly picked the broken hunk of metal, held it above the little fox’s body, and …

He ran as far as he can go. He ran and ran until he just couldn’t anymore and broke down in the middle of f@!king boscage maze. They’re dead. Both of them are dead. And it’s his fault isn’t it? If he had listened to Shadow about Nine then he wouldn’t had gotten electrocuted. If he had listened to Nine then Nine wouldn’t have betrayed them. If he had listened to his friends then none of this would’ve happened in the first place. But he didn’t. And now they’re all dead. So why even try? Why even try to help people if you only end up hurting them? What’s the point? What’s the point of anything anymore? Sonic’s grip on sanity finally snaps, when someone finally finds him….

It’s Thorn. She’s been watching Sonic this whole time and is understandably disturbed by the whole, watching someone have a meltdown thing. Seeing that Sonic has seemingly calmed down, she reaches to ask what happened to him, why he was so scared, but it was too late. Sonic grabbed Thorn by the neck, just before Mangey, Prim, and Gnarly came looking for her. Meanwhile:

Shadow tackles Nine, shoving him into the portal and just barely managing to close it before he got back. But now, both Shadow and Nine are both stranded. Without the shards, Nine can’t create a portal to escape the Grim. Shadow can’t enter any of the shatter spaces, so even if he could leave the ghost world, he’d still be trapped. They’re both stuck. 

Back with Sonic, the boscage maze crew are still trying to snap him out of it as he attacks them and their home. Prim keeps arguing this is pointless, that they should just beat him up until he leaves, but Thorn won’t let that happen. Sonic’s still in there. He has to be. This gamble fails, the forest is mostly destroyed and Mangey is injured. (btw the boscage maze stuff I just talked about isn’t very plot relevant, just wanted to mention it cause I could.) When Sonic finally leaves boscage, he plans to go to the other realities as well, destroying them one by one. But, for some reason, he decides to go to the Grim instead. He’s not quite sure why, but goes anyway. Why not, after all? 

Nine has been on edge the entire time he’s been in the Grim. It made sense, after all. Sonic was still alive, and presumably, still looking for the last shard. His best bet was to try to find it before he found him. Nine had been searching for about a day and a half, getting increasingly desperate by the hour. He wished he had stolen the tech he gave to Sonic, or made another one that could help him track where the shard was. Suddenly, Sonic arrives. And Nine’s not exactly happy to see him again. Sonic immediately starts attacking, Nine trying as hard as he can to get a hit in. As they’re fighting, Nine has a realization. He can use this to his advantage. All he has to do is keep Sonic chasing him and his shoes will tell him where the last shard is. Then, try to trigger the “voice” so he can get the shard. Finally, finish. the. job. Unfortunately, the second step doesn’t go to plan. He’s able to get the shard but…….

Sonic gets to him before Nine could run off with it.

And when he watched him bleed out, when he watched the blood pour out of his chest, when he realized that he was dead, that there was no way he could come back from this, no way he could still miraculously be alive, no chance that he could ever fix what he had done, Sonic fully accepted what he had become. A mindless, murderous, monster.

Shadow has been waiting this whole time; waiting for Sonic, waiting for the last shard, and waiting for a chance to actually apologize for what happened at the workshop. But that chance had already passed, it seemed. Sonic slowly walked into the cave, where everything started, Grim shard and metal tail both in hand. The two hedgehogs met eyes. Sonic stood in shock for a minute, then smiled. One last person to kill.  He hopped down from the cave’s mouth, tossed the shard to the side, and gripped the bloody scrap metal harder. Then, he lunged. They start battling it out as Shadow tries to put the pieces together on what happened. Sonic keeps teasing and joking with Shadz while they’re battling it out. Eventually it just devolve into rants about how stupid everything is, and how stupid he was for ever thinking he was a good person. When Shadow finally gets a good look at how deteriorated Sonic’s mind has become, he can’t help but wonder what he could’ve done to stop this. But it’s too late for that now. He was too slow. Shadow eventually gets the upper hand and corners Sonic, toppling him over. Here’s the passage I wrote for the next scene: 

——————————————————————

Shadow grasped the jagged piece of metal and held it just above the blue hedgehog’s skull, shaking with what he couldn’t tell was rage or fear. Sonic’s eyes stared up at him, his maniacal grin completely wiped. Instead, a blank expression crossed his face. It wasn’t exactly fear, it wasn’t exactly shock, it wasn’t exactly sadness and it wasn’t exactly relief. It was…. everything, all mashed into one giant, unreadable expression. For once, Shadow felt he genuinely understood Sonic. For once, he knew exactly what he was feeling. Shadow dropped the blade. He hugged him.

“Wh-?”

“Because you need it.”

Sonic couldn’t hold back any longer. The tears that he had been repressing for so long now streamed down his cheeks like waterfalls as he leaned further and further into Shadow’s embrace. All the words he had wanted to say for so long spilled out of his mouth in a giant river, jumbled and broken and completely incoherent as he tried to explain it all, as he tried and tried and tried to apologize for everything he had done. 

“I-I didn’t-”

“Shhh”

“I j-just-”

“Shhh”

“I c-couldn’t”

“It’s OK. Sonic, look at me.”

He lifted up Sonic’s tear stricken face with his hand, staring into his eyes, tinted with pain.

“It’s all gonna be OK.”

the end.

———————————————————————

And that’s it! This took a while to write, so thanks for sticking around through it all, that was really cool of you. A few little notes about the epilogue & after story.

Epilogue:

I need to clear something up before I can start discussing what happens in the epilogue. You may have noticed some of the Sonic art I’ve posted (mostly the ones with Sonic using a prosthetic arm) mentioned something about an epilogue. This is a mistake. What past me was trying to say was that this was from the after story. I just forgot the word for it, sorry! With that out of the way, let’s begin. After Sonic’s finally cried it all out, they both get up and he thanks Shadow for the hug. Shadow accepts, and there’s a cute lil scene where the two of them are just… talking, while they go to grab the last shard from the top of the mountain to put it back in its place. After they’re done, Sonic hesitates for a moment. Should he go back to them? After everything, he doesn’t really believe that they would want to see him, not after what he’d done. But Shadow reassures him that if HE could forgive Sonic, then his friends probably would too. They both go their separate ways, and Sonic finally gets to see his friends again. He (tries) to explain what happened, why he’s missing an arm and covered in blood, all that stuff, and they are understandably horrified at…. EVERYTHING he’s saying but ultimately forgive him. They all leave to get chili dogs, and we end with the whole gang minus Shadow having a picnic and Sonic FINALLY taking a nap on Tail’s tails.

After Story: 

I don’t have much of this part planned out outside from a prosthetic design for Sonic and the BAREST of story outlines so I’m just gonna make a bullet point list.

Eggman steals the paradox prism

Everyone (including Shadow) gets together to make a plan to steal it back

Sonic messes up the plan somehow and starts freaking out

Shadow yells at him, making it worse

Sonic runs away and has a panic attack 

After he calms down a little, Shadow goes to apologize 

They go back and come up with a new plan

It works & they all go get some food (including Shadow, after a lot of convincing)

———————————————————————

Final, FINAL Notes: OH MY GOD THIS TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DONE IN ONE WEEK OH MY GOD. thank you again so much for reading all of this this is so long oh my freaking god why’d I make this so long? uh, this mostly serves as a reference sheet so you know what scene im drawing so I can stop getting questions on what is going on. speaking of questions, if you have any, ask! im bad at explaining stuff, so im sure there’s PLENTY. just to make sure im not getting anyone’s hopes up btw, i dont know if I’ll actually end up making this a full fic, mostly cause ive never made one before & i dont know how to use ao3 yet :( feel free to use any and all ideas mentioned within this mega-essay with or without credit, i support you! with this last, last, LAST note, I think I will leave you be.

(also sorry that this took so long to write, it got deleted 3 separate times so I had to start over haha :))))))))))

[anamelessfool]

How do you do that? LOL I have no idea what I’m doing (maybe) An Art Tutorial

Folks have commented on my more rendered art recently and I’m flattered. I literally have no idea what I’m doing. Well, I sorta do. I am mostly using masks in Procreate. I’m technically using the Debaser Pack by True Grit Texture Supply, but you don’t really need it. All you need is some texture layers. You could even do this just by making halftones of solid color layers. I used to do a lot of digital photo collage back in the day and at one point had a huge library of scans of paper and fabrics and also random textures I saw on the street. Wood, stone, sidewalk, metal, foliage, water. Took out my digital camera (yes, it was that long ago) and snapped a photo to use. There’s also a lot of free halftone textures online.

I have a few “overlay texture” layers. I “Create Mask” and then invert the mask so I can “paint” the color on. For my more simple stuff I do just that. I add a “Deep Shadow” layer in Overlay mode of a dark brown (or teal if it’s white) to make sure the darkest shadows are truly dark. The white areas are just the mask erased. It helps that fallout ghouls are skrungly and textured to be begin with. Sometimes I select areas and add little bits of black spray paint in lots of very transparent layers.

Everything is rendered under a multiply layer of a hi-res scan of vintage newsprint.

So how about the more detailed things that came about from an embarrassing amount of shirtless photo references??? In a lust-fueled haze I realized I can have a dark layer (in my case, a “black ink texture scan” with an inverted mask underneath a color layer. The color texture layer is around 70% opacity, give or take. On that black ink layer mask I add the white highlights to the tops of forms and use the smudge tool to distribute it across the specific form. Once in a while I shut off the color layer so I can see the bare rendering layer on its own and fix things.

So I just sort of pet him. For hours.

Focusing on the LIGHT areas instead of the shadow really is a game-changer! Before, my digital art looked super muddy because I was invested in adding dark. If areas are very very dark I add that dark brown overlay layer. For tattoos it’s a dark blue overlay mode layer, but with a mask on it so I can softly erase areas to make it look more set in to the skin (without destroying the original art). Very bright areas and the tops of forms I add a “highlight layer” of pure white gestural lines.

Moral of the story is just play around and do whatever. The old times of having a beautifully perfect anime-style drawing with very formal layers of shadow, highlight, color has been dead for ages. It’s what kept me away from pursuing digital art for literal years.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 10/29/2024

new boot goofin. also a great book for the cowboyblogger crew and TWO cat photos

listening

afterimage by JUSTICE and Rimon was on a spotify autogenerated dance playlist and it is So soothing to my brain. sometimes described as heavy metal disco, it itches the same brain scratch as daft punk's interstella 5555. comforting and familiar road trip music where the road trips are in spaceships with a sort of clunky engine thrumming away in the background. you know that extremely early ass o clock in the morning road trip feel where it's very pale and a little misty out and you're only sort of awake? i feel like this is a very different kind of road trip music animal than than late-night road trip music. it's pulling you out the door. it's for beginnings, not for very tired almost-ends.

-

reading

thank you mackie. very reading heavy week. im tryign to redirect myself into library books instead of election doomscrolling and im trying to read more physical books bc i have a tremendous pile of shit i genuinely do want to read and almost none of it is on my phone. first we'll talk about Navigational Entanglements by Aliette de Bodard, from randomly perusing the library stacks. really really really fucking loved this one.

Award-winning author of The Red Scholar’s Wake Aliette de Bodard comes for your heart with a compelling tale of love, duty, and found-family in an exciting new space opera that brings xianxia-style martial arts to the stars. Jockeying navigator clans guide spaceships through the Hollows: an area of space populated by the mysterious but deadly creatures known as Tanglers. When a Tangler escapes the Hollows for the first time in living memory, each clan must send a representative to help capture it—but the mission may be doomed and the hearts of two clan juniors may be in danger too.

first off: this isn't fucking found family. this is a group of coworkers. tor dot com loves to slap found family on anything gay.

politics is about control and inter-group dynamic politics are also about control. and grappling for control in your life when you grow up in a Young Leadership program. i really liked this, one of the least annoying examples of someone getting overstimulated and needing to lie down in a dark quiet room and how hanging out with some people does not impair rest and hanging out with some people is extremely extremely draining. the love interest is what if lee van cleef was a young vietnamese woman in the far future who can navigate faster than light travel.

very snappy little 160-pg novella that does not overstay its welcome. packs a genuinely surprising amount of worldbuilding and character work into its pages: i have a lot of trouble with ensemble casts post-Covid and keeping everyone straight (especially in hard copy form where I can’t easily search a book) but everyone is a fully formed person here and i had no trouble keeping everyone straight in my head. i will be asking my siblings to acquire a physical copy for me for christmas. i love a fucked up political mystery with spacewalks and space monsters.

the lead, nhi, reminded me a lot of friends at the table's brnine, a self-sacrificing perfectionist fish. hope that's useful information to all three of you i have bullied into listening to fatt

The Shabti by Megaera C. Lorenz. this finally came off my holds, hat tip to i think someone else's tuesdaypost? cannot immediately locate it. holler if it was you.

Can you flimflam a ghost? It’s 1934. Former medium Dashiel Quicke travels the country debunking spiritualism and false mediums while struggling to stay ahead of his ex-business partner and lover who wants him back at any cost. During a demonstration at a college campus, Dashiel meets Hermann Goschalk, an Egyptologist who’s convinced that he has a genuine haunted artifact on his hands. Certain there is a rational explanation for whatever is going on with Hermann’s relics, Dashiel would rather skip town, but soon finds himself falling for Hermann. He agrees to take a look after all and learns that something is haunting Hermann’s office indeed. Faced with a real ghost Dashiel is terrified, but when the haunting takes a dangerous turn, he must use the tools of the shady trade he left behind to communicate with this otherworldly spirit before his past closes in.

this keeps getting reviewed as cozy horror, which i do not agree with bc i hate the term and believe it oxymoronic. it is a fairly straightforward romance with paranormal shit happening in the foreground. a period piece not particularly for the folx end of the fag/folx gay book spectrum-- they happen to be gay but there's a lot of other shit happening. not a spicy romance as the tiktok girlies say. it is a period book that sort of elides over the worst parts of the 30s? eg there is no on-page or overt racism or antisemitism that the characters have to Confront. one of the lead's neighbors is a black nurse trying to start a NAACP chapter, but she's so fully fleshed out and such an enjoyable character it doesn't feel like the book is looking for moral points from modern readers. i also liked the general slow-build of the book and their relationship — i have no complaints about the intensity or pace of their relationship.

the one ding i have is that it is perhaps a touch too enthusiastic about period slang. it's fine when the two leads are talking to each other, especially bc their word choice is a large way they show their personality, but when there are more than two people in a scene it can grate a little for me. i do think the dialogue is generally the strong suit here, and the author particularly excels at two-person back and forths, so it’s not a frequent complaint.

i liked the contrast of the scam medium with the academic egyptologist, since many egyptologists were also scams. the scenes with the spirit are genuinely eerie, which is a very good contrast with the fairly straightforward, often sparse narration.

grudging respect for keeping a joke simmering on the back burner for four hundred pages before deploying it. this was a well-paced read i have no major complaints about.

i have to spin this book around in my brain and get a physical copy and flip back and forth and lot and make notes to myself in a separate notebook before i talk about this one here i think. same brain itch as a canticle for leibowitz.

i also read a bunch of comics but this section is already long enough goodbye

-

watching

the first episode of the currently airing penguin tv show! at my bestie's house bc she has an hbo max subscription from something, unfortunately it is an emotionally fraught very tense show and we're kind of full up on those so i will have to finish this on my own. at no point did i say to myself "whoa that's colin farrell". both the prosthetic and accent work are off the charts.

i do Not like a piece of media about the mob. i will stomach it for batman. it's really wild how the accents they've chosen for gotham and her suburbs make me so so so weirdly homesick. one of the locations is an early McMansion and my bestie and i said almost simultaneously "are we in fucking Cherry Hill???" a jersey noveau riche town infested with notable McMansions.

i am constantly chasing the high of s1 black sails where everyone is frantically scheming and falling all over them fucking selves. this gets pretty close! it's big budget prestige tv with the storytelling chops to match so far. one of my favorite comic runs is The Long Halloween, partially about the fortunes of the Maroni and Falcone crime families of Gotham. this is loosely following that, but deviates enough to surprise me, which i enjoy. there have been enough faithful adaptations of that comic run imo.

optimistic about the rest of the season! i have such low expectations for batman media that it's refreshing to get like a genuinely good pilot episode out of the franchise.

-

playing

i have Got to find a new game to play that i already own. genshin is such a good podcast game but i need Something New. surely the 576047357649857689 games across five libraries will save me.

-

making

so many things happened this week. cat neuter and constipation episode. helped take apart and put back together a children's' room. lot of running around.

crunchy! i almost left these docs at goodwill bc i don't have a super high opinion of the company or the quality of the boots. i have heard my ENTIRE life about how long-lasting they are and how people have had the same boots for years but i completely shredded a pair during eight months in 2019. like the soles were worn almost completely smooth to the point they were a slipping hazard, half the eyelets were broken, and the leather was genuinely disintegrating. that was one of the busiest and most active periods of my life (classes at other campuses both semesters, a summer in new hampshire, the beginning of the makerspace) but i did expect them to hold up a little better or a little longer. they only got to experience about a month and a half of salt at the beginning and were regularly cleaned. yes i did buy them straight from the company.

anyway. these extremely ugly docs industrials had almost all their tread and magically fit me. like the rest of me, my feet are large and wide and difficult to fit. they are by Far the ugliest shoes i have ever owned. however. they will be the boots i will wear for when i need to be okay about potentially destroying my footwear.

hit em with some saddle soap and polished the toes, i seem to be flat out of leather conditioner so i was only able to hit the heels and one tongue. the laces are in the warsh.

they're real leather and were twelve dollars and miraculously fit me. you know that quote about americans being temporarily embarrassed millionaires? i still, in many ways, think of myself as a temporarily embarrassed abled person. i am slowly giving up on the idea of another remote job, bc they seem to all be fake, and going harder on city and county jobs. while i would rather wear my beloved CAT steel toes with the nice padded cuffs any day of the week, maybe these will be good for tromping around somewhere inspecting something. would Love a weights and measures inspection job if their office would return my polite messages.

also ruby goes home tonight! goodbye ruby!

[rorja]

Unseen - shoko x reader

° summary: shoko meets reader on a random afternoon in a cafè managed by her parents. She's immediately attracted by reader's strangeness, especially because she claims that she's able to see ghosts but doesn't know about the existence of cursed spirits.

• cafe!au, reader can see ghosts, use of she/her pronouns, airhead-like reader. [spoilers about the hidden inventory arc]. Shoko centric. 10k word count.

▪︎a/n: this is our first os on tumblr, english is not our first language so please be kind <3 - 🔖divider credits to: saradika

Shoko Ieiri never acted on her impulses. That’s why when she spoke that afternoon, suggesting to catch the metro and drop at a casual station instead of staying amidst the busy streets of Tokyo, name-dropping places they were familiar with nonetheless, Gojo and Geto promptly stopped their banter and began to walk towards the nearest station. It would’ve been fun, was the silent agreement between the three of them, to explore places they haven’t had the chance to explore because of missions and such. It was also a nice way to fully take advantage of the rare free time they had in their hands. No missions. No curses that required their intervention. No corpses waiting motionlessly on a metal table that reeked of sterile alcohol. Merely three students that got out of school grounds to enjoy their afternoon.

That was how they ended up at your parents’ café. A little rustic heaven that carried the fragrances of fresh coffe beans together with baked goods, both salty and sweets, handmade and carefully placed in front of the wooden shop window. Peeking amongst the veneer ivy plant, ever so green and bathing contentedly under the golden sunlight, the warmth coming from the yet too hot bread. The smell of it reaching the trio and hugging them ever so gently, inviting them inside even.

One of the first things that caught her attention just as easily were the many plants around, from the smaller ones under the counter sitting nicely on unevenly cut bricks, to the ones hanging from the ceiling. Some others sparse elegantly here and there in different pots of different sizes, but each and one of them —along their sometimes funny pots— helped in creating a very cozy atmosphere. A pleasing one that mixed well with the white and woody brown on the ceiling, the walls, the tables, even the rugs probably handpicked with love… everything in there was just carefully placed in a way to put everyone at ease. To make you feel relaxed. Which was already something acquired in the color choice and the usage of that uncountable number of plants, Shoko thought vaguely. It definitely was not her cup of tea, neither the usual kind of cafés she would be seen at, opting for something more modern and known as a subtle reassurance of sorts. But there was something in this well-hidden gem that was so enticing. Like a spell that gently encouraged her to come closer, to take a peek at those baked goods as small children used to.

And Shoko thought for once, that she really didn’t want to fight it; gladly waving her white flag and surrender to the appeal of the café. She had nothing to lose. Maybe, she briefly wondered, those sandwiches were as good as they appeared to be too.

Her coffee was on the way. The table Gojo pushed them to offered a nice view on the white counter and its coffee machine, where the woman that got their orders was working dutifully. An herbal tea for Geto. Hot chocolate with a lot of cream and some kind of colorful sprinkles on top (only green and pink, in a n exact order) for Gojo. A simple black coffe for Shoko. It was funny to depict their differences even in something as simple as their go-to drinks in a café, it further proved once again what a messy match they were nevertheless. Messy but never mismatched.

Shoko looked around, her eyes scanning lazily the interior dotted by different slivers of terracotta and painted plastic planters everywhere her eyes landed. From the small constellations of plants near their feet to the bigger, main ones gently swaying over each person’s head. Like dandelions dancing in their air, tenderly moving by the gusts of wind coming from the door every time a new customer entered. No one seemed to pay attention to those subtle but graceful dance steps, preferring to lower their heads over their computers or chatting with their friends just to erupt in loudly chuckles and whispers that hardly were respectful for the ones working. Her friends too, unfortunately, falling in that category with their nonchalant conversations —even though Geto tried to scold Gojo, his words seemed to have no effect at all, the latter still going on with his yap on the latest game he played recently.

“’M going to smoke” she was quick on her feet, her eyes previously catching a glimpse of a door that surely lead outside given the structure of the café. The boys only nodded distractedly at her.

A cork board stood near the door, slightly scraped at its edges as probably placed there from a long time, but the many sheets placed there only acted as an indicator that it was still used to this very day. One being pinned in there from just four or five days at best as the paper was in seemingly better conditions, a photo of a cat in the center of it. Bright red, bold letters stating that the cat went missing last Thursday in that neighborhood.

She didn’t put a lot of thoughts on it, discarding the missing notice to push the door open. It was a small garden with few discarded chairs to sit on here and there, well-maintained just the same as the other plants in that café. Surely the people who worked there seemed to have a big appreciation for plants, going as far to take care of them lovingly. A bush near her feet only confirming her thoughts, tiny drops of water still sitting on the foliage.

Her hand dipped in the pocket of her skirt to retrieve the lighter, cigarette sitting idly on her lips now. Relief growing instantly from the first drag, back relaxing against the wall near the door as her eyes wandered around. Only in that moment she realized that she wasn’t exactly alone in that garden. Indeed there you were, hunched over a bush. Maybe one of the customers, Shoko thought absentmindedly in between a drag and another. Ashes falling on the ground silently, as if not willing to interrupt whatever you were busy into.

It happened when the cigarette was still burning, tip glowing red weakly while reaching steadily its end, that Shoko noticed something weird about you. Her brows furrowing as she stared into your back, always facing the wall but now pushing a white plastic plate filled with… milk? More inwards toward the bush. Your hand moving in repetitive gestures, almost as if emptily caressing nothing. There was nothing in there, neither traces of a cursed spirit or a cursed spirit itself. A blank spot filled with nothing if not air. There was not a trace of cursed energy flowing in your body.

So, what were you doing then?

“Uhm…” Shoko’s voice ringed in the air. Another light touch at the base of the cigarette, another amount of ashes falling. “Are you okay?”

You turned around, back straightening upon hearing an unfamiliar voice. That garden was your precious and very needed breath of air, often coming there to seek a break from the usual smell of coffee beans and still warm bread, fresh off the oven. It was unusual for the clients to come out here, your mother the only one crossing that door to call you back if in need of more hands.

“Yes?” You answered carefully, not exactly understanding what the girl might refer to. It must have been visible on your face, your brows furrowing in genuine confusion, at the unusual question as if it’s not like you were doing something weird.

It was only when the brunette eyed your hand wearily that you connected the dots. Oh, the cat! The realization only making you want to burst into a laugh.

“Oh, you mean him?” You smiled fondly at the black and white cat that was now sniffing the milk, before tentatively licking it. He was so cute, warming enough to you and accepting your caresses with soft, appreciative purrs as he kept drinking the milk. “Sadly, Tanaka-san will never see his adorable cat anymore”.

●

Shoko kept that bizarre meeting for herself, not finding it worthy to tell Geto or Gojo. Kept the same way a child would keep its secrets, a personal memory to explore once alone in the dim lights of her room before falling asleep. For some reasons she found herself unable to stop thinking about it, her now teased curiosity always appearing in her mind under the disguised image of the café, only to come back to you.

She discovered that the café was run by your parents, occasionally seeing you taking the orders of some salary man with his head down on his computer or at the cashier, exchanging money and receipts while your father was busy with the coffee machine. Some other time she’d trace your figure in one of the far-away tables, school uniform yet to be discarded for the white apron she was growing accustomed to. And Shoko’s visits grew. By a lot, now becoming a number that hardly could be counted within ten fingers. It would go the same way each time, always the same dance where she would choose the table near that new coppery pot on the side, then order the usual black coffee (and a sandwich too on rare days). Afterwards she would walk to the door on the back leading to the garden, a cigarette sitting idly on her lips, sure to find you there busy in some weird antics again. Just like the first time she’d met you.

As a matter of fact, you were always up to something she couldn’t comprehend. Like that one afternoon she had found you hanging numerous wind chimes in a corner, too busy humming something to notice her leaning on the wall and staring. Acting unbothered once again, as if she was the weird one for asking to have a sort of explanation and questioning your doing. As if hanging that many wind chimes wasn’t weird at all and Shoko’s perplexed stare was pointless to begin with.

“My neighbor hated these,” you had said that afternoon before Shoko could even open her mouth to make the same question “now that I’ve hung them up, I’m sure he’ll never come to ask me for favors!”

Shoko had simply nodded, breathing the smoke out from her mouth. Not asking further than that as it proved to be useless. “Is he a wild animal?”

That seemed to catch your attention, turning to face her with a confused glance. “What?”

“Seems like you want to keep away an animal” Shoko had explained, under the soft dingles coming from the wind chimes. The wind stirring away the smoke coming from the cigarette when too near to you.

“No? He’s just dead” And oh, you had answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that Shoko ended up widening her eyes for a very fraction of second. There was a first time for everything, even a first time of hearing something as strange as that.

Shoko Ieiri was rarely one to chose silence, especially when faced with such odd words. That afternoon had been the very first time she voluntarily chose to stay silent.

●

It had happened again. Every time she’d meet you, you were always up to something that went beyond her logical understanding. This one time you were just a few steps away from the entrance of the café, in one of the many narrow streets of the neighborhood, kneeled and busy recollecting the books fallen from your school bag whilst mumbling something that was hard to make out with the distance. You didn’t even realize that Shoko was walking towards your direction, attention still focused on the ground where your books were lying.

“…-’ve changed address. Lives on the third floor, or at least that’s what he told me the last time he ordered his coffee” silence, then a resigned sigh. “I don’t know what to say, he never talked about it in front of me”

One, two, three… five.

There books were now back inside the bag safely closed. It was in that moment, while you were standing up on your feet again and fixing the bag on you shoulders that you noticed Shoko staring back at you. Floreal scent with rich and deep notes reaching your nose first and betraying her silent presence, most probably busy wondering what must’ve happened for you to kneel down in the first place.

“Oh, it’s you!”

The silence between you two pregnant with confusion, as it always has been since the first moment you had met her. A dynamic you two seemed to have accepted and easily fell into, prompting you to clear your throat and say something. Shoko standing there, arms crossed on her chest. Waiting for you to explain yourself, no matter how much it would take. You were somehow relaxed to know that she would’ve listen to you.

“Miyazaki-san. She asked me if I knew where her husband was” Shoko blinked once. No one was in that alley with you at that moment, and she was quite sure of it. Sure of her eyesight at least, but indeed after meeting you she was slowly starting to questioning it too. Both her eyesight and her own abilities as a Jujutsu sorceress.

“Ugh! She seems to not understand that the bond with her husband is starting to wear off. A lot of time has passed and of course, the pain is not as strong as before. That’s why she isn’t able to find him, or she lose sight of him!” You explained to her, annoyed with the situation that Shoko failed to grasp. Who was the lady again? Did she disappear before she was in the alley? But then again, she had heard your voice alone. As if you were busy speaking alone within the walls of the alley and nothing more.

Yet, once again, Shoko found herself falling in step with you towards the café.

“I was ignoring her at first because it’s starting to get on my nerves how se fails to understand this simple thing, but she’s really stubborn. And insufferable too. So she ripped my bag” another exhausted exhale coming from your mouth. Shoko listened in silence, trying to follow your side of the story. “Can you believe it? She asked me if he has a lover!”

And of course it happened again. And again, again. Whenever Shoko would walk up to the café, you would always be either there or in one of the alleys near. You, who would always be too busy in another one of your strange shenanigans.

Shoko, after a long and hard day stuck inside that room that reeked of sterile alcohol and decaying bodies inside of Jujutsu High, came back to the café. Dutifully following the routine she had unconsciously established in her head, walking to the ever-closed door in the back after drinking her coffee. For once, it was you having followed Shoko outside —having been placed on cashier duty per your father’s request while he finished getting the bread out of the oven.

She’d always lean with her back on the wall, glowing cigarette between two fingers while she breathed the smoke out, careful to tip her head up for it to disappear as quick instead of latching on her clothes.

(Or worse, your clothes. That being the main reason behind her actions, not wanting you to smell of nicotine and cheap packs bought a bit away from Yaga’s eyesight. It wouldn’t be fair to serve the customers while smelling of cigarettes now, wouldn’t it?)

And you would lean a bit close to her. Each meeting mending a distance that seemed too big, too intimidating at first. Now it was only a matter of mere steps against a colder wall.

“Is there a cat or an angry wife following me?”

You are staring, the hidden message behind her words. Enough to make you snap out from your thoughts but not enough to make you look elsewhere out of embarrassment.

“No… you have a weird aura today” you said, tilting your head to try and figure out what was wrong in that girl you had found yourself spending more time with. Something familiar, that you had met already many times before.

“Hah? Let’s hear it”

Shoko’s amusement glowed in her eyes like the burnt tip of the cigarette, solely to fall like ash on the ground once you finally answered her.

“Did you touch a dead body?”

Shoko widened her eyes. The now burnt cigarette dropped near her shoes with a muted thud, but in that moment it was louder than any thought in her mind.

●

Ieiri Shoko lived, studied and (already worked) in the world of Jujutsu. Seeing creatures that didn’t fit the commonly known criteria of reality, that redefined the laws of the reality they all lived in and fiercely fought the laws of what supposedly was their nature, was something she had to grow up with. That was normal for her.

However, listening a common girl talking about her ability to see and talk with dead people but unable to see curses on the other side of the street (your confusion every time Shoko would try to explain their existence to you was genuine; you were a non-sorceress, there were no doubts about it), was completely astonishing. Absurd, even. Shoko shrugged it off by calling you “weirdo” (or so Gojo would’ve done) but never once she stopped thinking about it. From the day she figured out the last piece of the puzzle, directly coming from your mouth on top of it, Shoko felt her brain totally fried.

There has always been something about you that pulled her forward. Teasing her curiosity further, prompting her to close that distance that kept you two slightly apart when leaning against that wall, inching her to solve that anomaly that was your reality. A reality that you had accepted and found a balance with.

And so it hasn’t been that long before Shoko figured out that every person you mentioned had really existed at some point in that very same city. Shoko thought that it wasn’t unorthodox for someone in their society to fully commit to a specific side of the gruesome art that was jujutsu nonetheless, but not being able to see cursed spirits was something she had never heard of. It was impossible.

That was the reason behind her current predicament.

“Sensei, do you think is possible?”

Yaga didn’t answer immediately, dark sunglasses covering his shock about the unusual question. Taken aback firstly by the many ‘in a hypothetical scenario’ that Shoko had used as an introduction of sorts for what she has asked. Secondly, it was Ieiri Shoko. It was rare for that student of his to blatantly show her genuine interest like this.

He pushed the sunglasses up his nose. “Ieiri, our world is so complex that the birth of a singularity as the one you’ve told me about, wouldn’t surprise me. Either way I wouldn't deny its possibility”

“Therefore you aren’t absolutely sure of it” Shoko answered, eyes narrowed at her professor’s words. Yaga simply nodded.

“With absolute certainty I can tell you who’s about to die” and before she could say anything else, ask anything else regarding the whole situation that was slowly eating her brain away, Yaga walked to Gojo, scolding the guy for his unfair trick pulled in the middle of the training session he was having with Geto.

“Therefore you aren’t absolutely sure of it” Shoko answered, eyes narrowed at her professor’s words. Yaga simply nodded.

“With absolute certainty I can tell you who’s about to die” and before she could say anything else, ask anything else regarding the whole situation that was slowly eating her brain away, Yaga walked to Gojo, scolding the guy for his unfair trick pulled in the middle of the training session he was having with Geto.

●

“Which school you go to?”

You were sitting at her usual table, right in front of her with that white apron on. That day the café was slow, few clients sitting here and there typing on the keyboards or enjoying their drinks with hushed words. Far away from the usual bustling that would greet Shoko each afternoon, that would keep you busy serving dishes and drinks with that green tray you knew how to balance in one hand. There was no such thing today, which has lead you to sit at that table near that coppery plant pot, watered a bunch of minutes before by your mother.

Shoko blinked, the gentle but sour steam coming from the mug a pleasing distraction that she welcomed half heartedly. Without asking a permission you had plopped in the vacant chair and started a conversation out of nowhere, taking her by surprise. You seemed to do that a lot, a characteristic trait of yours that up until that day has never failed.

“I’ve never seen that uniform around” you watched as Shoko placed the mug on the table, the tips of her hands twitching slightly at the loss of that burning feeling.

“Jujutsu High School, we study how to exorcist cursed spirits” her answer came in a mild sarcastic tone, as if saying something that was evidently false and waiting carefully for your reaction. For Shoko it was a challenge of sorts, an absurd one which only purpose was to expose who was the one lying.

But you nodded, like you fully understood the meaning of those words and thus not prying. Accepting them as an absolute truth.

“Cool. Is it in the city centre? Is it private?”

Shoko pondered her words. You really didn’t falter at all, huh? “Yes and yes"

“Ah, I’m jealous! I go to an all-girls school”

“Are there some ghosts in yours?”

“Nah, just the one in the third bathroom on the second floor that bothers you to play…” your hand slammed on the table and in a heartbeat your laughter filled the café. Something in her’s expression making you weak and expose your own joke. “I was kidding. That is the legend about Hanako, didn’t you know it?”

Shoko chuckled, a forced one just to go hand in hand with you. A smile tugging the corners of your lips at that, chin now resting on your palm as you hitched closer to her. “Anyway, no ghosts. Just the old headmaster who shot himself in his office after admitting bankrupt”

A polite chuckle leaving her lips once again at your… joke? She wasn’t really sure, but at the same time she didn’t want to damped your mood. Neither she didn’t want to say something that could threat the smile you were now wearing.

“Oh yes!” She sipped her mug of coffe as you clapped your hands together. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Shoko shook her head, lips still sitting on the border of the mug as her eyes glinted with confusion. Did she give you such an impression?

“Ah! I thought that one of those guys— one of the two you came the first day with…”

So she wasn’t the only one silently observing, huh?

●

“Look at that girl and tell me what you see”

Gojo let out another exasperated sigh, dramatic enough for the odd request just received in that weird day. Feeling somewhat baffled by the ongoing ordeal. Number one, Shoko asking him to go drink something together? Weird. Number two, Shoko insisting on her choice for the café instead of leaving the decision in the hands of the winner of a bloody fight between him and Geto? Something was absolutely not right here. Number three on that list, not only did he followed her like the good friend he was, she had him waiting outside for the arrival of a certain girl!

Gojo Satoru had his own fair share of weird things happened since he got enrolled at Jujutsu High, but this? This could easily make it to the top five, to be completely honest.

“Mhhh” he brought his hand to his chin. Head tipped slightly for his glasses to slip further on his nose, allowing him to see the picture in those bright colors that would often hurt his eyes. A dramatic mannerism sprinkled with some hints truth, just like the hot chocolate in front of his eyes. After some moments he pushed his glasses up, effectively hiding his eyes and turning to Shoko with an idiotic smile.

“She isn’t my type!”

“I didn’t mean that, idiot. Use your six eyes on her” Gojo shrugged but eventually did as told. He silently prayed for it to end fast so he would be able to dig in his hot chocolate.

Gojo shook his head vehemently. “Uh no… nothing”

He stopped once he saw Shoko’s furrowed brown, contemplating something in that head of hers. Arms crossed on her chest and coffee going completely forgotten on their table, which was really unusual for her. Whatever situation she found herself in with that girl, clearly was something that big. In the two years they had known each other, nothing has ever gotten Shoko so invested. Neither Yaga’s difficult tasks (or final tests, as the old man enjoyed calling them) at the end of every year.

Gojo took the spoon, ever so carefully scooping up the cream with the colored sprinkles before swallowing it. An appreciative noise erupting from his chest just like a happy kid. “Are you trying to give me some lectures about the inner beauty of people? I mean, it’s not like she’s bad-looking but…”

“You see her like a normal human being, so? Not a trace of cursed energy flowing? Nothing else?”

Shoko quickly put an end to whatever his mind has come up with, returning to the main reason she’d brought him here in the first place.

“I told you already, didn’t I? Stop asking, I want to eat now”

Shoko couldn’t say anything to that. If it was true that there was not an hint of cursed energy in y/n then that only meant that she was a sort of singularity herself. Just like Yaga had told her days prior. All the theories she’d made, all of her analysis, lack of records in each archive… everything threw in the trash with only a glance.

There was no ethical explanation about your ability. That was the absurd thing for her.

Her shoulders fell. “Order whatever you want, I’ll pay for your effort as promised”

Not like he needed it, Gojo was just very fond of being a nuisance for her. So he didn’t let her repeat twice, pinpointing the next few sweet treats written on the menu for the next time the old lady would walk to them.

“There’s something though,” Gojo added while observing you and Shoko exchange a greeting gesture with an amused expression, “her heartbeat incresead!”

●

Shoko run from the station to the address you had sent to her earlier through an unusual sms. You told it was important, an urgent matter that woke her brain up with possible and different scenarios as to why you were on the streets at one in the morning. So she got up, dressed quickly in her uniform and tried to reach the location as fast as possible. Didn’t matter if she was signing away her school records by breaking the curfew, sneaking out at ungodly hours of the morning.

And you were there. Easily spotted, sitting motionlessly on the dark and wet sidewalk with a wretched expression on your face that was painful for her to watch. Big grins like the ones you often had on your lips when in the garden suited you most. Yet, you were there. Incredulous widened gaze fixed on the asphalt in front of you.

“y/n, what happened? Are you hurt?” You had your head lying between your hands and when Shoko finally reached you, you did nothing. Acknowledging her presence by sitting straight on that dirty sidewalk only, your pout more evident as you tried to keep your tears in, fighting your breakdown at the best of your capabilities. Still like the waters of a river, gloomy like the rain that fell that same evening.

Shoko’s hands twitched slightly. You didn’t even look at her, that simple missing gesture making her heart fight violently her ribcage in a tumultuous uprising. You, who didn’t even greet her with your sweet words or a gentle wave of your hand. Something was very wrong, and the thought only made her growing nervous in her stead.

When you spoke, the corners of your mouth trembling visibly, her shoulders fell. “Today I helped a girl filling her fridge”

Shoko blinked once, twice. Trying her hardest to put together the information you willingly let out, trying to understand the meaning behind your words. What was so tragic about filling a fridge? Surely there must’ve been something else… right? “What?”

“She asked me to fill her fridge because she knew her mother would’ve gone to check if she was taking care of herself properly when she was alive and—” a long sniffle, “of course I had to do it and I waited here. I saw her mother going in and then leaving the house completely heartbroken and—” you kept telling her, hiding your face from Shoko and hitting the ground repeatedly with your foot “the girl thanked me but I can’t stop feeling… like this. Because her last wish was to not make her mother worry”.

Your rant eventually came to an end. Another sniffle, head hidden away between your arms and pressed against your knees, then a heart breaking scream. One that Shoko thought you needed. In this moment, faced with your raw pain, she couldn’t keep questioning wether what you saying was true or not. Wether what you were telling was real or a mere fruit of your imagination, if she was indulging and giving all of he attention to a bunch of lies. She didn’t really care right now about the truth, about all what she has done since meeting you, silencing her own thoughts and her personal doubts for one night only.

You were clearly suffering, and if she could’ve helped you in any way feeling you better, then she was more than glad to do so.

Without a second thought, she sat close to you. Closer than any other time in the garden of the café, your shoulders bumping together as you kept your face hidden.

“So…” she started tentatively, “when you see them, you help them too?”

Her curiosity got the best of her, not really sure how to steer the conversation from here on. It was something she was unfamiliar with, but she didn’t want to undermine your point, your feelings. So she did what she best at: stalling, trying to get a reaction out of you in order to grasp a sliver of your truth. It’s what she did on the rare occasions Satoru would get mad, and it always worked. Here she was, doing the same thing with you, fidgeting with her fingers as you answered with a whined ‘yes’. Another first time, this time one where Shoko had to use all of the empathy stored deep down in her body and soothe your heart. It seemed like you never stopped surprising her— never stopped coaxing her out of the cozy, mundane shell she’d found and claimed safe.

She tried again. “I know how you might feel. In what I do, helping not always make us feel that sense of satisfaction we seek”

A beat.

Then a gentle hum. “…it’s the first time it happens to me”

Shoko wanted to laugh. She could still remember the traces of sadness lingering around her body, having been at your place so, so many times before, not really knowing what to do or how to get rid of that pain, clueless on who to ask for advices too. But if her life was one that had succumbed to the helplessness of this selfish society way before, you, on the other hand, could at least count on her. Or at the very least that was what she willingly promised to you with her silence. No sugarcoated words or faux promises that everything would be fine in the end, just a solid shoulder to cry all your tears on.

“It will alway get worse”

Shoko tried again, a tiny chuckle escaping past her lips. Her hand coming to rest on your shoulder in a clumsy act of reassurance.

“Come on, let—”

You didn’t let her finish the sentence. Throwing yourself in her arms, hugging her tightly against your chest hoping that she would understand what you didn’t trust your voice to mutter out. Shoko stilled for the second time that night, but her hands found your back instinctively. Almost automatically. Her body taking over her roaring mind for once, beating it in a matter of a bunch of seconds, patting your back awkwardly in a gesture of comfort.

For the first time that night, you finally looked at her. A sudden relief shooting through her veins when she noticed that your tears had dried up and a small tentative of a smile curled your lips. “Shoko?”

“Yes?”

“I need a cigarette” Shoko didn’t try to push it. Her hand dipped in the pocket of her wrinkled uniform’s skirt, glad that she didn’t forget the pack with the lighter at the dorm as she would sometimes do while in hurry. She hand it one to you, silently watching you lighting up one from the pack and leaving it on the sidewalk as it slowly consumed itself.

An homage, as you had breathed out later, because the soul you helped out was a smoker just like her.

The cigarette consumed itself steadily, ashes scattering around swayed by the nightly wind. Shoko stayed there close to you, closer that she’s ever been to, staring as the glow slowly died out for as long as you needed to. Only when the cigarette burnt completely she dared to look for your eyes, just to find you already with your puffy eyes on her.

“Thank you”

Shoko gulped down her bubbling nervousness, hoping you didn’t catch neither a glimpse of it. “You shuldn—”

“You’re a good friend”

●

Time became a blur. Going by far too quickly for Shoko to keep up with her mixed thoughts. Her growing doubts only adding fuel to an already burning flame, sustaining it, making it bigger than before. A blurry picture that smelt like the smoke she would often times let out from her cigarette. If her only certainty after school was to indulge the guys in whatever arcade they had set their eyes on, mostly on the free rare afternoons where missions wouldn’t require their intervention, now even that one single thing begun to shake. The solid and steady base of a boring life slowly crumbling —after meeting you.

Now she would hop on the first train heading towards the district of your parents’s café, waiting for you with a coffe mug at the table she kind of reclaimed as hers if you still weren’t home from school, leisurely spending the whole time talking about trivial matters. From your day at school to a tiny rabbit ghost that chased you to the garden. From the persisting chase of the angry wife again to you asking about her day, her school, the friends you have seen her coming to the café the very first time. Then, she would come back to campus with the last train available on the departure timeline.

Some other nights Shoko would meet familiar faces, sorcerers coming back from missions that involved moving on other cities, full of scars and fresh scratches that would need a basic medical treatment. Nothing much physically, but they would drag their steps a bit, tiredness growing heavy on their limbs and exhausted eyes that would fall shut once sat down. Shoko supposed that she would mingle well amongst them, same beaten expression but instead of fighting curses, her opponent was none other than her own doubts regarding you. You with your grin while talking about some stories of your about the ghost of the day or some stories about everyday clients. You with your curiosity about her own school life, nodding and listening attentively, not doubting a word falling from her mouth. Not prying for more, accepting eagerly what she’d say with crinkled eyes and gentle smiles. You, you, you…

Long conversations with the sole shared purpose to grow closer, to get to know each other better. To close a distance that rapidly shrunk as the ticks of the clock went by, hidden by the many hanging leaves of the café.

Talking through sms became a routine by now, your friendship gradually growing to the extent that matching charms dangled from your phones, that Shoko held the title of ‘best friend’ (you decided it on a random Tuesday afternoon, after another sip of the drink you made yourself at the empty counter). Indeed, every day was a continuously doubting of your honesty, your mental health too, while you deemed her worthy of your blind trust.

The more you’d grow closer, the more Shoko’s head screamed louder.

●

Until the thread snapped.

The pleasant and bumbling routine coming to an halt unexpectedly on a humid, sunny day of August. The day both Geto and Gojo came back from a deemed easy mission forever changed.

It’ll always get worse — those the words Shoko had told you months ago, on that night she found you sitting on a lonely grey sidewalk. Those the words coming back in her mind like a tidal wave washing on the rocky shore, as she stared at her two friends.

One kept climbing high, higher in his career and the ability he quickly developed, outgrowing his old skin and adapting to the changes of his newly-found powers. His change more pronounced by his cold behavior to the current events. Geto, on the other hand, sank lower into the ground: he begun skipping Yaga’s lessons, accepting the fewer missions he was assigned to without a word, treating them like not much than a daily commission of sorts. Crumbling in the naked four walls of his room.

Shoko stayed on the middle, empty.

Devoid of any will to shatter the new state. Or so she believed staring at the turned grey corpse of Amanai Riko, other sorcerers staining the morgue with their loud chatting about the unexpected turn, deciding the next steps for a standard treatment of a corpse. The same used to dispose of a sorcerer’s body.

Shoko and the boys had a favorite spot on campus, one that they childishly claimed as theirs only, right behind the school’s gymnasium. A perfect place for their smoking sessions far away from Yaga. Shoko and Suguru were the ones often finding their way to that place, exchanging few words about the lesson of that day, commenting the antics of some weird man he had to help in his missions or joking about that patient that proudly wore a tattooed the face of his beloved actor on his bottom. Gojo liked to stay with them in those moments. Not smoking, not always at least, affirming every time how much he detested the sensation but it didn’t escaped the way lately a cigarette could be seen idly sitting between his fingers more often than not.

That day Gojo wasn’t there, another mission entrusted by the higher-ups themselves. So Shoko sat in that corner of the campus, fully convinced she would stay there alone until her cigarette burnt out. She was proved wrong as Geto appeared from the side, his hair tousled and not in the usual styled bun she had seen him with from the start of their second years. Purple-ish bags now more prominent under his eyes too, giving away the many nights of disturbed sleep he carried on his back, that along the growing weight of the missions he was required to attend; jacket and pants of the usual jujutsu uniform discarded for a more comfortable and baggy attire, leaning to the wall carelessly and fumbling with his lighter.

Only when the cigarette started to turn grey at the tip, he waved his arm in a gesture of greeting. Crinkled eyes and corners that failed to reach them. “Yo”

Shoko nodded in his direction. This new sight of his friend becoming a familiar one as of late, one that she had to made peace with. Itching awareness sticking to their skin like humid winds of summer, but never spoken about, never confronted by one of them and so falling around them as a taboo. It has always been like this, after all. Sadness, grief, sorrow… different names enclosed in a bubble that was way too embarrassing to bring up in their conversations, acknowledging its presence but never strong enough to pop it, knowing that they could only watch as one had to fight alone in this personal war. That’s what the three of them always did.

“Satoru isn’t at school today?” He said, breaking the numbing silence around them.

“No. Mission”

“Mh”

Some minutes of silence passed.

“You are leaving school more often. Are they giving you missions too?”

Shoko didn’t know what caused a small chuckle to fall from her lips (maybe a specific word? Or maybe being put face to face with her growing frequent escapades? Not that she was hiding them anyway), but that made Suguru’s face contort in a silent hunch of confusion, tiredness making its presence known in each wrinkle of his frown. God, how tired he looked. Since when he didn’t sleep?

“No, uh… I go to kill some time” was her answer, paced by a drag of her cigarette.

Another striking difference between Suguru and Satoru was that the latter would’ve easily accepted her answer, not pressing further for other informations or, better yet, changing the topic altogether simply because he didn't care at all. Suguru, instead offered a silence that seemed to talk, gently coaxing the words out of your mouth with a comforting ‘tell me when you feel like it, I’ll listen’.

So Shoko didn’t have other choices, her gaze diverting from him and turning to the orange tinted sky.

“I met a girl” there was no need to look back at him, Shoko could’ve feel his eyes stuck on her just as fine, boring holes on her back. “You remember that café we’ve been months ago, right? I went back, we became close”

She watched as the cigarette fell on the ground, dull and turned off now. “She’s weird”

Geto didn’t answer, biting his bottom lip in a thoughtful expression at the new information she trusted him with. However, she too didn’t let him answer, taking the chance and firing off a question.

“Geto, do you believe in ghosts?”

The query found its answer in a small chuckle, which Shoko was glad to be the cause of even if it had a sour undertone.

“I mean, do you believe people are able to see them?”

“Are you changing the topic or are we still talking about the girl?”

“Both, actually”

Suguru let his cigarette fall too, crushing it beneath his shoes. His now free hand messing out the already knotted strands. “But she’s not a sorceress”

Shoko threw him a glance that seemed to say ‘that’s the dilemma’.

After a beat, she simply started telling the boy about your meetings and the many afternoons spent together. Stories about the ‘ghosts’ that you helped ‘cross over’ slipping from her lips at once, with nothing than pure and genuine fondness with hints of amusement in it when each time she reminded something funny that you did.

Geto opened his mouth to answer, but no words ringed in the air. Shoko noticed the way his body stiffened, as if after pondering his words he decided to hold them back from her, but she feigned ignorance at that gesture, watching with the corner of her eyes his posture straightening back on his feet.

“Do you like her?”

For once Shoko felt taken aback, eve if totally aware his friend would’ve come up to that conclusion in a matter of time. It was one of the reasons she appreciated talking to him in first place, without retorting to long and useless explanations or specified details, for all of that didn’t align with her persona. Suguru was the mirror to her inner self, needed when her mind became too clustered and messy with many thought swirling around.

“It’s nice, being with her” she shrugged. But Geto’s assertive expression transpired, as Shoko would’ve come to learn after, the many doubts that were already haunting him.

“Just don’t trust her easily” and with that last sentence, he left.

●

Four weeks passed since that day. Four weeks filled with the same doubts that never seemed to cease, increasing and becoming louder even in your absence. Shoko’s phone signaling another incoming message from its place on the desk —your messages, shifting from confused tones coming from her own disappearance to something more worrying. Funny was how Shoko could hear your voice through the massages, very much fretting the more the clock ticked by.

Four weeks like this.

Until Shoko gained some strength to take the phone and reassure you with a short text that yes, she was fine, just a little tired from the unexpected hard time at school that required her whole attention. An half lie that she was sure it would work.

One afternoon, Shoko acted on her impulses again. She couldn’t even explain how she came to this conclusion, her mind bringing up the idea to take a moment for the three of them, a moment as the trio they were not long ago, thinking that it could’ve brought some comfort, a sense of familiarity after what had happened.

This is how they ended up at the café run by your parents, sitting at the table she used to think was hers alone, waiting for their orders to arrive. Gojo and Geto sitting close to her, but feeling more distant.

You noticed them walking in, but did not approach. Limiting yourself to a cheery nod in her direction while staying at the counter, helping your father with the many orders placed. Nevertheless, Shoko noticed how your eyes seemed to linger to the table next to the garden’s door, linger to the three of them with shades of blue, your expression now more sad than anxious. As if you could really see through them.

Shoko was smoking her cigarette, as the routine between your meetings imposed, waiting for your arrival and stories with the ghost you ha helped that day. She didn’t even have to wait long, the door opening with a soft creak that gave away your presence, stopping in front of her with your arms crossed on the chest and eyes on the ground. Not the usual grin adorning your face, not your eyes crinkle and glimmering under the warm sun rays, even your body movements were nothing than a crafted imitation of a shell.

“What happened when you disappeared?” You asked, eyes glued to the tiny leaves on the ground.

Shoko tried her best to sound normal, to keep together the fake ease she carefully crafted on the train ride, pushing a strand of her hair behind the ear. “Well, same old things” she answered you, “all the homework I procrastinated came to chase me down”. But you didn’t laugh, didn’t shrug off the half assed attempt to cover up what really happened, your expression still firm and discouraged from where you stayed.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t ignoring you” she tried again after several seconds of silence. You never were silent with her.

And that worked. You finally diverted the gaze from the ground, setting your eyes on her, but this time Shoko couldn’t see nothing than your firmness. “You’ve changed”

“Positively, I hope?” The brunette tried again with a small chuckle but your gaze did not quaver.

“No, because you’re lying”

Shoko felt stunned. Among all the absurd, bizzarre things you two had told each other, never once you doubted her words and now you were contesting the most innocent of sentences?

“There’s a girl… with black hair and a braid that looks at your friends. Who is she?”

Shoko should’ve been stunned, her heartbeat probably increasing and eyes widening. The confirmation that all of your stories had always been true, that the ghosts you helped were always there unable for her to see. You could see Amanai standing there. Instead, in the same way as you, Shoko stopped being surprised.

“A girl we failed to help”

●

The established routine between the two of you recomposed itself easily.

Shoko’s visits became more frequent, lately meeting often outside the four walls of the café, sometimes meeting up for some shopping together or some quiet visits in a natural landscape. Ordinary, peaceful activities that Shoko could only ever dreamt of with Gojo and Geto. Her favorite moments, though, were the afternoons spent in your house (which was located on the upper floor of the building) when you didn’t know what to do or were left with no ideas. Many moments of that kind were spent rotting on bed lazily with magazines you used as proofs, to keep her updated about te ongoing gossip between an idol or reading out necrologies on the newspaper, preparing yourself in case some ghosts would chase you down on the street. A constant moving from one aspect of your personality to the other.

In one of those moments, you rested on your side facing Shoko whilst talking her ear off about a classmate followed by tiny, cute ghosts of at least seven hamsters. It seemed like she didn’t understand that her parents replaced them once dead, all of them identical since the girl kept talking about the same one, describing a healthy and long life worth a record. Shoko only followed half the story, noticing later that her mind was busy with other things. Her eyes fixed on your lips, not really understanding a word you were saying but following closely the movements with enthrallment.

You noticed her sudden silence, just as you approached the end of that silly story, and in a bout of self-conciousness you sucked your lips in. That broke the spell effectively, Shoko’s eyes rising up to meet yours just to laugh it off.

It was not a single episode.

Moments like this one quickly growing in number easily as the dynamic of your relationship began shifting to something else. From an initial challenge to discover who was the liar between you two (or so Shoko fiercely believed at that time) to a more teasing one, waiting for the day one of you would address and break that barrier. Often acknowledged but left hanging in the air, neither of you ready to face it.

●

Shoko disappeared again, like those four weeks in August but yet differently from that time. She didn’t answer your texts and neither the long, ripetitive rings that you busied yourself with more times in a single day. Anxiety became worry, then angry and at the very end, sadness.

Weeks became a blur in your eyes, not keeping the count of how many days passed anymore, stuck in a vortex of different emotions playing in your chest. You started projecting your frustrations on your parents, after a while, refusing them the help they needed down in the café.

You also started to deliberately ignore the spirits chasing you on the streets, begging to be listened, making them mix in a parade of pleas growing louder each day behind your back whilst you kept your pout and head lowered on your way to your home.

Until you stopped trying to contact Shoko. It was useless.

You saw her again on a random day, while busy moving some boxes around of a big order placed by your father some days ago. She was there, silently watching as you placed another box on the shelf, and you didn’t know what to feel first. Anger? The desperate need to scream all of your frustration on her? The sleepless nights wondering what had happened for her to disappear on you again? Or maybe grabbing her and checking out yourself if she was alright, if everything was alright.

The initial surprise swelling inside your chest flickering like the flame of a candle under the pressure of all those bottled, mixed sensations you were feeling. The weight becoming overwhelming as your eyes noticed an important detail.

“Sorry, study chased me down again”

“Liar” was your quick answer. You didn’t mean it, the word falling from your lips as a reflex. But at this point you could sourly see how you almost got used to Shoko sudden disappearances.

Shoko smiled. Your eyes dimming as you traced the heavy bags under her eyes, a blue and purple undertone to them, the exhausted demeanor and her silence that louder than any words she could speak of. Her body slimmer in a way that made you feel dizzy, sick to your stomach at the repercussions she sported on her body.

“Can you see him?”

And you could only nod at that feeble question. Staring into the figure of a young boy with cheerful brown eyes, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes while you felt yours swelling with tears. Death touching Shoko for the second time in less than a month. You nodded again.

“He says he’s happy that you’re not alone”

Shoko didn’t say anything else, processing your words slower than any other time as you offered a comfortable silence. You didn’t move from your place as you watched her careful hide her face, eyes glued on the ground to not face you. Your ears perking at her mutters, not asking for any explanation of sort, not prying or eavesdropping.

But there was one thing you understood, one coherent mumble that had your heart crumbling in different pieces. One word only: “Haibara”

●

Geto Suguru left the school not much than a few weeks following Haibara’s death.

Shoko closed with a loud thump her phone, lids falling heavy and promptly, gently cradled by your perfume imprinted on the sheets of your bed, the soft humming of your voice under the spray of the shower reaching her ears nonetheless —even with the door of the bathroom separating you two.

Gojo answered with the same, monotonous ‘yes’, ‘ok’ and ‘I’ll come back shortly’ every time she tried to contact him by texts, asking how his mission was going or a simple ‘how are you holding up?’ following Suguru’s defection. He had made of his dorm room a refuge of sorts, drowning more and more in the new missions assigned to him, hiding behind the excuse that he had to study, to train, to define better his still new ability of reverse cursed technique. Shoko avoided the campus as much as she could, stepping under the traditional gates just to follow Yaga’s lessons and her duties rooted inside the morgue she was growing indifferent to. Her favorite place to relax and shut off her mind moving from that corner behind the gymnasium to the four walls of your room, where she felt free to breath properly.

With you it was different.

There was no such thing as an ‘embarrassing bubble’ that shouldn’t be acknowledged, on the contrary, you persisted for her to talk about her feeling or you began to recognize its presence from nothing. It was the conclusion she came to after an afternoon similar to this one, where you were busy studying at your desk and her sprawled on the bed absentmindedly staring at the ceiling.

The lack of attention coming from her must have been more prominent that she’d imagine because that day you had thrown yourself in a tight hug, on hand resting at the base of her neck to push Shoko resting her chin on your shoulder.

Holding her against your body as some sighs escaped your lips, an attempt to make her aware that all of those tragic events were catching up on you. But while Shoko understood that, a side of her couldn’t help but notice the notes of your perfume or how you felt good between her arms. Pieces of a puzzle that matched perfectly.

You knew of Geto, or at the very least you knew that a dear friend of her left the school in bad terms. Your attention and gentleness reserved for a situation so ‘simple’ having left her even more stunned (and whipped).

On her hand, Shoko knew that she felt angry, confused and sad on the surface. But deep down she was also aware of how this insane situation would end up changing her relentlessly. Nevertheless, there wouldn’t be any Suguru helping her figuring out the many emotions swirling in a tumultuous current inside her brain.

She had lost another friend.

The unexpected spring in your steps coming from the bathroom made her thoughts scatter around and fade in thin air, the wetness lingering on your skin meeting the wood of the floor in a excited rhythm that it proved to be effective for her. And then, with a boisterous gesture, you opened the door of the bathroom, damp hair sticking to the soft texture of your shirt but you seemed clueless to the wet patch growing on your back.

“Look! I did it!”

Shoko furrowed her brows, now sitting on the bed confused by the big grin lighting your face. “What?"

“Look at my hip!” And only after your finger pointed the skin she noticed it. A temporary tattoo, one that would fade away after some washes and fierce rubs of soap, glittering under the light probably coming from one of the many magazines you read. It was the drawing of a butterfly, pink lines dotted with sparkles and shimmer. It was cute.

Shoko stared at it in a sort of trance, partially thinking back to the unanswered texts she had sent to Gojo since that morning. On the other side her eyes seemed glued to that bare bit of skin you were proudly showing, a new one she haven’t had the occasion to see up until that very moment, tracing it and caressing it avidly with her her eyes.

The charm breaking as you huffed and pouted for the lack of answer. Shoko turned to you, following with her gaze as you sat closely on the bed. Right next to her.

“Won’t your school punish you for that?"

You huffed again, this time rolling your eyes. “I’ll cover it with the skirt, of course! You’re talking as if you’re not the one smoking between lessons anyway”

Shoko could only chuckle at your remark, having being caught red-handed by your words. You didn’t bother, lying on the bed carelessly and staring at the tattoo adorning your hip.

“It’s cute… it suits you” she let out with a smile, lowering her head to take a better look at the glittered lines. The butterfly sitting nicely against the hipbone, a nice shimmer to it that made your skin color stand out gracefully. Those words seemed to fuel your grin, and for that Shoko was glad.

“If they would expel me for this little thing, I would be happy actually. I’m tired of that boring school”

“You wouldn’t want that to happen” the corners of her lips soured a bit at the timing of your joke. Lowering herself just to be at your level and being able to look you in the eyes.

A beat.

Then a playful “would you still be my friend even if I was a girl without education?”

“I can accept the ghosts, but not this”

Shoko kept going back to the still exposed hip, the butterfly catching her eyes more than she’d like to admit it.

“I can accept the ghosts, but not this”

Shoko kept going back to the still exposed hip, the butterfly catching her eyes more than she’d like to admit it.

“Hello, hello?” You tried to call her back, noticing her unusual lack of concentration. One of your finger circling in the air in front of her eyes, as if poking an invisible barrier, “can I burst the bubble of your thoughts?”

It was a random choice of words, one that you evidently didn’t put a lot of effort into. Yet, Shoko felt a chill running down her back at the odd choice, too close to hers, a metaphor that she didn’t let it out from her lips in front of you, rather keeping it seal in her mind each time she had to describe her clumsy way to handle her emotions.

And once again, she found herself acting on her impulses. Forgetting about how nice the painted lines seemed to kiss your skin, her eyes meeting yours as if stuck in a haze that numbed her senses. Her hands growing closer to your cheeks and cupping ever so tenderly to lead you close, closer to her. The first brush of lips sending a shiver down the curve of your back, clumsy, not entirely touching at first. Still dancing around a line she was set to cross in one way.

Then, you felt her lips on yours. The kiss itself slow, a tentatively one to test your reaction, to see if you were fine with it. It lasted a few seconds, but you didn’t give her a chance to grow the distance between your lips, immediately chasing after them and sealing them in another one. And another one, another one just as Shoko hoped.

Was there something that couldn’t be left unseen by you, at this point?

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

On a Technicality Part 2

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: implied/referenced abuse, starvation, touch-starvation

Pairings: intrulogical

Word Count: 3244

"A sacrifice for you," the zealot says quickly, trying to appeal to the demon's focus, "a token of our appreciation and worship."

The demon's head tilts. Remus looks up at them, pain and blood loss working in tandem to make it a struggle to even keep his eyes open, his vision growing fuzzier again. The demon's fingers twitch.

"O Great and Powerful—"

"Are these people bothering you, my dear?

***

Remus is having a wonderful dream.

The barn is warm, for once, like he's been able to sneak up to the rafters after the sun's been out all day, and he gets to lie on the bare boards and soak it in like some big, plump housecat. There's a light gust of air blowing, which means that the smell doesn't stick to his skin and linger. Instead, it just smells very faintly of grass and woodsmoke. Honestly, quite pleasant, all things considered. And his clothes feel like actual clothes for once! Not like the hay wraps and potato sacks he has to fashion his normal stuff out of, these feel like actual clothes clothes, like fabric that won't tear on the first sharp piece of metal he scrapes by.

He shifts a little, trying to nuzzle his face into the sunlit patch, and the sunlight rumbles back. That's a bit weird, sunlight normally doesn't make noise, but who is Remus to judge? He makes all sorts of noises that he isn't 'supposed' to make, and that doesn't stop him, so that's cool. The sunlight seems to approve of his thought process and another wave of warmth passes through his hair. So maybe the sun has hands too. That's also cool.

Would the moon have hands too?

The dream shifts; the sun sets but not unhappily, the sky turning pink, then orange, then red, then down to a soft and rich blue. The moon comes out—Remus likes the moon. Sometimes. Most of the time it's nice, because then he can see what he's doing when he goes to look for food and shelter. But sometimes when—

Clattering. Yelling. The burn of torches. Fear grips his chest with iron hands and—

Shh, the moon whispers, cool touch gliding gently down his spine—so the moon has hands too? Awesome—and the mob fades into mist. None of that, now, little one.

The moon is nice. Most of the time. Remus likes the moon.

I'm sure it likes you too.

Yeah—wait, what? Why is the moon talking about itself in third person?

The moon rumbles again, like the sun did, and ruffles his hair. I'm not the moon, little one, as flattering as the comparison may be.

Remus furrows his brow, curling up a little more, trying to shift into the warmth again. The warmth is more solid this time and he can't quite move into it—oh, but it shifts a little and it wraps around him, that's nice. He's still confused but at least he's warmer now. There's another rumble, another quiet thing that Remus can still feel in his cheek where it's pressed against the boards, though now that he thinks of it, these boards don't feel very much like boards. They're…softer, somehow. There aren't any gaps for the freezing wind to come through when the night is at its peak.

"I'm not boards either." The hands—or one of them at least, a hand settles at the base of his skull, smoothing a thumb over the place where his neck meets his ear. "Shh, you're alright. Just wake up slowly, you're still likely to be exhausted. You haven't slept for that long."

He mumbles. An ache suddenly reaches his chest, sinking through his ribs, his spine, right down to the ends of his fingers and down his legs. Like he's had to swim across the river to get away from the dogs, and then swim back in the same night because it's dangerous to spend so much time in the forest after dark. But he hadn't gone swimming yesterday, at least he doesn't think so, so what's—

Oh.

Oh, right.

The zealots. The summoning circle. The demon.

So that probably means that the hands and rumbling that he felt weren't the sun and the moon—why the fuck would he think that?—but were actually…

"Shh, shh," he hears, murmured tenderly into his ears as the hand at the back of his head cards through his hair, "you're alright, little one. Don't move so much, your body's still bound to be exhausted from all that happened."

But he's awake now. And being awake means that he can't ignore the fact that he's trying to snuggle up to a fucking demon.

Remus takes a deep breath and slowly, slowly tries to pull away from the demon's hold. The hand on the back of his neck flexes and for a moment, his heart nearly stops out of desperation, but then it gentles and he sits up, wincing at the tug in his muscles. He blinks a few times to shake the sleep from his eyes, only to frown when he sees a stone floor instead of a wooden one. Did—they didn't leave the abandoned building? It's still nighttime? How long has he been asleep?

"Remus?"

He turns on instinct and electric blue eyes meet his. He swallows despite himself.

"There you are," the demon murmurs—Logan, Logan, that's right, his name was Logan— "are you doing well, dear?"

"I, uh—I'm—"

Logan's brow furrows in concern. "Is there something wrong with your throat? Are you in pain?"

Soft fingers brush against the front of his neck and he flinches on instinct, only for the arm still around his back to tighten just enough to keep him from falling. They do it again, still as light as anything, and Logan hums.

"I can't feel anything," he says softly, "did you strain it yesterday? I heard you scream as I was summoned, or perhaps from the crying?"

If it were asked in anything other than this painfully soft voice, Remus might have been offended or chastened by it. Instead, all he feels is a strange feeling in his gut that he tries to swallow away. "No. 'M fine."

"That's a relief. You still seem to be sore, though…the combination of the magic and the injuries are still taking time to work themselves out, I believe." His hand rubs at Remus's shoulder, right over where the knife had plunged into him. "Does this hurt at all?"

The tingling-burning sensation of being touched is back, but other than that, no. He shakes his head. Logan smiles and adjusts his grip—he's still in his lap. He's still in the demon's fucking lap, what the fuck, what the fuck—

"Hey, hey, it's alright, little one, I'm just shifting so you can lean against the wall if you'd like." The hand cupping the back of his head tilts him back until it gently bumps against something solid. Logan shifts his grip to his hips, and now he's balancing in the demon's lap, leaned back against the wall with his hands idly stroking his hips and sides. Sure. This is his fucking life right now. "Is that comfortable?"

"Mhm."

The shift from being pressed up against a warm demon to the cold air makes him shiver, though, and he wraps his arms around himself. Logan notices with a chuckle.

"And yet you've immediately covered a vulnerable part of yourself."

"It's cold," he mumbles, trying not to sound like a petulant child and failing. Logan chuckles again, hands sliding under Remus's arms to press against his tummy. "Wha—oh."

"Is that better?"

"You're so warm."

"I'm afraid I can ascribe only part of that to being a demon," he says, "the rest of it…"

"Touch-starved," Remus mumbles, "right."

"Don't look so despondent, it's hardly through fault of your own." When Remus is quiet for a moment too long, he tilts his head. "Is it?"

"I mean…sort of?"

"Have you sworn off touching other mortals?"

"What? No."

"Have you implemented some sort of system whereby anyone who lays hand on you shall suffer poor harvests for the next three years?" Remus stares at him. "Or do you carry some curse that would pass gruesome boils onto whomever made direct contact with your skin?"

"Those seem like they're really specific examples."

Logan shrugs. "Well?"

"No, I haven't done any of those things. Or—had them done to me."

"Then how could you be responsible for your own touch starvation?" The hands on his stomach are really, really fucking warm. "Don't apologize for needing something that you have been deprived of."

"Demons aren't supposed to be this tender," Remus blurts out.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The one thing he's fucking not supposed to do is piss off the only person that's been kind to him for as long as he can fucking remember. But oh, no, Remus is not allowed to have nice things, he has to open his big fucking mouth and ruin them. Maybe he really is cursed, that he can't think before he speaks for two fucking seconds, but it's not his fault, it's not, he just thinks of them and then he says them because everyone always talks about how important it is to ask that things make sense and to say what he's feeling but not him, oh, no, not him, not Remus—

"Oh, little one," he hears faintly, and then the hands on his stomach are pressing gently to help him slow his breathing, "shh, calm down, now, it's alright. I'm not offended."

"You're—you're not?"

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. "I suppose I'm not acting as the rumors about my kind would have you believe, it's no pain to have you ask about it. You don't have to fret so much. You're far too sweet."

Sweet? Sweet? Remus isn't sweet. Remus is a pest, pests aren't sweet. When he voices that thought too, Logan frowns, and his fingers flex ever so slightly.

Remus squeaks.

Confusion ripples across Logan's expression before a slow smile spreads across his face. He does it again, just a little, and it sends a jolt through Remus's tummy. He chuckles.

"Ticklish?"

Remus doesn't say a fucking word. Logan spreads his fingers and does it again and Remus squirms—

"I think that's a 'yes,' little one."

"Don't!" Remus squeaks when his hands start to move again, trying to move away from this weird feeling that is too warm and too weird and it's making his stomach do all sorts of weird flips and Logan chuckles again. "Don't do that, it feels—it feels weird."

Logan's smile fades. "Have you never been tickled before?"

Remus shakes his head and Logan hums, hands moving to his sides just to hold him.

"Another time, perhaps."

"Wait, what do you mean, 'another time?'"

"I meant what I said, you know," Logan remarks, the smile returning, "you're very interesting, little one. Do you really expect me to just leave you be? When my curiosity has been piqued?"

He shifts again under the demon's watchful eye. He's not…he's not interesting. He's a pest. He's the thing the villagers chase off. He's the monster parents warn their kids about becoming. He's the thing the guards train their dogs to chase. There's nothing interesting about that.

When he says as much to Logan, though, the demon's expression darkens and his electric blue eyes almost crackle as he shifts. Some of his body turns back into that smoke Remus remembers from the ritual and despite himself, he grows smaller. That seems to tip whatever scales back in his favor, though, as Logan takes a deep breath and resolidifies.

"Perhaps I was right in my initial assessment, then," he says lowly, "that this place is plagued by those with small minds who would rather fret about themselves than endeavor to learn something for once in their pathetic lives."

The sheer derision dripping from each word isn't doing much to calm Remus down.

"And you, little one," he continues, voice deepening with something that could almost be wonder, except he's talking about Remus, and nothing about Remus is wonderful, "are fascinating. You speak so freely, and you don't have the shame that most mortals carry with their bodies, and there is so much you have yet to learn and you don't seem afraid of it…"

His smile grows and Remus swears he has a few too many teeth.

"How could I not be intrigued? How could I not be expected to want to keep you?"

"Keep me? What do you mean, keep me?"

"Precisely that. Or did you think the traditional deal for a mortal soul was simply a trifle?" When Remus can't muster the words to respond, he leans closer, bringing Remus up to meet him like he weighs nothing. "Demons are meant to be creatures of temptation as well, are we not? Can I not tempt you into letting me keep you, little one? Away from this place where they would hurt you, hunt you, could I not persuade you to let me bring you somewhere you would be treasured?"

"What—" it's hard to think with electric blue eyes on his— "what would you get out of it?"

"Aside from the pleasure of your company?" He tilts his head. "I've told you, Remus, there is so much that is interesting about you. Do you not wish to study that which you find interesting?"

A demon is telling me he wants to put me in a glass jar and study me, basically. This is fine. Is this fine? What the fuck is happening?

His hesitation must come off as disbelief—which is only partly true, the rest of him is trying to wrap his head around the fact that this is happening, still—because Logan hums and switches to holding him up with just one arm, which…is another thing he has to get over now, thanks.

"Do you not believe me still?" Before Remus can say anything, he's already opening his mouth to swipe his finger across—are those fangs? "Here, allow me…"

Remus's eyes widen as blood—it has to be blood, but then why is it black?—wells up from the cut on Logan's finger. He draws something on the floor next to them and the blood turns gold, shining in the shape of a sigil before becoming part of the stone itself. Logan smooths his thumb over the cut and it heals.

"What's that?"

"A basic protection sigil. None may enter this building without your consent now."

"…why?"

"A show of good faith. If I intended to harm you, don't you believe I would have done so by now?" The hand comes up to cradle his cheek. "I don't mean you any harm, little one. Truly."

Remus swallows. "So what do you want?"

"At some point, you'll make me believe you like hearing me say it," he teases gently, "I want to keep you. Let me learn about you, fascinating thing that you are. And in return, I will keep you safe from those who could never hope to understand you."

Well, he sure wasn't fucking kidding about demons being creatures of temptation, because that's really, really fucking tempting. But that's just it_ there's no way there isn't a catch. Is he going to be split apart like some butterfly, pinned up to be examined? Is he going to be put in a cage? What's the catch?

"You are agreeing to be taken away by a demon," Logan says wryly when he asks as much, "most would view that as the catch."

"But you're being nice. You're—you're offering to save me, not hurt me."

"Does it not speak to your current situation, then, that you would view being taken by a demon as being saved?"

That's a good fucking point. He chews on his lip absentmindedly. Logan lets him think for another moment before he sighs, bringing him close to cuddle him again.

"You could say no," he says, as gentle as ever, "and I would…well, I wouldn't be happy, but I would accept it. And I would help you remake this building into somewhere you could be safe. That sigil will hold whether you're here or not."

"You—you would what?"

"You could stay here, if you wanted. We could make it into a proper house, if you didn't want to come with me. I could visit, we could talk, but you wouldn't have to agree to be kept."

"Wouldn't this be another cage?"

Logan frowns, but it's not an angry frown. No, he looks more…melancholy. "I would never keep you if you didn't want to be kept. You're not a prisoner, Remus, you can go if you want to."

"I can?"

Another pause, and then Logan starts to pull away. As soon as his hands leave him, the cold rushes back and a mortifying noise leaves his throat. Logan hushes him but he doesn't come back, instead fully moving away and standing up. He offers a hand and Remus would be embarrassed at how fast he scrambles for it, only for Logan to catch him and steady him as he shoots to his feet.

"Easy," he murmurs, "don't rush…you're still weak from everything that happened."

Remus clings to him as he tries to get his feet under him, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and chest, and definitely ignoring the tingling warmth in his hands. Logan holds him for another moment, just to make sure he's steady, before he moves away again. Remus watches, rooted to the floor, as Logan retreats all the way to the other side of the room.

Empty stone stretches endlessly between them.

"You can go," Logan says, voice still as soft as if it were still being whispered into his ears, "I won't stop you. This isn't a test, Remus, if you truly wish to go, you can."

Remus turns to look at the door. On instinct, his body moves, walking silently across the stone to step through it cautiously. He hesitates for just a second, wondering if it was all some grand farce and pain would sear through him at any moment, but it doesn't. Instead, his foot settles in the dew-damp grass and a shaking breath leaves him.

The moon is out. The world is bathed in silvery light. He can see the silhouette of the other buildings a ways away, even the roof of the barn.

He could go. He could go back to the barn and curl up in the rafters. He could live another day, when he was so sure he was going to bleed out on some stone floor. It's cold, he realizes, with a bone-weary certainty that he's only now able to name. It's cold. It's so, so cold.

Logan is still standing there as he looks over his shoulder. Slowly, he opens his arms.

Remus all but throws himself at the demon as he races back inside, letting Logan catch him with barely a grunt, lips pressed against his ear as warm warm warm arms wrap around him once more.

"Keep me," he says in a rush, "keep me, please, please, keep me, I'll do whatever you want, please—"

"Hush, now, little one, you don't have to beg." Logan's hand runs up and down his back. "Shh, calm down, now, I'm right here, I have you."

Remus manages to draw a shuddering breath before Logan's holding the back of his skull and gently bidding him to look up. He does, meeting those electric blue eyes once more as Logan smiles.

"I will keep you, little one," he says, voice somehow sounding like it's coming from inside his head, "and in return, you will let me learn you. Does that sound fair?"

"Yes. Yes, that sounds fair, that sounds great, yes, yes."

Logan smiles with too many teeth and his eyes glow, and for the first time in so long he can't even fucking remember, Remus feels safe.

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