#because that was a compulsion. that was a compulsion.

[tricholomay]

Absolutely real. When I was 12, I started noticing that I had ALL THE SYMPTOMS OF SEVERE OCD. I told a friend in my middle school about it, and all they said was, "You should really stop looking at that stuff." I stopped talking about it, since I figured it wasn't worth mentioning again.

I let my symptoms worsen to the point where all I could do were my compulsions- literally. I couldn't sleep, eat, do homework, anything. And my sleep deprivation only made my mind worse. I started developing symptoms of psychosis along with OCD.

My mom, realizing something was really wrong with me, took me to a therapist. The therapist IMMEDIATELY clocked that I had OCD. I wasn't surprised, it was relieving really, but I was definitely upset at everyone who shut me down and denied denied denied.

If someone self diagnoses, it's likely because they don't have the means to get a proper diagnosis. Coming from someone who's now in college studying psychology, please treat people who self diagnose or say they have a specific disorder seriously. Even if they end up not actually having the disorder, they're likely to end up having another disorder.

If you persistently deny someone treatment, their lives will be at risk. This goes for both physical and mental disabilities. Do better.

what abled ppl think is a massive problem for disabled folks: 13 year old on the internet faking something

what is actually a massive problem for disabled folks: "well you don't LOOK disabled, are you sure you're not faking? I'm not giving you accommodations until you PROVE you're not faking. Please give me, a stranger, your medical info and explain your condition to me in detail so I know you're not faking and only then will I respect or take you seriously"

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

A den of arms and a waste of time

(Dean Winchester x female reader)

Summary Dean comes to you in the night, and you always know what he needs. CWs Needy Dean. No smut, but sexual content. Unconventional relationships. Love. 18+. 2k words.

Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Dean comes to you in the night, and you turn yourself into an instrument for his comfort.

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment it started, became what it is now, because there’s so many different phases you’ve gone through.

At the beginning, it’s just sex. Good sex, no, great sex, between friends. On paper, you were and still are nothing but colleagues, acquaintances, but on paper doesn’t account for the way you open up to each other, the way you’re pretty sure Dean hasn’t to a lot of people, and you know you haven’t. Late night talks, until the birds start singing outside, both of you bleary-eyed and tired, but your souls lighter.

When you start sleeping with each other, you’re sure that connection is going to break – you’ve long suspected Dean can’t fuck a woman and love her at the same time. And for a while, he pulls back, draws back into himself, and while you love the way your bodies work together, you grieve for your friend.

It’s not that sex with Dean isn’t fun – he’s an attentive lover, but it also feels like he’s going through the motions. A long studied script that is sure to get you off, but sometimes, sometimes, it feels like he’s not even really there. Like he’s performing, but he knows the play so well, he doesn’t need to pay attention to his lines anymore.

It’s doesn't creep you out, exactly, but it makes you unenthusiastic to continue. You can take care of yourself, and you’d rather have Dean back as your friend, where you actually feel like you are special, mean something to him. You tell him, and it confuses the hell out of him. He’s not used to being rejected – not with that face, those shoulders, that swagger. The ass. You’re a strong woman, you think to yourself. But it actually works, and after a few weeks of reacquainting yourselves with each other, you have your confidant back.

Dean still flirts with you sometimes. Oh boy, does he. You’re pretty sure he can’t help himself. It’s more a compulsion than anything else. You smile, but gently reject him.

It’s when you already live in the bunker that you start finding Dean up at night. Sometimes you hear him move deep in the bowels of the old Men of Letters construct. He’s quiet, but your hunter skills are attuned enough to hear him. Almost like a mother who can pick out her baby’s cries among a crowd of them. You push that thought away. It’s weird. But it is also true.

When you find him in those nights, he acts like he’s fine. But there’s always something weighing on him. He takes on the weight of the world like it’s nothing, like he’s used to it at this point, but you see how it tenses his jaw, how he holds himself, how often his hands are balled into fists.

It’s on one of those nights that you’re sitting next to him, talking, and your fingers land on his neck, press against the knotted muscle there. He flinches, then jokes, but something about the feeling of his skin makes you continue, and Dean doesn’t tell you to stop.

For a moment, when it starts feeling good, he looks terrified and you’re sure he’ll ask you to quit touching him in a second. But then his eyes fall closed. Goosebumps raise on his arms, you see, and you keep going, don’t talk. His breathing’s shallow.

After a few minutes of this, you get up. He blinks his eyes open, thanks you bashfully, ready to deliver another joke, but then you move behind him, lay both hands on his neck.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but then you are pressing your fingers against him again. He goes quiet. You can’t see his face, but you keep going, and after a few more minutes, you realize his breathing is slower, deeper. You keep touching that soft skin of his when suddenly his shoulders are shaking. You run your hand over the back of his head, through that soft hair.

“Dean?” you say quietly and lean forward. His eyes are closed. His expression is…

You can’t describe it. It hangs somewhere between pain and lust. And there’s tears running down his cheeks.

He wakes from it a second later. Runs the back of his hand over his face as horror sets in, horror at his perceived weakness. He stands up, nearly sends his chair and you flying. The way he looks at you is as if you’ve just walked in on him naked, seen everything, when all this time he’s been trying to convince you that he doesn’t have skin.

Weeks of avoidance follow. Dean doesn’t look at you. He’s short with you, barely friendly, but that’s it. You try to talk to him, but he blocks you. You almost give up on it when he comes to you.

It’s a normal night, or what you would consider a normal night. You’ll never know what in that day made him change his mind. Maybe it was just time amassing, like drops in a puddle. It doesn’t matter.

The knock on your door is so gentle but it wakes you immediately. Habit of the trade.

“Yes?” you say into the dark. The door opens, a strip of light falling in. He doesn’t turn on the light. He doesn’t want you to see him.

“Dean, are you okay?” you ask quietly, but he doesn’t answer. There’s a moment where you wonder if something terrible is about to happen, or already has happened, and he’s going to tell you about it. He closes the door behind him and you hear him move towards you, towards your bed. Then he sits at the edge of it. He’s quiet for a while.

“Can you do it again?” he asks and you are lost for a moment, and then you understand. The thing that has caused this chasm between you.

“Come here,” you say, and tug on his arm. He doesn’t budge for a moment, but then you say: “Dean, I’m tired, I want to lay down.” He follows you down onto the bed.

He lies next to you, and your hands find his neck, start massaging. He makes a noise in his throat. It’s difficult from this angle, though, and you really are tired, made infinitely more tired by the big, warm body beside you, so you change to running your hand over his back, up and down and up and down. You sling one leg over him simply because it’s more comfortable. Dean sighs, a sigh so heavy it breaks your heart.

When he eventually moves, you’re sure he’ll leave. But he doesn’t. He rolls over you, kisses you, uncoordinated. Plump lips on your cheek and chin before they find your lips. He pulls at your clothes, and at his own, becomes almost frantic. When he finally pushes into you his breath stutters. He comes within a few thrusts, whimpers like a hurt animal. You can’t see him in the dark, but as he moves to pull out, move away, you wrap your arms around him, pull him close. He lets you. You lie like that for a long time.

So that’s how you get here, to your little ritual. You never know when Dean will show up. It’s made your sleep light, and you wake up many times throughout the night, sure that you’ve heard him. It’s fine, you tell yourself. He’s your best friend, one of the people you love the most in this world. It’s fine.

During the days, you’re joking, laughing together. Fight sometimes, but rarely. Work. Things are good, but sometimes you miss those talks you used to have. They have been exchanged for Dean’s nighttime visits.

He comes into your room and lies down next to you. Over time, the way you do things has changed a little. At some point, Dean fucked you as soon as he came to your room, but it was just that same performance as it used to be. It’s not what you want, and it’s not really what he wants, so you’ve made sure he understands not to do it. It also strangely feels like some sort of payment, and you don’t like that.

So he comes in, lies next to you, like a dog waiting to be petted. You begin running your hands over him. He’s tense as a balled fist at first. It’s half the stress of the day, but the other half you think is the fear that this is the night you’ll reject him. You rub it out of him until his shoulders go down, his breathing slows. Until he hums, content and rich, and your heart flutters so hard it makes you dizzy.

Then you take off his clothes. Let your hands run over all that warm skin, impossibly soft, which surprises you over and over again, a map of the world speckled with scars. He should feel like touching metal, you think, considering how hard he's made himself to the outside. Sometimes you massage him and sometimes you just stroke him and sometimes you just wrap him up in your arms. You’ve learned to read the signs of what he needs each night so well.

And sometimes, but not always, you make love. It’s what you call it, but you’re not sure if it’s the least accurate or most accurate name for it. The point is that Dean’s there, he’s present, with you. When he pushes his face against your neck, he’s pushing it against your neck. When he kisses your lips, he kisses your lips. When you get on top and ride him and have him gasping and nearly sobbing under you, because he’s being touched by someone who loves him after years and years and years of only being touched by strangers, and he reaches his hands up to hold your face in them, he’s holding your face.

When you drop down next to each other, you hold him again. He presses against you like an unloved pet or a child begging for forgiveness. He tells you he loves you, and you believe him, even though with no amount of time and words could you ever describe what kind of love it is.

He’s always gone in the morning. You don’t wake up when he goes, and you’re not sure if that’s because Dean can be even quieter than you were aware of, or because your brain is being kind to you by not waking you when he leaves. It hurts, at first, and sometimes it still hurts after you’ve already been doing this for a long time. You don’t know if it’s because it actually disappoints you, or because you’ve been taught to expect love to come in a certain shape.

Sometimes you ask yourself if this whole arrangement makes you happy. It does. Touching Dean like that and being there for him, being his haven, is a pleasure the height of which you didn’t know existed. It’s intimacy on a level that’s dizzying if you look at it for too long. It also makes it impossible for anyone to ever get close to you, or him, for that matter. You occupy each other, like a reservation at a restaurant where someone does and doesn't sit at the same time. 

You chuckle to yourself, run your hands over your face. You need to stop thinking like that. Why does it need a name? Why does it need a shape? Why can’t it just be love?

You’re distracted from your thoughts by the sound of your bedroom door opening. You see his outline for a second, and then the room is swept into darkness again. Shuffling, rustling, and when you open your arms, he’s in them a second later. Strong and warm and solid, but really, you are the solid one. Dean’s the ocean crashing against your shore, and when his head lands on your chest and you hear that content hum, you hope that this is all you’ll ever need.

[orellazalonia]

The Weight of the Truth

Summary: You form an unlikely bond with Bucky Barnes during your time with the Avengers. What begins as mutual trust and quiet companionship slowly deepens into something more. However, when Bucky begins pulling away without explanation, it leaves you hurt and confused. Tension builds until a raw, emotional confrontation forces the truth out of both of you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to compel people to tell the truth against their will. Light angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 3k+

A/N: Based on the poll I ran, the majority voted Truth Compulsion and Telepathy. I chose the first for now and will do telepathy next, maybe something lighter or fun for the latter. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You weren’t born with the power to pull truth from people’s mouths. It came later in life one rainy afternoon, so suddenly, like a curse wrapped in silk. It didn’t matter how much someone wanted to lie; if you asked the question and truly wanted the answer, they had to speak it. Every word dragged from their chest like it weighed a hundred pounds. You didn’t need to raise your voice, threaten, or coax. No. Your voice simply made the truth impossible to hold in.

Some people thought it was a gift. However, you never saw it that way, knowing what people really felt, what they really meant, and what they were too afraid to say. You were too young back then when you failed to realize most people didn’t want honesty. And some truths, once spoken, couldn’t be unsaid.

Therefore, you weren’t used to people staying. Not when they learned what you could do.

Your presence alone made people uneasy, not because you were loud or threatening, but because you listened. People were afraid of what you might ask, afraid that even an innocent question like “Are you okay?” might unravel something carefully buried. Over time, you learned how to walk lightly, how to speak softly, and how to exist without pressing.

When the Avengers found you, you were a wild card to them. Useful indeed, but dangerous. You could end a fight with one question or tear a team apart with one sentence. As a result, most of them kept their distance. Not out of fear, exactly but more out of caution. As if being near you meant something deep inside them might be accidentally pulled to the surface.

Natasha was polite. Steve was kind but wary. Wanda, empathetic but unreadable. But Bucky? He didn’t avoid you. He didn’t tiptoe. That’s what made Bucky Barnes different.

He didn’t fill the space around you with noise. He didn’t dance around your power. He never stared, never fidgeted, never waited for you to break the silence with something intrusive or painful. He just… sat beside you. Quietly, like he had nothing more that could possibly be confessed considering the world knew most of his past by now.

You noticed him long before he noticed you. You picked up on how he scanned every room like someone would pop out and attack him. How he clenched his jaw every time someone brushed against him without warning. How he kept his left arm always at an angle, like he was guarding something, himself. It was like he didn’t know if he was allowed to be comfortable in his own skin.

Regardless, you never asked questions. Not even once. You gave him something rare: Space.

And in return, he gave you something rarer: Presence.

It started with him sitting near you in the common room during team meetings, even if it meant skipping an open seat to get there. Then came the training sessions, where you sparred silently, never needing to speak but always aware of each other’s limits. You matched each other’s pace like you’d done this for years. Then came the early mornings. You’d enter the kitchen with your favorite mug in hand and find him already there, black coffee in one hand, gaze out the window. The first time, he only nodded. By the third week, he was pouring you a cup before you even spoke.

You noticed the way he remembered things no one else did. That you hated synthetic fabrics, that the buzzing of certain lights gave you migraines, or that your favorite tea had to steep exactly three minutes. He didn’t say anything, he just did things. Adjusted the lighting, quietly requested your sheets be swapped for cotton, left your tea on the table with a timer set. It warmed your heart in some way. You never thanked him aloud, but you knew he felt your gratitude anyways.

In return for his kindness, you learned to read his silences.

There was a difference between when he was tired and when he was haunted. A difference between when he wanted company and when he couldn’t stand to be alone but didn’t know how to ask. On those nights, when the ghosts were louder than his thoughts, he’d find you. Sometimes just to sit beside you on the couch, sometimes to walk the perimeter of the compound in wordless patrol, and sometimes… to talk. Little things and often one sentence at a time. A memory or a sarcastic comment. Sometimes a moment of truth disguised as a joke.

You fell for him slowly. Hopelessly.

In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he watched you like he was memorizing every move, not to predict it, but to understand it. In the way he spoke of nightmares but never had them when you’d fall asleep on his couch for movie nights. In the way you never had to use your power, but he always told you the truth anyway.

You told yourself it wasn’t love. Not yet. Just admiration or connection. It was just the beginning of something you’d never be brave enough to touch.

And still, you saw the way his eyes lingered a second too long when you laughed at one of Sam’s jokes. How he stiffened whenever someone else stood too close to you. How his voice dropped an octave when he asked “You okay?” like the answer would define the rest of his night.

There was always something unfinished between you. Something neither of you dared name. So when your moments of silence became distant and suffocating, it chipped away at your sanity and heart each time.

You had always thought that silence was something you could share. Something safe. But over the last few weeks, the quiet between you and Bucky had begun to feel like an unwelcome gap, a widening chasm neither of you wanted to cross.

It started slowly. You started to notice a coldness in his gaze when he used to look at you with an unreadable warmth. Distance in his movements that used to feel comfortable, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, now felt like two pieces of glass, edges sharp and unyielding.

It was subtle too, little things you thought you could brush off. Like when you’d walk into the common room after a long day and find him sitting there, but when you sat next to him, his shoulders would stiffen. He’d give a tight smile, then turn his attention back to the mission reports without saying much. Or when you found yourself at the training mats together, and he’d deliberately avoid your eye contact when he used to be the first one to look at you after a move. You wondered if he was just tired, or if it was something else but it didn’t feel like tiredness.

Then came the mission.

It was a routine operation. It was a simple extraction clean and precise. You and Bucky worked seamlessly together, as always. He covered your back while you disabled the security system. You moved in tandem, a perfect machine. But when you completed the mission, something shifted in the air. It was like he was pulling away, retreating into himself again. He didn’t speak much during the debriefing, and when you caught him glancing at you, there was something unfamiliar in his expression. Something distant. Something… closed off.

That night, when you returned to the compound, you thought it was just the usual exhaustion from a mission. But Bucky didn’t act like himself. He didn’t come by the kitchen for the usual quiet company. He hadn’t sat next to you during team discussions. He didn’t even bother to make small talk as he passed you in the hall. You caught him avoiding your gaze, his face a mask of calm, but his posture rigid.

It confused you. And it hurt more than you cared to admit.

Had you said something wrong? Done something wrong?

You spent the next few days wondering if you were the cause of it. Maybe he’d gotten too comfortable around you, and now he needed space. Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with whatever had started between you. He was still Bucky, still the same guy who’d saved your life more times than you could count. But now, everything felt like an impenetrable wall.

You didn’t want to push him. You never wanted to be that person. You never wanted to be the one who pried, the one who pushed when someone needed time to process. After all, your powers had long pried out the secrets and words of too many people to count. But Bucky was never like this before. His silences were always comfortable. The absence of his presence now felt like it was hollow, like it was filled with unsaid words and unexplored tension.

You tried to get his attention, at first, with small gestures. A shared look during a team briefing. A subtle joke meant to make him laugh. A fleeting touch of your hand on his arm when you walked by. But each time, he stiffened or pulled away. It wasn’t like him.

The hardest part was not knowing what you’d done. Maybe you had said something wrong, maybe you’d done something that made him close off. It wasn’t like you had any experience in relationships, not any real honest connections. You weren’t even sure what you and Bucky had, but you had thought it was something good and worth holding onto.

Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you both only seemed to grow. There were moments when he was still around, when he still spoke to you in clipped sentences, still walked beside you when the missions called for it. But there was no warmth behind it. No understanding or connection like before. And every time you tried to talk to him to try and ask what was wrong, he’d pull back. His responses were short, almost guarded. Every time you tried to bridge the gap, he’d distance himself further.

-

Finally, one night, after yet another cold interaction, you couldn’t take it anymore. You cornered him in the hallway. His steps faltered when he saw you, but you weren’t going to let him walk away this time.

"Bucky," You called out, your voice a mix of frustration and hurt. "What’s going on? You’re avoiding me."

He stiffened, eyes darting to the floor. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was fighting a battle inside himself. “I’m not avoiding you," He muttered, but you could hear the lie in his voice. It wasn’t convincing and you knew it wasn’t the truth.

"Then why is it like this? What did I do?" You couldn’t keep the edge of desperation out of your voice. “You’ve been pulling away from me for weeks now and I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re driving me crazy, Bucky.”

His jaw clenched as he stood there for a moment in silence before he finally looked at you. His eyes were wide, vulnerable in a way that scared you. This wasn’t Bucky Barnes, the man who always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and kept his emotions under lock and key. This man, standing in front of you, was someone broken, someone you couldn’t fix with a touch or a kind word.

"Is it because of the mission?" You pushed gently, your voice softer. "Did I mess up somehow? If I did, just tell me. I’ll fix it."

Bucky shook his head slowly, his hand running through his hair in frustration. "No. It’s not the mission. It’s…" He looked away, and for the first time in a long while, you saw the weight of everything he’d been hiding in his eyes. "It’s me."

You were silent for a moment, the realization creeping up slowly. Your heart beat in your chest as you tried to keep your voice steady. "Bucky, you’re scaring me. You’re shutting me out, and I don’t know why."

“Just… nevermind. Forget it. Goodnight.” He said tightly, moving to depart with his gaze incapable of facing you directly.

It was then that something inside you snapped. The years of silence and loneliness, of holding back, and of not letting your power show when it was the only thing that might break through. You had to know the truth. You had to hear him say it. You had no other choice. You couldn’t just keep waiting for him to open up not after you’ve tried relentlessly and hopelessly the past couple of weeks.

You focused. You’d never used your ability on him before, not because you were afraid of the power, but because you never wanted him to experience another situation where he had no control. You were afraid of what you might find if you pushed him too hard; but tonight, you weren’t going to let him walk away.

You took a deep breath, your voice steadier than you felt, mentally asking for his forgiveness as you spoke firmly. “Bucky, I need you to answer me. Why are you really pushing me away?”

His body stiffened. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought against your words, as if he could physically resist them. But it was futile. The pull of your power was subtle, like an invisible tether pulling at him, a force beyond his control.

His mouth opened, and for a moment, it was as if he tried to choke back the words. It was like he tried to shove them down into the depths of his mind where he thought they’d stay buried forever. But they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged, his voice betraying him in a way you hadn’t expected.

”Because if I let myself love you,” Bucky whispered, his eyes flickering with the weight of the confession, ”I don’t know if I could survive losing you too.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the cracks in the armor that he’d built around himself. The fear, the raw terror, that if he let himself love again, he wouldn’t be able to bear the inevitable heartbreak. Because Lord knows how much he’s lost and had to grieve in his life.

You didn’t know what to say. For a moment, everything felt like it was frozen in time. You’d never seen him so exposed, so raw and it made your heart ache for him.

His breath hitched, like he was waiting for you to run, waiting for you to take his confession as an excuse to push him away, just as he had done to you.

"What do you mean?" You were barely breathing, every word feeling too heavy to bear.

"I’m not good for you," He spoke softly. "You deserve someone who doesn’t drag you down with their demons." He took a step back, shaking his head. "I can’t give you what you want. What you need."

And there it was. The wall he’d been building between you had a name: fear. Fear of opening up or of what you might see. Fear of the man he used to be and the damage he’d done.

But you weren’t afraid. You never were, not of him.

"I don’t need you to be perfect,” You stepped closer, heart hammering, and placed your hand on his chest. "I just need you to be here."

His breath hitched at your words. For a moment, you thought he might step back again. That he might raise those walls so high you’d never reach him. But he didn’t move. Instead, he just stood there, chest rising beneath your hand, heart pounding steadily under your touch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You repeated softly, like a promise. “Even if you try to push me away.”

He closed his eyes, and something in him cracked, right there in front of you. Not loudly or with any dramatics. But it was like watching winter thaw, slow and quiet and inevitable.

“I tried to stay away,” Bucky admitted, his voice low, rough, like it hurt to speak. “I thought if I could put some space between us, it’d fade. That maybe I could stop wanting you.”

The confession landed like a lightning bolt. Your lips parted, a thousand emotions flooding you at once: relief, confusion, heartbreak, hope.

“You tried to stop wanting me?” Your voice echoed, barely above a whisper.

His eyes opened then, meeting yours, and you saw it, everything he’d been holding back. All the pain, fear, and longing. “I’ve wanted you for months,” He said. “Maybe longer. But I thought if I kept my distance, you’d find someone better. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming. Someone who hasn’t done what I’ve done.”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. “But I don’t want someone better,” You said quietly. “I want you.”

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t quite believe it. “Even after everything?”

You nodded slowly, fiercely. “Especially after everything. Because I’ve seen you, Bucky. Not just the soldier. Not an assassin. You. The man who watches bad movies with me in silence. The one who always notices when I’m tired or hurting and doesn’t say a word, just sits a little closer. The one who remembers how I take my coffee. Who makes me feel safe, even when everything else falls apart.”

He looked away for a heartbeat, jaw tight, like he was trying to keep himself together.

You moved forward, stepping a little closer. Your heart racing as you added in a firmer voice. “And you don’t get to decide that you’re unworthy of being wanted. Not for me. Not when I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time.”

And that, broke something in him. He exhaled sharply, like the weight he’d been carrying finally tipped over. His hand came up hesitantly before it settled over yours on his chest, warm and shaking.

“I don’t know how to do this,” He admitted. “I’m not good at… feeling.”

“That’s okay,” You whispered. “You don’t have to be. I’m not asking you to be perfect. Just to let me in.”

He looked at you like you were sunlight cracking through a storm cloud, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. “You already are.”

And then, slowly, carefully, he leaned in. It wasn’t rushed nor desperate. Just real. When his lips met yours, it was tentative, like a question. But when you kissed him back, it became an answer. One you’d both been waiting for.

[lune-moon-nuit]

"...cause I love her and I CAN'T LOSE her AGAIN"

“I'm just trying to demonstrate how careless Max is with Eleven's powers. In fact, how careless all of you are. You're treating her like some kind of machine when she's not a machine, and I don't want her to die looking for the flayed when they've obviously vanished off the face of the Earth. So can we please just come up with a new plan because I love her and I can't lose her again.”

Mike’s most quoted line in Season 3 — “Because I love her and I can’t lose her again” — is often cited as definitive proof of his love for Eleven. But this statement, when viewed in full context, is a trauma response rather than a heartfelt romantic confession.

What’s hilarious is that the reason why he said that is literally in the sentence itself: the trauma. It’s ironic that this scene is being used as the ultimate proof, when in reality, it perfectly illustrates Mike’s core issue. The trauma of having watched her sacrifice herself to protect him, after he’d spent the entire first season urging her to use her powers (he literally said it in season 1 that she was a weapon). What pushed him to say this was the accumulation of all the unresolved trauma he experienced throughout Seasons 1 and 2—and that doesn’t exactly strengthen your argument, because…

The trauma begins in Season 1. Mike forms a fast, intense bond with Eleven while Will is missing. He projects his grief, fear, and protective instincts onto her.

Expanding upon the notion that trauma lies at the heart of Mike and Eleven's relationship, it's significant to note that the moment Mike kisses Eleven in Season 1 occurs on the very same day he effectively attempted suicide by leaping into the quarry—an act from which she rescued him. From that point forward, he perceives himself as entirely indebted to her. Not only had he already idealized her as his only hope of finding Will, but she now embodied the literal reason he was still alive. Layered atop this is the influence of those around him—Lucas, Dustin, and even Nancy—who had begun to suggest he harbored romantic feelings toward her. Combined with his own confused emotions, the pedestal upon which he placed her from the very beginning due to the almost mythic timing of her arrival in his life, it constructs what appears to be a perfect narrative. And as a Dungeon Master and an aspiring storyteller, Mike is especially susceptible to such emotionally charged, almost archetypal storylines. Within this context, it becomes entirely plausible that he would interpret his overwhelming emotions—rooted in trauma, gratitude, and projection—as romantic love. That this kiss occurred on the very day of a near-death experience he never references again (and may never have shared with anyone besides those present) underscores the depth of repression and denial involved. Fundamentally, their relationship is born out of mutual trauma and survivor’s guilt. It is a structure of codependency rather than genuine romantic affection. Personally, I believe that had Mike not jumped into the quarry, and had Eleven not saved him, he would not have kissed her that night.

From the moment Eleven disappears at the end of Season 1 after using her powers to save him and their friends, Mike internalizes guilt and blame. He had encouraged her to keep using her powers, to push herself, and to fight — and she seemingly died because of it. He urges her to use her powers repeatedly, culminating in her presumed death. For nearly a year, Mike believes she died because he pushed her too far, he grieved her, believing it was his fault. This established a psychological pattern of guilt and a compulsive need to protect her, not because of romantic love, but as a trauma response.

If he truly loved her romantically, he would’ve reacted with joy and emotional fulfillment at the end of Season 3, when El told him she heard what he said and that she loves him too. He would’ve kissed her back, smiled, said something, even if he was surprised. The truth of that scene is, ironically, a perfect summary of how Mike—his point of view and his emotions—is misunderstood by the other characters and also by the audience. Because he is incapable of truly communicating or expressing his emotions.

That scene is literally Mike breaking down in a full-blown panic, triggered by his unresolved trauma: the fear of loss and abandonment caused by Will’s disappearance in Season 1, El’s absence and presumed death in Season 2, the helplessness of watching Will be possessed and nearly die, the massacre at the lab (gosh let’s be honest, Michael Wheeler urgently needs therapy, I did a post cut in two part : here and here who develop more and where I was already mentioning how this scene says a lot about Mike mental health), and finally, his survivor’s guilt for having encouraged El to use her powers to the point where she “died” right before his powerless eyes. This scenario is a mirror of Season 1's climax, and Mike’s panic reveals a deep-rooted fear of repeating past events.

For a whole year, he believed he was the reason El was dead. And the very argument that triggered that line was literally about whether or not El should keep pushing herself and her powers to the limit to stop Billy—when she had already nearly died doing exactly that. So yes, when Mike says, "Because I love her and I CAN’T LOSE HER AGAIN," it's true. Because, breaking news: Mike does love El. He deeply cares about her. He feels the need to protect her. He carries immense guilt over what happened to her, which only amplifies his desperate need to protect her now and avoid repeating the same mistake that, in his eyes, led to her "death"—a death that felt absolutely real to him.

When faced with the possibility of losing El again in Season 3, Mike's fear resurfaces—not because he is madly in love, but because he cannot emotionally survive another loss for which he feels responsible (he is just 14 here remember). The panic in his voice, the overwhelming urgency of “I can’t lose her again,” reveals that it is not romantic love driving him—it is fear, shame, and unresolved grief. This is compounded by his lack of romantic follow-through when she returns. There is no joy, no emotional intimacy, no physical warmth. Instead, there is distance, awkwardness, and emotional shutdown.

But the real truth in that line isn’t even the “because I love her” part—because nothing in that moment confirms he's saying it romantically (especially since he can’t even say it to her face, can’t write it to her, and still can’t say it even after she confirmed that she loves him and heard him say it). So yes, he loves her, just like he loves Lucas, just like he loves Nancy, just like he loves Dustin.

What truly matters in that sentence is: “and I CAN’T lose her AGAIN.” And those are the words he emphasizes. Not “because I love her”—that part is rushed, buried in the flood of words he’s pouring out mid-panic. But he clearly articulates and stresses “and I CAN’T lose her AGAIN.”

Everything is shown here—not told—through his words, his body language, his tone, the context. His trauma is triggered. He’s terrified. He’s trying to prevent history from repeating itself, because the current situation feels too much like the Season 1 finale from his perspective.

So no, it wasn’t romantic love that drove him to say that. It was unresolved, ignored trauma being violently reactivated. The only difference lies in how people interpret that line—be it other characters or the audience—through the lens of heteronormativity, completely ignoring the full context and everything that follows in Mike’s behavior and attitude toward El.

It could’ve been cute, and could’ve worked in your favor—if the show had ended with that episode. But unfortunately, the Season 3 finale and the entirety of Season 4 only go on to confirm that yes, he loves her and he can’t lose her again, but he doesn’t love her romantically, and he is deeply traumatized and in need of healing from his abandonment and loss issues—or else Vecna’s going to have an easy time with him.

If Mike were truly in love with Eleven, one would expect expressions of that love to come naturally, especially in moments of emotional vulnerability. Yet, at the end of Season 3, when Eleven tells him she heard what he said and that she loves him too, Mike gives no response. He looks stunned, confused, almost empty. He does not affirm her words, kiss her back, or show any sign of romantic fulfillment. Mike’s behavior in these scenes doesn’t resemble a boy in love. It resembles a boy in distress, one who is playing a role he feels obligated to fulfill, but who cannot emotionally connect with that role.

This pattern continues in Season 4. He avoids writing “Love, Mike” (and write every time "From Mike" instead) in letters, despite knowing it’s what Eleven needs to hear. When confronted, he dodges and manipulates: “I say it”. But we, the audience (and El too), know that he doesn’t. His behavior is not that of a loving boyfriend, but of someone trapped in a role he doesn’t know how to escape from. His “I love you” speech in Volume 2 is prompted not by genuine passion, but by external pressure, specifically by Will’s emotionally charged metaphorical painting (that channels Will’s own feelings for him) and pep talk and his finally staged encouragement ("don't stop, remember, you are the heart ! You're the heart"). The words are performative, desperate, idealized—not grounded in emotional truth. He praises a version of Eleven that no really exists, emphasizing her strength and powers, not her vulnerability, her personality, or her heart. This suggests he is in love with the idea of her—an idea shaped by admiration, yes, but especially guilt and obligation, not affection (further alienating her and reinforcing that his attachment is conditional and performative).

So yes, if the only two times your boyfriend tells you he loves you are:

– once, when you're not physically present, and he says it in a panicked trauma response, then refuses to take ownership of those words afterwards,

– and the second time is only after you told him that never hearing it from him is hurting you, and you need to hear it—and instead of reassuring you, he gaslights you into thinking he says it when he clearly doesn’t, dodges the subject by idealizing you as a superhero…

…and this “I love you” only comes when you’re on the brink of death, and only because his best friend handed him a painting with a disguised declaration of love in it?

Then I’m sorry, but that’s not romance. That’s codependency, guilt, trauma, emotional repression, and societal expectations. Not romantic love.

The relationship between Mike and El has long been framed through a heteronormative lens, one that presumes emotional closeness between a boy and a girl must equate to romantic attraction. The show’s framing and marketing often push this narrative, but Mike’s behavior consistently subverts it. His discomfort with physical affection, his emotional volatility, and his failure to express romantic feelings — even when prompted — all suggest that this narrative is externally imposed, not internally felt.

The audience’s insistence on seeing “Because I love her and I can't lose her again” as a definitive romantic confession overlooks the complexity of Mike’s trauma, his guilt, and his emotional repression. It ignores the fact that he never says it to Eleven directly until forced to, and even then, it is with inauthentic language and shaky motivation. The tragedy is that Mike’s real love story — one rooted in slow-burn intimacy, shared vulnerability, and mutual understanding — is with Will. But because it doesn’t fit the traditional mold, it goes unacknowledged by both the characters and the audience.

Mike Wheeler is not a romantic lead blindly in love with Eleven. He is a traumatized boy burdened by guilt, struggling with self-identity, repressing his true feelings, and unconsciously projecting protectiveness as love. His actions toward Eleven are rooted in trauma, not desire, while his connection with Will reveals the kind of emotional intimacy that speaks to a deeper, romantic truth. Until Mike confronts his trauma and his sexuality, he will continue to play a role that does not align with who he truly is — a boy in love, not with the girl who saved him, but with the boy who always understood him.

Mike is not a character who lacks love—on the contrary, he feels deeply. But his emotional repression, unresolved trauma, and fear of loss lead him to confuse guilt with devotion, and obligation with romance. His relationship with Eleven is a product of circumstance and narrative expectation—but it lacks the emotional reciprocity, intimacy, and authenticity of true romantic love. Meanwhile, his emotional world orbits around Will, whose presence brings out the rawest, most vulnerable, and most honest version of Mike.

In truth, Mike doesn’t need a girlfriend—he needs healing. He needs to confront his guilt, allow himself to feel, and to stop hiding behind a version of love that doesn’t belong to him. Only then will he be able to understand what love really is—and who it’s truly for.

[mercurialturnip]

If the guy who wrote the diagnostic criteria says he doesn't fit, there's no arguing that. But. There are consistent patterns to the irrational ways that Trump behaves. He's erratic, but he's erratic in predictable ways. I think often when people call him, for instance, a malignant narcissist, they are attempting to describe that set of patterns. And maybe the term isn't accurate. I don't mind using a different term. But I think it's worth having a way to talk about a particular set of irrational behavior patterns that show up sometimes in particular people. Shitty and mean is too vague. There are a lot of different ways to be shitty and mean. What do you call a set of seemingly compulsive behaviors that overlap with a mental disorder, but because of the way society treats this individual, they don't cause the individual himself distress?

The psychiatrist who wrote the criteria for narcissism just made an extremely important point about what’s wrong with diagnosing Trump with mental disorders

Dr. Allen Frances says in speculating about Trump’s mental health, we are doing a disservice to those who do suffer from mental illness. In a series of tweets, he explained why he doesn’t think Trump is a narcissist — and how harmful it can be for us to keep assuming that he is.

[wiisagi-maiingan]

Man, I wish it was easier to find information about indigenous stuff intersecting with other things because as someone with psychosis and OCD, I'm really curious about how many indigenous people have delusions/hallucinations/compulsions/etc based around their cultures and spirituality.

[zoetica]

Notice of Discovery: Lenticus somnium Manifestation in "Xenobacillus glossophagii"

Alien Botany archival task force, The Institute for Psychogametous Life / zoeticaebb.com

May 12, 2185

Executive Summary 

This notice details the manifestation of the Lenticus somnium specimen, a psychogametous lifeform documented within the recovered Novy Mir "Alien Botany" archive [Ebb, 2180, 2022], within the literary work "Xenobacillus glossophagii" [Siratori, 2025]. At 1243 pages, “Xenobacillus glossophagii", represents the most expansive example of podcore identified to date and exhibits significant thematic and conceptual infiltration from the Lenticus somnium. We recommend immediate investigation into the mechanisms of Lenticus somnium transmission and its demonstrated capacity to propagate within novel mediums, coupled with a reassessment of associated psychological and biological risks [Ebb, 2025, "Observations on Extraterrestrial Organisms Documented in the Recovered Novy Mir Archive"].

Timeline

2180, October Publication of Chimeric Herbarium: The World of Alien Botany”.

2182, August Discovery of previous publication of Chimeric Herbarium in 2022 by IPGL archival team.

2183, January IPGL Alien Botany archival task force formed.

2185, March Discovery of Lenticus somnium psychogametous spread in 2025.

2185, May Publication of this notice.

Preliminary Findings

To study the psychogameotous potency of the Lenticus somnium (see Appendix A), we have pieced together the following chronology.

2022, October “Chimeric Herbarium: The World of Alien Botany” [Ebb, Oakley] published

2023, December Estimated first contact between Lenticus somnium and Siratori 

2024, June 6 Siratori proclaims, “Ebb’s work is Xenopoem”

2024, June 15 First Siratori propagation: Lenticus somnium × operator R. Sojelenskaya [Ebb, 2022] appears on the cover of “Xenopoem” Japanese edition [Siratori, 2024]

2025, January 6 Xenopoem conference and study group are formed

2025, January 29 Documented direct somal vector infiltration

2025, May 9 Siratori exhibits awareness of the mechanics of psychogametous replications:

“Zoetica Ebb demonstrates glossophage morphogenesis—the process by which symbolic units (colors, forms, textures) self-replicate, mutate, and colonize perceptual fields across species boundaries. [Her] aesthetic production instantiates an emergent multispecies semiotic ecology, where symbolic infection becomes both aesthetic strategy and evolutionary force.” [Siratori, 2025] 

2025, May 10  Lenticus somnium × “Xenobacillus glossophagii” published (Siratori xenohybrid)

2025, May 10 - (ongoing)  Continued mutation and propagation of Lenticus somnium.

Characteristics of Kenji Siratori's "Xenobacillus glossophagii":

The discovery is significant because Xenobacillus glossophagii is the largest body of work to date with clear signatures of psychogametous spread, including:

The cover is a direct transmission of Lenticus somnium.

The text of "Xenobacillus glossophagii" demonstrates strong thematic and conceptual links to the "Alien Botany" archive, with specific elements (hybridisation, parasitism, profound isolation, psychological deterioration, the vulnerability of human consciousness, viral psychological spread, host destruction or metamorphosis),  traceable to the characteristics of the Lenticus somnium specimen and its reported hybridisation with Novy Mir mission operator R. Sojelenskaya [Ebb, 2180, 2022].

Compulsive profuse recreation of emergent pseudoscientific imagery [Siratori 2025] associated with and resulting from the original Lenticus somnium specimen chart [Ebb, 2180, 2022].

Methodology

The criteria for the identification of psychogametous spread, given in [Ebb 2180, 2022, p. 50]:

Physical manifestation

Symbolic transmission

Self-directed or automatic replication

The manifestation is a novel mutation

The criteria for identifying podcore given in [Ebb 2180, 2022, p. 50]:

Recurrent themes of hybridisation, parasitism, profound isolation, psychological deterioration, and the vulnerability of human consciousness within extreme environments.

An involuntary drive in exposed individuals to connect, investigate, reinterpret, and transmit the "Alien Botany" archive content in interconnected groups, sometimes followed by revolution following replication.

A compulsion to create novel iterations of Alien Botany imagery or concepts, occasionally accompanied by descriptions of these creations as "seeds" or "spores," indicating acknowledgement of symbolic or biological propagation. This behaviour is consistent with psychogametous replication, wherein the host's cognitive processes are utilised for the organism's reproduction [Ebb, 2025], thus suggesting a relationship with the archive that transcends conventional fandom or academic interest.

Analysis

This manifestation satisfies all criteria for determining psychogametous spread. "Xenobacillus glossophagii" is a physical object; Siratori and Ebb never having met before its publication makes psychogametous transmission the only vector for its genesis; Siratori propagated and published voluntarily, i.e. in a self-directed manner; the recurrent themes outlined in podcore identification criteria above are present; the diagrams within the book are evidence of alien germination and mutation, seeded in Siratori by Lenticus somnium. Furthermore, we find:

Kenji Siratori, through the creation and publication of "Xenobacillus glossophagii" and his continued reauthorisation of Alien Botany elements, constitutes a prolific new vector for the replication of Lenticus somnium, successfully facilitating its manifestation within distinct mediums.

At 1243 pages, "Xenobacillus glossophagii" represents the most extensive work within the podcore genre to date, indicating a significant psychogametous propagation of Lenticus somnium-related themes, imagery, and its underlying influence.

Recommended Actions

It is the assessment of the Alien Botany archival task force that the following actions are recommended, aligning with the IPGL's multi-faceted approach:

Comprehensive Analysis: Initiate a detailed literary analysis of "Xenobacillus glossophagii", focusing on identifying the textual mechanisms – including specific linguistic patterns, recurring imagery, and narrative structures – through which the characteristics and potential influence of Lenticus somnium have been transmitted and transformed.

Comparative Phenomenological Study: Undertake a comparative study contrasting rigorously documented psychological and physiological effects of direct exposure to "Alien Botany" archive materials (specifically the Lenticus somnium specimen) with carefully verified reader responses to "Xenobacillus glossophagii". This study should be consistent with IPGL ethical guidelines.

Risk Assessment and Mitigation Strategy: Initiate a comprehensive risk assessment to evaluate the full spectrum of potential adverse psychological and long-term physiological consequences associated with exposure to "Xenobacillus glossophagii". Based on this assessment, develop and implement a robust mitigation strategy [IPGL Safety Protocol Gamma-9].

Development of a Global Containment and Public Awareness Strategy: Develop and implement a global containment strategy aimed at mitigating the potential spread of Lenticus somnium-related effects through "Xenobacillus glossophagii", including careful consideration of potential restrictions on the work's dissemination and the launch of targeted public awareness campaigns emphasizing responsible engagement and potential risks, consistent with the IPGL's commitment to "public engagement as active participants in this process" [IPGL: A Novel Approach, 2025].

Conclusion

The publication of "Xenobacillus glossophagii" represents a critical juncture in the ongoing investigation of psychogametous lifeforms. The confirmed manifestation of Lenticus somnium within this expansive literary work, firmly situated within the podcore genre, necessitates decisive and coordinated action. The Institute for Psychogametous Life must prioritize understanding the mechanisms of this transmission, assessing the potential risks to the wider public, and implementing effective strategies for containment and mitigation. Podcore has evolved from a niche interest to a potent vector for the propagation of alien psychogametous life.

References

Ebb, Z. (2022). Chimeric Herbarium: The World of Alien Botany. [ISBN 978-1-3999-3003-1]

Ebb, Z. (2025, March 20). Observations on Extraterrestrial Organisms Documented in the Recovered Novy Mir Archive, with Considerations for Potential Psychoactive and Psychic Influences, and the Propagation of Psychogametous Lifeforms.

Ebb, Z. (2025, March 22). Psychogametous Lifeforms: A Theoretical Framework for Symbolic Reproduction.

Ebb, Z. (2025, May 6)The Institute for Psychogametous Life: A Novel Approach to Investigating Symbolic Alien Replication and Human Cognitive Response.

Siratori, K. (2025) Xenobacillus glossophagii.

Siratori, K. (2025) Xenozoetic Translation-Invariance: Neural Encoding and Glossophagic Adaptations in Lepidoglossum sapiens

Appendix A

Lenticus somnium Attributes:

The Lenticus somnium specimen [Ebb, 2022] exhibits the following critical properties relevant to this incident:

Psychogametous Reproduction: The primary mode of propagation occurs through the transmission of symbolic representations that exert a direct and demonstrable influence on human cognitive processes. As theorized, "'a psychogametous lifeform can be defined as a biological entity that encodes its reproductive information into symbolic forms, such as images, text, or sounds. These entities utilize cognitive systems, particularly human minds, as a medium for information transmission and reinterpretation'" [Ebb, 2025].

Nervous-system Breach and Incubation: Lenticus somnium displays a potency in inducing vivid dream incubation and persistent isochromatic after-images in exposed individuals. Its unique visual characteristics function as a highly efficient “psychogamete,” readily establishing itself within the human mind following even brief exposure [Ebb, 2025].

Induction of Anomalous Phenomena: Exposure to symbolic representations of Lenticus somnium has been consistently linked to the triggering of specific anomalous effects in human subjects, including vivid hallucinatory palinopsia and involuntary ideomotor reflexes [Ebb, 2025, "Observations on Extraterrestrial Organisms Documented in the Recovered Novy Mir Archive"].

Symbolic Autonomy: The symbolic representations of Lenticus somnium possess a degree of autonomy, demonstrating the capacity to propagate and potentially evolve independently of their original source material and the initial observer [Ebb, 2025, "Psychogametous Lifeforms: A Theoretical Framework for Symbolic Reproduction"].

Implications for IPGL Research:

The emergence of "Xenobacillus glossophagii" presents several critical implications for the ongoing research at the Institute for Psychogametous Life:

Manifestation Across Media: This event unequivocally demonstrates the capacity of psychogametous lifeforms, specifically Lenticus somnium, to manifest and propagate effectively across diverse artistic mediums, extending beyond visual representations to encompass complex literary expression within the podcore genre [IPGL Preliminary Findings, 2025-05-12]. This aligns with the IPGL's aim to investigate "'symbolic alien replication'" [Ebb, 2025].

Amplified Psychological and Physiological Effects: The expansive nature of Siratori's work appears to correlate with a reported amplification of psychological and physiological effects in readers. Initial anecdotal reports and emergent discussions indicate a heightened incidence and intensity of anomalous phenomena consistent with Lenticus somnium exposure.

Cross-Cultural and Genre Transmission: The successful integration of Alien Botany themes within posthuman literature confirms the potential for cross-cultural and cross-genre transmission of these psychogametous phenomena, posing a potentially global concern extending beyond established podcore communities and traditional Alien Botany enthusiasts. This necessitates a broader understanding of "'human cognitive response'" to symbolic alien replication [IPGL: A Novel Approach, 2025].

[flayedintheusa]

So, I can’t find the original post because my guys I have a lotta posts this is a pic of it ^^

This prompt is from @rigginsstreet and it was supposed to be a quick write. Absolute shocker: it wasn’t. But! Finally, it’s happening. Coming soon:

It takes little more than a senior camping trip, bunking with Hargrove, and his inherent urge to act on compulsion for Steve to find something he seriously, seriously hadn’t even known was there.

It takes little more than a senior camping trip, Harrington coming onto him outta the blue, and a sudden influx of Fawcett-enforced positivity for Billy to find something he was sure he seriously, seriously didn’t need.

Either way, they’re both pretty sure it’s their camp chaperone’s fault. Or Heather’s. Or Cabin 28’s.

[drowsyreaper]

I used to get really annoyed with my mom when she'd use older terms like transexuals, and I, in all the haughty certainty of my early to mid 20s, would have long, patronizing discussions about the evolution of language and what the proper terms were now. And even now, in my mid 30s, I get anxious when my mom talks about current events and progressive causes using outdated language because I don't want people to judge her for that, or misinterpret her stance or opinions because of semantics.

But the fact is, my mom has lived through some shit. She lived with an openly gay couple in the 70's in the midwest and frequently bearded for them when safety needed it. She sang opera in Florida in the 80's and supported who knows how many closeted friends and colleagues. When she came up to Baltimore in the 90's and started her voice studio, not a small percentage of her students were drag queens coming to her to learn how to speak more femininely. (That she taught many of these students in the churches she was working for at the time adds another layer of brazenness I'm only realizing as I type).

So who the fuck am I to tell my sexagenarian, stroke surviving mother that she needs to clean up her language to be an ally? Who the fuck are *you* to tell her that? She has lost people to AIDs, to isolation, to hate. She's seen friends have their lives implode because closeted queer spouses spiraled and took their families down the drain with them because the alternative was to be out, and to be out was to be in constant danger. But she can't be part of the conversation because she hasn't read the Updated & Revised LGBTQ Dictionary, Spring 2025 Edition?

Language is important. So, SO important. But it's not everything. And we cannot let the compulsion for hyper-specificity in our language stop us from paying attention to what's actually being said.

"The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I'm not a trannie or a fag so I don't care, just give 'em the medicine they need."

"This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility."

One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.

[megapteraurelia]

EPITHIMIA. — part 2.

☾ SUMMARY;

— having been sent up to tokyo as an exchange student to spy on the first-years, your objective had been crystal clear: don't meddle. don't change anything. just observe. you didn't expect fushiguro megumi to foil your plans that quickly — but it's not like you could help yourself, not when he refused to be someone you could respect. so, what else to do but meddle?

☾ WARNINGS;

— fem!reader; enemies to lovers; forced proximity; attempted character study?? (badly done!!); angst; gojo being annoying; ppl being hypocritical!; kind of angsty yuji too; TW: mention of blood, death;

☾ WORD COUNT;

— 20,458.

☾ AUTHOR'S NOTE;

— i lied. there's no romance here because i'm stupid and i couldn't stop writing other scenes. there will be a part three (and if all goes well that SHOULD actually be the last part). also, frick action scenes! also had to sacrifice some of the aesthetics because i can only add 30 images oops

please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

pt. 1 | pt. 2

15th of April; 07:22. — kugisaki nobara.

Fushiguro syndrome. — as coined by Kugisaki Nobara: part-time sorcerer, quarter-time model, quarter-time self-proclaimed doctor.

Definition. A rare but deeply annoying affliction characterised by excessive brooding, emotional constipation, and the compulsive need to shoulder the entire weight of the world whilst pretending it's fine. Symptomps. — saying 'I'm fine' while visibly not fine. — intense staring instead of talking. — going silent mid-conversation because feelings are hard. — randomly disappearing to punch curses alone without backup. — at least one major emotional crisis repressed into a singular eyebrow twitch.

They weren't fighting.

And honestly, that was weirder than when they were.

Nobara noticed it the second they all met up in the dining hall for breakfast: the sun cast high, the light refracting through the glasses of water on the tables, leaving behind a sparkling surface. Megumi's arms were crossed nonstop, his shoulders struggling to hold the tension, sporting the worst eye bags she had seen in ages (Should she recommend him some good eye cream?)

He fixed the ground with a glare, eyes narrowed like he was trying to exorcise his constipated feelings, before sitting down at one of the tables off to the side. Nobara thought that he looked like a statue with too much gel product in his spiky hair, the way he didn't even eat his food, just stared at it.

On the other hand, there was you, who kept fiddling with your uniform as if it wasn't sitting right on your body. It couldn't be that, though, because the tailors of Tokyo Jujutsu High were very high-calibre. She would know, her uniform sat perfectly, and she was quite finicky in that matter. So, it had to be something else.

Nobara couldn't read you, though. You kept to yourself and made no move to really integrate yourself to their friend circle and sure, as an exchange student, this entire stay here was supposed to be temporary, so to some extent, she did understand that maybe, it was better not to get attached. But then, there also was no telling how long you were staying, so wouldn't it be better to make friends?

But you didn't and so Nobara didn't, either.

It wasn't like she really disliked you, but she wasn't going to waste effort on somebody who didn't know to appreciate it. She was fine to ignore you most of the time, which wasn't hard, considering that you only let some comments slip sometimes, but then you had to go and be a bitch to Megumi.

It wasn't like she really cared about Megumi; if anything, he was annoying with the way he was zapping all the fun, but she couldn't stand by and watch him be hurt like that. In the end, he was her teammate and…..her…..friend……so she couldn't not feel a certain way about it.

In any way, there was no greeting, no arguing, not even a single snide comment about the other's expression, punctuality or whatever it was they used to bicker about constantly. No sarcastic jabs, grumbled responses that made her roll her eyes so hard, it gave her a headache.

Not a single thing.

Just silence and a whole mountain range of tension between them — and it wasn't even the fun type of tension. Ugh, this was so boring.

Nobara leaned back on the bench, her food untouched as well as she pretended to yawn, but mostly, she just wanted to gauge how bad it was between you two. She had seen you going at it before — loud, sarcastic, the kind of arguments that made Yuji glance between you two like some kind of referee in a sports match, so the weird silence — the chattering of Yuji's with the rest of the students aside — was honestly disgusting.

Yuji's voice, cheerful and loud as always, broke through her thoughts. Really, this kid had no tact or decorum. "Sooo, what's up with these two? It's like there's a black hole of energy today."

"Salmon," Inumaki said and stabbed a piece of fish (Fish? As breakfast?) to bring to his scribbled mouth. Nobara eyed the markings on his cheeks and Inumaki was quick to zip up his jacket and hide them behind his collar like he could hide from the world. Nobara didn't really mean to make Inumaki feel self-conscious but wow, these marking did not help out.

Yuji, on the other hand, kept eating the fish and the rice like he was starving, though knowing him, he probably was. Seven hours without food? A surprise he was still alive. With stuffed cheeks, he spat a few grains of rice onto her plate. She pushed it away. Gross little chimp.

"Yeah, it's like, they're magnets in reverse, you know? Like…repulsing? Was that the word?"

"Repelling," Maki's eye roll was so incredible in conveying her exasperation, Nobara was in love. "It's like watching two stubborn blocks of wood trying to figure out who is more stubborn."

Nobara had to try out the eye roll, too. "More like, who is a bigger pain in the ass."

Then she leaned over her food, ignoring Yuji's star struck chipmunk face when she pushed him back by the shoulder to shout over to you, "Oi, did Megumi infect you with Fushiguro Syndrome, too?"

Your voice was cheerful when you replied, "I think I'm just peachy, Kugisaki, thanks for asking!" but Nobara could spot fake-happiness from a mile away — the way your knuckles whitened holding your chopsticks, the annoyed twitch in your eyebrows, the distracted flitting of your eyes over the fish. Yeah, definitely Fushiguro Syndrome. You were sporting the most theatrical fake happiness anybody could ever ask for. Not that she'd know who would want it, but in case it was an attribute searched by anyone, at least she would know where and who to direct them to.

"She absolutely isn't."

"Yeah, no way in hell."

"Salmon, salmon."

Yuji swallowed the food without even chewing properly, a few rice grains still sticking to the side of his mouth. He tried getting them with his tongue when Inumaki pointed towards them, but gave up when the blonde sorcerer kept shaking his head. Nobara probably could tell him exactly where it was, but to his dismay and to her enjoyment, she did delight in watching Yuji make a fool of himself.

"It's weird, though," he said in between licks (no! Not this way — the rice grain was under his lower lip on the right side!) and then stuffed his cheeks with more food, "I mean, they've always been kind of odd with each other, but now it's different. It's like…they're those crabs that get stuck in the same hole and just…pinch each other until they both get annoyed enough to walk away, but they can't leave because they're stuck, and it's hilarious."

"What in the hell," Nobara paused. "are you talking about, Itadori."

Inumaki Toge nodded. "Bonito flakes."

"You seriously agree with him, Inumaki?" Maki quirked up her eyebrow, one of her chopsticks waving in the direction of Yuji and Inumaki as if to make sense of their non-sense, to bring to life the magic of understanding neanderthal-speak.

Megumi stood up with the slight screech of his chair skidding on the floor, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets as he walked out the dining hall without sparing a glance towards anybody. There was a distinct scoff coming from your direction, your chopsticks scratching hard against the surface of your plate, before you too pushed your plate away and got up to leave.

Nobara wondered if you had only been here for Megumi's sake, whether you had meant to leave at the same time, to give the impression that your presence at breakfast was just to make Megumi uncomfortable — maybe a reminder of whatever transpired between you both. But honestly, Nobara couldn't care less. Worrying about other people could mean that she'd stress over them enough to cause her hair ends to split or, worse, get grey hair.

God, just kiss or kill each other already, she thought with an exaggerated eye roll, but in the end it wasn't her business. Not really.

…but she definitely was going to text Yuji about it later.

16th of April; 13:26. — gojo satoru.

Gojo Satoru was many things.

Handsome (undefeated). The strongest (naturally). Adept at approximately all the things he put his hands on. But nosy? Not really. But once he was curious, there was no stopping him, and curiosity for Gojo Satoru was a dangerous thing.

Sipping from a can of peach soda, especially sweet, he sat lounging on the stairs. Below him, on the courtyard lawn, stood his little assortments of students, amongst which were his enigmatic black-haired student and his new Kyoto's little sharp-tongued mole. Well, exchange student, if he were to stick totechnicality, but then again, that word didn't do a lot of justice to the actual reason you were sent here.

Both of his students were standing a little too far apart; there was no speaking and no fighting like all the other times that he had the pleasure of witnessing. But that was the thing. There had been a fight.

If he could be generous to call it that — which he always was, mind you — the last mission ended with a little…disagreement. He hadn't been there, but the report Ichiji had given him was quite clear. Something had happened that broke whatever little tolerance you both had for each other. Of course, he could imagine what it was, because Ichiji had been very detailed in the way both of his kids derailed into a shouting match over blame.

Gojo sipped his drink.

Interesting.

Megumi wasn't the type to carry grudges, usually. He carried a lot of responsibility, sure. A liberal amount of regret tossed in there, too, but what sorcerer didn't?

But something as petty as resentment? Not usually his deal. The nasty glare he had fixed on the exchange student was speaking volumes, though.

And you?

He had noticed it before; the way you made things personal, the way you didn't let up. Gojo thought that it wasn't the worst thing to happen to Megumi, especially if you could get him out of his mind once in a while. So he never saw a need to intervene, beside the fact that he didn't think Megumi would be unable to handle what you threw at him.

He could already imagine the glare sent his way if he meddled in Megumi's business beyond his own relationship with him as a teacher. Though, not that that really kept him from anything.

But personal tension, especially if it was persistent, had a way of bleeding into teamwork — or as 'team' as that work between you seemed to be, which did make it Gojo's problem, after all.

One eye peeking from underneath the blindfold, he noted the way Megumi's jaw tightened when you turned away without acknowledging him; the way your cursed energy flared aggressively when Megumi muttered something under his breath. There was a tight rope between apathy and something glimmering beneath it, heated, unspoken and definitely unresolved, tied between both your feet; ready to get you tripping if you moved too far away from each other.

He could be doing the responsible teacher thing: sit them down. Encourage open communication, blah blah — no.

That wasn't his style, and way too boring. What kind of teacher would he be if he didn't subtly abuse his incredible power for lighthearted surveillance?

Gojo Satoru tilted his head and his gaze fell on Yuji and Nobara, a slight tight-lipped smile widening, "Let's see what my adorable disasters are up to."

20th of April; 10:08. — gojo satoru.

"Already done? My, what hardworking bee you are, Megumi!"

"There any more, Gojo-sensei?"

"There's always an abundance of low grade jobs, but you sure you're not gonna turn into a zombie on me? Ya giving your brain enough time to catch a break?"

"I'm fine. I'll handle it," then, his voice a bit quieter: "I won't make any more mistakes."

Gojo tilted his head, his eyebrows drawn high, "I'll have Ichiji give you the details on the way. Just know that you'll lose your handsomeness if you turn into one of those undeads; flaky skin and all, you know? Now off you pop."

Though maybe he'll finally stop resembling his father then, Gojo thought, his finger turning the cuff of his uniform as he watched his student leave the room, a slight limp as he stepped on his right ankle.

22nd of April; 23:48. — zen'in maki, just called maki.

Zen'in Maki, just called Maki, hated reminders of her parentage.

For all the obsession with strength and cursed techniques, Maki found that the name of her clan in blood was less a title and more of a curse itself; a chain clinched around her throat since her birth, growing with her as she transcended childhood and grew into the young woman she was today. It was not rare for somebody to utter the name in her vicinity — not by virtue of upsetting her, but because even though she thought it was undeserved, there was no denying that the Zen'ins were one of the three great sorcerer families.

Even though it had been some time since she left the clan compound, she still felt the weight of it — the expectations she was meant to fail, the sneers she was meant to endure, the silence that was meant to shame her into obedience.

The traditional and backwards way her clan in blood operated made hers boil, and even though she would like nothing more than to circumvent any mention of this bitter reminder of her apparent inadequacy, she steeled herself each time the name passed somebody's lips. Because to flinch is to give in, to react is to admit defeat and to allow them to control her beyond their property by mere allusion. And Maki, with her stubborn heartbeat and her body honed into a weapon, refused to bow.

Her eyes, as sharp as ever, flitted over Megumi's black hair, though barely illuminated in the darkness and stillness of the night. Sometimes she forgot that he shared the same blood, but it wasn't the clan's much-heralded inherited Ten Shadows Technique that reminded her. It wasn't the black hair either that they shared. It was this.

The look in his eyes as he gripped his blade and performed katas with his sword. The cleanliness of it, the efficiency. It was the expression on his face that had her narrow her eyes, that had her muscles tensing as if to ward off any attacks — the same calculating silence masked as focus, the same quiet detachment.

She used to see that look in the training halls of the Zen'in estate: when her father would bark corrections with a tone that promised bruises and punishment; in Naoya's face when he used to kick the animals that lost their way onto their property, on the faces of several clans men. A mask that said feelings get you killed.

She watched him pivot, bring the blade up with a sharp, precise movement that made no sound but cut through the air like glass; the harsh exhale like there was a mountain of air buried deep in the cavity of his lungs needing to be set free. It was the feeling that this reminder of the mask brought out within her, the desperation to rip off that same look on her own face, the hollowed out thump in her chest that had her approach Megumi.

"You trying to break some record or are you just trying to kill yourself out here?"

Maki didn't expect a response and true to that, there was none following. She knew it all too well — this honed focus, the strangulation of an-ever growing vignette.

"Seriously, what the hell is going on with you?" Maki stopped a few metres short from where he was denying his body any rest, "It's well past curfew and you're bleeding all over the place. Training's not going to do you much good if you can't even hold your damn weapon."

Along the razor sharp sound of the blade slitting the air into two, Megumi's voice sounded out, painted with heavy breaths: "What about you then? What did you come out here for, huh?"

Silence. A slight stiffening of limbs.

"Don't pretend we don't know," Megumi halted in his movements, and his eyes — a wild, storming ocean — fixed her with a look, "You come out every night like you're being chased. Like you'll fall behind if you stop. So what is it — are you here to check on me or were you planning to do the same thing?"

Maki stayed quiet longer than she meant to.

There was a slight pressure behind her ribs, in the cavity that was her chest. Something curling up in on itself. A part of her wanted to scoff and tell him he was projecting, but the look in his eyes stopped her. The restless edge. The way he trained past exhaustion, the circles underneath his eyes, a promise that collapsing meant personal failure. The way he avoided eye contact when people asked if he was sleeping.

She knew what it meant. She knew where the road lead, because she was still walking it.

He wasn't wrong. The truth was that she hadn't come out here to check on him, that it wasn't on her mind until she saw the way he had danced over the training grounds. That she came because her body was buzzing from the inside with energy to waste, constantly caught between fight and flight, even when there was no one left to fight.

Her knuckles were still sore from last night. From the night before that. From the week before that.

Never leave me behind.

Maki's exhale was quiet. There was a promise and she broke it. She had left first.

Every time she trained until she couldn't feel her legs, every time her fingers bled grasping the hilt of her blade, it was with the breath of her sister's whisper down her neck. Because she had to believe that it would make it worth something. That she was getting closer to earning her way back, that she wasn't abandoning her twin — just biding her time until she could tear the clan down with her own two hands.

She glanced at Megumi, the tension in his muscles, the barely healed cuts on his arms, the faint trickle of blood from the ripped open callouses on the palm of his hand and the way he was holding himself together like his world was taped up hastily and might shatter. She saw herself in him, younger her who kept pushing forward because stopping and turning around meant seeing what she had left behind.

"I didn't come here to hurt myself. I came to train."

Something almost akin to a scoff escaped the boy, though it also could have been him breathing out in exertion, "Right. Because your hands weren't wrapped in tape yesterday either, right?"

"That's different," she said but Maki wasn't typically somebody who lied to herself.

Megumi bent at the knees, deep, the sword reflecting the moonlight for a split second, his shoulders twitching in a shrug. "I'll stop if you stop."

Maki felt it sit in the pit of her stomach — the guilt at her own decision, the rightful anger at her clan, the choking pressure of her desire. Then she rolled her own shoulders, steeled herself and with it came the resolve: even if there was nobody who would understand her, who could walk in her shoes, who could save Mai from the Zen'in clan's clutches, she would have to continue on.

There was no other way it could go.

"You're overthinking your third stance."

His voice was rough, almost desperate. "Show me."

25th of April; 01:18. — you.

There was a folded strip of black paper sitting on your bed, pressed and knotted with a red threat.

A talisman.

Kyoto-issued, so it seemed. You'd recognise the ink pattern everywhere having seen it in your school, a subconscious reminder that you weren't here to have fun. Well, it wasn't like you were having any special fun, but still, the appearance of such a charm had your spine straighten up immediately.

Carefully, you let your gaze roam through your entire room, but nothing seemed out of the norm. If anything, it might have been even too tidy, though that also might be your paranoia talking. As much as your room looked like it always did, the talisman was very well out of norm.

Kyoto Jujutsu High usually didn't get in contact with you, unless there was something dire.

And that couldn't be, because you hadn't noticed anything worthy of noting down yet, because nothing was happening here. Nothing of significance for Gakuganji, at least. Nothing that warranted them contacting you directly and sending you a message so obviously.

You picked up the paper, your eyes recognising the charm written up, general polite well wishes, and underneath in strokes that only a select few could read:

As we have yet to receive any updates, we would greatly appreciate a brief report at your earliest convenience. Should circumstances remain unchanged, we may be required to explore other available options. We appreciate your continued efforts and trust you will keep us informed.

Of course. There was no name, no seal, no malice in those words. Seemingly. Only incredible politeness, a veiled threat, so if one were to read it, it would sound like a mildly scolding letter.

You stared at the charm, the crease where it was folded neatly. Your first thought had been that you missed a report — that somehow you'd let something slip. But you knew yourself, knew the meticulousness with which you always prepared the seals, knew that the correspondence was as tight and precise as your technique.

You pursed your lips in thought.

If they had sent something now, that meant your charms weren't reaching them for a while now. You hadn't thought much of the silence after each of the transmissions; no confirmation coming back wasn't unusual. The Kyoto faculty preferred silence, the kind of quiet superiority that made them respond when they deemed it important, not one second before.

But now this.

If your reports weren't arriving, then either something had intercepted them…or someone had. Both implications had your forehead create way too many wrinkles for your age and instinctively, you glanced toward the window, the slow sway of the courtyard trees like a whisper about to tell you its secrets.

The paper folded without resistance, at the same seam as before. It didn't matter if someone had been interfering, you decided; you had no proof or any grounds to throw around accusations, especially since that wasn't Kyoto's intention to begin with. They'd rather replace you than make sure to find out who was trying to foil their plans. Beside the fact that it wasn't your job to speculate. It was to observe. To report. To be useful.

It wasn't quite the way you liked to do things for it made no sense to you that other people would offer up information out of their own volition. If there was no action taken, how could you ever find out about people? How were you ever going to prove your usefulness to the people who deemed it so easy to replace you?

You hadn't expected to feel anything, reading those words — certainly not this hesitation. Not when you were here with a purpose; but still: it twisted inside you, low and persistent.

Which meant no more distractions.

Because if your chest twisted like that then that meant you had been dragging your feet, it meant that a part of you had started to hope the assignment would quietly dissolve before it reached a critical point. Because it meant that you started to get attached when you were just being thorough.

You straightened the paper, smoothing the wrinkles that didn't exist. No more chasing tension for your enjoyment's sake. No more watching Fushiguro Megumi to see if you could crack the surface, to see if his innards spilled out with all the thoughts and feelings he kept hidden, the fight with himself to figure out who he was. No more trying to provoke him.

You'd wasted much time trying to figure out what lay behind that tired sharpness in his eyes, the way he flinched at praise, the way he always looked like he was dragging something unseen behind him.

You couldn't make that mistake again.

Whatever role he played, whatever potential Kyoto thought he might harbour and develop, it wasn't yours to decipher. It wasn't yours to push. It wasn't your mission. He wasn't.

Whatever interference had occurred, it wouldn't happen twice.

26th of April; 16:34. — fushiguro megumi.

"She's not that bad, you know?"

Fushiguro Megumi didn't want to look up to see the pink of Yuji's hair drown with an orange sheen, to watch the sky bleed into lavender, evening announcing itself slowly, gently.

He thought that he really didn't want to talk about it.

There wasn't anything to talk about, not about you, and not about you with Yuji. Especially not him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate his input — at times. But this? This wasn't something Megumi wanted to lay out for anyone, not something he wanted to talk with Yuji about.

Not the argument that him and you had, about the accusation standing in the room, about all the things that he knew Yuji felt strongly about. Megumi knew that he would take it hard.

So he scoffed, his chin finding its way onto the palm of his hand, "Yeah, well, she thinks being loud is the same thing as being right."

"Cool. But that's not what I asked," Yuji leaned back, his elbows finding the stone steps behind him.

No, it wasn't. He knew it wasn't.

There was a soft breeze, a certain warmth swinging alongside it. The stones beneath him were warm, too, still lingering in the former caress of the sun. Yuji wasn't looking at him, and that somehow made it worse. If he had been, if there had been pity in his face or concern in his eyes, then Megumi could have shut it down. Cut the conversation short. But the casual posture, the light tilt of his head back toward the sky — it made it harder to tell him to shut up.

It would have been easier if he wasn't here. If Yuji wasn't trying to poke holes in walls that Megumi had already worn himself out trying to keep up.

So he said, flatly, "Why you here?"

Yuji didn't take the bait, and that annoyed Megumi, too. But there wasn't a lot that didn't manage to irk Megumi nowadays.

"Because you don't talk to her," he said simply, "Maybe you'll talk to me."

Megumi didn't move, but the grass in front of him did; swinging with the soft picking up of the wind. Yuji's voice wasn't accusing or disappointed; it was gentle in the way that only Yuji could sound like. Goodhearted, open, optimistic. He talked like he knew it was difficult and didn't want to make it harder, and that was exactly what made it difficult to shove him away.

"You care. That's what's messing you up, isn't it?"

Megumi didn't dare breathe.

"She pissed you off. Got too close. Now you don't know what to do with it."

He exhaled softly. Yuji was wrong — or at least, somewhat. It wasn't that he cared about you. It was the way you looked him in the eye and questioned everything he believed in. His desire to save lives — all lives, if possible; that he wasn't actually doing it. That killing the curse wasn't always the same as winning, that the mission, the regulations weren't absolute. Couldn't be.

You believed in getting it done and accepting what had to be lost along the way, and it was the way you had been calm about it. Cold, even. Efficient, not even necessarily cruel, though he thought you were — but just clear.

And that had shaken him.

A part of him was wondering if you were right. He was pissed about that.

Because standing in the rubble of the half-collapsed shopping mall with the girl crying behind him, he had hesitated. Not even because it was hard. But because it wasn't.

"Mind your own business, Itadori."

Yuji stayed on the steps, solid, still, refusing to be dismissed. There was a pause, and then:

"Nah."

He knew Itadori Yuji. Knew the tone and knew exactly what it meant — that this wasn't going to be one of those conversations that got buried under a shrug and a change of subject. Yuji wasn't leaving, not until he had said whatever he wanted to come say. There was a quiet patience in his eyes, the kind that made Megumi feel seen, a little exposed, challenged.

He rubbed at the corner of his brow with two fingers, eyes closing with exhaustion that ran deep. "I said drop it."

"Yeah," Yuji nodded. "I heard you."

"You don't get it." Megumi imagined Yuji like a fly that he could swat away, bury all his thoughts under the same swatter, squish them out of existence. His tongue felt heavy. Had he never said this out loud? It felt like he had been saying nothing else for weeks now. With a tight jaw, he muttered, "You would've saved them. So would i. That's not the issue."

"Then what is?"

Megumi hesitated. He didn't want to offer his thoughts, everything in him didn't want to admit it like that, but this was Yuji. The same person who who had jumped into danger without a second thought just to protect someone he barely knew, so he cradled the thing that sat in his chest like weight and pushed it out, "She made it sound like doing that made me weak. Like— like it was selfish."

He thought that if he could save someone, even one person, that should be enough. But she made it sound like wanting that meant he was doing it for himself, like he wasn't thinking about the bigger picture. Like he didn't care.

Yuji was silent for a while, and Megumi stiffened, and then—

With a shrug that didn't match the weight of his words: "So what if it was selfish?"

Megumi's shoulders stayed tense but he blinked, his eyes wandering over to Yuji but all he met was a steady look back, calm, grounded in a way that Yuji rarely looked like.

"We make choices and live with them. Sometimes that's selfish. I don't think it means it's wrong," Yuji hesitated, then shrugged again, though this time it was more of a way to get rid of thoughts that intruded on his spoken words, "Maybe it's not even about who's right. Maybe it's just about who's willing to live with what they chose."

Megumi's chest ached. Yuji spoke with a certainty that made him think about Sukuna's finger that Yuji ate that roped him into a world that brought nothing but misery, and why he had such a hard time doing the same when he grew up within it. He didn't respond, not because he disagreed, even though he wanted to push back, to argue, to find a reason for why he would be right, but because the words wouldn't come.

Maybe it was his pride. Maybe it was shame crawling up his throat, laying bitter on his tongue. It wasn't a question of his decision, it was a question of who he was.

Yuji stood up and brushed off his pants like he hadn't just pulled something raw into the light, like the conversation was done. And maybe it was. Megumi made no start to stop Yuji, anyway.

"If you don't wanna talk to her, fine. But don't lie to yourself about why."

3rd of May; 18:52. — you.

The warehouse reeked.

Like mold, blood, and something sour that clung to the back of the throat — the kind of stink that told you a curse didn't die clean. And it didn't: there was a substance resembling blood splattered all over the floor, like it couldn't escape fast enough from where it had been squashed into mush.

Megumi stepped over it, his boots making a wet sound on the floor, his steps heavy and with purpose in the vast silence that suddenly laid itself on top of you like a thick blanket. The air was heavy with aftershocks of cursed energy; the taste tangy and metallic on your tongue.

You could hear the drip of blood from the curve of your sword, the echo hanging in the air, drip, drip, drip.

It gnawed on your nerves, a slow and deliberate sound that you couldn't escape, so you flicked the blade off with a swift motion. Your eyes swept over the shadows lingering from when megumi had called them.

Footsteps matching his in the quiet, the rhythm of yours echo out of sync, a subtle discord that had become almost too familiar. Before, the silence had been filled with sharp words, teasing, half-fulfilled orders, information, occasional jabs. Now?

Now it was just motion. Breathe. Get it done. Get out. No checks. No confirmation. No reason to linger.

Megumi didn't wait for you to catch up. He moved forward without a glance, the slight echo of his voice cutting through the stillness, not loud enough to be a real order, not quiet enough to ignore, "Let's go."

You followed because, well, it was over. The job was done, and there was nothing left to say.

5th of May; 12:01. — fushiguro megumi.

Fushiguro Megumi didn't know why he was lingering around the broken shopping mart in Yurakucho.

With his hands loose by his side, his eyes travelled over the police tapes that were slowly being rolled together. The curse hadn't come back, because if it had, there wouldn't have been the shifting from police workers to construction workers over the weeks.

His heart was beating steady, watching the bustle, the shouts over the sound of equipment, the everyday hustle of people who didn't know better, who didn't have to know better. He continued standing there, watching until the workers gathered together for lunch time.

Megumi ducked under the signs that warned other citizens to stay out, and entered through the broken doors, now cleaned off the shards. His feet took him to the third floor automatically, the entire mall looking weirdly peaceful without the shelves reaching over to keep him in their grasp, without the air weighing him down like he was going to crumble underneath the pressure. The lights were turned off, the electrical wires cut, but there was enough light coming through from the ripped down wall to the south side that he needn't worry about seeing, and he observed the dust dancing in the air.

There was no cursed energy lingering around anymore, but he found the faded circle of red on the floor easily.

He didn't have to worry about the cursed womb anymore, didn't have to worry about anybody else getting hurt.

His teacher had caught him on the extended balcony of the main building in Tokyo Jujutsu High a couple days back, jutting out to observe the main courtyard and if he turned, a side view of the sport field expanding right in front of him. His other schoolmates were training out, and he hadn't joined them; instead, his eyes flitted over the starfish spread of Inumaki's — a Yuji standing next to him poking him with a stick, the huge body of Panda's throwing around a screeching Nobara, the band of limbs blurring in a spar between Maki and you.

His lips twisted, and he looked away.

"Megumi skipping school? Scandalous!"

He barely flinched when he heard Gojo's cheerful tenor ring through the air behind him, too used to his teacher popping in at whatever times he deemed fit. He couldn't tell whether Gojo had come up using the stairs like a normal person, though knowing his teacher, that would have been too boring.

Megumi didn't think he needed to answer. He knew he was supposed to be down there training alongside the rest of his classmates, but he couldn't step foot onto the field, knowing you were there. If ignoring you had been difficult before, it was almost impossible now, even though he didn't speak to you, your own comments having dwindled, only terse necessities when you were put together on missions.

It was less the quantity of commentary that weighed on him heavily; it was just the way his hair stood on its ends, his skin prickling at your mere presence. There was a charge to the air between you both, the accusation and assumption sitting in the atoms he breathed in, heavy, tasting like static.

He shook his head lightly, the memory of a certain monitor beeping in his ears fading. He wasn't wasting time, he wasn't — he was going to train twice as hard, was going to make up for it. His missing the training with the rest of the students would have no bearing on his performance. He was going to make sure of it.

He had no other choice.

"Just so you know, I don't quite mind. I do approve of a little rebellious streak," Gojo's saunter towards the railing where Megumi stood was insufferable. It was not just the way he walked, like gravity bent over backwards for him, the bounce in his steps, like he was mocking the world and daring it to do something about it, but also the underlying message through the easy sway of his shoulders: that he was untouchable. "But skipping school is a slippery slope. First, it's one day. Then it's two. Next you know, the others avoid handling you at staff meetings, and I'm the one who has to go through all your reports. Not fun."

A dry remark, no questions intended. "Do you even read the reports."

"Nah. I don't. It's too much of a hassle," his teacher said with a grin, his canines sharp and glinting in the sun. His elbows propped up on the railing, his back to the sports field, he looked up to the sky. Or, well, his face was looking towards the sky, his eyes might has well have been roaming Megumi's face. Not that he would know where Gojo was looking with that blindfold on.

There was a kind of quiet between them that felt like it was supposed to be purposeful. He didn't like it, his hands gripping the railing a bit tighter, like he could redirect his tension through his fingertips to the wood. There was a breeze softly caressing Megumi's face, and for a second, he wondered if he deserved to have the world treat him so gently, when he—

"I exorcised the curse."

On instinct, Megumi whirled around towards Gojo and the distinctive curve of his jaw as he continued to study the sky's blue, the spare clouds here and there. Like clockwork, the stone in Megumi's stomach sank deeper, and his knuckles whitened on the wood, his nails digging between the rills of the old timber.

"I know there's coulda-woulda-shouldas going through your head. You don't have to tell me, I know I've got bingo already," Gojo said offhandedly, and finally turned his head to Megumi, his smile softening, less of a tease, more of an inspection.

Megumi looked away, the wood digging in between the nail and his skin, right in the crevice where it was hard to get out. "You shouldn't have had to clean up after me."

"Aww, come on, that's what I'm here for. Let me have my moment," a snap of his fingers, "I even looked cool doing it — real flashy. Big crown. Someone might have clapped, ya never know."

His teacher was so ridiculous, Megumi couldn't stop the huff escaping him. Of course, he was out to be praised, so full of himself the way he always was. To an extent, Megumi even appreciated the ease with which he talked. Not that he would ever admit it. "You're not helping."

Gojo bent down, the tip of his sharp nose getting awfully close to Megumi's. "Also, for the record, the whole spinning around you just did? Very dramatic, I give it an 8.5 out of 10."

Megumi jerked his head back, sending a glare towards his teacher, "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Not unless I'm unconscious. Or dead," both hands up in the hair, Gojo stood upright again, to his full height; assured, confident, a fact, "Hold your horses, Megumi — I'm not planning on either of those today. Or the near future."

Megumi's eyes found their way from his teacher to the field again. Inumaki had finally gotten up, though he was still a far cry away from actually gearing up to fight. Maki had moved on to rope Panda into blocking a flurry of her attacks, every movement precise and trained, no wasted moment. Yuji and Nobara were off to the side, engaged in the typical bickering he knew his classmates to partake in. A threatening raise of her hand at Yuji, an assuaged shoulder dropping directed at Nobara.

You were nowhere to be seen, and Megumi hated that he took note of it, that his fingers let up for a second, that the coil in his stomach uncurled. And when gojo spoke again, he hated the way relief wormed itself through his heart, as if he deserved it.

He hated, too, how much he welcomed the relief.

"It's alright for the stuff to weigh on you. You think you're the only one holding the line sometimes," Gojo's voice was serious, in a way that Megumi seldom heard, "You're not. You've got people behind you. Beside you. Me included, aren't you lucky."

Because it was true. Because Megumi could rely on Gojo Satoru. Because he could rest assured that his teacher had always looked out for him, and would always do so, despite being so annoying about it. Or maybe perhaps, even more so because of it.

"…thanks."

Gojo's grin returned with ease, shoulders pulled up as he kicked off the railing. "By the way, the next time you skip class, at least pretend to be doing something cool. Like I dunno — stealing a cursed artefact, annoying Nanami until it looks like the button on his collar is gonna burst, infiltrating a rival Jujutsu School…the list is endless!"

"Those are all terrible ideas."

A gasp, and Gojo turned around, his hand clutching his chest, "Excuse me for having taste."

Megumi had rolled his eyes, but inwardly, he had felt a weird mix between mollification and a nervous fraying around his edges. Making his way down to the training grounds as well to take over Panda's spot, he had even managed to ignore that he was only going down because you weren't there anymore.

A coward—

No.

He just didn't want to get into fights anymore, he told himself, he was sick of it.

Standing in the wreckage left behind of the failed mission now, he couldn't muster up the relief that he felt when Gojo first told him that the curse was gone. He didn't have to worry about it anymore, didn't have to agonise over it at night, could finally focus on his next missions, of not repeating the mistake.

The curse was dealt with. No one else would get hurt, no news alert or updates that he would have to await with bated breath. No more imagining what could have happened — because none if it had happened. And now, it never would.

So why, instead of ease, did he feel a familiar tightness in his chest?

His fingers swept over the mark of his shikigami's warding attack, muscles loose, not clenched, not angry.

The second Megumi learned that Gojo had stepped in, the weight had vanished from his shoulders like it had never been his in the first place. The moment it wasn't his problem anymore, it had stopped being real. The guilt, the panic, the second-guessing — all of it evaporated. Gojo had fixed it. He had always fixed it.

But what if his teacher died? What if there was nobody around to pick up the pieces he left on the ground?

He pressed his lips together.

Megumi didn't use to think about it, but then you threw it at his head, the question of whether he knew that his sense of justice disappeared so easily and—

The comfort sitting in his bones, in the cracks of his joints, turned sour, like milk that was expiring. Gojo could shoulder the burden like it was weightless — and for him, maybe it was. But Megumi wasn't like that. Was he going to rely on his teacher forever?

If he started choosing who lived, if he stained his hands so others could stay clean, would maybe one day the relief feel genuine?

1st of May; 14:28. — you.

You lingered near the restricted area, your fingers hovering over the glass display case. You didn't dare touch anything, but your eyes were sweeping over the more dangerous collection of cursed objects. The area hummed with restrained malevolence; the ancient talismans pulsed dimly, guarded by layered barriers woven so tightly that even the air seemed hesitant to stir.

You didn't intend to steal anything. T

his was merely reconnaissance, to confirm whether the rumour over at Kyoto's were true: that Tokyo Jujutsu High had been quietly amassing cursed relics far beyond what they reported to the higher-ups. That under Gojo Satoru's protection, they'd turned the school into something closer to a private arsenal than a neutral institution.

But this wasn't about fairness or balance, that you knew. It always came down to fear, to wanting to gain the upper hand against somebody they didn't trust. Neither gojo nor his students, and especially not the influx of power the first-years all brought along.

Standing there, surrounded by cursed tools older than some dynasties in Japan, you felt weird.

This wasn't just a vault, it was a warning, too. A reminder that if Tokyo wanted to, they really could overpower Kyoto before it ever drew its own blade. And if it was true, what would the elders plan to do with this information if you delivered it?

In the end, you shouldn't care. You were a tool to use, a means to someone else's end, you were just there to collect information, and leave before anything could happen. Ever since you found that talisman on your bed, you kept repeating it to yourself, yet still —

Strangely, your first thought was of Itadori Yuji.

Not because he was friendly, even though he was. Not because he always offered to spar, even though he did, or because he was so earnest, but because of what he carried inside him.

You had seen it in flashes; in the way his smile faltered when he thought no one was watching, in the tension in his shoulders when he had to deploy Sukuna to take over his body, like he was bracing himself for something he couldn't stop.

He bore the King of Curses like a time bomb behind his ribs, and the worst thing about it was that he wasn't just a vessel. He was a boy trying to stay himself. So if what you learned here about Tokyo's cursed arsenal got back to Kyoto's elders, would they have more leverage to use against Yuji?

You were their spy, yet—

"So, funny thing," came a voice from behind you, "back during my days, the restricted section wasn't on the student tour."

You froze.

Gojo Satoru stood just a few steps back, hands in his pockets, posture loose, like he had just strolled in by accident. His blindfold was slightly pushed up, one pale blue eye gleaming under the low light. He wasn't smiling, but his tone was light, breezy, almost bored.

Like catching you here was a minor curiosity.

You turned slowly, "Gojo-sensei."

"Wow. Polite!" he nodded appreciatively, the corner of his mouth twitching, "Didn't expect that, considering the whole Kyoto sending you here and not teaching you how to trip a proximity ward. How is Utahime, by the way? She still giving the staff at the Karaoke's grey hair?"

Your answer was hesitant, slow, careful, "This place is off-limits? I could swear it wasn't. That's my fault. I can be on my way out, no time wasted."

There was a brilliant smile on Gojo's face at you playing stupid now; like a mask, easy and lazy, but there was a dangerous glint in the way his canine caught the light. "Cute. You lie like somebody who's never had to lie to me before."

"I wasn't—"

"—lying? Spying? Trying to sell me some sweet, innocent act?" he finished for you, his grin sharpening, his attention on you razor sharp, "Nah. Of course not. I can give you some pointers if you want my professional constructive criticism."

So lying wasn't an option anymore.

Not that you thought it ever really was, but in the same way that the higher-ups had no issue throwing out obvious, outrageous excuses like that, you thought maybe you could do the same to save yourself. But of course, it was a stupid decision. You had neither the power nor the authority nor the leverage to pit against somebody like Gojo Satoru to even try to pull shit out of your ass.

If anything, you didn't know if Kyoto even had any control. Not when it was the honoured clan heir on the other side.

What were your options then?

Despite the imposing presence of Gojo's, like an incessant reminder of the energy thrumming underneath his cool demeanour luring you to see him as an enemy, you couldn't attack. Not if you wanted to keep all of your bones intact. It would only end one way and that was with you in a hospital and having lost all semblance of some sort of trust between not just you both, but also with the other first-years.

Not that any trust had ever been really genuine, but at least it hadn't disturbed the status quo between you during all the weeks before.

You also didn't want to fight. Not like that. Not against Gojo Satoru. Ever.

You could try to stick to lying and pretend like you were innocent — it might even work, depending on how much good-will Gojo owned in that moment, how playful he was to really allow you to walk that line. He wouldn't believe you, but maybe you could appease him a little. On the other hand, it could also go insanely wrong in that he doesn't take kindly to being toyed with.

As stupid as it sounded, it was a viable option, but it was too much of a wild card to really trust that it would work either way.

Another option, which, out of everything, was not high on your list, was to offer him something in return if he let you get away with it. If you could convince him that you were more useful to keep around, you might be able to play it safe. He might be insulted, or he might take the offer, but either way, you would lose his respect and any possible prospect of gaining trust. Which, again, did not help your case in any way.

That lead to two different problems, though, which could be viewed on two different scales of importance, too. For one, and far less important, your behaviour was not just representative of yourself, but of Kyoto too, so any repercussions were directed back to the elders as well. You yourself didn't particularly care whether Gojo Satoru had respect for you, though having him as an enemy was not quite on your to-do list, either; but being the reason for the stand-off between the two schools to sharpen? Difficult.

Another reason, far more important to you, was to sell yourself like that went against your own principles; you were not in the habit of disregarding your own feelings in favour of saving yourself.

You were following your job, you knew that. You could treat it like a mission, because it essentially behaved like one, except a part of you couldn't because it wasn't against enemies, curses and curse users that intend to hurt innocent people. It was against other sorcerers, in a game where you were supposed to smile in Yuji's face and then feed his future to people who'd rather he die quietly than live inconveniently.

How much of a pawn did you want to be? You didn't care when you came here to Tokyo, but you also hadn't known any of the students here, hadn't seen how hard they worked to make a different future for Jujutsu Society.

You talked all about Megumi and his inability to be true to himself, but how about you?

The words left your mouth as calmly as you could manage, as steady as you could bring yourself to sound with Gojo Satoru watching over you like a hawk, "I didn't come here to steal anything."

Was that your smartest move? Maybe. Maybe not. It was hard to guess with him, but it was at the very least the truth and sometimes, when nothing else worked, truth was all you had left. It was your best bet at catching his attention; somebody who occupied the stance that Gojo Satoru did would appreciate honesty, you thought.

"You must be really curious then to ignore all the seals."

So he wasn't going to let you off easy. Almost, you were hoping he would be kind to you.

"They don't trust you. Or Tokyo," you didn't have to mention who they was; Gojo knew. By the shift in the air, the lessening of oppressive attention, you also knew he was listening now. "Not with the first-years. Not with Itadori. And especially not with you standing between them and the chain of command."

He didn't interrupt, so you continued.

"I guess you could call me spy, but they never do. Well, not officially, anyway. It's called oversight, information gathering, or whatever other thing they can come up with," you swallowed the amount of saliva having gathered in your mouth from your rambling, "They think this school is building its own army."

"An army, eh?" Gojo made a low sound in his throat, an unceremonious snort escaping him, "I can't say we haven't a good roster this time round: a hammer, a puppeteer, a ticking walking bomb? Nah, I gotta tweak that one a little…just the bomb? Hmm…"

You interrupted him before he could spiral into another tangent, "Point is, they're scared of you."

He turned towards you and despite the brightness of his eye roaming over your form, his words were honest, "Good. They should be."

You stayed still, because— "What are you going to do?"

Gojo blinked, lazily, as if none of it truly concerned him. Like catching a spy in Tokyo Jujutsu High's restricted section was no more urgent than choosing what flavour Mochi to buy. But nothing about the casual motions of a tight-lipped smile curling onto his face or his fingers tapping his chin was idle to fool you.

"Me?" he echoed, "Oh no, I'm just sitting in the front-row seat of 'what are you going to do?"

You swallowed, just once. "I could tell them about all this here."

"Naturally," he said, one shoulder heaving up in a small shrug. The way his head tilted reminded you of a bird, "You could."

Was there a trap in his words? You weren't sure. That was the problem with Gojo Satoru — he didn't need to be flashy to be dangerous. Sometimes it even hid in plain sight, draped in his infuriating nonchalance and wrapped in his lazy smiles.

Was the off-handed way he regarded you a threat?

Maybe.

He didn't look like he was posturing. He didn't have to. He barely moved since the moment he caught you, and yet you hadn't relaxed once. His eye watched you, but not in a way a predator would its prey, because that was still seeing you on the same plane of existence as him and right now, you weren't.

He watched you like a god watched a candle.

You studied him back. "You're not going to stop me?"

"I already did."

Things were not written in stone. Theoretically, you knew that.

You could send your report back to Kyoto, and it would carry your name. You could choose to continue your mission the way it was intended, could accept that you essentially were a discardable part of a plan that was larger than you. The plan that encompassed the death of Itadori Yuji, that had its eyes set on Fushiguro Megumi and the power imbalance of his cursed technique officially belonging to no clan, but still could be seen as an extension of the Gojo family.

You could do a lot of things, but the way he was waiting for you to understand made you feel like your decision had been made hours ago already. That it had been cemented in moments that you hadn't thought twice about: the first time you snorted at Yuji's really-not-funny joke but he lit up like he got handed a prize when he realised who it came from.

The first time Nobara didn't bother hiding her annoyance during a dragged-out explanation during training but still shifted enough to give you a clear view.

The first time you saw Megumi hesitate before a mission, so minuscule that you had almost dismissed it, his jaw tight and eyes distant, that spurred on your curiosity about what he was hiding.

That was the trap, you thought, not Gojo's words but, put on the spot in front of a decision, how treacherous your heart and mind were.

7th of May; 22:13. — kugisaki nobara.

"Yo."

"Gojo-sensei!"

"Yuji, my favourite student who is absolutely not my favourite just because you're the only one who has decency enough to miss me so when I'm gone!"

Nobara tried her best at Maki's eye roll again, "Teacher's pet."

"Wait…am I not supposed to say hi?"

"Nevermind that, Yuji-kun! Won't I get a heartfelt greeting from my other two favourite gremlins?"

"Hi." — "What's the mission."

"Yuji, close the windows. There's a real cold draft. Weird."

"But there's none open…"

Ignoring yuji, her teacher continued cheerfully, throwing a file onto the table, "I come bearing gifts!"

Nobara's head thumped against her arm. Goodbye, skin care routine. Goodbye, a good night's sleep. Goodbye, peace.

8th of May; 23:42. — you.

Megumi's leg was touching yours.

The problem with being four people in a short limousine was that there were two single seats that both Nobara and Yuji were quick to claim. In fact, as you all were walking down to the awaiting car on the main street, both of your classmates started accelerating until they were speed walking at a very conspicuous pace. Megumi huffed to himself, a deep annoyed sigh, a few steps behind you but you didn't think much of it until Iwata opened the door for you both and an innocent Yuji was looking back from the front row seats.

The boy's pink-haired head immediately whirled forward when he caught your eye, but it wasn't quick enough for you to have missed the slightly guilty expression painted all over his features. Your eyebrows wandered even higher up when your periphery registered movement between the seats, Nobara's well-manicured fingers slightly pinching Yuji's thigh.

Her lips mouthed something towards him, quick, messy enough that you couldn't catch it but apparently that was enough for Yuji because his brows furrowed and he nodded, resigned, accepting his part in whatever scheme she was coming up with.

"Move," Megumi grunted from behind you when you took to long to enter, and pushed himself past you into the car.

"Don't strain yourself with all that politeness, Fushiguro," you bit out.

It was a cruel joke, looking inside the vehicle and finding that the only seat you could possibly take was right next to Megumi's right. Well, it would have been Megumi's left if you had entered the car first, but at least it would have been at your choosing which side you'd rather occupy.

Not your mission, you reminded yourself with a press of your lips, before sliding into your seat and allowed Iwata to shut your door close so he could drive you all to the mission site.

That had been eighteen minutes ago, and Megumi's leg was touching yours for the past thirteen of those. Megumi who had stubbornly stared out the window, who kept his body to himself, tense, with his arms crossed, until his head lolled forward slightly and his body relaxed slowly.

It was funny how open to an attack he was in that position, the back of his neck exposed as his chin softly bumped against his chest. If the Kyoto elders had tasked you to get rid of the Zen'in brat with the Ten Shadows Technique, you could have done so easily in that moment: taken a hold of the dagger you kept with you and aimed for his carotid, then dragged it up to his internal jugular. He would've been dead before he could have even had the chance to wake up again.

They didn't ask that of you, though, so you sat in this car with Yuji's and Nobara's whispers in front of you, and Megumi's leg that touched yours.

9th of May; 01:18. — you.

"This place smells like whatever's festering in those idiots' laundry pile."

Nobara wasn't exaggerating.

The stench of stagnant water reeked of bacteria finding a welcoming home; flowers that had been standing in their dirty water for weeks, a sickly sweet under note. It reminded you of buried corpses beneath wet earth, rotten.

The entrance to the underpass stretched out before you, half-drowned in shadow as murky floodwater trickled out steadily. Despite the sloshing of water reaching your ears faintly, there were no other sounds to indicate there was something nesting inside there: no breeze of wind, no metal creaking, no movement through the water.

There had been residual cursed energy picked up from the last site that the curse was lingering around, though it was difficult for to scouts who were monitoring the area to pick up the exact location. The curse was constantly moving, apparently extremely territorial and, most importantly, smart enough to avoid detection until now.

"What are you doing?"

You turned slightly to observe Yuji bending down, untying his boots, "I didn't know the water was going to be that deep!! I'm wearing my cool socks, so — " he rolled his socks into a little ball, stuffed it into his pocket before slipping into his shoes, sock-less, " — problem solved."

"Ugh, yikes."

"We should split up as we discussed," Megumi spoke up, his voice scratchy from when he woke up from his slumber earlier.

When the car came to a halt and the overhead light turned on, his body had stilled as his eyelashes fluttered lightly, opening, coming to his senses with a blink. He was quiet, when awaking. But Megumi, when left to his devices, was always very quiet, even more so in the recent weeks. His jaw slightly moved when he released the tension held within his teeth and his chest moved with a deep breath, shoulders staying relaxed momentarily before they stiffened when he felt your gaze on his face.

He had looked at you, something raw in his eyes, and you looked back. For a second there was nothing between you both other than just space that existed, then his knee had pulled away and you had turned and gotten out of the car.

"Sweep it from both ends. One team at the north entrance, and one from the spillway," Megumi continued. "At least this way we can cut off one route if it decides to lead us through a chase."

As you were approaching the mission site earlier, Yuji had asked about the distribution of teammates, and a quiet Iwata had spoken up. His voice was soft, hesitant like he was scared to unleash a storm with what he was about to announce. Apparently, Gojo had made it clear to the assistant manager to convey his explicit desire to have you and Megumi paired up.

You hadn't bothered to either act or be surprised about that development, taking the 'news' with as neutral a face as you could manage. Obviously, you would have preferred to share the name of teammates with Yuji instead, but after the encounter with Gojo, you weren't surprised that you were to be kept away from the pink-haired student that had the Kyoto elders in an uproar. It didn't matter that nothing in your secret mission had mentioned any bodily harm to Yuji, nevermind the fact that you didn't want to hurt him, but if it were you in anyone else's shoes, you would have kept yourself far from him, too.

The lack of trust didn't hurt you, for it made sense and you weren't sure you trusted Gojo Satoru and his little games entirely, either. It was a give and take, so nothing you could do about it.

What captured your attention instead was the fact that Megumi's face hadn't moved at the announcement, either. Where there would have been a palpable exasperation at sharing his presence with you, a frustrated grimace, a twist of lips, he just quietly accepted it now. It had you narrowing your eyes, a thoughtful curl of your mouth that you couldn't hold back.

His lack of ill-will was off-putting; the oppressive quiet he had layered over himself over the past weeks slowly, bit by bit, one that suffocated the usual reticence he carried with him. it wasn't like you knew too much about his private life, so you couldn't pin point what exactly had happened that had Megumi hide behind the biggest mask of indifference you had ever seen, and—

Not your mission.

There was fire licking at your fingertips, urging your tongue to loosen up to coax it out of him, because you knew there was something contained behind the seams, trying to burst. You knew because you felt the same way. Because there was something brewing in your chest that wanted out, because Kyoto made it clear not to intervene with anything and not to care. Because Megumi was not your business.

You're not going to stop me?

I already did.

You exhaled harshly.

The sound echoed off the walls of the underpass, seemingly stretching endlessly in front of you. Your shoes were wet and you were glad that the water hadn't seeped through them to dampen your socks — yet. If you had to walk any longer in the rising water level, they would become so sooner or later. The water rippled around your shins faintly, lit dully by the weak glow of your flashlights. Moss climbed up the walls in green veins and every few paces the rusted husk of a bicycle or the tip of a traffic cone broke through the surface.

Megumi was wading through the water as well, next to you, his eyes observing the tunnel walls like they might peel open and serve the curse on a silver platter, a stern line on his mouth. The silence stretched thin — taut with the weird change between you both. He hadn't spoken a word since you entered, and it didn't bother you, you told yourself.

Except there were comments that burned on your tongue, so you did the sensible thing and swallowed them down with the same-old mantra you had adopted ever since you found the talisman on your bed.

Ignoring the fact that ever since Gojo had found you sniffing around, you hadn't actively went to search for any new information, either.

9th of May; 02:03. — itadori yuji.

"If this thing doesn't show soon, I'm gonna curse it for wasting my time when I could be getting beauty sleep," Nobara's boots splashed as she moved on ahead, her hammer kept low.

Rip her mouth to shreds. She talks more than you whine around, brat.

Itadori Yuji flinched just a little, shoulders tensing instinctively at the voice that coiled through his mind like rot given form. Sukuna's tone was laced with dark amusement, sharp and sleazy, sliding into the quiet of Yuji's mind like a knife. His voice carried the weight of ages — dry, scornful, each syllable curled with contempt.

He tried not to show it. He was getting better at hiding when Sukuna slithered in, but it still left that familiar feeling in his chest, like he'd swallowed nails. But Yuji also knew that Sukuna loved to get the best of him, so his best bet had always been to not give the King of Curses the satisfaction of a response.

He trudged through the water beside Nobara, arms slightly raised like the water might leap up and bite, "It's not so bad. You think curses can swim?"

"Shut up before you jinx us," she muttered.

Yuji glanced at nobara, trying to gauge her mood. She was always so confident, so brash, but tonight there was something different about her. A tension in her shoulders, a tightness in her jaw. It wasn't just her missing her beauty sleep, it wasn't just the mission. She was annoyed, sure — that was kind of her default — but… more than that.

He couldn't really blame her because Yuji felt weird most of the time, too.

He knew that not everyone shared the same line that he drew in the sand.

He hated it. Hated the feeling of watching his friend hurting over something he understood very well, of the sting of pain that stayed lodged deep beneath his ribs, creeping into dreams and daylight alike. Yuji had lived it, Megumi had lived it, Nobara had, they were still living it; the same wound that wouldn't stop bleeding because it never got any time to heal.

Yuji knew that Megumi would throw himself into danger if it meant somebody could be saved — it was why he appreciated and trusted Megumi after all this time so deeply.

But you?

If he had to say, he wasn't quite sure where to put you on his scale. He didn't think that you both were strictly in the category of friends, but he also didn't think that you weren't. If worse came to worst, he would protect you as he would with any other of his teammates, the same way he would with any given human, but he wasn't sure whether he enjoyed your presence, not when he saw how biting your words could be.

Yuji generally was a forgiving person, straight forward, optimistic even, but then sometimes you fixed him with this look of yours as if you knew more about him than he'd like you to and—

He shook his head.

That wasn't the point. The point was that he had seen enough of you to understand that you weren't heartless, not in the strictest sense, that you did what the mission called for, that he saw you doing what other sorcerers were doing, and Yuji understood that.

It scared him, not because he thought it was cruel, which he had trouble figuring out if it even was, but because he knew that he had been shown over and over how the Jujutsu world worked. How easy it was for the mission to swallow everything else; that maybe, one day, doing the right thing by the rules would mean stepping over someone begging for help.

He wondered if, eventually, he'd have to become like that, too.

Yuji rubbed his chest; a self-soothing technique he only really started to use ever since his grandfather died, ever since he had swallowed Sukuna's finger and there was a presence within his body fighting his cells for power.

He didn't want to get used to death.

Such sentiment, truly. You weep over things already gone, how tedious.

Yuji's jaw tightened, but Sukuna kept going; his voice silken, venomous.

All this morality talk. You still speak of saving everyone, how quaint. How boring. This is not a tale of heroes, boy, it's a reckoning. In time, you'll grow accustomed to it. They all do. And when your bleeding heart betrays you, I shall be there.

He swallowed down the clawing urge to scream. To sleep. To disappear. Then, with a squeeze of his eyes, short, forceful, he re-focused on Nobara grumbling through the water, the faint sloshing echoing through the tunnel, the feeling of cold surrounding his legs and asked, "You think Fushiguro and her are doing okay?"

"They better have more going for them than we do, ugh, my poor shoes. I'm so going to have Gojo buy me a replica. Maybe even two, he knows I hate mouldy tunnels."

Fool.

9th of May; 02:21. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi refused to be surprised anymore.

It had been Gojo's idea. Of course it had. Who else would think it brilliant to shove two people who could barely tolerate each other into a death trap as a form of 'team building'? He could almost imagine his teacher's laugh — the disgustingly cheerful, insufferable sound that was somehow still able to be genuine in its amusement.

Megumi didn't feel like laughing. He hadn't wanted the assignment to turn out this way. Not with you. Not when he had tried, again and again, to avoid being in your presence more than necessary. But this was necessary, so he clamped down the buzzing feeling crawling on his skin to focus.

When Gojo had given them all the file with the information gathered so far, Megumi had fingered the paper, eyes scanning over the information — sensor readings, half-legible scout notes, maps — only to turn the page and stop. There they were: blurry, cruel pictures staring back at him of the confirmed causalities. Faces frozen mid-expression.

Something had twisted in his chest at the faces, gripped his heart in an iron fist. It wasn't guilt, not exactly. Not yet. But something closer to pressure, sharp and unwelcome in the way it prodded his ribs from within.

"The curse's not consistent. Weren't sorcerers or anything special — locals, mostly," Gojo had said offhandedly, almost flippant. His voice didn't betray anything of what he thought of Megumi's question, "A maintenance worker. Two kids cutting through the underpass to skip school."

Simple facts, lives on paper, reduced to what they weren't.

He had felt the words lodge in his spine. This time, he wasn't going to freeze, wasn't going to falter, to hold back just because something inside him still bucked against the uglier parts of being a sorcerer. This time he couldn't be selective.

He was not going to run away.

Because if he hesitated—

No.

He didn't need to think about what-ifs, because there were going to be none. Because there was going to be no second-guessing, no moral hesitation, no wondering if he had made the right call, no thinking of you—

He bit his tongue.

Megumi's eyes flicked sideways toward you, just slightly, almost involuntarily. His eyebrows furrowed deeply. He hated how your presence was a quiet pulse at the edge of his focus like an itch that he couldn't ignore. He disliked that he didn't know why he found you so unfamiliar, why the air between you both kept feeling like spilled gasoline, invisible and waiting for a spark

You didn't speak, didn't look at him, and yet somehow it felt like you were doing both, like you were aware of everything he thought and felt, like he was being watched, measured, known in a way that he didn't want to understand—

He shifted his gaze forward again.

Not now.

The water was deeper now than when they first entered the north side of the tunnel, cold, heavy, like it wanted to slow him down. Instead of ripples, the water moved steadily with each movement, and he had to hold up the lantern a bit higher so it wouldn't be swallowed up, the dull glow barely pushing the shadows back.

Up ahead —

He squinted.

This was an underpass; there was only one way to go, it should have been a straight line. Yet right in front of him, there were dozens of access tunnels branching in and out, narrow, curling like roots in the dark. The architecture shouldn't be possible, yet…

He paused, and when the lantern was held out to you, you reached for it without a word, hand brushing against his own.

It was only a single moment, the brush of skin only that: a brush, yet it burned.

Tensing, he snapped his hand back, fingers poised and intertwined in each other, ready to summon his Divine Dogs at a moment's notice. The cursed energy coiled tight between his hands and the flash of heat through his chest.

9th of May; 02:38. — kugisaki nobara.

Miserable and damp, Nobara's boots splashed through the water that had no business climbing up her legs, dunking her flesh in the slimy substance she actually wasn't entirely sure was even water to begin with.

"Smells absolutely rancid," she muttered to Yuji, her nose curling, "Almost like—"

"My socks? Jokes on you, I'm not even wearing them," he grinned, bright and dumb as always, but even Nobara could see the sharpness underneath the smile, the vigilant squinting of his eyes against the darkness, "Think it's hiding?"

Obviously, she thought. Not long, and she would completely master Maki-senpai's eye roll.

"Yeah," Nobara scanned the ripples a few metres away, the suspicious feeling in the air intensifying. She was pretty decent at recognising the enemy's game plan, she'd say. She had to if she wanted to survive amongst all the backstabbing people in her old town. If she wanted to navigate through the lying, the lashing out, the manipulation she saw Saori enduring, "The water's deep, so it could be anywhere but..."

When the water stilled again, her muscles tightened, and she raised her hammer slightly. Nobara didn't like that the water was quiet, because quiet meant somebody was thinking, and thinking meant there was a trap ahead.

There were two things Kugisaki Nobara hated: inappropriate use of leopard prints and backhanded manoeuvres.

"…my feeling's telling me that…it's..right…"

A point with her hammer at the minuscule waves, "…there."

"Did you—"

Before Yuji could finish, there was a dark grumble interrupting him, deep and disgusting. A breath later and the curse burst out from beneath the water, twisting like a living shadow, fast, massive and so goddamn ugly. It was big, its head almost reaching the roof of the underpass, a tail smashing against the walls as tendrils, oily and slimy lashed out wildly.

Nobara's waist started to feel cold, and when she dared to catch a look down, there was water surrounding her. It hadn't been so high earlier, she noted, alarmed, "Yuji—"

"Shit—!" Yuji barely dodged the first strike of a tendril, thick as a tree's trunk, the water splashing violently as it crashed beside him. Make that three pairs, Nobara thought, when the oil splattered on her. This wasn't going to get washed out, no matter what, and honestly, she wasn't even sure if she wanted to try and clean it.

Her hammer was fully up in a blink, energy pulsing through her arms like fire, "I'm going to teach this ugly fuck a lesson."

She didn't have to look towards Yuji to find a determined grin on his face, "Count me in."

Yuji darted forward, quick and clean despite the water sloshing at his waist. His fists were already poised and up, eyes locked on the twisted silhouette ahead. Nobara hung back; not out of fear or reluctance, because contrary to popular belief (Megumi and Yuji), she would get dirty to get the job done, but because she'd rather watch the movements of the curse and aid the exorcism through ranged combat. Also, because there was no way in hell that she could be as fast in this water as Yuji.

A tendril cracked through the air, slicing down in a high arc. Her teammate twisted away just in time, water exploding around him as his fist connected with the creature's head. It screeched, high and guttural, the stench of rot rolling over them like a wave. Then it vanished, slipping beneath the surface with a splash.

“Crap,” Yuji muttered, eyes scanning the water. "It’s in the water. We're not gonna catch it like that."

He backed off, mumbling something that might've been a joke. Not that Nobara thought it would've been funny if she had been able to catch it. Her hand was already in motions, pulling nails from her pouch in a fluid sweep. With a flick of her wrist, she launched them: sharp darts of silver, one, two, three, humming with cursed energy.

A muffled shriek followed as the nails found flesh. Oil rose, swirling on the surface, then it burst from below with his ugly sharp teeth, sinews that hung loose and all the rage lunging at her.

"Not today, freak," Nobara snapped.

She held her ground until the last possible second, then side stepped, her hammer swinging upward to catch the curse across the shoulder. It connected with a thunder-like crack, and the curse reeled — right into Yuji's awaiting first. One hit. Two. The third sent it staggering back.

Then came the tail. A blur of muscle, whipping with brutal force.

It slammed into Yuji's gut with a wet, bone-jarring thud. He grunted, forced back a step, his boots skidding through the water, but didn't go down.

Seriously, what were his legs made of? Reinforced concrete?

9th of May; 02:40. — you.

"You heard that?"

Megumi nodded, his eyes fixed on the walls ahead. His entire body had gone taut, every muscle alert, like a blade drawn but not yet swung. A screech had cut through the air, faint and distorted by stone and water, but unmistakably the curse. Which meant either Nobara and Yuji had found the curse or the curse had found them.

There was a low hum of cursed energy in the air, but it was weak. Too weak to confirm the exact source just yet, barely enough to really catch it, but still, not faint enough to ignore. It didn't mean it wasn't dangerous.

The dampness began to creep into your bones, deeper now, soaking through your clothes and sliding icy fingers across your skin. Every slow gust from the tunnel behind felt like a breath on your neck, caressing your spine with a kiss and you suppressed a shiver.

You had chosen the far most right tunnel, because it was the easiest to retrace should anything go wrong. That had been the plan: don't get lost, don't get flanked, stay alert, focus, exorcise the curse.

But as you and Megumi pushed forward, the narrow passage began to widen, the ceiling opening up, revealing more waterlogged space. Holding up the lantern, the light shone faintly, shadows receding slowly.

Then—

A faint, irregular movement.

Just off to the side, slumped against the wall where a mound of debris had collapsed, was a figure. He was half submerged, water up to his shoulders, and trembling violently. His soaked clothes clung to him, ragged, probably weighing him down more. Almost like a ghost, his pale skin shone in the dim light as he shuddered; looking like he was barely tethered to the physical world.

He wasn't dead, though. Not yet.

The old man's face lifted slowly when he heard you, eyes wide, bloodshot, water droplets hanging from his messy beard. His lips parted, cracked and raw. How long had he been down there?

Megumi slowed, and the water shifted with his arm, like he was gripping his weapon, ready to draw, and when you turned slightly, the light of the lantern between you, he glanced at you for a fraction of a second.

There was an unreadable look on his face, like carved from stone, every line harsh, neutral, focused. But you didn't search his face, you searched his eyes underneath the dark hair, underneath the mask he put in place so tightly, and they always betrayed him, flickering with something fierce and momentary. A whirlwind of emotion he swallowed down with a bobbing of his Adam's apple, not clear whether they wanted to soften or harden.

9th of May; 02:52.— itadori yuji.

Another round of nails fired, and Yuji knew that even though the water wasn't clear, he could trust Nobara to do a good job surrounding the curse.

He was already moving when she slammed her hammer down on the final embedded nail, her cursed energy surging in a flash: a chain reaction snapping from point to point. The ground trembled with how fast it spread, and the explosion lit up the creature's side.

A shriek, a buckle from the curse.

A fist, elbow, knee from Yuji.

The rhythm of his strikes was relentless. Each one hammering the curse deeper into disarray, but when he made to surge through the water, raw knuckles ready to deliver another blow—

A splash of water, mud splattering on his face, and some landed on his panting mouth, the taste pungent and dirty. He couldn't keep the grimace from spreading on his face.

The surface calmed instantly, still, eerie in how quiet it became. Too quiet.

"Where the hell—"

"Shit," Yuji wiped his wet face, breathing hard, lungs ragged. His body was coiled like a spring ready to release, tight, "This thing doesn't stay down for long."

But there was only tense silence, the only sound interrupting was the soft splashing of water beneath their feet.

Nobara's eyes scanned the water, "Wait…"

His muscles tensed at her alarmed voice, "What? What is it?"

She didn't answer at first, her eyes shifting back to the water, expression sharpening. Then, with sudden certainty: "It's not coming back up. It's gone, not just hiding, gone."

Before he could respond, there was a low, echoing splash resounding in the distance. It sounded deep and wrong, and a tremor rippled through the water, legs vibrating, concrete humming underneath their wet boots.

Yuji's head snapped toward the noise. "North entrance. Megumi."

He was already running, water flying with each step. The air felt thicker, charged with the sense of urgency. The pounding of his heart kept time with the splashing of his feet.

He was not going to leave you both to your own devices, not if he could help it, not if he could still breathe, not if he still had blood pumping through his body.

Run, brat. Let's see how far those legs get you.

Yuji didn't flinch. He just pushed through the water harder.

9th of May; 02:53. — you.

One of Megumi's shadow beasts barked. Sharp, low, a warning cry that cut through the heavy silence.

Megumi's attention snapped to the darkness ahead. his stance shifted, spine straightening, sword already angled forward. the tension in his frame was immediate, palpable, his expression hard.

The old man behind them coughed out a garbled string of words, stuttering, his voice raspy and dry, like it hadn't been used in ages. But whatever he was trying to say drowned beneath the sudden shift in the air, heavy, suffocating, thick with cursed energy.

The ground trembled underfoot, a chilling surge of cursed energy spreading across the water.

"Get back," Megumi commanded, low and clear.

Then it came.

Emerging from the depths was a hulking mass of shadow and writhing limbs that twisted the laws of motion. The curse moved like a fluid wrapped in wrinkly skin, oozing cursed energy with each movement; its eyes were pits of malice, gleaming in the lantern light with unnatural hunger. The nasty smell rolled over you like poisonous gas, subtle, clogging your nose.

Megumi's dog lunged forward with a snarl, water splashing around its paws, saliva dripping from his bared canines.

You raised your weapon, but the sudden influx of oil made your grip slip — just for a second. It was enough to remind you how bad it could go. You hadn't expected it to be a walk in the park, of course, but you had hoped it would be at least a bit simpler. This though? This was difficult.

Then it roared. It was a low, bone deep sound that shook your chest, vibrated through the water and clung to your legs. And before you could blink —

It was fast. Faster than expected. Faster than you could dodge.

You registered the impact on your ribs from the tendril lashing out, before you skidded back from the force. Pain bloomed on your skin, a deep ache, and you thought you couldn't get any air even when you breathed. Gasping, you spluttered out water from where you fell back, face momentarily dunked in the liquid, "Fushiguro!"

There was another swipe of a tendril, and it dragged over the entire terrain, coming at you with shocking speed. Ducking under the water again just in time, you felt it catch some of your hair. Your lungs complaining, screaming for air when you couldn't get your diaphragm back into its rhythm from the strike before, you broke the surface again, in time to see the tendril catch the old man full in the chest. He wailed once, a broken, high sound, before the curse yanked him across the tunnel like he weighed nothing, like he was a rag doll to be thrown around.

You grunted, voice raw from the salt water as you moved forward, intent on cutting down the curse, but even as you charged, a shadowy tentacle shot from the creature's body, aiming directly for you, snapping through the air —

It never hit.

Megumi's blade was fast, cutting through the curse's arm mid-strike, slicing the shadowed limb clean in two. Black ichor splattered on the water, sizzling where it landed.

The curse shrieked, and in that brief moment of distraction, it let go of the man, retreating back into the shadows of the water once again, moving like liquid, too fast to keep up with.

The old man struggled to stay afloat, finding a log of discarded metal, rusted and probably carrying all the bacteria for the wound on the guy's forehead. Yet, he still clung to it with all his might, body trembling in fear, eyes wide in terror. You were sure he was only awake because adrenaline coursed through his veins like a drug, with primal fear at something he couldn't comprehend.

Megumi’s gaze didn’t waver from where it tried to track the curse; he stared at the water, sword angled low, a predator stillness to him. And for a moment, in the gleam of his eye, there was something unspoken.

Like a warning, like a challenge, like a promise.

9th of May; 02:56. — itadori yuji.

"It was already halfway gone before you punched it, Yuji, how about using your brain sometime to grab it or something."

"How am I supposed to see it coming? It's like swimming with a torpedo. A creepy, soggy torpedo."

"Whatever. When we're done, you're gonna carry me to the car. I'm way too tired."

"Do I even get a say?"

"No."

9th of May; 03:01. — fushiguro megumi.

The water exploded.

A monstrous surge of tendrils shot from the depths, writhing toward them with horrifying speed. There was nothing human in the way it moved — its limbs contorted as they stretched unnaturally. It was too long, too thin, but Megumi didn't flinch. It was not too difficult to kill.

There were jagged shapes protruding from some of the tendrils, and its movements blurred at the edges: frantic, fast, making it hard to follow with the naked eye. But he didn't need to. His shikigami tracked cursed energy like breath in the dark, flaring with each incoming strike. It always alerted him when the cursed energy levels changed, so he could trust his shadows, but you—

Megumi clicked his tongue.

You were already moving towards the curse, cursed tool in hand, dark energy radiating off it where you had imbued the blade. Despite having been flung through the air, your movements were still swift, graceful, but god, you had no patience. He swallowed down the bite rising in his throat, the urge to tell you to wait so that you could coordinate, to strike smarter.

The curse recoiled at your blow, but it wasn't retreating yet, just gathering momentum.

The water churned violently around its body, as though the curse itself was dragging the entire underpass toward it. Its mouth opened wide, teeth flashing as it lunged forward, but Megumi, who anticipated it — seeing as how he seemed to be the only one who tried to hatch out a game plan — was quicker once more.

His eyes narrowed and with a practised signal of his hands, his Great Serpent moved through the water like it was his second home, converging on the curse, coiling around its limbs and biting down hard. The curse snarled and writhed under the pressure, just enough to expose a weakness, enough to give you an opening.

"Now!" he pressed between gritted teeth, his voice carrying the urgency, snapping.

You both moved; your blade arced towards the curse's core, and Megumi stepped in to flank, but the curse twisted, unnaturally pliable. With a sudden, sickening twist, it tore itself free from Great Serpent's jaw, spraying deep purple blood across the concreted walls. The thing's body seemed to fold in on itself, reshaping as if wanting to escape the grasp of Megumi.

"Dammit!"

He didn't stop. Couldn't stop, pushing forward, determined to keep it boxed in, to keep it in check, to not allow it any time to recover, but the curse was relentless. It was like fighting an ocean of flesh, always shifting, always evading.

Your eyes never left the curse either as you tried to slash with your blade again, aiming for what seemed to be its neck, but the curse writhed, dodging; its inhuman agility almost more terrifying than its strength.

"Great Ser—"

Pain.

A sharp, burning stab to his side.

Megumi exhaled harshly, stumbling back a half-step. One of the curse's long, jagged limbs had found its mark, cutting deep. For a moment, his focus wavered. Blood dripped into the water, mixing into the water easily. Refusing to flinch, his hand instinctively clutched the wound, warmth spilling between his fingers. He couldn't drop his sword, he wouldn't— burning, it burned, right in his side. It burned.

"Megumi!"

Your voice broke through his haze, and he shook his head, once, hard, eyes squeezed together to rid himself of the feeling of pain, forcing it back, forcing focus. He snapped back to attention just in time to see the curse pivot and reach for him again.

Your cursed blade cut through the air, movements clean and fluid, synchronised with his own as if you had fought together for years, not just a couple months. Megumi's chest squeezed painfully as it hit him: not the pain, not the fight, but the weight in his chest, the strange sense of familiarity settling inside the cavity despite the tension.

"This thing is relentless," he groaned, voice tight with concentration, one hand coming up to wipe the blood daring to trickle down to his eye.

You nodded, readying yourself, but just as you were about to, the curse twisted violently, its body flailing in a desperate attempt to escape. Its tail lashed out as it caught the old man with brutal force, flinging him into deep the deep, murky water with a loud splash.

Megumi's shikigami was quick to snap back onto the curse, pinning it. It screamed, thrashed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it was momentarily incapacitated, vulnerable.

They could end it. Now.

But the homeless man did not resurface.

And the curse was vulnerable enough to finish off.

His heart thudded once, hard and painful. Something tugged in his chest, tugged in his head. He had the chance to save the man, but—

No running, no hesitating. He felt it again: the pull. The he weight of his role pressing down on him, his duty to destroy curses, pulled at him with an iron grip. He couldn't flinch, he was a sorcerer, a weapon, that was what he was. And yet—

Before he registered what he was doing, his head had already whipped out to you and he met your eyes.

He didn't mean to look for you. He didn't know why he did, he didn't even want to. But here you were, already looking at him, meeting his gaze head on. There was no judgement in your eyes, not yet, but something else.

He hated that you were already looking at him. Hated that he felt like that was a test, hated the part of himself that didn't know which answer was right, hated that he felt observed, naked.

His jaw clenched, "Rush the curse," just as your voice sounded out: "We have time to go save him!"

9th of May; 03:05. — hasegawa masato.

The world around him was a blur of cold water and shadows. His heart, as weak as it was, hammered in his chest as endless dark loomed over him.

Masato's body was numb, though whether it was from fear or the icy water that soaked him to the bone, he didn't know. Terror clawed at his throat, tugged at his clothes, held his head in a vice grip.

He had been close to death before. Sickness when he couldn't afford medication was a vicious thing, hunger when he hadn't had anything to eat in weeks even worse. Sometimes, when a group of people, drunk, came by, they liked to make him dance for some money. Sometimes he would. If it meant he'd get some food, he sometimes swallowed his pride and went ahead with it.

But this? He had never been close to death like this.

That creature was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Grotesque, weird, unreal. Masato couldn't believe it was real, not when it looked like the stuff from nightmares, not when he thought he was going to piss himself.

When it had swung him around, he was paralysed under the weight of the monster's presence. The air thick with fear, the water having pushed him away from the safety of clinging to the metal piece; the scent of decay heavy on his tongue, his rasping breath barely able to satisfy his brain with enough oxygen.

Overwhelming helplessness consumed him as his limbs struggled against the water. They were like lead, the fear creeping deeper with every second. Oh god, he was going to die here, in this filthy underpass, alone. He was going to die alone with nowhere to run, no breath to take.

Was this how it was going to end? Was Masato going to die without having seen his daughter again? Without being able to tell her how sorry he was? That he wished he could hold her again, the way she was as a baby, a tiny thing that barely reached the entirety palm of his hand.

Masato had hoisted her up against his naked skin, her tiny little face nuzzled against his flesh, seeking his warmth. Then he had cried, mourning the lifeless body of his wife on the bed next to them, her legs spread and bloody, and his tears had caressed his daughter's skin.

Oh, how he wished he could tell her sorry, that he wished he could have given her a better life, that he didn't have to succumb to the deep abyss of all the feelings he didn't know what to do with after the loss of the light of his life.

He might have cried had his chest not been in so much panic that he kept trying to take a breath. It was a sheer miracle that he didn't, that he knew to press his hand against his mouth, trying to keep the precious little air he had left within his lungs.

Then—

Sharp pain at the back of his head. Everything blurred; his sight darkening slowly, warmth.

I'm sorry, Himari-chan.

9th of May; 03:07. — kugisaki nobara.

A faint bark sounded out, echoing through the tunnel.

"Dog's out, oh, what a good boy."

"He's so gonna get all the beef jerky he wants."

9th of May; 03:06. — you.

Your lungs burned, the world around you a blur of shadows and waves. The sounds of the curse seemed so far away, like there was cotton in your ear.

There. Just…a little…bit more.

Cold, slimy, your fingers slipped off the material once, twice, then, you gripped it harder. Tugged. Found it good enough, and then pulled as you struggled to haul the old man toward safety.

9th of May; 03:09. — itadori yuji.

Water sprayed as Itadori Yuji and Kugisaki Nobara exploded into the fray, his arrival marked by the sound of his footfalls pounding through a receding flood and the snarl of a curse that sensed another sorcerer enter the fight.

Megumi was already soaked, blood running down one arm in slow, steady rivulets, his expression eerily calm as it was grim — tight-lipped, pale, unshaken, angry. Shadows coiled at his feet, the water lapping up the blood oozing from Megumi like it was thankful for the meal.

The creature towered ahead, slick with oil and reared its grotesque head toward Yuji as he skidded to a stop beside his teammate.

"Took you long enough," Megumi said flatly, not sparing him a glance.

Yuji flashed a breathless grin, panting, "You look like shit."

"Then focus and stop wasting time."

Yuji's heart thumped in his ears, pounding like war drums, gaze trained on the curse and the way it twisted, the way it lunged forward, a mess of teeth and water, the movement causing a wave to crash against the tunnel walls. Without hesitation, Yuji ducked low under the strike, pivoted, his fist cocked back and ready to go.

He landed the first hit; clean and solid, pissed off, because fuck, Megumi was hurt and you were nowhere to be seen. A snap as the force rattled the curse's jaw back, howling in response.

Yuji ducked under the swing of a tentacle, and faintly, he heard a deep inhale, a pressured tension in Megumi's voice: "Max Elephant."

Water erupted as the enormous shikigami materialised, crashing down with enough weight onto the curse to shake the tunnel, its trunk hammering down like a wrecking ball, forcing the curse to rear back and expose its side for half a heartbeat.

Yuji darted around the curse, "Now!"

Nails flying through the air, hitting their mark from where Nobara stood at the head of the tunnel.

Megumi didn't hesitate either. With one swift motion, he snapped his hands together and called forth his Divine Dogs again, and they burst forward with fangs bared, eyes gleaming, latching onto the curse with force, ripping it apart. It shrieked and thrashed, momentarily locked in place as Yuji came from the other side, launching upward with an uppercut laced with cursed energy, coiled around his fist like a storm.

A rattling cry, a shriek then—

Purple, oily blood and cursed energy splashed outward like a shock wave and dissolved into vapour almost immediately. The pressure collapsed inward with a sickening pop, the oppressive air in the tunnel lifting like a vacuum sealed bag that gasped for breath.

And silence fell.

Max Elephant vanished with a spray of mist, and the Divine Dogs flickered out of existence, too, their shadows melting into the water. In the sudden stillness, the tunnel felt eerily quiet; water lapping gently against Yuji's legs like nothing had happened at all.

He staggered back, soaked, gasping. "Dude," he panted. "I'm done. I don't know what the hell that thing was but I'm calling it. No more sewer monsters. Ever."

No answer.

Yuji looked up and something in his blood sung, telling him to freeze. The water couldn't possibly become colder, except it did. There was a darkening to Megumi's face, something carved sharp. The kind of scary quiet that came before something snapped. His face was drained of colour, his gaze fixed somewhere past Yuji, unreadable, but his whole body was tense, a string pulled too tight.

For a heartbeat, yuji could swear he wasn't looking at a friend, which was stupid, because Megumi had always been Megumi, always good, old, reliable Megumi. Except that Megumi looked like he was two seconds away from turning into something else.

Yuji winced and tried to change the topic, "Soo…where's—"

Nevermind. He was not going to ask, not when Megumi looked at him then, and all the quiet, buried fury suddenly directed right on Yuji. He didn't wait for an answer, because behind him — a sharp splutter, a frantic gasp for air. He whirled around before his brain caught up, legs already moving toward the sound.

That expression — looks just how I like it.

9th of May; 03:11. — you.

Yuji was there in an instant.

He dropped to a crouch beside you, hands already curling underneath the old man's armpits to pull him up. His hair was ruffled like he had been going through it, and the look in his eyes was worried. Worried beyond just about the civilian man in your arms, worried like there was more weighing on him.

"Got him?" he asked, his otherwise cheerful voice tight.

"He's breathing. Took a hit to the head, though, so might have a concussion."

He nodded and gently pulled the man the rest of the way out of the water. Now that the curse was gone, the water was slowly receding, revealing more and more of the underpass, and becoming less and less like a maze.

You exhaled, warm air escaping you, blown out into the cold.

The skin of your neck prickled like the edge of a blade was pressed against your flesh — it wasn't the kind of shiver that came from cold water trickling down your wet hair. It was something tighter, and you didn't need to turn around to know who was staring.

Megumi, of course. It was always him when the silence felt like judgement.

The weight of his gaze sat between your shoulder blades like a hand pressed flat against your spine. He wasn't just looking; he was blaming.

So much for keeping low key, for staying professional, getting the job done and walking away. You could feel the air heat up, funnily enough, a kettle that was boiling and ready to whistle.

You refused to look at him, because if you did, you'd explode. Because if you looked at him and he dared to look upset with you, you were going to snap. If there was even a flicker of annoyance, of those stupid eyebrows drawing together and that stupid grimace on his mouth, you were going to kill him.

"Don't you look at me like that."

Megumi's steps were slow, deliberate, his boots sloshing through shin-deep water as he closed the space between you.

"Like what," his voice was low, rough, weird. Too calm.

He came to a stop just beside you, his chest brushing your shoulder, close enough that the warmth of his body clashed with the dampness of your clothes still seeping into your skin. Yet still, you refused to look, even though he was invading your space on purpose, even though you could see his hands balled into fists so tightly that the knuckles had gone bone-white, one still slicked in drying blood.

You spat, "What in the hell is wrong with you?"

The nail of his thumb dug into his pointer, "Me? What about you? You abandoned shit again right when I thought you knew what the hell you were doing."

You knew what you said.

That you wouldn't look at him. That you refused to give him the satisfaction of trying to stare you down. But well, the day was long and you talked a lot, and he pissed you off. You couldn't help it. You really couldn't, because Megumi had the nerve, because he never stopped.

You whirled around so fast that water flared up around your leg, arm raised and finger jabbing straight at his face, "Oh no, we're not going to start this again, Fushiguro," with the same nasty look on your face mirroring his. He didn't flinch. if anything, he stepped even closer, jaw tightening, ground teeth against teeth and his hand, long bloodied, trembling fingers, came to grip your wrist. Not enough to hurt, but enough for your senses to sharpen and hone on the contact of skin.

"This," his eyes were a dark blue carved out of the same murky water around you, "is what you wanted."

You barked out a laugh, mouth twisted in disbelief. "You think anything's changed? I thought your whole thing was not letting people die. But you — what? Tossed that out just like that? I mean, good on you, honestly. Growth or whatever, little Megumi finally growing balls, but you okay with that now?"

Megumi's anger was subtle, but it was laid out for you like a book to read. You looked at his jaw, cut sharply, and the way it tightened, skin drawn taut. His teeth were bared at your insult, a muscle in his cheek twitching as a droplet of water ran down the curve of his cheekbone.

He was angry at you, and even though you wanted him to be because it meant he let loose of that stupid mask he still kept up, it fired you up just as much. Because in the midst of his dark eyes narrowing, a wild storm in them, you thought that anger looked good on him, that you much preferred this to the silence and the ignorance the past weeks.

There was something bitter on your tongue and you let it sit there like ash when you looked at the way his wet hair hung down his forehead, the blood that was still running down the side of his face, circumventing his eye with a flick of his fingers, "I mean, if you're cool abandoning your values, fine. Be my guest. I just thought you'd learned from last time."

That got him.

Megumi's face shuttered, eyes dimming like a switch had been flipped, the storm cooling to heavy rain. His grip on your wrist didn't loosen; if anything, it became a tad tighter.

"Yeah?" he said, low, voice like ice, "Just like how you flipped on me now?"

"Excuse me?" you jerked your arm free, stepped forward so your chest bumped his, the air between you both hot despite the dampness, "I did what needed to be done. We had an actual opening, Fushiguro. You would've jumped on that weeks ago, now you're suddenly swinging from one extreme to the other?"

Megumi scoffed; a bitter, humourless sound that barely passed for amusement. His jaw flexed as he turned away slightly, and you noticed his other hand curling tightly at his side, "Don't try to sell me that bullshit."

You didn't back down, and this time when he focused his attention on you, his voice dipped lower, register dark and tight, the kind of controlled anger that came from being pushed too far too long, "Funny how 'what needed to be done' always ends up being what you decide. I'm starting to think you don't care about what the rules say, either."

"Yeah?" you snapped, "You got a problem with that?"

Fuck.

You could punish yourself for the way that slipped from your mouth. Because it sounded like an admission, because you knew that he wasn't entirely wrong, either. You always thought yourself to be a pride-less person, hell, you typically were, but not with this look in Megumi's eyes, one that's deeply rooted in proving you wrong.

And you might have chosen the wrong thing to say, but you would fight tooth and nail to prove to him that it didn't immediately absolve him, either.

His hand trembled, barely held back. In the back, you heard Yuji mumble something, but Nobara's voice cut through his, and he fell silent. For a second, you wondered what he said, why Nobara pulled him back when it was so very clear that he wanted to intervene.

Though, truth be told, you didn't know if you wanted him to.

"You judge me for going off-course. For ignoring your precious protocol, now you do the same exact thing and suddenly it's fine. Tell me, why is it okay when you cross the line?"

"It's not the same—"

"Like hell it's not."

Did he not see? Did he not see that whilst his snake was holding the curse, you both actually had a tangible moment of saving somebody who was drowning right in front of you? Was he so focused on suddenly pretending he cared about the regulations now that he threw his entire morals away again?

His eyes burned with something wild. Not rage exactly, maybe disbelief, maybe betrayal somewhere, "That's what you said about me, wasn't it? Not to let my emotions cloud my judgement. So what — now it's different? Because you felt like saving someone?"

Your heart was pounding and your throat scratchy as you memorised his face in your mind, the harsh lines, the curve of his nose, his wet hair, the hard press of his lips. Almost, you wished that Kyoto had told you to kill him, maybe then you'd stop feeling like there was a fire within you that you couldn't put out.

"So why didn't you?" you narrowed your eyes, because you couldn't kill him, after all, because even if you did have that order, you didn't know if you would, "You could've summoned your toad, couldn't you? I know you've got that shikigami. You're perfectly capable of calling out two of those shadows, so what the hell stopped you?"

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and his voice sounded like each word was an effort to not raise his voice, thick with feelings, and it made you go crazy, "You think I didn't consider that? You think I wasn't aware of every option, every second, every goddamn breath we had left while trying to hold that curse in place?"

"Then why didn't you do it?"

"Because I was holding the line," he hissed and his nose brushed yours, "Because you ran off without a plan, because you ignored what I said, again, and I had two choices: drop the curse and go save that man's life or hold it and save all of us, hoping that your pea-brain was going to handle the other side."

"Don't you put this on me—"

"I will put this on you," his breath was heavy and you felt it caress your mouth and your chest tightened, "Because you walk around like you've got it all figured out, preaching about this and that. So quick to tell me I'm wrong for my decisions, but here you are, doing the same damn thing I did."

You stared at him with your chest heaving, repressed shivers making you tremble, betraying you. Because he wasn't wrong and you hated that. Hated how easily he cut through you when it came from him.

"Stop acting like you're above it," Megumi said, quiet now, bitter. Raw in a way he rarely let out. "You're not. And neither am I."

Your pulse was loud in your ears, loud, fast. You couldn't bring yourself to speak — too much crowding your throat.

He watched you for one long moment, then looked away, the tension in his shoulders rigid as he turned and walked off slowly, his hand pressing down on his side.

9th of May; 03:31. — iwata.

Iwata wondered if he would ever get relieved of his duty to chauffeur the kids around. Not that he necessarily minded the act itself; on the contrary, he quite enjoyed the thought that in some way, he was able to contribute to bettering society, of ridding the world from curses.

It was just that whenever he drove the kids anywhere, they came back looking a little more like soldiers, hardened and soiled, and a little less like teenagers.

That part, Iwata hated the most.

He watched them now from the driver's seat, engine idling quietly as rain pattered on the windshield, mixing with the muddy streaks from the tunnel water still clinging to their clothes. The smell of rotten water, blood and burnt cursed energy hit him the second they climbed into the car.

Iwata pretended to be busy, but his eyes searched them for any signs that they lost a little bit of themselves out there.

The pink-haired student, Itadori Yuji, climbed in first, breathing a little hard, wearing the same tired grin he always did — like if he smiled hard enough, none of the bad things would stick, like they would just ricochet off him. He flopped into the far seat and winced, arms limply sprawled across his knees as if it was too much effort to lift them.

Right behind him was Nobara; she looked like she still had some fire left in her, though it was only a glimmer. She muttered a string of curses under her breath, most of them aimed at the curse they had just fought — or maybe the mud in her boots, it wasn't clear to Iwata.

"Whoever sends us into another one of those tunnels," she sighed as she relaxed against the seat, "will have me hexing their entire bloodline."

"That a threat?" Yuji yawned.

"No. A promise."

Iwata didn't comment. Instead, the door in the back opened and Megumi followed in silence, a hand pressed to his side. The blood had mostly clotted, his jacket crumbled up to apply pressure against it, but Iwata saw the way he walked, the stiffness in his joints, the pain he tried to hide. Iwata couldn't do a lot, not until they got back to the school and to Shoko Ieiri. He slid back, elbows on his thighs, eyes locked on the floor like it might answer for something.

Lastly, there was the exchange student, the one he barely knew. Not that he knew the others that well either, but this one was even more of a puzzle to him. So he couldn't read your face, only saw the way it was set in granite, lines hard. You shivered slightly though you hid it well, instead looking out the window, hands clenched in your lap.

Iwata eased the car into drive, pulling away from the tunnel entrance. He had called an ambulance for the old man the kids were carrying out, already having given the first aid that he could. Silence settled over the kids, save for the soft purr of the engine and the patter of the rain.

He caught glances of them in the rear view mirror — Megumi stubbornly clenching and relaxing his hands, your eyelids slowly closing, Nobara picking at dried blood under her nails, Yuji fiddling with a broken zipper on his jacket.

God, they were just kids.

They shouldn't have been worrying about life and death, not making choices that adults twice their age couldn't shoulder without cracking. Should have instead been having fun out there, enjoying their youth, enjoying making memories all kids their age do.

He exhaled quietly, one hand tightening on the steering wheel. He didn't say anything. He never did. But he reached forward and flipped a switch on the car's dashboard to heat the seats for them.

Yuji leaned back a little more, Nobara let out a tired hum of approval, Megumi let his head fall back against the seat finally, his eyes closing and your shoulders loosened slightly.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

11th of May; 07:29. — kugisaki nobara.

"You think they're going to come out of this alive?"

"God, I hope not."

11th of April; 07:30. — gojo satoru.

"Well!" Gojo Satoru announced cheerfully, "Who needs actual curses when the real horror is whatever this — " he waved a hand in the direction of his two students, " — unresolved..bit…thing…is supposed to be. Hm. That sentence got away from me."

Neither Megumi nor you looked at him, and Gojo didn't need them to. He understood their silence perfectly well, after all. One could call him the whisperer of anguished teenagers, if one will. Not that anybody would, but he thought there was a high chance it could be true.

He sighed loudly, exaggerated. "Y'know, I didn't set this training camp up because I love early mornings or physical labour. I set it up because I actually care."

Still no answer. His lips twisted slightly, and he clapped his hands once, loud enough to echo through the wooden beams of the dojo they were occupying, the two kids sitting in front of him on the ground. Megumi stared down at the floor, his posture rigid. Next to him, you had your arms crossed, staring right past Gojo's shoulder at the wall.

"Alright, group meeting, just us three. Megumi, dear exchange student, and your incredibly good-looking, well-adjusted teacher."

That got your eye twitching, at least. Megumi's jaw flexed like he was grinding down a curse by tooth alone. Not quite efficient, but at the very least, he had them react to something. Sigh. Kids were so difficult these days.

"You two are good sorcerers. Really, of course still lots to learn, but good. Smart even, shockingly so actually, considering the choices you've both been making lately."

Megumi exhaled slowly. "We're getting the job done."

"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you are one outburst away from killing each other."

Then his voice dropped, just enough to remind his students that they were his students after all, "You can hate each other all you want once the job's done. But while you're out there? You work together. You trust each other. Or I pull you both off the field. Permanently."

That definitely got some reactions.

Megumi's head whipped up, a disbelieving, annoyed look on his face, the one Gojo loved to see, and you narrowed your eyes in response, "You can't be serious."

Ah, the poor exchange student by day, spy by night. How interesting it was to watch you scuttle under his attention, knowing the implications his words had on your situation. When he caught you in the restricted section, he had toyed with the idea of sending Kyoto a memento about what he really thought about having a child sicced on him by the higher-ups. A reminder that consisted more of a body part than it did of anything verbal, but he wasn't cruel enough to succumb an innocent person to that kind of torture.

Though, of course, he did think it would have been a good shock for them. And really, what would they have done? What could they accuse him for that he couldn't point right at them?

After all, they had started it.

"Oh, I'm so serious," he sang, the smile still there, but it didn't quite reach his eyes anymore, "This is your mission now: finish this training camp. Together. No sulking. No bickering. Just work. And progress, of course. I know, it's boring. Tough luck."

He stepped forward, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders, his slender fingers pressing in ever so slightly with something akin to encouragement, "So! You've got two choices: succeed…or succeed. Because that's all I'm offering."

Megumi glared at him viciously, like he thought maybe he shouldn't have come under Gojo's patronage. He thought he might have deserved it— nah, who was he kidding.

"Breakfast's in an hour, and if either of you come late, I'm making you sit next to each other and hold hands."

The look of disgust mirrored on both of your faces had him try to suppress a giggle. Oh, he should have done that earlier.

AUTHOR'S NOTE | thank you for reading!!

TAGLIST | @binkibuns @1l-ynn @nscuit @julieannah (tagged you guys because you seemed excited about the first part so i hope i'm not disturbing you with it!!)

[aro-culture-is]

hey, there's an anon ask with a lot of personal details and a note of the asker being concerned of someone identifying them based on that ask. I want to be real: I'd rather not publish in those cases.

You do not need to share your age or school grade or specific dates of things online, and I would advise against it. You do not need to tell me, nor the internet, that level of detail, and I'd be extra cautious to NOT share that level of detail when you are a minor going through some emotional times.

Until Facebook changed the online game, it was considered normal that you lied about your age and name and details on any and all platforms because it is not safe to share real information. And then Mark Zuckerberg made a website to rank the women at his college in terms of how much people wanted to fuck them, using hacked information to list all of those people without their consent.

That's what became Facebook. It was profitable to sell data about people, so Facebook required real names and faces and ages and schools. Ethical standards and internet safety be damned, because he never cared about that, if the nature of the original website didn't tell you that.

Also, anon of the long ask:

If I'm correct you're seeking validation. Something happened which you worry has impacted a personal relationship - and learning to ask, not assume, is a huge part of life. "Hey, I feel like we've been distant recently. I'm worried it's because of this. Am I reading too much into it? If not, what can I do to help heal this relationship?"

It also sounds to me like you're having some low self esteem, which makes it easy to assume others are seeing the worst in you. Try to practice saying "I am proud that I did this" throughout your day. "I am proud I turned in that homework. I am proud I talked to my friend about a tough subject. I am proud I survived today, even though it was rough."

Additionally, I'm an internet stranger. I don't know you, your life, any of that. But some of the phrasing you use sounds similar to my friends who struggle with morality OCD, and it can be worth knowing that it exists. Here's two great websites to look into that, if you feel like it might apply:

[luna-rainbow]

Maybe this question is out of touch and I apologize for that but I've always thought seb is a little neurodivergent but after hearing his thunderbolts cast mates talking about him, I definitely think he's neurodivergent and they all don't just get him. They're out there calling him cranky only because he asks a lot of questions 😭

Thanks for the ask!

I hesitate to diagnose real people based on short snippets of public interactions (which may be quite different to how they behave normally), as normally these things take a very thorough interview and assessment to diagnose.

Neurodivergence doesn’t have a clear definition as it’s not a medical term, so I’ve seen people include other mental health diagnoses like anxiety, depression, PTSD etc under that umbrella.

Sebastian has talked about his struggles with anxiety previously. He’s also called some of his own actions “OCD” but unfortunately that term has entered the vernacular to mean “being pedantic”. That said, I remember him saying that when he applied cologne he had to spritz it in multiples of three and there was something else he had mentioned once that sounds like a compulsion.

Not for nothing: Sebastian being called cranky on set is something I’ve only ever heard from the TB crowd. In interviews for other movies like Fresh, The Apprentice, A Different Man etc, his costars and producers have all gushed about how easy it is to work with him, how comfortable he made them feel, and also how willing to experiment and brave he is about his acting. So yeah I’d say it’s something about Thunderbolts rather than Sebastian that he is cranky…

Like even look at how CEvans talks about Sebastian during their time together — the sweetest kid, always good to see someone smiling on set, so much trust etc. Mackie does play up Seb being “the curmudgeon” but as Seb says “don’t trust anything that comes out of Mackie” 😂

So yeah, you might be completely correct that Seb is neurodivergent but it might be better not to apply that label unless he publicly owns it.

[roguetelepaths]

gotta admit, as a certified mostly-recovered Moral OCD Haver™ who also identifies... quite a fucking lot with Enjolras, the idea of Enjolras having moral OCD doesn't sit well with me at all. Which isn't me saying people can't have that headcanon, don't get it twisted — I just know what I acted like when it was worse vs. what I act like now, and the headspace I inhabited back then was not one I would associate with strident commitment and single-minded purpose. To me, saying Enjolras has moral OCD simply because "activist" is one of his main personality traits feels like saying that activism itself is a mental illness.

(In reality, I would go as far as to say that a person with moral OCD would not be nearly as put together while engaging in activism as Enjolras is. I TRIED being involved in activism while having unmanaged moral OCD. At one point I had an hour long breakdown because I thought wearing blue jeans in April meant I was betraying the Autistic community. It wasn't even for symbolic reasons I just didn't have any other clean pants.)

You know who I can see having moral OCD, though? And who I can see a lot of my own experiences in?

Fucking Grantaire.

Grantaire who has been involved in activist efforts for a long time and is severely burnt out by the highly triggering environment that it is for him, who tried so hard to keep up with the unceasing demands his mind put on him in the name of being A Good Person™ but just can't do it anymore.

Grantaire who, at some point, figured out that heavy drinking was the only thing that could reliably shut up his ruminations.

Grantaire whose cynicism about the cause he fights for is a thought-stopping technique that worked a little too well but then became a compulsion in itself.

Grantaire who idolizes Enjolras — who seems to not just do well in that environment but thrive in it like a duck in water — but knows that spending too much time with him will make the bad thoughts creep back in and maybe this time he won't be able to stop them, so he sabotages any opportunity to actually get closer to the man he holds in such high esteem.

I don't know, man, I just got here. Maybe this is nothing.

[mxmarsbars]

I remember a bit ago you said that c!impulse has OCD and I was curious if you’d talk more about it.

yes i did say that!! i can totally talk about it a little bit more :D

it really jumped out at me after watching his wild life and seeing him behave in ways that i find myself behaving (experiencing paranoia, doing odd things to soothe said paranoia, having thoughts that have no sound proof in reality, etc)

for example, his routine of standing under things whenever a new wildcard was called. his obsession was the idea of “creeper rain”, and his compulsion was to hide beneath things.

i like to think a lot of his obsessions revolve around objects and events. he’ll organize things in certain ways, always prepare for things well before he needs to, and is prone to frequently checking his pockets and bags (“just in case”, he says).

a lot of it also feeds into his perfectionism. between that and the way his brain functions, he often finds himself freaking out over things if they don’t work out exactly how he wanted them to. like if his texturing on a building is off or if he built something too far to one side. he will spend hours upon hours tweaking it to make it perfect so his brain can finally rest.

(remember the whole pyramid fiasco in season seven? this man moved an entire build up ONE BLOCK because it felt wrong. if that’s not a prime example of OCD, i don’t know what is)

this is also why i think his character has issues with texturing his builds. i act a similar way whenever i have to make art look “random.” there’s just this mental block in my head that i feel like he experiences as well, hence why it’ll sometimes take him multiple attempts to texture things in a way that doesn’t feel “wrong.”

in my head, he was unmedicated for the LONGEST time, so it took him a little while to find a medication that actually worked for him. and while it doesn’t ease his symptoms completely, it does help him handle them a little better. which he’s VERY grateful for, considering OCD can be debilitating if you’re unable to cope with it.

i also headcanon that players’ usual medications aren’t given to them in the death games because the watchers want to see their most “authentic selves”, hence why his OCD was particularly bad in wild life (the environment he found himself in certainly didn’t help, either).

but yeah :D that’s just a little insight into that specific headcanon ^_^

[jungkoode]

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 03

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 12, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: bruising, self punishing, self harm, cleansing one self, ocd portrayal, stressful situations, psych sessions, public healthcare portrayal in the mental health realm

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,6k

➔ A/N: HELLO. WELCOME BACK TO THIS NIGHTMARE. Kiki Nation is THRIVING. And by thriving, I mean crumbling under the weight of my own pacing choices. That’s right. You thought you were getting plot? ACTION? MOVEMENT? Wake up, babe. This is Kiki Nation, and here? We move like anxiety on a Sunday night—slow, painful, and entirely internal. But listen… listen. Jokes aside (kind of), this chapter is actually doing a lot even if it looks like nothing is happening. I love writing scenes like this because, while it feels still on the surface, the psychological current is raging underneath. What’s being said without being said? What’s slipping through the cracks? What isn’t Taehyung allowing himself to articulate because if he did, it would crack him open? That’s what this is about. It’s tension. It’s claustrophobia. It’s the mind eating itself alive. We’re diving deep into the obsessive-compulsive loops here—realistic ones. I researched this thoroughly, not only as someone who lives with neurodivergence, but as someone who respects how complex OCD truly is. It’s not just “I like things clean” or “haha I’m quirky about numbers.” OCD is a deeply distressing, all-consuming, reality-warping condition that demands ritual to relieve unbearable tension, even when you know it makes no logical sense. You KNOW it’s irrational. That’s the point. But the alternative feels worse. And that’s what I wanted to capture. The thing about trauma—especially when you’re neurodivergent—is that your brain will cling to anything that feels controllable when real life becomes overwhelming. And sometimes, those fixations grow teeth. What starts as “I need to clean this” becomes “If I don’t, I am disgusting. I am dangerous. I will harm something I care about.” That’s not aesthetic. That’s hell. And yeah… Dr. Bernard trying so hard but still being limited by time, funding, caseloads… It’s a subtle nod to the very real way public healthcare systems stretch mental health care to its absolute breaking point. Because if Taehyung had money? He’d have private therapy, trauma-informed care, daily support. But no. He gets 45 minutes in a tile-counting room twice a month and a prescription that might not even be enough. It’s not fair, and that’s kind of the point. For legal reasons, this is a joke!!! 🥰 (But is it?) So yeah. I hope you’re paying attention to the mirror. The numbers. The language he uses. The way he doesn’t trust reality itself. There’s a reason this chapter feels repetitive. There’s a reason he keeps looping. And if you felt trapped reading it—good. You’re right where I wanted you. (affectionate)Thank you for reading and for trusting me to tell a story that digs a little deeper than surface-level trauma bait. Your comments and support mean everything to me. I read every single one. See you in the next chapter where… oh. Oh no. Yeah. See you there. (awkward finger guns)

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Purple blooms beneath thumb pad. 

Bruises beneath his finger.

Taehyung presses harder, watching skin darken under pressure. 

Pain flares, then dulls. Not enough. Never enough to convince himself that yesterday was real.

He sits on the edge of his mattress, counting breaths. 

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. 

The apartment smells of bleach and nothing else. 

(bleach, he needs to bleach the r—bleach—it’s dirty, he needs bleach)

No food. No life. Just chemical purity and the faint must of walls that never fully dry.

You were there. In his store. Breathing his air.

(impossible impossible impossible)

His fingers find another patch of unmarked skin along his forearm. 

Pinch. Twist. Hold until capillaries burst and blood pools beneath the surface. 

The pain grounds him in reality, but reality itself has become suspect.

How could you exist in the same grimy corner of Paris where he scrubs floors and straightens shelves? How could something so clean touch something so dirty?

Your scent lingers in his memory—sweet almond, rose, powdered sugar. 

Macarons. 

(macarons, macaronsmacaronsmacarons)

The kind sold in patisseries where everything costs too much and the staff watches him like he might pocket something.

He's never wanted macarons before. Never craved anything sweet.

Now his mouth waters at the memory.

(disgusting filthy unworthy)

Seven new bruises track up his arm like stepping stones. 

Evidence that he exists. That yesterday existed. That you might have seen him—really seen him—even through the curtain of hair he uses to hide.

The thought makes his stomach lurch.

He stumbles to the bathroom, falls to his knees before the toilet. Nothing comes up. He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. Just water. Just enough to keep his body functioning.

The tile is cold against his forehead as he counts again. 

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Again. Again. Until the nausea passes.

You'd asked him a question. Spoken directly to him. Your voice precise as cut glass.

‘Why are you helping me?’

He hadn't answered. Couldn't answer. What could he possibly say?

Because your knees shouldn't touch this filthy floor.

Because you're too perfect for this place.

Because I'm not worthy to watch you bend.

The memory of your cotton pads—the dented package he'd first grabbed, the horror that had seized him when he saw the imperfection—makes his fingers twitch. He'd found you a perfect one. Undamaged. Clean. 

It mattered so much in that moment, more than breathing.

He drags himself up from the bathroom floor. Crosses to the sink. Turns the water as hot as it will go and plunges his hands beneath the stream.

The burn is good. Clean. Skin reddens instantly.

He scrubs with the rough side of a sponge until his palms are raw. Until he can't feel the phantom touch of the cotton pad package he handed you. Until he can't remember the way your fingers almost—almost—brushed his gloved ones.

Gloves. He'd been wearing gloves. Thank god. Thank god.

(still dirty still contaminated still worthless)

The mirror above his sink is spotless. He keeps it that way, though he rarely looks into it. Now he forces himself to meet his own eyes.

Dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Hair too long, falling across his face in messy blindish waves.

He looks like a ghost. A shadow. Nothing substantial enough to exist in your world.

Yet you'd looked at him. Tried to see his face. Asked him a question in that voice like winter air.

His stomach clenches again, but differently. Not nausea this time. Something worse. Something like hunger, but not for food.

Macarons.

The word loops in his mind, sweet and forbidden. He wants to taste them now. Wants to know if they taste like you smell. Wants to dissolve them on his tongue and pretend he's breathing the same air that touches your skin.

The thought is so profane it makes him dizzy.

He stumbles back to his bed. Sits on the edge again. Pinches another spot on his arm, harder this time. The pain blooms bright, then fades too quickly.

You'd looked back at him from the doorway. Caught him watching. Your eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. Seeing.

No one sees him. No one notices. He's made sure of it for years.

But you had.

His phone buzzes. Work in an hour. The convenience store waits, its floors already collecting new grime, new evidence of human existence that he'll need to erase.

Will you come back? The question terrifies and exhilarates him.

(come,come you have to comeback)

He should pray you don't. Should beg whatever god might listen to keep you away from his dirty corner of Paris. Away from his contaminated existence.

Instead, he finds himself hoping. Desperately, pathetically hoping.

The bruises on his arm throb in time with his pulse. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Evidence that yesterday was real. That you were real.

That maybe, just maybe, you'll be real again today.

Persistent. 

The word hangs in stale office air. Taehyung's fingers twitch against his thigh.

Twenty-six tiles. Wrong number. Wrong pattern. Wrong room. His eyes trace the edges where white grout meets ceramic, counting again in case he missed one. Twenty-six. Still wrong.

(wrong wrong wrong fix it fix it)

"Taehyung? I asked if your contamination fears are still persisting."

Dr. Bernard's voice is distant as a radio playing three rooms away as it filters through the fog. The man sits across from him, pen poised over a notepad that's seen too many patients. His colorful socks peek beneath gray trousers—today they're yellow with small blue bicycles. 

Taehyung notices this instead of meeting his eyes.

"Yes." The word scrapes his throat. Dry. Unused. 

How long has he been sitting here?

"And the medication? You're taking it regularly?"

Taehyung nods. 

Paroxetine. Forty milligrams. White oval pill. Bitter when it touches his tongue if he doesn't swallow fast enough. He takes it every morning at 7:07. Never 7:06. Never 7:08.

(seven seven seven)

"Good, good." Dr. Bernard makes a note. The pen scratches paper like insects crawling. "And the cleaning rituals? Any improvement there?"

Twenty-six tiles. 

The pattern is wrong. 

If he could just add two more, it would be twenty-eight. Seven times four. Perfect. 

His fingers curl into his palm, nails digging half-moons.

"About the same."

Dr. Bernard sighs. Not an impatient sigh. A tired one. The sigh of a man with sixty-three other patients. Taehyung counted the files once when the secretary stepped away. Sixty-four including him. Too many. Not enough time.

"You mentioned last time you were using bleach on your hands again." Dr. Bernard taps his pen against the notepad. 

Tap-tap-tap. 

Not seven taps. Irregular. Unpredictable. 

“Is that still happening?"

The bleach burns. Burns means clean. Clean means safe. Safe means—

(he won't contaminate you)

Taehyung blinks.

Where did that thought come from?

"Sometimes." His voice sounds hollow even to himself. "When it's necessary."

Dr. Bernard's glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them up with his middle finger, a gesture Taehyung has seen forty-seven times in their sessions together. 

Always the middle finger. Never the index. Never the thumb.

"And what makes it necessary, Taehyung?"

You. Your perfect skin. Your clean leotard. The way you move like water, untouched by the filth of this city.

But he can't say that. Hasn't told Dr. Bernard about you. About the mirror. About the convenience store. About yesterday when you spoke to him and the world tilted on its axis.

"Dirt." The answer is inadequate. He knows this. "Contamination."

Dr. Bernard waits for more. The clock on the wall ticks. Not seven ticks per minute. Sixty. 

Wrong number.

"I see." Dr. Bernard writes something down. "And have there been any changes in your routine lately? Anything new?"

You. 

You are new. You with your rose-macaron scent and perfect posture. You who looked at him—really looked—and didn't immediately turn away.

"No." The lie tastes metallic.

"Taehyung." Dr. Bernard sets his pen down. Leans forward slightly. His chair creaks. "We've been meeting for three years now. I'd like to think I know when something's changed."

Three years. Thirty-six months. Not a multiple of seven. 

Wrong.

"Nothing important." Another lie.

Through the thin wall, he hears another doctor's voice. A woman laughing. Someone crying. The Centre Médico-Psychologique never has enough space, enough privacy, enough time. His forty-five minutes will end in seventeen more. Then Dr. Bernard will see someone else. Someone whose problems might be fixable.

"I've increased your sessions on your Carte Vitale authorization." Dr. Bernard slides a paper across the desk. "Twice monthly instead of once. I think it could help."

Taehyung stares at the paper. The government seal. The stamps. The signature. 

So much bureaucracy to fix a broken mind. 

As if more sessions in this room with twenty-six tiles will stop him from scrubbing his skin raw after thinking of you.

"Thank you." 

He doesn't reach for the paper. His hands are dirty. Always dirty.

Dr. Bernard's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then back at Taehyung. 

“I'm sorry, I need to take this. Just a moment."

As Dr. Bernard steps outside, Taehyung's eyes drift back to the floor. 

Twenty-six tiles. He could fix it. Break two into halves. Make twenty-eight. Seven times four. Perfect.

(break them break them make it right)

His foot hovers over the tile nearest his chair. One stomp might crack it. 

Fix the pattern. Fix the room. Fix him.

But he doesn't move. Just counts again. And again. And again.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Dr. Bernard returns, tucking his phone away. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

Taehyung's foot settles back on the floor. Twenty-six tiles. Still wrong. Still broken.

Like him.

"They're wrong."

The words escape before Taehyung can swallow them back. His tongue feels thick, disconnected from his brain.

Dr. Bernard leans forward. "What's wrong, Taehyung?"

"The tiles." His finger points downward, trembling. "Twenty-six. Wrong number."

(wrong wrong wrong fix it fix it)

Dr. Bernard follows his gaze to the floor, brow furrowing. Understanding dawns slowly across his face. He sets his notepad aside and kneels, running a finger along the grout lines.

"The tiles—there are twenty-six. Should be twenty-eight." Taehyung's voice cracks. "Seven times four. Or at least twenty-seven. Has a seven in it." 

His heel bounces against the floor. Up-down-up-down. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Again. The rhythm keeps him tethered when his mind threatens to float away.

Dr. Bernard stands, retrieving a black marker from his desk. Without hesitation, he kneels again and draws a thick line across one tile, dividing it neatly in half.

"There," he says. "Twenty-seven tiles now. Contains a seven."

The marker squeaks against ceramic. 

The line isn't perfectly straight. 

Doesn't matter. 

The number matters. Twenty-seven. Has a seven. Better.

Taehyung's breathing slows. The pressure behind his eyes eases.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Bernard says, returning to his chair. "I've been seeing you for three years. I should have noticed sooner." 

He gestures vaguely around the room. 

“They just changed my office last month. I didn't think to count the tiles before you came in."

Three years. Thirty-six months. One hundred fifty-six sessions. And Dr. Bernard still doesn't understand that everything must be counted. Everything must be checked. Everything must be right.

But he tried. He fixed it. Drew a line. Made twenty-seven.

(better better better not perfect but better)

"Thank you," Taehyung whispers.

Dr. Bernard nods, uncapping his pen again. 

"You mentioned nothing had changed in your routine. But something in your face tells me otherwise." His voice softens. "Sometimes change can trigger episodes like this. Even good changes."

Taehyung's fingers find each other, twisting. Counting knuckles. 

"I found something." The words feel strange in his mouth. Heavy. Dangerous.

Dr. Bernard waits. Patient. 

The clock ticks. The newly-divided tile stares up at them both.

"A window." Taehyung continues. "At work. Behind the storage room."

"At the convenience store?"

Taehyung nods. "Two days ago. Needed cleaning supplies. Went to the back room. Not the main storage. The other one. Where they keep replacements."

His sentences fragment. Break apart like the tile on the floor. 

He can't help it. 

The memory is too bright, too sharp.

"Nobody goes there. Dusty. Dirty."

(filthy filthy filthy)

"And you found a window?" Dr. Bernard prompts.

"Not a window. A mirror." Taehyung's throat constricts. "But it's not a mirror. It's a window. One-way. Looks into the building next door."

Dr. Bernard makes a note. "The building next door to your store is...?"

"Ballet academy." The word 'ballet' feels sacred on his tongue. Too pure for his mouth. "Practice room. Empty usually. But not that day."

His heartbeat accelerates. 

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. 

Faster now. 

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

"Someone was there?" Dr. Bernard asks.

Taehyung closes his eyes. Sees you immediately. Your reflection in the mirror as you practiced. Arms extended. Back straight. Perfect. Clean. Untouchable.

"A dancer." 

He can't bring himself to say more. Can't describe the way you moved like water. 

The way your reflection caught in the dirty glass and somehow remained untainted. 

The way he stood, frozen, watching for twenty-seven minutes before his manager called his name.

"I see." Dr. Bernard makes another note. "And this discovery upset your routine?"

Upset. Such a small word for the earthquake that destroyed his carefully constructed world.

"I went back. Yesterday." The confession burns his throat. "After work. Before closing."

Dr. Bernard nods encouragingly. "To see this dancer again?"

Taehyung's nails dig into his palms. "Yes."

"And did you?"

The memory floods back. Not through the mirror this time. Face to face. 

You, entering the convenience store minutes before closing. 

You, scanning shelves with precise movements. 

(dirty dirty dirty can't touch can't let you touch)

"Yes." His voice barely audible now. "She came into the store."

The pronoun feels wrong. Inadequate. You are not a 'she.' You are something else. Something more. Something clean in a filthy world.

"Did you speak to her?" Dr. Bernard asks.

Taehyung shakes his head. Then nods. Then shakes again. "She spoke to me."

The memory of your voice makes his skin prickle. Cut glass. Winter air. Perfect diction.

"What did she say?"

"Asked why I was helping her." His eyes find the divided tile again. Twenty-seven now. Better. "I picked up her cotton pads. Found her a new package. Undamaged one."

Dr. Bernard writes something down. "And how did that make you feel? This interaction?"

Feel? How could he possibly explain? 

The terror. The exhilaration. The certainty that he was contaminating something perfect just by existing in your presence.

"Wrong," he finally says. "I felt wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"Dirty." The word tastes like copper. "She's clean. Perfect. I'm..." 

He gestures at himself. His stained uniform. His raw hands. His existence.

"Taehyung, have you ever heard of religious scrupulosity?"

The question hangs in the air. Taehyung's fingers freeze mid-count against his thigh.

"It's a form of OCD where someone becomes fixated on moral or religious purity. They develop intense fears about contaminating sacred things or being unworthy in a spiritual sense."

Taehyung stares at the divided tile. Twenty-seven. 

His throat closes. Words retreat, curling back inside where they're safe.

(not religious not that simple not that)

Dr. Bernard waits. The silence stretches between them like a thread pulled too tight. When Taehyung doesn't respond, he tries again.

"I'm not suggesting this is exactly what's happening. Just that there might be similarities in how you're viewing this dancer."

Taehyung's jaw tightens. His teeth grind together. The sound fills his skull. Drowns out Dr. Bernard's voice. Drowns out everything except the memory of you. 

Perfect posture. Clean lines. Untouched by the filth surrounding you.

"She's just a person," Dr. Bernard says gently. "A talented dancer, perhaps, but human. Like everyone else."

Wrong. So wrong. 

You're not like everyone else. Not like him. Not dirty. Not broken. Not wrong.

Taehyung shakes his head. Once. Twice. 

Seven times.

"Taehyung?" Dr. Bernard leans forward. "Are you still with me?"

Words scatter like roaches when light hits them. He can't catch them. Can't form them. His tongue feels swollen, useless. He manages a nod.

"I'm not concerned about you seeing someone dance twice," Dr. Bernard clarifies. "That's perfectly normal. I'm interested in how intensely it seems to have affected you."

(not normal never normal nothing normal)

"You helped her pick up some cotton pads. That's a kind gesture, not contamination."

Taehyung's hands curl into fists. Dr. Bernard doesn't understand. Can't understand. Hasn't seen you. Hasn't felt the wrongness of his existence next to yours.

"Not..." The word scrapes his throat. "Not kind."

"No? What was it then?"

"Necessary." Another word claws its way out. "Had to."

Dr. Bernard makes a note. The pen scratches paper. Seven scratches. Taehyung counts them.

"Had to protect her from the dirty floor?"

Taehyung nods. His chest tightens. The room shrinks. Twenty-seven tiles. Focus on the tiles.

"Taehyung, I've known you for three years. Your contamination fears typically center on yourself—protecting yourself from outside dirt. This seems different."

Different. Yes. 

Everything is different now. The world tilted when he first saw you through that grimy one-way mirror. Tilted further when you walked into the store. Spoke to him. Looked at him.

"Let's back up," Dr. Bernard suggests. "Tell me about finding this mirror."

Taehyung's eyes close. Behind them, he sees the storage room. Dust motes floating in stale air. Cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly. The wall that wasn't a wall.

"Cleaning." His voice barely audible. "Needed bleach."

"For the store?"

A nod.

"And you found this mirror in the storage room?"

"Back room." The distinction matters. "Not main storage. Nobody goes there."

"And through this mirror, you could see into the ballet academy next door?"

"Practice room." The words come easier now. Focused on facts. Not feelings. "Empty usually. But not then."

"And you saw this dancer practicing."

"Yes."

"For how long did you watch?"

Taehyung's fingers twitch. "Twenty-seven minutes." 

The truth slips out before he can stop it.

Dr. Bernard's eyebrows rise slightly. "You counted?"

"Always count." 

"And then what happened?"

"Manager called. Had to go back."

"But you returned the next day?"

Shame burns his cheeks. He nods.

"And then she came into your store?"

"Before closing." The memory floods back. "Accident."

"The cotton pads?"

"Yes."

"And you helped her."

"Had to." His voice cracks. "Floor is dirty. She's not."

Dr. Bernard studies him. "Taehyung, when was the last time you spoke to someone outside of work or these sessions?"

The question catches him off guard. He blinks. Tries to remember. Can't.

"This connection you feel—" Dr. Bernard chooses his words carefully "—it might be intensified by isolation. Human beings need interaction."

(not human not normal not worthy)

"I'm not suggesting anything inappropriate is happening," Dr. Bernard continues. "Just that your reaction seems disproportionate to two brief encounters."

Disproportionate. As if there could be a proportionate response to witnessing divinity in a convenience store.

"She's clean," Taehyung whispers. The only truth that matters.

"Everyone seems clean to someone who feels contaminated, Taehyung."

Taehyung flinches. His vision tunnels. The twenty-seven tiles blur. His breathing quickens. 

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Too fast. Too shallow.

"I think we should focus on your isolation in our next session," Dr. Bernard says, glancing at the clock. "And perhaps revisit your medication dosage."

Taehyung doesn't respond. Can't. Words have abandoned him completely now. 

His mind retreats to the only safe place it knows—counting. Tiles. Breaths. Heartbeats. 

Seconds until he can leave this room with its wrong-then-fixed floor and return to his apartment where everything is arranged in sevens and nothing beautiful exists to be contaminated by his presence.

Dr. Bernard sighs. Not impatient. Sad. "Our time is almost up. Is there anything else you want to tell me about these encounters?"

Taehyung stares at his raw hands. 

What could he possibly say? That when you looked at him, really looked, something inside him recognized something inside you? That for one brief moment, he felt seen instead of invisible? That helping you felt like prayer?

He shakes his head.

"Alright." Dr. Bernard stands. "Same time in two weeks, then. And Taehyung?" He waits until Taehyung looks up. "Try to talk to someone. Anyone. Even just to ask the time or comment on the weather. Human connection matters."

Connection. 

As if someone like him could connect with anyone. 

Especially someone like you.

The session ends. Taehyung leaves without speaking again. Steps carefully over the divided tile. Twenty-seven now. Better. Not perfect.

Like him.

goal: 250 notes

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© jungkoode 2025.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[seeingsooey]

my experience with BPD

I’m posting about bpd again to literally nobody that will read it. I just like to yap lmao

Note: i am in therapy and have been working really heavily on my behaviors and habits for a while now. None of this is to vent, rather to share my own experience with the disorder and how it developed. I’m actually doing pretty good right now!!

I’m mostly posting this just because it might provide some insight ( to at least one perspective of BPD) and because it might help any of you with BPD reading find something to relate to. I know how lonely it gets 😭

Also if you do read this please refrain from saying something like “ this aligns more with autism/HPD”

I mean yeah they totally do align in some ways but I’m diagnosed with something and it is neither of those. It could be possible but I’d rather not jump to that conclusion

For most people with a cluster B disorder, something happened in early childhood that was either extremely damaging or traumatic. I wouldn’t say I had a great childhood, but it wasn’t terrible. ( my therapist also told me that I normalize a lot of things so whatever. Don’t listen to me lmfao.)

For me, my early childhood looked like this

Apparently, I was super “Chill” as a child. I didn’t ask for much, and I was almost constantly asleep. The critical failure of my childhood was that I didn’t get any of the attention, approval, or much of anything emotional to the extent that I needed it growing up. It happened, just not enough. There was a failure to understand that just because I wasn’t stomping my foot to demand something, didn’t mean I did not need those things. I would have loved to have been rocked in one arm as a kid and told that everything would have been okay, but it just didn’t happen. I was “ independent”. ( which is. Impossible to be at that age.)

I was very frequently shut out, and I didn’t have the space to share anything with anyone. Which is why it strikes me as incredibly meaningful when somebody takes time to listen to me, looking at today. And it tends to be a lot, just because I have always had a lot to say.

I was also extremely emotional as a kid. Suuuuper sensitive to my surroundings and everything. This of course would have been brought to my attention excessively.

“ you’re such a baby! Stop being so sensitive”

Thanks for that ♥️ maybe I was being sensitive, but it’s not something I should have been punished for.

It taught me even further that I didn’t matter, and that I was lesser than everybody. I spent a lot of my time alone and making books my friends. I was super good with computers, art, and general trivia about wild animals but I could never really understand how human conversations or relationships worked. But that would not stop me from pretending that I did, unfortunately.

It was around this time that my worst habit developed. Compulsive lying.

It was more of a problem I had when I was a kid, lying about every goddamn thing ever. ( unless it was important.)

I would lie about the color of my socks, what I ate for breakfast, what I dreamt about, or what I had spent the weekend doing. The only reason I did this was because it would possibly give me approval from the people I needed approval from. I felt so much lesser than them, so I had to make myself seem interesting if I actually expected some kind of company.

I still catch myself lying for no good reason dating up to today. ( albeit rarely). Because it was something I did so much, it’s very hard for me to control and I usually say something without realizing I had just said it. I swear to god I’m getting a grip on it though.😭

Similarly, I would mimic and copy everything. It was for approval. I didn’t know how to talk to people so I copied lines from shows, movies, and games. I built my personality off of characters that I liked because I didn’t have a self of my own. ( a core criteria of BPD!!).

I also started getting “ delusions.” Not actual ones, because I can see through them somewhat, but definitely like. Weird magical ways of thinking. I was so completely bored and alone and emotionally neglected that my brain started to come up with scenarios to either keep myself entertained or make myself feel like I had any worth at all. I still get these weird magical thoughts today, I don’t know why either, because I’ve felt more confident in myself than I ever have before and I don’t need anything to make me feel like a “ special person” if I already see good in myself.

They thought I was schizo-spec because of the thinking. )

It was all to look interesting; because I was taught for so long that I wasn’t. That I was boring and that my place is below everyone else😥. I was desperately trying to get to “ that level” that everyone else was at. I just felt so inferior to everyone, and like they always would know better than me.

I felt abandoned by everyone and everything. I felt like everyone would leave, because there was something far better or interesting than me. If I was so below everyone, clearly there was something far higher than me that I would be left for. I was and am terrified of the concept of being temporary.

I still do kinda feel this way. #disorder

It changed as I grew up and got older and went through like puberty or whatever. I became a lot edgier and resentful of others. Actually, I was MISANTHROPIC. This was after I was very deeply hurt by somebody I held really close. It changed my perspective on everything. I was about 12 or 13 when this happened.

Suddenly, everyone was out to hurt me. Everyone was going to leave me behind so I’D be the one that left first. They would use me to entertain themselves and then throw me away, ( as edgy as that sounds it was what I believed.)

I couldn’t trust people anymore, despite how hard I tried there was always that damn fucking feeling that they were going to do “ the same thing”. I grew extremely hyper vigilant, looking for “signs”that somebody would leave me. And when I found them, I’d get so terrified that I eventually became angry and distant, self sabotaging anything I ever had. I wanted to leave and I wanted them to hate me, so they wouldn’t feel bad if they even did at all. ( “splitting”. If you want to google the BPD term.)

It’s apart of my wack attachment style. Which you could call “disorganized”

when it’s not like this, which it’s USUALLY not, I am actually extraordinarily attached to people. It’s harder for me to see the wrong with somebody and I end up completely consumed and loving somebody to like, the core of my being. A weird side effect of BPD is just how emotionally intimate my attachments with people can grow to be.

Which can be like, overwhelming or even draining to both parties. I am not sure if I’d want to love anybody “less” than I do though.

Another thing that can be draining is my emotions and how fast they SWITCH. my emotions never lessened from when I was a child. I’d actually say that years and years of bottling up made them a lot stronger than they already were. ( who knew?)

I can be extremely passionate or elated, extremely terrified and anxious or enraged or DESPAIRED inappropriately all quite randomly. It catches people off guard.

When I’m in a certain mood I also act kinda weirdly. To others it would be perceived as dramatic, but I almost don’t really see it. I mean I do, but only when I’m out of said mood. I can be really really sad and saying the cheesiest stupid stuff because that’s just how I feel, and I don’t know how to put it into words. Something I still struggle with is restraining myself from saying something I’ll probably regret when I’m out of a certain mood.

I can’t say “ I want to examine every single working bit that runs in your soul” because that’s just a creepy thing to say. Even if I do genuinely feel that way lmfaoooo. I can tell somebody I care about them better, and in a way that doesn’t make them or myself recoil.

Oh; I also get physical reactions to my emotions. I throw up very easily because of it or even just feel super sick for like a day or two.

When I get anxious; I throw the fuck UP. It’s usually because of pattern recognition, and something about worrying about being too vulnerable and being rejected for actually taking a mask off.

Same with being excited or simply just feeling an intense amount of care towards another person or group of people.

Another thing I do when I feel like I’m about to be abandoned is act a fucking FOOL. of course I hold a strong leash on myself now but I didn’t before. I used to engage in extremely self harming or self deprecating behaviors just to see if somebody actually cared enough to be worried. This, IRONICALLY, drives people away. Who would have thought, huh???

My other instance of being really stupid is when I’m “bored”. I very often feel empty, worthless, or unlovable. The only way I feel like I can fill up that hole is by doing something, and it’s usually not helpful to myself. My two examples for this are binge eating, and spending excessive money. I don’t have much to say about this but it’s here, and it’s another common thing with BPD.

Oh, oh , OH! And I disassociate a LOT. Frequently. Every day. I can be in a conversation with somebody and just suddenly be out of it. Like, on another world. No clue why I do this.

Anyways, I’ve been going to therapy for a while now. I have been working on myself even before then, but of course, actually knowing what to work on is pretty helpful lmao.

If you actually read through all of this hi!’ Thank you. And if you also have BPD I hope you can relate!!