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jinkiezzsstuff · 10 months ago

Note

Hello! Can I plz request Alastor x Doe! Reader where he meets Charlie's best friend who's the reader and becomes possessive over her, maybe his instincts tell him to mark the reader as his mate. The reader is a white doe. :)

Yessss i love this idea teehee i maybe got carried away and also i unintentionally made this sort gender neutral and a teeny tiny speck of smut, i hope that’s okay if not it’s at the very end so it’s skipable, hopefully i did your idea justice and hope you enjoy!! thank you so much for this xx

At first sight

PART TWO PART THREE

Word count: 3.5K

Warnings: SMUT 18+, doe reader only describes white ears tail and pink nose rest is ambiguous, possibly corny ahh dialogue, love at first sight kinda trope, angel/hellborn reader, slightly OOC Al y’know smut love, reader cooks, biting & briefly blood, penetrative sex, reader makes deal with al to give themselves to him, swearing, NOT PROOFREAD I think that’s it lmk if i missed anything!!

Charlie ran manically around the hotel, fixing various things and studying the entire building under a microscope to ensure it looked its best. Zipping her way to the lobby, she caught the gaze of Angel Dust, who was in the middle of sucking down a frozen popsicle.

“Be nice today! Look your best, oh oh! No porn on the TV!” Charlie shouted rushed and frazzled as she came up beside Angel to fluff out the couch cushions. Husk watched silently ears zeroed in on the conversation unwillingly, focusing mainly on Angel. “Geez toots, what’s got your feathers in a bunch?”

Angel smiled amused by Charlies odd demeanour. “My best friend since, like, forever is coming here today! To see the hotel!” Charlie exclaimed lurching forward to grip Angels shoulders. Smirking at her Angel continued to suck on the popsicle. “So what, is this broad special or something?”

Charlie leaned back pulling her hands down her face, an exasperated groan crawling out from her throat. “Yes! Her mother was friends with my mom when they first came to hell, her mom ended up falling for a hell spawn and we born around the same time,” Charlie explained ringing her hands while pacing.

“She’s my best friend we grew up together, i’m worried she won’t like what i’m doing here.” Charlie finally confessed with a sigh, her body deflating as she herself came to terms with the fact she was afraid. Vaggie lingering in the background finally approached Charlie sticking her hand out to message her arm comfortingly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine toots! Plus she’s a born sinner! Ain’t no way anything here’s gonna be shocking her.”

Despite her worry she could admit Angel Dust was right, AND you’re her best friend there’s no way you’d be unnecessarily cruel to her dreams, you were always supportive and imaginative along with her. Smiling down at Angel, Charlie then plopped down beside him, resting her hooves after hours of hecticily running around. “You’re right Angel, thank you.” Angel hummed out an arrogant ‘you’re welcome’ while Vaggie circled the couch leaning over the back of it.

“So how long has it been since you’ve seen them?” Vaggie asked poking Charlie’s cheek. Looking away she counted on her fingers before turning to look at Vaggie. “Four years, they stayed with me while I tried getting over the absence of my mom; they live in wrath though and eventually went back.” Clapping her hands Charlie stood from the couch her brief moment of hoof rest over, the three sinners watching as she muttered to herself about everyone being on their best behaviour while walking off, clearly the talk only did a little to hush her nerves.

Standing outside the hotel doors your ears twitched at the sounds coming from beyond it, it’s clear as day that Charlie was instructing people to behave, be nice, and- not show you porn? Suddenly the door opened startling you slightly but that quickly wore off when you were greeted by the joyous face of your best friend Charlie. Tugging you into a bear hug, Charlie squealed about how excited she was, you naturally fell into her giving her a warm tight hug right back.

“I am so glad you’re here! I’m so happy to see you!” Charlie exclaimed pulling back and examining you. You hadnt seemed to change much to Charlie, the white tail you had wagged behind you happily, your equally platinum ears relaxed occasionally twitching at the sounds around you, your pink deer like nose that was perfectly contrasted with your skin colour.

It was clear you were half an angel, and Charlie lemented, when you two were younger, that she was jealous you had a more animalisitc appearance in comparison to her, but you reminded her that it didn’t matter because she was still as gorgeous as ever. “I’m so glad to be here! I was starting to think you’d never end up inviting me.” You laugh warmly.

Charlie beckoned you inside linking your arms together, the two of you walked inside. Vaggie was punctuated and ready to great you as you came further into the room. “Hi, I’m Vaggie-“ Vaggie was cut off promptly by Charlie who excitedly pulled her into a bear hug, cheek to cheek. “My girlfriend!” Charlie finished with a shout.

Your ivory tail flicked behind you happily as you grinned. “Holy shit! You’ve got a girlfriend? Damn we really need to catch up! Its so nice to meet you Vaggie.” You smile shaking her hand as she stuck it out, Vaggie only nodded smiling seemingly quite reserved.

After some rushed introduction of those around the room including Husk, Angel, Nifty, and Sir Pentious, Charlie took you to your room to settle in. Closing the door behind the two of you Charlie watched as you laid your suit cases down by the bed, unzipping them and pulling out your clothing. “Sooo,” Charlie trailed hands tucked behind her back as she wandered around the vacant room.

“You remember Alastor right? The radio demon?” Charlie questioned, sounding suspicious. Looking up from your folded laundry you quirked a brow fearing where this might be heading. “Yes… i do.” You say slowly, fixing your posture waiting for her to turn to you, but she seemed rather interested in the wallpaper. “Well… y’know… this hotel takes a lot…. and when i first started…” Charlie trailed off gazing out the open window, stepping towards her you carefully placed a hand on her shoulder.

Looking at you she knew there was no sense in keeping such a prominent part of the reason this hotel was possible secret. “Alastors here, he helped since the start. He hasn’t asked for anything in return and he’s already fought for us!” Charlie spat the words out so fast you barely had time to comprehend. You and her were raised around each other meaning you had the same interactions with many of the princes’, sins, and hellborn, but human overlords were always were more…. well they weren’t used to power and immortality so they often over did it, Alastor was no different from what you were aware of.

“Are you sure having him is a good idea? Does your dad know?” Charlie nodded confirming her dad did know. “Yeah he doesn’t know who Al is, and to be fair none of us did! I promise he’s not that bad. Give him a chance?” You hummed looking away as she looked to you, you didn’t want to upset her by the discomfort that would be evident in your eyes. You didn’t enjoy brawls and fights, and you fear the demon would initiate that.

“Well i suppose i could trust him if you do, but i am skeptical; you’re always seeing the light in demons, even when it’s not there.” You laughed out recalling some things of the past that ended poorly because of a Charlie’s trust in certain sinners. And though at times foolish it was still an admirable trait and you aspired to be as kind hearted as she could be. “Where’s the guy anyways?” You asked after a short moment of pondering.

Charlie shrugged looking as if she was trying to recount the day. “Well he did say he had a meeting with Rosie,” She muttered quietly, although you didn’t know who Rosie was, you didn’t bother questioning it instead you pat Charlie on the shoulder, telling her that you’d like to get some rest, and you’d worry about Alastor later.

And so you spent a bit of time unpacking your things and settling down, you always preferred to be more in touch with the animalistic parts of yourself so your belongings held a lot of earthy aesthetics to them. Sitting on your bed, stripped of the hotels sheets and remade with your own, you opened your laptop and began typing.

You had forgotten about Alastor for the most part but you remember Charlie brining it up as he began his tyranny after his death. Charlie had always been pretty involved with her people, mainly focusing her energy on human sinner so you weren’t surprised that she knew of him, you were however surprised she was so willing to let him in when he massacred her people.

After a few minutes of light research about the demon, you established with how long he was gone perhaps he would be willing to change however you’d keep up your guards just to be sure.

Humming to himself Alastor got ready for the day, though he rarely slept he did occasionally get into evening outfits if he was staying in. He fixed his hair, ensuring not a hair was out of place and with a finally dust of his sleeves, he materialized his microphone and trotted his way out of his room.

A new scent hit him the minute he got to the staircase, the reaction was instantaneous, his ears perked, his tail stiffened thank the hellions no one was around to witness his discomfort, because it was evident. Fixing his posture, and his smile, he pretended nothing was up and continued his way downstairs. He greeted Husk as usual, and like usual Husk only grunted at the demon.

Making his way into the kitchen Alastor was stunted in place by the sight in front of him. There you stood deer tail wagging, singing along to music as you mixed a bowl of who knows what together. Alastor observed you quietly as ever, and definitely not checking you out because that would be rude- however your tail was very much distracting.

Clearing his throat the static spitting out behind his voice, you jumped slightly at the sound of him, looking over your shoulder to where he stood at the kitchen entry. The two of you simply stared at each other for a moment, the song in the background seemingly quieter than before, as if the two of you were in your own little zone.

Alastor couldn’t describe the gravitational pull he had toward you, he would’ve been a fool to deny your beauty, but he’d never had issue admitting when a demon or person was beautiful, it didn’t matter to him, so he couldn’t grasp why you seemed to have an immediate effect on him.

You too felt similarly gawking at the sight of him, i mean you’d never seen pictures of him, only art or depictions, which really didn’t do him any good. You were honestly a little embarrassed, you thought he was incredibly handsome, contrary to your beliefs prior to this moment, and you felt a little silly to suddenly feel like going back on your apprehension about him simply because of how attractive he was.

Deciding to finally break the intense yearning gaze the two of you held, Alastor perked up stepping close to you swinging his hand out to shake. “Alastor darling, pleasure to meet you, quite the pleasure.” Going unnoticed by you, Alastor’s voice involuntarily dropped lower, making it come out more sultry than he’d ever done during an introduction. Of course Alastor was aware it wasn’t his normal voice and wondered why the hell he decided to modify his tone to come out as seductive as it did; was it just by nature?

“I’m YN, Charlie’s best friend. I don’t know if you knew i was staying but i am, surprise! Heh,” You say a little nervously sticking out your hand but quickly retracting it, as it was covered in dough. “I’m making bread and breakfast, do you like french toast?” You finish finally gaining the courage to meet his gaze properly.

His eyes were lidded, and he looked down at you only with his eyes keeping his head forward, which made you feel some type of way. He had such a big presence, height aside, that would make anybody on the receiving end of his heated gaze, shrink. “I suppose i wouldn’t mind a little bite to eat, tell me little doe, how do you make such a meal?”

Of course Alastor knew what french toast was, but he’d much prefer to play stupid so he could listen to you speak, and have you look up at him so deliciously. “Well, i’m making some homemade no yeast bread, and then i’m gonna do the egg and frying, normally i mix some cinnamon and honey in, but i might not since i don’t know what you guys like. A lot of people put syrup, but i can’t stand it; too sticky.” You explained mixing all of your ingredients, turning to him you smiled.

“Would you mind greasing the pan for me, please?” Alastor nearly purred at you with how you requested his help he would’ve bent himself backwards if it meant you’d ask him like that again. The way these emotions hit him in the gut; the undeniable feeling of desire he was trying to fight against was incredibly intense and oddly, he liked it. “Of course my dear, whatever you wish, i shall see to.” With the snap of his fingers his hair had been pulled back, suit jacket gone, leaving him in only his white button up, and a pink apron.

Shamessly your eyes roamed his figure watching as he began to grease the pan with his hand. His eyes still lidded and smile relaxed. You enjoyed how he stood tall and relaxed, and it was only now when you caught a peek of his red tail that you realized; “You’re a deer?”

Alastor paused momentarily, eyes lazily difting toward you. He didn’t mind that you saw his tail, and he was a little surprised you lacked to notice he was a deer. “What did you think i was sweetheart?” Alastor exclaimed his entertainment persona peeking through as he did. You peeled your eyes away feeling a little bad for staring at him, instead you focused on placing the bread into the bow greased pan before responding. “Maybe a fox, but to be honest i didn’t think too much about it.”

Alastor hummed in agreement, watching as you placed the bread in to the oven. There weren’t many does Alastor has seen, many bucks but does were more of a rarity. The two of you made breakfast, bantering about things here and there and getting to know one another.

“What’s earth like?” You asked watching him prepare dough for beignets which he insisted you tried as it was a lousiana breakfast staple- but also because he wanted to have you to himself just a bit longer, and show off his cooking skills. “What do you mean dear?” Alastor questioned brows furrowed slightly, but his inquiry came soft with no judgement. “I’m not human, moms an angel, dad was one of the few hell borns that kinda just popped up, we don’t know where he went to though, anyways i’ve never seen the earth.”

Now that, was news to him. He suspected you were something special based off the tugging feeling he had toward you, but being a literal angel wasn’t something he would’ve bet on, but should’ve guessed on. Without a worry in his mind, Alastor happily told you about his home in new orleans, what it was like being a radio host, how in got into voodoo, how he new some cajun french, as well as his mother.

Leaning on the counter head rested on his hand, looking at you dreamily while the beignets fried. “My mother was an angel, she was my biggest supporter at the time, the reason i kept pushing. I have the upmost respect for mothers like mine.” You, as equally lost in the dream like bliss Alastors presence brought you, smiled at his story’s ogling at the man who spoke so highly of his mom. “That’s the sweetest Alastor, I wish i could’ve met the woman who made you into such a gentlemen.” You flirt subtly gently patting his arm.

Alastor hummed a lovesick smile on his face his tail wagging happily behind him as the two of you continued to yap. Tails syncing with the way they swayed unnoticed by you two as you lost yourselves in eachother, also going unnoticed was Charlie giddy as could be, in the background jumping up and down. Slipping away to Vaggie, Charlie gripped her like she was her life line. “YN and Alastor are totally going to get together! Ahh!” Charlie squealed shaking a limp Vaggie back and forth.

“Mhm Alastor please please please,” You chant wrapped tightly around the demons waist, as he pressed you up against your dresser. After a full day of being alongside Alastor the tension snapped between you two, although it took a few things to get there. First Angel hitting on you right after breakfast, it made Alastor seethe the symbols and static materializing as he watched Angel hit on you. It made Alastor realize such a sweet doe like you must be marked, can’t have other buck or demon filth thinking they can just put there hands on you.

The second thing that egged him on was when the two of you went for a stroll together, and while in a store witnessed a demon repeatedly harass you while you simply tried to pick out a dress! Alastor apologized for the blood shed, but he professed he needed to obliterate that demon to protect you and that would be the only time he would ever put you in a position to see such things. Which made your heart flutter, you felt the desire to have him protect you, it’s not like you couldn’t do it yourself but it made you weak in the knees to have a demon like Alastor jumped to protect you.

Thrusting into you needily, Alastor growled like a mad man his hand climbing up your body to grab your cheeks gently fixing your gaze up to him. “You’re mine,” Static laced his tone as he hissed out at you, pushing his body flush to yours. Moaning like a whiny porn star, you nodded in your head in a daze. “My mate,” He muttered again breathing deeply as he clenched his teeth.

Reaching your hands up to grab his antlers that sprout, you couldn’t help the way your body shook and the way you lewdly moaned. You felt so electrified and couldn’t contain the pleasure Alastor was making you feel. “Please Al, I love it so good,” You whined against his lips, his smile closed and strained as his lips brushed against yours, your breath tickling him as you whined.

Smashing your lips together Alastor picked up the pace feeling like a wild animal. He wanted you, forever, he wanted you to be his one and only, his only doe. Making himself hornier with the thought of having you all to himself his static crackled loudly as he thought up something mischievous. Pulling back from your heated kiss, you whined begging him to kiss you, touch you and fuck you, smiling at you in your disheveled state, a green huge suddenly engulfed the room.

The two of you lit up like neon as symbolize shined in the background. “Give yourself to me little doe, be my mate for entirety and the world is yours, anything you or your friends want i will give you. I can’t let such a thing like you go, i need you.” Alastor statically said, it sounded quite ominous but you were too horny to pick up on that, you could only pay attention to the need you had between your legs and in your heart. Alastor wanted you to be his forever, linked to you for eternity. Perhaps it was the fact that you were both deer that you two had this simultaneous connection, but regardless you couldn’t care you just wanted him back as much as he wanted you.

Thrusting yourself upward into him, you gripped his hand, while clenching down on him at the same time. “Yes, always i’m yours only; it’s a deal.” You moaned. Growling demonically Alastors green disputes like electricity, escaping this room and flowing through the hotel like wave. Feeling his heart bloom Alastors ears clipped back as he jackhammered into you, the dresser slamming against the wall while you squealed a little giggle bubbling out from how needy he became. That giddiness left as a violent hot mass washed over you, screaming out a moan you clutched Alastor, singing out his name through moans of appreciation as he coaxed you with praises through your orgasm.

It shook your body, and soon after Alastor came to a halt inside you, biting down hard on your neck. You moaned his name, not even feeling pain as he sunk his teeth into you down to the gum. After a few moments of licking up your blood he pulled away gazing into your fucked out eyes. As you were about to tell Alastor that you needed to figure out why you were both so suddenly connected, Charlie bolted in.

“YOU MADE A DEA- FUCK IM SORRY!” Within the span of two seconds Charlie had two separate panic attacks, one because she saw the green deal making light shoot through the hotel while you were alone with Al, and the second right after she closed to door from seeing the two of you intertwined at the hips.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel oneshots #alastor hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #alastor smut #alastor x you #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader smut #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x reader #alastor the radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel x reader

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cardo-de-comer · 3 months ago

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soo helloo and i think it's time for me to explain the deal with my characters and this whole "you're not supposed to be here" thing. EDIT: just fixed some stuff. thank you folks for your support, i really appreciate you all <3

i made these characters way back in june and by today they have a lot of lore around them in my head. i even have a dream to make a game with them but it's just a dream for now so i'm gonna try to explain the main things about this story. Obviously this is a long post, although I tried to keep this stuff short. and excuse me for my writing and any mistakes, I don't usually write this much text.

It starts with the world. Alternate 15th century, humanity is almost gone and what's left of it shares quite a big city with demons and angels. However, demons and angels are usually being treated like servants - eventually one gets tired of it all, so everyone knows an uprising is just around the corner. Let's just ignore that for now.

The City has a catch of it's own - it's alive. The walls have eyes and ears and the City knows every resident by heart and soul, both figuratively and literally. Usually City acts through the King, it chooses protectors for itself, ones who have strong minds to comprehend it - they will be called the royal knights, each of them have a company of a /more wiser than the rest of them/ demon and angel to help with their tasks. Only the King and ten royal knights know that the City is alive and very talkative but they don't understand fully what it's trying to tell them. Most of them choose to ignore the voices in their head because hey, that's what you do usually in this situation, otherwise they drive you nuts.

City is also extremely emotional and appearance depends on its condition. Usually it's a sunny day out and the city looks welcoming, but you don't want to be there when the City is scared: it might eat you alive by accident. Now that the environment is aside, time for the main three characters.

Imri is a young lad who will soon be a royal knight. He actually wanted to be a painter when he grows up but well, you cannot disobey the king's orders. Quite emotionless and a man of a few words, he tries to stay on a neutral ground between good and bad - a perfect candidate for manipulation to all three sides, demons, angels and the City.

look at him

Royal knights get to know their angel and demon companions at least a week before they get knighted to avoid any misunderstandings. Imri doesn't mind his friends at all, although one of them caused quite a fuss.

Angel /they name themselves Lyra/ is an overly positive, naive and blindly kind entity. A bit childish and very fond of justice, they try to act as a voice of conscience, not understanding that sometimes this can make everything even worse than it was. There is a feeling that they're trickier than it seems but you can never quite tell.

the latin text all over them is just a part of their design

The demon though... That's not even a demon, that's the Devil himself. Yes, everyone knows who this is, everyone avoids him and he's not supposed to be here at all. Despite being THE Devil, he didn't try to do anything horrific yet and, when he's not joking around, he tries to be the voice of reason, the voice that no one listens to. He seems to know a lot more about this whole world than anyone else but he talks about it only when he wants to.

no one likes him at all, expect maybe Imri who just tolerates his presence like he always does

That's the main three. There is a few secondary characters, Imri's father being one of them.

sir Jastrab /or just Dell/ is one of the royal knights, he's a bit naive, loyal, and a soul so kind that his demon hung himself. Oh well. He lost one hand in what he calls "a work accident" which is partly true but he never goes into details.

He never wanted for his son to be a part of the knights because he knows by experience that it's not an easy job and not every father wants for their child to go insane from the voices in their head.

few people said that the angel accompanying him looks like d20 and so be it

The others are Sun and Moon - local deities, despite being on the sky every day and night, usually they don't really care about what's going on down below. You can still talk to them but don't expect much action. Regardless of all this, they are still loved by almost all living things. They can rarely meet each other but humans always depict them together no matter what. Although maybe humans are right...

creators of the Stars - some part of a human soul that i can't talk about :)

Angels and demons come in all forms and sizes but those are the main population - lesser demons resemble the Devil in some ways and lesser angels look like clovers. Rivals usually but when the revolution happens, they learn to tolerate and work with each other. Humanity doesn't really have a chance.

they hate everyone equally And there is another being, that Imri meets a few times through the story - it's Death. Death is just having fun in this end of the world and there is a lot of work to be done.

this is an old and rough design so maybe it'll change The whole story begins at that day when Imri is supposed to be knighted. Everything seemed fine until Imri gets to hear the City for the first time and realizes that he hears and sees a lot more than everyone else. Completely overwhelmed he blacks out - even the toughest of minds often can't take it - and wakes up later only to find out that the King got killed somehow, angels and demons saw this as the starting point for a revolution and the City starts to panic.

Now Imri, guided by his companions and the voice of scared City that's crumbling and slowly drives him insane, shall travel to the center of it to find out what really happened, getting through demons and angels who are busy destroying the rest of humanity. Fun.

There is a lot more to this whole thing but I cannot tell the entire plot because spoilers, in case if i actually will make something out of this story. Think of it as a game lore. I'm not sure about making sth yet because i operate only on hopes and dreams and i barely have any strength lately but who knows... But now you have at least some context! And yeah, thank you if you actually read all of this, you're a hero.

Now i need to get back to drawing. Thank you all for your support. <3

#art #oc #yourenotsupposedtobehere #ynstbh #i keep repeating to myself that i'm cringe but i'm free - it's so hard to share a story from your head without feeling cringe lol #but i'm also kinda proud that i made it this far and haven't burned out yet #before i thought that i couldn't make anything original with this empty head of mine #i'm gonna keep this as a pinned post for a while

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fastandcarlos · 4 months ago

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Game, Set & Match : ̗̀➛ Lando Norris

summary: after deciding to go to the tennis whilst at home, lando’s attention is captured by one of the players he watches on court

pairing: lando x tennis!reader

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 2,583,382 others

landonorris: such a joy to be courtside today to watch some super tennis…a nice reminder that coordination with a racket is not my strongest skill 🎾

259,462 comments

username1: how does he manage to look good in every single photo of him!?

maxverstappen1: gonna tell us who that other racquet belongs to or leave us hanging..? 🤔

username2: he was there to watch yn, I was there and he didn’t take his eyes off of her 😂

carlossainz55: pay close attention and then one day you might be good enough to challenge me!

georgerussell63: that’s the smile you have when there’s someone around you fancy 😂

landonorris: @/georgerussell63 I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about…

username3: do we think that maybe there’s something here??

username4: they would be such a good match if they were together 😭

ynusername: hope you enjoyed the match, it was lovely to have you there!

landonorris: @/ynusername you were amazing, it was awesome to see you play in person too 👏🏻

username5: he wasn’t even sat in her player box so I think we all just need to calm down 😮‍💨

oscarpiastri: that’s it, pretend you were there for the tennis!

username6: maybe ask yn if she’ll give you a few lessons 😉

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by djokernole, naomiosaka and 358,413 others

ynusername: CHAMPION!! words will never do justice to explain just how much this means to me 🏆✨

31,857 comments

username7: the most incredible week, congratulations yn on getting the W ❤️

andymurray: congratulations on an incredible run yn, that was the best I’ve ever seen you play 🎾

username8: she only played this well because lando was watching 🙃

igaswiatek: an honour to be on the other side of the net and see you pick up your first trophy ☺️

username9: can’t believe you’re the champion, a dream week for you ✨

naomiosaka: girl I am so unbelievably proud of you for what you’ve achieved 👏🏻

landonorris: it was an honour to be here and watch you play, congratulations once again ☺️

ynusername: @/landonorris it was awesome to meet you after the match 🤝

username10: lando norris needs to start turning up to more tennis games!!

username11: are we just gonna ignore the fact that he’s still here and in her comments now too!?!

djokernole: that was an incredible match yn, the first of many victories I’m sure 👏🏻

username12: wait for lando to try and convince us that he’s always loved tennis and this has nothing to do with yn 😂

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by georgerussell63, danielricciardo and 2,483,172 others

landonorris: he goes to one tennis game and now he thinks he’s a pro at padel (which I definitely am btw!)💪🏻

216,607 comments

username13: yn definitely needs to come and give you some lessons 😂

maxverstappen1: can absolutely confirm that you are not a pro at padel in the slightest 🏸

alex_albon: if you’re a pro then I must be the ronaldo of padel 🙄

landonorris: @/alex_albon there is absolutely no chance you are better at padel than me ‼️

username14: if nothing else, at least you’re better than oscar!!

username15: we want video proof or we’re not believing a word of it norris

georgerussell63: stop lying to yourself lando we’ve talked to you about this!!

username16: did he go to the tennis just to pick up tips after all???

danielricciardo: I can’t believe you’ve actually just called yourself a pro at padel 🤦🏻

landonorris: @/danielricciardo it would be unfair of me to lie to the people

username17: idc how good you are at padel, you still look for to me 🔥

oscarpiastri: sometimes you’re so bad you make me look good at this game!

username18: everyone just needs to take a step back, we all know how much of a sport geek lando is…

ynusername: one day I’ll teach you how to be a true racket sports pro 😂

landonorris: @/ynusername I might just take you up on that offer…

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by mclaren, landonorris and 327,408 others

ynusername: thank you mclaren for welcoming me into your garage for the weekend, I had the time of my life 🧡🏎️

42,604 comments

username19: watch the hardcore fans try and convince us that there’s nothing going on here…

landonorris: it was amazing to have you here with us this weekend, hope you enjoyed as much as I enjoyed the tennis ☺️

ynusername: @/landonorris I think you might’ve just turned me into an f1 fan 🥺

landonorris: @/ynusername I knew I’d be able to convince you 🥲

username20: oscar already taking on the proud role of third wheel 😂

username21: he’s here in the likes and the comments, my mind is made up here!!

emmaraducanu: can’t believe you went to the f1 without me 😭

ynusername: @/emmaraducanu I’m sorry please don’t hate me 😂

username22: pls mclaren give us what we want and film some content with these two

oscarpiastri: it was an honour to meet you and show you around the garage 🧡

username23: how long are they gonna drag this out before they put themselves!?

maxverstappen1: just so you know red bull are so much better than mclaren 😉

landonorris: @/maxverstappen1 stop lying to her 😂 I made sure to tell yn just how superior we are!!

username24: omg just hurry up and kiss already 😮‍💨

mclaren: you’re welcome back anytime, thank you for paying us a visit 🧡

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by carlossainz55, oscarpiastri and 2,594,473 others

landonorris: she shot an ace through my heart and now it’s game, set and match norris 💞

47,139 comments

username25: lando coming straight at us with the world’s worst tennis pun 😩

maxverstappen1: that caption is the mist disgusting thing I’ve ever seen from you 🙄

username26: look at that smile she must make him so happy!!

danielricciardo: how long did it take you to come up with that caption…

landnorris: @/danielricciardo longer than I’d like to admit to!

username27: that caption has given me such an ick 😂

oscarpiastri: still gonna argue you that you want to the tennis to actually watch the tennis!?

username28: they just knew that there was no pretending that they weren’t together with us!

charles_leclerc: alex told me to tell you she wants to meet yn asap!

landonorris: @/charles_leclerc let’s do dinner so I can share all your embarrassing stories

username29: the writing in the sand has made my heart so happy 🥺

ynusername: I think I might’ve changed my mind after reading that caption 😂

landonorris: @/ynusername sorry but you’re mine now and I’m not letting you go!

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, maxverstappen1 and 428,066 others

ynusername: turns out tennis and f1 do go pretty well together after all 🥺

48,721 comments

username30: I’m so obsessed with these two I can’t cope already

landonorris: I think they make quite the team 💞

username31: if we didn’t believe lando then I think we can definitely believe yn 😂

oscarpiastri: do I still have to pretend that you and lando are definitely not dating???

ynusername: @/oscarpiastri no you’re relieved of your duties now 😂

username32: can’t wait for all the couples sports content we’re gonna get from these two!

danielricciardo: reluctantly giving my racing boyfriend up so he can spend time with you 🥹

ynusername: @/danielricciardo you’re welcome to third wheel whenever you want!

landonorris: @/danielricciardo no you’re not 😂 leave the two of us the hell alone!

username33: ngl I love how they love the sport that the other person does so passionately 😩

maxverstappen1: we’re relying on you now yn to teach this kid how to play padel 🙃

username34: thank you to whoever decided to introduce lando to yn at the tennis that day 🙏🏻

mclaren: I guess we should look into getting you a pass 😉🧡

ynusername: @/mclaren yes yes yes yes!!!

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

851 notes · View notes

sanguinesmi1e · 2 months ago

Text

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 Pt. 2 (you're here) Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Art of LBM

Danny was still lying under the Specter Speeder, mind reeling as the words “they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms” ran in a loop through his head. Could that really be true? Is his death attached to the portal, forever lodged in the doorway, preventing it from closing?

The guy clearly knew what he was talking about. The bit about why his ghost friends and frenemies caused so much chaos as they unleashed their obsessions on Amity Park made so much sense. It would certainly explain a lot of his interactions with ghosts after he died.

Danny silently cursed himself for not destroying everything in the lab before they got here. He and Jazz hadn't worried about the portal schematics, because they honestly didn't have any way to open a portal, only cycle energy in a recursive loop that shouldn’t have done anything. No one, not he and Jazz, not their parents, not Tucker or Technus, had been able to figure out why it had worked when Danny was inside. But if the machine was able to sustain a portal that was already opened. . . He wondered idly if he could light a fire that looked accidental and would both destroy the lab and leave the two men enough time to escape. It’d probably be too risky. And who knew what destroying the portal would do to him. Fully kill him? Destroy him completely and shatter his core? It might be worth it to prevent anyone from gaining this knowledge.

No wonder Lex Luthor was interested in this business. A child was murdered in this basement, and for all Tim knew, the child’s soul could still be trapped here fueling a Lazarus Pit that connected the world of the living to the afterlife. What Luthor could do with an interdimensional portal or even a single sample of Lazarus water. . . Tim shuddered to think.

On the one hand, he was grateful that Wayne Enterprises secured the business before Luthor had the chance. On the other hand, he felt rather ill to think his family had directly enriched mad scientists who performed child sacrifices. At least he had full faith that between him and Oracle, they’d hunt the Fentons down and make sure justice was served.

“What is to be done for the child?” Tim asked Constantine. “Is his soul tied to that machine?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s just his death.”

“You’re gonna have to explain the difference to me, ‘cause I’m not sure I see the distinction.” Tim said wryly.

“I guess. . . Hm. You could think of it as the moment of transition drawn out endlessly like a plucked string whose note never stops vibrating. Like life is the anchor point of one end of the string, and the afterlife is at the other end, and the child’s death is the note created when his soul crosses from one side to the other. The soul is the bow causing reverberations, but the reverberations are the actual death itself. The effect of the soul’s passage. And in this case, the portal is amplifying the death so it doesn’t end like a normal death ‘note’ would.” Constantine leaned in to examine some of the runes that were part of the array. “Not a perfect metaphor, obviously, since you bow perpendicular rather than parallel to the string, and death and souls are nothing like music, but you get the idea, right?”

Tim was still caught on John Constantine saying the words “death note” together unironically in a sentence. He was going to have to share that with Steph later. Maybe with the whole family group chat, even. “Yeah, the metaphor makes sense, as much as any of this occult stuff does to me.”

“Whatever. As for whether there’s anything we can do for the child, I think we’ll have to try and summon him if we can.” The Brit started pulling items out of his trenchcoat’s inner pockets. “We need to ask what the spirit wants done, before we go messing with things we don’t understand.”

“Alright, need anything from me?”

“Yeah, move this stuff out of the way so I can draw a circle.” Constantine directed Tim to shove aside a few stacks of boxes, something called a Fenton Ghost Weasel, and together they shifted a coffin-shaped iron maiden that for some reason was labeled Fenton Stockades. Then he set to work chalking a circle and runes on the ground.

Finally he sat back and dusted chalk off his hands. “That should do it.”

“Will this be bright too?” Tim asked warily.

“Eh, might be? Shouldn’t be too bad.”

Tim grabbed an auto-darkening welding helmet with a green “Fenton” sticker on it off the workbench and slipped it on.

“Alright, here goes.” Constantine began the summoning ritual.

While Danny debated arson, the other two had finished clearing a space and chalked some kind of circle onto the floor. He tuned back into the conversation when he heard the trenchcoat guy begin a traditional incantation for a summoning. Were they trying to summon him? Danny really hoped it wouldn’t work.

When people tried to summon the Ghost King he could almost always ignore the pull. This pull, however, was very strong and immediate. It seemed proximity made a difference, or this guy was just better at summonings than the average cultist. Before Danny could accept the inevitable, he was pulled bodily — literally! — out from under the vehicle and across the floor, still flat on his back on the Fenton Under Car Creeper, with the Specter Speeder’s ecto-engine hugged tightly to his chest. The wheels of the Fenton Creeper (not to be mistaken with the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick) sped him straight to the summoning circle. Still very much in human form.

This was his first real look at the guy called Constantine, and he couldn’t help a horrified yelp. “Eugh!! What the fuck is wrong with you, dude!?!!”

His lapse in attention made him lose the battle with the summoning spell, and it gripped him, pulling him through the convolutions of the spellwork even though he was already lying half across the circle, and forcing him to change into Phantom in the process. It was such a disgusting sensation, like he was one of those squishy water filled tube snake toys that look like a fleshlight, and someone squeezed really hard and abruptly so he turned inside out and went flying to go splat against a wall (or in this case, against the ground inside the circle of chalk). He tried and failed not to retch.

The younger man in the crisp suit whom he’d already identified as Mr. CEO-Timothy-Drake-Wayne looked at him in startled bafflement, while the older blond, still smoking his cigarette, (gross, and was that thing never ending?) was probably looking at him. Maybe. It was really difficult to tell, because he was a frankly vile sight. Danny winced and swallowed down nausea. “What have you done to your soul?”

“I — what?”

“Trypophobia central, man! Ugh that’s gotta be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t you cover it up?”

“Who are you?” Timothy Drake-Wayne interjected.

“I’m the dead guy? You literally just summoned me.”

“Constantine said you were a child”

“I mean, I was?” Danny looked down at his obviously twenty-something year-old self and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I was fourteen though. These things happen.”

“Not typically, no. The dead tend to be pretty unaging.” Constantine said.

“Dude I’m not having a conversation with you while your soul looks like Escher’s swiss cheese nightmare. Anyways, some of us do. Heck, I know a guy who constantly shifts from infant to old man and every stage in between. It’s pretty distracting when you’re trying to get him to let you fix the timeline again.” Danny continued to look anywhere but at the blond man. “But if it’s so important to you, I can —” He got an abstracted look, and slowly de-aged himself until the two men stood over a fourteen year old boy with snow white hair and glowing green eyes.

“That does not help. No.” The guy whose soul looked somewhat like a bleeding tooth fungus said. He turned away and started doing something magical. Danny hoped it would mask his soul in some way, but so far all it did was make Danny feel like he needed to pop his ears.

He also felt particularly uncharitable, so he didn’t revert to his natural age, and instead tried to see how young and cute he could make himself appear.

“So are you just haunting this basement? Seems hazardous, given the former proprietors.” Timothy tried to redirect the conversation. He didn’t seem nearly as distressed to see the ghost of a child, but his eyes darted surreptitiously to the Lichtenberg figure Danny used to always hide under gloves.

“Nah, haven’t been back here in years. I mostly live in my Infinite Realms haunt these days.”

“You . . . live? Is that just a figure of speech?”

“It’s rude to ask about a ghost’s nonliving status, you know. Highly taboo to ask how a ghost died or poke into the circumstances of our deaths without permission.” Danny admonished. Making himself younger than fourteen took more effort than he expected.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Timothy raised his hands placatingly to the boy who now looked younger than Damian. “What brings you back to Amity Park?”

“Uh, you summoned me? Are we still not clear on that?”

Tim looked pointedly at the Fenton Creeper and the engine Danny still held. He’d shrunk down to the size of a four year old, and the engine really should be crushing him given it was bigger than his torso now. He quickly set it aside, and turned his biggest puppy dog eyes on Tim.

“You were in here already, and you looked pretty alive for a moment there.”

“I can look lots of ways!” Danny focused really hard on looking as cute, small, and nonthreatening as possible. He thought it was working when all of a sudden there was a pop! and he was smaller than he’d ever managed before.

Timothy Drake-Wayne looked like a giant. The other guy, who had thankfully managed to put away his soul somehow, wore scuffed oxfords bigger than Danny. Hell, he could probably fit his entire self into one of Constantine’s shoes if that wasn’t a bizarre thing to do, and they weren’t already full of stinky feet. Holy shit what happened to him!?

Tim blinked down at the cat? Snake? Ghost. . . thing at his feet. What the fuck. A moment ago he was talking to an adult man whom he’s pretty sure was dead and he’s very sure was trolling them. Now his interlocutor had turned into an adorable creature with soft white paws, a long twisting tail, big pointed ears that swiveled like a cats, and a humanoid face that should’ve been creepy but was actually eliciting cute-aggression in him. Tim blinked again. The little baby ghost creature blinked enormous green eyes back at him. Then it yawned, revealing three rows of needle sharp teeth that looked like a cross between what you’d find in the mouth of a shark and a cat. Yikes.

“Does that mean the interview is over?” Tim asked him.

The creature just blinked up at him again, then zeroed in on his shoelaces, pupils expanding until only a narrow band of green ringed them.

Yup. The interview was over. Those paws hid some wicked claws which could apparently slice through leather with ease. Oh, Tim really hoped ghost scratch fever wasn’t a thing. At least the ghost looked sufficiently contrite after he yelped, and it waited while he removed a shoelace to sacrifice as a toy.

If Damian ever met him, there would be a new member of the family. Maybe he should name the creature preemptively so they didn’t have a cat-snake named Bat-Ghost in Wayne manor.

“Do you have a name, little baby cat-snake ghost? Little baby ghost man?” He cooed as the miniature monster dashed back and forth, intent on shredding his shoelace.

The ghost paused long enough to chirp, “Li’l baby man!” before launching himself at the string. Even shocked, Tim’s reflexes had him whisking the toy out of the way, and the ghost went careening under a cabinet.

He wedged himself in the gap, landing face first in a dust bunny, and quickly wriggled backwards with an indignant squall. His wordless protestations cut off as he fell into a violent sneezing fit that thankfully dislodged him from beneath the cabinet.

Tim suppressed his laugh, and asked, “Little Baby Man? Is that what you want to be called?”

The ghost pawed most of the dust away from his nose, but spider webs covered his face and a big dust bunny perched atop his head like a fascinator with a cobweb lace veil. He looked Tim right in the eyes and nodded, dislodging the dust in his hair and setting off more sneezes.

“Li’l Baby Man” he confirmed. He placed a paw on Tim’s shoe and chirped, “Tim!” Then he pointed his tail at Constantine and said, “Gross!” with narrowed eyes.

764 notes · View notes

schrijverr · 1 year ago

Text

It Just Hits Different When It’s Batman

5 times a League member heard Batman use slang + 1 time they knew where the fuck he got it from.

This fic is based off this post by @wednesday-if-it-was-tuesday bc it was just too good! Hope you don't mind :D

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none

~~~~~

1. Flash

Barry is pretty sure he has to get his hearing checked as he speeds through a city, trying to find a series of bombs, courtesy of a new alliance of villains. He and Batman are on bomb duty, thus sharing a private com line as to not distract the others or be distracted as they coordinate.

However, Barry is very much distracted by his own partner in this whole mess, because unless he’s gotten a few too many hits to the head in recent years, he’s pretty sure Batman just reported: “The bombs look like yassified thermos flasks.”

“What?” Barry chokes, nearly tripping over his own feet as he does.

Batman doesn’t seem to notice, instead explaining the bomb, not his wording: “The casing looks to be made from plastic, likely to escape Superman’s notice. Start checking water pipes, I found this one near a toilet. I’ll report again once I figure out how to disarm it.”

Okay, questing his sanity later, finding bombs, now.

So he zooms off again, having to agree with the fact that the bomb does look like a yassified thermos flask. He wonders if he can use that in his report or if Batman will scold him for language. He has worked with the man for long enough that he knows Batman isn’t above hypocrisy.

Then he wonders again if he even heard it right. In the heat of battle, the brain sometimes does weird things, especially when someone thinks at the speed of light. Or faster.

He’ll put it out of his mind for now, maybe tell Hal about it just so he’ll have someone to share the bizarre experience with.

Clark probably has a thesaurus, he should probably also find a synonym for yassified. Does a thesaurus have slang too?

2. Green Lantern

It’s true that Barry had told him about Spooky saying yassified in that one battle, but Hal hadn’t truly believed that Bats was capable of something like that. I mean, look at him. The guy might be a weirdo who dresses up as a Bat, but he’s not a weirdo who says shit like yassified.

However, at the moment it is starting to look more and more likely. Fuck, Barry is gonna give him so much crap for not believing him.

The moment in question is Batman working with him on the stealth mission. It’s one for the Green Lantern Corps, so Batman is doing him a favor. Though Hal is starting to wish that he hadn’t done him that favor, because Batman has just said: “It looks like Luthor is being thristy for Superman again. For someone who hates the guy, he sure wants his attention a lot. That’s Kryptonian honing device.”

Hal doesn’t react, still thinking about the fact that he’s just heard Luthor, thirsty and Superman in one sentence. In Batman’s voice no less.

“What?” he says.

“A Kryptonian honing device,” Batman repeats, sounding as if he thinks Hal is stupid, not uncommon. “So he can hone in on Superman, find him. Something we need to do something about.”

Hal decides to take the smart way out and lets the whole thing drop in favor of focusing on the mission. He’s not just telling Barry, but Ollie about this as well.

3. Cyborg

Being in the Justice League isn’t much different than being on the Teen Titans. Like right now, being in a building that could explode at any moment unless he hacks into the system and stops that from happening.

Ah, good old life-threatening pressure.

Batman is fighting some of the goons in the background. They’re on their own here, with the others fighting through an army outside to get to them. But it’s mostly up to them. Batman yells: “Cyborg, status.”

“I’m getting through, but something is bugging me about this whole thing,” Victor calls back. “I think there is someone I’m missing that will allow me to crack this.”

There are a few grunts in the background as Batman fights on, while Victor starts to scan through everyone who worked for the organization, trying to find the missing link.

He is interrupted by Batman, who says: “I took a tour here once. There was an intern, Kyle Paulson, he was kind of sus. Look him up.”

For a second, Victor is thrown by the sus in that sentence, but he quickly focuses back on what’s important. Indeed finding Kyle to be the missing link that gets him to disarm the bomb. While Batman is taking out the last of the bad guys.

In fact, the whole thing slips his mind until he’s writing his mission report, going through the footage to get accurate information in there. Then he pauses again, before dismissing it. Those who trained under Batman are always prepared, maybe it’s not slang but shorthand to be useful in the moment. Or he’s trying to include him, sweet, though unnecessary.

Victor puts it out of his mind.

4. Green Arrow

Ollie doesn’t believe Barry or Hal for a second. Like, really? Batman using slang that the sidekicks are using?

Sure, Nightwing sometimes uses some here and there, but Red Robin is always very professional and Robin is closer to a Shakespearean actor than a TikTok teen. There isn’t anyone else he could have gotten it from and it doesn’t make sense with his whole ‘I am the Night’-persona.

Victor suggested it was to make the newbies more comfortable when he overheard them talking, but that’s even more ridiculous in Ollie’s opinion.

So, he’s not at all in the slightest prepared for Batman’s reaction when he shows him the new arrows he developed. Because Batman’s reaction is: “Hm, serves cunt.”

“Excuse me, what?” Ollie says, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull.

Batman just stares at him, then in a confused sort of voice goes: “You know, it slays? It’s, you know, good? Positive.”

“Huh, what? No, I- I know what that means. How the fuck do you know?” Ollie splutters.

“I’m Batman,” is all he says. Then he walks away and leaves Ollie to stand there, still frozen in time, because what the hell was that? Batman can’t just do that, can he? That’s illegal. How does he even know that?

What Ollie doesn’t know, is that this was a calculated move. Bruce had overheard the three talking as well and decided to have a little fun. All the times before, it just slipped out in the heat of battle, but this one was purposeful.

Bruce knows Ollie would know what it meant, because billionaires Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen have done TikTok trends in the past and try to keep up to date, despite their age. Not that Ollie knows it’s him under there.

And last gala, he left Bruce for the wolves – Vicky Vale – so now Bruce is dealing psychological damage to him as petty revenge.

5. Superman (and Practically the Entire League)

They’re in a meeting with most of the Justice League members that are present on earth at the moment. It’s not often they hold such meetings, since they are a little overwhelming and tend to drag on more than be productive.

However, Clark thinks it’s important to ensure there are avenues through which ever member can state their piece and be heard. So, here they are again.

Booster Gold is complaining about always being on the sidelines and never in the heat of the action, even though he’s a great hero. He’s claiming that there is a bias against younger heroes, despite the fact that the ‘old guard’ will have to give it up eventually.

Apparently, Batman has had enough, because he gets up and snaps: “We don’t have bias based on age, we have one based off skill. Maybe if you stopped abandoning your post and being someone reliable, you might get put out in the field more often. Now stop being salty about it.”

It’s silent.

Clark is scrambling his brain, to figure out the meaning. As a journalist he tries to stay up to date on current language use, however, the only person he’s heard use that word is Jon. The boy never explained, but Clark guessed what it means. Doesn’t explain why Batman knows it.

Then the silence gets broken by a snort, everyone’s head whipping towards the source. It’s Nightwing, a newer addition and one affiliated with Batman himself. The only one there brave enough to laugh at Batman, mirthfully asking: “Did you actually say salty?”

There is no change on Batman’s face, but as a longtime friend, Clark knows he isn’t emotionless. Indeed, when he listens close, he can hear the blood rush to his face, blush hidden by the cowl.

“That was not the point of the sentence, Nightwing,” Batman counters, the name a little bit pointed on is tongue.

“Okay, okay,” Nightwing grins easily, showing his hands in surrender, an act which is made null by him adding: “Just pointing out that this is an official meeting. You’re on the record and you know I’m reporting this to the others.”

Red Robin and Robin, Clark fills in mentally, the other two known associates. Everyone already guessed that Nightwing must be close to them as well, since the younger two are closer to being Batman’s children. Now that is confirmed.

“Thank you for reminding me,” Batman says tersely, before quickly pivoting to the next point on the agenda. No one calls him out for it.

However, just because no one calls him out on it, doesn’t mean they drop it. In the weeks after the incident, whispers make their way through the halls of the Watchtower as people speculate why or how Batman came to use the word salty and how out of character it is.

Clark can hear the gossip all over the Watchtower and he’s sure Batman is aware of it too, because some brave souls have asked about. Especially when some of the others talked about the incident not being the first one.

Batman hasn’t replied yet to any of the questions or rumors. Clark thinks he likes the mystery and chaos, likes that they don’t know why the hell he sometimes lets slang slip. Even Nightwing has been seemingly silenced, never commenting with a sort of professional ease at evasion.

Nightwing is the only clue they have, along with Robin and Red Robin, but none of them seem like the culprit.

It just doesn’t make sense and Clark can’t help but have his reporter brain itch.

+1. The Batfamily

There is going to be an attack somewhere in a major city in America tonight. They cannot figure out where, so there is a nation wide stake out at all the important places. Nearly the entire Justice League has been pulled out for it and even then they don’t have enough.

Batman insists on having a skeleton crew remain on the Watchtower in case the threat turns out to be a distraction. And when it is protested, he pulls out an army of associates none of them have ever heard about to fill out the last gaps in their observational net.

The sudden introduction of about six new Gotham vigilantes, which have apparently been operating inside the city as well as outside of it, would have been the main shock if it weren’t for how they are on coms.

Red Robin and Nightwing are known as professionals like Batman, while Robin isn’t a known entity in missions, though those who have met him, know him to be serious. However, with the introduction of the others all of that professionalism melts away.

It starts about 45 minuted into their mission when Spoiler’s voice suddenly crackles over the coms: “I fucking hate stake outs, they’re so boring.”

“I know right, my ass is starting to hurt,” Red Robin – to everyone’s surprise – replies.

“No chatter on the coms,” Batman dutifully reproaches like he always does, but he sounds less stern this time. It’s as if he knows they won’t listen, but says it because it’s his role to do so.

Red Hood ignores Batman completely, idly commenting: “I don’t know, stake outs always hit different for me.”

“That’s just because you’re boring AF,” Spoiler says, an eyeroll practically audible.

“Oi, take that back,” Red Hood says, offended. “I didn’t die to have you slander my name like that!”

This is horrifying news for most of the other people stuck on the coms, however, there is a cacophony of annoyed groans as well. Why anyone would be so blasé about someone mentioning their death, they don’t know.

Until, Robin says: “Cease mentioning your death as excuse. It’s unbecoming to be so reliant on one measly event. You’re not the only one who has died, don’t be – what was it? – ah, yes, don’t be basic, Hood.”

“Yeah, Hood, don’t be salty just because you’re becoming a boring old man,” Red Robin pipes up, sounding smug. That solves the salty mystery.

“Shut up, Replacement,” Red Hood huffs. “I can talk about my death as much as I want to and you can’t stop me.”

“Hood, please, stop talking about your death, you’re going to make B sad,” Nightwing suddenly interjects, stopping the conversation before it can get out of hand.

Those with super hearing will hear Barry mutter in a shocked manner: “Is he talking about Batman?” But he is overshadowed by most of the newly introduced (and already) known Bat-associates booing loudly.

“Don’t be a fucking suck up, Dick” Spoiler hollers, only those in the know picking up on the fact it’s his name. It’s the only time Batman won’t correct them, because not everyone will know it’s a name unless it’s pointed out.

“Periodt,” the quiet voice of Black Bat supports Spoiler.

“Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, BB,” Spoiler cheers when she hears the other girl.

“That was the correct usage?” Black Bat asks.

“It was, well done,” Oracle’s kind voice comes over the coms, from where she is in her lair helping with coordination.

After that it all quiets down again for about half an hour, then Bluebird breaks the quiet again, complaining: “I can’t believe I had to stay behind in Gotham of all places.”

“You live there. Willingly,” Signal answers. “And I had to stay behind too, you know.”

“They’re sleeping on us, Signal, be upset with me,” Bluebird exclaims, indignantly.

“Okay, but tea though,” Spoiler says, most of the Justice League listening in are starting to learn she likes stirring the pot a little.

“Don’t be a simp, Spoils,” Red Robin says.

“Oh, look who’s talking about being a simp,” Red Hood snorts loudly. “I observed you, loser boy, you’re the simp.”

“It’s not as much of the serve you think it is to admit to stalking me,” Red Robin deadpans.

“RR, not to be that bitch, but you’re the OG stalker, maybe- maybe don’t do that,” Nightwing says cautiously, which is apparently funny enough that multiple people start laughing.

Meanwhile Red Robin complains: “Stop laughing at me, when I did it was totally different, I didn’t plan on killing any of you.” Which is mildly disturbing

“Oi, I never planned to actually kill you-kill you either,” Red Hood protests, even more disturbing. The Justice League is starting to wonder why Batman works with the man.

“Stop with the chatter,” Batman interjects again, before it can go further. “It’s not just us on the com lines now. At least try to be professional.”

And much to the horror of the League, who could never imagine doing such a thing, Batman gets booed. Again. This time directly.

Then to add to the horror, Batman doesn’t explode in anger, like everyone would have imagined, instead he just sighs. Defeated. Batman is like a cockroach, he doesn’t get defeated. However, these kids are managing.

Batman remains defeated too, because the Gotham vigilantes continue to idly chat all throughout the next hour. They are definitely bat associated, because they never reveal any information that could be tied to their civilian identity. Instead discussing other missions, general news, funny things they saw on patrol and personal grievances with the others on the line.

If this is what Batman deals with on the day to day, some are starting to see why he would prefer the heroes of the Justice League to keep their mouths shut on missions unless it’s important.

Most try to tune it out and focus on their own stake out, though the voices keep them awake. But they notice when Spoiler’s voice suddenly becomes serious as she reports: “Sus individuals moving towards the Mayor’s office.”

“Received, getting visual on your location,” Oracle’s voice replies, also snapped back into professionalism.

Spoiler reports their appearances and currently location, until Oracle has them, running a check on them, before confirming they have a criminal record and might be thugs for hire. Spoiler says: “I am going to move in.”

Batman says: “Do not engage, Spoiler, they could be a decoy. Try and get more information first.”

“Alright, alright,” Spoiler huffs. Then adds petulantly: “I’m not gonna do it, I was just thinking about it.”

Which sounds pretty reasonable for most listening in, who aren’t of the right age group to know the meme. Batman, however, does know, because he’s been subjected to it multiple times. So, he yells: “Spoiler, no!” startling some members.

A second later, there are sounds of a fight and Spoiler gleefully saying: “I did it.”

Batman lets out a frustrated growl, but Spoiler pays it no mind and she can’t truly get chewed out, because more and more start to report suspicious individuals moving in on the targets they’re watching.

Within minutes of it starting, Nightwing reports: “They’re decoys with targets. Not the main attack, but will do damage if they succeed.”

“Everyone make sure to take out the decoys,” Batman says. “Those without decoys, keep your eyes peeled, you might be at the real target.”

“Done with my targets, moving to help the others now,” Nightwing reports seriously, before he adds: “And can I just say that I’m the GOAT. Dibs on cookies for finishing first.”

“Okay, shade much,” Bluebird says.

“Don’t be arrogant, it’s unbecoming,” Robin retorts as well.

“Yeah, stop flexing,” Spoiler adds. “I’ve wrapped up too, by the way. You’re not special.”

“Let me have this,” Nightwing complains. “You already took all my shit, let me be cool. You all used to think I was cool.”

“Yeah, used to,” Red Hood scoffs. “Then we all realized you’re a looser.”

“Ha, get wrecked,” Red Robin snorts.

“Baby bird, wasn’t I your favorite?” Nightwing asks hurt, though over the top enough to show he is faking it.

“No, sadly, that was Hood,” Red Robin replies, sounding a little like he’s grimacing.

“No cap?” Red Hood asks, surprised.

“No cap,” Red Robin confirms.

“Now I feel kind of bad for you,” Red Hood says, before some bullets are fired. “Wrapped up here, moving to help.”

Red Robin seems glad to not have to reply and none of the other Gothamites do either. With what the League has heard so far, they’re also kind of happy the topic is being dropped, unsure what to think.

Batman’s associates are among the first ones cleaning up, however, soon others are joining them and the true battles grounds – yes, there are multiple targets, these people are organized (Batman will likely obsess until he has tracked down their organization afterwards) – are discovered and heroes move in to fight them.

Throughout the battle, everyone catches snippets of this strange, newly introduced group. A group, who works well together, like an oiled machine, yet obviously made up of highly competent parts that can act on their own as well.

Like Black Bat calling out: “Red Hood, yeet,” before those fighting alongside them see Red Hood boost her into the air, so she can come flying at the terrorists.

But they also make comments about the people they’re fighting and the others that are fighting alongside them.

Signal calling out: “Bluebird is pulling some sick ass moves. Another one for her on the slay-board, Oracle.”

Or Spoiler commenting: “Okay, not to be like that or whatever, but these terrorists are kind of looking snatched.”

To which Batman sighs: “Spoiler, please, no chatter,” in a vain attempt to get them under control.

“What?” Spoiler says. “I can appreciate when they’ve at least tried to pull a fit instead of that usual para-military, ninja type BS.”

“Go off,” Black Bat pipes up again and Spoiler cheers while Batman drops it. Defeated again.

They also check in on each other, with Red Robin hissing in pain, which is immediately followed by Nightwing going: “RR, you good, fam?”

“Gucci,” Red Robin replies. “Just low-key got stabbed.”

“There’s nothing low-key about getting stabbed!” Nightwing exclaims, getting called a hypocrite by many people, while Batman is already calling for Oracle to get a visual and for a medic to head Red Robin’s way.

By the time the battle is over, the Justice League understands how different the team is that Batman usually works with. If they were surrounded by heroes who talked like that continuously, they would have probably picked up some things here and there too.

Still, it fucking weird when Batman checks over his horde, before declaring: “You were all lit out there,” causing multiple of the kids around him to groan loudly, with Bluebird calling Batman a boomer.

Clark, however, sees a small uptick in Batman’s mouth. And in that moment, he knows Batman is doing it on purpose, that he’s enjoying it. That he’s fucking with them. He doesn’t know what to do with that, nor does he think that anyone will believe it. So, he decides to share the amusement and drop it.

They’re never going to figure out Batman.

A/N:

This work is going to get dated so so so fast lmao, but it’s fun rn (if ur commenting in the future, welcome to outdated slang vibes from someone who wasn’t that up to date with current slang when writing it, bc im secretly a grandpa).

Hopefully I didn’t overdo it to an unrealistic degree, but if I did, such is the story that was being told oops

Also this whole fic is just an excuse for me to write batfam banter bc I love it lmao

I didn’t include Batwing, Batwoman and Flamebird here, sorry, but writing the batfam is always so hard bc there are so many characters T-T

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pathologicalreid · 2 months ago

Text

the lost daughter | s.r.

in which JJ goes missing in the middle of the night, and Spencer's attempts to comfort you completely fall through

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: death, kidnapping, jareau!reader, takes place during 9x14 "200", caryatids, sibling loss, the british word count: 2.83k a/n: wrote this with my own sibling loss grief in mind so this is just me using fanfic as therapy. not sure if it's any good really. thanks for reading <3

You were already in the roundtable room by the time everyone came in, Penelope was making alarming faces at her laptop before she shook her head, “I’m trying,” she said. “I’m trying to pull data off of JJ’s phone, but it’s like level 9 security—it would make Snowden weep.”

Familiar hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs gently skimming over your collarbones as you watched the rest of the team sprawl around the room. “What about cell phone records?” Blake was next to speak, asking about your sister’s welfare when you couldn’t—too afraid of falling apart to so much as part your lips.

The look of desperation on Garcia’s face did nothing to comfort you, “Encrypted. JJ’s and Cruz’s.” With the disappointing news came a squeeze to your shoulders, Spencer’s silent attempt to comfort you without drawing too much attention to his movements.

Rossi shrugged, “That’s not surprising if they work for the State Department,” he reasoned, looking around the rest of the room.

You leaned back in the office chair, trying to remember how to place your feet on the ground, but it was hard when the soles of your shoes felt like a foreign sensation. “But if that assignment was a backstop,” Morgan started, “then JJ’s transfer as DOD Liaison was her cover.”

Spencer’s thumb ran from the base of your cervical spine to the base of your skull, working out a knot that had been there since you received a call from Will, asking if you knew where your sister was. “So, what was she really doing that year?” Spencer asked, the question sending a wave of goosebumps across your skin, fear making your blood run cold.

“That’s the first question Hotch is gonna ask,” Derek answered, easily slipping into the role of team leader in Hotch’s absence. “Strauss was pressured by the executive branch to push JJ’s transfer through in 2010, so she would have known the reason why.”

Your eyes immediately flicked to Rossi, wondering if Erin Strauss had divulged any state secrets over the duration of their relationship together. Though, you imagined Strauss maintained her oath of secrecy, much like your sister had in the three years since her reassignment. “Any assignment that Strauss authorized would be archived in the SCIF,” Spencer responded, his thumb smoothing over the hair at the nape of your neck.

Garcia looked alarmed, “That facility is code word classified.” She glanced around the room as if she was already searching for new ideas, but Derek seemed convinced.

His head bobbed, “Okay, but Anderson can get you in. He archives those reports,” he began to outline a plan. “Blake, Rossi, JJ couldn’t have used the SCIF without drawing attention. She probably has it foxholed right here in the BAU. We just need to find it,” his head rotated, meeting the gaze of everyone in the room—except for you.

“And what are you not telling us?” Blake asked, slipping both of her hands into the pockets of her blazer.

Morgan’s eyes dropped to meet yours, and you already knew what was coming. “Whoever took Cruz and JJ is highly trained and highly organized. Justice, defense, and state—they wouldn’t be on edge like this if this was a simple matter of two missing agents,” he explained.

You stiffened at his response, and Spencer restarted his ministrations, dropping his hands to your shoulders and working on your shoulder blades. “Is Hotch worried that the recovery won’t be made a priority?” Rossi asked, eyes flittering to you—even though they tried to hide it, everyone was sparing you nervous glances.

“It’s our job to find the leverage that assures it is. Let’s get it done,” Morgan said, nodding his head confidently before allowing the room to disperse.

Shaking off Spencer’s touch, he let you go without a fight, knowing that you wouldn’t be going anywhere far while your sister was still missing. You ducked your head, letting your hair curtain around your face while you walked out of the BAU, vaguely aware of the muttering that followed in your wake.

You shoved your way through the glass doors and turned the corner, practically throwing yourself into Morgan’s office before pressing your back to the wall and sliding down the drywall.

Visualizing the movement of air in and out of your lungs, you tried to teach yourself how to breathe normally. Something that was usually autonomic required more focus than usual, your thoughts so preoccupied with fear that you had to make a conscious effort to inhale and exhale.

The overwhelming feeling of impending doom hadn’t struck you until just then, sitting in the roundtable with your team and being left to wonder what might happen if you can’t convince the state to save your sister. You would have to call your mom and tell her that she’d have to bury another one of her daughters, Henry would have to grow up without his mother, and you would become an only child.

You never had to worry about being alone because you always had your sister, particularly in your adult life when you moved to D.C. JJ made a point to be dependable, to be someone that you could rely on no matter what was going on in her life, and the situation you found yourself in made you wonder if you never reciprocated. Her assignment was classified, but you wondered if she had ever tried to clue you into what she was doing during her time at the Pentagon. You wondered if she would’ve told you even if it was permitted.

It seemed too cruel. Parents weren’t supposed to have to bury their children and sisters weren’t meant to end up alone. The world couldn’t possibly be cruel enough to take JJ from you—she was the only sister you had left.

She promised you, after Roslyn died, that she’d never leave you alone. It was the most vivid memory you had from that early in your childhood. That period of time, from the moment JJ found her in the bathroom to the date of the funeral, you could recall it with alarming accuracy. For the longest time, you thought they were all manufactured, something you had dreamt up as if you were on a therapist’s couch.

But it was real, the fighting, the blood, the necklace—all of it was so devastatingly real.

Morgan’s office was cold, your fingertips frigid in the dim lamplight, you hadn’t even noticed your shadow until he was lowering himself to the ground in front of you, crisscrossing his legs so you were level. He leaned his head forward and set his chin on your knee, his posture so bad it would make dignitaries cry, but it allowed him to meet your eyes even while your head was tilted down.

You put your hands in a praying gesture and slid them between your thighs to warm them up, making eye contact with Spencer while he wiped at the tears on your cheeks. “What’s going through your head right now?” His voice was gentle, he didn’t want to push you, he just wanted to hear from you.

“The British Museum,” you answered because your fears of catastrophe would just worry him more.

He chuckled lightly at your answer, acknowledging that that was the last thing he expected you to say. “Can I ask why?”

Splaying out your fingers, you felt the sensation of the rough denim of your jeans on your knuckles—two of them split from hand-to-hand combat. You leaned your head back, focusing on your surroundings for a moment—Morgan’s office always smelled like cologne and a little bit like old man, which Penelope thought was the ghost of the agent that Derek had inherited his office from. “She was stolen from her sisters so long ago, and now no matter what anyone says or does, they won’t give her back,” you told him, your voice suddenly weak.

Emotion made your throat swell, and the way Spencer was tenderly skimming his fingertips over your thigh wasn’t helping. “Won’t give who back, honey?”

“The Caryatid,” you said urgently as if the answer should’ve been obvious to him. His eyes widened in response, maybe it concerned him that you were relating to a statue, and maybe it was right for him to be worried about you.

Six statues, constructed to support the roof of the Erechtheion in Greece, named after Caryae, which was an ancient town of Peloponnese. Vitruvius said they were constructed to represent the women of the town, women who were enslaved because the town sided with Xerxes during his second invasion of Greece.

Six sisters, built to carry burdens and remind people of the sin committed by Caryatid women.

Five statues, residing in the Acropolis Museum for their own protection while their sister lives alone in the British Museum because she was stolen. Taken by Lord Elgin and despite the insistence of those all over the world, she’s never been returned.

You wondered if she missed her sisters. If the arm she was missing had broken off when she was taken hundreds of years ago, and they had stopped her from reaching out to the only home she had ever known. You knew you would rather detach your own arm than live without your sister, you couldn’t bear the thought of not being a sibling anymore.

“I’m still here,” you whispered, looking straight forward and letting fresh tears fall from your eyes, “and when they’re both dead and I’m still here��what do I do?”

Spencer’s expression was pained, it killed him to know that there was nothing he could do to take your hurt away, it killed him to notice the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes. “She’s not going to die,” he insisted with an uncharacteristic note of optimism in his voice, producing hope when you had already scraped the bottom of that barrel.

Your nostrils flared in frustration, “You can’t promise me that.”

He nodded, “We are going to get her back, okay? We’ll get your sister back for you, and that is a promise.” Sad brown eyes bored into you, a sense of urgency that you very rarely saw in Spencer.

You shook your head, pulling your knees closer to your chest, effectively pushing him away. “You can’t promise me that she won’t die, we don’t even know where she is,” you reminded him.

“Honey,” he breathed, the word dripping in desperation as he tried to get you to meet his eyes, but you were looking past him—through him. “Hey,” he tried again, reaching out and sweeping a lock of hair behind your ear, “Garcia and I are going to the SCIF with Anderson, and I think you should stay here. If you’re up to it, you can help Rossi and Blake look for the foxhole.”

Just like that, he was gone, seemingly unaffected by your rejection of his reassurance, Spencer walked out of the office, leaving the door open a crack behind him.

The worst part was that you had known that JJ’s assignment was a backstop. You knew that there was something deeper going on because you could see it in her, you knew her just as well as you knew yourself. At least you thought you did.

Your suspicions started when she needed you as an emergency contact, citing that her job needed someone outside of her household to be part of her file. The cagey phone calls and missed lunch dates only added to your suspicions, but she never caved. “Where were you, JJ?” You asked yourself, speaking into the emptiness of Morgan’s office.

JJ had left the BAU just before you joined, and at the time everything seemed like it just worked out. When she decided to return, you got to stay, and being able to work with your sister felt like a dream come true—something right out of a film.

You held your head in your hands, pushing at your cheeks with your palms and trying to convince yourself to get up. You couldn’t hold the roof up without your sister. There was no way you’d be able to avoid crumbling without her.

So, you got up.

You ducked your head as a bullet ricocheted off of the iron in front of you, the BAU scattered throughout the warehouse as the search for your sister climaxed. She had to be here, it had been too long, and Askari wouldn’t let her survive this. “He’s headed to the roof,” Rossi said, and you heard footsteps echoing through the orange-lit space.

“So’s JJ,” Blake added, nodding assuredly from a few steps away.

Your head snapped up quickly enough to catch a flash of golden hair as JJ ran through the warehouse, chasing Michael Hastings. Spencer tried to get you to wait, but by the time the words left his mouth, you had already broken off into a sprint and fell into a line behind your sister and Emily.

Keeping your firearm drawn, you follow them to the roof, catching up with your sister and Emily, a thousand words exchanged in that first glance between the two of you. You didn’t have time for a proper reunion, not with Emily peeking around the corner, trying to get a shot at Hastings.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard helicopter blades whirling, getting closer and closer to you. No one had the chance to speak before JJ was running again, rounding the corner and scaling the ladder along the side of the building.

It was left hand-to-hand, and once your sister had given him enough momentum, you had to lunge forward to catch her. Hastings nearly dragged her off of the building with him, but you and Emily caught her, grabbing her hands and hauling her off of the ledge.

The three of you stood in a circle, looking around at each other as if no time had passed, as if Emily hadn’t flown here from London just to find her. “JJ,” you breathed, desperate for something, anything. The universe punished you for catastrophizing by watching the pain set in, JJ’s adrenaline faded now that she wasn’t in the midst of a chase, and the pain of the last several hours was able to show through.

You were about to offer to get down, to find her somewhere quiet to sit, but before you could, she hugged you. JJ nearly launched herself at you and gave you what you so desperately needed—your sister.

“It’s okay,” you said, pressing your face into her shoulder and letting your tears dry as quickly as they fell. “I’ve got you, J,” you assured her, your eyes flickering up to meet Emily’s, concern plain in her furrowed brow.

Slowly, the two of you got JJ off of the roof, and you met up with the rest of the team at the front door. You watched silently as everyone exchanged hugs with your sister, and you kept an eye on her even as she spoke with Cruz in the ambulance.

A familiar hand found its home on your waist, and you subconsciously leaned into Spencer’s touch, “She should go to the hospital.”

You scoffed, “Good luck convincing her of that,” you responded, raising your eyebrows as Hotch helped JJ down from the rig.

Just as you thought, she fought you on it, refusing to get in the back of an ambulance, but being okay with someone else driving her there. The only stipulation was that she needed to call Will first, and he could meet her at the hospital.

“How are you?” Spencer asked, leaning on the passenger door of an SUV while you kept an eye on your sister, watching her talk to Will and tell him that she’s fine.

JJ would always be fine. To someone else, that might’ve been enough, but you knew her better than that. Something was bothering her, but you feared it would take more than one conversation for you to get it out of her. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, trying to absorb his body heat into yours.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he insisted, dropping a soft kiss to the roof of your head.

Slumping your shoulders in disappointment, you looked up at him, “I shouldn’t have gotten so frustrated with you.”

Spencer is silent for a moment, shoving his hands in the pockets of his FBI jacket, “You were so scared, worse than I’ve ever seen you. Worse than you were when you were abducted, and I just wanted to reassure you. You were right though; I shouldn’t have promised.”

You shook your head, smiling up at him, “You were right. We did find her. You kept your promise.”

“I’m not really in the business of making promises that I can’t keep,” Spencer responded, cupping your face with his hands.

Raising your eyebrows, your eyes flickered over to JJ again, “Maybe you should be, you have a 100% success rate.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #jareau!reader #margovember

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thevoidstaredback · 9 months ago

Text

Tim was curious. Maybe a little addicted to whatever the hell was in that coffee, he's still standing by the point that no other coffee will ever be enough, but that's not the point.

He wants answers. The Justice League want answers. No one has been able to get them. Because Phantom stays in the House of Mysteries, no one but the JLD can actually get time him. The Supers have tried listening out for him, but magic is something they're weak against and therefore can't hear through. Batman has tried to get into the House, but he's been sent everywhere else for his attempts. They would track him down as a civilian, but no one actually knows if he has a civilian disguise. It's very hard to hide hair that starkly white and skin pale enough to be blue.

Regardless, everyone wanted answers and Tim was determined to be the one to get them. Why does Phantom claim to be thirty-eight, fourteen, and eighteen all at the same time? Where did he come from? When did he die? How did he die? What the hell is in his coffee because damn was it good!

Off topic.

Tim had the rest of the Titans return to the tower while he stayed out. It'd be easier to track if he was the only one doing it. Besides, these guys work with Raven, they won't hurt him. Probably.

The fact that Phantom apparently smelled like death was another concern Tim had. Was it because he was dead? And what did Constantine mean that 'the smell lingers'?

More questions kept popping up like goddamn daisies, and there was no answers to clip them down. Tim was getting frustrated, to say the least.

***

Danny made an effort to at least try and help Constantine with the demon problem the building was having. Honestly, it wasn't even that bad, in Danny's humble opinion. The demon was just messing with people, not hurting anyone or stealing anything! He was, at most, planting minor inconveniences everywhere.

That's not technically his monkey, though, and it was most definitely not his circus. He figured he'd offer to be helpful, though, if only so that Constantine would owe him a favor. A favor he already knows how he's going to cash in.

"Why'd you really want to tag along?" Constantine asked Danny while they searched for the demon.

"What do you mean? You offered to bring me along."

"Yeah, but that's because you need to get out of the House more."

"Funny, coming from you."

"I spend more time outside of the House than I do inside." the Brit scoffed, "Now tell me why you agreed to come along. This is demon hunting. You only ever go ghost hunting."

Danny sighed and ran his left hand through his hair. Not that he could feel it, stupid nerve damage. "Deadman's been on my ass about my first trip to Gotham. I would've left to go find some place to crash, but the entire Justice League is also on my ass for some reason! I'd honestly rather not have to face any of them."

"You've been to Gotham?" Constantine asked, "When?"

Danny groaned, "Not you, too!"

"Whoa, okay, okay. You don't need to share with the class."

"Sorry."

"You better be."

"Hey!"

"Now tell my why the JL proper are after you?"

A sigh. "You remember at that meeting when Red Robin mistook my drink for his?"

"Yeah. Hard to forget. You freaked everyone out a little bit."

"Yeah. Turns out they all have questions that I don't want to answer. Avoiding them all has been the best way to not answer."

"You know you can't dodge them all forever."

"I know, but I really don't want to have to explain anything!" he whined, "The questions that they'll end up asking are gonna be really painful to answer."

A raised eyebrow. "How do you know what they'll ask?"

"Because everyone always asks the same things. Worded differently, but still that same."

"Then refuse to answer."

Danny met Constantine's eyes with a deadpan glare. "You're gonna look me in the eye and tell me that the Justice League and their sidekicks will leave me alone if I tell them 'no'?" He shook his head. "Lying's a bad habit, old man."

Constantine rolled his eyes as he went for his lighter, remembering they were were in a no smoke zone and retracting his hand. "Don't sass me, brat. Wonder Woman and Superman, at the very least, would back off. They'd get everyone else to, too."

"What about Batman and his brood?"

"Touche." the man said, "But you can't hide from them forever."

"I can try,"

"But you'll fail."

Another groan. "Can we just get this thing over with? I want to lock myself in the basement and wallow."

Part 5 Part 7

Tag List:

@zaiothe4th @someonebored0100 @wolfeyedwitch @angelheartgamer @nymanders @princessbelix @luminanightfall @kgne-k @bianca-hooks123 @reigning-catsanddogs @sassywombatranchhorse @dontfightmecauseillcry @soul-lime @anarinette @serasvictoria02 @the-chaos-goblin-child @confusedshades @caicie @fantasticstoryteller @randomshtickidk @itsberrydreemurstuff

#part 6 #Enough Caffeine to Kill an Elephant #no ships #dc #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #danny phantom #tim drake #red robin #teen titans #justice league dark #john constantine #demon hunting #it's actually less hunting and more of an offhanded mention

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gold-onthe-inside · 1 month ago

Note

A No Body, No Crime song fic about Spencer’s partner seeking justice for their friend’s murder while trying to hide it from Spencer cuz he’s law enforcement. Maybe Spencer’s also investigating the case somehow - can be xOC

smells like infidelity

who? spencer reid x blake!reader (cont. from wrong person...) content warnings: infidelity, murder, gun violence and overall canon typical violence (i mean it, a person is murdered at the end, do not read if squeamish) word count: 2.2k songs: no body, no crime (duh) by taylor swift + still by niall horan a/n: i genuinely had a lot of fun with this one, thank you anon

If there was anything you had learned from being Alex Blake's goddaughter, it was how bureaucracy worked, or rather stopped things from getting done. The Syracuse PD chief had looked at you very empathetically, assuring you that his best detectives were on the case, which wasn't saying much from the state of his precinct. You'd done your research, looked at the number of solved missing persons cases they'd solved and you knew you had to take matters into your own hands, especially considering they'd let go of your main suspect.

Evelyn, or Evie as you knew her, had looked harried when you'd seen her last, barely eating her pasta, before confessing the greatest motive that could exist in a married woman's disappearance - an extramarital affair. "H-He's just different," Evelyn had said, bags under her eyes. "He's been drinking more, and I know what alcoholism looks like, alright? It'd-It'd be one thing if it was beer or whiskey, but wine? He doesn't drink wine, ever."

"Tastes change, Evie," you'd offered weakly, but even you knew it was suspect.

"Not like this," Evie had insisted, and you were fairly certain a vein was about to pop. "And it doesn't explain the pearls he bought from our account. Do I look like a pearls kind of girl?"

You had shaken your head, if only to appease her. "I have to say something, right?" Evelyn had asked. "I mean, I deserve some kind of explanation, we've barely been married a year!"

You had managed to calm her down enough to finish her meal and dessert, and you'd assured her that you had her back, and to call you if anything happened. She never ended up making that call. Another Tuesday night passed, nothing. You'd called her cell, checked with her workplace, all but her husband, until the police told her that he had already reported her missing. You had thought about telling Spencer, but it had only been a month since the two of you started seeing each other (which had been infuriating to tell Alex, with her smug 'I told you so' face). Instead, you had left Alex a voicemail, telling her what you were gonna do, and then headed back upstate to talk to her husband, some lawyer who you had thought was far too smooth to be real.

It was late evening when you used the knocker to his door, stepping back and looking around the front of the house. A truck was parked out front, and you frowned. You'd always thought he was too posh for a truck like that, and then you noticed the new tires. The door opened and you were face to face with a young woman, probably in her mid-20s, younger than you, younger than Evelyn too. "I'm looking for Harry Weaver?" you asked, keeping your tone polite, your eyes unmistakably catching the pearls around her neck and the velvet emerald wrap dress that you swore she had seen Evie wear a few Christmases ago.

"And you are?" she asked, raising a perfect eyebrow.

"He knows me," you said, not indelicately, but it was in everyone's best interest if this woman got out of her way.

The woman looked you up and down, clocking that you were nowhere close in competition with her perfect blonde curls and petite figure, then stepped back. "Harry, love!" she called out, and you stepped over the threshold, the interior nothing like the truck standing outside. "Someone's here to see you." Her black stilettos clacked over the polished wooden floors, past a round table with a lacy table runner and what was clearly an expensive vase filled with fresh flowers. Noone should be this rich, was the first thought to occur, and then there he was, in a tight polo shirt, a Rolex on his wrist and sharp blue eyes that rivalled Pierce Brosnan, coming down a spiral staircase in polished dress shoes (seriously, who wears those indoors?).

His eyes sparkled in recognition of you. "She's here about Evelyn, no doubt," Harry said, holding out his hand for you, and you took it, smiling sadly, well-practiced, even though the fact that there was no ring on his finger made you want to twist his arm until it fractured.

"The police have no idea where she's gone," you said, dropping his hand, which he used to gesture for you to take a seat.

"Trust me, I've spared no expense in trying to find her," Harry said, his voice still smooth as butter. "My PI suggests it's stress. She wanted a fresh start and… Our marriage was in the way, it seems."

"It's the first I'm hearing of it," you said.

"Can I get you something to drink?" the woman asked. "Wine? We've got a great Merlot."

"I have to drive," you said, your face apologetic and helpless, and you swore something flickered in her eye.

"Harry, honey, what about you?" she asked, looking at the man who couldn't deny her anything.

"Sure, what's a small glass between friends?" he said and you resisted a scoff. His wife was probably dead, and he had killed her, and still had the nerve to play the cool guy around them.

The woman gave him a saccharine smile, walking away, and Harry looked at you. "It's not what it looks like," he said lowly. "I decided to work from home, what with Evie gone. The last thing I need is police showing up at my place of work, and I can't do a thing without Betty. She's my secretary."

How cliché, you thought. Having an affair with his secretary, seriously? Are we still in the 90s? "Of course," you said placidly. "By the way, I wanted to ask, the truck outside, is that yours?"

"No, that'd be Betty's. Or rather, her father's. He, uh, used to fix boats or something, I don't really know," Harry said, waving his hand carelessly, before letting out a sigh. "Look, I know why you're here. I don't know what Evie told you, but it's not true."

"She's wearing Evie's dress," you said lowly, almost dangerous, your anger bleeding through.

"She spilled coffee on her dress and needed a change," Harry said and you scoffed.

"Evie's not gone two days, and you've gone and replaced her. I can't get my guy to replace my TV that fast."

"We had a fight, that's it," Harry insisted, looking at you. "She… She was convinced that I wasn't faithful, refused to believe me, I mean, she was getting hysterical."

"And then what, she just packed her bags and left?" you asked.

"No, she just… she just left," Harry said, looking broken, but you knew his ability to fake it. "You have to know… I love Evie more than anything. It's just this merger's been eating up all my time and she got the wrong idea. She's the only one for me, you have to believe me!"

"Is that right?" Betty asked, walking over with a bottle of Merlot and a glass of wine. "Evie's the only one for you?"

Harry swallowed, his eyes widening as Betty approached him, a sneering look on her face, and you could tell this wasn't about to end well. You're praying you're pressing the right numbers, sending it to the right person, your hand in your coat pocket.

"Betty, no, I-I only meant--"

"Evie, Evie, Evie, God, you never shut up about her," Betty scoffed, dropping the glass with every intention, the sound of it shattering making you flinch.

"Betty, baby, listen--"

"I have done everything to get you to look at me," Betty cried, staggering towards him with the bottle in hand. "You told me I was prettier than her, you told me!"

"Betty, calm down, you're getting hysterical," Harry said, hoping a firm hand would guide her, and you inched away, hoping to be imperceptible.

"Betty…" you said slowly, "what did you do?" Harry looked at you, frowning.

"You don't seriously think Betty--"

"Why not?" Betty asked, tears flooding her eyes, red and watery, her voice loud and shaky. "Or did you think itty bitty Betty was just some girl you could fuck and shelve away?"

"Betty," you said, swallowing, "did you do something to Evie?"

"God, I am so sick of that bitch!" Betty cried, looking at you, all but snarling. "She's gone, okay?" she yelled at you. "Get over it!"

"Betty, what did you do?" Harry asked, stepping forward. "Did you hurt Evie?"

"Stop saying her name!" she shrieked, swinging the bottle back to hit Harry right in the head and all you could do was clap your hands over your mouth as the man toppled over, his head hitting the polished floors with a crack. Betty didn't even look especially pressed about it, watching the supposed love of her life sprawled unconscious, glass and wine spilled all over the floor. At least, you hoped he was only unconscious, and Betty took a swig of wine, then put it down with a sigh, her hand slipping into her pocket to pull out a revolver.

"Betty, what are you--" She didn't even wait for you to finish the question before shooting Harry in the head and it was all you could do to not scream. Run. You should run. There's no way Alex and Spencer can get here before-- Betty raised her gun right at you.

"Sorry," Betty said, not sounding sorry at all, "Can't leave behind a witness."

"Wait!" You cried out. "Please! Just-Just tell me what happened. I-I just want the truth."

Betty scoffed, tilting her wrist. "The truth? Harry was sick of her, and I gave him what that bitch never could. But he didn't have the nerve to drop her. All that high society bullshit. So I did what he didn't have the balls to do. I killed her. Good thing Daddy told me to get a boating licence at 15. Not to mention the life insurance policy I get to collect in a few weeks."

"How are you gonna convince the police it wasn't you?" you asked, managing to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Oh, that's easy," she said, grinning at you. "You came here, convinced that Harry killed Evie, and you shot him out of revenge. And then I caught you after you dumped him," she gestured to Harry, "And guess who'd left their gun behind when you took him? So, of course, I had no choice but to shoot you in self-defence. Sorry, honey. Guess this is the end."

You swallowed, out of cards to play, and closed your eyes when you heard the faintest siren outside. "Not yet," you said, right before the door burst open, Morgan kicking it down, followed by Spencer and Hotch. You felt your boyfriend (technically, you hadn't talked about labels yet) wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you away from Betty while Derek and Hotch had the woman surrounded.

"She killed Evelyn," you kept repeating as Spencer ushered you out of the house and to the waiting ambulance.

"I know, I know, angel, we've got her now," he said, and you frowned.

"How did you get here so soon?" you asked, as you felt someone wrap a blanket around you, your gaze fixed on Spencer.

"Blake told me about Evelyn," Spencer said, shrugging. "I wanted to help, but JJ said if you wanted you'd ask for it, so, I worked it out on my own. Figured it had to be Betty. She owned the truck, had the boating license, knew enough about the law to get away with it."

You sighed, sitting on the edge of the ambulance. "Well, that's just embarrassing. I didn't realise it until she came out with that wine."

"That's okay," Spencer said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You don't have FBI resources at your beck and call." You smiled at the gesture, but Spencer still looked serious. "You do, however, have me at your beck and call. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to get you in trouble at work," you said softly. "I know Strauss doesn't appreciate you lot crossing red tape."

"I'd rather have Strauss mad at me than find you…" He couldn't even finish the sentence, he was that terrified of losing her.

"I know," you said gently, taking his hand in yours. "I should have asked for help."

"Hotch is getting Syracuse PD to drag the water to see if we can find Evelyn," he said, shaking his head. "I know these local precincts are overburdened and underpaid, but this level of incompetence in handling this case is…"

"Thank you," is all you have in you to say, and it's not enough. You have to kiss him, like it's your birthright, your hands on his waist, his large, spindly hands cupping your jaw as he takes your breath away. He pulled away, all too soon, having to remember that he was here as a professional.

"Come on, it'll be dark soon, and you're not wearing nearly enough layers for the forecast." You chuckled lightly, keeping the blanket around your shoulders, coupled with his warmth, as he guided you to the car.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x blake!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #my fics

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dan-the-womans-blog · 1 month ago

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Hi! I hope I’m not too late on request but I LOVE the idea of a bimbo reader with Spencer Reid. Could you write one where she is actually really smart (Emily and Spencer smart) and she has amazing style (I’m thinking Megan fox in Jennifer’s body type style). Spencer has this huge fat raging crush on her and always gets super nervous around her and vice versa?

If you don’t like the idea it’s obviously okay, I’m new to requesting things but I thought I would ask!

THANK YOU

NO PROBLEM!

The act of writing distracts me from the real world so thanks it's great timing actually ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠☯⁠෴⁠☯⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Title: Kryptonite

---

The BAU was buzzing with activity when you arrived, your entrance as much a statement as your style. Heads turned as you made your way into the bullpen, your red heels clicking against the polished floor. Your fitted dress—a soft blush pink with a plunging neckline—hugged your curves just right, and your gold earrings swayed with every step.

Emily Prentiss leaned over her desk, smirking as she nudged Derek Morgan. "Here comes Spencer's kryptonite."

Derek grinned, folding his arms. "Poor kid’s gonna faint before he gets a word out today."

You breezed past their desks, offering them a warm smile. "Morning, Emily. Derek."

"Morning, gorgeous," Derek said, flashing you his signature charm.

"Nice dress, Y/N," Emily added, her tone teasing. "You know, this is a federal building, not Paris Fashion Week, right?"

You laughed, stopping briefly at her desk. "What can I say? I like to keep things interesting."

"Oh, you’re doing that," Derek quipped.

Across the bullpen, Spencer Reid sat stiffly at his desk, pretending to read the file in front of him. In reality, he was hyper-aware of your every move. His fingers toyed with the edge of his notebook, and his heart pounded as he tried to calm his nerves.

When you finally approached his desk, he felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

"Good morning, Dr. Reid," you said, placing a file on his desk. Your perfume was light but intoxicating, and the way you leaned slightly toward him made his palms sweat.

"H-Hi, Y/N," he stammered, eyes darting between your face and the file.

"Busy day?" you asked, your tone light and playful.

"Uh, yeah. Lots of, um, cases. Profiles. Stuff," he mumbled, cursing himself internally for being so awkward.

From across the room, JJ leaned against Hotch’s desk, watching the interaction unfold with an amused smile. "Do you think Spencer will ever actually talk to her without tripping over his words?" she whispered.

Hotch glanced over, his expression as neutral as ever. "Doubtful."

You tilted your head, studying Spencer with a small smile. "You seem nervous, Spence. Everything okay?"

"Nervous? No! Why would I be nervous? I’m not nervous," he blurted, his voice cracking slightly.

Emily couldn’t help herself. "Reid, if you get any redder, you’re going to set off the fire alarms."

"Emily!" Spencer groaned, burying his face in his hands.

You laughed, your hand lightly brushing his arm. "Don’t listen to her. I think it’s sweet."

Spencer peeked at you through his fingers, his blush deepening. "You do?"

"Of course," you said, your voice softening.

---

Later, in the conference room, the team gathered to discuss the case. You took a seat at the head of the table, confidently laying out your analysis of the unsub’s language patterns.

"The use of archaic phrasing and formal sentence structure suggests someone who’s either highly educated or attempting to appear that way," you explained, flipping through your notes. "Additionally, the recurring themes in their letters—justice, punishment, purification—indicate a fixation on moral absolutes. This unsub likely has a rigid worldview shaped by trauma or indoctrination."

The room was silent for a moment before Rossi spoke up. "Impressive work, Y/N. You should teach a class in profiling."

You smiled. "I’ll leave that to the experts. I just like piecing puzzles together."

Spencer, who had been quietly marveling at your intelligence, finally found his voice. "Y-You’re really good at it," he said, his tone sincere.

"Thanks, Spence," you said, giving him a warm smile that made his heart race.

After the meeting, Emily and Derek cornered him in the hallway.

"So, Genius," Derek said, slapping Spencer on the back. "When are you gonna ask her out?"

"I—I don’t know what you’re talking about," Spencer stammered, avoiding their knowing looks.

"Oh, please," Emily said, rolling her eyes. "You’ve been in love with her since the day she walked in here."

Spencer groaned. "Can we not do this right now?"

---

At the end of the day, as you packed up your things, Spencer nervously approached your desk.

"Y/N," he started, his voice shaky.

You looked up, your expression softening. "Yes, Spence?"

"I was wondering if… maybe you’d like to go out for coffee sometime? Or tea. Or, um, whatever you like to drink," he rushed out.

You blinked, momentarily stunned by his courage. Then, a slow smile spread across your face. "I’d love to."

"R-Really?" he asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Really," you said, stepping closer. "Pick me up at seven. And don’t be late, Doctor."

As you walked away, Emily and Derek appeared from around the corner, both grinning like kids on Christmas morning.

"Finally!" Emily whispered.

Derek chuckled. "Took him long enough."

Spencer, still frozen in place, couldn’t stop the goofy smile that spread across his face.

---

Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to see from me, requests are always open!

#idk what else to tag #criminal minds #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #dan the (wo)man #dan the womans blog #dan answers #dan asks #dan-the-womans-blog #bimbo!reader

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confused-wanderer · 1 year ago

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Edit: Guys I’ve read through the comments and all and realised that it’s been interpreted way differently then what I intended it to be. This was basically supposed to be a fun take that Bludhaven doesn’t care about how Dick gets the proof as long as it serves justice and it’s the truth. This post was supposed to be one of those scenarios in movies and tv serials where the heroes uncover the crimes by taking it upon themselves even though it may be against the law, and how the officials find it hard to believe their story but since the evidence they found is actually damning and proof that the guy is innocent/guilty they let it slide, PROVIDED no one was harmed or they created violent scale incidents. Dick Grayson as a police officer and Nightwing are both highly trusted and valued so they know they’d always get the proof so the community gives them a bit of leeway when it comes to the finer details.

I noticed that the way I framed things was misleading so I’ve changed the wordings, and hope this is better gets my point across

Dick is a cop.

But Bludhaven does NOT care about rules if the job gets done.

Got proof? 100%?

“You got the job done? You got the guy? And you didn’t walk in dripping in blood or with a target on your head and three organisations coming after you?”

You’re fucking promoted.

Dick Grayson is used to loopholes, but here he doesn’t even need to offer an explanation, no one even bothers to care. This was Bludhaven and actually doing his job was almost impossible through all the invisible red tape. So he thrived in the area of greys.

Dick *rounding up criminals and placing proof that by no way could have even been found, forget legally*

His handler *looks through them* : He’s the guy

Dick: .. yeah

Handler: .. and no mafia gonna declare war on you?

Dick: uh- don’t think so?

Handler: good, book him.

It does horrify all the justice league and batfamily because now instead of the painstaking work they have to put up that explains the many missing hole in their stories of how the information was obtained legally, nightwing can just walk into the police station, leave a sticky note saying “he’s the guy for the crime, I’ll get the evidence in a month brb. Signed, Nightwing~” and no one bats an eye. Because they know he’d always get the proof, and it’s always the truth.

Sometimes an officer even just takes a photo of a guy and texts nightwing “this the guy for the Nelson murder?” And if there’s a “yep :)” then that’s that.

#dick grayson #batman #red hood #jason todd #tim drake #nightwing #damian wayne #batfam #bruce wayne #headcanons #bludhaven #bludhaven nightwing #officer dick grayson #cop dick Grayson

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hayaku14 · 2 months ago

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pushing daisies kaishin au #2

pushing daisies au where shinichi has been able to revive dead animals, plants, even people since he was a child.

kudou "i can literally talk to the dead" shinichi

shinichi's parents didn’t exactly encouraged him to use this power. especially not in public. they’ve seen him revive and re-kill dead plants and animals in the same breath, it doesn’t take a detective to figure out what could happen near a human corpse.

but a young shinichi is curious, a young shinichi admired his father, and a young shinichi wanted to prove himself a detective. but most of all, a young shinichi wanted to help.

so when he saw his father struggle in solving a particular case, a young shinichi figured that maybe asking straight from the source would help give them a hint.

the complete horror in yusaku's eyes shinichi saw that day made him promise himself to never do it again.

shinichi realizes later on that reviving someone just for a clue on the whos, hows, and whys of their death only to touch them again, to basically kill them again, is sick and twisted and the realization leaves him feeling raw and dirty.

he then decides that if he’s gonna find out the truth, if he’s gonna bring justice, it’s not by making the victims suffer a second death. he will unravel the mystery not by magic but by logic.

the curious case of kuroba kaito

hakuba immediately contacts shinichi.

“he was...a friend. if i have to gather all the best detectives to catch his murderer then so be it.”

hakuba goes on to explain.

it was a kid heist. shots were fired. snipers. kaitou kid was caught on camera falling, as if he’d been shot, but he appears a minute later flying away on his glider with not a speck of blood on his suit. all should be well however, a few buildings away in an alleyway, the body of kuroba kaito is found dead. gunshots through the heart and chest.

a simple explanation would’ve been that the glider was a fake activated by kid’s assistant as a last ditch effort to save his legacy and this kuroba kaito was kaitou kid himself. he would’ve said it out loud but by the look on hakuba’s face, he can tell that he already connected those dots long before shinichi even stepped foot in the morgue. that wasn’t what hakuba called him for.

“can i...take a look at the body alone?”

hakuba raises an eye at him but moves to leave without questioning. "alright then. i have to check on another friend anyway. she's been...distraught ever since she heard the news and..." hakuba's words trail away as his eyes unconsciously drifted towards kuroba kaito's covered body. shinichi patiently waits through the quiet pain that he sees on hakuba. the pinch in his brows, the tenseness of his body. he must've been a really good friend.

hakuba shakes his head and turns his attention back to shinichi. "sorry, i...its been a long day. i'll leave you here then. call me if you find anything."

left alone, shinichi carefully zips open the body bag covering kaitou kid's upper body. he looked eerily similar to himself and imagining his own body cold and dead in the morgue sent a shiver down his spine. shaking his head, he pulls a chair close and reads through the file hakuba brought him.

"no witnesses. no camera. not a trace nor lead to anything. just some reports on mysterious gunshots in previous heists that lead to nowhere." they were professionals, whoever did this, shinichi thought. it was not going to be an easy case.

he takes another peek at the body. so this was kaitou kid, huh. too young to be the same as the one before his hiatus. perhaps a successor? motive could be related to his predecessor. his mother hasn't said anything of interest. does she really not know or is she protecting him? he runs his hand through his hair. there's too little information to go on...unless...

temptation rears its head. the source of information is right there in front of him. one touch and it could open up new leads to the case. an immediate disgust twists deep into his gut. he promised himself to never use it on people. to never kill. his father's haunted eyes embedded in his mind. he shouldn't. he really shouldn't. but he remembers the anguished look on hakuba's face. if he was going to do it, this might be the only good time. any longer and his touch would not revive kid. and gone along with him would be vital information to catch his murderer.

shinichi heaves a deep sigh. he has never used his abilities on dead people since that one incident as a child but he couldn't shake off the look on hakuba's face. it was now or never. shinichi reaches for kid's hand.

---

pushing daisies au #1

#kaishin #detective conan #dcmk #dc prattles #shinichi: don't panic #kaito: *remembers what happened* WHAT THE FUCK #lol #also in this au the someone dies after a minute if he doesn't touch the dead person a second time again rule applies #shinichi has never discovered this fact growing up because he never really truly tried to explore this ability #perhaps he himself is freaked out by it and ever since the day he saw fear and the haunted look in yusaku's eyes #he never wanted to revisit it ever again #shinichi would probably connect the dots a little later but #the commotion of someone just dropping dead out of nowhere outside the morgue would be what he & kaito would use as a distraction to escape #shinichi was supposedly only going to ask a few questions and touch kaito again but ofc kaito would attempt to escape immediately #anyway something something pandora revives kaito back permanently so he and shinichi can kiss and make out the end #LMAOOOOO #thank you pandora for being a convenient deus ex machina mwah now kaishin can have plenty a sexy times :>#if you saw me accidentally posting this earlier no you didnt #also i never intended for this to be long or written like this #it was supposed to be a bulletpoint list of hcs but it got out of hand unfortunately LOL #finally out of the drafts after almost 2 years im so sorry this au lmao #there's one last pushing daisies kaishin au in the drafts yippee :D

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year ago

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Golden Girl.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: The psychological damage inflicted from Gojo Satoru's presence, canon-typical violence, Gojo and Geto are both kinda questionable in their own ways. Word count: 16k.

-Index-

April 1st, 2005.

8:02 a.m.

You don’t get it.

This campus is huge. Unbelievably so. If someone said you’d waltzed into the Imperial Palace, you’d believe them, and not just because you’re gullible. Although, that’d certainly play a significant role.

Your suspicions strengthen after you walk over the third arched bridge. That’s an arched bridge too far. No school can have this many fancy-looking bridges, the schools back home are practically held together by chewed pieces of gum and scotch tape. Your jetlagged brain combs through the whirlwind you’ve endured in the past few hours. Did you give the wrong address to the taxi driver back at the airport?

He did look confused, but you hadn’t given it much thought then.

You go as still as a statue.

… What if this is the Imperial Palace? If that’s the case, you’re definitely trespassing, right?

How do you explain that to any guards that might happen by? You can envision the headlines now — Foreigner Extradited for Trespassing, Sentenced to Life, No Chance at Parole. All those hours you spent working on your student visa would be for nothing! And you’d be in prison, which is a bummer, because you’re not rich enough to weasel out of the criminal justice system.

You’ll have to join a prison gang, there’s no way around it. Would they let a fourteen-year-old in? In the event they don’t, you could always form one yourself. Leadership’s never been your thing, but it beats—

“Hey there,” a feminine voice calls out. “You lost?”

You whip your head around to the sound’s source. Instead of seeing an intimidating guard ready to haul you off, there’s a girl about your age. She has brunette hair styled in a bob, a beauty mark beneath her left eye, and an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips.

Unless the Emperor is issuing major budget cuts, this can’t be a guard.

You consider her uniform. The high collar, sheer tights, long sleeves, and brown shoes match yours, but the skirt’s different. Yours flares out and cuts off right above your knees. This minor discrepancy makes you wonder if you’re breaking the dress code on your first day. You push the concern aside for future you to deal with.

“That obvious, huh?” You laugh.

“Just a bit.”

She introduces herself as Ieiri Shoko, a first-year student like yourself. You respond in kind, offering up your own name and grade. It’s a relief to know you won’t be arrested or wandering this complex for an eternity. She walks by you and turns on her heel, tilting her head.

“Gonna come with?”

You nod and happily fall into step beside her. She doesn’t seem to be in a rush, not that you mind. It gives you time to admire the idyllic scenery around each turn. There are lush green forests, gardens, and more traditional buildings than you can count. The only detail you find odd is how empty the area is. Besides Ieiri, there isn’t a soul to be found.

“Ieiri-san, is today a holiday by any chance?”

“Just Shoko’s fine,” she says, feeling around her various pockets. “And I don’t think so. Why? Too quiet?”

“It’s almost like a ghost town.”

Shoko smiles. “Enjoy the quiet while you can.”

Well, that’s a bit ominous, but you’ve yet to meet anyone in the jujutsu world who is 100% normal. You think it might be an unspoken requirement at this point.

Shoko gives up on whatever she was searching for — a lighter, if you had to guess — and tucks the cigarette away. This reinforces your theory that those involved with jujutsu have one quirk at the bare minimum. By that logic, you must have some peculiar quirk of your own. Recalling your earlier Imperial Palace debacle, you realize it might be more than one…

“Oh, by the way. All our classes got canceled,” Shoko says.

You blink.

“On… the first day…?”

“Yeah. Something about a last-minute meeting,” she stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “I’m heading back to the dorms for a nap. I think yours is near mine, there are boxes with your name on them in the hallway.”

What a relief! There had been no word on the packages full of your personal belongings you shipped here ahead of time. The hellscape that is checked baggage had no bearing on you. Immensely pleased with this revelation, you set aside the urge to explore and accompany Shoko to where you’ll be living for the foreseeable future.

In keeping with the spirit of the rest of the school grounds, your room is spacious.

Shoko left you to your own devices. You can faintly discern her presence in the room beside yours, laying down as she said she would. You thought you’d want to do the same, but something about the crisp morning air sliced through your exhaustion. You’ll ride the high and crash later.

Adventure awaits — the exploration of the unknown, the sharpening of a faint, hazy image.

You’re back outside again. It’s amazing how, no matter where you are, you can feel the wind in your hair and the sun on your cheeks. This serves as a grounding reminder that you’re real. Reality and the ambiguous nature of jujutsu are often at odds with one other, fighting to occupy the same space. Each side spins a convincing speech about why you should give it credence while discounting the other.

Unlike a politician’s diatribe, there’s no changing the channel or turning down the volume. This invisible and perennial battle won’t ever gain total victory or retreat. There’s bound to be collateral, such is the nature of war. For some, it’s their life in a literal sense, for you, it’s sanity. Coherence. The incorrigible truth that two plus two equals four.

See, young kids aren’t given enough credit. They’re always watching, learning, and absorbing. They get the basic idea that two plus two equals four before they even know what numbers are. For instance, as a baby, you cry and writhe until your needs are met. There’s a framework. An adult in the vicinity plus wailing equals getting fed. Then later, it gets more complex. Not eating your vegetables plus getting mouthy equals timeout. So on and so forth.

You accrue this network of information that makes life navigable.

Then, while visiting some distant relative in the hospital, a massive hole gets blown into this previously steady network. Such was your experience.

Something strange sat atop the IV in the small, cramped hospital room. The adults exchanged well wishes for the man surrounded by beeping equipment and blinking screens. Everyone present focused on this man, except you. You observed this thing, about the size of a sparrow, that flitted to and fro. Whatever it was, it had too many eyes. Each rolled in a different direction, like a bowling ball that couldn’t stop spinning.

Eventually, a long yet thin appendage emerged from the unidentifiable creature. You stood petrified as it entered the man’s ear canal and sipped. The man groaned, beeps increased, and numbers flew high. It sipped harder. His screams grew louder. Everything got chaotic. People in white and blue entered the room. You heard words like ‘cardiac arrest’ and ‘defibrillation.’ Your parents dragged you away.

The creature continued to sip.

On the car ride home, you asked why no one stopped it. The creature plus its sipping equaled the man’s horrible pain. That’s what you figured, anyway. They asked for clarification. What creature? Where had it been? What did it look like? Since young kids are smarter than they’re given credit for, you recognized the tone that was directed toward you. Disbelief, but in a nice, adult way.

If you insisted on the creature’s existence, they grew worried. When you told your friends — who in turn, told their parents — their worry grew. If every drawing you scribbled tried to depict the creature’s likeness, their worry overflowed. You overheard words like ‘traumatic experience’ and ‘coping.’

So, you stopped mentioning it. This stopped the concerned murmurings you’d overhear. You tried really hard to believe what they said about nightmares and mean imaginary friends. This worked well enough until you noticed similar creatures everywhere. On the playground, bus, graveyards, and abandoned houses. They weren’t all the size of a sparrow either. Some were tiny enough to be mistaken for gnats. Others were huge and salivated large pools against the ground.

It was around this time that you developed a second shadow. A spinning golden ring that could fit in the palm of your hand followed you everywhere. No one else could see it, but unlike the creatures, this ring didn’t scare you. Just the opposite, in fact. You considered it a guardian angel.

If the gnats got too close, it’d slice through them.

When the huge, drooling ones reached out their mangled hand, it’d cut through their wrists.

Later on, you’d learn this ‘guardian angel’ was called a ‘cursed technique.’

Smiling, you descend a flight of stairs. From today onward, you’ll be surrounded by people who don’t discount the equation you spent your early years erasing. They’ll be around your age too! You already like Shoko, she’s pretty and has a calming presence. You wonder what the others in your class will be like. How many will there be? Twenty? Your social studies class topped out at thirty-four.

You hope you can befriend everyone.

The gears turning in your head grind to a halt upon noticing the view. Maybe it’s how the morning sun casts a soft glow upon the verdure, or maybe you’re just easily impressed. Whatever the case, the sight stokes awe inside you. Trees line both sides of the gravel path ahead, their canopies inclining as if leaning down to hear a whisper. Smudges of green streak through the air, accepting any destiny the wind bestows.

What an image, straight from the pages of a fairytale book!

You fish out your new phone, a hot pink Razr V3, recalling its camera feature. Even if the photograph isn’t award-winning, you want to preserve this moment.

You can’t explain it. This intuition isn’t rational, it doesn’t adhere to that ever so reliable two plus two. It transcends. The fall of a domino, a flap of a butterfly wing. Seemingly unrelated yet intimately interwoven by invisible lines.

Whether preordained or the consequence of chain reactions you’d have to trace since birth to understand, what happens next stains you its color. The soul grasps what logic dismisses. And right now, your soul says this moment in time and space should never be forgotten.

As for why, your soul suggests you uncover that for yourself.

Alas, you can’t actually stop time. Perception and reality don’t always agree. While it felt like everything came to a grinding halt, the wheels never stopped turning.

And so the powerful gust soaring from your right punches the air from your lungs.

Gritting your teeth, you dig your heels into the ground. The sheer force pushes you back some inches. Next comes a hail of debris. Chunks of soil, sediment, and splintered wood descend. Recognizing this threat, your mind yells at your body to move. Those earthly implements are soaring faster than a bullet. However, the baleful gale restricts precise movement. You’re nothing but a bag of flesh and viscera to the indifferent swell. It’ll send you tumbling the instant your feet lift off the ground.

Dodging isn’t an option.

Those rocks… your cursed technique could dice them up, but then you’d get pelted with shrapnel rather than stone.

Which is the better outcome? A body littered with numerous holes or a few craters?

Your arms fly up to protect your major organs. You’ll endure what you can.

Except, instead of enduring an onslaught, nothing happens. Nothing hurts, rips, or gets torn to shreds.

The wind hasn’t stopped, but it no longer touches you. You jump back, out of the line of impact. The debris parts like the Red Sea and grants you safe passage. From this vantage point, you’re a witness rather than an unwitting participant. The unrelenting force rages on. You gape at the path of destruction it’s left behind, indiscriminately swallowing trees, foliage, and the ground. It looks like a meteor surged in a straight line through the forest.

No matter what you’d chosen to do, if it weren’t for that abrupt opening, you would’ve died.

Heart thumping wildly, you snap your head toward the direction this miniature storm originated from. Was it a curse? If it is, then you’re hopelessly outclassed.

No, that doesn’t seem right, you think. You’re familiar with how it feels when a curse is nearby. Should it be close to your power level, it’s like getting splashed with frigid water. For curses above your abilities, that sensation gets amplified. It’s as if you’ve been plunged into the Arctic Ocean. Right now, you’re not experiencing either of those sensory nightmares.

A silhouette walks through the dusty haze that destructive force left behind.

“Whoops,” the person within says, “That was close.”

You run over, swatting the dust lingering in the air. Anyone close to that force could’ve gotten severely injured. Concern seeps into your being as the figure emerges.

“Are you okay?!”

The first thing you notice is a head of white hair. Next is this person’s height, you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. Eyes that were, for some reason, covered by circular sunglasses. There’s a sideways grin on his face, the absolute last expression you were expecting. From his uniform, you guess he’s a student like yourself. His most prominent feature isn’t anything visible. It’s the sheer aura he exudes, you’ve never experienced anything similar. There’s no hostility, but it’s intense.

You inhale shakily.

“Never better. You?”

He sounds chipper.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, giving yourself a once-over.

You pinch your eyebrows together while assessing your condition. The white-haired figure notices this and asks, “Ya sure? Nothing hit you, right?”

“That’s the weird thing, though,” you frown. “I should be covered in dust, but there’s not a single speck.”

His grin widens, like he’s in on some joke you aren’t. This plucks a cord of irritation within you. Narrowing your eyes, you take a step back. You focus on the cursed energy engulfing him, then compare it to residuals left behind by the force. The residuals in the path it carved out are too faint to properly discern. All you have implicating his involvement is a hunch.

You remember how the gust itself felt, though. The ferocity that had every nerve in your body ringing funeral bells.

Your eyes flit between the gaping maw and the sunglass-wearing stranger.

“Want a hint?” He asks. You don’t miss the teasing lilt in his voice.

“You caused that surge,” you deadpan.

“Close enough, I’ll give half credit. Next question! What stopped you from getting buried in layers of dust?”

You have no reason to play along, yet scampering off feels like you’d be conceding something. The competitive nature boiling in your blood refuses to admit defeat. Especially after he subjected you to that terror, without even apologizing! It’s the least he could do. What an inconsiderate jerk. You’ll knock him down from that high horse if it’s the last thing you do.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you consider the information you have to work with. Whatever he did had to involve his cursed technique. Did he apply a shield to you? It’s the most obvious answer, but that doesn’t explain everything. A shield would lessen the damage, not negate it entirely.

How did he pull that off…?

As you’re piecing this puzzle together, someone in the distance yells, “Satoru!” drawing out each syllable. The person before you winces but doesn’t lose his boyish smile. You sense another presence heading this way. After you turn around to face this new addition, two large hands settle on your shoulders from behind. You bristle and try shaking them off, but this weirdo doesn’t let go.

An older man with a severe expression stands atop the staircase. His uniform is pitch black, denoting a different status than a student, if you were to guess.

“One hour,” he huffs out, “One hour, I ask for you to sit still and behave. And what do I come back to? An entire tunnel running through the school grounds?”

“It was for good reason, sensei,” this ‘Satoru’ insists. He squeezes your shoulders. “[First] here mistook a bug for a curse and yelped, ‘Kya, there’s a curse!’ I, being the good samaritan I am, dispatched the threat with what I thought to be an appropriate amount of force at the time.”

You make a face. “Eh?”

“Huh?” Yaga must find this explanation as convincing as you do. His countenance filters through multiple emotions. Confusion, frustration, disbelief, and then, finally, exhaustion. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t come up with anything better than that?”

“I didn’t come up with anything! Tell him, [First]! Are you going to abandon your savior when he needs you most?”

Yaga turns his attention to you, pity evident in his eyes.

“Satoru did… sort of protect me from something… in a way?” You mumble.

Satoru’s fingers twitch when you speak his recently learned name.

Yaga sighs. “We’ll discuss this later, Satoru.”

And with that, the first teacher you’ve met walks away, shaking his head. His demeanor reminds you of a disappointed parent. Suddenly cognizant of the unwelcome contact on your body, you jerk your shoulders forward. This time, he releases you. You get the sense he could’ve easily held on if he wanted to.

“Man, you suck at lying,” Satoru whines.

“Me? What sort of cover story was that? If you ever become a defense attorney, your clients are screwed.”

He throws his arms behind his head and grins. “You gotta admit, the impression was solid.”

“That was the most egregious part!”

“I thought it was a nice touch.”

You roll your eyes. Before this back-and-forth drags on, there’s a specific detail that’s nagging at you.

“By the way, how do you know my name—”

“Suguru, how long are you gonna sit back and watch? Voyeurism is frowned upon, y’know,” he cuts you off mid-sentence.

Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets at his not-so-subtle implication. Thrown back into a weirded-out limbo, you start slinking off. Forget trying to understand how he knows your name despite never telling him. These are the types your parents warned you about, you need to flee! Hormonal high school boys should be sectioned off until they’re no longer threats to society. Nuclear warfare pales in comparison.

“She’ll never want to come near you again if you keep saying things like that.”

Another student calmly strides out from behind a nearby tree. You squint, ensuring this isn’t an illusion. How long has this guy been here? Why couldn’t you sense his presence? Especially when he’s been so close, just a few measly feet back. The black-haired addition gives you a closed-mouth smile. Similar to Satoru, he’s rather tall. You’ll need a neck massage from all this looking up.

“Geto Suguru. It’s nice to meet you,” Geto greets.

You introduce yourself as well.

“It’s your first day here, correct? How are you finding everything? Have any questions?”

“None that I can think of, but thank you! It’s been uneventful, up to a certain point.”

Satoru yawns obnoxiously loud, interrupting your exchange. “Look what you did, Suguru. She’s all prim and proper now. I might fall asleep.”

You shoot him a scathing look but bite your tongue.

“What? No need to hold back. Say whatever you want, I can take it,” he asserts, tilting his head enough for his sunglasses to slide down. Two pools of frosty blues bore through you. You freeze up at the sight. Snowy eyelashes, glittering, gemstone-like eyes, why would he ever hide them? You’ve never seen such a bewitching color.

He strikes like a serpent at the opening you’ve given him.

“All this staring’s gonna make me shy. You can take a picture, if you want. I don’t mind.”

Any spell you were under withers and dies.

“Actually, I was just thinking that you remind me of a celebrity,” you say.

Satoru preens, interpreting your words as a compliment. Before his ego inflates enough for him to float away, however, you give him a smug smile of your own.

“Ever heard of Sanrio’s Cinnamoroll? You two could be twins! It’s adorable.”

His shoulders droop and Suguru chuckles, the sound coming out muffled from behind his hand. You spin around, content, humming to yourself as you walk up the stairs. You block out whatever Satoru shouts in retaliation. His words go in one ear and out the other. Something tells you this is the best strategy for dealing with him.

So far, you’ve met three classmates, and that was enough to exhaust you thoroughly.

You wonder what everyone else is like.

Later that evening, Shoko explains it’s just you four in your class.

You finish chewing your takeout, swallow, and then reply, “Eh? Seriously? But this place is crazy big.”

“Not many folks can use jujutsu,” Shoko says. She picks a mushroom up with her chopsticks and places it in your container. “Four students is a high amount, all things considered.”

You plop the mushroom into your mouth. Savory flavors coat your tongue, warming your heart and your soul. Delicious food is the antidote to all woes. Presently, your biggest woe happens to have white hair, unfairly pretty eyes, and a knack for getting under your skin. Recalling your previous encounter makes you grimace.

“Hey, Shoko. Would I get in trouble for spraying Satoru with water?”

Instead of responding, she stares at you, blinking owlishly.

“What’s up?”

“Haven’t heard any student but Geto call Gojo by his first name,” she explains. “We’ve only been here a few days though, so who knows.”

You tilt your head. “Who is Gojo?”

“Satoru. Gojo Satoru’s his full name.”

“... Ah.”

You swipe a pillow from Shoko’s bed and slam it into your face.

“I’ve been calling him by his first name?!” You whisper yell, heat rushing to your cheeks.

That’s far too intimate. This is awful, a tragedy, the end of your life that had just begun!

Shoko rubs your back reassuringly as you process the harrowing information.

This has been the first proper school day.

Teachers have come and gone depending on the class. You and Geto have been taking notes, Shoko’s fallen asleep, and Gojo occasionally throws a wadded-up note at the three of you. Shoko’s collection piles up on her desk, Geto throws his away after reading them, and you chuck yours back at Gojo when the teacher isn’t looking.

He catches it with a grin each time, as if you’re playing a friendly game of baseball.

This guy really irks you.

When it’s time to eat lunch, he’s the first to get up.

“What does everyone want from the vending machine?” Gojo asks while clapping, earning your attention. “It’s on me.”

Suguru requests Coca-Cola and Shoko, newly awake, says Oi Ocha.

“I’m okay, but thank you,” is your response.

Gojo swaggers over and you immediately regret sounding so polite.

“First you don’t open my notes and now you won’t accept my generosity? Is this what it’s like to get bullied?”

“I think bullying is typically worse than that,” you respond. His deep frown, although likely an act, still tugs on your heartstrings. Empathy is truly a double-edged sword. “... Georgia canned coffee, please.”

Gojo points a finger at you. “Aha! I knew it! Something about you struck me as a caffeine addict.”

(You throw a pen at him, which he easily sidesteps).

“Does the resident sugar addict have any room to talk?” Geto hums.

“Plenty. When you eat sweets, it’s to enjoy the flavor. In other words, an experience! When you drink coffee, though, you’re only torturing yourself to keep your eyes open.”

“Some people like coffee’s flavor,” Shoko chimes in. She rests her chin on her fist. “You would if it was sickeningly sweet.”

You take in the sight of your classmates bickering. It stirs a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest, like walking outside on the first day of spring. Such a simple exchange instills a sense of normalcy, no matter how fleeting. Gojo’s larger-than-life personality, Geto’s sneaky ways of goading him on, and Shoko’s occasional wry comment; you sear it into your memory.

There’s no real weight to the jabs everyone flings around, it’s like water off a duck’s back.

“You’ll meet lots of interesting folks, I’m sure,” your jujutsu mentor, Ishimoto Akane, had told you. “Make the most of each day. Forgetting to live is the worst injustice you can commit toward yourself.”

Smiling, you retrieve your pen/ammunition, intent on hitting Gojo with it eventually.

Drizzle and heat olive oil in a pan. Add grape tomatoes, seasoning, and minced garlic. Stir occasionally until the grape tomatoes break down.

A mouthwatering scent fills the dormitory’s kitchen. The clock reads 10:04 p.m, indicating how late this dinner is. You keep an eye on your pan as different shades of red smear together, forming the basis for your sauce. Content to leave it unsupervised for a spell, you walk to the drawer silverware is kept in.

The plates are up in an overhead cupboard. You stand on your tiptoes, straining your arm to grab a plate that has no business being up so high.

“Need help?”

You could recognize that voice in your sleep. Or, to be more specific, your nightmares.

“I’ve got it,” you insist.

“Yes, obviously, my sincerest apologies,” Gojo's cadence shifts to a somber, apologetic tone. “Please proceed.”

You stretch your body to its limits, the muscles in your arm crying out for reprieve. Your fingertips brush over the plate’s outer rim. Mistaking this for victory, you pull it out at an awkward angle. The porcelain comes tumbling down to its imminent demise. Out of instinct, you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact.

In the moments that follow, you hear nothing shatter.

Confused, you reopen your eyes to see Gojo Satoru holding the still-intact plate.

You stare at him.

He stares at you (from behind his sunglasses, despite the sun not being out).

Remembering your manners, you say, “Thank you.”

Gojo hums. The low note injects dread throughout your system, as you can guess how the melody will continue. You reach for the troublesome plate. In accordance with your premonition, he takes sadistic glee in raising it high above your head. It stays up there as if it were a full moon.

You take a deep, deep breath.

“Gojo-san, can I have that back?”

“Say ‘Pretty please, Satoru,’ and I’ll think about it.”

“...”

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

“From this day forward, you cannot have any more of my cooking,” you announce as if you were a politician making a new law known.

In what’s an exceedingly rare occurrence, Gojo doesn’t have an immediate retort. You may be unable to see his eyes, but you can tell his expression fell at your proclamation by the muscles in his face.

“Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“Really really.”

Gojo silently hands over the plate with a bow.

“For you, madam.”

His melancholic act is so convincing and disproportionate to the situation that you can’t hold back your laughter. Gojo’s true strength is his ability to annoy and endear in the same breath. For this reason, your irritation toward his antics never lasts long. You’re sure he’s aware of this and uses it to his advantage. So long as it remains innocuous, you’ll play along.

“Start helping by chopping that basil and I’ll reconsider your verdict.”

Gojo gives a hearty salute.

“Yes ma’am!”

Geto plucks the manilla folder you’re holding and says your name. Perplexed, you glance at him.

“This isn’t worth rereading a fourth time,” he explains. “It won’t be anything near as dangerous as it’s been made out to be.”

He closes it and slides it across the table. You watch through heavy eyelids, blinking off sleep’s seductive whisper. The contents within — census data, maps, photographs — each piece of information refuses to absorb into your weary brain. You’re amazed you had the cogency to slap some proper loungewear on and stumble to the dormitory’s shared living space.

“S’gotta be somewhat important, though, if we got woken up at three in the morning over it.”

Geto laughs airily at that. “You’d be surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“He means that anything involving the Zenins gets a fast track to becoming everyone’s problem,” Gojo adds from the doorway.

You turn your head in the direction of his hoarse voice. He didn’t bother to fix his bedhead or put on anything half-decent. He’s wearing a gray v-neck and slacks, unlike Geto, who at least put on a pair of jeans. His trademark sunglasses sit ajar on his nose.

Despite yourself, your heart skips a beat. He’s kinda cute.

Gojo gives you a lazy wave and grin. “Wow, you’re actually awake. I thought we’d have to drag you out of bed.”

“In the spirit of maintaining harmony, I’m going to ignore that comment,” you grumble, getting up from the floor to sit on the couch. Gojo sits to your left, slouches into the armrest, and throws his legs on the table. What terrible posture. “Going back to what you said — who are the Zenins? Are they important or something?”

Gojo furrows his eyebrows.

Geto blinks.

You glance between the two of them, feeling increasingly out of the loop. “W-What?”

Gojo, being the fiend that he is, breaks out into unapologetic laughter. You gape at him, your cheeks going from cold to scorching. Geto shakes his head in disapproval over Gojo’s behavior. Still, a small smile works onto his face, further exacerbating your embarrassment. Gojo loudly poking fun at you is one thing, but you’re used to Geto having your back Or at least abstaining from either side.

Vexed, you shoot up, ready to storm off, but Gojo’s hand encircles your wrist.

“My bad, my bad,” he manages through the occasional chuckle. “Come back. We’ll explain it to you.”

You grumble beneath your breath yet ultimately acquiesce.

Gojo peers at you from above his sunglasses. “Ever heard of the Big Three Sorcerer Families?”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Would we be having this conversation if I had?”

“Man, that must be nice. I almost feel bad ruining your innocence like this,” Gojo sighs, ever the melodramatic performer. “Hm… let’s see… think of them as the lame, jujutsu versions of Zapdos, Articuno, and Moltres.”

Sitting patiently, you wait for him to elaborate.

He doesn’t.

“Geto-kun, care to translate?”

“With pleasure. So, since cursed techniques are inherited, families often want them passed on from one generation to the next. The Big Three come from bloodlines that hold some of the strongest techniques. As you can imagine, this has granted them lots of influence and power over the centuries. How they leverage these advantages, well…”

Geto trails off and clears his throat.

“—They use it to advance their own agendas and snuff out any meaningful change,” Gojo finishes for him.

You nod.

“Okay, I think I get it! So they’re like jujutsu lobbyists?”

Gojo bursts into another fit of laughter. “I like that! Yeah, let’s call them that. Most of those geezers aren’t even jujutsu sorcerers themselves. They just sit around in the dark and scheme. It’s pathetic.”

Gojo doesn’t care about mincing words. He’s the type to call it as he sees it, for better or for worse. Rarely do you sense such acrimony festering beneath the surface of his remarks. This matter is different. He’s smiling, but there’s a tense underpinning to how he sets his jaw.

“Wait, okay, so, there’s the Zenins, but… who are the other two?” You ask.

“The Kamo and Gojo families,” Geto answers.

Gojo, gojo… that name sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?

This reveal doesn’t knock the breath from your lungs. You’ve been able to guess for some time now that Gojo came from money. How much exactly, you weren’t sure, but his designer clothes raised your estimates high. Your rich kid radar is as accurate as ever.

You point an accusatory finger toward the white-haired male beside you. “We have a double agent in our midst, Geto-kun.”

“It would appear so. How should we proceed?”

You stride over to Geto’s side, creating the appropriate distance between you and the traitor.

“Imprisonment without trial,” you declare, much to Gojo’s chagrin. “Solitary confinement too. Cosplaying as the working class is a federal offense.”

“Hah? What sort of kangaroo court is this?” Gojo complains. He removes his legs from the table and sits properly, then crosses his arms over his chest. Continuing your charade, you pay him no mind. Instead, you stand on your tiptoes, cup your hands, and whisper into Geto’s ear:

“The convict is disparaging our blameless judicial system. Shall we add ten years of hard labor?”

A malevolent gleam passes over Geto’s eyes.

“Let’s make it twenty,” he whispers back. You nod. Great minds think alike.

You return your attention to the couch, intending to update Gojo’s sentence, only to find he isn’t there. Yours and Geto’s deliberation couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds! Where did your prisoner run off to? His presence vanished as well, leaving not a single trace. It should unnerve you how in control he is of every aspect of his being. Maybe it would’ve had you not known him personally.

Warm breath fans against your ear from behind. “I’m taking this corrupt official hostage.”

With that, your legs give out faster than your brain can register. Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as two arms lift you. The abruptness of it all has your limbs flailing for purchase and a squeak escaping your lips. Gojo takes care to ensure you don’t fall or harm yourself, but he doesn’t bother hiding his sadistic glee. You’re held bridal style against his firm chest.

Trying to wriggle loose is a meaningless endeavor. Accepting your fate, you go limp, but not without requesting assistance.

“Geto, are you really going to abandon me to the machinations of this criminal?”

Geto walks over, consideration etched into his countenance, stoking hope of rescue in your chest. He reaches for you. It’s almost imperceptible, but Gojo’s grip tightens ever so slightly. However, his hand doesn’t pry you from the jaws of the beast. He just pulls down your shirt, which has risen to reveal a sliver of your stomach.

Wow, what a gentleman.

“Did you ever consider that I might be a double agent?” Geto challenges, relishing in your visible frustration as much as Gojo. Such is the plight of those who wear their heart on their sleeve.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson alright,” you retort. The foreboding nature of your words isn’t lost on them. They await your next move, which you swiftly deliver. “Gojo-san, let me down. If you don’t, I will bite you.”

You can feel how he beams down at you. “Oh, I never would’ve guessed that’s what you’re into— ah, Suguru, a little help here…?”

Geto assesses the situation. After thinking it over, he helps steady you, then uses his newfound leverage to pull you free. He takes great care in putting you down, holding you steady until your feet are firmly on the floor. Your balance rushes to restore itself. In the meantime, Gojo clicks his tongue, processing the weight of Geto’s betrayal.

You give Geto a thumbs up. “Good work. No one ever sees a triple agent coming.”

“It was a split-second decision,” Gojo dismisses with a wave. His impassive expression morphs into a knowing smirk, like he just had a seismic revelation. “Ah, I get it.”

“You do?” Geto hums.

“He does?” You ask.

“Yes and yes. Suguru, you were holding out to see if she’d use her cursed technique, right?”

Geto doesn’t respond immediately, indicating Gojo’s theory holds some merit. Gojo stuffs his hands into his pockets and slinks back to the couch. His gait radiates smugness, although you can’t imagine why. Is that supposed to be a ‘gotcha!’ moment?

“I’ll admit, I am curious,” is what Geto settles on saying, his smile apologetic. Or it’s meant to come off as such.

“Why didn’t you say so sooner? It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.”

Geto and Gojo exchange looks.

“You should be careful who you go about revealing information like that to,” Gojo warns. You’re not used to hearing this serious timbre in his voice. “Some cards should remain close to your chest.”

Even if he’s being sincere, you can’t help but feel patronized. You’ll be the first to admit it — certain nuances of jujutsu society are lost on you. Akane wasn’t the type to care for such details. She said worrying about all that bureaucracy would age you prematurely. You half agree with her. Certainly, you shouldn’t let that influence you in the areas it matters most, like combat. However, while you’re in Japan, you’re under their regulations. It wouldn’t be wise to forget that.

You purse your lips. “Obviously, yeah. I’m not going to go blabbering it off everywhere. But, I mean, you two are my friends. This’ll be our first time on the field together. Knowing what cards you have to deal with seems useful to me.”

Gojo turns his head to the side and a few seconds pass.

“Friends, huh?” Geto finally murmurs, testing the word on his tongue. His next smile reaches his eyes. “Who would’ve thought a little sincerity is all it takes to get you flustered?”

Gojo snaps his head back at Geto’s taunt. “Sorry, what was that? Aren’t you the one who—”

You clap to redirect their attention.

“Hey, hey, cut it out already. We’re going to be together for the next few days, right? Let’s all get along.”

“You just care about going back to sleep,” Gojo accuses.

“Yes. Exactly. That is all I care about right now. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m headed to bed.”

You don’t wait for their response. As stealthily as you can, you sneak through the hallways, careful to avoid creaky floorboards. Upon returning to your room, you kick your house slippers off. The digital alarm clock on your nightstand says 3:53 p.m. Those two kept you up far later than necessary! If this assignment isn’t a big deal like Geto claims, you wish he would’ve said so sooner.

There’s always the option of sleeping during the car ride, but if there’s anything you know about Gojo, it’s that everything in his vicinity can be subjected to torment. You wouldn’t put it past him to draw on your face or blare the horn once you finally nod off.

Your head hits the pillow and you pray for rest to take you soon.

Meanwhile, back in the shared living space, Gojo stares at the spot you once occupied.

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“I think I get it now.”

“That so?” Gojo runs a hand through his hair. “As long as you don’t get it too much.”

Geto chuckles. After a pause, he muses, “Neither of us would be very good for her.”

“You gonna let someone else scoop her up?”

“Are you?”

“They can try,” Gojo smiles. There’s no kindness behind it.

Although this conversation could last well into the morning, in an unspoken understanding, they leave it at that.

“Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.”

Ink blots descend from above as if the sky were weeping. The viscous teardrops curve downward, creating a dome that swallows the surrounding area. Geto and Suguru have gone ahead, leaving you to carry out basic protocol. You jog to catch up with them. Geto slows down enough to make rejoining them easier, unlike Gojo, who carries on.

“So, this is the stomping grounds of the mean ol’ curse that sent Kenji Zenin packing?” Gojo hums.

“He sustained some serious injuries,” you remind him. Gojo just shrugs. “A fractured sternum and twelve broken ribs… that’s not exactly a walk in the park.”

“A Grade One sorcerer getting whooped that bad by a Grade Two curse? Probably deserved it.”

You sigh, recognizing that Gojo won’t empathize no matter what you say.

The three of you were driven from Tokyo Jujutsu High to Kaizu for this assignment. According to Geto, the information you received likely exaggerated the curse’s capabilities as a way for Kenji Zenin to save face. It looks better for him if the higher-ups deem the threat he faced severe enough to ship off two of the school’s most promising students to handle it. Regarding your inclusion, Gojo so kindly said,

“You’re like the little garnish on top of the entrée.”

You can’t find the energy to get upset if he’s right.

There’s no denying the immense gap in your abilities compared to theirs. You could feel it in the air the instant you met Gojo. For Geto, all it took was hearing a description of his cursed technique. The potential for storing and controlling curses at will is beyond your comprehension. There are so many applications, and so many advantages… you’re utterly outclassed.

Should this demotivate you? Perhaps. You’ll never be as strong as them, it’s delusional to think otherwise. An individual’s proficiency with jujutsu is almost determined at birth. That doesn’t mean it’s static, it just means you have to find ways to excel with what you’re given. Envy is a waste of time. You want to learn from them and hone your abilities. For this reason, you’ve avoided an inferiority complex.

What could be better than learning from the best?

The atmosphere inside the curtain is dingy. It’s like a dark filter glazed over your eyes, maiming any bright or vibrant colors.

Grass crunches beneath your feet despite summer’s abundant rainfall. Nature itself flees the scene, retreating into the woods surrounding this derelict nursery. The briefing you were given went over the business’ murky past. In the seventies, there was an unprecedented boom in births around this area. Working parents needed proper childcare until their children were old enough to attend school. What few facilities existed nearby found themselves overwhelmed. Then an older, childless couple, Mikami and Fujikawa Tetsuo, purchased a plot of land outside the town with their retirement money. They cited the picturesque scenery as their reason for choosing this location, believing that the unpolluted air would be good for the children.

The nursery was built and opened. For years, parents entrusted their little ones with the tight-knit staff headed by the Tetsuo’s. Nothing of note occurred until early in the eighties. On March 24th, 1982, a child was hospitalized after crying ceaselessly for three hours straight. The mother reported that when she picked her daughter up from the daycare, her daughter had been unusually distraught. She didn’t think much of it at first. Toddlers are known for being emotional. However, as time went by and her screams became hoarse, she felt something was terribly wrong. The little girl was given mild sedatives and IV fluids as her body began to suffer from dehydration.

The next day, all seventeen children at the daycare suffered the same mysterious ailment.

Each child underwent tests ranging from bloodwork to brain MRIs to determine what the inexplicable cause of this nightmare could be. Professionals in every area, ranging from renowned neurologists to child psychiatrists flew in from around the world. Naturally, an investigation was opened into the nursery and its owners. No formal charges were made against Mikami and Fujikawa, since no evidence of foul play could be found. Regardless, the community ostracized them and any employees present during the incident.

Tragically, none of the eighteen children recovered. From the instant their sedatives wore off until they were administered again, they’d screech, thrash, and display aggressive behavior toward nurses and family members alike. Parents were faced with the impossible decision of keeping their child ‘alive’ through life support, holding out for a cure that may never come, or granting them a peaceful yet permanent rest.

Only one family kept their child on life support. He remained in a vegetative state and died from complications related to an infection two months later. The seventeen other families, who had grown close through the harrowing ordeal, turned the machines keeping their little ones alive at the same time.

This report might be one of the worst things you’ve read.

Scanning the area, you note faint residuals of cursed energy throughout the decrepit playground. The swings, slide, and both sides of the seesaw contain trace amounts. Did curses form as a consequence of what happened here, or did a curse initiate the disaster? It may not matter now, but all those families never receiving proper closure makes your chest feel tight.

Painfully so.

Considering the officials never found physical evidence, you believe a curse was the cause. What were the victims supposed to do? What could they do? Non-sorcerers can’t perceive curses, much less defend themselves. They have to be chewed, swallowed, and digested.

You kneel at the playground’s edge, inspecting the planks of rotten and peeling wood. It must’ve been assembled by hand. Each piece was planned, cut, and dutifully laid down. All to hold the wood chips that’d protect the kids as they ran, laughed, and played. This place should’ve been a fond memory for them to recall throughout their life.

Instead, it’s the reason they’d never got to have one.

“The cursed energy is concentrated in the nursery room itself,” Gojo determines.

You follow his line of sight and squint. You could tell the building was submerged in cursed energy, but you couldn’t pinpoint an exact location.

“It’s moving in the same pattern, like a grid,” Geto says. Another observation you couldn’t make. “Starting in the top left corner, ending in the bottom right, then starting the process all over again.”

Standing up, you dust the dirt off your skirt. “Why would a curse do that?”

From a tactical standpoint, moving predictably is reckless. Any combatants could use the knowledge to their advantage. Curses have some degree of self-preservation, hence why they don’t waltz everywhere without a care in the world. They’re intelligent enough to avoid spots that sorcerers frequent. Fly heads are the lone exception, but that’s because they lack the intellect necessary to care for their survival.

A curse capable of inflicting such serious wounds on a Grade One sorcerer can’t be that weak.

Gojo exchanges glances with Geto, a semblance of understanding connecting them. You’ve witnessed this wordless exchange before. No matter how much they bicker over conflicting values or petty non-issues, they maintain the ability to synchronize their thoughts and actions.

“What is it?” You snap. As soon as the acrid words leave your mouth, you regret it, although they don’t react. Taking a deep breath, you try again. “Communication is important for these missions, guys. Keep me in the loop… please?”

Geto parts his lips, but Gojo cuts him off. “There are eighteen cribs inside. The curse is fixing the blankets in each one.”

You shiver.

“... Oh.”

“How do you want to go about this, Satoru?” Geto asks. “It can’t be as simple as walking in and exorcising it.”

“Why not? Its cursed energy is consistent with what you’d expect of a Second Grade. We both know this job’s smoke and mirrors, anyway. Let’s wrap it up already and head home.”

“Isn’t it strange the curse hasn’t been drawn out, despite a curtain being cast?” You point out.

For the first time since exiting the car, Gojo looks at you. You stare back at the two black circles that obscure his omnipotent eyes. Something’s been off ever since you embarked on this mission. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, as its location shifts elsewhere whenever you try. His words have had an edge to them when directed at you. You’re used to his lackluster manners, but this is different.

This cuts and it cuts deep.

Are you that incompetent to him…?

Gojo redirects his gaze toward the ramshackle building.

“I’m getting this over with,” he says. Simply, decisively. Leaving no room for argument.

Leaving no room for you.

Massive tendrils of cursed energy coil around him, flowing unimpeded like water through a rushing brook. You step back solely from reflex. Anticipation thrums through the air and ignites every nerve in your body. You’re left wide-eyed and breathless as it gathers and grows, its potency hundreds of times greater than anything you’ve been able to achieve. It feels as though minutes have dragged by, reacquainting you with the surreal sensation you underwent upon meeting Gojo Satoru that fateful day.

“Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.”

Up until this point in your life, you thought you knew destruction. What hubris, what naivety. Gunfire, grenades, tanks, bombs, missiles; they are nothing but ants before the looming skyscraper that is Gojo Satoru.

This is destruction in its raw, purest form.

This is what it means to be the strongest.

… Somehow, you feel lesser than that ant.

A speck of dust would be a more fitting description.

You expect total disintegration when you reopen your eyes. You aren’t disappointed.

Concrete, wood, glass, steel, plastic, stone, and fabric alike were eviscerated. The ground where the nursery once stood is gone. A bygone era wrought with tragedy. The force behind this apex of energy blasted the wood partition around the playground, leaving nothing but a shadow to signify it ever existed.

Gojo lowers his hand and turns away from the wreckage.

“Don’t you think you went a bit overboard, Satoru?” Geto’s tone reminds you of the many scoldings Yaga has given the white-haired menace.

“Just wanted to ensure the threat was dealt with, so Kenji can sleep through the night without wetting himself,” Gojo replies, smirking. “Alrighty then, who wants to sightsee—”

“Naptime… naptime…” A garbled voice intones from the aftermath of Gojo’s attack.

The deformed curse lifts itself like a marionette fastened to invisible strings. It’s tall, with an emaciated build and haggard skin. Long clumps of thick hair emerge from its scalp, greasy and matted. Each feeble step it takes is accompanied by a snapping sound, as if its joints are begging for collapse. The humanoid shape disturbs you most of all. Cracked lips, bloodied eye sockets, chunks of deathly pale skin sloughing off brittle bones; this curse looks more like a corpse than anything else.

Most damning, however, is the sheer power it’s radiating.

“Do… they… slumber…?” It croaks.

Suguru assumes an offensive position, but Gojo puts an arm out, stopping him.

“Something’s off,” Gojo warns. If you thought he sounded serious before, that doesn’t compare to his timbre now. “Don’t attack it.”

The curse’s legs give out. That doesn’t stop it from crawling on. Lanky fingers claw at the rubble, searching desperately.

Geto summons a handful of curses in its radius. He keeps them on standby while the three of you track every movement, every ebb and flow of cursed energy. The curse grabs and cradles the sediment in its crooked hands, then rocks the amalgamation as if it were a baby.

“Did you hit it?” You whisper, knowing fully well the question is pointless. You don’t care. You need any semblance of control possible when confronted with the terrifying unknown.

“I did. The impact inflicted zero damage,” Gojo removes his sunglasses and tucks them away.

“A special condition, then?” Geto proposes. “One that makes it impervious to all harm until…”

You hear a sniffle.

Then a whimper.

And a gurgle.

“Hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush—”

The curse repeats this mantra with increasing aggravation until its shrill voice is all you can hear. The cursed energy that enveloped it seconds prior flows out in multiple directions, like a heart pumping blood to the rest of the body. The energy is absorbed. Not a meager trace remains, every drop was sucked dry by multiple sources.

All is still.

All is silent.

A bloodcurdling wail reverberates throughout the curtain.

Eighteen appendages propel out of the curse in the middle, puncturing it from the inside out as if the limp mass was a cocoon.

There’s no need for deliberation.

The three of you scatter in different directions.

“Cursed Technique: Ophanim.”

Two glowing, golden rings the size of wheels manifest by your side. The outside surface is adorned with closed eyes, each arranged individually on top of the other rather than in pairs. The two rings work in tandem to slice through the appendage barreling toward you. You recall them to your side, running at a breakneck speed to avoid the five fleshy appendages still seeking your demise.

Gojo and Geto are in a similar predicament. Running, leaping, and dodging the seismic attacks that leave massive craters in its wake. A single hit from that would crush your body in an instant. Then there’s the disorienting wailing, originating from multiple locations throughout the curtain’s interior. You can’t pinpoint where the sounds are coming from.

Adrenaline pumps through your veins, oxygen rushes with each sharp inhale, and your muscles strain to keep up with the demands you make of them.

The sixth appendage, which your cursed technique cut through, lurches from above. Whole and better than ever. Unlike before, its momentum is lightning-fast. The change is so instantaneous that you have no time to respond accordingly. Death’s harbinger looms, engulfing your existence in its hungry shadow. Instead of slicing it off at the wrist, you propel your rings up, accelerating their spin at the cost of speed. Flesh and cartilage rips above you in the shape of a thin slit.

The appendage plummets down.

Through the ringing in your ears, you hear voices yelling out your name.

An unpleasant, viscous substance coats you from head to toe.

You grimace and wipe off what you can. Geto’s curses managed to cut the appendage off at the joint, preventing it from rising and trying to crush you again. Your rings barely managed to carve a hole big enough to span the width of your body. That doesn’t mean you’re safe just yet — the five remaining appendages that have you as their target are seconds away. Unlike the one you just faced, their speed is manageable.

The more damage inflicted, the faster they are after healing, you think. This must be why Gojo and Geto are dodging instead of going on the offense.

However, since you remained still to avoid getting crushed by what your rings hadn’t cut through, the other five appendages are inbound. They’ve fanned out, blocking any angle you’d use to dodge.

You dismiss your cursed technique.

What can be done here? This curse is easily a Grade One. The centermost part is invulnerable and the eighteen limbs growing off it speed up when damaged. Summoning more rings so you can escape this attack means the next will come swifter, building and building to unimaginable speeds. You know your limits. The second healed limb was a hair below the fastest you’ve ever run.

Gojo and Geto could handle the levels above that. Maybe there’s a limit to how many times the limbs can regenerate, reaching that could exorcise the curse. No curse is truly invincible, even if it seems like it in the moment. You must be the reason why they haven’t commenced a counterattack. They knew anything above a second regeneration would do you in.

Is that really the only way?

Something wet drips on your head.

You use what little time you have to glance up.

Suspended midair is a small outline, made visible by the viscera that spurted from your cursed technique’s earlier attack. Sluggishly, you blink, wiping the blood from your eyes to ensure you aren’t hallucinating. The outline’s edges wriggle and squirm. You realize that it’s doing so in time with the incessant wailing.

“What do you think you’re doing, spacing out in the middle of a fight?”

Gojo must’ve warped in front of you.

You recognize the hand motion he’s making, and cry out, “Don’t! That’ll only make it—”

“I know, I know,” Gojo launches a devastating blow that obliterates the five incoming appendages, reducing them to pitiful scraps. “I didn’t just run a marathon for you to give up and become a pancake.”

“I didn’t give up,” you snap back.

He glances over his shoulder and grins. “Good. Cause we need to hose you off as soon as possible.”

You let out a noise in between a laugh and a cry. How can he crack jokes under these dire circumstances?

“Gojo—”

“Ah ah ah,” The menace cuts you off, “Satoru. Call me anything else and I’m leaving you to handle this on your own.”

While speaking his untimely quips, he continuously forms and releases his Cursed Technique Lapse, Blue. This forces the broken appendages into a cycle of stitching themselves together only to get destroyed again. It stuns you, how he can casually hold a conversation while performing a technique that’d use all your cursed energy to execute once. Never mind countless times in rapid succession.

“Satoru,” you try again, to which he hums, “This… thing above me, do you think it’s…?”

“The weak spot for this Ju-On ripoff? Yeah. Just noticed that. Suguru’s curses are self-destructing near them, so their invisibility’s useless.”

The six appendages that tracked Satoru join the fray, granting Geto additional space to maneuver unhindered. Floating blobs covered in the innards of curses appear one by one like macabre lanterns in the night sky. You can’t stop yourself from admiring how effortless they make it look. It was all you could do to avoid the curses’ attacks, that required every ounce of your cognition. Meanwhile, they pieced together the curses’ gimmick and started countermeasures.

“Anything broken?” Satoru asks.

“Just a few sprains.”

“Great. Now, I’m about to ask for a lot, but it’s nothing I don’t think you can’t handle.”

You exhale shakily.

“There’s another application of your cursed technique, right?”

How does he know that?

You’ll worry about this oddity later.

“There is, but,” you stare down at your blood-soaked hands, “Why are you asking?”

Satoru takes a moment to consider his response. The gory splatters are reforming faster and faster, you’ve lost count of how many blasts he’s used to cut them down. It’s almost imperceptible, but you can tell he can’t keep this up forever. Each subsequent use of Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue requires more energy than the last. If he’s a sliver off in his calculations, then the appendages will heal instantaneously and skewer your body faster than death can claim you.

Geto leaps down from a hovering curse.

“There are seventeen sources, just like you said,” he huffs, wiping the perspiration trickling down his temple. “Each one is visible now.”

Seventeen sources?

“This eyesore’s a distraction. Those screaming curses — they’re the real target here,” Satoru says.

You consider the curse a few feet above your head. “So we should attack them, right?”

Geto shakes his head. “We tried that. They didn’t sustain any damage.”

“Seriously?”

“This is just a theory, but,” Satoru takes a deep breath, “Seventeen of the eighteen victims from this place had their life support pulled simultaneously, right?”

Huh. So he did read the briefing after all.

This conjecture prickles at your skin like tiny needles. The screaming, the small stature these curses have, every detail comes crashing down at once. Maggots writhing beneath your skin would be more pleasant.

It isn’t them, you tell yourself, because you have to. It’s an echo. The curse they left behind.

You steeple your fingers. Cursed energy thrums around and through you, reverberating in your bones, and crackling throughout your soul. Simultaneously. That’s the key here. These curses can pull off their various immunities by using conditions to their advantage.

The two warding off the original curses’ attacks before you are strong, yes, but this niche fits you well.

If you’re able to perform it properly, that is.

You accept every drop of cursed energy your body can handle. Once you’re filled to the brim, it’s expelled, rushing through the air like geysers.

“Cursed Technique: Null.”

Your ability is versatile if not simple.

You can call forth golden rings that perpetually spin clockwise. Their size, speed, and sharpness are determined by you. At this point in your training, you can maintain two of these rings without sacrificing speed or sharpness. Should you bring out any more, they will dull and slow down for each addition made. Two could slash through steel, four could cut the same slab halfway, six would make a sizable dent, eight would leave a scratch; so on and so forth.

There’s an additional application beyond this.

Cursed Technique: Null — the pinnacle of the innate ability you inherited, Ophanim.

The sorcerer creates three rings around any object or organism. One spins around the target horizontally. The other two slant left and right respectively, all spinning counterclockwise. The closed eyes adorning the ring’s outside fly open. Unblinking, hypervigilant. If what they’re enclosed around is significantly weaker than the sorcerer, it can halt the movements of whatever or whoever is within.

Your record is halting thirty mice for a total of two minutes and four seconds.

Afterward, you can either dispel the rings or pull them toward the epicenter. The rings then slash through the target like a fruit slicer.

You see the seventeen silhouettes emphasized with blood.

As you will it, three golden rings surround each one. The cursed energy swaddling them hisses and resists your designs. Their wailing crescendos, culminating at an ear-piercing pitch. The fussing stops abruptly as the eyes on each ring open wide. Seventeen different targets, fifty-one rings… it is draining cursed energy from you fast.

Four seconds. This is as long as you trust the halt to work.

That leaves the issue of cutting through them.

These aren’t the used soda cans you’ve practiced on. They are curses, Semi-Grade One if you were to guess. You’re a Grade Three sorcerer. The chasm here won’t be bridged by a miracle, you’ll have to risk catapulting across and plummeting to your demise. Satoru’s likely unaware of your technique’s specifics, as even you required trial and error to determine this much. You never found documentation on Ophanim. Every unraveled facet is owed to you.

These fifty-one rings are too dull. They won’t make so much as an indent.

What you need here is a binding vow. Your own strength isn’t enough. Risk, danger, and death breathing down your neck; these are the ingredients you require. There’s a chance it won’t work and you’re condemning yourself to an early grave. If you don’t try, though, you don’t know how long Satoru and Geto can keep those appendages down.

Time to leap across.

For every second I don’t exorcise these curses, ten of my bones will break, you think. Should I reach ten seconds, my heart will stop.

Cursed energy surges through you. It finds the prospect of your end tantalizing, but without providing itself, won’t have the opportunity to claim you.

One.

(The rings gain immeasurable speed).

Two.

(It hurts, but the curses will hurt too).

Three.

(Simultaneous incisions are made through seventeen curses).

The wailing stops.

…

So does your breathing.

August 15th, 2005. Grade One Curse ‘The Caretaker’ and Semi-Grade One Curses ‘Little Ones’ were exorcised at 9:34 p.m. in Kaizu.

Hospital rooms aren’t renowned for their interior design.

Flimsy pillows, scratchy gowns, thin blankets, bright yellow lights, ghostly white walls, it’s an affront to the eyes. You almost want to continue resting if that’s all you’ll get to look at. Considering how stiff your neck is and how your limbs feel heavier than a grand piano, you assume you’ve done enough sleeping.

You prop yourself up as much as you can. This slight shift makes your body complain, nice and loud.

Footsteps rush over to your bed. You hear your name spoken, intermixed with a relieved sigh.

“You don’t stay knocked down for long, do you?” Geto muses. His smile is gentle and his eyes crinkle in delight. “Welcome back. How do you feel?”

“Like I got run over by a train,” you rasp.

You’re in desperate need of some vocal warmups.

Geto grabs a water bottle from the windowsill and hands it over. While you gulp the heavenly elixir down, he continues speaking.

“You weren’t out for long — two days. Well, two and a half days. It’s noon now.”

You relax after hearing this. Geto knew how to assuage any worries you might have before you dared to voice them. Everyone has their own way of bringing kindness into the world, this happens to be his.

“Seriously? I was expecting you to say it’s the year 2010 or something. No flying cars yet?”

“None that I’ve seen,” Geto’s laugh sounds light and airy. “Shoko’s reversed cursed technique is truly a marvel. It accelerated your healing, but I imagine the pain will linger a while longer.”

You’ll have to cook Shoko one of her favorite dishes when you get back. You don’t want to think about how long it would’ve taken for you to heal naturally, much less if it’d heal right. Bones are finicky like that. You imagine yours weren’t happy at how you offered them up on a silver platter.

She spared your family so much pain. You’ll forever be indebted to her for that.

Glancing around, you notice three mismatched chairs surrounding your bed. Geto follows your line of sight.

“Shoko and I finally chased Satoru out about an hour ago. He’s lived in this room since you were admitted. Didn’t sleep a wink either,” Geto gives you an expression you can’t quite place. “Around the forty-two-hour mark, he started making strange suggestions.”

Heaviness seeps into the air, thick and palpable, like a noxious gas.

“What kind of suggestions?”

“Suggestions like killing the higher-ups, for starters.”

Your thudding heart leaps to your throat. “... Huh?”

“It’s not anything he hasn’t said in jest before. This time, however,” Geto fixates his attention on the intravenous line threaded into your arm. You can feel the weight of his stare. “He wasn’t joking.”

It feels like you’re in one of those dreams that mimics reality so well, the line separating the two becomes increasingly distorted. You entertain the theory briefly. A single sweep of the room dispels the illusion. The loose thread on Geto’s shoulder, the sounds of carts rolling down the long hospital corridors, the lemon-tinged scent from cleaning supplies; could a dream be this detailed?

You don’t think so.

Sensing your haziness, he clarifies, “I talked him out of it by speaking in your stead. I assumed you wouldn’t want that.”

“What… what do the higher-ups have to do with anything…?”

How do they factor into the two plus two equals four equation?

Geto pulls a chair over to your bedside, sits, and contemplates. Such a grave visage doesn’t belong on a fifteen-year-old’s face. It reminds you of a father preparing to explain why he and their mother are getting a divorce to their children.

He weighs his next words on a scale only he’s privy to.

“Satoru had a gut feeling that there was more to the Kaizu mission. He must not have wanted you to have that in the back of your mind out on the field, since all it takes is one mistake to—”

He cuts himself off. His complexion takes a pallid shade.

You give him a gentle smile. Geto is more considerate than you initially gave him credit for. Ignoring the dull ache, you lean forward, placing your hand over his.

“It’s okay. You can keep going.”

The tips of his ears turn red.

He blinks rapidly, clears his throat, and then soldiers on. “R-Right. Well, you saw how he acted. With his Six Eyes, he spotted the remains of another sorcerer when he looked at the nursery. The briefing conveniently omitted the fact that Kenji wasn’t alone. This confirmed Satoru’s suspicions. He wanted to wrap things up fast to get you out of there, but… that curse proved challenging.”

“I’m getting this over with.”

Ah. So that’s why he came off that way, you think. Still… couldn’t there have been a better way? Why is blocking people out his go-to?

“We believe the Zenins — those in Kenji’s immediate circle, to be specific — hoped that you’d be… killed, to emphasize how formidable the threat he faced was. Since this job was assigned through the school, some of the higher-ups must’ve known and granted their blessing.”

“... Oh.”

The room’s air conditioning whirrs to life, billowing the beige curtains draped over the closed window. Outside, a cicada crawls over the glass pane. It pauses to recite its buzzing melody. Since it’s summer, you can expect to see and hear these insects until autumn’s chill sweeps away the heat.

You hope Satoru witnessed a similarly trivial scene while sitting in this room.

It’s important to remember just because you feel stuck, the world won’t stop spinning onward.

“Would it be okay if I called you Suguru?”

He nods without hesitation.

“Suguru, earlier you said that you changed Satoru’s mind by voicing my perspective since I couldn’t,” you start, your cadence gentle. You handpick each word with great care. “Does this mean that, personally, you agreed with him?”

His countenance is like that of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. This look doesn’t overstay its welcome. Once he assesses you, from your open posture to your soft stare, he’s back to his usual self.

“Busted, huh? And here I thought you’d be too groggy to pick up on anything incriminating.”

“A corrupt official such as myself must remain vigilant,” you reply with a cheeky grin. Then, you reorient yourself to communicate what’s been gnawing at you properly. “There’s a lot I don’t know about these ‘higher-ups’ or ‘Zenins,’ that you keep referring to. What little I do know doesn’t paint them in a favorable light. For all I know, they could be irredeemable in every sense of the word. But…”

“... Even though this is a selfish wish, I’m making it anyway. Say they do have to go. That it’s 100% certain they’re just that bad. I don’t want you or Satoru to be the ones to carry it out. Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that? Doesn’t a part of yourself die with them?”

A lump grows in your throat. You force it down.

“So, thank you for stopping him and yourself. Sorcerers are meant to fight curses, right? Protect those who can’t protect themselves. That sort of stuff.”

Suguru squeezes your hand gently, as if you were made of porcelain.

It stops you from shattering.

After a few minutes, your erratic breathing settles. He whispers your name like he’s making a promise.

“You’re right,” he says, a newfound resolve built into the very fabric of those two words. “Protecting the weak is what matters most. Tossing everything into disarray would threaten that. It’s easier to fix what’s broken than to demolish and rebuild from scratch.”

… Is that what you meant?

Exhaustion clouds your senses. You must’ve burnt through your scarce reserves of energy. You can vaguely discern Suguru running the pad of his thumb over your hand, before detaching himself. He readjusts your pillow so it supports your head better. After murmuring your gratitude, you sink into sleep’s warm embrace.

Right as you’re traipsing the fine line between wakefulness and the unconscious, there’s a light sensation of something brushing your hair back.

This unknown doesn’t inspire fear or outrage.

Instead, it lulls you further into the recesses of peace.

You’re discharged from the hospital later that day.

An auxiliary manager from Tokyo Jujutsu High drives you back. You spend the car ride staring out the passenger side window, taking in the bustle of busy citizens and dazzling lights. It never fails to amaze you how people wordlessly maneuver around each other to maintain the flow of traffic. It’s a tempo that can’t be instructed, rather, one must adapt in real time without a conductor.

Can non-sorcerers truly be considered weak?

The description torments you as if it were a thorn in your side.

Your fingers drum over the dashboard.

What does it mean to be strong, anyway?

The next time you activate your cursed technique, you can summon and maintain four rings without sacrificing sharpness or speed.

For the past few days, you’ve been playing around with different formations. Four rings orbiting your body provide considerable defense from projectiles and close combat. Then, if you let two out, you gain the means to attack. Lastly, ditching defense to pour everything into offense is a viable option as well. Your biggest obstacle is how mentally taxing it is to track and manipulate four rings at once.

It requires great concentration. This isn’t an issue if you’re alone, but you doubt that curses will play nice and let you stand perfectly still.

You flip your My Melody notebook to the next page and scribble down,

Two rings uptime — twelve hours.Four rings uptime — one hour. Four rings uptime w/ distractions — ten minutes. Maximum distance — one hundred meters. Maximum rings at once — sixty. Uptime on maximum rings — five seconds.

Thinking back to The Caretaker, you twist your lips.

If you’d been sent on that mission by yourself, would this have been enough to win the fight? You’re alive because you were with Satoru and Suguru. There’s no denying the infallible truth. You can’t always rely on reports to accurately grade a curse. There’s also the chance once certain conditions are met, the curse can gain strength throughout the fight, and—

“Cute handwriting.”

“Eek!”

Hugging your notebook to your chest, you jump back, indignation rushing through you like molten magma. Who snuck up on you? How did they do it? You can ascertain the presence of others in your vicinity well. You know when Shoko’s sneaking out through her window at night, if Suguru’s about to enter the room, or when Utahime is seconds away from busting into the classroom to lecture Satoru about levitating her lunch onto the roof again.

Squinting, you assess the assailant. Pearly white hair, round sunglasses, a lean and towering figure…

“Satoru? You’re back?”

According to Shoko, Satoru was called to Kyoto for business relating to the Big Three not long after they returned from the hospital. It’d been two weeks since then. You’ve gotten so used to having him around, that his absence felt pronounced. Shoko mainly lamented that her ‘walking free meal ticket’ was gone whereas Utahime rejoiced. You’ve never seen your upperclassman so ecstatic.

Her hopes and dreams will be dashed come morning.

“Just got in, yeah. Why? Oh! I know! You must’ve missed me terribly. Here, here. It’s alright. C’mere and tell me all about it— oof!”

There is a barrier that separates Satoru from everyone and everything.

‘Infinity,’ he calls it. The ability to slow down encroaching mass to such a degree that it appears as if it stopped. He can keep it activated for long lengths of time. One day, he intends to reach a level where he’ll never have to turn it off. Anyone else who proposed a goal like that would either be conceited or delusional. The amount of cursed energy necessary to pull that off is immeasurable.

Satoru isn’t just anyone, though.

So when he sets an impossible goal, it enters the realm of feasibility.

His infinity is active once you leap toward him, lasting up until the very last millisecond. When you breach the threshold that denies access to anyone else, it recedes, rushing away to accommodate your presence. Infinity remains present, molding itself around your shape. The top of your head, the slope of your shoulders, down to your soles; for a fleeting moment in time, infinity chooses you over Satoru’s parameters.

Your cheek hits his chest. He has to steady you so you don’t go tumbling back. While he does this, you snake your arms around him, squeezing him tight. In doing so, yet another anomaly occurs.

You’ve rendered Gojo Satoru speechless.

When you pull back, you notice his sunglasses are crooked. You straighten them out for him and nod in approval. Smiling ear to ear, you chirp,

“Welcome home, Satoru!”

He scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically quiet.

“... Isn’t this a school, though?” He finally manages to get out.

“Pfft, I didn’t think you were the type to get hung up on details like that,” you laugh. “Home’s anywhere you want it to be. For me, that’s here.��

You gesture to the surrounding area. Tall trees sway per the wind’s wishes, their green leaves painted blue and silver by the night sky. The moon overhead serves as your silent witness. No matter where you are, it will find and pursue you to the ends of the earth. Crickets chirp, cicadas buzz, and frogs croak by ponds rippling with their young. The night air is damp, but the coolness granted by the sun’s absence makes it tolerable.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to make of you sometimes,” Satoru tries painting a veneer of nonchalance over his words, but you can see through the cracks. You’re getting better at doing that. “Suguru said you were as peppy as ever; I didn’t believe him. They checked for brain damage, right? How many fingers am I holding up?”

(He holds up two).

“Ten,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Funny girl.”

“I learned from the best.”

You both silently size one another up. Or, in Satoru’s case, down, because he’s freakishly tall. You’re the first to break the supposed standoff. Laughter rings through the air, just yours at first, but it’s soon joined by his. The two of you stand in the middle of a forest at midnight cackling like a bunch of witches before a sabbath.

You feel absurd and giddy in a way that only comes from being around Satoru.

Some point after the laughter dies off, you can feel Satoru’s eyes scanning over every dip and curve of your being.

After reaching some conclusion, his shoulders droop. The dopey grin on his face shifts into something more neutral, more reserved. His hands find their way into his pockets. He kicks a pebble into the woods, and you both listen to it tumbling downhill until the sound fades away. The thickets shift from wildlife’s constant antics, accommodating what little fauna lives inside Tengen’s barrier.

“I’m not going to take back what I said, because I meant it,” Satoru asserts. He doesn’t have to elaborate — you know what he’s referring to. “Had you… had that mission gone as they intended, I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

An owl hoots on a distant tree branch.

Chills nibble all over your skin like little bug bites. You hug yourself to stave the sensation off.

“Even if you knew that isn’t what I’d want?”

“Even then.”

“So, you’re admitting it’d be for your sake?”

“Most things are.”

“I don’t buy that,” you frown. “You’re kinder than you realize.”

His eyebrows pinch together and his rosy lips part. It takes him a moment to dislodge the words stuck in his throat.

“... Not many people would agree,” he smiles thinly.

“Fine, just me then, since that’s easier to prove,” you hold up a single finger and raise another for each subsequent point. “One, you always leave my favorite coffee cans where you know I’ll find them. Two, whenever we’re facing a curse, you step in front to guard me. Three, if I look all sad and homesick, you make stupid jokes to take my mind off things. And four, there’s what happened in Kaizu. You—”

“I told you to use a technique you weren’t ready for.”

You blink.

He tucks his sunglasses away, removing yet another barrier. His crystalline eyes shimmer beneath the moon’s glow.

“How much do you know about your mentor’s history?”

Ah, yes, your mentor — Ishimoto Akane.

She stands at 5’8, boasts piercing green eyes, short, tousled black hair, and a tattoo of a thorny rose that envelops her entire left arm. When it came to reading the room, no one could fail as spectacularly as her. She never minced words, found basic tasks boring, and doted over her iguana named Wormwood like he was the second coming of Christ. When she wasn’t pampering Wormwood, she could be found in her very disorganized garage, tinkering with cars or motorcycles. Her neighbors filed numerous sound complaints thanks to her speakers blasting disco at unholy hours. Somehow, she never got caught.

For lack of a better word, your jujutsu mentor is eccentric.

Most notably, she saved you and your parent’s lives from a curse when you were six. You’ve been joined by the hip ever since.

As for her history…

“Um, well, I know that she’s from Omachi. She moved out of Japan in her late teens because ‘jujutsu sorcerers are an absolute drag,’ or something like that.”

“That’s a start,” Gojo hums. “Let me fill in the blanks. The Ishimoto family goes back a ways. They might not be as influential as the Big Three, but their connections are nothing to scoff at. They’re like little leeches, sustaining themselves off others. Arranged marriages are their whole thing. Akane was set to marry some third son of a Zenin bigwig. She dipped on the day of the wedding.”

That sounds like your mentor alright.

“Personally, I find that hilarious. Her family and the Zenins aren’t of the same opinion. They essentially disowned her. Anyway! Fast forward a few years. Rumors spread that the infamous Akane is popping up in Tokyo every now and then, with some kid by her side. Ring any bells?”

You point to yourself and he nods.

She took you on training trips under the guise of an ‘exchange student program’ in the summer, which your parents considered to be an excellent opportunity. You felt bad for deceiving them, but explaining the whole ‘fighting invisible monster things with emotion magic’ would’ve made for a rough conversation.

“It wasn’t until a couple of months back that I ran into her. I came right out and asked what I’d been curious about — why did she come back? She just shrugged and said she was done being a teacher. That answer didn’t satisfy me. She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that. I’m far worse though,” he boasts, fully looking and sounding the part. “In return for picking up her tab at an izakaya, she fessed up the truth.”

He steeples his fingers together, pantomiming a hand motion you’re intimately familiar with.

“Cursed Technique: Null, the advanced application of Ophanim. Akane’s convinced an ability like that, at its full potential, would be crazy strong.”

She never said anything like that to me, you think.

You shake your head. This isn’t the most pressing matter now.

“Satoru, what are you getting at here?”

“That you shouldn’t think I’m kind. I wanted to judge your technique’s potential for myself, so I had you take on more than you could handle.”

“You wouldn’t have let me die, though.”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “And what a hero I am for that.”

You purse your lips. You’ve never seen Satoru be this hard on himself. His cadence is the same — lighthearted, easygoing — but there’s an underlying acrimony to it. His smile doesn’t reach his brilliant eyes. He comes across as a spirit mimicking another’s likeness. This should unnerve you, maybe it will upon further reflection.

Right now, however, you just want him to get across that you aren’t upset. What’s done is done.

“It’s—”

Satoru puts a hand up, stopping you prematurely. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t forgive me, not yet, anyway. You need to get better at looking out for yourself. You’re nice to a fault.”

You glare at him halfheartedly. “What’s so wrong with being nice?”

“Living in a world like this, where there are people like me.”

“A world full of Gojo Satoru’s… that is a terrifying thought,” you murmur. His lips twitch upward, but he catches himself. “Bleh, what is it with you people and rejecting basic human decency! Akane was the same way. I’m fed up with it!”

You storm toward him, your eyes narrow and jaw set tight.

“I’m going to be who I want to be and that’s that. Maybe I’m naïve—”

“—Oh, it isn’t a maybe, you definitely are—”

You hush him by placing your finger to his lips, much to his surprise, if his wide eyes are of any indication.

“—But you don’t get to tell me how to act or think or feel. That’s my business. I forgive you, alright? Now cut it out with the brooding. Let’s be real here. Doing that’s for you, not for me.”

There’s an intensity to his stare you’ve never experienced prior. It makes your head feel light and hazy. Remembering yourself, you pull your hand back, heat rushing to your face. You may have gotten carried away. He isn’t wrong about you exercising more vigilance, but something about him critiquing a core aspect of your identity stings. The description ‘oversensitive’ can join the same limbo your ‘nice to a fault’ and ‘naïve’ proclivities hang out in.

Finding your current predicament too overwhelming, you break eye contact.

“Alright, alright, I get it, quit scowling. Remind me never to piss you off again, it’s scary,” he sounds more like himself, much to your relief. “I thought of a happy medium, just for you.”

Satoru compromising? Did you die during that fight after all? You never thought you’d see the day. Shoko isn’t going to believe you.

“And that happy medium is…?”

His dumb grin makes a triumphant return. He knows he’s got your attention, no matter how cool you try to play it.

“Keep being your sweet little self. If anyone tries taking advantage of that quality, and I mean anyone, come tell Suguru or myself. We’ll take care of it.”

What is he, a member of the mob?!

Whatever, it’s a step in the right direction. You think. Maybe.

“I’m not a snitch,” you huff.

“Fine, I’ll use my own discretion then.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re gonna have to get used to it.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“Call it intuition,” he hums, smoothly sliding his sunglasses back into place. It makes you angry how cool he looks while doing so. “Or, better yet, love at first sight. Yeah. Let’s go with that, actually.”

Wait, what?

Your heart thunders against your ribcage and you gape at him like a fish.

“You…! Y-You can’t just say something like that!”

“But I did.”

“Ugh, I’ve had enough. I’m headed to bed. Go find somebody else to mess with.”

Satoru pauses, considering the words you’ve spoken without any real bite. Then he smiles. Not in the cocky, arrogant manner he’s infamous for either. The curvature is gentle. Almost sentimental. It takes you aback and makes you wonder if your eyes are malfunctioning.

“I can’t,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It has to be you.”

It has to be you, it has to be you, it has to be you…

These five damning words loop in your head like a mantra. Who gave him the right to sound so sincere?

“Sleep well. You get all grumpy if you don’t. Having one Utahime around is more than enough, I don’t need you getting on my case too.”

Satoru turns around, pulling one hand out from his pocket to wave halfheartedly. You observe his retreating figure before snapping out of your daze. He drops a cryptic line like that and dares to casually waltz away, whistling while he does so! The nerve! The audacity! The whistling is off-pitch too! Jujutsu Tech seriously needs to consider adding music theory to the curriculum.

You jog to catch up with him and his stupidly long legs.

“Hey, Satoru!” You call out.

He stops and looks at you from over his shoulder.

“If you’re gonna watch out for me, I plan to return the favor,” you say, your tone leaving no room to argue. “You hear me?”

He waits until he’s facing forward again to respond. For this reason, you can’t see his expression. All you can make out is the outline of him giving a thumbs up, the edges of his skin swathed in silvery moonlight.

“Mhm. Loud and clear.”

December 23rd, 2017.

8:02 p.m.

You assess the man in front of you.

Pearly white hair, bandages wrapped around his eyes, a lean and towering figure… it’s Satoru, alright. There’s no mistaking his remarkable cursed energy. You could sense it — sense him — even in your deepest sleep. Amongst those at Jujutsu Tech, you’re the only one who can tell when he’s about to warp out of thin air. It’s become a running joke of sorts. Gojo Satoru has the Six Eyes and you possess a sixth sense for him.

Or so you thought.

“Are you hearing yourself?”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Loud and clear, yeah.”

“This isn’t funny, Satoru!”

“I’m not laughing, am I?”

“No, but,” you inhale shakily, wisely taking a second to tame your tongue. “You’re not taking this seriously— not taking me seriously.”

He frowns. You come close to regretting your words, falling just a few inches short. Arguments aren’t your forte. Determining when to surrender ground, bolster your defenses, or charge into enemy territory; this is a skill that requires practice. Especially when facing Satoru. You don’t want to consider him an opponent, but that’s what he feels like right now. An imposing wall blocking you from the road you have to take.

You regret turning up the duplex’s heat. Chilly as it is outside in the throes of winter, the air in this room has become scorching.

“Is that genuinely what you think?”

And there it is. He already knows the answer, as do you. He simply wants you to have your confession on record.

You grab the water bottle you left on the kitchen countertop, drinking enough to help ease the lump in your throat. This isn’t the time to cry. Not yet. Not before anything major occurs. The crisis hasn’t taken the stage, Christmas Eve holds that honor. Illogical as it may be, you don’t think you’ve earned the emotional release crying brings. That should remain a consolation prize to you in the future.

The you who will witness the horrors Geto Suguru plans to orchestrate.

The you who will learn how this decade-long saga ends.

Can the human heart endure anguish worse than this?

Tomorrow, this question will receive an answer, whether you want it or not.

“... It isn’t.”

“Good,” he says, somehow soft and firm. He opens up his arms. “C’mere.”

You’re sinking into him before he finishes the word. He secures you against his chest and the two of you tangle together like you’d unravel should you part. Satoru rests his chin on the crown of your head, mindlessly tracing patterns into your back. Or so you think, until you recognize the distinct grooves and curves of the characters which form Gojo.

He engraves it into you over and over again as if casting a spell.

This action must soothe him. You count each thump of his heart, noting how it settles into a steadier rhythm as the seconds tick by. The world’s strongest sorcerer is made of flesh and blood just like you are. It’s easy to forget that those you love and admire are mortal, regardless of how well they hide it. Those close to godhood must act the part, lest their audience murmur in suspicion.

“I don’t think I could do it, Toru.”

He doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

“Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that?”

No, you desperately scream to your younger self, as if there were any way to make her hear you. There really isn’t.

“I know.”

“... Could you?”

Satoru’s muscles stiffen. From this alone, you can glean his answer. From your lack of prodding, he must piece this together too. Talkative as you both are, it’s in these pockets of total silence that your communication shines best. Everything from the subtle hitching of breath to the twitch of one another’s lips reveals streams of information to sift through.

You can tell he doesn’t want to let you go, but you manage to wriggle out of his vice-like grip, creating a few inches of distance.

Reaching up, you undo the bandages around his eyes. He leans down to aid you in your task. Once the last strip comes off, you fold the linen neatly and put it aside. Satoru’s pretty eyes follow your every movement. When your attention returns to him, it’s impossible to overlook how hard he’s straining to fight back a smile.

He quickly abandons the farce.

Large hands seek out yours. Subconsciously, you meet him halfway, automatically drawn to him as if you were both different ends of a magnet. His slender fingers interlace with yours. His countenance radiates such fondness, such unfiltered reverence, that you find yourself getting embarrassed.

“W-What?” You choke out.

“Just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy alive, is all,” he hums. His grin widens at how his unabashed compliments fluster you. Shame isn’t in his lexicon. “You went from looking like you wanted to bite my head off to doting on me.”

You roll your eyes yet chuckle nonetheless. He visibly perks up at the sound. He must’ve made you laugh thousands of times over the years, but he still treats each instance as if he’d experienced the most delightful composition.

He whispers your name.

“You trust me, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then do this for me, baby.”

“But…” you trail off, unable and perhaps unwilling to reinforce your argument, “Everyone is going to be risking their lives. Nanamin, Ijichi, ours and Iori’s students; even Shoko’s going out on the field. How am I supposed to sit still knowing that?”

“You don’t have to sit still, my little energizer bunny.”

The deadpan look he receives has him (wisely) reconsidering his word choice.

“I’m not asking because I don’t trust you, I’m asking because there’s no one I trust more,” Satoru tries again. You bite your lower lip. It’s unfair how much his rare glimpses of sincerity move you.

“And this is all based on a hunch?”

“Mhm.”

Satoru lifts your left hand. He caresses your skin, his smile softening into something tender. An expression that’s exclusively for you.

“Historically, my hunches are rather reliable.”

You can’t argue with the truth.

Suguru appears to have some unknown design for Okkotsu Yuta, who is to remain at Jujutsu Tech during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. The special-grade curse Orimoto Rika poses too many risks for him to be on the battlefield alongside allies. Since everyone down to the Ainu society is being called upon to deal with this threat, you’ve been awaiting your assignment. There’s no way they wouldn’t utilize every resource available.

Satoru ruined this assumption.

He personally requested that you remain on standby at the school.

He didn’t even tell you this himself. You found out from Maki of all people, who earlier asked why you were stuck ‘babysitting the exchange student.’ You were confused. This made her confused. Then you both remembered the menace that is Gojo Satoru and everything started adding up.

His explanation upon answering the phone?

“Oh, I was just getting around to telling you about that!”

Needless to say, you didn’t share his enthusiasm.

“Alright,” you sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on Yuta until everything is finished.”

Content, he squeezes your hand. As he does so, the gemstone on your ring finger catches the light, mesmerizing you both.

You close your eyes and smile.

‘Call it intuition,’ huh?

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