#if i got anything wrong well to be fair IT'S BEEN A DECADE

[sacredsorceress]

Meet Cute with Logan Would Include... || Wolverine Headcanons

pairing: logan howlett (wolverine) x mutant!f!reader summary: you're a new teacher at the school and logan is interested in you from your first meeting a/n: i'm admittedly projecting with the fact that reader teaches history but just a little blurb because logan's been on my mind and i need to get work done <33 lmk if you want me to make this into an actual fic!! warnings: none, all fluff

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when you first arrive at the school as a teacher (and late blooming mutant) charles introduces you to logan

logan has a typical scowl on his face and glances at you up and down

so you begin to worry that you've worn the wrong outfit or presented yourself poorly and now an infamous wolverine dig is about to be thrown your way

but instead, he takes a puff of his cigar, and looks back at charles

"you have a rule about only recruiting good-looking teachers or something?"

and what an array of relief (and butterflies) do you get from that

"yes, very funny, logan. however, y/n here has a phd. I've brought her on to teach the students"

"yeah? and what's your "gift"?" (mutation)

he has a coy look on his face

"oh logan, that's a bit personal..." you said with faux seriousness. "buy me a drink first."

for the first time, you saw him smile. a chuckle reverberated in his chest.

"fair enough."

after that interaction charles escorted you out of the room but as you went, logan's eyes were trained on you.

intrigued, he took another puff of his cigar and smiled to himself.

on your first night there, once all the children have gone to sleep and all the adults have gone to their own rooms for the night you hear a knock on your door.

and guess who it is?

you hate to admit it but god, does he look so hot and suave standing in your doorway.

logan's hair is in a typical mess and his flannel has a few more buttons undone than it did this morning,

and although he's rough around the edges and not as necessarily openly friendly as the others, he exudes confidence- especially as he leans against your doorframe.

"you said i owed you a drink."

although he takes you to the diviest dive bar in town, you have such a good time.

after a little bit of awkwardness, the two of you found your footing and you end up talking (flirting) for hours

well, in actuality, you do most of the talking but boy does he like listening to you talk and watching your eyes light up while you laugh at some of your own stories

on the way back to the mansion, he opens the car door for you

"thank you."

"don't mention it" (he's blushing a little)

on the ride back he tries to be as smooth as possible, one arm draped over the passenger seat while the other rests on the steering wheel

he keeps taking quick glances at you as you hum along to the song on the radio and even though you just met he's already thinking about how he could get used to this

he walks you back to your room and as much as he wants to make another move (and you do too) he doesn't want to mess up your relationship before its even started

i mean, you're living in the same place?? what happens if you don't like it?? and you end up hating him?? now his suave demeanor has crumbled under the weight of realising this is actually real and not a game

"I'll.. uh... be down the hall if you need me."

"thanks, logan" you smile softly and he thinks its the first time anyone's done that in over a decade and meant it

when he starts walking down the hall, you call out in a whisper

"oh and logan!" you pause. "sweet dreams."

before he can say anything the door of your bedroom shuts

a stupid, silly grin coats his face so big that he rubs his hand across his cheeks in fear anyone would catch the big bad wolverine becoming a softie for the teacher he's got the hots for

although you've just met, you've got him wrapped around your finger and he can barely believe it

shoving his hands in his pocket, logan shakes his head and laughs on the way to his own bedroom

"fuck."

[bkgexe]

the defiance of a life spent almost in touch

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

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

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

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

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

“You know why I have to,” you say.

The sigh again. “Fair enough.”

You left jujutsu society for a few reasons.

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

Haibara lived, but not without consequences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head and leave without a word. 

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

You thank him and say good night.

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

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

✾

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tell Geto what you saw. 

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

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

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

✾

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

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

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

“Kento.” A warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you for the coffee,” you say.

“You’ll call me soon?”

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

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

✾

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

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

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

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

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

✾

You ignore his calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles. “I tried calling.”

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

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

“I’m calling security.”

“I need your help,” he says.

“Like you needed my help last time?”

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside, it’s chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take him after.”

“How long has he been in shock?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get him help, Geto.” 

He smiles wide in response.

✾

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

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

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

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

Kento turned towards you and said, “Try.”

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

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

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

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

But what you felt was mostly your own. 

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

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

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

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

✾

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

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

“Semantics.”

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

“Or is it syntax?”

“Can you please get out?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You killed him.”

“I killed him.”

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

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

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

It changed Geto too.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would I want that?” you ask.

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

“Excuse me?”

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

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Gojo.”

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✾

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should I be worried?” you ask.

You should. You already know this.

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

“Biryani’s fine.”

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

✾

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait,” he says, reaching towards you.

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t,” he says. “Never.”

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

✾

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saw them, Gojo,” you say.

This shuts him up.

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

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

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

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

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

“He wouldn’t.” 

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

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

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

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

“Good night, Gojo.”

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

✾

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Details,” you demand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which means it’s fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you call a car?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

✾

He insists on escorting you home from the school.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t make it hard.”

The train rolls on, and on, and on.

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

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

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

“They don’t,” you lie. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you want to.”

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

“...why are you asking me?”

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

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

“So what defines a good person?”

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

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

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

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

“It was a long time ago.”

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

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

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

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

“We’ve established that.”

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“I understand,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

“Which of those scared you the most?”

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

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

“I never said you were a bad person.”

“You just thought it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It could be different than last time.”

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t.”

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

“I haven’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

You shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Why would you want that?” you repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re human.”

“I’m a sorcerer.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

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

“So you want to kill them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Usually. 

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

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

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

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

“I can keep that in mind.”

“I want you to apologize.”

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

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

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

“Yes,” you say. “Thank you.”

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

i will link part two here when it is posted!

[woso-dreamzzz]

Mornings

Fridolina Rolfö x Reader

Summary: Early mornings with Frido

The sun seeped in through the blinds and you groaned in outrage.

"Frido," You huffed.

There was no answer.

"Frido," You said again," Close the blinds. It's too early."

Your wife didn't answer you and you blindly patted her side of the bed before coming up empty. You didn't particularly want to get up out of your cocoon of warmth but you did, peering around the room.

The blinds were fully open and you groaned loudly, flopping your head back down onto your pillow again.

"Frido," You grumbled under your breath, finally getting up. You snagged the blanket hanging over your desk chair and swung it over your shoulders. "Frido!"

Your wife stood barefoot in the kitchen, head tilted back and throat bobbing as she drained a glass of water. She looked sweaty with her hair plastered against her forehead. In any other circumstance, you would have jumped her but you were still kind of tired and very pissed off.

"Is something wrong?"

You glared at her. "I don't know, is there? Because I woke up to not only an empty bed but also to the blinds being open. It's-" You checked the time on the microwave. "It's six thirty in the morning! What have you been doing?!"

"I went on a run."

"This early? Frido, you left the blinds open again!"

"Sorry, baby."

She didn't look very sorry, smirking at you as she stripped off her sweaty shirt and stood in front of you in her sports bra.

"I know what you're doing."

"What am I doing?"

You waved a hand in the general direction of her stomach. "You're trying to distract me with your abs," You replied," It's not working."

She grinned at you - all cocky and sure of herself. "Are you sure?"

"It's too early for you to pull the get-out-of-jail-free card." You continued to glare but patted her abs for good measure as you scooted past her to the living room, collapsing on the sofa.

"Oh, yeah? What can I do to make it up for you?"

"Close the blinds," You said, settling on the sofa and pulling your blanket closer. You aimlessly flicked through the tv channels. "And make me breakfast."

Frido rolled her eyes. "That's not a nice way to say 'get in the kitchen, woman'. You're setting feminism back decades."

"Well, maybe if my wife didn't choose to get up to run at stupid o'clock then I wouldn't have to send her to the kitchen to get back in my good books."

Frido laughed. "Fine, baby. Anything specific?"

"Pancakes." You finally settled on a show. "With cream and strawberries."

"Alright, your highness," She joked," Coming right up."

To her credit, the pancakes were made quickly and she even put on a load of laundry without having to be asked before joining you on the sofa.

Graciously, you gave her some of your blanket.

"It's too early," You groaned, head falling back to rest on her shoulder," Why did you think running so early was a good idea?"

She laughed, jostling you slightly. "To be fair, I didn't expect you to wake up while I was gone."

"With the blinds open and your side of the bed cold?" You said," Sometimes I wish you used those critical thinking skills of yours."

"Hey! I just made you pancakes! Besides, the blinds are closed now."

"It doesn't change the fact that it's stupidly early. You're lucky we have today off or no amount of laundry or housework would put you back in my good books."

Frido smirked at you, turning her head to capture your lips with her own. "Then I am so glad we've got today off."

[primussavethesemechs]

I want the human/cybertronian life difference to be talked about more in canon

Cuz I mean. it’s RIGHT THERE.

Just a smidgen of true acknowledgment I BEG YOU HASBRO‼️

i mean come on all it takes is someone mentioning how long the wars been going for one of the humans to go “4 MILLION YEARS???? WHAT THE FUCK HOW OLD ARE YOU???”

And optimus or ratchet to be like “…5/7 million?” And all of the humans to have a break down CUZ WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUVE BEEN ALIVE SINCE BEFORE THE HUMAN SPECIES EXISTED??? WE WERE MONKEYS WHEN YOU WERE BORN???

And the (woefully uniformed) cybertronians to be like “??? What do YOU mean your species was still evolving when I onlined, how long do you guys live?? A thousand?? A few hundred??”

And the gobsmacked humans to be like “??? NO WE HARDLY LIVE OVER A HUNDRED ITS CONSIDERED AN ACCOMPLISHMENT?? AVERAGE OLD AGE DEATH IS LIKE MID 80s!! TECHNICALLY THE AVERAGE LIFE SPAN IS 72 OR SOMETHING???”

Cue the autobots being like “😨 72??? THATS A CHILD WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT⁉️”

the more attached/emotional bots looking at their charges and realizing that not only are they sparklings compared to them but they’ll die as sparklings too in just a few decades, causing them to straight up have a mini meltdown.

Yeah they’re in a war and they’ve lost plenty of friends, but never to anything as predictable and inescapable as old age.

It’s the seeing-it-coming part that gets to them, the slow dread of knowing that even if they do everything right and keep them out of danger and they stay healthy there’s nothing they can do to stop them from withering away in a couple of decades.

Most versions of bumblebee looking at their charge/friend and realizing his assumptions about the fact that since they’re both still young that they’ll have plenty of time to just. Live together and have fun- are wrong?? Immediately tears. Even if cybertronians can’t cry tears he’s doing whatever the equivalent is and running away to cry in his room. And then running back to snatch them and take them with him cuz HE CANT WASTE A SECOND IF THEIR LIFESPANS ARE REALLY THAT SHORT HES GONNA JUST HAVE TO SPEND 24/7 WITH THEM

This whole concept ESPECIALLY applies to TFP since all of them got their own little human buddy and there’s only like 5 autobots to begin with (of the main season 1 crew) they’ve lost so many of their own so recently, their numbers are already dwindling down to nothing, they’re losing the war and the kids are what’s given them a major morale boost. To continue fighting they need hope, and the kids have kind of become their hope for the future- to know they’ll die off in under a century despite how young they still are is a shot to the spark.

Look me in the eye and tell me bee wouldnt panic hearing that Raf only has 70-80 years to live. LOOK ME IN THE EYE AND TELL ME HE WOULDNT HAVE SOME KIND OF FIT OVER BEING TOLD THAT HIS LITTLE BUDDY (from a cybertronian perspective) HAS A LIFESPAN EQUIVALENT TO A LATE STAGE TERMINAL ILLNESS DIAGNOSIS. Bee would start treating Raf like a kid with stage 4 cancer 😭

I just KNOW bulkhead would have the worst reaction other than bee, maybe even worse cuz he looks at miko and realizes she’s used up basically a fifth of her entire lifespan already and she’s Still So Little and straight up starts weeping. That’s his DAUGHTER you can’t take her from him so soon it’s not FAIR! He might have to go destroy a canyon wall or something to let some of the anger and grief out

Arcee is Not taking it well either.

She JUST got attached to this one, just got used to a new partner and your telling her that no matter what she does he’s never going to last as long as tailgate of cliff jumper did?? Even if both he and she do everything they’re supposed to do to protect him and extended his life?? Depression time baby

Optimus and ratchet don’t react as much outwardly to the news as the others but inside they’re both 💔💥

These kids have brought optimus a level of contentment he hasn’t felt in vorns, and he sees how bright their spirits shine- Only to now know those precious spirits will burn out in less than a century- it gnaws at him inside, yet another strike from the cruelty of fate

Ratchet is devastated but refuses to acknowledge it, these kids- yes even miko- have become his pseudo grandkids and he’s not ready, nor will he ever be ready, to outlive them. Jacks reminds him too much of a younger optimus, still learning and still hopeful. Miko is… well she has a fire to her that ratchet can appreciate (when she’s not actively annoying him) she’s determined enough to make anything happen which he does begrudgingly respect even if he wishes she wouldn’t just throw herself into any and every situation just for fun.

And Raf…

Raf is his apprentice, the only one of the kids to understand him and listen intently to his stories of cybertron. To show appreciation for his work and his ideas, to Listen and Learn and Improve his inventions. He harbors the most fondness for Raf since he sees so much potential in him, and has taken him under his wing in teaching him cybertronian language and biology.

He feels almost like he’s training a student to take his place- only for the ground to be ripped out from under him to know that Raf will never have the chance to succeed him, will never even outlive him.

A parent should never have to bury their child, and ratchet already feels that he has.

-

TLDR the autobots find out humans have fruit fly lifespans next to them and become one big soggy mess of tears, optimus and ratchet included although they try to have a stiff upper lip about it (and fail to varying extents)

I swear this was supposed to be about any and all continuities but TFP took over completely😭 idk it just fits the best since they focus so much on how attached the bots get to the kids

Edit: btw this was inspired from the fact I found out that the cybertronian equivalent to a year (yes I know technically they have solar cycles which are roughly a human year but what they consider a year vs their lifespan/time perception is different) is a vorn. A vorn is 80 HUMAN YEARS. I saw that and went “oh wow a vorn is like a whole human lifespan!😃” and then I went “OH A VORN IS A WHOLE HUMAN LIFESPAN 😀“

[antimony-medusa]

"There's just something about that guy that means I don't trust him"

Okay so, Phil has got the wrong read of Sunny. I'm gonna start off with that. He thinks they're a confident unconcerned material girl who is comfortable in the fact that their dad loves them, and potentially he thinks that they're a bit older than they are? Whereas people who have been able to see her one-on-one with Tubbo know that she's quite a bit more shy and insecure and young than she puts on! He's been taken in by the facade they're putting on, and I think that's part of why he is making jokes and comments that don't hit well. To understate how yesterday went. I think he botched the interaction with Sunny in the musuem and I hope someone tells him that, so he can apologize and fix that. And to be clear, as a phil viewer, this does interesting character work with Sunny as a sensitive child and I'm in favour of Sunnymin pursuing this line of lore. I'm staring with my little cube guy watching googles looking for the result when Phil realizes he scared a child, with great interest.

Because when you look at the musum one in context, my read is that was phil pivoting badly from an out of lore discussion into "oh hey I can explain something to sunny, who is confident and centred and knows her dad adores her" and then jokingly tried to explain the tallulah experience, and then we know from Sunny signs later that that went over like a ton of bricks. Mistake. However, when we're discussing it, I think it's fair to not have that understanding of the lore though, and to take a more pointed, villainous read of the lore! Go for it with discussing phil as cold and brusque to people who aren't his family, discuss Sunny feeling all alone in the musuem, fill your boots.

But guys, when you're discussing this as meta, I am seeing a lot of tags that are really really eager to paint Phil entirely and unequivocally as a villain and specifically cruel to children and cruel within the family, and there's an element to that that concerns me.

Phil, the cc, the guy, acts working class. He has an accent from a particular part of england that is traditionally working class, but he also has storytelling cadences and humour styles and attitudes towards challenges that are very familiar if you are from a working class or lower income community. I'm from an entirely different continuent, but the area I'm from is the sort of area that people make jokes about, and the whole way Phil acts as a CC is very familiar to me. (Note: even when he's talking about travel or stuff, he still has the "worked retail for a decade" mentality and pays attention to the staff and stuff and what they're doing, check out the brazil storytelling vod.)

And Phil's cubito, when he's not deliberately making a character like osmp crowfather, tends to have the mannerisms of someone who is working class. Even if you're not from a lower income area, I think most people can clock this, subconciously if nothing else. He swears a lot! He banters and roasts his friends and family but would absolutely do anything for them. He's informal in a very specific way.

Which is why when people pivot immediately into "why is he threatening and bullying children again" and "his wicked is showing", and "oh he's a evil stepfather/cruel stepmother" and "can we kill the child abusers now" I go Oh No.

Working class mannerisms are already stereotyped as especially prone to domestic abuse, among other ills. If you are going "oh something about him just always seemed like he would be cruel to children" maybe— push back on that one?

In the same way that during the election I was going "that may not be the play" about americans who didn't know what it was but something about Forever was just so angry and agressive (and they were talking from a perspective that viewed forever as a person of colour, regardless of how he's perceived at home), you might be talking from a perspective that encourages you to interpret Phil's behaviour with children as especially suspect. Potentially. Consider it.

And again, Phil biffed it in the musuem. That was a misstep that had me (autistic) going "oh no I see how you got there but you can all but see the sims negative relationship marker thing pop up". But I'd ask you at least to consider that it wasn't intentional cruelty, and that people can make social missteps before you jump immediately to interpreting their actions in the worst light possible.

[greenerteacups]

oooh please someday tell us what you think of GOT

oh, no, it's my fatal weakness! it's [checks notes] literally just the bare modicum of temptation! okay you got me.

SO. in order to tell what's wrong with game of thrones you kind of have to have read the books, because the books are the reason the show goes off the rails. i actually blame the showrunners relatively little in proportion to GRRM for how bad the show was (which I'm not gonna rehash here because if you're interested in GOT in any capacity you've already seen that horse flogged to death). people debate when GOT "got bad" in terms of writing, but regardless of when you think it dropped off, everyone agrees the quality declined sharply in season 8, and to a certain extent, season 7. these are the seasons that are more or less entirely spun from whole cloth, because season 7 marks the beginning of what will, if we ever see it, be the Winds of Winter storyline. it's the first part that isn't based on a book by George R.R. Martin. it's said that he gave the showrunners plot outlines, but we don't know how detailed they were, or how much the writers diverged from the blueprint — and honestly, considering the cumulative changes made to the story by that point, some stark divergence would have been required. (there's a reason for this. i'll get there in a sec.)

so far, i'm not saying anything all that original. a lot of people recognized how bad the show got as soon as they ran out of Book to adapt. (I think it's kind of weird that they agreed to make a show about an unfinished series in the first place — did GRRM figure that this was his one shot at a really good HBO adaptation, and forego misgivings about his ability to write two full books in however many years it took to adapt? did he think they would wait for him? did he not care that the series would eventually spoil his magnum opus, which he's spent the last three decades of his life writing? perplexing.) but the more interesting question is why the show got bad once it ran out of Book, because in my mind, that's not a given. a lot of great shows depart from the books they were based on. fanfiction does exactly that, all the time! if you have good writers who understand the characters they're working with, departure means a different story, not a worse one. now, the natural reply would be to say that the writers of GOT just aren't good, or at least aren't good at the things that make for great television, and that's why they needed the books as a structure, but I don't think that's true or fair, either. books and television are very different things. the pacing of a book is totally different from the pacing of a television show, and even an episodic book like ASOIAF is going to need a lot of work before it's remotely watchable as a series. bad writers cannot make great series of television, regardless of how good their source material is. sure, they didn't invent the characters of tyrion lannister and daenerys targaryen, but they sure as hell understood story structure well enough to write a damn compelling season of TV about them!

so but then: what gives? i actually do think it's a problem with the books! the show starts out as very faithful to the early books (namely, A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings) to the point that most plotlines are copied beat-for-beat. the story is constructed a little differently, and it's definitely condensed, but the meat is still there. and not surprisingly, the early books in ASOIAF are very tightly written. for how long they are, you wouldn't expect it, but on every page of those books, the plot is racing. you can practically watch george trying to beat the fucking clock. and he does! useful context here is that he originally thought GOT was going to be a trilogy, and so the scope of most threads in the first book or two would have been much smaller. it also helps that the first three books are in some respects self-contained stories. the first book is a mystery, the second and third are espionage and war dramas — and they're kept tight in order to serve those respective plots.

the trouble begins with A Feast for Crows, and arguably A Storm of Swords, because GRRM starts multiplying plotlines and treating the series as a story, rather than each individual book. he also massively underestimated the number of pages it would take him to get through certain plot beats — an assumption whose foundation is unclear, because from a reader's standpoint, there is a fucke tonne of shit in Feast and Dance that's spurious. I'm not talking about Brienne's Riverlands storyline (which I adore thematically but speaking honestly should have been its own novella, not a part of Feast proper). I'm talking about whole chapters where Tyrion is sitting on his ass in the river, just talking to people. (will I eat crow about this if these pay off in hugely satisfying ways in Winds or Dream? oh, totally. my brothers, i will gorge myself on sweet sweet corvid. i will wear a dunce cap in the square, and gleefully, if these turn out to not have been wastes of time. the fact that i am writing this means i am willing to stake a non-negligible amount of pride on the prediction that that will not happen). I'm talking about scenes where the characters stare at each other and talk idly about things that have already happened while the author describes things we already have seen in excruciating detail. i'm talking about threads that, while forgivable in a different novel, are unforgivable in this one, because you are neglecting your main characters and their story. and don't tell me you think that a day-by-day account tyrion's river cruise is necessary to telling his story, because in the count of monte cristo, the main guy disappears for nine years and comes hurtling back into the story as a vengeful aristocrat! and while time jumps like that don't work for everything, they certainly do work if what you're talking about isn't a major story thread!

now put aside whether or not all these meandering, unconcluded threads are enjoyable to read (as, in fairness, they often are!). think about them as if you're a tv showrunner. these bad boys are your worst nightmare. because while you know the author put them in for a reason, you haven't read the conclusion to the arc, so you don't know what that reason is. and even if the author tells you in broad strokes how things are going to end for any particular character (and this is a big "if," because GRRM's whole style is that he lets plots "develop as he goes," so I'm not actually convinced that he does have endings written out for most major characters), that still doesn't help you get them from point A (meandering storyline) to point B (actual conclusion). oh, and by the way, you have under a year to write this full season of television, while GRRM has been thinking about how to end the books for at least 10. all of this means you have to basically call an audible on whether or not certain arcs are going to pay off, and, if they are, whether they make for good television, and hence are worth writing. and you have to do that for every. single. unfinished. story. in the books.

here's an example: in the books, Quentin Martell goes on a quest to marry Daenerys and gain a dragon. many chapters are spent detailing this quest. spoiler alert: he fails, and he gets charbroiled by dragons. GRRM includes this plot to set up the actions of House Martell in Winds, but the problem is that we don't know what House Martell does in Winds, because (see above) the book DNE. So, although we can reliably bet that the showrunners understand (1) Daenerys is coming to Westeros with her 3 fantasy nukes, and (2) at some point they're gonna have to deal with the invasion of frozombies from Canada, that DOESN'T mean they necessarily know exactly what's going to happen to Dorne, or House Martell. i mean, fuck! we don't even know if Martin knows what's going to happen to Dorne or House Martell, because he's said he's the kind of writer who doesn't set shit out beforehand! so for every "Cersei defaults on millions of dragons in loans from the notorious Bank of Nobody Fucks With Us, assumes this will have no repercussions for her reign or Westerosi politics in general" plotline — which might as well have a big glaring THIS WILL BE IMPORTANT stamp on top of the chapter heading — you have Arianne Martell trying to do a coup/parent trap switcheroo with Myrcella, or Euron the Goffick Antichrist, or Faegon Targaryen and JonCon preparing a Blackfyre restoration, or anything else that might pan out — but might not! And while that uncertainty about what's important to the "overall story" might be a realistic way of depicting human beings in a world ruled by chance and not Destiny, it makes for much better reading than viewing, because Game of Thrones as a fantasy television series was based on the first three books, which are much more traditional "there is a plot and main characters and you can generally tell who they are" kind of book. I see Feast and Dance as a kind of soft reboot for the series in this respect, because they recenter the story around a much larger cast and cast a much broader net in terms of which characters "deserve" narrative attention.

but if you're making a season of television, you can't do that, because you've already set up the basic premise and pacing of your story, and you can't suddenly pivot into a long-form tone poem about the horrors of war. so you have to cut something. but what are you gonna cut? bear in mind that you can't just Forget About Dorne, or the Iron Islands, or the Vale, or the North, or pretty much any region of the story, because it's all interconnected, but to fit in everything from the books would require pacing of the sort that no reasonable audience would ever tolerate. and bear in mind that the later books sprout a lot more of these baby-plots that could go somewhere, but also might end up being secondary or tertiary to the "main story," which, at the end of the day, is about dragons and ice zombies and the rot at the heart of the feudal power system glorified in classical fantasy. that's the story that you as the showrunner absolutely must give them an end to, and that's the story that should be your priority 1.

so you do a hack and slash job, and you mortar over whatever you cut out with storylines that you cook up yourself, but you can't go too far afield, because you still need all the characters more or less in place for the final showdown. so you pinch here and push credulity there, and you do your best to put the characters in more or less the same place they would have been if you kept the original, but on a shorter timeframe. and is it as good as the first seasons? of course not! because the material that you have is not suited to TV like the first seasons are. and not only that, but you are now working with source material that is actively fighting your attempt to constrain a linear and well-paced narrative on it. the text that you're working with changed structure when you weren't looking, and now you have to find some way to shanghai this new sprawling behemoth of a Thing into a television show. oh, and by the way, don't think that the (living) author of the source material will be any help with this, because even though he's got years of experience working in television writing, he doesn't actually know how all of these threads will tie together, which is possibly the reason that the next book has taken over 8 years (now 13 and counting) to write. oh and also, your showrunners are sick of this (in fairness, very difficult) job and they want to go write for star wars instead, so they've refused the extra time the studio offered them for pre-production and pushed through a bunch of first-draft scripts, creating a crunch culture of the type that spawns entirely avoidable mistakes, like, say, some poor set designer leaving a starbucks cup in frame.

anyway, that's what I think went wrong with game of thrones.

[pearwaldorf]

I have been trying to write this on and off for a while. I figure the second anniversary of the show is as fine an occasion as any to shove it out into the world. It is not everything I want to say about it, but I think the important bits are there.

It is a human impulse to be seen. To be told, through art, you are not alone. It is universal, but of special importance to people who are not well-represented in media (i.e. everybody who isn’t cis, white, able-bodied, skinny, and conventionally attractive).   

This show speaks to me as a queer person who figured things out later than most of my peers. (Not quite as late as Ed and Stede but not terribly far off either.) It’s not super common to see queer media address this, and I didn’t realize how much I needed that reassurance until I got it. That it’s okay to find these things any time in your life. To be told “A queer is never late, they’re always fashionably on-time.” 

They’re not my first canon queer ship. But they are the first ones where I knew it was true from the get-go. Multiple people assured me this was the case. And yet, I still didn’t believe it until I saw it with my own two eyes. This experience is not unusual for fans around my age.  

After I finished up season one, I laid in bed and cried. It’s not something I thought would affect me so much, but it feels like a weight I’d carried so long I didn’t realize it wasn’t supposed to be part of me is gone.

One of the reasons people unfamiliar with the fandom seem to think it’s absolutely crazy (which some of it is, to be fair, but every fandom has that) is the way fans of the show get extremely super intense about it. It took me a few weeks to realize this is a trauma response. I’m not even sure “trauma” is the right word. It doesn’t interfere with my day to day function, but it lasted for years. Decades. So it was definitely something that fucked me up. And in the way you can only start to see something as you’re moving past it, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to get my head around this. (I don’t know if I have anything to say about it yet. Maybe I need more time to sit with it.)

I know this sounds contrary, but I’m really glad David Jenkins does not come from fandom. Sometimes it’s good to know where a line is, and others it’s better to not know there’s a line at all. And this is, sad to say, remarkable to somebody who has had to deal with this for so long. With so many writers and showrunners aware of the line, and getting right up next to it, but never crossing it.

Imagine doing a show with a queer romance and not understanding why this was received with such emotion and fervor, because it’s just two people in love right? What blissful ignorance that this needed to be explained to him! And then he listened to people’s experiences with queerbaiting, and went “Oh my god you thought I was going to do WHAT?” And then you go “Huh. That is really fucked up.” 

The problem with being told something enough, even though you know it’s wrong, is you start to believe it regardless. All the excuses and hedging. It’s so very difficult to do they tell us, when we hear from queer creators how they had fight tooth and nail to make it as gay as it already was. 

And then comes Jenks, just yeeting it out there: majority queer and (not and/or. and) POC cast, an openly non-binary person playing an openly non-binary character. The ability to not have to make one queer (and/or) POC character speak for everybody, so you can inject a tiny bit of nuance into the conversation. The way you can tell more kinds of stories, like the one where the smol angry internalized homophobe comes into his own with the support of a queer community, even though he was a giant fucking asshole to them before.

So many people were like “You can just DO that? It’s really that easy?” And wasn’t that a fucking Situation, to have that curtain pulled aside. What next? Majority POC casts with stories about POC written by POC? Absolute madness. (Please please watch The Brothers Sun on Netflix. It’s so fucking good.) 

And people will scoff and say “Of course a cishet(?) white man would be able to get this pushed through.” But do they usually? The thing I don’t think people understand about allies is they use their privilege to wedge the door open. You still have to do the work to get through, but at least you have a place to start. And it really fucking matters.

The press keeps trying to tell me The Completely Made-Up Adventures of Dick Turpin is the OFMD substitute we need while we float in the gravy basket. I’m sure it’s a perfectly fine show, but I don’t know who has watched OFMD and decided the itch we needed scratched was anachronistic historical comedy.

I want stories written by people that reflect their lived experiences, with actors and crew committed to bringing that to life. And I would like streamers and studios to commit to giving them a chance, and marketing them properly so people know they exist. 

You can keep people satisficed with scraps for only so long. At some point, somebody is going to give them a whole seven course dinner and people will wonder why they’ve been putting up with starving this entire time.

[my-unorthodox-life]

okay can i vent for a minute? get real personal with all y'all?

i've been a tumblr user since i got my first tablet at age 12, over a decade of having at least one active blog (usually more) so it's safe to say i've both gotten my fair share of hate and found ways of using this app to benefit me and keep me detached from this hate

currently i have 4 active blogs, my main where i do the typical reblogging and updates on my fanfics, this one where i post like a proper blog and reblog jewish things that matter to me, my mental health recovery blog where i talk about my eating disorder and ptsd, and my adult one where i reblog fun sexy stuff and chat about the struggles of dating as sex positive people with trauma.

all very important to me and all have various levels of anonymity when it comes to knowing about me as a person. some have my name, some a nickname, one just my age. plus various tidbits so people know what to expect from my posts and what we can chat about, basic blog rules essentially

in the past few months as antisemitism has gotten more and more common place i of course get more anon hate, i don't turn of inboxes since i do get nice stuff from time to time, and that's kind of the territory of running a blog (i had a trans rights one in the age of kalvin garrah, i think i'll live)

out of those four blogs the one that gets the most antisemitic messages, i mean full paragraphs of truly vile ramblings that read like a nazi fever dream, is the one for my mental health recovery. a blog that i block all but mutuals on, meaning either a stranger or someone i've interacted with is sending these messages

i've started replying to them, cause i feel if they want to be mean and make a fool of themselves i might as well let everyone see (poor guy keeps sending me weird reviews of "my" wattpad fics. i've never had a wattpad account but this doesn't seem to stop him), but what gets me is that blog has the least personal information on it. no name or nickname, no hobbies or interests listed, nothing about what i do for work beyond "pet care", and the only mention of my religion or politics was one post that joking about how my mental health often gets worse around the high holy days (very demure, very mindful)

and yet that's the blog that gets straight up death threats, not even disguised as anything else, just straight up calling me a pig who deserves to burn. not the personal blog where i've posted about israel and palestine, or about dating while religious, or hell even this one that might as well be a "i'm a sensitive jewish minded person! thoughts?" blog.

no the one blog that people feel safe harassing is the nondescript recovery and relapse blog. that's where people feel comfortable.

and it makes me sad, not because of what was said, but because it *was* said. that there's people out there comfortable enough in their bigotry to go up to someone and spew vile hate like it's nothing, but only of course if they can't put a name or face to the person they're talking to

what this reminds me of is when i was in high school i had an art teacher who didn't stand for antisemitic jokes, and there were a lot in my school. one day a kid just asked him "Mr.Dexter, are you a jew?" and his response really stuck with me. he said "It doesn't matter, maybe I am, maybe I used to be, maybe my wife is. But you shouldn't not say mean things just because you don't want to get in trouble, you shouldn't say them because you know it's wrong. If you didn't know, you wouldn't ask."

and i think that really sums up all these trolls i've seen running through jewish blogs or even ones that casually mention it, they know it's wrong but the aren't saying it to a jewish face, they're just saying it to the idea of judaism

these people wouldn't walk up to you on the street and look you up and down and say half of what they feel comfortable typing, but here where they can not only hide their face, but seek out a target that has hidden their own they've found a way to give themselves free reign to say and do whatever they want. to them it's not a person on the other side of the screen, it's the strawman caricature of a jewish person, out here just for them to yell at to get whatever anger they have out of their system

of course there are some people who would say truly despicable things to a random person on the street, but cmon is that person really on tumblr hunting through buzz words to send hate?

anyways i know the compassionate thing to do would be to pray for them to heal what's hurting them so bad, but yanno what, they can suffer a bit first

[stars-and-clouds]

what is your personal take on astarion remembering the first decade of his slavery and the "darling boy/sweet man" that he didn't bring back? do you think he had romantic feelings for this person or do you think they were just the first of many other innocent souls that he had to stop feeling sorry/caring for because of what happened afterwards?

I have made a post about this before. Not exactly this, but I reference that incident as a sign of how protective a person Astarion naturally is.

I think Astarion is naturally a protector. Hence the fact that he even chose to be judge so he can help people find justice. Might not be the only reason he studied law, but certainly would've been a part of it.

I think when one is in the situation Astarion was in, one would find oneself finding anything to justify one's actions, especially when one can't control them. So, Astarion must've told himself, "most people are flawed or bad in some way so it's okay if I take them to Cazador." It's their punishment for not being better people. It's fair in a twisted manner of logic.

But, that logic must've not worked when he met this innocent guy, who was a "sweet, sweet man," and a "darling". I'm sure he would've felt very protective of the boy and maybe even liked him. It would've been wrong to take him to Cazador because there is no reason. That's why he ran away.

So, I don't think he was in love with the boy. Astarion is a realist and he would've been under no illusions that he can sustain any relationship with anyone outside of the palace (or even inside it. Slavers keep slaves separate bc there's power in unity.), nor would he have had the emotional availability for love. He doesn't even the emotional availablilty for it in the main campaign until act 3 lmao. He could've had a soft spot for the man, but not love.

I think Astarion stopped caring not after the boy but after Cazador's punishment. I cannot imagine even a few hours of being inside that tomb, let alone an entire year. That has to completely change a person. It is a lot of time to panic, think, breakdown, reflect, create resolutions and completely 180° your entire perspective on life. That's when I think Astarion became as selfish as he did.

He prayed to be saved, no one did. He tried doing good by saving the boy, and he got punished severely for it. He wanted to be a magister and be on the side of justice, but he got kidnapped for it. I feel like the boy was taken anyway by some other spawn, just to spite Astarion as well, so him running away was useless too.

I think being in that tomb changed Astarion completely and that's when he decided that being helpful and 'good' is not the right thing to do, so he became who he we meet in the main campaign. Selfish, ruthless and a realist.

[partyanimal167]

How Fitting- Crocodile x F!Reader

I'm so happy to see all the new Crocodile content here after that nice man's birthday, so I wanted to add something for all my fellow Croco simps. I've been meaning to write something, so it all worked out. The prompts for his birthday event were certainly helpful too (fashion, au). Requests are open too if anyone has any ideas.

CW: modern au, fluff, fem reader, no pronouns

In all fairness, you were not expecting to be measuring such a specimen within the first week of your job.

The family trade had been sewing for generations, and you were no exception when the call was at your door. Your slight rebellion got you into men's fashion however since you had fond and not-so fond memories of dresses, fluffy underskirts, and berserk brides. Oddly enough, you found yourself to be one of few women in that sector, but you didn't mind so much. You weren't a big name designer, so blending in was easy enough when necessary.

You worked at a well-known shop that had been a community staple for decades. You paraded around in the backrooms where bolts of fabric of all kinds of patterns and materials were stored. You weren't new to this line of work, but you figured you would do simple alterations since most repeat customers had their favorites amongst the tailors.

As you hemmed a pant leg, you heard the bell ring from the front. Soon after, your name was called by your beloved elder boss. You cheerfully walked towards the front not prepared for towering figure at the counter.

It was comical in a sense. Your boss was small and fragile looking compared to tall, muscular man who didn't seem to fit the quaint ambiance of the shop. However, your boss simply beamed at the man who despite having a serious demeanor held some fondness in his eyes.

"I want you to meet Sir Crocodile. He's a very loyal customer here, a familiar face."

You smiled kindly at the man and shook his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

The man's lips tugged in a slight grin as he lifted your hand for a soft peck. "Pleasure's all mine." You were surprised by the gesture, but didn't say anything.

"They're quite spectacular in their work. I hope you don't mind, but I'll have 'em take over for today's suit fitting." the old man went on.

You were caught off guard and held up your hands in defense. "Oh I couldn't possibly. I'm sure the gentleman would prefer your work."

The boss looked at your softly. "Please. My arthritis is acting up." He rubbed his hand for emphasis.

Well you couldn't argue with that.

...

The two of you moved to the back, and you couldn't help but notice the strength of the man's presence.

As you set up your work station, you peeked over.

Crocodile was a man of class. You weren't sure what he did professionally, but the fur-lined coat definitely meant money along with the adornment of rings. You made note of the sleek prosthetic as well that was just as much of a luxurious accessory as well as a functional piece. You could appreciate the sight.

You shook your head slightly before reaching for the roughed suit jacket draft. You glanced over the previously noted measurements and turned again.

Crocodile had taken off a few layers and seemed relaxed. He noted your expression and chuckled. "I'm not new to this."

You blinked before nodding and handing the jacket. "Certainly not."

He put it on and pressed it against himself. You held a couple pins between your lips as your checked the lengths with your tape. You hummed as you worked, but soon felt eyes watching you. You looked up and were met with those captivating golden eyes. "Is something wrong?"

The man grinned and shook his head. "Not at all. It's always satisfying watching a professional at work. "

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment and you turned away to feel the shoulders. "Everything comfortable?"

"Quite."

You two went on through the other elements and noted the addition of a notch for a lapel chain.

"What can I say? I'm a bit old fashion."

You giggled before finishing some adjustments. "I can certainly appreciate that."

"You seem to have a bit of personal style yourself." Crocodile motioned towards your silk tie.

You touched it fondly. "Ah this, it's a memento of my grandfather. He was an excellent suit designer."

"I've seen the design before, but I'm afraid to say I don't have one in my collection."

You stepped off the stool and without thinking much replied, "Well I'll be sure to make you one," then you realized, "of- of course, if you're interested."

Crocodile began to dress in his original clothes. "Certainly. I'd be honored."

You weren't quite sure how to respond, so you hummed as you looked over your notes. "There are only minor adjustments to be made before we finish off. We'll be sure to reach out as soon as your suit is complete."

The man nodded before turning to go. "I look forward to it."

~~~

It was just your luck that you were off the day that Crocodile picked up his suit. The custom tie had been included in the boxes, so there was that at least. You could only hope that you'd see him again. Though, a part of you was nervous that he would find something wrong with suit, but your boss simply stated that it was your newbie jitters.

You were out doing some errands outside the shop when you walked passed a well-known cafe. The smell of savory cigar smoke caught your attention, but you were going to continue walking until you heard your name called.

You turned and saw that well-dressed man approaching you--no suit coat in place and appreciated the fitted vest.

Your heart raced when he again kissed your hand in greeting. "Ah I'm sorry to have missed you when picking up my items."

You waved your hand simply and glanced away. "Oh it's alright. I just hope everything is to your liking."

"Of course, I'm happy to say that many have appreciated the new tie as well. Thank you again." he went on.

You swayed a little and scratched your cheek. "Ah that's wonderful news. I'm sure many would try to get it. Too bad that fabric is very limited in its production."

"I'll treasure any one-of-a-kind piece from you, my dear." that made you lost for words.

"Oh, I'm flattered."

"Only stating the truth." he paused. "How about you join me for lunch?"

You totally wanted to, but looked at your watched. "I'm afraid I have some more tasks to complete."

Crocodile looked a little shock to see someone turn him down but it was quickly replaced with a grin. He reached into his pocket before pulling out his wallet. He handed you a card and looked deep in to your eyes. "Well please reach out when you have a chance. Don't keep me waiting." the eyes kept you locked in and you nodded shyly.

"Of course not."

~~~

I was totally counting on this being a model au and that totally didn't happen. I liked this intimate version though. Crocodile is certainly getting his suits custom and tailored.

Happy birthday to that gruff bossman.

Thanks for reading!

[five-rivers]

Danger First Chapter 14

Wow! It's been a while!

.

"So, Midoriya," said Ms. Kayama, "putting together anything special for the Athlete's Oath?"

Izuku looked up from what was shaping up to be a fairly in-depth analysis of the second event of a sports festival that had occurred about a dozen years ago, a sense of dread pooling in his gut.  "What?"

Ms. Kayama smiled, brows pinching together just a smidge.  "The Athlete's Oath.  You were the top scorer on the entrance exam, weren't you?  I didn't get you confused with someone else, did I?"

"Oh, no," said Izuku, as he finally managed to put Ms. Kayama's question together with facts he'd known for years.  "I forgot the Athlete's Oath."

.

"Athlete's Oath?" repeated Yoichi.  "What's the Athlete's Oath?  Was it something Eighth had to do?  Nana, do you know?"

Nana raised an eyebrow.  "I was under the impression that all of you were here when Toshinori went here."

"Yeah," said En, "but that was about a hundred years ago."

"It was not," said Hikage.  

"It was just as long ago for me."

"Sure, but he was your kid," said Yoichi.  “Everyone remembers their kid better."

Nana made a face.  She… couldn't actually dispute that.  All these years later, she could still remember things like Kotaro's first day of school with blinding clarity. 

… and Toshinori's first day at UA, for that matter.  

"It's just a little… not a speech.  A recitation.  Just a few lines about playing fair and trying your best.  Used to be the top student of the third years would do it, but I guess they must have the top students for the first and second years do it as well, now that they're televised as well."

"Is Izuku the top student, then?" asked Yoichi.  

"The only test they've had is the entrance exam," said En with a shrug.  "Ninth got top in that, so…"

"And so, Eighth's bribery has led to Ninth's downfall," said Banjo in a falsely serious tone.  

"He didn't bribe anyone!"

"Izuku got in on his own merits!"

"Jeez, you guys can't take a joke."

Nana huffed.  "I just don't understand why they're so excited about it.  It's just a tiny thing.  You can read it from a little card."

.

As always, Izuku’s first resort was research.  He searched HeroTube for compilations of the most recent UA Athlete’s Oaths, and hit play.  

He watched the videos, chewing his lip.  There was just so much to do, so much to say–  How could he capture the spirit of Plus Ultra competition, his will to win and everyone else’s, the honor of competing, the honor of speaking for his entire year, all in only a few minutes?  In only a couple days, too.  

And without stuttering.  

He was going to die.  

No, no.  That was the wrong mindset entirely for a UA student with a shiny new hero name, much less All Might’s successor!  He could do this!  He would do this!  

He’d just… break down into tears a few times first.  

.

Nana felt eyes boring into the back of his head.

“Just a thing you can read from the back of a card?” asked Yoichi.  “This guy’s been talking for ten full minutes, and I don’t think he’s going to stop anytime soon!”

“I can feel you all judging me,” said Nana, “but I’ve been dead for decades.  It’s changed.  That happens.”

“You don’t have to feel me judging you, I’m doing it out loud.”

.

Izuku stared down at the pages and pages of repeatedly crossed out lines.  

“I don’t know why I thought I could do this,” he whispered.  “I couldn’t even come up with a hero name on my own.”

.

“This really isn’t a big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal!  Do you know how dangerous public speaking is?”

Nana turned to squint at Yoichi.  “When did you ever do public speaking?”

“Probably about the same time he went to school,” said En.  

“I did go to school!  Why will you not let that go?”

“Bizarre petty grudges and jokes are pretty much the only thing we can hold onto,” said En.  “That and the quirk.”

“Seriously, though, this isn’t going to kill him.”

“It isn’t?  What happens when my brother sees him on TV?  Speaking for the hero class?”

“Oh, yeah,��� said Banjo.  “That’s a thing.”

Yoichi threw up his hands.  “How did you guys forget?”

“I didn’t forget,” said Hikage.  

.

“Maybe I should ask Dad,” said Izuku.  “He probably talks to lots of people for his work…”

.

“No!” screamed all of the ghosts.  

.

“That's different than public speaking, though, isn't it?”  He let his head drop onto his open notebook, heedless of the ink and graphite getting on his face.  “At least it's only the first year speech.”

He sat up with renewed energy.

“And there's no way it’ll be worse than Endeavor's!”

.

“That's the spirit!” cheered Nana.  

“I thought we were the spirits,” said Hikage.  

“It's just an expression.”

“Are we spirits, though?” asked En.  

Banjo groaned.  “Please, kid, don't start on that again.”

.

Kaminari waved furiously from across the field as the purple-haired boy next to him did his best to hunch into his uniform and disappear.  Far behind them, Snipe sat reading a paperback novel.  “Hey!  Welcome to our awesome training montage!”

“You can't have a montage in real life,” said Jiro.  

“Watch me!” 

.

Once everyone arrived, Iida started chivying them all into a loose circle.  Well, Izuku reflected, Iida obviously wanted them in an exact circle but… even Izuku could see that was never going to happen. Then Iida cleared his throat portentously and Yaoyorozu stepped into the center.

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” she said.  “Especially those of you who aren't in 1-A, we understand this is a leap of faith, and what we're doing here is a little radical.  For today, our goals are for everyone to get to know each other and to start working out strategic teams.  So, let's start by just introducing ourselves.  I'll go first…”

.

The purple-haired boy was named Shinsou Hitoshi, and he had thus far been very reticent about his quirk. About talking at all, really, which was interesting, given his attempt at a declaration of war earlier. 

Interesting, not strange.  In a similar position of not-quite-enmity, Izuku would probably be on the lookout for potential weaknesses, too.  As long as Shinsou waited until the third event, though, that was fine.  It wasn't as if everyone in class 1-A didn't know each others’ quirks already.

That was all a very uncharitable way of thinking about Shinsou, though, and Izuku felt a little guilty thinking about things like that.  He wanted to become a hero, too.  

.

“Alright,” said Yaoyorozu, “now, remember, the first event is the elimination event.  Our researchers say we'll probably be racing, competing for some limited resource, or trying to avoid being tagged out in some way.  Even with the teachers trying to be unpredictable, the number of students does limit them.  All of the events we've been able to brainstorm favor mobility, so you want to be in a group that you can move well with. Defense is important, too.  Bakugou, at minimum, is a problem, and we have to assume the other classes will target us.”

“Bakugou's the crazy guy who chased Midoriya down at lunch the other day,” said Kaminari to Shinsou at a volume that was obviously meant to be a whisper, but fell far short of the mark.  

“He's not crazy,” protested Izuku.  “He's just.  Passionate.”

Everyone regarded him dubiously.  

.

Predictably, the groups initially split along lines of friendship, acquaintance, and obligation.  Yaoyorozu and Iida walked around for a while, trying to keep the groups more or less equal in size before settling into their own class leadership group, along with Monoma.

“A waltz of darkness and chaos,” muttered Tokoyami, barely getting out of the way of Satou, as his group, consisting of himself, Ojirou, Sero, and Hagakure, trundled towards a shadier spot.  

Hatsume laughed.  “If you think this is chaotic, wait until the sports festival!”

“She's right,” said Uraraka.  “So, Midoriya,  what do you think we should do?”

“Eh?  Me?”

“Your battle trial plan was quite impressive,” said Tokoyami.  “Your strategic acuity will cast a long shadow in the sports festival as well.”

“I don't know about that,” said Izuku.  But then he glanced at Monoma.  They probably only had about ten minutes left.  “I guess- I guess the most obvious thing is for us to be a rocket.”

.

“Ow,” said Uraraka, rubbing her head.  

“I think,” said Iida, also nursing several bruises, “we should have come up with a better way to steer before we tried that.  And brake.”

“Yeah… We did go fast, though.”

.

“But, Hatsume, your, um, your ba- your inventions–”

“Call ‘em my babies with your whole chest, grappling hook.”

“I think your babies would help any team, but that you'd do really well with Yaoyorozu.  And Uraraka and I should probably be on different teams, since we both have flight-capable quirks.  Even if we both have time-limit issues…”

“Aww,” said Uraraka, “you're probably right.  I was looking forward to working with you, though.”

“What about Fumi and me?  We can be on your team, right?” asked Dark Shadow.

Tokoyami ducked his head and tried to push Dark Shadow down.  “Don't ask questions like that.”

“I don't know if that'd be a good idea, since Bakugou's explosions can make a lot of light.”

“That just means we're destined to be arch-nemeses!”

.

Izuku sat down next to Hagakure, Aoyama, and Ashido. 

“Okay, Midori!” said Ashido.  “Come up with a super move for us!”

“I’m sure you will come up with something that sparkles,” said Aoyama.  

“Uh, um,” said Izuku, flustered.  “How about, um, Aoyama, is your laser just light?  Maybe it could go through Hagakure - if lasers going through you doesn’t hurt.”

“No, that’s one of the first things my quirk counselor tested,” said Hagakure.  “My parents wanted to make sure that all the light going through me wasn’t going to give me turbo cancer or something.  The real problem for me is that for me to do anything with my quirk, I’m going to have to be naked.  We have to wear our PE uniforms for the festival.”

“Oh, non,” said Aoyama.  “I’ve been given an allowance for my belt, surely they would give you one for your suit.  Anything else would be quite unfair.”

“Or you could ask Hatsume, see if she can make something for you that would work temporarily,” suggested Izuku.  “She’s really eager to work with everyone.  Or even just plastic clothing, from Yaoyorozu.”  They'd all have to be careful not to overtax Yaoyorozu, though.  Anything else would be unfair.  She had to save something for the final event.

“Okay, okay, okay, but what about super moves?” asked Ashido.  

“Or some things we can do during the event, anyway,” said Hagakure.

“Well, if you're with Aoyama, like I said, and his laser can go through you, that could be a really good way to get in a kind of sneak attack.  No one expects a person to be in the same area an attack just went through.”

.

“Lowest setting first, mademoiselle?” 

“Just hit me already, Twinkles!  I can take it!” shouted Hagakure from the other side of the field.  

 .

“Are- are you okay, Aoyama?” asked Izuku, after they'd tested Aoyama's laser on a number of settings.  

“Oh, oui, my quirk just upsets my stomach somewhat, you see.  And it seems as if Hagakure is, how should I say this, my natural enemy.”

.

(In truth, Aoyama was feeling ill, but not because of his quirk.  Rather, the problem was his quirk’s origin.  The man had demanded that Aoyama keep an eye on Midoriya - and, if possible, make him win the sports festival.  A minor thing, really!)

(If only Aoyama had the courage to defy the man.)

(He hoped Midoriya would be able to survive whatever All for One had planned for him.)

.

All for One sighed.  He wondered if he could find a good enough disguise quirk to take Izuku out for ice cream after he won the sports festival.  Or after he lost and was properly filled with hatred for hero society.

“Sensei?” said Ujiko.  “Are you alright?”

“No.  You're being incredibly boring.”

.

“Ashido, how acidic does your acid have to be?  And is it always the same substance, just at different concentrations, or can you make different substances, as long as they're acidic?”

“Um,” said Ashido.

.

“I think that's it for me, today,” said Ashido, sitting down.  “I'm going to have to drink, like, a dozen liters of Gatorade or something.  You're brutal for someone so cute, did you know that, Midori?”

“He'd have to be, to get through the entrance exam without using a physical quirk,” said Hagakure, dragging Ashido back up.  “Come on, we still have the gym for fifteen, and I want feedback.”

“You're both brutal.”

.

“Um,” said Izuku, sidling up to Shinsou, notebook in hand.  “Your quirk is a mind control type, right?”

Shinsou, scowled down at Izuku.  “It's Brainwashing,” he said, rather gruffly.

“Oh, wow, that's great.  Mind control quirks are actually perfect for hero work, but the stigma means hardly any heroes have one.  Like, you could stop a fight before it even started, or get villains to surrender right away, or help civilians who are too panicked to move properly, or heroes who are compromised, or who would otherwise have trouble cooperating with each other, for whatever reason.  It’s really too bad that the entrance exam is all robots.”

Shinsou stared at him.  

“Any- anyway, I've heard that some- some quirks can interact unexpectedly with mental quirks, and I've noticed you're not-  You don't seem to be using it, much, even though we have permission here, and…  Um.  Just saying, you can practice on me, if you'd like.”

“Oh!  Or me!” said Kaminari, popping up seemingly out of nowhere.  “We should test and see if you can get me when I'm in wheyyy mode, or Satou when he's powered up!”

“What does that even mean?” demanded Shinsou.  He allowed Kaminari to drag him on, however.  

“Oooooooh,” said Izuku, his plan to test out the ‘hallucination’ thing Mr. Yagi had explained all but forgotten.  “That's a great idea!  I'll take notes!”

.

“I know it's a little disappointing that we didn't get a chance to appear to Ninth,” said Nana, “but don't you think you're overdoing this a little?”

Yoichi rolled over so that he was face up in his Bog of Despair.  “No,” he said, before rolling back over.  

“Forget that,” said Third.  “Am I the only one at all disturbed by how he's picking apart all the other kids’ quirks?”

“Yes,” chorused the other ghosts.

.

Izuku stood at the classroom door for several blank minutes.  Where was everyone?  Did he… Get the date wrong?  No, there was enough security outside to defeat a small army.  Which was probably the point, come to think of it.  Was he late?  Had he missed the sports festival?  When he was the one giving the opening speech for the first years?  

Forget public humiliation, he was going to be expelled.  As soon as Mr. Aizawa saw him, he would–

“Midoriya, what are you doing here?  Why aren’t you in the prep room?” 

Izuku squeaked.  Then he registered what Mr. Aizawa had said.  “Prep room?” he repeated.  “Oh, yeah!  The prep room!  Thank you, Mr. Aizawa!”

.

Shouta sighed as his number one problem child scurried away.  How illogical…  But there would be time to work on his memory and situational awareness in the future, and it would be downright hypocritical to scold him about it now.  

He shuffled into the classroom, careful about his bandages, because he had just been scolded by Recovery Girl.  The lights buzzed when he turned them on, more obvious without the students there… although they did have competition from the roar of the crowds in the festival stadium.  

He walked over to his desk and knelt to retrieve his stash of jelly pouches, especially the coffee ones.  Which he also wasn’t supposed to have, but what Recovery Girl didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.  Or cause her to hurt him, which was the more pertinent issue from his perspective.  If he was going to survive announcing the first year’s festival by himself, he was going to need them.  

Now weighted down, he started hobbling back to the stadium and the announcer’s box. Jelly was heavy, as it turned out.  

Recovery Girl really would kill him if she found out.  He sped up.  Not a lot.  Just a little.  Just in case.  He certainly wasn’t moving as fast as Midoriya had.

He made his way through staff passages, avoiding most of the crowds and pleasantly nodding to heroes who had been asked to come serve as security.  Finally, and in good time, too, because his stupid injured body was starting to get winded, he reached the announcer’s box and opened the door.  

“Yagi,” said Shouta, “what are you doing here?”  He shook off the sense of deja vu.

“Oh,” said Yagi, brightly.  “Young Aizawa!  I was getting worried that something had happened to you.  Principal Nezu thought that you could use some assistance here, with young Yamada being otherwise occupied.”

And so he’d replaced one loud blond with another.  He couldn’t even be that mad about it.  

“You have any training for this?” he asked instead.  

“Well, not for announcing sports events in particular,” said Yagi.  “But I have a lot of media and commercial experience and I’ve been practicing cheering on my students!”

“Right,” said Shouta, who was feeling as if he’d somehow asked a stupid question.  “Just don’t show too much favoritism.”

“Oh, I’d never!  After all,” and here he grew much more grim, “you know as well as I do, the risks of putting too much attention on young Midoriya.  Besides, young Yamada gave us a ‘cheat sheet!’”

.

Izuku, dressed in his PE uniform, stumbled into 1-A’s prep room.  

“Hey!” said Kaminari.  “It’s Midoriya!  We were getting worried about you, man!”

“Ah, y-yeah,” said Izuku.  “I wound up going to the classroom instead.”

“Huh,” said Jiro, “you’d think your quirk would have warned you against that.”

“Um, yeah,” said Izuku, “but I guess it wasn’t really dangerous to go to the wrong spot at first?  Especially since I got here okay, eventually, right?”  

There was a murmur of agreement, but with a slight uneasy undercurrent.  

“There’s not any real danger in the sports festival, either, though, is there?” asked Yaoyorozu.  

“I- I mean, there’s the danger of getting beaten up?”  And he’d been able to feel danger from wrong answers on a test before, so…  This should be the same kind of thing, right?

Yaoyorozu nodded.  “Right.  There is that.”

“Don’t worry, Midoriya,” said Uraraka, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.  We did so much studying for this, after all.”  She held up a fist.  “I’m feeling confident!  That’s for sure!” 

“Yes!” said Monoma, who twirled over with Aoyama.  “I, too, am confident that we will defeat those philistines in class 1-B, not to mention everyone else!”

“Oui,” said Aoyama, “our performance will be tres magnifique!”

“Don’t forget we have allies in other classes, you two,” said Yaoyorozu, slightly exasperated.  

“Yes,” said Monoma, “but neither of them are in 1-B.  We have the excellent Mock and the ingenious Brigid to support us.”

Ashido sighed heavily.  “Speaking of support, I sure wish I could’ve used my costume.”

“It’s to keep things fair,” said Ojiro with a shrug.

Iida power-walked into the room.  “IS EVERYONE GOOD AND READY?” he shouted, clearly as nervous as Izuku, but trying to cover it up with sheer volume.  “THE EVENT’S ABOUT TO START!  Ahem.  Where is Todoroki?”

“Oh, jeez,” said Ashido, raising a hand to her lips.  “He never came to any of our practices, so I just sort of forgot he should be here…”

Honestly, so had Izuku.  Todoroki had quite the presence, but he could also fade into the background with surprising ease.  Maybe it was just because he hardly talked?  More importantly, what had happened to him?  Was he sick?  Did he get lost like Izuku did?  Did he get kidnapped by people trying to get at his father?  Endeavor might not have the social and political weight that All Might could bring to bear, but Number Two Hero wasn’t an empty title at all.  Maybe he–

Izuku’s thoughts ground to a confused halt when Todoroki casually walked into the room.  

Oh.  He was just late.  

Todoroki stood up in front of the room, clearly intending to make some sort of address.  

“Er,” said Izuku, “Todoroki, what is it?”

“Objectively speaking,” said Todoroki, “I’m stronger than all of you.  Even if you’re all working together… even if All Might has his eyes on you, Midoriya, no matter the reason…  I will beat you.”

"Did he just… declare a rivalry with… all of us?" asked Sero, quietly.  In the hush that followed Todoroki’s words, he might as well have shouted.    

"Can you do that?" asked Kaminari.  "Is that allowed?"

.

“He's got a point,” said Banjo.  “A rival is like a nemesis, or a girlfriend, you can only have one at a time.”

“That's not true,” said Yoichi.  “You can have more than one girlfriend at a time.”

En squinted at him.  “Again, aren’t you gay?”

“Multitudes, En, multitudes.”

.

“Aw, come on, man,” said Kirishima, “do you really have to pick a fight with all of us, now?  We’re about to go on and fight anyway.  Make your statement on the field!”

“I don’t care.  I’m not here to make friends.”  He shouldered past Kirishima and left the room.  

“Uh,” said Midoriya, “that… was something.”

“Yeah,” said Jiro.  “Does he intend to just wait in the hall or something?  We’re all going to the same place.”

Tokoyami shook his head, Dark Shadow mirroring him.  “What a mad banquet of darkness.”

.

“Wow,” said Yoichi, chuckling.  “Sometimes I forget how needlessly dramatic teenagers can be.”

All the ghosts, except Second, turned to stare at him.   

“How needlessly dramatic teenagers are?” repeated Nana.  

“Yes?”

“Have you not been sharing the same afterlife as the rest of us, or what?”

.

The class waited in the tunnel, fidgeting, bouncing, flexing, whispering.  Any minute, now, they’d be called in, to take their place on the field in front of the cameras.  

Any minute, now.  

“Is it just me,” whispered Uraraka, “or is this taking a really long time?”

“I am sure our eagerness is only making time appear to be passing more slowly than it really is!” said Iida.  

“No,” said Monoma, frowning, “they really are starting late.  I wonder if it’s a problem with the cameras, or if something else happened.  Midoriya, have you noticed anything?”

Izuku shook his head.  “I d-don’t think so? Just, um, just nervous for the event!  I think.  I hope nothing’s– nothing’s gone wrong.”

.

Shouta and Yagi bent their heads over Hizashi’s so-called cheat sheet.  

“I’m not reading this,” said Shouta.  

“This is…  I thought we were supposed to avoid favoritism in these things,” said Yagi, sounding incredibly confused.  “What– What’s this about a ruthless grand battle?  That doesn’t really… sound heroic…”

“Yeah, this is just typical Hizashi.  Trash it and come up with one of those inspiring speeches you like so much.”

.

The intercom speakers crackled into life overhead.  

“Welcome to the UA Sports Festival!”

“Is that…?”

“All Might!” squeaked a Gen Ed student several rows back.  

“The once-a-year event where our new students show how they can go PLUS ULTRA!”

The crowd outside, in the stadium, cheered wildly.  

“First, put your hands together for a class that has already faced some of the worst the world of villains has to offer and PERSEVERED!  Class 1-A!”

Somehow, they managed to turn their initial rushed stumble into a confident march before they emerged from the mouth of the tunnel.  Izuku squinted against the light at first, but recovered quickly and attempted to mimic Iida’s wave.  

“And next up, we have an equally worthy group of young heroes, who have been polishing their skills until they shine like the stars they are!  Class 1-B!”

As the classes emerged, Mr. Yagi continued to read out names and short accolades, and Izuku started to feel like he was about to throw up.  Oh, there were a lot of people here, and once all the classes came out, he would be speaking in front of them.  

.

“Well, this is it, guys,” said Yoichi.  “The last minutes of Hisashi not knowing Izuku is in the hero course.”

“I'm still not sure why you think he doesn't know already,” said Nana, crossing her arms.  “You were listening to the conversation they had about hero names, right?”

“Are you kidding?  That's how I know he has no idea.  That was classic Hisashi, existing in his own world, having a completely different conversation than the other person.  That's why he got my lab partner deported when I was an undergrad.  He heard the word partner, and he immediately assumed our relationship was romantic.”  Yoichi shook his head sadly.  

“New question,” said Banjo.  “Did All for One ever go to school?”

“When in reality, Chan and I had only just started discussing the possibility of a QPR…”

“No, seriously, what is that guy's level of education?”

“They had to go back to China…  It was tragic.  Almost as tragic as Izuku inheriting that particular personality quirk.”

“Ew, don't talk about Ninth inheriting quirks from him,” said En.  

“I agree,” said Hikage.  

“Thank you,” said En.  

“That was indeed a tragic turn of events, Yoichi.”

“Is no one else interested in whether or not All for One graduated high school?”

“Furthermore, I believe that the danger involved in a non-ceiling vaulting and the preceeding kidnapping would trigger far more anxiety that Ninth is currently experiencing.”

“Er, thanks, Hikage, but you don't have to say ‘non-ceiling.’”

“Hey!” snapped Nana.  “Ninth's speech is starting, and I, at least, want to hear it.”

.

“Now!” said Ms. Kayama, brightly, snapping her whip to get the attention of people close to the stage.  “The athlete’s oath!  Your student representative, from class 1-A, is Wonder!”

Izuku pasted on his best smile and climbed the stairs.

[across-every-universe]

In which Julian learns to fight back.

Two wooden clack-s break through the courtyard between the buildings at headquarters, and then the rough, beat-up surface of a dummy sword scratches at my neck.

“Dead,” the flat voice in front of me declares.

I’ve been backed down onto one knee on the ground, my boyfriend-turned-swordsmanship-instructor announcing my defeat. I’m breathing hard, my legs long since fed up with all the maneuvering and dodging he’s putting me through, and I’ve learned so many patterns of attack and defense it feels like they could fall out my ears.

“You’re being awfully critical,” I remark as I get to my feet and brush the gravel off of my knee.

“And you’re the one who said we should take this seriously,” K.aeya retorts.

“Only to get you to stop making innuendos.”

“Well, I’ve stopped.”

He’s infuriating. I hate him.

“What went wrong that time?” he prompts, backing up to his starting position. That’s been the game now, ever since he became determined earlier this afternoon to teach me ‘self-defense.’ He finds a new way to kill me, and I try to figure out how I could’ve stopped it.

“I, uh… I didn’t cover my left side,” I say, absent-mindedly tossing my wooden sword between my hands. It’s my best guess.

“Correct.” He tips his fake sword at me. “I’ve shown you multiple times that I’m going to try and come at you from that direction. It’s a pattern. You’re supposed to pick up on it.”

I sigh at him.

“Don’t give me that look. I told you, you need to-”

“-to know the enemy, yes.” I echo his words for what feels like the tenth time.

“Ready?” He raises his sword, and an eyebrow.

“Ready.”

Our shoes crunch on the gravel. Clack. Swish. “Dead. Too much to the left, this time. Don’t overcompensate. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Clack. Step. Breathe. Think. Think-!

“Dead. Don’t step out too far, you won’t be able to get back to your center. Ready?”

…“Dead. Keep your legs bent.”

…“Dead.”

“Dead!”

“Dead-”

Gods! I stop short of swearing out loud in frustration. Self-defence, my ass! I’m not cut out for this, and he knows it. “Do you just, like, enjoy tormenting me or something?” I laugh, exasperated, as I smack his wooden sword away from my heart for the umpteenth time.

“Gotta be ready for anything!” he chirps, spinning his sword and smiling at me in that way that makes the corners of his mouth sharp and his eye flash.

“Well why do I have to be ready for this?” I counter. “You know, most people don’t go around whacking me with wooden sticks. I don’t know if this is a relevant skill, personally.”

“It’s usually not wooden sticks, darlin’.” He pauses his pent-up energy to level a look at me. There’s something knowing in his eye, the steel he pretends that isn’t there, forged by the decade of missions and monster-fighting and knowledge I wouldn’t begin to have. His world is more dangerous than mine, even though both worlds occupy so much of the same space. I’ll never have to use this knowledge, but I’ll also never be able to convince him of that.

“That’s fair,” I say, my voice light. His oh-so-helpful words from earlier poke at my head again. ‘Know your enemy.’ He wants me to learn the fighting patterns he’s putting on, far more obvious than he’d ever be in a real battle, to teach me how to learn how my opponent thinks. He’s made a mistake, though. In being so thorough in his instruction, and so thoroughly annoying in his methods, he’s made it personal. ‘The enemy’ isn’t the random assailant he’s pretending to be. It’s him, and I’m gonna win.

I’ve got an idea.

This time when he raises his sword, I know he sees the hint of mischief in my eyes. I can’t hide it from him, I’ve never been able to hide much of anything from him. I need to do something as a cover. He steps forward, and I evade the first swing he’s deliberately telegraphed to give me a chance. Before he swings again, I abandon anything resembling the technique he’s trying to teach me and just try to whack him. I swing my wooden sword around with reckless abandon, laughing triumphantly.

He blocks it easily, and snatches it out of my hands for good measure with a look of good-natured disapproval. “Definitely dead. You never learn, do you? Thought that would help you?”

“You’re no fun.”

“One more time?” He offers me my sword back.

“Fine. One more time,” I agree, and it doesn’t take much effort to put on a face of genuine frustration and fatigue.

He lunges forward again, in one of the attacks he specifically taught me, and I block it just how he showed me to. We’re even closer now, and when he brings his sword down again, I overextend my arm during my motion to defend from it. The wood of his sword meets mine much closer to my hand than it should’ve done and I stagger backwards, yelping in pain. I curl protectively around my right hand as I take the sword out of it with my left. My expression falls, wincing.

“Julian?” He steps forward quickly, his face confused. He could’ve sworn he felt wood, not fingers, when he landed the blow. But he’s also learned that I have a much greater capacity for trouble than he’d ever anticipated. “Hey darlin’, I’m sorry, I didn’t—” He places a hand on my shoulder, leaning in and trying to get a look at the hand I’m favoring. “You okay?” He ducks his head, reaching for my fingers.

The rough, beat-up surface of a wooden sword scratches at the back of his neck. “Dead,” I say in a triumphant voice, my sword in my left hand held up behind him. His eye goes wide in surprise, just as mine spark with glee, all attempts at feigning injury abandoned.

“Oh, you cheat,” he says incredulously, releasing my shoulder by shoving me back playfully. “That doesn’t count, you yielded-”

“Didn’t yield.” I cut him off, grinning victoriously. I watch the contemplative frown form on his face as he runs through his memory and realizes I’m right.

“But,” I continue, “I did know my enemy.” And it’s my turn to tip my sword at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, you-” He cuts himself off with a huff, trying his best not to smile. It’s a rare thing, seeing him speechless. “Practice is done,” he says, the words woven through a reluctant laugh. “I’m clearly incapable of bettering you.”

[cakesandfail]

Do you have any headcanons about how Vetinari ended up taking power?

Actually yes I do!

I wrote a fic about his first day in power that vaguely referenced this and while I don't have like, a fully fleshed out story, there are a few bits and pieces that I sort of bodged together from things in the books and what I personally find entertaining about him as a character:

There's a bit in Soul Music which says that there was a rat plague in Ankh-Morpork shortly before Vetinari came to power, and that his solution was "tax the rat farms". It's unclear in context whether this means he suggested it at the end of Snapcase's time in power or if it was one of the first things he did after he became Patrician. I've just gone ahead and assumed that the rat plague was the last straw for Snapcase and that actually having a good suggestion was one of the reasons Vetinari was in people's minds as a replacement

That then leads us to ask, well, what on earth was he doing there? He's been in power a fair while even by Guards Guards but chronologically must still only be in his early 40s by then, to have been in his late teens in the 30-years-ago bits of Night Watch (and he can't be older than that, because it's made fairly clear that he's in the Guild equivalent of secondary school at that time, and Vimes knows that the two of them are approximately the same age). Given his canonically hilariously long list of postgrad qualifications, he probably went straight from Assassins Guild grad school to the Oblong Office, more or less. Conclusion: he was the fucking INTERN. (or possibly working as a clerk, but calling him the intern is at least 500% funnier)

Given the running joke about him being this weird posh dude who doesn't seem like a threat until you remember where he was educated, I would imagine that his whole "ah capital jolly good here I go getting slang wrong again" bullshit started here. We know that among the Ankh-Morpork elite, pretending to be stupider than you really are is something that can both keep you safe and help you get away with a lot, because we see Vetinari and Vimes and Sybil do it. So this is where he got his practice. Bertie Wooster the FUCK out of your working day, quietly get on with the things that need to be done while nobody's looking, and nobody will realise because they just think you're Madam's weird nephew with the shit beard and the puppy

So, bearing all that in mind, picture this:

Snapcase is dead. The important people (at least, the people who think themselves important) converge on the palace. In a small room off the Oblong Office is a young man steadily working through a large pile of paperwork. Oh, yes, that's Madam's nephew, you know... Havelock, isn't it? They ask if he knows what's happened, and he says no, he has no idea, he's just been working his way through all these regulations, and gosh, they really are very dull. And... well... nobody else is here. And nobody else seems to understand the filing system, or the rest of the staff, or anything really. But he does.

This guy's had a few good ideas when he's been doing the minutes at various meetings, that makes him a plausible candidate surely? And he's so young, so he's going to need a lot of guidance from helpful, experienced folks, right? How useful. He's just smart enough not to be an obvious puppet. Very handy indeed.

And the cream of Ankh-Morpork society being what they are (truly the cream- rich and thick) they don't realise until it's far too late that this lanky goth weirdo they'd thought would do their bidding knows everything about everyone and he's been quietly furious about the result of the Glorious 25th for over a decade. And, whoops, they'd somehow forgotten that he didn't spend all of that time on Guild postgraduate courses doing resits. Oh dear. And now he's their boss.

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

Do you have anything to say about my baby, the Honda CR-Z?

(Please excuse the low resolution, I wanted to introduce it with a pic from my collection and this was the only stock one I had)

Oh, the CR-Z... Pepperidge Farm here remembers obsessively following its debut on Top Gear Magazine! Pepperidge Farm and not many others, it seems, as in present day the CR-Z seems to be as relevant in today's car world as basket weaving. Wait, no, less.

In fact, coming up with an answer to this question was the most I thought about the CR-Z in almost a decade.

But thought I have, so here's your answer:

I don't get it.

I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like it! I am on record as a serial Honda liker -hell, to those who think it counts I own one- and I see no reason this one should buck the trend (although I've always felt it would look better with something between the headlights to stop it looking so big-snooty, as the bumper below does a good enough job of exemplifying that I won't bother rendering something better).

It's just that... I don't know what the point of it was. And looking at its sales that seems to be the experience of most vertebrates.

(To be fair, U.S. sales started in August 2010 and production ended in 2016 with the following years's sales just being stock clearing - but still, pretty bleak picture.)

It's not like we don't know what Honda were going for, they told us plainly: it's a sporty hybrid car, light on the wallet but heavy on the fun. And Honda would know of sporty compacts - what were they producing as the CR-Z rolled out?

Oh. It's the most hated of all six Civic Type R generations. Hm.

It's a joke, "most hated Civic Type R generation" is a bit like saying "most normal Kia Soul commercial".

If that car looks unfamiliar to you yankees, however, that's because y'all got different looking Civics for a while, such that your sporty Civic was this, the Si - seen here in the bewinged Mugen trim.

The Si is meant to sit below the Type R, but, since America wasn't getting the Type R, the yankee Si and non-yankee Type R were free to get the same 200hp from the same venerable engine (one day I'll go over all that makes the K20 so great) and the usual great handling, courtesy among plenty things of a limited slip differential. Wait, why is that not a link? Ah, right, I've never explained differentials... well, for now you can just trust that it's a cool type of differential that helps maintain grip when you're giving it the beans. Wait. Is it "giving it the beans" because you're stomping the gas pedal? Surely not. What is it from? Let me google this... Okay, sources seem scarce and shaky but apparently the idea was that if you fed horses beans they wou- wait this post is about the CR-Z. How did we get here? I swear this NEVER happens.

In short, Honda knew, and has always known, how to make proper sporty cars and give them great engines, whatever their size. So can it possibly have been a surprise when this thing came out and, forget motoring journalists, even the more talkative stray cats were meowing that the CR-Z did not have the engine grunt to back up its sporty pitch?

And look, if anyone here will say a car with as little as 120-130hp cannot be worth bothering with, it won't be a diehard of the Mazda Miata, which sold well over half a million units no more powerful than that. But that's a car that focused on open top enjoyment and getting a lot out of a little, just like the 60s European spiders it threw back to. What did the CR-Z throw back to?

Well that'll be the CR-X.

Introduced in 1983, the CR-X was a coupe version of the Civic of the time (hence its 1987 update corresponding with the Civic's). And just like the Civic in question, it is most fondly remembered for its sporty, proper-fun Si guise (pronounced "ass eye", because eye me dat ass) and the even sportier SiR that yankees never got. Which makes perfect sense, considering its main appeal against the Civic was the sportier looks.

Sure, since the CR-X left us North America got a Civic coupe in its stead, but am I going to pretend this thing looked half as good as the CR-Z that was about to join the lineup?

Not for free I'm not.

So now, imagine the stellar engine and manual transmission from a Civic Si/Type R, but now with electric assistance for even more power AND fuel efficiency, all in a car hundreds of kilos lighter, significantly shorter -thus more agile- and with the sleek CR-Z looks.

Then keep imagining.

The CR-Z never got an Si or Type R version, it was just left to sit there with its 122hp (later begrudgingly upped to 130) that, forget the contemporary sporty Civics, compared unfavorably to its 30 year old predecessor.

The CR-X was the sportier Civic. If its successor gets walked not just by the Civic but even by the CR-X itself, what's the point of the resurrection?

However, I concede there's an objection to this argument: this graph.

These are the US sales figures for the second generation CRX (which I think dropped the dash?), and, if you were to be able to parse it, you'd notice that the sporty Si version made up about a third of the sales - meaning most buyers forewent the sportiness in favor of the lower cost of the standard DX model or the High F-iciency of the even slower HF model. So if those versions sold well, why shouldn't the CR-Z have?

Well, if you ask me: image is more than looks.

This blog -and other affiliated entities- touched on the concept of race wins on Sunday bringing sales on Monday, and the same phenomenon happens with cool sport versions. Today's Corolla is a much cooler car in the eyes of the people who see in it the underlying foundation of its extraordinary GR version, and this phenomenon is most amplified the smaller the gap -or perceived gap, at least- between the version you're admiring and the more modest version you could realistically be interested in. I strongly believe that many people bought the dog slow CRX HF because the CRX Si ingrained within them the idea that they were buying something cool.

And Honda, as we touched on, had the perfect engine to dump into the CR-Z to make a wicked sport version. Hell, they could even have just given its regular engine forced induction - and we know it because the CR-Z Mugen RZ did just that!

Here at last was a perfectly respectable sport version that, while still underneath the Civic's best power-wise, was more than good enough to make car enthusiasts give a damn about the CR-Z. And what did Honda do with it? They limited the production to 300 units and only sold them in Japan. Take a fucking drink.

I cannot fathom why they would do that. It's not that they couldn't homologate the power additions or whatever, because a. that doesn't justify the limited production run and b. the supercharger (or at least a supercharger, not sure if it's the same) was made available in the US in the form of a dealer-fitted optional extra. Not by selling a supercharged special version altogether, no no, that may cause the public to -gasp- notice and care.

What was the point? Were they deliberately trying to keep the CR-Z's image one of an efficiency-focused... sleek hatch-coupe with minimal backseats?

Wait what?

Dear God, yankees, what have you done to Honda to get done so comically dirty?

Is it just that they thought y'all too big to fit back there?

That makes it even crazier!

Why in tarnation would they think people would care about a sleek, three-door, two seat, manual... efficiency-oriented hybrid?

Oh, right. Because they made the first generation Honda Insight. Which I myself love.

This was even sleeker and more hardcore than the CR-X: it was as light as the lightest ones despite the electric powertrain, it did without backseats entirely, it was the most aerodynamic production car that had ever been built... but all this wasn't about performance at all. It was about milking every drop of your hard-earned fuel for every single fucking inch of forward movement it was worth.

And it sold very well! I mean, look at the yearly sales figures!

Look how much America loved it! In a year of production that started from December it sold around a third the units the CRX sold in a full year!

So imagine what the production numbers were like for the year 2000!

huh?

Oh you mean these are the total sales. Like, all the first generation Insights ever sold in its entire six years and change of production. Oh. And it totals to like 17.000. Which is around how many CRX Si they sold in a year in North America alone. Hm.

Yeah, it suddenly makes a lot more sense how the second generation Insight was a Prius wannabe.

In fact, now that I look at it... that back looks familiar, doesn't it?

Wait...

Wait!

Well, now suddenly the car makes a lot more sense. And actually, come think of it, let me check the sales figures for the Mk2 Insight...

Considering, again, the CR-Z's US debut happened in August 2010, they match up pretty well, and it would be a pretty reasonable sales split if we were to consider them the 5 and 3 door versions of the same car.

Now, this may make it seem like it wasn't such a failure after all, and it did well in the segment it was actually intended to compete in. But let's give some context on how good those Insight sales figures are.

Yeah. Yeah no. The second Insight just wasn't a hit either.

But at least, now I can say I get the car. The Insight was pretty big and... uncool, so the CR-Z was a good way to offer that same hybrid efficiency to people who wanted a more compact, sleeker package - though perhaps not as extreme as the first gen Insight. Unless you're a yankee, I assume.

The name still doesn't make sense.

I mean, it would if I could see Honda seeing CR-X as just... a body style, and its resurrection of it akin to resurrecting, say, the Civic Shuttle.

(It was the only side picture I had saved.)

And Honda's press material made another point to this end, that I wasn't aware of.

So sure. Point taken. The CR-X was shaped by the quest for efficiency, so it follows that its successor would be efficiency focused as well.

But that's not how the CR-X is remembered. In everyone's minds, the CR-X is cemented as the sporty version (that Honda sold, mind - this is not like with the Supra, whose reputation was defined by modders). And the weirdest thing is, they don't just know that, they bring it up.

And indeed, they call the CR-Z's role "quite different from the original Insight coupe's" - they want this car to "change the current perception of hybrids" by blending hybrid efficiency and sportiness. They rightly sell its looks as sporty, take great pride in the manual transmission and explicitly state it's for driver engagement, over and over talk about 'enthusiastic' owners and 'enthusiastic' driving and 'enthusiastic' engine note etc etc. They brag about how much of a difference their Sport mode makes. They call attention to the valves per cylinder. They constantly remind of how (unlike the Insight) it has the legendary V-TEC. (If this is the first you hear of it, ask about it in the tags).

This is the press release for a sports hatch.

But when time came to give it a sports hatch's power? Japan got 300 units, North America got a dealer-fitted kit with a numbered plaque two years before the car's nixing, and we had to hope to never have a flat tire because Europe didn't get jack.

Was it to avoid stepping on the toes of the sporty Civics, because if the sporty CR-Z's potential buyers will otherwise just get a sporty Civic then why make two models to get the same amount of buyers? If so, I'll tell you why: because that was the only chance of moving regular CR-Zs, which surely must have been a worthwhile pursuit if you made the damn thing.

Was it the fear of a power-focused engine resulting in fuel economy so underwhelming it would undermine the model's eco premise? If so, heyo, you have electric assistance, which means you can either get more speed out of the same engine marking a win for the hotboys or get the same speed out of a more efficient package - and in both cases you're showing a hybrid powertrain bringing something to the table, which is how you actually "change the perception of hybrids" in the minds of people who consider them synonymous with boring.

I'm not saying my counters are bulletproof or that there is no argument against a hot CR-Z. I'm just saying that if there is, it's an argument against the regular CR-Z also. Because if the CR-Z was never to be something worth considering over anything that could be called sporty, then they should never have bothered to begin with - at least, if they were going to aim it so squarely at "the enthusiastic drivers".

In short,

Honda sought to make a sportscar - be it to sell the car itself or to sell a concept like "we're committed to preserving driving enjoyment even into electrification" or "hybrids are cool, so buy a hybrid, and please don't whine if we ever need to make a hybrid Type R or whatever thanks". And I'm always down for Honda building a sportscar. It was Honda that wasn't, for whatever reason. And so there the CR-Z stood, waiting until its passing for a sportier engine that would show the world how cool it was. But it never came. And it bugs me. Because I find it a shame. Because I remember reading of the Mugen prototype and waiting with bated breath for the production version that we ultimately never got. Because I still would love to see them about more than I do. Because I wish the second generation that apparently was in the works got to see the light of day.

Because, even after all these days of thinking about Honda's strategy and learning all we went over, and perhaps because of it,

I still don't get it.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

[sunwarmed-ash]

Thank You For Your Patience!! (Sinful Sunday Post)

As a thank you for being patient and sweet while I sorted my life out, I'm gonna post 4 lil Sinful Sunday snippets today! These will NOT be posted to ao3 until their debut! Get em while they're hot

Part 4: Alpha Dog & Omegalomaniac- Beta!El x Alpha!Peter x Omega!Neal

“Uh oh, I know that face,” El says, taking a seat at the kitchen table next to her partner of over a decade. “Don’t tell me you're thinking about Neal Caffrey again. I've been competing with him for years!”

“He would have been released today,” Peter sighs, taking El’s hand and squeezing. He loves her so much. She's so perceptive while also being emotionally skilled enough to navigate tough conversations with him. “He’s just started another 4 year sentence.”

“You considering his offer? Well, that’s a silly question,” she chuckles to herself, “obviously you are or you'd be in bed with me.”

Peter smiles and mentally praises her perception once again. 

“There's more to this escape El. Some angle he’s playing. There has to be. It can’t just be some ‘lost love.’ Neal doesn’t do anything halfway.”

“Mmhm,” El agrees, looking at him suspiciously. “Let me see if I got this right. You’re suggesting he escaped a maximum security prison knowing full well you'd be the one to catch him, just so he could trick you into letting him out again?”

“Well I guess it does sound ridiculous when you put it like that.”

She smiles and kisses his fingers. 

“He served the time you put him in there for. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

“He just put himself back in jail for four more years and for what?”

“For what? Peter... You’re saying, if you were Neal, you wouldn’t have run for me?”

“I- of course I would!” 

“Well there you go,” she beams.

“He’s an Omega,” Peter admits suddenly. He doesn't mean to, it just sorta flies out of him. And once he does, all of her body language shifts. Monumentally. 

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“When?”

“When I saw him a few weeks ago. I haven't been able to shake the feeling something is wrong ever since.”

“You knew that and you let him go back in there anyway?”

She’s right. He knows she's right. Peter should have done the morally right thing and at least found a way to move Neal into protective custody after he found that out. Just to be on the safe side. But he didn't. 

“I thought, maybe he was lying. Ya know? A- A last ditch attempt, at getting freedom.”

El, his partner of 10 years and friend of 20 looks at him for a long time. In an instant, it's obvious how hard she's trying to hold something scathing back. Instead she just exhales and squeezes his hand tightly.

“No. I really don't think so Peter.”

Peter’s guilt feels like its about to swallow him whole. And maybe, it should.

---

Peter’s guilt only heightens when he sees Neal again. In the 17 days apart, Neal looks like he’s aged ten years. His beard has started to grow back out, and Peter hates to admit how unflattering it is on his face. The bags under his eyes are purple and the paleness of his skin insinuates he hasn't seen the sun in a few weeks.

But even that wasn't the most troubling visual cue. Across each of Neal’s forearms are newly wrapped gauze bandages. As soon as Neal comes close enough Peter can smell the dried blood and antiseptic underneath.

These injuries are new, less than 24 hours new. Peter’s instinct burns for him to find the person responsible for it and destroy them, but a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like El says the victim and the perpetrator are one and the same. 

“Peter, what are you doing here,” Neal finally asks and even his voice sounds defeated. 

“It's the end of your four year sentence.”

“Yippie,” Neal scoffs hatefully, “except did you forget the part where you got me locked up in here for four more?”

“You breaking out got you four more,” Peter corrects, but not unkindly. He’s not here trying to start a fight. He’s here to figure out what the hell happened to Neal in their time apart. Because it doesn't look like anything good. “Now do you want your gift or not?”

“I get a gift,” Neal asks and Peter can see the hint of smile start to form. It’s not everything, but it's something. 

“Well you gotta come over here to see it,” Peter smirks a little himself. 

Neal’s eyebrow raises and he walks a little closer. 

Peter eventually exposes the label of the bottle to Neal. It’s an 82’ Bordeaux. A real one.

“Peter,” Neal deflates, “you know they won’t let me have that in here...”

Peter’s really starting to hate the look of desperation on the man. Maybe that's really why he’s doing this. 

“I know,” Peter smiles, waiting for Neal to piece it all together. And when he does, Peter feels floored by the magnitude of Neal’s gratuity. It's the first time in weeks he's seen a glimpse of his the old Neal Caffrey and the knot in his gut finally starts to ease. 

---

When Neal comes out the south gate, he’s got quite a bit more pep in his step. Peter supposes getting released from prison can do that to a person’s attitude. But he can’t let Neal get too excited. Because this isn’t summer camp, this is a federal punishment. One that would come down hard on Peter if it failed. It needs to be treated accordingly. 

“Let me see it,” he instructs when Neal is only a few steps away.

Neal stops walking to pull up his pant leg. 

“You like,” Neal smiles, showing off the ankle monitor. “I’m officially yours.”

The phrase catches Peter off guard, because Neal’s always been flirty, buts it's never been this direct. And that's why his neck and cheeks are flushed. No other reason… And he will be sticking to that story in court. 

“You know what this means right,” Peter pivots. 

“Yeah,” Neal agrees, “I'm released into your custody as property of the FBI with this horrible eye sore on my ankle as a permanent fashion piece. Anything I'm missing?”

“Yeah. if you run, and I catch you, which I know I will because I’m 2-0, you're not just back here for four years you're here for good. Got it?”

“Yeah Peter," Neal sighs a little irritably, "I got it.”

“You're going to be tempted to look for Kate, don’t.”

Neal’s earlier smile fades.

“Trust me, she doesn't want to hear from me.” 

It's a very different dismissal than the way he reacted weeks ago. Harsh enough Peter almost buys it. Almost.

“Alright. Let's get going then.”

“Hey, uh, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Why... you decide to do this? Let me go, I mean?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer but his tongue freezes in his mouth. 

Because, as soon as I set eyes on you today the bad feeling i've been feeling for weeks compounded tenfold. Almost like it was congratulating me for locating its source and scolding me for waiting so long. 

Because, you looked like you were on death's door less than an hour ago and if those bandages are what I think they are, my mistake was seconds away from causing me to lose you for good. 

Because, I can't have one more soul on my conscious. Especially not yours...  

“Because my wife thinks you’re a romantic.”

ao3 kofi insta

Read the other 3 here!

[russellius]

Tucked away somewhere in his parents’ Norfolk home, there is a photograph of George Russell at his first Silverstone grand prix. If Russell has his way, it will remain tucked away for ever. Rather embarrassingly for the Mercedes driver, he is wearing a Red Bull jumper in the shot.

In fairness, it was taken in 2009 and he was only 11 years old. Yet you sense a certain awkwardness when he talks about it. “When you are a kid you tend to get things you like the look of,” he says. “And I liked the look of that jumper.”

There was a lot more for Russell to like that day. His hero was Sebastian Vettel — of, er, Red Bull — and as he stood at the exit of Copse for the opening lap, he watched his favourite flash by in the lead. Vettel went on to win the race, with team-mate Mark Webber finishing second. Russell was smitten.

“That was the moment when I was like, ‘Yeah, this is what I want to do.’ The noise and the buzz was just immense,” he says.

At the time, Russell was already a junior kart racer and a regular winner, and he would carry on in that groove for the next few years. There was certainly no lack of belief. “With the naivety of a child I used to think I could do anything. I used to think I could fly to the moon,” he says.

“I was so confident. So, so confident at a young age because I was winning. I was almost arrogant, I would say. It was only when I got to 16 that I realised it was not as straightforward as I thought. There are obstacles and there are challenges.”

These things are relative. At the age of 16 Russell still won the British Formula Four championship. And while there were a few bumps on the road when racing in European events, he was still doing enough to attract a six-figure offer from BMW to drive in DTM, the German touring car championship.

“I was like, ‘Whoa, this is unbelievable,’ ” he says. “Formula One was almost put on the sideline at that point because that was so attractive. For a kid growing up in a field with a labrador, those sorts of figures had never even been heard of.”

Russell turned it down. An alternative offer from Mercedes to fund him in Formula Three kept his ambitions on track. More titles followed and in 2019 the kid who had stood saucer-eyed in wonder at Copse a decade earlier became a full-fledged F1 driver for Williams. He would spend three seasons with the Grove outfit before moving to Mercedes at the start of last year.

The change took him from the back of the grid to the front. It meant regular podium finishes and, eventually, a first race win in Brazil. It meant he was now one of a tiny elite, with all the attention that drew. But it also brought a reckoning.

Russell, 25, is a thoughtful and articulate individual. “Some changes are for better and some for worse,” he begins. “It is a bit of a strange position to be in when you find yourself in the limelight. A lot of people want to cosy up to you for the wrong reasons. It took a bit of time for me to process this.

“They weren’t necessarily friends, but people I knew well suddenly started acting differently, asking for this and asking for that. People I hadn’t heard from for a long time came out of the woodwork.

“Now I’m in this position, which is a privilege, I see people’s true colours. So I have a close-knit group of people around me and I know they are there for the right reason.”

Remember that old Volkswagen advertisement about the man who “moved into gold, just as the clever money moved out”? Russell arrived at Mercedes at a similar moment. Lewis Hamilton had just lost his drivers’ title to Max Verstappen and at the end of Russell’s first season with the team they also surrendered to Red Bull the constructors’ crown they had held for eight years.

And yet, perhaps it was not so bad to pitch up when he did. Russell played a big part in ironing out the problems of Mercedes’ 2022 car and making this year’s model more competitive. He also acknowledges that slotting in beside Hamilton could have been problematic had the team still been the most dominant in the sport.

Has it helped that Hamilton is Russell’s senior by a margin of 13 years, seven titles and 102 race wins? “I totally agree with that,” Russell says. “When you look at Carlos Sainz and Charles Leclerc [of Ferrari] or Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri [McLaren] these guys are trying to be the one to lead the team. They are almost fighting for that No 1 spot. With us, there is no fight because we are at different stages of our careers.

“Lewis has proven everything he has to prove. The team believes in me and believe I’ll be here for the long term. It is a very good dynamic. I would expect the dynamic to change a bit if we were fighting for championships, that’s only normal. But for now we have a good relationship and have had no real tense moments on track.”

The scale of the task facing Mercedes, and every other F1 team, can be measured by the fact that Red Bull have now won 19 of the past 20 grands prix. Their near-monopoly was interrupted only by Russell’s victory in Brazil. To all intents and purposes, this year’s titles have already been decided, but Russell still believes in his team.

“We’ve got some new things coming for the race, which will be a step in the right direction. Red Bull are still favourites, but out of all of the races so far I’d say this would be our best chance.

“As a team we are definitely going in the right direction. We’ve got clear views now and you’ve seen it already with our progress. We’re slowly reeling in Red Bull. It seems like they have taken a step backwards compared to the rest of the field.”

Regardless of what happens, Hamilton and Verstappen have already cemented their places among the all-time greats in the annals of the sport. Can Russell see himself joining them at some point? He seems ambivalent about the prospect.

“When I was a ten-year-old kid I dreamt about being world champion,” he says. “I didn’t dream of being famous.

“I got asked a question recently about what legacy I wanted to leave behind. I’m 25 years old and I hadn’t even thought about this. As a kid I didn’t think about legacy or what impact I wanted to leave, I just wanted to win.

“Maybe in five years’ time that will be something I do think about. I recognise the platform we have, but equally the more success you have the bigger your platform becomes. I need to focus on that first.”