#if i got anything wrong well to be fair IT'S BEEN A DECADE
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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."
#wolverine#wolverine x reader#logan howlett#logan howlett x reader#deadpool and wolverine#wolverine fanfiction#wolverine x you#logan howlett x you#wolverine headcanons#logan howlett headcanons#mcu fanfiction#marvel fanfiction
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the defiance of a life spent almost in touch
geto x reader âž 15.7k âž part one of two âž ao3 link
info! (canon au, haibara lives and geto never defects.) Your cursed technique allows you to read peopleâto see into their mindsâwhen 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. âž tw! reader is scared of geto, typical jjk gore/violence, geto is. mentally unwell. like he didn't defect but he's Wrong âž notes! part two should be out end of march!!!
When the jujutsu higher-ups ask you for help, they always send Kento, because you have a hard time saying no to him.Â
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.Â
A familiar look: why are you doing this. Another: you can say no.
âYou know why I have to,â you say.
The sigh again. âFair enough.â
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 Bâbut 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 sorcererâs blood. You didnât 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 youâve been called to. The window that alerted the higher-ups, a non-sorcerer passed out on the groundâand 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 isnât useful in a fight, itâs still useful. Skin-to-skin contact allows you a look into another personâs mind. Just flashes, and nothing specific, but itâs helpful when the only witnesses you have are comatose or otherwise indisposed. Youâre allowed a normal life for these few visitations. The higher-ups donât 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. Itâs not a normal comaâsomething is smothering their soul, stretching it far from their body. As if theyâre 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. Youâd forgotten what Getoâs voice sounded like, all friendly tones and half-hidden condescension.
When you touch the unconscious man, you donât 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 wonât 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 copperâ
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 shouldnât. Cold air digs needles into your cheeks, so youâre stinging inside and out. Kento hadnât given you enough notice for you to skip breakfast, but the higher-ups hadnât given him any notice that theyâd 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 contactâGeto at your shoulder, asking if youâre alright. He doesnât miss that you flinch away from him. âIâd have brought a bucket inside if I knew,â he tells you. His face says: Iâm sorry for overlooking this detail. Heâs very good at lying with it.
âItâs at the power plant,â you say. âWhateverâs causing this.â
âDo you want to read any of the others before you go?â The question feels cruel. His face says it isnât.
You shake your head and leave without a word.Â
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. Itâs possible to turn off your brain around him, to touch him and only experience the smallest flashes of memory.Â
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. Heâs an easy man to love, which is exactly why you can never love him. Youâre 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.
âž
An unknown number calls when youâre at work. You pick up because it breaks the monotony of clicking around account records and absorbing none of the numbers on the screen.
âAre you busy?â the person on the line asks, and you realize you never blocked Getoâs number because you never had it in the first place.
You tell him youâre not, even though you have a project deadline this week. If you sit in this closet-turned-office for five more minutes youâre going to explode all over the walls. You're not sure why you entertain himâwhy 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 thereâs no window. Just you and him. Kento didnât drive you. For some odd reason, you thought thereâd 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 youâd ever be able to stop one of the most powerful sorcerers alive from doing whatever he wanted with you.
âI didnât find anything at the power plant,â 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. âHave you had lunch?â
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 isnât relevant to reading a person, but you notice these things because you touch people so infrequently. Each time you do itâs a research experience, notes taken inside your head, recorded to compare against other studies youâve 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 donât like baseball.
Pulling away from the manâs 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. Youâre the only company itâs had in a while.
âI didnât get anything,â you say, and your voice is rough. Your throat burns even though you didnât throw up.Â
Geto sits in one of the two plastic folding chairs in the houseâs main room. He plays with the piece of his hair thatâs loose from his bun, twirling it between slim fingers. You havenât seen him in a jujutsu tech uniform since high school, though youâre pretty sure Gojo still wears one daily. Getoâs 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.
âI can try again,â you say, and youâre not sure why. Itâs for this suffering man, you think, even though your savior complex was left behind with the jujutsu world.Â
âYou donât have to,â Geto says, dropping the strand of hair and leaning forward. His language is careful. Heâs not telling you no. The way he watches you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in the middle, makes you feel like youâre 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 âre finally gone,         the relief when your daughter brings new best friends home and         their eyes         arenât shadowed and sharp and too old for their socketsâ
Retching is your second-least favorite thing, right behind actually vomiting. Your body rejects the images youâve seen, trying to empty your stomach before the memories can begin to digest.
You tell Geto what you saw.Â
His question: âDoes he remember what happened to the girls?â
âIf he does, I didnât see it,â you say. When Geto is silent, you tell him, âI canât do it again. I canât.â
After a tense, quiet moment, he smiles at you. You still feel nauseous, but you canât tell if itâs because of your cursed technique or because of the bone-deep malaise that spreads into your skin like a balm when he looks at youâwhen youâre reminded of what you once saw lurking in the corners of his mind. âOf course,â he says. âLetâs get you home.â
âž
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 thereâ(describing Kento as punctual would be doing the man a disservice)âand itâs 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. Youâre positive he tipped heavy after putting in your order.
He asks you what you think about the murder mystery youâve both been reading. You tell him about your job, the monotony, the fantasies of exploding. He tells you about jujutsu business, even though heâs not supposed to. This has never stopped him in the past and wonât ever stop him in the future.
âThe higher-ups are pleased with your work,â he tells you. He doesnât sound pleased.
âKento.â A warning.
He hmms at you as if actually considering your warning before speaking his mind. âHaving a foot in either world is difficult. Itâs impossible to keep your balance.â
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. âAre you saying I should come back to Jujutsu Tech?â
âIâm saying that if you want to leave entirely, you should.â
You consider this: a normal life, surrounded by normal people, with a normal job and normal friends and a normal partner, maybe, if youâre lucky. The higher-ups would never let this happen. If you wrong them, they make sure to wrong you back. âYou know why I canât.â
âIâd take care of it. You wouldnât be bothered by anyone.â He speaks with such confidence that you could almost believe him.
You tell him youâll think about it. The coffee stings your palms. A terrible feeling sits in your throat like a weathered rock.
Thereâs something other than the threat of retaliation that stops you from pulling the triggerâfrom fully leaving the world you grew up in, as Kento once did. Maybe youâre not as brave as him. Maybe you canât 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 itâs in brief, unpleasant flashes of memory and want.
âYou can make your decisions for yourself,â he says. Heâs not disappointed with you, youâre sureâjust worried. The same way you often worry about him. âTheyâre pleased. Geto found the curse and exorcised it the same day thanks to you. I can see why the higher-ups donât want to let you go.â
The stone in your throat grows edges, forgets its weathering. His name always unnerves you, but Kentoâs words unnerve you more. âHe exorcised itâthe same day we drove out there?â
Kento nods, sips his tea. âHe can be vicious.â
A tremor begins in your fingers and lodges deep in your elbows, your shoulders, your very soul. âHe didnât need me to read another victim?â
Kentoâs a smart man. His eyes narrow. âNot to my knowledge. Or anyone elseâs.â
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. âHe didnât do anything,â you lie, standing and folding your coat over your arm. âHe called and asked me to come back out, but I said no.â
Itâs easy to see that Kento doesnât believe you, but he doesnât press you either. He knows that if you tell him half-truths, once you have all of your feelings together, youâll tell him everything. Heâs done the same, and youâve given him the grace heâs currently allowing you. He puts up with a lotâbut thatâs the nature of living the lives into which you both were born.
âThank you for the coffee,â you say.
âYouâll call me soon?â
âYouâre on speed dial,â you tell himâand itâs true. His contact is the only one in your phone thatâs favorited.
Kento smilesâsomething you rarely see. You wish it didnât call to mind the shine of fox teeth.
âž
How you ended up coming into contact with the wants of Geto Suguru: he showed up at Ieiriâs 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. Ieiriâs hands were shaking. She smelled like cigarette smoke and metal. Pressure here, she told you, ripping away the remains of Getoâs jacket, and when you touched him everything was skin-muscle-bone-blood and: bodies. bodies of people that have wronged you. people that havenât. 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.Â
When you pulled away from Geto, his skin was knitting together beneath Ieiriâs shaking handsâhands you knew well, her black nail polish chipped around the edges because she bit at her nails when she was somewhere she couldnât 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.Â
Blood was underneath your fingernails. Orange peel. Itâs 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 hadnât deserved what youâd taken from them. And on top of that, the most frightening thing: relief that they were dead.Â
You washed your hands so much that the skin was raw, peeling, but you still couldnât get your fingernails clean.
âž
You ignore his calls.
The frequency with which you receive them makes you uneasy. You donât 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 understandâa 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.Â
Itâs more insidious than simply liking attention. He liked power. Having control over someone.
Whatever heâs doing now is insidious in nature, too. You can feel it. So you ignore his calls and keep working the days away until you canât 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.
âYour instincts are a little dull,â he says. âI thought you wouldâve heard me coming.â
Standing up feels necessary. You donât want to feel smaller than him, even though he towers in your doorway. âIâm not supposed to be bothered by sorcerers without advance notice.âÂ
He smiles. âI tried calling.â
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. âWho let you up here?â
âI was hoping you might be willing to humor me without advance notice.â
âIâm calling security.â
âI need your help,â he says.
âLike you needed my help last time?â
He sits with that for a moment. âIs it a crime to be curious about you? What youâre capable of?â
âYou lied to me,â you reiterate. âYou didnât need me to read that man. And, whatâit was so you could see more of my technique?â
âYes,â he says plainly, as if it's a perfectly sane response.
âWhy didnât you just ask?â
He chuckles, the sound rich and deep and calm, as if youâre having a nice conversation between old friends. âAre you saying youâd have responded well if I just asked?â
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. âWould you read me if I asked?â
Your veins feel too tight, constricting muscle. It must be a leading questionâheâs suspicious of your aversion to him, maybe. The exterior heâs built is charming and handsome and kind. Thatâs probably how he got to your office. You wouldnât be surprised if the receptionist saw a handsome face and caved immediately. Itâs 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 canât, and the things in his mind scare you. Itâs 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, itâs 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.Â
He steps forward, hand extended slightly. âIf Iââ
âNo. Justâdonât,â 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. âTell me what you need my help with and we can go.â
He doesnât 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. âThank you.â
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 hasnât happened in the entire time youâve lived in Tokyo. The woman at the gate is a windowâthe 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. Itâs a beautiful glass building, the windows fogged with humidity to keep its plant and animal residents comfortable. You havenât 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, itâs 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 closerâthe jaws of snakes, fanged and dripping venom, and others from what you can only assume would be turtles, small and rounded.Â
The skin remains perfectly intact on every jaw. Muscle, bone, blood. You see bodies. You see limbs. You remember: finally.
âDonât look at that,â Geto says from beside you. âLook at me.â
With a deep breath, you doâthough looking at him does nothing to dispel the unrest in your stomach, the pit in your chest.Â
âGood.â Heâs not smiling anymore. You wonder if heâs decided to drop his disguise or if the orphaned jaws are more horrifying than the wants he carries like stones. âCome this way.â
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.
âHeâs been like this since I got here,â Geto tells you. âI need you to read him.â
Ieiri used to tell you that if humans come into contact with curses and live, you have to monitor them closely for cardiogenic shockâstress and fear mounting to such a peak that the heart canât handle the pressure. Itâs not a peaceful death. âHe needs to go to a hospital.â
âIâll take him after.â
âHow long has he been in shock?â
âRead him first,â he says, more curt than youâve 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. Youâve seen it alreadyâitâs 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. âPlease.â
You put your hand on the side of the manâs neck, the only skin available to you. Touching peopleâs faces horrifies you. Such an intimate thing tarnished by the images that flood your brain.Â
Memories on a loop: guttural screeching,         death cries that couldnât 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 vivariumâs 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. Youâve gotten very good at gathering your hair up with one hand at a momentâs notice. He puts the trash next to the desk when youâre done, and you tell him everything useful that you gathered on the curse. Everything else, you keep to yourself. Youâve gotten very good at that too.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your wrist. The bile tastes more like copper than usual. âIs that everything?â
He holds his hand out to you and you hide your flinch poorly. âGum?â
The foil-wrapped stick shimmers green, held between his fingers like a cigarette. You stare at it for a beat too long. Itâs your favorite brand, spearmint flavored.Â
âIt wonât bite,â he says. He tilts his head to the side, eyes crinkling with mirth. As if you werenât tasting blood just a moment ago. When you still donât 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. âI wonât either.â
A funny thing for someone with such sharp teeth to claim.
You take the gum from him, careful to grab the very end so thereâs no chance of your fingers brushing his. âThanks.â
He smiles and nods as if heâs done you a favor. You appreciate the gum, but youâd appreciate him ceasing contact with you more. âIâll see you soon,â he tells you.
âGet him help, Geto.âÂ
He smiles wide in response.
âž
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.
âDo you always see things?â Kento asked. He never drankâsaw it as beneath himâso when he did, he was a lightweight. âWhen you touch people?â
âYeah,â you said. The both of you sat against the headboard of your bed, passing a bottle of gin back and forthâthe only thing you could find in Yagaâs campus stash. It stopped tasting like liquor twenty minutes prior. âI can make it quieter. But I really have to focus. LikeâI couldnât make it quiet now, I donât think.â
Kento turned towards you and said, âTry.â
And always, you would protest when people suggested this. It was like a party trick to people that didnât 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 didnât believe at all that Kento was asking for those reasons. Itâs why you touched him.
Wedging the bottle between Kentoâs 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.Â
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.Â
You pushed his bangs back from his face, and you couldnât take your eyes from the slant of his lips, and suddenly you were in Kentoâs 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.Â
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 hadnât kissed anyone before thenâyou hadnât touched someoneâs face since you were little.Â
Youâd been scared. He figured out how to make that okay.Â
âž
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. âRunning kinda late, huh?â
âI donât have to be here until nine,â you tell him. âItâs eight forty-five.â
âSemantics.â
âYouâre in my office.â You donât even have the good grace to make it sound like a questionâjust an admonishment.
âOr is it syntax?â
âCan you please get out?â
âCanât you pretend youâre happy Iâm here?â He pouts, taking his feet from your desk. âI wonât even ask you to do anything. I basically just came here to say hey.â
âThat would certainly be a first.â 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. âYou said hey. Why are you still here?â
Gojo slowly spins in your chair, pushing himself in circles lazily with one long leg. Avoids looking at you. âYouâve been working with Suguru a lot lately.â
âTwice.â You open up the tiny K-Cup machine you have on your desk and start preparing the worldâs smallest cup of coffee. Three times, technically, but you still donât know what to make of the second time he called you out to Yamanashi Prefecture. When he lied to you. âThat hardly constitutes a lot.â
âEnough that it got back to me.â He slows the chair, then starts spinning the other way. âYou got any idea why heâs taken an interest?â
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.âI donât think heâs taken an interest.â
âAs much as Iâd love to be flattering you, thatâs not what I mean.â He stops the chair entirely, body directed at you. âYouâve been useful.â
Thereâs 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, youâre keenly aware that Gojo is just as good at pretending.Â
âIâve been useful,â you repeat. âSo what?â
âYou donât think youâve been pretty unnecessary for the missions youâve been asked to help with?â Though his glasses are on, it's as if you can sense the intensity of his gaze through the darkened lenses. âSuguru couldâve found and exorcised either of those curses easy. I couldâve done it even easier.â
Every meeting with Gojo requires a mandatory ego-stroking period. You decide to get it over with quickly. âYes, youâre both very strong. Whatâs your point?â
âDo you know what happened that night?â he asks, taking off his glassesâand this is what really instills a fear in you that something terrible is about to happen. A full view of eyes like glittering sapphires. Thereâs no question what night heâs talking about.Â
You donât like thinking about that time in general. You donât like thinking about Getoâs ribs. You donât like thinking about the bodies. âA non-sorcerer tried to stop the merger. You guys⌠neutralized him.â
His gaze clouds for a moment. Youâre aware that Gojo carries his burdens, despite his unbearable ego. Heâs somewhere else, seeing things that you have the good fortune of never having to see. You briefly wonder whether youâd read memories or wants from him. Youâre content with not knowing. âDonât play coy,â he tells you. âYouâre smarter than that.â
âYou killed him.â
âI killed him.â
Gojoâs 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 Gojoâs 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 didnât 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 wouldnât 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 youâhe fully understood the limits of his cursed energy and what it could do.
It changed Geto too.
âIâm not telling you all this for nothing,â he says, a disarming smile appearing on his face so suddenly after a serious conversation that the speed makes you nauseous. âI just have one tiny favor to ask you.â
Itâs 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. âI donât want any troubleââ
âNo trouble. Promise.â He lifts his right hand, pinkie out, grinningâas if itâs funny that you, specifically, canât touch him. âI just want you to read him for me.â
Your heart slams into the base of your throat. âThatâs⌠You know thatâs not a small ask.â
He drops his hand, shrugs. âCâmonâlook, itâll give you an excuse to get close to him.â
âWhy would I want that?â you ask.
âAs if I didnât clock your embarrassing crush on him in high school.â
âExcuse me?â
âExcused. It wonât even be bad,â he says. âI only need you to read him one time, probably.â
âWhy?â
âJust curious.â
âGojo.â
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 wonât do anything for him without more information. Not that youâd read Geto ever, at allâbut Gojo hasnât always been good at believing people when they say never. Hesitantly, he tells you, âSomething happened.â
âLike what?â
âI donât know, something,â he says, finally a little exasperated. âI wouldnât be asking if I already had answers.â
There are things heâs not telling you, very obviously. Heâs 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. âWhy canât you just ask him?â
For the first time in your acquaintance with him, Gojo is silent.
âHe doesnât know youâre asking me to do this,â you say. It would be a question if you werenât already so sure.
âOh, no, heâd kill me if he knew I was here.â
âIâll call him and tell him to come get you.â
âIâd like to see you follow through on that.â He grins, peeks at you over his glasses. âBet you wonât.â
Geto answers on the first ring, your name spoken in question.
âYour dogâs in my office. Come pick him up.â
He does.
Gojo could easily leave before Geto arrives, but he doesnât even try. He sits in your chair, still reclined, surely doing immeasurable damage to the hydraulics. Asking him about his motives would be wasted breathâheâll never tell you something he doesnât want to, regardless of how much you wheedle him. Heâll enjoy the wheedling, though, and you donât want to give him the ego boost of being begged.Â
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 itâs 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 whoâs working reception.
âSorry about him,â 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. âBadly trained.â
âI think the fault is more the ownerâs than the dogâs,â you say.
He shrugs. âIf you tried training the dog in question, maybe your opinion would change.â
âCan you guys stop talking about me like Iâm not here?â Gojo asks.
Geto grabs him by the back of the collar. âWalkâs over. Time to go home.â 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 Gojoâs proposition long after youâve submitted the tax forms, after youâve arrived home late once again, after you stare out your bedroom window into the night sky and see nothing but storm-cloud gray.Â
You expect Geto to be the kind of person to keep secrets. It shouldnât 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, itâs fitful, and you wake in the night to the feeling of silk-soft hair running through your fingers, falling so quickly that itâs impossible to grasp.
âž
Kento is antsy when he comes over for dinner. It wouldnât bother you if he didnât 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. Heâs not wearing his glassesâand he usually watches your cooking like a hawk, just in case you make a grievous mistakeâbut instead holds them in his hand, twirling them back and forth.Â
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, youâve had enough. âIâm going to burn the cabbage.â
He glances over at the pan youâre wielding. âIt looks fine.â
âIâm going to do it on purpose and Iâm going to make you eat it,â you say, pointing your spatula in his direction so heâs positive that itâs him whoâll have to eat the ruined meal. âIâll spoon-feed it to you.â
Kento is bewildered by this, his eyebrows raised very slightlyâshock has always been a micro-expression for him. âIâm sorry. Iâve been a little absent.â
âMore than a little.â You stir the cabbage again. âYou know I donât want to pry.â
He nods. The space you offer each other is a give-and-take. If neither of you are ready to speak about something, thereâs usually no pressure to do so.Â
But this time is different. Youâre 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. âDoes this have something to do with Geto?â
His leg stops bouncing. His fingers quiet against the tabletop. âSo you know.â
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. âHe asked me to read Geto,â you say. âThere are secrets being kept.â
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.Â
It was then you began to understand that you could never be his, though the realization didnât 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 didnât want to throw up again. From then on, he was wary of Geto. Maybe not as much as youâthough thatâs understandable.
Knowing whatâs 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. âLet me,â 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 ergonomicâ He begins to peel the burning cabbage from the bottom of the pan. âHeâs been quiet lately.â
âIsnât he usually?â You remember Geto being reserved, but then again, maybe thatâs only because your memories of him are often in the context of Gojo.
âHe can be.â 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. âHeâs exorcising Special Grade curses that he shouldnât even attempt to take on by himself, no matter how strong he is. There are days where heâs cleared missions back-to-back without stopping to sleep.â
âYou think heâs focused on work because somethingâs wrong.â
âYes,â Kento says, and chews on the thought for a moment. âI donât like it when heâs focused like this. He gets⌠obsessive.â
âHim and Gojo were always odd, though,â you say. Minimizing whatever is happening with Geto feels crucial. Youâve never seen Kento this worried.
He hums. âIn different ways, perhaps. Gojoâs obsessive nature is more self-centered. But Getoâwhen heâs consumed by something, itâs like nothing else matters. Heâd raze the world to ash if it meant doing what he felt needed doing.â
âShould I be worried?â you ask.
You should. You already know this.
Another sigh. He canât quite look you in the eyes. You both think: bodies. You both think: finally . âBiryani for you?â he asks. âOr do you want something different this time?â
âBiryaniâs fine.â
âGreat,â he says, proceeding to order your food. And you donât talk about it again that night.
âž
Youâve 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 heâs 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 hadnât already seen you, you wouldâve 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 heâd 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, âHi.â
âIt's good to see you.â His smile widens, Cheshire in nature despite not showing teeth. âI didnât know anyone else knew about this place.â
You almost tell him you live close by, but then think better of it. âItâs Kentoâs favorite.â
âOf course,â he says. âHaibara took me here a few years ago.â
Yu is kind to a fault. Neither you or Kento have ever talked to him about what you saw in Getoâs headâmostly 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.
âIâve gotten the same thing here for a long time,â 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. âWould you like to try something new with me?â
You canât 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 drinksâyou insist that he shouldnât, enough times in a row that itâs 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, itâs 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 youâve 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.
âAre you looking for a new job?â You fail to keep vitriol from lacing the underside of your words. âWeâre not hiring.â
If Geto is bothered by your attitude, he doesnât let on. He even seems a touch amused. âI enjoy what Iâm doing now, but thanks for keeping me in the loop.â
The barista calls out Getoâs name, and he grabs your drink first, hands it to you. You ordered a cappuccino with a syrup that youâve been curious about but have never tried. The coffee smells amazing even at arm's length, creamy and strong and a little like cinnamon.Â
âThanks.â You slowly turn to leave. âI should beââ
âWait,â he says, reaching towards you.
You flinch so hard that a slim stream of coffee shoots from the lidâs 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 Gojoâs request, of the cases where Geto has asked for your help but hasnât 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 heâs a regular?
âGet away from me,â you snap, stern and quiet enough that your words lace themselves underneath the shopâs easy-listening music.Â
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.
âIf you ever make me read you against my will,â you tell him, âI will never forgive you.â
Your forgiveness probably means little to him, but itâs the only thing you can threaten. You donât know him well enough to understand what he holds dearâbut you remember respect being important to him when you were at school. Respect and forgiveness.
âI wouldnât,â he says. âNever.â
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. Youâll wash your hands when you get home. And youâll wash them again. And again. Eventually theyâll feel clean enough.
âž
Yu calls you at 3:06 in the morning. âTheyâre dead because of me,â he tells you, and then heâs crying and youâre already walking down the block, heading toward his apartment in your pajamas and large winter coat.
After his injury, Yu wasnât 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 didnât think he would be psychologically ready to take on anything too stressful.
They were right. One of the few things youâve 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.Â
Heâs 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 heâs curled into himself, laying on his side. It looks like heâs been crying for the entire evening. The worn leather of the seat is darkened beneath his face.
Youâre by his side immediately, brushing hair back from his face, wiping stray tears from his cheeks: i wish iâd known i should have !!!         known how did                                        how did i not know how i wish i âHey, itâs okay. I'm here,â you say, trying a little more pointedly to keep your fingers off his scalp. The thing he wants, simply: to have done better. âCan you tell me what happened?â
âI messed up,â he says, and youâve never heard him sound so defeated. Even during his recovery he sounded less broken than this. âI donâtâI donât know how I didnât see it.âÂ
At seventeen, you and your classmates began to receive solo assignments. Yu always got the easier onesâstill 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 forgottenâwhat 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 motherâs 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 youâthat could never comprehend the things youâd 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 wasnât alive to receive the report. Their father hadnât been there from the beginning. The town didnât report them missingâthey knew exactly where the girls were. From the remains, bones weak and brittle, authorities determined that they died of malnutrition.
âI couldâve helped them.â Yuâs lip trembles and he bites it so hard that you see the skin around his mouth turn bone-white. âThey might have been alive then. If I paid more attention, I justâhow could they have done that? How can anyone justify that?â
You donât know. How does anyone justify anything? How many times do you have to tell yourself youâre 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 passedâwhether they, too, had a moment of finally.
Yu cries for a little longer and you hold him carefully. Itâs all you can do. Youâd call Kento if you didnât 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. Ieiriâs text, attached to the official posting from the higher-ups: zenâin 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 uniformsâand you recognize them.Â
Youâve seen these girls inside a manâs memories. A man that you read for Geto.Â
Your heart beats so hard that youâre sure Yu can feel it through your shirt, through your skin. When youâve reassured him as much as possible that he couldnât possibly be at fault, when he promises you that heâll 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 inâyouâve 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 hallwayâs 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.Â
A terribly annoying grin greets you. âI wouldâve invited you up if you called me.â
âWhy,â you say, trying your best to be calm, âdo you want me to read him?â
Gojoâs expression flickers. A moment, a fleeting instant of concern. Heâs without glasses or blindfoldâyou must have woken him up. Itâs probably nearing five in the morning. The first trains will start running soon. âHello, business,â he says. âIâve got to admit, Iâd hoped I was talking to pleasure.â
âIt has to do with the girls, doesnât it?â
âI donât ask Suguru about what girls heâs seeingââ
âI saw them, Gojo,â you say.
This shuts him up.
âI read someone who knew them.â Youâre not sure why, but it feels necessary to not tell him that you read the man because Geto asked you to. âHe didnât like them playing with his daughter because they were different.â
He stands, silent and contemplating, eyes pearlescent and glowing in the soft shadow that precedes sunrise.Â
Thereâs a terrible phantom that lurks between your ribs, a sticky feeling that slimes along your bones. You think of Getoâs sudden reappearance in your life, you think of Gojoâs intimidating request, you think finally, finally, finally. âDid he kill them?â
His eyes snap to yours, fluorescent, flaringâyou had forgotten that the hottest part of a flame is blue. âNo.âÂ
Heâs so serious that your heart rate picks up, your body going into fight-or-flight at the coldness of that single word. âGojoââ
âHe wouldnât.âÂ
âOkayâitâs okay. I believe you.â You donât, but youâll say anything to remove the hardness from his eyes, his toneâthe same hardness as when he sat in your office and told you not to sugarcoat things. I killed him. âThen why do you want me to read him?â
âI told you,â he says, and his voice is back to normal but his eyes are nowhere close. âIâm just curious.â
Your hand darts forward on instinct. You want to know whatâs inside his head so bad that you canât control yourselfâuntil you remember exactly who youâre trying to touch and exactly what his power is. Forget being untouchableâhe 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. âWanna touch?â
âGood night, Gojo.â
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.
âž
Youâre 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 agoâcornered, bleeding, his cleaver knocked out of his grip. âI wouldnât have called you,â he said, âbut no one else is picking up.â
It didnât matter. If he needed you, you would be there. That had been the case for the better part of a decade.Â
The warehouse was a storage facility for flour and corn, most likely. The floor is covered in rancid mold. Your knifeâSound Eater, the cursed tool youâd conveniently forgotten to return to the armory when you left Jujutsu Techâis familiar in your palm. Its handle is worn to the shape of you.Â
You feel comfortable like this. More comfortable than at your job filing accounts, at your apartment reading or watching some awful reality TV show. Itâs because this is how you grew up, you think. Youâre 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 basementâwhere Kento is. Where the curse is. You can sense it, the same feeling as being watched. A specterâs ghostly nails tracing the ridge of your spine.Â
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 warehouseâs 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 curseâs 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.Â
You find Kentoâs cleaver before you find him. Itâs deep in the tunnel systemâyouâve already been walking for two or three minutes, and thereâs been no sign that anyone else is down here with you.
Taking his weapon as a sign that youâre close, you even your breathing, measure your stepsâstealth 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 antechamberâsome sort of production facilityâand though itâs 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 toolâs 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 haggardâheâs in pain, and the sight sends you back to your youth as quick as a fist to the face. Group missions, Kentoâs injuries, your injuries, the way you started always wearing black because it hid bloodstains most effectively.
Youâre at his side quickly, a hand gingerly against his shoulder, checking for damage. He groans. His shoulder is dislocated, but he already knows this. âHelp me get it back in,â he tells you. His shirt is still intact enough that you wonât have to touch his skin, which is good. You canât 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.Â
âDetails,â you demand.
âA semi-first grade, four-legged,â he says, taking his cleaver from you. âItâs using whateverâs on the floorâsticks you in place. Its left flank is injured.â
The one question that Kento doesnât 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 himâthat he feels like itâs 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 youâve 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 curseâs eyes immediately finding you from across the large room. Theyâre 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.Â
Which means itâs fast.
Your shoulder takes the brunt of the pressure as you roll out of the way of the curseâs 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 curseâs neck with intense forceâalmost 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.Â
Youâre 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.Â
Sound Eater whistles as you lift it to shoulder-level, as you aim to throw it into the curseâs open mouth before it consumes Kento.Â
Itâs 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. Youâll 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 hadnât left the jujutsu world, you wouldnât be as rusty as you are now, and maybe you would have lived.Â
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 Kentoâclearly breathing, but nowhere near conscious. Asleep.
Itâs like you can sense him before he speaks, your blood chilling in its well-traveled arteries.
âIâm glad youâre both okay,â he says. Grins without teeth. The same way Gojo grinsâconfident and so hopelessly self-impressed. Thereâs a curse beside him, one that he controls, its energy definitely potent but not malicious towards you. Itâs familiar, in a wayâeyes that crackle with electricity, sparking skin, long claws. Youâve seen it before, but not personally. Getoâs gaze flits between you and Sound Eater on the ground next to the downed curse. âDid Nanami call you out of retirement? Or were you just having a little fun?â
Kento says Getoâs nameâa warning. Heâs injured, hurting. He doesnât have patience for games.
âIt doesnât matter why Iâm here,â you say, offering Kento help to stand. His body is a heavy weight that pulls at your shoulder, activating muscles you havenât used since right after high school. âIeiri still runs the clinic at school, right?â
âOf course,â Geto responds, all fox teeth. He points at the unconscious curse. âFirst, though.â
Youâve 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 youâd 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 Getoâs 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 vivariumâwonder if he carries it for purposes you hadnât considered until now.Â
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. âWe should go,â 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.Â
âDid you call a car?â you ask.
âI already have one waiting. Figured we might need a quick exit.â
You nod. He still unnerves you, but youâre not entirely without manners. âThank you.â
He looks at you for a moment longer than youâre comfortable with. Everything seems calculated in his eyes. He never simply sees thingsâhe analyzes them. âMy pleasure,â he says. You can't read his tone because he always keeps it even, friendly. But youâre sure that thereâs something to read in those words that you canât quite see right now. âShall we?â
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.
âž
He insists on escorting you home from the school.
There are company cars you couldâve requested rides fromâthe higher-ups at least owe you a free ride home for everything youâve done todayâbut you donât want to take anything from them that they havenât 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. Thereâs not even a hint of him trying to hide that heâs watching you intently.
On any other day, you would stand, unwilling to give him any advantageâbut youâre 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.Â
âDo you ever see things you donât want to?â he asks after a three-stop stretch of silence.
All the time. It seems youâll always be stuck in this cycle of attempting normalcy only to be tasked with experiencing the unpleasant wants and memories of people you donât know. Youâre not going to tell him that, though. Him asking you questions makes you queasy. Your knees feel weak even though youâre sitting down. âDoesnât everyone?â
âYouâre very good at avoiding my questions.â
âYou donât make it hard.â
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. âDoes it scare you?â
Many things about this situation scare you. You ask him to clarify.
âWhen you read people. Iâm sure youâve seen some⌠unsavory things.â You think: bodies. You think: blood and muscle and sinew and bone. âIt would make sense if those things scared you.â
âThey donât,â you lie.Â
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. âI always wondered what it was you saw.â
âWhat do you mean?â you ask. You know what he means.
He smiles, almost condescendingâan 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, youâd never been sure whether he actually knew that youâd read him. Youâre positive he doesnât want anyone to know whatâs inside his head. He paints an image of himself over what he really is, but itâs a faulty veneer. Apply enough pressure and itâll 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. Youâre sure of it. âKento will know somethingâs wrong if I donât talk to him in the next few days.â
His brows draw low over his dark eyesâfirst in confusion, and then in a sort of amused incredulity. âYou think Iâm going to kill you.â
âI think you want to.â
The lights flash in the car as it passes under a tunnel. âWhat is it that defines a good person?â
â...why are you asking me?â
He grins, and your stomach constricts. âGood and bad are large concepts in a small world. They touch and overlap in more places than any of us could ever anticipate. But weâre supposed to fit neatly into one or the other.â
You donât respond. Youâre too focused on the stretch of his lips.
âSo what defines a good person?â
âThe things theyâve done,â you say, more to get him to stop asking you questions than anything.
âI donât remember doing anything particularly harmful to you,â he saysâand here it is. What he really wants from you. âIt canât be my actions. So is it my desires that define me as a bad person in your eyes, or my memories?â
Your stomach constricts tighter. Painfully. Youâre still four stops away from the one by your apartment. âGeto.â
âIt has to be one or the other. Those are the two categories that you can read, right?â
âIt was a long time ago.â
âTen years,â he says. âAnd you can barely look me in the eye.â
You try, as if you could prove him wrong, but you canât maintain eye contact with him for more than a moment before you feel a terrible coldness in your gut.
âIâd always wondered if you read me that night, but I was never sure.â 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. âNot until I saw you again.â
âThe second time you called me out to the villageâyou were lying to me.â
âWeâve established that.â
âYou put that man in a coma,â you say. "You absorbed the curse that was at the power plant."
He nods, face calm, as if altering someoneâs state of being is a normal thing to do. âBut I woke him up right after you left and he was unharmed. I paid him for his time.â
âWhy?â
âI needed to know what it was that scared you. The situation itselfâŚâ he says, holding out one hand flatâand then the other, his hands mimicking the sides of a scale, the second option heavier than the first. âOr me.â
âIâd have told you that if you asked,â you say, and you would have. No point in keeping it from him. âYou didnât have to lie. That was underhanded.â
âI think reading me without my consent counts as underhanded.â
Bone, muscle, blood, sinew. Bone-white beneath his uniform. And the blood, the blood, the blood, orange-peel thick. âI didnât want to. You donât understand, you wereâI could see your ribs. It wasâwe didnât thinkââ
âI understand,â he says.
âI know you do,â 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. âI wish it happened differently.â
âDoesnât everyone?â he asks, parroting your response from earlier.
Maybe they do. Maybe things could have gone much differentlyâworse, even. You could know more than his wants. You could have seen them realized.
âWhat did you see?â he asks, careful. Quiet. There's a weight to his voice you're unfamiliar with. It sounds like more than passing curiosity.
Itâs what makes you answer honestly. âBlood. Bodies.â Finally. âRelief.â
âWhich of those scared you the most?â
You look at him, jaw tight, because he knows which one it was.
âAnd that makes me a bad person?â he asks.
âI never said you were a bad person.â
âYou just thought it.â
You have. Youâve thought it every day since seeing his true desires. Youâre not sure that youâre a good person either, but your hidden wants will never be as gruesome as his. âItâs not that simple.â
âOf course itâs not.â Again, he smilesâbut thereâs 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.
âIf I asked you to read me now,â he asks, âwould you?â
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. Youâre between stops. Thereâs no exit. âNo.â
âIt could be different than last time.â
âYou donât know that,â you say, but what you really want to tell him is that it wonât be.
âWhat if it is?â he asks. âMaybe you have the wrong idea of me.â
You donât think thatâs the case. Youâre not going to tell him this.
âI was angry. Hurt. I thought Satoru had just been murdered.â He says these things like easy facts. His tone takes the emotion out of them entirely, as if those factors didnât contribute to what youâre sure is massive unresolved trauma. âI thought I was going to die.â
âYou didnât.â
âNo,â he saysâand here you get a flash of something deeper, again unfamiliar. Because he wonât look at you, even though heâs the kind of person that always makes eye contact. He leans back, distancing himself. âHave you ever experienced that? A moment where you know youâre going to die?â
âI havenât.â
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. âYou think a lot of things. You realize a lot of things. And none of it is particularly fair.â
This has to be manipulation. Heâs good at that. He always has been. Butâsomething about this moment feels vulnerable, and youâve never known Geto to be vulnerable. Not with anyone. Even on the brink of death, even just recovered, his chest still terribly scarredâthere was nothing. He smiled at you and Ieiri before he left, that fox-teeth smile you hate so much. Iâll be back shortly, he told the two of you, as if his blood wasnât coating the bottom of your shoes, staining the skin of your knees, clotting underneath your fingernails.
Youâve read people for long enough that youâre sure: this moment is different. âWhy do you want me to read you?â you ask, so quiet that your voice is nearly swallowed by the sound of the train wheels scrolling across their metal track.
âBecause I want to know,â he says, his voice a little hoarse at its core, âwhat you see.â
You shouldnât. Youâre too kind. Kento tells you this often.Â
You shouldnât.
When you put your hand out, palm up, Geto places his fingers atop yours so gentlyâa 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 couldâve been different i couldâve been different bodies. bodies.                    bodies. bodies. bodies. bodies. we could do it together         no. i could do it alone bodies. bodies. bodiesâ 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 canâtâyouâre heaving, sobbing, your forehead pressed against your fist, tears running hot onto the back of your hand.Â
Itâs just so bad. Itâs 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 shouldnât have been drawn in by the vulnerability. Not whenânot when itâs that in his head, still, a decade later.Â
You canât stop heaving, nearly retching. You canât 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 canât let go. Youâre paralyzed.
He holds you while you cry. Only touches your back, your arms. Not your hair or face or hands. You couldnât handle it again. You couldnât handle it again but you canât move right now.
As you quiet, as your breaths turn slow, heavier, you realize heâs been speaking to you. Maybe the whole timeâyouâre not sure. Quiet reassurance. Itâs okay, youâre okay. Breathe.
You donât feel okay. You feel more sick than you ever have. âWhy would you want that?â you ask, and your words blend into tears. Into panic.Â
Heâs quiet, one large hand smoothing down your back over and over, as if reassuring you that youâre 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 awayâto sit back in the seat again, untwine your fingers from his shirt. Itâs creased on each shoulder from your vice grip. Thereâs vomit on the floor of the train to the right of him. Heâs on both knees in front of you, hands in his lap now that youâve 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?
âIâm sorry,â he says.
âWhy would you want that?â you repeat.
He sighs again. Sits back on his heels, begins running his hand through his hair before remembering itâs tied up. He just leaves his hand on the top of his head, fingers curling inwards until heâs gripping his hair, and you wonder if it feels the same as it did on the night you read him for the first time. âI donât know,â he tells you.
The train stops again. The voice says something you don't hear. You can't get up. âThatâs not true.â
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. âWhy did you decide to quit being a sorcerer?â he asks.
You donât want to tell him. âThere were a lot of reasons.â
âHow is it fair?â He drops his hand. His hair is disheveled, just like his shirt. He looks so un-put together that he hardly resembles the Geto youâve always had an image of in your head. âSo many of us die. So many of us have injuries that take years to really heal. And itâs their fault. Humans.â
âYouâre human.â
âIâm a sorcerer.â
âTheyâre not mutually exclusive.â
âIâm the one that has to deal with the consequences of their actions,â he says, as if that means something. As if that puts him in a different group from them entirely.
âSo you want to kill them?â
âNo,â he says, quickâbecause thatâs what heâs supposed to say, you think. Then he quiets for a moment and seems to actually consider your question. âNo. ButâI do think about it.â
You both sit with the admission. Though the train car is empty, you feel cloistered, walls too tight around you.
âIt makes me worry that Iâm not a good person anymore,â he tells you.
âDid you want me to read you so you could decide whether youâre good or not?â
âI 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.â
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.
âI had to see if there was anything inside me that didnât want to do it,â he says. âBecauseâif thereâs notââ
âI donât see everything,â 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. âI donât think you should use me as a metric.â
âItâs obvious that what you saw wasnât very good.â
âThey starved to death,â you say. âIâd be angry too.â
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 timeâbeing 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.
âMaybe Iâm not a good person because Iâm not angry the way that you are,â you say.
âI don't think that's true,â 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 teethâbut 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.
âThe first time I ingested a curse," he tells you, âI was so sick I couldnât stand. I didnât realize how awful it would taste. Thereâs 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.â
You stay still and quiet. You don't want to relate to him so you try not to.
âAnd sometimes I wonderâwould any non-sorcerer ever understand that? Could they?â
You try not to, and you fail at it. âWill you show me?â
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.
âThe first time,â you say, because despite knowing you shouldn't do this, it's that sick curiosity again that pushes you forward. And maybe something elseâa want. A need to relate. To be sure that someone else has known what you've felt your entire life. âIf you really concentrate on the memoryâI want to see it.â
To show you, he touches your face: itâs so dark and iâm scared. and mom said to come home soon. but i saw this thing and i want to see if i can beat it                    no. iâm 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 donât know how i know what to do but i do and                    !!! oh                              !!! god                    !!! oh god                                                  please.                                                  please.                                                  please. donât make me do it again donât make me do it again donât make me do it again i want to go home i want to see my mother i do iâm sorry it hurts it hurts oh god          oh i want to be good. iâm sorry. i want to be good. iâm sorry. i want to be sorry. iâm          god.Â
The way you come out of a reading is usually like a free-fall without a parachute. One second youâre tumbling through the air, and the next youâve 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. Itâs a little easier to stomach.
Usually.Â
His hand lingers near your face, resting on your shoulder. Heâs 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.
âDo you have a final verdict?â he asks. âOr should I decide for myself?â
Thereâs a predilection in him, you think. Heâs predisposed to anger, the self-righteous kind. So is every other sorcerer youâve ever met. And yet itâs different with himâmore complex. Something else is very wrong with him. Deeply.
âI donât like it when people touch my face.â
âI can keep that in mind.â
âI want you to apologize.â
âOf course,â he says, gentle. Was his voice always this gentle? Or is it because of all heâs shared with you on this train? âIâm sorry.â
The doors of the train open and a tinny voice announces that youâve reached the last stop of the night. You missed your station a long time ago. Youâll have to pay for a cab. âI donât think youâre a bad person,â you tell him. âBut I'm afraid of you.â
He nods. Sits back on his heels again. âWill you be okay getting home?â
âYes,â you say. âThank you.â
You make it home just after one in the morning and lay in your bed with your clothes on and you donât sleep. You donât sleep at all.
i will link part two here when it is posted!
#geto x reader#suguru geto x reader#fics#this took me forever to write that's why im posting part one im like this will actually make me finish part two#geto is just SOOOOO hard to write#like incredibly. i am like. hope i did. at least a little justice lmao#if there is anything I forgot that I should put in the tw or the info pls lmk!!!
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where you assure Liam there's nowt to feel insecure about.
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Liam was off. You could tell from the moment he rolled out of bed that morning, muttering something half-formed under his breath as he trudged off to the bathroom. Normally, he'd be straight into one of his ridiculous morning routines; waffling about whatever dream he'd had, shuffling around in his joggers, humming some tune that had wormed its way into his head overnight. But today? He was quiet.
Too quiet.
At first, you didnât push. You knew better than anyone that Liam could be a moody bastard on occasion, sometimes he just needed to stew in it for a bit before shaking it off. But as the day dragged on, his mood didnât lift. He wasnât snapping or sulking, just distant. Lost in his own head, gaze unfocused, mouth pressed into a thin line like he was trying to bite something back.
By mid-afternoon, you'd had enough.
You found him in the living room, slouched on the couch, one arm resting against his stomach, eyes fixed on the telly like he wasnât actually watching it. His foot was tapping against the floor. You padded over and plopped yourself down beside him, tucking your feet under you.
"Alright, soft lad?" you nudged him gently.
He huffed, but didnât look away from the screen. "Yeah."
You frowned. "Shite answer."
Liam let out a breath through his nose, finally glancing at you. "Nothinâs wrong, man. Just, dunno. Not feelinâ meself today, s'all."
You reached out, lacing your fingers through his. "You can tell me owt, yâknow. You donât have to sit there and act like youâve got to just get on with it."
He was quiet for a moment, thumb rubbing absently over your knuckles. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, "Been seeinâ a load of shite in the papers. All that bollocks about me lookinâ fat or âpast itâ or whatever." He shook his head, lips pressing into a tight line. "I know itâs just knobâeads talkinâ out their arse, butâ" He trailed off, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Itâs doinâ me fuckinâ head in."
Your chest ached.
Liam had always had thick skin. Heâd been in the spotlight for decades, had dealt with more than his fair share of bollocks from the press, from critics, from jealous gobshites who thought they had the right to rip him apart. And yet, somehow, they still found ways to cut deep.
You shifted closer, pressing yourself against his side. "Liam," you said softly, reaching up to cup his face. His skin was warm under your palm, stubble rough against your fingertips. "You know thatâs all bollocks, right?"
He scoffed, but didnât pull away.
"I mean it," you insisted, brushing your thumb over his cheek. "Youâre beautiful, inside and out. And I dunno how anyone canât see that. Must be fuckinâ blind."
That got a quiet chuckle out of him, though he still looked unconvinced.
You shook your head. "Iâm serious. You could walk into a room wearinâ a bin bag and people would still go mental over you."
"Yeah, well. You would."
"Exactly, and Iâve got impeccable taste."
Liam finally cracked a small smirk, the first proper one youâd seen all day.
You grinned, tugging him forward until he finally let himself relax into you. His head dropped against your shoulder, his arms winding around your waist as you held him close, fingers carding through his hair.
"You know I love you, right?" you murmured against his temple.
He exhaled, melting into your touch. "Yeah."
"And you know youâre still the fittest bastard in England, yeah?"
Liam huffed a laugh. "Go on, keep talkinâ."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. "I mean it. Youâve always been gorgeous to me, and you always will be. Doesnât matter if youâve got a six-pack or a bit of a dad bodâeither way, youâre still you. And thatâs what I love."
Liam didnât say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a soft expression. Then, before you could say anything else, he tugged you down and kissed you.
When he finally pulled away, you bumped your nose against his. "Feelinâ better?"
He smirked. "Maybe a bit."
"Only a bit?" You raised an eyebrow. "Right, guess Iâll have to try harder, then."
Liam laughed, proper this time, pulling you impossibly closer. "Cheeky sod."
You grinned. "Yeah, but you love it."
He sighed dramatically. "Suppose I do."
____________________________________________
this time scribbled summat down for the Liam-nation, promise to deliver a longer one for ya lot tomorrow xx
#oasis x reader#oasis one shots#britpop x reader#britpop fanfiction#britpop x f!reader#britpop fanfic#britpop x you#oasis fic#oasis fanfiction#liam gallagher one shots#liam gallagher x reader#liam gallagher fanfiction#liam gallagher x you#liam gallagher x y/n#dilf! liam gallagher x f!reader#liam gallagher x f!reader
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Mornings
Fridolina RolfĂś 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."
#woso x reader#fridolina rolfĂś x reader#fridolina rolfĂś#woso community#woso imagine#woso fanfics#woso
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I want the human/cybertronian life difference to be talked about more in canon
Cuz I mean. itâs RIGHT THERE.
Just a smidgen of true acknowledgment I BEG YOU HASBROâźď¸
i mean come on all it takes is someone mentioning how long the wars been going for one of the humans to go â4 MILLION YEARS???? WHAT THE FUCK HOW OLD ARE YOU???â
And optimus or ratchet to be like ââŚ5/7 million?â 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 â??? What do YOU mean your species was still evolving when I onlined, how long do you guys live?? A thousand?? A few hundred??â
And the gobsmacked humans to be like â??? 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???â
Cue the autobots being like âđ¨ 72??? THATS A CHILD WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUTâď¸â
the more attached/emotional bots looking at their charges and realizing that not only are they sparklings compared to them but theyâll die as sparklings too in just a few decades, causing them to straight up have a mini meltdown.
Yeah theyâre in a war and theyâve lost plenty of friends, but never to anything as predictable and inescapable as old age.
Itâs 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 thereâs 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 theyâre both still young that theyâll have plenty of time to just. Live together and have fun- are wrong?? Immediately tears. Even if cybertronians canât cry tears heâs 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 thereâs only like 5 autobots to begin with (of the main season 1 crew) theyâve lost so many of their own so recently, their numbers are already dwindling down to nothing, theyâre losing the war and the kids are whatâs 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 theyâll 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 đ
I just KNOW bulkhead would have the worst reaction other than bee, maybe even worse cuz he looks at miko and realizes sheâs used up basically a fifth of her entire lifespan already and sheâs Still So Little and straight up starts weeping. Thatâs his DAUGHTER you canât take her from him so soon itâs 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 heâs never going to last as long as tailgate of cliff jumper did?? Even if both he and she do everything theyâre supposed to do to protect him and extended his life?? Depression time baby
Optimus and ratchet donât react as much outwardly to the news as the others but inside theyâre both đđĽ
These kids have brought optimus a level of contentment he hasnât 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 heâs 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 sheâs not actively annoying him) sheâs determined enough to make anything happen which he does begrudgingly respect even if he wishes she wouldnât just throw herself into any and every situation just for fun.
And RafâŚ
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 heâs 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 completelyđ 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 âoh wow a vorn is like a whole human lifespan!đâ and then I went âOH A VORN IS A WHOLE HUMAN LIFESPAN đâ
#transformers#tfp#transformers prime#Fr tho i feel like ratchet would have an initial outward reaction of shock and mild horror#perhaps some anger(already going through the stages of griefđ)#and then he shuts them out cuz he canât handle it đ#tries to pretend it doesnât bother him#OH MY GOD HES IN SO MUCH PAIN#optimus doesnât shut them out but he is a lot more quiet#always has his version of sad puppy eyes when he watches them#like this 𼺠but way way toned down#basically just the eyebrows and small frown#considering he only does micro expressions thatâs the best ur gonna get from him#optimus#ratchet#arcee#bumblebee#bulkhead#optimus prime#maccadam
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Anne of the Island Book Club: Chapter 9
As someone else already noted, this book is not the least bit concerned about the lectures the characters attend or the things they're learning there. So, as a 21st century reader, I really have no idea how their lesson plans and lectures look like. Very different from anything I or my friends have experienced, I'm sure. Likely also pretty strict and boring to our modern-day eyes â or maybe that's just the stereotypical view I have of education in the olden days?
Thinking about education in the late 19th century got me curious, so I looked a little bit into the history of women's higher education in Canada. The first Canadian college to award a Bachelor's degree to a woman was Mount Allison in 1875. Wikipedia says Redmond College is based on Dalhousie University, where a female student first earned her Bachelor's degree in 1885. A timeline that's been put up in the Anne of Green Gables Wiki says Anne went to Redmond College in 1883â87. So she and her girlfriends were true trailblazers indeed!
Though of course, I don't think anyone's saying Montgomery meant to set Anne of the Island exactly between 1883 and 1887 when she was writing it; the wiki timeline comes from starting with Rilla of Ingleside and figuring it out backwards. I wonder if she had an exact timeframe in mind at all? Based on the mention of a biograph in Stella's letter, I assume the book must be set a decade later than the wiki timeline, at the very least.
~
The 1921 Finnish translation I'm reading just plain omits Charlie Sloane proposing to Anne! Looking at the Gutenberg text and the Finnish translation side by side is the first time I've ever heard of that. I can deal with the translator adding all manner of weird little details, but this is an actual plot point and I can't understand why she's chosen to cut it.
In any case, I'm sorry to find out that Charlie doesn't take Anne's rejection in a gentlemanly manner. He must be completely obtuse, or else fully blinded by his love â the entire college is shipping Anne and Gilbert at this point, and Anne herself feels she's never given Charlie encouragement, and yet, he's sure enough that she likes him back that he both dares to propose and dares to become angry when she says no. I hope he does better in his studies than in his social life.
[Edited to add:] All this talk of suitors and proposals has made the following line from Rose's mother in Titanic loop in my head: "The purpose of university is to find a suitable husband. Rose has already done that." So far, this book is not doing a great job proving her wrong.
~
"Of course, we would have to have a housekeeper and I have one ready on the spot" â how times have changed! Of course, it's because of patriarchal notions relating to chastity and modesty and whatnot that the girls have to have a housekeeper, and I'm glad that's a thing of the past now. But from a, well, housekeeping standpoint... I wish I had a housekeeper back when I was in school. I wish I had a housekeeper right now! But all I have is an old and partially broken vacuum cleaner. Though, to be fair, I don't believe Anne and co. had any electric appliances at all, so I guess it's not all bad, living housekeeper-less in the modern day.
~
Further translation notes: the Finnish translation specifies that the "lanky, brainy Freshie" who visits Anne "finds no greater enjoyment in life than higher mathematics" (= "hekkumoi korkeammassa matematiikassa.") Good for him! He won't be able to win Anne's heart, but at least he'll always have mathematics.
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Take your shoes off, stay awhile -
Cod Apocalypse AU
Ongoing, sporadic updates (as is obvious). Prologue linked here, This is the first real part tho. gax x reader, ghost x reader, soap x reader. Canon-typical violence, eventual smut, probably not super slow slow-burn. nfsw. I apologise for my accent-writing in advance.
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(Soap POV)
The truck was quiet.
Well, quieter than it used to be. When they first commandeered it (the concept of 'stealing' doesn't work so well after the end of the world), the truck was loud. It was this big rumbly, diesel-hungry beast that huffed and groaned and grumbled. But, it turns out, Simon was handy with a wrench, and, as Price put it "Got the damn'd thing to shut the hell up." So it trucked along (hehe get it) down the road, mostly quietly.
That was something they had found out, that noise tends to attract... things. Soap wondered if they'd ever be able to come up with a good name for them. He'd proposed a couple, all shot down by Simon or Gaz: Stinkers, Shuffley Boys, Oozers, Gross-Fuckers, Deaders, etc. He was still quite sold on Shuffely Boysâ "C'mon, doesnae feel like it would be an ol' boy band name? Aye, like those Backstreet boys, or what 'ave you?"
But regardless, they had been unable to settle on a name.
They tended to park the truck a wee way from base, in case it did become a beacon, in all the wrong ways. This way, there would still be some separation between them and it. So it was a short bike ride to the truck, stashing the bikes in an old shed, before heading off on another supply run.
This was their routine. It wasn't like they needed all these supplies, despite there still being a fair few people back at base. They had already stockpiled enough to get everyone through a few more decades. But Price has grand plans for starting a commune, a safe, gated community to hide from the Shuffely Boys. Soap is still not convinced it's a good idea, but at least it gives some meaning to these daily trips. So, off they go. It enables them to get off base, at least for a little while. Three soldiers, three grown men, all go a bit stir-crazy when they are asked to stay inside every day.
Plus, it enabled Price to have some time alone with the missus. Price's fucking perfect little wife. That's not fair, Soap mused. Not fair of him to be mad at Mary. She was lovely enough and a heck of a good cook, great at making do with whatever strange assortments of food they brought back. But Price didn't share, and it had been over a year since Soap had managed to wet his cock with anything other than his spit - a fact he was particularly caught up on as of late.
"Knock knock" Ghost huffs from the driver's seat. His balaclava hodded eyes flicked up to the rear mirror, catching Soap's. He was sprawled out in the backseat, leaving Gaz to pour over the maps in the passenger side. Ghost still wears that fucking balaclava everyday, despite their being little concern for his idenitiy getting out now. After all, the world's fucking over. But Soap doesn't press the issue (one time he mentioned this fact, Ghost didn't talk to him for three days, and Gaz practically chewed his ear off, so he keeps his mouth shut about it now).
"Ah foer fuck's sake Ghost. Not another one of yer jokes. Can't a man get a break? Even at the end o' the world?"
Gaz chuckled in the front seat. "Who's there?"
Simon's balaclava twitched, and Soap just knew he was wearing a shit-eating grin right now.
Ghost then proceeded to let out a throaty, wet, disgusting kind of noise- "Oooouuguhuugrrhrhrruhruroohe" like he was in the middle of actively dying.
Soap couldn't help it - he threw his head back and laughed aloud. Gaz just shook his head in befuddled judgment. "You call that a joke?"
"Yeah. It's the fuckin' things turnin' up at the door to kill ya."
"Yeah, we got that part Riley," Gaz returns to his map, putting his feet up on the dash and reclining his chair. "But why exactly does your zombie impression sound like Chewbacca dying?"
Soap scoffed, leaning forward to hang his head between the two men. "And to add to that, how fucken long did it take yer to learn to do that?"
Simon paused a while, eyes fixed on the road, when he answered. "I've been practin' tha' for weeks."
The car erupted into laughter.
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"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" maybeâ 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.
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So the other day I went on a bit of a deep dive and used the wayback machine to find some of my old fanfic (may you never see it) but I was reading through my old comments (as you do) on my most popular fic from back then, that I started when I was twelve, and my god I have to share this with you guys đđ
We have come a LONG way and I think I maybe just blanked a lot of this out to keep myself going, because if current me was copping this, sheâd be out, no more fic.
Consider this my official apology for forever saying fandom is so much worse than it used to beâŚItâs only mostly worse đ¤ŁđŤśđź that bright period in there was obviously the decade after this one.
Shall we stroll down memory lane together?
(trigger warning: homophobia)
Now, Iâm not claiming my work was amazing (again, I was TWELVE) it was honestly terrible. Cringe as hell. But it also clearly had some fans because I got a lot of decent comments too (hundreds on a 19k word HP fic that I abandoned after a few years, that then did not survive the second great ffnet purge), and a lot of those comments after I was like âGUYS IâM TRYING HERE IâM ONLY TWELVE!â etc were like âwait, youâre what now?!â So thatâs kinda nice đ
But the point is, we all start from somewhere. Iâve been doing this âgigâ a while, no one is good overnight, at ANYTHING. I donât even think Iâm that good at it now. If youâre predisposed to writing, it still takes practice! And apparently the guts to weatherâŚthis.
Welcome to the 2000âs â¨
⢠look, i don't care if you've lost your inspiration... just ramble until you do
LOL
⢠could you upload quicker? i want more of the story faster!
đ there was a little too much honesty going around
⢠Did you have to stop, I just started reading this story today and I already have fallen in love with it. I don't like it when authors stop the story half way through.
Me either!!! But you know, I had to go to school so đ¤ˇđźââď¸
⢠I hate you. I just want you to know that. Not finish! Blec!
BLEC!!
Itâs starting to make sense to me why I have a serious anxiety about not having a few chapters written ahead of time, my therapist would say thatâs buried trauma â¨
⢠why why whyyyyy! Why must you stop on a cliffhanger!
just call me rebecca
⢠WELL, one thing for sure, your chapter ALL so freaking short!
Lmao this one didnât age well đ
⢠It's pretty pathetic that YOU'RE one of those TYPICAL cliche, boring authors that go with the knowitall and gold-digging WHORES then say Luna, who's under used and under-appreciated!
I made Hermione and Ginny friends of Harry. Like they are in the book đ this person also commented on every single chapter in this style, hating everythingâI know because no one used anon. Hiding your homophobia? Apparently Not trĂŠs chic!
⢠You'r an awful pweson who'll burn in hell.
I made Harry gay.
⢠Why is Harry such a girl?
Again, heâs not, heâs just gay. I think he also went shopping and bought some jeans (hp 2000âs fic shopping montage, whaddup?! âđź)
⢠cant rembet why i click on there but there not GAY Harry is 100% not fag
How sure are you, though? He had some real great tension with Diary Tom Riddle, if weâre being fair. Also, it was clearly marked. I took up some of that valuable 20 character summary space TO mark it but the homophobes kept coming đĽ˛
⢠I like slash, but it has to be well written, and itâs completly unrealistic and wrong for harry to be a bottom.
ThereâŚwas no sex involved. He went shopping for some pants. He found another male attractive. Iâm?? Also not sure how you inferred that he would be a dominant partner anyway because even with Ginny you know damn well sheâs on top đ
⢠disgusting! you ruined such a good story.
Pretty sure this was also about ���the gayâ¨
⢠Look, I'm not trying to flame, but after all this time of waiting, why are there so little words?
I was busy with seventh grade algebra hun!! Also, I was drafting by hand on paper and uploading from the FAMILY DESKTOP COMPUTER. I had to zero out every time someone walked past, hello???
⢠this story was kind of creepy and i know for a fact that animals leave the losing animal in the ground to claim their teritory.
IâŚactually have no idea what this was about and also whether itâs true đ
⢠Please update as soon as possible
I just picture this person with a deadpan expression, typing with their pointer fingers.
⢠There's a lot of stuff that's unexplained here, add a little more detail and the story would be a lot better.
ok VALID babe, valid, lots of this same sentiment and I TOOK that advice, like if I got this as a twelve year old to my (online) face, Iâm positive your fav millionaire authors can handle it if they happen to see it floating by in the netosphere!
In saying all that, there were some really funny comments too. People were generally a lot more creative when leaving comments back then (aside from the general rudeness 20-30% of them exhibited lmao).
⢠please dont leave me hanging..i look pathetic when i hanging...trust me on this one...visualize a wet cat stuck on a towl rack
Help, Iâm whEEZING đ
â˘I have no words to describe how I feel about you right now. That isn't even a cliff hanger you obliterated the cliff and tossed us into an abyss of unknown danger!
Some things donât change I guess, sorry bout it đ¤ˇđźââď¸
⢠(football caoch voice) move move move! u have readers on u go go go!
𤣠it really do be feeling like that
⢠You sure you're 13? You seem more like a demented 18 yearold to me.Â
Thank you *bows*
Final considerations: Why could no one spell or punctuate? Glad weâre past that era đŽâđ¨
But no seriously I think this is why people who were around for the 90s, 00âs and 10âs are so critical of fandom today, because we weathered THIS and ended up with something really great, and now it seems thatâs being threatened more and more.
So whenever you see pushback against âtodayâs fandomâ itâs coming from a place of âdear god, weâve been in the trenches and we do NOT want to go backâ đŤśđź
My dear current readers, I love you endlessly for not being these people, good lord.
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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 isnât cis, white, able-bodied, skinny, and conventionally attractive).  Â
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.) Itâs not super common to see queer media address this, and I didnât realize how much I needed that reassurance until I got it. That itâs okay to find these things any time in your life. To be told âA queer is never late, theyâre always fashionably on-time.âÂ
Theyâre 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 didnât believe it until I saw it with my own two eyes. This experience is not unusual for fans around my age. Â
After I finished up season one, I laid in bed and cried. Itâs not something I thought would affect me so much, but it feels like a weight Iâd carried so long I didnât realize it wasnât supposed to be part of me is gone.
One of the reasons people unfamiliar with the fandom seem to think itâs 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. Iâm not even sure âtraumaâ is the right word. It doesnât 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 youâre moving past it, Iâve spent a lot of time trying to get my head around this. (I donât 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 Iâm really glad David Jenkins does not come from fandom. Sometimes itâs good to know where a line is, and others itâs better to not know thereâs 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 itâs just two people in love right? What blissful ignorance that this needed to be explained to him! And then he listened to peopleâs experiences with queerbaiting, and went âOh my god you thought I was going to do WHAT?â And then you go âHuh. That is really fucked up.âÂ
The problem with being told something enough, even though you know itâs wrong, is you start to believe it regardless. All the excuses and hedging. Itâs 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.Â
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 âYou can just DO that? Itâs really that easy?â And wasnât 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. Itâs so fucking good.)Â
And people will scoff and say âOf course a cishet(?) white man would be able to get this pushed through.â But do they usually? The thing I donât 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. Iâm sure itâs a perfectly fine show, but I donât 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.Â
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 theyâve been putting up with starving this entire time.
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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
#jumblr#jewish#jewblr#jewish conversion#jewitch#tw antisemitism#antisemitic asks#peace and love stay safe out here đŤśđď¸#sorry for any typos glasses are off and i think faster than i type
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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.
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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!
#one piece#one piece x reader#sir crocodile#crocodile x reader#birthday piece#modern au#seamstress au#one piece fanfiction#fem reader#mine#partyanimal167
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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. Â
"It was just as long ago for me."
"Sure, but he was your kid," said Yoichi. âEveryone 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.Â
⌠and Toshinori's first day at UA, for that matter. Â
"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. Â
"The only test they've had is the entrance exam," said En with a shrug. "Ninth got top in that, soâŚ"
"And so, Eighth's bribery has led to Ninth's downfall," said Banjo in a falsely serious tone. Â
"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, Izukuâs first resort was research. He searched HeroTube for compilations of the most recent UA Athleteâs Oaths, and hit play. Â
He watched the videos, chewing his lip. There was just so much to do, so much to sayâ How could he capture the spirit of Plus Ultra competition, his will to win and everyone elseâs, the honor of competing, the honor of speaking for his entire year, all in only a few minutes? In only a couple days, too. Â
And without stuttering. Â
He was going to die. Â
No, no. That was the wrong mindset entirely for a UA student with a shiny new hero name, much less All Mightâs successor! He could do this! He would do this! Â
Heâd just⌠break down into tears a few times first. Â
.
Nana felt eyes boring into the back of his head.
âJust a thing you can read from the back of a card?â asked Yoichi. âThis guyâs been talking for ten full minutes, and I donât think heâs going to stop anytime soon!â
âI can feel you all judging me,â said Nana, âbut Iâve been dead for decades. Itâs changed. That happens.â
âYou donât have to feel me judging you, Iâm doing it out loud.â
.
Izuku stared down at the pages and pages of repeatedly crossed out lines. Â
âI donât know why I thought I could do this,â he whispered. âI couldnât even come up with a hero name on my own.â
.
âThis really isnât a big deal.â
âItâs a huge deal! Do you know how dangerous public speaking is?â
Nana turned to squint at Yoichi. âWhen did you ever do public speaking?â
âProbably about the same time he went to school,â said En. Â
âI did go to school! Why will you not let that go?â
âBizarre petty grudges and jokes are pretty much the only thing we can hold onto,â said En. âThat and the quirk.â
âSeriously, though, this isnât going to kill him.â
âIt isnât? What happens when my brother sees him on TV? Speaking for the hero class?â
âOh, yeah,â said Banjo. âThatâs a thing.â
Yoichi threw up his hands. âHow did you guys forget?â
âI didnât forget,â said Hikage. Â
.
âMaybe I should ask Dad,â said Izuku. âHe probably talks to lots of people for his workâŚâ
.
âNo!â screamed all of the ghosts. Â
.
âThat's different than public speaking, though, isn't it?â He let his head drop onto his open notebook, heedless of the ink and graphite getting on his face. âAt least it's only the first year speech.â
He sat up with renewed energy.
âAnd there's no way itâll be worse than Endeavor's!â
.
âThat's the spirit!â cheered Nana. Â
âI thought we were the spirits,â said Hikage. Â
âIt's just an expression.â
âAre we spirits, though?â asked En. Â
Banjo groaned. âPlease, kid, don't start on that again.â
.
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. âHey! Welcome to our awesome training montage!â
âYou can't have a montage in real life,â said Jiro. Â
âWatch me!âÂ
.
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.
âThank you for coming, everyone,â she said. âEspecially 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 firstâŚâ
.
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.Â
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 othersâ 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. Â
.
âAlright,â said Yaoyorozu, ânow, 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.â
âBakugou's the crazy guy who chased Midoriya down at lunch the other day,â said Kaminari to Shinsou at a volume that was obviously meant to be a whisper, but fell far short of the mark. Â
âHe's not crazy,â protested Izuku. âHe's just. Passionate.â
Everyone regarded him dubiously. Â
.
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.
âA waltz of darkness and chaos,â 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. Â
Hatsume laughed. âIf you think this is chaotic, wait until the sports festival!â
âShe's right,â said Uraraka. âSo, Midoriya, what do you think we should do?â
âEh? Me?â
âYour battle trial plan was quite impressive,â said Tokoyami. âYour strategic acuity will cast a long shadow in the sports festival as well.â
âI don't know about that,â said Izuku. But then he glanced at Monoma. They probably only had about ten minutes left. âI guess- I guess the most obvious thing is for us to be a rocket.â
.
âOw,â said Uraraka, rubbing her head. Â
âI think,â said Iida, also nursing several bruises, âwe should have come up with a better way to steer before we tried that. And brake.â
âYeah⌠We did go fast, though.â
.
âBut, Hatsume, your, um, your ba- your inventionsââ
âCall âem my babies with your whole chest, grappling hook.â
âI 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 issuesâŚâ
âAww,â said Uraraka, âyou're probably right. I was looking forward to working with you, though.â
âWhat about Fumi and me? We can be on your team, right?â asked Dark Shadow.
Tokoyami ducked his head and tried to push Dark Shadow down. âDon't ask questions like that.â
âI don't know if that'd be a good idea, since Bakugou's explosions can make a lot of light.â
âThat just means we're destined to be arch-nemeses!â
.
Izuku sat down next to Hagakure, Aoyama, and Ashido.Â
âOkay, Midori!â said Ashido. âCome up with a super move for us!â
âIâm sure you will come up with something that sparkles,â said Aoyama. Â
âUh, um,â said Izuku, flustered. âHow about, um, Aoyama, is your laser just light? Maybe it could go through Hagakure - if lasers going through you doesnât hurt.â
âNo, thatâs one of the first things my quirk counselor tested,â said Hagakure. âMy parents wanted to make sure that all the light going through me wasnât going to give me turbo cancer or something. The real problem for me is that for me to do anything with my quirk, Iâm going to have to be naked. We have to wear our PE uniforms for the festival.â
âOh, non,â said Aoyama. âIâve been given an allowance for my belt, surely they would give you one for your suit. Anything else would be quite unfair.â
âOr you could ask Hatsume, see if she can make something for you that would work temporarily,â suggested Izuku. âSheâs really eager to work with everyone. Or even just plastic clothing, from Yaoyorozu.â 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.
âOkay, okay, okay, but what about super moves?â asked Ashido. Â
âOr some things we can do during the event, anyway,â said Hagakure.
âWell, 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.â
.
âLowest setting first, mademoiselle?âÂ
âJust hit me already, Twinkles! I can take it!â shouted Hagakure from the other side of the field. Â
 .
âAre- are you okay, Aoyama?â asked Izuku, after they'd tested Aoyama's laser on a number of settings. Â
âOh, 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.â
.
(In truth, Aoyama was feeling ill, but not because of his quirk. Rather, the problem was his quirkâs 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.
âSensei?â said Ujiko. âAre you alright?â
âNo. You're being incredibly boring.â
.
âAshido, 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?â
âUm,â said Ashido.
.
âI think that's it for me, today,â said Ashido, sitting down. âI'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?â
âHe'd have to be, to get through the entrance exam without using a physical quirk,â said Hagakure, dragging Ashido back up. âCome on, we still have the gym for fifteen, and I want feedback.â
âYou're both brutal.â
.
âUm,â said Izuku, sidling up to Shinsou, notebook in hand. âYour quirk is a mind control type, right?â
Shinsou, scowled down at Izuku. âIt's Brainwashing,â he said, rather gruffly.
âOh, 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. Itâs really too bad that the entrance exam is all robots.â
Shinsou stared at him. Â
âAny- 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, andâŚÂ Um. Just saying, you can practice on me, if you'd like.â
âOh! Or me!â said Kaminari, popping up seemingly out of nowhere. âWe should test and see if you can get me when I'm in wheyyy mode, or Satou when he's powered up!â
âWhat does that even mean?â demanded Shinsou. He allowed Kaminari to drag him on, however. Â
âOooooooh,â said Izuku, his plan to test out the âhallucinationâ thing Mr. Yagi had explained all but forgotten. âThat's a great idea! I'll take notes!â
.
âI know it's a little disappointing that we didn't get a chance to appear to Ninth,â said Nana, âbut don't you think you're overdoing this a little?â
Yoichi rolled over so that he was face up in his Bog of Despair. âNo,â he said, before rolling back over. Â
âForget that,â said Third. âAm I the only one at all disturbed by how he's picking apart all the other kidsâ quirks?â
âYes,â 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? Â
Forget public humiliation, he was going to be expelled. As soon as Mr. Aizawa saw him, he wouldâ
âMidoriya, what are you doing here? Why arenât you in the prep room?âÂ
Izuku squeaked. Then he registered what Mr. Aizawa had said. âPrep room?â he repeated. âOh, yeah! The prep room! Thank you, Mr. Aizawa!â
.
Shouta sighed as his number one problem child scurried away. How illogicalâŚÂ 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. Â
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. Â
He walked over to his desk and knelt to retrieve his stash of jelly pouches, especially the coffee ones. Which he also wasnât supposed to have, but what Recovery Girl didnât know wouldnât 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 yearâs festival by himself, he was going to need them. Â
Now weighted down, he started hobbling back to the stadium and the announcerâs box. Jelly was heavy, as it turned out. Â
Recovery Girl really would kill him if she found out. He sped up. Not a lot. Just a little. Just in case. He certainly wasnât 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 announcerâs box and opened the door. Â
âYagi,â said Shouta, âwhat are you doing here?â He shook off the sense of deja vu.
âOh,â said Yagi, brightly. âYoung 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.â
And so heâd replaced one loud blond with another. He couldnât even be that mad about it. Â
âYou have any training for this?â he asked instead. Â
âWell, not for announcing sports events in particular,â said Yagi. âBut I have a lot of media and commercial experience and Iâve been practicing cheering on my students!â
âRight,â said Shouta, who was feeling as if heâd somehow asked a stupid question. âJust donât show too much favoritism.â
âOh, Iâd never! After all,â and here he grew much more grim, âyou know as well as I do, the risks of putting too much attention on young Midoriya. Besides, young Yamada gave us a âcheat sheet!ââ
.
Izuku, dressed in his PE uniform, stumbled into 1-Aâs prep room. Â
âHey!â said Kaminari. âItâs Midoriya! We were getting worried about you, man!â
âAh, y-yeah,â said Izuku. âI wound up going to the classroom instead.â
âHuh,â said Jiro, âyouâd think your quirk would have warned you against that.â
âUm, yeah,â said Izuku, âbut I guess it wasnât really dangerous to go to the wrong spot at first? Especially since I got here okay, eventually, right?â Â
There was a murmur of agreement, but with a slight uneasy undercurrent. Â
âThereâs not any real danger in the sports festival, either, though, is there?â asked Yaoyorozu. Â
âI- I mean, thereâs the danger of getting beaten up?â And heâd been able to feel danger from wrong answers on a test before, soâŚÂ This should be the same kind of thing, right?
Yaoyorozu nodded. âRight. There is that.â
âDonât worry, Midoriya,â said Uraraka, âIâm sure youâll be fine. We did so much studying for this, after all.â She held up a fist. âIâm feeling confident! Thatâs for sure!âÂ
âYes!â said Monoma, who twirled over with Aoyama. âI, too, am confident that we will defeat those philistines in class 1-B, not to mention everyone else!â
âOui,â said Aoyama, âour performance will be tres magnifique!â
âDonât forget we have allies in other classes, you two,â said Yaoyorozu, slightly exasperated. Â
âYes,â said Monoma, âbut neither of them are in 1-B. We have the excellent Mock and the ingenious Brigid to support us.â
Ashido sighed heavily. âSpeaking of support, I sure wish I couldâve used my costume.â
âItâs to keep things fair,â said Ojiro with a shrug.
Iida power-walked into the room. âIS EVERYONE GOOD AND READY?â he shouted, clearly as nervous as Izuku, but trying to cover it up with sheer volume. âTHE EVENTâS ABOUT TO START! Ahem. Where is Todoroki?â
âOh, jeez,â said Ashido, raising a hand to her lips. âHe never came to any of our practices, so I just sort of forgot he should be hereâŚâ
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 wasnât an empty title at all. Maybe heâ
Izukuâs thoughts ground to a confused halt when Todoroki casually walked into the room. Â
Oh. He was just late. Â
Todoroki stood up in front of the room, clearly intending to make some sort of address. Â
âEr,â said Izuku, âTodoroki, what is it?â
âObjectively speaking,â said Todoroki, âIâm stronger than all of you. Even if youâre all working together⌠even if All Might has his eyes on you, Midoriya, no matter the reasonâŚÂ I will beat you.â
"Did he just⌠declare a rivalry with⌠all of us?" asked Sero, quietly. In the hush that followed Todorokiâs words, he might as well have shouted.   Â
"Can you do that?" asked Kaminari. "Is that allowed?"
.
âHe's got a point,â said Banjo. âA rival is like a nemesis, or a girlfriend, you can only have one at a time.â
âThat's not true,â said Yoichi. âYou can have more than one girlfriend at a time.â
En squinted at him. âAgain, arenât you gay?â
âMultitudes, En, multitudes.â
.
âAw, come on, man,â said Kirishima, âdo you really have to pick a fight with all of us, now? Weâre about to go on and fight anyway. Make your statement on the field!â
âI donât care. Iâm not here to make friends.â He shouldered past Kirishima and left the room. Â
âUh,â said Midoriya, âthat⌠was something.â
âYeah,â said Jiro. âDoes he intend to just wait in the hall or something? Weâre all going to the same place.â
Tokoyami shook his head, Dark Shadow mirroring him. âWhat a mad banquet of darkness.â
.
âWow,â said Yoichi, chuckling. âSometimes I forget how needlessly dramatic teenagers can be.â
All the ghosts, except Second, turned to stare at him.  Â
âHow needlessly dramatic teenagers are?â repeated Nana. Â
âYes?â
âHave you not been sharing the same afterlife as the rest of us, or what?â
.
The class waited in the tunnel, fidgeting, bouncing, flexing, whispering. Any minute, now, theyâd be called in, to take their place on the field in front of the cameras. Â
Any minute, now. Â
âIs it just me,â whispered Uraraka, âor is this taking a really long time?â
âI am sure our eagerness is only making time appear to be passing more slowly than it really is!â said Iida. Â
âNo,â said Monoma, frowning, âthey really are starting late. I wonder if itâs a problem with the cameras, or if something else happened. Midoriya, have you noticed anything?â
Izuku shook his head. âI d-donât think so? Just, um, just nervous for the event! I think. I hope nothingâsâ nothingâs gone wrong.â
.
Shouta and Yagi bent their heads over Hizashiâs so-called cheat sheet. Â
âIâm not reading this,â said Shouta. Â
âThis isâŚÂ I thought we were supposed to avoid favoritism in these things,â said Yagi, sounding incredibly confused. âWhatâ Whatâs this about a ruthless grand battle? That doesnât really⌠sound heroicâŚâ
âYeah, this is just typical Hizashi. Trash it and come up with one of those inspiring speeches you like so much.â
.
The intercom speakers crackled into life overhead. Â
âWelcome to the UA Sports Festival!â
âIs thatâŚ?â
âAll Might!â squeaked a Gen Ed student several rows back. Â
âThe once-a-year event where our new students show how they can go PLUS ULTRA!â
The crowd outside, in the stadium, cheered wildly. Â
âFirst, 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!â
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 Iidaâs wave. Â
âAnd 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!â
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. Â
.
âWell, this is it, guys,â said Yoichi. âThe last minutes of Hisashi not knowing Izuku is in the hero course.â
âI'm still not sure why you think he doesn't know already,â said Nana, crossing her arms. âYou were listening to the conversation they had about hero names, right?â
âAre 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.â Yoichi shook his head sadly. Â
âNew question,â said Banjo. âDid All for One ever go to school?â
âWhen in reality, Chan and I had only just started discussing the possibility of a QPRâŚâ
âNo, seriously, what is that guy's level of education?â
âThey had to go back to ChinaâŚÂ It was tragic. Almost as tragic as Izuku inheriting that particular personality quirk.â
âEw, don't talk about Ninth inheriting quirks from him,â said En. Â
âI agree,â said Hikage. Â
âThank you,â said En. Â
âThat was indeed a tragic turn of events, Yoichi.â
âIs no one else interested in whether or not All for One graduated high school?â
âFurthermore, 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.â
âEr, thanks, Hikage, but you don't have to say ânon-ceiling.ââ
âHey!â snapped Nana. âNinth's speech is starting, and I, at least, want to hear it.â
.
âNow!â said Ms. Kayama, brightly, snapping her whip to get the attention of people close to the stage. âThe athleteâs oath! Your student representative, from class 1-A, is Wonder!â
Izuku pasted on his best smile and climbed the stairs.
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54 - The Asshole Attorney
Part 55
Raised Fair Share of Hell
Would you all want me to write smut between Cooper and Faith at some point in this story đ¤ Let me know in the comments below
Tag list @bvbwestfall @hcwthewestwaswcn @child-of-of-the-sunshine @elenavampire21 @keep-the-wolves-close @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @whatelsecouldgowrong @lover-of-books-and-tea
Faithâs pov
Cooper and the annoying lawyer woman had stepped out onto the back porch to talk privately about why her company had been looking for him for whatever reason. Standing in front of the backdoor I stepped into the kitchen cracking it open so I could hear their conversation going on outside. âSo,
they sent you, for a wrench, and while your back was conveniently turned, the pumpjack blew.â
âNo, I-I was running back
from the truck when it blew.â My boyfriend corrected her.
She questioned him. âWhy were you running?â
â 'Cause that's what you do. Hurry. When someone asks for something, you haul ass.â
She trailed off. âAnd he needed this tool to...?â
âI don't know why.â
The lawyer eyed him. âI'm assuming the tool... a wrench, yes?â
â A pipe wrenchâ.
She cut him off. âA pipe wrench would be the proper tool to secure a valve?â
âLady, it was my second day. I didn't know the proper way to do anything.â Cooper scoffed from the chair he was sitting in.
âWhat we are offering her, and the other family members, is almost half a million dollarsâŚ...each. That is enough to pay off her mortgage, cover her bills for two decades and still put that baby through college. But if the choice is to seek damages from the company you work for......well, then, we must
scrutinize everything. Every family.â The lawyer stepped closer to him, bending down to be eye level with him. âAnd this? I mean, do you have any idea how bad this looks? Husband dead less than a month and you're sleeping in his fucking bed. The one person who survived the explosion completely unscathed.â
âHeâs not sleeping with her, bitch!â I shouted throwing opened the kitchen window.
The lawyer whipped her head around seeing me watching them. âIâm afraid we havenât properly met. Iâm Rebecca and you are?â
âHis girlfriend.â Walking over to the glass door I slid it opened leaning in the doorway with my arms crossed over my chest.
âHmm so letâs see if I have this right. You previously knew the kind of money Elvio had and so when your back was turned you knew you could find a way to get rich quick. Which would give you and your girlfriend the opportunity to, "I don't know, run away to Vegas or something.â Rebecca turned her attention back to my boyfriend with a fowl smirk on her face. âYou know exactly which valve and which tool, don't you? And the reason you were running was to get as far away as you possibly could.â
Raising my voice at her I couldnât believe she was trying to change the story and make my boyfriend a criminal. âThey didnât meet until after her husband was dead. Heâs not the liar or murderer you're making him out to be.â
âYou look younger than he is, Iâm assuming your mother had to drop out of high school because she got pregnant as a teenager.â Rebecca tilted her head to the side, shifting her gaze between me and my boyfriend. âStatistics have shown that kids of teen parents are more likely to get pregnant young themselves. You and Cooper canât make good money so you told him to scam a young widow to benefit your struggling family.â
âYou freaking bitch! - Cooper let me go.â Bawling my hands into fists I charged at her nearly close to knocking her on her ass but someone stopped me.
âFaith! Faith, itâs not worth it.â Cooper cursed in her face, wrapping his arms around my waist, wincing when I thrashed against him trying to get to her. âfuck you.â
â fuck you.â She had no sign of backing down from a fight. âIf she fails to sign,
and seeks litigation, I will crucify you to destroy her. And I do mean destroy. You will be criminally investigated.â
âHe hasnât done anything wrong. Heâs just helping her get through the tough times of losing her husband.â Cooper kept his arms around my waist holding me back away from her even though he couldnât stand upright for long cause of his injuries.
âHave you been helping her
with her finances? Have you sold any of Elvio's belongings? I seem to recall a pretty fancy pickup that's no longer out front. You see where I'm going
with this, don't you?â She ignored my argument, crossing her arms and sternly looking at him.
âIt's not true, and you know it.â Cooper fought back.
She got in his face challenging before entering the house and leaving us alone on the back porch. âYou're the only one
who knows the truth, Cooper. Because you're the only one
who survived. And I reject your truth. I think I'll invent my own.â
âI canât believe sheâs trying to put you in prison for something that isnât true.â Cooper finally released his arms from around my waist, stumbling backwards against the chair needing to rest for a second.
âIâm sorry she insulted your mom, Faith.â
I felt my eyes watering at the thought till I wiped them away with my hands. âItâs not your fault. I just - Iâm going to call my aunts. She needs a good kick in the ass.â
âDonât call Beth. I got this.â Cooper shook his head no, stumbling toward the back door and I followed the heels of his boots.
âWhat - what are you going to do?â
He pushed open the sliding door letting me walk inside before him. âIâm going to make her job a living hell.â Entering the living room once he had shut the door we saw Rebecca and Nathan talking with Ariana until she saw us come back into the room.
âWhat do you think?â
He answered her question. âA million. That's what I think.â
Rebecca made a face. âA million?â
âYou weren't standing on that doorstep this morning at 7 a.m. 'cause you're sitting on a strong case. You want to go to trial? Fine. Her lawyer is gonna file environmental claims with TCEQ, seek safety and equipment reviews from OSHA and the Railroad Commission. Been all over these pumps and holding tanks, I ain't seen one that'll pass yet. Then it's the deposition, and, yeah, sure, you might rake me through the coals, but what pearls of wisdom will the other 700 M-TEX oil riggers put in the public record?â Cooper took me by surprise immediately challenging the lawyers in the room. Standing off to the side I eyed my boyfriend getting caught off guard by how much I wanted to kiss right then and there. âIf it's worth 1.2 million to
avoid trial, it's worth three. And why are you carrying
the load for all this? Where's your insurance company? What the fuck don't you
want them to see? So, yeah. It's a million.â
Nathan called his boss, putting the phone call on speaker. âYeah, I have a counter on the settlement.â
âA what? Did they hire an attorney?â
Nathan responded. âCame up with it on their own.â
Tommyâs boss asked. âThey what? Did you say "no attorney"?â
âI'm not in a position to answer that.â Nathan glanced over at me and Cooper.
Rebecca stomped over to us and I clutched my hands into fists ready to fist fight if she came at us a second time. âYou think you're pretty smart, don't you?â
âSmart enough.â Cooper glared directly at her.
The oil boss asked through the phone. âHow much?â
âA million.â
The boss raised his voice at his attorney. âJesus, Nate. How the fuck did they know to counter?â
âOne of the family members
asked Cooper Norris to sit in.â Nathan explains.
Monty, the boss shouted through the phone and I proudly smirked knowing he didnât like that. âWho... Tommy Norris' kid? My fucking employee, Cooper Norris?â
Nathan replied. âYes, sir.â
âOh, Jesus. All right. Do the million with an NDA and restrict the offer to
whoever the fuck he's advising.â
Nathan spoke to Rebecca. âWith an NDA.â
âWhat's an NDA?â Ariana glances between the four of us.
Rebcceca clasped her hands together. âIt means you can't disclose the settlement or the amount of the settlement
with anyone, including other family members.â
âWhich means they don't get it.â Cooper snapped back figuring out their plan.
Ariana looked at me and I nodded my head in agreement. âThat's not fair.â
âNo. No, they all need to get it.â Cooper fought back to Monty on the other side of the phone call.
Looping my arms around my boyfriendâs waist I kissed his cheek grinning at what he had just done for the young mother. âThose four years of college certainly are paying off, babe. Maybe you should finish the degree.â Cooper smiled slightly looking down at me, draping his arm over my shoulder.
âPay it and paper it and then fire that lying, backstabbing son of a bitch.â
Rebecca butted in correcting the order of her boss. âUhâŚYou can't do that, sir.
It's wrongful termination.â
âTell him not to worry. I quit.â Cooper raised his voice at his boss, making me grip his forearm I was holding onto at the moment.
âCooper!â
Rebecca hung up the phone, helping Ariana sign the paperwork finally heading to leave her house. âHe is tendering his resignation. There you go. You crazy kids,
don't spend it all in one place.â
Nathan warned her. âRebecca.â
âI wish you the best in your future endeavors.â She changed her tone but I could tell she was still pissed off.
Cooper responded back to her slightly confused, not noticing that I had taken a few steps towards her. âI don't know what that means.â
âIt means go fuck yourself.â Rebecca snapped back at him, she turned around to walk away till I ran up grabbing her by her hair and slamming her down onto her back. Raising one fists above her she coughed looking up into my eyes. âAhhh!â
âScrew you, Rebecca!â
She shoved me off of her body, getting up from the ground threatening me. âIâll have your ass put in jail for that!â
âNo, you wonât. Cause if you try anything my aunt Beth will beat your ass all day long.â I spat in her face watching her and Nathan leaving Arianaâs house. Running my hands down my face I threw my head back finally taking a breath. Facing my boyfriend I glared at him and the stupid mistake he had just made by quitting his job. âYou quit your job. What were you thinking?â
Cooper lowered his gaze to his dirty work boots. âFaith, I canât work for a company that treats their workerâs families so horribly.â
âYou dropped out of college and now you have no job.â Dropping my hands to my sides I scoffed spinning on my boots and going out the front door. âI - I donât know how to handle this.â
Cooper grunted hobbling across the room chasing after me, flinging the door open and slammed it shut behind him. âFaith!â
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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.
âDead,â the flat voice in front of me declares.
Iâve been backed down onto one knee on the ground, my boyfriend-turned-swordsmanship-instructor announcing my defeat. Iâm breathing hard, my legs long since fed up with all the maneuvering and dodging heâs putting me through, and Iâve learned so many patterns of attack and defense it feels like they could fall out my ears.
âYouâre being awfully critical,â I remark as I get to my feet and brush the gravel off of my knee.
âAnd youâre the one who said we should take this seriously,â K.aeya retorts.
âOnly to get you to stop making innuendos.â
âWell, Iâve stopped.â
Heâs infuriating. I hate him.
âWhat went wrong that time?â he prompts, backing up to his starting position. Thatâs been the game now, ever since he became determined earlier this afternoon to teach me âself-defense.â He finds a new way to kill me, and I try to figure out how I couldâve stopped it.
âI, uh⌠I didnât cover my left side,â I say, absent-mindedly tossing my wooden sword between my hands. Itâs my best guess.
âCorrect.â He tips his fake sword at me. âIâve shown you multiple times that Iâm going to try and come at you from that direction. Itâs a pattern. Youâre supposed to pick up on it.â
I sigh at him.
âDonât give me that look. I told you, you need to-â
â-to know the enemy, yes.â I echo his words for what feels like the tenth time.
âReady?â He raises his sword, and an eyebrow.
âReady.â
Our shoes crunch on the gravel. Clack. Swish. âDead. Too much to the left, this time. Donât overcompensate. Ready?â
âReady.â
Clack. Step. Breathe. Think. Think-!
âDead. Donât step out too far, you wonât be able to get back to your center. Ready?â
âŚâDead. Keep your legs bent.â
âŚâDead.â
âDead!â
âDead-â
Gods! I stop short of swearing out loud in frustration. Self-defence, my ass! Iâm not cut out for this, and he knows it. âDo you just, like, enjoy tormenting me or something?â I laugh, exasperated, as I smack his wooden sword away from my heart for the umpteenth time.
âGotta be ready for anything!â he chirps, spinning his sword and smiling at me in that way that makes the corners of his mouth sharp and his eye flash.
âWell why do I have to be ready for this?â I counter. âYou know, most people donât go around whacking me with wooden sticks. I donât know if this is a relevant skill, personally.â
âItâs usually not wooden sticks, darlinâ.â He pauses his pent-up energy to level a look at me. Thereâs something knowing in his eye, the steel he pretends that isnât there, forged by the decade of missions and monster-fighting and knowledge I wouldnât begin to have. His world is more dangerous than mine, even though both worlds occupy so much of the same space. Iâll never have to use this knowledge, but Iâll also never be able to convince him of that.
âThatâs fair,â I say, my voice light. His oh-so-helpful words from earlier poke at my head again. âKnow your enemy.â He wants me to learn the fighting patterns heâs putting on, far more obvious than heâd ever be in a real battle, to teach me how to learn how my opponent thinks. Heâs made a mistake, though. In being so thorough in his instruction, and so thoroughly annoying in his methods, heâs made it personal. âThe enemyâ isnât the random assailant heâs pretending to be. Itâs him, and Iâm gonna win.
Iâve got an idea.
This time when he raises his sword, I know he sees the hint of mischief in my eyes. I canât hide it from him, Iâve 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 heâs deliberately telegraphed to give me a chance. Before he swings again, I abandon anything resembling the technique heâs 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. âDefinitely dead. You never learn, do you? Thought that would help you?â
âYouâre no fun.â
âOne more time?â He offers me my sword back.
âFine. One more time,â I agree, and it doesnât 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. Weâre 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 shouldâve 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.
âJulian?â He steps forward quickly, his face confused. He couldâve sworn he felt wood, not fingers, when he landed the blow. But heâs also learned that I have a much greater capacity for trouble than heâd ever anticipated. âHey darlinâ, Iâm sorry, I didnâtââ He places a hand on my shoulder, leaning in and trying to get a look at the hand Iâm favoring. âYou okay?â He ducks his head, reaching for my fingers.
The rough, beat-up surface of a wooden sword scratches at the back of his neck. âDead,â 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.
âOh, you cheat,â he says incredulously, releasing my shoulder by shoving me back playfully. âThat doesnât count, you yielded-â
âDidnât yield.â I cut him off, grinning victoriously. I watch the contemplative frown form on his face as he runs through his memory and realizes Iâm right.
âBut,â I continue, âI did know my enemy.â And itâs my turn to tip my sword at him, raising an eyebrow.
âOh, you-â He cuts himself off with a huff, trying his best not to smile. Itâs a rare thing, seeing him speechless. âPractice is done,â he says, the words woven through a reluctant laugh. âIâm clearly incapable of bettering you.â
#my writing#âď¸ in every universe âď¸#i actually worked rly hard on this one and edited it like five times for pacing and flow so!! very proud of it
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