#instead of just playing infinite or something

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

You closed your eyes, your breathing unsteady, trying to fight off the nausea twisting in your stomach. You felt cold—so unbearably cold—despite the hoodie, despite the fact that your skin was damp with sweat. You knew Jake would be home soon. You just had to hold out until then.

The worst feeling 😪

Ellie let out another tiny giggle, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air. You barely had the energy to lift your head, but when you forced yourself to look up, you saw the moment his easy-going expression twisted into concern.

Ellie is the ray of sun, even in rough situations 🥹

Ellie babbled something in response, her tiny hands reaching out to pat your face, and despite the fever, you managed a weak smile.

The cutest and happiest little baby🥰

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have the energy to. You just let yourself melt into the couch, listening as Jake moved through the house, his voice low and soothing as he spoke to Ellie. You had made it home. And Jake was here. That was all that mattered.

That's an achievement itself!

You watched through half-lidded eyes as Jake moved around the living room, balancing Ellie on his hip while rummaging through the diaper bag with his free hand. He was trying to pull out one of her favourite teething toys, something to occupy her so he could focus on you, but she was too fascinated by his dog tags, gripping them in her tiny fists and yanking with all her might. "Ellie, sweetheart, Daddy needs those," Jake muttered, prying her fingers open gently, only for her to grab onto the fabric of his flight suit instead. He sighed, but there was no frustration in his voice—just that unwavering patience he always had with her. "C'mon, baby girl, let's find you somethin’ fun to play with so I can take care of Mama."

Jake can't even be mad at her, his little girl just likes the things that stand for his passion

Your lips parted, voice soft and raspy. “I missed you.” Jake’s hands paused in the middle of their search, his head snapping toward you. His green eyes softened instantly, his whole expression shifting from focused determination to something infinitely more tender.

🥹🥹🥹

The steady thud of his boots against the hardwood was oddly soothing, the rhythmic motion of his steps making you feel safe, like you could finally let your body relax in his arms.

It's like a white noise or something, the sound of home 🥰

"Ellie did good at daycare," he continued, his grip on you tightening slightly. "They said she was all smiles, even flirted with the instructors a little." That made you chuckle, though it was weak. "She gets that from you." Jake smirked. "Damn right, she does."

And Jake couldn't be prouder 🤭

Jake was always warm, the kind of warmth that seeped deep into your bones, that made you feel safe, protected. You sighed in relief as his body heat enveloped you, the shivers slowly fading as he rubbed soothing circles along your back.

Perfect, life-size heating pad with massage function 🤭

Jake knew you were exhausted. You’d barely made it up the stairs before collapsing into bed, and even now, curled up in his arms, you felt fragile. That didn’t sit right with him—not when he was used to you being the one holding everything together.

🥺🥺🥺

Phoenix: Sick?! What kind of sick? Fever? Flu? Stomach bug?

Jake adjusted the baby carrier on his chest, making sure Ellie was snug and secure before he fastened the last strap. She was settled against him, her tiny head resting against his chest, her warm little body radiating the kind of comfort that made him instinctively rub slow circles over her back.

Both his girls seem to be comforted by the same things 🥰

Bob: Oh no! Does she need anything?

Rooster: Damn, man, you got this? You want one of us to drop something off?

Coyote: Is my queen okay?

They are all sweet but Coyote cracked me up 😂

Jake: Chicken noodle, what does it matter?

Rooster: It matters.

Bob: Soup is love.

They are not wrong though 🤷🏻‍♀️

Ellie stirred against his chest, making a small noise, and he immediately ran a soothing hand over her back. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, bouncing her lightly. “They’re a mess, huh?” Ellie sighed, her little fist curling into his shirt as she settled back down. Jake smirked. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

This is just too funny and sweet 🤭😅

“Now, your mama—” he started, glancing down at Ellie again, “—isn’t the biggest fan of celery, but she needs all the good stuff in her system, so we’re sneaking it in.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Think she’ll notice?” Ellie, of course, didn’t answer, but she let out a soft little sigh, nuzzling closer into his chest. Jake chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. She’ll definitely notice.”

Oh Ellie knows as well as Jake the answer to this question

Taking care of you like this—it wasn’t anything fancy, nothing grand—but it meant something. It was something he could do for you, something tangible to make you feel better.

That's what matters!

Jake let out a quiet curse. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t stay put.” You opened your eyes again, managing a weak smile. “You do know me.” He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I don’t wanna wrangle your stubborn ass back into bed.”

Fair 🤷🏻‍♀️😅

Jake softened. “She’s perfect. Ate good, took her bath like a champ, and now she’s snoozin’ on me.” He tilted his head. “Unlike her mama, who should be doin’ the same.” You let out a small, breathy chuckle, but it quickly turned into a cough. Jake was immediately rubbing a hand up and down your back, his expression tightening.

🥹🥹🥹

“Good girl,” he muttered, brushing his knuckles along your cheek before straightening up. “Now stay put.” You let out a weak chuckle, cracking one eye open to look at him. “You’re such a momma hen,” you rasped, lips curling into a teasing smile. Jake scoffed, crossing his arms as he looked down at you. “Momma hen?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Darlin’, I’ll have you know I’m just a damn good husband.”

He is a momma hen and a good husband, there is no denying it 😅

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, eyes slipping closed for a brief second. Jake chuckled, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “And you love me for it.”

I mean he's not wrong 🤷🏻‍♀️

Jake’s entire expression shifted, the relief on his face quickly replaced by concern. His jaw tightened, and he pulled back slightly to look you over again, as if just now realizing how much weaker you seemed. “Darlin’,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Why the hell didn’t you eat somethin’ before gettin’ on that plane?”

Momma hen right there ☝🏻

You swallowed, shifting slightly against the pillows. “Can Ellie stay with me?” Your voice was small, a little hoarse, but there was no mistaking the quiet plea in it. Jake’s expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “You sure, sugar? You need to rest.” “I will,” you promised, already reaching out for her. “I just… I missed her.”

Understandable 🥺

As he stood up and made his way to the door, you let out a slow breath, your body still aching but your heart finally settling. Ellie snuggled deeper into you, her tiny hand curling against your chest. Maybe you were sick, but at least you were home.

🥰🥰🥰

Jake let out a bark of laughter, his head tilting back. “Aw, hell,” he drawled, shaking his head. “You’re half delirious, burnin’ up with a fever, and the first damn thing you wanna do is complain about celery?” You gave him the best unimpressed look you could manage in your weakened state. “You did this on purpose.” Jake smirked, dipping the spoon back into the soup. “Maybe.” He held out another spoonful. “But you still need to eat, darlin’. So, what’s it gonna be? A little bit of celery, or me lettin’ you starve?”

To say maybe is a clear choice 😅

Jake was laughing so hard at this point that he had to set the spoon down for a second. “Darlin’, you’re killin’ me.” “No,” you countered, shifting Ellie slightly. “You’re killing me. With celery.”

Their whole celery banter is just hilarious 🤭😂

Jake ran a hand down his face, still grinning as he picked up the spoon again. “Alright, drama queen. Do you want me to pick the celery out for you? Would that make you feel better?”

An instant remedy

Bob: Good. Just make sure she stays hydrated.

Jake sighed, but the fondness in his gaze was undeniable. “Yeah, sugar. I’ll pick out the damn celery.”

He put it in, he can take it out 🤷🏻‍♀️😅

Fanboy: Damn, Bob, when did you become the mom friend?

What is this question? As a fellow mom friend, to me Bob has always been a mom friend 😅

Jake: She’s fine. Just wiped out. I got it handled.

Coyote: Yeah, we know. You’re a momma hen when it comes to her.

As he should 😌

Celery

Summary: You finally come home from your work trip but you're sick. Could be classified as dead in some states with the way you're feeling. Jake being the ever so caring husband makes you soup with your least favourite ingredient celery

Warning: Mild teasing, light-hearted banter, mentions of unfinished home construction, family bonding moments, mentions of being sick.

Word count: 7K words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader

English is not my first language so I apologies for mistakes

A one shot but can be read with the little life universe They're back!

The moment you stepped off the plane, you knew something was wrong.

Your body felt heavy, your head pounding with each step as you dragged yourself through the airport. The chill from the air-conditioning sent shivers down your spine, despite the fact that you were wearing one of Jake’s hoodies over your travel clothes. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably, waves of nausea rolling through you as you forced yourself to keep moving.

Jake had texted you earlier, saying he was just getting off work and heading to pick up Ellie from the base day-care. You could’ve waited, maybe asked him to come get you, but you hated the idea of making him rush around when you knew he already had his hands full. You told yourself you’d be fine. It was just a short Uber ride home.

The drive felt longer than it should have. Every bump in the road made your stomach churn, and by the time the car pulled up to your house, you were gripping your armrest, trying to keep your breathing steady.

"Here you go," the driver said, glancing back at you.

You forced a small smile, fumbling with your bag as you paid and muttered a quiet, "Thanks."

Your legs felt weak as you stepped out of the car, the early evening air hitting your already feverish skin. Your fingers shook slightly as you unlocked the front door, pushing it open and stepping inside.

The house was quiet, dimly lit by the warm glow of the setting sun filtering through the windows. The sight of home should have been comforting, but all you could think about was how badly you needed to lie down.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder, landing with a soft thud near the door. You barely made it to the couch before collapsing onto it, curling into yourself as a shiver ran down your spine. The exhaustion hit you like a truck, and the second your head met the cushion, your body sagged in relief.

You closed your eyes, your breathing unsteady, trying to fight off the nausea twisting in your stomach. You felt cold—so unbearably cold—despite the hoodie, despite the fact that your skin was damp with sweat.

You knew Jake would be home soon. You just had to hold out until then.

-----

The distant hum of an engine outside barely registered in your foggy mind, but the familiar rumble of Jake’s truck rolling into the driveway pulled you from the hazy in-between of sleep and wakefulness. You forced your eyes open, but even that small effort sent a wave of dizziness crashing over you.

You heard the truck door shut, followed by the soft, happy giggles of Ellie as Jake carried her up the front steps. His boots thudded against the porch, the jingle of his keys filling the quiet house as he unlocked the door.

The second it swung open, warmth flooded inside, carrying the scent of Jake’s cologne, crisp night air, and the faintest trace of baby powder.

“Alright, darlin’, let’s get you inside so your mama can—” His voice trailed off the moment he saw you curled up on the couch.

You heard the soft hitch in his breath, the shift in his footsteps as he stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him. “Sweetheart?”

Ellie let out another tiny giggle, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air. You barely had the energy to lift your head, but when you forced yourself to look up, you saw the moment his easy-going expression twisted into concern.

“Aw, hell,” Jake muttered, adjusting Ellie higher on his hip as he strode toward you. He crouched down beside the couch, his free hand brushing across your forehead. His palm was warm against your clammy skin, and you sighed at the touch, leaning into him instinctively.

“Jesus, baby, you’re burnin’ up,” he murmured, his thumb grazing over your cheek. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You swallowed, your throat raw and sore. “Didn’t wanna… make you rush,” you croaked.

Jake huffed, shaking his head. “Darlin’, you could’ve been half-dyin’ and still would’ve tried to let me finish work first.”

Ellie babbled something in response, her tiny hands reaching out to pat your face, and despite the fever, you managed a weak smile.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

Jake exhaled slowly, shifting Ellie so she was more secure in his arm. “Alright, let me get this little one settled, and then we’re gettin’ you into bed.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have the energy to. You just let yourself melt into the couch, listening as Jake moved through the house, his voice low and soothing as he spoke to Ellie.

You had made it home. And Jake was here. That was all that mattered.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as Jake moved around the living room, balancing Ellie on his hip while rummaging through the diaper bag with his free hand. He was trying to pull out one of her favourite teething toys, something to occupy her so he could focus on you, but she was too fascinated by his dog tags, gripping them in her tiny fists and yanking with all her might.

"Ellie, sweetheart, Daddy needs those," Jake muttered, prying her fingers open gently, only for her to grab onto the fabric of his flight suit instead. He sighed, but there was no frustration in his voice—just that unwavering patience he always had with her. "C'mon, baby girl, let's find you somethin’ fun to play with so I can take care of Mama."

Your chest tightened at that, at how natural he was with her, at how effortlessly he juggled everything, even while looking at you like he was seconds from picking you up and putting you in bed himself.

Your lips parted, voice soft and raspy. “I missed you.”

Jake’s hands paused in the middle of their search, his head snapping toward you. His green eyes softened instantly, his whole expression shifting from focused determination to something infinitely more tender.

His shoulders dropped slightly, as if he hadn’t even realized how tense he was until you said it. “Aw, sweetheart…” he murmured, stepping closer. He crouched beside you again, letting Ellie rest against his chest as he reached out, brushing your hair away from your damp forehead. “We missed you too. Didn’t we, Els?”

Ellie made a little squeaky noise in response, kicking her legs happily, completely unaware of the moment unfolding.

You let out a weak chuckle, blinking up at him. “You’re just saying that ‘cause she’s too little to argue.”

Jake smirked. “Maybe.” His fingers ghosted over your cheek, feather-light, like he was afraid you might break. “But I know I sure as hell did.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, your fever-ridden body aching for more than just his touch—you needed the comfort of him, the warmth and steadiness only he could give you.

Jake seemed to sense it because he exhaled through his nose, shifting Ellie slightly. “Alright, baby, let’s make a deal. I’m gonna set you up real nice with some toys, then I’m puttin’ Mama to bed. Sound good?”

Ellie just babbled nonsense, and Jake chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Make it quick, cowboy.”

Jake grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead before standing, already heading toward Ellie’s playpen. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jake reappeared at your side after settling Ellie in her playpen, her tiny fingers already grasping at the soft stuffed animals around her. He crouched down beside you, his hands warm and steady as they cupped your arms.

“Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you upstairs,” he murmured, voice dripping with tenderness.

You didn’t protest as he slid one arm around your back and the other beneath your legs. Before you could blink, he was lifting you effortlessly off the couch, cradling you against his chest.

"Jake," you murmured weakly, your fevered body too exhausted to fight the sudden weightlessness.

"Hush, darlin’," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as he carried you toward the stairs. "Let me take care of you."

The steady thud of his boots against the hardwood was oddly soothing, the rhythmic motion of his steps making you feel safe, like you could finally let your body relax in his arms.

Halfway up the stairs, you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He still smelled like jet fuel and crisp night air, mixed with the faintest trace of baby lotion from holding Ellie.

You swallowed, your throat dry and scratchy, but you forced the words out anyway. "How was your day?"

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Darlin', you're sick as hell, and you're askin' about my day?"

You managed a weak smile. "I still wanna know."

He sighed, but there was fondness in it. "Well, started off with some drills—nothing too excitin'. Rooster and I had a dogfight that ended in him talkin’ more shit than he should’ve for someone who lost," Jake drawled, shaking his head. "Then had to sit through a briefing that felt like it lasted a damn lifetime."

You hummed in acknowledgment, clinging to the sound of his voice like it was a lullaby.

"Ellie did good at daycare," he continued, his grip on you tightening slightly. "They said she was all smiles, even flirted with the instructors a little."

That made you chuckle, though it was weak. "She gets that from you."

Jake smirked. "Damn right, she does."

By the time he reached your bedroom, you felt like you were drifting in and out, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. He nudged the door open with his foot and gently laid you down on the bed, taking extra care as he pulled the covers over you.

You blinked up at him sleepily. “Thank you.”

Jake leaned down, brushing a kiss to your forehead before smoothing back your hair. “Get some rest, sweetheart. I got you.”

As soon as Jake tucked the blanket around you, you curled into its warmth, but it wasn’t enough. A shiver wracked through your body, making you pull your arms tighter around yourself, desperate for heat.

Jake was already kneeling beside the bed, his hand still smoothing over your forehead. His brows pinched in concern when he felt how cold your skin was, despite the fever that left your cheeks flushed.

You swallowed, your throat dry and scratchy. “Jake…” your voice came out barely above a whisper.

He leaned in instantly, his palm cradling your cheek. “What is it, sweetheart?”

Your lips trembled as you forced the words out. “I’m cold.”

Jake exhaled sharply, not in frustration but in that deep, aching kind of concern he always had when you weren’t well. Without a second thought, he stood and peeled off his flight jacket, tossing it onto the chair before toeing off his boots.

“Alright, baby, scoot over,” he murmured.

You blinked at him sleepily, confused. “What?”

“I said scoot,” he repeated, softer this time, as he pulled back the blanket.

You didn’t have the strength to argue—not that you wanted to—so you moved just enough for him to slide into bed beside you. The second he was settled, he pulled you right into him, wrapping his arms around you as he tucked your head beneath his chin.

Jake was always warm, the kind of warmth that seeped deep into your bones, that made you feel safe, protected. You sighed in relief as his body heat enveloped you, the shivers slowly fading as he rubbed soothing circles along your back.

"Better?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

You nodded weakly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his undershirt. "Yeah… better."

Jake pressed another kiss into your hair, his grip tightening just a little. "Good. Now sleep, darlin'. I got you."

And this time, wrapped in his warmth, you actually believed it.

Jake held you close, his strong arms wrapped securely around you as he listened to your breathing. At first, it was uneven, each exhale shaky from the fever clinging to your body, but as the minutes passed, you started to relax against him.

He kept tracing slow, soothing circles on your back, his other hand tangled in your hair, occasionally smoothing it down when it stuck to your damp skin. Every now and then, you’d let out a little sigh, your body growing heavier in his hold.

Jake knew you were exhausted. You’d barely made it up the stairs before collapsing into bed, and even now, curled up in his arms, you felt fragile. That didn’t sit right with him—not when he was used to you being the one holding everything together.

So, he waited.

He stayed perfectly still, letting the weight of his warmth lull you into a deeper sleep. He knew the exact moment you slipped under—your body went completely slack, your grip on his shirt loosening as your breathing evened out.

Only then did he shift, carefully manoeuvring himself out from under you. He moved slow, making sure not to jostle you as he slid out of bed. As soon as he was free, he tugged the blanket back over you, making sure you were still tucked in tight.

Jake stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, just watching you, making sure you weren’t stirring. A small smile tugged at his lips when you let out a soft sigh, your fingers twitching against the pillow.

Then, with a final glance, he slipped out of the room, padding down the stairs as quietly as possible.

The second he stepped into the living room, he saw Ellie still in her playpen, her big green eyes—so much like his own—staring up at him with curiosity. She let out a tiny, babbling sound, kicking her little legs excitedly as he approached.

Jake exhaled, running a hand through his hair before leaning down to scoop her up. “Alright, baby girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her soft, wispy blonde curls. “Mama’s sleepin’, so it’s just you and me for a while.”

Ellie cooed in response, grabbing onto his shirt with her chubby fingers.

Jake smirked. “Guess that means we gotta keep it down, huh?”

Ellie just blinked up at him, her gummy smile widening.

Jake chuckled, shaking his head as he carried her over to the couch. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Jake adjusted the baby carrier on his chest, making sure Ellie was snug and secure before he fastened the last strap. She was settled against him, her tiny head resting against his chest, her warm little body radiating the kind of comfort that made him instinctively rub slow circles over her back.

He sighed, pressing a light kiss to her head. “Alright, baby girl, we gotta take care of Mama now, yeah?”

Ellie didn’t answer, obviously, but she made a soft little sound, her chubby fingers grabbing at his dog tags like she always did. He huffed a quiet laugh, giving her a gentle bounce before heading into the kitchen.

Jake wasn’t exactly a chef, but he knew his way around a pot of soup, especially when it came to making you feel better. He grabbed the ingredients from the fridge, moving efficiently as he started chopping vegetables with one hand, his other resting on Ellie’s back to keep her steady.

As the soup simmered, his phone vibrated on the counter. He reached for it, glancing down at the group chat with the Daggers.

Phoenix: Did Y/N land yet?

Bob: Tell her we said welcome home!

Fanboy: What’s the plan? You bringing her by soon?

Jake sighed, running a hand down his face. They had no idea you were sick, and he wasn’t about to deal with their fussing.

Jake: She landed. She’s sick, though. Came home with a fever.

It took exactly five seconds before his phone blew up.

Phoenix: Sick?! What kind of sick? Fever? Flu? Stomach bug?

Bob: Oh no! Does she need anything?

Rooster: Damn, man, you got this? You want one of us to drop something off?

Coyote: Is my queen okay?

Jake chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he stirred the pot. Of course, they were all over it.

Jake: She’s fine. Just exhausted. Got her in bed. I’m making her soup now.

Phoenix: Oh my god. You really are a husband.

Payback: What does that even mean?

Phoenix: He’s making her soup, Payback. Soup.

Rooster: What kind of soup?

Jake rolled his eyes.

Jake: Chicken noodle, what does it matter?

Rooster: It matters.

Bob: Soup is love.

Jake let out a laugh, shaking his head as he set his phone back down.

Ellie stirred against his chest, making a small noise, and he immediately ran a soothing hand over her back. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, bouncing her lightly. “They’re a mess, huh?”

Ellie sighed, her little fist curling into his shirt as she settled back down.

Jake smirked. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

With that, he turned his attention back to the soup, determined to have it ready for you when you woke up.

Jake stood at the stove, rolling his shoulders back as he stirred the pot, the steam curling up in soft waves, filling the kitchen with the scent of simmering broth. Ellie was still snug against his chest in the baby carrier, her tiny body rising and falling with each of his breaths.

He glanced down to check on her, smirking when he saw that her eyes were fluttering—she was fighting sleep, her little fingers still loosely gripping the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t pass out on me yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, shifting his stance to rock her slightly. “We’re in this together.”

Reaching for the cutting board, Jake grabbed a handful of freshly chopped carrots, celery, and onions, sliding them into the pot with a satisfying sizzle. He stirred them around, watching as the colours deepened, the heat drawing out their rich aroma.

“Now, your mama—” he started, glancing down at Ellie again, “—isn’t the biggest fan of celery, but she needs all the good stuff in her system, so we’re sneaking it in.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Think she’ll notice?”

Ellie, of course, didn’t answer, but she let out a soft little sigh, nuzzling closer into his chest.

Jake chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. She’ll definitely notice.”

He grabbed the pre-cooked shredded chicken, tossing it in next before reaching for the carton of broth, pouring it over the mixture. The golden liquid swirled and bubbled, melding everything together. As he stirred, he kept one hand steady on Ellie’s back, her warmth grounding him in the moment.

Once the soup had started to reach a steady simmer, he sprinkled in a bit of salt, pepper, and a pinch of dried thyme. He knew you liked your food flavourful but not too heavy, so he kept the seasoning balanced—just enough to be warm and comforting.

After a few minutes, he broke some egg noodles into the pot, giving everything one last stir before lowering the heat to let it all meld together.

With the soup nearly done, he leaned against the counter, swaying slightly to keep Ellie content. He inhaled deeply, feeling a small sense of pride settle in his chest.

Taking care of you like this—it wasn’t anything fancy, nothing grand—but it meant something. It was something he could do for you, something tangible to make you feel better.

He let out a breath, looking down at Ellie again, brushing his fingers gently over her tiny hand.

"Alright, baby girl," he murmured. "Let’s hope Mama’s hungry when she wakes up."

Jake had just turned the stove down to let the soup stay warm when he heard it—the soft creak of the floorboards upstairs, the faint rustle of blankets shifting. His head snapped up, body instantly alert.

You were awake.

He frowned, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before adjusting Ellie in her carrier. His little girl remained snug against him, her tiny hand still gripping his shirt, but he could tell she wasn’t fully asleep—just in that drowsy, peaceful state.

Then, another sound—lighter this time. A shuffle, maybe the dragging of feet across the hardwood.

Jake exhaled through his nose. You were supposed to be resting.

“Alright, mama,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “What the hell are you doin’ up?”

He turned, stepping toward the base of the staircase, tilting his head to listen more closely. It wasn’t frantic, so he knew you weren’t feeling worse, but it was slow—like you were groggy, disoriented.

Jake sighed. He knew you. Knew that stubborn streak that had you pushing through exhaustion when you should be staying put.

“Sweetheart?” he called out, keeping his voice soft so he wouldn’t startle Ellie. “You okay up there?”

A beat of silence. Then, the faint sound of you clearing your throat, followed by a sniffle.

Jake’s jaw ticked.

“I swear, if you’re tryin’ to do anything other than get your ass back in bed, I’m gonna have a real problem with that.”

No answer. Just another shuffle, this time closer to the staircase.

Jake sighed again, shaking his head before moving toward the steps. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he muttered, already making his way up to check on you.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar when Jake reached the top of the stairs. He nudged it open the rest of the way, stepping inside with Ellie still nestled snug against his chest. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, but even in the low light, he could see you sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, hands braced on your knees.

Your hair was messy, sticking to your forehead, and the blanket you had wrapped around yourself was slipping off one shoulder. You looked pale, exhausted—eyes a little unfocused as you blinked up at him.

Jake sighed, shaking his head as he closed the door behind him.

“What the hell are you doin’ up, darlin’?” His voice was softer now, but still laced with that quiet exasperation only you could pull from him.

You sniffled, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. “Felt gross,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “Too hot. Then too cold. Needed water.”

Jake rolled his eyes but strode over without another word, kneeling in front of you. Ellie shifted slightly in her carrier, letting out a small sigh in her sleep, but stayed settled against him.

“You’re burning up, sweetheart,” he muttered, reaching out to press the back of his hand against your forehead. His brows furrowed. “Still got a fever.”

You closed your eyes at his touch, leaning into the warmth of his palm despite the contradiction of your chilled skin.

Jake let out a quiet curse. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t stay put.”

You opened your eyes again, managing a weak smile. “You do know me.”

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I don’t wanna wrangle your stubborn ass back into bed.”

You exhaled slowly, gaze flicking down to Ellie. “She’s okay?”

Jake softened. “She’s perfect. Ate good, took her bath like a champ, and now she’s snoozin’ on me.” He tilted his head. “Unlike her mama, who should be doin’ the same.”

You let out a small, breathy chuckle, but it quickly turned into a cough. Jake was immediately rubbing a hand up and down your back, his expression tightening.

“That’s it,” he said firmly, standing and gently urging you backward. “Lay back down, sugar.”

“I was just—”

“Nope. Not hearin’ it.” He guided you carefully until you were flat against the pillows again. “You’re gonna rest, you’re gonna eat somethin’ when you’re up for it, and you’re gonna let me take care of you.”

Your lips parted, but whatever protest you were about to make was swallowed when Jake leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.

“Got it?” he murmured against your skin.

You swallowed thickly, nodding.

Jake pulled back, watching you for a second before shifting Ellie slightly in her carrier. He reached down, pulling the covers up to your shoulders, tucking you in the way he always did when you weren’t feeling well.

“Good girl,” he muttered, brushing his knuckles along your cheek before straightening up. “Now stay put.”

You let out a weak chuckle, cracking one eye open to look at him. “You’re such a momma hen,” you rasped, lips curling into a teasing smile.

Jake scoffed, crossing his arms as he looked down at you. “Momma hen?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Darlin’, I’ll have you know I’m just a damn good husband.”

You hummed, snuggling deeper into the pillows. “Mhm. A momma hen of a husband.”

Jake sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” But his voice was laced with amusement, and when he reached down to adjust the blanket around you again, his touch was impossibly gentle.

“Call me whatever you want,” he muttered, leaning down so his lips brushed your temple, “as long as you stay in bed and let me take care of you.”

You hummed again, eyes already fluttering. “Alright, momma hen.”

You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly as you tried to ignore the way your body felt like it had been weighed down by bricks. “I’m not even that tired,” you muttered, voice hoarse but firm.

Jake let out a dry laugh, tilting his head. “Oh, really?”

You nodded, shifting slightly against the pillows. “Yeah. I just needed a minute, but I feel fine.”

Jake didn’t even bother hiding his skepticism. He crouched down beside the bed, leveling you with a look. “Sweetheart, you’re damn near melting into the mattress right now. You could sleep for a week and still wake up tired.”

You scowled, trying to push yourself up a little, but Jake immediately placed a firm hand on your shoulder, gently but effectively pinning you back down.

“Uh-uh. Don’t even try it,” he warned. “I know you, sugar. You’ll tell me you’re fine right up until you pass out on the damn floor.”

You huffed, your scowl deepening. “I wouldn’t pass out.”

Jake arched a brow. “Oh, no?” He reached out, brushing his fingers over your flushed cheek before pressing his palm to your forehead again. “You’re burnin’ up, baby. Your body’s workin’ overtime, and the sooner you rest, the sooner you’ll get better.”

You exhaled slowly, turning your head slightly so your cheek pressed into his palm. Your stubborn streak was strong, but Jake was stronger—and more relentless.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, eyes slipping closed for a brief second.

Jake chuckled, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “And you love me for it.”

You sighed, your body already betraying you as sleep started creeping in at the edges of your consciousness.

“Maybe.”

You let out a slow breath, shifting under the covers before cracking your eyes open again. Your body still ached, and the fever had you feeling like you were both too hot and too cold at the same time, but there was something else gnawing at you now.

“I’m hungry,” you murmured, your voice still scratchy but a little stronger this time.

Jake, who had been brushing a few stray strands of hair off your forehead, immediately perked up. “Yeah?” He sounded both surprised and relieved. “That’s a good sign, sugar.”

You swallowed, nodding slightly. “Haven’t eaten since… last night, I think.”

Jake’s entire expression shifted, the relief on his face quickly replaced by concern. His jaw tightened, and he pulled back slightly to look you over again, as if just now realizing how much weaker you seemed.

“Darlin’,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Why the hell didn’t you eat somethin’ before gettin’ on that plane?”

You frowned. “I was running late. Then I wasn’t hungry. And then…” You trailed off with a shrug, but Jake wasn’t having it.

“Then you got home sick as hell, and now you’re runnin’ on nothin’ but a fever,” he finished for you, his tone gentle but firm.

You sighed, your stomach giving a small, hollow pang as if to drive the point home. “Guess so.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head again. “Alright, no more of that,” he muttered, standing up straight. “I made some soup earlier, figured you’d need somethin’ when you woke up. Lemme go warm it up, yeah?”

Your lips twitched slightly at that. Of course, he’d already thought ahead. Your momma-hen of a husband.

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice softer now.

Jake gave you one last once-over before leaning down, pressing a firm kiss to your warm forehead. “Be right back, sugar. Stay put.”

As Jake straightened up to leave, your eyes flickered to the baby carrier strapped to his chest. Ellie was snuggled in tight, her tiny face pressed against his shirt, her soft breaths barely audible over the quiet rustling of the blankets. Even in your feverish haze, the sight of her soothed something deep inside you.

“Wait,” you murmured, reaching out weakly.

Jake paused immediately, his green eyes snapping back to you. “What is it, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, shifting slightly against the pillows. “Can Ellie stay with me?” Your voice was small, a little hoarse, but there was no mistaking the quiet plea in it.

Jake’s expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “You sure, sugar? You need to rest.”

“I will,” you promised, already reaching out for her. “I just… I missed her.”

Jake let out a quiet breath, glancing down at his daughter. “Alright,” he murmured after a beat, carefully unbuckling the carrier. “But if you start feelin’ worse, I’m takin’ her back, no arguments.”

You hummed in agreement, watching as he gently lifted Ellie from the carrier. She stirred slightly, letting out a sleepy little sigh as Jake placed her carefully on your chest. You cradled her close, feeling the warmth of her tiny body seep into yours, her familiar baby scent wrapping around you like a comfort you hadn’t even realized you needed.

Jake crouched beside the bed again, watching the two of you for a moment. “You good, sweetheart?”

You nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of Ellie’s soft curls. “Yeah,” you whispered. “We’re good.”

Jake smiled softly, brushing his fingers along your arm. “Alright. I’ll go get that soup.”

As he stood up and made his way to the door, you let out a slow breath, your body still aching but your heart finally settling. Ellie snuggled deeper into you, her tiny hand curling against your chest.

Maybe you were sick, but at least you were home.

A few minutes later, you heard Jake’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, the faint clinking of a spoon against a bowl following him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your body still drained, but you stayed awake, waiting. Ellie was still tucked against your chest, her tiny body warm and soft, her rhythmic breathing lulling you into a daze.

Jake pushed the door open with his shoulder, carrying a steaming bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. His gaze immediately flicked to you and Ellie, his lips twitching at the sight of you both curled up together.

“You stayin’ awake for me, sweetheart?” he teased lightly as he walked over.

You hummed a sleepy confirmation, watching as he set the bowl down on the nightstand. “Barely,” you admitted, voice hoarse.

Jake chuckled, shifting onto the bed beside you, careful not to jostle Ellie too much. “Alright, let’s get some food in you before you pass out again.” He scooped up a spoonful of soup, blowing on it gently before holding it out to you. “Here, sugar. Just a little at a time.”

You eyed the spoon for a second before parting your lips, letting him feed you. The warm broth slid over your tongue, and immediately, your face twisted into something between confusion and dismay.

Jake frowned. “What?”

You swallowed, lips pressing together as you gave him a slow, pointed look. “Celery.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

You cleared your throat, shifting slightly. “I can taste the celery.”

Jake blinked at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “And?”

“And,” you rasped, pausing for dramatic effect, “you know I hate celery.”

Jake let out a bark of laughter, his head tilting back. “Aw, hell,” he drawled, shaking his head. “You’re half delirious, burnin’ up with a fever, and the first damn thing you wanna do is complain about celery?”

You gave him the best unimpressed look you could manage in your weakened state. “You did this on purpose.”

Jake smirked, dipping the spoon back into the soup. “Maybe.” He held out another spoonful. “But you still need to eat, darlin’. So, what’s it gonna be? A little bit of celery, or me lettin’ you starve?”

You let out a dramatic sigh, relenting as you opened your mouth again. The warmth of the soup soothed your sore throat, even if the taste of celery was still there, taunting you.

Jake grinned, clearly satisfied with himself. “That’s my girl.”

You let out a dramatic, exhausted sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows. “You know I hate celery.”

Jake smirked, scooping up another spoonful. “Do you, though? Because I don’t remember hearin’ you say that while I was cookin’ for your ungrateful ass.”

Your glare intensified, though it lacked any real heat. “I was dying, Jacob.”

He snorted. “You have a cold.”

You groaned, pressing your forehead against Ellie’s soft hair, as if she could somehow absorb your suffering. “I can taste it, Jake. It’s in the broth. It’s haunting me.”

Jake let out a deep, amused sigh, swirling the spoon through the soup. “You’re bein’ dramatic.”

You lifted your head just enough to fix him with a pointed look. “You put it in there on purpose, didn’t you?”

His grin was downright smug now. “Maybe.”

You groaned again, tossing your arm over your face. “Why? I thought you loved me.”

Jake laughed, nudging your arm down so you’d look at him. “I do love you

You swallowed the second spoonful, your face scrunching up in pure betrayal as the taste of celery lingered on your tongue. You stared at Jake, eyes narrowed, voice hoarse but determined.

“Jake,” you rasped, swallowing again as if that would make the taste disappear. “I trusted you.”

Jake snorted, scooping up another spoonful. “That so, sugar?”

You nodded solemnly, shifting Ellie slightly against your chest. “Yeah. And you—you went and did me dirty.”

Jake’s lips twitched, but he played along. “Oh? How’s that?”

You let out a weak, dramatic sigh. “Celery,” you groaned, drawing out the word like it physically pained you. “You put celery in my soup. After everything we’ve been through together. After I carried your child, after I literally just came back from a work trip sick as hell—you betray me like this?”

Jake outright laughed at that, shaking his head as he lifted another spoonful. “Baby, I did it for your own good.”

You gave him a flat look. “That doesn’t make it better.”

Jake grinned. “Sure it does.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you shot back, shifting your weight slightly. “You had choices, Seresin. You could’ve picked any other soup. Chicken noodle, potato, literally anything without celery, but no—” you coughed lightly, pausing, before regaining your dramatic momentum, “—you chose to disrespect me in my own home.”

Jake was laughing so hard at this point that he had to set the spoon down for a second. “Darlin’, you’re killin’ me.”

“No,” you countered, shifting Ellie slightly. “You’re killing me. With celery.”

Jake ran a hand down his face, still grinning as he picked up the spoon again. “Alright, drama queen. Do you want me to pick the celery out for you? Would that make you feel better?”

You eyed him, considering. “…Would you?”

Jake sighed, but the fondness in his gaze was undeniable. “Yeah, sugar. I’ll pick out the damn celery.”

Satisfied, you settled back against the pillows, letting him continue feeding you—celery-free.

Jake meticulously picked out every piece of celery before offering you another spoonful. You accepted it without complaint this time, sighing as the warmth spread through you. Ellie stirred slightly against your chest, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, but she remained blissfully asleep.

Jake watched you carefully, his green eyes soft with concern despite the teasing moments ago. “Feelin’ any better?”

You hummed in response, shifting slightly in the bed. “A little. Still feel like I got hit by a truck, though.”

Jake let out a low chuckle, setting the bowl on the nightstand before shifting closer to you. “A truck, huh? Pretty sure it’s just a cold, sugar.”

You rolled your eyes, though the exhaustion made it less effective. “I feel like I’m dying, Jake.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against your temple. “Well, you sure as hell ain’t dyin’ on my watch.”

You sighed at the warmth of his breath against your skin, letting your head rest against his shoulder. For a moment, everything was quiet—just the sound of Ellie’s tiny breaths and the soft hum of the house around you.

Jake reached out, adjusting the blanket over you. “You should get some more sleep.”

You made a small noise of protest. “But I just woke up.”

Jake smirked, brushing his fingers lightly down your arm. “Yeah? And you still look like you need at least ten more hours.”

You swatted weakly at his chest. “Rude.”

“Honest,” he corrected, grinning. “C’mon, darlin’. I got Ellie, and I’ll be right here. Just rest.”

You let out a deep breath, your body already sinking into the mattress despite your protests. Jake reached out, tracing gentle circles against your back, his warmth completely surrounding you.

You shifted, snuggling closer, whispering against his shoulder, “Love you.”

Jake pressed another kiss to your forehead, his voice soft but full of certainty. “Love you too, sugar. Now sleep.”

With the steady rise and fall of Jake’s breathing and the warmth of Ellie nestled against you, sleep finally pulled you under once again.

Jake waited until your breathing evened out, your body fully slack against him. You were out cold, exhaustion winning the battle at last. Carefully, he shifted, making sure not to wake you as he slid his arm from under your head.

Ellie stirred slightly against your chest, making a tiny sound of protest, but Jake was quick, his hands steady as he scooped her up. “Shh, sugar,” he murmured softly, tucking her against his chest as he stood.

He glanced back at you, curled up and buried under the blankets, your face finally peaceful in sleep. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead before pulling the comforter up higher. “Rest, darlin’,” he whispered, then backed away quietly, Ellie snug in his arms.

Downstairs, the house was dimly lit, the remnants of dinner still on the counter. Jake moved with ease, swaying slightly as he held Ellie close. “Just you and me, baby girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her soft curls.

Ellie yawned, her tiny fists clenching in his shirt, eyes fluttering open just slightly before closing again. Jake grinned. “You already know the drill, huh? Night shifts with Dad.”

He settled into the couch, adjusting Ellie so she was resting against his chest, her warm little body fitting perfectly into the curve of his arm. He leaned his head back, exhaling deeply.

It wasn’t long before Ellie was completely out again, her tiny breaths even against his skin. Jake glanced down at her, his heart tugging at the sight. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” he murmured, rubbing slow circles against her back.

He sat there for a while, just holding her, making sure you got the sleep you desperately needed.

Jake felt his phone buzz against his thigh, the screen lighting up in the dim room. With Ellie sleeping soundly on his chest, he carefully shifted just enough to pull the device from his pocket.

Group Chat: Dagger Squad

Rooster: How’s YN?

Phoenix: Yeah, we wanna know if she’s still being dramatic about her cold.

Fanboy: More importantly, is she making you suffer too?

Payback: Bet he’s already playing nurse.

Bob: Hope she’s doing okay, though. Being sick sucks.

Jake huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he typed back with one hand.

Jake: She’s asleep. Finally. Been out cold for the last hour.

Immediately, the typing bubbles appeared.

Phoenix: So she was being dramatic.

Coyote: Like you wouldn’t be, Trace. We all know you’d milk it for weeks.

Phoenix: EXCUSE ME??

Jake smirked, watching the chaos unfold in the chat before Rooster’s message popped up.

Rooster: She keeping anything down? Eating?

Jake’s expression softened slightly as he glanced down at Ellie, still curled against him. He thought about how you had barely touched the soup before exhaustion took over.

Jake: Had a few bites, but not much. She’ll eat more when she wakes up.

Bob: Good. Just make sure she stays hydrated.

Fanboy: Damn, Bob, when did you become the mom friend?

Payback: Right? Bob out here giving medical advice like he’s a doctor.

Bob: You guys are impossible.

Jake chuckled, shaking his head before sending one last message.

Jake: She’s fine. Just wiped out. I got it handled.

Coyote: Yeah, we know. You’re a momma hen when it comes to her.

Jake rolled his eyes, locking his phone and setting it aside before any more teasing came through. He adjusted Ellie slightly, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. “They think they’re funny, huh?” he murmured.

Ellie just sighed in her sleep, her tiny hand gripping the fabric of his shirt. Jake leaned his head back against the couch, smirking to himself. As much as the squad loved to mess with him, he knew they cared.

But for now, his only priority was making sure you and Ellie were okay.

[thesnowqueen]

the original and the meme (that i just made)

[thefirstknife]

Getting real sick of a certain subset of Destiny players complaining that it’s a baby game and crying to Bungie to nerf exotics and abilities when their ENTIRE POINT IS TO BE STRONG in specific ways as if they are being locked into using them.

IF YOU WANT AN EXTRA CHALLENGE STOP BEING SUCH A DPS GOBLIN AND JUST EQUIP SOMETHING THATS NOT TOP TIER META AND STOP COMPLAINING JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

MOOD. Go off.

It's incredibly annoying to me. They always use the argument of "the game should FORCE me to do things, I should not SELF-IMPOSE challenges." And like. ? I'm sorry but what? It's a video game for a big audience, it's here to be playable and accessible to the widest possible playerbase. There are plenty of ways to make the game difficult for yourself, so knock yourself out if that's your thing, but don't force others into it.

Like, I enjoy hard content, I regularly at least attempt day 1 raids, I do master raids, GMs, solo and solo flawless content and all that. But only when I want to. Sometimes I don't and I don't want to suffer in a patrol zone or struggle in a seasonal activity I'm doing for the story. The majority of the players don't want that. Designing games for the professional gamers only has NEVER been a good idea and never will be. Fifty streamers can't sustain a video game. It needs casual players who will want to come back to the game instead of feeling defeated.

One of the reasons I really enjoy helping others is because I know that casual players tend to struggle in stuff that's basic activity for me. I've seen people unable to get through a strike. I've sat for 10 minutes rezing someone who couldn't do the jump in a seasonal activity. I want those people to be able to play basic content without feeling frustrated and I want them to know that there are people out there who will help them out.

And this doesn't apply just to basic content, although it should start with that. I think all dungeons and raids and everything should be things that all players can complete. Fine, doing a master raid with all challenges should be tough, but it should be achievable with time and practice, not impossible. What a lot of these "pros" want is just completely divorced from reality.

It takes days and days of practice every time a new master raid is out for me and my team (all with thousands of hours of playtime) to get comfortable to finally finish it. We're far from casual players and it still takes a lot of time to be able to finish hard content. Making it even harder is insane to me. Like, if something is so hard that my team full of people, each with 5000+ hours of playtime and a coordinated team that's been raiding together for years now can't finish it, that means it's absolutely impossible for probably 90% of the playerbase. That's wild to me. Raids and GMs should have more people playing them. If master raids are too easy for you, Mr. I-Play-Destiny-For-A-Living, that's on you buddy. Unequip the super god tier god roll meta guns and loadouts or play something else.

And ofc, another excuse they make is "if I don't use meta, I am not going to win a raid race!" Then don't. Idk. Let me play you the tiniest violin. This affects literally nobody except a grand total of 50 people. Run your meta in day 1, and play with random shit otherwise. Play raids with all white weapons. Play without mods. Play without a HUD. Do things solo only. I don't know, make up a way to spice things up for yourself. I'm not interested in that and neither are 99% of the players out there. The game is genuinely hard enough for the majority of the players. On top of that, I am here to feel like a powerful space fantasy superhero. I am NOT here to die to dregs in patrol zones. If there's ONE thing that I know for a fact that put people off from Lightfall (as in this year of Destiny), it's the difficulty changes. They're annoying, frustrating and for some a barrier to entry more than anything else.

[fantasystrangers]

❛he does? i like it, too. it always comforts me watching it, even if i’m feeling awful. and if i’m happy, it makes me even happier. i don’t know why.❜ without realising, anton mirrored russel’s smile. ❛i probably saw it with my parents the first time, but since then i’ve seen it at least a couple more times. kids are very clever, but if you go back to films to rewatch them some years later, or to books to read them again, you can find new details you’ve never noticed before. a gift that keeps on giving.❜ then he nodded.

❛that’s also very important, yeah. life is black and white, and no one thing is only bad or only good. and people, too. i’ve met people i did not end up enjoying being around,❜ anton shrugged, ❛and then there are my friends, and then you. but you don’t have to click with everyone and be friends. sometimes things can even fall apart with a bang. but as long as that makes you learn what to do and what not to do next time, and that falling apart hasn’t been too awful...❜

he rubbed his cheek, as if to rub away the awkwardness that crept over his skin, and caught himself watching the people walking outside the window as well. in a few seconds his attention was back to russell.

❛that’s a part of why i probably seem much more... positive, or cheerful, about things. it’s the hope. the hope that keeps you fixing the roof instead of leaving the house. i’d like to keep this house, this planet, fixed, as much as possible. but i would also like to try and find other houses. see how they work. if we found another planet that isn’t habitable, i would be just as excited.❜

anton leaned his head on his hands, listening, a dreamy, thoughtful expression on his face. just like it had been once upon a time, back in school. the quiet kid in the back, the dreamer. the guy who had a band and liked to sing. some things had not changed, even all those years ago.

❛no man’s sky, nice. i like that one.❜ then he chuckled at the thought, ❛trucks in space, that sounds like something i should try sometime. i like the elder scrolls games, especially skyrim. my parents really like fantasy, they started all of that,❜ anton joked with another soft laugh. ❛and assassin’s creed, too, dad would sometimes play the first and the second game, and showed them to me. i used to be a bit scared of space... it’s infinite, and i’m just a tiny human out there.❜ he sighed, hugging himself, falling quiet for a minute or two.

❛when you talk about it, you make me curious, though, so i don’t mind. actually you remind me of a science teacher i used to have. i’m bad with names, but she was also very excited about space.❜ remembering brought a smile on anton’s face.

❛exactly. you get what i mean.❜ anton nodded. ❛i’d rather have genuine sadness of my own, knowing it’ll pass, than someone else’s happiness.❜ he gave a shrug. ❛like that movie said, life is a bag of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.❜ he gave a sigh. ❛i really liked it. and, honestly, i’m grateful for all the flavours.❜ he laughed quietly. ❛oh absolutely. i still hate getting into fights, but they’re not an inherently bad thing.❜

no, no, no, the last thing he needed now was to start overthinking it. for one, that had been a situation from the past, meant to stay in the past, too; if anton brought it up to his friend now - they had moved past being enemies, though they did still disagree on some things - sigge would just shake his head and tell him to let it go. and he would be right.

where russell looked up, anton tilted his head to the side, not looking at anything in particular, his gaze wandering to something in the distance, listening, letting himself take in all the sounds surrounding them. the cafe was not on a very busy street, yet it was still lively in that way that reminded him he was never fully alone. anton preferred to stick to his own most of the time... but being on streets like this helped him not feel lonely even when he was alone.

❛if there were only good things out there, something would be missing, you know?... at least that’s how i feel. i wouldn’t have gotten into music if i wasn’t as lonely as i was - i did it to occupy my time so i don’t feel it. i wouldn’t have met you if i’d never lost my earring.❜ he felt himself smiling. ❛even if you had only noticed it was missing, you would have helped me snap back to reality. you would still have got me talking with you. and i am enjoying it. if i had not left my previous band, i would never realise how much music matters to me exactly. there are more than enough good things worth saving here. i agree.❜

as he said those words, anton realised just how much he truly believed in them. and russell agrees, too!...

he gave a thoughtful hum. ❛no, i understand what you mean. i would hate having to leave earth. my entire life’s here, after all. it’s the only life i have.❜ anton was silent for a little longer. ❛what i meant to say was... imagine if different planets were like different countries or continents to us. that would make travelling far harder... but i used to wonder what it would be like if we could visit space humans on another planet close to us. or even aliens!❜ for a few seconds, he seemed amazed by his own thought, his eyebrows raised, his hands mindlessly rolling his half-empty glass between them. ❛i bet someone has already made a movie or a book with a plot like that.❜ he laughed.

[designernishiki]

shout out to my poor unfortunate mother having to listen to me record and re-record rouge of love on the piano 3000 times because we live in a small house and i can’t find my usb drive to record via midi instead and use headphones right now

[cloudbends]

Finished the first dds yesterday btw. Banger fucking game and now onto the sequel

[mariasont]

mariaaa!! i have another idea!! > 3 <

ok, so…

sleepy, needy, & clingy bimbo!reader with hotch

either before they together or when they first get together <3

Hot & Bothered (No, Like, Literally, You Have a Fever) - A.H.

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: sick!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!hotch, flirty banter, suggestive-ish content, clingy!reader, hotch ignoring all cdc guidelines, reader is kinda being a baby about everything (just like me fr), theatre kid hotch. wc: 2.3k

You started off playing it cute. All little sighs, sending Aaron pouty texts filled with emojis, making sure he knew you missed him, but in a haha, just kidding (unless?) kind of way. Now you're way past that. The cute phase had dissolved into something far more desperate.

You were sick-sick. The terrible kind of sick where your limbs feel like they're made of granite, and your skin somehow manages to burn and freeze at the same time.

Worst of all, Aaron wasn't here.

And really, what was the point of having a boyfriend as stupidly gorgeous, painfully competent, and naturally overprotective as Aaron Hotchner if he wasn't going to be around when you need him most?

You knew you were being dramatic. You knew this was your own fault. Aaron had practically ordered you to let him come home with you, standing there in his office with his disapproving frown, telling you that you shouldn't be alone if you weren't feeling well.

But in your infinite wisdom, you had waved him off, told him to stay at work. Because at the time, you were fine. Or, more so, fine-adjacent. And because sometimes, your brain tricks you into thinking you are a capable, independent woman who does not, in fact, require Hotch-shaped supervision.

So now you're curled up in bed, drowning in the well-worn fabric of his FBI academy hoodie, the one that smells like him. And it helps. But not enough.

Because if he were here, he'd be so good at taking care of you. He'd probably be all bossy and stern about it, telling you to drink your water, go to sleep, and stop pouting. But then he'd turn around and betray himself completely by smoothing your hair back so, so softly, by tucking the blankets up to your chin like you're something delicate. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a soft side.

Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should be really, really pathetic about it and beg him to come home.

Maybe you're just a little too codependent. (Just a little.)

The second the front door opens, you think you must be imaging it. You convince yourself it's the fever, twisting reality into want instead of what actually is. Because Aaron shouldn't be home yet.

You squint at the clock, but it's just a bunch of blurry numbers, and math is already hard enough without feeling like your brain is actively melting.

But then there's the sound of leather against hardwood, and not just any leather.

You know those shoes. The custom Italian Oxfords you forced him to let you buy. He'd grumbled about the price, all exasperated and dramatic (as if he had any real concept of what good leather actually costs), but he still let you drag him to the store. Still let you lace them up for him. Still let you kiss him senseless in the parking lot because he looked too insanely sexy in them to be allowed to exist without immediate compensation.

You'd told him once that good shoes take you good places. And now look where they took him.

Straight home to you.

The relief is so instantaneous, it makes your head spin. And suddenly, he's there, shoulders broad against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes warm despite the unimpressed look he's attempting to pull off.

"My poor baby," he says, half-teasing, but mostly just achingly soft.

Your bottom lip wobbles. "It's not that bad."

Aaron sighs loudly, already loosening his tie as he strides over, assessing the damage, which, in this case, is you, buried under what is objectively a very reasonable amount of blankets.

"Uh-huh." Flat. Dry. But he's already reaching to fix them, like he can't help himself. "That why you're buried in every blanket we own?"

You burrow deeper into said blankets. Maybe if you commit hard enough, he'll stop looking so smug.

"They're comfy."

He crouches beside the bed, undoing the last button on his cuff before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, and you lean into it immediately, shameless at how much you enjoy his skin against your overheated own.

"You're hot."

You blink at him, dazed, and—without thinking—mumble, "So are you."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they're untrue, that's indisputable, but because of the sheer pathetic delivery of it, all scratchy and pitiful and nothing like the effortless flirtation you usually bring to the table.

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like that might somehow reverse time.

Aaron, of course, is completely unbearable about it. His lips twitch, and you can see it happening in real time, his struggle not to laugh directly in your face.

"Flattered," he drawls, his thumb brushing over your temple, fingers carding through your hair in slow strokes. "Have you been drinking enough water?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Water is boring."

"You're boring."

You gasp, sniffling as you try to look offended, despite the congestion ruining your tone. "Boring? You weren't calling me boring last night when I—,"

"Okay."

Aaron cuts you off immediately, already leaning down, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—forehead, cheeks, anywhere he can reach. You squeal in protest (or, well, try to, your voice is too weak for it to be truly effective), but he just laughs against your skin, relentless.

"Okay, I take it back," he murmurs, kissing your nose like an apology. Like a bribe. "You're the most exciting person I know. Now be exciting and drink some water before I have to force it down your throat."

"Force it down my throat?" you rasp, a weak smirk pulling at your lips as your fingers prod into his dress shirt. "You promise?"

"So inappropriate." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his hands are already cupping your face, his lips pressing to yours, like he loves kissing you too much to stop himself.

You barely have time to enjoy it before your brain remembers how sickness works.

"Wait, germs!"

Aaron just smirks, tilting your face up with a knuckle under your chin. "Since you brought up last night, that's an interesting concern, considering where your mouth was last night."

You should say something flirty in return. Something about how that was different because it was basically an act of public service (one you love providing). Because that's what you do. You throw him off, make him sigh like you're exhausting and adorable at the same time, watching his ears flush pink when he pretends he's not affected.

But the words never come, instead, your brain hands you a far worse visual. Aaron, like this, but worse. His face pale, head pressed against a pillow, forehead creased with discomfort he wouldn't acknowledge. You can see it clearly, the way he'd insist he's fine, the way he'd make it through a workday half-dead before even considering rest.

And suddenly nothing is funny.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, like holding onto him will somehow fix the terrible, awful, no-good mental image you just had.

You're frowning, and you don't even realize it, not until Aaron does, his thumb pressing lightly against the center of your forehead, like he can smooth it away.

"I don't want you to get sick."

"My sweet girl," he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair once before he stands. "I can handle a cold. What I can't handle is you being miserable and dehydrated. Be good and let me take care of you."

Aaron disappears before you can argue and by the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, you've barely had a chance to process how much you missed him in those few seconds.

You watch as he puts it down on the nightstand beside you.

"There. Now drink."

"Yes, sir," you mumble, taking a few small sips just to prove that you're listening.

But if he really wanted you hydrated, he should've just kissed you again.

Aaron's eyes narrow, shooting you a pointed look.

You sigh, loud and put-upon, then take another sip, longer, just to appease him. You make a show out of it, before immediately reaching out, patting the empty space beside you with undeniable urgency.

Aaron snorts. "Didn't last long, did you?"

"I'm sick. I need warmth and love."

He exhales so dramatically, shaking his head. "If that's what my poor, suffering girl needs, then I suppose I have no choice."

Alright, theatre kid.

You bite your tongue, not because you're wrong, but because self-preservation is a skill, and you'd like to see another sunrise. And, fine. If he wanted to pretend like sitting still for five minutes was his own personal crucifixion, then who were you to deny him. It wasn't your fault, he ran himself into the ground, like he was trying to beat time himself, working to the bone until someone (you) had to physically drag him to bed.

You watch, maybe a little too intently, as he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and swaps out his boring, stuffy work pants for the sweats. Your sweats. The ones you have a deeply personal attachment to.

You have history with those sweats.

"You know, you put those on and suddenly I start feeling a whole lot better." Call it divine intervention, maybe. "Do you think if you let me sit on your lap, I'd be at full strength again? Because I think we should at least try. For medical purposes."

Aaron settles in beside you, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips, because he can, because he wants to. When he pulls back, he's smirking.

"Cheeky girl," he murmurs, thumb skimming your jaw. "And here I was, thinking you needed me to take care of you. Turns out you just wanted an excuse to climb all over me. How tragic. I've been completely fooled."

You brain-to-hand coordination is questionable at best, but that doesn't stop you from attempting to very subtly slip your fingers along the waistband of his sweats.

Aaron grabs your wrist instantly laughing—an actual, real, Hotchner laugh.

"Sweetheart," he muses, so damn amused, his thumb tripping over the pulse point of your wrist. "You can barely hold your head up, and you're trying to start something?"

"With a boyfriend like you, I'm like, legally required to start something."

Aaron lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to man.

Like you said—theatre kid.

"Don't I know it. You're insatiable."

You open your mouth, fully prepared to launch into a passionate defense of you very reasonable levels of attraction to him, but a sneeze—tiny, weak, kind of embarrassing—ruins it.

Aaron's smirk evaporates. It happens fast, like a switch flipping, like he's just remembered, really remembered, that you're not at full strength, that beneath all your teasing, you're a little delicate, too easily worn down.

For a second, he just stares, jaw tight, brows furrowing ever so slightly, like the sight of you, flushed cheeks, fever-glazed eyes, pathetic sneezy, physically pains him.

And then you're moving, no he's moving, pulling you in, tucking you into his chest, as if you were something his hands were built to protect.

"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, kissing your temple, breathing against your hair, "disease-ridden and tragically adorable."

You sigh, shoving your face as close as humanly possibly, like some kind of human limpet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, soothing, a constant thump thump thump that makes your eyelids droop.

"I really missed you today."

Aaron's arms tighten around you, but then you sniffle. Not the same pathetic little sound from earlier. This one's different. This one is softer, wetter.

He tenses just enough for you to feel it, enough to make you regret it, because now he knows.

You blink rapidly, tilting your face down, trying to breathe past the sudden, stupid sting behind your eyes, willing it go away before he—

Too late.

His arms loosen just enough to tilt his head down, scanning your face like he's already trying to figure out how to make it better.

You turn, burying your face in his chest. "I'm fine."

A lie. A bad one at that. So laughably transparent that even you wince a little.

Aaron doesn't call you on it, however, just pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your cheek, catching the tear before it falls.

"Oh baby," he breathes, voice a little rough, like he wants to pull the sadness out of you and keep it for himself.

He presses another kiss to your temple, then another, then another, like he needs to fix something unfixable, his fingers curling around the nape of your neck.

"You're killing me here."

You sniffle. Again.

"M'sorry," you mumble. "This is probably like... super unattractive."

Aaron shifts again, tilting your chin up as his thumb brushes against your cheek.

"Still the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he murmurs, but his jaw is tight, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I should've come home sooner."

"You wouldn't have lasted," you mumble, voice slowing, words dragging just a little.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

"Because you'd stress yourself out." You hum sleepily, tracing absent circles against his shirt. "You'd take my temperature every hour. Make me drink disgusting tea. Then, once you ran out of things to fuss over, you'd start deep-cleaning the grout just to feel useful."

He snorts, shaking his head. "You make me sound unbearable."

"You are unbearable," you murmur, but your grip tightens around him, contradicting yourself entirely. "But in a very sexy, very productive way."

He laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.

"You know what would make me feel better?"

Aaron's chest rises with a deep inhale, like he already knows. His arm tenses around you. "Sweetheart—,"

You grin against his shirt, weakly.

"A very hands on wellness check."

Aaron chokes out a laugh, tightening the blankets around you. "Christ."

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and you think you hear him mumble should've seen that one coming under his breath.

You hum in agreement, mentally ranking all the times he should've seen something coming.

This moment, obviously.

The time he let you fall asleep on him once and then acted surprised when it became a permanent thing.

The time he told you to be serious and then immediately realized that was the worst possible way to get you to stop joking.

The time he tried to fight it, tried to keep you at arm's length, tried to act like this thing between you wasn't inevitable.

You should tell him. You should. But then he tucks you closer, breath hot against your temple. And before you can launch into your incredibly important findings, you're already too far gone.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[reality-shitting]

General realizations ab shifting that helped me

The void is not a realm or a place- it is YOU. You ARE the Void. The Void is solely the awareness of being, fully.

You are not ONE being. Think of the consciousness in you as being interconnected with all other infinite versions of you. These interconnections converge into your full consciousness, the true YOU. It's almost Eldritch to think about.

Something I'm just now thinking of, perhaps this means the subconscious is all other versions of you- you're separated and cut off from experiencing the entirety of being, but that entirety is still there, guiding you from behind the scenes.

No matter what the assumption, "I am" is true. I am kind, as my actions and thoughts show, but I'm also cruel and cold-hearted, as may be the perception of another. I think I'm funny, but someone else may think I'm cheesy- therefore, I am both. And this also goes for the personas of myself in other realities. I am everything. Simultaneously, this also means I am Nothing. I simply am.

To add to the points above, I believe this "Eldritch" conglomerate is what we call the Void state, and would explain why every manifestation happens instantly once we reach this state. Think of it like accessing the files in an infinite data base- all you need to do is find the files you're looking for and download them.

As much as people will try to stress things like "you need to let go" or realizing that shifting is easy, you won't truly be able to understand what they're saying until you experience it.

All things exist at once and every inconceivably small action creates a new reality. As small as "this single cell from 7000 years ago died .000000001 seconds prematurely", and smaller.

Shifting IS easy- in the same way that gleeking or stretching is easy. Some people are able to do it on command or go further than others with no training whatsoever. Others may do it accidentally and sporadically. This does not mean the latter are unable to do these things at will, but they simply need a bit of help learning to do it on command.

Question stressing you out? "But what about this plot hole?", "How does XYZ work??", "What will happen back in my OR???"- STOP. No need to stress yourself over that, this by itself I feel cost me years on my journey. Everything will work out. It doesn't matter how, but it will, and it will either even itself out or be in your favor. Don't even think about those things. Relax.

Another one that held me back MASSIVELY. Struggling to visualize your DR? "I know it has THIS SPECIFIC TABLE in this SPECIFIC place and everything has to be perfect"! No. Your visualization does Not need to be perfect. Nor does it have to be "accurate", really. Once you just let your mind wander and let your subconscious make up it's own layout, it'll help you slip in much more easily. I put so much pressure on myself to make sure I was visualizing my specific reality, and it became so much easier when I just trusted myself to build it up from my subconscious instead of "forcing" a look

They say once it's in the 4D (imagination), it's already real. That's why you're encouraged to embody, think, act, feel as your DR self. Like playing pretend as a kid, you'll be so focused on your imagination, you don't even realize you're in your OR. If you don't shift through that alone, it certainly helps make you feel far more connected. This is also why I came up with the Furina method (although I suppose it's debatable if I really "came up" with it)

Methods/Advice are like pants. Some are too itchy, some are too tight, some you like the feel of but there's just some small flaw. When you find what you were missing, what you needed to hear, it'll be a perfect fit.

[keferon]

Guys. Hear me out.

Remember when in Cyberverse everyone got their minds transferred into fake artificial digital simulation of an infinite fucking parade while their bodies were imprisoned? Now. Imagine Shockwave trying to pull that kind of move on First aid.

Under the cut:)

First aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not nausea from drugs or weird withdrawals after neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion.

It feels like he's a lab mouse running through a maze.

There's the cheese. There's the electric shocks. There's no way out and never has been.

He thinks it might be the fault of Pharma's new drug. Or his fucking pilot position is finally eating away at him, or Vortex is finally done playing with him and just broke his brain.

There are people running around him, each of whom definitely knows what their place is and where they need to go. Everyone has a purpose and a position and some important job to do. They hardly even talk to each other, just nod and run on.

Amazing synchronization.

First..Felix feels like a kid lost in the mall.

He has. He has to do something, right? What does he need to do? Fuck. What day is today anyway?

He heads over to the schedule board and stares at it like an idiot for a couple minutes. It's Tuesday. The work day is in full swing. All the shifts are here. But he doesn't recognize the names of the employees. All the pilots are accounted for, but his name isn't on their list.

Must be a mistake?

He turns away from the board and looks around the room once more, this time more carefully. He just needs to find someone to ask. Preferably someone familiar.

He can’t recognise anyone.

The feeling of strangeness doesn't get any less.

The uniforms on the people around him are similar. But not the same.

The badges are all another color.

And he's surprised by this, but at the same time some part of his brain tells him that it's all familiar and he's seen it before.

“.... then I thought, we could do something different, you know?”

Felix flinches as Swindle and Onslaught walk past him. They are clearly in the middle of some sort of discussion and don't notice Felix staring at them.

Swindle is wearing a pilot's suit. Onslaught is wearing one, too.

Screw the weird schedule. THIS is wrong.

Onslaught frowns, but when he opens his mouth there's a strange amused respect in his tone

“You slippery eel.”

Swindle smiles. His smile, Felix notices, is not the same at all. He doesn't look like an actor from a commercial. He looks like a worn-out but proud of himself man.

It's wrong, but he's seen it before, it's strange but it's familiar. He wants to go up to Swindle and ask what's going on. He wants to understand the damn schedule. He wants to...

…

First Aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not the nausea from the drugs or the weird withdrawals after a neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion.

It feels like being a lab mouse running through a maze.

You got the cheese. And here's the electric shocks. No escape. Never has been.

It's all the same.

He's not sure where he's going. Everyone around him seems very busy. Running about their own business, not paying attention to him and--

What is he supposed to do? He can't remember what day of the week it is. Shit. Is it Tuesday? He can't remember.

Does he need to find a schedule?

Everything feels weird.

By the schedule board, he almost crashes into Swindle.

“...You realize, if we can both get out of this shit, we can get others out too.”

Onslaught...still looking strange in his pilot suit instead of his usual uniform. Swindle pokes him in the side with his elbow as they both walk past Felix, completely ignoring him

“You just. Think about it. Even if you can't fire Offy from the pilots, you can at least free him from these disgusting experiments.”

Felix wants to go over and say hello. Politely and unobtrusively. And also kindly ask, “what the hell, boss?”

But you see it every day, his brain tells him. Have you forgotten?

It makes him feel wrong.

Here's the board, here's the schedule, just lift your stupid head up and see what you're supposed to be doing.

He looks at the board. It's Tuesday. It's dumb sheets that don't have his name on them. He wants to go up to Swindle, he should go up to Swindle, right?

…

It's all wrong, but it's a new kind of wrong. It's not from drugs or neural connection. And it's almost certainly not a concussion.

He's feeling.... hell, what day of the week is it? Tuesday right? He looked at the blackboard yesterday.

He stops. And makes a titanic effort to concentrate the jelly his head is now filled with instead of his brain.

Today is Tuesday because?...because yesterday was Tuesday? And the day before that, too? This is some kind of trippy shit, not a broken neural connection….

He's not looking for the schedule. He's seen the schedule a million times and he knows what's gonna be on it.

He's not sure where he's even going. The layout of the base is different. Not much, but enough to confuse him. He's still stubbornly checking out every familiar place he can find.

He doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't.

He still doesn't see a single damn familiar face.

Ambulon's gone, Pharma's disappeared somewhere too. No Tailgate or Wheeljack anywhere to be seen. And the layout is a little different and all the badges are the wrong color and Felix can't even read what's written on them because every time he tries all the letters blend into an indistinguishable blur.

He's trying to talk to someone. Anyone. But everyone either brushes him off or straight up ignores him. It's like he's a ghost or a lunatic or all of the above.

Everything is so familiar, but at the same time it isn't and his brain frantically clings to the last possibly familiar thing.

Vortex. He needs to find Vortex.

Even if it is him who is going insane and not everyone around him. Vortex is insane in his own, unique way, but he won't ignore him. He may get a good laugh, but it's still better than blindly poking around every corner by himself.

First Aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not nausea from drugs or weird withdrawals after neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion....

He snaps at himself. NO. Hell no.

Vortex. He needs to find Vortex.

The hangar looks surprisingly dark. The people look unfamiliar. And another schedule board beckons him to come over and check to see if it really is Tuesday, but he ignores everything and heads straight for his Mech.

Vortex hasn't changed a bit. Even the radius at which people avoid him is exactly the same.

And looking at him doesn't give Felix that fucking sense of wrongness.

He sees Vortex a lot. He just knows it. The thought is natural, in contrast to the others. That's good, that... It may sound strange, but Vortex is the most normal thing he can perceive right now.

He feels like he's grown little wings. His feet carry him up to the open cockpit and he barely notices the steps beneath him.

Vortex is here and he will understand and even if he doesn't, at least he won't ignore him. Vortex gets bored too quickly so he never minds distractions, no matter how absurd and...weird..they…

Huh…

Felix almost climbs into the cockpit, but freezes, right on the way in.

It's empty.

He crashes into that realization like an invisible wall.

The cockpit.... is clean.

It doesn't smell of chemicals or scrubbing agent. There are no thin streaks of old browned blood in the seams and crevices. There are no dents or stains on the edge of the visor.

The cameras are dead still and the screens are off.

There's no smell of stale blood or decay.

There's no one here.

But the back of his neck still tingles with the sensation of someone else's eyes staring at him.

“The fuck do you think you're doing?“

First Aid flinches startled and turns around.

There is a pilot standing a few feet away from him with a cigarette in his hand.

“..I’m..”

“I wouldn't stand there if I were you” smiles the stranger eying him with a suspiciously bloodthirsty smile “those things are glitchy as fuck. Might chop off something important.”

First Aid continues to stand just under the open visor. Maybe it's surprise or maybe he's too used to the idea that Vortex won't cut him in half. The pilot in front of him looks.... geez, where has he seen him???

Has he ever seen him at all? That green suit looks awfully familiar.

And the voice. There should be more mechanical notes in that voice, First Aid thinks. It should have more static and reverb and squeaks and rumbles and clicks and that quiet hum that sounds when the cockpit systems are turned on...

First Aid jumps off the Mech.

“Vortex...?”

The pilot casts him only a slightly surprised look at first, but a moment later recognition flares in his eyes.

“What the fuck....AID??”

First Aid instantly takes a swing and punches him in the face hard enough to send him wiping the dust on the floor.

“You!!!”

“Ha,” says Vortex from the floor. “Hahahahah ooooh Do it again! ”

First Aid kicks him. Vortex laughs like he's been told the world's happiest joke.

He sounds…alive. Alive and human and there’s no metal in his voice and

“What the fuck?”

Vortex stops laughing, but still doesn't get up off the floor

“What's the last thing you remember?”

First Aid still does nothing but stare at Vortex stunned. The human Vortex. Victor? Shit

“Until Tuesday, you mean?”

Vortex hums

”Till Tuesday.”

What was before Tuesday?

Another Tuesday. And another and another and another and another.

Someone from downstairs bangs loudly on the railing and berates Vortex for a safety violation, ordering him to put his cigarette away.

Vortex points his middle finger down somewhere and throws the cigarette over the railing.

Oh god. Oh shit.

First Aid swallows nervously.

“Shockwave...he used something...to control you-Mech...I mean. He did something, I think. I remember I couldn’t move couldn’t do anything. And now I’m in this hhhhplace? I don’t really recognise it.”

Vortex twitches the corner of his mouth and finally rises from the floor.

“Well I do.”

He looks like he is sick, First Aid thinks. He looks sick and he looks human and he has arms and legs and eyes and that stupid curly strand of dark hair sticking out from under his helmet and the dark eye bags.

“The bastard made up some sort of dumpster to transfer your consciousness in while he does shit to your body.”

First Aid clenches his hands together

“But there were two of us in the neural connection. And it took two of us to transfer here too...”

It suddenly dawns on him

“Wait. This base, these, everything. This is what the Mech project looked like in your time?? And Swindle and Onslaught and the staff is different and...”

Vortex raises his eyebrows smugly.

“...Here you are ...you're a human...” finishes First Aid.

Vortex pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

From somewhere below, a loud angry bang is heard again

“Tex, you bastard stop smoking in here.”

“Fuck you, Off,” Vortex yells back.

Then shrugs his shoulders

“I've always been human. No matter how hard Shockwave and his science shithole try to change that.”

He holds out an opened pack to First Aid

“Want some?”

First Aid feels awful. Terrible as if from the drugs, terrible as if from the neural connection. Terrible as if he had a concussion times two.

But Vortex is here and Vortex believes him and even if it turns out they're the ones who are crazy and not the world around them, at least they're crazy together.

First Aid takes a cigarette

“Thanks...”

_______________

Previous

[envy-of-the-apple]

Infinite Rewind

Gojo Satoru x reader

Synopsis: Instead of dying, you are sent 13 years in the past, but this isn't your face. "Let's cut the shit." The white-haired kid grins. "Who are you and what're you doing in Suguru's body?"

Part two: Rewound Infinitely

Word Count: 18.1k

(Warnings: slight yandere, death, murder, inaccurate Tokyo geography, blood, violence, mild gore, obsession, unhealthy relationships, child abuse/neglect, time looping(?), fem!reader) Ageless blogs that try to follow me will be blocked

First, you saw a monster. 

It was big and horrible—nasty teeth. You heard screaming. People. Running as fast as they could away from the creatures. Pain. 

And then, you saw a bright, clear sky. 

The sun was blaring down at you. It was so hot. Wasn't it December? How was the sun out at night? 

"Hey, you good?" 

A girl is looking at you. Short brown hair. A high schooler, judging by the uniform. How is she wearing all black when the weather is so hot? 

When you don't respond, her eyes squint. 

"Suguru, are you okay?" 

That's not your name; your mouth moves faster than your brain.

"I-I'm fine." That wasn't your voice. It was deeper. More masculine. What the fuck happened to your voice? 

The girl gives you another strange look but you're too busy freaking out over your new voice. Your hands are different too. A completely different skin tone, larger. 

And then you're fumbling with your pockets, clothes you know you didn't buy. The girl is calling for you again but you're too busy pulling out a fucking flip-phone and looking into the black screen, the only thing you have for a mirror. 

Purple eyes stare back. These aren't your eyes. This isn't your nose. This isn't your hair. This isn't your face. You blink. He does too. You open your mouth. So does he. You pinch your cheek. In the reflection, he winces. 

Oh, you just fucking bodysnatched someone. 

ⴵ

Ten minutes later, you conclude that your name is Geto Suguru, you are a 16-year-old boy, the year is 2006, and you attend a religious academy. 

"You're finally acting normally again." The girl-newly discovered as Ieiri- says. "No more weirdness." 

You don't blame her, considering you grabbed her by the shoulders, asking ridiculous questions like: what year is it, who am I, why am I here, who are you, am I dead, is this Hell, etc. For a teenage girl, she took your outburst well. 

"Sorry," you say and by now you've gotten used to your voice, "it must have been the stress from studying." 

She just hums, continuing to walk beside you. Though, Ieiri had a point. You were definitely calmer, and it was mostly because you figured it out. 

You were dreaming. 

You were lucid dreaming, to be more precise. Your brain was conjuring up a weird setting and you just happened to be placed in another person's body. You heard about this happening before. You were just so freaked out because this was the first time anything like this had happened to you. 

An impulsive part of you wants to tell Ieiri that this is just a dream, but you've heard weird things happen after a lucid dreamer tries to break the illusion. It's best if you just let it just play out and see where this goes. 

“Excited?” 

“Hm?” You ask. And Shoko rolls her eyes. 

“For the mission you have this evening. Special grade. Sounds scary.” She says, her sarcasm evident. 

Mission? Special grade? You don’t know what those words mean but it sounds like a school field trip. Shoko takes your hesitance as something else. 

“Ah,” she says, “so you forgot.” 

“I didn’t.” You reply on instinct. 

“I expected this from Satoru, not you. You should stop hanging out with him, he’s starting to rub off on you.”

You give a sheepish laugh, and it’s enough to quell her questions. 

She leads you into the school, all through the winding halls and through an office door. You couldn’t be more grateful, it’s not like you would have known where to go. It’s a teachers room. Two people are already inside. 

“Wait, for once, I’m early?” The boy with sunglasses asks, voice dripping with amusement. He’s leaning dangerously on a chair. You stare at him. You’ve never seen someone with white hair before. It can’t be real. 

“He forgot.” Shoko pipes up and the boy cackles. 

“That’s hilarious. I’m starting to rub off on you.” Ah, this must be Satoru. 

You give a nervous smile. “Haha, yeah.” 

The boy stops rocking in the chair. Three pairs of eyes look at you. Your uniform feels itchy.

“Gojo, stop making such a ruckus.” The man, presumably his teacher, gruffs. "You two got the briefing yesterday. Do your job and for the last time do not leave your assistant manager behind again." 

Gojo groans, and you delve into more confusion. Before you can say anything, the kid is hopping out of his seat before lazily striding out the door. Shoko and the teacher look at you expectantly. 

Oh, you were supposed to follow him. 

Not wanting to make a scene, you catch up to Gojo. He's tall, his footsteps are long and wide. But you're tall now too, so it's easy to keep up with him. This new body of yours has a lot of pros. 

"Yaga's so annoying," Gojo suddenly says, "constantly nagging us like that. It's not our fault the assistants can't keep up." 

What should you say? You clear your throat. 

"He just wants what's best for us." 

Wrong answer. 

"Where'd that come from?" He snorts. How charming. "I know you agree with me. You're just tryna' act like the nicer one, again. It's starting to get a little old." 

Is that how 16 year-olds talk? Rude, but also strangely off-putting, like he can see straight through you. Or more accurately, he can see straight through Suguru. How close are these two, anyway? 

Why did any of these questions even matter? This is a dream! You need to wake up already. 

On the campus grounds, a sleek black car waits outside for you two. Along with a miffed man in a black suit. This must be a very rich school for a field trip to have a chauffeur. Where were you two going again?

Gojo hops in the back, taking one of the window seats. You take the other. In your own body, you would've fit nicely. But Suguru's legs are long, and the spacious car feels cramped. You should've taken the passenger seat. How do tall people live like this? 

The ride is quiet. Out the corner of your eye, you catch Satoru type away on his flip phone. A moment later, yours beeps. You still have no idea how to use Suguru's phone or his password, so you ignore his message. Satoru groans. 

Quickly, you learn that Satoru has a very low attention span. When looking out the window gets boring, he bugs the chauffeur. When the chauffeur ignores him, he starts bugging you. 

"Hey heyyyy," Satoru says, "when this is all over, we should go to that new ice cream place. Like you said, we should." 

You look at him. "Uh, sure." You say. 

"And you should pay for it, 'cuz you said you owed me last time." 

Fine, whatever. "Sure thing." 

He grins. You can't see his glasses, and it makes his smile even more unnerving. This kid. 

This doesn't feel like a normal field trip at all. Why did you stop in front of some rackety house that looked as though it were about to collapse? You turn back to the only adult in the vicinity, but he's out too. He takes out a lighter and a cigarette. In front of impressionable children, too. Wonderful. 

"I'll wait out here." He says, though his tone is uncaring. "Since we're out in the country, there's no need for a veil. Do your best." 

Veil? What? Gojo's already going off again and you've already decided to be his chaperone, so you follow. You reluctantly trail behind him. Feet crunch the leaves. The house grows bleaker and bleaker. 

"Okay, I have a plan!" Gojo exclaims when he gets through the squeaky door. He's so loud, can't he be quieter? "I check upstairs and you check the ground floor and the basement. Got it?" 

Check the house? Were he and Suguru electricians in training or something? That still wouldn't explain why a grown man decided to drop off two teenagers in front of a creepy mansion. And why in God's name did Gojo want to split up?

"I-I don't think that's a good idea," you say, "shouldn't we try to stick together?" Or, better yet, leave. 

He clicks his tongue. "Ugh, you're so lame. Not like Suguru at all." 

Wait, what did he say? You're about to call out to him when he climbs up the stairs, disappearing from view. Unbelievable. 

This kid was starting to get on your nerves. Enough, you were leaving. You could have a nice dream where you met and fell in love with Zendaya, not babysitting some teenager, whilst possessing another person's body. You were going to wait outside with the man and hope your dream finally came to an end. 

Except, you couldn't go outside. The door was gone. 

It-it was right behind you, right? The entrance was right behind you. You couldn't have gotten turned around so quickly? What the hell happened? Or maybe you had gotten turned around? Considering how distracting that Gojo kid was, you might not have realized it. 

You look around the house. Looks like it'd been abandoned for a while. There's dirt on the shelves. Chairs were toppled over and left to rot. The wooden floorboards dangerously creaked beneath you. Just what had happened here? 

There's no patio door. No door leading to the outside. At the same time, you hadn't explored everything yet. Each door led to a room. The only door that didn't, led to a basement. And no, you weren't going down there. 

When you got back to where you started, you noticed something had changed. 

There was a person. Seated right at the base of the stairs? 

Gojo? Was he done with urban exploring? Maybe he knew the way out. He stands up, reaching to his full height, then higher, then higher. 

Gojo was tall, but this thing was taller. Gojo was human. This thing wasn't. 

What the fuck you can only mouth because your voice is stuck in your throat when it takes a shaky step towards you. It's a black husk of a figure, too skinny but too tall and twitching fingers. You don't know how you could've mistaken this for the kid. 

Another step. You're running, back into the house, leaping over the fallen shelves and creaky floorboards. It gives chase, and you can hear it groan behind you. It's deep and rumbly and terrifying. It just motivates you to go faster. 

It's slower than you. That's good, but it seems to realize this. You can barely celebrate your advantage before something heavy is smashed into your back, sending you toppling to the floor. You and wooden chair crash on the ground. 

It hurts. 

Everything hurts. 

Dreams aren't supposed to hurt. Because this wasn't a dream. 

This was real. You were stuck in the year 2006, stuck in another person's body, about to get mauled by a monster. 

You were going to die. 

You aren't even fighting anymore. How pathetic is that? The shock numbs your body as the thing grows closer and closer, all you can do is reach your hands up, protecting your face. 

And then the creature explodes. 

An implosion. It's skin and bones twist in a way no one should. There's a shriek, something wrong and high and inhuman before it's gone. Like it never existed in the first place. 

After all that, he's still smiling. Like the cat that just caught the mouse. 

"I guess we're not pretending anymore, are we?" Gojo asks, stretching his arms. "That's good. That game was starting to get a little boring, anyways. Now, then." 

He folds his glasses, tucking it on his uniform. Blue, his eyes are. As blue as a clear sky. 

"Let's cut the shit." The white-haired kid grins. "Who are you, and what're you doing in Suguru's body?"

ⴵ

Contrary to your belief, Gojo Satoru is a good listener. 

There's never an interruption. Not even once. Every once in a while, he nods, a hand on his chin. It's probably because he can't interrupt. You just keep going on and on. Word vomit. 

He only speaks when you pause to catch your breath. "So you are from the year 2017, and you went back in time to body-snatch someone. I had a feeling your technique had something to do with possession." 

You look at him warily. "Wait, you knew this entire time?" 

You two hadn't moved from your earlier spot. You were still sprawled on the floor, still feeling the adrenaline surge through you. Gojo had transitioned to squatting on the floor. He scratches his neck, still so casual. 

"I have good eyes. Don't worry about it." He shrugs. "Anyway, you seem pretty harmless, and as annoying as it is not having Suguru around, I doubt killing you would do any good." Why is he being so nonchalant about murder? Is this kid really sixteen?

"I think we gotta' just wait around until your technique reactivates." Gojo whistles. "2017. That's like a decade away. I wonder what happened for your technique to show up." 

You blink, trying to remember the date. 

"It was Christmas Eve..." You glance at him. "And then I was here." 

He thinks for a moment. "Yeah, I got nothing." Of course. 

He sighs, before sprawling on the dirty floor, belly up. You grimace at his antics but choose to keep your mouth shut. 

He doesn't seem very worried. At the most, he looks mildly inconvenienced. Why isn't he worried about his friend? 

When you ask him, he just snorts. 

"Sorry, but you're not that scary. Besides, I don't have to worry about Suguru. He's strong." 

Well, that's nice to know, but one other thing still bothers you. 

"You speak so casually to me," you mutter, "You know I'm older than you, right? I'm 22." 

He laughs. "22? Damn. You're old, man." 

"That isn't old!" You argue. "You have no concept of age since you're just a teenager." And why did he assume you were a man? Oh right, you were trapped in a teenage boy’s body. Of course.

"I mean, technically, I'm older than you, right?" Gojo ponders with a grin. "If you're 22 in 2017, that makes you what—11 in 2006?" 

You say nothing because you have a feeling that if you continue to argue with him, he'll just drag you down to his insanity. 

"Technique, you've said that a couple of times." You look at him. "That's what you call your 'powers', right? Does Geto have one too?" 

"Yeah," Gojo says, "but you can't use it. You have zero cursed energy. Honestly, it's at the same level as a plant. A bit lower than regular humans. It's a little impressive, actually." For one second, could he stop being so condescending? 

"What's his technique?" You ignore his comments. "Could it be related to how I got here?" 

He gives you a look over. "I doubt that, but Suguru's technique is curse manipulation. Uh, you remember that thing you saw earlier." You nod. "Yeah, he can control and absorb them." 

He sounds pretty awesome. You look at your hands. Not your hands. Geto's hands. They're paler than yours, and a lot longer. This isn't your body. Your soul can feel it. You can feel the guilt too. 

'I'd give it back if I could,' you think, 'I just don't know how.' 

Gojo's getting up. He stretches. He was lying on the ground but you can't see a speck of dirt on his uniform. 

"Okay, then. No use mopping around." He grins down at you. "Maybe Yaga can do something about you. Let's get you back to jujutsu tech." 

You blink up at him. His hand is outstretched, reaching out to you. He's still grinning that insufferable grin but his eyes have slightly melted. 

"Okay." You say, barely touching his fingertips. "Let's-" 

And then Gojo's gone. And then, you're standing. And then it's cold. 

You're wearing a coat; weren't you wearing a uniform before? There's no clear sky. It's nearly dusk. 

You were standing on the sidewalk, where people bustled all around you. You fumble through your jackets, putting out a phone. An actual iphone. You flick on the screen. 

December 24th, 2017, 7:06.

Holy shit, you were back. 

Was it because you touched Gojo? That makes no sense, but how could you explain anything else that happened so far? God. You rake a hand through your hair. Your hand. Your hair. You can't believe how much you missed yourself. It felt so good to be back. 

Your mind is spinning, you had no idea what the fuck just happened.

For now, you just wanted to turn your mind off and grab a drink. 

You know there was a bar not too far from your location. Along the way, you pass by the bustling town. There's a couple walking side by side, giggling over something you couldn't hear. Right, it's the 24th. You remember your empty bed with no one to share it with, and you cement your desire to drown yourself in alcohol today. 

Your self-pitying session is almost how you nearly miss him. His shoulder brushes past you. You're about to apologize when you hear his voice. It's familiar. 

It used to be your voice. 

It's all there. Black hair, but it's longer this time around. Of course it is, he's had years to grow it out. He's tall, he must've grown since highschool. His broad back is the only thing you see, you're almost afraid to reach out to him. 

"Suguru...?" 

He halts in his tracks. When he turns around, it's like looking into a fractured past. He looks older, no longer a youthful teenager. You should have paid more attention to his eyes, how scrutinizing they were, how condescending his fake smile was. All that you could think of was that it was actually him. 

"Do I know you?" He tilts his head. "Apologies, but my girls and I are quite busy." 

You don't notice the two young ladies beside him until Geto points them out. Teenagers, maybe just around the age when you first met him. He was a father now. 

You're so swept up by the emotions that you barely notice they've continued walking. You stumble behind, ducking behind the alleyway they went into. 

"Wait! Geto!" You call. "Please! We need to talk!" You still needed your answers. You didn't know care how desperate you came off as. 

In hindsight, you should have noticed that they looked more annoyed than worried about a stranger chasing them across the street. 

The one with the ponytail scoffs. "This one talks an awful lot. How annoying." 

Geto sighs. He leaves his daughters, finally standing in front of you. This is what you wanted, right? A chance to talk to him. 

Still, you can't help but feel wrongness within you. His smile is off. 

"Most monkeys are just that, unfortunately." You don't move. You can't. Not when he places a hand on your skull. "I suppose it'd be humane to put this one out of its misery." 

Geto Suguru crushes your skull. And then you die. 

ⴵ

Again. You died again. 

This is the second time Geto has killed you. Fuck, you should've realized. 

"Back again, Greeny?" Gojo asks. 

He and Suguru were sitting outside in the grass. Satoru's holding up a few playing cards. You look at Suguru's hands and find yourself doing the same. 

Not again. 

"What year is it?" You ask warily. "And what did you just call me?" 

Gojo grins with teeth. You remember he compared you to a plant before, didn't he? He's so clever with nicknames; someone should give him an award. 

"Welcome back to 2006!" Gojo beams. "It's only been a couple of days since you left. And why are you so grumpy? I'm the one who just lost a player." 

You weren't grumpy, you were pissed. You figured out what's been going on with you, and it's all because of the asshole you're possessing right now.

The look on his face when he killed you. Like you were nothing more than an animal. A monkey. Now, you feel a lot less guilty about possessing his body. 

At least you figured out two things. You know how your technique works. Whenever someone kills you, you are sent back in time to take over their body. But you can go back whenever you touch Gojo, or perhaps just another sorcerer. 

Secondly, you have access to Geto's memories. 

It didn't happen the first time you died. It must have been because the kill wasn't direct (from Getos curse, rather than himself), but milliseconds after Geto split your skull in two, your brain was overwhelmed by his past, his present, as well as his future. 

Geto was set to die on December 24th, 2017. At the hands of his best friend, Gojo Satoru. 

Fuck him. Let the bastard die. You didn't give a shit. 

You reach over to touch Gojo's arm, ready to leave. He pulls back with a snicker. Ugh, the brat must've figured out your technique, too. 

"Stop messing around." You tell him. "I need to go back to my timeline." 

"Sure, sure," he says as though speaking to a time traveler is just another Tuesday. "But first, finish the game with me." 

"No." You tell him before leaning out even further. He isn't moving away anymore, but you still can't reach him. Fuck, he must've activated his technique. 

Despite your annoyance, you decide to keep the future away from Gojo's ears. He doesn't need to know that he'll be the one to kill Suguru. He shouldn't. Not at his age. He's just a kid. 

"Just one game! I promise!" He pleads. "Then I'll let you go. Suguru never lets me beat him, I want an easy opponent to boost my ego." 

You roll your eyes, but you settle down, picking up the cards. You already know the rules; you have Geto's memories, after all. 

It's silent, save for Gojo's humming. When you place down your King of hearts, you ask:

"Hey, is my cursed energy different at all?" You ask.

"Not really." He squints. "Wait, it has grown a little. Aw, Greeny sprouted!" 

So, every time you die, your cursed energy increases. That, or your cursed energy, increases every time you time travel. It doesn't matter either way. Does this mean you can use Geto's technique now? It couldn't hurt to try, right? 

There's a demon-no, they're called curses you know that now- floating beside you, just a little ways away. Small. Barely fourth grade. You stick your hand out, calling out Geto's power. There's a pull, a rush of energy. 

A blue ball drops into your hand. 

"Holy shit." Gojo leans forward. "So you can use his techniques." Surprisingly, there's no wariness in his voice. Just awe. 

"Yeah." You breathe before glancing up at him. "Shouldn't you be focused on your cards?" 

He shrugs, tossing the cards away. "What cards?" 

You sigh before staring at the ball. Well, you captured the curse. All that's left to do is swallow it, right? You can do that. You open your mouth. Gojo is still staring. You scowl. 

"Look away." 

He rolls his eyes. "It's not like I haven't seen you do this before. Well, not you, the guy that you bodysnatched." 

Ass, you keep that in your head as you hold your breath. You swallow the ball down. 

Instantly, you choke. 

It's horrible. Like a rotten carcass on the highway, oozing blood and oil and pus. You start dry-heaving, suffocating, spit dribbles down your chin. Nothing comes out. You've already absorbed it. The taste of a cursed spirit no one knows. Like swallowing a rag that was used to wipe up vomit and shit. Exorcised. Ingested. Exorcised. Ingested. Exorcised. Ingested. Exorcised. Ingested. 

"Is it really that bad?" Gojo observes you. "That guy swallows them down, no problem." 

Because Suguru was used to this taste. He was used to the responsibility. The hoarding mass of distraught absorbing a curse comes with. It was a disgusting art. Something he'd perfected to mask for years. Until he couldn't take it anymore. 

Fuck, you might have lost your mind, too, if you kept having to eat this. To protect people who were happy you failed. 

You snapped out of it. Suguru's memories were affecting your own. That's probably a sign that you need to get out of here. No way would you be sympathizing with someone so monstrous. 

"Hopefully, I never do that again." You slowly recover, wiping your spit away with your hand. You lean back on your hands, exhausted. 

"Something I've always wondered." You call out to Gojo. "What did Suguru ever think about someone possessing his body." 

Gojo laughed. "Funny thing. He never knew." 

"What?" You look at him. "No gaps in his memory? Nothing?" 

"Nope," Gojo said, "he remembered what happened in the house, but he thinks he did everything. And then he said something weird." 

You perk up at that. "What did he say?" 

Gojo tilts his head. Then, he shrugs. 

"I forgot." Typical. 

You pinch your nose bridge. "So, did you tell anyone else about...this?" You gesture to yourself. 

"Wait, you're supposed to be a secret?" You look at him in alarm. "In my defense, I didn't know, but I haven't gotten the chance to tell anyone. After the mission, Suguru and I went to the arcade, and then I kinda' forgot about it." 

Well, at least Gojo's arrogance works in your favor sometimes. You can't let anyone know, especially anyone connected to the higher-ups. From Geto's memories, you know they don't like anything new. It's best to stay under their radar. 

"Good, well, from now on, we're keeping it a secret. Got it?" 

"What are you two keeping a secret?" A new voice pops up. You jump. 

You know him—at least from Geto's memories. Haibara beams at you. He looks so alive in the sunlight, smiling and with bright eyes.

He'll be dead within a year or so. 

Gojo takes advantage of your shock. "The bodysnatcher wants me to promise that I won't tell anyone that a curse-user is possessing Suguru's body." 

"What the hell? You just promised that you wouldn't tell anyone!" 

"Uh, technically, I didn't promise anything yet." Gojo retaliates. "But okay, fiiiiine. I won't tell anyone....except for Haibara." You groan. 

"What's going on?" Haibara's smile fades. "Wait, Gojo, is this not Geto? Is this person actually a curse-user!?" 

"I'm not a curse-user." You correct. "I'm not a sorcerer either, for the record." 

"You just used a curse technique to travel back in time to take over someone's body." Gojo enunciates. "Sounds like a sorcerer to me." 

"Wait, you're a time-traveler, Mr. Not-Geto?" Haibara asks and you are genuinely impressed he's able to keep up. 

"The name’s Greeny, Haibara." Gojo supplements. Haibara nods, still a bit unsure. 

"So...do we fight Greeny?" 

"It's not my name." You get ignored. 

"Nah, it's all good. Greeny's harmless. Just a weakling, don’t worry about it." Rude, but you don’t think you’d want Gojo to take you as much of a threat, not after knowing what he can do.

"Oh, okay!" Haibara instantly relaxes. The kid's really trusting, huh? 

"Okay, fine, but no one else can know, got it, Gojo?" This promise doesn't matter. It's not like you're planning on returning to the past anytime soon. As soon as you return to the present, you are leaving Tokyo and escaping the night parade of 100 demons. Fuck that. You don't want to die again. 

He waves you off. "Yeah, yeah."

He's so insufferable. You don't know who's worse: the genocidal maniac or this brat. 

"Give me your hand. I want to go home." 

Haibara looks confused. "Wait, why does Greeny need your hand?" 

"It's how the curse technique works," Gojo explains. "Greeny gets sent back in time, and then my true-love's touch sends him careening forward into the future." You frown at his comment, but he turns to you before you can say anything. 

"Which reminds me, Greeny: ever figure out how your technique works?" 

No way are you telling a kid that their best friend killed you....twice. Instead, you just shrug. 

"Haven't figured it out yet." 

Gojo stares at you. "Huh." He responds. "Well, if you ever figure it out, lemme' know." 

Sure you will. You hold up your hand. Gojo, finally holds his own up. Out of the corner of your eye, Haibara waves. And then you're back in your own body, on December 24th, 2017, 7:06 pm.

You waste no time. You push at the crowd, squeezing through the hoards of people. You need to get out. You need to leave before the death parade starts, before you're trapped in that terrifying cycle of death again. 

You need to leave. 

Exorcised. Ingested. 

No no no. Shut up. This wasn't you. This was Geto's memories. 

Exorcised. Ingested.  

You need to leave. 

Exorcised. Ingested. 

You need to survive. 

The taste of a cursed spirit no one knows. 

You stop, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. People glare, cursing as they move around you. They don't know this place will be a bloodbath in a matter of minutes. They'd all die. But you could stop it. 

If only if you hadn't accessed Geto's memories. If only if you hadn't eaten that damn curse. If only if you hadn't sympathized with a murderer. Maybe you'd have the courage to escape your future. 

But you'd felt that taste. Horrible. If you eat enough, you could go insane. If you were lonely enough, that would do it too. 

The taste of a cursed spirit no one knows. No one except for you. 

At 8:06 the screams start. The monsters come out to play their song. You close your eyes, forgive Suguru, and you die once more. 

ⴵ

For once, when you open your eyes, Gojo isn’t there with you. 

You’re still on the campus of Jujutsu tech. Suguru was just about to grab his soda from the vending machine. You finish his job. The can feels cold. It feels refreshing on your tongue. It’s a momentary distraction to the fact that you have no clue what you’re doing. 

You understand your cursed technique, but you still struggle with the application. Fuck, what did you do? You were utterly fucked. You’re playing a dangerous game. If you died- if Geto died- here, what would even happen? 

 The worst part is that you can’t even think of the hypothetical because there’s no other choice. You needed to do this. To not only save the people in Tokyo from the Night Parade, but to also save Geto Suguru. The man who has killed you three times now. 

Geto’s dissent starts to worsen at Riko Amanai’s death. If you could prevent that from happening, you could probably change history. But Geto’s true fracture begins with the curses themselves. They were rotting him from the inside.

You grimace, but you have to do it. You have to eat every single curse that Geto couldn’t swallow down himself. 

One was coming up. In less than an hour, Yaga will call you and Gojo for a mission. It’ll be a special-grade grave-type curse. Dispatching it will be simple, but Geto would be the one to exorcise it, ingesting the screams of all that the curse devoured. You needed to prepare yourself for that. 

Maybe you should save some of this soda to wash the taste off later. 

“Geto!” Someone cheers, you jump, but Haibara’s already poking his head around the wall. He grins. 

“Hey! Oh, you’re not Geto, aren’t you?” He tilts his head. “Greeny?” 

“Keep your voice down,” you whisper, “wait, you can recognize me?” 

He nods, after checking to make sure no one’s around, he says, “yeah, your eyes are different? It’s hard to explain.” He tells you. 

Huh. Interesting. 

“You’ve been gone a while.” Haibara beams. “It’s been a few weeks. I’m glad you’re back, Gojo was starting to get cranky.” 

It’s probably because he had no one to mess with. Poor him. He has all your sympathies. Ass. 

“I’m glad to return as his punching back.” You mutter. 

Haibara shyly shuffles his feet. 

“So, are you really from the future?” He asks. “Was Gojo telling the truth?” 

You nod. “Haibara, you haven’t told anyone, right?” 

“Of course not!” He instantly says. “Not a soul. Not even Nanami, and I tell him everything! Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“And Gojo, too! I know he doesn’t look very trustworthy, but me and him have kept it under wraps.” 

Reluctantly, you can’t help but agree with the kid. Gojo is annoying, but so far, he hasn’t done anything super harmful. 

“So anyway, Greeny.” He clears his throat. “Considering you’re from the future and all. Would you mind telling me what my future will be like?” 

You blink at him. He takes it as a sign to continue. “Nothing much! I just wanna know what I’ll be doing in 2017. Will I finally be a grade 1 sorcerer?” 

You think of Geto’s final memories of Haibara. A child burying another child. 

“Sorry,” you lie through your teeth, “but I didn’t know you in my future. Again, I’m not really a sorcerer.” 

Haibara nods, disappointed but still very excitable. He asks you about other things about the future, and you try to answer to the best of your ability, but you can’t shake off his dead glass eyes, staring at you from the morgue. 

“Another thing, we should have a code word.” Haibara exclaims. 

You blink. “A code word?” 

“If we ever meet in the future,” he explains, “y’know, in 'Groundhog’s day', he has to keep explaining what’s happening repeatedly? In order to prevent that, we should have a secret word between eachother so I instantly know who you are.” 

Not the same exact situation, but it sounds like exactly something a child would come up with. You indulge him anyway. 

“Okay, what did you have in mind?” 

“Well, it can’t be anything too crazy, or we might attract unwanted attention.” Haibara puts a hand on his chin in serious thought. You smile. 

“Got it! If you ever see me, just yell ‘brocolli head’ really really loudly. Then I’ll know.” Haibara chirps. 

“Wait, why broccoli head?”

“Because broccoli heads are green!” Haibara chirps happily.

You’re starting to learn it’s best not to question his logic.

You nod, very amused. “Sure thing, Haibara.”  

Someone calls out his name. He jumps before he waves to you. You watch as he joins with Nanami. They talk about something you can’t hear. Haibara laughs and you decide it would be a shame if his laugh was lost to death. 

Gojo finds you eventually. You can’t hide from him forever. You were walking into the school when he caught up with you. He’d ran there. His breath was slightly ragged. 

“Greeny, couldn’t get enough last time, huh?” You shoot him a look. 

“What are you talking about? Doesn’t matter, we need to go, the missions coming up.” 

Gojo’s smile dips ever so slightly. “How’d you know about that?” 

It’s probably not a good idea to tell the guy's best friend that you’re possessing that you’ve unlocked his memories. 

“Haibara told me.” 

“Ah,” He replies, “let’s go then.” 

The car ride is different this time around. Less tension. You aren’t as confused. Gojo is seated quietly beside you, watching the scenery go by. The assistant is too preoccupied with belting the radio to notice Gojo's words. 

“Figured it out yet?” He asks. “Your technique.” 

He's persistent about that answer, isn't he? You're sure the only reason Gojo cooperates with you is because he thinks you're inhabiting Suguru's on accident. How would he react if he knew you were doing it intentionally? It's best not to get on the strongests’ bad side. 

“Oh, not really, but I think it’s random. I can’t seem to find a set pattern. Maybe Suguru calls out to me, somehow?” 

“Maybe.” Gojo replies. His time is flat. Anxiety flips through your stomach. 

“You’re different this time around,” Gojo says. 

“Am I?” You ask. “I guess I’m just more determined today.” 

He gives you a look over. "Oh yeah? What for?" 

"The curse. I'll exorcise it, today." 

You don't know how you wanted Gojo to react to that, but you're still disappointed when he turns back to the window. 

"Do whatever, Greeny." 

In the end, you do swallow the curse. You manage to hold your gags in this time. 

It's worse than before. It makes sense. This curse was first-grade. Stronger. In terms of taste, it was like curdled blood and mold. You were so grateful for that soda. 

Gojo only watches with a tilted head. 

"You're getting better at that."

You give a weak grin. 

"Practice makes perfect," you reply, "do you think I'll get strong enough to absorb a special grade soon?" 

He doesn't like your question. You can see it in his stiff expression. 

"Maybe. Why do you want to swallow up curses, anyway? Last time you were here, you were practically begging to go back." 

His response wasn't exactly hostile but far from his usual playful attitude. You knew you'd have to confront this eventually. Despite how nonchalant he acted, it's clear Satrou doesn't enjoy watching someone prance around in his friend's body like this. If he starts to dislike you, it could rupture your entire plan. You need his cooperation, more than anything, to save Suguru. 

A little bit of the truth. Just a bit. It can't hurt, can it?

"Curses taste horrible," you say, looking at the ground. You can still taste the remnants of it, "it's the worst thing in the world. I can't even explain how wrong it feels to eat one. I thought...while I'm in his body...I could maybe help Suguru a little. I could ingest the curses in his stead, so that way, he still gets to absorb it." But it'll lessen the trauma it has on his mental state. 

You can't see how Gojo feels about that. Those glasses of his cover everything. But you know he's staring at you. The six eyes are taking you apart, observing you whole. 

"Did you know Suguru in the future?" He asks. 

"I didn't." The man that killed you. The man that will keep killing you. And you'd forgive him each time. 

Another beat of silence.

Finally, he just sighs. "You're the kind of person who'll jump in front of a truck to save a kitten, right?" 

You give a sheepish laugh.

"That isn't a compliment, by the way. You're just really reckless. And maybe stupid, Greeny." His tone isn't mean. 

"My name still isn't Greeny." You tell him. 

"Oh yeah, what's your name, then?" He's reverted back to that teasing lilt, and it almost makes you relax if you don't note the curiosity underneath. 

So far, you've been lax giving away information regarding the future, but you don't think you should continue that. What if you're too careless and the future changes in a way you didn't intend? A name, personal information, that could be way too dangerous. 

"Actually, just call me Greeny. I like that name a lot better." 

"You complained about it all the time, though?" Gojo argues. 

"It's starting to grow on me." You grin. "Grow? Get it, because you compared me to a plant and-"

"Stop stop, you really are an old man." Gojo groans. You just grin wider. Then, you grimace.

“I can still taste it.” You complain. “I’d kill for a cigarette right now.”

“I caught our assistant manager smoking a while back,” Satoru suggests. “Maybe you could go and beg him for one.”

You toss him a look. “Suguru doesn’t smoke, and I’m not giving a teenager a nicotine addiction.” You have found lighters inside Suguru’s pockets, but you have a feeling it isn’t for his own cravings.

"Hey, could you do me a favor?" 

He gives a wordless hum.

"Maybe after this, could you take Suguru out to a cafe'? I can taste the aftertaste of the curse." You shudder. "Just get him something to wash it down." 

Also, Suguru couldn't go back to his dorm after this. Suguru dissented because of his fractured relationship with everyone, not just with Satoru. You'd try to bridge the gap between him and his peers as much as you can. You go through Suguru's flip phone, asking Shoko if she wants to join the two. 

When you're done with that, you snap the phone closed. 

"Okay, I'm done here. You two have fun, okay?" You raise your hand. 

Gojo just huffs, amused. "Sure sure. By the way, someone wanted to thank you." 

You blink at that. "What?" 

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."

He gives you a high-five, and then you're back in 2017 in your own body. 

Temporarily. So far you figured out that you get sent back an hour before the night parade happens. 8:06. Considering you have a couple more minutes to kill before you’re killed, you reach into your pocket for that cigarette you’ve been craving. You pick the first out of the box, cherry burns just out of corner of your eye.

You notice things now. The children giggled to their parents. Old couples gingerly held hands with sweet smiles. You'd save them, but first, you need to save Suguru. 

And do really do that, you'd have to save Riko. 

Easier said than done. You could go back in time, but you can't really control when to go back in time. It's been random, but your trips are typically two days away from each other. You can work with that. 

But in order to get to Riko's death, you'd have to die...a lot. Absorbing curses made Suguru lose his mind, but how well would you fare with dying over and over again? 

"Hungry?" 

Someone looms over you. A woman. She's pretty, with short hair and bangs. In her hand, she holds a bag of chips. 

"The vending machine gave me an extra." She gives a laugh. She kind of sounds like you. "Would you like one?" 

"Oh." You take it. "Thanks." 

"Don't mention it." She trots off into the crowd. You watch her.

A stranger's act of kindness. She didn't even know what would happen to her soon. You grip the bag, it crinkles in your grasp. 

It didn't matter how well you'd fare with dying over and over again. You'd get over it. So many innocent people depended on you. You can't just abandon them like this. 

You're the kind of person who'll jump in front of a truck to save a kitten, right? It's aggravating how accurate he is, honestly. 

The screams start up again, and you forgive Suguru. 

ⴵ

It takes a few cycles to finally reach the day Amanai Riko is assassinated. Whenever you deem yourself too early, you often accompany Gojo on a mission and exorcise a special-grade curse. Your overall plan is working, bit by bit. Each time you return, Suguru's memories swarm you. Each curse he remembers as less painful. 

It's why you get worried when you get there a little too late. 

"Something wrong?" Riko asks. 

You've stopped in the middle of the hallway, and of course, they're looking at you strangely. You know this place. Tengen's barrier is just an elevator ride away. Suguru, Riko, and Miss Kuroi were all almost there.

Fushiguro Toji has already arrived. 

In the first timeline, Geto leads the girls all the way down to Tengen's barrier. He puts his trust in Gojo. Of course, he would. They're the strongest. And in the end, Gojo does kill Toji. 

But the kill comes too late. Riko still dies, and the fracturing happens. 

You thought you'd have more time. If you had arrived a bit earlier, you could have fought with Gojo, and the chances of defeating Toji would have significantly increased. 

What do you do?

"What's the matter?" Miss Kuroi asks. She's supposed to die today, too. 

"Sorry, ladies." You smile. "But I need to go back for him." 

You don't answer their calls, running back up the hallway. The sun's bright, shimmering beautifully in the sky.

It contradicts the blood dripping all over the stone floor. 

Gojo's lifeless body is draped across the rubble. It's a horrifying sight. Eyes that were once like the sky are just this empty blue. A dead sea. He isn't breathing. You know, if you touched his wrist, you wouldn't feel a heartbeat. 

"Hate to break it to ya', but the Gojo kid's dead." Toji's right behind you. You can feel him grinning. 

You know Gojo isn't dead. At least, he won't be dead for a while, but seeing the boy who used to tease you, annoy the shit out of you, laugh at you, be so....it made you freeze. Falter. 

You were wasting time. 

"Sorceror killer." You say after a minute. You almost can't bring yourself to turn, to look at him. The man who kills Gojo. The man who could've killed Suguru, but chose not to. "You certainly live up to your name." 

Toji's grin widens. The only man in the world with zero cursed energy. It'd be awe-inspiring if it weren't so terrifying. 

It's funny. You weren't afraid of dying, not anymore. You were afraid of failing. Failing when you were so close, when victory was just a blink away. 

"The flyheads." You mention to the swarms of curses all around you. "That's really smart." It gives you an idea or two. 

You have Suguru's memories, but they aren't always concrete. You just have snippets. A general idea of what happened within a certain event. It makes sense. Humans can't remember everything. 

But regarding the memories of Suguru and Fushiguro, everything is crystal clear. It's almost like you were there when it happened. 

It also means that you know Suguru, at this current level, won't be able to defeat Fushiguro. 

But Suguru doesn't need to beat the sorcerer killer; he just needs to hold him off. 

Currently, Suguru's body contains 368 curses: 3 special grades, 24 grade ones, 33 grade twos, 103 grade threes, and 205 fourth grades. 

You release all 368 of them. 

In another timeline, these curses would look to you as something to devour. Today, these curses have a new target. 

It won't stop Fushiguro. You're not dumb enough to think that. But it should give you time. Hopefully, it'll be enough time. 

Your knees hurt when you collapse next to the corpse. Gojo's so beautiful, even when he's dead. 

"Gojo." You shake him. Nothing happens. "You need to wake up. Gojo." 

Nothing happens. You don't know what caused Gojo to become the strongest, Suguru wasn't there. For once, you are blind to the past. 

"Riko needs you. Wake up. You-you need to go and save her and Miss Kuroi." 

His body's so cold, and you know he's dead because when you touch his skin, you don't wake up in the present. You push against his body, and he falls limply right back to place. You're sure this sight will haunt you for the rest of your life. 

"Satoru." You beg. "It's Greeny. Please, please, please wake up."

 Nothing happens. 

Everything happens. 

The brightest blue you've ever seen. It's heavenly. A glow that warms and chills your skin. It takes a while for you to see again. When you do, Satoru is standing. 

Somehow, his eyes are even brighter. You don't think you're looking at a teenage boy anymore. 

You're sitting in front of God. 

"Greeny." he states, voice flat. "You're late." 

You manage to smile.

"Sorry." 

You’ve seen Satoru fight before. He’s always calm, body relaxed as he practically floats in the air. Those fights differed from Suguru’s memories—post Satoru’s awakening. There’s always this twinge of desperation. An aftertaste of bloodlust.

But seeing it for yourself is something else entirely. Even with Suguru’s heightened senses, you still can’t follow him. He’s barely a mirage. One milisecond you can see a blue flash, the next you see nothing.

It's barely a fight. Not this time around. Fushiguro is completely unmatched. There's a flash of purple. And then, it's over. 

Fushiguro is in shambles. You didn't realize he was human until he started to bleed and shatter. Parentage over labor. It's sobering, in a way. 

Satoru's mouth moves. You're too far away to hear anything. They stand there for a few more seconds until Fushiguro slumps. Then, he falls.

You wonder when you got so desensitized to death. 

Gojo stands there. You should let him compress, but the clock is ticking. You need to do one more thing before you can let Suguru go. 

"You need to go." You say when you're close to him. He doesn't acknowledge you. "Riko's about to enter Tengen's barrier." 

He looks at you right then. His eyes. They're so bright, but they're strangely lifeless. Like he can't process you, your words. 

"I can see you now," he says, "it was so foggy before, but now, you're crystal clear." 

Six eyes look at you. You don't think you're hiding behind Suguru's face anymore. 

You clear your throat. 

"Gojo." You remind him. "Riko. You need to stop her." 

He blinks back into focus, rising from his high. 

"Oh," he says after a moment, "right." 

You stop him before he can walk any further. You hold out your hand. 

"You and Suguru." 

For the first time in a while, Gojo hesitates to send you back. You wait a couple seconds longer. 

"Yeah," he finally says.

His skin still feels cold. 

ⴵ

This death is a lot more painful than the others. 

The curse that's holding you is more intelligent than its predecessors. It keeps you alive, tearing at your skin, feasting on your flesh. Blood is everywhere. You scream until it rips out your vocal cords. It's almost a mercy to just die. 

You forgive Suguru. 

ⴵ

Time skips a lot faster now. 

You stand in 2006, four months after the death of Fushiguro Toji. It takes a second for Geto's memories to kick in. What you see makes you nearly cry in relief. 

Gojo and Geto made it in time. You can still remember the tears spilling down Riko's cheeks, the smile on her face when Geto asked her if she wanted to go back. They were safe. They were home, with each other. 

You did it. You actually managed to pull it off. 

But you can't celebrate, not yet. From what you can gather from Suguru's memories, Geto defects after four years. You've just held off the eventual. 

It's nearly the middle of December. The air feels a bit chillier. You stay on that bench where Suguru once occupied. He was finishing his lunch. Usually, he'd eat with Satoru, but Satoru wasn't on campus these days. 

Right, you weren't finished with your work, yet. There was still one other issue. Suguru went on missions alone these days. Swallowing curses, letting them fester and rot in his body. It's isolating and grueling work. You might have been able to help him with the absorption, but your aide won't be enough to prevent his eventual downfall. 

You'll have to deal with his natural isolation. To do that, Suguru will have to make friends with people who aren't Satoru. 

Suguru does have friends, but he's the closest to Satoru. Considering Satoru is getting busier each passing day, Suguru needs to broaden his horizons a bit. 

It's a good thing this school is filled with such colorful characters. 

Haibara and Nanami were sitting in the back of the school. From Geto's memories, their dynamic was interesting. Haibara was definitely more outgoing than the two, but Nanami seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. They looked out for each other, in that way. 

Ah, Shoko was there, too. You haven't seen her since your first day. Her hair's grown longer. It lightly brushes her shoulders now. The cigarette in her hand burns a cherry red. 

Your reaction is rooted in Suguru's instinct than anything on your part. You reach out, taking the cigarette and stomping on the embers. 

"You shouldn't smoke in front of kids." You tell her, hoping she didn't read too much into your action.

Shoko scoffs, but to your satisfaction, she doesn't take out another one. 

"We're just one year below you." Nanami retaliates, but he looks more at ease now that the cigarette's out. 

"Did you finish lunch already, Geto?" Haibara asks kindly, then he takes a closer look. "Greeny?" 

You suck air through your teeth, giving Haibara a scathing look. Instead of looking exasperated, Nanami looks confused. 

"What's Greeny?" Nanami asks, and Haibara weakly laughs. 

"It's-uh-my new nickname for the tree that's growing over there!" He wildly points to something just behind you. "'Cuz it's so...green!"

"Of course." You note the hint of affection laced within his tone. 

"When'd you get back?" Haibara recovers with eagerness. 

"Recently." You grin. "Nice to see you again." 

"You saw him this morning," Nanami interjects, and you shrug. When he frowns, you know you pulled off a perfect Suguru impression. 

Suguru melds into the conversation perfectly. Haibara says something funny, Shoko and Suguru agree, Nanami disagrees. It's a lovely little cycle that ends when Nanami grumbles and picks himself up to go. Shoko starts to follow suit when you stop her. 

"Your hair's nice." You tell her. 

She hums, grabbing a strand to study it. You can see hints of dark circles beginning to form under her eyes. She looked livelier when you first met her. Curses have been popping up left and right since Fushiguro's death. Everyone is overworked, but Shoko looks like she's getting the brunt of it. She's one of the only people who can use RCT on others, and there aren't many healers on her level. All of the strongests share one thing in common it seems. 

"Pretty soon, it'll be longer than yours," Shoko replies. You smile in response. 

"Where are you going?" You ask. 

"Dorm," she replies, "I'm behind on paperwork." 

You had a feeling she always was. You gave a look of sympathy, but misery loves company. 

"I have some work too," You 'remember' the piles of papers lodged on Suguru's desk, "Maybe we can do it together later. The cafe right next to campus? It'll be my treat." 

She looks at Suguru. Her eyes are a pretty color. 

"Sure." She shrugs. "see you then." 

You feel your heart thump twice in your chest and decide that your work here is done. 

Haibara stares at Shoko's disappearing back. The forehead flick comes from both you and Suguru. 

"That hurt." Haibara whines. 

Good, you inwardly think. 

"Sorry." You tell him. He rubs his head, and you wonder if this is how kicking a puppy feels like. 

Luckily for you, Haibara recovers quickly. 

"You've been gone for a while." Haibara tilts his head. "What happened?" 

You can't exactly control your technique, it's more like it has a mind of its own, placing you exactly where you need to be placed. Instead of answering, you sigh, leaning against the wall. 

"Timeline gimmicks." You tell him tiredly. "It's hard to explain." He frowns, but he takes it as an answer.

"Do you know when Gojo's coming back?" You ask. "I think it's time for me to go back again." 

In previous time travels, you and Haibara tried to see if any physical contact would be enough to send you back. No matter how many times you two high-fived, shook hands, or even held hands. Nothing worked. Only Gojo Satoru could activate your technique. It must have something to do with the amount of cursed energy another person has. 

“He should be getting back later this evening.” Haibara muses. “But I’ll be happy to keep you company!”

It's nice to hear him chatter. If you'd let him, he'd go one and one. But you like hearing him talk about his sister. Apparently, she’s also a sorcerer, and his affection for her makes you smile.

"You remind me a lot of her, actually." He tells you. "Even though, y'know, you're a man." It's enough to get a laugh out of you. 

“Do you have anyone in your family who can see curses?” Haibaracasks.

“No,” you answer honestly, “at least, not that I can tell. My dad never spoke of curses or strange powers when I was growing up.”

You think he would have said something; after all, you two were too close to have secrets from each other. Your father was a single man, who took to raising you himself after your mother passed away. He often said you had her laugh.

“Maybe you’re one of a kind,” Haibara suggests.

You agree with him.

Gojo finds you before you can find him. He comes up to you with a grin and a wave.

“Hey, long time.”

His sunglasses are tilted down. You can see his eyes. They’ve lost the mania he had in his fight with Fushiguro. You’re relieved at that. You still can’t shake off that strange thing he said to you.

Wordlessly, you raise your hand. Satoru frowned.

“You wanna leave so soon? You just got here.”

“I’ve been here for hours,” you tell him, “also, you aren’t very concerned that someone is using your best friend’s body as a puppet.”

“He’s been through worse,” Satoru tells you off with a wave. Some friend.

“Let’s go to the arcade,” he suggests.

“Do that with Suguru.” You tell him. “I’m not hanging out with a high schooler.”

“Right right, my bad. I keep forgetting you’re an old man, Greeny.”

“22 is not old,” you say with exasperation, “didn’t your birthday just pass? You’re just five years away. I’ll see your attitude change, then.”

He grows quiet. You feel like you messed up somewhere.

“How did you know about my birthday?”

Fuck, you keep forgetting about keeping Suguru’s memories a secret. It takes everything within you to just relax.

“Haibara told me,” you say, “blabbermouth. You know him.”

“Oh.” Gojo replies. “Huh.”

You shuffle your feet. Distantly, you wonder what shoe size Suguru wears.

“How did your mission go?”

“Horrible,” he’s instantly back to his usual self, whiny and complaint, “and the curse was so ugly too. It was oozing goo everywhere.”

You frown. “Sounds gross. But you won, right?”

He doesn’t even answer. You secretly admire his sheer confidence. You certainly weren’t that when you were at his age.

“How’s Amanai and Miss Kuroi?” You ask.

“Safe.” He tells you. “The higher-ups weren’t really happy with us after that; pretty sure all these sudden missions are punishments.” He frowns. “But they’re fine. Miss Kuroi officially adopted her, so she’s a Kuroi now, too.”

You smiled. You already knew all that, but it’s nice to hear it.

“You saved them,” he says.

You laugh, “I didn’t do a thing.” You tell him. “You and Suguru did all the heavy lifting. I just caused some property damage.”

“You did.” He replies. “I don’t know how, but things always manage to work out whenever you’re around.”

You don’t like how he phrases that, but you don’t react.

“You think so? Maybe I’m lucky.” It’s supposed to be a joke of some kind. Neither of you laugh.

“You really don’t know us in the future?” He asks.

Maybe you should’ve asked Shoko if you could have a cigarette.

“I really didn't,” you say, “Honest, I—I have no idea what’s happening. I’m just as lost as you. Hopefully, I can figure out how to control my technique, and you won’t have to see me again.”

You never stopped feeling guilty for doing this to Suguru. Controlling him. Forcing him to laugh with his friends, make decisions based on your feelings rather than his. But you’re so close. You promise yourself that once you fix everything, you’ll never cause someone this much pain again. No matter how many times they kill you.

Satoru’s fists tighten. He looks even more upset at your response.

“That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off. You wait. Satoru says nothing more.

“You’re annoying.” He tells you in the end. It’s clean and cut, but it sounds like him. More confident, less wavery. “And stupid too.”

You can’t help but smile.

“Thank you. Am I done entertaining you now? Can I go?” He grumbles, holding up his hand.

“Yeah, sure, Greeny.”

ⴵ

You forgive Suguru.

ⴵ

Something’s wrong.

You can feel it. Something’s wrong.

You look through Geto’s memories. There’s nothing. Everything’s going as it should be. Everything looks perfect. Then, why do you feel so wrong?

Currently, Suguru was finishing excorcising a curse. You absorb it, swallowing down the remnant like it’s a pile of rusted nails but even the disgusting taste isn’t enough to wash away the feeling of dread.

The walls of the hospital was empty. The auxillary managers had already cleared everyone out by the time Suguru had walked in. Maybe it was the silence that added to your stress?

You walk out. Nothing changes. One of the managers comes up to you with a clipboard.

“The curse was exorcised.” Suguru tells them. “It wasn’t first grade, it was special grade. It was still disposed of.”

He curses, scribbling something down on his clipboard.

“The wrong information again.” He hisses to himself. “If we keep doing this, someone will die. We need more people, we’re way too stretched out.”

Those words are familiar. Hold on.

“Wait, what day is it?” You ask the frazzled-looking manager.

Offhandedly, he responds. He says the date so casually, and yet his mere words feel like a bear trap, tightening on your leg.

No. You should have had more time. Why weren’t you given more time?

Nanami and Haibara have probably already been dispatched. You go through Suguru’s phone, finding Haibara’s contact. It doesn’t go through. Nanami doesn’t pick up either.

You won’t make it in time. Even using Suguru’s curses, you won’t be able to reach them until it’s too late. Suguru’s memory of that day is muddled and dark, but Haibara’s dead corpse laying on the examination table. The pieces of him that Nanami could bring back.

You wouldn’t be fast enough.

He picks up on the second ring.

“...What’s up?”

“It’s Haibara.” You spit the words out as fast as you can. “Satoru, you need to go and get him right now, he isn’t going to make it—”

“—Greeny?” The exhaustion in Gojo’s voice is gone. You can hear something rustle behind him.

“Satoru, listen to me.” You beg. “Haibara and Nanami were just dispatched on a mission, but Yu isn’t going to survive it. It wasn’t a second-grade curse; it was a first grade. Please, you have to go and save him before it kills him.”

It’s silent. It feels like hours have passed when you know it’s just three seconds.

“We’ll talk later, Greeny.” The line clicks.

You’ve lost the trust of the strongest.

ⴵ

The future has changed when you get to campus. Haibara’s status is still alive. Barely. But he’s still there. Shoko’s currently taking care of him.

Nanami remains quiet the entire time since he returned with Haibara’s battered body. The only thing you can think of to offer comfort is to pat his shoulder. He barely even registers it. It’s more for you than for him. You’re self-soothing, taking care of something else, so you don’t have to recognize your own panic.

If Haibara dies, right here, on this day, everything can change. Everything can go back to the way it was in your original timeline. Haibara, with his sunshine, smiles, and bright eyes. His death is so important, and you can’t even think of him right now.

Gojo Satoru knows you’ve been deceiving him.

This is bad. So very bad. If he starts to suspect that you know more than you let on, he might deem you enough of a threat to kill, regardless of whether or not you’re in Suguru’s body. It’s not like that hasn’t stopped him before.

Gojo Satoru is selfless. He’s selfless enough to kill his best friend, if he thinks it will save everyone.

But if Gojo kills Geto here and now, would that really be bad?

You’d lose your path to the past, but the threat to your life would be over. Even if you did die in Suguru’s body, at least the people of Tokyo will be spared the Death Parade. You’ll still get what you want. And it will be much easier than your current plan.

Nanami shuffles behind you and you instantly snap out of it. That wasn’t you. It couldn’t have been you. That same lack of apathy when Fushiguro died in front of you.

It seems like dying over and over again caused you to lose bits of your humanity.

Shoko comes out. Nanami stands up, a tall ball of nervous energy. Shoko removes her mask. Her dark circles have grown even more prominent. She’s only 17.

“He’s still alive.” Nanami sags. “But he isn’t responsive. I’ve done all that I can.”

She looks at Nanami, and then she can’t anymore.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Nanami rasps, the most emotion you’ve ever seen from him, “don’t apologize. It was my fault. I should’ve taken better care of him.”

You swallow. It wasn’t his fault, you wish you could tell him that it was yours.

You wonder what Haibara’s younger sister looked like. A spitting image of him, perhaps. Shorter. Darker hair, bigger eyes. Their smiles would look identical. What would she look like when she’s told her brother died doing the profession he forbade her from doing?

You can’t do that to her. You can’t be the reason she loses her brother the second time.

You’re not sure if a God is even out there. How could there be? What kind of entity would do something like this to you? Still, you sit on that bench, right outside the room where Haibara’s body lay, and you pray for a God.

Gojo’s footsteps stop right in front of you.

It’s hard to get the words out. For a minute, he just stands there.

“Did you exorcise it?” You finally ask.

“Yeah.”

You lift your head up to look at him. Even in his school uniform, he’s regal to look at. Like a warrior of the sun, blessed by the moon, sent to vanquish beasts and monsters.

Now, his blood-soaked sword is pointed at you.

Make it quick. You can only think. Just make it quick.

“Not here.” You say.

Nanami was still shaking. Shoko was right beside him. So you stand, you drag yourself away from Haibara’s fading presence, and Gojo follows behind.

It shouldn’t be this pretty outside. The sun is bright, and the sky is clear. There should be rain. Enough rain to drown the Earth.

“I figured out your technique a while ago, y’know.” You don’t look at him. You can’t. “Dying. Death activates your technique. Each time you die, you’re sent back 12 years in the past.”

You grip the fabric of your uniform until your knuckles turn white. Satoru’s cruel enough to continue.

“But I never got why your soul kept possessing Suguru’s body. It always felt kinda’ random. Unless he was the one who was killing you. Over and over again.”

“Gojo. Stop.” You beg.

“That’s how your CT works. Every time you’re murdered, you go back in time so you can kill them when they’re at their most emotionally vulnerable moment. It’s a pretty powerful technique, all things considered. I might not even stand a chance against it. Assisted suicide, never expected that from you of all people.

But you never do. Each time Suguru kills you, you just come back and try to save him and everyone else your hands can reach. I can’t get why you did that.”

He steps in front of you so you can see him. The God that he is.

“Let’s cut the shit, Greeny. Tell me what future is so bad you’re willing to die over and over again to prevent it.”

The worst outcome you could have ever thought of was standing right in front of you.

Satoru was demanding to know his future.

And...you couldn’t.

You’re taking in a shaky breath. It’s not enough oxygen. The sky was close to crumbling, and you still couldn’t breathe.

“There’s nothing to know.” You try. “There’s nothing, I’m fixing it—”

“—by Suguru killing you, or is this considering killing yourself, now?”

“You don’t understand.” Your voice is cracking, so high-pitched that even Suguru’s vocal cords can’t keep up. “You don’t get it. You can’t.”

“Then help me understand.” His voice is as ragged as yours, he steps closer, you step back. “Tell me why my friend would do something like this to someone.”

It clicks right then. Satoru’s anger isn’t directed at you.

No, it’s directed at Suguru.

It’s even worse than you thought.

“He—he was better than me. He was supposed to be the best out of all of us. I wanna deny it all that I can but—but I can see the proof right here in front of me. And—And I don’t—” His voice breaks too much to continue. 

You’re breaking, too. How many times have you been doing this, over and over again? All alone, with no one to support you. To comfort you.

The words are right there, threatening to bubble out. It’d be so easy to tell Satoru everything.

And maybe you would’ve, but then you looked at him.

Despite how disingenuous Satoru acted, you knew he was kind. The kindest person you’ve ever met. He’d sit there and listen, and he’d break every bone in his body to help. That’s just how he was.

Satoru was selfless, he was selfless enough to kill his best friend here and now if it meant he’d save the millions in Tokyo.

You can’t put another burden on the strongest.

You can’t do that to a kid.

“It—it isn’t him.” You manage to spit out. “He isn’t doing it on purpose. It’s not his fault.

It’s the curses. They were too much for him; they overtook his body. Suguru couldn’t control them anymore.”

He says nothing. It’s like you’ve put a spell on Gojo somehow, freezing him in place. Satoru can’t do anything but stare at the talking puppet that’s his best friend.

“He lost so many people.” You continue. “Riko, Miss Kuroi, Haibara. He couldn’t take it. It was too much. His body succumbed to the curses, and they took over Shinjuku. That’s how I keep...”

It’s okay to lie like this, you justify to yourself. Because the Suguru, you know—the one with fake smiles, beady eyes, and a broken expression—isn’t the one that Satoru knows. They’re two completely different people. Years—timelines—apart from each other. They aren’t the same.

Even then, you forgave both Sugurus a lifetime ago.

You’d get on your knees if you know that would make a difference. You’d plead and beg and cry if it would get Satoru to drop it. In the end, you can only stare at him.

“All I’m asking is that you trust me.” You whisper. “Believe that I’m making this right. Please, Satoru?”

His eyes. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s gone quiet and dull. The same look he had when he fully awakened his technique. The day he became God.

But he’s not a God. God’s don’t cry.

He leans ever so closely until his head rests on your shoulder. His body shakes.

“You’ll save him, right?” He asks. Gone, is his aura of confidence and resilience. He’s nothing more than a shell. If you feel something stain Suguru’s uniform, you say nothing about it.

You smile anyway.

“I will.” You tell the truth. “I will save him.”

You think of something morbidly funny.

“I’ll die trying.”

His shoulders shake with quiet, genuine laughter, the kind that’s wet and sticks to the top of your mouth.

“That’s fucked up, Greeny.” He whispers.

You hum, reaching up to pat him on the back. It takes another minute before he gathers himself up. His eyes are shiny. Satoru blinks it away.

“Haibara will be okay.” He says with such conviction. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll take care of Suguru, too.”

He doesn’t get it, not yet. He doesn’t understand that Shoko and Satoru and Haibara and Nanami need him. He’ll get it soon, though. You managed to put Suguru on the right path.

For now, it’s all you can do. 

“I know you will.” 

He scoffs, right then. 

“You’re really annoying, you know that? Next time, don’t piss me off like that. Just tell it to me straight.” 

Rely on me. Lean on me.

“I’m sorry,” you say and you truly are, “I won’t leave you in the dark from now on. I guess I just forgot that I had a friend in 2006.” 

His eyes get a little brighter. “It’s actually 2007—” 

“Shut up.” He laughs and it sounds like him again. 

You reach out your hand and his grin fades, the tiniest bit. He mirrors you, regardless. 

This time, you hesitate.

“You should learn how to be selfish every once in a while.” You tell him. “I won’t fault you if you’re selfish. I don’t think anyone will.

He doesn’t answer that, but his touch is finally warm.

ⴵ

It hurts. It hurts so much. Blood seeps into the pavement. You can hear the curse laughing. It sounds like him.

You forgive Suguru. 

ⴵ

It’s today. 

You can feel it. You don’t even have to look at the date to know.

The catalyst for December 24th, 2017.

Suguru’s already dressed. You’re currently standing in front of a shotty mirror, watching your reflection.

He looks tired. His smile’s a bit muted. You notice a scar you hadn’t seen before. An unregistered special grade curse, Suguru’s memory gives.

He’s different from when you saw him a year ago, but there’s still a spark in his eye. You cling to that hope, as hard as you can.

You step out of the room. It isn’t Suguru’s. He’d rented accommodations with an older woman and her son for the mission. Their place smelled like home. It made your stomach turn.

She smiles when she sees you coming down stairs. She looks kind; she has the eyes of a mother. You’ll never understand how a person who raised children could do something like this to another.

“Mr. Geto.” She chirps. “I’m so glad you’re awake! Would you like anything to eat?”

“No, I’m fine.” Better get this done sooner than later. “I should be heading back now, anyways.”

Suguru had already absorbed the curse tormenting the village last night. You can feel the sticky aftertaste in your mouth. He should have left the village yesterday, but the people were insistent he stayed one last day as thanks, feeding him all they could.

Now, it’s obvious that it was a way to butter him up for today.

Her smile grows a bit nervous. She shuffles her feet a bit.

“If it isn't too much.” She starts. “The head of our village asked if you could look at something.” Her eyes darken into disgust.

You fight to keep your smile.

“Of course. Please, lead the way.”

It’s worse than you ever could have imagined.

You’ve seen this play out so many times in Suguru’s memories. He reminisces about this moment a lot. Because of that, you knew this scene too, like the back of your hand.

And yet, seeing two children huddled together on the floor. Nothing could prepare you for that.

The village head is saying something. The woman who Suguru roomed with is yelling at the scared kids, but you can’t hear any of that.

Their clothes were dirty and ripped. Their cheeks were hollow, and they looked like they hadn’t eaten for days. Himiko’s eye looks swollen.

The twins.

The first time you saw them, they stepped aside and let Geto kill you. There’s something oddly poetic about you being on the other side.

They tremble as they continue to look at you, flinch whenever that woman raises her voice. They must think Suguru’s here to kill them.

They’re too young to think like that. They’re too young to see the horrors of this world so soon.

It’s a mistake to look towards the end of their cell. Dirty water and dog food.

How could a human do this to them? How could a mother do this to them?

You feel red. It coarses through your blood, your veins, your soul. It feels like there’s lava right underneath your skin. Shuddering, tittering anger.

There’s more than enough fire to burn down an entire village.

‘Suguru,’ you think to your companion, your tormentor, ‘I think I’m starting to get it now.’

You reach for the bars of the cell. The twins shrink away.

“Ah! Mr. Geto, you musn’t get too close to them—”

“I’ll take them.”

“What?” The head of the village asks.

���The children.” You straighten yourself up. “I’ll take them off your hands.”

It’s pointless to do anything to these people. They’re delusional enough to think that they’re in the right. By torturing these children, they’re protecting their own. It’s fear. That’s all it ever was. Even without a curse, it’ll fester on and on until this village is nothing but abandoned homes. There’s no point to punish these people any further.

If you look at the adults a bit too long, you’re afraid of what you’d do, even without Suguru’s interference. Instead, you focus on Himiko and Nanako, looking into their wary gazes. Their hands are so tiny. You could protect them with your own.

When you got out of this backward village, you’d find them something to eat.

ⴵ

You go to Shoko first.

She looks surprised to see the twins. You can’t imagine why. Still, her voice is calm when she speaks to them, setting both of them up in the clinic room. Since you got them into the car, Nanako and Himiko seemed to calm down. Himiko even told you the name of her doll.

A little while later, Yaga comes for a visit. He’s the principal now. Usually, his voice is filled with gruff, but he’s oddly gentle when he speaks to them. Nanako cracks a shy smile.

You can’t escape the ‘we’ll talk later’ look he gives you. Inwardly, you sympathize with Suguru. But a harsh lecture is better than being branded a murderer.

He hasn’t come by, yet. With the twins aided for, you decide to go find him yourself.

Walking through campus feels a little nostalgic. The grounds of the infamous jujutsu technical college are a bright green. It’s summer again. You’ve met so many colorful characters since your time here. You’ve only seen snippets, mere seconds of their lives, and yet it feels like an entire lifetime.

He’s sitting on a bench when you finally see him, nursing a drink. He doesn’t acknowledge you. You have to roll your eyes at his childish behavior, plopping down beside him.

“Hey.” You say first.

“Heard you adopted two kids,” Satoru says, “Never thought Suguru would be a teen mom, but here we are.”

You laugh, light and breathless. The sky is so pretty today.

“I don’t think he’d have it any other way, personally.” You respond.

He reminisces on your words.

“This happened before too?” He asked.

It did. It was a lot less of a happy ending, however.

“Yeah,” you say regardless, “he took good care of them last time. He’ll do the same in this timeline too. I’m sure of it.”

And this time, he’d have help. Shoko, Satoru, his teachers. They’d all be there for him. Suguru’s memories haven’t changed yet, but you know the future you step into will be a different one.

“In any case, I’m glad I got to see jujutsu tech one last time. It’s a beautiful campus.”

“You act like you’re leaving,” Satoru says, uncaring. “You’ll just come back again next month. Or next year.”

You play with your fingers.

“I...won’t be doing that from now on.”

He pauses. Then, he looks at you.

“What?”

You can’t gauge his reaction, but he doesn’t look happy. You find this a bit hard to swallow.

“I fixed the future.” You smile at him. “I finally did it. Suguru won’t break. Himiko and Nanako won’t lose their father. You won’t lose a friend, anymore. There’s no reason for me to keep coming back. You’re all free.”

You phrased the last part as a joke, but Satoru isn’t laughing.

“Wait, you’re leaving? You’re...leaving leaving.”

You nod. “I can’t believe it either.” You still can’t believe you accomplished everything you set out to do. A task that seemed so impossible, now you’re standing on the other side of it.

It wasn’t truly over. Not really, but you were able to get Suguru through the worst of it. Now, you were sure Satoru and Shoko would take up your mantel, pushing Suguru through the finish line. Just like he’ll do to them.

Satoru’s quiet.

“You seem happy.” He notes.

“Well, I did just save everyone, I think I deserve to feel a little good about myself.”

For a moment, you want to ask if it’ll be okay to visit everyone in the future. To see how Shoko and Suguru and Satoru are doing as adults. You stop yourself. Of course, they wouldn’t want to see you. You needed to stop being so greedy.

This, was more than enough.

“Will you at least tell me your name?” Satoru asks.

“You know I can’t do that.” You tell him with a smile.

“Right right.” He laughs, it sounds hollow. “Time travel, bullshit. Makes sense.”

“I’ll miss you.” You tell him.

He straightens himself up.

“I’ll miss you too, old man.” He responds. “You were a lotta’ fun to mess with.”

For once, you aren’t offended by the old man’, comment. If anything, it feels somber.

“Can I ask for some advice?” He suddenly asks. “Y’know what they say, ask the old and wise or whatever.” Okay, now he was starting to push it.

“What is it?”

It’s his turn to shuffle with his fingers.

“What would you do if...there’s something you really want, but no matter how fast you run, you just can’t catch up to it?”

You glance at him. He looks earnest. Did something like that even exist for Satoru?

“Something I can’t catch up to?” You ponder out loud. “I guess I’d have to make a big enough ruckus to where it has no choice but to look back.”

He frowns. “That makes no sense. You’re growing senile.”

You laugh. You’ll miss this brat.

You wish you could stay more. You wish you could ask about Haibara, and Shoko, and Nanami, but the clock is ticking.

Suguru’s getting impatient.

“Bye, Satoru.” You reach out your hand.

He scrutinizes it, before clasping it within his own.

“Yeah, Greeny.”

Within a blink, you’re back again in the middle of Shinjuku. December 24th, 7:06 pm.

It’s the same as always. People bustle around you. Children’s laughter. Everything always repeats itself, but you don’t think you can ever get sick of it. You’ll savor this peace for as long as you can.

You reach into your pocket, flicking out a lighter and the first cigarette of the box. You don’t know why you always chose this one. Despite outmaneuvering time itself, perhaps it’s within human nature to follow what’s written stone.

You’ve relived this hour so many times that you can list everything that happens. Down to the exact minute. 7:08- a little girl wearing a red dress walks by. 7:09- a lady with short hair catches your eyes and smiles. 7:14-an old man and woman bicker with each other as they pass you by. 7:21- A little dog sniffs the bench you sit on. 7:34- Two schoolchildren run past you, babbling. 7:45- five construction workers grumble out their grievances. 7:58- a businessman talks loudly on the phone.

You wait. You sit on a bench and wait until 8:06.

Five seconds after 8:06. Twenty seconds after 8:06.

The clock clicks to 8:07.

You were expecting to feel something else. Celebration. Elation. You half-expected to cause a scene and jump for joy right there in the streets of Shinjuku.

None of that comes. There’s just a feeling of relief. A weight presses you down, and you slump in your seat.

It was over.

It was finally over.

How long do you stay like that? Hours? Days? When you feel like you can finally breathe again, it’s only 8:12. Time travel warped your sense of time.

You stand up, stretch, feel your bones crack and pop. In the second timeline, you wanted to get a drink to drown your misery of nearly getting killed by a curse and being alone on December 24th. It felt like a lifetime ago when being single was the worst of your problems.

Honestly, you’d stay celibate for the rest of your life if it meant you wouldn’t have to go through that ever again.

Tomorrow, you’ll decompress and devolve into hysteria over what happened.

Next week, you’ll check yourself into therapy.

Today, you decide to go home and sleep for a couple hundred years.

You must look like a zombie with the way you wobble down the street. Physically, your body is perfectly fine. You’ve suffered no bruises or cuts. Even the numerous times you’ve been killed leaves nothing on your skin.

Mentally, you’re in shambles. The indomitable human spirit within you is snuffed out.

The stairs to your flat is your last enemy that you must vanquish before you can reunite with your adoring bed. You cling onto the railing with dazed eyes. You don’t see the curse until you’re right before it.

Distantly, you wonder how often you’ve passed a curse and didn’t even realize it. It’s almost instinct to reach out with your hand, intent on absorbing it.

Nothing happens. You remember you aren’t Suguru anymore.

It’s a grotesque-looking thing. No eyes, too many hands, a gaping mouth. It turns and looks at you.

Strange. Its’ smile mirrors the one in the abandoned house.

Adrenaline. You feel it coarse through your veins, meld into your bones, explode in your skin. You’re stumbling back, nearly tripping down the steps in your haste to get away.

It screeches. Loud and clear and angry and you can almost feel its teeth chomp on your leg, ripping your muscles and skin to mere tatters.

You’ve died before. You’ve been skinned alive before. You’ve been eaten before. Yet, it all amounts to nothing compared to the fear you feel at the thought of the curse catching you.

It can’t have been nothing more than a third grade. If you were taller, larger, special-grade, you could have killed it immediately. But you weren’t, not anymore, you were at the same level as a plant. Useless. Helpless.

A dead man stumbling, tripping, running.

The streets were quiet. You supposed that meant there’d be fewer casualties. But it didn’t make you feel any better. And even if there were people around, no one would have been able to help you.

Your brain isn’t working as clearly. Fear is the only thing that guides you. You’re reduced to a rat scampering through a maze. Sooner or later, that rodent reaches a dead end.

The alleyway was blocked off. You felt the rough brick wall scrape your hands and even the feeling of your raw skin couldn’t assuage your heart pumping in your throat. When you whirled your head back, it was right there, and you knew you were dead.

Again.

It might kill you, if it’s feeling generous. It might cut your legs off and watch you bleed, if its feeling kind. It might eat you, if it’s a decent curse.

It shouldn’t be happening. You fixed it. You were supposed to have fixed everything. But clearly you didn't. There must have been some piece of the puzzle that you forgot. You need to go back. You need to fix things, but why do you need to why can't he just leave you alone—

You don’t see what happens. One moment, the curse is there. The next it isn’t.

“Those things are so annoying.” The newcomer complains.

No, not new. You know him.

You blink. He grins. It’s kind. A toothy smile that warms.

“You alright?” He asks in sympathy. “Curses are pretty scary, aren’t they? Are you hurt?”

It’s him. You weren’t in 2006. You were in the present, here and now, and he was here with you.

He actually made it.

“Ma’am?” He asks.

It wasn’t intentional. You just blurted it out, the promise you made to him. It was a decade for him. Mere hours for you.

“Um, broccoli head...?” And then you instantly regret it.

Haibara Yu takes a minute, eyes squinting like you just grew a new head.

Then, he gasps.

“Greeny?”

ⴵ

A few minutes later, you’re seated at a restaurant. Haibara has not shut up.

“—I—I can’t believe it? It’s actually you! I thought I’d never see you again ‘cuz Gojo said you weren’t gonna be around anymore, and—and then suddenly you pop up outta’ nowhere—not that I’m complaining— but—”

“—Haibara.” You interrupt. “Please, slow down.”

He stops himself, right when the server comes with drinks. He shoots the waiter a smile, and then he’s back on you.

“Sorry.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I—I got a little excited. And nervous. It’s just...well, I didn’t expect you to be a girl.”

That might have been your fault. Both Haibara and Gojo kept referring to you as a man, so you decided to roll with it. Earlier, you would have justified it by insisting the less they know about you, the better. Now, you just think you were being petty.

“So, how you’ve been? A whole decade...” You murmur to yourself.

“Fine! But what about you?” Haibara asks, concern etched into his eyes. “Where’d you go?”

Wow, he was actually worried for you. Despite being in Suguru’s body, you didn’t really feel like part of the group Shoko, Gojo, Nanami, and Haibara were part of. You felt like an outsider, being somewhere you didn’t belong. It's because you were an outsider. Nevertheless, it’s nice to know one person missed you.

“This might be a little hard to believe, but I just came back to 2017 two hours ago.”

Haibara gapes.

“Wait, so to you, that whole thing happened, today?” You nod. He leans back in his chair.

“Holy fuck.” You laugh at his awe.

“Thanks for saving me, by the way.” You change the topic. “From the curse.”

He waves it off. “I was just paying my debt. From what you did for me all those years ago.”

Ah, Gojo must have told him. Oddly enough, Haibara doesn't seem all that perturbed that he shouldn’t exist currently. At the same time, it feels just like Haibara.

He’s different from when he was younger. Taller. The baby fat is gone. His face is more built, just like the rest of his body. His eyes are less round, but they haven’t lost the spark. A few scars here and there, but he’s all in one piece.

You weren’t able to see what he looked like as an adult from Suguru’s memories, he’d never grown up. But now, you can see it for yourself. You can see the active change you made in his life, to his life.

“Haibara—”

“Yu—” He says seriously. “My friends call me Yu.”

A smile twitches on your lips.

“Tell me about everyone.” You scoot your chair closer. “You, Suguru. How is everyone doing?”

He perks up at that, clearly delighted to be talking.

“Great! Everyone’s doing great! You should totally come visit the school, sometime. They’d love to see you. Uh, even if they don’t technically know you, but I’m sure they’ll love to meet you!” He rambles, and it’s nice to know he hasn’t changed from his younger self.

“Let’s see, Kento’s teaching the first years. I teach the second years—”

“—You’re a teacher?”

He nods. “We all are! Except for Shoko, but she has her own thing going on. Anyway, Mimiko and Nanako have become second-grade semi-sorcerors. Isn’t that incredible? I’m just a first grade semi-sorceror, and at their young ages too! But Suguru wasn’t surprised, he kept saying his girls were prodigies. Oh! You probably want to know about Suguru too, right?”

You nod. Even if you hadn’t done anything, you don’t think that would have stopped his enthusiasm.

“He’s a teacher too! At least, for right now. Yaga’s been wanting to retire, and there have been talks of Suguru becoming the next principal. Principal Geto has a ring to it, right? Oh, and Shoko is currently planning the wedding. You’ll definitely be invited, of course! She said I could bring a plus-one. Oh, and—”

It goes on like that for hours, you think. Not that you mind. You listen to Yu babble on and on about his friends, his students. He talks about Nanami’s recent baking addiction, Shoko’s new office cat, Suguru’s favorite tea pot. It’s a never-ending surge of information.

Eventually, you catch on to the fact that he’s deliberately leaving someone out.

"Yu?" You interrupt him while he's talking about the prank the fourth year pulled on Nanami. "What about Satoru? What's he up to?" 

Maybe you were overthinking things. Haibara likes to talk; perhaps he forgot to exclude someone else's story in his rants. But then, he grimaces. For the first time in this entire conversation, Haibara is reluctant to talk. 

"Satoru is..." He winces, and your hands turn into fists. 

No. No. You were supposed to save everyone. Why hadn't you saved everyone? 

A warm hand grips your own. You'd been shaking. 

Yu gives a soft smile, and you remember he's no longer younger than you. 

"He's not dead." He assures you, but his smile fades. He straightens himself up, and his hand pulls away. 

"Satoru defected from Jujutsu tech. We don't know where he is." 

What? You must have misheard him wrong. Satoru wouldn't do that. That's not like him. This is some sick joke.

But there's no teasing grin on Haibara. His face is grave. You hate it more than anything. 

"It happened when he was a fourth year. No one really knows what happened. Suguru refuses to say anything about it, but I think he's just as confused as the rest of us. It came outta nowhere." 

Yeah, it definitely came out of nowhere. It's so random. Why would Satoru do that? The last time you saw him, he was so happy. He was smiling; he teased you. What happened? It made no sense. 

"So, you haven't seen him for nine years?" You ask. "Not even a glimpse?" 

Yu shakes his head. "Nothing but his residuals. That's how we know he's still alive." 

Nothing computes in your brain. None of it made any sense. You saved Suguru. That was supposed to make everyone happy, including Satoru. Why would he turn around and do this? Defecting made no sense.

"We've actually been tasked to execute him. Since he’s been branded a curse user, all four of us. " Yu laughs with no humor. "Isn't that insane? I don't think any one of us could even fathom doing that, even if it were possible." 

It wasn't possible. Gojo was the strongest. Nothing could go toe to toe with him. Once he put his mind to something, no one could stop him.

But maybe you could. 

You're shutting that idea down immediately. You were done. You were done with dying and time-travel and strange powers. You wanted it all to be over. It'd be so easy to thank Haibara for the nice meal, to go home and sleep this entire day off. Satoru dug his own grave, he can go lay in it. You weren't responsible for someone else's actions. You wouldn’t. You can’t do that another time.

You're the kind of person who'll jump in front of a truck to save a kitten, right?

You hate that brat so much. 

You close your eyes. Take in a breath. Then, you open them. 

"Haibara?" You ask. "Did Gojo tell you how my technique worked?" 

He shakes his head. You grimace because convincing him might take a while.

"Okay, well, I'll need you to do a tiny favor for me."

ⴵ

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Oh, you're back already?" Satoru says casually, turning back to gaze at you. "I just left today. How did you convince Haibara to snap your neck? That guy cries after killing a mosquito.”

You’d caught him just as he was leaving campus. Yu’s body was less athletic than Suguru’s. Your breath was slightly ragged, pulled down by minor exhaustion.

It doesn’t weigh down your frustration for Gojo Satoru. The biggest pain in your ass you’ve ever met.

“Shut up.” You snap. “Just answer the question.”

“We haven’t seen each other for a year and that’s how you react?” Satoru ignores you. “That’s mean, Greeny. How ‘bout we discuss my treason over steak. Haibara can pay.”

“Satoru.” You beg, “Why are you doing this? What’s the point? Why is everyone happy with their life except for you?”

That seems to get him. His posture stiffens ever so slightly. You can see him work his jaw. He finally drops his act.

“You didn’t have to come back, y’know.” He murmurs quietly. “You could’ve just stayed in the future. Like you said, Greeny, everyone’s happy with their life. 4 outta’ five. That’s a passing grade.”

For once, you wish you could possess him. You wished you could open his brain and peer into his memories until he finally made sense.

“I could never leave you behind like that.” You say the truth just as quietly. “I’ll die a thousand more deaths than do that.”

He smiles. It looks genuine as it looks painful.

“Yeah, I know. I know you, Greeny. Always gotta’ play hero.” He gives a bitter laugh. “That’s why I defected.”

You stare at him. He’s a fourth-year now, even taller than before. You aren’t equal to him anymore in this body, now you’re starting to think you never were.

“Satoru.” You start because what he’s saying can’t be the truth. Your heart broke and broke. “Did—did you leave—did you leave everyone for a decade just so I’d come back? Why would you do that to yourself?”

He doesn’t say anything. Then, he steps forward, just a bit.

“It’s your fault,” Satoru says like it’s instinct to blame you for his actions, “this was your idea.”

What’s he talking about? And then memories of the two of you sitting on that bench just outside of campus.

What would you do if...there’s something you really want, but no matter how fast you run, you just can’t catch up to it? So that’s what he meant. You were an idiot.

“That’s not fair, Satoru,” you say regardless, “I—I never—I couldn’t expect you’d do this.”

“What choice did I fucking have, Greeny?” There’s rapid steps and he’s in front of you, desperate and wild. “You—you just left me here. You left me alone and I couldn’t even look for you because I know nothing about you. Your face, your eyes, your hair, not even your fucking name! How’s that fair?”

It’s true. It’s all true. As much as you tried to claim you tried to make everyone happy, you only focused on Suguru. And Suguru’s happiness enlisted space from the strongest. In a different timeline, things would be different between them. A button he never left behind. Words Satoru never said. That timeline held too much pain and suffering, so you scrubbed it from history. In this rendition, everything was changed. Suguru had Shoko. Yu had Kento. Who did Satoru have?

You saved Suguru in this timeline. But to save him, you neglected Satoru.

Satoru must have known. He must have known you intentionally distanced Suguru from him, but he allowed it anyway. Satoru’s selfless like that. Too giving. Too Godlike.

But he’s selfish too. Purposefully demeaning himself so he could get one more glimpse of you, uncaring if you went through hell for his sake. Too taking. Too human.

Once, you told him that if he was selfish, just once, you wouldn’t fault him. What a liar you are.

You forgive Satoru.

“I’m sorry.” Haibara’s voice is like your own. You step closer. His infinity lets you in. “I’m sorry Satoru. I didn’t mean to leave you alone.”

It’s hard to wrap him in a hug. The brat’s too big. He sinks into your touch like a tiger, filled with dangerous claws, retracted just for your sake. He shakes the tiniest bit; even now, he’s keeping himself as a pinnacle. If you hear a sniffle or two, you don’t comment on it.

It’s why your heart breaks to tell him the truth.

“I can’t give you my name.” You whisper in his ear. He pulls back. He doesn’t look at you.

“Yeah, I know. I know. time-travel bullshit—”

“For now.” You add. “I can’t do that for now.”

Three pairs of eyes look at you. You’re not hiding behind Haibara anymore. You’re not trying to.

“December 24th, 2017. 8:06. Tokyo Skytree.” You look at him. “Can you wait until then?”

For you, it’d only be an hour. For Satoru, it’d be a decade.

You expect him to reject it, to yell at you. You decide if he wants to be selfish; you’d let him.

“If you don’t show up, I’ll turn evil.” You laugh. His grin widens and he’s back again. “I’m serious. I’ll take over the world. I’ll throw the biggest temper tantrum ever.”

“You’re such a brat.” There’s no hostility in your tone. “I will. I promise.”

‘I’ll save you,’ You promise in your head because he’s too prideful to hear it.

“Is it still possible for you to go back?” You ask, the wariness present again. “The higher ups haven’t taken any action against you, right?”

He shakes his head.

“I think Yaga might yell at me, but other than that.” He shrugs. “They’ll decide it’s teen rebellion and sweep it under the rug.”

You laugh again. Satoru shoots you a toothy grin.

When you reach out a hand, Satoru mirrors you. He clasps your hand in his. For once, you wonder how they’ll feel on your own.

“See ya’ later, Greeny.”

A blink. Satoru’s gone. Your hand is empty, and you’re standing in the streets of Shinjuku once again.

ⴵ

December 24th, 2017. 8:06, at the top of the Tokyo Skytree.

Why did you decide on that date and time for all the places? You were so fucking stupid. You needed to stop being so poetic.

It’s already 7:12 when you’re desperately waving down a taxi. The driver looks disinterested when you blubber out the location. When he tells you it’ll cost extra because Sumida City isn’t part of his route, you’re more than happy to fork over the money.

It’s already 7:35 when you stumble through the interiors of Tokyo Skytree town. It’s crowded. Fuck, it’s December 24th, of course people would be out and about.

At 7:44, you finally reach the observational building. And then you hit upon a snag.

It’s closed.

Renovations, the sign reads, accompanied by an irritatingly cute drawing of a cat, please come visit us next week.

Would this excuse be enough to satisfy Satoru? You’re only human. Surely he’d understand if you couldn’t make it because the entire building was shut down.

Or wait. Was this Satoru’s doing?

You look up at the tower. Lights were still on and flickering. No crowds. No people. No prying eyes.

Let it be known that you’ve never trespassed before, until you met Gojo Satoru.

With a guilty conscious, you step over the line. You justify it by convincing yourself you were saving the world because you know Satoru wasn’t joking a decade ago.

The elevators still worked. Thank God. Yet another hint he’s paving the way for you. You made the location, but it feels like you’re a mouse stuck in a human-designed maze. Even though you set up the game, he’s still managed to rig it.

You land on the first deck at 7:52. At 7:56, you reach the second observational deck.

It’s empty. You’ve never seen the skytree so empty before. Not a single soul is here except for you. Your footsteps echo across the floor. Were you early?

Out the corner of your eye, there’s a post-it note stuck on the window. A hand-drawn arrow. Up ahead, there’s another one.

You follow the next, and then the next. All the time you don’t know how to feel about him doing all of this just for an encounter. Something bubbles in your stomach. You’re pushing it down.

You follow the post-its until there’s one placed right on top of a door.

Authorized personnel only. Why does this brat continue to test you?

But it’s already 8:03; you’re far too deep to complain.

A service elevator greets you. If you press the button, it’ll take you all the way up to the broadcast equipment, the top of the Tokyo Skytree.

It’s different from the past two elevator rides. The service elevator isn’t all that polished. The wheels squeak a little too dangerously at times. It’s slower, too.

That’s bad, because now you’re starting to think.

That familiar feeling boils within your stomach, again. You’re anxious. It’s strange to say, but meeting Satoru through Suguru, meeting Satoru through Yu, it felt like you had a protective shell around yourself. You were free from his judgement, only invoking curiosity.

If you show yourself to him, how would he react? What would he say? Would he get angry that you made him wait a decade for such a blunder? Even worse, what if he doesn’t get angry?

What if—what if he’s disappointed by you?

Cold feet. It freezes your toes. You want to go back. You want the elevator to go back down, you want to go home and hide away.

But you promised Satoru. He deserves answers.

Pathetic answers are better than no answers at all.

Instead of your soul being protected by a sorcerer's body, it’s protected by your own. You’d steel yourself for whatever comes next. You could melt after.

It’s windy up here. That’s the first thing you notice. Icy wind cuts at your face and your eyes squint so they don’t dry out so quickly. It’s colder, too; your jacket is nice protection, but nothing helps your vulnerable hands.

But the view. Oh, what a view.

The sea of twinkling lights shines from the city. The sun has set, leaving Tokyo to do nothing but shine. She’s gorgeous like she’s picked the stars from the sky, burying them within her own soul. You could stay there forever, if she let you.

It’s 8:09. Satoru was late.

Or maybe he just wasn’t planning to show up.

You lean away from the railing. It’s just like him to make huge gestures and at the last moment, ditch everything. The balloon in your lungs deflates ever so slightly.

And then, you can feel hands.

Around your shoulders, caging you in. Large and warm despite the icy air. You know these hands. They’re familiar, even a decade later. His chest presses up against your back. His face settles in the crook of your neck.

His laugh tickles your ear, and you aren’t so cold anymore.

“Caught ya, Greeny.”

(“Did something happen to you, back there in the house?”

"Hm?" Suguru asked.

They were wading through long grass and overgrown weeds. Satoru glances at his friend. Suguru looks fine. His cursed energy has gone back to normal. That's probably good.

"You were just acting weird," Satoru said, "I mean you fell on your ass in front of a curse. Embarrassing."

Suguru huffed, a red hue across his cheeks. "Shut up, don't remind me."

'So he remembered,' Satoru thinks, 'didn't expect that.'

They're almost to the car when Suguru speaks again.

"Actually, I did feel a little strange," he says, "I felt like I wasn't really all there. There was this voice, guiding me along."

"Really?" Satoru shivers. "That sounds creepy."

So the entity within Suguru was a bad thing after all. He should try to get rid of it if it ever comes back. It might take a complex spell or something-

"Not really." Suguru said. "It's hard to explain, but it felt....nice."

"Nice?" Satoru echoes.

"Yeah."

And then it's quiet again.)

Part two: Rewound Infinitely

[sunshineyuyu]

stereo hearts (s. mg)

★ summary: mingi’s had a crush on you since his freshman year. you’re a year older than him, infinitely cooler, and you share a love for music. one night, you end up making out in the storage closet of the campus radio station you both work at, and you end up getting closer. ★ pairing: mingi x f!reader ★ genre: smut (mdni!!), college ★ word count: 5.6k ★ tags/warnings: radio station dj!mingi and reader, reader is a year older than mingi, mingi is a computer science major LOL, reader is described as shorter than mingi, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, mentions of nicotine vape, frat party, american college setting, kinda sub-y mingi, kinda dom-y reader, slight dumbification?, reader is just a little mean to mingi, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, penetrative piv sex (with a condom!), minor super background seongjoong ★ notes: this one was written as a gift for @starhwas-bunny huhu, my bestie beta <3 ftr i have never dj-ed for a university radio station so hopefully this isn’t a super inaccurate representation of that experience. ★ masterlist | read on ao3

in the three years since mingi started volunteering as a dj at the university radio station, the little room they broadcast out of has become something like a second home to him.

three out of four of the walls are covered floor to ceiling with shelves that sag from the amount of vinyls, cassette tapes, and cds crammed onto them. tucked into one corner is a mini fridge that was found abandoned after move-out day years ago, and sitting on top is a weak little keurig gifted by the previous faculty sponsor. there’s a musty old leather couch shoved against the singular non-shelved wall, and in the middle of the whole room is the desk, overloaded with several monitors, a keyboard, and the sound board. the whole room smells faintly like sour coffee and old grandpa, but mingi has learned to love it all the same.

tonight, though, mingi would rather be anywhere else than here. grumpily, he blinks at the red numbers of the digital clock on the corner of the desk. 02:13 AM, it reads. he wishes he could go back in time and take a different shift, but the mingi from a month ago never could’ve anticipated all the developments that have happened over the last few weeks.

first, his compilers assignment is kicking his ass. he’s been working tirelessly on it for three weeks now, but his results are still a little off and the due date is fast approaching at the end of the week. he doesn’t even have any classmates to fall back on for help, since he’s taking the course a semester ahead of his other friends, and he hasn’t had enough time to make new ones yet.

second, his best-friend-roommate yunho just got a new girlfriend, which means he’s been spending less time hanging out with mingi. mingi likes to think that he’s not too clingy or needy, but he misses the routine of waking up to the smell of yunho burning breakfast and then getting in a game of valorant together before going to bed. instead, he’s had to play nice with yunho’s new girlfriend whenever she invades their apartment with her neverending peppiness, and sleep with noise-canceling earbuds because he and yunho share a wall.

he’s sleep-deprived and stressed and lonely and really wants a goddamn hug from literally anyone.

but he’s forced to toil away in the tiny campus radio station studio, where the playlist he’d painstakingly arranged last week to blend seamlessly between songs does nothing to soothe his anxieties.

⋆⋆⋆

there’s still half an hour left of mingi’s shift, but he’s already queued up all the music and timed out the ads, so he’s mostly just focused on chipping away at his assignment. the adrenaline from the celsius he crushed when he first arrived is already started to fade, and mingi is seriously thinking about digging out the elfbar from the bottom of his backpack (that he promised yunho he’d throw away) to extend the last fumes of his focus.

this train of thought is thankfully interrupted by the door of the studio being thrown open unceremoniously.

“shit!”

even on a good day, mingi is a jumpy person, and having the blinding light of the hallway enter the dark studio with no warning makes his heart skip several beats. his knee jerks up on instinct, and it whacks painfully against the bottom of the desk.

“ah, oops. sorry!”

standing in the doorway, haloed in fluorescent light, and appearing practically angelic, is none other than you. you have enough wherewithal to at least look apologetic, but mingi doesn’t care either way because it’s you.

you’re a senior—one year above mingi—and the one who trained him to be a dj when he was a freshman. back then, he’d been starstruck by how outgoing you are, the way you’d tease him with the familiarity of a close friend even though you were practically strangers. you have this eclectic but broad taste in music, and he likes that you challenge him to listen to new artists and genres.

and of course—you’re fucking hot. you’ve always been beautiful, with shining eyes and a big wide smile. but over the years, you’ve changed your hair style, dyed the ends, gotten a couple of piercings and tattoos, and it’s been game over for mingi ever since. 

so yeah, he’s had a crippling crush on you that’s only gotten worse with time.

“hi,” mingi says dumbly, massaging his knee where the pain has already mysteriously disappeared.

“hey!” you say breezily, beaming because it’s clear now that he won’t yell at you for scaring him.

“do you have the next shift?” mingi asks, using all his brainpower to compose a coherent sentence. he’s usually able to act relatively normal around you, but he’s all out of sorts right now, and it’s nearly 2:30 fucking am.

“oh, no,” you say. “i just really needed a caffeine fix, and this is the only place i could think of that’s still open on campus for me to get some.”

you both glance over at the sad excuse of a coffee station the studio has, and mingi lets out an undignified snort.

“it is what it is,” you sigh.

while mingi tries to think of a conversation starter, he turns back to his laptop so he’s not just staring at you like some lovesick puppy. 

your normally styled hair is thrown into an afterthought of a bun, but mingi likes that he can see the elegant line of your neck and the line of silver hoops stacked along your ears. you’re also wearing those rimless bayonetta glasses that he loves, and he always gets distracted by the little sparkle charm you added that dangles from the hinge.

“aw man,” you say. “there aren’t any pods left.”

mingi glances up briefly from his laptop to see you pouting down at the little box where they usually keep the coffee pods. 

cute, he thinks.

“hongjoong ordered more last week,” mingi says, waving towards the storage closet behind him. “but he hid them so people don’t try to steal them in bulk.”

at his words, you perk up and scamper towards the closet after dumping your backpack onto the couch.

with you out of sight, some of the nervous tension in mingi’s muscles finally bleeds out. mingi throws his glasses down onto the table and rubs at his weary eyes until he sees fireworks against the backs of his eyelids. he wishes he had even an ounce of the charisma that yunho has, but he’s so fucking tired right now that he can’t think of anything even remotely charming to talk to you about. eventually, he slams his forehead down onto the table and entertains the thought of knocking himself out. before he can let his imagination run too wild, he hears the sound of something heavy falling and a whispered “fuck!”

concerned, mingi straightens and rolls his chair closer to the threshold of the storage closet.

“you good?” he asks.

he forgot to put his glasses back on, so you’re really more of a blurry blob of a person, but somehow your sheepish smile still manages to come through.

“i found the pods!” you say brightly, pointing at a large cardboard box on the top shelf. “but, i can’t reach them.”

mingi huffs out a laugh and stands up. finally, it feels like something is going right for him tonight. you are short and need help, and mingi is tall and can help you.

he’s so hyper-focused on his task that he doesn’t think twice about crowding up behind you. doesn’t think twice about bracing one hand against your back to keep himself steady as he reaches with his other hand for the box. doesn’t think twice about leaning around your smaller frame to present you with the thing. 

“here,” he says, except it comes out breathy and rough because he’s just stretched his body for the first time in what feels like ages.

he doesn’t realize how close your faces are until you utter a soft thank you, and the words ghost along his cheekbone. he shudders at the sensation, and all at once the rest of his brain and body come online to recognize the position you’re arranged in.

it’s cramped in the closet, and mingi’s a big guy. his entire front is pressed up against your back, and the hand he’d used to balance himself has somehow slipped down to your waist, and you’ve turned your head slightly so that you can look up at him.

mingi stares down at you, and you’re seriously so close that he doesn’t need his glasses to see the way your lips part, the way your eyebrows furrow. 

“um,” he says intelligently.

oh-so-slowly, you push your glasses up onto your head and turn around to fully face him. like always, that stupid sparkle charm entrances mingi.

and then suddenly, he’s pulled down by the front of his shirt, and you surge up to meet him. your lips collide together with so much force that your teeth clack, but mingi doesn’t care because jesus fucking christ. he shoves the pods onto the nearest shelf to get his other hand onto your waist too. god, it’s been a while since the last time he’s made out with someone like this. while his mouth works furiously to remember how to kiss well, he fumbles his palms over the curves of your body. meanwhile, your fingers dance confidently along his chest and collarbones, finally curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. when you tug lightly, mingi actually whimpers.

he pulls back, embarrassed, but you look delighted.

“oh,” you breathe, grinning. “oh, fuck—make that noise again.”

mingi stares at you, uncomprehending and breathing like he’s just run a race. you tug again. mingi keens.

“cute,” you murmur. “c’mere.”

you don’t give mingi the chance to second-guess anything as you pull him back down. your chapstick tastes like peaches, and your tongue is doing things that mingi’s never felt before. you touch him everywhere—run your hands along his chest, his stomach, his back, his arms. mingi is putty in your arms, and he stops trying to hold back the sounds that you tease out of him.

you make out sloppily for what seems like hours. it’s so nice and mindless that mingi doesn’t even realize that he’s half-hard in his jeans until you finally take a step back. 

like the fucking touch-starved idiot he is, he unconsciously leans forward to chase after you. in response, you grin and press a single finger against his chest to hold him off.

“it’s almost the next shift,” you say quietly. “we should probably get out of here.”

“oh,” mingi croaks, as reality settles back in. “oh. yeah.”

you peck the underside of his jaw, and then leave the storage closet.

mingi stays for a second longer, collecting himself. finally, he grabs the box of coffee pods and follows you back into the studio.

he can’t get a read on you as you wordlessly retrieve your backpack. he mirrors your movement, albeit more lethargically. he feels like he’s drunk or high or both, body moving sluggishly, and he’s so so confused.

jongho, who’s taking the 3 am shift, shows up in the middle of your silence as a much needed buffer. it takes mingi five minutes to hand over control, and when he’s done, he’s disappointed to see that you aren’t in the room anymore. dejected, he says goodbye to jongho and leaves the studio, only to find you waiting in the hallway.

you look up when he stops in front of you and smile at him.

“walk me to my car?” you say.

mingi smiles shyly back at you. “yeah. okay.”

you start down the hallway, but mingi halts abruptly. “didn’t you- um- your coffee?” mingi stutters. jesus, he really needs to pull himself together.

you quirk your head to one side and then takes a step into mingi’s space. your gaze darkens, and your smile stretches into a smirk.

“nah,” you whisper, reaching to drag your thumb along his bottom lip. “i got my fix.” 

oh, mingi thinks giddily. she means me!

“c’mon,” you say, your face softening and your hand finding mingi’s. “it’s late.”

“yeah,” mingi says dreamily, trailing after you.

⋆⋆⋆

in the days following, mingi doesn’t see you at all.

this isn’t uncommon—you’re different years and majors, after all. but mingi is still bummed about it. he has your number, but he’s never texted you besides to talk about campus radio logistics. sometimes, you’ll send each other a new song or artist to nerd out over, but mingi feels like it’s a little too transparent if he texts you now when the last time you exchanged messages was weeks ago.

every night, though, mingi replays what happened in his head over and over again. how you had been the one to initiate, to guide and control the entire encounter—how that had turned him on in ways he’d never imagined. he tries vainly not to think about you when he jerks off, but right as he’s about to cum, his thoughts always stray to the way you’d tugged at his hair and cooed at his embarrassing noises.

in the aftermath, he’ll try to think instead of the way you held his hand while they walked to your car. the walk had been short but sweet. you’d been the one to intertwine your fingers, and mingi hadn’t been able to hide the stupid smile on his face as your hands swung between the two of you.

you’d given him one last kiss on the cheek before saying good night.

the rest of the night was a haze: walking to his car, driving home, falling asleep the moment his head hit his pillow without even changing out of his clothes.

⋆⋆⋆

it’s friday night, and mingi has managed to finish his godforsaken compilers assignment, so he’s planning on getting wasted.

mingi is still largely undecided on how he feels about yunho’s new girlfriend, but the one thing going in her favor is the fact that she’s the delta gamma social chair and—because of some bylaw somewhere—has automatic entry to every relevant frat party. she can even bring other people with her, as long as it’s not an egregious amount.

and that’s how mingi finds himself in the middle of an SAE party, just the right side of tipsy. he’s nursing a sweating can of beer and watching yunho and wooyoung absolutely destroy a couple of pledges at beer pong. when they win, mingi pounces on them, but ends up empty-handed as they’re each pulled into congratulatory embraces by their respective significant others.

suddenly, despite being surrounded by people, mingi feels incredibly lonely. it’s like he’s been doused in ice water, the way his head clears and his heart sinks. he knows it’s a passing feeling, knows that in two seconds his friends will turn their attention back to him, but the shots and beers from earlier tonight no longer sit right in his bloodstream.

under the guise of getting another drink, mingi ducks away from his friends and looks for someplace with a little more space and air. he wanders towards the yard, where there’s far fewer people. all of the lawn chairs available are already occupied, so mingi leans up against the wall and pulls out his phone. he’s two scrolls into his instagram feed when something collides into his side hard enough to make him let out a soft oof.

he thinks it must be some random drunk, but instead it’s—

you.

“mingi!” you shriek.

your arms wrap around his middle, and you gaze up at him with glazed over eyes. you’re wearing this tight black shirt with a big square neckline, and you’re all squished up against him so mingi gets an eyeful of your cleavage.

he swallows painfully.

“y/n!” he says, trying to match your energy without being as loud.

you peer around him, almost like you’re looking for someone else. “are you here by yourself?” you ask.

“no,” mingi says. “my friends are inside. i just wanted to get some air.”

“ah.” you nod sagely. “do you smoke? like—get high?”

mingi shrugs, and you bounce with glee. you drag him by the wrist over to a small cluster of people sitting around one of the few lawn tables available.

“sit sit sit!” you say, pushing him into the one empty chair before unceremoniously plopping yourself down in his lap. dumbstruck, mingi just sits there with his hands lying limply against the armrests as you shuffle around in his fucking lap to find a comfortable position. every ounce of his energy is going towards not popping a boner right now.

instead, he focuses on trying to recognize the people sitting around the table. there’s kim hongjoong, the president of your campus radio org, and his boyfriend park seonghwa. beside them is chaewon, your best friend, also sitting in the lap of some guy who mingi assumes is her boyfriend.

shit—what are these people assuming about him, then? 

“here,” you say, thrusting a small object like a usb towards his lips. “take a hit of penelope.”

“penelope?” mingi’s like, still reeling from everything that’s happened in the last five minutes.

you giggle. “my pen. here.”

obediently, mingi leans towards and fits his lips around the tiny weed pen. it’s been a while since he last got high—yunho and wooyoung both run cross-country and don’t like messing around with drugs while they’re in season. he tries to take a shallow hit, but doesn’t end up getting anything, so he throws all caution to the wind and inhales deeply. the tangy sour smoke hits the back of his throat harder than the smooth mintyness of his elfbar, so of course—

he ends up coughing.

little puffs of smoke leave his mouth and nose as he splutters. thankfully, everyone barely laughs at him. in fact, hongjoong hands him a bottle of water which he chugs gratefully.

“sorry, been a while,” mingi rasps, when he finally manages to take a normal breath.

you hum and brush some of mingi’s hair behind his ear. “cute.”

this nearly sends mingi into another coughing fit, but he manages to just laugh breathlessly instead. clutching the water bottle to him like a lifeline, he sinks back into his chair so that maybe he can be less in the spotlight.

“—anyway,” chaewon says, and mingi lets out a sigh of relief at the turn of attention, “sannie, tell them about all the shit they made you do when you were a pledge.”

san—the one guy mingi didn’t know—sighs and pinches chaewon’s thigh.

“babe, you can’t just make me tell this story to everyone. trade secrets, and whatever.”

hongjoong snorts. “so they got you pretty good, huh?”

“goddamnit,” san is like.

so san regails them with the harrowing tale of him pledging SAE, and mingi finally lets himself relax. san has this soft, earnest voice, and it’s nice to listen to. at some point, you press penelope into his hand, and even later, mingi works up the courage to take another hit. this one is much more successful than the last, and gradually, mingi works up a nice buzz. it spurs him to tug you deeper into his lap, fit his hands around your waist—jesus, have you always been this small compared to him?

mingi has no idea how long he spends there, vibing with you and your friends. he’s halfway to asleep when suddenly he feels something trail along his jawline. he feels the telltale graze of lips against his skin, and his pulse jumps.

suddenly, he is incredibly awake.

you nose at his neck, leave the lightest of kisses. mingi becomes hyper aware of his surroundings, and finally realizes that conversation’s been dead for a while. chaewon is fully straddling san in his chair, and hongjoong and seonghwa have disappeared.

“you wanna get out of here?” you murmur.

“yeah. yeah.”

⋆⋆⋆

mingi is aware enough to shoot a text off to his group chat with yunho and wooyoung letting them know that he’s going home with someone. he feels an odd rush of validation from the subsequent onslaught of vulgar texts and emojis he gets in response.

your place isn’t far from greek row, so you walk there. once again, you have threaded your fingers together, and mingi is noticing for the first time just how small your hand is compared to his. with your other hand, you scroll through your spotify playlists, trying to find one that “fits the ambiance” of the walk before settling for one titled vaporwave vibes.

mingi is just happy to be involved.

you’re a giggly mess as you stumble-walk-run into your apartment.

“roommate—?” mingi asks, as two of you toe off your shoes, and you turn up the volume of your music.

“chaewon’s shacking up at the SAE house tonight,” you say, grinning. you lean in close to mingi and poke his nose. “so you can be as loud as you wanna be, baby.”

baby?!

you lead mingi to your bedroom, where you spare a few seconds to turn on a lamp that casts the room into a soft pink hue and plug your phone into a speaker. you choose a different playlist—one with soft r&b and lofi.

then, you crawl onto your bed, swaying your hips as you do. mingi just stares at you, suddenly very out of his depth. this feels infinitely different from making out in a storage closet. this is your apartment, your room, your bed.

you’re leaned back against your pillows now, head cocked and eyes half-lidded.

you spread you legs and beckon mingi to come closer.

“c’mon, baby. let’s have some fun, hm?”

like a man possessed, mingi steps forward until he hits the edge of the mattress, and then he falls onto his knees, shuffling forward until he’s hovering between your thighs.

“cute.”

mingi waits for you to make the first move, because that’s what he’s used to, and you do. you hook your hands around his neck and pull him down, presses your lips together chastely. mingi’s eyes flutter close, and he lets instinct take over.

you must be wearing something like lipgloss tonight, because your lips are tackier than last time, and they taste like cherry. mingi’s intoxicated by it. he deepens the kiss, adds some tongue. his hands run along your thighs, your hips, your waist.

you do that thing with his hair again, and he whimpers. he feels you smile. you move his hands over your chest, inviting him to really touch, and he moans involuntarily when he realizes that you’re not wearing a bra under your shirt. 

“take it off,” you breathe, and mingi obeys immediately.

“fuckk,” he whines when he sees your tits. “fuck—you’re so—”

he surges forward and fits his mouth over one of your nipples and sucks. this time, it’s you who moans, and the sense of triumph rushes straight to mingi’s dick. after only a few minutes of worshipping your tits, mingi is already so hard he could cut through glass.

“you, too,” you say, trying to pull off mingi’s shirt. “take this off—take it all off.”

so he strips. first his shirt, then his jeans. he curses as he struggles with the button and the zip—when choosing his outfit earlier, he’d only been thinking about how this pair are a little tight so they make his ass look good. now, he’s straining to get them off without looking like an idiot.

finally, he manages to tug the jeans down to mid-thigh, which means you get a better view of the outline of his cock in his briefs. at least he wore dark underwear so you can’t see the frankly embarrassing wet patch that mingi knows is there. he’s always leaked like a faucet.

"god, i knew you'd be big," you sigh as mingi finishes shucking off his pants ungracefully.

he freezes, feeling a little exposed but also a little bold.

"you- have you thought about me- this before?" he asks.

"of course," you smirk. "big shy boy like you? that's my favorite."

you sit up onto your elbows and reach forward with one hand to cup his bulge. you squeeze, and mingi keens. it takes every drop of mingi's self-control to not cum on the spot. instead he falls onto his forearms and buries his face into your neck.

“fuck,” he squeaks.

you continue to work his dick through his briefs, but with such a light, teasing touch that mingi starts rutting helplessly into your hand to get more friction. it’s been a while since someone else has gotten him off, and the weed is making him so so sensitive.

"wanna- wanna make you feel good," he pants, but he can’t stop grinding down against you like some stupid fucking dog. 

"yeah?” you goad. “you wanna fuck me with your big dumb cock? do you even know how to use that thing?"

mingi whimpers. “yes, yes—please. let me- let me show you. please.”

“okay, big boy,” you whisper into his ear, finally letting him go. “show me.”

mingi doesn’t waste any time after that. he pulls off your pants and your underwear in one go. he’s practically drooling at the sight of your cunt and can’t help himself from running a finger reverently through your folds.

you’re wet.

because of him.

he drops down in front of your pussy and licks a line from your entrance to your clit. you fucking moan. 

“yeah?” you say, all dominant like always but a little breathless. “you gonna prep me first? gonna prep me for your huge dick?”

in response, mingi attaches his mouth to your clit and buries a finger into your hole.

“ah—fuck!”

one finger turns into two into three quickly, as mingi works you open, all while lapping at your clit. he has limited experience with this so he’s not super confident in his ability, but you’re making these high-pitched noises that must mean he’s doing something right. and then you tug at his hair, forcing his head back.

“thought you were gonna fuck me?” you say.

“yes, yeah, sorry.”

mingi has enough wherewithal to ask about condoms and lube, and while he tugs off his underwear, you retrieve the stuff from your nightstand. he’s so keyed up that he fumbles the condom, can’t get a good grip to tear it open, and finally resorts to biting one corner with his teeth to rip off an edge. it works, and he spits out the little piece of foil somewhere onto the bed beside them.

“oh, fuck.” he hears, and it’s the first semblance of a whine from you.

with renewed vigor, mingi rolls the condom onto his dick, hissing at finally getting some stimulation after being hard and untouched for so long.

“c’mon, c’mon,” you say, throwing the lube at him. “hurry up.”

he squeezes some of the lube onto his hand—there’s a light red sheen to it and a faint scent of cherry. feverishly, he thinks the smell of cherries is going to be ruined for him forever as he spreads the lube over the condom.

and then he presses just the tip into your entrance, and already he knows he’s not going to last long. you’re just too warm, too wet, too tight.

“jesus,” he whimpers, as he presses deeper into your cunt. “you’re fucking perfect.”

“fuck,” you groan. “you’re so fucking big.”

“gonna- gonna make you feel good,” mingi promises. “gonna fuck you so good.”

when he’s finally bottomed out, he takes a second. he hopes it looks like he’s just being considerate of his size, but really it’s mostly for himself, to make sure he’s not a one thrust wonder. and then you clench around him.

“fuck!”

it startles him into moving—with a strong grip on your thighs, he thrusts into you with so much force that the bed frame groans. 

“ah- yeah, baby. just like that. fuck, so good. so good, so big—so full. fuck!”

you babble nonsense into his ear, but every syllable fuels mingi’s determination. he snaps his hips against yours until his thighs burn, and then some more. but even in spite of his sheer will, mingi is just a guy finally fucking the girl of his dreams, and so his orgasm sneaks up on him entirely too fast.

“oh, fuck. oh, fuck. i’m sorry, i’m sorry—i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna—”

he collapses onto you as he spills into the condom, his entire body twitching with pleasure from the sensation. seconds later, shame and guilt wash over him. he pulls out and crawls down your body to shove his face into your cunt.

he fingers you while he eats you out again, this time quirking his fingers for your g-spot. he’s delirious and desperate—needs to prove that he’s not just some guy who cums without getting off his partner. needs you to enjoy this as much as he is—needs you to want more.

“yeah, yeah, that’s a good boy,” you praise as he laps at your cunt like it’s his job. “so good, baby boy. so good. yeah, just like that—gonna cum. gonna—”

mingi can’t help himself. he pulls back when you climax so that he can watch. he finger-fucks you through it, but his focus is on the way your face scrunches up with euphoria, the way your back arches off the bed in pleasure.

finally, you shove his hand away.

“‘s too much,” you mumble, burying your face into your pillows.

mingi collapses down beside you, completely spent.

he comes to a few minutes later, when he feels the bed shift as you sit up. he must make some kind of noise, because you duck down close, brush the sweaty hair off of his forehead and kiss his temple.

“shh,” you soothe. “it’s okay. you can rest, baby. i’ll clean us up.”

“wait—let me help,” he slurs, starting to sit up.

“no no,” you coo, pushing him back down. “don’t worry, baby. i got it.”

mingi hums, too tired and spent anyway to argue. it’s nice, for once, to be the one being taken care of. he snuggles contently deeper into the bed.

it smells like sex and sweat, but also something kinda sweet. oh, right—cherries.

he drifts off to sleep soon after.

⋆⋆⋆

the next morning, mingi wakes up disoriented, pleasantly sore, but incredibly well-rested. the weed helped offset the alcohol, and the only grossness he feels is from not showering or brushing his teeth before falling asleep.

the bed is unfortunately empty, but the smell of fresh coffee in the air keeps mingi from spiraling too much about it. he lopes around the room, searching for his clothes. he locates those godforsaken tight jeans (which take him far too much effort to stuff himself back into), but doesn’t manage to find his shirt, so he sheepishly wanders into the kitchen shirtless like a moron.

the mystery of his shirt is solved immediately when he sees that you are wearing it. the hem falls right below your ass, and when you move a certain way, mingi can see the bottoms of your cheeks and the hint of black panties.

jesus, even after having the orgasm of his life last night, he’s still so easy.

“morning!” you chirp, when you notice his presence.

“morning,” mingi rasps. “can i- uh- can i help with anything?”

you pause to shoot him a big smile. “no, don’t worry, baby. just sit down. there’s coffee in that mug over there. milk in the fridge.”

mildly stunned at the revelation that your pet names aren’t exclusive to sexy time, mingi follows your instructions. he retrieves a carton of oat milk from the fridge and adds it to his coffee before hopping on a barstool at the kitchen island. he positively inhales the coffee, which must be some kind of special blend because it’s especially fragrant, and watches you bustle around the kitchen with efficiency.

the two of you settle into a comfortable silence, and it’s strangely intimate—domestic—but mingi doesn’t let that part of his imagination run too wild. for his own sanity, it’s probably best if he just takes whatever this is with you one day at a time.

soon, you slide a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast in front of him. you prance into the barstool beside him, nudging it closer so that your knees touch under the countertop.

it smells heavenly, reminds him of weekend breakfasts with his own family, and before he can stop himself, he says,

“thanks, mommy.”

it’s the kind of shithead joke he pulls with yunho and wooyoung often, but with you, it drips with subtext. over the rim of your coffee cup, you raise an eyebrow at him, and he feels his entire face heat up with embarrassment.

“i mean- um—”

“didn’t know you were into that kinda stuff,” you coo. “guess i’ll have to remember that for next time.”

mingi digs into his eggs so that he doesn’t have to look you in the eye while he processes that. next time?!

the rest of breakfast passes uneventfully. you take the reins of the conversation, yapping about your thoughts on chaewon’s frat bro boyfriend. mingi gives all the appropriate reactions at the appropriate times and just basks in the joy of eating a home-cooked breakfast the morning after having sex with his long-time crush.

later, mingi will rinse off your dishes and load them into the dishwasher, and you will return his shirt to him before sending him off with another chaste kiss to the cheek. mingi decides to walk back to his own apartment even though it’s nearly a mile away. but the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and his phone—barely hanging on with 10% battery—buzzes in his pocket with a single text:

y/n l/n has invited you to collaborate on a playlist: mommy issues ;)

[sossolei]

things that have helped me shift ⊹₊⟡⋆

DISCLAIMER, Just because I have shifted before doesn’t mean I am the Library of Alexandria. I’m a person just like you, learning as I go so I don’t have the answer to everything but I do try! I’m also not saying any of this will absolutely, 100% make you shift, but hopefully it can provide some perspective or insight into something you hadn’t thought about! !!! ANTIS DNI !!!

LANGUAGE — I’ve noticed since I first got into shifting that shifters will talk about/treat these realities like fanfiction or a role playing kinda thing??? It confused me before I had shifted because if this is real then why are people talking about themselves in the third person, or referring to others as “npc/non main characters”, or scripting in some crazy trauma for “fun”??? If you read anything of mine, you will notice I do not use words like “main character” or even “desired reality” because for me personally, it’s just reinforcing in my mind that this is not something that’s real or even close to something I can achieve.

Cut out third person language entirely. Stop referring to your “failed shifting attempts” as such, in fact, stop referencing it AT ALL. Stop keeping track. Stop referring to people in these realities as “main characters” or “npcs.” Stop coming back from an attempt thinking “damn I didn’t shift.”

INSTEAD, start saying that you shifted every time you attempt. “But I woke up in my O.R” who says? only you have a say in whatever reality you want to live in. Fake it til you make it. Start talking about people as they are, people. Use their names or nicknames. Watch a TikTok and think to yourself “yeah I’d send this to them.” FEEELLLLL IT. MAKE IT REAL TO YOUUUU.

LOGIC — After successfully shifting, I don’t tend to think about the “science” or “spiritual” side anymore BUT this is the logic that makes the most sense to me and is the simplest explanation I can think of. When you wake up in the morning, do you first check your phone or stand up to brush your teeth or stretch? Whatever path you choose is a shift in your reality. Every single choice you’ve ever made is a shift in your reality. As far as you know, if you checked your phone instead of stretching, you might pull something later on in the day that you wouldn’t have pulled had you stretched. But you didn’t. And now there’s a reality where you stretched, did the exact things, and didn’t pull a muscle because you stretched that morning.

THAT is reality shifting in its simplest form.

Manifesting can even be considered reality shifting because you’re shifting your current consciousness into one that is receiving said manifestion. The universe is infinite. Do not let the constrictions of others constrain you too.

“Yeah you can shift realities but not to those fantasy places like hogwarts, that’s not possible” why not? If you’ve just admitted can shift realities, why are “fantasy” realities so different to you? Because HERE in THIS reality, they are fantasy. In that reality, it is everyday, it is normal, it’s just another Tuesday. Shifting is simply becoming aware of your consciousness in another reality, similar to switching characters in video game like The Sims 4, from one plumbob to another and yes, that easy.

MEDITATION — You don’t need anything to shift realistically, but the one thing I recommend for anything is meditating. It’s a skill and, like any other, one that can be refined and perfected over time. Learning to get into a state of pure consciousness is a practice that existed for centuries, anybody can do it and doing it will only ever benefit you. You can meditate when you wake up, before you fall asleep, when you’re sitting up, WHENEVER! I’ve always felt better after a meditation, shifting related or not. It also helps me feel better when I don’t end up shifting because at least I’ve honed in and practiced that meditation technique, yk? Positives in everything!

OTHER PRACTICES — If nothing else, I recommend trying different spiritual practices and adding a lil sprinkle of shifting in there! This applies to religion as well in case that isn’t clear lol. If you don’t follow any specific spiritual practice, try pegan spell work (with protection and research ofc), research any herbs that aid in things like enhancing spiritual energy. If you pray to a God, you can “work” with your God in a sense to aid you in this personal journey, whether that be through journaling or actual prayer, prayer is an amazing manifestion technique and I do believe it can help with reality shifting considering it’s not against any religions. And if you don’t want to do any of this, come up with something for you and you only! A ritual can be anything you make it. You decide what works for you at the end of the day.

REMOVAL — This helped me the most in my opinion, I completely stepped away from online communities doing anything with reality shifting ( specifically shifttok ) and followed my own intuition of how to go about shifting, doing shadow work to figure out any blockages/questions I had, and just overall made shifting fun again for myself! The main thing I did was learn more about manifesting because the manifestion community does NOT play, they do not believe in limitations and they love LOA(ssumption) which is my fav so!

LUCID DREAMING — Not the actual act of lucid dreaming but learning about lucid dreaming and astral projection really makes you understand that anti shifters are so ignorant to what these things actually are it’s insane! People didn’t even believe that you could control your dreams 10-20 years ago, they genuinely thought dreams were just something that happens to you. Nowadays, we obviously know that you can control your dreams but this is just proof that nobody knows what they’re talking about fr. I guarantee you, a few years from now, people are gonna be talking about reality shifting the same way they talk about lucid dreaming, CASUALLY. Reality shifting is not some big thing of grandeur that only “special” people can do, the same way everyone can lucid dream, is the same way everyone can reality shift, and astral project.

All this is to say, stop fucking listening to other people LMAOOO. That’s gonna be my advice every single time because too much of anything will become a problem. Advice is good when you’re starting out and I don’t mind giving advice on that, but nobody knows you better than you know yourself, even if you don’t think you know what to do, I PROMISE you on everything, you know what’s best for you. You know what works, and you know what doesn’t, YOU KNOW. Believe yourself. Nobody else matters.

“you are the light. it’s not on you, it’s in you. don’t you ever in your motherfucking

life dim your light for nobody.”

[schiwalkers-ineffability]

What if, like Danny became (through infinite realms magic) sort of the Patron Saint of Young Protectors?

So like, he is still alive, living, going to college, playing vidya games, but his ghost form always has a connection to his 14 y/o self, and while it may not ALWAYS look young, he always feels a kinship eith and protective of those who should be taken care OF but are instead doing the taking care.

So he (unwillingly) tends to know when the batfam/YJ/TT are in trouble and wouldn't make it out without his intervention.

It'd be like

"Hold on, I'm just gonna hide my character behind this rock real quick. That little sword kids about to get blown up again."

And Damien is just like. Bewildered by the mildly impatient ghost boy who turned him intangible just long enough to survive before vanishing, muttering something about Doom...

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark - II

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: Arthur's obsession with you intensifies and reaches a point of no return when you catch him red-handed... ✦ Warnings/tags: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation (again), Arthur is still a little pervy, stripping, p in v, Arthur's self-esteem's still shitty, sub!Arthur at first then switches into dom, Reader is a BIG tease. Mainly Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 5k (oops) Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Part I - Part II

 A ruby, squared, soft form.

His eyes are stuck on it as his thoughts unthread and tangle endlessly in his brain. 

Arthur was a damned man. He had been for a while now and this fatality had settled into his head for a few years already. His sins were so numerous and varied that he hadn’t even considered the thought of going to rest in Heaven when the Grim Reaper would finally put an end to his sufferings. 

But even considering all of this, the gunslinger had definitely not planned on adding a new sin to his list by jerking himself off while watching you almost every night for more than half a month. Oh, the same old speech was still playing in his head; his gesture leaking with shame and muscles sweaty from fear of getting caught. The adrenaline and depravation of the act, the sweet, sweet relief of his orgasm, and the momentary satisfaction he was pulling out of it every time was a very dangerous cocktail; he knew it.

He knew, knew, knew everything of that, of course he did. And still, his fingers opening his fly carelessly. Still, his eyes searching for this sublime silhouette of yours. Still, his cock hardening, itching, burning, begging to be grabbed. And still, his hands taking the doomed responsibility of answering the call. Still his muffled groans, his lips bitten, his silent words spoken in his head, your body joining him. Still, your hand, instead of his. His spend, less and less consistent, spurting quickly and spreading on his dirty clothes, the silence following, the emptiness, the shame, the guilt, the coldness amplified by his intimate fantasies. Like those dark loud nights of storms, air charged with electricity, and left in heavy disturbing quietness after the last lightning struck. Still, dreaming, wanting, longing. 

Still you.

He felt insatiable, like an enraged, mad dog, pathetic bastard. And paradoxically, as he finally had found sleep again after allowing his body what it needed, he felt weaker than ever. Weakened by you.

You hadn't left him after the first night he had succumbed to temptation. You had branded his spirit with a red-hot iron. Damned him to a lifetime of ache, a mortal succumbing to a Mermaid's melody and sailing in search of her on an infinite sea.

 A ruby, squared, soft form. 

It’s your shawl lying on a chair. You forgot it a few minutes ago, but he didn’t say anything about it. He’s still looking at it, hands fidgeting, mind pondering. What’s good and what’s bad. The ugliness of his self and soul. The risks, the benefits. 

He thinks back to the day you and him just shared. A job in Rhodes, “needing to be taken care of by two people”, Dutch’s words. He had sent him, which was predictable —the gang’s workhorse rarely knows rest. But you? It surprised him a whole lot more. Something about the job requesting some “feminine charm”. He hadn’t complained. Not when he had realized he would be able to spend some time alone with you. 

And his gaze had been wandering way more than what common decency was allowing him to. Staring and dreaming were all he had been doing lately, anyhow.

Looking at the delicious cleavage your fancy dress was offering when you got out of your tent and joined him back at camp, your breasts pressed up and round, almost impossible not to devour with his eyes. All he could do was make a sarcastic comment about it as the only defense against his urges. You moron Morgan, just say something nice for once. Luckily -or not- for him, you had wrapped your appealing shoulders in the sophisticated cherry-colored cape to prevent the coldness of the night.

Looking at your back as you both rode into town, looking at your neck when he helped you off your horse once into Rhodes. Looking at your lips as you two were sat in one of the Parlor’s house boxes, the job long-forgotten when he had noticed this little wrinkle next to your lips, that one you have when you laugh and find something funny. He would have to add it to his endless sketches of you.

Looking at your thin, sneaky hands from afar as they were slipping into that wealthy gentleman’s pocket to steal the papers you were both here for in the first place. It all felt distant and insignificant to him now, as a forgettable theater play set in the background. 

Later, you had been the one looking at him when he had come to your rescue. The “gentleman” was being insistent with you. As you both had crossed eyes from across the reception room, Arthur had read your apprehension and silent call for help in just a split second. And here he was, puffing out his chest, look dark and intense, muscles tensed. The perfect look of a man you don’t want to cross, that look he and Hosea had worked hard on building, scars and broad shoulders gained after all these years of intimidation. He was so used to it by now he wasn’t even sure he knew how to be anything else. His pointer finger tapping threateningly on the shiny Deputy Star he had on his jacket and his deep, menacing tone had acted as the final details. You should leave the lady alone and get some fresh air, pal. The fool had dropped the case and returned with his tail between his legs without any clue what had actually happened.

And then, your sweet voice asking for a drink. “Come on, we got to celebrate! Finally, a job well handled without a drop of blood.” How could he ever say no to that? It was almost too good to be true. Spending the evening with you, laughing, talking, philosophizing.

Arthur didn’t know he could be that talkative. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was your presence. Maybe a bit of both. And he had paid for everything. A good hot dinner for both of you, your drinks, and two rooms the moment you told him you were too tired to ride back to camp. Oh, he could have given you all the Wolrd’s treasure if that meant you would keep looking at him with these pretty playful eyes.

As the evening passed, the gentle flow of your endless conversations had led you from the bar to the stairs, to the second floor, to the hallway, and eventually to his room, naturally and serenely, like a rowboat ride on a summer lake.

And finally, after a few yawns exchanged, some delicate eyelids rubbed by you, you had left him to sleep, completely forgetting about your shawl, hanging on one of his room’s chairs. And you had greeted each other goodnight. As friends. This was all he would ever be to you, he knew it. And it was better that way. Like this, he was preserving you from having a pathetic man and a pathetic life being his. He was like an infertile soil, anyway. Any seed you would plant and try to harvest with him would end up rotten, corrupted. Fruitless.

And now left in the stillness of the room, in this deafening silence without the sound of your voice, his vision fixated on your abandoned piece of clothing, the most sinful of all thoughts is digging its way through the fibers of his brain, fed by need and alcohol, gnawing at his neurons, eating up any rational reasoning. 

A ruby, tempting garment of yours.

He wants to grab it. To smell it. He wants your perfume to completely fill his nose, so much it would be like drowning in your scent. You wouldn’t be coming back for it anyway, considering how tired you looked a few minutes ago. And you’d never know about it. Just like you didn’t know he was watching you all this time through the fabric of your tent. After all, he was already so deep down into this rabbit hole of lust, what would it change?

And just like that, before he can even think about it more, his arm is already extending, his fingers wrapping around the forbidden fruit.

A descent into Hell he is not able to stop nor control. And at the same time, it feels like getting closer to Heaven.

He lays on the bed, back against the coarse sheets that still felt better than his cot back at camp, and brings your stole to his nose, almost covering his face with it. He closes his eyes.

And he breathes in.

Hell. If God wanted him to stay virtuous, why did he create such a temptatious woman like you? Your scent is without any surprise just as irresistible and bewitching as your whole self.

The fruity notes of it remind him of your skin and lips he wants to taste so badly, a mouth-watering gourmet scent. The floral and fresh ones, of this sparkling mischievousness in your eyes. And in the end, as he exhales, warm and spicy aromas rain on him. They fill his mind with a deep sense of comfort, as if scenting directly your hair. It’s intoxicating, spellbinding. Driving him deeper into his madness. He doesn’t try to resist, not anymore, this delightful fresco of fragrances painted just for him.

Naturally and almost subconsciously, his vicious right hand reaches his crotch. He’s already hard. Just by smelling your shawl.

This time you’ve really hit rock bottom, old bastard.

He doesn’t even bother thinking about it more, he already knows he’s too deep in; already knows he won’t be able to stop himself. 

Ah shit, screw it, jus’ a quick wank.

He quickly unbuckles his holster belt, then unbuttons his pants, and snakes his hand between the folds of his union suit. A silent swift dance he is used to repeating by now. 

He breathes again a long, deep whiff, and wraps his fingers around his cock thinking of you, once more. 

He sees you and your perfect body, and everything blends and blurs in his heated psyche. The form of your breasts and ass through the tent's canvas he knew by heart at this point. Your smirk, your eyes looking back at his, only his during this night spent together. Your heady, addicting scent surrounds him and fuels his fantasies even more, making them more vivid than before, the soft fabric of the stole against his skin a light caress he imagines yours.

He strokes and strokes and strokes, he needs it more than ever, even if, truth be told, every time is more than ever. His pinkish cock’s head is reddened and swollen from having been rubbed so many times lately, sensible and almost pained. But he doesn't care. It makes him feel even more alive. Even more here. Simply better.

He wants his body to feel pleasure. Pleasure, for once, instead of pain. Pain all the time, pain everywhere, bullets through his muscles, knives on his skin, cutting through his flesh, fists against his bones, breaking his jaws, his nose, his cheeks. Broken, used, beaten, ripped, bruised, overworked, abused. Oh, he’s tired of it. Only in those prohibited moments, he can experience pleasure. No matter how wicked and profane.

The room is now filled with those wet, fast-paced sounds, his rustling against the sheets, and the smallest of grunts coming from his unholy lips as he fucks his fist. Your name escapes him from time to time, muffled by your shawl he's still holding all against him with his left hand, and breathing the air from.

As if all the World’s oxygen would never be as good as breathing through it. As if everything else would feel thick and fusty in his lungs. No Mountains, no Oceans, no flowers, not the tastiest food, nothing could ever compete with smelling your scent. 

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Goddamn it, she’s perfect. A big, hard stroke. Oh God, yes, just a bit more…

Too absorbed by his delirious daydream, he doesn't notice right away the creaking of the door as you enter his room again, searching for the very thing he's using to masturbate right now.

“Arthur, I’m sorry to bother you again but I think I forgot my sh—”

You freeze.

SHIT! He instantly curses loudly and jumps from the bed so suddenly that he almost falls to the ground. A stumbling mess, his holster crashes on the wooden floor with a loud percussive sound as he shoves his member back into his clothes as fast as possible, looking like a disjointed chaos of limbs. He is mortified. There is no way in the world you won’t understand what was just happening. He ends up standing next to the bed, after having thrown your cape at the other corner of the room with such force it looked like the damn thing was made of burning iron. And he doesn’t even know why. Maybe to distance himself from his sins. To try and erase this horrible vision from your pretty eyes. His labored breath and fast-beating heartbeat are now ruled by panic instead of lust. For all his life he had never experienced such shame and felt so utterly stupid. 

There is a small moment of silence, heavy and embarrassed. A little time of denying. No, this can’t be happening. But your look turns in circles from the bed, him, and the scarf, circling him like a cornered animal. That’s it, his pride is dead right here in this stupid hotel room. You see right through him, he’s sure of it. Your piercing beautiful gaze lands on his ears a few times, and he knows they’re crimson just by the heat he can feel on them. But the worst thing of all is his bulge, obvious and raised up as a flag right in the middle of his thighs, under his badly buttoned fly. Like a Mausoleum to his Dignity. The damn thing refusing to shrink and obviously screaming loudly his offence to the whole World. All the contrary, your gaze falling on it produces the exact opposite of what he wants, his cock almost twitching in return. 

Damn it!

Damn it, damn it, damn it!-

“Where you… Hum…” You start, before clearing your throat slightly.

“ ‘m sorry, Am… I didn’t mean to… ‘m such a goddamn fool.” This is the best he can come up with. What excuses could he have anyway? Nothing could justify what he did.

You had never heard his deep asserted voice so chagrined. Utter fear and shame. You didn’t even know he could feel that way.

His gaze is fixated on his dirty boots, refusing to cross yours. Just as goddamn dirty as me. 

“Were you pleasuring yourself, Mister Morgan?” You ask, your tone slightly playful. He doesn’t see it, but a mischievous grin settles on your face.

He takes your tone as a mocking one. You would have all the right to mock him. That’s all he deserved.

He tries to answer but doesn't even dare to admit it verbally, as if it would aggravate his situation. He just nods slowly, as seriously as if he was at a funeral. 

“With one of my clothes?” You ask again, your grin widening.

Another nod, his eyes shutting as if he had been hit by something, your sentence making the whole thing even worse. Oh, just a few seconds ago, he was feeling more present and alive than ever, and now all he wanted was to disappear or die.

He hears more than he sees your steps on the parquet. Every stomping sound hurt him a bit more. He doesn't even dare to move. As if everything he would do from now would offend you. Even breathing, no, even existing is too much.

She’s going to slap me. A step. She's going to yell in my face. Another step. I’m dead. A final step.

You’re so close to him now he’s holding his breath, eyes closed, ready to face the well-deserved punishment of your choice for his trespass.

But he's only met with stillness until you speak again.

“Arthur, do you really think I was that hot in my tent, every night?”

The words reach his ears but his brain refuses them. His mouth opens in astonishment. He closes it to swallow loudly and opens it again as if trying to speak in utter confusion.

“You… I… Wait, really?”

“I never thought you could be that naive, honestly.” You answer, a little chuckle escaping you. One of your hands slowly reaches the side of his face, but he still shivers slightly when it touches him. You guide his head back up for him to finally look you in the eyes.

Arthur's two blue sapphires are topped with anxious brows. A bright confusion and a soft vulnerability. They don’t settle too long on one point of your face out of nervousness, as if they could burn you.

“M-me neither.” He simply whispers, a bashful, nervous smile settling on his mouth. He still doesn’t move.

“Do you really think I wasn’t aware of what I was doing, mmh?” You continue, your fingers traveling from his face all the way down his neck, gently caressing the base of his hair.

You can’t be serious right now.

“I… I don’ know…” And he really doesn’t. This is all so unbelievable to him that he’s persuaded this is all a dream and he’s going to wake up any moment.

The only thing anchoring him to reality is your fingers exploring him, making him slowly let out the breath he had been holding in his chest.

“Let me help you finish what you've started…” You murmur, voice low and obvious to what you’re implying, sultry, suggestive.

He feels his shaft pulsing again instantly in answer, his body once again taking the lead. He’s about to say something, to ask you if you’re sure you want to do this with an old bitter moron like him, but one of your hands is already reaching straight to his crotch, palming his warm, needy erection.

“Anh…!” The moan turning into a groan he lets out duplicates your own arousal.

His hips rock against your hand involuntarily, the need for contact of any sort getting more powerful than his shame. He still doesn’t dare do much to you though, not wanting to cross any more limits. He lets you handle him just like you want. He lets the flow of life take him instead of fighting against it, for once. The only gesture he allows is settling his big hands on your back, sweaty and almost shaking.

Oh, your sneaky fingers. They touch and grope and palpate, and he sighs louder. It feels so much better, to have your hand touching him.

After a few more teasing caresses, you sway in a smooth motion and playfully push him backward, making him fall on the bed. He sits there, looking up at you with those two adoring cerulean pupils, as if you were the Sun itself. A distant magnificent star, impossible for him to reach, condemned to only contemplate.

“Get your clothes off.” You order, his reactions making you more confident and straightforward than usual. 

He is quick to obey. You could have asked him to jump off a cliff and he would have done it without even thinking. His clothes fall one by one on the floor and you feast on every area of skin he’s offering you. He ends up entirely naked for your eyes. This Titan, cascade of virile hairs everywhere, prominent scarred muscles carved into stone by Ares himself, gorged with raw powerfulness and designed to kill. To survive. And between those open thick thighs, his aroused member. The one he thought of as the triumph of his shame a few minutes ago, is now the Apotheosis of his Glory. Thick, long, hard like him, surrounded by a crown of tawny curls.

“Look at you…” You let out, almost licking your lips. But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t see what you do at all. Instead, he let his gaze wander on your chest, and you can almost hear the silent plea in his gaze for you to join his nakedness.

Standing right in front of him, you begin to strip yourself out of your clothes, agonizingly slowly, your face displaying this provocative grin that turns him on so much. It’s purposeful, and you feel your own arousal rising as you notice the red coming back to his cheeks and ears.

First, your boots and socks, discovering your delicate legs. Then your blouse, showing your shoulder and chest, then your skirt. He stays silent all the while, enjoying your little show more than you could imagine. Your hips swaying, your arms gracefully dancing, each piece of clothing falling on the ground, this is all a trance he's getting hypnotized by.

Seeing you undress just for him after all those nights spent on his cot touching himself watching your shadow is like adding all the missing color from a masterpiece, enhancing and fulfilling.

“That’s what you’ve been thinking about?” You purr proudly, now in your undergarments.

“God yes. Yer a real’ angel.” He praises in a fevered-like whisper.

You smirk as all answer. “Come on now, show me those dirty things you’ve been doing.” You speak while nodding at his crotch in an almost challenging way.

His hand instantly reaches for his cock. It was itching him to since you had looked at it earlier. He presses his fingers hard around it and he grunts softly, the sound incredible to your ears. Obeying you and surrendering fully to his depravation, he slowly starts stroking himself again while watching you intensely. What did he do to deserve such a splendid spectacle?

That’s when you decide to slowly bend inward and undo the last pieces of clothing you still have. Just a few gestures and your breasts are bare and hanging for him to look at. Jeee-sus. You see and hear his hand speeding up. 

Lastly, you reveal your own sex to him, a pearl between those gorgeous thighs of yours, and he curses out loud this time.

“You're so goddamn beautiful. I could... Damn, I could finish right now jus' lookin' atchu.” He confesses, his cheeks, ears, and chest getting even redder at his own words.

“Really, uh? You're quite easy to tease, Mister Morgan.” You tease, before turning around and bending again, wanting him to see your bottom, taking a more than suggestive position with your ass up.

“Oh, for God sake.” He nearly chokes, his rhythm accelerating again; almost frenetic. This is all he ever wanted during those cold lonely moments. All he ever needed to see. And he can’t help but engrave every little detail in his mind; the little scars you have here and there, the different tone and grain of your skin, your hairs, your body’s hollows and bumps. Every little imperfection. And they make it all even better. Better than any fantasies he had ever pictured in the past few weeks. Because they are making you yourself.

You turn again to face him and straddle his lap, unable to resist your own urges that had been building and building since you had found him touching himself to the thought of you.

That’s when something finally lights up in his mind. The moment he feels your soft, warm thighs around him, and how you’re soaked in between them, it hits him. You’ve been wanting him just as badly as he wanted you. As odd and surprising as it sounds to him. This new reality is right there against his tip as you start rubbing your entrance against it, teasing, playing, pressing just a few inches in, gently praising how big he looks and how good it would be to have him inside of you. 

That thing inside of him explodes.

Suddenly his hands are all over you. Touching everything they can, discovering, molding your curves under his fingertips. Hands on your thighs, hands on your hips, waist, neck. Each part of you touched is breaking every chain that was holding him back, one by one. These perfect sensations blind him to any reasoning, any sense of restrain, and push him to palm your breasts. God, the softness, the warmth. He sighs in appreciation as he kneads both of them and you join his pleasured breathing.

More.

One of his hands leaves your chest to grab your ass, roughly, and he squeezes, hard, while he sucks on the breast that has been abandoned. “Arthur!” You moan out in return, pleasured and surprised voice, mouth left open in delight. Oh, he will satisfy you. Those renewed vows appear as clear as day between the mess of his head as he keeps devouring your nipple endlessly, almost suckling at it. He will push that voice of you to its limit, break it until you won’t be able to scream.

“That’ what you wanted all this time, uh? Drivin’ me insane?”

You search for something clever to throw back at him but the calloused hand on your breast suddenly reaches your cunt and you gasp instead. 

“That’ what you do? Torture poor devil like me until they can’t help but fall for you?” He asks again, his confidence heightened by your sweet sounds, his tone getting darker and darker. Touching your folds pleasures him almost as much as you, his brows furrowing into a needy and intense expression.

“J-just you… ‘Just wanted you to notice me…” You admit, your hips rolling on his lap and against his hand. His fingers part your cunt and trace their own way through this little Heaven, exploring this place he had craved so much; and it makes him more excited than any thoughts he could have had on his own.

“Well, that sure worked, girl.”

He lets go of your pussy and you squeal in protest, almost ashamed of your own sound. He smiles triumphantly at you, feeling satisfied to give you a taste of your own medicine. He wraps both of his arms around your waist, your chest ending up pressed against his face; his nose is shoved in it and he sighs louder this time. 

He can’t wait any longer. Not when he has been dreaming of this for weeks. Not after discovering your unforgettable perfume. Not after having felt this wet, warm promise of your entrance. He looks up at your face, searching for any trace of disgust or apprehension but you're completely free from any. Mouth agape, breaths deep and hips shamelessly searching for his, you're even more gorgeous than before, and he snaps.

He guides you carefully, his hands warm and hard against your bare skin. And he pushes.

His sex entering you slowly is deliciously hard and hot. His cockhead is big, way bigger than what you’re used to, and feels so good already. His arms hold you in place as he pushes again, wanting to be completely stuffed in, a long, low growling sound accompanying his movement. Oh, Christ Almighty. He had never felt so good than buried like this in your warm, silky, divine cunt right now.

Once fully settled, you both sighs and breath loudly for just a few seconds, your gazes meeting and silently agreeing on how fucking delicious this feels. Then you move up, wanting to ride him, feeling his shaft pull out as you do, but his arms grab you tighter and put your hips back in place.

“God!” You whine as you feel his length plunging again and hitting that spot inside of you.

He starts to buck his hips up against yours, unable to resist anything anymore. His rhythm, he wanted slow and meaningful at first, is quickly turning fast and hard, a remnant of how incredibly frustrated and needy he had been all this time.

“I’m gonna -Ohh, shit- I’m gonna show ya what ya get teasin’ me like that.”

Arthur's southern drawl is even more prominent, his voice hoarse and deep from effort. His thrusts up are more and more powerful, making you jump up and down on top of him and for the first time in days he thanks himself for having pleasured himself so many times lately, otherwise he would have come instantly right there in your heat. Your breasts bounce in this erotic, unresistible dance that he’ll remember for every future night he'll spend alone.

“Oh Arthur, don’t stop!” 

His cock pulls out and shoves into your cunt so fastly it's rubbing perfectly how you want it deep inside and you reach for his shoulders, needing to hold onto him, already so close. “Yes, yes, yes, right there!”

He hears your accelerating breathing, your higher-pitched moans turning into screams and he searches for your lips with his. Your tender petals against his dirty mouth. But he doesn’t care, there’s only your pussy right now, and your incredible smell he’s filled with once again, just like you’re filled with his tongue and his dick inside of you.

Both his hands grab your ass and he fucks frantically, his balls slapping against it with each thrust, making your plump flesh jiggle and those hitting and smacking sounds resonating throughout the room. Again, and again, and Damn it again.

It’s too much for you. 

You cry out loudly as your fingers dig into his shoulders and your head tilts backward, and his big, solid arms keep you pressed against his chest, completely wrapped around you; and he finally, finally feels it. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, instead of pain. This irresistible release, your pussy clenching and squeezing all around his cock. “-Ngh, s-shit yes angel, give it t’me!”

You give it all to him without any resistance and in a obscene scream. And it’s too much for him.

“Ah, God…” He hisses as he feels it coming, quickly pulling you up —as effortlessly as if you weighed nothing— and pressing his cock against your clit, well nestled between your lips.

He reaches your lips again, needing to finish while kissing you, both of your bodies almost sewn together, his moans sounding more and more like primal growls and hisses at every rubbing movement against your core, movements getting faster and faster, impossibly faster, So fucking good, Jesus so goddamned perfect, Perfect, perfect!- Until he finally comes, translucent cum leaking all the way down his shaft and spreading on your lower belly, all panting and grunting, a complete mess; a satiated beast.

It’s better than any of the dreams he ever had, waking or sleeping. And it’s not just the release of this one and only time, it’s the pinnacle of all these lonely pleasures shared with no one in regretful secret.

For the second time that night, he thinks he’s dead. 

He falls backward, back against the mattress, and you follow, unable to stand without him. In that silence only disturbed by your exhausted breaths, he turns and grabs the first piece of clothing that he has at hand’s reach, his flannel. He gently uses it to clear your belly from his seed and seeing it, on your smooth and soft skin, makes a wave of culpability crash onto him once again. Shouldn't have done all of this. Should have taken care of her properly.

A dark, glum expression settles on his face and he wraps himself in a deep silence instead of your arms as he finishes to clean the both of you. God, did that man ever know rest for more than a few minutes? At this thought, you bend over to put a small kiss on his forehead, as a thank you for his aftercare.

“Satisfied enough?” You finally break the silence, getting up from the bed –not without stretching your back slightly and swaying your hips before bending to reach for your clothes on the floor.

Arthur cannot help but think of a Nymph as you do all of this still naked. Those irresistible, divine beauties that lure men with a simple move of their finger, as they say in books. He knew it was all stories from another time, but he was more and more convinced they would look exactly like you if they did exist.

“More than in a long time. You?” He replies, voice neutral and features closed as usual. He stays on the bed and put only his pants back, his cock finally softening under the coarse fabric. He never stops looking at you all the while.

“Couldn’t be better”. You assert, your blouse falling back on your upper body. You then roughly fix your hair in this casual, impish way that was yours.

That was driving him insane.

“You’re a little minx, ya know that? Gettin’ naked on purpose every night…”

“Oh, please. You didn’t really complain as far as I know.”

“Nah, but ya did make me insane. Teasin’ littl’ thing y’are.” He says with a fond voice he would have preferred less obvious.

You innocently shrug your shoulders, cheeky grin on your face. The way you're playing with him that easily should have been shaming to him, but he doesn't feel any shame anymore, not after what you have shared.

"Goodnight, Arthur." You throw as all answer, leaving him as you walk through the door of his room. He greets you back, the trimmest trace of longing in his rough voice.

Once again alone, once again cold, Arthur grabs a cigarette from his pocket to smoke before falling asleep; maybe to keep this lingering warmth just a bit longer, the sensations of your body, and especially your sex squeezing around his, still remaining on his skin. Lying completely in the bed, he smiles to himself as he notices you have forgotten your shawl —again. Or maybe you had left it on purpose. Maybe you had both times, now that he is thinking about it. The ruby fabric had landed wrapped all around his old, worn-out leather jacket, like a flame dancing around, enveloping, lapping at a tree.

It looks great that way.

Maybe you were only playing with him. Maybe this was only a one-time thing. But who cared? Tonight, Arthur had been taken care of by a Nymph. And no other mortal pleasure, no other solitaries delights, not even the most lustful and depraved images he could have pulled out of his tormented mind could ever compete with that slice of Olympe you had given to him.

a/n: Yeah, 5K words, I knooow! I'm hopeless. It's quite a lot, but I didn't feel like cutting, nothing felt right. What can I say except thank you, so much, for everyone's interest in the first part, for your notes, comments and reblogs, and for reading all of this! I am in utter PANIC rn because I feel like nothing I could write would be as good or as well received as the first part, but here it is! I really hope it didn't disappoint!

Also, to give Caesar what belongs to Caesar, the holster falling was completely inspired by my dear @zae-heeyyy's Piquancy (II)! I thought it would fit the comical aspect of the scene eheh (go check it out)

And also go check out this amazing piece Moons drew from this fic! Thanks again for this delightful treat! 💙

tag list: @a-court-of-valkyries, @redwritr, @cassietrn, @esquilone, @starlightt180, @narcoticv3nus, @thoughts-of-bear, @emjiroki, @prettyundeadgirl, @eternalsams @amyispxnk @babybatss-blog @ardeniaa @sauvignon-velvet @sweeterlilith (I tried to tag people who had shown interest in a part2, really sorry if I missed anyone!)

[rottingghosty]

The Ghostling of Space | DC X DP

i’m working on the next part of the realms pr au trust me i am but i got this tiktok my fyp and suddenly i’m thinking of a NEW au for dc x dp. video is at the end i came up with this at 2am (like usual) so there will be errors

prompt: Danny’s the Ancient of Space, he spends most of his time floating around space because he’s on a vacation by his council to enjoy his life as a baby ghostling and a young prince since he’s still too young to rule so he has someone as a regent (not sure who yet). So he’s just going around, passing various planets and solar system. He’s essentially swimming around because he looks more like a mer than a human.

Danny should’ve realized that someone was going to notice him at some point, he didn’t realize it’d be a few years after Clockwork had spat him out in this universe. He’d been enjoying his time witnessing the birth of stars, of nebulas being born and the death of a solar system. The universe he was in made his core thrum with life, he’s gotten to feed it heavily that it puts his main obsession on the back burner. He skims his finger tips through the stardust of a star that had been born, molding and shaping it until it joins its brethren to form a constellation for the planet he was curled around.

The planet had no life yet but he knew that would change one day, he could feel its core yawning and turning. It’d get its push once Life had the opportunity to focus on it and breathe into the core. He was balance, his essence seeping into the planet’s core as he does his part of aiding the formation of a baby solar system. His body twists as he swims languidly through the vaccum as he does flips and turns. Moving through space with his newly formed tail felt like he was in the ocean, the movement so naturally and freeing.

It’d been when he finally drifted away from it and towards the Earth that was so similar to his back in his own universe he could never return that someone picked up his presence.

It’d been when he finally shrunk from his rather large size to something relatively smaller as he curled around a moon near Uranus. Away from any prying eyes as he allows himself to drift off into sleep.

It’d take someone to had been looking at one of Uranus’ moons to realize that something was curled around one, something large and green.

Captain Marvel could only stare in awe at the figure that curled around one of the moon’s of Uranus. The figure was beautiful, pale green skin that seemed to glow before dimming and brightening again. They seemed eel like if the way they seemed to move their body to curl around the moon of Titania. Where legs would have started, instead goes into an void of darkness, with a green glow that was a sickeningly shade of bright green that dimmed and brightened.

It was beautiful as it was eerie. The glow seemed to start from the hips and continued down its sides and tail, the fins flaring every time the creature seemed to breathe. A fin from at the top of the spine and continued down the entire back until it reached a stop before the end of its tail.

Captain Marvel knew that the other members in the Justice League were in awe just as he is, something about this being screamed otherworldly. It screamed magic and it made him very being thrum with energy he’s never felt before. He wanted to say something, to speak about what would be the best course of action to take to see if this being was a friendly or a hostile. Before he could even say a word, Constantine released a curse.

“Why is there a bloody baby ghost of the Infinite Realms here?”

TLDR: danny is very much a baby ghost prince living his life watching everything in space and making new things. he’s basically the equivalent of a baby god playing toys (planets and solar systems) and has no idea that he’s giving the JL and JLD a heart attack because oh my god that’s a baby ghost. but also OH MY GOD THAT’S THE BABY GHOST OF THE HIGH KING. still unsure who takes on the role for danny, pandora? cw? frostbite? a random oc? i know people use jazz as a regent but shes like a teen and deserves to live her life without having to deal with ghostly duties.

now danny’s got these people wanting to care for him cause he’s just out in the open in space and they don’t want the high king to get upset if their son is hurt.

(clockwork finds it very funny because if anything, they have to worry about upsetting anyone who danny deems as his)

[sugarplumfairy777]

⋆˚✿˖°failure..? doubt...? limitations...? uhh...what is that?

#nonegativityinmyvocabularycuzimgodduh

♡︎doubts

there are moments when doubt clouds your mind, when you question your true nature, and wonder if it’s really possible that you are the embodiment of pure consciousness, that you are god itself. but here’s the truth: you are powerful beyond measure, and doubt is simply the ego’s way of keeping you small. remember, you are not the voice in your head. you are the one who hears it. you are not your body, your circumstances, or the labels others give you. all of those things change. you, however, are the unchanging, eternal awareness behind it all—pure consciousness. that alone is your essence, and it is limitless. it is god in its most divine, infinite form. you are that. your are god.

so why doubt? doubt arises when we identify too strongly with our limited selves—with the ego, the stories we tell ourselves about who we think we are, and the false separation we feel from the universe. but here’s the thing: that separation is an illusion. you are not separate. you are one with everything, one with all beings, one with the source of all creation. if god is infinite and formless, then that is who you truly are.

the world we live in is built on beliefs that reinforce separation and limitation, which make us forget our true nature as god, as pure consciousness.

from a young age, we’re taught to define ourselves by external things—our name, our achievements, our social status, how others perceive us. we’re told that we’re just humans, separate from everything else, living in a material world where everything seems to exist outside of us. society measures success by how much we have or how well we fit into its standards. this constant focus on the external world leads us to forget the infinite power we hold inside.

there’s also a deep-rooted belief in scarcity and competition. we’re told that there’s not enough for everyone and that we need to work hard to “earn” our place in the world. this idea of having to compete with others to survive keeps us in a mindset of lack and limitation. it makes us feel like we’re small, powerless, and unworthy of the greatness we naturally possess.

on top of that, most of us are bombarded by information and distractions that keep our attention outside of ourselves—social media, advertisements, entertainment. these things make us constantly compare ourselves to others, reinforcing the idea that we’re not good enough, that we’re missing something. when our minds are always focused outward, we forget to look within, where our true power lies.

religion, too, can play a role in reinforcing the separation. many traditional religious teachings portray god as something outside of us—an all-powerful being up in the sky, separate from us, judging us. this can make it hard to recognize that god is within us, that we are one with the divine. instead of seeing ourselves as divine beings with infinite power, we’re taught to see ourselves as flawed, imperfect, and in need of salvation from something outside of us.

the education system also teaches us to prioritize logic, reason, and empirical evidence. while these things are valuable, they often make us dismiss our inner knowing, our intuition, and our connection to something greater than the physical world. we start to believe that the only “real” things are those we can see, measure, and prove scientifically, which distances us from the understanding that we are consciousness itself.

all these systems—society, media, religion, education—focus on the material, the external, and reinforce the idea that we’re separate, small, and limited. but these are just illusions. the truth is, beyond all these distractions, we are god in human form. we are the creators of our reality, infinite and powerful beyond measure.

to overcome this conditioning, we need to remember to turn inward, to connect with our true essence. by shifting our focus from the external world to the inner, we can begin to see that the separation and limitation we’ve been taught are illusions. we are, and have always been, one with the infinite.

think about that for a moment: you are the consciousness that creates worlds.

the doubt you feel is just the mind holding on to a false story. it’s the ego trying to convince you that you need to stay small, stay afraid. but you don’t have to. you have the power to step into your true nature at any time, to realize that you are already the infinite, and that nothing can diminish your divine power. cuz ur god duh. 😝

how do you release these doubts?

shift your perspective: any time you find yourself doubting, pause and ask, “who is doubting right now?” is it your higher self, your infinite consciousness? or is it your mind, your ego, your conditioning? you’ll realize that it’s always the latter. remind yourself that the real you, the one observing, is always free from doubt.

affirm your power: wake up every morning and affirm: “i am infinite. i am consciousness itself. i am god in form.” these words are not just affirmations—they are the deepest truth of your existence. repeat them, let them sink into your being, until you feel the energy of your divinity pulsing through your every cell.

remember your unity with everything: god is not something separate from you. the universe is not some distant force. it is you. you are made from the same divine consciousness that runs through every star, every planet, every being. the same consciousness that creates life flows through you, too. you are the universe experiencing itself.

embrace your power: you are not weak, you are not small. you are the creator of your reality, the manifestor of your dreams, and the master of your destiny. nothing outside of you can take that power away from you because it is in you. it is you. every time you doubt, remind yourself of this: i am the creator. i am the source of all power.

you are limitless. the doubt you feel is just a temporary veil over your true power, but it can’t last. every time you bring your awareness back to the present moment, every time you remember that you are pure consciousness, the veil lifts. the illusion fades.

there is no need to doubt when you realize you are already everything you seek. you don’t have to strive to become god, to become powerful, to become divine—you already are. it’s always been you. it will always be you.

so, the next time doubt creeps in, breathe deeply, smile, and remember: you are pure consciousness, infinite, powerful, and divine. you are the creator of all that is. step into that truth and watch the world transform around you.

♡︎failure

we’ve all grown up with the idea that failure is something to be feared, that it’s a sign we’re not good enough or capable enough. but what if i told you that failure isn’t real? it’s an illusion we’ve been conditioned to believe in, and once you truly understand this, especially in the context of the void state, you can release the fear of failure and step into your infinite power.

here’s why failure doesn’t exist and how realizing this can change your entire perspective on life.

1. failure is just a label, not a reality

first of all, the concept of failure is something we create in our minds. it’s a label we slap on situations when things don’t go according to our expectations. society conditions us to believe that if we don’t achieve a specific outcome, we’ve failed. but who decides what failure even means? it’s not the universe. it’s not some law of existence. it’s us, based on societal norms and conditioning.

society sets all these expectations—like getting a certain job, reaching milestones by certain ages, succeeding in school, relationships, and more. when we don’t meet those arbitrary standards, we call it failure. but the truth is, life doesn’t operate according to those rigid standards. there are no universal rules that say you have to achieve a particular thing by a certain time. when we attach the label of failure to an experience, it’s just a reflection of our own beliefs—not reality.

2. the void state: where failure dissolves

now, let’s talk about the void state. the void is a place where all external ideas and constructs—including failure—dissolve. the void state is the place of infinite potential, pure consciousness, and limitless creation. when you enter the void, you step outside of the physical world’s limitations, stepping into a space where everything is possible.

in the void, there is no concept of failure, because there are no external judgments or expectations. it’s a state where you can create whatever reality you desire, free from the constraints of your current circumstances. when you realize you can access this space, the idea of failure becomes irrelevant. why? because the void is a reminder that you are always in control of your reality, no matter what happens in the physical world. failure is tied to the ego’s attachment to outcomes, but in the void, the ego doesn’t exist. the void reminds you that you are not limited by past mistakes, external circumstances, or societal expectations. you are infinite consciousness with the power to create and manifest anything you choose. when you realize this, “failure” can’t touch you, because you understand that you can always start fresh, that you’re constantly creating in each moment.

3. there are only lessons and growth

instead of seeing failure, recognize that every experience is an opportunity for growth. when things don’t go the way you planned, it doesn’t mean you failed—it means you learned. it means you grew. each experience teaches you something valuable about yourself, your path, and the world around you.

when you shift your perspective to see every situation as a stepping stone, you’ll realize there’s no such thing as failure—there’s only progress. every setback is a redirection, a guide leading you toward a better understanding of yourself and your desires. it’s the universe saying, “this is what you need to learn before you reach the next level.” from this perspective, what we call “failure” becomes just another part of the journey toward expansion and self-mastery.

4. the power of the void to manifest success

when you fully embrace the void state and recognize your power to manifest, you understand that there is no wrong path. whatever you desire, you can create it. the void is a space where you can strip away all the beliefs that tell you otherwise, a space where you can manifest new realities instantly, regardless of what has happened before.

if you ever feel like you’ve failed at something, use that as a cue to tap into the void. enter that space of stillness, of limitless possibility, and remind yourself that you are the creator of your life. nothing is set in stone, nothing is permanent. everything is subject to change based on your thoughts and beliefs. if you desire a new outcome, you have the power to manifest it.

in the void, you realize that “failure” is just another momentary experience, not a permanent mark on your life. you can always rewrite the story, start fresh, and bring your desires into reality without being held back by what others call failure.

5. you’re always winning, even when it doesn’t seem like it

when you’re stuck in the mindset of failure, you’re looking through a narrow lens, focusing only on what didn’t go according to plan. but when you zoom out, you’ll often realize that those moments were setting you up for something greater. Trust that you are always winning. every step you take, even when it doesn’t look like success on the outside, is moving you closer to your ultimate goal. sometimes things fall apart so something better can come together. in the void, you can see this clearly, because it’s the place where your higher self is always in control, always guiding you toward your best possible life.

6. failure is just part of the illusion of separation

at its core, the idea of failure is rooted in the illusion of separation—that we are separate from our goals, separate from success, separate from the divine. but in truth, there is no separation. we are already one with everything we desire. the belief in failure comes from the false notion that we’re lacking something, that we’re not enough or that we’re disconnected from our power.

but the void state reminds us that we are already whole, already complete. we are god, we are pure consciousness, and we are the creators of our reality. failure doesn’t exist in a world where you understand that everything is connected, that you are already everything you seek.

embrace your power

the next time you feel like you’ve failed, remember this: failure doesn’t exist. it’s a label we’ve been taught to fear, but it’s not real. in the grand scheme of your infinite existence, there are only experiences—some of them are stepping stones to success, and some are lessons that help you grow. but they’re all part of your journey, and none of them diminish your power.

when you tap into the void state, when you realize that you are pure consciousness and the creator of your life, failure becomes irrelevant. you are always in control, always manifesting, always creating. setbacks are temporary, but your power is eternal.

so, let go of the illusion of failure, you are god, and in your world, failure does not exist. inducing pure consciousness/the void state is literally impossible to fail. failure simply does not exist.

♡︎limitations

as a god you are limitless. no matter what anybody tells you, you are limitless that will never change because that is just the truth. you will and can never stop being god. you are not just some random human who came across loa/manifesting some random friday afternoon. you are limitless. you are pure consciousness, you are the creator you determine what is real and what is to happen.

no dream is too big no desire is too out far out of reach, you are god so might as well just start acting like it lol.