#it's not like. super imminent i don't think

[queerpyracy]

wish we had a social script for when an older relative you don't hate but with whom you do have a strained and complicated relationship is dying. like how am i supposed to talk about this and how are my friends supposed to respond. condolences feel like a burden but that's not anyone else's fault

[caldella]

SINSMAS SPOILERS AHEAD

Fan theory time!

This part of this episode had me SCREAMING because I hope they're hinting at a headcanon/theory I've had for a long time!

The way this scene was such a DIRECT callback to S1E1 Muder Family, down to looking through a window and one of them being hesitant to go through with the job because there's a happy family?

In Murder Family it was the same situation (murdering someone responsible for a marriage falling apart), but Blitzø didn't think anything of it even though he had done the same with Stolas. Blitzø and Stolas' situationship vs. Stella could've well been a Martha and Mrs. Mayberry situation, if you remove the later knowledge he and the viewers didn't have at first. Mrs. Mayberry as a client could have very well been a Stella if we didn't know the context later in the episode said otherwise. Mrs. Mayberry was more angry that the public viewed Martha as a hero for surviving being shot than anything else.

And the entire Sinsmas mission making Blitzø hesitant, because now he's realizing that he relates to his target? Like, suddenly he's examining that his revenge murder stuff isn't always the best solution, and this might be hurting someone who has been through shit and should be happy? That he could be killing a Stolas or a Blitzø? That he could be ruining a family of kids like Loona and Via who don't deserve it?

That maybe like he's been doing with his personal life, he should be asking some more questions about the impact of the jobs he's taking on, too? Add in the way Blitzø insists constantly that he's an assassin, not a bodyguard, but he is super protective of his loved ones and has proven to be really, really good at saving people...

Incoming IMP revolution theories might mess this up, but I am going to be SO, SO HAPPY if the eventual end-of-show route for IMP is that they transfer from murder to being bodyguards for hire. Like IMP is now Imminent Murder Prevention or something. Blitz is getting over his mentality that he can only make people's lives worse, and what better symbolism for that than his entire company eventually being devoted to protecting/saving people instead of destroying them?

They still get to fight/shoot/kill if needed, but to help instead of harm. The absolute symbolism. The way that would probably be really good for Blitzø's mental health once he makes that connection because he loves helping people he likes or thinks need it. Moxxie might like it, too. Just everything about this possibility.

I would love it SO MUCH.

[cece693]

I Don't Need A Gentleman

pairing: edward cullen x gender neutral reader tags: edward is old fashioned and kinda a prude, the reader is not, reader doesn't want vanilla sex anymore, alice and rosalie are cool sister in laws

You lounge on the massive, cream-colored couch in the Cullens’ living room, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone as Alice and Rosalie flip through a stack of fashion magazines. It’s one of those rare, lazy evenings—no imminent threats, no pressing vampire drama—just the family scattered around the house doing their own thing. Alice bumps your foot with hers. “You’re weirdly quiet today. Seriously, what’s up?”

You look up, tapping the phone against your knee. “It’s kind of about Edward.”

Rosalie arches a perfectly groomed brow. “What did our golden boy do now?”

Your cheeks—if they still could—might blush. “He didn’t really do anything wrong, exactly. It’s just…” You pause, gathering your thoughts. Even though you’ve been married to Edward for a while, it can still be tough to put some things into words. “He’s super considerate, and I adore that about him. But sometimes—okay, a lot of times—I just wish he’d show a little more…passion? Fire?”

Alice makes a sympathetic face, setting her magazine aside. “He can be a bit old-school, yeah. He has that ‘eternally seventeen’ gentleman thing down to a T.”

“Tell me about it,” you huff. “I’m a vampire, too! I mean, I’m not exactly made of glass. But he keeps treating me like I’m this delicate flower that might crumble if the wind blows too hard. I swear, sometimes our kisses feel like little pecks—like he’s worried I’ll spontaneously combust if he lingers longer than three seconds.”

Rosalie leans back, crossing her arms. “Look, Edward’s always been overly cautious. It’s one of his most annoying…okay, fine, endearing qualities. But you can’t blame him for wanting to protect you. He’s basically built that way.”

You sit up straighter, pushing your hair out of your face. “Totally. I get it. I love how he’s protective, and, well, a total gentleman. But I need more of that oomph. Y’know, that feeling where you just can’t keep your hands off each other.”

Alice snorts a laugh. “I never thought I’d hear you say ‘oomph.’ You should definitely say that to Edward’s face. He’d probably blush so hard, if vampires could blush.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully. “But how do I bring it up without hurting his feelings? He’s so sensitive. The moment he thinks he’s made me even slightly uncomfortable, he clams up.”

Rosalie sets the magazine aside with a little thump. “You’re married. He can handle the conversation. Trust me, you should be honest about it. Being in love for, what, decades? That means talking about the hard stuff, or the passionate stuff.” She smirks at that last part.

Alice nods enthusiastically, tucking her legs up beneath her. “The best way is just to be straightforward. Tell him how you feel without making it sound like he’s doing something wrong. Emphasize that you love his old-fashioned side—it’s part of why you married him, right? But also make it crystal clear that you want him to dial up the heat. You’re a vampire, for crying out loud, not some breakable human.”

You exhale, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. “You guys are right. I’m probably overthinking it. I’m worried he’ll take it the wrong way, but I can’t just keep ignoring how frustrated I am.”

“Exactly.” Alice taps your knee again. “He’ll listen, especially if you remind him that you still love all the things that make him Edward. He just needs to hear that you want him to trust your strength, too.”

Rosalie stands, stretching with the fluidity of a cat. “And if that doesn’t work, just throw him up against a wall somewhere. That’ll get the point across.”

Alice gasps in mock horror. “Rosalie Hale! That’s your brother you’re talking about.”

She smirks. “Hey, I’m just saying, sometimes subtlety isn’t the answer.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Let me try talking first before I start tossing him around.”

Alice and Rosalie share amused glances as you stand, giving a quick wave. “Thanks for the advice, seriously.”

“Anytime,” Alice sings out.

“Go get ’em,” Rosalie adds, winking.

You head up the stairs to find Edward, heart fluttering in that familiar way only he can cause, despite both of you being, well, undead. He’s in his usual spot in the family’s library, flipping through a thick novel—something old and fancy, undoubtedly. The moment he senses you, he glances up with a small smile, eyes full of that unwavering devotion.

“Hey,” you say, crossing the room until you’re close enough to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Got a minute to talk?”

“Of course,” Edward responds softly, setting the book aside. He tilts his head, concern flickering in those golden eyes. “Is everything all right?”

“It is,” you reassure him, settling in beside him on the velvet couch. You can still hear Alice’s and Rosalie’s voices drifting faintly from downstairs, but you focus on Edward. “I just wanted to share something that’s been on my mind, and it’s really important to me.”

He nods earnestly. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Taking a breath, you gently place your hand over his. “So, we’ve been together for a long time. We’re married, and I’m a vampire—just like you, right? But sometimes I feel like you’re handling me with kid gloves. I love your gentlemanly side, and I’d never want you to completely lose that. But I want us to be able to express our love passionately, without you worrying so much that I’ll break.”

Edward’s gaze drops to your entwined hands. “I—I see,” he says quietly. “I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t my equal. It’s just…I can’t shake the habit of worrying you might be hurt or regret something if I let go too much. Even though you’re stronger than any human I once knew, it’s hard to override decades of caution.”

Leaning in, you brush a gentle kiss against his cheek. “I know. And I respect how deeply you care. But hey, my strength is legit.” You grin, flexing half-jokingly. “I promise, I can handle more. And if something’s too much, I���ll tell you.”

Edward’s lips curve into a small smile. “Thank you for being honest with me. I guess I needed a reminder that I’m not the only one in this relationship who has a say—especially when it comes to showing affection.”

Your heart (metaphorically) flutters at the genuine warmth in his voice. “Exactly. I love being with you, and I don’t want you to hold back. We can figure out the balance, you know, do the old-fashioned courting stuff, but also, I don’t know…maybe occasionally break the furniture?”

His eyes widen for half a second in surprise, then he laughs, the sound soft and musical. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he teases, sliding a hand around your waist to pull you closer. This time, when you tilt your head up for a kiss, you feel him lean in just a bit more—a tiny, tangible shift. His lips linger, his cool hand splaying across your back. The moment stretches on until you both draw away, contented smiles on your faces.

“That,” you whisper, thumb brushing against his jaw, “was exactly what I’ve been missing.”

Edward’s eyes shine with affection. “Then I’ll make sure you never miss it again.”

Downstairs, you can practically hear Alice’s “Yes!” whispered under her breath, and you know Rosalie is grinning in that smug way that says, “Told you so.” It makes you laugh softly. But that’s the beauty of this big, unconventional vampire family.

Edward gently presses his forehead against yours. Neither of you needs to breathe, but the moment feels like a breath of fresh air anyway. Old-fashioned or not, he’s all yours—and he’s finally letting you show him that you’re every bit the strong partner he deserves. And judging by the heat in his eyes, this is just the beginning.

[mysteryshoptls]

R Idia Shroud - C&D Diner Vignette

Our… Fries… Are…

[Crisp & Dips]

―First day after opening

Idia: Sigh… There's so much to do 'round the kitchen that I can't let up for even a 'mo.

Idia: Meh, at least it's better than having to do any of that customer service stuff.

Lilia: Idia～ Table 4's calling for you. You made those fries earlier, right?

Idia: Eh… Y-Y-Y-Yeah, but… Wh-Why me…!? I-I'm no good with customers…

Lilia: Looks like they really wanna talk to you.

Azul: If they're looking to talk to the kitchen staff, then it'll either be compliments towards the food… or a complaint.

Customer A: What, that blue-haired guy made it!? Get over here, now!

Idia: P. SURE IT'S GONNA BE A COMPLAINT, THOUGH!!??

Lilia: Their voice was a little raised, sure… But I'm sure it'll be fine. In any case, go hear them out.

Idia: I-I don't wanna… S-Someone deal with them for me. Like maybe our guild leader Cater-shi…!

Lilia: He's working with customers right now. I'm also busy, so go on, see what they want!

[Lilia makes him go to the floor]

Idia: Eep! D-Don't forcibly drag me from the kitchen…!

Idia: UuuggghHHHhhh… I'm gonna explode with anxiety from not knowing what they're gonna say, PLUS having to talk to a stranger…!

Customer A: Geez, you're here, finally…

Idia: Uh…...... U-Um… Wh…... Wh-what can I do for you…?

Customer A: These potato fries ain't fried enough, obviously! I like it when it's completely crispy both inside and out!

Idia: Eh… Huh…!? B-But… Th-That's not…

Customer A: Fry me up a new batch! And make sure you make 'em extra crispy!

Idia: B-B-B-But… U-Um… Our… Fries… Are…

Customer A: HUH!? STOP SQUAWKING AND GO AND FRY 'EM UP!!

Idia: RIGHT AWAAAAAY～～～!

[Idia runs away]

Idia: Wheeeew, I finally made it back to the kitchen… [inhales deeply]

Idia: That... ARROGANT PRICK!! Who do they think they are? Couldn't even wait for my explanation…

Idia: What, are those things on the side of their head just decorations? Ughhhhhh, those types never listen!

Idia: The menu clearly says that "Our fries are soft and fluffy on the inside," so why're they complaining about crispiness!?

Idia: Plus, it's written in 48pt font! Who cares how they like it!? THIS 100% AIN'T MY FAULT!!!

Idia: And LOL they just kept saying crispy, like, c'mon, you're the crispy one here, my guy. That should be good enough.

Lilia: You should've just said that to them right then and there. Why'd you agree to re-make them?

Idia: O-O-O-O-Obviously, it's 'cause there's no way I can make convo with someone I've never met before, face-to-face!

Cater: I can't believe something like that happened when I was off dealing with some other people. Looks like we got ourselves a problem customer.

Idia: If that's how they're gonna play it, oh, I'll give them a new batch of fries… Just how they like it…

Idia: They want crispy? I'll show them crispy… I'll make them something that'll shut them up for good!

Cater: I-Idia-kun!? Your eye's are looking a little scary there.

Lilia: Looks like the fire's been lit underneath him.

Idia: I'ma utterly destroy their stupid complaint with my "super thorough" cooking. They're gonna regret ever asking me to make 'em extra crispy!

Lilia: Alrighty then, I'm off to bring the re-made fries to table 4～

[Lilia leaves the kitchen]

Idia: Fheeheehee… This is my best work yet! No way they can say it's not crispy!

Idia: I threw the fries into oil heated to the highest temp and let 'em cook in there 'til they were pretty much burnt, pretty much fried them 3x over!

Idia: These truly are the crispy fries to rule them all! Fried over and over and over again, they're a whole new type of crispy～!

Idia: Who knows what'll happen once they put it in their mouth? But that's what they asked for, soooo!

Azul: Visually, those fries look like dead tree branches. I do believe another complaint will be imminent.

Idia: Who cares? Whatever happens is their own fault.

[Lilia comes back]

Lilia: Idia～ That customer's calling for you again!

Idia: Eep!! A-A-A-Again!?

Azul: See, here comes the complaint…

Idia: N-Nooo, I don't wanna go out there! I'm never leaving the kitchen again!

Azul: You fried it as requested, did you not? Even if they complain, you should just repeat back to them what you were just saying.

Idia: C-Come on～! How many times do I hafta tell you that I can't hold a convo face-to-face with people…!?

Lilia: You can't just keep avoiding things you don't like. This is for your own good. Go on out there!

[Lilia kicks him out of the kitchen]

Idia: Eeeeeeeep, don't just shove me out there like this!

Idia: Ah… Uh… D-D-D-D-D-Did… D-Did you… call for me…?

Customer A: Yeah, you…!

Customer A: This is great! These are the tastiest fries I've ever eaten in my life!

Idia: Eep! S-Sorry, I…! …Wait, what!? Uh…

Customer A: THIS IS THE SORT OF CRISPINESS I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR…!!! Both the frying amount and the texture are perfect!

Idia: U-Uh-huh…

Idia: W-Wut…? No matter what angle you look at it, it's way too burnt and there's no way it's got any flavor…!

[Azul and Lilia, watching from the sidelines]

Azul: Oh my, so it was words of praise. It seems our chef here hasn't grasped that and is still quite spooked.

Lilia: Kheeheehee. Doesn't matter if it's a compliment or a complaint, he really is bad with customers, huh～

Customer A: I really liked these. I'll come by tomorrow for some more!

Idia: Eeeeeek! P-P-P-Please, no...

Requested by @farfalla049.

[sirfrogsworth]

So Elon has decided to skip the imminent disaster of global climate change and just move on to a calamity 5 billion years in the future.

If you ever need to understand Elon's motivations, it's all this.

Okay and a little bit the woke mind virus.

But mostly this.

He wants to get to Mars more than anything. It's why the only thing he can speak intelligently about is his rockets. He has put in the time and effort to learn about them because this is his singular passion.

A lovely Youtube physicist did a video about SpaceX and she said half of the rockets blow up and Elon just wants more money. And it was disappointing to hear her say that because she is a scientist and both things are inaccurate.

SpaceX would be an amazing company without Elon. His leadership is the only thing really holding it back. They have put lots of cool shit into space. Their Falcon program is the most productive and cheapest rocket program in history. They put more stuff into space than everyone else combined.

They had to blow up part of the graph just so you could see the competition. Half of the SpaceX rockets are *not* blowing up.

Starship is a specific prototype. It has nothing to do with their main rocket business. Starship is Elon wanting to go to Mars. It is basically him trying to send a 3 story building into space. And he keeps blowing it up because that is the fastest way to develop a rocket. He's wasting a lot of money by trying to speedrun a trip to Mars in his lifetime. And these tests are bit more like crash test data than expecting the rocket and Starship to actually function properly. It's a process and they have goals for each launch, and for the most part, they reach those goals. Any success after those goals is gravy to them. But they are pretty certain it is going to end in fireworks at this stage of development.

I don't know if they will get it to work. It would be nice because a functional spaceship that size could do a lot of cool science. But Elon's goals and NASA's goals are going to conflict in a major way at some point in the future. And I'm worried that may damage space exploration.

Starship is very different than their Falcon program. It's a science experiment. Falcons rarely blow up. They get shit to space like the James Webb telescope.

And as far as Elon just wanting more money... sort of.

His personal wealth has not been a huge concern of his for a while. Otherwise he wouldn't have let Tesla fall apart like it has. The wealth he is actually concerned about is not his own. Going to Mars is a trillion-dollar-plus endeavor. Even the richest man in the world cannot raise that much money.

Only a government could fund that.

Elon knows this. He figured it out a while ago. And when he saw an opportunity to get his hands on the government purse strings, he jumped at the chance.

He jumped in the shape of an X like a giant loser.

I'm *positive* Elon thought, "If I could save the government a trillion dollars, they'll give it to me so I can go to Mars."

But it is probably breaking his brain right now after learning he isn't this super genius who can figure out government bureaucracy in a weekend with a bunch of coding dorks.

He got depressed and realized his cool plan to get to Mars was falling apart.

Whoops.

Elon will say anything to get to Mars. He will lie about anything to get to Mars. He will consort with anyone to get to Mars. If you are ever unsure why Elon is doing something, it's to get to Mars. His moral calculus is based on this. In his delusional mind, everything is justifiable to save the human race.

He does have side quests. He wants to repopulate the Earth with his seed. And he uses IVF because you can drastically increase the odds of getting a boy if you pay extra. And he is angry at his trans daughter because he wants boys to continue his mission to spread Musk seed. He spends $50,000 extra to make sure he gets boys and she is messing with the plan.

Oh, and he really really wants people to think he is good at video games. And he wants people to like him. And he wants to kill the woke mind virus because he didn't get the boy he paid for.

But Mars is *almost* all he cares about.

Elon thinks Earth is doomed and he wants immortality from being the man who saved human civilization. He truly believes our existence is dependent on being "multiplanetary." It might be the only thing he believes.

Saving the human race is supposed to be his legacy.

And it is killing us.

[megapteraurelia]

EPITHIMIA. — talisman #1

☾ SUMMARY;

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

☾ WARNINGS;

— fem!reader; enemies to lovers; forced proximity; attempted character study?? (badly done!!); angst; TW: mention of blood, death, hospital

☾ WORD COUNT;

— 10,102.

☾ AUTHOR'S NOTE;

— if there's technical loopholes about CT and stuff, don't come for me, please. i tried my best T_T also, this was super difficult to do, because i kept thinking i didn't have a proper grasp on megumi, because honestly, this guy's all over the place in the beginning. also, nonnie, i am sooo sorry that this turned less romantic, we'll fix it in part 2, i pwomise

— back to masterlist.

4th of March; 17:46. — gojo satoru.

"Oh, who is a good boy?"

A vicious growl sounded out, animalistic and threatening, drowning under the annoyed timbre of a certain black-haired student, "I suggest you back off unless you want to lose fingers. They don't take well to being petted."

Gojo Satoru thought watching his two adorable students, old and new alike, bicker might be one of his favourite past times. There was a specific sort of sadistic satisfaction that tugged on the sides of his mouth at the faint pulsing of Megumi's vein in his forehead even when the kid tried to school his features into one of impassiveness.

But the way his student's knuckles turned white, the way the precious Divine Dogs stood at attention around the new exchange student from Kyoto, made Gojo feel like he might kiss Gakuganji for his ploy, after all. Only might, because despite the piqued interest in where this might be headed, he wasn't quite into old, wrinkly men who smelled like decayed grandeur. So, maybe no kissing.

But hey — as far as he was concerned, the sentiment alone was something worth noting.

Gojo leaned back; the tiles of the old school building's roof non-existent underneath the perpetual film of Infinity coating his fingers.

It was no secret that any of the old farts in the headquarters were leeching to gather information on Tokyo Jujutsu High's first-years and their annoying amazing teacher: himself with his high standing in the Jujutsu world, Yuji's bodily curse and the impending doom imminent over all of Japan at best, Megumi's technique and the perpetual stand off against the Zen'in clan and their desire to steal his student away.

Not that any of it mattered.

They could attempt all they want to try and spin the rigged wheel. If Gojo Satoru had anything to say about it, and oh, he did — somebody like him always did — then there was going to be hell to pay.

"Ouch, hey— what the hell, Fushiguro?"

But until his new exchange student actually gave him reason to intervene, Gojo was more than happy to watch the way you had pulled away your hand at the last second, the sharp teeth of Megumi's black wolf grazing the flesh of your fingers with maliciousness that usually were only reserved for curses that seemed to personally have wronged him.

Gojo's eyes narrowed with interest, his smile turning a bit sharper. Oh, this was going to be really interesting.

"I told you to keep away. You just really suck at listening."

Megumi called his dog back with a flick of his fingers and really, he didn't even have to — a silent command would have sufficed, too.

So you watched the posturing, the exaggerated movement of his hand, the way he threw over to you the hint of a condescending look, and you couldn't help the way you thundered over to him, fiery eyes and a grimace on your face from the slight pain of the dog's snapping jaw.

"You," seething, you pointed at him. His dogs sat patiently, albeit still posed to defend, next to his heel, "Don't think I didn't notice that, you prick."

Fushiguro Megumi ignored the way you shook your finger in his face, turning away to continue his training, "Don't you need to get to Shoko-san's already? Hurry then."

Gojo couldn't help the boisterous laughter leaving his mouth. Maa, this was brilliant.

13th of March; 09:02. — fushiguro megumi.

"Yo, Megumi! You're up for a mission. Solo. Except not."

Megumi's eyes narrowed as he watched the carefree grin of his teacher, the hands shoved in his pockets, "Who's the not?"

"Just, you know, your favourite person in the world."

"With her again? She's impulsive, never listens, and half the time I'm cleaning up after her screw-ups."

Gojo's hand played with his strands of hair, and his sunglasses caught the light, "Aw, come on. She's not that bad. Keeps you on your toes. Makes you use full sentences. You know, the likes!"

Megumi thought he might strangle his teacher.

"I work better alone."

"Yeah, yeah, but then that vein in your forehead doesn't twitch, and that's hysterical."

"You enjoy this way too much."

Gojo's smile was slow and wide, "Obviously."

13th of March; 20:12. — fushiguro megumi.

Fushiguro Megumi thought that when he realised what type of mentor Gojo Satoru would be, he had met the quota of absurdness in his life already. Then, he enrolled into Tokyo Jujutsu High and found that his bar was set too low, and there were many other people capable of pushing it higher.

Much higher. 

The shenanigans of Inumaki Toge and Panda put aside, Maki and Yuta by extension were the only second years he really respected. His own classmates, though—

Though, if Megumi had to really categorise any of them, Kugisaki Nobara barely counted, for she came at him and Yuji with condescension from the very beginning. It wasn’t hard to adjust to something so straightforward, letting her complaints go through one ear and come out on the other side.

Then there was the other thorn in his side, Itadori Yuji, who was fairly agreeable, wearing his heart on his sleeve, steadfast and solid, so Megumi’s line of what he could tolerate was not crossed that often.

If anything, Gojo had the bigger nerve to flit around Megumi, fussing in a way that bordered between sweet patronising and his deep duty of care. Seeing as how he was supposed to learn from his teacher, that too, he could ignore.

For the most part.

What he did not expect was for another person to test his tolerance, and to test it so well at that. 

“You know, if you smiled once in a while, people might stop mistaking you for the world's biggest Debbie Downer.”

Barely ignoring the whispering voice right next to him, Megumi thought that he’d rather follow Nobara into the depths of hell (her weekly trips through the entire shopping avenue, from start to finish and then back again) than have to be paired up with you any longer.

Usually, Megumi had no difficulties letting stupid comments whiz past him; god knew he’d had enough practice, so assuming a stoic expression should have come easy to him: smoothing out his brows, allowing his eyes to reflect the amount of how much he didn’t care, mouth as still as possible — really, it wasn’t supposed to be difficult. But then there was you, whose grin never seemed to falter, who knew how to poke at him and have his blood pressure rise up, who seemed to cross him at each junction, who didn’t know what it meant to stay still and hatch out a plan. 

So, Megumi told himself that the twitch in his eyebrows and the annoyed press of his lips together was merely because he was bothered with this mission, but the words escaping him were more than proof that it was less about the assignment and all the more about you.

Under his breath: “And if you shut up once in a while, people might stop mistaking you for an idiot. Now be quiet.”

The infuriating thing about this all wasn’t the fact that he felt prompted to respond in likes. No — it was the fact that you didn’t seem half as annoyed as him; that you exhaled a quiet laugh, almost victorious in having riled him up enough, that somewhere along the line, there was a competition on who would win each clashing of heads, who could one up the other, who would have the last laugh. 

You sniffed; voice full with amusement and a certain bite, quieter than before, “Wow, that almost sounded like a full sentence. Careful, Fushiguro, or else someone might think you're concerned about what other people think of me.”

"You're insufferable. Quiet."

"Mhm, but you're still listening."

Leaning forward, Megumi ignored the way you lingered close, ignored the tone of your voice — low, offhanded, like you meant nothing by it or maybe that you meant something by it — and peeked around the corner of the hallway; sharp eyes used to the dark.

A weird, grotesque feeling swung in the air; pregnant with charged particles. What should have been an alluring, sultry atmosphere for the love hotel was turned into an eerie caricature of all the shame bundled up in between the sheets of the beds, all the heartbreak hidden behind each creak of floorboards, lost love, bitter what-ifs.

Two of the Grade Three curses rampaging through the isles had already destroyed half of the east side of the building, the other two lingering close by.

"Alright, this is what we're going to do—"

A gust of wind whirled around debris, and cut off Megumi's sentence. There was a flash of your weapon infused with cursed energy, followed by a crash against the wooden beams of the wall as the deformed bodies of the curses slithered around the corner right towards him, maw wide open.

For fuck's sake—

13th of March; 22:38. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi was certain he was going to hand in a complaint.

“You’re so boring. What does it take for you to finally ditch that unimpressed look? I mean, I did take out three curses before you even finished your fancy hand signs, you know?”

Yeah.

Definitely handing that in to the principal and maybe, he would have a chance to circumvent Gojo’s incessant obsession with forcing him to team up with you for the various missions he gets sent on. He had mentioned it a bunch of times to his teacher already — disliked the way you were so messy with how you dealt with your curses, seemingly no thoughts planned, no care for the damage left behind. But to no avail.

If anything, Gojo regarded him with a smile that really said more about what an asshole he was than it being successful in placating Megumi. But alright, Gojo’s agenda usually was an enigma, so there was also no hope of getting through to him once he had set his mind on something.

And it wasn't like his teacher was known to explain his reasoning.

Megumi thought that maybe this was punishment. Maybe Gojo really did feel resentment taking care of him for all these years, and now he was left to deal with the strain of handling…you, and all your chaos.

He stopped walking, a heavy sigh brewing deeply in his chest at the cheerful way your voice nagged at his collar, his dirtied pants, his ripped uniform on the right shoulder, “They were Grade Three. A trained dog could’ve handled them.”

Your eyebrows raised up, and you were quick to slink in front of him. His narrowed eyes lowered to follow where your finger was digging into his shoulder, right where the fabric had ripped because you couldn’t wait two seconds to hear out his strategy, instead swinging into the action like you didn't care to have an advantage by analysing anything.

You blinked sweetly, finger pressing right into the cut hiding beneath the shredded material and it stung, “Your cute shikigami didn’t, so I’m not too sure about that, actually.”

"They have better instincts than to waste their time trying to impress me," Megumi pushed away your hand and walked past you; his headache announcing itself alongside the hiss escaping your mouth, "Must be nice not knowing the difference."

Oh, if only he could give in.

21st of March; 16:22. — you.

"Look at us, working so well together, eh, Fushiguro?"

"You nearly got me impaled. Twice."

"Oh, you'd miss the excitement if it wasn't for me. You're welcome for that."

Megumi's look of disgust made you cackle, "Your idea and my idea of excitement don't match up. I suggest a hobby to live out your recklessness. Preferably one that doesn't involve me and far away from here."

"But then who would save my ass? Admit it, I grew on you."

"Like mold, maybe."

2nd of April; 14:58. — you.

When you transferred, you thought blending in was going to be no problem. Your entire purpose was not to change anything in anybody's life, nor to influence any on-going schemes. If anything, that would be the worse outcome, your existence useless in its point of service for you were just an outside observer, trying to catch any slipped up information. Easy enough, right?

You'd heard a lot about the strongest modern sorcerer of this time: the grief he brought Gakuganji first and foremost, for your principal was incredibly youthful in the way it took hours for him to stop grumbling.

It wasn't like you really had any personal desire to meet him— seeing Gojo Satoru fight in action would have been thrilling, in the way you would watch something unexplainable and awe-inducing happening right in front of you, something akin to a supernova.

But essentially, you also cared little in seeking it out if not prompted. You were here because you were ordered to; because the authority carried by the Jujutsu Headquarters was founded in experience and power, because their word was law.

Or so it went. That was what Gakuganji loved spewing, and it wasn't that you necessarily disagreed, it was just that you weren't known to care for it a lot. But then again, it wasn't their concern, so long there was enough intimidation and results to be showed. It probably could have been any of the other first-years in your school, it should have been, because you weren't exactly somebody who blended in super well, you were too on the nose for it, but the excuse you'd been sent over on was that your cursed technique could only properly be trained by the teachers in Tokyo Jujutsu High.

That was a lie.

One you didn't really care to uphold more than necessary. Truth was that your cursed technique had no adequate teacher nor was it a family heirloom to be able to scour clan records for. It existed and you had to deal with it, simple as that.

But then, the teachers in Tokyo Jujutsu High would know that, too.

So rather than it being an actual excuse, it was merely a way to save face. Rather dish out a lie like that, as unbelievable as it may be, than accuse anybody — doing that would lead to showing one's suspicion and that would prompt a reaction; they would have been, for all intents and purposes, asking for retaliation.

It was too much hassle to plan a counter for it, so slap a label on something and call it a day.

Chances were that your appearance had been noted as such — a way to do some reconnaissance, but the way the first-years and their teacher behaved hinted that they either didn't, which was unlikely, or they did and just didn't care, which was stupid.

In any way, you didn't care to complain, either. It was going to interest nobody in Kyoto Jujutsu High, so you just had to deal with it in any way you saw fit.

"I think I'd be a capybara."

Like lingering amongst the first-years here in Tokyo Jujutsu High and hope that you'd find something interesting to note down for Gakuganji to analyse later. If there was something amongst this conversation of deciding on your spirit animal worth writing down.

Nobara, who had been lazily scrolling through her phone, looked up, one sleek eyebrow of hers quirked up, "A what now?"

Sprawled on the ground with his limbs extended like a star fish, Yuji's eyes tracked the clouds, envisioning different shapes onto the white fluff travelling in their lane on the wide blue.

"You know, one of those giant guinea pig things. They're just so chill," he explained, hands coming up to hesitate for a second — how did one even imitate a capybara? — before forming a big blob and hoping that his words conveyed enough of a picture to make up for the lack of gestures. Out of the peripheral of his eyes, Yuji watched the uninterested look in Megumi's eyes and wondered if his friend would be able to do a shadow puppet of a capybara.

Nobara snorted. "No. You're like a full-blown chimpanzee."

"No way, I'm so chill—" Yuji sat up swiftly, eyes wide, but the girl interrupted him, waving him away her manicured fingers, "Always climbing things, making weird noises, eating like you've never seen food before…"

Yuji was almost offended, if it weren't for the fact that she wasn't exactly wrong, either. "But chimps are scary. They, like, bite people's faces off!!"

"So does Sukuna," Nobara looked at him with an expression that told anybody in immediate proximity exactly how little brain cells she thought he had, "Don't try to play innocent with your 'I'm a chill guy!' when you literally have a face-munching demon playing house in your body."

"He's not me, though!!"

She shrugged, shoulders touching the tip of her hair with the movement, "You share rent. That counts."

Itadori Yuji grasped his uniform, the material bunching underneath his hand before his fingers let go of the jacket, one by one. It was only a moment, but your eyes, trained on the pink-haired student possessing the King of the Curses, were observant, catching the way a strange, detached expression flitted over his face. Hollow, dissociated eyes that seemed so far away.

Digging your heel into the ground, you tried imagining what it could be that he was feeling out in that moment, what Sukuna could be saying, what horrible things he could be taunting Yuji with in the personal space of his mind that nobody could access. The things Yuji kept hidden behind an exterior that beamed like the sun, locking the force of the demon behind rattling doors.

You wondered whether Yuji's body remembered the things that Sukuna did.

As quick as the expression having made its way over Yuji's face, it was just as quick that he whirled around to face Megumi with mock offence. Yuji's finger pointed towards the other first-year, who looked like he'd rather not be here, listening to the non-sense the others were arguing about.

"Megumi!! Come on, man, you gotta be on my side, right?"

Megumi, whose body had been slowly turning away, inch by inch, halted, and his eyes closed, his chest moving with a sigh escaping him, "I don't even want to be on anyone's side."

Yuji's mouth almost formed a comical downturn,"I miss when we were friends."

"I miss when it was quiet."

"Don't worry, Yuji," Nobara threw her leg over the other and leaned back, "He's only pissed because his fashion sense sucks."

Your eyebrows raised at the eye roll of Megumi's; it was offensive in its own right, the way it conveyed the exasperation sitting deep in his soul, "I don't care about fashion. Or this conversation."

Nobara nodded to Yuji. "That's exactly what someone without drip would say."

Yuji nodded back. "He'd totally be a hedgehog."

A snap of her fingers towards the pink-haired, "Oh, that's such a good read. All spiky on the outside, and so soft on the inside. Yuck."

"I'm going to leave."

"Running away again, huh?"

Maybe you were not supposed to influence any ongoing schemes, but you couldn't help yourself.

When there was somebody in front of you who seemed so incredibly closed off, like anything pelted off him like rain on an umbrella, it was so very tempting to be the one who could bring out the twitch in his eyebrows, the clicking of his tongue.

It was a race, the way you ran to see who could piss off the other faster. So that he could drop this pretentious holier-than-thou attitude, thinking he was better than everybody else because he played the part of a brooding hero so well, because he refused to partake in conversation that retained his youth.

"What?" his voice was quiet, composed, and he could have fooled you had he not stopped mid-step.

"They're just joking around, grumpy-pants. That got you all bothered?"

Megumi's shoulders were tense, a small quiver running through his muscles, like there's something repressed running beneath his skin. The curve of his jaw hardened, and through gritted teeth, he spit out, "No. But you're starting to."

There was a certain charge in the air; a reluctance to accept you in their midst, like a bystander, too easy to be forgotten. They had already settled in a comfortable exchange of energy, and here you were, disrupting it — a new current of electricity that nobody really knew where to direct it through. Yuji was the type to be accommodating, friendly and open; who didn't have a problem to pull you in. Nobara, who saw you had no interest in entertaining her whims, grouped you together with the rest of the first-years but not necessarily that rejecting.

Megumi, though. Megumi was the one who distrusted you the most.

To his defence, you were an intruder. He might not know it outright, but the protective barrier he had risen around himself and almost around the other two as well gnawed at you. There they were: those three, belonging together, one playing off the other, the two chaotic kids needing to be reined in by the rock in the midst of crashing waves.

It almost made you jealous. Almost. If Megumi didn't want to trust you, then so be it. You weren't banking on that, anyway, you just…liked riling him up.

Nobara had nudged closer to Yuji, her hand facing his, palm up: "Ten bucks says he threatens to summon his dogs or whatever in, like, five seconds."

"You're on," Yuji whispered back; his hand meeting hers in a quiet clap.

You mirrored Megumi's eye roll from earlier, made sure to put in all the mocking you could, "You always take everything so seriously. Jeez, no wonder no one invites you to anything fun."

Megumi's knuckles were the second thing to follow to express his displeasure, the annoyance bubbling in his veins, the way the tips of his shoes almost wanted to turn around, "You done?"

Scratching at his ego, you knew your words were sharp. That he also had valid reason to fight you — if anything, you might start respecting him more if he just finally snapped. If he just finally gave you a reason to believe that he believed what he was saying, that he wasn't full of shit.

"Just wondering how long you can pretend like you're not dying to prove something."

He moved his head and you caught a glimpse of his eye; the heat in them that he tried to desperately squash, the cold that he layered on top of it, the iciness with which he regarded you, and you returned the look, challenging him.

"I'm not pretending."

"Oooookay, wow. That's, uh, super healthy tension here," Yuji laughed, a nervous undertone swinging in his tenor, and he got up from the floor. There were a few blades of grass stuck on the outside of his pant legs, and a few floated to the ground when he stepped up, ready to intervene.

Your relaxed stance didn't falter.

Because you knew. Because Megumi knew. Because both of you knew he wasn't going to do anything. Because he didn't have courage enough to give in, because he'd rather swallow the annoyance than act on it, because he'd rather burn than to show his feelings and be vulnerable, than to stand by what he believed.

Because he was a coward.

He left instead, and you watched the way he walked away, the way he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, deep, like they were a bottomless pit that could swallow all the frustrations he felt.

"Don't trip over your own brooding!" you called after him sweetly, and his shoulders tensed even further, before he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

You clicked your tongue, feeling unsatisfied because goddamn, did he have to make it so hard to get him to explode?

"You think you're being so cute," Nobara said, and despite her voice sounding syrupy, there was snark swinging underneath it, cutting through the silence that ensued after Megumi left.

You shrugged. "He can't handle jokes, that's not on me."

"Oh, we were joking, alright."

Yuji sent you a look, unsure, hesitating. He didn't want enemies, not when he wanted to get along with his classmates, and you had no interest in forcing him to, so you left as well.

3rd of April; 02:14. — you.

Your hands moved steadily, the black ink seeping through the thick pale slip of paper with every brush stroke. It had to be deliberate, so the creation of talismans usually were a slow business, though it also didn't help that the scripture was far from modern. Old and twisted from teachings long forgotten.

The brush dragged through ink and painted intent, and with each swing of the bristles, you exhaled out, the room cold as it seemed to use up the heat and energy to create a hidden message behind the charm.

You whispered confines into existence, orders; a veil of false reality settling on top of the ink slowly at the last of your brush strokes. Shimmering, the talisman looked like it had embers glowing inside of it, the edges of the paper slip singed dark.

Quickly, you wrapped an unassuming thread around the charm, tying it up, then — a bead of blood pressed right on the seal.

Clicking your tongue, you licked the welling of another drop of blood off. There wasn't much to inform Gakuganji of yet, but you were expected to send a status update anyway. In your eyes? a complete waste of good, thick paper. The world was getting expensive, after all.

5th of April; 16:11. — fushiguro megumi.

"Oh no, you don't."

"Megumi, you wound me. I haven't even said anything yet."

"Gojo-sensei. With no respect at all, you're coming in here with her."

"If he's wounded, I'm heartbroken, Fushiguro. How could you say that— hey, don't ignore me."

Megumi shut his book, "There's plenty other people you could send."

"Eh, I figured you two would make a good team. You know, balancing each other out, but also your people skills needs some training," Gojo shrugged, nonchalant, but the way he leaned against his door made Megumi think that really, this was just another one of Gojo's shrewd teaching methods.

"He'd definitely get it down if he stopped thinking he was better than everyone else."

"I don't think I'm better. I just don't care enough to play along with you," he bit out.

A clap of Gojo's hands and a gleeful smile, "See? Perfect chemistry already. You may call me Master Matchmaker from now on."

"Over my dead body."

"Aww, come onnnn—"

"No."

5th of April; 19:02. — you.

"Stop moping, Fushiguro."

"I'm not moping."

You grinned, leaning closer to him, "Mhm, I'm not so sure of that. You look like you need somebody to cheer you up."

He threw you a sour look, before turning his head to look out the window again. The car ride was strained. Itawa, the manager issued by Tokyo Jujutsu High, was gripping the steering wheel silently. Itawa didn't have anything to say, as per regulations, and Megumi and you didn't see eye to eye.

Gojo had announced the mission that both of you were to fulfil, gleefully putting both Megumi and you in a team together. It was clear that he was enjoying the way Megumi bristled in the face of spending more time on missions with you than he was already forced to. You weren't exactly sure why; maybe he suspected you and liked to keep you in check with his trusted, experienced student.

But maybe he also just enjoyed seeing him sweat. It was difficult to tell with Gojo and the blindfold that concealed far more than his eyes.

Megumi, though, had his dissatisfaction ooze from his every pore with a force that could have rivalled any lash out of cursed energy. You couldn't help but wink at him when you caught his eye, the smile growing wider at the darkening of his eyes and the hard set of his mouth.

To his fortune, it wasn't a difficult mission. Iwata had already relayed to you both the details:

The shopping mart in Yurakucho had suddenly sealed itself under a spontaneous veil, civilians having gone missing. The windows had reported back to the Jujutsu Sorcerers about a cursed womb presence, and sooner than later, Megumi and you had been dispatched for elimination.

When you stepped out the car, the street was empty; the civilians that had occupied the space before not needing to see curses to notice the change in the atmosphere, the danger lingering in the air. It wasn't supposed to be a high Grade curse, but with cursed wombs, it was difficult to tell.

The veil drawn on seemed to almost glitch like it was unable to keep up the facade of a normal shopping mall; the false reality cloaking the building sporting tiny rips in its fabric.

"It will be easy to find its weak point since it's not a strong curtain. It will take but a moment," Iwata assured, and true to his word, it did not take long to create a hole in the spiritual structure for you both to slip through it. But when you and Megumi entered the curtain, you hadn't expected for it to be almost harder to breathe than outside, as if the air was carrying more fluid than it should, like you could be drowning any moment. Without a word, the divine dogs appeared around Megumi's legs, at attention.

The automatic doors were broken, the glass cracked like something had escaped rather than broken in. There were tiny splinters covering the face of the floor and the jagged edges caught the fluorescent light flickering behind it, throwing indiscernible shapes on the floor.

"Creepy," you muttered as you stepped on the shards, faint music swinging in the air accompanying the strange static of the place. It tasted weird, too, when you had opened your mouth to speak.

Megumi nodded but kept quiet, barely glancing at the screens of TVs mounted on every wall, a product advertisement looping over and over again — the same smile, the same pour of coffee.

He would never buy this specific brand of coffee machine. Not now. Not ever.

Instead, Megumi moved through the first floor; eyes sharp, trained on the surfaces of the place. They were weird, some were too clean, others were smeared with dark brown substance. It was humid, too, like there was a storm brewing.

Feeling out the situation, you sent a low pulse of your cursed energy out, meant to ricochet off the walls and tell you the density of everything that existed within the confines of this place, but the sound echoed outwards and came back to you distorted, like part of it disappeared. Your eyebrows furrowed.

His voice sounded far away, even though he stood right next to you, "We should split up, cover more ground. There's three floors, after all. Who knows which one the curse calls its new home."

"I'm hurt, Fushiguro, wanna get rid of me so early?"

Megumi swallowed his sigh, "Yes, but it'll also be faster that way."

"I'll take the upper floor then, Your Majesty."

You whirled around to get started, but his scoff held you back, "You're so impatient, hold on for a moment."

"You don't need to give me a goodbye kiss, Fushiguro, I think i'll manage just fine without it."

He threw you a look that you decidedly chose to ignore and said, "Take this."

Catching something sleek and black, you took a closer look at it. It was a short ranged communication system; a wireless ear piece that had you raising your eyebrows at him. Prepared much, was he?

"I thought I felt it before but just earlier, when you activated your technique — it felt weird, like— like the building's reacting to our presence. Not just cursed."

"Yeah," you said, eyes trained on the ceiling and the flickering lights, "I think it may be feeding on the energy. I sensed far less on its way back than what I sent out."

"Yeah."

You sent him a kiss through the air when you parted from him, because you thought the way his usually impassive face contorted in a grimace was a good memory to own, and then took the emergency stairs. The escalators were dead, and you hardly believed that the curse was going to help you out by allowing you to take the faster way.

The second floor's sign post indicated the toy's section to be up ahead — or at least, that was what it was supposed to be. Instead, you were met with shelves that had been cleared away, the toys scattered all over the floor like debris from a fight that dominated the room beforehand.

There were cracks on the floor and your eyes tracked them upward to talismans on the ceiling and sticking to the pillars on the edge of the room. Hand-drawn with shaky lines. The ink hadn't dried yet, and one such drop followed gravity and splashed on the linoleum floor.

It wasn't ink, you realised when you saw the thinned out edges of the liquid on the ground, it was blood.

Cursed energy swirled around the slips of paper, tugging on your senses like an invisible leash. It called for you, asked you to come witness, to come watch, that there was nothing else for you to find and do on this floor than to come look at the centre of the floor and see the wide circle set on the floor.

Messy, but red.

It pulsed, and you couldn't blink as you watched the circle writhe, like it was almost alive.

Megumi's voice startled you when it came out of nowhere, "This looks—ke a ritual of— sort. Still— active."

You stepped back automatically, looked away from the circle, the siren call broken. Despite the static cutting through his words, you couldn't help but offhandedly notice the way his voice sounded through the ear piece, and it sent a weird shiver down your back. Had it always been that deep?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you pressed the in-ear piece deeper, "This shit's weird. Almost made me step in."

You shook your head to clear up the heavy air settling on your senses, and tried to keep your cursed energy locked in, taut around your body, not allowing it to leak from your skin, but it felt like the cursed womb tasted it anyway. A shudder in the air, sudden and subtle. Like a breath drawn in by something enormous.

"It doesn't feel like an ambush," you said, "It's like it's waiting. Like…it wants us inside the circle?"

Megumi's voice cracked through the in-ear, "I swe— don't get any du—ideas. Stay put, I'm— com—"

You weren't stupid.

No way in hell would you just oblige the desires of a curse, but you also didn't want to wait on Megumi and risk allowing this thing, wherever it was, to haze your senses. Not when you could feel the delightful shiver in the air at your attention.

It really was a better idea to find the cursed womb fast before it could manifest fully, anyway. Sorry, Fushiguro.

5th of April; 20:38. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi's head was already hurting.

He had to hurry because there was no telling what your next move was. If anything, he could count his blessings that up until then nothing worth mentioning happened, that you both were able to decently communicate and investigate the floors.

But then he threw a talisman from his sleeve and flicked it into the circle and the paper caught fire midair, the red turning blue from the force of energy swirling in the circle before the charm was slapped into the floor. It left a decently sized dent from the force and the cursed energy rippled outwards; the air swinging heavily and even though there was no breeze, Megumi thought that he still felt movement caressing his cheek.

There were more than just the blood markings on the floor; deep in the open cracks, there were sigils buried, carved.

So no, he had absolutely no faith and did not want to take a chance on whether your resistance was sufficient enough not to step into the damn circle.

His Demon Dogs were already ahead of him, fast, barely hindered by the debris on the floor; the energy that had pooled in his palms slowly dwindling. He set out to follow, taking the stairs two at once, but when he just entered the second floor—

A scrape, a soft whimper, shushing.

Even though the overhead light buzzed as if a swarm of flies kept bumping into the light source, even though there was a faint thrumming, even though Megumi's ears were strained to catch all the tiny noises, high alert, it faded when those new sounds registered in his mind.

Megumi found them off the side, tucked behind a fallen aisle of grotesque looking toy cars. A teenage girl, eyes wide and sharp with her arm looped tightly around an older man's shoulder. There was sweat glinting above her upper lip, and her fear was palpable on his tongue, sharp and tangy.

From one second to another, uninvited, flashes of—

A hospital bed.

Rain against the window.

Limp limbs.

Gone.

I'm saying you can't.

He snapped back to reality like a rubber band, the air heavy and stale. Megumi shook his head, and the inside of his hands felt clammy. He closed them to fists once, hard, with intent. A reminder.

This wasn't the time.

The girl didn't cry when she looked up at him: odd, like he was the odd one out. He wasn't odd, he belonged here, he was meant to do this. He had to, or else—

Stop. Stop. Not the time.

He crouched in front of her, his eyes flitting over the old man, falling into the old routine of analysing. Detached, categorise the threat, deal. The old man was barely conscious, but still breathing; the rise of his chest shallow and weak. There was a thin line of blood trickling down his temple. Then he allowed his gaze to wander over to the girl again.

"You hurt?"

She shook her head, her fingers digging into the old man's — her grandfather? — shoulder, deep, gripping the material. The pressure in the air felt like it was coiling tighter, ready to rip — something about the floor was moving wrong, and he couldn't risk wasting a second longer to let them linger here.

"Okay. We're getting you out, so on my command, you run. Keep him moving. You don't stop until I say."

5th of April; 20:52. — you.

Megumi's voice hadn't sounded out anymore. You briefly wondered whether something happened, but when you turned the corner, it escaped your mind, because right there in the centre of the aisle: the cursed womb.

It wasn't hiding anymore. No, worse: it had built a body.

Twisted metal of broken shopping carts; the limbs of mannequins attached to each other, bent like the joints of spider's legs, and in the middle of it, curled up in the protection of its centre was a blob of flesh, deep green in its colour, moving like it's molding. There were something like bones sticking out of its side, like ribs, expanding, trying to breathe. Trying to imitate.

It was not human and yet it craved it so.

At its feet was half of the torso of a store employee, and there were obscene sounds. Slurping, drinking. A few metres away was another store employee, already dry, the skin ashen and wrinkled.

Eyes widening, you realised what was happening.

When you tried to speak into the communication piece, Megumi's voice finally pushed through.

"I've— two civilia— we—" it cracked horribly in your ears and with the brewing of electricity in the air, your hair stood up on its end, "—start evac— protocol."

"Forget that. We don't have time!" you pressed the in-ear so hard, it hurt your ear canal, and you heard a sharp "What?!" coming from him, but you couldn't entertain him, you needed to make him understand, "I found it, Fushiguro. It's some goddamn department store mascot made from some mannequins and—"

You paused when you heard heavy breathing, "And people."

You continued, because he wasn't talking, and you needed him to know, "It's feeding, and I'm not going to lie, it looks ready to burst."

There was a low groan coming from the curse, echoing through the walls. The shelves creaked as they started tilting on their bases, not from motion but from bending. A bad feeling unfurled in your stomach, your fingertips tingling. This was not good.

"We don't have time," you decided, because he wasn't saying shit and you had to stop the curse from fully manifesting, "We need to collapse the upper floor. Drop it with everything we've got, bury the curse, halt it — whatever it is, we need to do it now."

"—not bringin— roof down on—eople!"

You cut through his words, urgent when you heard the Demon Dogs running towards you, "Then get them out faster, because there's no way in hell that I'm waiting."

5th of April; 20:55. — fushiguro megumi.

Megumi's hands were frozen near his blade.

His eyes darted towards the girl and her grandfather — she was still crouched behind him, her breath heavy, painted dark with fear. Their eyes met for a split second and he knew she understood enough from his words.

"We're not sacrificing people," he said, almost snarled, turning away from the girl who looked at him like he was her only salvation, and his shoulders were heavy, threatening to crumble from an invisible force. Whether it was the responsibility he shouldered or the ever-growing output of pressure and energy from the cursed womb, he could not say.

"—risk let— manife—"

He hissed, "Yes," because it was true. Because he'd, "—rather that than dig two corpses out of the rub—"

The shifting of the building cut him off. Aisles buckled and turned, warping like wriggling worms, intestines that were in the middle of digestion. When the empty shelves started stretching outward, hungry, he whirled around, mind set.

His hand gripped the girl's arm hard, his fingers pressing in with frustration, urgency, anger, and he knew the girl winced underneath the harshness of his touch, but he couldn't be worried about bruising her or her old man, when the alternative was them dead. Deleted from this world, under his watch.

"Move. Move," Megumi grunted, and she stumbled over her legs, and then, a shift in the comm line. A sharp click. A decision made.

Megumi's eyes snapped up—

Impact.

A burst of cursed energy tore through the roof, fast and brutal, a calculated cave-in. The concrete groaned, jarring, as a blast erupted from above with an ear-deafening volume. Cracks formed along the ceiling above them like it was chasing the bolt of a lightning strike.

His instincts flared, hands crossing in a familiar gesture.

"Nue!"

The shikigami appeared in a gust of wind. Wings spread wide as it flew straight up towards the ceiling, its body crashing against the bulk of the collapse. It sounded like a thunderclap, the way the force split, the scattering of debris, the fracturing of ceiling away from the civilians.

The girl was crying softly behind him, and Megumi hated the sound. He hated that his chest squeezed, a reminder that he could have failed, he hated that he was in charge, he hated the fury coursing through his veins that you decided to forego his plans, that you put him in a position like that.

He hated you.

5th of April; 21:12. — you.

Megumi's divine dogs surrounded you, growling, threatening, but you weren't going to do anything, anyway.

There wasn't a point anymore. It had been the perfect time — the concrete was about to rain down onto the cursed womb, suffocating it, but then Megumi's goddamn flimsy convictions came in between. Now, the cursed womb was gone. Escaped. God knew what damage it would cause now.

The silence should have been deafening, but the ringing in your ear from the explosion was too loud, the heat on your skin too strong, your throat too dry.

His voice, unhindered from the lack of static interference now that there was no curse in sight anymore, was too loud as well, cold, "They're alive. Not that you'd care to—"

The communication piece crunched under your boots.

5th of April; 22:43. — iwata.

The car ride back was silent, even more so than before. This wasn't just Fushiguro Megumi and the exchange student from Kyoto not getting along —this was a failed mission. This was the culmination of stubborn heads and clashing ideals, and Iwata thought that he could drown in the thick tension simmering between you both.

When the curtain dropped, there was cursed energy lingering in the air, but not as remnants of an exorcism. Active, swirling, faint. That was the signature of a curse that had been here and was now gone.

The first-years looked worse for wear, but it wasn't just the rips in their uniform — it was the look in their eyes: the resentment, the anger, the guilt, the unsaid words sitting on their tongue, ready to be spit out.

Iwata's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He really did hope that his car would not become their battlefield, that he could drive just a teeny tiny bit faster so that he wouldn't be around for when both of you decided to hash it out.

5th of April; 23:07. — you.

You entered Tokyo Jujutsu High's protective barrier together. Well, as together as Megumi walking a few steps behind you was. It was cold, the weather reminding you that spring was barely amongst you, but you refused to rub your arms in an effort to warm yourself up. You didn't want to show weakness in front of Megumi, not when you could feel his gaze trained on you from behind; the accusation lying behind the heavy attention.

You pressed your lips together.

The curse was gone, barely traceable for you anymore. When the curtain fell, Iwata had called Gojo at once, though the white-haired teacher had been busy doing god knew what, so you had to relay to Iwata what exactly happened. It was a pathetic display of how much you messed up when both of you started talking over each other, but then Iwata had kindly requested alone time with each of you to go through the details.

Embarrassing.

It wasn't even your fault, but the tip of your ears burned anyway at the incompetence they must have seen when you couldn't stop yourself from responding to Megumi.

Right when your paths diverged, he spoke, voice cold and repressed.

"You dropped a floor on two innocent people."

You couldn't help whirling around to meet him face to face — his' was shadowed, the moon barely illuminating anything. In the silence of the world, your steps sounded hard and deliberate, "You let it escape."

The look in his eyes grew darker, "I made a call and you ignored it."

"No," you shook your head. It was far simpler than that, but of course he wouldn't see it. "You ran from the fight, like you always do, and I didn't."

"Ran? I didn't call to drive them home and tuck them in. We just needed to get them out, but you almost killed them," he scoffed, his hands balled into fists. There was a tremor in his shoulders, one that he tried to suppress with gritted teeth, "and all i'm hearing is that you don't give a damn."

It angered you — the easiness with which he accused you of not caring. Him, who willingly threw away the way Jujutsu Regulations had always been, who played it safe because of what? Because he was scared? Because he couldn't handle making a choice that was supposed to be the one you had to go for? Curses first, people second. Because in a world where people died, to ensure there wasn't more to kill them, was more important.

You had seen the look in his eyes before when somebody died. It wasn't anger, it wasn't pain. It was something quieter, sharper. Regret. Like he could have changed the outcome if there had been more to him than what he was. The way he steeled himself and searched the rubble like he was hoping to find a better version of himself buried under the wreckage.

He thought that made him better. You almost snorted, because it didn't. It just made him dangerous, because he was going to hesitate again. And again. And again.

So yeah, it angered you beyond control the way he threw your principles in front of you and stepped on them when his entire spiel was a lie. It was bullshit.

Your finger dug into his chest, an accusation and a challenge, "There won't be anybody left to give a damn about, because that curse is hatching out somewhere. Who knows how many more people are going to die, hm? Those lives less precious than the ones you saved?"

He looked at you like you grew a second head, but something flickered behind the confines of his eyes, something that he swallowed over and over, that he tried to hide. He slapped your hand away, a sharp sting where your skin met his, and his voice sounded rough when he replied, full of resentment, unbelievability because —, "Who made you god? You don't get to choose who dies, whose life doesn't matter."

"That's the thing, Fushiguro. You wanna keep pretending you know that that's what the job entails, but you don't live up to it. You've never lived up to it. Noble hero, my ass, you're just a coward with a clean conscience."

His hand had snatched the front of your clothes so quickly, you barely had time to react. Nose pressed against yours, his eyes harsh, wild. The uniform strained underneath your arms and you could feel the warmth emitting from his body, the faint smell of him after this long day, sweat and hidden desperation.

The heat of his anger and his hair brushed your forehead, "Say that again."

You narrowed your eyes at him, not moving away. If he wanted to invade your space because he couldn't handle the truth, then you'd meet him right there: "What, you think restraint makes you better? Want me to say it again so badly? You're just scared to admit that you've already made peace with casualties."

A humourless laugh escaped him, his fingers tightening on your blouse, "Funny. I can say the same thing about you—"

"No, but that's the thing: I don't have a problem agreeing with it. I'm telling you right here, right now that yes, I'd sacrifice those two to keep others safe," you interrupted him, watching his face, the flicker in his eyes, the angry twist in his mouth, the grimace that he couldn't hide behind an impassive wall anymore, "But you— you keep doing that, you know? Acting like you don't care because you talk quieter."

Fuck the stoicism that he wanted to cling to, the control he didn't want to give up — you wanted him to get angry, wanted the squeeze of his hand around your uniform to evolve, wanted him to finally tip the edge over and be honest, no performances. He was teetering there, you could see it. It was clinging onto every fibre of his being, pushing him, asking, challenging him. Then— a harsh exhale, his breath warm against your skin in the cool of the night, and he let go.

"If you think that's what it is, then you don't know shit."

You allowed your shoulders to drop, a sigh heavy in your voice, "I think you'd rather break your own bones than admit what you want, Fushiguro. You're not sparing lives, so I don't know who you're kidding. You're just dodging the part where you have to live with who you become."

He walked past you, silent, the gravel underneath his boots filling the air like it was supposed to take over for him.

There he was, running.

You aimed the words at the air in between you both, the ever-growing distance, "At least, I make the calls I can live with. You make the ones you hope no one remembers."

5th of April; 23:59. — fushiguro megumi.

Fushiguro Megumi felt sick to his stomach.

His dormitory door closed shut behind him, quietly. It was deep in the night, his window looking outward to the side of the moon, painting everything in a soft blue hue. It was silent, but it felt charged, like it was waiting for him to make a noise. He didn't want to.

His face felt weird.

He tried to fix it, to go back to the way he looked, the way he always allowed his face to look, but it wouldn't sit right. His eyebrows felt so heavy, the neutral set of his mouth too numb, his cheeks too hollow. The mask he had gotten so used to putting on didn't want to hold. It kept sliding off, and he tried again, but again, it fell into a grimace.

His breathing sounded weird in his ears, too, like it was far away, like this wasn't his body, like Megumi wasn't human and he didn't belong here. Did he ever? When he was out there, standing in front of people and curses, did he? Had he done enough to deserve existing here, safely tucked in his dorm room whilst the curse roamed free out there?

The death of more people, on his hands—

He opened his mouth and exhaled. His body listened, but if he hadn't known that it was his body right now, he might not have recognised it as himself. The intake of breath, his chest expanding, the smell of orange lingering in his room from earlier, the silence. It was so silent.

You ran.

Something — somewhere — tightened, and then everything rushed in at once, like it was scared that if it didn't come say hello now, it would never get its chance to. His hands lifted up into his line of sight, and they were trembling, slightly. He pressed them into his eyeballs like he could squeeze the guilt out this way, like he could dig them deep enough to enter his brain and stop it.

His voice was barely more than a whisper: "I didn't freeze."

He didn't. He couldn't have. He made the hard call. He did. He— you let it escape.

"I didn't."

Nothing in his room answered. What would it say, if it could? Would it agree with Megumi? Would it think that he was a coward, too?

He shook his head, hard enough that the strands of hair clung to his temples, damp. He hadn't noticed that he was sweating. Or was it tears? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. There was pressure building in his chest, up in his throat, trying to claw out, to rip free from his skin.

It barely registered in his mind when his his hands came together and cursed energy lingered between his palms, nor when the soft fur of his Divine Dogs brushed the hands, the tentative swipe of their tongue on his skin.

The moonlight caught in his eyes, and for a second he thought he saw himself reflected in the window amidst the black and white fur surrounding his head.

It didn't look like him.

6th of April; 00:19. — you.

You were exhausted to the bone.

Your chest felt like somebody had taken a hammer and chiselled your organs around until all the anger had fizzled out, until only fatigue was left, muscles aching, deeply; throat scratchy and raw from the shouting.

Megumi's face kept flickering through your head; the look in his eyes, the way they didn't harden, the way they looked like a kaleidoscope, fractured in a million pieces. The way they dropped. Just a bit, just enough.

Fuck. Had you been too rough? Too sharp?

You hadn't wanted to pick a fight — not really. You just…you couldn't take the way he stood there like the weight didn't touch him. Like he wouldn't turn around and then not care if there were civilians on the line that he didn't know and hadn't promised to save. Like he had any right to accuse you of anything.

But why couldn't you ignore it?

It wasn't like that was your first time meeting somebody whose principles were all weird. Hell, you didn't even mind that, if only he stood by it. But he didn't, and something about that bothered you.

He needed it, right?

Because if you didn't push him that hard, he would just continue hiding. Because if you didn't slap him awake, his restraint might get everybody killed. Because maybe you wanted a reason to respect him, to believe he was someone worth following. Someone who, if he really tried, could stop pretending and step up, stop being a shadow of what he could be.

No. You had to. Because if you didn't, nobody would. Because he was the heir to the Zen'in clans technique and he was wasting it. Yeah, that must be it.

Why does it matter to you? Why does it keep mattering?

You got into bed and ignored the question like it wasn't sitting there beside you in the dark like it was something alive.

6th of April; 04:52. — gojo satoru.

Gojo Satoru stepped into the broken shopping mall deep in the middle of the night.

The scent hit him first — burned plastic, the water-logged fertiliser from the gardening section strong in the air, the blood faint but still there, like it soaked into the bones of this mart. Residues of cursed energy hummed low, traces of them visible to Gojo's eyes, though it was dissipating with the hours passing. Gojo thought it almost seemed shy the way it was trying to hide from him, like it was ashamed to stay.

He huffed, an exhale whirling around the dust from the collapse, "Could've been worse."

The circle with the ritual completely cracked in half, the shards on the floor, the bodies of the employees — yeah. Definitely could have been worse.

Gojo moved through the mall like a ghost, his footsteps light, his posture relaxed and easy. His Six Eyes were everywhere, scanning the remnants of the talismans, tracking the remaining energy across the linoleum and the shattered shelves.

He didn't have to look where the curse had blown away to, he already knew.

Instead, he knelt beside the dried streaks on the floor, his fingers brushing the scorch marks from a lightning strike.

Megumi.

There was a small smile pulling at the corner of Gojo's mouth, sharp, "Sloppy, Gumi-chan."

The kid was still too soft.

Though, of course, if it had been Gojo Satoru, he wouldn't have needed to blast the roof to exorcise the curse. He would have just killed it from the get go, and whoever was stuck in the mall would've been able to get out safely, afterwards. Not that he would have stayed around for that. That was what Ijichi would have been for.

He did admire that about Megumi, his ability to deeply shoulder the guilt. He thought it made him human, and that was always a good sign. But Gojo resented it, too. The world they lived in didn't reward hesitation, or holding back. It didn't reward worry about whether your hands would be stained.

It punished it.

But that was how kids were supposed to be and to an extent it relieved Gojo, but it also twisted something in his chest. If they didn't grasp it soon—

He didn't want to scrape off their remains.

Gojo stood up, slow and fluid, a dance he had done before a thousand times. The air shifted around him and then he stood in front of the half-born, desperate curse. Tracking it was easy, teleporting to it even easier.

"You had your chance," he murmured, picking off non-existent lint off his sleeve, his voice bored and almost cruel. "You made it to the edge of something special. Congratulations."

He raised his hand, "Now disappear."

A pulse of cursed energy, no technique even needed, and it was gone like it never existed at all.

A deep sigh escaped him as he stood in the silence of the outskirts of Tokyo, surrounded by shadows of a fight that wasn't his, but became his, anyway. Like it always did. That was what he was for. He handled what his kids couldn't. Not because they were weak and couldn't deal the finishing blow, not because they failed when they should have succeeded.

But because they were learning and that was his duty. For as long as they were — he'd work himself to the bone cleaning up their mess.

Now, on to destroy that talisman you had written up to send off to Kyoto.

AUTHOR'S NOTE | thank you for reading!!

[littleredwolf]

Home for Christmas

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: It's Christmas Eve at the Avengers Compound and you and Wanda are busy making festive cookies for the team to enjoy upon their return from a mission.

Warnings: none. This is pure fluff/cosy Christmas content.

Words: 982

A/N: I wanted to have a go at something fluffy and festive, so I hope this ticks all the right boxes! Merry Christmas!

--

The snow fell in gentle cascades, blanketing the compound in a glittery shimmer that added a touch of magic to the view. Inside, the compound had been transformed into a festive haven, every corner adorned with twinkling lights and tinsel, while Christmas music played softly over the sound system, mingling with the rich scents of sugar, vanilla, and freshly baked gingerbread. It was like a scene straight out of a Christmas movie, so cosy and picturesque. 

“I think we may have overdone it,” Wanda mused as the two of you stood at the counter to admire your afternoon's work. 

The kitchen sides were covered with trays filled with cookies of all shapes and sizes. There were snowflakes, gingerbread men, Christmas trees, candy canes, Santa, stockings, and even some questionable looking reindeer. To anybody else, maybe it was a little too much, but with a team full of superheroes to feed, you wondered if maybe it wasn't enough.

“I don't think that's possible,” you replied, straightening one of the cookies on the tray closest to you. “The super soldiers alone will get through most of these between them.” 

“I'm surprised you haven't made Bucky his own personal batch,” she said with a teasing smile.

At the mere mention of his name, your cheeks flushed and your chest tightened. 

It had been nearly three weeks since you'd last seen Bucky, he and a few other members of the team had been away on a mission, and while he'd sent a few texts and the occasional picture (one particularly adorable shot of him and Sam looking begrudgingly festive in Santa hats), you missed him more than you’d like to admit. 

The compound had felt strangely empty since he'd been gone, you'd missed his dry humour, his quiet strength, and the way he always managed to put you at ease simply by being there. Your bed had felt too big without him in it each night, and the absence of his arms around you and gentle kisses to soothe you to sleep had thrown your sleeping pattern completely off balance. 

The excitement of his imminent return had been bubbling all morning, making you so impatient and restless that Wanda had insisted you do something to keep yourself busy, hence the cookies.  

Now you were finished, however, the nervous excitement was returning, and you couldn't resist the frequent glances out the window to see if you could spot the quinjet through the snow. 

“You really love him, don't you?” Wanda smiled as she began to tidy everything away, sending the dirty utensils to the dishwasher with a wave of her hand. 

You hesitated for a moment, contemplating her words, then slowly nodded. Although neither of you had used the ‘L’ word yet, there was no denying how you felt. 

“Yeah, I do. It's different with him, Wanda - I can be myself around him without feeling like I have to dilute any part of my personality. I never thought I'd find someone who just accepts me as I am - even the messy, broken bits! He’s just, so damn perfect, you know? I feel like pinching myself sometimes because it feels too good to be true!” Your tone was light, but there was no hiding your insecurities from Wanda Maximoff - she knew you better than you knew yourself most days. 

She reached over the counter to squeeze your hand, smiling softly. “He feels the same way, you know. Anyone can see it.” 

Before you could respond, the compound’s security system chimed, announcing an incoming quinjet. Your heart leapt -  they were home! 

“They’re here!” you exclaimed, abandoning your work and rushing to the window. Through the snow, you could just make out the sleek shape of the jet landing on the pad outside. 

Wanda laughed as she trailed after you.“I think you’re more excited about this than Christmas itself,” she teased.

You turned to her with a thoughtful expression. “I'd say it's a draw,” you smirked, and she shook her head with a laugh. You turned to the window again, but the snow was so thick now that you could barely see a thing. 

“What are you waiting for? Go and greet your man!” Wanda urged, giving you a gentle nudge. 

You didn’t need to be told twice - you slipped on your shoes and dashed outside, forgetting to even put on a coat in your rush. The icy wind bit at your cheeks, but you hardly noticed as the quinjet’s hatch opened and the team began descending the ramp. Sam was the first to emerge, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“Merry Christmas!” he called, waving as he approached and pulling you into a bear hug. “Now, where are the cookies?”

“It’s good to see you too!” You laughed, giving him a playful shove as you sent him on his way, your attention snapping to the next figure emerging from the jet. 

Bucky stepped out into the snowy evening, his eyes scanning the landing pad until they found you. His face softened instantly, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he hastily made his way down the ramp. 

You didn’t wait for him to reach you. You ran to him, flinging your arms around his neck as he caught you, pulling you close. The familiar scent of him - leather and something faintly metallic - wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

“You’re freezing,” he gasped, brushing his gloved hand over your cheek. 

“I don’t care,” you replied, smiling up at him. “You’re home.”

“Yeah,” he said, his grin mirroring yours as he cupped your face. “I’m home.” 

He pressed his lips to yours, filling you with so much warmth that it instantly melted away the agony of the last three weeks. 

Out of all the gifts you could have received for Christmas, being back in Bucky's arms was by far the best one.

[ponlypone]

MOVING FORWARD

Haha hey so I finally make a tribute for the arc I absolutely love from Re:Zero.

As you can see, the concept is as simple as: Those who face the imaginary Reinhard are the ones "who wish to 'save' him." While those who face other sides are ... well, they have their own agenda.

Also, I've just listened to a song that really suits Felt a lot in this arc; that's what inspired me to make this art:

"That's right. What I've always wanted to be isn't a mere heroine, but a hero who goes to the rescue." –––Suisei Hoshimachi "Stellar Stellar"

It's obvious that Felt doesn't fit the mold of a typical heroine or princess. Well, maybe the 'I've always wanted to be' is rather inaccurate because Felt's desire to relieve Reinhard's burden is only developed later on after a year of bonding. (but what can I do. It's part of the lyric LOL). But anyways, the way I see it, she is definitely the "hero" in this story. Simply because she has the desire to 'rescue' Reinhard.

Felt doesn't fight Aldebaran because she wants to get herself a good name to better her reputation for the Royal Selection nor because she particularly resents him, but because "she has the power to fight off the imminently approaching peril and for the sake of her one and only Knight, who bore the duty of being the first one to hasten into such situations." –––quoted from Arc 9, Chapter 18

So ofc I gotta draw her in a way that makes her look like the protagonist here. She's been getting a lot of highlights, after all! (Deserved)

Moving on from Felt-sama... Let's talk about Yae.

I give her a bloodshot, bombastic side-eye because, since day 1, this gurl has been wanting to kill Felt. She even puts Heinkel and Felt together because she hopes they'd kill each other. Her only leash is Al's demand to not have anyone die, ngl.

Now, Aldebaran.

Reinhard to him is simply like a lid to his extreme methods. He needs him alive, but does he care about Reinhard's well-being? Hell nah. Bro is simply one of the tools in his grand plan.

Roy Alphard.

[ashamed, tiny voice] Wow I don't really understand bro actually...! That's why I only put him behind Al and make him far from being the focus of the art, like "hehe this dangerous lil gremlin who is one of the trump cards for the antagonist."

Heinkel.

Aaah ofc he MUST look troubled. Bro has been extremely conflicted here and there since the beginning of this arc. I'm definitely not a Heinkel expert but even just reading his feelings and circumstances, you can definitely tell that he's currently being in complex situations innerly and outwardly. But yes, he is one of the rescue gang..! But let's put him rather behind because he is sneaky sneaky. If anything, I can catch glimpses that he genuinely still cares and loves Reinhard... Man . . .

Wilhelm.

Yknow, he is added rather later in my art draft. Was about to draw him lying on the ground, but no space, also skill issue. So I'll just draw him standing (because lying down will ruin the composition consistency too). Anyway, he is super beaten up from his fight with Yae and Alcanica, not to mention Heinkel's surprise stab. So far, he is out of commission; that's why this one of Reinhard's rescuers is facing downward, with frown tho. Because his last words before losing consciousness was literally something like, "Heinkel you stupid son. Bruh you think your method can save Rein??"

Smh. Honestly these 3 (Felt, Heinkel, and Wilhelm) need to just sit down and have a nice talk around bonfire while eating skewered fish whatever and discuss the best way to save Rein. (I knew it. There is none. Tappei told me btw).

Lastly, Reinhard.

In this art I sure want to emphasize his "resignation" to fate/what the world expects from him. He doesn't object; he doesn't even show effort to run away or break free from his duty. To him, this is something he /must/ do, and that's why he's closing his eyes, absolutely resigned and accepting. He doesn't even wish to be saved. His own feelings don't matter at all before his sense of duty.

Shadow hands are obviously Witch of Envy's to depict their longlasting battle.

As for the halo around his neck, it's Od Lagna (Thanks to @j2x3e for the idea btw!). Sure, he is the saint, the antibody to all the shitty things in Re:Zero world, but apparently, this monster can also feel things, and I can't even imagine how taxing it is to deal with Witch of Envy's overwhelming attacks, nonstop, no rest, can't even have his focus decreased a single bit or else world destruction is guaranteed. Soooo this saint, finds the halo suffocating, choking his freedom, even though he doesn't realize it, or maybe doesn't even allow himself to feel that way because he feels undeserving to let personal emotions cloud him. Thus why, even bloodied and surrounded by harming elements, his face is peaceful just like sleeping! :D Closing his eyes, closing himself from all the possibilities, just keep doing his duty.

Anyway, it's been so long since the last time I got so hyped and excited over a story. Thank you, Tappei.

[bloodygyaruuu]

I've seen a few people ask other people about their shipping headcanons. What are yours for metadede?

i have been JUMPING to answer this question for like a month now so here are some pictures and explanations of my favorite idiots ever <3

(excuse the late reply, I promise I haven't been ignoring you. ik, very rude of me.)

my crazed reasoning here...

Alcohol Tolerance - I'm in full belief that Meta is the lightweight of the relationship. I mean, just look at him. That tiny frame can't handle the amount of modelo and beer he wishes it could (although he probably prefers sweet drinks in private). Dedede probably carries to his bedroom with some cold bottles of water, liquid iv, and a trash can prepped for the ever-imminent hangover awaiting them.

Love Languages - Out of the 5 love languages, I feel acts of service best coincides with Meta's personality, considering it's literally his job and how he is far more of an "actions over words" individual. Dedede best suits words of affirmation imo since someone with such heavy leader qualities most certainly knows how to captivate a crowd with his words which would seep into his love life. However... Dedede's eagerness to shower his partner in compliments and sweet nothings is betrayed by Meta's unbearable embarrassment and shyness when it comes to being treated tenderly. It's not to say Meta wouldn't enjoy being tended to, he'd just rather jump off a bridge than allow himself to be emotionally vulnerable, even with his partner.

Introversion vs. Extroversion - I think everyone with eyes and a working brain can agree that Dedede is extroverted while Meta is introverted. However, I feel these parts of their personalities would really shine when speaking to each other in a private, intimate setting. Dedede most likely leads the majority of the conversations between the two while Meta sits and listens deeply. Not to say the knight doesn't have his little quip or comment every now and then, but would prefer to stay silent and listen to his partner speak about trivial things. (although meta would have his moments of rambling on and on when dedede entertains one of his interests. ((autism maybe)).

Banter - I don't have a super in-depth reasoning for this one, but Dedede would def asks Meta random questions to make sure he's paying attention to what the pair are doing. In relation to the image, Dedede is asking him to help pick out which robe to wear. While Meta doesn't care that much about fashion, he's more than willing to participate because of how much love he has for his partner.

Taste Preference - I said in headcanon 1 that I believe Meta would prefer sugary, alcoholic drinks over anything else. I'm holding that truth towards caffeinated and soft drinks too. If he were to order coffee from a chain establishment, it'd probably be the color white due to the amount of cream, sugar, and flavor pumps in it. On the contrary, I feel Dedede would prefer teas and sodas. Maybe a nice chamomile to unwind and a soda to pair with the 50 pounds of red meat he likes to consume on the daily.

Arguments and Quarreling - They're each short-tempered and hot-headed in their own right, but the way they show their anger differs greatly. Dedede feels near-immediate anger that is amplified by his loud and bold nature. While he's more openly angry, this fury dies fast, considering his reasoning for the anger is often ridiculous, and he likes to outwardly dramatize his feelings (also getting these feelings out quickly helps him get over any irrational thoughts down the line). On the other side of the spectrum, Meta wouldn't yell out a string of slander when he was irritated although he'd try to logically prove why his view was the correct one. He'd bottle up his feelings deep inside him until they bubbled into a mess of resentment and grudges until he explodes with fury. Similarly to a star, he'd burn out quick- never exactly learning his lesson after this happens. The couple bicker frequently, but always make up the same day while over-apologizing for their respective faults.

Separated Thoughts - They'd probably HATEEE being away from each other for extended periods of time. If nobody stops them, the two just end up rambling on about the other until they run out of breath or everyone even partially listening makes their great escape. Dedede and Meta have their own work duties away from each other for often weeks at a time which puts a lot of strain on their yearning hearts. While they message and call near daily if one of the pair is on a work trip, they each miss the other's touch and kinda miss smooching to the point it distracts them from their responsibilities. (Galaxia would def tease Meta in regards to how much he thinks about the King in a romantic light.)

Body Temperatures - These two are extreme opposites in nearly everything they do and everything they are. Their body temperature is no exception. Everything about Meta is cold from his personality to his tiny hands, while Dedede holds in heat like a sweltering furnace. When the two cuddle together in the same bed, Meta melts into his partner's chest while the King tries oh so desperately not to throw the knight across the room when he's assaulted by freezing cold hands. When they hold hands, they create a perfect, affectionate temperature.

PLEASEEEEEE feel free to add on to my headcanon's here or even talk about your own hc's that I missed. I adore this kind of discussion. I couldn't get my 346 page list of hadcanon's and thought's into these characters in one post so perhaps I'll make a follow-up in the future, but I just love my near-middle aged man yaoi so much I just want to talk about it all day.

[gotham-daydreams]

Okay, so, I love Isekai fanfic. I just do, it's so fun. I like the idea of the reader loving this stuff and dreaming of it, but being so worried about them thinking ill of you. I would also be so embarrassed. Like, "Crud, they're gonna think I'm so lame and stupid." Only to find out, "Oh. I have some of the most dangerous, intelligent people on the planet obsessed with me who will never let me go home... Not the kind of bad I expected, and yet this is somehow worse." I'm also interested in the Idol one. The idea of someone being friends with Idols, and this fear that people only like you to try to get close to these people. That you're just being used. And then the sudden whiplash of them wanting you, and the fear it brings when you realize you're being stalked. From one kind of bad, to very different and worse kind of bad. I am very excited

Yes!!! Exactly!!!

For the Isekai one, I also decided to do that because... well, usually the MC is placed right at the foot the the yanderes/Batfam, or tries to go to them - which isn't bad by any means! Honestly it'd be pretty smart to do that considering things, and it works out for plot convenience.

Though, I couldn't help but think about a reader that just... avoids them? At all costs? Not because they have something to hide necessarily, but moreso because, well, that'd be really embarrassing... and sure, it's one thing to read about them- but its an entirely different thing to meet them face to face. How are you supposed to act? Of course you'd have to pretend you don't know them... but they're scarily good at reading people! What if they think you're some kind of stalker??? Or worse!

Basically, I need a reader that is super anxious and an overthinker so they decide to take a harder but socially 'easier' route of just... avoiding them, LMAO

Though yeah, when that realization comes around, and the reader notices a little too late that maybe the Batfam is obsessed over them? And they can't go home? It's so over. A breakdown is definitely imminent.

As for the switch one? I know!!! I love it so much!! I've only read a handful of yandere stories where the fixation for the yans switches, and even less where the original fixation wasn't an asshole, so this is me trying to do that but with the Batfam :]

The feeling of being used will definitely appear every now and again, but there is more of a fear of "something you didn't take seriously now becoming serious and it's too late for you", especially as the reader does try to pull away and break things off from the family, but it definitely doesn't work out.

I'll be honest, there is more than just the idols and the family using the reader to get what they want out of them, but that is the general premise without me getting into details and writing even longer descriptions, lol

For example: just to live, the reader does some shady buisness - but they are trying to get out of it (the family doesn't know they're even doing that kind of buisness, though). The reader also knows a lot of people... more than the Batfam thought! And just generally the Batfam looking into the reader as they realize they don't actually know a lot about them, and through that some of them become obsessed and super jealous...

It's not a lot as the whole switch from the idols to the main character does take more of a focus, but what I've mentioned above is just more things in between and during that gradual switch.

It's even worse then you think that the Batfam was doing it out of malice at first, then it slowly became something else.... oh man. And just how all these little things that meant to harm you, are now supposed to like, be signs of affection??? Super confusing, but god is it dreadful and terrifying.

[seariderfalcon]

I've been on the internet daily since 2001 but today I unlocked a new achievement.

🎉 First time I've been told I should kill myself! 🎉

First time that I've been obviously blocked, too, I think. Truly banner day for me. Of course, it had to be over the dumbest thing possible, lol.

For context, @brittanias reblogged an H-Money poll with the most blatantly jokey commentary on the way the stats were shaking out for a Grade This Ship poll (A+ in first place, and somehow C- in second...that leap between grades was just a little bemusing is all). The account owner blew up at B in a rude dm, blocked her, and then posted that bizarre essay. It was a massive overreaction to an extremely tame bit of hyperbole.

My previous reblog is the only interaction I had with the above account (other than quietly voting on a few of the polls). I was perhaps a tiny bit snarkier than strictly necessary, but nowhere near reaching my final form in terms of being an asshole. I thought I was fairly calm and measured in my response, all things considered, though I did figure I'd probably get some huffy pushback and maybe earn a block, too.

And then I got this unhinged piece of work in my dms. Yeah. I think I absolutely called it when I suggested the account owner lacks a certain maturity that's generally required to run a wide-scale account of this nature.

Anyway. Neither of us brought up any other ship. Or suggested that people who don't like H-Money are idiots. Literally putting words in our mouths that were never even hinted at. And I'm dying know what constitutes "creepily obsessed." I'm pretty sure we both use our blogs the same way nearly every other fannish blog does.

Also, I am absolutely rolling over the "it's not even a real ship" slam. Babe, it's real enough that you are literally running a poll for it right now, lol.

Plus, getting mad and claiming that we called others idiots (nope) and then essentially calling me the same thing is certainly A Choice. It's also not inane, unsolicited, or utterly useless to defend a friend, especially when you know theyre being accused of something they obviously didn't do (B, I know we're not like super close, but my god, we've been mutuals on several platforms going back to when BSG was still airing...I think I've got a grasp on your sense of humor at this point, and I will absolutely defend you and anyone else in my orbit).

Lastly, there's like a whole little group praying for my imminent demise? Fun! But sorry to disappoint. I shall live to see another day. Fastest way to lose any argument, btw.

[phantomrose96]

I had a dream last night that I was in a work call and I made some kind of short-people joke (on account of I Am Short Person) and then I realized after the call I'd accidentally said "little people" instead of "short people." Which was immediately mortifying and I was like "okay HOPEFULLY everyone present understood from context I just misspoke and meant short people and that it was a joke about myself?"

Then a few hours later I checked my Teams and it was blowing up with messages from coworkers demanding an explanation for my insensitive joke (including clients? I don't have clients.) I drafted a whole ass twitter-apology style letter like super owning up to my mistake and fault but also I just misspoke I swear. It was a short-person joke at my own expense. The meeting was recorded please watch it.

But no one read the letter because trial like, immediately started, which included one of my coworkers walking in with some(?) company product(?) designed specifically with accessibility standards for little people and my coworker was like "this company stands with little people. you don't get it because you HATE them" and every time I TRIED to speak to explain myself I got silenced because it wasn't my turn yet to speak so I just had to listen to everyone else yelling at me for how much I clearly hate little people. Then I woke up and it took me a solid few seconds to process it was a dream and I WASN'T facing imminent firing and work-cancelation by work-trial.

Anyway I think I have a perfectly normal and healthy relationship with the internet and how it treats perceived transgressions.

[feroluce]

So this ficlet-ish thing was inspired by @hydrachea, nsfw super genius extraordinaire, but also by the fact that in addition to Boothill's left eye being cybernetic, I like to hc even the parts of him that look human aren't fully natural. I mean the dude eats bullets, after all. I think he should also have vents in his mouth so he can literally blow smoke/steam, it would look super cool. Think Father Gascoigne or Studio BONES' Todoroki. We as a fandom deserve that!!

So anyway, of course, sometimes these vents get blocked up and need to be cleaned manually. Thankfully, Dan Heng is super helpful ☆

Like there's one day where Boothill is lazing around in the archives, fresh off a bounty and happily soaking up the luxury of the Astral Express after however long he's spent tracking his prey through all the dust and dirt with almost no rest.

Boothill likes it in the archives. It's not silent, but it's quiet. There's no music and only muffled voices from outside, but there's the hum of all the computer systems. It makes for a nice place to hide away and recharge when he's just finished exhausting himself.

And besides, Dan Heng is there.

Sometimes the two of them talk back and forth, but today it's mostly quiet...except for-

"I didn't know it was possible for you to get sick."

...Except for Boothill having to constantly clear his throat. That's the thing about your mark trying to flee into the desert. You either go after them and get sand everywhere (and even worse, sticky sand once it gets all bloody) or you wuss out and lose out on the bounty. Personally, Boothill likes being able to afford to eat.

"Grit's stuck in a vent somewhere, 'n' the usual maintenance ain't gettin' it. I'll prob'ly have ta manually dig it out." But later, when he's not laid out half asleep on Dan Heng's extra futon. Usually after a chase as long as this one took, he can shut down for almost a full day. He doesn't want to get up yet.

Something shadows over him, and reflex demands Boothill's eye open. Dan Heng steps around him on his way to some drawer built in the wall on the other side of the room or something. Boothill closes his eye again.

From under his hat he hears the sounds of rummaging, drawers sliding open and shut, the swish of a long coat. The shadow returns.

"Sit up, just momentarily. I have something to help." And Boothill groans a tired don't wanna, but he does it anyway, he hauls himself upright into a kneel. And then he sits up a little straighter because he realizes Dan Heng is standing right over him.

Dan Heng tells him "open your mouth," and Boothill's jaw pops open without his permission, without even a second thought, and hey, what protocol in there ok'd THAT?!?!

Before he can really unpack whatever the heck that just was, though, Dan Heng murmurs for him to say so if he needs them to stop, and then he's sliding a long, hard rod down Boothill's throat, tipped with some soft little brush he probably uses for all his fancy archival equipment.

Dan Heng tells him the handle of the brush is straight and can't be bent, he needs to move his head to be able to reach the vent in his throat. Boothill hums affirmatively; he can't do anything else with his mouth occupied.

Dan Heng's free hand holds him by his jaw, tilts it up slowly but firmly so he has to look straight up at him.

Boothill feels dizzy.

The cycle of blue blood through his artificial heart whirrs just a bit faster, his temperature sensor pings an internal alarm to warn for imminent overheating. Boothill curls his fingers into the guard over his knee as Dan Heng carefully brushes at the dust irritating him. All other sounds- the hum of running equipment, the occasional beep from the computers, the noise of the crew outside of this room- seem to pull away, until all Boothill can focus on is the steady and measured breathing from the man above him.

"Almost done."

Thank the aeons, maybe one of them likes him after all.

"Your tongue is in the way... I'm going to hold it down, ok?"

Nevermind.

The fingers holding his jaw curl around his chin, thumb slipping past open lips to dip into his mouth and pin down his tongue. One of his teeth catch on the digit, breaking skin just enough to bleed a drop where he can taste it. Dan Heng doesn't even flinch. Another temperature alarm pings off in his brain, then another, then another.

Boothill has never been shy about eye contact but oh, god, it nearly kills him when dull green irises flick away from their task and look down right at him as his mouth is held open. He quickly squeezes his own eye shut for some relief.

With his vision cut off, the rest of his senses automatically recalibrate to compensate. He can hear every breath even more distinctly now, every soft inhale and exhale, feel the strain in his neck, the softness of the brush, the hard floor beneath his knees, the hand holding his jaw and the fingerprints that feel like they should leave burns in his skin, the taste of Dan Heng heavy on his tongue-

Forget it, eye open, eye open!!

"Alright. There's one last pebble stuck."

Boothill had been trained to endure torture, back on his homeworld. It was part of being in a gang, part of being a bounty hunter.

Somehow, keeping himself quiet and still as Dan Heng inches the brush even further down the back of his throat is a profoundly similar experience.

The seconds tick by, Dan Heng's brow furrowing, face growing ever more concentrated and Boothill struggles not to watch him too closely, fights down the noise that suddenly tries to escape him as the brush withdraws-

"Swallow."

Stars and aeons, Dan Heng is going to be the death of him.

Boothill swallows. He feels it when the movement finally dislodges the loosened pebble from his vent.

His face feels shockingly cold now bereft of touch, even though Dan Heng's hands are always cool. He asks to see, and Boothill's mouth is already open again to show him, even as he belatedly realizes he could have just told him it had worked.

"Good." There's the slightest smile on Dan Heng's lips as he finally, mercifully, leans back out of his personal space, goes to put away the brush. "That should feel better now." Boothill spends a moment dizzy and dazed, feeling the need to blink spots out of his eye even though his vision is clear. He still hasn't moved off his knees.

What the fudge.

[littlefingies]

I'm gonna share another

Fandom Pet Peeve

that I'm sure has been written about before (and better) but it's been lodged in my brain for a week so I need to exorcize it here.

You can't watch the show and come away with it thinking "Izzy is the real brains/skill behind Blackbeard" without fully ignoring race. White/straight/cis/able-bodied/masc/Christian/men are allowed to be mediocre (slash downright middling) and successful, and the further removed you are from that standard, the better you have to be to be successful*.

If anything Ed would need to keep Izzy around purely because he's a white man who is (allegedly) loyal to him, and therefore has access to spaces and people that Ed doesn't. I'm thinking about getting the best prices for different goods, and which buyers Izzy would have access to. (My read on canon is that he probably was loyal for a long time, and as Ed grew more depressed, Izzy started to take more liberties with the truth.)

The casting in OFMD is not race blind. They make that abundantly clear in the second episode, where Stede, Pete, and the hostages are caged and Olu is not. It's even in the first episode, in how Stede sets up the little fuckery for Nigel. The characters' race matters to the story.

The idea that somehow Ed, as an indigenous man, would have a reputation that big and not have earned it 10x over is just mind-boggling to me.

Especially when you consider how imminent and commonplace the show treats the threat of mutiny. If Ed wasn't very very good then he wouldn't be captain.

And it's why I tend not to enjoy any fic or meta where Izzy is treated as being correct in his belief that he needs to manage Ed, that he knows better than Ed, that he's a super competent sailor. (Write/enjoy that fanon if you want but I don't like that flavor.) He's good at swords, he's mean, he's white, and he's (or rather was once) loyal. That's what I see in canon.

*As an example I like to think about the qualifications of Bret Kavanaugh vs. Ketanji Brown Jackson. (It's not that she's out of his league, they're not even playing the same game.) Or - sorry Stede (I love him and I know he's nothing like Kavanaugh in actual character) - but Stede vs. Zheng Yi Sao.

[nekoannie-chan]

Dreams of a Soldier

Title: Dreams of a Soldier.

Fandom: Marvel, Captain America.

Ship: Pre-serum!Steve Rogers X Unknown!Reader.

Word count: 448 words.

Rating: Teen.

Summary: Steve has dreams about you.

Major Tags: Fluff, angst.

Additional tags: My late gift for @sinceimetyou. HAPPY BIRTHDAY GABY!

Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.

@saiyanprincessswanie

My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my writing skills in English. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.

I don’t give any permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in other languages (I translate my work myself) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this). I did them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and don't steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use. Mine is not this type, please look for the other people. The only exceptions are the ones I gifted 'cuz now they belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

Add yourself to my taglist here.

My other media where I publish:  Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter. 

If you like it, please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog.

Tags: @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad @navybrat817 @angrythingstarlight @shield-agent78 @charmed-asylum @pandaxnienke @real-fbi @Smokeandnailz @white-wolf1940 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @xoxonotme @bluemusickid @leyannrae @Harrysthiccthighss @Marvelatthisone @caplanbuckybarnes @sapphire-rogers @lizzieolseniskinda @notyourtypicalrose @hallecarey1 @nana1000night @talia-rumlow @writingshae @alexxavicry @azulatodoryuga @daemonslittlebitch @chaoticcollectivenightmare @endlesstwanted @chemtrails-club  @marigoldreamer @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @Here4thefanfics @theestorm @patzammit @kmc1989 @somegirlfromasgard @rogersbarber

Steve Rogers lived a difficult life before the super-soldier serum transformed him. However, in his nights, something strange began to happen. Every time he closed his eyes to rest, an image began to appear in his dreams: you. Although he didn't know you, something in his heart told him there was something familiar about you.

The first dreams were vague. Your face would fade away before he could remember it well. In the dreams, sometimes he only saw you from afar; other times you spoke, and though the words seemed to be garbled.

Steve tried to downplay the dreams. After all, he was used to his mind playing tricks on him. But the nights kept coming, and with each one, your presence became sharper, more real.

One night, Steve was sitting on the couch in his room, thinking about what he had experienced in his dreams. He was tired, but the thought of sleep was imminent. Just before he went to bed, Bucky entered the room.

“Hey, Rogers, would you mind if I sat down for a while? “said Bucky.

Steve nodded without much encouragement; he didn't feel like talking, but something in the back of his mind told him he should share what was troubling him. Bucky sat down, and without much thought, Steve began to speak.

“Bucky, I've been having these weird dreams,” Steve said, looking down at the floor, almost as if he was ashamed to admit it. There's someone. I don't know this person, but I feel like I've known this person all my life. Every night, in my dreams, we talk, we laugh, and we understand each other in a way I can't explain.

Bucky looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Someone? “ Bucky repeated, letting out a low chuckle. “Wow, Steve, what's the matter? Have you become an overnight romantic already?”

Steve glared at him but couldn't help a faint smile on his lips.

“It's not that, Bucky... It's like there's something more. As if, even if I didn't know this person, the connection was real. I'm beginning to think it's not just dreams. There's something strange, something I can't explain. Every time I wake up, I feel empty, like something is missing.

“You mean you feel it, like it's part of you? “ Bucky asked.

Steve nodded.

“Exactly. I don't know if it's in my head or if it's something else. But I can't stop thinking about this person.

Bucky looked at him for a moment, as if trying to understand what Steve was feeling. Finally, he patted him on the shoulder.

“The only thing I can tell you is that maybe it is waiting for you in real life.

[waterfallofspace]

Actually Adorable

The one in which Jon and Martin both discover something new about each other.

feat. martin with kitten allergies, and snzs~ not actually one of my main t/ma snz bois, but he's absolutely precious to me, and i got a request, so I hope this is enjoyable!

(warning: there is talk of wheezing in this, it's pretty light and nothing super heavy, but just be aware of that incase you don't like that sort of thing)

Characters: Martin, Jon, Tim Word Count: 4k (so much for 'small drabbles')

He’d normally avoid the alley, but being as late as he is, Martin finds himself with no choice. It’s not as if it’s a particularly bad part of town. In fact, while the institute doesn’t get much respect, everything around it always seemed to be well kept. At least, everything outside of the archive, that is. Still, ducking through the alleys of London isn’t exactly Martin’s idea of a safe commute. 

The city’s background ambience dulls in the quiet street, Martin finding himself humming slightly just to fill the gap. It’s a fast walk, cutting nearly ten minutes off his commute. Again, normally that wouldn’t be worth much, but being already nearly twenty minutes late, he’ll take what he can get. 

“Jon’s going to kill me…” he hums to himself. It’s not as if anyone’s around to hear him singing about his death in an alley behind the institute. It’s okay to lighten the mood a bit before his imminent demise. 

A sudden, yet oddly soft noise knocks him from this spiral of thought. He barely manages to catch the scream that starts, smothering it into a strangled noise of pure panic. Martin scans the alley, heart beating into his throat. It takes him a minute to locate the source of the sound, and the sight that greets him is enough to leave him speechless. 

There, in the corner of the alley, crouching beside a few abandoned boxes, is Jon. As in Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the magnus institute, his boss. In an alley. Crouching. 

“J- Jon..?” Martin whispers, almost hoping he isn’t heard. The wish is, albeit self-fullingly, granted. Jon doesn’t look up, still entirely focused on whatever task has brought him here. His hand is reaching out behind the boxes, and Martin can’t seem to make out what he’s doing. 

Martin finds himself standing there for almost too long, debating what to do. Okay, there’s a few ways this could go. Option one; he can go back the way he came and take the extra nearly twenty minutes it’ll take to get all the way back, and just hope Jon’s too busy to notice. No, Jon will definitely be back inside by then and he’ll be screwed. 

Okay so option two; shuffle past Jon as fast as humanly possible, and hope Jon doesn’t see him. Except what if he does, and Martin didn’t announce himself, and then Jon thinks he’s a creepy stalker, prowling the back alleys and looking for- no, that won’t do. 

So option three it is; announce himself and make sure Jon knows he’s there, and try to explain that he was running late (and that he’s so sorry for that) and hope that whatever Jon’s doing isn’t any form of criminal activity that would lead to getting fired-

Another soft noise cuts through these thoughts, Martin realizing it’s the same one as earlier. He manages to focus his gaze on Jon, watching as Jon kneels down closer to the floor, reaching out his hand again. This time a small form crawls out from behind the box, and rubs up against the hand. Oh. 

Martin finds himself nearly fainting with relief, the million ways this situation could end badly starting to fade as he watches the scene unfold. Jon has sunk fully to a sitting position by now, coaxing the kitten closer with a mixture of soft cooing and gentle tongue clicks. The kitten seems enraptured, beginning to let out a purr as it sinks into Jon’s lap. 

They stay like this for a few minutes, Martin unable to draw his eyes away as Jon strokes the kitten behind the ears, continuing to speak softly to it. The kitten, for its part, purrs loudly enough that even standing a few paces away, Martin can hear it clearly. Jon has a look on his face Martin’s never seen him have. It’s mesmerizing, and Martin has to fight to keep the warmth from flooding to his cheeks. He’d never known Jon was such a cat person, but he seems a natural at it. 

There’s something so… open about Jon’s posture. It’s an unfamiliar sight on the normally politely restrained boss. His voice, which would usually carry a tight air about it, is soft. Warm. He’s… almost adorable like this. It’s a tone Martin didn’t even know Jon could produce, though he feels a bit bad thinking that. Of course Jon can be soft, he’s just always at work when they see each other. Not the place for such things. 

There’s a slight pang in his chest as Martin starts to drift into imagining Jon speaking to him with the same- No. Don’t be creepy, that’s a completely unreasonable train of thought. This is your boss, and you are watching him in an alley. Okay, line definitely crossed. 

“Jon?” Martin speaks up, clearing his throat first, hoping that’ll be a touch less startling. 

Jon nearly jumps out of his skin, eyes snapping to face Martin. The kitten, however, barely stirs. It seems far too content in Jon’s lap to worry about anything else. It purrs deeply, melting into Jon’s chest, dozing lightly. 

“Martin? What the hell are you doing here?” Jon asks, all softness drained from his tone. Martin feels another pang, but pushes it down. He’s just surprised Jon in a back alley, of course his tone is tense. 

“S- sorry! I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you, I promise, I was just running late- which I know I should have been more prepared for, but it was that kind of morning- which isn’t an excuse! But the point is I was trying to save some time, and-” Martin feels the words start pouring out before he can really stop them. It always seems to happen when he’s nervous, and around Jon? That’s almost always. 

The look on Jon’s face is hard to read, and Martin manages to cut himself off abruptly as Jon holds up a hand.

“S-sorry,” He stammers out again, meeting Jon’s eyes carefully. 

“It’s of no matter,” Jon sighs, glancing down at the kitten before tracing back up to Martin.

“He’s cute!” Martin says, hoping desperately to break the tension. He reaches down and gives the kitten a light pet, smiling as it leans against his touch. “I didn’t know you were a cat person! What’s his name?” 

“Doesn’t have one,” Jon replies, looking almost tenderly at the mass of fur. “Found her out here. At least I think it’s a girl. Not exactly an expert.” 

“Oh, r- right! She’s cute then!”

Jon clears his throat, “Indeed.” There’s a pause, then he continues with, “I was just…” 

Martin waits for the end, but it doesn’t come. Jon’s mouth sort of just… closes. He won’t meet Martin’s eye, and for a second it seems like… embarrassment? But for what? Finding a kitten? Petting it? 

Martin doesn’t have the time to linger on these thoughts, however, as a new one presents itself with urgency. He has to sneeze. And badly. 

He pulls away from Jon, taking a few steps back and managing to get an arm over his face before the first breaks through; a tiny stifle that’s barely audible over the kitten’s still pronounced purring. “hh’nxt!” 

Jon doesn’t reply, simply watching Martin with… another unreadable expression. Martin stutters out a few apologies, before turning on his heel and ducking back into his arm for another tight, “ih’nxt! hh’ngt!” 

This time Jon does reply, or at least… Martin thinks he does? Whatever it is comes out hushed, barely a whisper, the only trace it was even there is Jon’s lips seeming to form some sort of words. He does, however, stand up. The kitten gives a disgruntled mew as it’s jostled from its position, sluggishly crawling back onto the ground.  

“Well,” Jon says, lightly brushing off his legs. “Shall we go inside then?” 

Martin blinks a few times from behind his arm. He was expecting some form of lecture about being late, but… gift horses and all. He decides to just take this mercy. He drops his arm and nods silently, falling into step behind Jon as they walk, not quite together, but both in the same direction. 

“What about the kitten?” Martin finds himself asking, regretting it instantly as Jon’s entire back goes tense. “Or, I- well, I was just… I don’t want to leave it to die out there… N- not that I’m saying you’d- I didn’t mean you-” 

“I’m sure that Sasha or Tim can find it a nice place to stay,” Jon replies, voice tight and contained. “Tim’s always looking for an excuse to dip out of work. As for right now, we are late, and I know I have a lot of work to be doing. I’m sure you do too.” 

Martin curses himself internally, that was of course a stupid thing to ask. Jon’s obviously a bit on edge about being seen like that, and it’s not really like he can blame him! He’d certainly not want anyone at the archives to catch him unawares. If someone walked in on him recording his poetry… Martin feels a shudder at the thought. And then another one, as his nose begins to burn again. 

He manages to stifle these too, a quick triple that he’s almost certain Jon doesn’t hear. It’s a short walk to the institute, of which Martin is deeply grateful. The itch in his nose is rapidly growing, and it’s beginning to spread to his eyes. He’d really thought just a single small pet would be alright. They were outside, it wasn’t like he was holding the kitten to his face or anything like that. 

Yet it was becoming rapidly apparent that it was not alright. Thankfully, Jon still seemed oblivious. Or perhaps was just giving him the courtesy of pretending he didn’t notice the increasing amount of sniffling. 

“hk’gt! eh’nxt! nxgt!” 

Or the small bouts of sneezing that kept breaking free. Martin had always been quite allergic to cats, but could never quite find it in himself to dislike them. They’re such intelligent animals, and so cute, and fluffy, and… well, they always seemed to like him back. He’d been told more than once by their owners that cats can always spot the allergic one, and seem to gravitate towards them. In his experience at least, this had been true. 

“Martin!” Jon called, snapping him back into focus. Turns out he was so focused on his own thoughts he’d nearly walked right past the institute entirely. “Planning on coming into work?” 

It was heavily sarcastic, and Martin felt the blush sink deeper into his ears as he gave a light nod and muttered apology. He hurried through the door Jon was holding open, ducking his head a bit to avoid Jon’s glare. 

Just walking past him, Martin could see the fur coating Jon’s entire lap, and spreading up over his vest. The sight of it reflexively brought his hand to his nose, pinching it shut as his eyes crashed close against another round of- “h’kngt! nngt! hk’ngxt!” 

This time Jon did offer a blessing, to which Martin replied with thanks, apologizing again. Jon’s face is unreadable, and Martin chokes back the urge to apologize. Again.  It seems it’s the only thing he’s capable of doing anymore. Though, with Jon… that was starting to feel like the norm. With him, it always felt like no matter what Martin did, it was always wrong. 

Before he can get too lost in that trainwreck of thoughts, Martin pulls himself together, and gives Jon a polite excuse, attempting to move to the kitchen. 

“Martin, wait-” Jon starts, before awkwardly pausing. There’s a beat of silence, both of them staring at each other. Martin blinks slowly, feeling a bit worried as the seconds seem to tick on forever. The more time passes, the harder Martin finds it to ignore the tingling spreading throughout his sinuses. Finally, Jon manages to offer a weak, “I’ll forgive the lateness this once, but don’t let it happen again.” 

“Th- thank you…” Martin stutters out in reply. They drift into another awkward pause, before Martin ends it with a rapid “hh’ngxt–nngt–k’nngdt! ngt’shiiew!” 

The last one breaks free, and Martin blushes hard, more apologies tumbling out over each other. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I was trying to catch it but they were a bit fast and it just slipped out-” 

Jon interrupts by clearing his throat again, and looking distinctly not at Martin as he offers, “Nothing to apologize for.” 

Tense silence settles over them again, and Martin’s starting to think maybe being berated isn’t actually all that bad. It certainly beats the hell out of whatever this new dynamic is. 

“So,” Jon starts, Martin nearly jumping out of his skin at the sudden noise. “Back to work then.” 

“Yes, of course,” Martin begins to turn around, before pausing as Jon speaks up again.

“Unless you… need anything?” 

It sounds oddly sincere, and Martin feels confusion spreading across his face. “S- sorry? I don’t… I don’t think so, I’ve got a fair number of cases already to investigate, and I’m sure Tim and Sasha will have some things for me to do too.” 

Jon looks a bit taken aback at this, and Martin feels the panic swell again. Was that the wrong answer? What else could he possibly have meant- 

Before he can spiral too far, Jon seems to collect himself, that unreadable expression settling back over his features. “Indeed, yes. Back to work then, lot to get done, and we’re already behind. Lord knows everyone’s overworked as it is, and Tim will surely complain about our absence.” 

Martin nods cautiously, biting back the urge to apologize again. He’s not even sure what for, there’s just… that sinking feeling that he’s said something wrong. He absentmindedly rubs at his eye, but nearly lets out a groan at the sensation. It’s equal parts relieving and unsatisfying, the itch far too deep to actually scratch. What it does do is spread the tickle back through his nose. 

“Oh-” Martin lets out involuntarily. He barely catches a glimpse of Jon turning back from where he’d begun to walk away through his rapidly watering eyes. Seems they both keep getting pulled back into this interaction, and Martin curses internally. If he’d just kept quiet and rushed away before the fit broke loose- Well, too late now, and he attempts to stutter out, “Sorry I think… thinkI’mgonna– hh’nxt! eh’gnxt! nngt–ed’gnxt–ngt’iew! hihhiieshh’iew!” 

“Good lord, Martin,” Jon says, and Martin suddenly wishes he could sink through the floor. 

He tries to stutter out more apologies, but his breath is stolen by the ever-increasing fit. Rapid, yet tiny, sneezes continue to pile over each other, though the stifling is long forgotten for lieu of being able to get a breath. 

“hh’ieshhiew! ishhhiew! ishhiew! tshhh’iew! ishhh–eshhh–eshhh–eshh’iiew!” 

Jon’s standing in stunned silence, seeming unable to pull his eyes away. Martin can only stand, arm against his face, gasping into his sleeve, waiting for the end of this humiliating display. It, mercifully, comes fairly quickly, a final “heh’iSHHHiew!” seeming to clear out the remainder of the burn. 

The absent tickle still lingers, his eyes watering as the itch still buzzes through them too. At least the fit seems to be over. Jon’s still staring, mouth pulled tight as he surveys the scene. Martin wishes, again, that he could sink through the floor. There’s another silence, Jon seeming to just… watch. 

“I’b so-” Martin starts, before hearing his own congested voice and blushing deeper. Jon seems to notice it too, wincing slightly as Martin attempts to sniff, the noise coming out strained and heavy. There’s another pause before Jon suddenly turns on his heel and hurries away. 

Martin feels the shame begin to sink into him, and he curses again, this time a little more externally. Of course Jon would leave, that was a humiliating display, he can only imagine how disgusted Jon must be with him. It’s so unprofessional, to have a fit like that in front of your boss, Jon would never succumb like that in front of Elias. 

His self loathing is interrupted by a clearing of the throat, Jon standing in front of him almost- nervously? But that doesn’t make any sense, why would he be nervous? Surely it’s gotta be something else, maybe it’s- 

“Here,” Jon says, cutting through the silence. As Martin glances down, he realizes Jon is holding out a box of tissues. He accepts them, a bit hesitantly, utterly speechless. 

Jon seems to notice this, and gives him a slight nod, an attempt at being reassuring. “You seemed to need them. Bless you, by the way.” 

The words seem to be a bit foreign to him, he doesn’t stutter over them or anything of the sort, but they seem to be a conscious effort. Come to think of it, Martin can’t recall ever hearing Jon bless someone. Unlike himself, where it’s a habit so deeply engrained it’s more of a reflex than anything else. 

It does make sense, Jon’s always seemed more the polite yet tightly wound sort. Whenever Martin’s heard him sneeze, which has been quite rare, it’s been obvious he wants no attention drawn to it. Perhaps he assumes others feel the same..? 

Either way it hardly seems to matter, and with a start, Martin realizes he’s been standing here silently for almost a full minute. He gives Jon an appreciative look, pulling out a tissue, folding it, and turning around to lightly blow his nose. For his part, Jon turns away, most likely to give him a bit of privacy. 

After cleaning himself up, Martin throws the tissues in the wastebasket nearby before turning back to Jon. “Thank you, for the uh- tissues and all.” 

Jon stares a bit, before clearing his throat. “Right. Well, again you, uh, seemed to need them.” 

“Yeah,” Martin gives a sheepish smile, “Sorry about that. Just a bit of allergies.” 

“Seems an understatement,” Jon replies, seemingly without thinking. Martin chuckles a bit at the candor.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says with a laugh. That was apparently a bad idea, the vibrations from the laughter leaving him gasping. Jon looks on in what appears to be sympathy as Martin grabs a few more tissues. He just manages to bring them up in time. 

“hh’ishhh! ishhhiew! t’shhhew! tshhh–tshhh–tshhh’ieeww!” 

“Bless you,” Jon says, this time without much hesitation. Martin nods his thanks, grabbing another tissue, and folding it nicely before attending to his nose with it. These he also deposits in the wastebin. 

“Thank you, sorry again,” Martin starts, breaking off with a light cough. It’s not chesty, but it does come with a slight wheeze to his breath. Jon definitely takes notice of this, his face going a bit pale. 

“Are you- are you wheezing?” Jon asks, almost a touch accusatory in his tone. 

Martin blushes slightly, but draws in a deep breath to test it. There’s an audible wheeze, and he finds himself getting caught in another cough. 

“S- sorry,” He sputters out between light coughs, glancing down at the cat hair covering Jon. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry, it happens quite often, I’m just uh… a bit allergic to…” 

Jon follows his gaze, looking over his clothes. A moment passes, then realization dawns across his face and Jon pales a bit further. He gives Martin a look that’s quite clearly concern, before it’s quickly replaced by a glare. 

“Good lord Martin, why didn’t you say something?!” Jon snaps, taking several steps back. 

Martin feels a shiver run through him at the harsh tone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-” 

“No, you didn’t,” Jon interrupts, his tone still firm, but with something that still sounds a lot like concern flowing through it. And maybe… guilt? “If I’d known, I’d not have made you stand here, suffocating yourself with an allergen.” 

“It’s really not that bad,” Martin tries, his body betraying him with another “ishhh’iew! ishhh–ishhh–t’shhheeww!” 

Jon gives another blessing, his displeasure palpable. Feeling another twinge of guilt, Martin attempts to apologize again, but finds his words stolen by another set of sneezes. “ieshew! tshhiew! hihheshhiew!” 

“Bless you,” Jon says yet again, taking a few more steps back. Even through his slight wheeze, Martin thinks he hears Jon mutter something. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was something about ‘actually being quite adorable’. A smile begins to slip over Martin’s face before he even has time to process the words. 

It’s quickly countered by Jon calling out for Tim. Martin nearly jumps at the volume, coughing again as the jostle brings another light wheeze. 

Turning back to Martin, Jon begins to give instructions. ��I’m going to go to my office, I have a change of clothes in there, I’ll switch over to them. Tim will help you, he always has some meds around for his own struggles, I’m sure he can lend you some. You are to sit down, and under no circumstances are you to go back near the kitten. Sasha can find it somewhere nice to stay.”  

Before Martin has a chance to respond, Jon’s rushing down the hall, taking a turn towards Sasha’s desk. Tim comes around the corner at the same time, just barely managing to avoid crashing into Jon. He utters an expletive, but Jon pays it no mind whatsoever, just pointing towards Martin, and saying something Martin can’t make out. 

“Jeez,” Tim calls out as he gets closer. “What’s his deal?” 

“There was a ki-” Martin starts, before stopping himself. Jon hadn’t exactly been advertising that he was in the alley with the kitten, and… much as Tim was a nice guy, he’s not entirely above taunting. Especially if he knows this isn’t something Jon wants people to know about. 

Thankfully he doesn’t have to come up with a new excuse, as the tickle returns with a passion. He simply ducks into another handful of tissues for another set of “hhshhhiew! ishhhieww! t’shhh! kshhhiew!” 

“Woah, bless you,” Tim says, giving Martin a quick once over. “What happened to you?” 

“Nothing,” Martin sighs, with a bit of a wheeze. He attempts to give Tim a reassuring smile. “I’m alright.” 

“Clearly not,” Tim replies. “You’re wheezing and sneezing all over the place. Plus the boss sent me to help, figure that’s not for nothin’.” 

“Just… a bit of a run in with an allergen,” Martin says, coughing against his sleeve. Tim looks sympathetic, they both know he’s had a few of those himself. Even in the time he’d been here, Martin had witnessed a couple of situations when someone brought a bouquet into the archives. 

“Sounds bad,” Tim says, a bit more gently. 

Martin nods, bringing another group of tissues up to his nose. “ishhh! eshhh! kshhh! hhieESHhiew!” 

“Bless you!” 

“Thagk you,” Martin replies, giving Tim a soft smile. He’s interrupted by another fit, this one breaking out rapidly, piling over each other until he feels Tim’s hand on his arm steadying him. 

Tim lets out a low whistle as Martin blows his nose again. “That’s quite the attack. You’re nearly on my level! Right-o, let’s get you medicated, shall we?” 

Martin nods, putting up no resistance as Tim begins to guide (drag) him back to his desk. 

“You know, you have quite the kitten sneeze going on there,” Tim says, looking a bit confused as Martin begins to laugh. “Something funny?” 

“No, no,” Martin replies. “It’s nothing. Thank you for the help.” 

Tim nods at this, giving a wide grin, and going on some tangent about his own allergies, and the last time he had an attack like this. Martin nods along, but finds his thoughts drifting back to Jon, and the words he could almost swear he heard. ‘That was actually adorable’. 

Sasha will surely be told about the kitten by now, but… the details of how Jon found it… well, Martin has a good feeling that’s something only he gets to know. He feels oddly warm at this thought. Even if it wasn’t exactly Jon’s choice to tell him, it’s something they get to share. 

A memory just for them.